#once the interrogation public thread is over... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lilyswrittenworks · 2 months ago

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XXI | Getting Properly Acquainted

Warning(s): Cursing, blood, alcohol consumption, humor, and sensitive topics (it's only mentioned once!)

Word Count: 11.3K

Synopsis: It had been three months since you and Piccolo had become an item. You had experienced nothing but pure love and tenderness. Then one day you get a text message.

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“Heey, girl! In celebration of your speedy recovery, I thought it was time to gather up our friends and hang out for old time’s sake. Meet us at Way Out Bar at 7PM this Saturday!”

It had been over an hour since you’d gotten Jenny’s message, and you were still riding the high of excitement it brought. You lay sprawled on your bed, the phone still open in your hand, the message burning bright on the screen like a warm little beacon of joy.

This would be your first time seeing all of them outside the sterile white walls of the hospital. No wires. No beeping monitors. No faint scent of antiseptic in the air. Just you, your friends, and a night that promised to feel like living again. The last time you saw them, you were weak, barely able to sit up straight. They’d come in shifts with flowers, chocolates, gossip, and laughter—but it never felt right. You were smiling through the pain. Numb with fatigue. And now?

Thanks to Dende's healing, you were whole again. And it was time to live.

Your closet doors were already flung open, and the bed behind you looked like a fashion tornado had ripped through it. Jumpers, jeans, crop tops, rompers, even that one weird sequin top Jenny got you as a gag gift—it was all strewn about in the chaos of indecision.

“A dress?” you muttered to yourself, holding one up in front of the mirror before shaking your head. “Too fancy. Too ‘wedding guest.’” You tossed it aside. “Romper. Yeah. Romper is fun. Playful. Breezy. Easy to pee in…”

You snorted to yourself and held two up side by side: one black with delicate gold thread running through it, and another with a warm burgundy floral print that hugged your curves just right.

And then, it hit you—an idea that completely derailed your train of thought.

What if Piccolo came with you?

Your hands slowly lowered, the rompers falling forgotten onto the bed as your arms crossed over your chest, the spark of curiosity giving way to a gentle flutter in your chest.

Would he go?

You could already imagine their reactions. Jenny would 100% scream. Amelia would probably drop her drink. Henry might start interrogating him like an overprotective big brother. Elias would be welcoming without judgment. Luka will be cautious around new people. But deep down, you wanted your friends to meet him—to see what you saw. You weren’t just dating someone… you were in love with someone utterly unique. Quiet, mysterious, incredibly powerful, and yet… gentle with you in a way few got to witness.

But then, doubt slipped in like a cold draft.

Piccolo wasn’t a social person. You knew that. You respected that. He barely spoke during your classes unless prompted, and even then it was usually concise, pointed advice that made your students straighten up like soldiers under a general’s command. He tolerated public settings. Barely. And even then, only because he wanted to support you.

What if he didn’t want to come? What if he thought this was too much?

You let out a soft groan, burying your face in your hands for a second before slapping your cheeks lightly and straightening up. “Alright. No more overthinking. Just ask him. What’s the worst that could happen? He says no? I can live with that.”

Even if his brand of ‘no’ was usually a vague, broody grunt followed by meditative silence.

Fueled by that little ember of determination, you padded barefoot down the stairs, the wood creaking slightly under your feet. You caught the faint sound of the wind rustling through the trees outside, mingling with the faint ticking of the clock in the hallway. As you turned the corner and entered the living room, your voice called out casually:

“Hey, Piccolo, I was wondering if—”

You froze.

There he was, sitting cross-legged in the center of the room. Turban and cape nowhere in sight. Eyes closed in a serene expression. And… shirtless.

Your words caught in your throat like a fishhook. Your eyes, despite your best intentions, shamelessly took in the details—the broad expanse of his chest, the sharp cut of his abdominal muscles, the intricate, dark-lined streaks running across his arms and lower abdomen. The pink, fleshy patches on his arms glowed subtly under the soft afternoon light bleeding through the windows, framed by those bold red edges that almost dared your eyes to keep tracing along them.

Goddamn, you thought, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it might punch a hole in your ribcage.

The thought of just running your hands down his muscles caused your heart to flutter. You swallowed thickly, blinking rapidly—and that’s when you felt it.

A warm trickle.

You slapped a hand to your face. Oh no.

Yep. Nosebleed. Of course your body would betray you at a time like this.

“Uhh, w-why are you shirtless??” you managed, your voice breaking slightly like you were a teenager catching her crush in the locker room.

Piccolo’s eyes opened slowly, calm and unbothered, and they immediately locked onto yours. There was the tiniest flicker of amusement there, almost hidden—like a single ripple on an otherwise still lake.

“You told me to give it to you,” he said plainly. “You noticed the stain and insisted on washing it.”

Oh. Right.

You did say that. He’d tried to argue, something about materializing a clean one instantly, but you’d been adamant. You said it was about principle, that he should let you take care of him in small ways like that.

And he’d let you. No further protest. Just that quiet, reluctant acceptance he always offered when he couldn’t argue with your heart.

Still, standing there with a tissue now clamped to your nose and your face hotter than the sun, all you could do was laugh awkwardly.

“Right. I, uh… forgot.”

Piccolo raised a brow slightly, still watching you with quiet curiosity. “You okay?”

“Yep. Totally. Fine. Just… overheating. From the heater.” You gestured vaguely to nothing. “Which is off. But still.”

He made a soft, skeptical sound in the back of his throat, but said nothing. His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer—serious, yet gentle.

You rubbed at the back of your neck awkwardly, but the fluttering in your chest hadn’t gone away.

“Anyway, uh… I was actually coming down to ask if you wanted to go somewhere. With me. On Saturday night.”

Piccolo blinked, his head tilting slightly, his antenna's swaying gently by the movement. “Where?”

You smiled, stepping a little closer, the butterflies multiplying. “It’s just a casual get-together. My friends and I are meeting at this bar we always go to. I thought… maybe you'd like to come? Meet them? I mean—you don't have to. I know crowds aren't really your thing, but—”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched you. Thoughtful. Quiet.

And then, he spoke.

“…I’ll think about it.”

Which, in Piccolo-speak, was about as close to a “maybe” as you were going to get.

You beamed. “Okay. That’s fair.”

He nodded once, his expression unreadable—but there was a softness behind his eyes that didn’t go unnoticed.

And just like that, the thought of Saturday night got a whole lot more exciting.

Even if you’d need to keep a fresh tissue box nearby. Just in case.

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It was finally Saturday.

The sky outside your window had just begun to soften into gold, the sun dipping low on the horizon like it, too, was getting dressed for a night out. The faint hum of life was beginning to pick up in the surrounding forest area of your home—crickets began to sing, the chirping of foxes emanated somewhere deep within the treeline. But all of that faded into background noise as you glanced at the clock:

6:01 PM.

Only one hour until you were meeting your friends at the Way Out Bar. You couldn’t sit still.

You were practically buzzing as you made the final touches to your look in the mirror mounted on the living room wall. The beige floral jumpsuit hugged your figure just right—cute but comfy—and your hair, twisted into a half-up braid, framed your face in a way that made you feel genuinely beautiful. Confident. Alive.

But the real surprise of the evening wasn’t your outfit or even the gathering itself.

It was the seven-foot-five Namekian standing behind you—who, for the first time since you’d known him, was visibly anxious.

You caught a glimpse of him in the mirror, his posture stiff, arms at his sides, and a furrow etched deep between his brows as he focused on the conjured outfit slowly materializing over his usual gi. The transformation was fascinating to watch—energy rippling over his body as purple fabric gave way to crisp white.

You turned to face him fully.

Gone was the worn, battle-weathered gi. In its place: a neatly pressed white button-down shirt, a dark blue tie perfectly knotted at his neck, slim-fitting purple slacks, and polished dress shoes that looked almost too clean—like he’d never worn a pair in his life. He stood in the center of your living room, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves with all the grace of someone performing open-heart surgery.

Your lips curled into a smile, warm and amused.

“Piccolo,” you said gently, stepping closer, “relax. You don’t have to dress up to look presentable. Your regular attire is fine. Well, okay, maybe leave the weighted turban and cape at home—unless you plan on knocking over coat racks everywhere we go.”

He paused, slowly glancing at you, eyes narrowed in thought. “I want to make a good impression,” he said, voice low, almost hesitant. “These are people important to you. I should look… appropriate.”

There it was—that unexpected vulnerability that made your heart squeeze every time you saw it peek through his normally unshakable exterior. You could see it in the way his antennae twitched faintly, the way his fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt as though unsure whether to tuck or untuck it.

You softened. “Hey.” You moved to stand directly in front of him, tilting your head back to meet his eyes. “You look very appropriate, trust me. Although…”

You stepped closer, fingers lifting to the knot of his tie. “This?” You tugged it gently, sliding it loose from his collar and tossing it over your shoulder. “This is a little too formal. We’re going to a bar, not a business conference.”

He didn’t protest, just watched you with those intense dark eyes, unreadable except for the faintest hint of tension in his brow.

You reached for the top buttons of his shirt next, undoing two with a soft, confident smile. “There,” you murmured, “much better.” Your fingertips brushed his collarbone, and you felt the way he tensed slightly beneath your touch—subtle, but telling.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” you added, stepping back to admire the results. “Just roll your sleeves up to the elbows, and you’re golden.”

Piccolo didn’t respond right away. He just stood there, staring at you.

Not with his usual blank stoicism.

There was something in his expression now… quiet awe. The kind of gaze someone gives when they realize, all at once, that they’re standing in the presence of someone they deeply cherish. Someone who saw through all the layers of who they were and loved them not in spite of it, but because of it.

It nearly knocked the breath out of you.

Wordlessly, he began to roll his sleeves up, his movements slower now, more deliberate. He wasn’t just adjusting his look anymore—he was adjusting to the idea of being seen by the people in your life. Letting them glimpse a side of him he rarely, if ever, revealed.

A side that belonged only to you.

“You really think this is okay?” he asked, a rare thread of uncertainty woven into his voice.

You stepped closer again, smoothing your hands over the front of his shirt with a small smile. “More than okay,” you said, looking up into his eyes. “You look great. And… I’m really happy you’re doing this.”

His gaze lingered on yours, and for a moment, he just breathed. Then, finally, he nodded.

“…Alright,” he said. “Let’s go meet your friends.”

You nodded eagerly, practically bouncing on your heels as you spun on your toes, the fabric of your jumpsuit swishing gently with the motion. You made your way toward the kitchen, grabbing your black quilted purse from the counter and slipping the strap over your shoulder in one smooth movement. Your hand followed next to the set of car keys sitting beside a stack of unopened mail.

With a gleam in your eye, you turned back toward Piccolo, holding the keys aloft like a prized treasure. “Come on!”

You made your way over to him, your fingers intertwining with his large hand, the coolness of his skin a comforting contrast to the heat building in your palm. Without a second thought, you tugged him toward the front door, and he followed wordlessly, allowing himself to be led like a tall, silent shadow behind you. The warmth of your hand in his said more than any words could.

Once outside on the porch, the soft creaking of the steps beneath your feet echoed in the calm of early evening. The sun had dipped lower, casting golden slants of light across the front yard. Crickets hummed with life across the grass. You let go of Piccolo’s hand just long enough to jog down the steps and disappear beneath the porch with Piccolo following close behind. Under the porch was a makeshift garage, small judging by the looks of it but not too cramped either. You approached something large and mysterious that lay beneath a gray tarp.

Piccolo watched you, arms crossed, one brow lifting in curiosity as he tilted his head.

You grabbed the tarp with both hands, bracing your feet against the gravel beneath you, and with a grunt of effort, yanked it off in a dramatic flourish. The tarp fluttered down behind you in a heap, revealing the beauty beneath.

A red and black striped muscle car gleamed proudly in the late afternoon light—its polished surface glinting like it had just rolled off the showroom floor. Chrome accents caught the sunlight, and the tires looked freshly scrubbed. It looked powerful. Fast. Immaculate.

You practically glowed, a wide grin on your face as you pressed your palms against the smooth, warm surface of the hood, practically buzzing with excitement. “I haven’t driven this car in ages!”

Piccolo approached slowly, his sharp eyes studying the vehicle like it was a puzzle he hadn’t expected to see in your possession.

“This is yours?” he asked, blinking slowly as he raised a brow, clearly impressed but trying not to show it too much.

“Yep!” you said proudly, patting the hood. “Graduation gift from my adoptive mom. She surprised me with it right after the ceremony. Told me I deserved something bold.” You laughed softly at the memory. “I’ve kept it in pristine condition ever since—tuned it, cleaned it, waxed it. The works.”

A little nostalgic pride swelled in your chest as you turned back toward him, holding the keys between your fingers. “I’ll be driving us to Nicky Town tonight.”

Piccolo’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. “We could get there much faster if we just flew.”

You stopped mid-stride, your expression flattening as you stared at him. “Piccolo…”

He blinked at your unimpressed tone, a visible sweatdrop appearing at his temple ;as he tilted his head slightly in confusion. “What?”

You sighed, crossing your arms with a dramatic huff that was more amused than annoyed. “I love you,” you said, stepping toward him, “but you seriously know how to kill a vibe sometimes.”

That made him visibly flinch. His posture straightened, and his mouth opened as if to reply, but you lifted a hand before he could get a word out.

“Look, I get it. Flying is faster. More efficient. But I’m not a pro at it like you are, remember? I’ve only just gotten used to hovering without looking like I’m dangling from an invisible string.”

Piccolo exhaled softly through his nose, his eyes lowering a fraction as guilt quietly slipped into his features.

“And yes,” you added, your voice softening as you stepped closer, “I know you’ve carried me before—many times, actually. And I never minded it. In fact, I always felt safe when you did.” You offered a small, fond smile, your fingers brushing lightly against his forearm.

“But just for tonight… I wanna do something normal and least conspicuous. Something a little fun. Take the long way. Play some music. Roll the windows down. And most importantly, to have a good time.”

You looked up at him, eyes hopeful. “Please? Just tonight? If you hate it, we’ll fly next time.”

Piccolo stared at you for a long moment, his features unreadable—but his eyes softened, just a touch. Enough for you to know he heard you. Really heard you.

Then, finally, a small sigh escaped him. “Alright,” he said, his voice quiet but sure. “We’ll drive.”

A grin broke across your face as you turned back toward the car, unlocking it with a click and opening the driver’s side door with a triumphant swing.

“You’re gonna love it,” you called out over your shoulder as you slid into the seat. “This baby purrs.”

Piccolo looked at the car again, then at you, and for the briefest moment—before rounding the car to the passenger side—he allowed himself the faintest of smiles.

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The city lights blurred past like streaks of stardust, reflections dancing across the windshield in vibrant golds and electric blues. The streets of Nicky Town were alive, but unusually tame tonight—no gridlock, no honking horns—just the soft hum of your muscle car purring under your fingertips as you guided it gracefully through the open roads.

The wind rushed in from the rolled-down windows, warm and fragrant with the scent of nearby food stalls. It danced through your hair, pushing loose strands around your face as you exhaled a small, contented sigh. The radio was playing something soft—low bass, gentle synths, a mellow tune that hummed beneath your skin.

You slowed to a gentle stop at a red light, a slow deep rumble of the engine idling while you waited. Fingers tapping in rhythm on the gear stick, a faint smile playing on your lips as your eyes wandered briefly to Piccolo in the passenger seat.

He looked peaceful, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes closed, the sharp lines of his jaw relaxed under the soft interior lights. There was a quiet serenity to him when he wasn’t sparring with you. His presence alone, even in silence, had a grounding effect on you.

That is, until a piercing, obnoxious whistle shattered the moment like glass hitting concrete.

“Hey sweetheart!”

Your smile instantly dropped. The shift in your mood was swift—brows flattening, your shoulders stiffening as your gaze flicked sharply to the left.

There, beside your door, sat a young man on a loud motorcycle, revving his engine like he was the star of some cheap action movie. His grin was wide, smug, and completely lacking in shame. His eyes—hidden behind tinted glasses—raked over you with a possessiveness that made your skin crawl.

Your face remained stone cold. “Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”

He chuckled, hand on the throttle. “Aww, c’mon. Don’t be like that. Hop on, yeah? We’ll have ourselves a real good time.”

The nerve. Your brow twitched, irritation climbing your spine like a venomous insect. “No thanks.”

But he didn’t get the message.

Instead, he leaned in further—too close. His arm braced against the car’s frame, body language dripping with arrogance. “Don’t be like that, sweetheart. Someone like you—fine as hell—deserves someone who can really show her a good—”

Wham!

The crack of your fist meeting his face rang louder than the engine ever could. His head snapped back with a choked yelp, his motorcycle wobbling as he gripped his face in agony, blood already spilling between his fingers.

You sat there, your fist still warm from the contact, settling your hand calmly back on the steering wheel like nothing had happened.

“Would you look at that?” you said coolly, voice lined with venom and amusement. “Crying over a punch… from a girl.”

“You broke my nose!” he wailed, nasally and pathetic.

You gave him a scathing look. “You invaded my space. And when a woman says no, she means no. It's not an invitation to harass or pressure her. So why don’t you do us both a favor—” the light turned green. “—and go fuck yourself.”

Without another glance, your foot pressed against the gas and the car surged forward, tires gripping the road like claws. The roar of the engine was satisfying, almost therapeutic. You gripped the gear stick tightly, fingers stiff and white-knuckled from the adrenaline and anger still coursing through you.

“(Y/n),” Piccolo’s tone was low, measured, but laced with concern. “Are you alright?”

You blinked, the road ahead coming back into focus. His voice had always had this strange effect on you—like it could cut through even the worst storm in your chest. You sighed, jaw still tense. “Yeah… I just got pissed off. The audacity of that guy…”

Piccolo was quiet for a moment, arms unfolding slowly as he straightened in his seat. “Does this… happen often?”

You hesitated, biting your bottom lip as your heart gave a tight squeeze.

“…Not like before,” you admitted, your voice a little softer, a little bitter.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him sit up straighter, more alert—his energy subtly shifting from stillness to sharp attention.

“(Y/n),” he said more firmly, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean by that?”

The seriousness in his tone made your hands tremble ever so slightly on the wheel. The streetlights overhead blurred as you entered the parking garage, darkness creeping over the car as you ascended to the upper levels. The interior lighting cast a glow on your face—revealing the way your jaw clenched, the tension in your brow.

You didn’t look at him.

“…Remember when I told you I was homeless? Before the dojo, before I built my home?” you murmured, voice tight. “Back then, stuff like that happened a lot. More than I like to admit.”

The tires thudded softly as you turned up to the third level.

“I was fourteen,” you continued, eyes locked on the parking space ahead. “Couldn’t fight, couldn’t run very fast, and sure as hell couldn’t afford to scream for help. Men—grown men—thought I was easy prey. I learned pretty quick that being polite only made them worse.”

The car eased into the parking space, and you shifted it into park with a small click. The engine purred for a moment longer before going quiet, leaving only the hum of city life in the distance and the soft hiss of your breath.

You rolled up the windows. Just in case.

Then, silence.

Piccolo didn’t speak right away. You felt his gaze on you like a weight pressing against your side, his body completely still. When he did speak, his voice was low. Careful.

“…Did they ever—” He stopped himself. The question caught in his throat, too heavy, too dark to finish. His hands clenched tightly, and a shudder moved through him—subtle but unmistakable.

You shook your head immediately.

“No. They never did.” You looked over at him then, your voice firmer than before. “I never let them.”

He exhaled slowly, some of the tension draining from his posture, but not all of it. His eyes were still dark with something dangerous—something protective.

“You should’ve never had to go through that,” he said. “Not then. Not now.”

You offered him a small, sad smile. “Yeah. But I survived.”

Piccolo’s gaze lingered on you, and then, in a surprisingly gentle motion, he reached out. His hand rested over yours where it gripped the gear stick—large, calloused, and warm. The contact made your breath hitch. His thumb brushed against your knuckles once, twice—slow, grounding.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he said. “You never will be again.”

And in the quiet warmth of the car, tucked away from the world in that shadowed parking garage, those words sank deep into your soul—firm and comforting like roots in the earth.

Eventually, you and Piccolo stepped out of the car and into the moonlight, the glow of the moon illuminating the city. The air was thick with the scents of street food, car exhaust, and pansies as the two of you ascended the spiral ramp of the multi-level parking garage. The sounds of city life greeted you—distant laughter, muffled music, and the steady hum of traffic below. With each step, your anticipation mounted like a heartbeat in your throat.

The two of you merged onto the bustling sidewalk, weaving past people walking in pairs, in groups, or alone with their heads down in their phones. You guided Piccolo with quiet ease, your hand gently looping through the crook of his forearm. The warmth of his exposed forearm brushed against your skin every time he adjusted his stride to match yours—something he did often now, unconsciously. His presence beside you felt solid, grounding, like you could lean your entire weight on him and he wouldn’t budge an inch.

You rounded the corner of a narrow brick antique store that smelled faintly of dust and sandalwood—and there it was.

The sign: The Way Out Bar. Elegant cursive letters spelled out the name in soft neon, glowing in the encroaching twilight. Something about seeing it made your heart flutter. It was just up ahead. Your friends were just beyond that door.

Your grip around Piccolo’s forearm tightened as you beamed, pulling him a little closer. You didn’t notice the way he glanced down at you then, his expression unreadable to anyone but you. There was fondness in his gaze, laced with quiet amusement, and a hint of nerves buried beneath his usual stoicism.

The inside of the bar was a soft contrast to the world outside. Warm, amber-hued lights hung in scattered clusters like little fireflies, casting gentle shadows that danced along the walls. A small jazz trio played on a raised stage to the left, their mellow notes wrapping the room in a cocoon of easy rhythm. The bar to the right buzzed with activity—glasses clinking, bartenders sliding drinks down the polished mahogany counter. The air was a blend of expensive perfume, whiskey, and warm food.

You scanned the crowd—faces blurred together until you spotted them.

Tucked in a corner booth, exactly where you hoped they’d be, sat your small, beloved chaos of a friend group. Jenny was deep in animated conversation with Henry and Elias, her faux locs bobbing every time she gestured dramatically. Elias, ever the picture of chill, leaned back with his usual amused smirk, while Henry animatedly waved a chicken wing mid-debate. Luka sat sandwiched between them, quietly listening, his arms folded and eyes sharp as ever. And then there was Amelia—red-haired, radiant Amelia—nursing the last sip of a martini, her attention elsewhere as her eyes scanned the room.

You gave Piccolo a quick look and an upward tilt of your chin—a silent follow me—before slipping through the small maze of tables and people. He followed closely, careful not to bump into anyone despite his size. His presence alone was enough to part the crowd a little, though he didn’t seem to notice the glances, the whispered curiosity.

Amelia spotted you first. Her face lit up like fireworks.

“(Y/n)!! Over here!!” she called out, waving her arm high above her head.

The rest of the table turned as you approached, just in time for Amelia to practically launch herself out of her seat. She flung her arms around you with an excited squeal, wrapping you in a warm, familiar hug.

“Oh my god, it’s so good to see you! We’ve all missed you so much.” Her voice trembled slightly, her arms squeezing tight. Her eyes shimmered when she pulled back, but she didn’t let a single tear fall.

You cupped her arms, giving a reassuring squeeze. “It’s good to see you too, Amelia. You have no idea.”

“Hey! What about us, huh?!” Henry hollered from the table, arms outstretched in dramatic protest. “The guys deserve a little love too, ya know?”

You rolled your eyes with a smirk. “Didn’t you tell me that hugging was for sissies?”

Henry tilted his head, faux locs bouncing as he scoffed. “Yeah, well—that was before you got fuckin’ shot, okay?”

With a laugh, you walked over and looped an arm around his neck, yanking him into a headlock before giving him a good, affectionate noogie.

“FUCKIN’—WHY?!”

He flailed helplessly, drawing laughter from the rest of the group as you released him, his hands flying up to shield his poor scalp.

“Because I can, you ass,” you said sweetly, folding your arms and towering over him in mock authority.

You turned to Elias and Luka next, offering them both a warm smile.

“It’s good to see you’re doing well, (Y/n),” Luka said, offering a rare but sincere smile.

“Glad you could join us,” Elias chimed in, brushing a strand of his maroon hair behind his ear. “Recovery treating you alright?”

“Definitely,” you replied with a nod. “I’m finally teaching again. The doctors really did their magic.”

You left out the real miracle—the moment Dende’s hand hovered over your chest, and that tiny, jagged piece of death was pulled from your heart. Some things you weren’t ready to explain.

“Hey, (Y/n)?” Jenny’s voice cut in, soft but direct.

You turned to her, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

She leaned in slightly, one elbow resting on the table, her other hand casually pointing to the side with a thumb. “So… who’s the big guy?”

Your gaze followed her gesture to Piccolo—who stood a few feet away from the booth, arms folded tightly, eyes lowered and expression carefully unreadable. He kept a respectable distance, but his alertness was palpable. Like a sentinel standing guard.

Despite his carefully conjured outfit—purple slacks, a tailored button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off his green complexion as well as the pink patches in his arm—he stood out. Tall. Alien. Still. You could feel the weight of glances from nearby tables, the murmurs and curious stares prickling along your skin like static.

Hot anger bloomed in your chest. You wanted to shout Stop staring! You wanted to defend him, shield him—but you knew better. This wasn’t the time. Not tonight.

You inhaled, slow and steady. Let it go.

“Oh! Right!” You gave a small, sheepish laugh. “I totally forgot—”

You stepped over to him, placing your hand gently against his abdomen. He glanced down at your touch, then back at your friends, wordlessly awaiting your lead.

“Everyone, this is Piccolo.” You turned toward your friends again, smiling brightly. “Piccolo, these are my friends. This is Amelia—”

Amelia waved enthusiastically, her red hair swishing. “Hi! You’re taller than I imagined, and I imagined tall.”

“This is Jenny,” you continued.

Jenny nodded slowly, her gaze sharpening, evaluating him from head to toe. “Huh. Okay.”

“And these three are Henry, Luka, and Elias.”

Henry gave a casual wave. “Yo.” But his eyes were sharp, the wheels already turning behind them.

Luka didn’t say a word—just stared, jaw tense, brow furrowed. He didn’t like mysteries he couldn’t solve.

Elias, ever gracious, smiled brightly. “It’s always nice to welcome someone new.”

Then Jenny, voice cautious, turned her full attention back to you. “Sooo… is he, like, a friend? Or, what—an acquaintance of your master’s?”

You smiled, your hand tightening slightly on Piccolo’s shirt, feeling the subtle warmth beneath it. A blush crept up your cheeks, blooming fast.

“Actually,” you said softly, tilting your head up to meet Piccolo’s gaze.

His eyes met yours, gentle and unguarded. That alone made your friends fall silent. They weren’t used to seeing someone look at you like that.

“Piccolo isn’t a friend or an acquaintance of my master,” you said. “He’s… my boyfriend.”

The table went dead silent.

Jenny’s mouth fell open. Amelia’s hand flew up to cover her gasp. Henry’s drink paused halfway to his mouth. Elias blinked in disbelief, and Luka just… stared.

And then, without hesitation, Piccolo’s arms uncrossed and he reached out—resting a large, warm hand against your back, fingers pressing gently between your shoulder blades. Protective. Affectionate.

Amelia squealed, both hands covering over her mouth to muffle the sound.

Jenny stuttered, eyes wide, mouth working like her brain couldn’t form actual words.

“You… you…” she gasped, clutching the edge of the table with white-knuckled hands.

You looked up at Piccolo with a warning smile. “Brace yourself. Jenny’s gonna scream—”

“WHAAT?!” Jenny exploded, shooting up from her seat and slamming both hands onto the table. “YOU’VE BEEN HIDING THIS FROM ME THIS ENTIRE TIME?!”

You giggled, leaning subtly into Piccolo as his hand pulled you a little closer. “Hehehe… yeah. You might wanna sit down, Jenny. I’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

You glanced at Amelia and gave her a playful nudge. “Mind scooting over? We’ve got a story to tell.”

Amelia quickly scooted over with a grin so wide it looked like it might split her face in two. She practically bounced in her seat, dragging you down beside her with eager hands while patting the empty spot next to you. “C'mon, big guy! No standing on the sidelines now.”

Piccolo hesitated, his eyes flicking from you to the seat, then to the curious faces watching him. For a heartbeat, he looked like he might decline—but then your fingers found his, a gentle squeeze of silent encouragement. With a sigh barely audible over the jazz music, he obliged, sitting down beside you. The booth creaked slightly beneath his weight, drawing a few chuckles from Henry and Elias.

“Damn,” Henry muttered with a smirk. “What’s he benching, like, a small building?”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Please don’t challenge him, Henry. He might actually show you.”

Piccolo shot you a side glance. “Wouldn’t be much of a challenge.”

Henry snorted, eyes lighting up at the dry humor. “Okay, I like him.”

Jenny, still trying to mentally reboot, leaned forward and jabbed her finger in your direction. “Start from the beginning. I want dates, times, how this happened. This is—this is massive! I mean, seriously?! How long have you been keeping him from us?!”

You laughed, running a hand through your hair being mindful not to disturb the half-up braid. “Okay, okay, I’ll explain. Just… don’t freak out.”

“I’m already freaking out!” she half-shouted, arms thrown up. “Do you know how long I’ve been trying to set you up with boring-ass grad students?”

“And do you see why that never worked?” you teased.

Jenny groaned into her hands while Amelia leaned in, eyes wide with wonder. “So… how did you two meet? Like, officially?”

You glanced at Piccolo again, silently asking if he was okay with you telling the story. He gave a small nod, his posture relaxing ever so slightly. His hand, which was resting on his lap, subtly shifted until his fingers brushed against yours under the table.

“Well…” you began, launching into the condensed version of everything—your training, how you first met him in the forest, how he became your security guard for your school, the injuries, the long hours of recovery, and how he’d been there. How he’d stayed.

In the midst of your storytelling, a waitress quietly approached the table, setting down a glass of water in front of both you and Piccolo without a word, then slipped away just as silently.

“Hold the fuck up.”

Jenny’s voice sliced through the lingering background chatter like a whipcrack. She froze mid-reach for her drink, arms folding with dramatic flair as she leaned forward over the table—nearly knocking her glass of wine clean off the edge. Amelia, seated just beside her, casually reached out and steadied it without looking.

“You’re telling me,” she continued, brows shooting into her hairline, “that you’ve known Piccolo—this giant green intergalactic muscle mountain—for three years?”

You nodded slowly, already bracing yourself. You even pre-wrinkled your nose in anticipation.

Jenny stared. Blinked. Then exploded.

“THREE. FUCKING. YEARS.”

She threw her hands into her faux locs with a dramatic groan, dragging them down her face like she was physically in pain. “I’ve been to your house! I’ve seen your couch! I’ve watched Netflix in your bathrobe while drunk off Moscato! How the hell did I never see this seven-foot tower of stoic green daddy energy lurking around?!”

You winced, a sheepish laugh tumbling out as you rubbed the back of your neck. A cartoonish little sweatdrop might as well have formed on your cheek.

“To be fair…” you started, shooting a glance at Piccolo—who sat still as a statue, but whose eyebrow had very slightly twitched at the phrase "daddy energy"—“Piccolo isn’t exactly the type to, uh, crash dinner parties or pop in for brunch.”

Jenny squinted at him suspiciously. “So what—you just kept him in your garden like some kind of secret boyfriend bonsai?”

“I’m not a plant,” Piccolo muttered dryly.

You stifled a snort, then turned your attention back to Jenny. “He’s… a recluse. He likes peace and quiet. Doesn’t really do the whole socializing thing unless he has to. And I respected that. Always did.”

Your voice softened as you looked up at Piccolo for a moment, the tiniest smile tugging at your lips. “So yeah… imagine my surprise when he actually said yes to coming here tonight. Voluntarily.”

Jenny’s jaw hung open. “You mean to tell me this introverted Namekian hermit just chose to step out of his weird meditation void and waltz into a bar full of strangers—for you?”

You gave a sheepish shrug. “Apparently, yeah.”

Jenny was quiet for all of three seconds. Then she pointed an accusing finger at Piccolo, wide-eyed and borderline scandalized. “Sir. You simp. And I say that with the highest respect.”

Piccolo, without missing a beat, took a slow sip of his drink. “I have no idea what that means.”

“Oh my god, I love him,” Jenny said, slumping back in her chair with a stunned laugh. “I’m gonna need to write this full timeline on a PowerPoint. Maybe a live reenactment too.”

Henry raised his glass. “I got dibs on playing Piccolo.”

“You’re not tall enough,” Amelia chirped.

“I’ll stand on a fucking chair!”

You snorted, shaking your head with a grin, disbelief written all over your face. “What—No. No one is reenacting anyone, got it? That’s weird as hell and kinda creepy.” You jabbed your index finger at Jenny and Henry, who were already giggling like a pair of kids who’d just gotten away with something. The finger-point was part warning, part exasperated big-sibling energy, but they clearly didn’t take it seriously.

As your laughter died down, you suddenly felt it—Piccolo’s hand shifting ever so slightly where it rested beneath the table, until it came to settle gently on your thigh. His fingers curled softly, giving you a deliberate, grounding squeeze. It wasn’t possessive. It was quiet, affirming. A silent thank you.

Your heart gave a small flutter, betraying how something so subtle could still shake you to your core.

But not everyone was laughing.

Luka had yet to speak. He sat leaned back in his chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His gaze, sharp and contemplative, flicked between you and Piccolo without saying a word. His brows were furrowed in that familiar way that meant his brain was working overtime, analyzing every little detail. You’d seen that expression before—when he was worried, when he was watching out for you.

He wasn’t being hostile. Luka didn’t do drama. But he was wary. And considering the kind of shit you all had been through over the years, it wasn’t surprising. Luka had learned to read people like open books, and he wasn’t the kind to trust someone just because you did.

Then finally, he spoke.

“Do you love her?”

The entire table fell silent. Drinks hovered halfway to mouths. Amelia’s eyebrows shot up. Jenny blinked. Henry stopped chewing. Elias couldn’t contain a smirk from forming.

Even the jazz music in the background felt like it dimmed a little.

Luka’s voice hadn’t been accusatory—just steady, calm, but dead serious. Like he was asking the question everyone else was too afraid to say out loud.

You turned your head slowly toward Piccolo, already feeling the change in his body language. The hand on your thigh had stilled, but there was a new tension there now—a readiness. You glanced up at him, and for a second, his expression was unreadable. A blank mask of calm. But then you saw it. The smallest crinkle at the corner of his eye. That subtle, almost imperceptible shift in his posture.

He wasn’t offended.

He was preparing to answer.

And you already knew what he was going to say.

Piccolo stared at Luka, held his gaze without flinching, not out of defiance but from a place of grounded clarity—like someone who understood the weight behind the question and wasn’t afraid to carry it.

Then, slowly, his head turned. His hand, still resting on your thigh, shifted again—his thumb moving in a gentle arc, rubbing slow, deliberate circles into your jumpsuit.

And he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

The rest of the world faded. The buzz of the bar, the muffled clatter of glasses and laughter, even your friends sitting just inches away—all of it fell into a soft hush.

“I do,” he said finally, voice low, gravelly but steady. “More than I thought I ever could.”

His eyes never left yours.

“You have no idea how many walls I built just to keep people out,” he continued, his voice quieter now, like he was letting you in on something sacred. “Then you came along. And… you didn’t try to tear them down. You waited. You saw me. All of me. And you never once asked me to change.”

You felt something rise in your chest—warm, fragile, powerful. Like something blooming wide and wild in your ribs.

“I love her,” Piccolo said again, this time turning his attention briefly to Luka, though his hand never left your thigh. “Not because she saved me. Not because she put up with me. But because she made me want to be known. And that’s not something I ever thought I’d say in a room like this.”

Luka stared at him for a beat longer. The tension in his jaw softened just slightly, his arms loosening from the tight fold across his chest. No words. Just a small, thoughtful nod—the kind that said: That’s enough.

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until you let it out.

Then Jenny broke the silence with a dramatic sniff. “Oh my god, I need a fuckin’ tissue. Who let this be a rom-com all of a sudden?!” She fumbled into her bag for a napkin while Henry, red in the face, reached to his right to swat her arm.

“Shut the hell up, Jen. I almost got misty-eyed and now you ruined it.”

Elias raised his glass. “To love making unexpected house calls.”

Amelia, already mid-sip, let out a delighted little squeal. “I knew it. You two are so disgustingly cute it should be illegal.”

You turned to Piccolo, heart thudding, cheeks warm. He raised an eyebrow slightly—his version of a soft smile—and leaned closer, his voice just for you.

“You okay?”

You nodded, smiling up at him, your hand moving to rest on top of his. “Better than okay.”

Amelia was already halfway through her second drink when she leaned across the table and grinned at you. “Okay, but seriously—how did you bag someone like him? Like, no offense, babe, but Piccolo looks like he could crush a tank with his pinky and then lecture it about self-discipline.”

Henry snorted into his drink. “For real. Man’s got the ‘I meditate in volcanoes’ energy.”

You were about to respond when Elias leaned back in his chair, one arm slung over the back like he was settling in for a show. That lazy, mischievous grin spread across his face like a goddamn wildfire.

“Oh, we’re going there?” he asked, raising a brow. “Because I have questions.”

You already felt your stomach drop. That was never a good sign.

“Elias,” you warned, narrowing your eyes. “Be normal.”

“Oh, I am. Totally normal.” He winked. “I just wanna know how anyone survives a make-out session with someone whose biceps are literally the size of my head. Like, what happens if he gets too into it? Do you end up in another zip code?”

You felt your entire face ignite like someone had lit a match behind your ears. “ELIAS.”

Jenny doubled over laughing. “Oh my god—ZIP CODE?!”

“I’m just saying!” Elias continued, shameless. “Man’s got that ‘destroyer of worlds, gentle lover’ vibe. I bet he’s the type who kisses you like he’s apologizing for every time he’s ever blown up a moon.”

Henry almost choked on his beer. “Brooo.”

Amelia wheezed, gripping Jenny’s arm as tears streamed down her cheeks. “Stop—STOP—my stomach can’t take this!”

Piccolo, bless his stoic soul, had been silently enduring the assault on his dignity. But you felt the moment his composure cracked—a twitch at the corner of his mouth, his grip tightening slightly on your thigh under the table. And when you risked a glance up at him…

He was blushing. His ears were blushing.

And you? Your face was molten lava.

“Elias,” you groaned, burying your burning face in your hands. “You can’t just say shit like that in public.”

Elias grinned, unapologetic. “Oh, come on. You know I’m right. Look at him. That’s not a boyfriend. That’s a six-foot-seven war god who probably calls you ‘beloved’ in the middle of a sparring match.”

You heard a low, amused rumble from beside you.

And when you turned your head, Piccolo—still blushing—leaned just slightly toward Elias with a dry, unamused stare.

“…You think I don’t know how to aim an energy blast?”

Elias paused.

Laughed nervously.

“I—uh—respectfully withdraw the question.”

Piccolo raised an eyebrow. “Smart.”

The whole table lost it.

You were still hiding your face in your hands, shoulders shaking from the kind of laughter that left your whole body buzzing. You peeked up at Piccolo, who looked straight ahead—composed again.

Jenny wiped tears from her eyes. “Jesus Christ, Elias. I swear, you live to traumatize people.”

“I live to educate people,” Elias shot back, raising his glass. “You’re welcome.”

“Yeah? Well next time, educate yourself on when to shut the hell up,” Henry deadpanned, reaching over to flick Elias in the forehead.

Piccolo leaned in slightly, just enough that only you could hear him. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or… concerned.”

You snorted, grinning like an idiot. “A little of both.”

After the chaos of Elias’s “zip code” comment started to die down—barely—you were still clinging to what little dignity you had left. Piccolo hadn’t moved his hand from your thigh, but you could feel the tension in his fingers, like he was bracing for whatever hell came next.

And he was right.

“So,” Jenny began, her voice laced with mischief as she leaned in, her elbows resting on the table and her chin perched atop steepled fingers. Her eyes sparkled like a gremlin with a matchbook. “Now that we’re done with introductions and listening to some good storytelling, there’s only one thing left to do.”

Piccolo blinked slowly. “…What.”

His voice was low, cautious—like a man who had just heard the first note of an incoming disaster siren.

Henry didn’t say a word, but the wicked curve of his grin spoke volumes as he sipped his drink and leaned back in his chair, content to let Jenny wreak whatever chaos she was planning.

“A good ol’ drinking game, of course!” Jenny announced, waving her hand dramatically like she was hosting a variety show. She flagged down a passing waitress without missing a beat. “Vodka. The big bottle, and seven shot glasses.”

You blinked. “Jenny—”

”Seven,” she repeated firmly, holding up her fingers like she was blessing the waitress with divine instruction.

The server didn’t even blink—just nodded and disappeared, probably used to this kind of behavior from your table by now.

You leaned toward Jenny, having to invade Amelia’s space but the red-head didn’t mind, your voice hushed but sharp. “Are you trying to get us all alcohol poisoning?”

Jenny shrugged, already buzzing with excitement. “Oh, please, you and your man have been drinking water this entire time. It’s time to spice things up a little. If we die, we die drunk and full of secrets.”

Before you could argue further, the waitress returned—like the harbinger of doom—with an ominously large bottle of vodka and seven perfectly clinking shot glasses balanced on a tray. She set them down with the efficiency of someone who wanted np part of what was about to transpire.

Jenny clapped once. “Excellent. The blood sacrifice has been made.”

You shifted in your seat, a pit forming in your stomach as you eyed the bottle. It glinted under the soft bar light like it knew it was about to ruin someone’s night. And probably someone’s life if they weren’t careful.

Jenny began filling the glasses like she was anointing each one with a cursed blessing. Then the smell of alcohol wafted up, sharp and unforgiving.

You gave her a deadpan look. “…I’m hesitant to even ask, but I’m asking anyway. What kind of drinking game are we playing?”

Jenny beamed. That shit-eating, chaos-fueled grin that could only mean trouble.

“Never Have I Ever, duh. Classic. Timeless. A sure fire way to emotionally scar each other with no survivors.”

Your soul left your body. “Fuck.”

Beside you, Piccolo raised an eyebrow, glancing down at you. His gaze softened with concern as he caught the tension rolling through your body. His hand hidden under the table had squeezed gently on your thigh. A silent question, a wordless tether: You okay?

You turned your head, meeting his gaze. The worry in your eyes must’ve been obvious because he tilted his head slightly, his antennae moving gently, his voice low enough only for you to hear.

“Is the game that terrible?”

There was something oddly innocent in the way he asked it. Curious. As if he didn’t fully understand what he was walking into but trusted you to guide him.

Before you could answer, Jenny managed to overhear what Piccolo said, cut in, far too delighted to explain.

“Oh, it’s amazing,” she said, spinning one of the shot glasses like a villain in a Bond movie. “Here’s how it works: someone says something they’ve never done. If you have done it, you take a shot. If not, you don’t drink. Simple right? But the real fun happens when the truth bombs start flying. Embarrassing stories. Secrets. Confessions. Shame. Regret. You name it.”

She paused dramatically, raising her full glass toward the center of the table. “It’s a beautifully messy human experience.”

Piccolo listened intently, nodding slowly, though his brow began to furrow.

And when Jenny delivered the part about “revealing embarrassing secrets,” you watched a rare sight unfold—Piccolo’s eyes widened. Just a little. Barely enough to notice if you didn’t know him. But you did.

He immediately tried to neutralize his expression, smoothing it back into unreadable calm.

Only to fail.

Miserably.

You stifled a laugh, squeezing his hand beneath the table.

He leaned close and whispered, barely audible. “This sounds… dangerous.”

”Oh, it is,” you replied with a dry grin. “But let’s just hope we don’t have to reveal anything too personal.”

Jenny raised her glass. “Let the games begin!”

Elias, of course, immediately belted out the first prompt with a wicked grin: “Never have I ever—kissed someone over six-foot-five and built like a Greek statue.”

You blinked once, then tilted your head with the most innocent smile you could muster. “Joke’s on you, Elias. Me and Piccolo haven’t even kissed yet. Unless you count, like… a kiss on the cheek.”

A record-scratch silence hit the table.

“WAIT—” Jenny practically shot out of her seat, hands slamming onto the table as her eyes bounced between you and Piccolo like she was watching a scandalous tennis match. “You two haven’t even kissed yet?! Are you serious?!”

You and Piccolo shared a look, like a secret radio frequency crackling to life between you—one that said here it comes.

As you both turned to face your very stunned friends, a cartoonish sweatdrop might as well have formed on the side of both your heads. The entire group was staring at you like you’d confessed to never having used the internet.

“Uhh… no?” you said slowly, your tone calm but defensive, like you were explaining quantum physics to a table full of gossip gremlins. “We’ve only been together for, what, three months? That’s not nothing, but still early days.”

Piccolo glanced down at you, and when your eyes met his, there was nothing but quiet warmth. His expression softened, and a small, barely-there smile curved his lips—like the sun peeking out behind a distant mountain range. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. The look said it all: he was okay with this. With you. With the pace of things.

You leaned into it slightly, speaking more to your friends now. “We’re taking things slow. I don’t mind the limited PDA. Eventually, yeah, we’ll get there. But not until we’re both comfortable. No pressure. No rush.”

Jenny looked like her entire worldview had been challenged. “That’s so wholesome I actually feel like I’m having an allergic reaction.”

Henry coughed, trying not to laugh. Amelia blinked rapidly like she’d just walked into an indie romance film.

Luka, of course, simply nodded in quiet approval like a dad who just watched his kid turn down a bad idea.

You turned your attention back to Elias, who was still stuck on the previous prompt. “So, sorry to disappoint you, Elias,” you teased, raising your glass with a playful smirk. “But your little trap? Kinda backfired.”

Elias let out an exaggerated groan, dragging his hands down his face dramatically. “Goddammit. I knew it was a risk. I knew it. I was hoping to catch you in a juicy moment but instead, I got feelings.”

He reached for his shot glass, filled to the brim with what now looked like the bitter taste of defeat. “Well, fuck it. I’m drinking anyway. Out of pure disappointment and maybe just a little spite.”

He downed it in one go, eyes squeezed shut as the vodka burned its way down.

“Hellfire,” he wheezed, placing the now-empty glass on the table with a careful thud. “Why is vodka always such a betrayal?”

“You brought that on yourself,” Amelia said, sipping her now third martini glass.

And Jenny, despite herself, grinned too. “Alright, alright,” she said, waving her hand. “I’ll allow it. It’s disgustingly sweet. But I’ll allow it.”

Before anyone could get too sentimental, Jenny clapped her hands together like an over-caffeinated game show host. “Alright, lovebirds, enough of the Nicholas Sparks shit—back to the chaos.”

She spun dramatically toward Henry, pointing a freshly-poured shot glass at him like she was accusing him of murder. “Henry, your turn. Impress us. Traumatize us. Give us something feral.”

Henry leaned back in his seat, one arm thrown over the back of the booth like he owned the place. “Aight, you want chaos?” He cracked his neck with a smug grin. “I am chaos.”

“Oh god,” Elias muttered, already reaching for his glass in defeat.

Henry rubbed his hands together, eyes gleaming with mischief. Then he leaned forward, grinning like the devil about to sign a soul contract.

“Never have I ever…” He paused for dramatic effect, eyes scanning the group. “…accidentally sexted my mom.”

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” You gasped, nearly knocking your shot glass over as you stared at him in abject horror.

Amelia choked on her spit and wheezed like a dying kettle.

“DUDE,” Jenny cried, laughing so hard she was crying, “THAT’S YOUR OWN PROMPT???”

Henry shrugged, shameless. “I never said it was a proud moment. But hey, I learned from it.”

Elias groaned. “That’s not learning. That’s becoming a cautionary tale.”

You shook your head in disbelief, a laugh escaping despite your horror. “Please tell me your mom doesn’t still have the screenshots.”

“She does,” Henry said flatly. “She brings it up every Thanksgiving. I get PTSD from cranberry sauce now.”

Piccolo, who had been trying to follow along with increasing confusion, leaned close to you and whispered with deep, solemn concern, “…What is sexting?”

You nearly spat your water back into the glass. Face now beet red, you turned slowly to him and whispered back, “I’ll explain later. Privately.”

He nodded gravely.

Jenny slammed her hand on the table. “Alright, fess up! Anyone gonna drink to that horrific confession?”

Elias raised his hand timidly. “I mean, not my mom, but my aunt once, so… same trauma, different packaging.”

“Oh my god, Elias.” Amelia buried her face in her hands.

Luka, miraculously, took a sip of his drink too, and the entire table turned to him in stunned silence.

“…Luka?” you asked, blinking.

He sighed, deadpan as ever. “It was a long time ago. Group chat mishap. I no longer text after 9PM.”

There was a beat of silence. Then you burst out laughing. Even Piccolo, confused as he was, gave a quiet chuckle—low and soft—but it was enough to make your heart flip.

Jenny’s jaw dropped. “Did… did he just laugh?!”

“I think he did,” you said, eyes wide.

Henry pointed accusingly. “Bro’s evolving. He’s learning the power of degeneracy.”

Piccolo shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “No, I’m just trying to understand how any of you survived this long without spontaneously combusting from sheer embarrassment.”

Jenny snorted. “That’s fair. But the game’s not over yet! Who’s next?”

Amelia reached for her shot glass with a cool, almost suspicious calm.

“I think it’s my turn now,” she said, tucking a loose curl of red hair behind her ear. Her maroon eyes sparkled with something dangerous. “And I’m about to separate the saints from the sinners.”

“Oh shit,” Elias muttered, clutching his chest like he was about to be read for filth.

Amelia smirked. She leaned back in her seat, crossing her legs like a movie villain about to deliver the final blow. “Never have I ever… taken a pole dancing class.”

The entire table went still.

Your brain short-circuited.

Your hand moved on instinct—like a damn traitor—and you took a sip from your drink before you could stop yourself.

Silence.

Then—

“EXCUSE ME?!” Jenny screamed, nearly flipping the table as her eyes bulged out of her skull.

Henry choked on his drink. “YO WHAT?!”

Elias dropped his shot glass. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard—WHY DIDN’T I KNOW THIS?!”

Luka just blinked slowly, eyebrows raised. “…Huh.”

All eyes were on you now as you froze mid-sip, your face glowing red like someone had switched on a heat lamp directly over your soul. You set your glass down very carefully, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze.

“I—okay, listen.” You cleared your throat, flustered beyond belief. “This was before I even became an instructor. I wasn’t trying to be sexy or whatever—it was just a class I took on a whim.”

Jenny looked personally betrayed. “A whim?! A whim?! Girl, pole dancing is a lifestyle. You gotta commit!”

Henry slammed his palms on the table. “I need to know: was it one of those classes with heels and music or like… a fitness thing?”

“I’m not answering that,” you said, covering your face with both hands. “Some of us are trying to hold on to our last thread of dignity.”

Elias leaned in, completely ignoring that request. “You still remember the moves though, right? Just for research purposes. Scientific curiosity.”

“ELIAS,” you hissed, kicking him lightly under the table.

While the chaos unfolded, Piccolo looked utterly baffled. He turned to you, blinking slowly.

“…What is pole dancing?”

Your soul left your body.

Jenny leaned across the table, grinning like a gremlin granted its one malicious wish. “Oh, Piccolo, my sweet green man. It’s like… interpretive dance but vertical. In heels. Sometimes upside-down. Often involves dollar bills.”

Piccolo’s face went completely still, but you swore you saw the tips of his ears—and, if you could believe it—his antennas turned a shade darker. His eyes widened slightly as he turned to you again.

“You did… that?”

You let out a strangled groan. “ONE class! And it was a fitness class, thank you very much!”

“But did you enjoy it?” Luka asked innocently, his tone deceptively neutral.

You threw a napkin at him. “That’s not the point!”

Piccolo cleared his throat, looking forward with the most rigid posture you’d seen all night. “I… I suppose it’s a form of strength training?”

You sighed. “Yes. Thank you.”

“…But also dancing. On a pole.” he added, still clearly trying to compute it.

“Piccolo,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands again. “Please stop.”

Amelia raised her shot glass with a grin, clinking it gently against yours. “No judgment here. I’m just glad someone finally drank to one of mine.”

Jenny cackled like a madwoman. “This night keeps getting better. I swear, if someone admits to joining a cult next, I’m gonna die happy.”

Henry raised a hand. “Do MLMs count?”

Everyone groaned.

Piccolo, still stunned, quietly muttered under his breath, “I’m going to need to meditate for a week after this night.”

You rubbed your fingers in a slow circular motion against your temple, staring down at the table, your face still red as you whispered. “I think… I might join you on that offer.”

Jenny was riding high on the drama of the pole-dancing revelation, spinning her empty shot glass between her fingers like a villain monologuing in the third act.

“All right,” she said, cracking her neck like she was about to commit a felony. “Time to stir the pot again.”

“Oh no,” Henry mumbled.

“Oh yes,” Jenny grinned. “Never have I ever… tried to kill my friend as a joke.”

“Jesus Christ, Jenny,” Amelia groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Elias let out a bark of laughter. “What kind of Looney Tunes-ass prompt is that?!”

Luka rolled his eyes but reached for his drink anyway, muttering something about “That one time with the bear trap.”

But then—Piccolo took a sip.

Everyone froze.

The table collectively snapped their heads toward him so fast it was a miracle no one sprained anything.

Piccolo sat still, jaw slightly clenched, his body tense in a way you hadn’t seen all night. The subtle squeeze of his hand on your thigh was the only giveaway that he wasn’t just casually sipping out of misunderstanding.

You didn’t react—you already knew. He’d told you those stories, the ones from long before he ever imagined himself sitting at a bar surrounded by chaos gremlins playing drinking games. You knew his past, and how much he’d changed.

But your friends? They were losing it.

Jenny blinked. “Wait. Wait. You—YOU?! You took a drink?!”

Henry leaned forward, eyes wide. “Holy shit, was that real? That wasn’t, like… metaphorical?”

Amelia’s eyebrows shot up, and even Elias had gone quiet for once.

Piccolo let out a slow exhale and looked down at the table, his shot glass spinning slightly in his hand.

“It… wasn’t a joke,” he said after a long moment, voice low. “And it wasn’t a game.”

Luka tilted his head. “But you did try to kill a friend?”

Piccolo nodded slowly. “A long time ago. Before I changed.”

Elias, ever the tactless menace, raised both hands. “Bro, that’s metal as fuck. Who was it? Are they okay? Did they… like, get better?”

You shot Elias a look. “Elias.”

Piccolo, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He just pressed his lips together, still avoiding everyone’s gaze. “Let’s just say… there was a time I wanted power more than anything else. And there was someone who stood in my way. He became a rival. An enemy. But… also a friend.”

The table went dead silent.

“And now?” Amelia asked, her voice quieter, more curious than judgmental.

Piccolo finally looked up. “Now, he’s one of the few people I trust.”

Jenny blinked a few times, slowly lowering her drink. “Well shit. That got real.”

Henry coughed into his fist. “Can we go back to pole dancing?”

Elias raised his shot glass like he was toasting to Piccolo’s character arc. “To redemption arcs and not murdering your friends!”

Piccolo snorted softly, the tension in his shoulders finally beginning to melt as he glanced sideways at you. “This game is ridiculous.”

You nudged him gently with your elbow, smiling. “Told you.”

“Still,” Jenny said, pouring another shot, “that was the wildest round yet. Top tier. Ten outta ten. Can’t wait to traumatize the next person.”

Piccolo gave you a side glance, then leaned in just close enough for you to hear him over the noise.

“…Are there more games like this?”

You smiled around the rim of your shot glass, the alcohol warming your throat as you took a slow sip. “Oh, sweetie,” you said, tone light and teasing, “we haven’t even gotten to Truth or Dare: Unhinged Edition yet.”

There was a twinkle in your eye, but you tilted your head, glancing toward your friends—Henry in particular, whose cheeks were beginning to turn bright red, eyes glassy with the unmistakable sheen of a man about to go past tipsy. Amelia was slouched over the table, hiccuping through a giggle, while Jenny was mumbling something about shot glass pyramids.

“I don’t think we’ll get the chance to play it tonight,” you murmured with a knowing grin, setting your glass down. “At this rate, we’ll all be wasted before the vodka’s halfway gone.”

You didn’t notice the way Piccolo’s posture stiffened slightly beside you, how his eyes widened—just a fraction. But the damage was done.

That single word—sweetie—lodged itself in his chest like a live wire. His expression didn’t change dramatically, but the softest, most unmistakable purple tint bloomed across his cheeks. His fingers twitched ever so slightly against your leg. A warmth he hadn’t anticipated spread low in his abdomen, an unfamiliar mix of affection and longing stirring in a quiet, dizzying swirl.

You still weren’t looking at him.

Which, somehow, made it worse.

He glanced down, lips pressed into a thin line, as though trying to smother the involuntary smile threatening to betray him. His gaze flicked back to you once more—so at ease, so effortlessly disarming—and that strange, fluttering heat pulsed again.

He would never admit it out loud, not yet, but that one little word had knocked the wind clean out of him.

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

(a/n)

We finally met (Y/n)'s friends!!

Ngl, this chapter was a lot of fun to write! I wanted to keep going BUT I knew I had to end it off with something disguistingly sweet. 😉

Also—

PICCOLO IN A BUTTONED UP SHIRT AND SLACKS.

OOf 🥵

I was drooling just imagining him walking around dressed up like that. So scandalous, haha. 🥹

Also, also,

Our MC drives a mustang. Hehee. c;

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

Part XX

You are currently reading Part XXI

Part XXII

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It Turned into Love Masterlist

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Tag list:

@utakamo

@nerdy-girl-named-pumpkin

@dovah-bee

@thatsbunnysmind

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spookyspaghettisundae · 1 year ago

Text

No Lesser Evil

Beeping. Lazy repetitive beeping filled the sterile room.

Glaring sunlight flooded in from the large windows, and the only artificial lights were tiny, blinking on the countless medical devices that surrounded Chloe Grant.

The fog lifted from her consciousness, and she connected the beeping to those medical devices and tiny blinking lights. To the cables and diodes on her, and the IV drip attached to her arm. The lazy beeping belonged to the system monitoring her heart rate.

Her body ached, sore from lying in bed for too long.

A long sigh escaped her.

And as she twitched, her movement stalled, and searing hot pain shot through her side like lightning.

She pawed at the hospital gown and pulled it up to find a clean bandage beneath her ribs, and like the sunlight flooding in, shreds of memories flooded back, washing over her. The creature’s deadly claw had cleaved through the air and sliced her side open.

Without even removing the bandage, flashes of memories invaded her mind through a distant haze—memorizes of slipping in and out of consciousness, and riding the razor-thin edge between life and death—of latex-gloved hands, and a needle and thread stitching her up. Of masked doctors and nurses looming over her as they scrambled and rambled to keep her alive.

A chair at the side of her bed stood in a way where a visitor could have been sitting and speaking to her.

A visitor she vaguely remembered.

A woman. A woman with long, fire-red hair.

Loretta Corsino—she had been saying something to Grant while she was slipping in and out of her delirium. Another shredded memory that sank into a foggy oblivion.

Still, the monitor lazily beeped. Lights blinked.

The sunlight from outside felt warm on her skin. Pleasant.

Better than the throbbing underneath the bandage.

Grant knew better than to rip the IV drip out or leave hastily.

She stared at the button hanging over her bed, dithering on whether or not to buzz for a nurse. Doubtful that Celava’s sweeper team would have delivered her to a common hospital in Rome after her encounter with the Apex Predator they had kept contained in Intellitech’s basement.

The more awake she became, the more Grant’s side hurt, and the more that buzzer tempted her. The relief that pain medication might bring if she only asked.

Something told her: she only needed to press that button.

And ask.

Grounding her, her throat felt like burning desert sand. A glass of crystal-clear water on the bedside table tempted her even more than the buzzer and the prospect of pain meds.

She surrendered to that lesser temptation.

Grant grabbed the glass and sipped. Sipped again.

How good the water tasted to her now.

She winced as another jolt of pain shot through her side from all the movement.

The damned Predator had cut her. A deep wound.

It was a nice hospital. Too nice to be of the public sort.

Probably private, and most definitely under the corporate auspices of Celava.

Which only left one big, glaring question.

Why?

She had broken into their premises, and entered the country with a false identity. With the amount of resources and pull they had, Celava’s agents could have ferried her away to some black site, or simply disposed of her corpse and covered up any trail leading to them as culprits.

Any investigations into her disappearance would lead nowhere.

So… why were they keeping her alive? Nursed back to health?

She cursed under her breath and another twitch triggered another jolt of pain in her side.

The entire mission had been a failure. She had failed to get the data dump out of the building to Ruiz—so they were none the wiser on what Celava’s game truly was. And now she was sitting in one of the lion’s dens.

Left to wonder how hungry the lion was.

At the very least, Grant hoped, Ruiz had gotten away, and only she herself had been compromised.

Dark thoughts swirled once it dawned on her how little leverage she held in any upcoming interrogations, which she inevitably expected Celava agents to put her through. There probably wasn’t much they didn’t already know about Future Proof’s operations, but there was no telling how much it would take to satisfy them and let her go.

If they let her go.

The door to her hospital bedroom opened. A nurse in bright pink scrubs wheeled in a sleek black stand, crowned by a flat-screen television set.

The nurse gave Grant a weary smile. Tired, exhausted, perhaps even marked by pity—the nurse’s kindly face was hard for her to read.

“Dinner will be served soon,” she said, with heavy Italian accent. “I hope you are feeling better now.”

Grant nodded.

The oddity of it all dispelled all the dark thoughts. It all felt like she had fallen through the cracks of reality into another, parallel world.

After all—after traveling through the Anomalies, and seeing time re-written, again and again—that was the case, wasn’t it?

The nurse plugged in the TV, switched it on, and left the room with swift steps, flashing Grant another weary smile before closing the door behind herself.

The screen was on, but stayed a dark gray, with only green letters in the top corner indicating it was set to receive a signal. A tiny webcam topped the device. The shiny black bead of its camera stared back at Grant with utter coldness.

She steeled herself, prepared to see a familiar face, but not the one that winked onto existence on screen in vibrant color.

A prowling lion of a man stared at her through the television screen. Silver hair in a crew cut framed a roadmap of wrinkles, speaking volumes to a life of hard-earned power and dignified prestige. His gaze burned as it rested squarely upon Grant, as stern as the rest of his entire expression, barely distracting from a shaven jaw so sharp that it could cut glass.

Muscles on his crossed arms bulged within the confines of a dark blue three-piece suit.

Grant recognized him from the photos: Malcolm Wright. The CEO of Celava himself.

Conan the Barbarian in a designer suit, as Danielle had put it.

“Miss Grant,” he addressed her through the screen, authoritative gravitas to match his appearance. British accent, though different from the Operator’s Cockney—sounding more sophisticated and theatrical, like David Attenborough. “Welcome back to the world of the living. I hope these accommodations are agreeable, despite the unusual circumstances of our meeting.”

Though dryness still plagued her throat, she knew not what to say.

All of this—these circumstances—all of this was a far cry from whatever she had been expecting.

She took another sip of water instead of replying, and he kindly picked up the slack.

“The dossier on you has been growing quite quickly since your visit to the Intellitech premises. You must have questions.” He clenched his jaw and stared at her through the screen, reading her closely through that cold, dead lens atop the TV set.

Collecting intel on her, they likely only had data and secondhand accounts to interpret in gauging her and her motives. The less she spoke, the more he needed to rely on blind assumptions—and the more likely she might have ended up finding something useful to leverage in the interrogation she expected to follow their exchange.

Therefore, she took another sip of water. Stayed her tongue.

Wright smirked.

He continued after the prolonged pause, and the absence of any reply from Grant.

“From what I gather, you must be quite the asset to Future Proof. But with what happened at the Rome office, I’m sure that all of that has changed. The bad news is, Malachi might not see you as favorably as he once did. On the bright side, I have a job opening to a woman of your talents. There is a future in Celava for you.”

A sales pitch. And a clever move to match. The better they took care of her here, the more likely she had been compromised by the rival company—limiting her options, rendering her a persona non grata with Future Proof, and rendering her more vulnerable to whatever was bound to spill next from Malcolm Wright’s lips.

Rather than an interrogation… this was a job offer.

“I’m impressed,” she finally said. She needed to exert an air of authority of her own. Stand her ground, and angle for the best conditions. “For a moment, I thought I’d wake up on some volcano island, surrounded by sharks and lasers, while you monologue your dastardly plan at me. Well, Mister Wright, here’s your chance to show me you’re Mister Right, and not some run-of-the-mill lunatic, or… some deluded jackass who’s going to ruin the world for profit margins and a golden parachute.”

Wright smirked again.

“How very American. I admire audacity,” he said, with the last word riding on a gravelly growl. “If any of my reputation precedes me, then you know I am not one for petty formalities, nor do I give a hoot about false-hooded flattery. I’ll do both of us a favor and cut to the chase. I don’t want nor need you to act as a double agent on the inside of your former employer’s organization. I don’t need nor care about whatever insipid experiments Malachi and his lackeys are cooking up next. It’s now clear to me—we are already years ahead of the competition. The future, Miss Grant, is ours to shape.”

He had meant that quite literally. The gravity of his words echoed in her mind like rolling thunder.

The future, Miss Grant, is ours to shape.

She took another sip of water.

None of this was the kind of play she had expected. Then again, it fit the opinion pieces she had read about Wright.

Eccentric, confident, and deeply impatient. Like most in the tech industry, he believed governments and laws were posing unnecessary restrictions on brilliant and creative minds such as his own. Unlike most, he had lifted Celava up from obscurity and turned it into a successful company, though not as successful as those who cut corners or played loose with their ethical standards.

He certainly wasn’t the kind of man to suffer sycophants nor fools, and he wasn’t going to tolerate her dancing around the matter at hand.

Thus, she decided to play his game. To match the ante and call any bluffs.

“What exactly do you need me for? And would the price tag outclass whatever Spencer was paying me?”

“I’m aware of the dangerous field work you engaged in, and your excellent track record prior to employment in Future Proof. I will double whatever he was paying, all benefits included, and then some.”

She almost choked on her sip of water.

This was no idle offer.

So what was the catch?

He answered her unspoken question. “It would be the most dangerous, deadly, and rewarding work in your entire life. I can only use the smartest, the fastest, and the strongest in my entourage. You would be leaving your life behind to start anew—turning your back on the modern day as you know it, where corruption and weakness are endemic to our so-called civilization. But I assure you—you would be writing history, and your name would go down in the books with mine as the intrepid, as the warriors and explorers and scientists who went on to create a better world.”

He meant every word he was saying.

His convictions ran deep, rooted in every fiber of his being, and the zeal in his voice lent uncanny credence to his speech.

She washed it all down with another sip, hoping to finally dispel the cotton feeling in her throat.

Radiance.

Even through a screen, he radiated with the sunlight of his convictions, shining with charisma.

He meant every word. As naïve as it sounded, he was being sincere with her.

Where even in the world was he? No—when in the world was he?

Was he speaking to her through the Anomalies somehow?

Then she remembered the wasteland she had glimpsed of the future, past the Anomalies in the Crossroads she had traveled.

The doomed future Spencer had predicted, and pinned upon Wright’s back.

“You,” he said, and that single syllable placed a heavy weight on her sore shoulders. “You would lead with others of your caliber. You are educated, capable, and physically fit enough to face the challenges you would be tasked with dealing with. And you would challenge me. All I demand is loyalty, and unwavering courage.”

Another sip.

She asked him, “What if I say ‘no’? What if I want to just, you know, walk away from all of this?”

His eyes narrowed. The rest of his expression turned stony and cold.

“I would be very disappointed, and our conversation would end right here. But you are free to walk away. I will not press charges, I will not pursue you any further for your invasion of Intellitech’s privacy, though you may suffer the consequences should you choose to cross me again.”

The words sank in.

Once she walked away, back to Future Proof, Spencer and all the others would forever question her loyalty to the company. She would forever be considered a potential traitor, a double agent.

She could have asked for more details, but knew better. He also knew better, and would never divulge anything that risked the success of his operations. He wouldn’t open up about anything that might endanger… well, whatever he was plotting.

Beeping machines filled the silence between them until Wright spoke again.

“Think about it, and think carefully. I am not asking you to simply relocate to a different office in a different city, I am asking you to leave your entire life behind, and build a new world with your own two hands. It will be difficult, and there will be blood, and sweat to shed along the way.”

Building a colony out of time, deep in the past.

That was how Spencer had phrased it—what he believed Wright was up to. And with what Wright had just said, the puzzle pieces were all falling neatly into place.

“But I sense it—I sense the thunder in your heart,” he said. “Once you have made up your mind… call me. I await your response, Miss Grant, and I have a feeling you will not disappoint.”

He had leaned closer to the camera, having grown on the screen before her.

The image of Wright went dark, and with that, consigned his appearance to the digital void.

Was he already in his Promised Land, in a prehistoric era, manipulating their future from the distant past?

All dark thoughts now mingled with uncertainty and something else—with curiosity.

Some part of his offer excited Chloe Grant.

Mulling over his offer, she worried about those she might leave behind—her mother, Danielle, her friends, and her colleagues at Future Proof whom she had come to like. Even the memory of the late Max Carter and all his grumpy swearing surfaced in those swirling thoughts of those she’d leave behind.

Grant rubbed her temples, unsettled that this meant she was considering Wright’s offer in all earnest.

Some part of her was… tempted.

That part of her kept growing by the second. Like a blooming flower, blossoming in her mind.

Such warm sunlight on her skin.

What was it that kept her here? In this life? It wasn’t the money, though the pay didn’t hurt.

Was she so different from Wright? Didn’t she sometimes dream of something resembling his vision?

And could she really trust Spencer and his speech of Wright being responsible for some nebulous doomsday in the future? Or was Spencer the one who would be to blame for that horrid apocalypse, and the Apex Predators?

Then again—one of those creatures had been kept in Intellitech’s basement like a leashed hound. And her side throbbed where the Predator had almost cut her open to bleed out.

Then, yet again—she knew too little beyond whatever narrative either man was spinning. Two rival CEOs, two rival companies, all toying with the fabric of reality and time itself, by toying with the mysterious Anomalies.

And here she was, between them, at a fork in the road.

She needed to decide, and nothing would make this decision any easier.

There was no lesser evil. No certainty in doing the right or wrong thing.

Her mother would be fine. In her disappearance, Future Proof’s life insurance payout would kick in, and provide for her mother for life, beyond a shade of any doubt.

Her friends would move on. It wasn’t like their lives hung in any balance. She’s miss some of their scheduled appointments by the end of the month, and they would find out that Chloe Grant had gone missing, though her disappearance would be covered behind so much red tape that they would have no other choice but to move on.

And as much as she enjoyed the company of her colleagues at Future Proof, she felt no personal attachment to any of them. She barely knew them outside of their work life together.

That only left… Danielle.

Danielle, who had moved in with her.

But Danielle had been involved with a Chloe Grant of this timeline, while this Chloe Grant still felt alien to herself, and the timeline she returned to. Though they were the same Chloe Grant, somehow, learning of her past and actions and relationship to Danielle still felt like hearing another person’s story.

Like fiction.

And even if Wright was truly responsible for the doomed future that Spencer had predicted—could Grant not have had the best chance at changing that all by getting so close to Wright that she could literally get her hands on his throat?

He had to be there.

Then.

In his colony, in the prehistoric past.

The heartrate monitor still emitted lazy beeping, though the pace had picked up.

Reflecting her growing excitement. Anxiety, perhaps.

The sunlight from outside felt warm on her skin. Kept her calm.

Everything was falling into place somehow. Not puzzle pieces, but chess pieces. Maybe she was one of those pieces on the board, with Spencer playing against Wright. Or maybe she had the chance to become the player.

Maybe this was the right thing to do.

Grant clenched her jaw.

This was her chance to change the future.

“Wright?” she asked out loud. “I have made up my mind.”

The screen stayed dark, though the green letters in the top corner indicated it was still on.

Transmitting and receiving.

She had her answer.

Wright was going to like it.

He was the kind of man who liked winning.

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charnelhouse · 4 years ago

Note

Charnie, if you aren’t too busy spinning story gold with WYS I have a request. thanks to you I have fallen down Charlie Hunnam rabbit hole and would die of happiness if you wrote some more Ray from The Gentlemen smut. That man has me in a chokehold 🥵

A/N: Raymond Smithx F!Reader. Smut. Semi-Public sex.

Raymond is all about clean lines. He likes tight military corners. He likes bone-white plates and organized gun racks. He does not do mess. He does not do chaos. It unnerves him. It gives him hives.

“Do you love me?” you breathe against his ear - manicured nails threading through his hair.

“I wish I didn’t,” he rumbles as he hauls you flush to his chest - presses you even closer to his skin than seems humanly possible. He can taste your scent - the floral punch of jasmine and clean vodka. He roots his nose into your hair - drags his palms over your waist. He cannot get enough of you. He cannot get you out of his head.

He doesn’t say i love you back because it would mean all sorts of things he cannot touch. Not here. Not with all the shit they do for Mickey as a pair - as a unit.

He grasps the hinge of your jaw and tugs you up to his mouth. You edge your teeth over his lower lip and when he plunges his tongue deep - you whimper like a startled kitten.

“Fuck, darling,” he husks. “Fucking hell.”

***

You try to break Raymond in so many different ways. You're his foil and his setback. You're the flip-side of his coin. You’re a too-good shot and Mickey loves you because you’re smart and a woman and Mickey has always thought women better in every regard.

"It's law, man. It's fucking absolute."

Your lips twitch as you watch Ray interrogate. Your shiny hair and crossed arms and the silver hilt of your gun. Your leather jacket the color of damp clay or old blood. Sometimes you’ll leave him for weeks to find yourself - run off to Dublin or Edinburgh or Prague.

“I needed those dark shadow cities,” you whisper every time you slip back into his bed. It doesn't matter if you haven't showered - if you still smell like a dusty airplane cabin. Your palm creeps warm over his heart. “I needed to be away, baby.”

And Ray - despite hating your inability to follow a clear path - will always turn over and silence you with his mouth.

i know i know i know

***

“Oh,” you pant as he grabs under your thighs. He has the strength to lift you up and against the wall and you’re out of words - out of breath as he teases you under your skirt. He has his gun in his hand and his hand pressed to your face so that the hilt leaves imprints on your cheek. You lick at his thumb as he plays with your wet cunt - stroking and grinding as each thrust of his hand sends you up the cheap painted paneling. He's gonna smell like pussy after this - he's gonna smell like you and he'd live in it and -

They’re fully dressed. They’re on an errand for Mickey and sometimes they play this game to see how fast they can do what they have to do and then use the rest of their time to fuck.

But today - Ray had missed you too much to wait. The second they’d stepped into the building, he’d yanked you into a storage closet. The kid they need to rough up is right down the hall and we’ll handle him later, pet - let me touch you first - finger that little cunt until you get me all wet -

“You’ll be the death of me, Smith,” you groan against his mouth. You’re shaking in his arms - going all tight and tense as he feels your pussy clench around his knuckles. There’s the slick squelch of you taking three of his fingers at once - again and again - and he curves his thumb up and nudges it over your clit.

“You’re such an obedient thing like this,” he drawls as he sucks a mark into your throat - as he nips at your jaw. “Fuck - I wish I had my cock in you.”

“Do it,” you plead and it’s the only damn time you’re ever this needy - this soft and sweet. He’s got his gun burning up against your flesh and your heart is pounding - bursting in your chest as you choke and shudder. You reach between them - tugging at the button of his trousers. “God - you wear too many layers.”

He chuckles as you try your best. He glances down to watch you for a moment - enjoying your frustration. It’s good today. This is good - you’re in a pleasant mood and it feels as if he could swallow you whole without a fight. There are so few moments that you allow him to have you like this - allow him in.

“The kid,” you mutter as you finally grip his cock - forcing a growl from between his teeth. His muscles are jumping - flexing and rippling and his beard is making your lips puffy and bruised.

“Fuck the kid,” he grumbles before he’s dropping his hips just enough that you can release him from his trousers. He snaps forward - fills you to the hilt as you both exhale sharply with pleasure and surprise at the feeling. He's been inside you hundreds of times and still - it's always like sticking his cock in the sun - butter - a slick tight fist. You’re dripping wet - quivering and blood-hot and fuck oh ray - raymond - shit baby - harder - faster - just like that - you feel so good -

He slams his hand above your head and keeps it there to anchor himself. You use your core strength to hitch your knees higher around his waist - squeezing against his ribs. You fuck into him - meet every roll of his hips as you hold his face between your hands to kiss him frantically.

He knows you’ll have another fall out - another night where you need to run away to some gothic city. He thinks he’ll stop you next time - he’ll invite himself - he’ll choose somewhere brighter - maybe Paris - maybe not - maybe he’ll be just fine going with you straight North - along the coast with all that dark ocean lapping at their sides -

“Do you love me, Ray?”

“A little too much.”

#raymond smith #raymond smith imagine #raymond smith x you #raymond smith x female reader #the gentlemen 2019 #the gentlemen fanfiction #charlie hunnam #charlie hunnam characters #ray smith

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cheri-translates · 4 years ago

Text

[CN] Gavin’s S2 R&S - Inevitable

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers from an R&S (不可抗力) which has not been released in English servers!🍒

This R&S features S2 Gavin!

It is incredibly important to read Ch 9 Part One before embarking on this!

[ Chapter One ]

At midnight, a young man makes a turn at a secluded alley, walking into a small hotel that’s still open for business.

He walks around the main hall, and straight into the innermost booth. The sound of shuffling in the night is continuous, and the dealer holds a cigarette in his mouth, drawing a card.

A hand suddenly approaches, and the muzzle of a gun covers his temple.

"How long will it take for you to finish this round?" Gavin’s voice is calm, fingers exerting more pressure on the trigger.

The others are so frightened that they rush out. With no way out, the man suddenly whips out a knife and swings it at Gavin. Gavin grabs his wrist, the other hand reaching for the handcuffs.

All of a sudden, a voice rings in his head: Don’t get hurt, and don't ignore the consequences. If he were to do this, it seems someone would be very sad. He doesn’t seem to want to make that person sad either.

In that second of distraction, the knife glinting with a cold light in the man’s hand slices the area between Gavin’s thumb and index finger. The thoughts in his mind accumulate amidst the pain. Gavin gathers some strength in his palm, a raging gale rolling up the battered tables and chairs. The man’s gaze turns frightened...

Three minutes later, the man, who was puffed up with pride earlier, is firmly handcuffed and kneeling on the ground, begging for mercy.

Gavin pushes the person out of the booth, and the colleague responsible for providing assistance steps forward, escorting the person into the police car.

In the main hall, the little girl who was clapping her hands and singing the birthday song earlier has burst into tears, shocked by the sight before her. Her mother comforts her. "Don't be afraid, darling. This is the Special Police Uncle who catches bad men and is here to protect us.

After glancing at him, the little girl cries even more fiercely.

Gavin nods to the girl’s mother apologetically, then walks towards the claw machine at the entrance of the hotel. After a short while, he returns, hugging the largest doll in his arms.

"Happy birthday.”

He hands a huge cartoon doll to the little girl, then turns and walks out the door.

An hour of interrogations is enough to leave one exhausted. Tang Chao stretches, holding a tidied statement while heading towards Gavin’s office.

It’s late at night, and the lights are still on. Tang Chao knocks thrice but receives no response. He tries pushing the door open, and is shocked to find that Gavin, who is seated behind the desk, is neither dealing with a case nor official business. Instead, he’s in a daze.

Gavin leans against the chair, his gaze fixed on the computer screen for a long time, brows furrowed deeply. Tang Chao walks over and glances at the screen - it’s a report regarding the arrest of the producer from [MC’s Company Name] not too long ago. He reaches out, waving his hand in front of Gavin. He asks, "How many fingers?”

When Gavin glares back coldly, Tang Chao feels relieved. However, seeing the scab wound on his hand, he’s confused again - what could be so important that he’d forget to tend to his wound?

He places the tidied statement on the table, then drags Gavin to the infirmary. "Even a body forged in iron can’t be compared to you.”

Fortunately, the wound isn’t deep, and can be healed in a few days. But Tang Chao’s intuition tells him that Gavin is a little different from usual. This time, the offender wasn’t considered dangerous, and could be easily subdued by Gavin’s skills. How did he get hurt this easily?

Before Tang Chao can ask a few more questions, Gavin has already vanished without a trace.

[ Chapter Two ]

At four o'clock in the morning, the clerk at the 24-hour convenience store yawns, overcome with boredom as he stares at the TV commercial on the wall to pass the time. A cheerful electronic sound rings. The automatic doors slide open, and a young man walks in.

The clerk perks himself up, and is about to say "Welcome" when he realises that the customer in front of him looks very familiar.

This man lives in an apartment in the vicinity, and visits this convenience store frequently. Sometimes, he drives past in a smart-looking motorcycle. When someone tries to hit on him occasionally, he always rejects them coldly. It’s a pity that whenever he visits, he either buys instant noodles or instant bento... looks like it’s the same this time.

When the clerk sees him heading towards the convenience food shelf, he sighs in his heart: Young people these days don’t take care of their health at all.

Gavin leans down, his gaze flitting across the neatly arranged food on the shelf, absentmindedly differentiating the expiration dates marked on the packets.

Shiitake mushroom flavoured instant noodles aren’t tasty. The stray cats at the entrance of STF prefer meat, not anchovies. Don’t get hurt, don’t get mired in danger alone, don’t leave without saying a word.

Such thoughts once again surge forth. From a certain point in time, many unfamiliar experiences have been intruding into his life. It’s as though he’s sharing another memory, these disordered fragments of memories twisting into a long, thin thread, holding onto his wrist, tugging at him secretly from time to time.

Gavin returns to his senses, subconsciously drawing back the hand that was reaching for the convenience food, and picks the brand at the side which contains more vegetables.

When checking out, Gavin notices that there are rows of potted succulents next to the cash register.

"This is a public welfare activity jointly launched by our store and the Loveland City Environmental Protection Association. For every plant sold, we will donate the same amount of funds to the environmental protection charity.”

Seeing how unresponsive the young customer in front of him is, the clerk is tactful as he continues scanning the remaining products, "Nine dollars in total.”

The receipt is printed, and the clerk hands it to him along with the bento. The young man suddenly points at the small potted plant that had just emerged from the soil.

"Add this too.”

Back home, Gavin throws his jacket into the washing machine, sets the time for washing and drying, then heads into the bathroom to take a shower.

A strong gush of water flows from the shower, and white mist quickly fills the entire space. The stinging pain from the wound sobers him up quite a lot, and he subconsciously thinks: The wound should be tended to quickly, and “she” can’t know about it.

Realising what he’s thinking, Gavin is once again stunned-

Who’s “she”?

And why is he so concerned about how that person feels?

Stepping out of the bathroom, the washing machine makes a "ding" sound. Gavin wipes his head and walks over to take a look, only to realise that he had put bleach instead of laundry detergent. He stares at the washing machine in silence for a while, then reaches out to unplug the power, retrieving the ruined jacket.

After all of this, Gavin suddenly remembers the small potted plant he just bought. The clerk said that if it is placed in a location with sufficient sunlight, there would be new shoots in a week, and that it’s very easy to grow.

Gavin places it on the balcony, then picks up the phone and begins to search "How many times must succulents be watered in a day". Whether it’s a mere illusion, that sense of deja vu once again surfaces.

"What in the world am I doing...?" He mutters to himself, tossing his phone aside a little irritatedly. He returns to the bedroom, lying on the bed and closing his eyes, waiting for sleep.

In the depths of this autumn night that no one knows about, the rain outside the window patters against the leaves gently, and there is a very, very light stirring in his heart.

Gavin opens his eyes, looking at the ceiling which is illuminated by car lights. Suddenly, an unnamed emotion surges in his heart - he feels that the memories he has never been able to grasp weren’t “forgotten”. Rather, they are “losses” which render him powerless.

[ Chapter Three ]

On a rare, idle weekend, Tang Chao calls a group of friends from the STF together for hotpot. Right after ordering the hotpot base, Lu Yi’s conscience suddenly bugs him, and he asks if he should call Captain Gavin over.

Thinking about how rarely Gavin gets to rest and how he definitely wouldn’t be willing to see this group of people, Tang Chao knowingly shakes his head. However, his mouth has a different idea. “I’ll call him then.”

On the other side, a few special police officers are comforting Xiao Zheng from the Publicity Department who was hurt emotionally. Xiao Zheng fell out of love last week, and has been feeling extremely fragile and sensitive these few days. Hearing the bitter love songs in the shop, his eyes immediately redden.

Tang Chao taps open his contacts list, silently recalling the odd behaviour of Gavin recently. He isn’t interested in being a busybody, but his instincts tell him that Gavin has something on his mind, and it’s a change obviously brought about by that girl’s appearance. But whenever Tang Chao wants to inquire about it, the words get halted by Gavin’s killer glare.

Thinking about this, Tang Chao glances at Xiao Zheng sympathetically, and comes to a definite conclusion - if Captain Gavin were to continually suppress his emotions without releasing them, it’d result in an illness.

Tang Chao asks the waiter to serve two dozen beers, then dials Gavin’s phone.

"Good evening Captain Gavin. Have you eaten?"

"I don’t mean to annoy you, but Captain Eli invited us to have butter hotpot. You coming?

"Don't be in such a hurry to refuse. I’ve got something to talk to you about. Yes, it’s happening right now... it’s of utmost urgency.” Tang Chao shoots a grin towards an astonished Eli. Then, he continues fabricating a tale. "I don’t want to run laps. There’s a genuine matter.

Half an hour later, Gavin frowns as he walks into the hotpot restaurant. Seeing this, a few young special police officers immediately set down their chopsticks and stand up straight in a row. The only thing they haven’t done is to salute at Gavin.

Tang Chao grins, asking the waiter to bring an additional pair of tableware over. “Captain Gavin, you’re here.”

Gavin glances at Tang Chao and says in a cool voice, "What’s the urgent matter?"

“Xiao Zheng fell out love, so he asked you over to console him with us.”

“...”

Xiao Zheng frantically waves his hands in surprise, stammering a retort. Tang Chao pushes him back onto his seat and signals for him not to speak.

"Don't be sad, the chances of people ending up together is always unpredictable." Tang Chao pats Xiao Zheng on the shoulder. "Besides, who doesn’t have someone in their heart? Don’t you agree, Captain Gavin?"

These words are akin to a sudden clap of thunder on a calm sea. Xiao Zheng immediately forgets to cry. Eli immediately straights up, and the others hurriedly set down their chopsticks, whipping their heads over to look at Gavin like meerkats.

Gavin remains expressionless, though the hissing sound emanating from his body is even cooler than the ice cubes in the beer.

Since they’re in public, Tang Chao knows that it wouldn’t be convenient for Gavin to give him a beating. As such, he’s incredibly composed, and continues with his questions without a fear of death. “Captain Gavin, why aren’t you saying anything?”

“Why do you think this has anything to do with her?”

“I already saw the photograph back in the training days. Is she the lady from before when you roared “Tang Chao, put your hands away”?

[Note] These are references to R&S [Tempering] and Ch 2 Part One!

"...Tang Chao!”

“I'm here, I'm here." Tang Chao fills Gavin’s glass with beer. "Captain Gavin, I actually realised that you haven't been in the best state recently, but you don't like speaking your mind. I’m showing my concern."

“It’s said that you speak the truth after drinking, and today’s beer should be enough. Whatever you want to say, whatever’s suppressed in your heart, just release them all happily. Right, Captain Eli?”

After three rounds of drinking, Tang Chao fails to get Gavin drunk, but ends up drinking too much himself. Once again, he complains about Gavin's "Death Training" back in the days of special training. In the end, Gavin foots the bill.

Eli steps forward and pats him on the shoulder, saying, "Did something happen recently?" Gavin shakes his head in resignation. "You really believed him? His mouth is like a runaway train.”

Eli looks at Gavin and sighs. "I know you don’t need anyone to worry about you.”

"But that kid Tang Chao said one thing right. If one keeps suppressing their feelings, they’ll be suppressing problems.”

[ Chapter Four ]

On the way back, Gavin sees withered leaves on the branches along the street, and only then remembers the small succulent he had bought not long ago.

Back home, the potted plant on the balcony shrinks alone in the corner. Originally thinking that the plant he had left “free range” for so many days would meet a premature end, it turned out to be alive despite having a few withered leaves. Gavin finds this a little unbelievable, and he becomes more meticulous in watering it.

The next morning, Tang Chao opens the door to Gavin’s office and apologises solemnly. "Captain Gavin, I'm sorry. I promise that I’ll never inquire about your personal life in the future, let alone make arbitrary conjectures about your feelings.”

Without looking up at Tang Chao, Gavin only tosses out a sentence. "Before next Monday, re-check all the case data in the Archive Room.”

The Archive Room is on the third basement floor. The dust is very dense and the materials are very thick. Tang Chao wails immediately, leaving dejectedly.

Gavin picks up the document Tang Chao had just placed on his desk. It is a sealed report for the seizure of "small syringe" production plants, which records in detail the batches and output of pharmaceutical companies which participated in the production.

Reaching the final part of the report, Gavin is silent for a moment. At the end of the report, there is a line of small characters - "Ten boxes of drug samples are suspected to have gone missing."

Without putting much thought into it, a face with a beaming smile locks onto his mind.

“...I won't investigate you this time." He sighs, putting the report back into the drawer.

After ferreting the mole out of STF, Gray Rhino seems to have erased all traces of the "small syringes". But Gavin knows they wouldn’t withdraw easily from competing for "CORE" - naturally, neither will Black Swan.

Gavin is clear that the current peace will not last for long. Before the girl stands against him on the opposite side, what he has to do is be one step ahead, obtaining more crucial information as soon as possible.

The phone beeps, notifying him of a new e-mail. Gavin is pulled back from his thoughts, and his eyes fall on the unknown email that popped up.

"Congratulations on your successful registration in the Hunter Game" - the sender’s address is encrypted, and there is no doubt that no information can found.

Gavin's thoughts gradually settle. His hands are clasped lightly on the table, his gaze falling on the words "Hunter Game", his gaze turning sharp and determined.

That place definitely has something they’re looking for.

[ Chapter Five ]

In the STF Intensive Care Unit, a dripping sound accompanies the plastic tube. Gavin sleeps very peacefully, and he feels like he had a lot of dreams in his dazed state. They aren’t nightmares which wake him up with a start, but dreams which make him willing to remain asleep.

However, it seems he can only remember the final dream from the long series of dreams. When he’s roused awake by the sound of footsteps in the corridor, what lingers before his eyes is a blurry yet familiar face. Gavin sits up on the hospital bed, the pain from the no-longer-effective anaesthesia making him more awake.

Despite not telling Tang Chao and Eli about his participation in the Hunter Game, they aren’t suspicious. They’ve grown accustomed to Gavin’s aloof nature, and as such, assumed that he went on a secret mission.

During his absence over the past few days, there was a new development in the Evolver assassination incident - a new victim has appeared.

Gavin is very clear that if the cases were to be allowed to ferment, the higher-ups from “that side” would intervene in the matter. They have to take immediate action.

“There’s one more tricky thing." Tang Chao sits at the edge of his desk. "For the latest assassination case, we encountered a witness with a special situation. We might have to ask an Evolver who can read memories for help."

Tang Chao blinks and asks, "But I don't know any Evolvers with this ability. Do you know any, Captain Gavin?”

According to theory, aside from work purposes, they should be keeping a distance from each other. But according to the girl, the reason why they’ve come out for an idle stroll is, for one, to relax. Two, to search for inspiration to solve the case.

The lead from the only witness to the Evolver assassination was cut short. Gavin isn’t affected much, since he knows that this matter isn’t simple. In contrast, the girl is especially bothered by it, and feels apologetic for not being able to help.

On the bustling street in the afternoon, Gavin returns to his senses, taking the oden which the girl hands over with a smile.

When walking by her side, Gavin realises that he’s barely thinking about the things that are bothering him. He naturally picks up her conversation topics, as if they had wandered aimlessly on the street side by side before.

Does she feel the same way? In his heart, Gavin shakes his head in self-mockery, wanting to forget these thoughts which confuse him.

Walking out of the food street, rain patters down. The pedestrians on the street crowd together suddenly, rushing towards the station. Gavin holds up an umbrella, planning to send her back.

The yellow wintersweet flowers exude a subtle fragrance in the rain. The smell, colour, and the scent of the person next to him seem to be magnified, forming a memory of the present moment.

Perhaps, even before he noticed it himself, while he has been deliberately neglecting the complex emotions in his heart, they have been also been growing in a place where he cannot see. When she calls his name, when she accidentally touches his hand, it’s as though some things from a very long time ago are coming back to life in his mind--

Someone had once called his name using such a tone.

Someone had once held his hand in this way.

Someone... was once his strength.

The emotions which he conceals deeply, whether they are good or bad, were once held gently.

A scorching wave of heat suddenly rushes into his chest.

The traffic lights change, and the crowd waiting at the side of the street slowly surge towards the middle of the road. The surrounding pedestrians squeeze past each other, bumping into his shoulder from time to time.

Gavin lifts his head abruptly, watching the side profile of the girl as she’s in the rain. It’s as though there’s an intriguing overlap. It’s as though a very long time ago, his heart had leapt this fiercely for her.

The girl suddenly turns around, looking in his direction and waving at him. Putting away her umbrella, she points to a mother-daughter duo hiding from the rain underneath the bus stop. She asks for his opinion through her gaze. Without much thought, Gavin removes his jacket, brisk walking towards her in the rain.

Raindrops patter down, and the water beneath his feet leave splashes in their wake. Akin to rain, they land on his body. It’s as though he gets slightly more drenched with each step. At this moment, Gavin realises that on days when memories are muddied, he has grasped a thin thread since a long time ago.

The jacket supports a narrow world, and wind and rain occasionally blow in.

If their reunion was meant to verify their directions, no matter what the future holds, what he has to do now is to run forward with her, together.

[Note] Please don’t ask me about the Hunter Game! I haven’t had the chance to read the earlier chapters in detail so I don’t know the specifics 😅

💙 More S2 content: here

💙 Support the cafe by dropping by the tip jar!

#mlqc #mlqc cn #mlqc spoilers #mlqc gavin #...T^T #please don't send me asks about the new chapter even if it's about verifying spoilers floating around!#I haven't read them and I don't wish to be spoiled HAHAHA

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tenspontaneite · 4 years ago

Text

The Ceracurist (Chapter 3/?)

Even after these past months, she wasn’t yet used to it. Another Full Moon spent alone.

(Chapter length: 10.4k. ao3 link)

---

“Did you go to the game night?” Was Ethari’s first question when she called him the next day.

She rolled her eyes at him. “Yes, Ethari.”

He looked delighted. “Did you make friends?”

She hesitated, thinking about it. “…Well, I did beat them all at Antiquitora,” she said eventually. “And you were right, they did appreciate that.” She paused, and added “I’m probably going back, I think.”

She spent the next ten minutes having details pried out of her so warmly and kindly it hardly felt like an interrogation at all. Ethari was good at that. Finally she secured her escape via the need to leave for training, and was farewelled with considerably less fretting than usual. When the call dropped, she was about to shut down the Sunbeam module entirely, but then-

New Contact Requests, said the alert in the corner. Rayla blinked, nonplussed, and opened it, already having a decent idea of what she’d find. Sure enough, there were three new requests from codes she recognised: Kazi, Nihatasi, and Callum. She lingered there for a while, feeling bizarrely overwhelmed, then finally accepted all three of them.

She didn’t linger by the computer, after that – she had training to get to. Rayla paused at the door to perform a final once-over of her armour, then grabbed her swords and left.

---

Rayla stumbled back into her room in late afternoon, covered in about three different kinds of mud and her body aching all-over in the aftermath of prolonged exertion. She spent the next two hours with rigid discipline: cleaning herself, cleaning her armour, checking her weapons. She cooked unenthusiastically and ate, then finally felt justified in utter collapse. She landed face-first into her bed and fell asleep immediately.

Three hours later, she woke to a stirring of magic in her veins, prickling over her skin, all the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. Slowly, she blinked her eyes open, and pushed herself up; every hint of soreness from training was completely gone. She turned her eyes to the window, staring at the Moon rising full and resplendent past the horizon. Something deep and instinctive in her delighted at the sight of it. But something else twisted, sharp with the pang of homesickness.

Even after these past months, she wasn’t yet used to it. Another Full Moon spent alone. She sighed, and tried not to think of the festivities that would surely be beginning back home. It was moonrise; Ethari and Runaan would be at the Circle by now. Had the dancing already started? With the Moon this high, it must have.

She stared unblinkingly out of the window, turning thoughts over and over in her head. It wasn’t right to be alone at Full Moon. It wasn’t right to spend it all indoors, either. She couldn’t do much about the first thing, but the second…

Silent, Rayla slipped outside. A few of her wingmates were out in the common room, chattering drunkenly with each other near the table. She blinked, slowly, and exhaled. When she passed, they didn’t see her; only started with surprise at the open and close of the door. She crept through the streets like a ghost, visiting each of the parks and training grounds in turn until she finally found one unoccupied: a small stand of well-kept trees, and a fountain that reflected the full body of the Moon in its burbling waters. It would do.

It was no Circle. There were no runes in the ground – nothing here that awaited the careful precision of the lunar dances, nothing that would light up at her passing. But it was better than nothing. Rayla pulled at the moonlight until she was nothing but shadows flickering in the shadows of the trees, and danced.

There were plenty of moondances that could be done alone, and she circled the fountain with all of them, one by one. A tracery of magic hummed in the air at her passing, whispers of light following her; magic summoned by her motions, without the guidance of a Circle’s shaping. Even formless and aimless, it was beautiful. So, for the pleasure of it, she spun through those motes of moonlight and held them flickering in the shadows of her skin; light and dark woven together.

When she was done, she felt…not joyous, maybe, or exhilarated, as a celebration back home might have left her. But she was satisfied. Calm, and a little less sad. With the Full Moon still high above her, its magic brimming in her veins, Rayla headed home once more.

She didn’t bother to hide herself this time, and when she came through the door and passed by the remaining wingmates still up and awake, they saw her perfectly well: skin night-dark, eyes glowing, the edges of her form blurring into the shadows. They were all of them Sunfire and Skywing, and went a little quiet as she went by them; she wondered if they’d ever seen one of her kind at Full Moon before. Somehow, she doubted it.

Finally, Rayla arrived at her door, disarmed its security, and closed it behind her. She sighed, standing for a moment in the moonlight through her window, and considered it. Sleep would be a lost cause for another few hours, probably. So, somewhat inevitably, she ended up checking the computer. Browsing the mageskein was probably the best way to kill a few hours, and it wasn’t like she had anything else to do, this time of night.

Except: her Sunbeam module was still on, humming inside its casing, and…when she looked, it had projected a few message alerts onto the screen. Hesitantly, she checked them.

One was from Ethari, wishing her a good Moon, and entreating her once again to visit a Circle for it. Somewhat belated, that. One was from Kazi, confirming the time of their rematch tomorrow, as well as the address. Nihatasi had sent another, packed with effusive praise for her gaming excellence, insistence that she return, and an offer to come by the house whenever she wanted. Rayla shook her head at that, reluctantly amused. It wasn’t as though she’d met many nomads before – not in a social setting, anyway – but so far, Nihatasi more than matched their reputation for being aggressively sociable.

The last message was from Callum, and she steadfastly pretended that she wasn’t any more interested in it than the rest. He’d cheerfully thanked her for coming to the game night, said he hoped she’d come again, and then made an inquiry about her gaming tastes. Did she play computer games? If so, which were her favourites?

With the slow, halting uncertainty of the socially awkward, Rayla responded to all of them except Ethari’s. Kazi’s was easy enough, she just had to say ‘thanks’ and ‘see you tomorrow’. The other two took more doing. To Nihatasi, she expressed her thanks, and her assurances that she intended to come to a game night again. She said nothing about the house visit. To Callum, she reiterated her intentions to return, and admitted that, yes, she did like computer games, but hadn’t had the opportunity to play many of them, for lack of the necessary modules or a computer with the right specifications.

Given the hour, she certainly didn’t expect any response, so she switched active modules to the mageskein to start browsing. News headlines on the home site vied for her attention: something about the outcome of the latest Katolis-Evenere expedition into the wastelands; the most recent public appearance of the Dragon Prince with his esteemed parents; a gossip piece about some Katolian royal’s birthday. She checked the second one for images, and sure enough, there he was: the young prince Azymondias, still tiny in comparison to his queen mother…and, in the background, a few Dragonguard standing at the ready. Rayla spotted her parents and smiled. She clicked to transfer the picture through its Sunbeam link and waited.

The other module hummed, her computer making distressed noises as it attempted juggling the inputs of Sunbeam and Mageskein at once. The unit at home wouldn’t have had any trouble, but this one…she sighed, and waited, and was eventually rewarded when her Sunbeam successfully imported the image and displayed it full-fidelity, with all the depth and nuance of lighting that a flat picture could never convey. She filed it away, and was about to switch back, when she saw the alert.

A new message. At this hour? It had to be at least two in the morning by now, surely. She checked her clock to be sure, and, yep. 2:14am. She eyed the icon with consternation, then opened it.

Callum had responded. She stared, brow furrowing as she read. Hey, glad to hear back from you! He opened, cheerfully failing to acknowledge the fact that it was currently stupidly late. The rest of it was perfectly normal too; commiserating about her lack of access to proper computing, commenting that yeah, I didn’t get to play any EX games until I moved here, and you know what WX graphics are like, and which ones did you get to play? Any I’d know about?

Rayla reread its entirety several times, mildly flummoxed. At Full Moon her emotions were all closer to the surface than usual, so there was an undeniable thread of glee in her chest about this unexpected late-night contact, but…well, she was curious. In her limited experience with the ways of other students, the only reasons a non-Moonshadow would be up this late would be ‘partying’ or ‘insomnia’. Or ‘last-minute coursework’, but that was unlikely to apply when term was already over. So: You’re up late, she wrote, without thinking about it, and sent it back without responding to any of his actual questions. She’d begun composing a belated second message, but apparently Callum was a lot speedier with typing than she was.

Haha, yeah, I kind of lost track of time. Gaming, incidentally. She thought he must be used to significantly faster systems and transfer times than she was, because that was the entirety of that message, and then he sent another one: What about you? What are you doing up?

Rayla blinked, then settled herself a little more comfortably in her chair, since it seemed like, well. Like there might be a conversation happening, here. She brought the keyboard further forward. It’s Full Moon, she responded to him, a little dryly. Her computer took its sweet time about sending the message, as usual.

Oh. It is? After a pause, during which he presumably looked out of a window or something, he said Huh. So it is. Does it keep you awake?

She paused. Kind of, she wrote, slowly, and then wasn’t quite sure how much more to divulge. Eventually, she wrote It’s kind of hard to sleep through when it’s still high. I’ll be okay in a couple hours.

That must be so cool, he answered, which seemed a weird thing to say to a statement of Moon-induced insomnia. I’ve used artefacts to cast moon-magic before, but it must feel totally different when you’ve got the arcanum. What’s it like?

Rayla stared at her screen. She recalled the implications of him being a mage student, and was suddenly brimming with curiosity. I don’t know, I’m not a mage, she wrote, and then paused. Do you cast a lot of artefact magic, or was that a one-time thing?

She probably should have just outright asked about the mage student thing, rather than trying to be cagey about it. He probably wouldn’t have minded. Except, that turned out to be unnecessary, because the next thing he wrote, as if it were perfectly natural and unsurprising, was Well, I’m doing a thaumaturgy / thaumatology masters, so I definitely cast a lot of magic, yeah. Then, while she was still gawping at that, he followed it up with Listen, do you want to call?

What? She sent back, astonished, still in the middle of trying to process the concept of a human thaumaturgy student. She couldn’t quite get her head around it. How did that even work?

It’s okay if you don’t, he clarified. But your Sunbeam seems to have kind of a lot of connection lag, so it’d probably be faster to talk, you know?

Rayla was, in fact, using a fairly old edition of the Sunbeam module, which did have to establish a new connection for every individual message it sent and received. It was what was cheapest, and the lag was just…an unavoidable side-effect. She called more often than she messaged anyway, so it was rarely relevant. Except, apparently, now. It’s two in the morning, Callum, she sent to him, bewildered.

And we’re both awake, he pointed out, as if it was perfectly reasonable to call someone you’d only met twice before in the middle of the night.

Her first instinct, fuelled by bemusement and social anxiety, was to say no. Her second instinct was quick to the scene, with some very definite opinions about interacting with Callum, even at as weird an hour as this. She hesitated, wavering.

In the end, it was a glance at the Moon through the window that decided her. Rayla was emphatically not a mystical person, but even so, there were things that were deeply culturally ingrained. And one of those things was Full Moon is community time. Family, or friends, or a wider community – it didn’t really matter, but you weren’t supposed to be alone. This…probably counted.

Yeah, okay, she typed in the end, foot tapping under the desk with a frisson of tension. But only for a bit.

He didn’t waste any time about it, just sent the call request. Rayla took a quick moment to check she hadn’t made a mess of herself dancing, realised it was something of a moot point when everything attached to her was veiled in shadows, and finally accepted the call.

Callum’s room was startlingly brightly-lit when it appeared in the monitor, and it hurt her eyes a bit. She blinked rapidly, fighting the urge to squint, and glimpsed what looked like a well-appointed loft room with an unexpectedly dense population of easels. She could see at least three of them, most of which occupied by some sort of paper or canvas. She blinked, nonplussed, then steadfastly did not react when his face came into view. It moved around jarringly as he adjusted the lightcatcher, then finally settled.

He grinned at the screen, looking sleepy but in good enough humour, and said “Hey! Wow your room is dark.”

Rayla opened her mouth, closed it, then blinked. “Oh, right, your eyes,” she said, embarrassed. She generally only ever called her family, whose night vision was perfectly equal to hers. Humans, as well as most other elf races, were not nearly as well-suited for the dark. “Can you even see anything?”

“I can see your eyes,” he volunteered helpfully, looking amused. “They’re glowing. Really brightly, actually.”

“Yeah, that’s the Full Moon,” Rayla told him, already standing to go for the switch of the wall lamp over her desk. She’d never actually had cause to use it before, other than testing it when she first moved in, so the soft blue light it produced was almost wholly unfamiliar. “Is that better?” She asked, moving back to her chair.

“Well, I can actually see your room now, so-“ he started, then cut off abruptly as she settled back down in front of the lightcatcher. “Oh, wow,” he said instead as he stared at her, eyes wide.

Rayla ignored the self-conscious twinge in her stomach and frowned at him, folding her arms. “What?” she demanded.

He startled, as if only just realising what he’d said. “Oh. Um, sorry?” he attempted, weakly. “It’s just – I’ve never seen a Moonshadow elf all, er…” he waved expressively at her, contrite. “You know, Full Moon-ish?”

Oh. She eyed him, determined that he wasn’t messing with her, and relaxed a little. “What, not even in the Honour Games?” She asked, after a moment.

“Well, I mean, sometimes. But that’s usually in broad daylight, you know, and from a distance, and broadcasted.” He shrugged, a light dusting of pink rising in his cheeks, like he was embarrassed. “Kind of different to…” he nodded to her via the lightcatcher, smiling sheepishly.

“Suppose it is a tad different to a close-up Sunbeam call,” she conceded, lips twitching.

“I should’ve expected it, really, considering it’s full moon and everything,” he said ruefully. “Sorry, I’m not exactly at my brightest at two in the morning.”

Oh, that was right. It was the middle of the night. She squinted at him. “Then shouldn’t you be sleeping, instead of sunbeaming random Moonshadow elves?”

“Well, you’re up,” he said, as if this was a perfectly logical reason for him to be awake too. “And it’s not like I have to be up early.”

Lucky for him. She thought of the training and the Antiquitora rematch she had scheduled for the day, and suppressed a sigh. It was sometimes truly inconvenient to live in a mixed-race city that didn’t automatically expect the day after Full Moon (and the day of and before New Moon, of course) to be a rest day. “Wish I could say the same.”

He winced sympathetically. “Can you not cancel whatever it is?”

She opened her mouth to say no, stopped, and frowned. She hadn’t yet missed training even once. But…it wasn’t like attending every session was compulsory. And she did train three other times a week…and besides, a Sunday morning short session had never fallen on Full Moon recovery day before. “Probably, honestly,” she admitted. “My – uncle wouldn’t even tell me off for it. Moonshadow elves aren’t supposed to work the day after a Full Moon.”

“Because none of you can get to sleep the whole night?” He asked with interest, as if the cultural habits of her kind were genuinely intriguing to him. “Makes sense, I guess.”

Rayla huffed and shook her head. “Kinda. Mostly it’s because, traditionally, we’re supposed to spend moonrise to moonset with – family, or the community, or whatever. And we’re not much good for anything except collapsing once the Moon’s gone. So we all take the next day off.”

He blinked at her curiously, but if he wondered why she wasn’t currently out spending the Moon with her rightful community, he was tactful enough not to ask. “You should skip your thing, then. Whatever it is,” he determined, after a moment. “Get some actual sleep.”

“Says you,” Rayla said, wry. “You don’t even have a stupid magical reason to be up this late.”

“Does a technomantic game count as a stupid magical reason?” He grinned at her, his smile lopsided and full of humour. Her stomach did a weird flip-flop. “I mean. It is magical.”

Despite herself, she snorted. “And it is stupid,” she allowed, lips twitching. “As far as reasons to be sleep-deprived go, anyway.”

“Worth it,” he claimed, cheerfully. “I don’t have work till the afternoon anyway, so I’m fine.”

Rayla nodded at that, then a moment later actually recalled what his job was, and practically felt her face heating. Thank the Moon – literally – for her skin currently being too dark to show it.

He noticed some sort of reaction, though. Maybe her shoulders had hunched a bit. He tilted his head at her, a little rueful, and said “Yeah, er, about that. I wanted to apologise, for the others talking about it, yesterday? Couldn’t have been super comfortable.”

Abruptly hyper-aware of the weight and presence of her horns, Rayla did her best not to sink into the chair. “…It’s fine,” she muttered, embarrassed. “It’s not like you told them about it, they just guessed.”

“Yeah, I definitely wouldn’t tell them about who my customers were unless my customers said something about it first,” he assured her. “Not really professional, you know? We’re supposed to be confidential about it.” Suddenly, he smiled again. “Then again, it’s not like I usually end up meeting my customers at game night, so that part tends to be easier to manage.”

“Usually?” she asked dryly, ruthlessly suppressing the urge to lift her hands and hide her face behind them.

“No, yeah, you’re definitely the first time that’s happened,” he admitted. “It was kind of a surprise.”

She thought about how she’d reacted to seeing him appear through that door yesterday. “Just a tad.”

“A good one, though!” he claimed, cheerful. “It was nice to meet you properly.”

Rayla was tempted to say something along the lines of you know, where I come from, touching up someone’s horns is considerably more than a ‘proper’ meeting, but that was too mortifying to express, and he probably knew it anyway. She couldn’t imagine anyone becoming an experienced ceracurist without learning all the assorted implications that sort of thing had. “Even though I kicked your Archdragon across the board?” She questioned eventually, when she found her voice again.

“Even though you totally kicked my butt, yeah,” he agreed readily, looking far too pleased about it. “It was a great match. You’re crazy good at that game.��

An involuntary smile pulled at her lips. “Well, Kazi’s better,” she said, pleased despite herself. “They’d have had me easily, if they weren’t playing Ocean.”

He didn’t argue with her. Clearly, he understood the game plenty well enough to know the truth of that. “Still the second-best player I’ve met,” he insisted staunchly. “Is Antiquitora one of the computer games you said you did play? You must’ve put in some serious practice time.”

Rayla snorted. “I wish. No, the only games I ever actually got to play were on a gameship, just the one time, when I was…” she frowned, trying to remember. “Thirteen, maybe? Good long while ago.”

He perked up, expression brightening. “I love gameships,” he enthused. “There’s one that comes by Gullcrest twice a year, and I swear, all the students in the entire engineering department just disappear on board until it leaves. It’s crazy.” After a moment, he admitted “Well, to be fair, I disappear on board too, so, you know. It’s not like I can judge.”

She blinked, and leaned forwards. “What clan is the ship?” She asked, with considerable interest.

“It’s a joint management. Serat-Demani,” he said, watching her knowingly.

“Moon above,” she swore, and he grinned.

“Right?” Looking exceedingly pleased with her reaction, he took that as his cue to go into extensive, exacting detail about the wonders that a fully-stocked, state-of-the-art Demani entertainment airship had to offer. She listened raptly the entire time, interjecting with questions about the rates, the facilities, the games. If it was a Demani ship, it had to have Skycrawler, surely? What was it like? Was the gameplay everything it was said to be?

In the end, Rayla didn’t think she could really be blamed for losing track of time.

Callum was in the middle of enthusiastically praising Scion of Shadow, with particular attention to its unusually enjoyable stealth mechanics, when out of nowhere a yawn cracked through his sentence. He seemed fully ready to keep on talking once it was done, but Rayla sat up a little straighter, and for the first time in a while remembered that it was the middle of the night. She consulted her Moon-sense, and then the clock, and then buried her face in her hands.

He cut off mid-sentence, inquisitive. “What?”

“Callum, it’s nearly four in the morning,” she informed him, lowering her hands to stare at the clock, consumed with a baleful sense of having been betrayed by the passage of time. “The sun’s probably not even far off rising.”

He blinked, looked to the side, then blinked again. “…Huh,” he observed, a little sheepish. “Yeah, that’s…later than I usually stay up.”

“It’s later than I usually stay up, even on Full Moons.” Technically true, for the ones she’d spent at university. At home, though…moonset was, after all, later than sunrise in summer. Full Moon celebrations usually concluded once everyone’s skin was back to normal, but not always.

Callum shot her a weird look, long and appraising, before he spoke. “You’re still all…Moon-shadowy, though.”

“That won’t stop for a while yet,” she informed him, and shook her head. “I can probably get to sleep by now, anyway. Or another hour off, at most. You…” For a moment, she inspected him, spotting the signs of tiredness in his bearing. “You won’t have that problem, I think. You look knackered.”

He offered a rueful smile. “I’ll probably pass out the second I lay down, yeah,” he admitted. “I kind of lost track of time. Again.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Well, I’ll just go now, then, so you can’t get distracted again.”

Hastily, he sat bolt upright. “But there was something I wanted to-“

“Tomorrow,” she told him, firmly. “Or…today, technically. Later, anyway. Whatever it is can wait.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, then smiled sleepily at her. It looked far more endearing than it had any right to. “Well, okay then.”

Rayla nodded to him, said “Thanks,” then leaned in and shut the call down without a further word. Sunbeam’s active connection died down, Callum’s face disappearing from the screen, and she leaned back in her chair to fix the ceiling with a long-suffering stare.

On one hand, Ethari would’ve probably been delighted to hear she’d spent a couple hours of her Full Moon socialising, as a proper Moonshadow elf ought to. But on the other….Ethari could absolutely never, ever find out about this. If he knew she’d been up chatting with someone, losing track of time, for actual hours…she’d never hear the end of it. To say nothing of how he’d react if he got wind that she – that she might sort of-

“Ugh,” Rayla grumbled to herself, wiping a hand over her face.

She stared at the ceiling for a good long while, experiencing a variety of emotions that she wasn’t keen on thinking about too hard. She also spent a not inconsiderable amount of time thinking about the conversation, running it over in her head, thoughts stubbornly fixed on Callum. This was how she ended up realising that she’d never actually asked about the mage-student-thing, and she still had no idea how that worked.

“Ugh,” she said again, more emphatically, and finally left her chair. She left her room to perform some necessary ablutions in the bathroom she shared with the next room over, then returned to draw the curtains. Without the direct moonlight through her window, the magic in her skin started to stutter a little. In ten minutes or so, she’d be back to normal again…and, with luck, she might be asleep by then.

Begrudgingly, Rayla peeled herself out of her clothes and threw them haphazardly onto the floor, not even bothering to watch the magic desert them, and climbed into bed. A suboptimal amount of time later, she was asleep.

---

“Goodness, you look tired,” said Kazi, welcoming Rayla in. Rayla, for her part, was a little too exhausted to feel particularly awkward, which was nice. “Was the Full Moon particularly trying?”

Rayla’s lips twitched. At least this one knew when Full Moon was. “No more than usual,” she said dryly, bending to remove her shoes when Kazi made noises about it. “Just, you know, getting enough sleep is kind of a lost cause.”

“Oh, I know the feeling. Or at least somewhat,” they commiserated, leading her through to a small and cosy-looking living room lined with bookshelves, and then through to a somewhat larger dining room, whose table was…occupied. Very thoroughly occupied. Rayla tried not to look at it too closely until she had a chance to inspect it properly. “There was a solar flare a few years ago, and of course I and the other Sunfire elves couldn’t sleep for days. It was quite the experience! And I’m sure you know how the Skywing elves get when there’s a particularly powerful storm abound.”

She had, in fact, had occasion to see what Skywing elves looked like when they were storm-drunk. It had been funny, up until it got annoying. “Probably more of a pain for them and you, really, since none of you take anything like moondust,” she volunteered after a moment, mouth turning up with wry sympathy. She’d hate to be a Skywing and be subject to random, unpredictable bouts of their equivalent of being moonstruck. “You all get the full effect of it.”

Kazi looked a little curious at that, but didn’t ask. “Yes, I suppose so. We should be thankful our magical overload is not so consistent as it is for you. In any case-“ they gestured towards the table. “Please take a seat wherever you prefer! Would you like any stimulants?”

Rayla blinked. “…Could you repeat that?”

“Tea,” they clarified, eyes merry with humour. “Or perhaps reveillant, or coffee, by your preference. I have all three, in some measure.”

For a moment she’d wondered if she was being offered something illegal, which…looking at Kazi, she was quite sure had been on purpose. She shook her head, reluctantly amused, and said “I could try some reveillant? I’ve only had it once.”

“It is not especially common, in a Skywing city like this,” Kazi allowed, already heading in the direction of one of the doorways. They kept speaking as they disappeared through it, still perfectly audible to her ears. “But I always keep a supply. It’s the only one that tastes particularly good cold, after all, unless you are very creative with your teas.” There was the sound of a cupboard opening, and then a good bit of rummaging.

During the wait, Rayla cautiously selected a seat at the table and settled there, finally letting her increasingly wide eyes rove over the board set up across it. She was still gawping conspicuously when Kazi returned, brandishing three brown paper packets of what she assumed to be reveillant.

“Do you prefer unflavoured, citrus, or mixed berry varieties?” they inquired mildly, hiding a smile when they saw her inspecting the board.

“Er, berry?” Rayla offered, only half paying attention. She was too busy looking at the intricate detail on the hand-carved and probably hideously valuable Antiquitora board. There were no pieces on it yet, but even just the tiles…it was astonishing. All of the terrain had been dyed and varnished in different colours, with careful attention to the different biomes. It all gleamed. The ocean tiles had even been coated in some kind of resin, making them look wet. The artisan had even mimicked the effect of the edge of an underwater continental shelf seen from above, with an area of lighter ‘water’ closer to the ‘coastline’.

“Berry it is,” Kazi said, sounding quite smug. Rayla didn’t have the chance to see what their face looked like, because they’d already disappeared back into what she assumed was the kitchen. She spent the next five minutes of beverage preparation time inspecting the game board with undisguised admiration. Rayla wasn’t one to usually pay much attention to art, but…this was game related art. It was different.

“The set you brought to the game night wasn’t your one set, then,” Rayla finally commented, when Kazi reappeared. She accepted her cup with exacting care, not wanting to risk a drink spillage near a board like this. She was honestly surprised Kazi allowed drinks so close to this thing.

Kazi smiled, disproportionately small for the amount of self-satisfaction in it. “Yes, it’s my more portable set,” they said pleasantly, and took a seat across the table from her, setting down their own glass. “This one…well, I certainly do not take it out of the house.”

“I can imagine,” she expressed, uncertain whether to be jealous of the board or just plain impressed. She wouldn’t even want something this pricey. She’d constantly be worrying about damaging it somehow. But, even so…the hint of avarice remained. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“The various tile-pieces and figures are quite a sight themselves, I think,” they said, evidently extremely pleased with themself. Rayla wondered how many people they invited round for Antiquitora for the express purpose of showing off this set. “Have you decided your faction for today? Once we have that settled, we can begin setting up.”

Rayla snorted, lips turning up into a half-smirk. “Depends what you’re playing as.”

Kazi beamed back. “Do you have a preference? I am perfectly open to suggestions.”

She considered it. Allegedly, Kazi was most beastly when playing Earth or Sun. Rayla herself was best at Moon and Sky…and Sky was exceptionally poorly matched against Earth. Sun’s best counters were Earth and Ocean. Moon wasn’t great against Sun, but not terrible either. “Take Sun,” she decided, eventually. “I’ll do Moon. I want to see for myself how much you wipe the board with everyone when you get to play properly.”

If Kazi had been smiling before, they looked positively frightening now. Not that their smile had widened, or anything; they just seemed to have a way of looking disconcertingly menacing while beaming pleasantly at you. “I will do my best to arrange that,” they said, and reached for three boxes: Moon, Sun, and the tiles and dice and cards.

Setting up would have gone more quickly if not for Rayla’s interest in inspecting the various gamepieces, and Kazi’s interest in flaunting them. Most of the units, from citizens to mages, were all carved in beautifully varnished wood. The Hero and Archdragon figures, though… “Is that gemstone inlay?” Rayla asked with disbelief, inspecting her Lunar Archdragon and turning it this way and that.

“The Lunar Archdragon has mother-of-pearl inlay, in fact,” Kazi said pleasantly. “And, yes, some very small gemstones for the eyes.”

She shook her head at that, half-impressed, half in disbelief. “Where did you even get this?”

“It’s an heirloom,” they elaborated, which made sense. The only other way for someone to have a set like this would be by being ridiculously rich, or by knowing an insanely skilled craftself. “Hence why it has the standardised continent shape. It does need fairly careful maintenance, though. I paid to have some of the varnishing redone recently, for example. But for me, the joy of owning a set like this is well-worth the upkeep.”

Rayla nodded. It wasn’t her sort of thing, personally, but she understood well enough. “I bet you try to get people over to play you every chance you get,” she said, amused. “With a board like this…”

“It would be quite a shame otherwise, yes,” they agreed. “I must thank you for obliging me! This board so rarely sees a high-level game.”

She huffed, amused, and kept unpacking the gamepieces one-by-one. Kazi had to know that they were the better player. If she’d barely beaten them when they were playing Ocean and underestimating her for most of the game, she certainly wasn’t going to win now. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Eventually, when everything was set up, they rolled the starting conditions and began playing. Kazi very obviously knew what they were doing with the primary advantages of the Sun faction – agriculture, population, and military might – but Rayla was perfectly well acquainted with a proper Moon playstyle as well. She leaned into the espionage and intrigue skillset as heavily as she could manage, wreaking political strife in Kazi’s territory wherever she found an opening. When Kazi could find them, her units died; but that certainly wasn’t always.

Even so, the outcome was something of a foregone conclusion. The game lasted a while, because Rayla knew that her main defence against the Sun armies was if they couldn’t find the Moon cities, and planned accordingly…but Rayla hadn’t succeeded in assassinating the Archdragon, and hadn’t managed to get the Sun citizenry to demand a leadership duel either. So, unsurprisingly, Kazi eventually managed to field an assault that broke through the illusory barriers protecting Rayla’s stronghold, striking at her Archdragon precisely on the turn before New Moon. It died of its injuries the turn later.

Rayla considered the board carefully after that. Her best chances of winning against Sun would be crop poisoning, Archdragon assassinating, leadership disputes, or revolution. She’d managed the first and had been making decent headway on the latter two, but, in the end…it wasn’t close enough. She smiled ruefully, and said “Moon concedes.”

They nodded, having expected that, and smiled beatifically. “It was a marvellous game,” they said warmly, already reaching over to begin clearing the pieces. “Thank you very much for it.”

“I don’t know, it was a pretty solid victory for you.” Her voice was dry as she reached out to help, handling each of the intricately-carved figures with care. “You’re obviously the better player, here.”

“Yes,” they agreed, neither modestly nor boastfully, simply as the fact it was. “But nonetheless, you are certainly the best player I’ve encountered in-person in a very long time. Certainly the only one I didn’t arrange to meet with beforehand. It was a good game, no matter that you lost it.”

Rayla dipped her head, smiling a little. It wasn’t like she enjoyed losing…but she’d appreciated the challenge enough to make up for it. She’d ceased finding any sort of challenge back home a long, long time ago. “Yeah, it wasn’t bad.”

Kazi reached for another piece, paused, then eyed her consideringly. “Would you…like to discuss it?” they asked, tilting their head, watching her.

She glanced up, surprised. It was hardly an unfamiliar concept. She’d watched enough matches broadcast on Sunbeam to know how it went; when two top-tier players concluded a match, they talked about it afterwards. They discussed each other’s plays and strategies, pointed out mistakes, considered where there was room for improvement…

The only after-game discussions she’d ever had had been at Runaan’s knee, when she was still small and didn’t know the game nearly as well. It was weirdly flattering to be invited to do it now.

“…Yeah,” Rayla said, eventually, and sat back down. “I’d like that.”

Kazi beamed like the Sun they’d just used to trounce her. “Very good.”

The next half hour involved more talking than Rayla thought she’d done at a time in months…or, well, she would’ve said so, if not for last night. It was certainly a good second-place contender though, and by the end her voice was feeling a little tired from overuse. They concluded the discussion, packed away the gamepieces and board, and then were done.

“But of course, you must stay for another drink,” Kazi said, and whisked her empty glass of reveillant away. “You liked the berry infusion, yes? Excellent, I will get you another.” Good to their word, they did precisely that, and returned in short order.

Rayla did feel a little more awake, on that second glass of the reveillant. It was effective stuff; as much or more so than coffee, with (in her opinion) a considerably better taste. She was debating the merits of asking Kazi where they got it when they spoke up first.

“You’ll be returning, I hope?” they said, and it took Rayla a moment to think of what they meant.

“….Here?” she guessed. “For a rematch?”

“Well, yes, naturally.” Kazi pushed their glasses up, smiling a little. “I had assumed as much. But, no, I was referring to the game society. You’d be an excellent fit, I think.”

Rayla blinked. “Oh.” She thought of the previous night, and hunched down a little in embarrassment.

“I know it was only a very small group when you visited, but I have the impression you prefer that, anyway,” they said, neatly demonstrating that they were as unnervingly good at reading her as she’d sort of inferred. “It can get rowdier in term time – at least at the official meetings. The meet-ups at our houses are much calmer – usually just the core group.”

“Which is?” Rayla asked, a little reserved now, if only to disguise the fact that she really didn’t need convincing. She might have, after just the Friday. But after this…after yesterday…

“Myself, Callum, Nihatasi. Usually Pava, but often he spends the whole time tinkering instead of playing.” They shook their head, amused. “In term time – well, usually I’d say to expect Evairas, but he is spectacularly busy these days, so perhaps not.”

“…They sent messages,” she commented, after a moment. “Callum and Nihatasi, I mean. Pava didn’t.”

“Pava tends to forget Sunbeam exists for weeks at a time, don’t mind him,” Kazi assured her. “Nihatasi and Callum though, I’m not at all surprised. Nihatasi adores new people, and Callum…” they eyed her, just a little speculatively. “Well, I think you impressed him. Has he invited you to Tuesday, yet?”

Rayla blinked with consternation. “Invited me to what on Tuesday?”

“Game meeting, at the house,” they clarified. “It’s hardly an official thing, but it’s often Callum’s house that has everyone over. He hasn’t invited you over, yet? Well, he will. I am quite sure of it.”

For a long moment, she looked into her glass and the dark red liquid therein, pondering it as if it held all the answers for how she was supposed to respond. “If you say so,” she said, finally, and lifted her glass to drink.

“I do,” Kazi claimed serenely, and gracefully changed the topic to (naturally) more about Antiquitora. By the time Rayla finished her drink, she’d learned that Kazi played broadcast games online fairly regularly, under a handle that she recognised; she’d watched a good few of their games before.

“Is there a story behind that skein-name?” she asked, undeniably curious now that she was acquainted with the elf behind it. “’Finguistician’.”

Kazi laughed, like she’d surprised them. “Oh, that,” they said, mirthfully. “It’s something of an in-joke. You see, I have my doctorate in Linguistics – specifically, in non-verbal linguistics. Various sign languages, Draconic Corpus, and so on. I made a joke once, when I was still an undergraduate in a sign-language module, that the course should be called finguistics, given, well,” they waggled their fingers at her.

She snorted, amused. “Did it catch on?”

“Sadly, no. But I do call my sign language classes for the public ‘finguistics’, and no one can stop me, because I am the teacher.” They giggled a little to themself. “Perhaps in time it will become a more widely-used term. I would like that; it would be very amusing. In any case, that is where the handle comes from.”

Rayla thought, for a moment, about a moment from the game night: Kazi and Callum had used some sort of sign language with each other for a second, hadn’t they? She considered asking about it, wondering what his background in that was. Did he take any of Kazi’s lessons, or had he learned some other way?

In the end, she bit her tongue and said nothing. After a little more idle conversation, she eventually made her leave, farewelled at the door by her cheerful host. Without the game to bolster her, she swiftly began to really feel her exhaustion. Stimulants or not, she was so tired that a headache was starting to pound luridly behind her eyes, almost enough to make them water.

She headed home intending to collapse back into bed and nap – if the lingering effects of the drinks allowed her to, anyway. Which was why she was considerably displeased to arrive back to find her wing busy and full of noise and various elves milling about. The halls were crowded. She was about to say “What the fuck”, or perhaps “Shut up, do you know how bad my headache is right now”, but before she had the chance one of the closest elves (some wingmate she didn’t know the name of) spotted her and shouted down the hall “It’s her, she’s here, she’s not dead!”

All eyes went to her, and an immediate chattering started up. Rayla stared, utterly nonplussed, fighting the urge to pull on the Moon and take advantage of a state of near-invisibility to just retreat to her nice, privacy-sealed bedroom. The noise cancellation ought to take care of this racket.

After a few seconds, a face she actually had a name for pushed forwards. It was Stavian, a Skywing elf from her bellatorium, still in armour from training. “Rayla,” he said, sounding very relieved. “Thank goodness, we were about to call for an official search!”

Rayla had no idea what was happening. “What in Xadia’s name is going on here?” she demanded, finally, and her irate tone seemed to remind him that he (for some reason) customarily seemed to be quite intimidated by her. He shrank back a little, and as he did, a few of the rest of the Honour Games team started to appear.

“You didn’t show up for training!” he said, defensively. “And from anyone else that wouldn’t be much of a big deal, but you’ve never missed a day before. And then when we went to check on you afterwards you weren’t here.”

“And none of your wingmates knew where you were,” added one of her teammates: Fiera, a particularly tiny Skywing mage with hair and feathers dyed a distinctive lilac colour.

Rayla stared for a few more seconds, then wiped a hand over her face. “It was Full Moon,” she said, very slowly, her patience already somewhere on level with the floor. “I didn’t get to sleep till around five; of course I wasn’t going to go to morning training.” She ignored the fact that, if not for Callum, she absolutely would have. He’d been right; it was completely reasonable to miss training on a Full Moon rest day, and if they had a problem with that they could bite her.

The vast collective of people assembled in the halls all looked very embarrassed, suddenly. And honestly, they should be. Moonshadow elves were definitely uncommon in Gullcrest, but surely someone should have known it was Full Moon, and made the obvious conclusions. “Oh,” said Fiera, weakly. Her wings drooped a little. “That…makes sense.”

Now looking very abashed, Stavian echoed “Oh.” The crowd of assorted wingmates and guests, probably attracted by the initial hubbub, started to grumble and dissipate.

Rayla sighed, and rubbed at her eyes, attempting to scrounge some sort of positive emotion from beneath her absolute crankiness at being confronted with a noisy group of people when she was this sleep-deprived. “Look,” she attempted, tiredly, “It’s…nice you were worried. I didn’t realise anyone would be looking for me.” She searched for something appropriate to say. “I’ll…put a note on my door, if something like this comes up again?”

Her teammates, four of whom had shown up, nodded contritely. “Sorry for bothering you on a rest day,” offered another of them, starting to shove the others towards the door. “We’ll see you for training tomorrow, right?”

“Yes, I’ll be there,” Rayla looked longingly down the hallway, where her bed awaited. “I don’t exactly make a habit of missing training, you know.”

“Yeah, you’re very – dedicated,” Fiera said, in the tones of someone trying to be diplomatic, still being ushered doorwards. “Have a good rest day!” she called, right before the rest of them filed out and the wing became something approaching quiet again.

Too tired and too grumpy to have much emotional response to the whole thing, Rayla turned and headed down her hallway without a further word. The wing was still bustling, and it was more of a relief than usual to close her door on it; the privacy runes hummed lethargically as they activated, but the noise level outside cut off sharply enough that for once she didn’t mind their quality too much. They mostly did their job, and that was all she really needed.

It turned out that the effect of the reveillant couldn’t really complete with post-Full-Moon sleep deprivation; Rayla crawled into bed and fell asleep more or less instantly.

She woke some hours later, stirring at the sound of some computer module or other humming as it reactivated from idling. It wasn’t loud by any means, but she was quite sensitive to new or changing sounds in her vicinity, so it was enough. She blinked her eyes open, rubbing grit from their edges, and stumbled out of bed with a glance at the clock along the way. Moon-sense said it was late afternoon; the clock was a bit more specific about it, and said 6.33pm. The sky outside was still blue and light, but in that summer-evening way, where the sun had fallen low enough to cast long shadows between the city buildings. It was still bright enough to make her tired to look at.

There were new messages on her Sunbeam.

Rayla dropped into her desk chair and eyed the icon tiredly, uncertain if she was awake or rested enough to deal with any further social contact today. In the end she decided there probably wasn’t any harm in checking them, so…she looked. Kazi had thanked her for the game, and sent her some sort of invitation to make an account on…what looked to be the skeinsite that hosted the high-level Antiquitora broadcasts. She wasn’t sure what the purpose of that was, and didn’t have her head on sufficiently to figure it out, so she left it for later. Ethari had asked how her Full Moon had been. And…

She sighed, not sure whether to be pleased or embarrassed, because: Callum had left messages, too. Fairly recently, actually.

They read Hope you got to sleep okay, and how are you feeling? There was no mention of whatever he’d supposedly wanted to mention before the call ended, so he’d probably forgotten, or…something.

She debated whether or not to reply now. She found she was a little wary of…something. She wasn’t quite sure what. Making a fool of herself, maybe? She’d already spent nearly two very late-night hours sunbeaming him, and…that was already…well.

In the end, Rayla spent about five minutes trying to wrestle some semblance of reason past her sleep-mired brain, finally concluding that she was probably unlikely to come across as an infatuated idiot by responding to a couple of messages. Then, slowly, she picked at the keys to write back: Kind of knackered, but okay. While that one was processing, she hesitantly sent another: Just woke up from a nap. I think it helped?

She left the computer to visit the bathroom, tidying up her hair and washing her face with cold water. It did little to make her feel more alert, or to remove the weird muggy haze of exhaustion from her head, but it was better than nothing. She contemplated getting something to eat, but knew she wasn’t going to be up to cooking tonight. She went for one of her bottles of emergency moonberry elixir instead, which were so full of nutrients they probably counted as some kind of soup.

That in hand, she returned to her computer….and, somehow, wasn’t surprised to find that Callum had already replied. Was he just constantly glued to his computer, or what?

Well, at least it’s apparently traditional to be tired after full moon, I guess? He’d written, light-heartedly. At least you got a nap! Although it’s kind of late. Won’t you have trouble getting to sleep later?

Rayla shuffled forwards in her chair to respond. Nah. There’s a neat trick you can use to get to sleep at night if you’re a Moonshadow elf, and if it’s not Full Moon. Just need to shine a bright light in my face and I’ll be good. She hadn’t had to use it in a while, but she knew where the thing was: on her windowsill, to soak up sunlight during the day. It’d do the job just fine.

The pause in response seemed to be longer than connection lag would account for. That’s so weird, and cool, he marvelled, eventually. I just looked it up. They call them sun lamps?

Yep. Flash of sunlight in a dark place gets us sleepy pretty much every time. Moonshadow elves tended to be mostly diurnal by practice, but naturally, they all had the wiring for a nocturnal lifestyle. Bright sunlight in the eyes after being in the dark would usually trigger tiredness, even in elves perfectly used to going about in the daytime. Sun lamps were extraordinarily simple as far as enchanted objects went, but extraordinarily useful for Moonshadow elves with weird schedules.

What about if someone turns a light on in a dark room? He asked, apparently fascinated.

Nah. Has to be sunlight. It’s pretty specific.

That’s so cool, he reiterated, from that bizarre well of enthusiasm he seemed to have for banal magical elements of everyday life. Rayla waited to see if he’d write anything more, and after a moment, realised she’d started smiling. She wasn’t sure when that had happened. Eventually, he did send something else: I’d ask if you wanted to call again, but you should probably, you know, be getting actual sleep.

What Rayla intended to write then was something along the lines of, ‘yes, you’re entirely correct, I need to sleep for like twelve hours if I’m not going to be a useless wreck for training tomorrow’.

Instead, what she ending up sending was keep it half an hour or less, and you’re probably fine.

I’ll set a timer :) he typed, complete with smiley, which was something she’d never actually encountered outside of the mageskein before. And then he called her.

“How’s the light level?” she asked him, when the call resolved. It wasn’t yet far into sunset, so she thought there ought to be sufficient lighting in her room to see by, but who really knew with humans. She certainly didn’t know how bad their eyes were.

In his own room, Callum was bathed in the warm glow of the light through his windows, shaded the same pink-orange that she was. He was smiling, even as he pretended to squint exaggeratedly at her room. “Yeah, I can just about see,” he said, obviously teasing. “It’s not dark yet.” A pause, and he took a moment to look her over a little more directly. He was a little more concerned when he added “Are you sure it’s okay to be calling? You really do look tired.”

“I think I’ll survive half an hour, Callum,” she told him wryly, and one corner of his lips twitched upwards.

“Yeah, fair enough.” He hesitated for a moment, like he was summoning his nerve for something. “Listen – I wanted to ask before, yesterday, but – there’s going to be a sort of casual gaming night? At my house? On Tuesday. The others will be there. And my housemates, er, obviously.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry if it’s short notice, but – do you want to come?”

Rayla stared at him, half bemused by the offer itself, half at his apparent nervousness. “Kazi said you were going to invite me,” she said, a little too nonplussed to offer any more intelligent response. “I guess they were right.”

He blinked. “You’ve been talking to Kazi?” A pause. “No, wait, what am I saying, of course you’ve been talking to Kazi. There’s no way they’d let someone who beat them at Antiquitora get away.”

“We had a rematch today, actually,” Rayla admitted, lips twitching. “I let them take Sun. Naturally they destroyed me.”

“Ow,” Callum said, with feeling. “I’ve been on the receiving end of Kazi playing Sun before. It’s…” he searched for the words. “Really something.”

She smiled, remembering it. With a few hours separating her from the game, she realised she’d enjoyed the experience more than she’d anticipated. The discussion in particular had been welcome. “I’m just glad to be able to play someone new, honestly,” she confided. “Though it’d be nice to do it again when I’ve actually slept.” A second later, she remembered he’d had an almost equally dubious bedtime, and inspected him critically. He looked surprisingly okay, actually. A little tired, but not like he’d been up most of the night. “Did you sleep in late, or what?” She asked then, a little amused. “You don’t actually look tired.”

He laughed sheepishly. “Yeah, I didn’t wake up till around lunchtime,” he admitted. “I had to go to work after that, though.”

Rayla paused, still very unsure of how to respond to mentions of his work. “And…was that okay?” She asked at last, uncertainly.

“Yeah, actually. I had a pattern etching appointment, and those are some of my favourites,” he said, brightening. “This one wanted one of my new designs, too. It turned out great!”

She’d seen something about that on the posters in the waiting room, she thought. “That’d be the…buzzing patterns into the horns?” She asked, faintly.

“Mmhm. I use sort of a really small thin version of an electric buffer, and work the etching in that way,” he agreed. “I draw the design on first and follow the lines, and then after you can either just polish it up and leave it, or like, fill with metal or something. It takes a while, but, you know, that’s kind of just how art works.” He shrugged. “It looks great, anyway.”

Rayla thought of her looming appointment, maybe a week or so away, and found she was entirely unprepared for thinking about that. “You…seem to kind of do the art thing a lot?” she hazarded, as a distraction, nodding to the nearest easel. “Painting?”

He turned to look, then grinned back at her. “Yeah! I mean, art is…well, I probably draw more than I game, and that’s really saying something. I do all sorts, kinda. I’ll have to show you some of my sketchbooks sometime.” That seemed to remind him of the question she still hadn’t answered, and he abruptly looked nervous again. “So. Er. Um. About Tuesday…?”

She tried, very hard, to keep an even expression. “Er,” she managed, and then finally: “…Yeah. Sounds good? I’ll…be there.” Wherever ‘there’ was. She did have the address written down, but hadn’t actually tried to figure out where it was in the city yet.

Callum straightened up, brightening. “Really? That’s great!” A second later, he amended “It’ll be really nice to have someone new over! We’ll have food and stuff, too.”

She paused at that. “Should I bring anything?” Hospitality expectations tended to be very different depending on culture, so it merited the question.

“Nah. Well, if you want, you can bring snacks or food, but you don’t need to. We have loads.” A second later, he added ruefully “Kassa has some…pretty strong opinions about how fully-stocked a kitchen should be.”

“That’s one of your housemates?” she remembered.

“Yeah! Actually, I lived with Kassa and her mom for a few years before. They sort of hosted me, when I was…well, when I first came to Gullcrest.” He amended his sentence half-way through, as if realising he was about to say too much. She was intensely curious about that. “This house is her family property, too, so we don’t have to pay much on it. We moved in when Kassa started her undergrad.”

She blinked, filing that information away. This had something to do with the mystery of him doing a mage’s masters at the age of eighteen, she was sure of it, but… “What about your other housemates?”

“Nihatasi moved in because we had room and she was a friend,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Soren…” he hesitated. “Well, he’s a childhood friend of mine,” he settled on eventually. “So he came to study here, and he took the last spare room.”

Rayla eyed him, but didn’t question him on the obvious secrets clamouring behind his words. “Looks a lot roomier than usual student wings, at least,” she commented finally. “These rooms are pretty cramped. And the runework is pretty worn-down. My door makes this horrible droning noise every time the wards come on.”

He made an ‘oof’ sound. “I’ve visited student wings before. They’re…well, they’re okay. Definitely prefer this house though.” He eyed her curiously. “Is yours at least one of the ones where you get one bathroom between two people? Because I knew someone who only had one bathroom for twelve, and it was terrible.”

“That sounds disgusting,” she said, making a face. She could hardly imagine how terrible that would be, with how some of her wingmates were. “I’m so glad that’s not me.”

“So glad,” he agreed, and before she knew it, they were off on a weirdly engrossing conversation about the merits of student living compared to home life. He was pretty evasive about it, but she got the impression he’d been used to a fairly fancy home before he came to Gullcrest, and he’d been astonished at what student wings were like.

Rayla was in the middle of describing how chaotic move-in day had been, with so many elves hauling all their boxes of things in at once, when a shrill ringing started up from over Callum’s voicecatcher. He reached hastily to the side and disabled some sort of egg timer that had gone off, settling back into view with a sheepish smile.

“That was the timer,” he said, apologetically.

Half an hour, already. It was a little disconcerting how quickly it’d gone by. “I’d better try to turn in for an early night, then,” she offered, weirdly reluctant to hang up.

He hesitated a fair bit, too. “Probably a good idea,” he agreed, wry. “We can talk again later?” His tone went questioning, at that. A little hopeful.

Rayla resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands. “…Yeah, sure,” she sighed, more and more exasperated with herself for just how much she wanted to talk to him.

Callum smiled again, the edges of him lit up from the light of the falling sun. “Later, then,” he said, and hesitated once again. Then he reached out, and the call disconnected. Sunbeam minimised to its idling overlay around the edges of her screen, the background of Silvergrove scenery back to the fore.

She sighed, and leaned back in her chair. Ruefully, she spend a while reflecting on exactly how in trouble she was. Then she did as a responsible elf on their Full Moon rest day ought, and went to attempt an early night.

She managed it almost as soon as it was dark enough for her magic rune-rock to work. Thank Xadia for sun lamps, honestly.

---

End chapter.

Yeah so this is basically completely unbetaed, even by me, because I’ve been frantically trying to churn out a complete chapter this week in time for the Modern AU day of rayllum month. There will be typos, there will be clunky sentences, that’s just what you get for a rush job. I’ll return to it and do some editing in the morning.

Re: the Antiquitora. ‘Would you like to discuss the game’ *hikago fandom origins vibes intensify*

Worldbuilding notes for this chapter:

Moondances: specific ritual dances made to react with the runic Circles that Moonshadow elves use. The dancing is used as a form of spellcraft, to cast enchantments or strengthen the magic of a community. The Full Moon dances in Silvergrove for example are integral for keeping its magical defences running. (piaj)

EX and WX: East Xadian and West Xadia. A more modern and correct term for the human and elf/dragon sides of the continent, respectively.

Artefact magic: primal magic cast with a power source other than your own arcanum. E.g. a primal stone, a moon opal.

Thaumaturgy: the practice of magic casting.

Thaumatology: the study of magic.

Lightcatcher: magic camera, basically.

Voicecatcher: magic microphone, basically.

Honour Games: a fun sport :) more on this later.

Technomancy/technomantic: alternate proper term for magical engineering.

Antiquitora notes: while the game has been steadily gaining complexity over time, the game at its fundamentals is very old, and quite traditional. It’s considered a respectable strategy game, and Runaan certainly would have approved of Rayla showing an interest in it when she was younger. Modern variants tend to adopt features and ‘house rules’ that don’t strictly conform to traditional standards, though.

East Xadian computer games: though boasting dramatically better visuals and audio than human technology is currently capable of, the limitations of elven computing mean that computer games are extremely expensive, and difficult to integrate into lesser systems. Most elves will never be able to run the best gaming modules at home.

Nomad Gameships: Brevili nomads are well known for their magical engineering, and produce some of the most advanced technomantic games there are. Owing to the limited number of elves who can actually afford to buy them, they get creative with the marketing: many clans field airships whose sole purpose is travelling around as a sort of mobile arcade, landing at various destinations for a set amount of time, during which customers can pay for access to the many assorted games they have on offer. Demani, as the clan that (a good long while ago) invented the airship in the first place, boasts the most impressive facilities on their ships.

Skycrawler: a game so advanced and finicky that its developers haven’t yet figured out how to get it to run on less advanced systems than the gameships’ computers. There are a handful like these, usually the newest and most technomantically complex titles, and their release on gameships usually serves as something of a ‘beta’ build while they refine the technology for more accessible use. Imunaviga was one of these, and was very recently released for public purchase.

Imunaviga: as several commenters guessed, this is indeed a Subnautica expy. Rayla is not at all keen on the idea of playing it. I spent probably too much time working out the worldbuilding and plot for the elf AU version of this game. It was a lot of fun though.

Scion of Shadow: a well-regarded game with a Moonshadow elf protagonist, involving a lot of stealth gameplay, a highly-lauded storyline, and in-setting ‘fantasy’ elements; i.e. they’d be considered fantasy in this fantasy setting.

Magical overload states: Natural events that cause high levels of ambient primal magic can induce some very unusual effects in beings with the relevant arcana. Terms include ‘moonstruck’ for Moonshadow elves, ‘sunstruck’ for Sunfire, and ‘storm-drunk’ for Skywing. (piaj)

Moondust: a magic-dampening drug taken in different dosages based on the phase of the moon, to dampen the effect of the lunar cycle on Moonshadow elves’ bodies and minds. Not all Moonshadow elves take it, but most do. (piaj)

Reveillant: Sunfire elf beverage made from the dried berries of a shrub with stimulant properties. Some preparations are very strong and are restricted, but preparations from the berries are mild and very popular. (piaj)

Draconic Corpus: a sort of full-body sign language spoken by dragons incapable of complex vocal speech. Given this accounts for the majority of dragons, it’s generally useful to understand some of, even if bipeds are generally incapable of speaking it properly. (piaj)

#rayllum #rayllummonth #tdp callum #tdp rayla #college AU #modern AU #the ceracurist

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himbowelsh · 5 years ago

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Well now I need touch starved Liebgott something! I always imagined Webgott to work the other way around. Y'know Web being unused to hugs and Lieb having no sense of boundaries. But I'm really intrigued by a concept of switching it up.

hello i’m in tears bc this took so long to write, but... enjoy an extremely touch-hangry boi. be warned, for copious amounts of obscenely soft cuddling.

Long story short, it goes like this.

David’s just finished an article, two hours ahead of the frankly unreasonable deadline sent by his editor; he collapses on the couch, promptly kicks his sock-clad feet up on the coffee table, and slumps against Joe’s side.

Joe goes very still.

At first, David thinks it’s because of his feet. Joe can be weird about things like that; he values cleanliness, and “not acting like fuckin’ animals in the house, Jesus, Web”. All the things David was never allowed to do growing up in his family’s Manhattan penthouse --- like leave dishes out or discard his clothes in messy piles --- are exactly the sort of things that drive Joe insane. He kind of relishes doing them, just to see the twitch Joe gets by his eye, and for the way he grips his hips roughly when he growls at him to “quit leaving your shit everywhere”. David’s natural sloppiness leaves Joe needing an outlet for his frustration… and their shared bedroom is kept very clean. It works out great for both parties.

So, sure, it’s probably just the feet on the table… he thinks for a grand total of eight seconds, before looking up to catch Joe’s eye.

His boyfriend’s gaze has gone impossible soft. It takes David’s breath away, a little, because Joe isn’t like that as a rule. He’s sharp edges and broken glass, jagged teeth and bladed grins. He’s harsh as sandpaper and smooth as steel. He’s frustrating, and his gentle moments come and go like fickle summer storms.

To be fair, impromptu cuddling on the couch isn’t like them either… but David needs it tonight, and stepping outside the bounds of their normal relationship can’t be the worst crime in the world. He holds Joe’s gaze for a moment, questioning and careful… but, instead of pulling away, Joe just takes a moment before sighing. His arm wraps around David’s shoulders, pulling him close.

“Rough night, Web?” he asks, an undercurrent of implication in his voice. This ain’t like you. You alright?

“You have no idea.” David rests his stubbled cheek against Joe’s chest, sighing deeply as the tension slowly drains from his muscles. Joe is hesitant to react; his actions, even as he rubs up and down David’s shoulder, lack his usual fearlessness. Joe can grab his ass in the middle of a crowded bar, or ruffle his curls just to get on his nerves… but this casual intimacy is uncharted territory for him.

He needs a distraction from his own head. David’s got just the thing. “How would you,” he sighs, “like to hear about the plight of Heteractis anemone? Because I just wrote four thousand words on it.”

“Heter— huh.” Joe sighs into the crown of his head, ruffling his curls. “Pretty sure Guarnere caught that once.”

“Knowing him, he’s still got it,” David replies. When Joe laughs, it reverberates in his chest, a low rumble in David’s ear.

“Yeah, alright, Web. Tell me all ‘bout your anemoles.”

“Anemone.”

“Yeah, what’d I say?” Joe presses his grin into David’s hair. “Amenemes.”

“Anemo-- damn it,” he mutters, burying the words against his boyfriend’s chest. Joe laughs even harder… and, like it or not, the sound it a balm to David’s frayed nerves. Even better are the strong arms which wrap around him, fully encompassing his shoulders and pulling him against Joe’s body. It’s… more than he was anticipating, more than they probably need, but it feels nice, and he doesn’t want to pull away. David melts against him, curling his legs with Joe and letting himself drift off. Fingers card gently through his hair; his boyfriend’s warm breath caresses his temple… and being this close feels so good that he forgets to remember it isn’t ordinary at all.

If he looked up at that exact moment, he might have found Joe enjoying it even more than he was… but David, as usual, preferred to sail away.

-------------------------------------

That really should have been the end of it… but after their night of unexpected intimacy, it’s like a dam has broken.

Joe does it at unexpected moments. While David is flipping pancakes in the kitchen, he comes up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist, chin looping over his shoulder. They just sort of… stay there. David is so surprised that he ends up charring the pancake, which Joe eats anyways, because he’d inhale charcoal if he was hungry enough… but while his boyfriend is wolfing blackened pancake lumps down his throat, no explanation is offered. David doesn’t know how to ask.

He’s brushing his teeth; Joe comes up behind him and holds his hips, just staying there for a few minutes. He’s reading a book in bed; Joe lies down, curling into his side like an automatic reflex. They’re watching whatever B-rated action flick Joe just insisted on going to see at the Cineplex, and Joe holds his hand the entire time.

Calling it strange is an understatement. It’s fucking bizarre.

Which isn’t to say Joe’s been shy about physical contact before, because he hasn’t. He’s just always been measured with it. Joe doesn’t hold back from touching people, grasping their shoulders or clapping them on the back… but he never goes overboard with it. His touches don’t linger. He’s a handsy person by nature, but David never considered before that he weighs every touch before giving them out.

If that’s the case, what’s changed? Why has he suddenly become so free — even apparently craving — touches he’s never asked for before?

David doesn’t know much about the scientific method, but any good journalist can test a hypothesis as well as a lab tech. Early one night, before either of them have gone to bed, he sits down next to Joe on the couch and sets the remote in his boyfriend’s lap.

“Anything but reality TV,” is all he says, and Joe smirks as he turns the station to some late night show.

He’s paying attention; David is not. Instead, his attention is fixed firmly on Joe, not even trying to hide it. The curve of his profile, the shadows along his neck and collar, the way he always lounges when he sits… like he’s trying to take up as much space as possible. Something about him seems inexplicably, undeniably lonely.

David leans over and wraps an arm around Joe’s shoulders. The reaction is expected; Joe goes tense, like he’s trying to figure out what the hell is going on. David counts back in his head: ten… nine… eight… seven…

Before he gets to five, Joe’s relaxed into him. Easy as that — it’s like teaching a puppy to eat food, or a baby to cry. Joe and touch go together like authors and caffeine. Touching is easy for him, but being touched is the most natural thing in the world.

A flame kindles to life within David’s chest, and soon it’s warming him from the inside out. He can’t keep a fond smile from his lips. After a moment, his hand strays up to Joe’s hair, threading gently through the well-maintained strands. Joe’s always had a weakness for having his hair touched, and tonight is no exception. He makes a tiny, content noise and leans into David, the tension slowly draining from his body. It doesn’t take long before he’s leaning against him, head balanced against David’s chest. Arms still around him, David holds Joe tenderly, caressing his hair while occasionally pressing kisses to the crown of his head. Joe’s heartbeat is steady, his muscles lax. David charts the gentle rhythm of his breathing until he’s sure his boyfriend has dropped off to sleep.

When he looks down, a wave of tenderness washes over him. Joe Liebgott with every guard down is a thing to see. He so rarely looks peaceful. There’s something restless about Joe, a relentless hunger thrumming just beneath his skin, determined to break free. He’s always had an edge of urgency to him… but now, dozing against David’s chest, he looks without a care in the world.

He ought to be this way all the time. He deserves to be happy all the time. God help him, if David has any say in it, Joe will be.

“Is it my birthday or something?” Joe asks, when David, completely unprompted, begins massaging his shoulders. “Shit, don’t tell me I’m another year older and just forgot.”

“Not for another few months, old man,” David replies. On reflex, Joe tries to twist and grab him, but David’s massage doesn’t let up; after a minute, he relaxes into it, slumping further back against David’s chest.

“You been acting weird lately,” Joe declares — as though David needs to be good, and as though he wasn’t the one acting weird to begin with. “Everything fine at work? You didn’t… gamble away our savings to the mafia, or promise Sobel our firstborn kid or something? If you got news for me, Web, I can take it without a bonus massage.”

“Why do you think — wait, we’re going to have kids?”

“Head in the game, Web. What’s going on?”

At once, he’s glad Joe is facing the other way, because David’s not sure what he could say otherwise. He frowns at Joe’s back muscles, kneading into them with a bit more force than necessary. Sure, he’s been… more physically affectionate these days. Joe no longer has to seek it out, because he gives it willingly… and even if touch doesn’t come naturally to David, the obvious way Joe eats it up when his touches linger in public or they draw close to each other in private makes it all worthwhile. Joe seems happier nowadays, so clearly it’s working fine.

Why’s he getting interrogated now?

“Am I not allowed to touch you?” he asks. “Just because I want to touch?”

“You ain’t a touchy-feely person. Never have been.”

“People change.”

“Not you.” Joe’s observation is too neutral for David to justify flaring up at it. “Come on, Web. What’s going on?”

He’s silent for a long moment before summoning a reply. “I want you to be happy,” he declares, finishing off Joe’s back massage with a caress of his neck. “I want you… to feel loved.”

Joe is silent for a beat before turning his head to look back at him. “That’s all, huh?”

“Yeah,” David huffs. “That’s all.”

It’s hard to make out Joe’s expression when one half of his face is cast into shadow, but David spots the amusement in his eyes… and something else, too, something softer that he can’t put his finger on. It sparks a familiar warmth in his chest, and he smiles.

“Well, don’t stop on my account,” Joe sighs. There’s no warning before he’s leaning back against David’s chest, but David’s ready this time. He opens his arms, embracing him as they go. Slowly, Joe relaxes into the comfort of his touch, and the world feels a little warmer.

#webgott #david webster #joe liebgott #joseph liebgott #my writing #Anonymous

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 5 years ago

Text

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 2: Accept The Fucking Offer]

Series summary: You are an overwhelmed and disenchanted nurse in Boston, Massachusetts. Queen is an eccentric British rock band you’ve never heard of. But once your fates intertwine in the summer of 1974, none of your lives will ever be the same...

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing) HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @killer-queen-xo @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug

The floor is quiet. Your patients—all except one—are sound asleep and mercifully keeping their call buttons at a distance. Patricia is camped out in the nurses’ station at the other end of the hall, chomping noisily on sunflower seeds and wailing along to Tammy Wynette on her portable radio. Queen is enjoying their fourth late-night picnic of the week. You close the door and check your watch; you have seven minutes left before your break ends.

“Let’s kill her,” Freddie suggests casually, hanging his smoldering cigarette out of the open window.

“You know that’s extremely bad for you.”

“What? Committing felonies?”

“I don’t think you’d do well in prison, Fred,” Roger says, popping a Cheeto into his mouth. “No sequined leotards. No cats.”

“Smoking,” you correct. “Smoking is extremely bad for you.”

Freddie takes a drag, exhales a fog of smoke, and grins at you beneath gleaming sunglasses. “Possibly. But darling, the aesthetic is divine. And you’ll take care of me if I get sick, won’t you? Ensure I get all the best drugs, procure new lungs for me on the black market?”

Brian rolls his eyes and nibbles a violet plum, then gestures for John to pass him a napkin as juice dribbles down his stubbled chin. John flaps the napkin just outside of Brian’s reach, yanking it away each time Brian swipes. Roger snickers, observing their exchange from his place on the floor, before eventually advising John to have mercy. Brian snatches the napkin and promptly whips John across the face with it.

“So now you have me committing felonies,” you tell Freddie with a smile.

“Keeps things spicy.” Freddie peers over at you, brow crinkled, studying you like an abstract painting. “Do you like your job, dear?”

Brian groans. “Fred, please, don’t interrogate her—”

“I’m not interrogating, I’m inquiring—!”

“It’s fine, seriously, Bri, it’s fine,” you say. Brian raises his hands in surrender. His coloring has improved, he’s gained five pounds, he’s being discharged tomorrow. Then Queen will be whisked across the Atlantic back to London...and that’s a truth you’re struggling to grasp. “I love what I do. Just not necessarily where I do it.”

Freddie nods, puffing on his cigarette. “Because of Nurse Queen of the Underworld.”

“Not just her.” You can remember being a child and worshiping at the altar of familiarity: your home, that old maroon Queen Anne-style house at the intersection of Apple Avenue and Arcadia Street; inhaling New England autumns; burying yourself in your mother’s soft, cream-colored knit sweaters that were dusted with the scents of homemade pies and Chanel No. 5; the creaks of that uneven, tobacco-stained wood floor of your father’s study beneath your bare feet. Whatever existed outside of your comfortable, commonplace universe—whatever monsters or treasures or undiscovered ringed planets dwelled there—held no interest for you at all. You wanted to live here, die here, raise your own family here, take your children to play under the same weeping willows in the Public Green that your grandparents had met beneath. And then one day, in the purging heat of the summer after your sophomore year of college...you woke up and realized that all those comforting things suddenly felt like a cage, that your fingers were threading bars made of your family and your friends and every grain of soil in Boston. Patricia is dreadful, of course, and has been since you arrived at Massachusetts General nine months ago; but she’s not what you’re running from. “It’s this hospital, it’s this city, it’s Boston. I was born here and I cherish it, don’t get me wrong, but I want to see the world. Mountains and lakes and cathedrals and castles and...and...you know. All the rest.”

“That’s how I felt about Cornwall when I was a kid,” Roger confesses. “I’d take my little acoustic guitar out into the backyard and look up at the sky as I played and think, ‘Is this really it? Am I ever going to get beyond all this to something more?’”

“Yes, yes, well no one asked for your autobiography, blondie,” Freddie quips. Roger chuckles, entirely unoffended. “Continue, dear.”

You think before you respond. When you do speak, it comes out heavier than you mean it to, more serious, more pained, whispered, your voice splintering. “I guess I just don’t want to die without really living first.”

The boys watch you for a while: Brian poised and pondering, Freddie seeking, Roger empathetic, John very quiet. John has spoken—at the absolute most—five words to you since you’ve met him; but you know he can get chatty with Freddie or Rog on occasion, and so you’ve held out hope that you can still win him over. Now you’re almost out of time.

At last, Roger raises his beer, smiling, showing the tiny points of his canine teeth. “Cheers to that.” And it sends something through you like a one-way ticket into a brand new world.

You laugh nervously. “Okay. Wow. Enough of all that, I have to go save lives now.” You wash your hands in the sink and pull on a new pair of gloves, dodging Roger’s large, affecting eyes.

“Do you have a boyfriend, lovely Clara Barton?” Freddie asks. They know your actual name, they’ve known it since night one, but they’ve taken to referring to you as whatever famous nurses they can recall from high school.

“Freddie,” Brian admonishes.

“What, I’m just asking—”

“No, actually, I don’t,” you tell Fred. “Why, do you want a Green Card?”

“Darling, no offense, but if I was going to marry for strategic purposes I would aim for someone far older and astronomically richer. With life insurance.”

“Thanks, Freddie.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

“Are you single? Since we’re all sharing our life stories.”

“I’m not,” he replies, somewhat cagily. “None of us are. Well, Brian certainly isn’t, and Deaky wasn’t last I checked, although he’s tricksy and awfully quiet about the whole affair, so I ought to confirm that at some point...how about you, Rog?”

Roger chokes on his beer and wipes his dripping nose with one fuchsia sleeve. “Uh, I, uh, yeah, yeah, uh, I’m single. Yes.”

“Oh?” Brian says, eyebrows raised. “Someone should probably inform Josephine.”

“That’s a casual thing. Super casual. Not exclusive.”

Freddie and Brian exchange a glance: an amused, smirking, what else can you expect from Roger? glance. You try to smirk at Roger too; but he shrugs guiltily, endearingly, with some mesmerizing spell of danger and innocence and wildness and beauty, angels and demons that you didn’t know could coexist without clubbing each other to death. And you mean to file this away as a warning, a reminder to keep your distance; but it feels more like blowing on embers until they leap into flames.

Bad idea, lady. Really, really, really, exorbitantly bad idea.

“Alright, I’m out. Brian, you have the call button if you need it. There’re extra cups and napkins in the cabinet and—”

You open the door. Patricia is halfway down the hallway and approaching quickly, glinting-eyed, stone-faced, keys grasped in her hand. A glimpse at your watch informs you that your break ended two minutes ago. You swing the door shut.

“Get out!” you whisper urgently, and Roger bolts for the window. He pitches his beer outside and helps John climb through the opening and drop safely to the ground below.

“Fred!” Roger hisses, waving, and he lowers Freddie out of the window next as you kick snack wrappers and empty bottles beneath Brian’s hospital bed. Bri smooths his blankets, turns off his lamp, shakes the peanuts out of his hair that John lobbed there. You rush to Roger as you hear keys rattling against the door.

“Here, I’ll help you...” Without thinking, you take his hands as he hesitates in the open window and steady him as he crawls out. You can see Freddie and John down in the darkness, reaching up to catch Roger when he falls. A sudden wave of mourning grips you. I’m never going to see them again. “Bye,” you say, without any cleverness at all. But Roger smiles like it’s the best thing he’s heard in weeks, maybe months, maybe ever. He glances to where your hands hold his.

“Bye,” he replies in that raspy, radiant voice. And then he’s gone.

You sigh shakily. You turn around. Patricia stands in the open doorway.

“Oh,” she says, grinning like a shark, almost gloating. “You are so fired.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“We’re sorry, we’re so sorry, you have no idea how—”

“It’s fine, Roger.”

You’re standing under a lamppost just beyond hospital property at 7:15 a.m. Your shift is over, your very last shift at Massachusetts General; Roger waited outside to meet you all night. There are swollen shadows beneath his eyes, his cheeks are flushed with fury and mortification, he’s edgy and pacing and chain smoking. The sun is bright and already hot, the Arctic terns cawing and swooping overhead.

“It’s not fucking fine,” he flares. “We got you fired—”

“Roger, I was miserable there. I was jaded and complacent and I felt trapped, I felt like I was standing in cement, I felt like I was suffocating and I didn’t know how to bail myself out of it or how to explain any of this to my parents. But now...thanks to Queen...I’m free. I got the shock I needed. I can move on.”

“You didn’t deserve to leave like that,” he insists menacingly. “That bitch isn’t going to write you recommendations. You were good at what you did, you were really fucking good, Brian was despondent before you took over. You deserved better.”

You shrug. “Life’s not fair, Rog.”

“That’s the truth.” He takes a drag off his cigarette and you hold out your hand. He stares at you, perplexed, but passes the cigarette. You smoke a few puffs, then give it back. Roger smiles. “I thought that was extremely bad for you.”

“Most of the best things are.”

“Well.” He shuffles his feet anxiously. “I have a proposition.”

“Yeah?”

“Since you’ve successfully untethered yourself from all your unfulfilling earthly obligations...come to London with us.”

You feel your jaw fall open, feel all the tension in your muscles unravel as the numb shock rolls through you. “Uh. I was thinking maybe the Peace Corps or joining a travel nursing agency or something.”

Roger winks and nudges your shoulder with his. “Transatlantic flights to London count as travel.”

“That’s...accurate...”

“No, seriously!” Rog presses. “Look, every time a band tours, the company hires a medic or a nurse to go with them. They stitch up busted faces, sanitize infected tattoos, prevent us from dying of alcohol poisoning, ice knocked-out teeth until we can get to a dentist, the works. We’re going to be recording as much as possible in London, but Brian will be on bed rest for most of the next few months. You can take care of him. Keep his spirits up. You’re good at that. We’ll all chip in to pay you if the company won’t, Freddie and John have already agreed to it and I know Brian will as soon as I ask. Then, when we inevitably go on tour again...you can be our travel nurse.” He grins confidently, electrifyingly, like he’s figured out all of life’s thorniest questions.

“Rog, I really appreciate the offer, but...uh...this is really too much, and I have no travel nurse experience whatsoever, and...and...look, you are all really talented, I mean that, but you have some seriously chaotic energy and I’m not sure global fame is in the cards for Queen—”

Roger interrupts you brusquely. “You said you love what you do. So you like taking care of people, right?”

“I do, yeah.”

“And you want to see the world.”

“Absolutely.”

“And you think we’re fun, don’t you? Exciting? Audacious? Reckless enough to keep you busy with the fallout of frequent near-death experiences?”

“That sounds about right.”

“So...” He waggles his blond eyebrows. “Come with us.”

You look up into the mid-June sky, as blue and churning as the Boston Harbor, and try to imagine it: packing your suitcase (you really don’t need to bring all that much), digging your passport out of your jewelry box (you know exactly where it is), telling your parents that you’re jetting off to Europe the next day (they would accept it, maybe they’d even be proud; you’d finally be striking out on your own), renting some cheap little apartment in London (you have enough savings to get you started).

“Accept the offer,” Roger says.

“I really don’t think—”

“Accept the offer.”

“—I just couldn’t impose like that, I mean you’re not making any money yet and—”

“Accept the offer.”

“—You guys shouldn’t feel like you owe me this just because I happened to—”

Roger cradles your face with rough hands, gazes fixedly into your eyes, and smiles blindingly. “Love,” he says. “Accept. The fucking. Offer.”

Bad idea, terrible idea, literally the worst idea in the history of human civilization.

“Okay,” you reply softly.

“Okay, like, for real okay?”

“Yeah.” And entirely against your will, you break into a grin. This is the start of the rest of my life. This is the graveyard of familiarity.

“Yes!” Roger cheers. He takes your left hand, raises it to his lips, bites you lightly across the knuckles: some feral, ludicrously on-brand vision of Roger as a Disney hero. I’m the Lady and he’s the Tramp. I’m Sleeping Beauty and he’s the Prince who’s going to finally wake me up, even if it means slaughtering a dragon or two.

“Cute,” you say sarcastically. But, actually, it sort of is.

“Can I walk you home?” Roger asks. “You live around the corner, right? I can help you pack. Oh, wait, maybe I should shower first, I don’t want your parents to see me like this...I am a literal ashtray...my hair is ridiculous...I think I still have some eyeliner on...is the fuchsia jacket too much...?”

You watch Roger as he scrutinizes himself fretfully, his words fading out of the picture, the world becoming a silent film. You can’t look away. If Brian’s a willow tree and Freddie’s a lightning storm, what is Roger? Wildfire, you decide.

He follows you through breezy, shaded Boston streets to the house at the intersection of Apple and Arcadia, with the solemn promise that he can borrow your shower and an old pair of gym shorts. You know he’ll charm your parents instantly, that they’ll fall in love with him. Everyone does.

When you look down at your left hand, there’s a vanishing silhouette of a bruise where he bit you; and if you really think about it you can feel that it still burns.

#but you can never leave #but you can never leave fic #but you can never leave series #queen fanfic #queen fandom #queen fic #queen #borhap #borhap fandom #roger taylor #roger taylor fic

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shabre-legacy · 5 years ago

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Chase to the Capitol -Stolen Home chapter 8

The last part of the trip to Coruscant passed quietly. Everyone was rather differential and even the crew and security didn’t really bother her. All her drinks were free, and her and Corso found that they got invited to games of Sabbac and whatever else was being played, or to go dancing or whatever anytime they appeared. She’d even gotten a message from some senator thanking her for saving the ambassador who’d put them in that situation to begin with.

The passengers were nervous around them though. Corso brought it up when they once again took their drinks back to the room. Too many men approaching her ‘to dance’ practically drooling on the floor because they never stepped outside their tiny little circles and thought the criminal hero would be easy. Too many women approaching Corso. They made him uncomfortable, the man just wasn’t used to the attention and the socialites weren’t used to having a man who knew how to use his strength. The poor girls were both scared of them and very interested and that combination led to uncomfortable situations and overly pushy behavior. Between the two groups, both of them just wanted away from the situation.

The ‘guests’ were grateful for being saved, and trying to show that, but her and Corso, they scared the passengers. They’d done what trained soldiers hadn’t been able to do, somehow word had gotten out that she’d killed that damn Sith, and without the uniform to suggest some kind of rule that she was bound to, her success made her a bit scary to the pampered socialites on this ship. They didn’t know her, they didn’t know what she wanted and they didn’t know exactly what she was planning or what she was really capable of and it frightened them. Noch’h ria nus’a, as Nuri would have said; amazement and interest and fear and curiosity, it was so very obnoxious.

Finally though, they made it to the Coruscant spaceport and everyone went their own ways. At last, she could breathe without someone looking over her shoulder, or at least she’d be able to once she got through customs. Unfortunately, an T series security droid approached as soon as they stepped into the arrivals terminal. She stepped over to the customs terminal, hoping the droid wouldn’t notice. A few ill-planned smuggling runs had landed her on certain watch lists with the Republic and that meant every spaceport she entered under her own name ended up with a delay as she was searched and interrogated and there was never enough time to put up with that shit. Lucky for her, or unlucky for customs, she had a cover.

She glanced at Corso as the droid rolled up and greeted her. Like a team that had been together longer than they had, he smoothly moved between her and the droid and started chatting with the it. She used the moment to slice the terminal. The droid accepted the input from the terminal and wandered off. As they moved towards the elevators, Corso leaned down and quietly whispered, with a hint of a laugh, “Admiral Numinn? Interesting choice.”

She giggled and gently elbowed him, “nobody messes with an admiral, plus ya know, circumstance. Long story, better not told here.” Giggling, seriously, how long had it been since she’d done that. This was really getting out of hand, the sooner she could get him his blaster and drop him off again the better. Plus Tika would hate having another person aboard, perfect excuse.

He smiled down at her, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Point taken.” They reached the elevator and caught sight of the scenery out the massive viewports. “Everything in Coruscant is huge. You see those city towers as we flew in? How many people you figure live in those? Millions?”

Sometimes, she could forget how much of a farmboy he was, the mercenary took center stage. Other times, it was so damn obvious. It was a bit sad though, the state of Coruscant, almost ten years and some things still hadn’t been rebuilt. “Looks like some of those city towers are still short a few levels, thought they’d have fixed that since I was last here.”

“You been here before, Captain?”

again with the Captain. He wasn’t gonna stop anytime soon, kinda liked it though. She shook her head, “another time”

He shrugged and moved on, he seemed good at that, another question Leikael had about him. “...Even knocked the Jedi Temple off its pedestal.”

And there it was, the comment always made about Coruscant and the war. “I know, my brother died there.”

That got a real pause from him. “That’s… That’s rough. I’m sorry for bringing it up Captain.”

Taking a moment to breathe, she quickly waved him off. “I hadn’t seen him in like 7 years anyway. Let’s talk about something else like that banthashit who took my ship and my fracking Cat.”

Corso stared for a moment, “alright Captain, if you say so.” He took a breath, and she could see him shrugging aside the memories of his own loss. Her ability to read people had saved her life a few times, but now it was just obnoxious. “Wanna find Skavak before we’re too old to shoot straight? We’re gonna need local help.”

Help? She’d gotten help and it hadn’t worked. “We’ll just rattle some skulls until Skavak falls out.” Scumbag like that, he’d leave a big ass trail through the underworld. And that was a population she could work with, mostly, well, sometimes.

“I know a faster way.” That sigh was one of resignation. Almost like his idea exhausted him. “There’s a gambler named Darmas Pollaran who keeps tabs on everything worth knowing about Coruscant. Friend of Viidu’s, good man. You’ll like him.”

Information broker. She’d worked with a few, not a bad resource if you could afford it. “Worth a visit, I guess. Where do I find this Darmas?” Let Corso run off and do whatever, she had no expectations of men anymore.

“Well, Viidu always said if you look for a Sabbac table surrounded by beautiful women, you’ll find Darmas. But I can narrow that down. I still have Viidu’s holofrequency contacts. Give me a minute…” He pulled out a comm and started tapping at it.

“Viidu had you keep his contacts?”

He shrugged, “head of security and bodyguard. Traveled with the old man pretty much everywhere, had to keep the secure frequencies list in case his comm went down. Part of the job.”

He held up the comm between them and it flickered to life, showing a slim middle aged man. “Corso, is that you? It’s been too long, you rascal.” His tone implied familiarity, must have had more than a few conversations in the past.

“A friend and I are on Coruscant and in a real bind. Is there a place we could meet you?”

This Darmas had one of those smooth voices, a slow soft drawl that made it sound like he was trying to charm everyone who could hear him. “Of course, come to my private cantina booth.” something about the game he was playing. Kael was really only half paying attention, she was mostly watching the customs agents standing aways off. She slipped closer to Corso, into the view of the Comm, hoping to look as though they were simply arranging a pickup. “Hope you don’t mind the occasional blaster fire; the cantina’s in a rowdy part of Coruscant.”

“Sounds like my kind of place.” She could see the moment he saw her. If the holo were more detailed, he’d probably be glancing between her and Corso trying to figure them out. She’d keep him on his toes until she knew more about him. Or at least she’d try to.

“I hope that’s only the first of many affinities we share.” Of course he was a flirt. She’d expected as much, but he was smooth. Could be fun.

Corso interrupted before she could respond. “Keep your comm link open. I’ve got some bad news about Viidu.” He tucked the comm away and turned to look down at her. “I’ll bring Darmas up to speed while we travel. He’ll have the cantina coordinates sent by the time we find a Taxi, or shuttle rental or whatever they got for transport here.”

The customs agents were talking to that damn droid and looking at her. “Keep an eye out for that scum-sucker that stole my ship.” She quickly pulled Corso into the elevator and sent it to the main floor. She glanced over as it dropped a few levels and spoke low and careful. “Customs sniffing around, follow my lead.” She didn’t miss the slight shiver when she spoke.

“You got it, Captain.” she didn’t even have a ship and he still called her captain. It was quickly becoming something she could get very used to.

As they stepped out of the elevator, Leikael leaned into him a bit, threading her arm through his. It was fine. She’d shared a bed with the man and he hadn’t done anything. It was fine and she could handle this. She kept her pace to a mid speed saunter and started chattering about all the random facts about Coruscant. Trying to appear like a couple of tourists here for a holiday. Each customs agent, each soldier, each guard who passed by without stopping her was one closer to the entrance and making a clean getaway.

As they finally reached the front of the spaceport and stepped out into the artificial sunlight of Corsucant, Corso stopped, just staring. Up ahead, the galactic senate building loomed tall over everything. All around them, filling in the horizon were hundreds of towers. It was an impressive sight, especially so on your first visit. Leikael grinned and dropped his arm, walking forward a bit. She let a bit of a skip into her step as she moved several steps in front of him. Spinning dramatically, she lifted her arms creating a frame for the view behind her. “Welcome to Coruscant, farmboy. The heart of the republic where half your dreams might come true.” She spun around and made her way across the walkway towards the building in the middle, still a bit more bounce in her pace than normal. If her memory was correct, there was a public taxi running out of there. They were finally on track to catch the bastard. Now all she had to do was keep enough momentum and Skavak’s head would be hers.

#swtor #fanfiction #my writing #stolen home #leikael shabre #corso riggs #my ocs

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childofthenight2035 · 6 years ago

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Emergency Contact

A/N: omfg I've been working on this since June I hate myself so much but anyway this was requested by @tydontstop here you go I may not be done yet~

yay it’s my birthday

Genre: Fluff, Angst, Flatmate!AU

Pairing: Jackson Wang x gn!Reader

Summary: When you found a new flatmate, neither of you knew that you’ve been passing by each other by the finest thread.

Word Count: 12k

Warnings: mentions of death, coma, car accidents, depression

The hospital receptionist’s face fell when she caught sight of Jackson walking in. Her face twisted in pity, but the boisterous arrival didn’t seem to notice.

“Good morning, Yeeun-ssi!” He greeted cheerfully, sliding his visitor’s pass across the front desk. “I ran late yesterday so I couldn’t make it.”

Yeeun seemed to be holding in an ocean of sorrow as she pushed the card back to him. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Jackson’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “What do you mean, sorry? For wh-“ He fell silent, gazing at Yeeun, who couldn’t seem to meet his eyes. “No,” he breathed out. “That can’t be.”

“I tried calling you yesterday, sir,” she pleaded. “If only it was just a day later…” She shook her head sadly. Fate was cruel.

Could I have said goodbye? Jackson thought.

“How did he…?”

“They…they pulled the plug.”

You opened your eyes to the jarring sound of your alarm, wishing more than anything else that you were dreaming and it wasn’t yet morning. But no. When did things ever go your way? Blindly reaching out, you smashed the snooze button.

Groaning, you pushed away covers that weren’t even there. In the heat, you had kicked off the thin blanket you draped over yourself anyway—again.

It was only morning, but you could already feel the humidity beginning to cling to your skin. How you wished you could fall back onto the mattress and drift off. The silence of the apartment reminded you of another thing, however—the poster you had drawn up the previous night: an advertisement for a flatmate. You really needed some noise and movement to distract you, especially after last month. Why did Dahyun have to move out?

The alarm began beeping again.

You had to get to work.

Saturdays at the library were always a sort of hassle. There were more children and their misinformed parents over the weekend than any other day. Of course there were some absolute darlings who loved to read and could sit for hours on end with their noses in a book or two. But on the other hand…

You sighed as you pushed open the door of the public library, eyes adjusting to the dim light. Before you could make it to the counter where you would be stationed for the day, you were stopped abruptly by a rather raucous child dashing across your path.

…On the other hand, those darlings always had siblings that had no interest in developing the skill of reading at all. Little rascals who came there only by force and chose to make as much noise as they could get away with.

You pursed your lips, staring distastefully at the runaway before walking swiftly over to the bulletin board. Slipping the notice for a flatmate out of your pocket, you pinned it to the board, then plopped down at the counter, depositing your backpack under the desk.

“Good morning, Y/N!” your co-worker Daniel chirped.

“Good morning, Daniel,” you replied dully, scooting your chair subtly away from him. You really didn’t have his energy at the moment. You loved the guy, but it was a little grieving to hear about his girlfriend twenty-four seven. To your relief, someone approached him at that moment, pulling his attention off of you.

There were quite the number of high schoolers despite it being a weekend, you noticed. Ah. There’s a reading room that the high schoolers are doing today, huh? Your gaze swept around the seating area to your left. A familiar face caught your eye.

What’s Jinyoung sunbae doing over here? Is he reading to the kids, too? He was sitting with someone you couldn’t see because their back was to you. They seemed to be in some sort of deep discussion. You weren’t worried. Anyone who came to the library with Park Jinyoung was sure to be just as much of a bookworm.

“Y/N!” You jumped at your supervisor’s voice, tearing your eyes away from your senior and looking up. Your supervisor tilted her head toward a cart full of books. “Be a dear and put these back, won’t you? I’ll man the desk for a bit.”

You bit back a curse, choosing instead to nod and leap up. You’d have to dodge some more kids but at least you could get away from Daniel’s overwhelming energy and rude ‘I-have-a-late-fee-but-I-have-no-intention-of-paying-it-off-quietly-I’d-rather-annoy-you-for-a-solid-ten-minutes-before-doing-just-that’ people.

“Jackson, I swear to every god there is, if you don’t find a place to live by the end of the weekend, I’m kicking you out. You can sleep on the streets.” Jackson flinched a little at Jinyoung’s sharp threat, but still pouted to lessen the impact—in vain; Jinyoung hadn’t even glanced up from his book to say all that. Some people didn’t even need eye contact to be intimidating.

“In this heat? Why, Jinyoungieee,” Jackson whined, dragging out his name. No effect. Park gae didn’t move. “Where will I go?”

“If you hadn’t dropped out, you could be staying at the dorms—legally,” Jinyoung remarked. “I’m not risking any more trouble sneaking you in.” Before Jackson could whine his name again, he continued. “Where’s JB hyung? Aren’t you always with him?”

Jackson chewed on the inside of his cheek, wondering how much he should tell Jinyoungie—or rather, wondering how much he already knew. “Uhh…we kinda stopped talking to each other for a while…”

This made Jinyoung look up from the page he was reading, eyes narrowing. “You fought?”

Jackson twitched his shoulders. “Not exactly. Just…” Thankfully, Jinyoung didn’t force him to elaborate, only shooting him a look that said he would definitely be interrogated about it later. “And then hyung went to Japan, remember?”

“But he came back.” Jinyoung was biting his lip in confusion. Funny how anything related to JB hyung made him a million times more attentive.

“He did. But…”

“Now you feel awkward going and begging for living space when you haven’t contacted him in so long?”

Jackson scratched the back of his neck. How the heck does Jinyoungie talk so accurately? “Sure. You could put it that way.”

Jinyoung sighed, sitting up and closing his book. “Do you really think JB hyung feels that way? I know he’s scary when he’s mad, but he still cares about you, hyung. Go and see him. It’ll be fine.”

“But hyung’s so busy and he doesn’t have that much room…and he has his cats…”

Jinyoung tilted his head, thinking. “Well. That’s true. Then what are you going to do?” Jackson could only shrug in defeat, staring around the library without seeing what he was looking at—a staff member putting books back on the shelves…kids running around…Jinyoungie picking at the corner of his book mindlessly…general peace.

Wordlessly, Jinyoung stood to check out the book he had been reading. Jackson followed.

“Hello again, Jinyoung hyung!” the boy at the counter said brightly.

“Hey, Daniel. How are your classes going?”

Jackson totally zoned out on the interaction between the two. Maybe I shouldn’t have dropped out in the first place, he thought. He hadn’t realized how deeply he’d gone imagining the life he could have led until he felt Jinyoung smacking his arm hard.

“Jackson!” he exclaimed, more forcefully, pointing to something. The bulletin board. More specifically, an ad pinned to the board.

An ad for a flatmate. Not too far from here.

“Seems like your lucky day, huh?” Jinyoung clapped him on the shoulder, taking a picture of it at the same time. “Go there today. You really don’t have much of an option.”

Jackson groaned.

“Fine.”

The doorbell ringing brought you out of your stupor. Hastily placing the photograph back on your bedside table and wiping your face off with a nearby towel, you made your way to the front door.

Now, you had seen nearly everyone who came by your place looking absolutely wrecked, but it still took you aback every time. You eyed the panting young man who stood outside your door in pity. Perhaps he thought he would have a few more seconds to catch his breath. You wondered how long he had been standing there before he rang the bell.

Fuck the standard questions. “Are you okay?”

He raised a hand and nodded, drawing one last breath and stabling himself. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“It’s quite a climb, isn’t it?”

He nodded. A beat passed in silence and then he seemed to remember why exactly he had rung your bell. “Ah!” he exclaimed, pulling out his phone. “Is this…?”

He turned it around, showing you the screen. You squinted at it, taking the phone in your hand. It was a chat in which someone had sent him the picture of your poster and a message under it—‘pls make a good impression for once’. You pressed your lips together to stifle your amusement—and then you saw the contact who had sent him the text.

“JYP?” You yelped, looking at the man in front of you in awe. “You know JYP?” He snatched his phone back in embarrassment.

“I—That’s a friend,” he said hastily. “He goes to SIU. I just call him that because he has the same name.”

That sounded familiar. “Wait, Park Jinyoung? You’re friends with him?”

Jackson hesitated. “Yeah…you know him?”

You smiled. “I go to SIU, too. He’s my senior. Who doesn’t know him?”

“Oh…that’s cool!” he replied, his face brightening. “I’ll definitely bring him around—if you accept me as your flatmate?”

Ah, so that’s what’s happening here. You crossed your arms, fighting a smile. “Are you already bribing me? I can’t believe you. I already have half a mind to not let you live here.”

His smile fell. “What? Whyy?” He didn’t hide the whine that escaped him.

Aw, that’s cute. “I’m kidding. If you’re a friend of Jinyoung sunbae, I’m guessing you’re a good guy.”

He frowned. “I’m sure that should be the other way, but it’s fine. I’m not arguing. Kinda desperate, here. Do you want me to, like, call Jinyoungie for you? To “affirm my credibility” or whatever?” He made air quotations.

You laughed it off, gesturing that he didn’t need to. He seems like a good guy. Maybe I won’t have to search any longer.

“I’m Jackson, by the way,” he suddenly spoke, looking sheepish. “Forgot to introduce myself.”

“Ah. I’m Y/N. And I’m desperate, too.” You sighed, blowing your hair off your face. “Do you know how glad I am that I rejected the guy who showed up before you? What a douchebag.”

A look of concern flashed across his face. “Someone came before me? Did he, like, try to hurt you or something? You’re okay?”

And he’s already concerned about me. I really really hope he doesn’t end up an asshole.

“I’m perfectly fine. Let’s talk splitting rent.”

“That’s the last of it,” Jackson announced.

You stood aside as his friend (Namjoon, was it?) dumped the two boxes he was carrying onto the floor, utterly exhausted. You couldn’t blame him. The two had been walking up and down the four flights of stairs with Jackson’s possessions all morning. You had helped, of course. But they weren’t used to climbing four floors.

“That better be the last, you jerk,” Namjoon spat. “When you said, ‘let’s hang out’, I didn’t think you meant this.” He wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve.

“I’ll pay you back for this, man.” Jackson patted his shoulder. “Let me buy you meat tonight.” His friend looked suspiciously at him but relented. You bowed him out.

To be honest, you hadn’t realized how short Jackson was compared to a lot of other people until Namjoon was standing beside him. Although you supposed Namjoon was just a giant. But still.

“I’m so tired,” Jackson whined, flopping down onto his mattress.

“Good,” you retorted, kneeling down to face him. “When you’re tired, you listen better. There is a rule in this household: you’re not allowed in my room.”

Jackson gasped, exaggerating his reaction. “Are you a dictator now? Rules? Will I be chucked into jail if I don’t obey? Do I have to go into hiding?”

You rolled your eyes. “I literally only said you weren’t allowed in my room at any cost. Isn’t that a reasonable request? You can make your own rules, too. No one’s stopping you.”

“Nah.” He shrugged. “You can come into my room, I don’t really mind. Nothing in here anyway.” He turned his eyes on you, narrowing them. “What are you hiding? Please don’t tell me you’re harbouring a fugitive in there.”

“Oh my gosh, no.” You stood up again. “I just want my privacy. My old flatmate respected it, so I expect you to as well. Okay? I’ll respect yours if you respect mine.”

He nodded. “I know. I’m just kidding. Are you always so uptight?” You frowned at the goofy expression on his face. “I promise I won’t go into your room.” He seemed sincere enough.

Maybe he wouldn’t be so bad…

“JACKSON!” you shouted, pounding on the wall that divided your bedroom from his. “KEEP IT THE FUCK DOWN!” If the volume went down at all, you couldn’t tell. Weary from lack of sleep for the past week or so, you rolled over and squinted at the time on your phone.

“Three thirty-four,” you muttered furiously. “THREE THIRTY-FOUR!”

And then the doorbell rang. And it rang again.

“Nobody ever does anything in this house,” you said loudly while forcing yourself up off the bed, half-hoping Jackson would hear it. But of course he wouldn’t. The amount of noise that was emanating from his room made sure of that.

The ringing became quite insistent and when you yanked the door open, wondering who on earth it wouldn’t be, you came face to face with Mr. Ok, the next-door neighbor. A tall man in his thirties, you had always found him quite the character—and you would’ve thought his pajamas and bedhead looked cute if it wasn’t for the expression of pure murder on his face.

“Oh…Mr. Ok,” you greeted with a hesitant bow.

“What the bloody hell is going on here?” he nearly spat, hands balling into fists that you knew he wouldn’t hesitate to use if he snapped. “Don’t you know we’re all trying to sleep?”

You winced. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Ok, I’ve been trying to get Jackson to quiet down for a while, but he’s not listening—“

“Where is he?” He growled, stepping inside without invitation. You jumped at the chance of getting Mr. Ok himself to threaten Jackson. You led him gleefully to your flatmate’s door. After pounding on it for a solid minute, in which the noise levels dropped completely, the door opened to reveal Jackson lazily yawning—clearly expecting you to be standing there. His features rapidly rearranged themselves to a politer expression.

“Ah, hyung!” he exclaimed. “What a surprise!”

Hyung? you questioned wordlessly. Since when has he become so chummy with Mr. Ok?

“Surprise, huh?” Mr. Ok hissed, eyes daggers. “What the hell are you doing, making so much noise?” It seemed to be rhetorical, because he didn’t give Jackson a chance to answer. “I have to get up at six, as do many people in this establishment. A lot of them have to go to work, or school, and a lot of them have families to take care of. I’m aware you have no such commitments—perks of being unemployed, I suppose—“ Jackson’s face twisted slightly. “—but that doesn’t mean you’re allowed to do whatever you want. When you live in close proximity with a lot of people, you have to learn to be considerate of others. Forget others, you live with a flatmate. At least be considerate to them!”

Jackson didn’t answer. You assumed he was still stinging over the ‘unemployed’ comment.

Mr. Ok didn’t even try to soothe his harsh words before he stormed out, slamming the door behind him. He must have been tolerating it for longer than he let on.

You crossed your arms and smiled smugly at your flatmate. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

And just like that, his meek façade vanished, to be replaced by a pout. “But I wanted to finish the drama! I need the theatre effect to watch it, otherwise it’s just boring!”

You threw your hands up in the air and groaned, deciding it would be better for your health to just lock the door and then yourself in your bedroom.

Jackson was a mistake. One that you sorely regretted.

In the barely two months that you two began living together, you had learned one thing: Jackson was a force that was very much unstoppable. You would get burned if you so much as dared to try.

You could make a list—hell, you could write a book about the things he did that pissed you off. Was it your problem? Maybe. But it was clear enough that Jackson had certainly never learned how to adjust with people who weren’t on the same energy level as him.

He was loud. Point made. He was boisterous, always moving around, practically bouncing from room to room. You often restrained from asking him what gave him the right to look so damn happy. Perhaps you were just jealous. Your classes had begun again, and while you were working your ass off and burning the midnight oil just to keep your grades up, Mr. Unemployed seemed to be having the time of his life. Where did he even get the money to pay his rent off?

More than once, or even eight times, you had walked into the bathroom to find water literally everywhere—on the toilet seat, around the sink, on the floor, even on the walls. You couldn’t possibly imagine what he was even doing that made the entire damn place wet. He played music at night, loudly, with no regard for your wellbeing and the neighbours’. The nights he came home tipsy were even worse. And now he was watching a drama, it seemed. In full theatre mode.

The one rule you had—of him not being allowed to enter your room—had now expanded into a full three-page document, taped to the wall between your bedrooms.

You remembered how concerned he was about making a good impression in the first couple of weeks. He had even brought his friend Park Jinyoung around to meet you, as promised. Now you understood the pity in his eyes that day. He’d known things would get worse. You still got embarrassed when he sought you out in the cafeteria to ask how you were and if Jackson was giving you a hard time.

Maybe you should take Jinyoung sunbae up on that offer he made.

The breaking point came soon after.

It was a Thursday night and you’d just finished an essay due the day after, one that you’d been working on for the past week. So you were already running on barely three hours on sleep a day. It was past midnight, and Jackson still wasn’t home. He was probably lying drunk somewhere. As much as you wished you could just go to sleep and leave him to his own devices, you knew damn well that if he did show up, he would likely leave the door wide open and drool all over the couch.

You weren’t about to get robbed just because of Jackson’s bad decisions.

After calling him yet again and hearing no dial tone, you tossed your phone onto the dining table and waited with your head in your arms.

“I’m not drunk, Markipooh!” A loud exclamation, followed by someone shushing the voice sounded outside your door.

You swung it open, looking pissed enough for Mark—Jackson’s go-to designated driver and body hauler—to look ashamed.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “You know I can’t control Jackson.”

“I’m not drunk, though?” Said man slurred, collapsing into a chair.

“Thanks, Mark.” You sighed bitterly. “Go home.”

As the door closed, Jackson lifted his head and repeated, “I’m not drunk, though.”

“Oh, really?” you snapped, raising your voice. “Then listen to this: I’m not your fucking servant or something, just waiting for my master to come home so I can attend to you! I’m a student and I have a shit ton of work to do and just because you are so useless you can’t find a job doesn’t mean I have to suffer for it!”

Fury dashed across his face. Seizing the first thing he saw on the table, he threw it with all his might at the wall behind you, where it shattered and fell sadly to the floor. You tensed, fear coursing through you, trembling as he came closer.

“Fucking shut up, I already have a headache.”

And then he was gone, leaving behind nothing but the stench of alcohol. His door slammed.

Silence.

You slid to the floor, stunned. How could things have gone so wrong?

With shaking hands and a pounding heart, you felt around for your phone. The screen was cracked beyond repair, glass scattered all around you. What did you expect, that it would survive being thrown against a wall with Jackson’s muscle?

Enough, you decided. Enough was enough. He has to go.

And if you cried yourself to sleep that night against the dining room wall, nobody had to know.

“Y/N!”

You didn’t even think that anyone would be actually calling your name. So you didn’t stop. The entire day had you fuming internally, and you didn’t think anyone deserved to hear your outburst.

“Y/N!”

You halted. Normally you would be absorbed in your phone, but today you didn’t have it. Of course you didn’t. After last night, you didn’t even think it was safe to. You turned when you sensed the person—what did you mean, person, of course it was Park Jinyoung—catch up to you. If you were in your right mind at the moment, you might be a mildly blushing mess. Who wouldn’t be? It was Park fucking Jinyoung. But now? You were five point three centimeters from losing your temper completely and you couldn’t help but resent him for being friendly with you now when two months ago, he didn’t know your name, despite being your senior.

You sighed, turning around to face him. “Yes, sunbae?”

If he was taken aback by your slight rudeness, he didn’t show it. “I tried calling Jackson yesterday and this morning, and he didn’t pick up. He okay?”

You pursed your lips. “I couldn’t care less about Jackson, sunbaenim. You know my address, if you’re so concerned, why don’t you go and see how he is?” You scoffed and made to turn away, but Jinyoung caught your arm.

“Whoa, what’s with the attitude?” He teased, pulling you along with him down the hall and into the student council’s meeting room, currently empty. “You okay? What did he do?”

A little comforted that he immediately assumed his friend did something wrong, you slumped your shoulders. “A lot happened.”

“Clearly.” He leaned against the president’s desk and folded his arms. You didn’t know if he was analyzing you or not. Your face flushed under his gaze.

“He went out and came back drunk beyond words,” you explained, irritated at the memory. “And maybe I shouldn’t have, but I yelled at him saying that I wasn’t his servant to wait or clean up after him and—” you broke off, hesitating. “I might have told him off for not having a job.”

Jinyoung winced. “He’s pretty touchy about that.”

“Yeah, I figured.” You let out a bitter sigh. “He smashed my phone.”

“Wait, what?” Jinyoung lifted himself off the desk, looking at you in disbelief. “He—he smashed your phone? Jackson Wang?” You nodded, spreading your arms out.

“That’s why I don’t have it today. The screen shattered.”

Jinyoung looked genuinely disturbed. “It’s not like Jackson to lose his temper like that.”

You didn’t want excuses made for him, even if he had been drunk. “Oh, really? Pray, do tell.”

“Y/N—”

“Why? What did I do? Am I wrong?” If your eyes were daggers, Jinyoung would be bleeding now. “Tell me, sunbaenim. Am I just a maid to him?” You bit the inside of your cheek and spoke the words you had been contemplating all night. “I want to say yes to your offer, but he’s going to get kicked out soon. The nieghbours are already blacklisting him. If they tell him to leave, I won’t be able to hold any ground by myself.”

He seemed at a loss for words, appalled by both Jackson’s and your behavior. “Listen, I’ll talk to him, okay?” He checked his watch. “You should get to class.”

What’s the point? You thought, but conceded anyway. Just before you closed the door, you heard him call your name.

“And no, Y/N,” he said, a tight smile on his lips, “you’re not wrong. Give me your phone number.”

You refused to return home that day, choosing to stay all night in the library—until Jinyoung met up with you and nearly begged you to go back to your apartment.

“I’ve talked to him,” he had said, “and he’s really sorry about everything that happened last night. Truth be told, he doesn’t remember some of it, but anyway, he’s sorry. Hear him out.”

You couldn’t believe you were being forced to accept whatever pathetic apology your roommate was going to give you—just because he was your roommate and you had to live with him. It just wasn’t fair.

But when you stepped in through the door, the first thing that registered was the aroma wafting to you—the smell of food. Curious, you peered around the door and saw the little table beautifully set, dishes spread out all over it. And behind them all, obediently sitting on a chair, was Jackson. Guilty smile on his face, but still.

So this is his apology, you thought, closing the door and kicking off your shoes. A food bribe.

You pursed your lips as you reluctantly approached him, slinging your bag over the back of another chair. You crossed your arms. “What’s all this?”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, diverting his gaze from your harsh stare. “I…uh, I wanted to apologize for the stuff I did…last night.” He pressed his lips together. “For breaking your phone and yelling at you and...stuff.” From under the table, he brought out a small box you instantly recognized as one a phone came in. “I got you a new one.”

Your lips parted in surprise. “You—wait, you got me a new phone?” Your tone did not hide your disbelief at all. “But…that’s expensive!”

“It’s my fault that yours is broken beyond repair,” he explained. “I’m obliged to do this.”

You couldn’t speak for a moment. “But…where did you get the money? I didn’t think—“

“Borrowed it from my mom,” he admitted, cheeks turning red. “I got an earful, but I had to do what I had to do.” He looked up at you pleadingly. “I’m really sorry for everything. I don’t usually lose my temper like that, I guess I was just frustrated—that’s no excuse,” he cleared hastily. “I just…I’m sorry.” He gestured to the food on the table. “I got your favourites?”

You didn’t know what to think. Jackson stuck his bottom lip out in a pout.

Honestly, why does Wang look like a kicked puppy when he’s sad?

“I don’t forgive you,” you said firmly. His face fell. “But I do accept your apology.” Ignoring the sigh of relief that he let out, you sat down at the table.

“That’s good enough for now.”

“And I should apologize too,” you remarked, picking up your chopsticks. “I said some harsh things to you yesterday.”

Jackson waved it off. “No. You were right and I just didn’t want to admit it.” He sighed deeply. “I’ve started looking for a job.”

“That’s great, Jackson.” Your smile was genuine now. Looking reassured, your flatmate mimicked you and picked up his own utensils. “I’m glad.”

Jinyoung sunbae, I guess I won’t have to take up your offer after all.

“Yah, who the hell are you texting nowadays?”

You heard the whining voice of your flatmate before you saw him. Barely glancing up from your phone, you asked, “What happened, Jackson?”

He scoffed. “See? You’re not even looking at me when you say that. You’re always tapping away on your phone like I don’t exist here! Pay attention to me!” You let out a startled yelp when he plopped his heavy body onto your side. “I don’t think you’ve said a full two sentences to me in the past week.” When you ignored him, angling your screen away, he felt suspicious. “Who are you texting—!”

“Yah!” You attempted to grab your phone back from him in vain. Jackson suddenly sat up.

“Jinyoung sunbae?!” he shrieked. “As in my friend Park Jinyoung?” He held your phone out of reach with one hand and used his free arm to wrestle yours to the sofa seat. “What the hell are you even texting him for?”

“He’s not only your friend, Jackson,” you whined, squirming in his grasp. “He’s really nice to me at university, why can’t I talk to him? He’s my senior, too.”

You made noises of protest as he began to scroll through the messages the two of you had exchanged. Before long, he was spluttering in fury.

“What is this?” He yelped. “Hey Y/N do you want to meet up for coffee? Since when has Jin—actually never mind, since when have you two been that close?” He tossed you your phone and you took it back gratefully. “So this is why Jinyoung says he’s too busy to get food nowadays, huh?” Heat crept up your cheeks. “Are you actually blushing right now?” He howled. “Okay, I can’t take this anymore!”

Your phone began to ring. Both of your heads turned to it.

On the screen was a stupid photo of his friend and the name Jinyoung sunbae.

“Don’t you dare answer that,” Jackson said lowly.

“You’re not the boss of me,” you spat in return, sliding the button to answer, pressing the speaker button simultaneously. “Hello, Jinyoung!”

“Hey, Y/N, what’s up?” came his voice from the speaker. “Are you busy? You didn’t answer my message.”

You giggled at the expression on Jackson’s face. “No, my flatmate was just being annoying.”

“Ah, Jackson? Is he there? Wait, is this on speaker?”

“Yah, Jinyoungie!” Jackson burst out, betrayal written all over his face. “Why are you ignoring me for Y/N? This isn’t fair; you were my friend first!”

“Are you serious right now, Jackson?” Jinyoung’s voice was amused. “I assumed you would be tired and busy from work. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“But what about Wang gae Park gae?” he grouched.

“Wang what?” You looked from the phone to Jackson.

“Never mind about that, Y/N,” Jinyoung interjected hastily. “You’re coming, right?”

“Coming where?” A growl emanated from your flatmate.

“Yeah, sunbae, I’ll be there soon.” With words of parting, you hung up the call.

“Where are you going with him?” Jackson repeated.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” You stood up, reaching for your backpack.

“Why can’t you tell me? I thought I was your flatmate, shouldn’t I be worried? What if you don’t come back?”

You burst out laughing. “Why would I not come back? Don’t you trust your own friend?” He opened his mouth to protest, but you were halfway out the door. “See you later, Jacks!”

“You should have seen his face!” you told Jinyoung, laughing along with him at the memory. “Has he always been like that?”

“He’s jealous.” Jinyoung shrugged.

“Hmm. Yeah. He really likes you, you know.” You pointed your pencil at him. “Why do you reject him when he asks you to get food? It’s like stealing candy from a puppy.”

“He likes me?” He retorted incredulously. “The heck? It’s me he’s jealous of.”

It was your turn to be puzzled. “What do you mean? He was literally whining about him being your friend first and that I was stealing you away from him.”

Jinyoung guffawed into the crook of his arm. “Okay, if you don’t believe me, there’s nothing I can do about it.” He jabbed his pen at your textbook. “What are guys learning in class now?”

Jackson was bored. His best friend had ditched him for his flatmate. And vice versa, he supposed. How long could someone flop around on a bed and flick a fidget spinner around? He almost wished he had to go in for work today. Even washing dishes sounded better than what he was doing at the moment.

He groaned into his pillow. Why has everyone forsaken me? Honestly Jackson just get your ass up and do something other than faceplanting into the bed.

Pushing himself off the mattress, he stumbled to his feet, still flicking the spinner around. His stomach rumbled. Food,he thought blearily, banging against the doorframe on his way out of the room. “Ow! Fu—whoa, no!” The fidget spinner escaped his grasp and hit the floor sharply, skidding under the door adjacent to his, despite his futile attempts to intercept it with his foot. “Damn!” He stared at the door—Y/N’s door—that he had been forbidden to enter at any time, in any situation. To prove it, there was even a piece of paper stuck to the door announcing the same.

Absently, he laid his palm on the handle, but didn’t turn it. “It’s just a fidget spinner; can’t I just open it real quick, grab it and shut it again? That should be okay, right? I won’t look around.” He chewed his lip, second guessing himself. “Ah, fuck it, I’m practically Y/N’s boyfriend already. There aren’t any secrets to hide.”

Shrugging his shoulders, he turned the handle, eyes trained to the ground.

The spinner was lying on the ground next to a nightstand. Determinedly not looking around the room, Jackson bent to retrieve the damn thing.

His mistake was looking up as he straightened himself.

His eyes fell on the nightstand. Or rather, the photo framed on it.

His breath hitched. He thought his heart might have stopped beating for a moment.

Within the four wooden pieces stood Y/N. Much younger than now; the photo was clearly old. But Jackson’s eyes were on the young boy standing right beside Y/N.

The fidget spinner clattered to the floor again.

“Hyung!”

A car screeching. The sound of an impending accident, lifelong scars.

Screams.

Was that glass shattering? Or dreams?

Commotion. And cries for a person nobody knew.

“HYUNG!”

Jackson gasped, stumbling back a step, the force the picture exerted too strong for him to handle. His plastic toy dug into his heel and he cursed, the pain momentarily diverting his attention from his pounding heart.

Picking up the spinner, he choked out a ‘this can’t be happening’ before darting out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

He needed air.

What is going on? This can’t be possible.

Does Y/N know that I…no. That can’t be. It just can’t be!

Y/N? Of all people? Y/N wouldn’t do that…

Right?

Jackson wasn’t home when you got back.

Good for him, you thought. He’s learned to get out of the house by himself.

You stretched, glad to be back inside away from the heat outside. It was refreshingly cold inside…unsettlingly so. Why was it cold? Or were you imagining it?

Wondering if Jackson had become thoughtful enough to cook, you ventured into the kitchen, but then clicked your tongue disappointedly on seeing everything as you left it. Of course he hadn’t.

Sometime during your attempt at making pasta, the door opened.

“Jackson?” you called out, hoping it was him.

“Yeah?”

“You like pasta, right? Come here and help me.”

You were too occupied with the nearly burning food to notice Jackson’s heartbroken expression, but you did see that he was spacing out really bad. It wasn’t like him to not be bursting into speech animatedly at all times.

“Jackson?” you called for the fourth time, waving a spare hand in front of his face. He jolted.

“Ah, yeah.” He rubbed his eyes. “Shit, sorry. What was that?”

“Could you get some water?” He nodded absently before trudging off to carry out his task. You squinted at him. “Something wrong?” He quickly shook his head. But you knew Jackson enough to know that he was very, very bad at hiding his emotions. “Don’t lie, Jacks. I can see it in your face. What happened?”

He shrugged, his confusion disappearing almost entirely. “I—uh, I sorta did something, but I won’t tell you because you’ll get mad at me.”

You tilted your head. “What did you do?”

He shook his head and pouted, some of the playfulness returning. “You’ll get mad at me.”

“I promise I won’t.”

Jackson looked at you hard, for a moment or two, then cast his gaze to the floor. “I went into your room today.”

Those words dropped into your head like a bomb. “You what?” You let the fork clatter to the countertop, nearly lunging at him. He caught your arms just in time and held you away from him.

“You said you wouldn’t get mad!”

You huffed loudly, yanking your arms from his grip. “And you said you wouldn’t go inside!”

He held out his hands, blocking you from coming nearer. “It was an accident! My fidget spinner went under your door!”

You scoffed, turning back to the pot on the stove and wishing your room wasn’t a mess. “Still.” All you could think of were the paintings on the walls and the photos. Had he seen them? Would he ask?

“Hmm.” The two of you lapsed into silence for a while. Neither spoke until the pasta was ready and you divided it between the two of you. You sensed that Jackson was itching to say something, but, coward as you were, you weren’t sure you wanted to hear it.

“Um. Y/N?”

You looked up from your bowl, chopsticks faltering. “Yeah?”

He cleared his throat. “Uh, I know I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help but notice…that picture on your night stand…”

You froze, quickly setting your chopsticks down to hide your trembling fingers.

“Who is that?”

Jackson knew a more accurate question would be ‘Who was that?’ but he didn’t dare to ask. You didn’t know who he was. He hadn’t known who you were until this afternoon.

It hurt him. It hurt him to ask about the boy in the photo so casually, as if nothing had ever happened to him, as if one day he would get to see him again. He knew it would hurt you too. But he had no choice. He couldn’t risk the suspicion that he would rouse. You would demand answers. You would hate him for lying, for hiding who he was and what he had been doing.

He stared guiltily at you, where you sat across from him, clutching the table so hard your knuckles turned pale.

“Does—does it matter that you know who it is?” you choked out, evidently trying not to cry.

Jackson abandoned his own chopsticks and reached out to take your shaking hand in his. “It does. It does to me.”

You nodded, eyes red, staring determinedly anywhere but his face. “That’s…Hanyu. My baby cousin.” He inclined his head, encouraging you to tell him more. Even though he already knew it all. “He stayed in the city in the dorms—you know SOPA?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“He got in and…we were all so proud of him. And since I was already here, his parents weren’t worried about him at all. They—they trusted me.” Your voice broke and so did Jackson’s heart. “And one day, there was an accident. Someone took him to the hospital, but he…he fell into a coma.” Nothing more than a whisper. “Four months.”

He didn’t know he had gotten out of his seat until his arms were wrapped around you.

“There wasn’t anything we could do. He was just—getting worse. Every day. His father finally gave the order after hoping for so long. To—let him go.” You burst into tears and Jackson turned you so you were sobbing into his shoulder. “It’s my fault, it’s all my fault. They only let him stay because—because I was here. Because I would be there for him.”

“Hey, hey,” he said softly. “It’s not your fault. It…it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were there for him. Things…these things just happen somehow. It’s not your fault.”

So, it wasn’t you after all?

A huge weight lifted off his chest. He hadn’t realized how much hatred and resentment he’d been carrying around all this time without knowing it.

It wasn’t you.

“How—how are his parents?”

“Not doing good.” You sniffed hard, wiping your tears away. “Not good at all.”

He gripped your shoulders and made you look at him. “What about you?”

He watched helplessly as more tears escaped the corners of your eyes. “Neither am I.”

The last thing you remembered was slumping into Jackson’s arms, drained of energy.

You didn’t think you would be telling anyone about Hanyu. You hadn’t told anyone except your psychology professor, who had called you to her office sometime in March because you looked too depressed to be taking your finals. And that too, was reluctant. You knew you should talk to someone about it, you knew you should be accompanying his parents to the therapist you forced them to see, but—maybe it was the prolonged blow that lessened the pain to a dull throb. Hope had ebbed away bit by bit, not all at once.

But talking about him to Jackson was so simple. It was almost as if he understood exactly what you were going through. Almost as if Hanyu was his own brother.

You wondered if Jackson had lost someone dear to him in the past. Maybe he had. That would explain the sudden compassion he had towards you now. You hadn’t told him everything, just the brief story, but he didn’t press further.

He’s sweet, you realized all too late. He really is.

You’d think you would be free of your flatmate at least when you went to work on weekends. Jackson was the last person who would willingly enter a library—at least, without an emergency. But no, there he was, still blowing up your phone about how he slipped in the bathroom and thinks he broke his butt, and then found that his ramen was finished so he couldn’t eat (despite there being like, healthy food somewhere in the fridge) and therefore begging you to buy some on your way home because he couldn’t go (due to the broken butt). You were rolling your eyes at the messages, but an endearing smile still crept across your lips.

“Boyfriend?” Daniel crashed his wheely chair into yours, peeking over your shoulder at your phone. You winced at his knobbly shoulder and turned off the screen.

“No.” You shoved his chair away.

“Girlfriend?”

“No.”

Daniel looked confused. “…Partner?”

Wah. What an open-minded king. “No, Kang. Just my flatmate.”

“What?” He scrunched up his nose. “No way. I saw how you were looking at their texts.”

You screeched. “What the heck?” He seemed satisfied at your reaction.

“So, crush?” he confirmed, sniggering at the blush that crept up your neck. “Who is it? Give me their number, I’ll set y’all up.”

“For the love of—”

“Y/N!”

You looked up, startled, to see Jinyoung standing on the other side of the counter. You straightened up, tensing; you had been sort of avoiding him for a while.

“Sunbae.” He pursed his lips at you in a disapproving stare.

“Where have you been? Do I have to come all the way to the public library to see my junior?” He crossed his arms. “Why are you avoiding me?”

“It’s—it’s not like that, sunbae—”

“Don’t say anything. Jackson’s been telling me about his broken ass—” You flinched, eyes darting to Daniel, who for sure misinterpreted that phrase, “—and that you’re ignoring him. What happened?”

“Oh, Y/N’s flatmate?”

Fucking hell, Daniel. Please learn to shut up.

He was sporting a shit-eating grin. “Y/N’s got a crush.”

Jinyoung’s lips immediately curled upward and you waved your arms around, banging them together in an ‘X’. “No. No, I don’t have a crush!”

“You know it’s okay, right?” Your senior reassured you. “He likes you, too.”

Oh.

Wait, what?

“Huh?” The disbelief was evident in your voice. Jinyoung shrugged, a smug little smile on his face.

“Jackson’s my best friend, Y/N. I know him. He tells me things.” He set a book down on the counter in front of Daniel, who obediently took it and scanned it for him. “And I also know he doesn’t have the balls to tell you anything. So, my question is, what are you going to do about it?”

What am I going to do about it? An idea popped into your head and you blurted it out before you could stop yourself. “I’ll tell Jackson I like him when you tell him—what was he called? JB, that you like him.”

Jinyoung’s face paled. “What?”

Now you were the smug one. “You heard me, you hypocrite. Confess to your crush and I’ll confess to mine.”

He squinted at you, clearly plotting his next move. “Fine,” he retorted, sticking his nose in the air haughtily. “I will.”

“You still texting Jinyoungie, huh?” Jackson teased, the pout very much audible in his voice. You looked up from your phone. He crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes.

You rolled your eyes. “Dude, when will you get over him ditching you? You know damn well he’s drowning in his love for your other friend—who? JB.”

Jackson tensed a little, but you didn’t seem to notice. “I know,” he breathed out. “JB hyung is so oblivious. So is Jinyoungie.”

“Besides,” you continued, tilting your head coyly, “Jinyoung sunbae says you’ve got a crush on me.”

The way Jackson spluttered at that was hilarious. “Wha—Me? Crush on you? As if.”

“Sure, sure.” You turned back to your phone. Jackson sat down heavily next to you, plopping his head on your lap. You peered under your screen to look at him. “Hello. What are you doing?”

“Pay attention to me.” You chuckled at the whine in his tone. “You don’t talk to me anymore.” He grasped your hand and placed it on his head. You began stroking his freshly dyed strands. You would never admit it but you liked his hair blond.

“Are you going to dye it back?”

He shifted, getting comfortable. “Probably not soon. Why? Don’t you like it?” He sat up, twisting to face you, horrified. “Do I look bad as a blond?”

You leaned back, laughing. “Stop being so dramatic, Jackson!”

Two knocks on the front door and then it opened. You jolted at the sight of Jinyoung staring between the two of you in that position. Jackson turned to follow your gaze and yelled in surprise. Slowly, Jinyoung raised a hand to cover his eyes.

“Yah!” Jackson shouted, the sheer volume causing your ears to pop. “It’s not like that!”

As Christmas came and went, your heart grew heavier and heavier. For several reasons. On the one hand, you were crushing hard on your flatmate like some dumb romcom cliché. On the other, that date was approaching you like a truck at eighty an hour with broken brakes.

A year to the day of the accident.

You knew, technically, that Hanyu only passed away in April, but this was truly the day you lost him. Truly the day that something was lost inside you. Something that you may never fully find again…

“Hey, Y/N, you see this?” Jackson bounded over to you holding up a snow globe and shaking it enthusiastically.

…but perhaps, one day, you would.

Your eyes softened as you watched Jackson’s infectious smile bloomed. Would he agree to come with me? He does know about Hanyu, after all.

“Jackson?” you asked quietly.

“Yeah?” He looked up and caught your expression.

“Would you come to a place with me if I asked?”

He tilted his head. “Where?”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “The funeral home.” As his face fell, you continued, “It’s almost a year to the day of…the accident.”

“Ah. It is, isn’t it?” He searched your eyes. “Are you sure about this? About me…coming with you?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I think…I think it would be good. If I had someone to talk to about it. And also haul me home. I’m probably…gonna be a mess.”

Jackson reached out, hesitantly to grip your shoulder tight before drawing your closer for an embrace. “It’s okay,” he said, sounding a little unsure himself. “It’s all gonna be okay.”

It was just an ordinary cold Saturday when you and Jackson left the apartment to get groceries at the supermarket. When you two were arguing over ramen, you heard a shout.

“Hey, Jackson!”

Both of you turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered young man stroll over. Jackson straightened immediately. An odd sort of feeling crept up your neck.

He seems familiar. Have I seen him—

You gasped silently.

That’s Jaebeom. How could I forget him?

“Jackson, man, where have you been?” the man asked, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

Your flatmate looked quite uncomfortable. “Guess I got busy, hyung. Sorry.”

You had to speak. “Excuse me? You’re—Im Jaebeom…right?”

Jackson quickly intervened. “This is my flatmate, hyung.”

The man turned his focus to you, narrowing his eyes curiously, before they widened in recognition. “Oh!” He pointed at you. You wouldn’t deny you were surprised he remembered you from almost a year ago. “You’re that...Y/N. Right? From the hospital?” He faltered at the mention of it. “Ah…um. How is he?”

Your heart clenched painfully, but you forced a smile. “He, uh, passed away. In April.” Jaebeom winced at the news.

“Ah, I’m really sorry.”

You waved it away. “No, no, don’t be. You have my eternal gratitude for getting him to the ER. I don’t know how many people would have done that.”

He inclined his head, fidgeting uncomfortably for a moment. “Still…yah, Jackson-ah, you knew? Why didn’t you tell me?”

You turned to Jackson curiously. “Hm?” He was pale, staring at Jaebeom with helplessness in his eyes.

“Ah, you two met there?” Jaebeom asked, contemplating. “When did you guys talk?”

You were confused, not seeing the sharp looks of ‘please-stop-talking’ that Jackson was shooting his friend. “Sorry, what? Met where?”

It was Jaebeom’s turn to look confused. “At the hospital, of course.”

You breathed out a nervous laugh, because you didn’t know where this was headed. “Why would I meet Jackson at the hospital?”

“Hyung!” Jackson interjected suddenly. Suspiciously. Moving his body in between yours and Jaebeom’s. “I think maybe we should finish up our shopping and meet later—”

“No, tell me, Jaebeom-ssi.” You put a hand on Jackson’s shoulder.

Jaebeom was at a loss. He didn’t seem to understand Jackson’s panic, and neither could you. “Jackson was with me at the hospital when we brought him in. We brought him together. I thought he met you there when you came.”

You inhaled sharply, glancing at Jackson with surprise in your eyes. “Jackson.” He flinched, remaining quiet. “Is that true?”

“Hyung, I’ll come over later,” he told Jaebeom quietly, pushing him away. His friend took a step back, wondering why on earth something so simple—good news, in fact—turned awry. He bowed, mumbling out a greeting before he picked up his shopping basket and turned away.

You were shocked beyond words.

Jackson took Hanyu to the hospital. Jackson knew who he was. Jackson knew who you were. What did this mean? Was he tracking you? Was he tracking anyone with connections to Hanyu? Is that why he asked about him and his parents?

“Y/N…”

You suddenly didn’t want to hear anything. Your feet carried you after Jaebeom, calling his name.

Jackson was fucked.

Why, he screamed at himself, didn’t you tell Y/N the truth as soon as you found out about it? Why, why, why? Can you blame Y/N for not listening to you? You fucking lied, Jackson!

You hadn’t come back to the apartment until past midnight after running off to talk to JB. He’d waited up for you, but you didn’t spare anything a glance before locking yourself in your room. He’d wanted to call you, wanted to make sure you were okay, but he’d already done enough damage. Were you even willing to talk to him at all? He decided he didn’t want to test it. For all he knew, you thought he was some sort of creep or a stalker or something. You probably hated him.

He fell asleep that night to the sound of you crying from the other side of the wall.

Unease. You didn’t know why you were feeling so unsettled. It was a bright cloudless day but you weren’t sharing the spirit. In fact, you were spacing out so much that your partner for your Statistics project had to keep snapping his fingers in front of your face to bring your focus back to him.

“Sorry, Gyeom,” you muttered wearily. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”

He nodded sympathetically. “Maybe you should go home. I’ll finish up around here.”

“Ah, no.” You shook your head. “I’ll be fine. Let’s finish this.” But your phone was ringing, the caller ID displaying an unknown number. You frowned. “Hello?”

“Excuse me, is this Jia Hanyu’s emergency contact?”

You froze. This wasn’t a voice you knew. Emergency contact? Why—why would they—who…?

“Um. Y-yes?” You were already shaking. Yugyeom looked at you in alarm.

“We need you to come to the General Hospital immediately. There has been an accident.”

A click. You stared at your phone, heart racing, trembling all over. “Oh my god. Oh my god, what do I do? What do I do?” Yugyeom seized your shoulders and forced you down from growing hysteria.

“What. Happened.” His voice was steady enough that you responded the same way.

“General Hospital.”

“I’ll take you there.”

The drive to the hospital was wrought with tension. You could only think of the worst and you were crying by the time you got there, despite Yugyeom’s attempts to calm you down. You let him drag you through the reception and you desperately asked for Jia Hanyu, to be ushered—alone—into the ER. The last thing you remembered seeing was Yugyeom’s reassuring smile before you turned a corner out of sight.

You nearly bumped into a man on his phone in your daze and hastily apologized, but he neither seemed to notice or care.

The talk with the doctor was less than reassuring, however. You signed whatever they thrust at you to get his surgery started and then demanded to know who brought him in.

“Hello,” the young man greeted you politely, his clothes still stained red. He was looking at you carefully as if you would break down any moment.

You forced a wobbly smile. “Thank you so much.” It was barely more than a whisper, but he caught it.

“It was the least we could do,” he replied. Your knees suddenly gave way and you sank into a chair.

“Tell me what happened to him,” you pleaded.

And he told you about the car that came speeding out of nowhere although the signal was red. If you were in your right mind, you might have heard the anger in his voice. It hadn’t been the kid’s fault then. Tears slipped out of the corner of your eyes.

Your gaze rested on his soiled clothes. “I’ll—I’ll replace those,” you said weakly, gesturing to his attire. “They’re ruined.”

“Don’t be silly, of course you don’t have to.” He knelt in front of you. “Are you okay? That’s what matters.”

You nodded, sniffling. “Yeah, I’ll be okay.” You didn’t know why you were attempting the brave front. “You didn’t tell me your name yet. How can I be grateful if I don’t know your name?”

He chuckled under his breath. “My name is Im Jaebeom.”

“Y/N.”

He squeezed your hands. “He’ll be fine, you know.”

“I know. That doesn’t make things any easier.”

“Doesn’t it?”

The two of you sat there in silence before you remembered that this was a person, he probably had plans interrupted, he must need to get home. Reluctantly, he stood to leave, but only after making sure you would be okay.

“And—” you grabbed his wrist. “Yugyeom—he’s sitting out there in reception. Tell him—tell him to go home and that I’ll be fine. Please?”

He nodded. Left.

You broke down completely. And you thought that would be the worst to happen.

You weren’t bargaining on the mess that would happen the next day.

You never thought he wouldn’t wake up.

The apartment fell silent in a way that you never thought would be possible after Jackson moving in. There was always noise in it; but no longer. Several of your neighbours had even asked if Jackson had moved out. What were you supposed to tell them? No, he didn’t move out, I just found out he’s a liar and I’m trying to cope with that by ignoring him and he’s too scared to approach me?

In truth, you weren’t totally mad at him or worried that he would be a stalker. After talking things over with Jaebeom, you’d concluded that Jackson hadn’t seen you that day at the hospital (Jaebeom recalled he’d gone to make a call or something). So the first time he saw you really was at the apartment. And that’s why he was so curious about the picture. That’s when he’d known.

But why hide it from you?

“Y/N!” You weren’t sure if socializing was a good idea at the moment, but when you bumped into Jinyoung at the coffee shop down the street, you didn’t push him away. He joined the line at the counter right after you.

“Hello, sunbae.” The smile you put on definitely didn’t reach your eyes, but Jinyoung didn’t comment. Most college students had the same problem.

“I did it.” He told you smugly.

“Did what?”

“I told JB hyung that I liked him.”

Despite the inner turmoil you’d been going through for the past few days, you gasped. “Wait, what? Seriously?” He nodded, clearly brimming with glee, bouncing up and down on his heels like a giddy child just given sweets.

“He’s here, I want you to meet him.” He gestured to a table a short distance away. You saw the top of a head and smiled.

“I’d love to.”

He grinned, eyes crinkling. “Thanks, uh, for encouraging me to.”

You let out a laugh. “Um, you’re welcome? I didn’t really think you’d do it; I only said that to get you off my back about Jackson.” And as soon as the name rolled off your lips, your heart sank.

Jinyoung must have sensed the distress in your expression, because he asked, “Are you okay? Did you guys fight again?”

“I guess you could say that.” After placing your orders, you followed him to their table, eager to meet this JB hyung you’d heard so much about.

You saw the man break into a wide smile on seeing Jinyoung return, but the moment you came within his line of sight, his face fell in surprise. So did yours.

“Y/N?” he asked, incredulous.

“Jaebeom?” You were in equal disbelief. A moment of silence passed when you two looked at each other and Jinyoung back and forth between.

“You guys know each other?” Jinyoung questioned. “Ah, did Jackson introduce you? I thought you and Jackson weren’t talking, hyung.”

“This is your JB hyung?” You laughed.

Jaebeom looked sheepish. “My friends call me that.”

Jinyoung was just sitting there next to you, across from Jaebeom, confused. Jaebeom decided to take pity on him.

“Nyoung, you remember I told you that Jackson and I took a kid to the hospital? Last year?”

He nodded. “Yeah, the car accident.”

Your chest felt tight. “That was my cousin.”

Jinyoung’s mouth fell open in shock. “Wait, what?” His eyes darted around, thinking. “And…Jackson knew who you were?”

You shook your head. “I met Jaebeom-ssi at the hospital that evening, but I didn’t see Jackson. He didn’t know I was the emergency contact until a month ago or something. But he didn’t tell me he was the one who took Hanyu to the hospital. I only found out a week ago when we bumped into Jaebeom-ssi at the supermarket.”

Jinyoung sat there, stunned. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell me any of this.”

“He told me everything a few days ago,” Jaebeom interjected. “But he made me promise not to tell anyone.” He leaned forward and stared at you. “You’re still not talking to him, are you?”

You lowered your head in guilt. “I want to. It’s just—he lied to me and I don’t know why. I want to talk to him, but I just—don’t know how to break the silence.”

“His heart’s…in the right place,” Jaebeom assured you. “Honestly, I don’t think even he knows why he hid it from you.”

“I think I might know,” Jinyoung said softly. Both of you turned to look at him.

“I thought he didn’t tell you anything.”

“Not the recent stuff,” he agreed, “but he did tell me what happened last year.” He searched your eyes, probably wondering how to put things into words. “Did Jackson tell you that he visited Hanyu at the hospital?”

You stilled. “He—he visited Hanyu?”

Your senior nodded. “He went nearly every week to check up on him, to see if there was any progress.”

Your jaw dropped in shock. “What?”

Jaebeom glanced over at his boyfriend, biting his lip nervously. “I think Jackson should be the one explaining all this.” Jinyoung looked sufficiently chastised.

“I’m just saying that might be the reason,” he hastily said. “He was really…devastated when he passed, you know. Came to me bawling his eyes out. I really didn’t know what to do.”

“Where was I during all this?” Jaebeom questioned.

“Japan, I think. But Y/N, I’m not saying you shouldn’t be mad at him,” your senior advised. “I can understand that. But, you know, hear him out. I’ll talk to him if you want. He’s not a bad guy.”

You inclined your head. “I understand. I’ll—I’ll listen to what he has to say.”

You went back that afternoon, heart in your throat.

What do I tell him? What do I say? How do I break this silence?

You waited.

The clock struck ten, then eleven.

Twelve.

You fidgeted with your phone, anxiety seeping through you. Where was he?

Should I call him? Would that be—ah, never mind. Why should I be the one to patch this up? I didn’t do anything wrong! He’s the one who should apologize. Why isn’t he here?

An hour later, you weren’t thinking about the politics of your troubles. You were worried now, very much so. You tried to call him, but his phone was switched off. Had he run away somewhere? What was going on? Should you call the police?

It was past one thirty when an unknown number called you. You stared at your phone, heart pounding, tears already pricking at the corners of your eyes.

Not again, you thought desperately. Please not again.

“Hello?”

“Y/N, it’s me. Jaebeom.” He didn’t waste any time. “Jackson’s with me; I figured you would be worried.”

You sunk into the sofa cushions, a hand over your heart. Oh, thank heaven. “He—he’s with you?”

“Yeah, he—uh, I’m guessing he went out by himself because he’s drunk out of his mind. Came knocking at my door a while ago.”

You didn’t know what to think. “Ah. I tried calling him, but…”

“Oh, his phone’s dead.” You heard muffled noises on the other end. “I wanted to call you sooner, but I had to find your number from his wallet.”

“His…his wallet?”

“Yeah, you’re his emergency contact. He has your info written down on a piece of paper.”

“Oh.” Your voice sounded very small. “I see.”

He cleared his throat. “Um, he’s asleep now, but I’ll send him over tomorrow after his hangover’s gone down.”

“Ah. Yes. Thank you, Jaebeom-ssi.” You paused, about to hang up.

“Wait, uh, Y/N?”

“Yes?”

Jaebeom sounded hesitant. “Okay, I’m…I’m not as great with words as Jinyoung is, but…um, I think you should know that Jackson is a good guy. Like, I know he may have hidden some things from you, but he wasn’t trying to, like, hurt you or anything.”

You swallowed down the lump in your throat. “I know.”

“He was crying, you know.” Jaebeom made an uncomfortable noise, as if he didn’t know how to proceed from there. “When he showed up here. I couldn’t understand what he wanted to say, but I heard your name. He really cares about you, yeah? Even if—even if he doesn’t tell you.”

You nodded slowly, before remembering that he couldn’t see it. “Yeah, I—I understand.”

There was a brief awkward pause, before he coughed. “So, um, yeah. You should…probably sleep. Good night.”

“Right. Good night.”

You silently set your phone down and put your head in your hands. When did all this become so complicated? Why was it so difficult? I guess it’s my fault for not listening to him or giving him a chance to explain. Do I just wait for him to come back? What do I say?

The sun rose bleakly on the next morning.

You awoke to the jarring sound of the alarm ringing in an empty, silent apartment. Laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, you sighed, going through everything that happened a year ago, a month ago, a week ago. Wondering how things had escalated to this. It’s better not to overthink about it. When he comes back, we’ll either talk it out or fight it out.

Around ten, Jaebeom shot you a text informing you that he’d sent Jackson back.

You sat on the sofa, giving you a view of the front door. You would wait. Waste no time. Just get it over with. You were vaguely aware of your heartbeat in mild panic state.

At last, someone knocked, tried the door and opened it.

Jackson’s gaze fell on your stoic expression and he flinched. Slowly stepping in and removing his shoes making as little noise as possible, he stood in the doorway for a moment before sitting down on the other end of the sofa.

Neither of you spoke.

You sensed him fumbling with his fingers, itching to say something.

“I went to see him.”

You didn’t respond. He took your silence as invitation to continue.

“Every week. I—I don’t know why, to be honest. I just…” He shook his head. “I just felt some sort of attachment to him. I wanted him to get better. I really did.”

Your heart ached at his words. How could you be angry for this? For his compassion?

“When I went the day after he…” he broke off. “When I went, I was told…the news. And I didn’t know how to take it. I couldn’t say goodbye. I couldn’t believe that anyone would give up on him.” He drew in a deep breath, still clearly anxious at your silence. “Deep down I guess I knew that there was nothing we could do and it was easier to…end his suffering, but…I didn’t want to accept it, I guess. I know that sounds silly, but—”

“It’s not silly.”

He paused, hesitant. Your voice was rough from lack of use.

“Ah.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I…I shouldn’t have, but I think I just put my resentment on whoever his emergency contact was, you know? I guess I figured they made the decision.” You felt tears beginning to form but your blinked them away. “I really didn’t know it was you. Or that you weren’t—”

“I know, Jackson.” You finally looked up at him. He was on the edge of his seat, worried but hopeful. “The boys told me everything. I just wish you hadn’t lied.”

“So do I,” he said sincerely.

The two of you stared at each other, not saying anything. Jackson seemed ready for an outburst, a single sentence that you weren’t going to forgive him.

“Why would you do that, though?” You spat, slamming your hand down onto the cushions. Jackson jumped, startled.

“I’m really sorry, Y/N, I didn’t think—”

“Do you have any idea how worried I was when you didn’t come home last night?”

“—find out…wait, what?” He was dumbfounded. “Oh.”

“I was this close to calling the police, you know that? I don’t even know how many gods I thanked when Jaebeom called saying you had crashed at his place. Why do you have to go and get drunk, huh? Why do you have to put yourself in danger like that?”

Jackson visibly relaxed, a small smile breaking across his lips. “I’m so sorry. Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

“You’re so stupid.” And you stretched your arms out for a hug. He melted into it, holding you tight so he’d never let you go. “He would have loved you, too,” you murmured into his shoulder.

He drew back, eyes uncharacteristically serious. That was a grand statement you had just made. But you weren’t going to withdraw that. You knew it was true.

“Does-does that mean you—love me?” Jackson spluttered, blotches of red forming on his cheeks. And then you realized exactly what you had said.

“What? No,” you retorted defensively, pushing him away. “What are you talking about? I never said anything like that.” And then you jumped up to run away, squirming out of his firm grasp. His fingers found your sides and you burst out gasping.

Laughter rung through the still apartment.

There was happiness again.

“Hyung, you called Y/N yesterday?”

“Yeah, I did. You think your flatmate wouldn’t be worried about you?”

“What did you say?”

“Ha. I didn’t say anything. Why? Should I have told Y/N you were saying “I love you” in your sleep?”

“Yeah, Jinyoung, I’ll be there, don’t worry so much,” you spoke into the phone you balanced on your shoulder. Your hands were busy washing out the dishes you’d used for lunch. “How’s Jaebeom doing?” You hummed as your senior (now graduated, big whoop, whatever, ugh) went into an explanation on how his boyfriend’s cat woke them up yowling at three in the morning because she got herself stuck on top of the display cabinet and he couldn’t go back to sleep.

“Is Jackson there?” he asked you. You wiped your hands hastily on a washcloth before taking your phone in your hand and stepping over to the window.

“No, he had a morning shift,” you informed him. “He was supposed to be here by now, come to think of it.” You glanced out, wondering where he might be.

“Ah, okay. Remind him to come tomorrow, too.” Jinyoung paused. “Wait, is it a good idea to bring Jacks? Do you think he’ll be too loud? I don’t want to blow this—”

“Jinyoung, relax,” you reassured. “Jaebeom’s parents already love you, I don’t see why you’re so afraid—”

“That’s when we were just friends!” He cried, panic evident in his tone. “I don’t even know what they’ll say about this!”

Your phone made a funny beeping noise. “Jinyoung, you’ll be fine. I promise you. I’ll call you back, okay? I’m getting another call.” You hung up on him to see an unknown number calling. Without thinking twice, you answered. “Hello?”

“Excuse me, is this Jackson Wang’s emergency contact?”

A/N: *bowing* I’m very sorry.

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365daysofsasuhina · 5 years ago

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[ @sasuhinabigflash2020 || Day Fifteen: Turnip Soup ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata, Yamanaka Ino, Haruno Sakura ] [ SasuHina ] [ Verse: A Light Amongst Shadows ] [ AO3 Link ]

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For the first time in far too long, Hinata is having a girls’ day. And not just any girls’ day, but a potluck to boot!

With everyone’s busy schedules, getting a day to align to allow the four of them to meet up has been ridiculously difficult. Between Sakura’s haphazard shifts at the hospital to Ino’s work with the interrogation department to Tenten’s shop, coordinating has been a nightmare. Hinata, for her part, has tried to be flexible. Her work with Sasuke and the rest of the Hyūga to keep the civilians of Konoha safe hasn’t exactly been easy, but her new husband does his best to accommodate her.

So, finally, after weeks of near-misses, they have a day: Saturday. And Ino, with her connections to Konoha parks’ botanical group, managed to arrange a private spot in one of the village’s largest public gardens for the afternoon.

It’s going to be perfect!

And Hinata has gone all-out. Rising at the crack of done to have it finished in time, she’s made an old recipe of her mother’s: homemade turnip soup. Alongside from-scratch cinnamon buns, she’s sure to contribute to the miserable fullness they’ll all be feeling by the end of the day. She packs up bowls and utensils for her share, double checking she has everything she needs.

“Ready to go?”

Turning to Sasuke, she gives him a bright smile. “I think so! Sorry you can’t come…”

“It’s called a girls’ day for a reason. And I’m not sure I’d fit in, regardless.”

At that, Hinata pouts. “Of course you would. But...maybe you and the rest of the guys could have a day to get together…?”

Sasuke’s expression immediately sours. “Not sure I’d enjoy their idea of a ‘fun’ evening. Probably pigging out on greasy food and cheap beer.”

A giggle escapes her. “You’re probably right...still, I feel bad.”

“Trust me, I don’t feel slighted.” A hand threads fingers in her hair, resting against the rear of her head to steady her as lips gently press to her brow. “Go have fun.”

She beams softly. “Okay...I left you a portion of soup for supper, okay?”

“Thanks, Hinata.”

“Bye!” Giving a little wave, she packs up her things and heads out the door.

As per usual, the Konoha Summer has been hot. And today is no exception. Despite her demure style, Hinata has deemed a sundress necessary attire for the heat. White with a bit of lilac floral print, it’s still decent enough for her tastes. Reaching her knees with a medium neckline, the straps are several inches wide. Enough to keep cool, but not too much for her self-conscious self. Flat white sandals replace her typical on-duty boots. She even went so far as to paint her nails a soft lavender color.

And to top it all off, she’s got a wide-brimmed white hat to shade her face, accented with a purple ribbon.

...okay, maybe she put a lot of thought into this outfit, but...she wants to look nice! Especially since Ino always looks pretty...while Hinata’s not usually the dress-up sort, there’s a sort of unspoken sizing up whenever the four of them meet. Tenten pretends not to care with her tomboy attitude, but even she has her feminine moments alongside rough-and-tumble Sakura.

She just...wants to fit in, is all. Doesn’t matter how old they get, they’re still victims of their own vanities...some just more than others.

Pushing all those thoughts aside, Hinata brightens as she spots her friends. Sakura and Ino are already present, Tenten nowhere yet to be seen. “Hi guys!”

The pair turn and smile back. “Hinata-chan!” Ino greets jovially, waving her over. “Wow, you went all out, huh?”

“W-well, I...I really love to cook,” she explains sheepishly. “I brought soup a-and dessert!”

“I thought I smelled cinnamon,” Sakura agrees with a grin. “You’ve always made those!”

The pink in Hinata’s cheeks gets a little darker. “They’re...my favorite…”

“Well, I’m trying to watch my diet but I think I can cheat just one,” Ino replies, arms folding. “No one can pass up Hinata-chan’s baking.”

“Chyeah!” the rosette agrees.

“Any word from Tenten yet…?” Hinata then asks, setting her basket of goodies and wares on the table.

“Sadly she had to back out last minute,” Sakura sighs. “Apparently some important officer under the daimyō just sent in an order for a dress sword, and she needs to fill it as soon as possible.”

The Hyūga wilts a bit. “I see…”

“I swear, we’re just cursed to always have at least one person unable to come,” Ino sighs, taking a seat and draping one leg over the other.

“Someday we’ll manage it.” Taking out a large pitcher of premade tea, Sakura pours them all a glass. “We can put some of all our stuff together and take it to her place for her after, so she doesn’t miss out.”

“Oh, g-good idea!”

With that, the typical small talk begins as food is dished out: catching up on all the goings-on in their lives. Sakura moans about how busy the hospital remains. “The more hours the more pay of course, but it hardly leaves me any free time! I’m almost as bad as Naruto now with how little I’m home,” she pouts, leaning her chin in a hand.

“Well, at least neither of you are sitting there alone too often,” Ino replies, sipping her tea.

“Yeah, but I’d rather we both just have more time off.”

“You know, you both control your own schedules.”

“We’re both workaholics,” is Sakura’s sheepish admission. “Someday we’ll slow down a bit, but right now we’re in our primes!”

“I know what you mean,” Hinata offers politely. “Sasuke and I hardly ever take time off. Even with all of the Hyūga we have signed up for the community watch force, it seems we’re always needed somewhere.”

“Well, Sasuke’s the founder after all. Since Shisui’s working with the Hokage, he’s really the only Uchiha people can rely on themselves.” Ino tilts her head curiously. “And you might not be heiress by name, but your clan still has massive respect for you and your abilities. Of course they’d rely on you, too.”

At the compliment, Hinata’s head ducks demurely, blushing. “...I suppose so…”

“How’s Hanabi been holding up?”

“Well! She’s, well...she’s bored with her lessons, but she’s always been a bit...easily distracted,” Hinata laughs. “But she takes her role seriously. And I know she’s relying on Neji-nīsan for guidance.”

“Any lingering problems with him?”

“Thankfully no, he recovered very well.”

“Thank the gods for that,” Sakura sighs. “One hell of a risky procedure, but...well, we all know how stubborn she is.”

“...I’ll never be able to repay her,” is Hinata’s quiet reply.

“Not sure a debt is the point, though. Besides, the main thing is he’s okay. Now if only he’d get off his high horse and propose to poor Tenten already.”

“He wants to! It’s just, um...complicated. Clan traditions and all that.”

“But what about you and Sasuke?”

“That was mostly excused due to the alliance,” Hinata sighs. “There’s only two Uchiha left, but...he’s technically still clan heir, so my father convinced the council it was still proper. It took some convincing for him too, though.”

“Ugh, so glad I don’t deal with any clan nonsense,” Sakura mutters lowly, stirring the last dredges of her soup. “Seems like such a pain.”

“Depends on the clan,” Ino offers with a shrug. “None of my team, despite us all being heirs, were pushed into marriages into the clan.”

“The Hyūga are probably the most, um...antiquated clan in the village,” Hinata admits with a disappointed set of her lips. “I have to wonder what Hanabi will do when the time comes…”

“Oh I doubt anyone’s gonna tell her what to do, the little spitfire.”

“Probably not, but that will still cause q-quite the stir.”

“Your clan’s had lots of stirrings since the war. It’s good for them,” Ino quips, taking a bite of cinnamon bun. “I still can’t believe it took so long to abolish the houses…”

“Well, after Neji-nīsan’s actions, it couldn’t really be ignored anymore,” Hinata agrees quietly.

“Then your big role in the ousting of the rest of the old council. Now that was awesome.” A wide grin grows over Sakura’s face. “I’ll never forget that.”

“Indeed. I’m just glad Sasuke and his family got the closure they were denied for so long…” Hinata’s eyes drop to the table somberly. “It still b-breaks my heart to think about it.”

“...yeah…”

A muted silence falls over the group of them for a time.

“...well, I don’t know about you two, but I’m full of both food and gossip,” Ino then announces, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. “Amazing soup and buns, Hinata-chan.”

“T-thank you!”

“You’ll have to share the recipes!”

“You can’t cook to save your life, Dekorīn,” Ino laughs.

“That’s what practice is for, Ino-buta!”

Smiling sheepishly, Hinata waves a hand. “I-I’ll get you both copies.”

Tidying up after themselves (and putting together Tenten’s box, which Ino agrees to deliver), the trio stand and chat a little longer before parting ways. Evening is settling over the village, and Hinata sighs contentedly in the cooling air.

It was a nice day.

Arriving home, she calls out her arrival, Sasuke replying from inside.

“You’re early.”

“...am I?”

“I thought you’d be gone longer is all. Had your soup.”

“Oh! Was it good…?”

“Very. You’ll have to teach me.”

At that, Hinata gives a smile. “...I’d be happy to.”

Woo, some slice of life fluff! Not so much centered on Sasuke this time around, but Hinata can always use more love. As can her bonds with the other girls! Still bugs me how little we got to see them all interact in canon... Otherwise though, a simple little piece, nothing too special~ Another hot as heckie day so that’ll be all from me for now, but once the heatwave’s over I want to try to catch back up again lol On that note though, I’d best head off for the night. Thank you for reading!

#sasuhinabigflash2020 #shbf2020 #sasuhina #uchiha sasuke #hyūga hinata #yamanaka ino #haruno sakura #a light amongst shadows [ canon verse ]

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ashleyswrittenwords · 5 years ago

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The Queen and Her Bodyguard

Another ZeLink Oneshot

Word Count: 2317 (blame anon)

Note: Modern AU because I haven’t done it yet!

---

The woman thumbed at a thick pile of newspapers, looking over them with a passing glance before taking off her reading glasses and peering keenly at Zelda from across the desk.

“Your Majesty,” she conceded to a sigh that Zelda could tell had been building up for quite some time. It wasn’t normal that she arranged for a meeting without explicitly stating the details beforehand. “It has come to my direct attention that the media is becoming more invested in your relationships.”

“My relationships?” The Queen echoed questionably before directing her attention towards the headlines of the fanned-out periodicals.

The Queen’s Secret Courtship

A Royal Love Affair with a Commoner?

Forbidden Love: The Queen and Her Bodyguard

Impa watched Zelda closely as she took one of the papers in her hands and promptly looked up with a furrowed brow. “Forgive me, Impa. By what do you mean to show me tabloids?”

“As your head of public relations,” she spoke pointedly, “I find it to be disconcerting in reading rumors swirling around you and your detail. The attentiveness of gossip magazines and talk shows alike have heightened the theme of adultery within these walls.” She paused to let the statement sink in, though Zelda was quite skilled in deeply guarded masks. They were a political art after all. Impa knew as such, so she relented.

“It would be to both your benefit and my own if we were transparent in the truth.”

The newspaper was put down and Zelda sat back in her seat, her eyes lingered on the picture that accompanied the headline. It was a paparazzi shot from her vacation at Aris Beach where her bodyguard helped her out of a resort pool. She was laughing at whatever he had said at the time. With a chaste smile, Zelda met Impa with an even voice.

“With all due respect, there is nothing to be concerned with regarding my affiliations with my staff. Link Forester has been in my security detail for several years now, it’s only natural that we’ve become friends. Is that what you were hoping to hear?” Zelda folded her hands in her lap neatly as Impa leaned back in her chair – relieved.

“And you would alert to me if that status has changed? For the betterment of your brand, of course.”

Another polite smile. “Of course, Impa. I trust your judgement.”

Impa motioned for her glasses once more. “Alas, this speculation has put a damper on your other prospects. Suitors being the main concern. Gods know the lot of them don’t understand the difference between reality and The Daily Hyrule.” She went on for the next few minutes on what royal public relations need to do to counteract the rumors. The queen of Hyrule dismissed herself shortly afterwards, bidding Impa a good day and walking out to the halls of the castle. All the while playing with the threads of her blouse sleeves, a nervous tick of hers that hasn’t quite gone away.

Footsteps followed behind her quietly. She didn’t need to turn around to be assured that he was there. He had been there in the bright hours of morning to the burning hours of the night. Never late to escort her to her first appointment of the day and a constant until she bid him goodnight at her chamber doors. That is, other than the occasional Sunday where she would be adamant in dismissing him for the day. Even that usually didn’t work against the stubborn man.

Six years. It would be six years next month.

“Your Majesty.”

With a tight-lipped smile, Zelda nodded at a group of passing guards who stepped aside with reverently bowed heads.

“Gentlemen.”

She strained her ears just in time to hear them whisper to the man behind her and him to answer with a curt laugh. It made her walk faster. Her office was up ahead. It was an infamous stretch of hall. The queen’s office, the one they didn’t air in television shows, was quite informal. It was tucked into the deep recesses of the castle, far removed from any possibility of public interference. Due to this, the halls around it were kept bare. It was to Zelda’s preference to keep from being hounded about protocol at every waking hour. The area was inconspicuous, yet full of secret laughter, whispers, looks, touches…

“You’re nervous,” Link stated plainly, making Zelda startle at her door.

Her surprise shocked her more than his words. It was all too easy lately to fall into a mindset that lacked propriety. With her hand on the door, Zelda’s words defaulted into formality. “I beg your pardon?”

“Why are you anxious?” His voice was firm as he slipped his hand under her own to grasp the handle fully. Their eyes met and she pulled her hand away reluctantly. They shared a closeness privacy afforded that usually wasn’t possible for their stations.

After all these years, Zelda had come to learn a lot about her bodyguard. He had a ravenous appetite, a deep interest in animals, and a sweetheart of a sister who would soon graduate high school. On the other hand, he also had intellect, more connections than she could keep track of, and an insufferable loathing for not knowing.

“What did Impa say?” His tone was borderline stern, adamant in getting the information from her. It reminded Zelda distinctly of the first time there was a bomb threat on the palace premises. Thank Hylia it was a false call, but she’d never forget the look in his eye and the way he commanded her to the panic room. If she had gotten anything from that hectic event it was affirmation that he was the right man for the job.

She didn’t answer his question. Link had been equally as much in the dark as she was during their morning review of what the day would bring. It wasn’t like the Sheikah woman to leave a scheduled appointment unlabeled nor was she one to mistakenly book the queen’s time without incessant reminders. It had left them both stumped and now with the mystery meeting over she would normally brief her guard with the appropriate details. Even so, her lips did not move to explain the gap in time. Instead, she looked away from him listlessly and licked her teeth in the manner that spoke that she was thinking.

Without another word, Link opened the door to her office. Zelda paused before fully making her way inside, noting his footwork meant he wasn’t to follow her. Her eyes flicked up to his already awaiting ones, “Will you not join me?”

Link raised a brow, “Does Her Majesty require my assistance?”

“I do.”

The sound of the door closing behind them reverberated through the room. Natural light flooded through the curtains on the opposite side, revealing a modest study space that would comfortably fit the necessary duties of a queen. It was also a space that let them be properly alone.

A shiver snuck up her spine. It was a familiar feeling to be alone with him, but she’d never get used to being alone with him like this. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him. Close enough to feel his breath on her neck. Close enough for her imagination to become overwhelmed with thoughts that spurred need for the man behind her.

Zelda forced herself to move forward towards her desk to fluff a stack of papers. It was a needless task to draw her focus, but she didn’t want it. Dimly behind her she heard the turn of the lock flip into place and soon the warmth at her back returned to glue her feet firmly to the carpet below.

“Your Majesty,” he murmured, blowing hot air onto the back of her neck as he did. The ghost of his fingers brushed her right hip. Zelda sharply inhaled and regretted the motion entirely. She could hear the arrogant smirk on his lips. His hand took hold of her hip and traced circles. They felt like fire beneath her black pencil skirt.

Her lips parted for a warning, but relented to a breathy, “Link.”

Gentle as he always was, he pulled her into him and whispered directly into her ear. “What sort of assistance are you in need of, my queen?”

His lips followed the flush rising up her neckline: brushing, kissing, licking. It was all so slow, needing.

Zelda swallowed thickly, twisting in his grasp before glowering up at him. “You could ask nicely.”

There was a glint in his deep blue eyes, “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The smile that played annoyingly on his lips begged to differ.

She made a face and knotted a hand gingerly through the blond hair on the back of his head, pulling him down. “You truly ought to learn your place, Link,” Zelda bit back a smile as her lips touched his. Then, the need was back to urge him closer. Coarse fingers inched her skirt higher. A gasp from her lips made room for him to deepen the kiss, his teeth grazing her bottom lip.

“What did she say?” He said breathlessly against her mouth as she forced his suit jacket from his body.

“You’re such an effective detective,” Zelda laughed and pressed into him. She reveled in the taunt muscles of his arms, which trapped her to the desk. Once his jacket was out of the way, she unabashedly felt up to his neckline. Link locked lips with her again and traced her backside with the curve of his palm. It caused Zelda to jump at the contact. He laughed against her lips.

“She,” Zelda breathed shallowly as her guard dipped to the crook of her neck, “She asked me about us.”

Deviously, he nipped at her skin to hear her yelp but paused to meet her eyes. The blue in his gaze danced along with his thoughts as he sized up her statement, ever so thoughtful. Strands of hair fell into his sight from her hands running wild in his locks. “What did she ask about?”

Zelda sorely missed his mouth on her body but relented by drawing her bottom lip between her teeth. The anxiety of his scrutiny and the interrogation from earlier made her hands drop from around his neck. “The gossip articles have been pushing out a narrative,” she spoke slow, speaking out thoughts she hadn’t quite sorted yet. “About the queen and her bodyguard.”

His eyes searched hers for a long moment before he answered, “Haven’t they always?”

They had. They had been since he made his first appearance to the paparazzi as her person guard. Who could blame them? Link was a handsome man. A stark contrast to Rusl, who had been in service for years before leaving for the private sector. The public had always kept an eye out for any love match for their queen and it was the perfect scandal a gossip magazine could stir up. A forbidden love, a workplace romance, they had thought of it all before.

However, Zelda and Link hadn’t always shared these private moments. There was a time where these speculations could be completely written off as nothing but. If anything, the rumors were a match to spark their secret rendezvous.

“They’re enough now that Impa had the gall to ask,” Zelda’s voice didn’t have its normal strength. “I lied to her, Link.”

Guilt and betrayal lined her words. Link knew how much she loved Impa. They shared a deep bond that not many had, and her hurt was infectious. He gathered her in his arms for an embrace, the bite of lust now smothered in place of comfort. They stood together for a long minute before Link swallowed and said weakly, “Do you want to stop?”

Do you want to stop?

A sharp ache pierced through Zelda at his question. Of course, she had thought about it. Stopping everything that had become a strange normalcy over the last two years. Her grip on his forearms tightened. It wasn’t just about the touches, the soft sighs, the sex. It was the late nights of talking about nothing and everything all at once. It was sharing an intimacy Zelda had never experienced with anybody else. It was loving and being loved with no strings attached.

“We can stop,” his voice sounded misused. “You will always be my priority, no matter what happens.”

Against all odds, she pulled him closer as her chest constrained and felt his heart beat strongly in his chest. “I’d rather not,” Zelda finally said. Link let out a breath he had been holding and buried his face in her hair. “Impa didn’t let up, but I know she thinks something is wrong,” she sighed into him. He was mindlessly drawing circles on her back.

“Do you reckon she’d tell anyone about us?”

Zelda grinned. It wasn’t often that he slipped into such casual speech. She loved it. “No, but I worry if she has noticed who else has?” She moved back to watch his face, “And I worry for you Link. I… I would never forgive myself if your life was uprooted because of m-”

Link interrupted, touching her chin with a smile. “Don’t worry about me. You worry about yourself.”

Concern was written across Zelda’s face, but she knew nothing would make him budge.

“We have to pick a different vacation spot. Aris Beach has been compromised,” she started, fixing his collar as an excuse to feel him on her fingers.

“Already on it, Zel.”

“And you need to stop looking at me like that in public.”

He smirked, “Like what?”

She had no choice but to smile. “Like that!”

For the meantime, the issue of addressing their situation was pushed aside and as always it was the Queen and her bodyguard against the world.

#this took too long #didn't know how to end it #i do quite like this dynamic!!!#wanna do one where zelda is forced to marry someone else and link is her secret lover but i suck at sex scenes #we shall see if ppl want it #loz #legend of zelda #oneshot #zelink #zelda #link #fanfiction #ashleyswrittenwords #legend of zelda fanfiction

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amorfatihq · 5 years ago

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THE MANHUNT (PART 1)

A red light explodes in a cascade of sparks over a nondescript neighborhood deep in the heart of London. Muggles frown at the noise of explosion, opening their curtains just in time to glimpse the last of the sparks burn out. Hooligans lighting off fireworks. Except, to any witch or wizard that sees the explosion, the message is immediately clear. Help. Danger.

The DMLE office is flooded with floo messages. A team of hit wix is gathered and an auror stumbles out of their office to join them while another witch successfully scries for the exact location. Loud cracks of apparition fill the office as they head to the location.

At the scene, a wizard is found -- stunned, bound in rope, and lying prone in front of that shattered remains of a front door. Two hit wix stay back with the stunned victim as the rest of the team enters the house. They can see a shadowy figure looming over another body, but before they can apprehend the figure, he apparates away. The group splits up -- half of them sending back urgent messages to the DMLE, reporting a suspect on the run, and the others check on the other victim. Dead. The deceased is identified as a muggle named Rosalind. The event is tied back to an earlier attempted attack on a witch named Aila Johnson. Johnson provides the name of the suspect: ISAAC BUCHANAN.

The manhunt is on.

WHAT THIS MEANS:

Though bad memories relive themselves in the mind of THE ORDER, the attack on Aila calls for action. It also presents an opportunity. They know the identity of a Death Eater and they know he hesitated. He could be reachable and they have experience on what not to do when it comes to capturing and interrogating Death Eaters. Be gentler. Hide the kids better. Find Isaac.

The Dark Lord is furious. What he’d thought of as a promising new Death Eater is now the biggest liability they’ve ever had. He’s on the run from them, the Ministry, and most certainly the Order. THE DEATH EATERS have their orders: apprehend him. The Dark Lord will decide his fate once he’s secured.

The Ministry has broadcast Isaac’s name far and wide. A picture of him was front page of the Daily Prophet. Considered armed and dangerous, the Ministry has asked that anyone who spots Isaac to send up the same signal that originally alerted them. The public has also been asked not to engage but whether the brash or the vengeful listen will be another story.

OUT OF CHARACTER:

Check out this thread and this self-para.

You’re encouraged to incorporate this development into future threads but remember not to godmod Isaac.

#amorfati:plot #marauders rp #hp rp #lsrp #semi appless rp

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eternal-scripts · 5 years ago

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Short Horror Stories: The Doctor

Dr. Maurice Butler was making his daily commute back to work. For more than thirty years, that half-hour drive had been the walk before he got to work at the Rockfield Mental Asylum. Maurice was one of the institution's veterans and a man who had seen, in his judgment, all that this twisted world had to offer.

His journey was as routine as it was his life, a hoary pine forest were his only companions during their way to the institution. The place, sheltered by those dense guardians, was far from the city, as if that perfectly fulfilled that old premise of leaving people with mental illnesses out of the public eye. A repulsive place at times, but one that had been a fundamental piece of his life thus far. His life outside of there was like that of any other average man: a house, a family, a fishing trip and many others as a family. His wife, Cinthia, and their two children, Patrick and Annette, were the other fundamental pillar of his life. The pair of children had grown up by now and were slowly making their lives, leaving Maurice and Cinthia to lead an adult life, a life that slowly drifted into monotony.

Rockfield Hospital opened its doors to him once more, the smell of sanitizer that sometimes made him lose his sense of smell and the silence of the building that was only cut off by the distant screams of the most unhinged patients was what always welcomed him. Doctor Maurice, at almost sixty years old, had reached the peak of his employment, no one could object to him about any lack of knowledge, less whether or not he deserved that general position as director of the institution. For the workers, he was a man who looked undaunted by the extreme situations that patients could sometimes generate. Doctor Maurice was the type of person who knew how to face a patient who had taken some sharp object and seemed to be willing to take away anyone besides himself with an absolute coldness that made those people stop their attacks; He was a man who had seen the most horrendous scenes that work could bring him, neglected patients who, from one moment to another, appeared without their eyes in their sockets as was Patient Stokes, fifteen years ago, or others like the Harmon case where a patient had gouged out his guts after spending the entire night scratching his belly all the way to them and then strutting down the hallways with his trophies in hand. Many of his old colleagues had resigned after such cases, others did not cope with the situation and ended up housed in facilities similar to the Rockfield mental asylum. Suicide was something that was never mentioned but was always there, among those who fell into that world or simply jumped into it.

Nothing seemed to get him out of his stoicism. Nothing except Mr. Stangley.

Few in the institution wanted to talk about Stangley. Mr. Stangley was a patient who had been there longer than anyone wanted to admit, a man who practically spent most of his life behind those walls and who no one wanted to cross. The man was very tall, with an almost absurd thinness and a lanky appearance; He was a figure that no one wanted to meet because, it was said, talking to him was like losing part of your sanity. In all his years of work, Doctor Maurice was rarely in front of him. Stangley was already hospitalized when he had started working, his first contacts with him were through attending interviews with this subject, when some of his mentors such as Dr. Barron or Dr. Wells proceeded to question him about his stay. As far as he knew, Stangley was there voluntarily, although his story and motive were really vague. "Due to a cause of a traumatic situation, Mr. Bernard Stangley opted for hospitalization.". His file had those words along with the old stamp of the institution that highlighted it at the end of the page, Dr. Maurice had never had the opportunity, in his years of work, to interview this person, his tasks had become much more administrative over the last decade, but he was always aware of the information that the Doctors and interns were writing down on him.

Sooner than later, he had started to draw a pattern around Stangley. Many of the young doctors who had spoken with him had given up this exhausting job; Others, as was to be suspected, suffered some breakdown of their psyche to the point of being admitted to a mental asylum. It could be coincidence, Stangley was not an aggressive or dangerous patient and many times these doctors saw patients much sicker and more dangerous. However, the pattern began when they approached Stangley during the month-long interview with him. During the month, the doctors interviewed him and, from one moment to the next, the sanest ones gave the interviews to other doctors who needed more experience. In doing so, those who continued with the interrogations apparently reached a point of unease that ended in an immediate resignation or, in other cases, in a period of very acute depression that ended, in the best of cases, in their confinement in some other state mental asylum.

Doctor Maurice, with years of experience on his shoulders, chose to finally take matters into his own hands. It was time to put himself in Check, and from that point on, he would take over the Stangley case.

His first visit to Stangley was in the interview area, separated by six feet or more. A non-reflective glass separated them and where several doctors like him in his youth were behind it. The doctor on the left, the patient on the right. Maurice began with routine questions that Stangley answered with a smiling calm, the slender old man in front of the doctor maintaining considerable lucidity despite so many years locked in that place. When Maurice asked him about his life before then, Stangley liked to ramble a bit about the things he used to do, something that seemed to be strange because he spoke like a person who had done countless things in his little time outside that place; He liked painting, architecture, he could recite curiosities from countless families of insects and then take a jump and talk to you about the causes of the Spanish civil war and the belligerents. Stangley seemed to be carrying the thread of the conversation, but it was only because Dr. Maurice allowed him to.

"How’s Cynthia?"

Stangley's question threw the Doctor for a brief moment, a personal question that escaped from Stangley after skipping through various topics. Maurice answered simply, a disinterested "good" that masked a miserable momentary unease. Perhaps the patient had overheard him talking in a corridor with another doctor about his life outside that place, something that in turn was difficult since he didn’t usually talk about private matters in that place. That must be the reason, otherwise, how could he possibly know his wife's name?

The talk with Stangley ended very naturally, as it had been nothing more than the first meeting. Maurice had perhaps found a reason behind all that crazy movement that was brewing around that patient, Stangley perhaps had a good ear that listened at the right time to some personal information that was what scared the doctors.

Another day another routine week, Dr. Maurice again traveled the road where the pines were his only companions to Rockfield asylum. One more week had passed and few changes occurred in his life. The only great news was the surprise of knowing that her daughter had been hiding the first three months of her pregnancy from her along with her husband, the news of her first grandson formed a small smile on the face of that veteran doctor. A good day for him.

That afternoon, another interview was to take place, Stangley was once more taken to the room to which he had been directed so many times. The doctor sat on the left where the exit door was a few steps behind him, and the patient on the right, near the wall and in a metal chair.

Maurice spoke with his classic naturalness and characteristic stoicism with Stangley, the patient rambled once more about events that occurred throughout the nineteenth century, the Napoleonic wars on the one hand, the findings of Darwin on the other, he went back in time with his jumps to the ones Dr. Maurice tried to follow with little interest.

“By the way, Doctor, congratulations on the news. He's your first grandson, isn't he?"

Disbelief crossed Maurice's face. Again, how could he possibly know that? this time, it didn't make any sense. He hadn't mentioned it to anyone, he was the only one who knew that news at the Rockfield Asylum. Maurice stammered a few words before questioning what he was talking about, but Mr. Stangley simply asked to be allowed back to his room.

"Doctor, don't be sad, this is how life works."

Maurice was shocked but also confused, trying to hide it from the view of the doctors who were watching him behind the mirrored glass. The doctor agreed to the patient's request, and Stangley marched back to his room.

Did he have someone out there to help him with that strange show? No one, as far as was known, Mr. Stangley had no family and no one outside of Rockfield. Maurice wanted to use logic before all that. Perhaps a doctor or intern should have known his daughter and that is how he found out. Yes, that must be it, right? False, his daughter was a librarian, he had no connection with his work. What was to be a happy day with pleasant news became full of doubts. What did he mean by sadness? He didn’t understand what was happening. In his opinion, he was very happy at the time and nothing was going to take away his smile.

The following week had turned into chaos that tried to loosen Maurice's stoicism with every hour he spent there. The pine trees that accompanied him seemed more distant than usual, within Maurice there was a very deep pain. His daughter, his beloved daughter, had been attacked by his husband in a fit of fury, had fallen down the library stairs, and his future grandson had died due a forced abortion. He and Cinthia were devastated, but what was he to do? Sometimes he cursed their coldness, at that moment they must be closer than ever, and yet there he was like every beginning of the week, ready and heading to work at the Rockfield Mental Asylum.

The Doctor had almost completely forgotten about the interview with Mr. Stangley. The tall, thin old man was already waiting for him when he arrived at the meeting. Once again, the doctor sat on the left, near the door, and the patient on the right, in front of the non-reflective glass where several doctors were watching them.

Maurice was trying to reinforce his head under a layer of stoic and tenacious coldness, he would not allow that patient to use his pain against him while he was listening to the comings and goings of that man's thoughts. Stangley had started by talking about the French Renaissance and jumped to the Italians, Lorenzo de Medici, and the Italian Wars, only to mention some additional rant about some giant rodent species that inhabits South America.

“I am very sorry for your loss, doctor. You must take good care of Cinthia and Patrick from now on"

In his interior he cursed that wretch in front of him, had he once again raised something in his future? No, he had to keep his composure, the subject was a patient and he was a doctor, what harm could a subject do in an asylum? He didn't care how he got that information, but he wouldn't let him win. As he left the interview, Dr. Maurice called his son to work, a contracting company that had flourished very well and as a result he had a very good job. He chatted in spite of him for a little over half an hour before saying goodbye to him. After that, he called his wife.

He didn’t know what was happening that week, the pines seemed more dead than usual, his mind barely stayed on the road to the point of, perhaps, wishing to come across a truck. The tragedy struck him and his family again in less than a month, his son Patrick, his precious son, had an accident with a crane that collapsed due to an error in the wiring of the machine, causing a pipe to crush him. In less than a month he lost who would be his future grandson and now, he lost his son. He must have been home, comforting his wife, but his life was in the Rockfield Mental Asylum.

The time for the interview was coming, the fragments of his life were on the desk in his office. Perhaps he should finish it all, take the revolver from the right drawer and bathe the bookshelves behind him with his red ink. One of his assistants snapped him out of his trance when the time drew near, but this time it had been for another reason. Mr. Stangley had a fit of rage and had to be handcuffed, such a thin and old man had to be held between four people to stop him, and demanded to speak to Dr. Maurice. Maurice was devastated, but he wanted answers.

The doctor entered the interrogation room once more, taking a seat facing the patient, the image of Stangley in the straitjacket so strange. Stangley kept his rambling way of being, talking about subjects that, at the time, Dr. Maurice was not paying the remotest attention to. Stangley had noticed that the doctor's almost blank stare was evident.

"Why did you come this time?" Stangley asked.

"I want answers," said Maurice, as if with that Stanley could solve what was happening in his life.

“You are the one who has the answers. You neglected Cinthia, you neglected your daughter by letting her forcibly marry that guy, you neglected your son by telling him to choose a "male" career, rather than what he had longed to be. Maurice, you have the answer to your question."

"Am I responsible for everything that has happened to me?" Maurice asked aloud.

"Who else would be responsible for the mistakes you have made in your life?" Stangley replied.

Maurice looked down with regret, Stangley's words were penetrating his mind and made him see beyond everything. Maybe he was right.

"I see we have made progress today, Maurice." Stangley said with a slight smile of satisfaction "Let's see next week, is that okay?"

Maurice nodded, then Stangley upped from his seat, walked the few steps to the door behind him, and then was lost in the hall. Maurice wanted to get up, but the straitjacket made him need, in one way or another, someone else's help to do so.

#horror #writers #my writing #write #new here #hope you like it #writing #writing community #original fiction #writing tags #short stories #creative writing #am writing #original writing #short horror stories

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trashinaglass-archive · 6 years ago

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Infatuated

Chris being Chris

Request: Hi I was wondering if you could write a one shot about meeting Chris and there is a connection but you have a boyfriend and you are questioning giving things a go with Chris? Thank you!!!

A/n: I love writing about Chris! He’s exactly who I picture myself marrying one day.

“How long will you be gone?” your boyfriend asked as you got ready. Tonight was a girls night- you and two of your best friends.

“I don’t know,” you told him, feeling annoyed by his interrogation. “We’re getting dinner and then hanging out. I’m not sure where they decided to go yet.”

“That doesn’t seem safe to me,” he said, crossing his arms and looking at you through the mirror. You rolled your eyes. He was a nice guy, don’t get it wrong, but he always wanted to know where you are, what you’re doing, and who you’re with. It was exhausting sometimes.

“We’ll be fine. We’ll be out in public, not an alleyway.”

“I just don’t want anything bad to happen to you,” his voice dropped, moving to place his hands on your shoulders.

“I appreciate that, but you’re kind of overbearing. I can take care of myself.” You picked up your bag, moving out of the house, driving to meet your girlfriends at the restaurant.

“Look at you being late for a change,” one of your friends joked as you walked to the table.

“Sorry, had to get rid of dad,” you replied sarcastically making them groan. They didn’t like your boyfriend and you knew it. It made you feel bad, but he wasn’t hurting you so you never thought of breaking up with him.

You enjoyed dinner, talking and joking with your friends. You really missed having nights like this. You decided to go to a club after, walking in to see colorful lights illuminating the dark room. Screaming your drink order over loud music before making your way to the dance floor.

You saw a guy standing off to the side with another guy, talking about whatever. You looked at your friends over your shoulder with a smirk before making your way to him. He looked at you as you placed a hand on his bicep, moving your mouth to his ear.

“I’m y/n,” you yelled over the music.

“Chris,” he yelled back.

“Come dance with me,” you requested, pulling on his arm a bit. He laughed, looking at his friend before letting you take his hand and guide him to the dance floor. Facing each other, you danced and had a blast.

“You’re really hot,” Chris said, making conversation.

“Thanks, I try.” You smiled as Chris laughed at your reply.

“You want to move somewhere quieter? Talk?” He suggested. You nodded and followed him as he walked right outside of the club. “Sorry. I just wanted to get to know you, and it was really loud in there.”

“Don’t worry about it. I totally understand,” you repliedmoving to sit on the curb before looking up at him and biting your lip, not to sure what to say.

“So are from here? What do you do?” Chris asked you as he sat next to you.

“I am- I work as a pet groomer.”

“Really? That’s cool.”

“Yeah, it was an excuse to play with puppies all day,” You laughed. “I was never able to have a dog growing up because my mom’s allergic so my dream job was to become a pet groomer.”

“But not an actual vet?”

“No because I don’t want to be the one with the sick and dying pets. Just the healthy and playful ones.”

“I have a dog- his name’s Dodger. He’s a really cool dude,” Chris shared with you. You smiled at the thought of the attractive man in front of you playing with his dog.

“Named after the baseball team?”

“No- I um actually named him after a favorite Disney character of mine,” he explained. “Dodger from Oliver and Company?”

“I totally forgot about that movie. It was my brother’s favorite too.”

“But not yours?”

“No, I liked well enough, but my favorite was Anastasia. It wasn’t a Disney film but it technically is now so,” you finished with a shrug.

“I don’t think I’ve seen that one.”

“You should. It’s about a real Russian princess, and it was beautifully done.”

“I’ll look into it,” Chris told you with a smile.

You continued to talk until your friends came stumbling out of the club. “Where have you been? We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“I’ve been here,” you laughed nervously looking between Chris and your girlfriends. You watched as they wore a knowing look on their face.

“Well we’re gonna get going. You be safe,” she said as she walked away.

“And wear protection!” Your other friend yelled back over her shoulder. You scoffed out a laugh at her words, not surprised by them at all.

“I should probably get going too,” you said as you stood up from where you were sat, Chris following your lead.

“Do you need a ride?” He offered.

“My car is just down the street, but thanks,” you said before awkwardly turning and beginning to walk away.

“Wait!” Chris’s voice stopped you. “Do you think I can get your number?”

You bit your lip as you looked down at the phone you had just pulled out. You had a boyfriend, but you did enjoy your conversation with Chris tonight. You really liked him and you felt like he had to like you too.

“Yeah,” you decided, stepping back to where he was and taking his phone from his hand. You put your number in, shooting yourself a quick text before handing it back. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

“Trust me, I won’t.” You smiled and waved one last time before walking away, finding your car and driving home. You sat in the driveway for a while, thinking about Chris and your boyfriend.

Lately things haven’t been the best for you two and your friends practically hated his guts. He had said some sketchy things once that made you question the kind of person he is. You didn’t know much about Chris to be able to compare him, but he was so sweet to you tonight- you definitely wanted to get to know him better. You couldn’t help but think how you and him could be dating instead of the boyfriend you had.

You looked at your phone as it vibrated, seeing a text from Chris.

I never said goodnight so... goodnight

Hope you got home safely

A smile appeared on your face reading the texts. As overbearing and worrying as your boyfriend was, he never sent texts like that. It felt nice to have someone send caring messages for once.

“I’m sorry for being a dick, and you can come over tomorrow to talk about it, but I think we need to break up.” You sent the text and turned his messages to silent, not wanting to deal with them tonight. You clicked back to Chris’s message thread.

I’m home, safe and sound. Thanks for checking in.

#Chris Evans #chris evans imagine #chris evans oneshot #chris evans x reader #chris evans blurb

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devnicolee · 6 years ago

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Snowfall (8)

A/N: So I was convinced I wasn’t going to get this chapter done anytime soon and I had a stroke of inspiration in an airport heading home from a work trip and wrote like all of it on my two flights haha. I don’t know how or why these chapters keep getting longer LOL someone needs to stop me. This starts off about 2 weeks after Chapter 7 ends, so about 3 weeks after the kidnapping and there is a small time jump within the chapter. Enjoy!

Masterlist

Word Count: 12,583

"I do not know why my mother insists on throwing baba a huge party each year. He hates it, complains of its extravagance every time. But mama doesn’t listen. I wish I had taken a page out of N’Danna’s book and left early. I wonder what his ‘emergency’ was. Did he tell you?" Zarah asked as she placed her shoes by the door and let her hair out of its delicate bun. Her eyes bore into the broad back of her husband, as if the intensity of her gaze would compel him to answer her. But he continued to ignore her question, engrossed in a file he had brought from his office before the party. His nose was buried in it before they left and he wasted no time picking it back up when they returned. She supposed she should have been used to it. She received the cold shoulder from her stoic husband throughout their first public outing since the kidnapping. He could barely be bothered to talk her or engage with other guests, forcing Zarah to endure all the pleasantries alone. When he wasn’t engaging in hushed conversations on the phone on the Lodge balcony, he was constantly reading messages from his beads.

"Eh no, he… he did not," he answered slowly, failing to rip his eyes from the papers in front of him.

"He didn’t tell Adisa either. Probably just tired… like baba. He managed to escape early as well. Lucky them," she mumbled. "And I don’t know why mama insisted we host the party here. I mean she knows we are preparing for the council meeting next week, the staff is swamped. But no one says no to her," she continued her rantings while watching him, examining how his eyes stared into the page with an intensity she hadn't seen in a while, his face pulled into a serious scowl.

"M’Baku… you've been engrossed in work all night. Are you going to share with me what has you so distracted?" She asked, her frustration coloring her words.

"I am sorry Zarah. I am just reading through these notes from the Dwellers’ interrogations." It was an omission that had the truth loosely wrapped up in it, enough of the truth to satiate her appetite for information. He poured over those transcripts and notes from their interrogations every other day it seemed, determined to find a clue they missed before.

She sat down next to him. "Would you let me read them? Or tell me what they say?" Her question dripping with equal parts trepidation and eagerness. Zarah only let her mind drift back to her short "time away" every so often. Avoidance was the only coping mechanism that seemed to work, that helped her hold together the loosening threads of her sanity and push forward. When she did call back to the moments she could remember, she fell down a dark hole in an effort to understand the motives of a lunatic. She would fixate on the "why" of it all, certain that she knew the reason but the memory was free floating in the clutter of her mind and couldn’t tether itself to anything. She knew he wanted to overthrow the tribe but there were other ways to do that than torturing her. She thought if she could understand, it would help her reach solid ground again.

But each spiral gave her no answers and smeared salt into her fresh psychological wounds, wounds that were still open and weeping through the gauze she put on them. Everyone told her to take time to heal emotionally and physically before returning to work. But she didn’t, determined to prove that she was the same chieftess today as she was before Davu sent his foot soldiers to set her life ablaze. She did not need time. Time would only force her to confront or wallow in her real trauma. She knew if she fell apart, it would take time to put herself back together. And she already learned the hard way that her husband had little patience for that. The only things she had space for were actions that propelled her forward so she took on her regular duties and then some to prove she was herself again to her staff, the tribe, and her husband.

"Just the rantings of madmen Zarah, nothing to concern yourself with while you are still healing," he answered, still failing to look her in the eyes. Her hand wrapped around his wrist, trying to get his attention as she spoke.

"M’Baku… I am fine! I feel great actually. The bruises are fading, my ribs are healing well. My concussion is pretty much healed. I know you think we need to hold off on their trials until I am stronger. But I am telling you I can handle it."

M’Baku was not fooled by his wife’s constant working and painted smile, that was never as wide or bright as she thought it was. Her wounds were deep and three weeks were a mere fraction of the time she actually needed to be "just fine." Her inability to properly confront her trauma did provide him a bit of cover, a blanket to hide the quiet dishonesty in his actions. The public-facing rationale behind his delay of trials settled well among the council and made him look like the doting husband, completely dedicated to the wellbeing of his wife. But the reality was less charming. It was difficult to make a case against all these men without the one who orchestrated it all. He was needed to tie it all together.

"Jahari told me you had a panic attack yesterday. It is not time to reopen barely closed wounds. They can sit in prison until you are stronger." He patted her on the knee before closing the file and sitting it on the couch’s side table.

Zarah frowned. Jahari may serve her but, like many of the guards, they would undermine her authority every time to remain in M’Baku’s favor. She couldn’t wait until Kasim and Mosi were back on duty, two men she knew didn’t alert her husband to her every move.

It was a minor setback, a small panic attack after one of her engineers accidentally startled her when she thought she was alone working late in the lab. It took him and Jahari over 20 minutes to calm her down. She asked both men for their silence but that was a foolish request. There was no such thing as silence in Jabariland, usually quiet lives in the mountains meant gossip was the primary form of currency to trade. The panic attacks were one of the few displays of her trauma that poked through the thick curtains she used to cover the others. They were unpredictable, jarring and paralyzing.

Before she could counter his point, his attention was once again captivated by an unknown messenger on his beads. "I have to go, There is an issue that needs my attention. I will be back later."

Zarah looked at the clock, her frown deepening as she realized it was almost midnight. "What issue?" she asked, a sigh filled with her exasperation and disappointment escaping her. Tonight was supposed to be their night to reignite the intimacy in their relationship, an opportunity to call back to a moment reminiscent of the days before the devastation. Just the two of them enjoying a night out as they used to, completely caught in the rapture of each other. She even took the time to put on lingerie, desperate to satiate the primal need that had been growing for the last three weeks. He was depriving her of him and self-love only got her to the cusp of true fulfillment. Physical intimacy was the cornerstone of their relationship, how she knew M’Baku showed and poured his love into her, and she was undeniably empty.

That was her dream, her fantasy for the evening. But M’Baku jabbed a spear into the balloon that blew up inside her at the prospect of spending much-needed quality time with him, just as disinterested in her today as he was yesterday.

"Nothing to worry about. I will be late so don’t wait up." He kissed her on the cheek before leaving.

Zarah sat on the couch for a few minutes, unsure of what to do. She felt like she was wandering aimlessly, blindfolded, trying to make her way back to her husband. She always felt she had a magnetic pull to him, this other-worldly being that illuminated the path to maintaining his love and favor. But that connection was severed, the path darkened and now she was making misstep after misstep, as he traveled farther and farther away from her.

Zarah did wait up. She tossed and turned restlessly, trying to rest alone. She did that more often than she would have liked. Her eyes kept falling on the drawer of her bedside table that held her sleeping pills. Most nights she didn’t sleep, she just lied awake staring out their window. Or when she was alone and tired of laying there, she would go down and work in the labs. Only when her body demanded rest, could no longer maintain itself without it, did she even attempt to catch the elusive beast. On those nights, she would lie to herself and say she no longer needed them. And then she would remember the nightmares from her first week home: vivid, terrifying and the reason a certain someone was conveniently too busy to come to bed with her anymore. And she would take one anyway. Those pills were the only guard of any use to her, protecting her and keeping her trauma at bay so she could achieve meaningful rest. They were slowly becoming an addiction, sleep felt impossible without them. But she was not going to turn away the one thing that worked, the thing that brought her meaningful rest. She knew it would be easier with him there. She didn’t want some drugs to help her rest… she wanted him. She missed him.

He said he was working. You shouldn’t bother him, that is the whole point of his distance. He doesn’t want to be bothered by you, her inner self chastised her. But she couldn’t deny that her heart and body ached for him, feeling the loss of his presence like the loss of a limb. Even something as simple and necessary as sleep was easier before all this. She longed for the simplicity of draping her body over his tone chest, his thick arms tightening around her to keep her flush to his body, rubbing aimless patterns into his bicep as they talked about everything under the sun. Those quiet moments acted as the thread that weaved together the fibers of their relationship. The moments that were now void in their relationship, making her feel as though it was all unraveling before her eyes.

She balled her hands into fists and punched down into the bed, expelling some of her frustrations. She swung her legs out of bed and pulled on her robe. It is past 3 am. M’Baku should be home by now.

She opened the door to find Jahari and another young guard waiting outside. "My lady."

"I was just going to walk to Lord M’Baku’s office," she informed as she headed down the hallway, knowing they would fall in step behind her. She knew she shouldn’t interrupt his work but what could be so important this late? He was busy, but not that busy.

Her steps faltered slightly at the closed door and lack of a guard standing watch. She knew Kide had the evening off but M’Baku wouldn’t, shouldn’t, be without a guard. He never let me sit in our bedroom without a guard, let alone my office, she complained to herself.

After a round or two of knocks with no response, she pushed the door open herself after deciding that being chieftess gave her the license to enter unannounced. She stepped into the dark, empty and undeniably frigid office to find no one. She walked over to the hearth and held a hand over the charred logs. When no residual heat reached her hand, which would have signaled that the fire hadn’t been out long, she ran her hand over the leftover, charred logs. They were cold. There isn’t a soul in Jabariland who could stand to sit in an office all night without a fire in the dead of winter.

Why would he lie?

She turned around and looked expectantly at her shadows, "Do either of you know where Lord M’Baku is?"

Jahari shook his head, "No my lady. He simply said he was working. Perhaps he is downstairs in General N’Danna’s office." Sympathy washed over Jahari’s usually emotionless face as he noted the anxiety and agitation flaring up in the young chieftess. The way she shifted her weight uncomfortably and pulled her bottom lip into her teeth to chew on it as she did often. He could practically hear the wheels turning in her head, her scientific calculations and best recommendations for her next move. He was surprised at how much he learned about Zarah in the last month, this being the most time he spent watching her. He could tell that she was still struggling. But unlike everyone who only got small glimpses of her or only captivated her attention for a short moment, he spent every hour of daylight watching her. He saw and heard the careful intention in every action she took and word she said, noted the great lengths she went to suppress the emotions that simmered beneath the surface, and admired the strength it took to hold herself together everyday while on the brink of collapse. Part of him wished he could give her the answers she sought, to ease her mind in some small way. But even he didn’t understand what was happening with Lord M’Baku and it wasn’t his job to. Regardless of his admiration for her, their marital problems - unless they became a danger to Lady Zarah’s safety - were not his concern. His job was simply to protect and observe, there was little he could offer her beyond that.

"I could call his guard if it pleases you my lady?"

She immediately shook her head, she had an idea of, not where he was, but what he was doing. A conversation from her father’s birthday party early in the evening floating to the forefront of her overactive mind:

"The bruising seems like it has cleared up. I am sure Lord M'Baku is happy about that. You need to do something about the bags under your eyes though, no amount of makeup can cover them. And this weight loss... You don't want him looking elsewhere because you have lost interest in your appearance," her mother scolded her quietly.

"I-I-I don't think I have to worry about that with M'Baku. He isn't that type of man," Zarah responded, avoiding contact with her mother’s disapproving eyes. She quickly scanned the party for her husband or brother, her usual saviors when her parents were on her case. However, N’Danna was nowhere to be found. She hadn’t seen him since the first course of dinner. And M’Baku was on the balcony on a call… again. She hated talking with her parents, it was sad but true. Their conversations were just fishing expeditions to offer unsolicited advice about her role as chieftess and her marriage. It was nothing more than harassment masked with fake concern.

"And I haven’t lost interest in my appearance," she tried to add through gritted teeth and a fake smile, trying to make sure no one noticed the tense conversation occupying the head table of the party. "I was almost murdered a few wee-"

"But you weren’t and you should be grateful to Hanuman that he willed it to be so. The Jabari must see that you are capable of withstanding any and every threat thrown at you. Do you think I cried and had panic attacks every time someone almost murdered me in battle? No! I cleaned myself up and continued on. As should you if you want to remain chieftess," her father interrupted.

Zarah jerked her head at the mention of her panic attacks. She would ask how they knew about them but it was how they knew about everything… the Lodge gossip mill. She hadn’t felt this drained during a conversation with her parents in a long time. Every conversation with them felt like a battle. However, she usually had a partner, her husband, who came to her defense, absorbed shots for her and motivated her to fight back. Without him on her side of the battlefield, it was a losing side. Her parents drained the energy out of her until she had little to meet them shot for shot with. Without him, it was easier to simply accept defeat and the emotional bruising that came along with it.

"Yes, baba." Her voice was despondent and cold, sounding more like a robot than a chieftess.

"Panic attacks… I mean really Zarah? That is no way to behave. You cannot lose control in front of the staff you command. And we have heard that he has been working longer hours? It is clear the two of you are having problems. I mean has he even said two words to you this evening? You can't risk losing your position, particularly when you have yet to cement your legacy."

Her nose wrinkled, "What do you mean ‘haven’t cemented my legacy?’ I am chieftess. I am the reason M’Baku decided to rejoin Wakanda. I have led several breakthroughs with Jabari wood to improve our infrastructure and lives our people," she continued ignoring the looks of disdain on her parents’ faces. "That is my legacy, our legacy."

Her mother immediately shook her head and waved her hand dismissively as if Zarah’s life’s work was inconsequential, completely irrelevant to the larger picture in her world. "But you have given him no heir. Any priest would allow him to cast you aside to find a wife who knows how to fulfill the duties that matter."

‘The duties that matter.’

She shifted uncomfortably, a smile still plastered on her face as she listened to them trivialize her accomplishments, cast doubt on the strength of her marriage and place blame squarely on her shoulders for it all. She thought she had gotten past all this. She exceeded their expectations and became chieftess and still wasn’t succeeding at it as they wished. She couldn’t make anyone happy these days it seemed. Her head fell slightly so her parents couldn’t see the cloudy overcast building in her eyes.

"Maybe you should speak with Healer Femi. You must give him an heir and soon. It will help you move forward and put this mess behind you once and for all."

"Yes, mama."

She hadn’t confirmed her parents’ suspicions about the problems within her marriage but she didn’t deny them either. M’Baku had worked late most nights lately. While she didn’t want to give her parents’ ideas more credence than they deserved, just like all her life, their criticisms took root and couldn’t be pruned away.

A month ago, she would have never given weight to the notion that M’Baku was that type of man. But now? They were different people, shaped and molded by horror and trauma and she couldn’t account for anything anymore.

"No, that is alright. I will just go back to bed."

Her face remained blank as she glided through the Lodge and back to her room. It was quiet, just the quiet taps of her shoes and the loud stomps of her guards’ boots filling the air. She felt Jahari’s eyes follow her as she took off her slippers and robe, climbed into bed and buried her small body under the covers. She curled into a ball, staring numbly at the snow falling gently out her window. She figured there would be tears, surmised that there should have been. But instead she just felt paralyzed, numb. A punch to the gut that knocked the breath and life out of her. She just didn’t understand.

How could he do this? Haven’t I given him everything?

Everything? More like headaches and grief. And no heir to show for the time he wasted on you. Now he has found someone who can. Can you even be mad at him? her subconscious threw back at her.

Yes!… No, she weakly argued with herself. She thought they were doing the right thing, waiting two years to have a baby. But she always wondered if he only agreed because he saw her weakness, how the council’s pressure got to her as she acclimated to her new role as chieftess. Now she missed her chance, another would have the opportunity before her.

She supposed that she couldn’t really blame him, she drove him into the arms of another. And she figured he would be happy. It wouldn’t be hard to find a woman better than her. Zarah started to accept this harsh inevitability that he would cast her and their marriage aside, as much as anyone could accept a fatal wound to their heart. She tried to think of other options, other reasons for his distance and coldness but she came up short. This is the only thing that makes sense. She also accepted that her life would be one marked for pain and loneliness once he finally decided to do it. Who could ever follow the great M’Baku? Only lesser men, she surmised. That’s what Hanuman brought me back from the brink of the ancestral mountains for? To see the life she was meant to have be ripped away and presented to another, while she was forced to watch and contemplate how she failed? That wasn’t a life. That was a different type of captivity, a captivity of which only Hanuman knew the end date.

***

"Lord M’Baku, we can’t continue to do this every night. You spend all day and all night looking for the man, maybe you need to step away from this for a bit. Get some real rest and attack it with fresh eyes. Or it is time to consider ending this charade and telling Lady Zarah? She may be able to help." T’Challa suggested. He was growing tired of these late night meetings. Not because he needed the sleep, one of the many benefits of the heart-shaped herb was that he didn’t require much sleep at all. But because he thought this manhunt was descending rapidly into an unhealthy obsession for M’Baku.

M’Baku shook his head violently. "No! Absolutely not. We have to find him. The longer he stays out there, the longer he makes a mockery of me and the Jabari. I won’t be telling Zarah anything until she watches me thrown Davu off a cliff."

"Well where else could he go? We have checked the Temple, the old villages in the far mountains, scoured every mountain we can. It may be time to consider the possibility that he is no longer in the country or escaped to the lower lands. If so, we may never find him."

"I don’t care if I have to track him down in a country on this continent or another, I will find him."

N’Danna shared a look with T’Challa that told him not to push the issue again. He tried to convince M’Baku to let this go for a week with no such luck. "Where could he hide in the Golden City or Greater Wakanda?"

"We have checked all the obvious places but we have vast forests of our own. Hell, I do not even know all the nooks and crannies of this country. I can ask Shuri, Nakia and Okoye if they know of any additional places that would be good to hide. They may have a better idea."

N’Danna nodded, "I think we should refocus. Outside of Jabariland and Wakanda. T’Challa, do you think you could send his photo to our War Dogs next door? They may be able to help if he snuck into their borders."

T’Challa nodded, "Of course. I will have Nakia and Shuri reach out to them. They have the most dealings with the War Dogs."

"I just don’t think he would leave Wakanda. His whole life is here. Would he even know how to survive elsewhere?"

"M’Baku… it is time to let it go. You have tunnel vision brother. There is no where else for him to hide here. I pulled our men back from the compound as well."

M’Baku’s nostrils flared. "What? What if he goes back?"

N’Danna braced his weight over their war table, frustrated at having to defend smart military decisions to his irrational chief. "We can’t maintain the lie that we arrested everyone and keep men stationed outside their compound! Either we admit we lost him and keep the men there should he circle back or we pull out. You can’t have it both ways."

M’Baku’s shoulders relaxed, understanding the decision after his initial rush to anger. He sighed. "Fine. Let me know what the War Dogs say."

"Understood," both men answered before signing off.

***

The wind howled loudly as he stood waiting in a secluded clearing in the forest. This spot was perfect, just far and tucked away enough that no one would accidentally stumble upon it. The branches lashed and crashed against each other, increasing the noise needed to mask this conversation. He paced back and forth, like the military man he was. The soft crunch of his foot as it broke the blanket of snow to connect with the frozen Earth below didn’t quite reach his ears. But he knew it was there, among all the other soft night jittering and harsh winds. It might be scary for some to stand there at night with no one around, but, for him, it was soothing. It was peac-

"Why the fuck would you ask me to meet you all the way out here? At 2 in the morning?" A voice angrily yelled over the winds. He heard the man before he saw him, forcing his eyes to roll only minimally as he turned to face him. Kasim was many things and irritating happened to be top of the list.

"Calm down. For someone yearning to steal my position, you should know it is filled with late nights. You should stop if you can’t handle it," Kide called back over the orchestra of natural noises, covering the small open space quickly to stand in front of his fellow soldier.

Kasim’s jaw clenched before he started to steer his body back toward the direction he came. "If your only interest is trading jabs, we could do that with our knobkerries in daylight in the warmth of the training center. Now tell me what you want or I am leaving." These last few weeks were frustratingly slow for the warrior who preferred working to anything else. But he would be lying if he said he didn’t need the extra rest. But if he could not work, the last thing he wanted to do was be dragged into the forest in the middle of winter by a man he didn’t like for no apparent reason.

"Alright, alright." Kide raised his hands in surrender, willing to halt his hostilities for a moment. He needed the man, he shouldn’t insult him. "I called you out here because this conversation can’t happen in the Lodge."

"And there are no other places in Jabariland to talk, that include a fireplace, other than the Great Lodge. Did Davu actually take over and revert us all back to cavemen while I was on leave?" Kasim asked sarcastically.

"Nowhere that isn’t overflowing with listening ears. And last I checked, trees and animals know no words. I don’t want to be here with you any more than you wish to be here with me. But unfortunately for me, you are the only person I can trust with this."

Kasim’s eyed Kide suspiciously. In his experience, information that can only be entrusted with one person is not information to be shared. And Hanuman help you if you are that poor unfortunate soul. "Me? Why would I be the only person in the Lands you can trust with anything? You don’t like me and to be quite honest, I don’t like you."

"Because I do not have to like you to respect you. And I know this much… you are one of the few guards I know who can’t be swayed or bought. You are true to the Jabari first and always. You would die for Lady Zarah. You love her."

"I-I-I d-do no-" he spurted, trying to quickly set the record straight. But Kide raised his hand.

"You don’t have to lie to me. You forget I grew up around her… She is beautiful, smart, funny, warm. She is a hard one not to love. I see it, I’ve seen it since the first time you met her." It was one of the reasons for his immediate disapproval of Kasim’s position as head of the Queensguard. One should not be in love with the person they are tasked with protecting; love leads men down a path of foolish decisions. He could see Kasim start to shift uncomfortably. "Don’t worry, your secret pining for our chieftess is safe with me. I can’t have Lord M’Baku throwing you off a mountain… not yet anyway. I-I thought you betrayed her."

Kasim nodded. "I figured as much when N’Danna told us to take an extended leave. Whoever did this… is a coward, a sorry excuse for a Jabari. I am neither of those things. Lady Zarah has my loyalty until my dying breath. I would have never let anyone hurt her and not done everything in my power to stop them."

Kide shifted his eyes to the trees to his left at the faint sound of rustling. He squinted his eyes to see if someone was there but when he couldn’t see anything, he deduced that it was merely a small animal.

"I know. I am sorry, I tried to put it together for the last few weeks and it didn’t make sense. But not everyone loves Lady Zarah like you do… values loyalty as we do. Lord M'Baku and General N’Danna seem to think this mutiny ends with the workers. We captured two of them, that is how they got access to the Lodge and their quarters." He reached into his fur and handed Kasim a small drive that held all the information on the kidnapping and the manhunt for Davu.

"This is everything we have. Information you should have been privy to since the beginning and I iced you out of. Apologies."

Kasim shook his head, waving off the apology. "I would have done the same thing if the roles were reversed. It is water under the bridge. But I take it, since we are out here, that you disagree with M’Baku and N’Danna?"

"Yes. You review the files at home and can tell me if you think I am crazy. Davu could just be a genius. A lot of this happened because we discounted him for so long. The workers may have been enough, they were able to give him access and a cover. Who knows what other information about the Jabari in general they could have passed along. But the fire is where it starts to fall apart."

"The village fire? The official report said it was an accident," Kasim said as he dusted the snow off a fallen log and sat down.

"Aye, but we both know official does not mean accurate. It was arson, set to draw M’Baku and the guard away from the Lodge."

"Ah, only a select few would know the type of emergency needed to warrant such a response. Certainly not two maintenance workers."

"Exactly. The workers could give him their best assumptions and maybe he just made a lucky guess. But they say he planned this for over a year. The entire plan hinged on creating the perfect circumstances to get Zarah while she was alone. Why would a man like that base his plan on sets of assumptions? He knew he only had one shot."

"He wouldn’t… He would set them on firm assurances and facts. Assurances and facts he could only get from certain people. Lord M’Baku, N’Danna, Elder Amari, M’Cebo, Mosi, Jahari and us," he listed, finally understanding. "You think it is Jahari or Mosi?"

"It is the perfect plan, a spy within the guard? Davu could have anything, know anything about us."

"Look… this is compelling yes. And I am not saying I disagree with you. But what you are suggesting is treason. Treason among men we train with, eat with, see more than we see our families. Are you sure you want to go down this road?"

"I love every man in our guard. I would die for them all, even you. But treason is treason. And traitors are parasites that threaten the very survival of us all. They must be plucked out. Are you with me?"

"And if it is one of them? You know what you will have to do? What we might have to do?"

"It is not about what I want to do. I will do whatever honor, my Lord and Hanuman command. They are all that hold my loyalties."

Kasim nodded. "What do you need from me?"

***

Kide strolled through the Lodge with N'Danna as they went over the duties for the week.

"I think we should put the entire guard through training just to ensure they all are still sharp and on their toes. We can do it in waves as to not disrupt their posts," Kide said as they walked.

"Understood. I think that is a great idea and by doing it with everyone, we avoid stigmatizing Kasim and Mosi. I heard they are having some trouble with the other guards."

"The usual harassment. I have told the rest of the guard to relax. Even I can understand being ambushed, it can happen to anyone."

"How mature of you," N'Danna smirked, surprised by the change in Kide’s tone after actively discounting the men for so long. "Elder Amari," he called, surprised to see his baba in the palace this early. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to speak with Chief M'Baku about this Davu business but he was in a meeting. It is bad form, son, what is going on."

Kide slowed his steps to trail behind the former general and his son, not wanting to intrude on their conversation.

"I mean, you both will look foolish if anyone finds out you let him escape. You cannot successfully lead this army if you don't have the respect of the people. Does your sister know?"

"No, M'Baku chose not to tell her. Which is why you can’t mention it to anyone, even mama."

"Good. I wouldn’t tell her if I were you. Her mental health can’t handle such a blow. You know your sister is not strong like the rest of us... isn't built for harshness. I mean this whole ordeal has been a mess. You all still can’t find him?"

"No. He has evaded us at every turn. We almost got him twice but each time, by the time we got there, he was gone. I can’t understand it. He is running out of places to hide. And you shouldn't say such things about Zarah... she is strong in many ways."

"But not the ways that matter," Amari answered, his tone signaling his opinion of his second born would not be swayed. "You can’t continue to be bested by a caveman son. He is making a mockery of your leadership. Did you all search the caves again?"

"Understood father. We will find him. And yes, still abandoned. It is likely that he will circle back there if he hasn’t already so we decided to pull them back. There are a couple still monitoring the entrances we know of but we cannot continue to perpetuate the lie we caught him and have a group of soldiers stationed there. And we have War Dogs across the borders looking for him, decided to focus our efforts there. There are few places he can hide here. We are leaving no stone unturned. Let me know if there is anything else you think we should do?" N’Danna appreciated his dad’s willingness to step in and offer counsel, his confidence in his military prowess dwindling the longer Davu remained free.

"Understood. You would be wise to lean on my counsel. I would like to see that lunatic’s body at the bottom of a cliff before Hanuman calls me to the ancestral mountains. But that can only happen if you and that chief shape up. Let me know how I can be of assistance."

"Yes baba. I have to go but I will update you later. Kide, alert everyone of the training. We will get it on the calendar tomorrow." The two men hugged and Kide shook hands with Elder Amari before they all parted ways.

***

"Were you trying to murder me today?" Mosi asked jokingly of his partner as they entered the training center’s locker room. He quickly untied his snow-covered boots and began stripping off his clothes, exhausted after running multiple miles around the mountains.

Kasim laughed, "Never that. We have only been off duty for a month and you were acting like an old man. We need to be ready when N’Danna lets us do the physical exam and get cleared for duty again."

"I am not as young as you," he chuckled. "Any idea what the hold up is? You are in the inner circle not me."

Kasim tilted his head, "Between the two of us, Kide doesn't believe that we were ambushed. Do you remember anything else about that night? That might help us prove what happened."

Kasim watched him from the corner of his eye. He noted the long pause and uncomfortable shifting Mosi did as he contemplated what to say. Mosi licked his lips before saying, "No, not really. It is still a complete blank. You realize Kide only questions the story because he dislikes you?"

Kasim laughed, "Probably true. Either way, I wouldn't read too much into it. Kide is one man and both N'Danna and Lord M'Baku believe us. I think they are just not taking any chances and want to ensure we are in tip top shape before we come back. You were saying you hadn’t had a day off in a while, consider it a mini-vacation."

It had been a week since his meeting with Kide, both agreeing to take time to see if their suspicions had merit. So far, Kasim felt they were baseless. Mosi wasn’t acting like someone with something to hide. Other than being slightly more anxious than usual, the man was acting normally.

"I suppose. I just hate sitting at home, nothing to do really. Anyway, I am going to hit the showers. Same time tomorrow?"

"Definitely! Don’t pull any of that old man nonsense tomorrow either." Kasim looked down at his beads, that he had sitting in his open locker, one pulsing a deep blue. "Oh my wife called, I should call her back."

Mosi nodded before walking around the corner. Kasim pressed the bead again, ending the pulsing from a staged call from Kide, and waited until he heard the shower going. Years of showering next to Mosi taught him that the man, after a tough session, loved a long shower. He had some time before he got out.

Kaşım secretly thanked God for his rebellious upbringing, where he learned how to pick locks. He surmised that it was one of the reasons Kide disliked him so. Kasim was rough around the edges when he joined the guard. While some like Kide joined knowing it was their life’s calling and decided that at a young age, Kasim had a different path. He was an orphan, his parents died after being caught in a bad storm while camping. He was taken in by his aunt and uncle but acted out constantly, getting into all manner of trouble. After years of trouble-making and missteps, Chief M’Badu, M’Baku’s father, offered him an opportunity to join the guard. He felt some structure would discipline him. He was right, Kasim excelled and straightened out his life, dedicating it to the protection of the Jabari. Not everyone thought he deserved that though.

He was also thankful that, while somethings in Jabariland were advanced, lockers were not one of them. He pressed his ear to the locker door and moved a pen around until he heard a quiet click, signaling that it would yield to his will.

He opened Mosi’s locker and rifled around the top shelves. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. Maybe a sign with bright red serial killer letters that says "I am a traitor" like in old American movies, he thought. He carefully moved things around, not wanting to disturb the look of the space, pausing every so often to ensure the shower was still going.

The man is definitely a slob, Kasim thought to himself as he moved the heap of clothes at the bottom of his locker around. He was about to give up. Nothing that signaled "I am leading a mutiny within the Jabari" jumped out at him or even gave him pause until he found a small bag at the bottom of the locker.

He gently pulled the bag out. He opened it and almost blew his cover, stifling a series of curse words that almost fell from his lips. Wakandan dollars and lots of them.

"Where the fuck…" he whispered to himself. He quickly looked around the bag for any indication of who or where it came from but found none. He placed it back in its spot, putting the clothes over it and closed his locker, noting to take a second look tomorrow.

He quickly signed out a message to Kide, "May have found something. Meet tomorrow."

***

"This is the last time I can meet you like this," he called as he heard rustling nearby. "I can't continue to disappear. They will become suspicious." The sun streamed through the gaps in the trees as he waited, leaning against a tree.

"Understood," Davu answered, as he emerged from a break in the forest. "It was inevitable that this part of our alliance come to an end. Was it smart for us to meet in the middle of the day? You had no trouble exiting Jabariland?"

"I know where all the good exits are. That is why I chose this location, closest and easiest exit and far from the search parties. It is far less suspicious for us to meet while the rest of the tribe is working. And no one would question me going on a ride during the day."

Davu nodded, perching himself on the tree across from the man. "You have news?"

"You can go home now. M’Baku was fixated on you still being within Jabariland but he has been persuaded to direct his attentions outside Wakanda’s borders to Niganda, Canaan and Azania."

"Excellent, life on the run was getting old. Thank you for your help with that by the way. What next then?"

He scoffed, "Next? There is no next. I gave you everything you needed to succeed and you failed."

"Everything except telling me who the spy was within my men?"

"Only four people in Jabariland knew we had a spy in the Dwellers so it would have taken them no time to trace that back to me. And then my body would have been decaying alongside yours at the bottom of a cliff. I will help you but dying for you? That is where my allegiance ends. And had it not been for her tortured screams, that spy would have never known she was even there. You were supposed to take her, hide her and keep her long enough to make the demands. Not torture her mercilessly for two days," he responded angrily. "That was not a part of our deal!"

"You act as if you care about her as you plot to overthrow her husband and marry her off to a man she considers a religious fanatic. And our deal was that she survive. She is still breathing, is she not? Do any of them suspect you?"

"Don't you dare question my love for her. I have no love for that husband of hers but her life was not supposed to hang in the balance like this. She isn't built for it. And only one… her guard Mosi and he had the audacity to confront me? But thankfully, like many, his loyalties were easily bought. He remembered me walking by their quarters before they were ambushed. But $50,000 later and he now conveniently remembers nothing."

"Good. All is well then. If you are willing to reconsider my first proposition, we could speed up this process."

Laughter filled the quiet afternoon. "Betraying him is one thing but I won’t kill him. My betrayal would have been forgiven or forgotten when all the loyalists were dead but they would never forgive me if I stabbed our chief in the heart. If you want to send him to the ancestral mountains, then you must do so on your own. But if you go that route, you can count on my support when you make your claim against M’Cebo. You will need it. But you are safe to return to the caves. I will send a message if that changes. Lay low, bide your time. After a few more weeks, I will work to plant the seed that you are in Niganda, where you can’t be extradited. And then you can rebuild."

"Thank you. Until next time brother. *Hanuman shall rise again."

The two grasped hands before he saddled his horse again. "Hanuman shall rise again," he whispered before riding off.

***

Kide paced at the usual meeting spot, his life controlled by meetings no one could know about.

"You took your time," he complained when he heard rustling to his left, turning slowly to be face to face with Kasim.

"I didn’t realize our 2 a.m. meeting in the middle of the fucking forest had such time restrictions. My apologies. Do you have an update?"

Kide shook his head. "I haven't noticed anything odd about Jahari's behavior over the last week. I had the second guard on Zarah’s detail look into him as well. Told him Jahari was being considered for leadership. He hasn’t seen anything suspicious either. You found something with Mosi?"

"Yes, his behavior is normal. A bit more skittish and anxious but I could chalk that up to a reaction from being ambushed, not all that suspicious on its own."

"You found something in his locker?" Kide asked as he sat on the fallen tree across from Kasim.

"He is more religious than I thought so that could be a motive but his locker isn’t overflowing with love letters to Davu or anything. But there was one thing - money. A sack of it."

"How much?"

"I went through while he was showering, I didn’t have time to count it. Best estimate is around $40-50,000."

Kide whistled in surprise. "So certainly more than someone should have in their locker. More than a guard would have on hand. No indication of where it came from?"

"No… no note or anything. Just a sack of cash."

"So it was him?"

"I didn't say that. That money could have been from anything. You know some of the guards like to gamble… what if it was someone paying him a debt? Besides, if it was a bribe or pay off for being a traitor, why would he leave it in his locker? That would make him the world's dumbest criminal. I won’t throw my second in command under a carriage when there could be a reasonable explanation for this."

Kide ran his hand over his face, frustrated. "One, no guard - even an avid gambler - would have that much money on hand so that is out. Two, the guards should not be gambling so we will need to have a conversation about that. Three, Mosi certainly didn't make it onto the Queensguard because he is smart. If anyone was going to be dumb enough to leave that much money in their locker, it would be him. Four, Davu lives in a cave so there is no way he is hoarding that much money so he didn't pay him."

"So it is from something else or it is hush money. Mosi could have actually remembered something from that night that implicates someone else. This is all contingent on how far we think this goes. If it stops at someone helping him come up with the idea of the fire and gain access, then it is Mosi. But if we are also assuming someone is keeping Davu informed on this manhunt - which I think after reading through the information you gave me - then Mosi isn’t enough. He hasn’t been in those conversations so he is working with someone else."

"Well who else could it be? Mosi and Jahari were the only options."

"They aren’t are only options." the two men’s eyes darkened. "There are other people who would know our procedures, would have a reason to hurt Lady Zarah… would know about this manhunt and keep Davu steps ahead and would have access to cash."

"Lord M’Baku didn’t have his own wife kidnapped," Kide said incredulously. "That is absurd."

"I wasn’t talking about M’Baku," Kasim snapped. "Who else is in those meetings or would have access to the information shared in those meetings? "

"King T’Challa doesn’t have a motive. Davu is a threat to the New Wakanda he is trying to build. He wouldn’t unseat M’Baku for him. And M’Cebo doesn’t care enough about the throne to go through all this. You think…" Realizations washed over him. "You can’t be serious! Neither of them could have done this."

"Family ties mean nothing in quests for power and control. Remember the usurper down the mountains? He was the King’s cousin. According to Lord M’Baku, that whole thing started because King T’Chaka killed his own brother!"

"Because his brother was a traitor to Wakanda!" Kide hissed. "What would either of them have to gain from having her kidnapped and almost murdered?"

"Who knows? The same thing Jahari or Mosi would have to gain. More power, a person in power who believes as they do? Neither of them agreed with rejoining Wakanda in the first place, they were completely against it."

"Disagreeing with the policies of the tribe and trying to overthrow our chief are two different things Kasim! We are talking about treason!" Kide jumped up, frustration overflowing at the suggestion made.

"We were talking about treason when you tried to accuse me! We were talking about treason when we BOTH accused our brothers. When you had to potentially dangle my body or one of theirs over execution’s cliff, you had no reservations. ’Hanuman, Lord M’Baku and the Jabari are the only things that hold my loyalties," he repeated back, mimicking Kide who glared back at him with clear irritation. "Do you remember that big talk? But now that it could be your mentor and friend, you want to shy away? We aren’t meeting in the middle of the woods at night for something simple, all of this is treason. You started us down this road, you don’t get to back out just because you don’t like where it leads."

Kasim continued, "They both have a motive, access and means to help Davu pull this off. If Mosi’s money has something to do with this, maybe he say or heard something that implicates them? They are one of the few families with that type of money. You said that Davu has been evading the search party, one step ahead of us this entire time. Who else would know that information? Are we assuming that he is just a genius who can outsmart N’Danna, M’Baku and all the Panthers? They were both here in the Lodge during the kidnapping! And N'Danna led the rescue mission. I read over the plan, it should have been foolproof."

"That doesn’t mean anything. They were in a meeting, they both have offices in the Lodge. Hardly an implication that they were here that night… where they work. We can’t accuse either of them of this. The mere suggestion that our general or his son are traitors would turn the guard, hell the entire Army against us. You want my job so bad? How do you expect to be ‘head of the guard' with no support?"

"Neither one of us was winning any popular votes to begin with Kide. This is treason… I am not going to sacrifice the lives of our Chief and Chieftess to be popular, that is the definition of treason. And I am not suggesting we accuse anyone without proof. That’s what we need… proof."

"So you think it was N'Danna?"

"I think of our current options, N'Danna is the most likely suspect, possibly with Mosi’s help, wittingly or unwittingly. If the plan fails, Zarah and M'Baku would never think to implicate her own brother and if it succeeded, he gets to maintain his position and go back to the old days of isolation." Kasim sighed, "But I won't rule out his father either. Elder Amari spends his days slithering through the Lodge trying to insert himself in dealings that don't concern him. He is a bored old man and the bored usually find themselves in trouble. It wouldn't shock me if he has gotten information on this manhunt from N'Danna or another source and been informing Davu. It is a toss up. Look, I don't get any joy out of it being N'Danna or Elder Amari. Believe me, it would be easier on everyone to toss Mosi of the Peak than either of them, for sure. But if we are going to pursue this, we have to pursue all options, even the inconvenient ones."

Kide nodded reluctantly, his mind racing back to the conversation he overheard earlier of N’Danna giving his father all the information he wanted to know about their “secret” manhunt. He didn’t want to consider the idea that the man who took him under his wing or his son were capable of this. But even he couldn’t ignore the writing on the wall, the clear implications and evidence that pointed right at the both of them. Kasim was right, though he loathed it, inconvenience was not an excuse to ignore the truth.

"We can’t go to Lady Zarah or Lord M’Baku without more than this. What we have is circumstantial at best. At worst, they may consider it treason. We need Davu or Mosi, one of them to corroborate. Do you think you could get Mosi to talk?"

"I can… you know I can. Am I going to catch any heat for how I do it?"

"Not from me. Do what you must."

***

"I am glad we were able to do this. The Panthers will be here later tonight, the rest of the council in the morning so I will be busy entertaining them for the week."

"What are they here for anyway?"

"Shuri and I have a few projects to finish up, ones we were working on befor-" she paused, not wanting to wade into those waters right now. "And it is M’Baku’s turn to host the council, which is just a bunch of work for me." Zarah hurried around her room, pulling two glasses off a shelf in their lounge area and a bottle of high-quality rum, a gift from King T'Challa.

"Are you sure you are up for guests? I mean it has been a tough few weeks. I am sure King T’Challa would have understood if you canceled," Adisa asked seriously, as she poured her best friend a round. The two were enjoying their weekly tradition of meeting for drinks, but instead of meeting at their favorite restaurant, they were in Zarah’s bedroom.

"Seriously Adisa? What would the other council members say if we cancelled? They are just warming up to M’Baku’s position on the council anyway. He may not care what they think but I do. I couldn’t insult them or embarrass him by cancelling the whole thing. That would make getting the Jabari’s needs taken seriously even harder."

"Alright, alright. I get it, no need to bite my head off," Adisa said, raising her hands in surrender. "I just am worried about you. As is your brother, by the way. All he does is toss and turn all night these days, he is barely sleeping. When he comes to bed that is."

Zarah chuckled bitterly, "Well, you both can join the list then. Everyone is worried about me. Not that they need to be. Tell him he shouldn’t lose sleep over me though."

"You sure about that?" she eyed her long-time friend quizzingly.

"Yes!" She cried frustratingly. "I am fine. It's like everyone, including my husband, is determined to believe otherwise but I am fine. Almost all my injuries have healed and Davu’s execution is coming up. It has been over a month… all is back to normal. What do I have to be upset about?"

Adisa was thankful Zarah was busy pouring herself another round as she spoke and didn’t notice the way her face fell at the mention of her friend’s attacker. She cursed the heavens and her husband for even bringing her into he and M’Baku’s lies. She wished they had kept her out of it. But she went along with it because despite her friend’s attempts to convince her, she knew Zarah wasn’t alright and didn’t need to worry about this on top of everything else.

"Well, as long as you feel good about things, that is all that matters.” The two drank, enjoying pleasantries and surface conversation over several more rounds before Adisa attempted to probe into her friend’s life again.

“How are you and M’Baku doing? Given any thought to that heir your parents were harassing you about at the party? I am sure M’Baku loved that,” she joked.

Zarah turned her head away from Adisa, tugging on the sleeve of M’Baku’s sweater and shrugged her shoulders. "N-no… I doubt he will want to now," she muttered sadly.

"M’Baku? The man who has been wanting to get you pregnant since... well forever? The man who is trying to create his own personal army? Why would you think that?"

"He hasn’t… we haven’t… we haven’t had sex since I came home. Hell, he barely sleeps in the same bed as me. We haven’t gone to bed together since before Baba’s birthday party."

"What? M’Baku hasn’t slept in your bed in over a week?" She was shocked. The two friends told each other everything so she knew more than she probably needed to about their sex life. More than a month might as well have been a year for the couple.

"Yea… I tried but he has all but pushed me off him every time so I stopped trying. He will say he is just too tired or point to my injuries. I understood at first, they were not the sexiest thing to look at. But now? It’s something he isn’t saying. Maybe he just doesn’t find me attractive anymore. Not even two years in… not exactly a promising sign for the future right?" She quickly downed the glass in front of her, grimacing at the slight burn as it went down her throat, before grabbing the bottle to refill it again. It only took her a moment before that glass was empty again and she was grabbing for the bottle again.

"I am sure that is not it Za. M’Baku loves you, adores you. It has to be something else. And maybe you should slow down with the rum." Adisa had drunk with her enough to know that the chieftess was a lightweight.

"What else could it be Adisa?" She demanded, standing up and pacing by her couch. "I can see it in his eyes. Every time he sees me, he doesn’t see me. He sees that broken, half-dead woman they dragged out of that Hanuman-forsaken cave. Why would he want to be with that?"

"Zarah, don’t say such a thing. M’Baku doesn’t hold it against you, no one does. That was completely out of your control. It certainly hasn’t made him love you less, that is ridiculous."

"If it is so ridiculous then why has he found comfort with another woman?" Zarah asked.

"What?"

"He is cheating on me Isa! He refuses to touch me, he is gone all hours of the night, constantly checking his beads for messages. Last week, after the party, he said he would be in his office working all night. I stopped by to check on him, he was nowhere to be found. And before you ask, no he didn’t just step out. There wasn’t even a fire going." Zarah was somehow both the conductor and a passenger on a runaway train filled with a month’s worth of built-up paranoia and anxiety. She was guiding it as it as it bulldozed through logical thought and reason. But she also felt like someone else was in control it and all she could do was sit back and watch as it headed toward destruction.

"And he vowed he would never hurt me like this… never break my trust in him. I fall down on the job once, I wallow a bit too long for his liking and those vows just disappear. I should have known… I couldn’t satisfy him anymore so he found someone who could, a woman who doesn’t disgust him. A woman who isn’t broken. I guess this is just Hanuman’s will though right?" She laughed bitterly as she filled her glass again. "Everything is. All this pain, this destruction and heartache. And he just watches from above as we struggle to survive with the injury he inflicts on us all. He should have just let me die in that cell… that would have been less painful than watching M’Baku’s love turn i-i-into hate."

Adisa jumped up and grabbed the glass out of Zarah’s hand as it connected with her lips again. "ZARAH! Look at me. Listen to me." She grasped the chieftess’s shoulders to force her to pay attention.

"M’Baku does not hate you. He loves you. He is not cheating on you, I know it. Whatever is going on with him, it is not that. I don’t ever want to hear you suggest that you should have died. It would have destroyed him, all of us. You are not better off in the ancestral mountains than here with us. You are allowed to be angry at Hanuman, he deals a shit hand. But th- this isn’t healthy. You are hurting and holding all that in is killing you, Za."

Adisa reached the end of her rope. It wasn’t her secret to tell but could no one else see? Where they so wrapped up in this game of chase with a caveman that they couldn’t see the fissures slowly branching through Zarah? Was it not obvious that she was near collapse or were they all fooled by her dimmed smiles and forced positivity? Adisa didn’t know but she knew protecting M’Baku and N’Danna's pride was not worth watching her best friend flail and drown when they could provide a lifeboat. Initially, she thought keeping it a secret was protecting her mental health, giving her the optimal scenario to heal and cope. But now, she realized how wrong they were. While trying and failing to heal one wound, they ripped open old ones sending her friend spiraling back into the insecure woman she once was. Their job was to help her work through her trauma, not heap on more for her to deal with.

"You know what... I think you should go for a walk. Yes, a walk would do you some good," she suggested pointedly.

Zarah rubbed her forehead, face hot and head hurting from her paranoid-filled rant, and looked at her friend with confusion. "A walk? What will that do?"

Adisa placed a kiss to the top of her head before sliding her fur coat back on. "Walks clear the mind. Many elders say they find their greatest self discoveries during a nice walk. And maybe if your walk takes you to the back of the Lodge and to the last row of old offices… you may find a discovery or two of your own."

"Those offices are abandoned. They are just storage," Zarah said, shaking her head, still not understanding.

"Yes, abandoned storage spaces in a part of the Lodge where no one goes. Perfect place for late night meetings no one should know about. And I don’t know, maybe during your walk, you can happen upon one of those meetings."

Zarah jumped up, grabbing Adisa’s arm as she walked toward the door. "What do you know Adisa?"

Adisa squeezed her hand and opened the bedroom door. "A walk Za… You should get out of this room anyway. Call me after."

Zarah wasted little time pulling on her shoes and walking out of her room. She didn’t even waste time telling Jahari where she was going. She hurried through the Lodge, ignoring greetings and smiles from staff. She was a woman on a mission, a drunk woman woman on a mission. By the time she reached the back section of the Lodge, she wondered if Adisa had sent her on a fool’s errand. Would her husband be so bold as to cheat right here in the Lodge? That would be foolish. But she pressed forward until she reached the corridor that held the three offices. She tried to open one door but it was locked. As she grasped the handle of the second door, she heard it: voices. She turned it, thankful to find it unlocked, and pushed inside.

****

"Thank you for coming in early."

"It is no trouble at all. The council meeting will take up most of our visit so it is good to get this out of the way early," T’Challa responded. "Nakia heard back from our War Dogs."

"They all are keeping an eye out and working their contacts to see if he is there. But their lands are like ours, many places to hide and they have to be discreet. The War Dog in Niganda is our best bet, given our relationship with the country. If I had to put money on where he would go, it would be there. He likely knew they would not let us into their borders to find him or extradite him back to us."

"Davu was a former Jabari, he would know that history like the rest o-" M’Baku stopped talking as he heard the door started to open behind him, whipping around to come face to face with his wife.

"Zarah! What are you doing here?"

She walked in, briefly ignoring her husband’s question, as she tried to understand the scene in front of her. She stared around taking in the faces of her brother, the Panthers and her husband, surrounded by information on a computer screen and spread across a table. "I should ask you the same thing. What are you all doing here?"

Everyone shifted uncomfortably, tension steady rising as they waited for M’Baku to speak. His ship was sinking and they had no life rafts to spare. He was going to have to find his own way out of this one.

"Nothing to say? Because it looks to me," she started, gesturing at the computer that had Davu’s face pulled up and a map of Wakanda with clear markings of a detailed search grid, "that you are searching for Davu, which is odd because he is supposed to be in a cell downstairs. So let me guess… the late nights, the reason you won’t schedule the trials, you never caught him did you?"

"How did you find out?"

Zarah scoffed, lips pursed and alcohol-infused rage rising in her. "You just told me."

"Who told you of this meeting?"

"Adisa." She saw her brother’s jaw tighten with anger, "And don’t be mad at her. She is the only person who cared enough about me to tell me the truth."

No one said anything, no one moved. The silence and tension in the space was piercing as M’Baku and Zarah stared at each other, both struggling to find the words. The longer she stood there, stewing in silence and looking between her husband’s guilty face and the materials scattered around the room, the larger her rage grew.

"Za, I-"

"NO! You don’t get to call me that," she exploded, banging her fist on the table in front of her, unable to contain the emotions boiling over. "You don’t get to talk. You have been doing a lot of talking for the last month apparently and most of it wasn’t with me. And what was, was nothing but lies. Do you know I have been driving myself insane over you? Trying to figure out how to make you happy again, how not to lose you after everything else? All these late night meetings and secrets, I thought you were having an affair!"

"Zarah, you know me. I would never-"

"No, you would just lie and keep secrets, destroying the trust in our marriage all the same! Ho- Why? Why would you lie to me?" The alcohol in her system doing less to fuel her anger and more to intensify the hurt she felt. She thought he was better than this… thought they were better than this. The audience surrounding them was completely lost in the haze of her pain. Her tunnel vision was fixated on one person, her husband, whose heavy eyes spelled his guilt clearly.

"You let me believe I was safe. You let me believe this was over… that he was gone. And then to maintain this lie, you let me think that I was crazy and damaged. That I had done something to push you away when all of this is you," she ranted angrily, her frustrations reaching a tipping point as reality settled around her. She couldn’t tell what more upsetting: his dishonesty or the actual lie itself, the fact that the monster haunting her dreams still roamed free. She was never safe and would never be safe.

"You are safe. He will never lay his eyes on you again, let alone harm you. I will find him," M’Baku argued, his deep baritone usually reassuring, beckoning her to believe every word that fell from his lips. But not today, today she didn’t believe any of it.

"It has been a month and you haven’t found him yet," she cried, anger increasing with her volume.

T’Challa and the Panthers stole glances at each other, wondering if they should leave. T’Challa warned him that this wouldn’t end well. Secrets never lasted and the truth always hurts worse when it follows a web of deceit. But he also knew that many had to learn that harsh lesson for themselves, as was the fate of his friend.

"Perhaps we should leav-"

"No King T’Challa. Stay. My husband trusts you enough to bring you into his lies. More than he trusts his own wife with the truth. So stay."

"Za, that’s not true. I didn’t -" He reached out to grab her arm.

She jerked away from him. "Do not touch me! No, you didn’t… didn’t think enough of me, value me enough to trust me with the truth. Why? Because I am too weak, emotionally unstable to handle it? The man I married includes me in decisions that affect me. He trusts me with the full picture, whether it is a good one or not. He doesn’t lie to me. How long were you gonna keep this up?"

"I just needed time Zarah. I wanted you to heal and get better and didn’t want this hanging over you. I promised that I would find him and kill him and I will."

"You promised to be honest and open with me. I didn’t see much of a commitment to that promise when you were lying to me for a month! You promised to keep me safe! Where was your dedication to that promise when I was stolen from our home and tortured endlessly for days? Or do promises only matter when your pride is on the line?" She fired back at him, rage overflowing and voice at its loudest level as she argued without thinking.

A chill fell over the room as M’Baku’s head shot up, stunned and shattered at her statement. She noticed his eyes cloud over slightly, signaling that she let her pent up emotions run too far.

Zarah immediately felt a pang of guilt, she didn’t mean that. Her tone softened for the first time since her tornado of rage stormed into his office. "I am s-sorry, I didn’t… I didn’t mean that."

But the damage was already written in stone. The room remained silent as evidence of the fractures spreading between the Chief and Chieftess of Jabariland were laid bare for all to see. They looked without seeing each other, now only seeing the distrust, guilt, shame and resentment that were now seeping into their foundation. M’Baku remained silent as he took in her words. He still hadn’t rationalized the guilt he felt for the two days it took to locate his wife. He’d lie awake contemplating all the missteps and mistakes he made that could have been done differently, could have helped limit the extent of her suffering. Hearing those inner demons echoed back to him cut deeper, hurt more than any physical wound. She was calling into question every tenant of his being: his trustworthiness, his dedication to keeping his word, his manhood, his pride.

"Jahari will escort you back to our chambers Lady Zarah. We are done here."

The dismissal was swift, like a lightning bolt to her soul. She felt the pain of the scorched Earth that resided there spreading, snapping out the life as it went. There is little to be salvaged here.

She nodded, pulling herself to her full height before turning on her heels to exit. Her hand grasped the door as she started to walk out when she turned back around and addressed M’Baku again. "Are you happy I survived? Happy I am here instead of in the ancestral mountains?"

M’Baku’s eyes softened, the mere suggestion that she would fear otherwise further fracturing his breaking heart. "Yes, of course. Why would you ask that?"

"I used to think that, that would be the only way I would ever leave you. Hanuman would literally have to rip my soul from this Earth before I departed from you,” she smiled sadly, using her sweater to fully wipe the tear tracks off her face. The sad smile disappeared and was replaced with a coolness in her eyes that M’Baku had never seen addressed toward him.

“But death is not the only way to lose me, Lord M’Baku. It would serve you well to remember that." She didn’t spare him or any of them a second glance before she exited the room, slamming the door behind her.

***

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