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astroboots · 2 years ago

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Every You Every Me | Issue #7

COLLABORATED WITH @thirstworldproblemss

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: You finally get some answers out of Miguel about who you are to him.

Word count: 5,700 words.

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss' Masterlist

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"So let's take it from the top," you tell him, as you sit down and put down the Trenta-sized caramel flavored hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and chocolate syrup in front of the man named Miguel O'Hara.

The two of you are sitting across from each other at a small booth at the nearest Starbucks you were able to find, seeing as you're homeless now, and there's nowhere else you could think of to go.

He's dressed in a large fitted hoodie that drapes down to his thighs. Where he's managed to find something that is oversized in length on him, you don't know because he's not exactly short.

"I'm from a dimension known as Earth-928," Miguel says.

Before he can continue, you raise one hand, and you can see his right eyebrow twitch unhappily at the interruption.

"Yes?"

"Just to clarify, so we don't have another ‘coffee cake’ misunderstanding. When you say Earth-928, do you mean a different version of the Earth we’re on now? Or is this a habitable planet in another galaxy that happens to be partially named Earth?"

"It's a parallel universe characterized by distinct physical parameters and initial conditions, accounting for the diverse manifestations of our observable universe. So still Earth," he says, sweeping his gaze across the café, nose wrinkling the way one does when there's something off-putting in their vicinity. "Just a little bit less primitive."

Of course he would say that, wouldn't be able to resist the jab would he.

You peer up at him across the table. He is very technical and thorough with his explanations. But as grateful as you are for him finally being willing to answer your questions, you hadn't expected those answers to be quite so information dense. You need to pick your questions more carefully or you are going to have to go down the street to buy yourself a notebook in order to keep up.

"How did you end up on this Earth?" you ask.

"Where I'm from, I'm a scientist, a researcher. One of the things I studied was the theory of physical cosmology and the existence of the multiverse. My work was concentrated on the theoretical ability to navigate between distinct universes within a hypothetical multiverse–”

Ah shit, you should've been more narrow in your question. Should have asked him to simplify it a bit more for you. Because now you're sitting here blinking up at him, pretending you understand half of what he's saying.

It makes sense that he’s STEM. He speaks like the type. Smart as hell with none of the social skills to gauge whether the other person is following the conversation.

Listening to him reminds you of that time in college, when you'd walked into the wrong lecture hall, wound up in advanced chemistry instead of your math class, felt too awkward to leave and just sat there drawing doodles with an attentive expression until the class was over.

And he’s still at it, “– employing advanced mechanisms that manipulate or transcend conventional spacetime frameworks, enabling exploration–"

"Okay, wait, hold on a sec," you interrupt, once it becomes obvious he’s not going to stop any time soon on his own. "Can you... simplify, please?"

He stops mid-sentence, taking a deep breath as he looks up at the ceiling and considers your request, with a serious expression as if he's thinking really hard on it. "I’m a scientist. I study the multiverse. I built a parallel universe traversal device, it allows me to visit different dimensions." Your brain feels insulted that it clearly took more mental effort for him to dumb it down for you than to just give the supergenius version.

“So… a machine that allows you to jump between alternative universes?”

“Yes.”

There’s a pause between you as you run through the questions in your mental list you want to tick off now that he’s turned cooperative and talkative. But with everything that’s happened in the last handful of hours, a lot of the questions you previously had seemed outdated. The one question, the most important one, you’ve wanted to ask from the start though remains.

"Who am I to you?"

Miguel takes the large sized drink in his even larger hands and somehow this big paper cup still manages to look tiny in his grip. "You and I were... involved," he says.

You frown. ‘Involved’ is such a vague term. It belongs in the trash with other useless terms to describe relationships: “situationship”, “complicated”, you hate them all.

"So I was your girlfriend?"

"Yeah, something like that," he concede, fidgeting with the thin gold chain looped around his neck, his eyes not quite meeting yours, like he's embarrassed to use the term.

‘Something like that,’ you chew on his answer unhappily, sympathizing with your other dimensional self and how the other you seemed to have snagged a commitment phobe.

Other-you, who isn’t here in this dimension with Miguel. You wonder why that is.

"What happened to me?" you ask.

His eyes are glued to the table, not looking up at you as he answers you in a voice so quiet you can barely hear it. "She died."

"Oh."

The revelation shouldn’t take you by surprise.

Every time Miguel’s brought up your other self, it’s been tinted with earth-shattering sadness. It's not hard to put one and one together and come to the conclusion that whatever happened to you in this other dimension didn't end happily.

Still it's an odd feeling to know that out there, somewhere, a version of you has died. A version of you that was clearly very important to the man in front of you.

"I'm sorry," you tell him.

It feels silly to say. It's bizarre to give your condolences over your own parallel death, but Miguel looks so heartbroken. He’s slumped in his seat, large shoulders rounded until his frame looks so much smaller than you're used to, and you don't know what else to do.

"So what is happening to me now," you start, not sure how to word what the phenomena that you're going through is, "these continuous near-death experiences, is that how she died?"

"Yeah."

"And do you know why that... kept happening to her? Why is it happening to me?"

"I don't, and I don't know how to stop it. Believe me I tried."

He cradles the paper cup in his hands, the grip a little bit tighter now until he's creasing the paper and the caramel liquid oozes and leaks from the top.

"What I do know is that the universe isn’t going to stop trying to kill you, no matter what you do. And with every near death incident you manage to survive, these incidents will escalate in nature, until..." he stops, eyes flickering away from the cup to meet yours, but it's like he loses courage and doesn't want to say the last part.

"Until, what?" you prompt.

"Until your dimension collapses."

The blood freezes in your veins. "Wait, collapses!? What do you mean?"

"I can't guarantee it will happen again. But that's what happened last time. When the other you kept cheating death, the universe eventually started to collapse in on itself."

You slump back in your chair, trying to process what you've just been told. What does that mean? That even if you managed to defy all odds to survive, doing so would doom the rest of this universe as you know it?

"When will that happen?" you ask, and you're surprised you manage to get the words out because there is a hard lump in your throat that makes it hurt to even swallow.

"Judging from the trajectory and escalation of events, you have about three months give or take."

The two of you sit in heavy silence, for the moment you're not sure what else to ask him. Because it feels like you are trapped in a building looking for an exit sign, but all that’s tacked onto the brick wall is your death certificate, waiting to be signed and formalized.

There’s no way out. Nowhere to go.

"Give me your hand," he says, breaking the silence.

You give it to him without hesitation, watching, puzzled, as he takes off his watch and secures it around your wrists.

"Why are you giving me your watch?"

"It's not a watch," he says, then he presses something on the face of it, and an image of a young woman flickers into existence in the space above your wrist, vaguely see-through. A hologram!

"This is Lyla," he introduces.

Wait, wait? Lyla? As in your mom Lyla? You watch the tiny woman floating above your wrist. Short bob-cut, and flashy heart-shaped sunglasses, with a twinkle in her eye.

The hologram looks nothing like your mom. You part your mouth, about to ask about the name but you're interrupted by the energetic buzz of a female voice greeting you.

"Boss-girl! Long time no see. Want me to catch you up on the latest multiversal gossip? I compiled an edit of highlights set to Despacito."

"Lyla," Miguel warns, tersely. "Not now."

"Ruuuuude! You're the one who woke me up you know."

"Lyla, go back to sleep."

The female avatar grumbles, but then her image flickers away and the watch turns back into, as far as you can tell, just an ordinary watch.

"Why did you name the watch Lyla?"

"It's not a– " He cuts himself off, sighing with exasperation. "Lyla is an advanced A.I. she's going to be with you at all times. She's an added layer of security, built to protect you."

He didn't answer your question. Completely sidestepped it as if the two of you are having two different conversations.

Built to protect you, he'd said. Does that mean he still intends to do that?

"So you're not going to leave?" you ask him.

He leans back in his seat, eyes drifting towards the table. "No."

You look up at him, stumped. Not sure you're understanding what he's saying. Because not even a few hours ago, when the two of you were in your apartment, this man was adamant there was nothing to be done to save you. That he was going to leave and you were never going to see him again.

Right now though, his actions seem to be contradictory to that. You can't make heads or tails of him. Hot and cold doesn’t even begin to cover it.

"Why not?" you ask, "I mean, not that I’m not grateful, but you seemed pretty set on the whole ‘I can’t save you’ thing. What changed your mind?"

“You did.” His eyes narrow as he looks down at you, crossing his arms ever his chest, "You told me you wanted to live. Have you changed your mind already?"

“Wha– NO! I just want to know why you changed yours.”

“I–” He hesitates, another wave of sadness passing over his face. “I’m a superhero. I save people… or try to. It’s what I do. I’m not gonna just leave you to die after you tell me you want to live.”

It’s a good answer, even if you don’t buy that it’s the whole truth.

You look down at your wrist, and the shiny chrome of the not-watch he's just gifted you winks back up at you. "Do you think I have a chance of surviving all this?"

"It's pretty hopeless," he says, and there’s no break in his expression as he continues. "Your chances of making it out alive are pretty much mathematically impossible."

It's odd though. Even though he's outlining the futility of your situation, basically telling you to raise the white flag and surrender, there's something contradictory in the tone of his voice.

"What do you want to do?" he asks you.

It’s a challenge, you realize. An encouragement. He has faith in you. It's all of these things rolled into one. As if he's telling you to prove the universe wrong.

"I want to live," you answer. "If the universe collapses in three months, then please stay with me. Give me time to solve this and find a way to stay alive."

His mouth curls into a hint of a smile. The very first you've seen from him since you've met. It's bright and boyish, erasing the harsh lines of his stern expression until it gives way for something much softer underneath that makes your heart leap in your chest with triumph.

You grin, a strange elation of happiness buzzing in you as you stretch out your hand to him, in an invitation for a handshake to seal the deal.

"Deal?"

Miguel leans over the table, clasping your hand in his much larger one as he squeezes it back gently.

"Deal." That small smile from before is still there. "So what's next?" he asks.

The thing you never realized, being an ordinary person bereft of super genes or other superhuman powers is just how convenient commuting can be if you have them.

No longer do you have to brave the Lynchian nightmare that is the NYC subway system. Half-naked manic street preachers giving sermons as you’re held hostage, with nowhere else to go in the carriage. Being chased down by a drunk trumpeting Mariachi band. Instead, all you need to do to get from point A to point B (A: being the Chrysler building and B: the building formerly known as your home) is to hold on tight to Miguel as he swings you both above the city gridlock.

You imagine that this is what paragliding must feel like, except it's so much better because here you don't have to do the safety training beforehand or pay $3,000 for the privilege.

The city skyline is a dark evening blue, dotted with the sparkling lights of office buildings, cab roof lights and street lamps, as the wind ruffles through the fabric of your clothes.

It's such a different sight when you're flying above instead of walking on the streets below, that you don't even clock that you're in your neighborhood, until you see a building with a collapsed wall that's been blocked off, looking like a crash site. Only then do you realize... you're home.

Miguel carefully sets you down on your feet on a small patch of concrete that is clear of the rubble and destruction.

"Why did you want to come back here again?" he asks.

It’s a good question. Now that you're here, standing in the middle of charred debris and cracked bricks, you're not sure either. You had some vague plans of seeing what you could salvage, hoping for some clothes, maybe your electric toothbrush, or really just any of your stuff. Something that’s yours, no matter how small, to hold on to after the events of today have ripped away life as you know it.

But there’s nothing left. The furniture, all your books and knick knacks, and even your dirty laundry piles have been demolished. Your home as you know it is gone. There's only piles and piles of rubble and traces of white fire extinguisher foam on the ground. The fire has been out for hours, but the pungent smell of smoke and sulfur still pervades the air.

"You okay?" Miguel asks.

He's still standing at the outer edges of the apartment, close to where your window would have been if a helicopter hadn't crashed through it.

"Yeah... I guess the silver lining is that I didn't have anything expensive. Though it'd been nice if I could've saved my mom's Le Creuset set or at least the nanny-cam so I could return it and get a refund," you joke glibly.

You nudge aside some concrete rubble with the cap of your shoes. There's nothing under there, no treasured memorabilia that's still miraculously intact. Just more burnt concrete and rubble.

"Why did you have a nanny cam?"

You turn around at his question, to see him hovering close to you, one eyebrow raised with an unhappy set to his jaw.

From the displeased expression on his face, he's probably misunderstanding something here. Probably thinks you're operating a very unlucrative Onlyfans business, when what you've really been doing is spy on him and his nightly visits. You don't know which is worse to confess to, so you don't confess to anything.

"No reason," you say, ignoring the way his already raised eyebrow twitches with irritation at your lack of an answer.

"Come on, let's go," he says, and he waves towards you in a come hither motion like he's commanding a dog.

"Go?" you ask him. "It's past midnight. My place, as you can see, is wrecked. Go where exactly?"

Miguel shoots you a strange look. "A hotel," he says, like it's the most obvious thing, and– okay, he's not completely wrong in that assumption.

Problem is, you didn't have time to pick up your wallet or phone before your impromptu interdimensional visit. They’ve been incinerated along with all the rest of your worldly possessions, which means you don't have any way to pay for a hotel.

Plus Manhattan hotel prices average $400 a night. Even if you still had access to your debit cards, your budget’s pretty tight right now after all the capital you invested in your unhinged quest to trap the superhero before you.

"In the city? I don't have that kind of money and it will take months for any insurance payouts to come in."

You should know. As an insurance claims adjuster, you know you’ll be lucky if your claim is processed before the end of the year. And, ugh, just the thought of the paperwork you’ll have to fill out is enough to give you an anxiety migraine.

"I’ll cover the room," Miguel says casually before holding out a hand to you, "Come on, let’s go."

When Miguel said he’d cover it, you expected a reasonably-priced room at one of the Days Inn across the river or the like. Hopefully a place with no rats or bed bugs, and maybe clean bedding over a somewhat comfortable mattress for you to pass out on if you were lucky.

You didn't expect this.

Standing in front of the Midtown Four Seasons, you find yourself on sleek marble so polished you can see your own reflection. You haven't even stepped a foot inside yet and there are two old fashioned doormen, wearing immaculately fitted suits, with an even more impressive posture opening the majestic double-set doors for you as you approach.

It's swanky as hell, and you can’t help gawking like a tourist, eyes glued to the decadent carved ceilings that must be at least 30 feet tall, soaring above you. Honey-colored limestone that looks like it’s been looted from Ancient Rome.

You feel more than a little bit out of place. This is way outside of your budget. You could probably work your job for a lifetime, and not have enough disposable income to stay the night at a place like this.

"Uhm, Miguel... this place is way too–" you start, turning towards him.

But as you were busy lamenting the state of the housing market, he's already walked away from you (for such a bulky guy, he moves swiftly and silently) and as you whip your head around to find him, he's already standing in front of the receptionist.

Damned antelope legged man, would it kill him to wait up for you once in a while? You run up after him and have to tip-toe in order to see over his shoulder because the giant mammoth is blocking the check-in counter.

And wow, even the receptionist here is of a different caliber than the ones you'd find at Holiday Inn. A fashionable bob-cut with razor sharp edges, looking like a model cut out from a Vogue cover.

"Do you have a reservation, Sir?"

You half-expect him to say no, and that the two of you would have to tuck your tail between your legs and walk out of here to the backdrop of a sad trombone playing.

To your astonishment he says your name. The receptionist tip-taps away at her keyboard and then she nods and smiles gracefully at you both.

"Yes of course. After reviewing your reservation details, I am pleased to inform you that all necessary arrangements have already been made, including advance payment and verification of your identification. Your room is ready for you, we trust you will enjoy your stay."

She flashes you a pearly white smile so shiny it's almost blinding and hands you a hotel key card.

When you turn around, to your confusion Miguel is no longer next to you. How does he keep disappearing like this?

"Cielito," Miguel’s voice calls. The nickname doesn’t register at first. It doesn't even occur to you that he’s referring to you, until he barks it out a second time.

Your head darts up to see him standing by the elevator, tapping his feet impatiently as he waits for you to make it over to him.

"How did you do that?" you whisper loudly to him as you step into the elevator. "Where did you get my ID? How did you make a reservation? How did you--"

He takes your hand, mid-sentence, turning your wrist upwards and taps the watch.

"The computer systems in this universe are child's play for Lyla to manipulate. Reservations, money, ID, she can take care of all of that easily," he explains.

"She can do that?" you ask, and Miguel merely nods at you as the elevator closes behind the two of you.

You tip your head down to inspect your gifted watch. In awe of this technical marvel that would make Siri look like it’s from the stone-ages. You wonder if she can boost your credit scores. She could probably hack any wi-fi password so you'd never have to worry about data throttling again. She could get you table reservations for Libertine! The possibilities are endless!

You turn to Miguel. "Can Lyla get me Beyoncé tickets?" you ask.

He just shakes his head at you with what almost qualifies as an amused smile.

The room upstairs is massive.

It’s easily three times the size of your little studio apartment, and the ceilings are twice as tall, with a hanging glass chandelier that’s sparkling bright enough to blind you. It looks like one of those places featured in Architectural Digest.

Everything is in an art deco style, with expensive looking furniture and even more expensive art hanging on the one spare wall that isn’t covered in floor to ceiling windows. There are large shelves and a sleek looking kitchen, complete with an opulent looking velvet lounge chair of emerald green that looks like something a Roman emperor would be fed grapes on.

In this colossal space of a room, there is only one bed. One colossal, plush-mattress-topped, goose down duvet and probably 1,000,000,000 thread count sheet covered bed.

You tense up, not sure what the arrangements Miguel had in mind. Did he want the two of you to sleep in the same bed?

Miguel did pay for the room, so you’re not going to start voicing objections. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time in the short time span that you two have known each other to do that. This bed is also a lot wider than your tiny double bed, so it wouldn’t be the cramped disaster it was last night. You’d just have to make sure to use the bathroom before bed this time so he doesn’t jab your full bladder in the morning again.

Without saying anything, Miguel strides across the length of the room with impatient and determined steps. His hand reaches for the balcony doors and slides them open.

"Wait wait, where are you going?" you ask him as you run up to the middle of the room.

“I’m sleeping outside,” he says over his shoulder, and your mind boggles with that.

“Why? Isn’t it better for you to stay here?”

"This is the 62nd floor. That’s about as safe as you’re going to get. I’ll keep a lookout to make sure no more helicopters come crashing in.”

You’re not sure if he means the last part as a joke or not, but as you watch his broad back retreating as he walks away from you, a sickening sort of the deja vu twists through your chest.

I can’t save you, he’d said back in your apartment, Nothing can.

The feeling clawing at your chest feels alarmingly like panic. It screams that he’s leaving you. That he’s never coming back. That you’ll never see him again.

You’re being irrational, and you know it. You remind yourself that he wouldn’t have done this much for you only to bail in the middle of the night, but that doesn’t stop the fear that’s festering, sharp and urgent, under your skin, or the way your heart races, your whole body flashing hot and cold at the same time.

You want him to stay.

“Miguel,” you call out, and he immediately stops and turns to look back at you, one eyebrow raised in a skeptical question.

Please stay.

You open your mouth, but the words won’t come out. You can’t ask this man—this big, sarcastic, rude hulk of a man—to have a sleepover with you because you’re scared to be alone in the dark. He would laugh you out of the hotel room.

“Uhm… thank you,” you say instead, but it’s no less sincere, “For everything.”

His eyes soften, the sharp narrowness of them easing up. “It’s fine,” he mumbles, and despite the cold chill of the evening, you think you can see a faint flush blooming in his cheeks, before he quickly ducks his face from you. “I’ll be right outside if something happens.”

He turns back around and walks out, closing the patio doors with a gentle click behind him, leaving you by yourself.

It’s quiet.

You survey the empty room you’re in. Without Miguel’s large frame taking up space, it seems even bigger than it did before.

It’s a beautiful room. Something that you’re pretty sure you’ve seen in a movie set. You don’t know why you’re not as excited as you were before. This is you living your Pretty Woman moment. You should be filling up the big jacuzzi tub you saw with bubbles. Heck, maybe ask Lyla to order you a bottle of champagne from room service.

Instead, your eyes linger on the glass patio doors leading to the balcony terrace. You walk over to the bed, perching yourself down on the edge of the mattress, then flop down.

Might as well try to sleep, you think to yourself as you climb under the covers and switch off the light. The best thing you can do right now is catch yourself some rest so you’ll be alert while trying to figure out your next steps tomorrow.

3 months… That’s what Miguel told you.

That’s all the time you have left.

That means you don’t have time to waste, but you also have no idea where to start. The local library doesn’t exactly carry any resources on how to stop the universe from trying to kill you.

The Universe.

An infinite cosmos, grander than any human being can possibly comprehend. This vast space containing all the galaxies with its billions of stars and planets, where an individual being does not even register as a speck, and it wants you dead. How can you possibly fight against those odds?

You lie wide-eyed and awake staring into the dark of the room, and the feeling of dread gnaws into you.

You don’t want to be alone right now. Turning in the bed, your eyes find their way back to the blank slate of the pitched night outside the balcony doors.

You really wished he had stayed with you.

Sitting upright in the bed, you consider your options. You can lie back down. Suffer insomnia and the existential horror of knowing the universe is trying to murder you. Or you can man up, swallow down whatever tiny morsel of your pride you have left and ask Miguel to come back inside and stay with you.

Flinging the duvet from your body, you get up to walk over to the balcony. You hesitate for a moment before tapping the window pane the way you might knock on a door, giving a polite head's up before you slide the balcony patio open. But when you poke your head out, turning your head left and right, Miguel's nowhere to be found.

Okay, that’s weird. He said he’d be right outside if you needed him. You walk up to the ledge of the balcony terrace, leaning over the rail and peer down to see him dangling upside down, from the ledge of your balcony. The sight nearly makes you scream.

"Miguel!”

At you calling his name, he pulls himself up, one clawed hand gripping at the concrete wall as he climbs his way up and over to you. He makes it look easy, as if gravity does not exist for him, and it’s only a moment until he’s perched on the ledge of the balcony, facing you.

“What’s wrong?” he demands, eyes concerned, and you’re suddenly aware of how very close he is. His face mere inches from yours, your noses nearly touching.

“What’s wrong? You’re hanging upside down from the 62nd floor! What are you, a bat?!"

“Why did you come out here?” he clarifies, and his words give you pause. You try to gather your thoughts after the bizarre sight you just walked into and remember what you came out here for.

He’s still looking at you with his full and intense concentration that makes your skin prickle with warmth.

God, it’s embarrassing to ask. You feel like you’re five years old, asking your parents to turn the nightlight on, even though you know you’re a big girl now and aren’t supposed to be afraid of monsters hiding under your bed any more.

You look down on your hands, where you’re wringing them together, then back up at him, and make yourself spit it out, "Could you… maybe… stay with me tonight?"

His eyes widen at your question, but he doesn’t actually answer you and gives you no physical indication one way or the other.

"I feel safer when you're with me,” you admit.

“I am with you out here,” he counters, because of course he can’t make this easy for you.

“I can’t see you out here.”

The line of his shoulder eases, and he ducks his head down with a resigned sigh. "Fine. Get back inside, Cielito. You're going to catch a cold like this."

You shuffle back inside to your bed, watching out of the corner of your eye as he follows you inside and settles himself on the lounge sofa. He’s so tall that his feet are sticking out over the armrests, like a long-legged stork.

Hiding a smile, you climb back into bed, wrapping the bedding all around yourself.

“Good night,” you call out, and he makes a grumpy noise of acknowledgment.

Your head drops back onto the soft pillow, and you close your eyes, ready to sleep. It’s such a nice bed. The sheets are cool and soft against your skin and smell of fresh eucalyptus. The mattress is the most comfortable you ever remember resting on, firm but somehow soft at the same time. You feel like you’re sleeping on a cloud.

Moments go by, and you revel in the sumptuous bed, waiting for the best sleep of your life to claim you.

Except it doesn’t.

Somehow… you still can’t fall asleep. Is it… too soft maybe? You turn in the bed, twisting your torso to get into a position you can comfortably sink into, but something doesn’t feel right. There’s no lumpiness like at home, but that should be a good thing.

Except… despite the decadent softness of the bed. Despite the fact that the sheets probably have a thread count with more zeros than your checking and savings accounts combined. Despite all of the luxury that surrounds you, you still find yourself tossing and turning and wide fucking awake.

The bed is too big. You don’t know what to do with all this space. Your body is not accustomed to this sort of decadence. What if you suffocate sinking into this soft fluffy pillow in your sleep? What if you toss and turn until you fall off this massive bed and break your neck? Maybe that’s how out of all of the universe’s attempts to kill you, you end up dying?

Fuck!

You can’t sleep.

You turn to your side and stare into the velvet lounge chaise on the opposite side of your room, where Miguel is.

Quietly, you pad up to his still form until you’re standing in front of him and hunch over, trying to decide how rude it would be to wake him up again when there's nothing he can do about your stupid insomnia anyway.

In the dim light, you spot something glinting at you. Looking closer, you notice that the thin chain looped around his neck has escaped his shirt to pool on the fabric of the sofa cushion under him. You gently drag the loose end of the necklace toward you, and find a smooth golden band threaded onto it.

Picking it up cautiously, you flip it in your hand and find that there's something engraved on the inside. It's hard to see in the darkness, but when you lean closer and squint your eyes, you can just make out what it says.

'MO'—undeniably the initials of one Miguel O'Hara.

Twisting the ring slightly, you find a tiny plus sign followed by your own initials, and your heart drops into the pit of your stomach.

Oh.

The memory of sitting across Miguel at Starbucks returns to you, when you had asked him who you were to him. You think of the avoidant gaze and how he couldn't look you in the eye.

‘Something like that,’ huh?

Guess the other you wasn't just his girlfriend after all, you think, chest drawn so tight it’s painful.

Holding the wedding band in the palm of your hand, you slide down to sit down on the floor with your back pressed against the chaise lounge.

Your heart aches for the man in front of you and everything he's lost. You really, really hope you're not going to end up as just another regret on his list.

~ Next Issue

Dedication & Credits: As always to my best friend @thirstworldproblemss I am half asleep and running on fumes. I'm wording things poorly but I just want you to know that I am very happy I have you. Thank you for being my friend and for the time we get to spend together. I have the most fun when I'm with you.

Also to @guruan who is my muse, my source of inspiration. This chapter is dedicated to her because have you seen this beautiful piece of artwork she did for EYEM?!

#miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara fanfic #miguel o'hara fanfiction #spiderverse #oscar isaac #across the spiderverse #marvel #spiderverse fanfiction #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x you #marvel mcu

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valeriefauxnom · 4 months ago

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Dragalia Niche Things In Weapon Lore You May Not Know

-Emperor Dane, ya know, the dude that Jupiter accidentally set on a brutal conquest where he became a dude that would kill two for fun every day?

He was also a weeaboo:

I knew there must have been warning signs that such a nice prince could be beholden to such depravity...

-Karina's real identity maaaaybe is Miralda, princess of Dargas.

The weapon that bears this description is a water axe, the very same weapon and element she wields, and it theoretically fits within her story. She claims that she ran off, but hardly escaped before she was captured. It would make sense that in a pirate invasion that they'd be crawling over the area enough to instantly get ahold of her.

If true, this would be an interesting case of Dragalia telling the future of a character. It's also one I potentially could see, since Karina's story focuses on her wondering how Euden has kept himself as a Good Boi even if he's a prince among all those Nasty Bois and Girls, so I could see her being inspired to change things in her own land later on.

Granted, it's not 100%, 'I have a definitive section where she clearly states she is Miralda', but I think there's enough 'hmm' elements to warrant a spot here!

-Zodiark had a cult around him, who called themselves Meggidothians! Also, they liked sacrificing humans.

...Of course, not officially sanctioned, but that didn't stop them!

Meggidoth might have also been a real person, but it is unknown how much he was involved or responsible for the cult's creation/tenets:

They also have an alternative cosmology:

-This isn't really a hidden lore or fact, but I find it curious that the weapon 'Blackwing' bears such a strong resemblance to Zodiark, without being attributed to him in any way. It looks more like him than his actual high dragon weapon:

-Alberius had a lance made when his kingdom was created and promised to personally kill anyone with it that threatened the formation of the new nation. He meant business, I guess!

-Tartarus may have been cut in half by the Greatwyrms, which is the reason he's now half-steel:

-Humans once got so nutty over a spear that Mercury put it at the bottom of the ocean

-There may be more than just one ark of humans living in the sky and at least one may have fallen and did a whoopsie destruction of a kingdom:

-Kukris are a weapon tied to the southeastern-most part of Grastea:

...And this is another instance of 'very niche lore that the writers kept track of', as Nevin's story also reaffirms this lore that kukris aren't really used except in the SE:

-This is just a funny intermission, but I find it funny if you take the many many many weapon descriptions literally, Euden's handing out weapons left and right quite skilled in delivering torture and otherwise painstaking deaths and subsequent commendations to a similarly terrible afterlife. Oh yeah and some also can destroy the world. Here's a small sample of what I mean:

And trust me, despite the 3/4 examples being shadow weapons, this is far from exclusive to the shadow element. So, uh, yeah.

Don't mess with the Halidom unless you want to face a whole bunch of people capable of sending you and your soul into endless agonies?

Intermission over! Back to the actual lore parts instead of just the 'oh boy you're gonna love to hear what this beauty's capable of...' likely exaggerations.

-There's a prison called Odo somewhere in the world, who seems to have a lot of executioners who predominately execute by the good old axe or by a bow in a proto version of a firing squad, judging by their weapons.

It's unknown if it still exists, however, as Odo was the place Stribog the dragon protected until Agni destroyed it with a firebomb disguised as a Trojan Horse. Maybe it was rebuilt and eventually repurposed as a prison town?

As bonus related lore, the death penalty is very much still active in Alberia, and usually takes the form of beheading or hanging. It can be commanded by local lords (as feudalism is in full effect with local lords having much control over the workings of their endowed region) as well as through courts.

There's also this bit of lore regarding it in another weapon:

-There may have been another race in Grastea, possibly their equivalent of halfling or gnome-esque races:

-This strays into other niche lore, but there was a band of elite Alberian knights called the Alberian Ironsides who seemed to love tower shields:

-Also another crossover between wyrmprints and weapon lore, the Battle of the Thelodian Plains was one at least 300 years ago in which eventually 23 armies unaffiliated with a formal state came together in a senseless battle, with a casualty rate of 80% (quick reminder that 'casualty' counts both injured and dead).

-There was a dude called Count Logan the Brave who seemed to like collecting weapons and bringing them back home. There's three weapons that mention him.

-Interestingly, Troy, the one adventurer dude that pops up a bit frequently in weapon lore, the wand from his last supposed adventure seems to bear a bit of a resemblance to Bahamut...

...Who, by the way, was indeed the explicit creator of the earth, as Xenos crafted sky instead!

-Last but not least, Zodiark really just seems to be involved in a lot of weapons that are Not Good for their wielder:

That's all I have right now, but I do hope that you learned something about the eternally-batty Grastea, through the weapons its residents use!

#dragalia lost #dragalia lore #dragalia

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just-honey-dewd · 14 days ago

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A Small Discrepancy about Cheng Xiaoshi's powers

I think I'm gonna go insane. I just realized something. Lu Guang actually got the wrong conclusion on what triggers Cheng Xiaoshi's ability (it's reasonable why he gets it wrong, but it still pisses me off 😭)

The trigger for Cheng Xiaoshi's powers isn't for the photo to be in his sight. Not strictly.

Otherwise, he shouldn't have been able to dive out from point A to point B.

From what we've seen from this intro, the only photo that would thematically make sense for Cheng Xiaoshi to have dived into and out from would be this photo. And it would have never been in Cheng Xiaoshi's line of sight.

And the actual scene where Cheng Xiaoshi "activates" his ability for the first time actually doubles down on this. (I watched this slow-mo. Cheng Xiaoshi closes his eyes at the same moment he claps).

And even then Cheng Xiaoshi was never looking at the photo, he was looking at Lu Guang. Lu Guang had let his guard down and never would've been able to confirm what exactly Cheng Xiaoshi was doing before the clap. You could argue it was in his line of sight but if multiple photos were in his line of sight, which photo would theoretically make the most sense for Cheng Xiaoshi to dive into?

Would it be far-fetched to consider that during this sequence from season 1, Cheng Xiaoshi had subconsciously took advantage of the unrealized truth that his ability's trigger is more multi-faceted than simply being sight-based?

Also considering that he's the one that does the manual process of developing these photos, it's almost poetic that his connection to them is cemented in his memories of these snapshots. Sight simply assists in snapping it into his immediate thoughts.

So, when Lu Guang gets Cheng Xiaoshi to recreate the sequence of events, Cheng Xiaoshi fixates too hard on the photo and blatantly stares at it. So, Lu Guang would understandably come to the observed conclusion that it's triggered by sight and a clap.

You can't necessarily disprove that it's from simply thinking of the photo, because just looking at a photo will count as thinking of the photo. So, Cheng Xiaoshi's true ability is jumping into photos he immediately thinks of. He'd probably need a good recollection of the photo for it to work without seeing it.

This is why Cheng Xiaoshi was able to dive from seemingly nothing in Yingdu episode 1.

He had thought of the photo depicting the trio after commemorating Lu Guang joining the studio -- of course it's significant enough of a memory that Cheng Xiaoshi would reliably be able to recall it.

[If anyone happens to know if this photo definitively depicts Cheng Xiaoshi with the bandages from his head injury, I would be so grateful]

This version of Cheng Xiaoshi might have learned the actual trigger behind his powers. And either Lu Guang has never figured this out himself, or is careful not to let Cheng Xiaoshi learn the extent of his abilities until the "right" moments.

It also kinda fits with Lu Guang's limitations. Lu Guang activates his powers while looking at a photos to gain its memories. Cheng Xiaoshi can use his memories of photos to enhance the utility of his powers.

There's probably more to Lu Guang's ability than meets the eye, but I haven't cracked that case yet.

#call me captain obvious if this has been covered before. but i just had to put this out there in case someone hasn't considered this yet #it barely changes anything because i don't think cxs has inhuman memory that he won't need to look at a photo more than once lol. he would #prolly only benefit from the 'special' meaningful photos he can naturally remember #but it always struck me as odd that intro scene. and the faulty replication of the events that got cxs to accidently use his abilities #feel free to disprove me if there's any conflicts with my findings #link click #cheng xiaoshi #lu guang #sgdlr #shiguang dailiren #shiguang daili ren #时光代理人 #time agents #shi guang daili ren #bridon arc #yingdu chapter #analysis #link click meta

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rosencrantzsguildenstern · 4 months ago

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tai sui fancast - part one

i have read more chinese novels than seen chinese dramas. i have seen like, 3 chinese dramas. however, i did do a lot of research for this, so indulge me! this is the first time i've done a fancast or even thought to do one, so there's definitely thought and feeling put into this.

part two will include more characters from later arcs, as well as zhi xiu, who i'm stuck on (mostly because i don't feel like casting zhang zhehan~) this part focuses on the characters we meet early on!

xi ping - chen zheyuan

a lot of these, i'm choosing by watching a small sample of their acting (as i haven't seen that many cdramas), but chen zheyuan's someone i've actually watched a full drama starring, and he's an experienced actor who can pull off a character who's mischievous, smart, and morally ambiguous. i'd like to see him play xi ping's arc as he becomes further and further alienated from himself, and he could easily nail spoiled brat. i also really tend to imagine and draw xi ping as this kind of soft, round-cheeked man; i think it suits his ‘young master’ character quite a bit, and chen zheyuan has the ideal looks without having an innocent feeling unsuited to the story

wei chengxiang — huang yang tian tian

this one was difficult, as wei chengxiang's not very feminine and i also see her as not very conventionally attractive— and most cdrama actresses are. huang ying tian tian, though, has a lot of experience in somewhat gritty historical roles and can play dark emotions well. she's known for playing child versions of main characters and is still young (seventeen at the time of writing this), making her a great fit who can match both wei chengxiang's youthful immaturity and her cool side, and potentially play her at all of her ages-- acting and styled as younger for when a-xiang is youngest and then additionally aging as the drama is filmed (which would be best with a multi-season structure, i think, given the arc format of tai sui).

zhou ying - tan jianci

an experienced actor's best for this kind of role, and tan jianci's been acting since 2008. he's got the skills and range-- he's played in serious dramas, getting critical acclaim for his performance in under the skin, and not just heartthrob-types, also playing historical roles like sima zhao in the advisor's alliance and cao pi in secret of the three kingdoms. ...and here is where i realize that i've matched the casting for the upcoming adaptation of sha po lang, which stars him and chen zheyuan; i haven't even read sha po lang, so this was completely unintentional~ in any case, this lining up with opinions from actual auditions and directors means he'd probably work well with chen zheyuan in this theoretical situation, too, though i don't mean to parallel the 'lead couple' setup.

bai ling, pang jian, jiangli, and princess duanrui under the cut!

bai ling - luo yunxi/leo luo

an accomplished actor who received a ton of acclaim for his performance in till the end of the moon, playing a character who's lived a varied life of 500 years as well as that character's progenitor, the devil god. he's super skilled and slated to play chu wanning in the adaptation of erha, as well as being cast as the lead of three other future dramas. he's fitted to play a half-demon character, but i admit: i'm taking this all-star and giving him a fairly minor role, and that role is largely due to his facial features, which are just odd enough (in certain makeup styles) to suit the image of bai ling i've had in my mind.

pang jian - jin dong

he caught my eye initially due to his appearance and age-- i think casting a noticeably older actor is a great way to characterize pang jian as a walker in the mortal world--, but i think his body of work also suits this role; he's known for work in the disguiser, a spy drama, and candle in the tomb, an action-adventure show about tomb raiders, and i think that suits 'assistant commander' pang jian, someone who's practical, working in the field, and dealing with a lot of situations. he's a veteran actor with a wider body of work beyond that and a wide range, including comedy-- something i think pang jian's actor should have skills in, given how many genuinely funny bits there are with him-- and a role in nirvana in fire.

chen baishao/jiangli — ju jingyi

ju jingyi recently costarred in the drama 'in blossom', and watching her act, though this would be a minor role, it's one with a lot of complexity and one i think she could elevate and leave a strong impression of in the viewer's mind, deserving for the first arc that leaves its shadow throughout all of tai sui.

princess duanrui/zhou xueru — wang churan

a description on an article which mentioned "elegant beauty and ethereal disposition" and opinioned that she had a good face for period dramas caught my eye, and after seeing some of her acting in small clips and gifs, i think she's excellent at portraying characters with restrained emotions. she smiles, cries, and shows anger in her current roles, but without a bubbly energy; rather, it feels like there's a huge lake of depth beneath the surface. i think her face also suits a princess perfectly, and she has the range to portray both way-of-clarity princess duanrui and the younger zhou xueru!

#tai sui #chitra.txt #fancast #technically ive been working on this for almost a year......#it was abandoned in my drafts lololol #xi yue will also be in the next one #im not casting baby xi yue thats too hard #so ill cast older xi yue and that makes sense to put in the later arc #i havent decided who yet #xi ping #zhou ying #wei chengxiang #bai ling #pang jian #princess duanrui #chen baishao #i dont normally tag all characters but i worked hard on this ok...

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adamwatchesmovies · 2 years ago

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H.P. Lovecraft: Two Left Arms (2013)

While I didn't enjoy this film, that doesn't mean you won't. No matter what I say, the people involved in this project did it: they actually made a movie. That's something to be applauded. With that established...

I’ve seen enough movies that when a production like H.P. Lovecraft: Two Left Arms comes along, I can tell from frame one we're in store for a zero-star movie. This picture gets just about everything wrong, which makes it entertainingly bad… for about 5 minutes. After that, you’re begging for it to end.

Art conservator Carter (Paollo Stella) arrives in a small, remote Italian town to restore a fresco in an old church. There, he encounters strange behaviour from the locals and increasingly disturbing sights seemingly linked to a lake created when a meteor hit ages ago.

If we’re going to list what this film does bad, it’s only fitting we begin with the misnomer of a title. H.P. Lovecraft never wrote a story titled Two Left Arms. Even if writer-directors Adam Rehmeier and Domiziano Christopharo were inspired by Lovecraft’s works, it doesn’t give them the right to slap his name onto this rusty turd.

After the bad fonts used to list the performers and production companies, you’re greeted by terrible camerawork. All of Two Left Arms looks like it was shot on a cellphone that would’ve been 10 years old in 2013. The color balance and lighting are all over the place. The dialogue is often muffled - so muffled the people responsible for writing the subtitles on the version I watched couldn’t make out large chunks of it. Then again, it might’ve been that they simply didn’t care. Once in a while, I could understand lines listed as {unintelligible} but it didn’t matter. Long passages are spoken entirely in Italian, which makes the incomprehensible story even harder to decipher. It’s one of those pictures that threatens to rend your skull in frustration. On the one hand, you want to put in the extra effort needed to pay close attention. If you don't, you'll have no idea what is going on. On the other, you just don’t care about anything and you’re so bored that sleep looks like a seriously appealing alternative.

The characters are about as interesting as the bottom of your feet. Paolo Stella is playing an American that doesn’t speak Italian but dons a thick Italian accent. He has no on-screen presence, no charisma and certainly no chemistry with his love interest, Yvonne (Emma Galliani). You don’t even care enough about him to look forward to his demise. You just want out of this dreadful ordeal. The plot is so slow and so ineptly assembled you’re desperate to find anything to remain entertained. You count how often it changes from day to night inexplicably or how often Carter’s glasses disappear but that only goes so far. Characters are under-reacting to events that would have them screaming for the hills. In the next scene we see spooky things that in the long run, mean absolutely nothing. It’s obviously the work of incompetent amateurs.

H.P. Lovecraft: Two Left Arms - whose title I still don’t understand - is the kind of bad movie that could potentially appear on a list marked “worst ever made”. It’s not offensive and there’s probably more dreadful out there acting-wise (theoretically) or special effects-wise (for sure, though that’s not saying much) but what really gets you is just how much of a chore this is to sit through. There’s nothing story-wise for you to latch onto so all you do is wait. "Is this the part where the screen fades to black to give us a shocker of an ending? No? I guess I’ll keep watching then." You could shuffle the scenes and no one would be able to tell. It’s that big of a mess. Only deranged and obsessive movie-viewers would ever sit through it and even then, they would be wasting their time. (August 14, 2020)

#H.P. Lovecraft: Two Left Arms #movies #films #movie reviews #film reviews #lovecraft #Yvonne Sciò #Paollo Stella #2013 movies #2013 films

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wuxiaphoenix · 2 years ago

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Worldbuilding: Secret Tunnel

...Ahem. Go ahead, keep humming, it fits. As you will see.

One of the useful things about alternate history for a writer (especially alternate history with magic) is that it lets you fudge a few things. Yes, still do all the research you can, but if there’s info you can’t get or that no one today knows, you can make your best (or most entertaining) guess and call it a day. This lets you maximize the neatness of the bits you do find, and make things shiny. Because reading is like being a magpie sometimes; I want that shiny bit and that one and that one....

A historical bit of shiny in Colors is, of course, Namhansanseong itself. We’re talking about an entire fortress city built on top of a small mountain to serve as an alternate capital in case of invasion. That is inherently shiny.

Gets better, though. Since it had to be prepared for sieges, it had not only the strong gates everyone knew about, but at least eight other hidden secret gates, where small numbers of men and supplies could get in and out. I’ve got some pics saved from a person who wrote a blogpost about hiking the place. Basically, if you don’t know the terrain, one step and you tumble straight down a cliff. But if you do - it’s an escape route, as well as a way to get spies in and out while you try to figure out how to wreak maximum havoc on the besiegers.

It is just the kind of shiny that belongs in an isekai, and fits with zombie survival advice. Specifically, never let your stronghold against the monsters become your deathtrap if they manage to get inside anyway. Always have an escape route.

Which means, odds are, at least one of the secret gates belongs to the Callers.

...Ahem. It is the Callers’ responsibility, would be the official government stance. After all, they’re trained and armed, they might as well do something when they’re not demon-hunting.... That’s the official story and everyone sticks to it.

I’m not sure yet when Jason will hear the official version. (It will be in the first book.) But it won’t take him long to realize there’s more to the story. He may be a historian and not a sociologist, but he’s a good historian, who’s poked many odd corners of history trying to figure out what life was like for people who might have not had the chance or leisure to write it down. On top of that he’s an American historian of Irish descent; and yes, that makes a difference.

Plenty of Americans had Irish ancestors who left centuries before the potato blight and the resulting famine. But once that wave of determined and desperate escapees hit the States, all “Irish” got lumped together in some places, and... well, look up NINA (No Irish Need Apply). This is one reason the cops and firemen in many cities are traditionally Irish; dangerous jobs that needed to get done, that no one else wanted to do.

It’s not the same thing, of course. The culture’s completely different, and theoretically (almost) anyone can take the exams to become yangban....

That “almost”, though - Jason is very familiar with that. People being people.

Still. Whatever the reason, they have a secret tunnel. So cool.

Now if only he weren’t so worried he’d have to use it....

#creative writing #worldbuilding #colors of another sky #namhansanseong

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mypoisonedvine · 4 years ago

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Love, Theoretically | Sebastian Stan x reader (chapter 10 - FINALE)

series masterlist

series summary: having lost your husband, sister, and best friend all to the same extramarital affair, you ran away to a secluded villa in the Hungarian countryside to write and get a little time away from the life you’d left behind. you were only looking for peace and perhaps some inspiration for your novel, but instead you found an unlikely connection with the immigrant repairman– even though the two of you don’t speak the same language.

word count: 6k

warnings: implied smut, angst, fluff, romcom tropes, lots of swearing, pregnancy mention/minor breeding kink

note: click the asterisk for a hyperlink to a translation when the time comes

Six months later...

“It’s good!” she beamed, setting down the last chunk of pages and taking off her reading glasses. “Oh man, that ending hurt, but it’s really, really good!”

You leaned back into the plush chair and sighed with relief. “You think so?”

“It’s best-seller material,” she assured. “With some editing, of course. God, I can’t believe you were sitting on this for so long.”

“What are the biggest changes you want to make?” you asked.

“Well, I’m thinking we’ll cut the romantic subplot,” she mentioned in passing, like it was no big deal. “It’s distracting.

“Distracing?” you repeated. “Nia, it’s the story. It’s a romance.”

“I thought it was a thriller,” she frowned.

“A romance disguised as a thriller,” you corrected.

“Listen, I get what you mean, but I didn’t get this—” she tapped the nameplate on her desk: ‘NIA BROWN, HEAD PUBLISHER’ in shiny letters— “for nothing. I know what I’m talking about, and I know what your readers want. Violence, gore, drama!”

“It has all that!” you defended. “But it’s all there to talk about the real love he finds in her!”

“What do you mean ‘real love’?” she pressed flatly.

“I mean…” you pondered. “I mean love where you feel like a version of yourself that you actually like. Love where you feel unjudged, no precedents or caveats or back-up plans. Love that fucking hurts because you never wanted to rely on anything or anybody. Love that lives in silence because you don’t even need words.”

She furrowed her brow. “That… sounds nice, I guess, but I don’t think anybody really has that. Everybody needs a back-up plan. Everybody needs words— a writer should know that.”

“Oh my god. Oh my god,” you groaned, your face falling into your hands. “I’m so fucking stupid. Jesus Christ, I’m a moron.”

“What? What’s going on?”

“I had that! I had that, and I let it go! I’m the dumbest bitch on the fucking face of the Earth.”

“Don’t say that,” she soothed, but you were already standing up.

“No, I need to find him,” you decided as you grabbed your coat and briefcase. “I need to go back and try to fix this. I love him, I’ve never— I didn’t know I could love like that, I didn’t know I could be loved like that… oh my god, I need to find him. It isn’t over.”

“It isn’t over?” she repeated incredulously. “You said Michael signed the papers!”

“It’s not Michael,” you rolled your eyes as you stormed out of the office. “It was never Michael.”

You ran into the first telephone box you could find, slamming the door shut as you searched your purse for the business card that probably wasn't even in there.

After a moment, you gasped with delight when you pulled it from a very bottom pocket and began punching in the number as fast as possible with shivering hands, long-distance charges be damned.

“Hello?” the confused voice on the other end answered.

“Mrs. Alberti, hi— does Sebastian still work for you?” you asked hastily.

“No, dear," she sighed, apparently recognizing you by just your voice (and likely your request), "he quit recently, and moved away.”

“Moved?" you repeated with a wrinkled brow. "Where?!”

“I assume back home, sweetheart; to Bucharest.”

“Shit,” you sighed. “Shit!”

“Are you having your ‘run through the airport’ moment, sweetheart?” she realized.

“Yes, I think so— do you have his address?”

“Well, no, but I’ll see what I can find.”

You waited rather impatiently as she shuffled through papers in the background, mumbling to herself as she apparently searched for information that could help you.

“All I’ve got is the address of a previous employer… a carpenter,” she finally explained, breaking the silence. “It was his only reference when he came to work here," she explained.

"Wow, you really did just hire him for his looks," you blurted out.

"He was desperate for work, that boy had nowhere else to go,” she defended.

“Right, well, I guess if that’s my only lead then I’ve gotta go for it,” you decided. “Thank you, Mrs. Alberti.”

“I told you to call me when that book was a hit. Did it happen yet?” she piped up.

“It’s not published yet,” you explained. “It needs some more work… but I think it’s almost ready.”

“I think so, too, dear.”

Learn Romanian in 10 Weeks! A practical language guide.

Week 1, Day 1: Greetings

Hello Salut

Goodbye La revedere

Thank you Mulțumesc

You’re welcome Cu plăcere

Good morning Bună dimineata

Good afternoon Bună ziua

Good evening Bună seara

Good night Noapte bună

You brushed your hair back out of your face with a sigh, turning the page as you mumbled the phrases to yourself. Broken Hungarian and your high school education in Latin were not getting you as far with this as you had been hoping.

How are you? Ce mai faci

I love you Te iubesc

“Te iubesc, te iubesc, te iubesc,” you repeated over and over in a whisper.

Each day you had a new routine: practice Romanian for an hour, check flight prices online (or call the airline), research what you knew about Sebastian and the address Mrs. Alberti had given you, and then get back to practicing Romanian again.

Oh, and occasionally you worked on the edits Nia wanted for your manuscript. You were focusing on the minor changes— grammar errors, rearranging sentences— and putting off her big request for the removal and replacement of the romantic aspects. More than ever, they seemed like the most important thing the book had to offer.

You had a small apartment, just a place to sleep and shower really; much too small to fit everything you’d already taken from Michael’s house (you know, the one that used to be your house) along with what he’d shipped to you that you forgot before. He included a letter in the package as well. You threw it out, unopened.

Truthfully, you never really fully unpacked. As much as you realized you probably should, in order to really feel like you had a real home, you couldn’t bring yourself to empty your suitcases when you knew you’d be packing them again any day now.

You also realized how outrageous this all was. Ignoring the unlikelihood of even finding him in the first place, Sebastian probably wouldn’t want anything to do with you after you broke his heart, left, and then randomly tracked him down after over half a year. But to be totally transparent, you weren’t really doing this to get him back, necessarily. You knew that was probably never going to happen. You were doing this because you needed to try. You needed to go there, and get hurt, and come back knowing you did everything you could: you’d never be able to live with yourself if you did anything less than that.

You couldn’t start your new life until you had put everything else to bed. And if that meant being 100%, painfully certain that you and Sebastian could never be together, then that was just how it needed to be.

After two weeks of looking, there still weren’t any reasonable flights to Bucharest, so you booked another trip by train, figuring you could use the three day trip to brush up on the key Romanian phrases you were going to need as well as prepare your speech.

Yes, your plan was a speech. You didn’t have a back-up plan. You didn’t even have a return ticket back to London yet.

A passage by Yeats came to mind; But I, being poor, have only my dreams. I have spread my dreams under your feet. Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.

In all your life, you’d never understood before why someone would want to only have their dreams. But now, here you were… and yes, it felt terrifying and vulnerable and uncomfortably naked, but it felt pretty damn good, too.

With a sigh, you scribbled out the last sentence you’d written, tossing the trash paper aside. You looked up out the window at the scenery flying by in a blur, worried that if you didn’t look out from the train every once in a while you’d get motion sickness.

The sun was beginning to set already, the green of hills and trees tinted orange. You only indulged in it for a moment, though, before getting back to this god-forsaken speech you were deadset on finishing before you arrived in Bucharest tomorrow. At first, you’d figured the translating would be the most difficult part… but writing in English wasn’t exactly a piece of cake, either. You had so much to say, and suddenly so few words for any of it.

You’d probably done more editing on this than any of your novels combined; the crumpled up pages spilling out of your wastebasket were proof enough of that.

“And I’m a fucking writer!” you groaned aloud, to no one in particular. “How is anybody else supposed to be able to do this, if I can’t?”

Other people aren’t as emotionally constipated as you, the voice of your inner critic reminded you plainly, making you roll your eyes at yourself.

A rap at your door made you sit up straighter and turn around. A stewardess slid open the frosted glass slightly to give you a friendly smile. “Is everything alright, ma’am?”

Your brows furrowed at the sound of her accent. “Is that a Romanian accent?” you asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” she nodded.

“So you’re fluent in Romanian and English,” you concluded.

“And Portuguese, yes ma’am,” she agreed.

“Could you come in here for a moment and help me translate something?”

She seemed slightly confused at the request but stepped forward, sliding the door most of the way shut behind her. Leaning beside you on the desk, she picked up your handwritten letter and blinked her wide, brown eyes a few times. You felt slightly embarrassed knowing she was reading such intimate thoughts, but that was how it felt the first time someone read anything you wrote so you were pretty much used to it by now.

“I usually ask the passengers what brings them to Bucharest,” she mumbled after a moment. “This is the most interesting thing so far. Am I reading this correctly, that you intend to confess your love to someone you met—” she scanned the page quickly— “during a vacation in Hungary?”

“Yup,” you smiled awkwardly, popping the ‘p’ at the end of the word.

“And he doesn’t speak English?” she assumed; you nodded. “And… you don’t speak Romanian?”

You nodded again, and she breathed in and out quickly, sitting beside you as she stared at the letter.

“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” she explained.

“Sorry for sucking you into the entropic vortex that is my life,” you chuckled.

“I don’t mean to pry,” she sighed, setting the letter down, and you laughed a little internally at the idea that she was worried about prying when she just read the most personal piece of writing you’d ever put to the page, “but do you think this is… enough? I mean, to build a relationship on?”

You just gave her a shrug. “I have no idea. But, you know, I spent my whole life worrying about stuff like that. I dated my husband for seven years before we got married, because I wanted to be sure. I was initially interested in him because he was successful and ambitious, and it made me feel like this was a really secure relationship that I could rely on. I double majored in English and Computer Science because I wanted a more stable career to fall back on in case being a writer didn’t work out, and even though it did, I’ve spent most of my career publishing what I thought people wanted to read instead of what I wanted to write, so I’d have a better shot at a good paycheck. I grew up thinking the best thing I could ever have was security. And now I’m divorced, watching my royalties shrink every month, more insecure in every way than I’ve ever been, and I’m realizing that the choices I made didn’t give me what I wanted. I gave up so much in the name of safety, and I let the one good thing I’d ever found go, so I could go back to being the same person I always was. I’m ready to settle again, if this doesn’t work… I’m ready to accept that this is just the way life goes, and be thankful that I got a taste of the kind of stuff I thought only existed in the sort of books I’d read but never write.”

She swallowed as she looked at you, and you felt your eyes water as you stared out the window towards the dimming scenery one more time, smiling at the sight of a distant village, a church with a steeple, vineyards and farms. Someone’s whole life is in that little town, you imagined, and they’re just watching your train go by like they see every other day.

“Sebastian gave me more security than I’d ever had before, even though the whole thing was such a ridiculous little whirlwind, and nothing like I ever imagined my life could be. But he made me want to be honest and raw and write sappy letters like the one you just read. He doesn’t have any money, at least as far as I know, and I haven’t known him for seven years, and on paper it makes no sense… but you would understand if you knew him. If you felt that joy that he radiates, if you saw him live his simple little life like it’s the best thing in the world. You would understand if you knew how much I needed this. You would understand if you had been just as miserable being who I’ve been for so long, and finally had a chance to be somebody you think you were maybe meant to be the whole time. So, if I never see him again, I hope I just get to thank him.”

You waited for her to say something, but furrowed your brow at the long moment of silence, looking back from the window finally and finding her staring at you with a tear running down her cheek. When you met her gaze, she quickly wiped it away with a sniffle and looked down at your desk again. “Let’s get to translating, shall we?” she announced with a half-smile.

You noticed the way the other passengers looked at you as everyone was in line to deboard from the train car; you stuck out like a sore thumb, since everybody else was carrying heavy luggage and all you had was a backpack.

In your defense, you really had no idea how to pack for a trip where you knew neither the duration nor the true final destination. So, it was mainly filled with your essentials, a few clothes for any kind of weather, and enough leu to buy anything else you needed along the way.

The stewardess was waving goodbye to everyone as they shuffled out into the train station, occasionally stopping to shake a hand or give directions to nearby destinations. When you were just about to pass by, though, she pulled you into a tight hug.

“Good luck,” she whispered, holding you just a moment too long before pulling back and giving you an encouraging look. “If he doesn’t take you back, feel free to blame my translation… because if he knows what’s in your heart, I know he’ll say yes.”

“Yeah, that’s the hard part isn’t it?” you laughed weakly. “Thank you for your help. I guess if I come back alone for the return trip tonight, you’ll know how bad it went.”

“Then I hope I don’t see you again,” she winked.

It being a major train station and all, cabs were waiting around every corner so it was pretty easy to grab one and give them the address you already had written down for this exact purpose.

“This is pretty far,” the driver explained, “on the edge of town. Not a tourist spot.”

“Good, because I’m not a tourist,” you nodded, already only giving him half your attention as you pulled out the translated speech to practice.

“And you can afford this?” he pressed. You sighed and dug through your bag, pulling out a haphazard stack of bills and handing them through the plastic partition.

“Is this enough?” you asked, and he didn’t answer, just taking the money and starting the car as you smiled and leaned back in your seat.

As much as you had tried to convince yourself to not get your hopes up, the butterflies in your stomach felt more like whole birds at this point, demanding to break free as you practiced the words hand-written on the page over and over again, committing it all to memory.

“What are you reading?” the cab driver asked after several minutes.

“Oh, nothing,” you mumbled, “sorry if I’m bothering you, you can turn on the radio.”

“No, it’s not bothering me, but what you are saying… it’s very odd. It sounds like something from a play, or movie,” he explained.

“Um, it’s not,” you replied, a little embarrassed. “But does it sound like it’s from a good movie? Like, if you heard a character say this to another character, would you think they should get together?”

“I… don’t know,” he answered, sounding confused. “I mean, it depends on what happened, right? How they met, how well they get along…”

So, you told him the whole story, as succinctly as possible (which is not very succinct at all). By the end, he was actually giving commentary as you spoke.

“Why the hell did you leave?” he interjected, clearly irritated with you. “You loved him!”

“Yeah, well, sometimes love isn’t enough! I loved my husband too, and look how that turned out,” you defended.

“But that’s different. That was love for all the wrong reasons.”

“I promise, it felt very real at the time,” you shrugged.

“And now?” he countered. “You realize that this man— Sebastian, right?— is real.”

“I hope I’m right this time,” you offered. “But even if I am, he may not agree.”

The driver scoffed, taking a hand off the wheel to wave dismissively. “If he’s anything like you said, then he will still be completely in love with you. After all, you still feel the same way after all this time apart, don’t you?”

“If anything, I love him more every day,” you admitted, your heart beating quickly just to say it aloud.

“You know, when I met my wife, she was engaged to another man. He was rich, good-looking, and he wasn’t even a bad guy unlike this husband you describe. He was a good man, but he wasn’t right for her. They were… content together, but she wasn’t truly happy. Every night I would come to her window and beg her to marry me, because I knew that she knew we were meant for each other, but she was scared because her family wouldn’t approve and she would be a poor man’s wife.”

“How did you convince her to marry you instead?” you asked eagerly, sucked into the story already.

“I didn’t. On the day of the wedding, some people told me to go and break it up but I didn’t. I thought it would be wrong, to try to ruin her happiness and take it for myself by making a scene at the wedding. I realized she was her own woman and if she wanted to choose him, I had to let her. I had locked myself in my house, not wanting to see anyone that day, and she appeared at my door. I didn’t need to convince her because she knew the truth in her heart, and called off the wedding herself.”

“Wow,” you smiled.

“She was still in her dress!” he recalled with a hearty laugh. “She looked like an angel. We were married just a few days later. And next month will be thirty years,” he added as he lifted his left hand to show the golden band on his finger.

“Thirty years, that’s… a long time,” you sighed.

“It wasn’t always easy,” he admitted. “But it was always worth it.”

Just as you wondered what you could possibly say to that, you felt the car slow down to a stop.

“This is the address you gave me, this is it,” he explained, pointing out his passenger-side window. You leaned up against the glass and gasped in dawning fear as you saw the storefront dark and empty inside.

“No, nonono,” you whispered rapidly to yourself as you swung open the door and hopped out, pressing your face against the glass to try to get a look inside and finding what was undeniably a closed carpentry business. There was a note on the door, taped on the inside of the glass, and you knew enough Romanian to know it said something about a vacation and three months.

“Shit!” you yelped, holding your face in your hands, wondering if your journey had come to an end before it really began.

“Are you alright?” the driver asked, rolling down his window to speak to you.

“This was my only lead, I don’t have his real address,” you explained. “He used to work here, I thought maybe someone would know him…”

He sighed, giving you a sympathetic look. “Get back in, we can search nearby. You came too far to give in yet.”

But getting back in the car felt like giving in, too, which you realized as you looked back at the note taped to the carpenter's door. This was the closest you'd gotten, and it felt wasteful to leave with nothing.

Just as you were ready to hop in the passenger seat and start searching aimlessly through suburban Bucharest, or maybe look around for a Romanian yellow pages, you heard a noise from behind you, across the street; a laugh. His laugh. But it couldn’t be because it was too good to be true… and yet you found yourself whipping your head around and hoping beyond all reason that it was Sebastian.

Across the street was a restaurant, with a large patio where patrons were dining and chatting as they sat at wrought iron tables, and your eyes searched the crowd for any signs of him.

And then your gaze landed on a head of thick brunette hair, red and gold highlights so obvious now when the sunlight hit it this way. Broad shoulders wrapped in a white button-up shirt. He was facing away from you but he was looking to the side so you could see his face; he was smiling, laughing at something someone had said. And it was his smile that you recognized; it was like everything else faded away, and in that moment you thought maybe you could almost be happy with just this, just seeing him be happy even if it had nothing to do with you.

“Sebastian,” you called out to him, but he didn’t react. “Sebastian!”

His whole body turned, his eyes met yours, and you couldn't help but let the tears well in your eyes as you ran across the road to him.

He looked, understandably, stunned, and you realized he was actually waiting on a table at the moment; he said something to them, apparently excusing himself, and stepped closer to you.

But he stopped walking, not coming any closer, not exactly dragging you into his arms like you might've preferred, but with a breath to try to soothe your racing mind, you summoned your memories of the practiced letter and began. *

“Când am venit în Ungaria…” you started slowly, doing your best to remember the words and hoping your pronunciation wasn’t too awful, “nu căutam dragoste. Căutam spațiu, claritate și poate o idee de carte de un milion de dolari. În schimb, am găsit tot ce am căutat toată viața mea…”

You did your best to bite back tears, especially when his expression was nearly unreadable and you had no idea how well this was going.

“Ești tu, Sebastian, bineînțeles că ești tu,” you sighed, laughing slightly. “Ai fost acolo pentru mine când nici nu știam ce vreau de la nimeni. Ai fost prietenul meu fără să spui vreodată un cuvânt - cel puțin nu un cuvânt pe care l-am înțeles. M-ai iubit și nu știam ce să fac cu asta, pentru că uitasem cu mult timp în urmă cum se simțea să fii iubit. Și ce simțeai să iubești cu adevărat pe cineva. Dar te iubesc. Și am fost prost să te las să pleci, atât de neconceput de prost. Vreau să fim noi, Sebastian. Lasă-mă să te iubesc, mai dă-mi o șansă și îți promit că nu te voi mai lăsa să pleci niciodată.

The first thing he said was your name, and just the way he said it made you fall in love with him all over again.

“I… I dream that you would come back,” he shakily replied. “But now I cannot believe. You are my dream.”

Tears were openly flowing at this point and you wanted to run into his arms, but you tried to stay calm and hear him out. He stepped closer, almost hesitant, like you would run away if he got too close too fast.

“I love you, very much that I am sure I am insane person,” he explained with a grin, and you giggled. “We will live anywhere, do anything you would like— be my wife.”

You gasped as he pulled you into him, gripping your arms tightly as his desperation became apparent.

“Marry me?” he asked softly.

“Da,” you nodded, “yes, of course, anything—”

He kissed you suddenly, but gently, and it said more than any words in any language could.

It was a small wedding, in the Hungarian countryside by the lake. You could remember diving into that lake for lost pages of your manuscript; you could remember looking out over the water and dreaming of this moment you were living right now, thinking it was impossible.

He didn’t have much family, but they welcomed you with open arms.

Your family, well, they were too busy with planning another wedding, for your ex-husband and your ex-sister. A few of them sent cards but the rest were suspiciously quiet. You honestly didn’t even notice… you had a new family to attend to, anyhow. And it wasn’t like you didn’t have any guests, since you were able to track down and invite a stewardess named Maria, and a cab driver named Andrei and his wife, Paola.

Sebastian’s cousins weaved flowers into your hair and his grandmother tailored her dress to fit you like a glove. A picture of his parents was hung nearby in tribute; he told you they would’ve wanted to see him get married but that he felt, in some way, they were able to even if they had passed away quite some time ago.

You realized you’d never seen him in anything even mildly formal before; in fact, the suit he wore was rather casual, all things considered, but he looked so painfully cute in it. Sometimes you thought he actually looked a bit out of place wearing a shirt, though, especially one that was buttoned up all the way.

Luckily, the shirt was halfway unbuttoned about ten minutes into the reception.

Mrs. Alberti cooked a massive dinner for everyone, and even grew the flowers that you carried down the cobblestone aisle.

And wow, can Romanians drink. You had to be careful not to try to keep up with them, because if you had you would’ve been blacked out halfway into the night and the last thing you wanted was to forget even a moment of this.

As the night started to wind down to a close, you and your new husband retired to the lakehouse, running up the stairs and finding them as creaky as always.

He wrapped his arms around you in the hall and kissed you eagerly as you stumbled back into the bedroom, tripping over the doorway and falling onto the bed together.

It felt so right to have his weight on top of you, to feel his smile against your lips, to wrap your arms around his neck.

“This room,” he mumbled into the kiss. “Do you remember first time?”

“Yes,” you nodded, “da, I remember, how could I forget?”

He grinned and moved his lips down to your neck. "I thought of you every day… I love you,” he whispered.

“Te iubesc,” you whispered back.

It was almost like the first time in so many ways: passionate, yet oddly hesitant as you rediscovered each other. It was comfortable, though… you couldn’t think of any other person you felt so comfortable with, somebody who finally got you out of your own head and who made you want to experience everything life had to offer.

You were sure you’d never gone so long without worrying about something in all your life.

“My wife,” he whispered against your skin. “This is all I had wanted… from seeing you in very beginning.”

“You’re all I ever wanted,” you sighed in return, “ești tot ce mi-am dorit vreodată, Sebastian.”

Life with Sebastian was beautifully simple. You spent most of the day writing, usually, while he built furniture to sell and occasionally gardened with his spare time. You could always tell how busy you’d been with a new novel lately by how perfectly groomed the hydrangea bushes were.

You’d told him once that you’d come to Hungary looking for a million-dollar book idea. A Killer in Disguise performed alright, but not anywhere near that. The Language of Love, on the other hand, was definitely a million-dollar idea… about eleven times over. Sebastian didn’t seem to worry too much about how much money you made, though; he was just proud to say that he was the inspiration for your hit novel. You secretly suspected that he was more proud of your work reaching enough international notoriety to be translated into Romanian.

His English still needed some work, but you found it endearing. He was determined to get better and spent at least a half-hour each day practicing, but you hoped he wouldn’t get too perfect because you would miss the silly little mistakes he made. At least you could be sure he’d keep the accent forever… damn, that accent; and he knew exactly what it did to you, too.

In fact, you were crossing through the hall in your robe one evening when your husband’s voice stopped you.

“Darling wife,” you heard Sebastian call from the bedroom in a playful sing-song.

“What is it, Seba?” you asked with a smirk.

“Come in here, please…”

You opened the bedroom door to find most of the room covered in rose petals: most of all the bed, which was surrounded by candles, and topped with a shirtless (as per usual) Sebastian, laid on his side seductively with a long-stemmed rose (one you recognized from his very own garden) between his teeth.

“What are you doing?” you laughed. “Is this some sort of special occasion I’ve forgotten?”

You were already searching your mind for what it could be, but your two-year anniversary had passed a few months ago already and since it was spring it couldn’t be the anniversary of when you first met since that was late in the summer.

“Iss not quite a thpecial occathion yeth,” he answered before taking the rose from his mouth so he actually made sense. “I was considering it could be a special occasion, when we’re done…”

You smirked and climbed over the candles and into bed with him, taking the opportunity to run your hands over his chest. “And what occasion would that be?”

“A year from now, it could be the anniversary of when our child was conceived,” he answered.

Your breath caught in your throat, your voice reduced to a whisper of surprise. “Seba—”

“If you’re not ready, I will be understand,” he instantly added, stern yet soft. “Only if you want this, I just thought that maybe—”

You silenced him with a kiss, lacing your fingers into his hair and letting him roll you onto your back. He pulled back just enough to let you answer, but your noses were still bumping into each other and you smiled.

“I’m ready, Sebastian. More than ready,” you whispered.

He grinned and kissed you again, deeper and slower as he held your face with one hand and gripped your waist with the other. As his lips trailed down to your neck, you were interrupted with one pressing thought.

“Can I ask you something?”

He popped up and looked down at you with a smile. “Sure!”

“Why are you wearing ratty old jeans?” you laughed.

“Hey, these worked on you the first time,” he defended.

You gasped. “You don’t mean those are the jeans—”

“Yes,” he nodded, “the jeans that I had been wearing when I was working on Mrs. Alberti’s cottage. And, truly, when I was finding an excuse to work outside your window.”

“Wait,” you sat up, “did you actually work outside my window on purpose?”

He laughed, hanging his head quickly before looking back at you again with a sparkle in his eye. “You are very smart, my love, except for those times when you are— how do you say? Oblivious.”

You chuckled, unfortunately very aware that he was right.

“Didn’t you ever wonder why I was building a window frame, nearly a dozen metres away from the window it was for?”

You thought for a moment before dropping your face into your hands and laughing. “No, I didn’t notice that. I was too busy giving you a thorough eye-fuck,” you recalled.

“Yes, because I was not wearing a shirt and this distracted you,” he pondered, sounding suddenly like a scientist explaining a theorem or something. “See, that’s the beauty of wearing the jeans and no shirt. The body distracts you while the jeans seduce you.”

“How about you take the jeans off and put that body on me, capisce?” you pleaded; not that you didn’t love his humor or anything, but maybe his funny bone wasn’t exactly the bone you were interested in at the moment.

He grinned devilishly and suddenly pulled your legs apart, settling his body between them as he kissed your neck again, nipping at your jawline and ear. “You’re being impatient, dragă,” he purred. “You want to have my baby that badly?”

You whined involuntarily, arching your back as his hands roamed your body and finally began to untie your robe and push the silk out of the way. “Yes, Sebastian, please—”

“Let’s just say, theoretically, I wanted to have more than one? Would you have another of my children?” he asked softly as he reached up and palmed at your breasts, teasing your nipples which were already much too hard and sensitive for how little he’d touched you. The rough denim rubbing against the inside of your thighs was oddly arousing— maybe it was the sensation itself, or maybe it was just that this was almost like the first thing you imagined when you saw Sebastian all those years ago.

“Yes,” you moaned out your answer, “yes, you know I’d do anything for you.”

“What if I wanted a big family?” he pressed. “Really big? Like, Catholic big?”

“We can have our own fuckin’ Brady Bunch, Seb, I just need you right now,” you begged, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him into a hot and desperate kiss.

He decided to wait until afterwards to ask what a ‘Brady Bunch’ was. You decided to wait until afterwards to ask when he’d learned how to use the word ‘theoretically’.

sfarsit; the end

#sebastian stan x reader

507 notes · View notes

smmahamazing · 4 years ago

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Rounding out your Valentine’s Day with one last fic for the @inudayoflove2021 !!!

Summary: It’s White Day. Inuyasha and Kagome have been dating for a month, and Inuyasha has planned a nice evening for the two of them. Except Inuyasha has something a little sweet prepared for Kagome in hopes of getting a little steamy with her. What happens when Kagome has a similar idea? Set in the Cowboy Blues Universe. Rated E for smut.

Let me tell you, this chapter has truly taken it out of me. This is my first foray into writing smut, and y’all that is hard. But in the end, it’s been worth all the trouble in the world. Next month exactly will be ONE YEAR since I started writing. And that’s kind of crazy to me. I have six posted stories with an entire google drive of wips that scream at me day in and day out LOL. All because of a little White Day one shot that grew into a 23k story, with another 8k of one-shots, all set in the same universe. I couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate than with Inukag’s first time! Thank you so much to @clementinesgulag , who has also drawn a very sweet 😏😏😏piece of artwork for this chapter, and I’m so excited for y’all to see it!!! If you haven’t already, check out all the different fics with the Day of Love Collection on AO3!

Anyways, I’m dedicating this chapter to all you guys out there. This fandom has been an amazing part of my life this past year, and I’m so happy to be involved with such a great group of people. This past year has been crazy, but you guys have been worth it. I hope you all enjoy!!!

A special shoutout to @underwater0phelia for helping me with a few trouble sections! You're the greatest darling❤❤❤

Inuyasha loved routine. More specifically, he loved routine whenever his brain started to think too much about certain subjects.

Today was Mr. Tanaka's quarterly oil change. Mr. Tanaka had been a loyal customer dating back to the first week he had officially opened his doors for business. He told Inuyasha that he reminded him of a younger version of himself, and that he was happy to see a young man such as himself take a risk into opening his own business. Mr. Tanaka's kind words had really helped motivate Inuyasha through the good times and the bad times that first year, and so to thank him, Inuyasha gave the older gentleman a fair discount on any and all services, and let no one else service the vehicle.

Over the years, Inuyasha gained enough employees that he really didn't need to service any of the vehicles that came into the shop. He dealt with enough paperwork and general bureaucratic shit that, most days, he willingly let the boys take care of the line up.

But days like today were nice. Fantastic, really. Loud, heavy alternative rock blared through the speakers of a giant stereo as Inuyasha made quick work of the tiny honda. It was easy for Inuyasha to get all wrapped up in the monotony of his work. Today, Inuyasha had been more anxious than usual, so he decided to go ahead and perform a full diagnostic package on Mr. Tanaka's car. The extra work would help keep Inuyasha's mind focused.

The problem was that White Day was next week, and Inuyasha had absolutely no idea what to get Kagome. They had only been dating for about a month and Inuyasha was struggling with the decision of how grand of a gesture he wanted to make.

When he was growing up, the giving norm was usually either chocolate or candy, and sometimes flowers depending on the relationship of the giver towards the recipient. Given the short amount of time they had been together, chocolate seemed like a good direction to head towards, but Inuyasha had been overanalyzing the entire situation for several days now.

The main reason for his anxiety came from his already deep feelings for a girl he's only known for a month. Inuyasha truly enjoyed talking to and spending time with Kagome. They were constantly texting each other; asking a variety of questions about their lives and the things that they thought defined them. Random pictures broke up the mass of their text bubbles. Kagome had been given leeway from her boss to experiment with all different kinds of cakes, so practically everyday was an image of a new cake, decorated all cutesy for the romantic holiday.

The rational part of his brain told him to just get her a nice box of chocolates and flowers and enjoy a nice evening together. But Kagome deserved more effort than just purchasing a random box of chocolates. An ideal gift would be to make her something - she seemed like the type of girl to love homemade gifts - but to Inuyasha, the idea was….daunting, and a little embarrassing. Inuyasha knew enough about cooking and baking to just get him by, but he didn’t feel confident enough to make something for a woman whose career was based on cooking and baking. Not like Kagome would laugh at him or make fun of anything he made, but it was an insecurity Inuyasha couldn't seem to shake when put in front of his professional girlfriend.

It didn't help that the irrational part of his brain wanted to give her something more than just chocolate.

Despite being together for about a month, they hadn't had sex yet. Not because neither of them didn't want to, they just …never brought the subject up. The more they talked, the more Inuyasha began to realize how much he liked her, and he didn't want to do anything that would jeopardize the easy going relationship they had now.

In reality, he just didn't want to scare her off by demanding sex. Nor did he want to demand sex from her, he just wanted things to happen naturally. Before he knew it, a month had flown by.

Several hours passed before Inuyasha finally decided he couldn’t keep Mr. Tanaka's car in the shop any longer. He dragged his feet to the hand washing sink, taking his time to scrub the grease from his hands and the dirt off his forearms.

Mr. Tanaka always came first thing in the morning before most people were functioning enough to stop by, so the waiting room had several more people in it then when he started working on the car.

"Mr. Tanaka," Inuyasha announced, grabbing a free computer at the front desk to pull up the service information. Mr. Tanaka stood with a smile on his face and walked up to him.

"She's all good I assume?"

"Yup, fit as a fiddle. Gave her a good once over, which is why it took a little longer than normal. On the house."

"Ahh, Inuyasha my boy, you're too good to me."

Inuyasha chuckled as the computer calculated the total, and he prompted Mr. Tanaka to insert his credit card into the card reader.

"So, what are your plans for the rest of the day?" Inuyasha asked.

"Oh, I'm going to spend the afternoon with the grandchildren, maybe go out for a stroll and a banana split at the nice ice cream joint not far from my house. How about yourself?"

"Just take out for me and my girl tonight, nothing exciting,"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, " Mr. Tanaka said with a glint in his eyes. "Every evening with your woman is special. "

Inuyasha snorted at his statement, grabbing the receipt that just finished printing and giving it to the older man. "Alright old man, I'll see you in another three months."

"Alright then, Inuyasha. Don't work too hard now!" Mr. Tanaka says with a sly look on his face. Inuyasha merely rolled his eyes at the joke the older gentleman made every time he brought his car in. Inuyasha always thought him a strange man; despite doing good business, not everyone wanted to stay and chat with a hanyou, but Inuyasha tried not to think about it too much. If his mother was alive, she'd say something about how "people can always surprise you" or "there's still good in the world, Inuyasha". He tried to think about those theoretical statements when he was faced with an actual nice person.

With Mr. Tanaka's car finished, Inuyasha walked back out to the garage to finish cleaning up his station. There was some paperwork to be done, but he was hoping today would be busy enough to justify him working on the floor instead.

'Maybe a little snack first,' Inuyasha thought as he held his hand up to his rumbling stomach. Now the only question was, sweet or savory? Mr. Tanaka and his grandkids were still on the edge of his brain, thinking maybe Kagome would be up for getting a carton of rocky road tonight to share.

That was when the idea hit him. It came in small bursts, just split second images his brain conjured up to give him an idea of what it would look like. It was something Inuyasha had never done before. Kikyo kept their sex life pretty...vanilla. Not that this idea was all that out there, but the whole thing would definitely feel a little odd to someone who really only used the missionary position in his last relationship.

It was definitely something Inuyasha would probably like - just the thought of it was already starting to wake up his lower brain - but would Kagome? Would she misconstrue the situation somehow? Would she be into that kind of thing?

One thing was for certain; Inuyasha needed to continue this line of thought in his private office, not amongst all his employees. He found his assistant manager and confirmed their current appointments for the next several hours before locking himself in the office to come up with ways to make this little "idea" of his work.

~~~

It was just starting to get dark when Kagome pulled up to her normal spot at Inuyasha's apartment. She killed the engine as soon as she put the car in park, but didn't make a move yet to open the door and make her way over to his apartment. This way, Kagome wouldn't be able to chicken out or drive away. Eventually, the cooler air outside would make its way in and lower the temperature in the car, prompting her that her time to sit around has come to an end.

Kagome didn't even know what she was so nervous about anyway. It was going to be just another date night with Inuyasha, perfectly normal and entertaining.

‘Oh yeah, because showing up at your boyfriend’’s house in nothing but lingerie is definitely normal,’ Kagome thought, shifting around in her seat a little and making herself much more aware of exactly what she was wearing and why.

She had been dating Inuyasha for just about a month now, and they had yet to “do the deed”. Which, if she was honest, Kagome wasn’t sure if that was odd or normal for a relationship. Her past relationships had been so varied, ranging from sex on the first date to no sex at all, or even pretty much only sex with little to no substance.

Kagome didn’t think it was because he didn’t want to. They had been texting back and forth practically everyday since their first date at that ramen shop. Inuyasha even made it a point to come to the diner for lunch just so they could see each other - which totally didn’t make her heart flutter, no siree. They just hadn’t really had the...opportunity to express their interest for each other in that way yet.

The plan for tonight was to just have a simple dinner at Inuyasha’s, and maybe pop in a movie during dessert. Very relaxed and extremely intimate. It was actually Kagome’s idea of a perfect date. Sure, going out to eat together is always nice, and spending the day out and about can create a lot of great memories, but she craved the closeness one could get when you were comfortable in your own home.

Kagome had some slight alterations to go with their evening plans It was simple: walk inside, seduce her hot boyfriend, and fuck him into next week. She still wasn’t sure where dinner and a movie fell between it all; she was just going to have to wing it. Earlier in the week, Kagome had made a stop at the mall and purchased a most alluring piece of lingerie.

It was a fairly simple garment, which was good because Kagome couldn’t even begin to wonder how she’d get into some of the lingerie she looked at. She was pretty sure some of them could double as their own sex toys. In the end, she chose two different colors of a two piece bra and panty set - one in red, which she was currently wearing, and one in green, her favorite color. It was made from a soft silk with floral lace borders around the edges of the cup of the bra and the elastic of the panties. Overall, it was a very comfortable fit, which is what greatly prompted Kagome to purchase two.

However, the real stars of the show were the crotchless panties and the cupless bra.

Despite its simplicity, it was the raunchiest piece of lingerie that Kagome had ever purchased.

It was still chilly outside, requiring her to wear her purple peacoat to and from the car, but the only other piece of clothing Kagome wore was a random slip dress she found buried deep in one of her dresser drawers. She was actually pretty sure it was meant to go over your bathing suit when visiting the local swimming pool or beach, but with only three buttons and a waist tie, the garment was perfect for easy removal. She rounded out the whole outfit with the most expensive pair of black stiletto heels she owned, and hoped that Inuyasha didn't question its...quirkiness.

Well, she was wearing an old pair of boyshorts over the crotchless panties, but Kagome just felt too awkward driving without a proper pair of underwear on.

'Alright Kagome, time to get your butt in gear,' she thought, giving her cheeks a few good slaps to motivate her. With a deep inhale, she carefully shimmied out of the boyshorts and tossed them into the backseat before grabbing her purse and stepping out of the car to walk towards Inuyasha's apartment.

She knocked on the door, running her hands through her hair to fix any errant strands the wind may have moved. After about thirty seconds, she could hear Inuyasha's muffled reply to ‘come on in’, like he was on the opposite side of the apartment. It was unusual of him - he never failed to greet her at the door the few times she had been over - but she reminded herself they had only been dating for a month. Plus, he was probably still getting things ready. No big deal.

He must have anticipated not being quite ready for her arrival, seeing as the door was already unlocked. She quickly stepped in and locked the door behind her, taking off her coat and hanging it, along with her purse, on one of the hooks beside the door. She forewent taking her shoes off though, since they were a part of the whole 'fuck me' look she was attempting to pull off.

Looking into the living room, there were a few extra blankets and pillows stacked on the ottoman, but nothing looked particularly different. The apartment was always pretty clean due to Inuyasha's sensitive nose - he had a hard time dealing with dust - although it looked like he did a quick wipe down throughout the room not that long ago.

Inuyasha didn't have a space set up for a dining table since he normally ate by himself , but he had taken the time to set up a couple of placemats for them at the bar that separated the kitchen and living room. Each spot had its own dinner plate, salad bowl, utensils, and wine glass all ready to be filled. Placed on either side of them and in front of them were three long candlesticks in their own respective holder.

The whole scene put a soft smile on her face as she tenderly touched each piece. She had yet to see Inuyasha, but tonight was already turning out to be the perfect date. It was obvious to see the work he put into making this dinner special for them. The plates looked like they came from his own cupboard, but she was pretty sure he went out to buy candles to set the mood.

Kagome was beginning to get a little anxious to find Inuyasha, but the smells coming from the kitchen were strong enough to tear her away from her search. There were a couple of pots on the stove over a low flame. Nothing smelled like it was burning, but what kind of cook would Kagome be if she didn't take a quick peek at some unattended pots?

That's what she told herself, anyways, as she slowly lifted the lid to the pot on the right hand burner. The pleasant aroma of tomatoes and garlic filled the immediate area, and Kagome inhaled it deeply. Inside the pot was what looked to be meatballs, simmering in a homemade tomato sauce. Kagome took hold of the spoon being used to stir the sauce and snuck a quick taste.

She closed her eyes, groaning slightly in satisfaction. The sauce was tangy and savory, a hint of sweetness found in the aftertaste. Kagome might have been the professional chef between them, but Inuyasha never gave himself enough credit when it came to his own cooking. Growing up as a hanyou, he always had to be careful with foods that could possibly be too spicy or over seasoned, and he learned that it was sometimes better to just cook your own food.

Not to mention the fact that there were few things more attractive than your boyfriend cooking a meal for you.

Kagome set the lid back on the pot to go looking for the hanyou in question. She hadn't seen Inuyasha since she came in, and a quick peek behind the balcony curtains told her he wasn't outside either, which left the bathroom and bedroom.

There were three doors down in the back hallway. The first door on the left - which was left open and clearly empty - was the bathroom, with a small storage closet directly across from it. Kagome walked right past both doors in favor of the closed bedroom door; the storage closet was small and cramped, not big enough to fit even the small built Kagome inside with the door closed, and so, inconsequential to Kagome's mind.

She stood in front of the bedroom door, suddenly nervous now that the sight of cooked food couldn't distract her. She still had no idea how tonight was going to pan out, or how Inuyasha would react to her advances. Kagome took another deep breath to relax her shoulders, making herself stand just a little bit taller.

She was a Higurashi after all, dammit! Known for their stubbornness and determination, there was no obstacle they couldn't climb. In fact, there was nothing for her to be nervous about at all. She was an attractive woman, he was an attractive man. This was just the natural next step that many people took in their relationships, and damn it all, she was gonna seduce the hell out of him.

Yet, she wasn't expecting the sight that laid before her as she opened the door. At all.

Her breath hitched as wide eyes landed on Inuyasha sprawled out on the bed.

Completely naked.

Well, was he considered completely naked if his dick was just barely covered? It was an errant thought that crossed her mind, despite how unnecessary it was at the moment.

Kagome didn't think she'd ever seen a sight as glorious as Inuyasha, propped up by a couple of pillows, one arm bent behind his head, the other laying across his stomach. She had yet to see Inuyasha without a shirt on, and found she couldn't tear her eyes away from the bulging muscles in his arms, or the rippling six-pack he sported. He looked like he could have been carved by Michaelangelo himself, an Adonis covered in whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and caramel, topped with a bright red maraschino cherry on top.

Kagome was sure she was about to develop a sweet tooth of her own.

She took a quick second to notice the overall look of the room. He had the same long stemmed candles placed strategically around the room, offering the only source of light. Beside him on the bedside table was all the fixings - the chocolate sauce, caramel, whipped cream, even a jar of strawberry jam.

'Oh my God, is this what he meant by having banana splits for dessert?' she thought, remembering the text conversation they had as she was getting ready earlier. Inuyasha hadn't told her what he was making for dinner, but he had asked her if she liked banana splits. Which she had replied to him that of course she did, who didn't?

Well, one thing for sure was that she'd never look at a banana split the same way again.

Neither of them knew how long she had been standing there for, but Inuyasha was getting more nervous by the second. She hadn't said anything when she entered the room, just stood there staring at him with this weird look in her eyes.

The last five minutes had been stressful for him, to say the least. Inuyasha hadn't wanted to put the whipped cream on too soon and have it start melting on him, so he waited until he could hear her soft knocking at the front door before getting himself all set up.

He had no idea how long it would take Kagome to make her way to the bedroom. She was far too curious for her own good to just sit out there waiting for him, but how many things would distract her on her way to the bedroom was the real question. Still, as soon as he heard the front door close, he got to work, covering his very erect penis with the whipped cream - just the thought of what her mouth would be doing to him soon was enough to get him going - and using deft hands to flourish it with the chocolate and caramel. He saved the cherry for the moment right before she opened the door, not wanting it to slide off and ruin the masterpiece he had concocted.

Surprisingly, he wasn't all that nervous as he was getting ready. It was when she finally came in and just stared that set his nerves on fire. What was she thinking? Did she like the view or was she trying to figure out how to get out of the situation entirely? He didn't really know what her scent smelled of when she was aroused, so he felt like he was walking into the fire blind.

He couldn't take it anymore. The silence was killing him, he was sure of it. He didn't know what he was going to say to her, but anything was better than nothing.

"Kagome,"

Hearing her name must have startled her from her own thoughts. She looked at him now - really looked at him - and what he saw in her eyes was pure determination.

Inuyasha didn't think he had ever been so terrified in his life. It was at this moment he realized that he really didn't know all that much about Kagome. Sure, they had been talking back and forth, constantly texting about their favorite movies or the places they like to frequent or comparing allergies, but that was just the small stuff. He had no idea what this look in her eyes meant.

And then, she showed him.

If he was worried about what she thought about his "gift" to her, her next actions put those thoughts to bed.

She slowly unbuttoned the dress she was wearing, sensually untying the waist tie until it opened and floated to the floor, bearing herself to him.

Inuyasha had to stifle the urge to whine. He had never seen a sight as alluring as Kagome, standing before him with her hair down over her shoulders in a bright red lingerie set. This wasn't like any lingerie set Inuyasha had ever seen. The cups to the bra covered the tops of her breasts more than most bras might, but he had a clear view of her dusky pink nipples poking through a set of holes in each cup.

The candlelight put the most tantalizing shadows against the muscles in her arms down to her toned calves, which was exaggerated even more by the black high heels she wore. And as his eyes wandered up and down her body, he was pretty sure they were crotchless, judging by the shape of the panties.

His first thought was that she looked like a snack, but he'd be lying - she was a whole goddamn meal.

"Is this for me?" she asked, walking up to the end of the bed, jutting her hips out with each step.

It sort of felt like an out of body experience, like she had control of her body but also not at the same time? Every step to the bed was fueled by a slowly rising arousal. Her mouth was beginning to water; she hadn't expected to do dessert before dinner, but she supposed she could break the rules just this once. After all, it would be rude to not immediately accept this most generous...gift.

"Ye - yeah," Inuyasha answered, trying to sound suave instead of like some virginal teenager. He wasn't so sure he was succeeding, but Kagome didn't seem to mind as she continued to get closer to him, bending down to lean her hands against the bed, giving him a fantastic view of her chest.

He couldn't control the twitch in his cock as she began to fully lift herself onto the bed. Kagome didn't miss it either, giving him a devilish smirk as she crawled her way to him. It made him feel like prey being stalked by a predator, which was a weird change in his bedroom dynamics. He had always been the more dominant party when he was with Kikyo, but he was finding that he didn't mind the change all that much.

Not when a beautiful woman like Kagome was looking like she was going to devour him.

And that was exactly what she planned to do.

Kagome gingerly put her hands on his calves, causing Inuyasha to take in a sharp inhale. He hadn't been expecting her touch, and it made him take in a sharp inhale. He expected her to dive straight in, but she leaned over to the right side of the bed instead, bringing her bare nipples dangerously close to his face.

Inuyasha turned his head away slightly and closed his eyes, not sure if he could stand to look at her much longer before losing his patience and having his way with her. The bed shifted back to normal a second later, and Inuyasha opened his eyes to find she had grabbed the chocolate sauce and the jar of caramel.

Kagome desperately wanted a taste of him, but she also wanted to make this whole experience last. She wanted to tease and torture him until he couldn't take it anymore and took her instead.

"Do you mind getting a little sticky?"

Inuyasha's eyes started to darken as her plans for him slowly became clear. So she wanted to tease him a little, huh? That was fine by him. He was sure he'd let her do whatever she wanted.

"I'm your blank canvas Kagome,"

'Smooth'

Inuyasha watched her face flush at his words and he subconsciously opened his chest up in pride at being the one to cause it. She looked so cute flustered, and he couldn't wait to see it again when she was underneath him.

Kagome took his words to heart and opened the top to the chocolate sauce. Moving over to his left side for a better angle, she started at his face, taking the bottle and carefully squeezing it over his skin - over his lips, on the apple of his cheeks, on his nose, sculpting the jaw.

And then she started moving downward, dotting all down his neck, not wanting it to run too much given the angle. When she reached his chest, she began drawing intricate lace designs over his pecs. Inuyasha could see the absolute focus in her eyes as she drew, almost as if she had done this before. She worked in a restaurant, and Inuyasha was pretty sure he remembered her saying she even did some baking, so she most likely had done this before. On a cake at least.

When she was done with the chocolate, she grabbed the jar of caramel and began painting him with that as well. Inuyasha had taken the honey dipper from his mother's old honey jar to make it easier to decorate with, and Kagome used it to accent the major chocolate work on his skin. She took extra care covering his nipples and belly button.

Kagome was about to get to work when she looked up and realized she had forgotten to take the strawberry jam. She went all out on covering his chest, so that was a no go. She scrunched her face up a little, thinking about what she could do with it, when suddenly the idea hit her.

"Hand me the strawberry jam?" she asked, innocently batting her eyelashes at him.

He did as she asked, going as far as opening the jar before handing it to her. She tossed him a sweet smile before taking hold of his left hand and dipping each finger into the jam. She gestured for him to take the jar back, watching him grab it with his free hand. She wanted until right before the jar was going to hit the table, and took his thumb into her mouth.

Just as she thought would happen, the jar clattered onto the table, the strange sensation of Kagome sucking on his fingers taking away all brain functions.

Inuyasha had never had someone suck on his fingers before, and if you had asked him prior to tonight if that was something he'd be into, Inuyasha would have probably answered with a scrunched face and a "hard no". Now though? He could see the pros.

She thoroughly cleaned his fingers, wrapping her tongue languidly around each digit and sucking hard enough to feel the blood flow temporarily stop. Inuyasha couldn't keep in the low moan as he imagined her using that tongue in the same way on his cock.

She gave him a break by starting with the chocolate on his face next. She pressed the flat of her tongue against each cheek, using the tip to sensually lick the chocolate off his nose and along his jaw, ending her explorations of his face with a sweet kiss. It was slow and wistful, sweet from of the chocolate.

Inuyasha parted his mouth to let her tongue in when she began licking across the seam. He used his right hand to thread through her hair, deepening the kiss. Gods, did she taste absolutely fucking divine, like chocolate covered cherries.

Far too soon, she pulled away from him, nipping his bottom lip for attempting to pull her back in. Kagome used her own hand to run through his hair, tipping his head back enough so she could run her tongue up and down the skin, licking up all the chocolate dots she had placed there.

Her tongue was so warm, and soft. It left him in a daze as she moved lower to tackle his chest. From the way she licked, starting from one side to the other and slowly making her way south, she must have drawn an elaborate maze. Her tongue deftly moved with precision; she knew exactly where to go.

Inuyasha moaned, his eyes half mast in pleasure, as Kagome sucked at his nipples. She took her time there, giving each one an equal amount of attention, erasing all signs of the caramel that covered them before moving on.

It was the most pleasurable torture Inuyasha had ever endured. She was getting closer and closer to the whipped cream tower that covered him, but it was obvious that Kagome was going to savor the taste of him before digging in. No amount of skin was forgotten as she traced lines of fire down his chest, dipping her tongue into his caramel filled belly button. Sometime during her travels downward, Inuyasha had grabbed a hold of her hair, helping keep it pinned back so she didn't get any chocolate or whipped cream in it. It was also an exercise in control, being careful that he didn't pull her hair too hard to cause her any pain.

Truth be told, Kagome was excited to get to the whipped cream portion of her dessert hanyou, although not entirely for what lay underneath. She had been eyeing that cherry since she walked in on him. It was the best part of a dessert after all.

She licked a line from the base of the tower to the tip, careful to not get too close to the skin of his shaft, picking up the cherry with the tip of her tongue and placing it between her teeth with the stem pointing out toward Inuyasha. Her gut reaction was to bite into the cherry and satiate her desire for the small fruit, but looking up at Inuyasha she had a better idea.

Leaning in towards him, she stuck out the stem towards his lips, offering him one last taste of her before she finally got a taste of him. Inuyasha greedily took the stem in his mouth, moving his lips generously over hers as she bit into the cherry, sharing the juice between the two of them for a moment before pulling apart.

Inuyasha wished he knew how to tie cherry stems with his tongue. He wanted to show her just what he could do with that tongue of his. Instead, he spit it out over the edge of the bed, far more concerned with what Kagome was about to do next.

Kagome had already moved to nestle herself between his legs, laying on her chest with her legs propped up at the knees, ankles crossed. Every time Kagome moved to another position, Inuyasha didn't think she could get any sexier, only to be proven wrong just a moment later. She gave him one last sultry look, placing her hands on his thighs to gently massage them, before taking the flat of her tongue from the base of his balls to the tip of his dick, all the way down to the skin.

Inuyasha pulled a low growl from deep in his chest at the feel of her tongue running up and down his hardened length. She felt even more amazing than he imagined she would, and he wasn't sure whether it was because he had been dry for so long or because Kagome just had a lot of practice.

They had been honest with each other from the beginning about their past sexual experiences. While Inuyasha wasn't a stranger to the act, Kagome had been with far more partners than himself, and with the way she licked his dick like her favourite ice cream cone was proof of that. Gods, when was the last time he received a blowjob anyways? Not since Kikyo, and that was years ago.

He played with the idea of threading his hand through her hair again, wanting to constantly be touching her, to feel her shiver as his claws lightly grazed her scalp. But as she finished licking off all the whipped cream, she fully engulfed his dick in her mouth, relaxing her jaw to fit as much of him in as she could. Inuyasha put holes into the bedsheets from gripping them so hard, and he was grateful he had stayed his hand from her head.

Inuyasha's head was spinning at the wet sounds of Kagome's mouth salivating around his dick. He didn't know how much more of this he could take before blowing his load early, and he much rather preferred the thought of cumming inside her undoubtedly wet pussy instead of her mouth.

"K-Kagome,"

She didn't slow down, didn't even look up at him as the hand that was squeezing towards the base tightened and the movements of her mouth went a little faster and deeper.

"Nng….Kags…."

Kagome could feel his balls tighten and knew he couldn't hold it much longer. The act of licking food off Inuyasha's body aroused her far more than she would have expected, and there was one aspect of the "banana split" that Inuyasha was missing: the garnish of chopped nuts. The chocolate and caramel she poured all over him and the whipped cream left her with a wonderfully sweet taste in her mouth, but she wanted to know how the salty taste of his cum would mix with it.

She ran a finger from her other hand along his perineum and moaned as she gave him one last hard suck. The vibrations from the skin to skin contact of her lips caused Inuyasha to let out a pitched whine as he filled her mouth with his cum. She held him fast in her mouth, keeping some controlled movement of her hand on his shaft as she swallowed every last drop of him.

Salty and sweet. Kagome was sure this was the ultimate way to give a blowjob, and she hoped by the panting she could hear from Inuyasha that he'd let her do it again sometime.

After cleaning up every last drop of his cum, she gave one last, chaste kiss to the tip of his cock and started lifting herself up by the arms when she was suddenly grabbed by the forearms and hauled up towards his face. He smashed his lips against her, clinking their teeth together as he pushed his tongue into her mouth, groaning at the taste of himself on her. He wanted to tell her how much he enjoyed what she gave him, but words seemed immaterial and not enough, so he decided to show her instead.

In fact, he loved it so much, he knew he had to return the favor. Besides, Kagome got to have her fun, so it was only fair that Inuyasha should as well.

He wrapped his arms around Kagome and flipped them so he was top, not once severing their connection at the lips. Kagome didn't seem to mind the change as her hands roamed his body, tracing the muscles up his arms and in his shoulders. When the need for air became too great, Inuyasha moved down to line open mouthed kisses to the pulsepoint in her neck, nipping the jaw on his way there.

It took a considerable amount of restraint to not move himself even lower. She looked absolutely delectable laying under him, her nipples already pebbled and hard from her aroused state. She had a soft expression in her eyes, but there was still a light held in there that waited for Inuyasha's next move.

Just as she had done, he reached over her to grab the chocolate sauce and caramel and carefully spread it all over the tops of her breasts and stomach, saving the caramel for her exposed nipples. It was not nearly as intricate as Kagome's designs had been; despite his desire to give back the love she gave him, he was slowly becoming impatient. It had been so long since he made love to a woman, and the imagined feeling of her warm heat clutching him as he pumped into her made him grow harder by the second.

He also didn't have nearly as much space as she did. Inuyasha didn't want to get chocolate syrup on her lingerie, which he guessed probably cost a good deal.

Inuyasha set the toppings down on the nightstand, bringing his nose to the silk material of her bra and gently rubbed his nose against it. The silk was so soft against his skin and smelled strongly of her natural scent, intoxicating him.

His original plan was to slowly work his way down her body, but he couldn't fight the instinct to lay his tongue flat against her right nipple, licking up all the caramel in one swoop. Her body twitched, not quite anticipating his touch there yet, and she let out a sharp gasp as he curled his tongue around her nipple and completely enveloped it into his mouth.

Kagome's body was already beginning to tremble, not used to the feeling of someone's hot breath against her skin. She arched her chest upwards towards his face, desperate to keep that connection intact. Every lick and suck was sending jolts of pleasure down to her core, setting her body ablaze in passion. When he started nibbling with his teeth, Kagome trailed her hands up around his head, gently grasping the base of his ears and massaging them.

Inuyasha growled at the sensation, her soft touch sending shivers down his spine. Despite how good it felt, Inuyasha let her nipple go with a loud pop! and with almost lightening speed, grabbed her wrists and trapped them together above her head. This time was for Kagome; Inuyasha was determined to make her feel just as good as he did - if not more - and currently, that didn't include him. Not in the same way.

Until he could bury himself in her, the only thing he wanted from her was to hear her moaning in pleasure.

"Ah ah, no touching yet baby," he told her, keeping himself lifted off her just enough to take her in. Kagome moaned at the absence of his lips, arching her back just a little bit more to tempt him to come back for more. Inuyasha wished he could keep her in this position. He loved the way her chest opened up to him from this angle, but he fully planned on giving both nipples this undivided attention. Unfortunately he couldn't grow a third arm.

"Tell you what," he said, placing open mouth kisses down her neck. "If you can keep your hands up here, I'll make it worth your while,"

Kagome rolled her hands into fists, trying her hardest to break free as he gently pulled on her earlobe, snaking his tongue up the sides. She wasn't sure she could keep still while he lapped at her skin. She wanted something to do with her hands, and his ears were a perfect distraction.

But he was giving her a challenge, and Kagome had no plans to back down anytime soon.

"Then show me what you got," she replied, relaxing her hands and lowered her body back down into the bed.

Inuyasha released her wrists slowly, making sure they stayed where he put them. His hand slowly lowered down, caressing her cheek and trailing a line down her neck straight to her breast. He cupped the underside of her left breast, lifting it right to his mouth.

Kagome sighed as his other hand came up to the other breast, pulling and twisting the nipple. She managed to keep her wrists where they were, but couldn't help flexing her hands.

When he was convinced her breasts had been worshipped long enough, he slowly worked his way down her body, licking the chocolate off as he went. Her skin was soft, arguably softer than even the lingerie she wore. Inuyasha had to control himself from marking her all over her stomach, settling for quick nips that only turned the skin red for a few moments.

Inuyasha couldn't wait any longer. He was so close to getting to taste her, and he was salivating at the prospect. Her belly button was the last place he focused on - swirling his tongue around it - before gripping her left thigh in his hand and lifting it so it sat on his shoulder. He used his other hand to spread her right leg, opening herself up to him fully.

Without thinking about it, he brought his nose against her dark curls and inhaled, letting out a deep groan. She smelled absolutely exquisite, a spicy scent reminiscent of ginger surrounding him. The image of her panting underneath him, pussy already glistening from how wet she was for him, was more perfect than he could have ever imagined.

He dove in, licking a long swipe from slit to clit. She was sweet and salty at the same time, something uniquely Kagome, and he’d never get enough. He worked his tongue in overtime, starting at the ever quickly hardening nub. He flicked his tongue back and forth, bracing his hands against her thighs as she twitched with each flick, before moving down a little lower. He used his right hand to gently push apart her folds, each swipe of the tongue imitating a soft caress to her sensitive nerves.

Kagome moaned at the feeling, jolts of pleasure shooting through her body like electricity. She had given up on his challenge, moving her hands down from above her head and threading her fingers through his hair, gently scraping his scalp with her nails.

She could feel her eyes roll towards the back of her head as he plunged his tongue inside her. There was something about receiving oral that just sent her over the edge. The feel of his tongue swirling inside her, hitting her innermost walls as she tried to keep him in, had her gasping and squirming.

Despite the overwhelming feeling, she made sure to keep her hands clear of his ears, not wanting to accidentally pull or pinch them. She tried lifting her pelvis off the bed, but her trembling body was no match for the pure strength of his arms as he held her down. Instead, she pushed his head further forward, making his nose bump her clit, sending jolts of pleasure straight to her core.

Inuyasha had to grind his pelvis into the bed to find a bit of relief from the sensory overload. He was drunk on the taste of her, but his impatience was beginning to get the best of him. He wanted to know how she felt wrapped around his dick, sucking him in and milking him dry.

He relished in the small whines Kagome made as he nuzzled his nose against her nub. He could feel her legs begin to shake as he slowly made his way upward, taking his time to generously lick around her folds before turning his tongue's attention to her swollen pearl.

It felt like the breath was being squeezed from Kagome's chest. Every inhale was followed by a shallow, barely present exhale. His tongue was working in overdrive. Every flick, every swirl had her entire body trembling under the force of her well awaited orgasm just starting to break over the horizon.

Inuyasha, in an effort to end their collective misery, took her swollen nub between his lips and sucked, letting out a contented growl, the vibrations finally sending her over the edge. Kagome let out an almost shrill whine and arched her back, her thighs tense with the desire to capture Inuyasha's head between them. Her eyes clouded, unable to focus on anything but the explosive orgasm running throughout body.

Inuyasha stayed right where he was, lapping up every drop of her essence that spilled from her. His ears stood at attention as he listened to her mewling, a soft rumbling spreading throughout his chest at the thought that he made her feel this way.

Inuyasha kept at her folds, slowly licking her clean, until the tremors stopped racing through her body. He pushed himself up so he could get a better image of the woman under him. Her face was flushed red, small tendrils of hair already beginning to stick to her neck, and her chest was heaving, taking in large gulps of air. When her breath was starting to go back to normal, she finally focused her gaze on Inuyasha, eyes filled with lust.

Inuyasha found it difficult to keep her strong gaze, his confidence from before slowly wavering now that there was nothing to distract either of them. Inuyasha wiped his chin on his upper arm, suddenly embarrassed about the mess he had made despite his best attempt at licking her clean.

Kagome let out a short puff of air, not wanting to fully chuckle at the man on top of her. She wasn't trying to laugh at him, he just looked so adorable. His eyes tried not to land on her face, but he didn't shy away from running them up and down her body. He was looking at her with what Kagome could only describe as reverence, yet just a tinge of uncertainty lingered.

Kagome leaned up, tugging one of his forelocks gently to bring his face to hers so they could share a kiss. It was slow and determined all at the same time; Kagome tried to pour her heart into it, to try and let him know that it was okay. They were okay, and Kagome wanted nothing more than to be with him like this for the rest of the night.

Kagome could taste herself on his tongue, and it only helped fuel the fire that had settled slightly after her body wracking orgasm. She wound her hands behind his neck, grazing the back of his neck with her fingernails, causing a deep groan to emit from Inuyasha's chest.

"Inuyasha, I want you," Kagome purred, running a finger lightly over the outlines of his ears while the other hand ran lines up and down his chest.

"Kagome…"

Inuyasha tried to keep his actions calm and smooth - leaning over to the bedside table to grab a condom from the drawer - a feat that proved to be difficult as Kagome continued to run her hands across whatever body part of his she could reach. His hands shook as he slowly rolled it onto his dick. When he was ready, he lowered himself down to lay on top of her, being careful not to put his weight on her, and instead into his arms that framed her face. She opened herself up to him, allowing him to nestle his stiff erection in between her legs.

"Kagome," he whispered, nuzzling his nose against her skin, starting from one cheek to the next. "Are you sure?"

Kagome brought her lips up against his one more time, teasing him with her tongue, swiping it along his lips, lightly caressing his own tongue in the process. She gently nipped his bottom lip when pulling back for air. She leaned up towards the top of his head, her breath ghosting the fine hairs of his ears.

"Take me, Inuyasha,"

Inuyasha had never heard words so sweet.

He slowly sank into her, nearly wincing at the pressure he felt. God she was tight! Already her walls were clenching and pulsing around his cock, her warmth seeping into him all the way up to his chest. Kagome moaned when Inuyasha was buried in her as far as he could be, basking in the fullness of having him inside her. For a minute, neither of them moved, each of them getting used to being so intimately joined.

Inuyasha kissed all along her jaw and neck - internally rejoicing when Kagome tilted her head back enough to bare more of her neck to him, a sign of submission to an Inu youkai.

Once Kagome was used to the added girth inside her, she rocked her hips up, letting him know she was ready for him to start moving.

He started slow, pulling out till just the tip remained before sliding back in. Inuyasha was the one to moan this time, Kagome letting out an erotic sigh as her body shivered under his touch. Every thrust sent a wave of pleasure through his body, the smell of their activities slowly beginning to permeate the air around them, creating a natural musk that was absolutely intoxicating.

Inuyasha raised himself up onto his arms just enough to look at her face as he continued to thrust into her. Kagome’s eyes were only halfway open, seeing but not seeing as she let her body be taken over by the pleasure of having him be not just inside of her, but to actively give her what her body desired. Her mouth was parted open, and Inuyasha could hear every little breathy moan she made as he tilted his hips back and forth, torturing her slowly.

Kagome hooked her ankles behind his legs in an effort to keep him as deep inside her as possible. One hand was gripping his bicep, the other was sinking into the supple flesh of one of his buttcheeks.

“Inuyasha....I….I need…”

“What do you need, baby?”

“I need more,”

“More of what?” he teased, slowing down his thrusts so he could circle his hips into her. Kagome let out a small cry at the sensation.

“I need it harder….faster…”

Inuyasha let out a low growl, and, with the precision only one with youkai ancestry could pull off, he fully raised himself up onto his knees, keeping himself inside of her. He grabbed both of her legs, hooking her ankles behind his head and gave her exactly what she asked for.

He began pounding into her with the fervor of a crazed man. Kagome became far more vocal, gasping and moaning at the force and speed with which he was fucking her with. Her head tilted back into the pillow, forcing her chest open to his eyed. Her breasts were bouncing violently against his movements.

“Touch yourself, Kagome,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for disobeyment. She instantly grabbed her breasts, molding each of them to her hands before pinching and rolling her nipples between deft fingers.

Kagome was on fire, the heat radiating from her core and spreading all over her body. Once again, the ability to exhale was quickly becoming lost to her, the holding of her breath only making the heat in her groin feel more pronounced. Her legs were beginning to ache, but she could barely feel the tension as he continued to pound into her, using the force and dexterity only a youkai could give her.

Inuyasha could feel he was close to the end, the feel of her wet pussy clenching around his hardened length bringing him closer and closer. He could hear every gasp and hitch of her breath, knowing that she was getting close herself. He wanted to give her one more orgasm before his own. Being mindful of his claws, he snaked his right hand down and began rubbing her clit, his rough, calloused fingers inducing the right amount of friction for Kagome’s legs to tremble.

“Nn..ahhh...Inuyasha...”

“Come on baby. Cum for me, Kagome,”

All it took were those four words to send Kagome over the edge. She let out a high pitched whine, white spots blurred her vision as a tidal wave of pleasure crashed over her body. Inuyasha let out his own yelp, unprepared for the pressure that came when her walls clenched around his cock, feeling as if she was cutting off blood flow. He erratically drove into her a couple more times before shooting his seed into the condom he wore.

Inuyasha slowly lowered Kagome’s legs to the bed before falling forward, catching himself on his arms so he wouldn’t crush her. He nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck as Kagome wrapped her arms around his shoulders, absentmindedly grazing her fingers on the nape of his neck. They simply laid there, basking in the glowing aftermath of their orgasm, as they took a few deep breaths.

Inuyasha could have laid there all night, taking in the sweet scent of sex and sweat that had spread throughout the room. There was absolutely no way he was washing these sheets anytime soon. In fact, he might have to research how to bottle this scent, maybe put it in a candle, so that he could relive this moment at any time.

Of course, given the soft humming coming from the woman underneath him, he might be able to reenact this night in the very near future.

Not wanting to crush her any longer, Inuyasha finally pulled out - Kagome letting out a small grunt at the loss of him inside her - carefully taking hold of the now filled condom, tying up the end and throwing it in the small trash can beside his bed.

"I'll be right back," he told her, giving her a quick kiss before walking out of the room towards the bathroom, not giving a damn that he was walking around completely naked. He was still high on all that is Kagome to care about something as silly as that. He came back barely a minute later, after quickly wiping himself clean, with a warm, damp washcloth for Kagome.

He chuckled at the sight before him. Kagome had already cocooned herself under the sheets, a warm smile on her face as she brought the pillow she was holding up towards her face and took a deep breath. She looked so happy, and content, and satisfied. The youkai that slept deep within Inuyasha rumbled with joy at the thought that he was the one to make her feel that way.

She opened her eyes as soon as he reached the bed, her smile brightening just a bit more at the sight of him. Maybe it had just been a while, but Kagome was pretty sure that was some of the best sex she's ever had. Her heart melted a little at seeing the washcloth in his hands. She had always took care of her own needs afterwards, having never really stayed the night at a man's house after sex before. She had to admit, it was….nice, and made her feel more loved than even during the act itself.

She thanked him with another kiss, finding that it was hard to keep her hands off him for more than a minute. He must have felt the same, running his tapered claws through her mussed up hair as she took care of cleaning herself. The feel of the warm washcloth along her thighs mixed with his soft touches could have put her to sleep.

When she was finished, he took the washcloth from her and threw it in the corner of the room where his laundry basket sat. He grabbed the sheets to cover them with, wrapping his arms around her body, pulling her close to him so that her back was flush with his chest

"You know what the best thing about being an adult is?" Kagome asked. Inuyasha gave her an unintelligible reply, muffled by her own hair that he had buried his face into. She giggled from the hair that tickled her neck because of his breath.

"I don't know, you tell me" He repeated, now resting his head on her shoulder.

"Well, we were able to choose to eat dessert before dinner," she said with a laugh.

Inuyasha chuckled at her joke. "Dessert before dinner, that’s the dream,"

"Well, dessert has made me hungry for dinner," she said, playfully pushing him off her. She could feel that delicious ache between her thighs as she stood up, faltering a little on her first step. Inuyasha was ready to jump up if she fell, but Kagome shooed him away and walked to his closet to pull out a shirt of his to wear.

Inuyasha didn't think Kagome could be any more perfect than in that moment, wearing one of his favorite black long sleeved shirts. She looked beautiful when she dressed up in one of her floral dresses or high waisted skirts, and if all her lingerie looked like tonight's, then Inuyasha could count himself a lucky man. But there was something about seeing her in his clothes that riled up something primal in him.

Inuyasha had never really shown his more youkai tendencies to Kikyo when they were together. He had never suppressed them for her, but Kikyo generally ignored the topic, while Inuyasha's youkai side laid dormant and unimpressed with the woman Inuyasha had loved for so long.

Inuyasha had never experienced his youkai instincts feeling so active before. There was something about Kagome that fueled every fiber of his being, which was a little terrifying. He had only known Kagome for a month, how could he feel this strongly about her already? He certainly didn't want to scare her away because of it.

"Dinner can wait a few minutes, come back to bed," he said, rubbing the empty side of the bed

"Inuyasha, you can't let your apartment burn down because of unattended food! You promised me dinner and a movie. Besides," She exclaimed, a grin lighting up her face. “Who said we were done for the night,”

Kagome shot him a sly wink before stepping out of the room to go check on their dinner. The last thing Inuyasha wanted to do was get up after the mind blowing sex they just had - in fact, Inuyasha could fall asleep right where he laid - but a sudden gurgle of his stomach put thoughts of slumber on the back burner as hunger crept to the forefront. Another plus side to getting up was watching Kagome work in his kitchen, in nothing but his shirt.

Inuyasha thought there could be worse things to happen.

And so he flipped over the sheets, sauntering out into the kitchen, not bothering to cover himself. He would let her fiddle with his marinara sauce, and woo her with the fancy bottle of wine he bought for her to go with the meal. They’d then snuggle up together on the couch and put in a movie. The genre wasn’t important, it wasn’t as if they were going to watch it.

Like Kagome said, they weren’t done for the night, and he was looking forward to claiming her in every room of that damn apartment.

#day of love #one big bang #2 x 14 #inuyasha fanfiction #artist author collaborations #inukag

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oneweekoneband · 5 years ago

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shouldn’t gay taylor swift fans be given access to the original homophobic version of "picture to burn”? and other post-evermore reflection questions.

Did yesterday last twice as long as a regular day? Does anyone else feel like pulled taffy today or is that the four red wine spritzers I made myself with Sutter Home mini bottles of cab and cherry flavored seltzer? How long has it been since Taylor Swift has been to an Olive Garden? Is the part in “willow” where she’s like “You know that my train could take you home / anywhere else is hollow” about pegging? Does Taylor Swift understand even a basic sketch of the events of The Great Gatsby, a novel commonly assigned in school to teenaged children? Is Taylor implying on “marjorie” that her grandmother is a ghost? Is it weird of me to think it is nice that Taylor believes her grandmother is a ghost? Do I believe my grandmother is a ghost? Is it weird of me to think it is nice to wonder if maybe she might be? Is “gold rush” obviously for the Kaylors, or am I just being prejudiced against men’s theoretical right to be good looking? Last night I peeled myself up from a circle at the foot of the bed and poured hot sauce into canned minestrone soup when I realized it was already hours past dark. After it warmed on the stove I ate on our cramped front porch at the little painted table that is dirty all the time from just the air, I guess, even if you wipe it down twice a day, so when I see it I think of my lungs covered in dust too. But last night it was cool outside and I wanted to get as much air inside of me as possible, dirty or not, before the time came to crack southward at the waist, fall hard, with all my weight, down to my knees, and supplicate myself most disgracefully at the feet of the Lord’s most terrible daughter. The new Taylor Swift album became available at nine pm pacific time. Will there ever be salvation?

youtube

Has Taylor Swift ever met up with high school friends in a bar over the holidays and wanted to cry a little the entire time, feeling a battle in her own body between the parts inclined to slide back into the shape of an old self to fit and the hardened parts that can’t? I don’t really think so! But with “’tis the season” she has written a song about fucking your ex while home for Christmas anyway, and it slaps. It is always a wonderful treat when this anthropomorphized Tiffany platinum tennis bracelet sits herself down and writes up a pretty little fiction about the small and ugly things that normal human people do. This is what makes “All Too Well”—a perfect piece of autofiction about her fake boyfriend Jake Gyllenhaal—so good, though if you say that in certain company the reaction is like you’ve shot a dog. When Taylor spins me some shit like this, like about parking out by the Methodist to meet up in those strange, stretchy days at the very end of December for theoretically casual sex that you’ll think about sadly on the plane when you go, I accept it like a pomegranate seed plopped on my tongue by Hades himself and I thank her. If I wanted to know who you were hanging with while I was gone, I would have asked you!!!!!!!!

youtube

Why doesn’t Taylor just call this a bunch of b sides that didn’t fit right on folklore? That’s what it is. And why deny that? They’re largely very good b sides. I love “dorothea”. Do you love “dorothea”? Are you still the same soul I met under the bleachers???? If Taylor really is going to release a third part of this moody forest saga come March, will the government show some real leadership for once and declare a purge so that we the people might rise up and bring this despot to the justice she so richly deserves? Why is Taylor Swift the Patricia Clarkson in Sharp Objects to our sweating and shaking Amy Adams? Why do our mouths loll open helplessly to accept her poison spoon when proffered? Mama, please... Do you think, strictly within the cinematic universe of “no body, no crime (feat. Haim)”, wherein Olive Garden regular Taylor Swift avenges canonically murdered Haim sister Este by killing her husband and (my favorite bit) implicitly framing the mistress, that after all that is squared away she and alive Haim sister Danielle bang it out? Why did the lilting piano ballad, “champagne problems”, about refusing a marriage proposal from a college boyfriend make me cry this morning on my pathetic little walk around the neighborhood? Was I thinking of the night I was 22 when I said no and no and no then yes to a drunk boy asking me with flashlight eyes to give him a nonsense forever promise, which I did because I knew in the morning we’d have forgotten, or would pretend to? Is it because I know that night so well, can still feel and smell and see, though I never mentioned it to anyone, everything about the few hours in the dark where I fought sleep because it felt nice pretending I was someone I knew I couldn’t be? Or was it just because on Twitter someone made a video setting the song to clips of Sersh & Timmy frolicking together wearing the same vest in Little Women? Is “coney island (feat. The National)” the first duet between Taylor and a man that isn’t an atrocity and an attack or is that purely my Matt Berninger derangement disorder speaking? Is “coney island (feat. The National)” degrading my nervous system like a wasting disease even as we speak? Did I close my fist around something delicate???? Did I shatter you??????? Will my own horrible hand ever come out of the Arthur meme clenched fist into which it furiously curled when I first listened to the, yes, fine, extremely lovely “coney island (feat. The National)”??????? It’s been almost a full day and typing like this isn’t very efficient.

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Is “cowboy like me” my dual reward for fighting with so many annoying guys in my “The Cowboy in the American Imagination” class lo those many years ago and, plus, for always believing that country Taylor would never die for good? Did Taylor Swift watch Brokeback Mountain for the first time this year? Would Taylor Swift like me to email her a pdf of the Annie Proulx story? Does Taylor Swift want to buy me the too expensive D.S. & Durga “Cowboy Grass” perfume I’ve been coveting for years? Is all cowboy content inherently queer? Just kidding—that one isn’t a question. Now that Taylor is once more in the business of recreational yeehawing shouldn’t she, as a gesture of goodwill, make the forbidden original homophobic version of “Picture to Burn” available exclusively to those gay fans who wish to have it? (i.e. the elite gay fans with a sense of history and place.) Does she not owe us that much? Isn’t that really the only respectful thing to do? Is it not the very, very least this monster could do?

#taylor swift #folklore

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aroworlds · 6 years ago

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The Vampire Conundrum, Part One

When Rowan Ross is pressured into placing an aromantic pride mug on his desk, he doesn't know how to react when his co-workers don't notice it. Don't they realise he spent a weekend rehearsing answers for questions unasked? Then again, if nobody knows what aromanticism is, can't he display a growing collection of pride merch without a repeat of his coming out as trans? Be visible with impunity through their ignorance?

He can endure their thinking him a fan of archery, comic-book superheroes and glittery vampire movies. It's not like anyone in the office is an archer. (Are they?) But when a patch on his bag results in a massive misconception, correcting it means doing the one thing he most fears: making a scene.

After all, his name isn't Aro.

Contains: One trans, bisexual frayromantic alongside an office of well-meaning cis co-workers who think they're being supportive and inclusive.

Content Advisory: This story hinges on the way most cishet alloromantic people know nothing about aromanticism and the ways many trans-accepting cis people fail to best communicate their acceptance. In other words, expect a series of queer, trans and aro microaggressions. There are no depictions or mentions of sexual attraction beyond the words "allosexual" and "bisexual", but there are non-detailed references to Rowan's previous experiences with romance.

Length: 2, 951 words (part one of two).

Note: Posted for @aggressivelyarospec‘s AggressivelyArospectacular 2019.

What is pride merch for if not petty passive-aggression in response to allo folks’ amatonormativity?

Beset by dizzying anxiety, Rowan places a green mug, printed on one side with a five-striped flag, on his desk. Done. He exhales and takes another furtive glance around the poky ten-desk office, but only Shelby sits close and she’s too busy peering at her computer to notice him. There: mug at work! Right where people can see! He grabs his phone, snaps a quick photo to send as proof to Matt and then, before anyone can ask about the mug or Rowan’s behaviour, moves it beside his pen caddy, the handle angled to hide the stripes.

Why does he have to be this scared? Everyone knows he’s trans. Hormones aren’t yet magical enough to give Rowan cis-unquestioned masculinity; coming out felt less damaging than constant misgendering. At the same time, being trans is why he feels like to pass out from nervousness. The initial slew of queries, concerns and clarifications, followed by daily episodes of cissexism, isn’t something anyone should care to repeat!

Trans identity, after the passing of marriage equality, at least possesses the dubious state of being the new conservative-favourite punching bag. Before he sent Damien his “I accept the position, by the way I’m trans” email, few people here would have been ignorant of Rowan’s theoretical existence.

Aromanticism, by contrast, requires more than revelation: it requires conceptualisation.

He thought he was prepared, last time.

Rowan Ross, master of whiteboards and planners, came for his first day armed with a list of resources and print-outs of an article he wrote for his university’s student magazine. He’d written out answers to likely questions and rehearsed them at his mirror. He wasn’t going to have another panic attack when faced with questions he couldn’t answer. He was going to be fine.

Instead, he learnt again that one can’t prepare for all the shapes of cis ignorance.

Hesitating to mention his aromanticism because being out as trans already ramps up the difficulty of his working life shouldn’t be cowardly. Why can’t Matt see that?

He stares at the mug, dizzy. Damien may not notice the striped flag, but Shelby uses anything as an opportunity to provide unneeded reassurances. Melanie has enough enthusiastic, unrestrained curiosity for ten people!

I read that trans men bind their chests. Is it comfortable? Do you do it every day? Are you allowed to wear a bra when you don’t?

Rowan shudders. No. He’s survived her interrogations; can’t he survive this, too? He practiced a short explanatory speech, made an email-ready digital PDF booklet and packed printed versions inside his satchel. He rehearsed his responses to as many provocative and prying questions as possible, including the line I’d rather not answer that. Maybe it won’t be as bad, this time! Maybe they won’t notice immediately, giving him more time to prepare and anticipate. Melanie doesn’t come back until next month; perhaps this mug, so bright and green, will pass unremarked until then.

Does the want to return it to his bag make Matt right?

Rowan touches the handle for luck and wonders if this will go better should someone not Melanie ask first.

***

“Good morning, everyone!” Melanie breezes through the office in an aura of floral-with-vanilla perfume, making a beeline for Rowan’s desk. She’s small, curvy and grandmotherly-but-modern in appearance: coloured slacks and loose floral-print blouses worn with dangling gold pendants and stacks of bangles over freckle-dusted forearms. Aside from her pixie-cut grey hair, she looks to him like a walking Millers advertisement. “Rowan, can you tell me how to put the new logo in my email again? Please? I know you told me last time.”

Rowan doesn’t understand why people who send emails on a daily basis don’t take the time to learn these things, but he’s worked here long enough to accept this lack as a fundamental truth of the universe. He turns to face her, his flag mug held in his right hand. “Do you want the instruction PDF I wrote, or do you want me to just do it for you?”

A few months ago, caught up in a fit of hopefulness inspired by a new SSRI and the less-inspiring reality of being the youngest person in the office, he spent his spare time typing up Rowan Ross’s Ultimate Guide to Basic Office Computing—a guide languishing unread by anyone not Rowan.

“Just fix it for me now.” Melanie beams at him, paying his mug no attention. “Thanks, Rowan!”

What will it take for someone to notice? Pouring his coffee on their shoes? He swallows the dregs, stands and follows Melanie to her computer before setting his mug on her desk, flag facing outwards, to take up her mouse and open her email settings.

To think he worried about someone’s asking questions! Rowan didn’t consider the problem of a lack of interest, but he’s spent the last five weeks drinking from a flag mug without as much as a passing glance.

“You’re a doll, Rowan!” Melanie hesitates; Rowan holds back a sigh. Here it comes. “Wait. Is that offensive, even though there’s male dolls, like Ken? And gay men collect dolls, don’t they? But gay men like feminine things and you don’t when you’re trans-gender, do you? You’re a darling? I know! You’re a treasure.” Melanie grins, as though she didn’t make an easily-overlooked statement into a thing shaded with too many queer microaggressions for one bi trans man to untangle, and grasps his mug. “I’ll get you some more coffee! One sugar, a dash of milk! Thank you so much!”

Her pink-painted nails and beige hands cover the flag, only a small section of black and grey visible at the edge of her pinky finger.

Maybe she’ll notice when she fills the mug.

Maybe she’ll notice when she brings it back to him.

Maybe pigs will fly and she’ll stop placing that too-long pause between “trans” and “gender”, too.

This way, there’s no need to endure alloromantic absurdity or criticism. No suffering the pain of being unable to explain or correct, given how often cis people dismiss even small gender-related requests. He did what Matt demanded; he left the mug on his desk. How is it Rowan’s fault that nobody’s knowledgeable enough to express curiosity? That he forgot to factor in the remarkable cishet tendency to avoid anything suggestive of unknown queerness?

Going ignored, somehow, doesn’t feel like a victory.

***

When Rowan sees a mug online featuring a shield in aromantic colours behind a design of crossed arrows in pride colours for other aromantic-spectrum identities, he snatches one with frayromantic blues. He also buys an unneeded but matching pencil case followed by a journal covered with rows of arrows coloured in aro stripes.

If he needn’t fear curiosity or question, why not pride up his desk? At least he can gulp coffee from a frayro mug emblazoned with an aro shield every time Shelby asks him if he’s found a partner yet.

What is pride merch for if not petty passive-aggression in response to allo folks’ amatonormativity?

A fortnight later, he arranges his mugs on his desk, stashes his decorative paper clip collection in the pencil case and ponders, just for a moment, if anyone’s made a pride-themed whiteboard.

“Rowan!” Damien appears out of nowhere and claps his hand on Rowan’s shoulder. He’s a raw-boned giant of a man with an improbable ability for stealth; Rowan, cursed with a body that reacts to unknown stimuli as though lethal rather than first checking, still can’t keep himself from jumping out of his chair on Damien’s approach. “I’ve got this photo from last night I want for Facebook. Can you crop out an arm from the side for me? I just sent it to you.”

“Sure,” Rowan murmurs, once his heart stops threatening to burst from terror. “I’ll do it right now.”

“Thanks. I’ll get you a coffee.” Damien snatches up the new mug, tiny in his oversized hands. Rowan doesn’t care to imagine how much of Damien’s pay goes to custom tailoring, but his pinstripe suits are the living dapper embodiment of every How to Dress Like a Professional Man guide Rowan has read and failed to implement. “Huh. I didn’t know you were into archery. One sugar, little bit of milk?”

“Yeah. I … uh...” Rowan blinks, struggling to find an answer, but Damien heads for the hallway and the kitchenette they share with the rest of the floor. Archery? Surely none of the arrow designs are realistic enough for any archery enthusiast to regard them as an expression of interest for the sport? Not to mention the stripes?

How do cishets cultivate their air of continued obliviousness? They’ve all seen Rowan’s trans pride phone case and bi pride pin; nobody won’t have seen the rainbow flag in the news. Shouldn’t one of them catch on to the concept of pride flags?

Why complain when their ignorance is easier than their questions?

He shakes his head, opens his emails and finds the photo from yesterday’s event, complete with a stray arm on one side and a half an empty chair on the other. He crops out the arm and the chair before adjusting the contrast and colours, until the photo appears as though only maybe taken on a cheap phone, indoors, by a man with his back to the window.

“Hey, did you know that Rowan’s really into archery?”

Rowan looks up. Damien stands by the door, showing Melanie Rowan’s newest mug.

He should say something before he gets archery gear in the office Secret Santa. He should say something even though they’re on the other side of the room and a lifetime of good manners, parental expectation and disabling anxiety says one doesn’t intrude on someone else’s conversation. What if someone in the office secretly likes archery and asks him questions? But corrections mean doing the one thing Rowan hopes he can continue to avoid, so...

He slides his hands under his legs and inhales slowly in a vain attempt to head off the giddy anxiousness. Does this mistake desperately need fixing? Can’t he wait to see what happens first?

“Archery? How does anyone get into archery?” Melanie shakes her head. “You don’t do it in school. Is it a country thing? Or a rich kid thing?”

“I did. Year nine, I think? And my school wasn’t that fancy. I think kids do more of that stuff, now, than real sport.” Damien shrugs and heads towards Rowan’s computer, setting his mug down on the desk. “You fixed the lighting! I don’t suppose you can make my face less red? It isn’t that red in real life.”

It is, but that’s easier to fix than the burgeoning fear that this archery misconception won’t be a one-off incident.

***

Another awful conversation with his housemates pushes Rowan into getting out his sewing box, despite a Melanie-induced fear that showing himself to be good at a traditionally-female art will result in another expression of cis nonsense. Too many friends still ask why he buys plain T-shirts from the women’s section (better fit) or has lavender-scented shower gel on his shelf in the bathroom (he likes it). He’s a man to the not-completely-cissexist people in his life if he meets a boring, insecure definition of manhood. “Oh, great God of Trans Men,” he mutters, “please pardon me for the crime of unmasculinity, because everyone knows you don’t allow true men to embroider.”

How is cross-stitch not just analogue pixel art, anyway?

He flips off whomever it is Melanie thinks “allows” him to defy gender norms before sketching a pattern, struggling with the shape of the R. His embroidery floss stash doesn’t allow him to perfectly colour-match the greens, but after the best part of a weekend Rowan produces a patch reading “ARO” in aromantic stripes against a background of allo-aro yellow and gold. He needs another hour to stitch it to his satchel beside a cluster of badges (trans pride, pronouns, bisexual flag), but the finish is worth the late night and sore fingertips.

Surely this will tell people that those five stripes mean something more than a liking for archery or the colour green?

He fists his hands, lips trembling. What call does an allo cis gay like Matt have to mock the idea of coming out as aromantic when Rowan, who lost his home, his family and his dog to the mistakes he made in coming out, knows exactly what those words mean? Why did Matt have to say that “someone like Rowan” only put a lousy mug on his desk because he knew nobody will ask? Yes, he owns a collection of anxiety disorder diagnoses, illnesses fairly earnt, a disability unchosen. That doesn’t make him cowardly!

Matt doesn’t emerge from his bedroom before Rowan dashes to catch the train, so he lacks even the questionable satisfaction of seeing his housemate note the large patch on his bag. He’s just left with a mood bouncing between frustration, anger and the quieter, sickening fear that making the patch didn’t challenge Matt’s opinion as much as validate it. Should Rowan have done that? What else can he do?

Why does Matt have to be so damn allo?

By the time he arrives at the office, Rowan focuses just enough to concentrate on the distraction waiting for him in the kitchenette. The walls need painting and the air conditioning smells like mice, but sharing the floor with four other sub-governmental community projects meant everyone pitched in for a decent coffee machine without too many hassles. Damien needs to stop taking terrible work-related selfies, but he does enforce a cleaning rota so Rowan can enjoy avoiding the horrors of instant coffee.

“Aro?”

Groggy annoyance fades into a heart-pounding, palm-sweating, vibrant wakefulness. Rowan wheels to face Melanie; she peers at the satchel hanging off his hip. Matt’s wrong about Rowan. This will prove it!

“Uh, yeah,” he says, fighting to sound casual. “I’m aro.”

There. He said it!

“Oh, like the movie vampire?”

The movie vampire? What vampire? There’s no obviously-aromantic vampire in a well-known movie; someone online would have said so! “I’m sorry?”

“The Twilight movies! You know the ones the teenage girls liked, with the family of glittery, vegetarian vampires and the human girl? And it was supposed to be romantic somehow? My daughter had posters and a quilt cover and T-shirts and Barbie dolls.” Melanie pulls a face, her lips twisting. “But she loved them, and there’s a vampire called Aro.”

Belatedly, he remembers a joke that posts about a minor character used to turn up in aro hashtags. “I suppose? But it isn’t a name when—”

“Damien! Rowan’s called Aro now! Should we hold a meeting telling everyone? Or just send an email around?” Melanie looks out into the hallway dividing the floor into its suites of offices: Damien stands outside their door, his battered phone held to his ear. “I didn’t know trans people were allowed to change names twice! Although I don’t suppose there’s a limit, is there? If I married someone five times, I could change my last name five times, couldn’t I? Is it really that different?”

“It,” Rowan says into the barest break in sentences, “isn’t—”

“Damien! Stop gasbagging about golf or whatever … I swear, that man never listens when you want him. Always on the phone! Damien.” She bustles out into the hallway with the determined stride of a woman on a mission. “Rowan’s Aro now!”

Panic spurs him into running after her. “Melanie!”

“Aro!” Shelby grabs his forearm as Rowan skids into the hallway, her brow furrowed in concern. If Melanie seems like the plump, huggable sort of grandmother, Shelby looks like the muscular, marathon-running grandmother who hits the beach every morning. Salt-coarsened long hair in a single braid, a fashionable black blazer worn over a T-shirt, hiking boots. “Is that European? Don’t worry, we’ll all do our best to remember, and you’re allowed to growl when we don’t. We said there’d be no problem, and we meant it. You’re allowed to growl at us when we make mistakes, okay? Okay, Aro? Promise me that you will correct us!”

The self-appointed protector figure of the office, she was kind during Rowan’s first week. Kind in a way that draws unnecessary attention, given her inability to correct someone else’s misuse of pronouns without crafting a production of hushed voices and pointed nudges—followed by scathing lectures that never happen far enough outside his earshot.

Why are the only options complete stealth or queerness front and centre in a way that never lets him be just a different shape of normal? Where exists a blessed middle ground?

Melanie reaches Damien and stares up at him, waving one hand and tapping the opposite foot, until Damien lowers his phone.

“Uh … thank you, but my name isn’t—”

“You absolutely must correct us.” Shelby squeezes Rowan’s forearm in a firm grip. “We’re not used to all this, but that doesn’t mean we won’t try. Aro. Do you people usually choose unusual names like that? You know, you trans people? Promise me that you’ll correct us. You need to know that we don’t mind in the least, truly we don’t!”

“I’m not—”

“Anyway, how was your weekend? You didn’t stay at home, did you? It worries me that you haven’t found a girl yet. Or a boy!” Shelby clasps his hand between hers, looking into his eyes as though hoping to impress upon him the depth of her sincerity. “You do know, Aro, that any girl—or boy!—will be lucky to date a sweet boy like you, don’t you?”

What does it mean, Rowan wonders in irony-fuelled despair, that returning to Births, Deaths and Marriages now feels like the easiest option?

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brynnmck · 5 years ago

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Tagged by @agirlnamedkeith, @pretty--thief, and @samirant, thank you! <333

What is the colour of your hairbrush? Mostly black, with a green ring on it.

Name a food you never eat: I have quite a few foods I can’t eat anymore thanks to some random health issues I developed a few years back (friends, aging is great from a mental/emotional perspective, Not Great from a physical perspective) but in terms of voluntary stuff, green peppers. I’ve outgrown a lot of my childhood food dislikes but that one is in my SOUL.

Are you typically too warm or too cold? Too cold, definitely.

What were you doing 45 minutes ago? I was in a boring meeting!

What’s your favourite candy bar? Probably Snickers? I really like 100 Grand too, though. And Butterfinger. And Twix. And I want Claire Saffitz to make all of them for me.

Have you ever been to a professional sports game? I’ve been going to Major League baseball games since I was a kid (it was my dad’s favorite sport), and the past few years, I’ve been to 20-30 games a season. I usually go for my birthday, too, which is in a couple of weeks, and it’s just kinda sinking in that there will be no birthday baseball for me this year. :(

What was the last thing you said out loud? Just saying hi to my husband.

What is your favourite ice cream? Coffee Heath Bar Crunch. I can’t have caffeine anymore so this summer I’m gonna try to make a decaf version for myself. (WHY IS ALMOST ALL COFFEE ICE CREAM CAFFEINATED. There are so many reasons people can’t have caffeine! Sigh.)

What was the last thing you had to drink? Water!

Do you like your wallet? Sure? It’s a nice blue and it holds my stuff.

What was the last thing you ate? Fruit and Greek yogurt for breakfast.

Did you buy any new clothes last weekend? I didn’t! I actually ordered a couple of soft bras from TomboyX on Monday, but nothing on the weekend.

What’s the last sporting event you watched? A replay of an old Mariners game a couple of nights ago. If we’re talking live sports, I watched about half of a Korean baseball league game a few nights back, which was delightful.

What is your favourite flavour of popcorn? Butter!

Who is the last person you sent a text message to? @ajoblotofjunk

Ever go camping? Not in a long time. My husband has been getting the urge to go lately, though, so maybe we will!

Do you take vitamins? I take supplements due to the aforementioned health issues. And vitamin B.

Do you go to church every Sunday? Lol no. My mother is very Catholic and she brought us to 6 am Mass every weekday when I was a kid. It was well-intentioned (her dad had a pretty volatile temperament and she always felt safe at church, so she subconsciously wanted us to feel the same way) but it did not sell me on the experience! Heh.

Do you have a tan? I live in the Seattle area and it’s May, so... lol no. I’m also pretty pale so I don’t get that tan anyway, but. I usually get a little something going in the summer, enough to have tan lines anyway.

Do you prefer Chinese food or pizza? Tough call, but I’m going with pizza.

Do you drink your soda through a straw? I don’t drink soda anymore (though I drink a LOT of carbonated water), but I’ll drink my drink through a straw if I get it at a fast-food place. Otherwise I don’t usually use one.

What colour socks do you usually wear? Most of my winter socks for work are black. Otherwise it’s a pretty random selection of colors.

Do you ever drive above the speed limit? Sure. Usually 5-10 miles over, rarely more (or less) than that.

What terrifies you? Climate change. Global pandemics. You know. Just generally suffering (both mine and other people’s).

Look to your left. What do you see? Through window of the room I’m sitting in: my neighbors’ house, and a cherry tree in their yard.

What chore do you hate most? Cleaning the bathrooms.

What do you think of when you hear an Australian accent? The hot Australian woman who’s been on Gold Rush recently, or a dear fannish friend of mine I haven’t talked to in years who is actually from New Zealand and I KNOW IT’S VERY DIFFERENT but it’s close enough to make me think of her!

What’s your favourite soda? I used to drink a lot of Diet Mountain Dew. I really miss ginger beer, too. I love a good spicy ginger beer. Root beer too.

Do you go in a fast food place or just hit the drive-thru? Drive-thru all the way. Isn’t that part of the advantage of fast food?

What’s your favourite number? I don’t really have one!

Who’s the last person you talked to? My husband!

Favourite cut of beef? Boneless ribeye. I finally bought a propane grill a couple of years back and I have now learned to make a badass steak, if I say so myself.

Last song you listened to? Eve 6 - Inside Out. A few months ago I suddenly remembered that this song existed and so I bought it and now I have to listen to it at least twice every time it comes up, ha.

Last book you read? An as-yet-unpublished Rose Lerner novel, because I am very lucky! (It’s a wlw Gothic. SUCH A GOOD CONCEPT.)

Favourite day of the week? Saturday

Can you say the alphabet backwards? In this economy??? Idk, I could probably figure it out, but it would definitely be work.

How do you like your coffee? I love a caramel macchiato, especially iced so you get those weird globules of caramel coming up through the straw. But a nonfat decaf double latte with a little bit of some kind of syrup is my go-to these days--hot when it’s cold out, iced when it’s warm out.

Favourite pair of shoes? I have these 40s-ish heels that tie over your instep with a little bow and I love them. I also have some extremely cool red velvet with black cording peep-toe Louboutins that I bought off some discount site years ago, except I can’t wear them for long because they’re about a half size too small. But they’re SO PRETTY.

Time you normally get up? In isolation, I’m discovering that my natural sleep schedule is about 2 am - 10 am. But I have a daily meeting at 9:30, and I try to get my workout done before that, so I get up at 8-8:30ish. I am discovering through this meme that SO MANY of you are morning people! What is that like???

Sunrises or sunsets? I love sunrises but I am not remotely a morning person, so. I see a lot more sunsets, and I love them too!

How many blankets are on your bed? Just one duvet.

Describe your kitchen plates. We have some with blue perimeters and kind of a white/oatmeal middle that we inherited from my in-laws, and the ones we actually bought on purpose are white on top and either sage-y green or charcoal black on the bottom.

Describe your kitchen at the moment. Somewhat messy, or at least there are dishes to do. I made some pretty epic cauliflower mushroom risotto with shrimp last night, though, so it was for a good cause.

Do you have a favourite alcoholic drink? Perfect Manhattans with rye are my go-to, or a Quebecois, which is basically a perfect Manhattan with a little bit of maraschino liqueur added (and ideally a lemon twist, though we’re usually too lazy for those). In the summer, I’m getting really into gin these days: either gin and tonic, gin and some kind of citrus spiked seltzer, or a Last Word. I also really love a good craft beer, and sparkling wine too.

Do you play cards? Not really. We used to play a shit ton of gin rummy in high school, but I haven’t really played cards much since.

What colour is your car? Blue!

Do you know how to change a tire? Theoretically yes, though the one time I actually tried to do it myself, I had a hell of a time getting the lug nuts off. I was fortunately in my driveway at the time (good place for a flat tire!) and my neighbors kept coming by and offering to help, and I was like NO I WANNA DO IT. I think I did need help eventually, though. Stupid pneumatic tools at tire installation places!

Your favourite state? That rare, usually-brief phase of writing where everything seems to fit and flow and you’re a genius and you understand all the secrets of the cosmos. Also Washington.

Favourite job you’ve had? My current one. It’s not my dream job, but it pays well and I like my team and I get to learn new stuff fairly often and I can work from home in the midst of all this, so. I am very lucky!

How did you get your biggest scar? The summer after my freshman year of college, I was part of a summer stock theatre troupe, and we performed half the summer at my college, and half the summer in a very small town in eastern Oregon that had an outdoor stage. One of my entrances involved running over the grass to get to the stage, and one night the grass was wet, and my costume involved ballet slippers, and I slipped and fell onto the stage stairs in front of the whole audience. It hurt SO MUCH that I got very light-headed onstage while I was trying to get through the scene, lol. Anyway, my costume also involved harem pants that had elastic around the calf/ankle area, and I got a friction burn from those, which ended up scarring because the skin over your shins is very thin! (I also got a few massive bruises on my leg that didn’t go away for weeks, so eventually my mom nagged me into going to the doctor, who promptly started gently hinting to see if my boyfriend at the time was responsible for the injuries. Which was actually pretty cool of the doctor! But then I was like, lol no, trust me, a hundred people saw me bite it, this is 100% dumbass mistake.) And that’s my scar story.

Tagging, if you want to do it: @ajoblotofjunk, @snowymary, @halcyon-red, @it-may-be-dull-but-im-determined, @unadulteratedkr, and anyone else who feels like doing this!

#meme me

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aokane-eldarya · 6 years ago

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Thomas ASTRUC : “In season 4, it will be a bomb by episode. This is the equivalent of the impact of a Cat Blanc episode in each episode.” Sebastien THIBAUDEAU : “All your certainties will be upset. And it will also be the season of the episode 100, it will be necessary to watch it.” - Translation of a French interview -

Interview made by Damien Mercereau for "Le Figaro"

INTERVIEW - Meeting with the creator, the executive producer and the writers of the tales of Ladybug and Cat Noir on the sidelines of the broadcast, this Sunday morning on TF1, of the finale of season 3.

After a first introductory season of the Miraculous universe and a second season in which Ladybug and Cat Noir were able to deepen their learning of budding superheroes, the third season was the testing of the heroine, Marinette Dupain-Cheng. In the heart of Paris, this shy and clumsy junior high school student has become in spite of herself Ladybug, an assertive superheroine. At her side, handsome Adrien Agreste, humble and sensitive, turns into a very confident and enterprising Cat Noir. Both don't know who is behind their costume.

Together, they fight Hawkmoth and Mayura and their army of super-villains. New miraculous and new powers have appeared in season 3 broadcast since last April on TF1, strengthening the potential of heroes. In parallel with this struggle between good and evil, the series also relates the tormented life of a small group of Parisian junior high school students, their friendships, their passions, their first love stories, their joys, their sorrows... In the middle of all this, there is Marinette's unconfessed love for Adrien and the fact that each of them becomes closer, respectively, from Luka and Kagami.

A few days ago, we met Miraculous's masterminds in a Paris office during their writing workshop... of the season 5 : Thomas Astruc, the creator of the series, Sebastien Thibaudeau, writing director and executive producer and screenwriters Mélanie Duval and Frédéric Lenoir.

LE FIGARO : What was the general idea of this season 3 of Miraculous?

Mélanie DUVAL : Very familiarly, we wrote the episodes telling us that Marinette was going to have hard times. She begins her school year by losing her place in the class. She already had Chloe as an enemy, she ended up with a second one, Lila. The love of her life is coveted by another ... She is overwhelmed!

Thomas ASTRUC : It was a season focused on Master Fu (the guardian of the miraculous, ed) and at the same time a test of Marinette. To pull our characters up, we have to agree to make them fall very low. Many things happen, shaken up and end in the final. The series could have stopped there with this bittersweet end. Nothing is predictable in Miraculous.

Is there a real chronology to respect following the episodes?

Sebastien THIBAUDEAU : Each story is an entry point, we give back all the necessary information for a non-initiate to the universe of Miraculous to understand.

Thomas ASTRUC : There are seasonal chronologies. The stories of the first season must precede those of the second one, which themselves must be before the third one. But each season has a particular taste with, in its first episode, an overview. In the middle, a set that can be viewed in almost any order where each episode will bring new information. And in the end, a last episode where all the pieces of the puzzle fit together. This is a serie that you can watch many times, you will always discover something new.

Sebastien THIBAUDEAU : In the first season, we had tested things like showing Chloe who plays to dress up as Ladybug. This started the development of her character. Gradually, we began to sow elements that made sense later.

How came the idea of the episode called "Cat Blanc" that shows what would happen in the future if the two heroes fell in love with each other?

Thomas ASTRUC : This is an episode that required a year of writing work and we finally see only small bits of what we had originally imagined. The TV channels had validated the first version (TF1 in France, Disney Channel in the United States and Gloob in Brazil, ed) but we had decided to review our copy. It is extremely rare for authors to make such a decision, but for us it was not good enough. We still did not have enough control over the world of our characters to be able to write it correctly, we had to take our time.

Sebastien THIBAUDEAU : We wrote flashbacks that I did not believe. They did not fit the mentality of our characters. We stopped everything to start from scratch with the initial idea : what would happen if Marinette and Adrien were together and if Adrien knew that Marinette was hiding from him that she was Ladybug ? It took us an extra week. Once this work was done, we were able to focus on the present of the heroes and disseminate plots of our flashbacks. We still have scenes that we loved but were not used for lack of space. Initially, Cat Blanc was a season 2 episode but it finally took place at the end of season 3.

Does the story of Cat Blanc annihilate the possibility of a love relationship between Marinette and Adrien?

Thomas ASTRUC : The episode Cat Blanc does not close the possibility of a relationship between them but it shows how delicate it would be. They are both heroes, the villain wants to steal their miraculous so a romantic relationship would be like dynamite. It is to be treated carefully, it could not happen anyhow or anytime. A priori, as long as a villain is looking for their miraculous, it will be complicated... Since the beginning, we know that if they know their respective secret identity, it would be enough for one or the other to have a negative emotion for to be akumatized and give Hawkmoth what he wants. With the episode Cat Blanc, you now know what would happen if they were in a relationship.

In the episode "Timetagger", you gave us another projection of the future of Ladybug and Cat Noir...

Thomas ASTRUC : The future is not fixed - that's what the episode Cat Blanc could demonstrate. But we can afford to assert certain things because we have a very long-term vision of the series and we know where we want to bring it. Time travel is often double-edged. A child will consider this phenomenon for the first time while a teenager or an adult will have other references like Terminator, Back to the Future, Doctor Who and be more critical. Paradoxically, a child will understand things more naturally.

Frédéric LENOIR : We master the universe of the series so it's easy to play with our characters and to confront them to different situations. We seek above all to build stories that are interesting and understandable.

Thomas ASTRUC : We think that what children do not know, they learn. When they are confronted with new things in Miraculous, we become their first explanation. It does not matter if they do not immediately understand some winks, they can understand them later. The names of the protagonists, the costumes of the superheroes, the places ... There are a multitude of small clues to dig which are full of cultural information. For example, the story of Master Fu's girlfriend in "Backwarder" is a tribute to the grandmother of our screenwriter Frédéric Lenoir who is a former resistance fighter. We called her Marianne Lenoir.

What values do you wish to convey through the episodes of Miraculous?

Mélanie DUVAL : We are sensitive to the impact of pop culture on young people. We are very careful not to show in the series some things that could have a bad influence on their imagination. I remember having hated this figure given here or there to the class-nerd abused by his comrades. In Miraculous, we have the sportsman, the nerd, the good friend, the nuisance... But nobody is abused. We show a kind of ideal where the big sporty can be the best friend of the intellectual. And facing a negative character like Chloe, the question is not going to be how to make her nice, but rather how to react to her. Her friend Sabrina is abused but she did not say her last word.

Thomas ASTRUC : This degree of submission to the bad person is something that we have to deal with. But to achieve this, we must first establish the basics, show the facts and behaviors. Sabrina's problem requires time to be effectively settled.

Frédéric LENOIR : If you approach and solve a problem too quickly, you may treat it too mechanically and theoretically. Our principle is to approach each theme in a constructive and rewarding way. We go over what should not be done because we strongly believe in what has to be done. Our characters also believe in it. We always try to go to the light.

Sebastien THIBAUDEAU : We are careful to show things that are right, to convey good values and this leads us to have long philosophical debates during our writing workshops. You can spend a whole day thinking about the meaning of an episode. When we meet parents who tell us that what we tell their child is good, we are really flattered.

What is waiting for us in season 4?

Mélanie DUVAL : This is the season when the characters really take control of the series.

Thomas ASTRUC : In season 3, Marinette suffered and in season 4, it will be a bomb by episode. This is the equivalent of the impact of a Cat Blanc episode in each episode. Everyone will be flabbergasted. She has new responsibilities and she is maturing. At the site level, after the Grévin museum and the Saint-Martin canal, we will visit the Swan Island.

Sebastien THIBAUDEAU : Season 4 is the one that surprised us the most. All your certainties will be upset. And it will also be the season of the episode 100, it will be necessary to watch it. And a special episode will wait before the release of season 4. Many events will mark the year 2020.

#miraculous ladybug

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thursdayplaid · 5 years ago

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There’s a Monster at The End of This Castle

Tags: Renfri’s Brooch, SYMBOLISM, Spooky, Horror, Unreliable Narrator, there are at least five ways of interpreting the story and they’re all valid, Geralt, Jaskier, Yennifer, Eskel, no spoilers but it’s creepy

Geralt's on contract to slay the monster in the castle. Jaskier stands on the marble floor in his bare feet and watches. Renfri's brooch is in the bard's hand, Renfri's brooch is hanging from his neck. Geralt needs to find the monster, it's dangerous. Geralt needs to protect Jaskier, he doesn't understand the danger he's in.

Notes: I posted this on Ao3 but I love this creepy fic and want it on my blog. I've written things because they need to be written in a flurry of possessed inspiration and I've written things because it was something that I wanted to read. I read the summary for chasing_the_sterek's lovely fluffy story: 'it's what my heart just yearns to say' and both happened. (You can find the story here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23561143) This is still one of the favorite things I’ve written - even if it’s not my favorite version of it. It's weird, it's all context clues, and it's spooky. While there are some theoretical interpretations that are off base, the majority of interpretations of the story are totally valid so take what you want from it. It may not be quite the thing for tumblr, but it’s quite the thing for my blog and if that’s not my tumblr experience I don’t know what is!

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Jaskier is small under the vaulted ceiling of the main hall, the heavy velvet of the hanging banners are too good quality to molder yet, but they are dark with dust. “If you could have one blessing,” Jaskier says, eyes lit bright by the torch in Geralt’s hand, “What would it be?”

Geralt looks at him. Renfri’s brooch is smooth and hand-warm in his palm, edges smooth and rounded from careful crafting. It’s been with him for a long time: a little over ten years. It fits his palm like it’s an extension of his body, the stones catch the candlelight like they’re winking. Jaskier’s words are so precise, enunciated - recited, that they have to be from something. A play or a ballad, an epic from the blessed paradise of Oxenfurt. The inside of the castle is cold and gray, he feels like he’s in a cave, the way the dark wraps around him like walls of stone, a hollow in the earth.

“Is that from one of your songs?” Geralt asked him.

Blinking in genuine surprise, Jaskier pulls back to look at him as though a view further back would improve him somewhat. “Why would it be from one of my songs?”

Geralt doesn’t know anything about art. He understands it as little as it understands him. He can read enough to do his work but finds anything other than the most straightforward of records to smack of dishonesty. A frigid wind whips its way viper fast through the cracks in the wall. The feeling of having his skin shredded by the cold is so intense he almost touches is face to see if he can feel the twisting ridge of his cheekbone through the slivers of flesh and muscle.

Jaskier is clapping as he sings on a determined mission to go through all the verses of Fishmonger’s Daughter that he knows. There was the faun, the dragon, the witch – which had been particularly dirty, and other verses on and on until Jaskier faltered.

Geralt clears his throat as delicately as he was able. “Acted like a whore for a big manticore.”

The bard’s smile grows huge, his eyes glowing with a joy that filled Geralt with an equal mix of delight and terror. He throws his arms around Geralt’s neck and made a sound like a laugh, like sunrise, like Geralt is a person. “I knew you’ve been listening to me! All these years and I had a budding bard all along!”

The firelight tints Jaskier’s pale skin toward green, he looks like a god of spring time. They hold hands and dance round and round and round. In Geralt’s long life he can’t remember laughing this much or this hard, or even just indulging in something so silly. Jaskier is smiling, as he moves so quick in Geralt’s arms, a shadow that’s crawled its way up from the ground to have its go of a life.

“Eskel, what are you doing here?” Geralt asks. “Did the Countess not tell you I had taken the contract?” Lettenhove is bright and loud, a thriving city but one that is not so big that there should be a mix up like this.

Eskel stares at him. His silver sword is in his hand gleaming with oil.

There is a rustle and Jaskier emerged from the dark, picking through rubble with his soft broad bare feet, there’s nothing wrong with them but to Geralt they look like a child’s feet for all that there is hair on the toes. Jaskier should have better shoes on, where are his boots? “Hello Eskel,” Jaskier says, his voice soft in a way that is strange, that makes Geralt’s head hurt. “Come sit by the fire with us.”

Eskel looks between the two of them, nods. He doesn’t look right, there is something off about him.

Geralt needs to finish the contract, he should finish searching the castle but he hasn’t seen Eskel in what seems like forever and Jaskier is as likely as not to trip, fall, and get himself killed. Doesn’t he know there’s danger here? He puts a hand on Jaskier’s back, pulling him close to his side as they walked so they had to walk in step not to fall over each other. For a moment the bard looks enraged, feral, and then his face smooths and calms.

When they get back to camp Geralt feels enraged himself. “Jaskier! I told you not to let the fire go out! You know there’s a monster in the castle!” his voice is too loud, he’s shouting too loud. “You’re a moron at the best of times, but I thought I could expect you to have the good sense not to sit in the dark waiting to be killed! You could be hurt, this isn’t a fairy tale!”

Eskel moves past them, rearranging the fire and getting it going again. He seems unnerved. It’s not like Geralt to lose his temper like that. Geralt sits Jaskier down and arranges him in place, smoothing down the collar of his camisole loose and open and is half-tucked into those colorful trousers of his. The sleeves are red, the sleeves are so red. He wants to sit next to Jaskier but he is too angry so he paces until he calms.

He can’t speak to Jaskier without losing his temper so he speaks to Eskel. “We’ve hunted together before,” he says. “It’ll be pleasant to do again. I’ll even split the money with you, it’s no problem.”

Eskel looks at Jaskier first, Jaskier’s back is to Geralt so the bard’s expression is obscured. The dark line of leather Jaskier uses to hang Renfri’s brooch under his shirt looks like a wound against the back of the bard’s neck. A wound in the dark black with blood. There is an impulse to stare and an impulse to tear his eyes out, he does neither. Then Jaskier turns to face him. “If you could have one blessing, what would it be?”

“I don’t have time for your recitations,” Geralt tells him. “Eskel, shall we?”

“Yes,” Eskel says, but he doesn’t seem as happy about it as Geralt expects.

Pointing at Jaskier, Geralt says with as much menace as he’s able. “You don’t know what the monster could do to you out there in the dark. Stay. Here.”

“Alright,” Jaskier agrees, easy and turns his head away again. He speaks to the fire in a light dancing voice. “Remember Eskel, Geralt has always been a better swordsman than you.”

It’s an odd thing to say, but Jaskier has always been an odd duck.

When he and Eskel wander far enough away out of earshot, Geralt puts a hand on Eskel’s shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“Am I alright?” Eskel looks at him with open shock, he looks stunned.

He doesn’t know how to say Eskel looked hesitant to go with him on the hunt. Doesn’t want to imply that his feelings were hurt or something equally ludicrous. Witchers don’t have feelings, they don’t care about people. “Do you have enough coin? You’re handling things?”

“Yes, Geralt,” Eskel says slowly as if trying to feel his way toward what Geralt means. “I have enough coin.”

“Because if you need this contract, it would be alright, I’d let you take the money. I wouldn’t want Jaskier to get a big head, but he makes enough singing that it would be okay. We manage fine.”

Eskel stares at him. After it’s been so long Geralt is afraid he misspoke, Eskel nods at him, slaps his shoulder. They patrol for a long time, talking to each other. In an attempt to cover his previous misstep, he asks about Lil Bleater. It’s good to reminisce although its clear something is weighing on Eskel’s mind or perhaps he hit his head, Geralt suspects that might be the case. There’s white in Eskel’s hair. That happens sometimes when there’s been a cut to the head.

Eskel will tell part of a story and then ask Geralt about it or he’ll get a detail wrong and Geralt will have to correct him. Each time such a sad, hurt, hopeful look comes over Eskel’s face that Geralt doesn’t want to say anything about it. He’s not good with words. Eskel doesn’t even remember how long it’s been since they saw each other last. If Eskel’s memory is going how could he hope to help him. They walk through the ballroom, up the stairs to duck in and out of the bedrooms, looking under beds like they’re children playing Hunt and Snare in the barracks when the master witchers aren’t paying attention. The castle must have been beautiful once with its bright colored stained glass and its marble floors, the room full of dried flowers, red-brown sheets, and the piles of sheet music. Now it smells like an old tomb, skin turned to paper and bones to old wood. There is white in Eskel’s hair. This makes his head hurt again. Eskel goes to open a door, but Geralt saves him. “There’s a cave in on the other side, it’s quite a drop. A step through the door and you’d fall to your death.”

Eskel looks at him just like he’s been looking at him all night. It’s like a joke in a foreign language and it makes him uncomfortable.

“It’s hidden again,” Geralt finally says when the night has begun to tilt its way into very early morning. The monster is sly, it doesn’t want to be detected. “We’ll have to search again tomorrow.”

Eskel claps him on the shoulder, “Sure. I can set up camp next to your fire in the front hall.”

“Jaskier better be there when we get back. I’m tiring of his wandering,” Geralt said.

“Why don’t you tell him that staying by the fire is the one blessing you want?” Eskel asks, mouth quirking up at the joke.

Geralt slams him against the wall so hard that for a moment he thinks he may have killed him, but he is so angry. He is so angry. He doesn’t care. It should hurt.

“Don’t you say that to him!” Geralt roars, he doesn’t recognize his own voice. He’s never sounded like this even at his most monstrous. “Don’t you ever say that to him!” He can’t cry, witchers can’t cry but he howls against Eskel’s chest. He howls like the cold wind with its mouth full of venom.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he tells Jaskier as the bard follows along behind him with shadow soft footfalls. “It’s dangerous, you’re going to get yourself killed.” The bard’s shirt is so red, it’s like a flame to a dangerous, vicious moth. He keeps telling the bard. There is a monster, it will kill him if it’s able to, it can’t be taught or trained or tamed. It is a monster, it destroys things. It destroys people like Jaskier who are human, who can be killed in so many stupid ways.

“I need material for my next ballad,” Jaskier replies, he almost seems to dance as he walks. He holds Renfri’s brooch in front of his face so it looks like it’s smiling at Geralt and then moves it to reveal his own smile. Geralt smiles back at the bard’s silliness. Jaskier is a living illusion, looking dainty and fragile until someone stumbles too close and realizes how broad in the shoulder and tall he is. The man is a sort of magician. “It’s called the Witcher and the Brick Wall.”

Geralt can’t help being curious. “Does he climb the brick wall?”

“No, he bangs his head against it.”

Geralt stops to look at him but Jaskier just smiles and tucks Geralt’s hair behind his ear. It makes Geralt feel odd when Jaskier does things like that. When he’s kind. It makes Geralt afraid although he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know how to act around Jaskier. He doesn’t know the rules of engagement. He’s holding Renfri’s brooch in his hand. He’s had it for ten years. It’s been a reminder a weight on his back, longer than he expected – ten whole years without being lost or stolen. He has a habit of losing that which is most precious. He had been worried it would slip away by misadventure, that he’d wouldn’t listen or be too slow to protect it – things of value were chewed up and spat out by the world, but no. The brooch lasted, his knew its shape in his hand. He could pick it out blind from a pile of gold, from its weight on the swing of a sword, from the way its shape made it smile at him in the dark. Jaskier asked about it of course. Jaskier was always so curious about the mundane parts of being a witcher.

What Geralt ate, how he made his potions, why he sharpened his sword so often.

It is part of being careful. Geralt might yell but he has never done anything to hurt Jaskier.

His head hurt.

He has never done anything to hurt Jaskier.

His head hurt.

HE HAS NEVER DONE ANYTHING TO HURT JASKIER.

Jaskier takes his hand. He is barefoot and his shirt is so red. He puts the brooch into Geralt’s hand.

“Geralt,” he says. “If life could give you one blessing.”

A woman with dark hair is in the entry hall talking to Jaskier. It makes him feel weird, to see a stranger talking to the bard.

“We have a visitor,” Jaskier tells him. His fingers are curled around Renfri’s brooch, it doesn’t bother Geralt. It’s big enough to fill a hand but not small enough to make a fist around. Jaskier is tactile, he likes to touch things to understand them. He touches the little potion bottles to understand them, he touches Geralt’s armor to understand it, he touches Geralt’s face to understand it. Jaskier will give the brooch back when he’s done.

“Hello,” he says gruffly, usually that’s enough.

She just blinks at him, her eyes are a startling shade of purple. Everyone just looks at him. “Hello back.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt tells the bard. “It’s one thing to have a conquest in every city, it’s another to bring a woman to a place where there’s a monster.”

“You don’t know me,” the woman says. Her dress is odd, he’s never seen anything like it. He doesn’t pay a great deal of attention to women’s fashion but even he would notice how odd her dress looks.

“No offense miss, but I try to stay as far away as from Jaskier’s bardic romances as I can.” Something occurs to him. “Are you the Countess de Stael?”

She makes an odd noise like she swallowed a peach pit. “No, not the Countess of Stael.”

“Geralt’s memory has been a bit take it or leave it,” Jaskier says, shrugging.

Geralt says, hurt in a way he can’t articulate. “I remembered the Countess of Stael, didn’t I? And you only mentioned once that you met her at the festival of yours. My mind’s like a steel trap.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” the woman muttered to herself.

For the next few days he runs into her everywhere, poking around with an odd lantern. “What’s that?” he asks her.

“That’s right,” she murmurs. “After your time. It’s just a lantern, a more modern version. Lasts longer.”

He can see that, he’s not a rube. He’s been around, he’s seen things. “I don’t know what Jaskier told you about magic and adventure, but I’m on a contract. There’s a dangerous monster here. You should be careful.”

“Alright,” she agrees. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

In the morning there’s a pile of molten metal on the floor of the great hall, there’s a fire that’s big enough he has to pull Jaskier back from it. Jaskier is just standing there watching because of course he is, nothing on his feet, no armor, nothing to defend himself with but Renfri’s brooch in his hands.

“What are you doing?” he roars, he isn’t sure who he’s roaring at.

The woman stares at him. Why is everyone always staring at him? She looks at him with his arms holding Jaskier behind him but she speaks to the bard. “I thought it had to be his swords. What else could it be? Jaskier, what is it keeping him here? I’m running out of things to burn.”

“Then stop burning things!” Geralt yells at her.

“How should I know?” Jaskier replies, dull and mulish. “That’s the sort of thing a friend would know, not me.”

“Jaskier,” she says, her voice turned dangerous. “You have to stop this.”

“Half my life,” Jaskier tells her. “Half of my life. I’m not stopping anything.”

“Jaskier,” she says, the word like a drawn sword.

Jaskier’s shoulders drop in defeat, he holds his hands behind his back with his fingers tucked into the opening of the brooch. “You think I don’t know how this turns out? What we’ll become? It isn’t me, alright? I’m too vain to allow myself to…” He looks at Geralt with a crooked smile. “I guess Geralt does value my companionship after all. I appreciate your help, Yen. But. This is better than it was at the beginning. At least he’s stable now. I’m keeping him stable. He’ll understand when he wants to understand.”

Who were they talking about?

“Alright,” she says. She rubs her face with her hands. “Alright. I guess I’ll check in in a hundred years.”

Jaskier smiles at her, his expression full of relief.

The woman hugs Jaskier and she seems to want to hug Geralt as well. Geralt isn’t used to anyone hugging him but Jaskier and he doesn’t know her. She feels dangerous. She seems unhappy but she leaves.

There is a monster with a silver sword. Jaskier is fleet of foot even without shoes. He runs, away from the fire but toward Geralt. He moves as though carried on the air. He is beautiful, like an arrow set loose. The cold wind screams and whistles its way through the cracks in the castle walls. The relief on Jaskier’s face when he sees him almost knocks the air out of Geralt’s lungs. Ducking his head the bard slides like silk, like a whetstone along a blade under one of the witcher’s outstretched arms to hide behind the wall of muscle and armor Geralt creates just by standing still. Geralt can’t find his swords, so he leaps on the monster with his bare hands. The cold wind cuts into his bones, into his skin, into his gut.

Geralt has always been good at defeating monsters, even when he didn’t want to be.

Jaskier takes him by the shoulders and leads him back to the fire. He sits him down. “Don’t you worry about a thing. Jaskier will take care of everything. Just sit right there and look at the fire and here’s Renfri’s brooch and just- Think witchery thoughts.”

Geralt looks up at him. He wants to ask what’s wrong, he wants to ask why Jaskier is acting like that, he wants to ask Jaskier to stay by the fire. He holds Renfri’s brooch in both hands. It is familiar. He’s had it for ten years. They would sit by the fire and Geralt would sharpen his sword with it smiling up at him and Jaskier would sing and Roach would nibble on the leaves of low hanging branches. It was a reminder that he must always be careful. “Where’s your lute?”

“Some place safe,” Jaskier says. “I know every secret hidey hole in these halls.” For a moment, Jaskier presses their foreheads together. “You are Geralt of Rivia. You’re Geralt of Rivia, okay?”

“I know who I am,” he says.

Jaskier hugs him tight for a moment and then runs off into the dark.

Geralt wants to finish his contract quickly. He worries about Jaskier who has barely any sense to speak of and acts like he has even less. The monster here is dangerous, wicked. It could kill the bard with a word. Jaskier’s going to get himself killed. There’s something wrong with the potions in Geralt’s bag. Some of them are missing.

Are they? His head hurts.

Where are his swords?

Jaskier stood under the vaulted ceiling of the castle. His feet are bare, his sleeves are so red, there’s a sword in his hands held out and offered to Geralt. The witcher examines it, it’s been well-tended, cared for. Its pommel is different than he’s used to, a cat’s head is at the end. It is a silver sword though, it must be his. Geralt hangs Renfri’s brooch on its leather tie around Jaskier’s neck and smooths it flat against his chest. Jaskier’s smile almost falters, his body bowing as though under the weight. The brooch is finely made and smiling, he’s had it for ten years. It’s a remarkable brooch, he can’t hold onto anything for ten years. Witchers don’t have treasured possessions, to treasure something is to beg the universe to snatch it away. Loving something is just begging for destiny to swoop in with death on its wings. Things are so fragile. But. It’s a good brooch. As familiar as a shadow.

Jaskier smiles at him, standing so still by the firelight. His skin is so pale and his sleeves are all red. The flames are bright. It’s a decent fire, it’ll keep the monster away. “Geralt,” he asks. “If life could give you one blessing, what would it be?”

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #the witcher fanfic #jaskier #horror #There's a Monster at the End of This Book is still one of my favorite books #I read too much gothic horror as a child #it continues to be a problem #long post #3000 words

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