#when you finally have a hazy half-formed story in your head for your ocs

[mwahrails]

some keys

[b-mydarling]

[01] MASCARA

I am still dwelling in self pity over a break up with my super hot ex-boyfriend, Sehun when my best friend decided to give me a replacement mascara to make up for all the loss that I've had from crying over that jackass (as referred by Byun Baekhyun himself) for the past one week. It was a normal gift to be quite honest, but little did I know, that one normal gift is the thing that made me realize just how drop dead gorgeous my best friend is. And to Baekhyun, that three boxes of Fenty Beauty mascara are the same exact thing that have made him realized that even after years, he has never lost his feelings for me.

🍰   pairing: baekhyun x OC

🍰   characters: baekhyun, OC, sehun, yeri, irene

🍰   genre: what else if not FLUFF 😭

🍰   aus: university student! baekhyun, best friends to lovers.

🍰   contains:  Playing with makeup with some cute music as the bgm but   definitely not in this chapter :>

🍰   word count: 3K

― note: this is my first time cross-posting my fictional work on this platform. (I guess), posting this chapter will help me to understand Tumblr's algorithm better 😔✋ oh and fyi, the main idea of this oneshot was actually inspired by my dream 😭😭 Yes, I dreamt of Baekhyun in the midst of a pandemic and during an online semester like I’ve had nothing better to do :)

p/s: let me know if you want to be tagged for the next chapter.

Best friends.

That is the perfect term to describe and explain my relationship with Baekhyun. We used to live in the same apartment complex and his mother used to babysit me while my parents went to work. The babysitting lasted for almost six years (from when I was still a wee child at the age of 7 and until I turned 13) before his family moved to Incheon from Seoul. Even though we didn’t get to meet as often as we used to, our friendship is still intact and growing strong until now, when we are both a university students.

It was fun and easy being friends with Baekhyun. He may be older than me by two years, but I have never mind the fact because befriending Baekhyun was so, so much easier than befriending his little sister, Yeri. Although we are of the same age, I’m not close with Yeri because she used to think that my presence was a nuisance to her family; stealing her one and only brother from her, stealing her mom’s love and affection away from her, and she hated it when her dad brought back matching toys or playset for us to play together. And yes, of course we didn’t play together. To conclude my relationship with Yeri, we don’t hate or loathe each other but we have come to agree with the fact that we just don’t click with each other very well.

Presently, it is a Friday evening and I am laying on the couch at my family house’s living room. I am beat from living off from only few hours of sleep and a lot of coffee for the past two days because I was trying to perfect my assignment that holds 30% weightage for one of the subjects that I’m currently taking as a second year university student majoring in Beauty and Hairdressing studies. And now that I have submitted the assignment, it feels like all the burdens have been lifted from my shoulders and all that I want to do is sleep. I shift a few times on the long couch, trying to find a comfortable position to take a nap. I don’t want to sleep in my room just yet, afraid that my parents might forget to take the house key with them and I don’t hear their knockings if I sleep in my room. That, and I’m just too scared to sleep in my room knowing that I’m all alone in this house. It only feels like a few minutes have passed since I fell asleep before the incessant ringing of my phone wake me up. I grumble in my hazy state and reach for my phone on the coffee table.

“Hello?” I mutter into the phone without even looking at the caller id or even opening my eyes, sleep already calling back to me.

There’s a small chuckle coming from the other side of the line, the caller’s voice so deep and warm; alarming me about who he is. My lips automatically curl to form a smile just by hearing his velvet voice. There’s a few beat of silence before he starts to speak to me. “Did I wake you up from your nap?”

“Yes, yes you did.” I jokingly say with a pout while putting the call on speaker before I put my phone down to sit up from my laying position. “I’m so tired, Sehun. Mrs. Kwon has finally approved of my dreamy makeup look sketching after the fourth consultation. I’ve just submitted the assignment too. But anyway, why are you calling me? Are you done with labs?”

Sehun fakes a cry and says “My poor baby. But hey, at least you’re done with it now, right?” I hum, enjoying the comfort that my boyfriend is giving me. “And yes, I’m done with lab and my basketball practice too.” Sehun says with a teasing voice. “Can you come down for a while, princess? I need to talk to you about something.”

I look at the wall clock and frown. It’s nearly 7pm now and I’m too lazy to change out from my comfortable lounge wear. “Now?”

“Yes, now. I’m already waiting in front of your apartment complex.”

Still feeling lazy to change my clothes, I try my luck again. “Can you come upstairs then, Sehun? My parents are not home yet. They went out to have dinner with my father’s colleague.”

There’s another beat of silence coming from the other side of the line before Sehun sighs into his phone. I couldn’t decipher whether his sigh is rather affectionate or because he’s just tired from a long day at university. But I guess whatever that he’s going to talk to me about is pretty serious from the way he responds to my invitation.

“I can’t do that, baby. I need to tell you something without having to face the possibility of your parents walking in on us and disrupting our privacy. I’m also kinda in a rush to meet my friends later.”

I pout. “Okay, I’ll be down in a few minutes. See you, Sehun.” I say and after receiving a hum from him, I end the call while getting up from the couch and walk to my room to get change into something more appropriate to wear. I choose to wear Sehun’s grey hoodie that he has given me before and a legging. The hoodie is two times bigger than my own size so it’s really comfortable too. I grab my phone and lock the door before going down. Once I arrive down at the lobby, I can already see Sehun’s parked car a few metres from the apartment’s entrance. I walk closer to his Audi and knock softly on the window. Sehun is busy playing game on his phone that he gets startled by my soft knocking. He then unlocks his car and I get into the passenger seat next to him.

“Hi,” Sehun smiles at me and scans my face, his head tilting bit by bit the more he spends his time analyzing my countenance. Sehun then crinkles his nose. “Damn baby, you really look super exhausted. I’m sorry for waking you up.”

“It’s okay since I need to wait for my parents to come home too.” My reply is cut short because my mind is being clouded with the smell of freshly baked dessert in his car. I turn half of my body in Sehun’s direction before I turn my head to look at his back seat. I see that there’s a white transparent box of brownies from the bakery that I frequently go to and a big bouquet of my favourite red and pink roses. I turn my head back to look at Sehun and grin up at him. “Are those for me?”

Sehun grins back at me before he takes my hand into his big one. “Of course those are for my favourite girl. You can even share the brownies with your parents too.” His other hand stretches behind him to grab both the flower bouquet and the box of brownies before he places them in my lap.

“These are my present for you because you have been such an amazing girlfriend for me for the past six months. Now, let me talk about the thing that I have wanted to tell you.”

Sehun has broken up with me.

Before this, it only took him 15 minutes to gather his courage to express and explain his feelings for me and now, it only took him 10 minutes to tell me that he wants to break up with me. Because apparently, his basketball coach has strictly forbidden him and the rest of his teammates from dating to ensure that their performance will not be affected if anything were to happen to the relationship. It was an absurd reasoning, I know that. But how can I not agree when Sehun has reasoned with me so well. He is on a full basketball scholarship so he must give his very best to basketball and to his major studies too. So yes, I agreed to break things up with him (although a part of me is hoping that we could still work things out).

After I went back to my house, I just sat idly on the couch thinking about what have just happened. There are three thoughts that are currently running through my minds and I could not just brush away this three facts:

 My hot and athletic boyfriend has broken up with me.

 I still love him

Should I wait for the both of us to graduate so we can be together again? But that will take two more years.

My parents came home at half past nine in the evening with take-out food for me. I only thanked my parents and proceed to eat my dinner in silence before asking for their permission so that I can leave for my room first. I even told them that they can eat the brownies on the coffee table because I don’t feel like eating it. As a result, my parents got worried over me because they could sense that something is wrong with me and Sehun from looking at the abandoned bouquet of roses and the box of brownies on the coffee table.

Now that I’m all alone in my bedroom, the realization just hit me like a bullet train. I feel suffocated. I feel restless. I feel like there is nothing else that is worse than this breakup. But boy I was wrong, there is something that is even worse than this shitty feeling that I’m having right now.

Because at half past 10 pm, my phone gets bombarded with a lot of messages and screenshots from my close friends in university. And the content of the messages were all the same, two screenshots of Irene’s latest instagram stories with one of it being a picture of hers and a man’s legs on a bed, watching Netflix together and the other picture being the same exact white box of brownies and a bouquet of red and pink roses like what I have gotten earlier. The caption in the story was:

“First date. Thank you, my sweet boy @oohsehun”

And that was the exact moment when I feel like the world has crashed on me. I feel like I could not breathe with all this new information that I just get. I need to save my sanity and I need to see the person who understands me better than anyone else. I hurriedly change my clothes before telling my parents that I need to see that person because of an emergency. My parents allowed me to go out despite it being so late at night, partly because they’ve seen how shocked and restless I am, and partly because the person that I’m going out to see is my best friend.

Byun Baekhyun.

Baekhyun has just returned home from his daily night run when he saw me standing in front of his door. He was shocked, of course. Because I have never really went to his apartment without noticing him beforehand. But upon seeing my blood-drained face, he ushered me inside before he rushed through his shower so that he can talk to me. After he’s done showering, he brought me to sit across of him at the small dining table that’s just enough for two people. And when he was seated too, he only crossed his arms and placed them on table. He doesn’t open his mouth, but his eyes are demanding me to open up. And I was right because in the next second, Baekhyun is ready to be on his best friend’s duty.

“Okay, spill it now. Every single thing.”

“You know what? Just cry.”  

“Why are you asking me to cry?” I ask, annoyed that Baekhyun has been telling me the same thing ever since I was done telling him what happened. Baekhyun was also shocked to know just how much of an asshole Oh Sehun was. But he then said that I should have at least expected this since Sehun is a popular guy at university.

“Because,” Baekhyun uncrosses his arms on the table and leans back on the chair. He closes his eyes before continuing. “It’s not healthy for your mental health, you know? You don’t have to put on a strong facade in front of me. Acting like this when you’re hurting deep inside will only hurt you even more. I’ve seen you cry before. Multiple of times too, if I may add.”

I brush his words off and only stay silent. My eyes roam around his grey and red themed apartment, taking in the minimalistic interior of the house that belongs to the 24 year old man sitting across of me. He has a grey coloured two-seater sofa, his coffee table is full with his macbook, ipad, some of his still opened law text books, some documents and stationaries. His television that was originally brought from his family home is connected to the internet and his playstation 4 is still plugged into the television too.

When was the last time I visited his house? I couldn’t recall the memory but I know that it has been quite a while. Ever since I started dating Sehun, I only met Baekhyun at our university or anywhere else that is not his house because Baekhyun thought it was a little inappropriate for me to go to his house since I have a boyfriend. My little inspection of his house was interrupted after a short while when Baekhyun sighs a little loudly. I focus my eyes on him now and shrug my shoulder.

“Are you even listening to what I’m saying?” Baekhyun asks. “I don’t want you to get anymore hurt by whatever that jackass is doing or about to be doing after this. I know how much you like him and how much you cherish the relationship that you’ve had with him. It’s completely normal to be hurting by this news and it’s definitely okay to cry too. Cry until your eyes get swollen, cry until you fall asleep and wake up feeling a lot better than tonight.”

I bite my inner cheek and shake my head. Although I admit that I am hurt deep inside, I refuse to cry. Not because I have too much pride in me but because of these mixed feelings bubbling inside. Hurt from being lied and cheated on by the person whom I thought I was going to have a long lasting relationship with. Confused because out of all people, I didn’t expect Sehun and Irene to be together. Irene was my seatmate and one of my assignment group mates throughout the whole of last semester where I had taken an elective subject not related to my major. Appalled because this would have not happened if I hadn’t asked Sehun to join our group celebration dinner for getting an A last semester.  These feelings just keep on brewing inside me and it was too much to comprehend, leaving me to not be able to even shed a tear.

“I don’t know, Baekhyun.” I say while standing up from the dining chair.“I thought I should tell you about this and feel better, but I still feel like I have just gotten hit by a car. I guess breakup really sucks.” I laugh soullessly. “Hey, do you mind if I crash here tonight? I’m too tired to drive again.” I don’t wait for Baekhyun to respond because I straight away walk to his couch, not realizing that Baekhyun has also stand up from his chair to follow me.

I’m only a few steps away from the couch when I feel a soft tug on my left hand, turning me around before I am being pulled into a bear hug. My eyes widen in shock because my best friend has never hugged me so closely and so tightly like this. But his embrace is just so perfect and warm and very much comforting that I can feel all these mixed emotions inside of me are swirling all over the place before I feel something triggering the most wanted reaction from me. And just like his warm embrace, my dams of tears exploded.

“I really like him, Baekhyun.” I say with tears streaming down my face. Baekhyun doesn’t say anything but lets me cry on his shoulder. I take a long time to stop crying and when I am slowly sniffling, that is when Baekhyun starts speaking.

“That wasn’t so hard, wasn’t it?” He asks while stroking my long hair. “You silly girl, you’ll feel a lot better after this. And oppa will make sure that jackass will regret doing what he did to you.”

[exquisitley-obsessed]

Scars - Part One (Fred Weasley x OC)

Author: @exquisitley-obsessed

Summary: Scarlett Black, daughter of Sirius Black, has been invited along with Harry and Hermione to the Weasley's Bungalow for the summer before their 5th year. Whilst nice in theory, Scarlett would normally be spending her summer in her father's empty, old flat and finds herself missing the familiarity of that dingy apartment, and feels estranged with the unrelenting love of the Weasley Household. Fred Weasley is the unlikely friend who she finds distracting her from her unique homesickness, and the two find themselves falling into something a little bit bigger and a little more complicated then they could've ever expected.

Word Count: 3412

Pairings: Fred Weasley x OC

Warnings: None

A/N: I’m writing this story on my wattpad account, so if you like it and want early updates then I suggest you go read it over there!

MY MAIN MASTERLIST

It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was nice, arguably more than she deserved, but it wasn't supposed to be like this.

The girl watched as morning light strengthened along the walls, semi in denial that she was even awake. What light that did tumble in from the window was tainted somewhat green form the overwhelming amount of shrubbery outside - it wasn't supposed to be like that. She was used to a navy hum that would sporadically ache through her bruised and battered window, the one that didn't even open. But the one she had now did, and last night someone had thrown it open, unable to cope in the relentless summer heat, and now she could hear the birds as she awoke and even the chatter of her friends in the garden.

It was meant to be comforting, a sentiment that she was now somewhere safe and surrounded by people she loved - but all she seemed to feel was a dull lonely ache sitting in her chest.

"Fine. I'll get up." She whispered, it seemed she could ignore her consciousness no longer and so she sat up and turned to face the dreaded window and the promise that came with it. It was a perfect day, of course. It was day one of the summer holidays, the longest break you get from Hogwarts Wizardry School of Magic and it was late June. Of course, it would be perfect. The sun was sitting proudly in the sky and showed no sign of going anywhere nor weakening in its relentless heat. The green of the hills rolled up and down until they merged with the hazy blue horizon line. It was perfect and warm and welcome - and she hated it.

Looking down she was wearing a sweater that Molly Weasley had made for her last winter - another thing she didn't deserve. Not to mention the bed, though creaky and missing a few planks of wood, it was coated in more homemade blankets and ties of aged cloths, a thousand little scars of love. It seemed as though she were surrounded by so much warmth and kindness, and she didn't know what to do with it. The room was already empty, Hermione and Ginny had already made it downstairs for breakfast. Ginny, the name came with a twinge in her gut. This was her room that she was taking up space in, and she would be for nearly seven weeks.

Pulling on someone's blue sweatpants, the girl took several long breaths before she finally decided to brace the world. The 'world' being the hallway of the Weasley's Bungalow just outside Ginny's room, to which there was no one even there.

Day One, Scarlett thought as she began winding her way down a series of crooked steps, lowering herself closer and closer to the heart of the house, the bubbling kitchen and sitting room which the rest of the house appeared to be occupying. Day One.

The worst part about hating her stay here was the guilt that came with the hatred. She loved the Weasleys, not to mention the fact that both Harry and Hermione were here, it should be heaven for her. Scarlett didn't want to hate being at the Weasley's and in many ways, she didn't hate it here. But the alternative to spending her summer here was spending her summer in the dingy flat her father had somehow managed to buy for her before he was sent away.

In many ways, it was all she had of him, and even though her summer normally consisted of shunning herself away, sleeping her father's bed and quietly getting ahead in all her schoolwork - it was the only time she ever got to appreciate him. When your father is Sirius Black, that's not something you get to speak of casually with others, not even friends she'd realised. Even Harry Potter whom Sirius had taken a great liking to when they were in their third year couldn't seem to relate to how Scarlett felt.

"Scar!" Hermione smiled from where she was squashed between Ron and Harry at the kitchen table, all of them hunkered over a book. "You're awake! Come have a read of this!"

"Finally!" Ginny muttered, rolling her eyes as she shoved a spoonful of cereal in her mouth and leaning against the cabinets. "Are those my sweatpants?"

"Scar!" An overexcited voice tore through the blubber of the kitchen where the entire household, parents and siblings alike, appeared to be gathering - well, not everyone. The latest voice to call her attention luckily prevented Scarlett from having to respond to either party. It was Geroge who was her saviour, half-dressed in quidditch gear and holding a bat in his right hand. "We've got a game of quidditch but the numbers are odd!"

"Oh no," Scarlett muttered dryly.

"Please Scar. It's me versus Bill and Fred."

"George you can't play quidditch with four people."

"'Course y'can, don't be daft."

"George I'm not-"

"Did she say no?" Fred's voice echoed over the returned chatter of the kitchen only seconds before he appeared next to his twin. Fred too was dressed in moth-eaten quidditch year and was sporting an unfazed, dopey grin. "You automatically lose if she won't play Georgie." He proceeded to gloat to his twin as he leaned back against the doorframe, bending his head to the side as he didn't quite fit.

"Oh, no one told me those were the stakes." The sight of Fred appeared to awaken a competitive edge in Scarlett, she had always been closer with him than his brother, but purely in a friendly way. "Oh, George you should've said." Goerge positively gleamed at her change in heart and Scarlett quietly excused herself from the kitchen before slipping away into the early morning sunshine.

"I still don't understand how this works." Scarlett followed the twins looming statures out into the luminous field, squinting through the sun at their lean forms.

"Well, I 'suppose it's not really Quidditch, more of a race really." Fred hung back a bit to fall into step with Scarlett, standing to her right as to block out the sun for her.

"How d'you play?"

"Well, two people from opposing teams take a quaffle and have to go from one end of the pitch to the other, try and score and then loop back around. The other two will be trying to knock 'em down with bludgers. We played it once in practice."

"Must've been off." Scarlett shuddered off her jumper and wrapped it around her waist. She was one of the lesser-known players of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, having only joined after poor Alicia Spinnet got that nasty bludger straight to the face, her nose was never sat quite right after that and she decided to give up quidditch for the time being. Scarlett had only gone along to trials as a joke, turns out she's rather good at running away.

"We'll only do a few rounds."

"You mean, we'll only go until one of us is severely injured." Fred merely grinned down at Scarlett as they entered Bill and Geroge's little step up under the oak tree. At that moment the sun had lit up Fred's blue eyes so that they turned a watery orange and his freckles appeared to glow across his pale skin.

"Oh, Lettie, I love having you around. It's like every day's a gift." Scarlett rolled her eyes, brushing off his personal nickname for her by leaning down and plucking her broom from the stack.

"Right you got the rules?" Bill asked - he was only here for another day or so before he was off to see Fleur in London.

"Think so." Scarlett passed the broom from palm to palm.

"Good. First, it's me and Scar flying whilst the twin's shoot. Then swap, then alternate."

"Yeah, yeah," George muttered, already swinging his beater back and forth. "Let's play."

Scarlett won against Bill, then Fred against George, George also lost to Bill, and then finally, Fred versus Scar. It was nice to be in the air for a change, it was so rare that you ever got such a clean sweep of the field with a quaffle in quidditch. Especially since in recent years the game had upped in competitiveness given the newfound rivalry between Malfoy and Potter. It had been ages since Scarlett could genuinely say she had had a nice game of quidditch.

"Don't go easy on me pretty boy," Scarlett muttered as she set herself up, still rubbing her shoulder from where rather a nasty bludger from Fred hit her on her first round.

"Oh, you think I'm pretty." Fred batted his eyelashes at her, whilst he straddled the branch between his legs, his cotton trousers revealing his thighs as they clenched and re-clenched as he gained his balance.

"Oh for God's-just play." Scarlett kicked off before circling around to the starting point just above the willow trees. Fred was quick to join her, he was incredibly apt on a broom. Scarlett liked quidditch in theory more than in practice, she had taken a fancy to it in her second year when she had had more free time, and she would study different flying styles when she could. Fred was nearly a text-book perfect lean flyer. He was clean and precise and very clearly knew how to manipulate and dominate the broom to fit his needs.

"Play nice with me Lettie, okay?" Scarlett merely scoffed at Fred's faux-innocence.

"In your dreams, Freddie."

And they were off. Had the weather maybe been a bit damper and the pitch a bit more sustainable, Scarlett may as well have been back at Hogwarts on the quidditch pitch, practising with the twins, Harry and Ginny, and on the odd occasion, Ron too. But it was nicer here at the Weasley's Bungalow. The rolling fields were idyllic and the sun-light splashed everything in a clear bright light, not to mention how clean the air was when you were flying, almost like water as it gushed around you.

Scarlett had the upper hand most of the mini-game since she was a trained chaser whilst Fred was for more apt as a beater. Still, Fred liked to play a little dirty since he knew he probably couldn't win naturally. This resulted in Fred sporadically swerving in closer to Scarlett and trying to even circle her as to throw her off course.

Scarlett merely spluttered colourful insults whilst she allowed her body to naturally swerve her this way and that as to avoid him. She couldn't help but be a bit more distracted with Fred flying next to her, he was no longer just an annoying boy but a young man. His newfound height wasn't all that had changed with Fred, he was leaner with quidditch practise, so much so that his old shirts were now just a little to tight the shoulders. His hair was in this soft middle-ground between short and long that usually meant that he was due for a haircut. Not to mention the fact that as he flew he only kept one arm on the broom whilst the other stayed relaxed by his side, the ribbons of muscle-flexing sporadically as he shifted course.

Whether it was Fred's distractions or the distraction of Fred, the bludger that Bill had just launched from her left nearly went entirely unnoticed by Scarlett. It was only when it was metres away that she seemed to notice the oncoming black shadow, pelting towards her, and this resulted in a rather messy dodge that as it turns out, wasn't a dodge at all. The bludger, though missing her, managed to catch the front of her broom which sent her balance entirely off. Suddenly the broom was wild underneath her as it tried to jump itself back into equilibrium. Up, down, left, right - soon Scarlett didn't know which way was up and which way was down.

"Shit, shit, shit-" Scarlett barely heard Fred's voice as he veered closer towards her, she was too concerned over the world spinning around her to take notice of him. Next thing she knew the broom had clearly given up and was now plummeting downwards towards the grassy, yet solid, earth. When that approaching green shadow was only metres away, Scarlett felt a weight colliding with her right side, knocking her off her broom so she fell the last metre before rolling several times with the object in tow.

When the world finally came to a sudden and rather brutal stop, the first and only thing Scarlett seemed to notice was a pair of hands gripping the exposed skin of her waist. It seemed as though in the fall her shirt had somehow ridden up, and the person who had pulled her to safety was now holding the exposed skin. Looking down she saw two freckle-speckled hands holding her against her saviour's chest, three of the fingers had slipped under the fabric of her shirt and were gripping dangerously high on her ribs.

"Sorry!" A voice jolted her, some part of her mind loosely recognised the voice as belonging to Bill who no doubt had been the one to throw the bludger.

"My fault," Scarlett replied, shuffling a little so that she could hide her flushed cheeks by brushing down the grass stains on Ginny's sweatpants. As she moved the hands seemed to realise they were gripping her and slowly disentangled themselves with her shirt.

As Bill and George made their way over Scarlett snuck a look over her shoulder at Fred. He was leaning back on his hands as he sat, his legs outstretched in front of him. He wasn't really looking at anything, just squinting in the sunlight. Scarlett noticed the messy tufting of his hair and the way his shirt had somewhat rolled up near the waistband of his trousers so she could just see the toned, freckled flesh that was hidden there.

"Whoops!" George laughed as he ran up to Fred and Scarlett, reaching down and helping his twin up.

"Good thinking Fred, we almost broke our new house guest." Bill was the one who reached out to help Scarlett up and as he did so he sent her a playful wink and a shake of the hand before he turned and slapped his brother on the back. Fred, in turn, appeared to now be sporting a rather bitter expression towards his brother, as though his kind words were nothing but slander.

"Yeah well, someone's gotta look out for her, she's not used to how you two play quidditch," Fred muttered, and Scarlett was surprised to hear an angry lilt in his voice. He never got annoyed, or angry - and if he did he would normally always play it off with a joke.

"Sorry Scar that's my fault," Bill said again, pulling her in for a half-hug.

"Ugh, would you guys stop worrying. It was nothing! I'm not even hurt." Scarlett rolled her eyes and turned to retrieve her broom, praying with everything she had that it wasn't damaged - God knows she couldn't afford a new one. "It was basically like a wake-me-up."

"Still, we'll be more careful in the future." Fred finally smiled at her, and that dark cloud above him seemed to pass.

"Don't you dare. God knows the other houses won't go easy on us, why the hell should we go easy on each other."

"Fair point, fair point," George muttered, and with that, the party appeared to decide that that was enough Quidditch for one day - well, at least for one morning.

Bill and George decided that to make up for their meanness and to be 'gentlemen' they'd be the ones to take the kit back to the shed whilst Fred and Scarlett could wind their way back to the Bungalow. For a small while the two didn't speak as they fell into step with one another, and Scarlett couldn't help but wonder if Fred was thinking the same as her - thinking about how it felt to have Fred clutching her bare skin, whilst he was flushed against her back, pinning her to the floor.

"You want to tell me what's been getting you down." Fred eventually spoke and Scarlett couldn't help but blush, some part of her was worried Fred could hear her gushing thoughts.

"What?"

"Oh please, ever since you found out you were spending summer here you've been positively miserable."

"Shut up."

"I'm being serious, hey-" Fred jumped forward and twisted so that he was now standing in front of her, looking down at her with a suddenly serious glare. "I don't mean to take the piss, I know sometimes me and George can take things too far but if you're really upset then-"

"Fred I'm fine." Scarlett squinted up at him, Fred's sudden mood change had taken her by surprise. "Just homesick y'know." Even though Scarlett by no means wanted to continue the conversation, at least not yet, she didn't want to move on and disrupt the moment. It was quite nice to have a few personal seconds with Fred, she had never really had a chance to before, not if you count passing comments in the Gryffindor changing room. It was just, nice.

"Shit, that doesn't look fine." Fred's eyes at some point must have trailed southwards as he was now wincing at the sight of Scarlett's shoulder, only semi-covered by a tank top. There on her shoulder was a flowering pink bruise that no doubt was going to blacken over the next few days.

"Eh, you know I've had worse." The Gryffindor rule was that if you didn't come out with an in injury then you clearly weren't playing hard enough.

"Still..." Fred muttered. "I did that?" Without thinking Fred reached out and pulled the strap of her tank top an inch off her shoulder to get a better look at the flushed skin. The movement appeared perfectly natural to him and he merely continued to study the injury he'd caused, his finger fluttering lightly over the colourful pattern the bludger had painted. But Scarlett seemed frozen in place, all of sudden, it was like a million things hit her.

The golden light that was bouncing of his skin, the way he had some pale grass stuck in the orange tufts of his hair, the less prominent freckles that clustered across his nose and temples. Not only that but right then and there, she could smell him, and it was Fred's smell. It was warm and welcoming, a familiar musk that had been around her every time she'd been near him, she had just never noticed it.

"I'm fine," Scarlett whispered once more, not trusting her voice to speak much louder. How long had this feeling been there, how many times had she confused it for something else? All these years she'd watch him fall in and out with girls and just thought he saw her as a little sister to him. She herself had been with other boys but, Fred had always been a shoulder to cry on. Was this even possible?

Fred's eyes came back to hers for just a moment and another thousand questions lurched in Scarlett's mind.

"Okay." Fred eyed her warily, as though he were not convinced, but he slipped the strap of her tank top delicately back over her shoulder.

"I'm fine!" She laughed throwing her hands in the air.

"Whatever you say, Lettie." He turned back around and started pacing again, and Scarlett couldn't help but feel her heart drop a little. Didn't he want to stay out here a bit longer where there was no one to eavesdrop on their conversation? Clearly not.

"Can't believe it's my first day here and I'm already battered and bruised."

"Did you really expect anything different?"

"No...can't say that I did." She smiled up at him and he smiled down at her. And then all of a sudden they were back in the brimming kitchen and someone was pushing a plate of food in Scarlett's hands and Molly was scolding her for playing on an empty stomach and everything was normal.

And then Fred sent Scarlett a wink over his shoulder before he disappeared upstairs to get changed and Scarlett felt a warmness flush throughout her chest. Maybe everything wasn't normal - maybe Scarlett had just found something to make this summer, bearable.

[deerlyloved]

friends of friends

under cut: a long fanfiction about my fallout 3 oc, clyde, and his experiences with trauma after the pitt

The Capital Wasteland was an inhospitable place, one that even the most toughened of people would struggle in. Mountains of concrete left in radiated piles around the once-bustling city meant it was a struggle to get anywhere in the decimated city unless you decide to take your chances with the potential fall, and the people who flooded the streets you could traverse made the fall seem ideal.

The dangers faced when just trying to walk through the Capital Wastes were bad, but when you tried to settle they got worse. Raiders, slavers, radiation, ghouls, or sometimes just plain bad luck… It seemed near impossible to try and live there, the land mostly infertile and the people hostile.

And that’s why Clyde loved it. Just like home, but with way fewer trogs and way more people. Another plus was being able to do whatever the fuck he wanted to with slavers he found and people not care, either way, no praise for being a hero or dirty looks from someone he kept alive as a reminder. Just quiet apathy and blank looks. It was nice.

He kicked a raiders face in one day and the settlers he was bothering said thanks and moved on. He broke another's legs the next and no one mentioned it.

Maybe resorting to violence to get his feelings out without having to address them wasn’t healthy, but he didn’t know that that was what he was doing, so he didn’t care and just kept swinging and shooting to his heart’s content.

The journey from the Pitt to the Capital Wasteland was...hazy to him. He remembered refusing to go back to the steelyard to give her to Wernher, making him come out instead. The days that followed as Midea took charge, forming new systems to make sure everyone was safe, new expansions, new everything still made him feel almost hopeful. He stood next to her with a gun the entire time and damn near snarling at anyone who got too close, same with Marie. Midea was so hopeful, so happy to see a light at the end of the tunnel finally, and it was infectious. Once they had a farm going, they cleared out Haven of food, and once people got something edible in their stomachs?

Clyde had never seen the place so busy. Even when they had slavers breathing down their necks and beating them, when pain and death were reasonable responses to so much as stumbling, they weren’t as busy and motivated as then. Reinforcements were built up in a day or two, the steelyard was cleared in three weeks and lit up in another two with ingots being found much more easily than they ever were when slaves were being thrown in for fun.

It was almost a settlement, somewhere that could turn out to be worth-fucking-while to put effort into, especially once word got out and traders stopped by again.

And that might be why Clyde left. He could remember packing, and then stopping and having to talk himself into telling Midea, saying goodbye before he up and left. It went about as well as he thought it would, Midea clinging to him and his armor and crying, asking him to stay. Marie was too young to understand, so she didn’t cry like Midea or the other newly not-slaves did. Clyde felt a small twinge of guilt, but it was knocked away by his usual state of uncaring that was so ground into him he couldn’t help it.

The walk took a few days, but he just kept going. Only stopping to sleep and take a small break here and there, he walked to the ruined area of DC and then kept going until he found himself near a tall, crumbling building, three-stories high with a gate. He stared for longer than he wanted to admit, realizing he’d been traversing through unknown territory and not even caring for his surroundings until now. He finally noticed the relative chill of the night, feeling that his skin had flushed at the new temperature.

He was so used to the constant heat of the Pitt that he wanted to shiver at the air around him, even though it was more than welcome.

Finally, someone spoke, a woman. She shouted from the second story, half-hidden from behind a ruined window frame. “What’s your business, stranger?”

Clyde didn’t know what to say. He had no idea what his business was, he just didn’t want to be in the Pitt anymore so he walked and walked and ended up here. He opened his mouth to speak, finding the most convenient lie to spout just like he’d been doing since he was 13.

He said he wanted a place to trade and rest his feet, never mind the fact he had nothing to trade and it was obvious. The woman narrowed her eyes, her finger staying on the trigger of the guns he already had readied and trained on Clyde.

“Hannibal says I gotta let folks like you in, but that don’t mean I have to like it.” She shouted back at him. Keep your hands in sight, and don’t make any sudden moves.” Her gone lowered just an inch, and she paused as she scanned Clyde up and down. “I’m coming down to open the gate.”

Clyde went in. The woman, Simone, literally locked him in the building, telling him to go speak with the previously mentioned Hannibal before she talked to him. Once he found out they were all escaped slaves, the woman’s hostility clicked in Clyde’s mind, and he suddenly felt the same protective feelings he had towards his not-slave family for everyone in the building.

Not love, maybe not even a bond, just a need to protect them.

So he left as quickly as he could. He left and just walked the streets of DC, another soul lost in the ruins of a forgotten civilization.

During the months he wondered, he joined a mercenary company. He became the “quiet one”, the “new kid”, and he earned a minor reputation for being reliable. Even with a bullet in his shoulder and blurred vision, he would make sure every last feral ghoul in the area was dead before he paused to take care of himself.

Something he still looked back on with confusion and wonder is how he found the time to revisit the Pitt, and by extent, the people there. He would never understand why he let himself go back, or why he even wanted to in the first place, but he found himself at the gates one day, a bag full of toy cars and teddy bears for Marie.

The first time he had ever done that, Midea had nearly tackled him with the hug she gave him, and she made sure Wenher had brought Marie out to see him as well. He stayed for a week or so before he decided it was time to head back to the Capital Wastes.

Clyde never cared for the people he traveled with, barely caring to learn their name, but he found himself passing through the streets of DC one particular night, following behind a pack brahmin weighed down with scrap metal and junk.

In the distance, he saw it, shining lights from a crumbling building being patched up with plywood and scrap metal. He raised his gun as they approached, as did the rest of the guards, but the closer the more they realized what they were approaching.

The Temple of the Union had expanded and moved to a more reasonable state of living. The Lincoln Memorial now housed them, the walls that had been torn down through years of abuse and neglect now patched up with wood, stone, and lots of hard work. It had become a central part of the Capital Wasteland, a beacon of hope for some people and an intimidating force for others.

The caravan he guarded stopped to trade and rest their feet for the night, and Clyde found himself at the end of the stairs with a stabbing in his chest keeping him from walking too far up. A woman shouted down at him after a few minutes of him standing around kicking his feet, almost mockingly, “What’s your business, stranger?”

Clyde felt just a tiny bit better as he met the gaze of Simone, who walked down with her gun in her hands and a smirk on her face. “Long time no see.”

Simone coerced him up the stairs with promises of ammo and extra water, and Clyde was almost instantly bombarded with quiet cheers from the slaves he once knew when he stumbled across the Temple of the Union months ago.

When morning came, Clyde didn’t follow the caravan out. He handed the man his caps back and went back to the room he had been sitting in all night. It felt… right to be here. For once, something felt right to him, not almost-right where he was walking on eggshells trying to find a place to sit. So he stayed. He stayed until a woman named Rosie Red came marching into the Lincoln Memorial like she owned the place, a woman with a deactivated slave collar trailing behind her with knives attached to her belt and a smirk on her face.

He stayed until Rosie looked at him, asked him how much his contract was, and bought him out for the year. Then, he followed Rosie around, not that she went far.

She boasted herself as an old assassin, a black widow in the wasteland that took down scummy men to make sure they never hurt another person. She’d quickly add “well... women too…” and wink at her partner, Clover. Rosie went on and on about how she had a reputation, and when Clyde asked around it was confirmed that she did. A few people even said that Rosie had been the one that freed them in the first place, killing their masters, buying them and turning them loose, or just doing something as simple as opening a gate.

Clyde didn’t trust her, contract or not, and he always made sure to keep a closer eye on her than was necessary.

The Union had grown so much, and after Clyde had his week in the Memorial, he considered leaving just as he had with the Pitt. The prosperity was too much for him, it almost reminded him of Haven when he was young. Every small, innocent interaction was painted dark, the heat of the Pitt finding him even in the coolness of DC as Clyde watched two raiders exchange cigarettes before turning back into the good-hearted ex-slaves on the stairs they were.

It’s like he was being haunted, even small things pulling him back however far into his past it wanted him to go. One of the slaves had a baby when she came in, and he had to cup his ears so he’d stop picturing Marie in her crib, confused and whining as he killed her mother just feet from her.

He tried to leave after that, standing and grabbing his bag, packed and ready to go like always. He went for the stairs, the chill seeping into his bones and his ears still ringing from the sound of the whining baby, trying to walk down without drawing too much attention to himself and failing miserably evidently.

His arm was grabbed, and Clyde whirled around and reared back to hit whoever it was that grabbed him, only to come face to face with the aged face of Hamilton. The man gave him a solemn look, lips pursed into a fine line. The air between them was still, the city seemed to go quiet for a few moments as they stared at each other, Clyde blankly and Hamilton ever-so disappointedly.

“Just promise to take care of yourself.”

Clyde almost grimaced at the words, but years of training had made sure he didn’t, and he just stared, moving from Hamiltons grasp as he continued off down the stairs after the look grew too much for him to bear. The feeling followed him, and all Clyde could feel as he stared down the decrepit streets of DC was those eyes on his back, watching, waiting, disappointed.

He stopped just at the bottom of the steps, some ache in his chest keeping him from walking any further as he stared into the night. He thought, and thought, and then he couldn’t stand thinking anymore so he sat on the bottom steps, eyes sliding shut and his head in his hands.

Clyde didn’t want to be Clyde. He didn’t want to be a weapon, or a monster, or a hero, he just wanted to not be anything. Maybe he wanted to be dead. Just the product of some asshole in power armor thinking torturing a child was the way to a new, better world. Just a weapon, a weapon always, what more was he good at? Any ability to decide who he was wiped clean long ago-- He couldn’t even remember who he was. Was Clyde even his goddamn name?

He sat on the stairs, trying not to curl in on himself, just trying to find some semblance of calm in the rushing thoughts in his head. He knew he was alone once the hairs on the back of his neck stopped standing, and all he could do was think.

Clyde sat for what seemed like hours in the moonlight, thinking but not really having many thoughts besides “Oh God, what have you gotten yourself into?” and “You have a job, finish it.”

His head snapped towards someone sitting next to him, and he saw the fair face of Rosie Red. She leaned back on the step behind her, her legs stretching out in front of her as she looked towards the sky. Even at night, she was wearing red lipstick, her hair a mess and a look of knowing on her face. He stared, suspicion creeping back on him as he stared. What did she want? He said nothing, knowing better than to speak up against his boss, but his face gave it all away.

“You don’t have to finish out your contract, but I would have appreciated a warning, kid.” She said softly, eyebrows knitting together in worry for a split second before her entire face relaxed again. “If you want to go, you can. Just be safe, alright? It’s a dangerous world out there.”

“I owe you a few more months of work, I will give you them.” Clyde replied, looking down towards the pavement between his feet.

“But you don’t want to.” Rosie retorted.

“I owe you a few more months of work--”

“What do you want, Clyde? Do you know?”

“I will give you them.”

Rosie sighed deeply, her eyes sliding shut. “You remind me of Clover.” She murmured, going silent for nearly a minute until she spoke again, “Well, kid… If you want to stay, then stay. If you want to go… Ask yourself why.”

Rosie then stood, smiling down at the man before she turned and walked back up the stairs, where Clover was waiting tiredly by the entrance to the memorial.

No point in questioning your boss.

A loud clattering noise snapped Clyde out of his reminiscing, and his eyes snapped to the caps spread across the floor and the man cursing as he picked them up. Bottlecap, of course. He was the person that was best with numbers, so he was put in charge of the money by Hamilton.

Clyde watched stoically as Bottlecap knelt down, gathering the caps back into the cloth sack they had spilled from with more grumbles and complaints, though he shooed away those who attempted to help. Ever protective of the job he was given, just like the rest of them. Regardless of how much you disconnect yourself from your history, the habits you form never leave, it’s why Clyde was a mercenary, why Bottlecap looked up terrified when the woman tried to help him gather the caps he’d spilled, and it’s why that woman flinched when Bottlecap told her to leave.

He had decided to stay a year ago, though he didn’t understand why even now. He didn’t think it mattered, though, as long as he was here, employed by a woman who deserved his protection, he didn’t feel bad. Rosie let him make a trip every few months to the Pitt, though she didn’t know that’s where he went, no one did. Clyde tried his best to make sure no one knew he came from the Pitt, an act of protection in his mind.

The DC chill still bothered him, even now as he was comfortably cool, and he felt the need to just stop patching his armor halfway through to have the extra layer on. He’d ditched the cracked leather years ago, now in comfortable metal pieces that he constantly took care of, always remembering the time he spent in the steelyard with nothing between him and the snapping jaws of the trogs but cloth.

He was ever grateful for metal armor.

Sun shone in through the holes in the walls of the memorial, and Clyde focused his attention back on his armor, finally going over the last few pieces with careful eyes before he put it all back on, standing and looking around the room with a long, slow glance as he moved for the door. Bottlecap had gathered the last of the caps he’d dropped and had moved on to wherever he was going, and the room was filled with a relative silence once more save for the quiet murmurs from people too far for Clyde to hear clearly.

He walked out the door, grimacing at the sunlight that hit his eyes and blinded him for a short moment before he finally adjusted, looking around the area. A farm had been set up in the mangled debris, encircled with its own fences, gates, and guards like it was the most precious thing in the world.

He turned his head to clance at the top of the memorial, seeing a chair set up next to a crate with Nuka Cola bottles covering it, and a small, blonde woman positioned just next to it. She had her hand on a sniper rifle next to her, her legs dangling freely over the ledge of the Memorial in a way that just taunted fate. She saw Clyde looking and raised her hand to wave before she leaned back and grabbed a half-full Nuka Cola.

Everything was exactly as it should be. Clyde had grown used to the relative peace the Temple of the Union held, though the urge to flee bubbled up nearly every day-- he always ignored it, thankfully. At this point, if he took off, Rosie would hunt him down just to scold him for worrying her.

He moved to one of the pillars that held the Memorial up, leaning against it and looking out onto the street. Junk walls had been put up in an attempt to fortify the Memorial, and they worked rather effectively. Made of metal and welded together, it was hard to get past the wall without Liberty taking you out first, and Clyde liked to think he was support. Anyone who got past the walls, whether by pure skill or blind luck, didn’t make it any further thanks to him and his gun.

Just as the relative peace found him and his thoughts, it was gone.

A bullet lodging it’s way in the pillar Clyde stood on snapped his attention towards the road, scanning the little road he could see just above the walls for any sign of movement. He heart Liberty scurry above, knocking off dust and pebbles as she readied herself to shoot.

He saw nothing, and since Liberty wasn’t firing, she saw nothing. The workers outside all went quiet, most freezing in place as they looked towards the gate, others moving slowly towards the Memorial to take cover.

And finally, Clyde saw movement, but Liberty saw it first, and the person moving just outside the gates was shot down before they got any closer. Clyde hated to say it, hated to even think it, but he knew the armor, even though he just barely saw it. His feet were moving before he even realized, and he found himself at the gate, peering out of it with narrowed eyes to see a raider-- no, a slaver-- on the ground with blood beginning to pool. He had no gun.

“Ah shit.” Clyde murmured, spinning around and motioning for those outside to take cover, looking over his shoulder out the slot in the gate again. 

“Here we fuckin’ go.”

[crimsonrae]

Across the Road, At the Brothel

Chapter Two

Summary: Jaskier fell in love any day that the sun rose in the East. It was a trifling, pleasurable experience for him. Even when he was jumping out a window to avoid cuckolded husbands. So what happens when his trifles start to become more significant? Jaskier/OC. Some Yennefer/Geralt

A/N: Jaskier is just too adorable not to write about. This is a relationship development story with an OC. There will be smut in later chapters and plenty of angst.

Rating: Mature

Or Dove...It was the low murmur of voices and the rather ominous thunking of feet on floorboards that woke Jaskier. For a dull moment, he thought Geralt had returned from... wherever the fuck he had flitted off to. To be honest, he hadn't paid much attention. After three weeks without a bed, a bath, or a decent meal for that matter – despite what Geralt thought he was not a culinary wizard – Jaskier had been far more focused on enjoying the simple pleasures of which he had been deprived and those pleasures did not include traipsing back out into the wild to find some Gods forsaken creature that could, quite possibly, rend him limb from bloody limb.

Opening blurry eyes, he cast about the room for the hulking form of his friend and frowned when he saw no one. It took longer than he would like to admit before he realized that the noise he was hearing was coming from outside his room. Sitting up, his head pulsed with a faint pain and he groaned, quietly remembering the amount of wine he had imbued the night before. He had to hand it to the Toussaint province when they set out to make wine. They made bloody good wine.

A soft yawn unfurled from his lips and he squinted almost peevishly at the light shining in through the window. It had to be a little before midday, his late-night had ensured that he had most certainly missed breakfast. Biting back another yawn, Jaskier slowly went about his usual morning ablutions. He had to admit it was rather nice not to have a pair of golden eyes silently observing his usual rituals, also a little lonely, but that was not something he wanted to dwell on too closely. He and Geralt had basically been living in each other's pockets lately, time apart was more than needed. And yet...

Jaskier sighed quietly as he finished dressing and headed for the door. He supposed that it was time for him to resurface to reality and sniff out whatever it was that had his companion traipsing through wine country. Hopefully, it was a search for a good bottle of Bordeaux, though unlikely. It didn't take long for him to find the inn empty of its keeper as he made his way outside, his stomach rumbling. The first point of order was to track down some food before he went in search of information. It was still a tad early for a midday meal, but he was sure he could find something at the local markets to nibble on.

...Well, market was a strong term he supposed as he looked about.

While Glynedol was not exactly a one-road town, it came rather close. It seemed the road that he and Geralt had come in on was the main road through the town. It had the inn, the tavern, and the brothel all within a few metres of each other. It looked like there was an apothecary not too far down, as well as a cobbler and smithy a little further from that. His stomach twisted with a faint nauseous hunger and Jaskier had to wonder why he hadn't seen any stalls set up for traders. It was harvest season, after all. Usually, vendors would be selling their wares at any small spit such as this little town. Frowning, he glanced about and realized that there weren't many people about either. He could understand most working the fields of their farms for the last bits of produce before autumn, but surely it was getting late enough and certainly warm enough in the day for more to be taking a break and heading into the local watering hole for a respite. It was all a bit... odd.

"Nigel, you can't keep doing this. Not with winter on the way."

Jaskier perked up as a familiar voice caught his attention. The barmaid. Lyrra. She might be willing to guide him about. His eyes quickly scanned the sides of the road but saw neither hide nor hair of her.

A low rumble seemed to answer her back and Jaskier found himself detouring down a side alley by the brothel. He turned a corner and found his lovely maiden knelt down before a slovenly mess of a man. With her back to him, he silently took in her form. Gone was the headscarf she had wrapped around her head the night prior and he could see luscious chestnut hair tethered in a loose braid. The loose frock and apron she wore as she had worked were replaced by a more form-fitting dress. It was simple in style, but he found he far preferred it to her other ensemble.

"What would Mae say if she saw you now?" Lyrra murmured softly as she tried to coax the man slumped against the wall to stand.

The man's hazy green eyes landed on Jaskier and the bard could tell that the man was drunker than a skunk. Still, he had enough wherewithal to nod at him, "Who's 'e?"

"Wh-?" Lyrra started to ask as she turned, obviously expecting no one as her soft grey eyes widen at the sight of Jaskier. She frowned slightly at him before plastering on a soft smile for the drunkard, "He's a bard. One that has a future as a thief with the way he sneaks about."

"I don't know if I'm offended or flattered by that comment." Jaskier muttered thoughtfully as he stepped up next to her, "Do I not get an introduction, as well?"

A flash of exasperation crossed her features and he hid a smile as she gestured down to her friend, "Jaskier, this is Nigel. Nigel, Jaskier. We'll be on our way now."

Jaskier smirked at her none too subtle hint to go away and glanced at Nigel. He wrinkled his nose and hummed, "Hmmm, will you though?"

Lyrra frowned and looked to see that Nigel had passed out during her introduction. A sigh of weariness escaped her as she knelt again to shake her friend awake with little luck. Jaskier raised a brow at her efforts, "Oh, leave him here, Lyrra. He can sleep it off in the alley just as easily a bed."

"He's been out here all night." She mumbled, her disapproving tone matching the glare she threw over her shoulder at him.

He shrugged, "And somehow he's been left alone... well, till you came along that is. Besides, he'll probably regret the state he is in now more if he were to wake up in a filthy alley than if he were to wake in a warm bed. Less likely for a repeat performance this way."

"That's rather unlikely." Lyrra uttered quietly as she patted the man's cheek, "Come on, Nigel. Just a few minutes and you can sleep again, dove."

"Always been my experience." Jaskier stated blandly as he continued to watch.

"And has it been your experience to drink yourself dumb to ease the pain of your wife's passing?" Lyrra questioned echoing his tone as she stood to face him, "Somehow, I think grief wins over discomfort."

"Ahh." Jaskier's amusement at the situation dropped as a tendril of remorse curled in his gut. Pity flared to life in his heart for the stranger as he resisted the urge to squirm under Lyrra's indifferent gaze. He sighed, "All right."

Jaskier quickly took up Lyrra's previous position before the grieving widower. His hand reached out and quickly found the hollow above the man's collar bone before pressing in and curling his finger over the bone with a decent amount of force. Nigel spasmed and jerked awake from the attack on his pressure point, green eyes wide in betrayed bafflement. Jaskier found he couldn't blame him for that look. Geralt had used that particular move on him enough that he was familiar with the sensation that had shot through Nigel's body. It wasn't exactly painful, but it was definitely not pleasurable. Quickly before Nigel had a chance to gather his bearings to slip back off again, Jaskier tugged his arm up and over his shoulders forcing the drunk to stand.

"Don't you dare throw up on me." The bard threatened with a wince as he finally caught wind of the noxious fumes of alcohol coming off the other man's body. Gods, if he hadn't fucking smelled last night, he surely did now. All this on an empty stomach too. He raised an expectant brow as Lyrra gawked at him, "Where to?"

She started slightly and waved a hand down the alley, "This way."

Jaskier grunted softly, channeling his inner Geralt as he half dragged Nigel down the alley. To his surprise, it really wasn't terribly far before they stopped again. He had been prepared to go a few blocks at least. Not less than fifteen metres or so. He was sure his brows were touching his hairline as he realized what door they were stopped in front of, "He's drunker than a fish in an ocean and you want to leave him in a brothel? I don't know if this man will love you or hate you for that."

A light flush suddenly coated her cheeks as she looked away embarrassed but still, she knocked at the wooden door. A second later the entry was thrown open and a stern older woman peered out. Jaskier tried not to cringe under her heavy stare, even as he quirked a small grin at her. It was a wonder this place got any business if men had to go through that battleaxe of a woman. Yet the moment she laid eyes on Lyrra she softened before peering more intently at the form now dangling into Jaskier's side.

"Again?"

Lyrra nodded quietly and the older woman sighed, "Come on, then."

She stepped aside and began to cluck like an old mother hen. Jaskier listened passively as she pestered Lyrra about being too kindhearted and reiterated a variant of what he had suggested earlier. Leave Nigel to whatever bed he made, essentially. As the drunk began to weigh more heavily on his shoulders, Jaskier was silently inclined to agree. In his periphery, he could see women in various states of undress as they moved down a hall lined with doors. Most ignored the small group, while a few waved at Lyrra and offered a sympathetic smile. He was sure it was the first time in his life he had ever been so soundly ignored by a group of whores. He itched with the desire to check his pockets and make sure his coin hadn't been lifted without his notice.

" 'Ere we are. Jus lay 'im on the bed, luv." The matron said stoutly with a nod forward.

Jaskier basically dropped the man once he was close enough and breathed a quiet sigh of relief at the sudden lack of weight.

"We got 'im now petal. Don't ya worry none."

Jaskier turned in time to catch Lyrra's grateful smile and the subtle palming of a few coins before he fell under the matron's stern glare. A ribald comment was poised on the tip of his tongue when he suddenly felt delicate fingers tugging him away and back outside. He eyed the woman before him with renewed curiosity, "Well, that was an adventure. You're welcome by the way."

Lyrra paused and gazed at him uncertainly for a moment before she offered him a rueful smile, "Thank you for helping."

Jaskier smiled faintly, "Yes, well who am I to deny a damsel in distress?"

He swore she rolled her eyes though her smile never diminished. She caught him by surprise though as she tilted her head curiously at him, "You seem to be coming to my rescue quite a bit it seems."

"Oh?" Jaskier questioned in confusion. His mind raced as he tried to place what other time he had come to her aid.

"Hillard told me you chased out the man who propositioned me last night." She reminded him quietly.

It was his turn to blush, as he felt an unfamiliar heat creep into his cheeks, "Oh er um... Your barkeep saw that, did he?"

Lyrra nodded, "He said you gave him a good laugh."

Well, that was something at least, Jaskier thought woefully, though silently relieved that his childish antics hadn't brought him scorn from either the lady or the barkeep.

"Though I do have to ask. Are you following me?"

Jaskier blinked and smirked, "Why? Do you want me to go? You wound me so, lovely Lyrra. Your attentions are rather hard-won. Especially, after lugging a man down an alley for you."

His eyes twinkled mischievously as she blushed and lightly scowled at him. It was fun to get a reaction from her. She shook her head in exasperation or amusement he wasn't sure which, perhaps both as she replied, "That wasn't what I meant and you know it. The tavern was one thing. I work at the Rose and Pine and you happened to be performing there. But now...?"

In truth, he hadn't been looking for her. He hadn't given her much thought beyond a trifling disappointment at a potential tryst thwarted and an interesting conversation lost. Though the conversation part had been regained it seemed. Yet, he could give her a more playful charming answer, "This morning more like for some of us. When I heard your voice dance across the air, I couldn't help but follow its lead. Much like following a siren's call."

"... You use such pretty words." She surprised him again when he caught the disappointment seeping in her grey orbs like storm clouds. She fixed that polite smile he had received before... the one he had noticed she gave to overly-friendly, but strange customers. It was like seeing a physical manifestation of Geralt's silent glare that said he was now merely tolerating whoever was before him. Usually, it was Jaskier.

"Huh. I – I don't think I've ever heard someone say that like it was an insult before." He murmured with a furrowed brow, feeling like he was losing his grip on...on something.

Lyrra shrugged indifferently, "So what were you really doing this morning then?"

Jaskier stared as he realized that it wasn't that he was losing his grip, but that she could see through his bullshit. Bollocks, "I was looking for some food. An apple or something to nibble on. Rather surprised there weren't merchants anywhere on the street, actually."

As if realizing it herself, she glanced about the street they were drifting down. A frown tugged at her lips, "It has been strange lately."

Her voice was barely louder than a whispered, but Jaskier still caught her words. Maybe this was why Geralt had been so twitchy. Maybe he had sensed something was off with Glynedol – now Jaskier wished he had paid a little more attention to his friend's brief explanations, "Strange how?"

Lyrra shook her head, "Just quiet. Fewer people. Usually, the town is bustling with activity this time of year...it's hard to explain. Your singing brought in more people to the tavern than I had seen in a while."

"Huh." Jaskier huffed, suddenly at a loss for those pretty words she mentioned earlier. He had no idea of what to make of her information or what it could possibly have to do with Geralt's latest venture.

She seemed to sense this as she touched his elbow and nodded behind her, "Come on, let's get you some food."

"Oh yes, that – that is a golden plan right there, that is." He uttered delightedly before his stomach reaffirmed its starved state with a loud gurgle. She snickered softly and his lips quirked as a sinful comment fell from his lips, "Help me sate my body's hunger, lovely Lyrra."

There was no doubt that she rolled her eyes this time as she led the way back to the tavern.

»»————-　　————-««

"Where is your companion?" Lyrra asked lowly as she placed a small bowl of stew before him.

Once they had entered the Rose and Pine, she had disappeared into the back, only to reappear as she had the previous night. Jaskier had felt mild disappointment at the sight of her work frock and headscarf. While practical, he would rather see her lovely hair falling loose from her braid and skimming the small strip of flesh above the neckline of her other gown than this sack of a monstrosity. He said none of this as he munched slowly on his stew.

After a thoughtful moment and under the pressure of her expectant gaze, he shrugged, "Not terribly sure actually. I was more enamored with finding water for a bath when he departed. I saw Roach stabled at the back of the inn still... He couldn't have gone far."

"Roach?"

"His horse." Jaskier clarified with a hint of envy as he thought of his other defacto traveling companion. Should Geralt ever feel the need to ditch him, Roach's disappearance would be his clue, "Geralt loves that beast more than himself. He wouldn't leave her alone for long."

A soft smile crossed Lyrra's lips at this profession. Quietly, she slid into the seat across from him. It was funny, when he wasn't actively pursuing her attention, she seemed not to mind giving it to him, "What's that look then?"

Lyrra blinked and looked at him questionably, "What look?"

"That smile for Geralt's bestial obsession." Jaskier said with a small grin. Had the Witcher been nearby he would have been smacked upside the head for that little comment.

Lyrra shrugged, "Whether a beast of burden or a furry companion, I think it's rather telling of a person on how they treat their pets. Your Geralt seems to be a decent sort at the very least."

Jaskier snorted in amusement, though he couldn't disagree. For as gruff and sinister and outright bloody rude his friend could be, he was more honest and decent than most, "Yes, he is at the very least decent."

She cast him an indecipherable look and he merely smiled back. Finishing his stew, he took the time to really study her. It had been something of game, the previous night to court her attention. She had flitted about the tavern like she was dancing on wind. Her service was so smooth that he hadn't even noticed her until the incident with the leering scruff. Her handling of it had been just as graceful and if he hadn't been standing behind her at the time, he never would have noticed the man's untoward forwardness.

He wasn't sure what had possessed him to comment on it to her, but then she had turned to him. Her grey orbs had shown like stars shining through stormy skies and he had been captivated. She was pretty. Her beauty understated, but nonetheless present as his interest in her continued to climb. It had also helped that Jaskier had caught the interest in her gaze as well. He knew attraction when he saw it. He had been put off when she hadn't acted on hers, however. As fun as it had been to pull blushes to her unblemished cheeks, he hadn't expected to be so thoroughly stonewalled. Admittedly, her reluctance to have anything to do with him was still rather entertaining.

He wondered distantly if there was a word for finding such abhorrence to his person attractive. He was sure it said something about him at any rate, but that too was not something he wanted to dwell on. Instead, he turned his focus back on Lyrra, "So... barmaid, then?... Um, how did you find yourself in that profession?"

He nearly grimaced at how bumbling that had come out. She stared at him silently for a moment, amusement crinkling at the corner of her eyes before saying so dryly, "Well, queen seemed to be taken and I wasn't much for whoring. You?"

"Same." He uttered amusedly, preening when she smiled in quiet laughter.

She shook her head at him and moved to stand, "I need to start getting ready for the dinner hour. Thank you for your help today, sir bard."

"Jaskier, Lyrra." He corrected, longing to hear her recite his name in a more intimate setting.

She smirked, a faint blush appearing as she threw over her shoulder, "Or dove, right?"

Well, well. He grinned in delight at her parting shot and vowed to get her to spend her spare time with him as the night wore on.

Previous Chapter    Next Chapter

[gwtwoimpsarewe]

Welcome to the Family

So, this story won’t make a lot of sense without context; but I’ll save that for another post. I wrote it to enjoy it and it’s my first full OC full prose. Hopefully ya’ll enjoy it too.

A quick helper tho set after the prologue bound by blood. So mild? Spoilers? 

Lorcan Vulthon - Norn, Roughly about 26 (circa 1332),(Ex-)Wolf Shaman,  (Ex-)Auxiliary Iron Legion Engineer, Vigil Initiate. Yes he was raised by wolves. (Not literally) 

Zariah Dào - Human, Roughly about 42 (circa 1332), (My Commander for the game, but operates under Lt. Commander to allow for easier rp), Warmaster of a Vigil Company, Lorcan’s new Boss, Has not tapped out since Claw Island. 

Veeck - my necromancer reaper I haven’t made but am taking from an old DnD character of mine, Asura, age unknown, The Deacon of Pain,  

A jungle stalker, tiger and one other feline mini follow him around that’s the joke. One of the JP’s for the Tiger den Achievement is what sparked this. 

Not sure what to tag it but it starts funny ends feelsy, found family vibes, if descriptions of eyes squick you (no harm just who’s looking at you, sudden eye contact etc) be wary or pass on, fluffy angst I suppose, emotional breakdown,

it ends happily I swear! 

(Don’t panic if things seem to change, I post and edit as I go otherwise I get locked in perfectionism spiral and never post at all.) 

-

“Boss.” 

Eyes shielded from the setting sun, Lorcan peered out over the landscape, comm at the ready. 

“Boooossssss.” 

Dusk crawled toward the horizon. Hazy smoke trails blown over the open fields lazily from the nearby mill, an end of a lovely day, on all accounts. 

“Boss!” 

The receiver came to life in Lorcan’s hand with an exhausted sigh of static as Lt. Commander Zariah sluggishly answered, “Yes, Lorcan. What is it?” 

The smile pulled over Lorcan’s face, unable to resist the urge to tease. “Kinda, an odd time of day to be sleeping sir.” 

It was utterly incredible how he could feel the dry stare-down and complex half lecture on the misuse of communications equipment in a brief pause. 

That was talent right there.  

Another sigh brought his attention back in, “I wasn’t, thank you, did you need something?” 

Brightening, Lorcan sat down in front of the mess of fur and leaves, “Yeah! I found your cat bed!” 

“… What.”  

Lorcan gestures at the pile of leaves at his feet although his officer couldn’t see it. “Yeah! One of your Sylvari, the one with the monotone-” 

“-Ours, and their name is Eir, -” 

“-Said one of your weird tiny death machines-“ 

“-Again, wild animals, and not mine-” 

“-Yeah, yeah, the striped one ran off and went to bed everything-” 

“-Tiger; and has been making beds not bedding, your Common is improving-” 

“I found one!” 

The crackle and whine from a heavy static sigh made Lorcan wince and pull the device from his ear. 

“...… You’ve found a tiger.” 

Something about the suddenly calculating monotone made his insides squirm as he forced the cheerful up another notch. “Well no, but I’ve found its bed, and now we have each other’s scents, and I probably will find it and we’ll form a life-long bond like rangers and shaman-” 

“Lorcan.” His name came gently, cutting off his rambling in a way that had nausea setting in. 

“I’m grateful you found one, does it look fresh?” The genial tone was almost disconcerting after seeing nothing but jaded exhaustion, and it was wrong. 

This was not how this works. 

This was a crank call. Because he’s Lorcan. The rambling loud, obnoxious idiot whose superiors while agitated are fond of. Lorcan, who did not want to do this all over again but here they are, and Zariah! Who’d barely known him three days! 

Who took him in without blinking after getting cut off from his war-band, who trusted him enough for a reconnaissance mission. Who put up with all his antics so far with a droll but benign stare; who—

A rustling came finally, along with the clink and slosh of what Lorcan knew to be the large mug of coffee usually in hand. 

“Lorcan-” 

“Stop that,” his throat felt tight, half leaping to his feet into a defensive stance, “You—Don’t-” The plains suddenly felt suffocatingly small, leaving him on edge and snarling into his comm. 

Burn him, what was he doing. 

“Lorcan.” 

“Stop that!” his ears were burning, eyes stinging against the smoke in the air. It was his name; it was just his name what the tar was his problem? 

The placid silence that followed nearly had him throw the damn thing down onto the rocks. Embarrassment burned viciously under his skin. He was better than this now. He wasn’t- 

“Lo-” 

He turned the comm offline. 

-

It was long past dark by the time he’d calmed down, eyes red and throat raw, hunched at the base of the tree.

Great first impression.

Really sold it this time.

Groaning, he dug his face into his knees to do something other than mope in the dark like a moody cub. Or worse start up again.

A skittering of rocks and not entirely muffled metal had him look up in time to see a silhouette with an obnoxious Asuran light nearly blind him.

“Mind if I come over? You turned your comm off.” Zariah inquired tilting his head to the side just before the last jump. “I can stay over here. Just wanted to-”

Lorcan waved him off with a flippant hand and shoved his face back down. “Make sure I hadn’t broken-”  

“-Your bones. Yes. Or anything else important to your personal self.” Zariah moved over the outburst with both a note of finality and comfort that had Lorcan looking up out of instinct, only to wince again at the mini sun in his Commanders hand.

“… If you're going to jump over, douse the Mouse-Light. Before I lose my eyes.”

 Immediately, the object dimmed down and out before far more familiar sounds came and a torch sparked to life. “Sorry about that, but I’ll ask you to refrain from derogatory names. Veeck is a valued member of our team and cares deeply about our survival.”

“… The Asura.”

“Yes.”

“Who rambles on about some new Entity?”

“Of Pain, yes.”

“… Boss.”

“Not up for debate, Lorcan.”

Heaving to his feet with a sigh, Lorcan reached out to him; “Well, can’t let them upstage me now can I. C’mon I’ll catch you; it won’t give you enough light without the M--……. beacon. From the Deacon.”

Zariah landed with a grunt into his grip. “You’ll have to share that one, they’d love that-what is that an idiom?”

“Not a clue.” Wearily sitting again, Lorcan stopped short as something small and purring wormed its way into his lap. “… Uh…”

“She likes belly rubs, and she can smell tears.” Was all Zariah offered settling next to him and safely anchoring the torch in front of them, while the Stalker wiggled about before she settled solidly into Lorcan’s lap. Big eyes batted up at him, as if pointedly proving Zariah’s point; said belly up and offered.

Slowly, Lorcan answered the demand, a new deeper slew of purrs unleashed in repayment. “I thought you said they’re wild.”

“They are. Or were, a few years ago. They found me in the Maguuma, when Mordremoth was; well you know.” came the easy answer, as Zariah set about digging in his pack and handing over a wrapped meat smelling something to Lorcan who merely blinked at it.

“You haven’t eaten since before you left and I know how Norn eat. Eat your dinner.”

Gingerly, Lorcan accepted the meal; before peering at him. “… Does this get any weirder?”

“Only if you let your guard down long enough for them to steal it.”

“Wh-Hey!”

 -

They sat like that a long while, quietly; with a lap full of warm purring death machines, a belly full with warm food and drink, and tired eyes watching the torch slowly burn down to a smolder.

The lecture never came; the ‘we’re alike you and I’ speech, the wise mentor talk, whatever he’d been expecting. Zariah just sat there, relaxed and was… well, there.

But then it made sense didn’t it. He was a tactician for a military organization, one of the high tier leaders in the Pact, leader of his own company; and Lorcan was an accomplished engineer and a perceptive people's person when he wasn’t being difficult. 

There wasn’t anything to say.

He’d freaked out, he didn’t want to freak out, but he did. He’d reverted to causing a scene and trouble because he was a full inferno of freaking the blazes out. About what any of this meant now. About where home was now. What he would do now. What his purpose was now.

Had another identity crisis in an evening flat because he kept trying to put it in a title. Wolf Shaman, Auxiliary Charr—anything that wasn’t just him. How else could he go back and show that he’d changed after all? Prove he was all grown up out of his awkward paws making a mess of everything.

Except he hadn’t had he-

“pWaCKth!”

Lorcan spat fur out of his mouth, leaning away from the incessantly batting paws from his lap companion.  “Hey! Hey! Hey! C’mon!”

“I told you. She smells monologues.”

“You said tears.”

Stretching out with an innocent hum that edged too close to playful to pass as sincere, Zariah rose a brow at him, “Mm? Did I? I must have misspoken. So terribly sorry.”

The words pulled a snort out of Lorcan at the obvious lie, “So, what, she just slaps you in the face at random? Or she’s just psychic and knows when you're spiraling every time.”

Turning towards him, Zariah rose the brow higher, something of a smirk toying in the corner of his mouth. “Oh, definitely a psychic; when I need it. Constantly. She can tell usually because,” His eyes glanced meaningfully at Lorcan’s lap, “I’ve ceased to pet her.”

Lorcan paused, looking to where his hands had fallen stagnant some time ago on her back, much to the indignant pout on her face. “… Oh.”

“Well.” He chuckled at his own obliviousness and began smoothing hands down her head and spine apologetically, much to her delight, “S’a good trick.”

“She tries.” A yawn dragged out the end of the sentence as Zariah settled down more against Lorcan’s side who moved to accommodate him.

Eyes glanced at the time curiously, “Aw burn me, Boss I’m-”

“Safe.” That firm tone was back again, even as exhausted as it sounded. “And that’s all I care about. We’ll go back when you’re ready.”

“Don’t you have paperwork to do?”

“Great thing about paper, it’ll be there when I get back.”

“What about orders? Don’t you have to know what’s”

“Anything I need to know, I’ll know through my comm, if it’s of immediate importance. As for orders, there are other commanders.”

“… How many hours you running on here?”

“Two and a half, I was in fact sleeping when you called me.”

“Boss-” An incredulous laugh cut short by an overused stubborn excuse.

“I had coffee.”

-

Silence lapsed again, softer as the torch barely glowed embers and Zariah’s breathing began to deepened, and slow against his side.

It wouldn’t have made sense for how lax Zariah was, after seven years of nearly non-stop war and fighting; if the moon wasn’t glinting off four Iron Legion Sharpshooters standing guard nearby that Lorcan could now see.

“Boss?” swallowing around the lump in his throat, Lorcan nudged him again. “Hey, Boss.”

There was a slurred hum, eyes not even opening as Zariah lifted a brow in answer “Mmn—yes Lorcan.”

“… Thanks.”

“S’ what ‘m here for.”

-

Epilogue (aka beeps an giggles)

For the weight of a Pact Commander, Zariah was unnervingly light once you removed the pack, armor, weapons, felines, etc.

Which Lorcan awkwardly got to know firsthand as the pint-sized (seriously how small was this guy) Asura fussed around this way and that muttering too fast to keep up with.

It was a very odd feeling of you break it you buy it, with the Commanders sleep schedule. Which cemented in his mind as no one else seemed bothered by the ranting Asura at his feet. 

“-two months! Two months! Not even! We were so close, on ordered leave, relaxing, vacationing, nearly had it! But no! The evil little box of death opens its evil little mouth and ruin everything! This does not please the Pain!”

Lorcan made the mistake of uttering “Does anything,” before realizing the error as he became the subject of the bespectacled, laser sharp, owlish gaze before off again as they moved in thought. 

Finally, with a decisive nod, they firmly shouted up to him, “…… Milk! Milk and Ink!”

(Seriously did the guy think he was deaf? Though they looked like they’d fit into his boot with room to spare, and he wasn’t exactly short himself.)

A tiny hand lifted into the air, fire in their eyes; “I shall explain!”

“Please don’t.” Lorcan begged.

“Easy Squeak-A-Veak, lets save converting until after we get Boss back to bed for a few hours. We’ve already got orders to meet up with General Soulkeeper in the morning.” Came the beautiful rescue from one of the other officers Lorcan couldn’t put a name to.

Whose hands lifted up immediately in a placating gesture, as the tiny Asura looked ready to implode, “Rephrase, to head over to General Soulkeeper in the morning.”

Small detonation avoided, the medic, nodded with minimal professional sulking, “He’s napping on the way there.”

“As always, you can try small fry, you can try. Eir wanted to see you; I’ll see that Boss gets settled yeah?” Offering a fond amused look, they winked at Lorcan who wasn’t honestly sure what to do with himself at this point of being ‘Boss-shelf’.

Veeck squinted but turned and left with a toddle out of the room. “I know what you’re doing and I don’t appreciate it but yes I will leave and stop scaring our recruit.”

“… Wasn’t scared.” Came late and lamely as the officer chuckled and lead him in to where Zariah was staying for the time being.

Which for the first few moments Lorcan was sure they got the wrong room before he finally spotted a bed past all the paperwork. “Is that a war table?”

“Mini-sized yeah, Rye sleeps in his office, it was the only solution after a long drawn out internal war lemme tell you.”

“How is that a win?”

“He used to do it on a cot armed with a coffee pot, and don’t worry about Veeck. Squeakers is harmless; they get dramatic with displeasure and pain cos it’s like a prayer offering? I think? I’m trying to follow it but I need a few more run throughs. They’re a lot calmer day to day.”

“…….. Oh! Good to know, thanks—ah…”

“You forgot my name already didn’t you.”

“……………………..”

Laughing they helped settle Zariah down and into bed, even tucking them in. Which by this point, Lorcan had one final question.

“…… Sooo, kinda curious. Why he’s not; you know.”

“Twitchy as fleas about being handled like a doll? He usually is, but this is day four of small naps and I made his coffee decaf. He’s out cold for the next three to five hours.”

“Burn me.”

“It’s a good thing, say goodnight if you want; just hit the lights when you're done. I’m catching a few myself before we hit the road.” They offered with a wave before heading out.

Lorcan absentmindedly gave a wave only to perk and try to call out; “Wait! You didn’t--…… tell me your name. Tar’nfeathers.”

Sitting down with a sigh he glanced over at Zariah, and with a crooked grin leaned over. “Night Boss. Still totally going to steal your tiger.”

A brow raised as tired, but amused eyes snapped open, “Still totally not going to let it happen.” Zariah challenged as Lorcan shrieked with a flail and fell off the bed. 

“Burn! Tar! and Feather You!”

Yawning with a final chuckle, Zariah listened to him stalk off and turn out the lights. “Good Night, Lorcan.” 

“Welcome to the family.” 

[unchartedterritoria]

Dangerous (Sam Drake x OC) - Chapter 27

*NEW CHAPTER*

Previous Chapters: Chapter 1 * Chapter 2 * Chapter 3 * Chapter 4 * Chapter 5* Chapter 6 * Chapter 7 * Chapter 8 * Chapter 9 * Chapter 10 * Chapter 11 * Chapter 12 * Chapter 13 * Chapter 14 * Chapter 15 * Chapter 16 * Chapter 17 * Chapter 18 * Chapter 19 * Chapter 20 * Chapter 21 * Chapter 22 * Chapter 23* Chapter 24 * Chapter 25 * Chapter 26

As always, you can read the story thus far on A03  HERE

Tags: @jodiereedus22, @shambhalala, @missdictatorme

Reviews and comments are always appreciated!

Sam stormed through the doorway of the motel room, the door slamming into the thin wall hard enough to rattle its frame.

Son of a bitch, son of a bitch, he thought. Sam wiped the nervous sweat from his upper lip and shook another cigarette out of his pack and lit it with trembling hands while he paced in the confining space that he and Faith shared. Going to the cheap dresser that sat in the middle of the room, he yanked open the bottom drawer and pulled out the nine millimeter he had stashed underneath a pile of sloppily folded t-shirts. Setting it down on the bedspread, he went to the closet where Faith had stowed their duffels. As Sam dug through her black backpack, the smell of Faith that had clung to her clothes permeated the tiny closet. The citrusy scent made him angry, an unnecessary reminder that he had failed as a protector.

Fuck, just fuckin'- I'm a just- fucking FUCK!

His hands finally touched smooth metal. Sam pulled out the small 9mm that he had given Faith when this adventure had started.

He wanted more guns. He wanted a goddamn army.

Too bad Nadine don't own Shoreline anymore. Hell, she probably wouldn't even answer the phone.

Sam stared at the two handguns on the bedspread, his arms crossed in front of him while his thumbs drummed nervously against his elbows.

I need more firepower.

Sam took one last drag and pitched his half-smoked cigarette into the sink. He ran the tap briefly to extinguish it while he grabbed his phone. Sam opened his contacts. His finger hovered momentarily over the DIAL command.

I gotta do this. I don't wanna do this, but I gotta do this. He's the only one that's got what I need.

He dialed the number and waited what felt like an eternity between rings of the phone before it was finally picked up on the other end.

“Hello?”

“Victor, I need your help.”

The voice on the other end hesitated. “What did you do?” Sully scolded him. His anger dripped through the phone.

“I need the name of every arms dealer you got in the Keys.”

“What did you do?” Sully repeated.

“Legal, illegal, I don't care. I just need firepower.” Sam told him and ignored the question entirely.

“I asked you a goddamn question, Samuel, what the hell did you do?” He shouted into the phone.

Sam hung his head.

“Jasper took Faith.”

Sully's end was nothing but silence.

“I know I screwed up-”

“You think?” Sully suddenly shouted which cause Sam to wince.

"I know, but I'm gonna fix it. I'm gonna get her back, and I'm gonna end this," Sam said with determination.

“Call Knucky and Steve Ricker, then call whoever they tell you to. I'll send you their number. I'll be there in three hours.”

“I'm doing this myself, Victor,” Sam argued.

“I'll be there in three hours,” Sully said in a low icy voice and ended the call.

Sam let the phone drop from his ear. Closing his eyes tight, he smacked the back of his head against the wall.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” He growled, each word accented by the dull thud of his skull against the drywall.

Faith felt herself drift into a hazy state of consciousness. A very hazy state. She could hear the sound of the ocean, albeit muffled, and faintly taste the sea salt on her dry lips. She let her brown eyes open gingerly, squinting against the bright Florida sunlight. As her senses came back to her, her eyes began to focus. Ahead was a sight to behold. The Gulf of Mexico, blue as an azure crystal, rippling in front of her and stretching as far as she could see. It was breathtaking.

She would have appreciated it more if she wasn't tied to a chair.

Faith could feel thorough wood underneath her as its edge bit into the bottoms of her thighs. Her forearms and ankles were secured in place solidly with duct tape while a length of rope resting beneath her bosom bound her upright.

Oh no, not good. Not good, not good, not good.

She tested the tape that held her arms in place. Whoever had tied her up had sadly done a good job, giving her no wiggle room whatsoever.

“Good evening, Miss Spencer.”

Faith turned her head towards the source of the familiar southern drawl.

Jasper Nox strolled towards her down a long brick corridor. In his short-sleeved white shirt and Panama hat, he reminded her of the guy from Jurassic Park, the owner, he even had an ornate cane as he did. Jasper's was a sleek black onyx, the handle carved into an eagle with its wings stretched back, poised in position to attack its prey.

“Isn't she just a majestic sight?” He said, motioning to the ocean through the arches he passed, the large corridor lined with crumbling brick arcs on both sides.

"I've seen the ocean over one thousand times, and I tell you, she still manages to take my breath away every time," Nox said, leaning thoughtfully against the archway where Faith was positioned. "Have you seen the ocean before Miss Spencer?"

Faith opened her mouth to respond with the expletives floating in her head, but all that she could produce was a faint croaking, wheezing sound.

Jasper knelt down next to her and grabbed a juice box from the floor next to her. He poked the small straw through the top and held it up to her lips. Faith kept her mouth shut tight in defiance.

Nope, I'm not getting dosed again. Nuh uh, not happening.

“I assure you, it is plain cranberry juice. Scout's honor,” He said, giving the solemn Boy Scout salute as a show of honesty.

I did see him just open it...

Oh, fuck it, I'm dyin' here, Faith thought before clamping her mouth down on the straw in front of her, and sucked at it gratefully. Jasper smiled as the box crumpled in his hand before Faith let the straw go, her thirst only partially quenched but at least her throat didn't feel like the Sahara anymore.

Before she could stop herself, she muttered a "Thank you," her voice now back where it belonged.  

And you just thanked your captor. Nice Spencer, real nice.

“You're most welcome!” Jasper said, surprised at her manners.

"I don't believe we were ever properly introduced at the Mariner's Gala. Jasper Evangeline Nox," He said, removing his hat. Bowing deep in front of Faith with his ponytail of red hair tumbling over his shoulder, he took hold of her restrained hand and gave the back of it a gentlemanly kiss.  

Faith could only imagine what this looked like. She also wondered if all kidnappers introduced themselves this way.

"It is quite the pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. These past few weeks have proven you to be an interesting character, to say the least," Jasper continued, regarding Faith like a specimen of a science experiment.

“What do you want?” She asked, trying to keep her voice as evenly toned as possible. Sounded desperate or freaked out wouldn't help matters any.

“Straight to the point! Most unlike a woman, how refreshing!,” He said, clasping his hands together in delight. The dig at her gender made Faith's nose wrinkle.

“All I am looking for is the location of the diary of John Wilkes Booth. Once you give me that, you can be on your way,” He said, making it sound as simple as drawing a square.

“It's with the rest of the Lincoln stuff. Some fort, in the middle of fuckin' nowhere,” She told him, the last word managing to just leave her lips before Jasper brought his cane down hard on her hand with a thwap!

“Language!” He bellowed. The word carried through the concrete corridor like a boom of thunder and echoed through the archways into the courtyard inside. Faith closed her eyes and bit the inside of her lip to keep from yelling, or cursing even more. She flexed her fingers. Thankfully, they all moved, despite the throbbing in the top of her hand.

"I will not tolerate such foul language coming from a woman. Is this understood?" Jasper said, enunciating each word slowly. He leaned forward. His face close to hers, evil green eyes staring over the head of his cane that threatened the space between the two of them. Faith glanced down at the figurehead, the hooked beak nose of the black eagle almost touching hers.

Don't ever argue with crazy people, Boogie, the words of wisdom from Susan Spencer burbled up to the surface of her mind, making her yearn for the warm safety of her mother's arms.

Faith gave a small nod.

“Good, now that we have that little matter out of the way, we can resume business. Where is the Booth diary?”

“I don't know other than with the rest of the Abraham Lincoln stuff,” Faith spoke truthfully.

“You're sure of this fact?” Jasper verified.

“Yes.”

“And where is that located?”

Faith sighed in frustration. The redundancy of his questioning making her grow restless.

“Fort Jefferson, it's in the middle of the...ocean, in the middle of...nowhere,” Her voice trailed as the realization of her current location settled in.

“Yes Miss Spencer, I had managed to deduce that much, as you have finally seemed to recognize,” Jasper said with a grand sweep of his hand to the building that surrounded them, the sarcasm in his voice more than evident.

“75 miles to the closest thing around that could even remotely be considered as civilization,” He continued, his voice hollow in her ears where she heard nothing but the sound of her heart trying to pound its way through her rib cage.

I'm alone in the middle of nowhere, I'm alone with a mad man, I'm alone, I'm alone.

Whap!

Jasper brought the head of his cane down hard on Faith's other hand, the beak breaking the skin enough for a bead of blood to form.

“Focus!” Jasper yelled, “You will pay attention as well as using appropriate language is this understood?” He said, bringing his face closer to hers with each snarled word.

“Yes,” Faith agreed.

“Wonderful, now shall we continue?” Jasper questioned breezily, his menacing demeanor changing quick as the tides. When Faith didn't answer immediately, his eyes began to darken again. Jasper cleared his throat, enough to bring Faith out of her momentary daze and her focus back towards him.

"Mm-hmm," She said with an emphatic nod.

"I really am a reasonable man Miss Spencer, I just simply want what is mine. To be quite honest, besides that Booth diary, I couldn't give two dimes for what happens to the rest of that stuff. Burn it, sell it, throw it in the ocean for all I care as long as I get what is mine."

"How's that diary yours?" Faith asked. In all the research she and Sam had done, she had never seen Jasper's name or even the surname of Nox.

"A brief history lesson then," Jasper began as he took off his hat, trying fruitlessly to wipe away the sand and dirt on the floor before placing it down on the aged cement. "By now, I'm sure you are aware of Mrs. Lincoln and her proclivities to collecting all things concerning the matter of her husband's tragic death.”

Wow, Confederate sympathizer much? Maybe? Just a touch?

Faith gritted her teeth to contain her sarcastic quip and snort. With both of her hands still stinging, she knew to keep her mouth shut.

"It was confirmed, multiple times, over the years, that one of the items she had acquired was the private journal of one John Wilkes Booth. And stored within the pages of that folio lies the Atzerodt confession," He finished, both hands clasped together in front of him, his good hand masking his bad.

“What Atzerodt confession?”

Jasper sighed and shook his head at Faith like she was the world's biggest disappointment.

“I see this history lesson won't be as brief as I'd hoped. John Booth, you see, his action was just one of many to be carried out that night. While Mr. Booth was set to take care of Mr. Lincoln, a man by the name of George Atzerodt was charged with the disposal of-”

"Andrew Johnson, the vice president," Faith interjected, hoping to speed this along. Jasper regarded her interjection with a look of somewhere between impressed and irritated. He began to pace as he told the rest of the tale,  

"Now this group of rebel seditionists, determined to change the course of history by disposing of the current government regime, met in secret for months until their plan was set. While Booth did manage to succeed in his part of the plan, Mr. Atzdrodt did not."

“He got drunk and chickened out,” Faith added. Jasper's face snapped towards her in anger.

“He changed his mind and came to his senses now may I continue?” He yelled, annoyed, his arms stretched dramatically apart.

Faith closed her eyes while her stomach flip-flopped, waiting to feel the cane on her hands or somewhere worse on her body. When nothing came, she looked up at Jasper meekly.

“I'm sorry,” She said in barely a whisper.

"Now," He continued, setting his cane aside momentarily to smooth the front of his shirt, "When the dust had settled, and the government had rounded up their band of rebels, Mr. Atzerodt gave the constables a detailed confession of the groups treasonous crimes. The secret meetings, the gathering of provisions by Dr. Mudd and the Surratts. He even handed over the diary Mr. Booth kept, the whole kit n' caboodle. And did you know it was only meant to be a kidnapping? There was no talk of murder before John Booth went and changed his mind!"

Faith was at a loss for words, unsure how someone could be so bitter and dramatic from something that happened so long ago?

"Meanwhile, Dr. Mudd insisted that Mr. Booth was a friend, nay, an acquaintance! That he knew nothing! And he was just upholding his medical oath," Jasper spat the words out, leaving shiners of saliva in his red mustache.

"What about what they got from Atzerodt?" Faith asked curiously, she didn't see herself getting out of this predicament anytime in the immediate future. After weeks of no information and no leads, the reason for this journey seemed to be coming to a head, the answers she'd been searching for somewhere close.

"Now Dr. Mudd knew what that confession could mean for him, it was his golden ticket. Between the time they were questioned and the trial, the confession vanished along with Booth's diary, which of course would have been just as damnatory for him. Gone. All traces either ever existed, erased! Dr. Mudd was given leniency while George Atzerodt swung from the gallows. Of course, between the words of a distinguished doctor, or a carriage repairman, whose story do you think they chose to believe?"

Faith let the lapping of the ocean fill the moment of silence. Jasper was on a roll and Faith was too afraid of the consequences of stopping it.

“Dr. Mudd became a prisoner here and very soon assured everyone he had changed his ways. Became a model inmate, helped out as fort doctor when the yellow fever hit. So they decided to let him go! Then, years later, the government had nothin' else betta' to do an' they went n' pardoned the slick son of a bitch!” Jasper's thick southern voice grew from a bitter annoyance to a core-deep frustrated roar as he slammed his cane down violently against the floor. Faith jumped, the sound reminding her of a pool cue being accidentally dropped.

With a sigh and a surprising gracefulness, Nox bent down and picked up his cane with his good hand.

“I deeply apologize Miss Spencer for my language.”

"What do you want with me?" Faith asked quickly. The question had been screaming in her head since she had regained consciousness. She had been too afraid of the possible answer until now, convinced if she had to listen to her psychopathic kidnapper apologize to her one more time, she was going to scream.

"As I have said, you just need to simply tell me the location of John Booth's diary," Jasper said, his original temperament returned.

“It's with the Lincoln stuff,” She repeated. She was really getting tired of this question.

"Yes, and where is that?" He pushed.

“I have no idea. Ask Sam Drake, he's the treasure hunter.”

Sam, her brain turned to him for the first time in what felt like it had been days.

“I think you do,” Jasper retaliated.

“How in the world do you think I know where it is?” Faith asked, thoroughly irked.

Oh, Jesus Sam, where the hell are you?

“Well, it's not without reason, Miss Spencer, you are a Mudd after all.”

[yeoldontknow]

As Still As Sound: 1

Author’s Note: my god. i have missed this world. welcome friends <3 please keep in mind the soundtrack for this story is vital to the progression and narrative! Songs for this chapter: Girl, You’ll Be A Woman Soon - Neil Diamond / Here Comes The Rain Again - Eurythmics Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Genre: Soulmate!AU; fluff Rating: PG-13 Word Count: 5,168

Prologue

Wherever you are, the thunder sounds different here, rhythmic and insistent. It means to pull you, drag you away from this place, as if the sound itself is angry and important. As if the sound has hands. The rain feels the same, and it’s this sensation you cling to, the knowledge that this nether space still has rules or laws. Fingers are laced tightly between yours, skin and bone attempting to merge right down the to the marrow. The fear of separation lingers in your joints, making them start to ache and throb with the stress of departure. This fear is the kind that strikes a chill in your heart, makes you jut forward both here and against your mattress, though you don’t know why - it’s something akin to free-falling, except more violent, more desperate and urgent.

You are afraid of separation and so is he - he, the formless, blurred shape that exists solely for you, hand clasped firmly in yours. He is not matter and he is not ether, he simply is, and you know he has been made for you. This hazy outline, this tall thing, this loving thing, is beautiful in all the ways you could idealize. Hard to fathom since there is nothing to see, but you feel it. You feel it all over you, the warmth, the comfort, the strength. You feel him, his pulse thrumming through his palm, his soft skin, his breath as he exhales into your hair. Like this, you remain together, him clinging to you and you clinging to his essence. Like this, you let yourself swoon and surrender to the terror of it all.

You are afraid, both of you anxious and consumed with a sense of dread knowing this will soon be over, but the music keeps you calm. The thunder is the pulsing beep meaning to take you away, but the music. The music. The music feels like yours, feels like your heartbeat, even though it has words.

It’s okay, his voice says, voice deep and low and transcendent. Heartbeats always have words, this is how you hear them. We have to be together to hear it.

This makes sense and you accept it, because here it is easy to accept the impossible. Of course the heart has thoughts and opinions. Of course this music sounds like yours, because it is.

No, he says, but you swore you were correcting yourself. Your mouth made the words but a different voice - his voice - is the sound that carries.

Ours.

You feel your alarm before you hear it, the vibration beneath your pillow dragging you reluctantly from sleep. Your senses have departed from you, gone off to wander in spaces your body is not permitted, and it takes you a long while to gather them back - to want to bring them back. Like this, hollowed and withering, you remain perfectly still as you stare at your ceiling, waiting for the sight of your bedroom to become a comfort.

Everything here, in the safety and familiarity of your room, feels wrong, feels off, like it is not where you are meant to be. Or, rather, not where you want to be, anymore. In the center of your chest, there is a longing, a feeling you would define as nostalgia, tearing your bones apart and making a home of you, nestling inside and turning you into something absent. This feeling is heavy, a sensation similar to mourning - mind agonizing over not the day ahead, but the days you have left behind, and you suddenly feel as though you, your consciousness, have gone missing. You’re pressed into your bed by the weight of it, trapped in the space between wakefulness and sleep, and you think moving your limbs, moving any piece of you at all, would truly break your heart.

Remaining still means you can bring the dream back to life, live in the illusion of it for longer than you were meant to be allowed, and perhaps could find your way back. With every rattled inhale, the dream fades, slipping idly between your fingers like spools of string, and you will your breath to slow despite the speed of your racing pulse.

One single thought erupts in the center of your mind: a hand should be holding yours, the first hand you’ve ever wanted to clutch. You can still feel the strength of it, the rush of blood beneath the skin, the tightness around your fingers, unwilling to let go and begging not to say goodbye. Had you ever touched before this moment? Had your skin ever felt before he placed his hand in yours? Had you ever truly wanted to?

Profound, is how this feels; foreign, is what you think of it, the need for this connection invading you. This is not like you. The capacity to feel this way, or this much, has never been part of your genetic code. And yet, you find yourself struggling not to cry. Something terribly important to you, something you recognize as a part of you, has been lost after it has only just been found, and, so early in the morning, you do not have it in you to reconcile this grief.

All of you wants to give it a name - you think that naming something gives it magic, makes it eternal and makes it immortal, and if you can name it then you can birth it into your reality. You tell yourself to name it, but nothing comes, not even words. In these first few minutes of your day, all your mind can bring forward is a melody.

And just as easily as you lived in it, let yourself wallow in the great sea of this turmoil, your focus on the melody makes you go without. Against and around your body, it dissipates, returning to you the lightness of being, of living without the unbearable weight of yearning. Only now, when your lungs and heart are not flooded with sorrow do you realize your alarm is still ringing.

Turning on your side and curling into a ball, you reach beneath your pillow for your phone to silence the sound. Without the clock to wake you, the screen brings forward the last song you listened to, the song that lulled you to sleep the dark hours of the night. For several minutes, you remain like this, repeatedly illuminating the screen just to see the album art.

Two days, two whole days, you have felt this way. Bewilderingly endeared to a song and unable to crave the sound of anything else. Staring at your phone, you touch your fingers to the screen and imagine you are touching the music itself. Doing this makes you feel like you are slipping, makes you feel like you’re falling back in time, but only for a moment. It’s not even the album that makes you feel connected, simply a song, one song, the song you heard at the shop. Something about this track makes you feel possessive, makes you feel gluttonous, and you know it was this melody you heard in your dream, the soothing music that sounded like your heartbeat.

In this position you remain until you absolutely can no longer, until the last moment, making yourself late and forcing you to rush through your routine. You think it's two fold, the reason for the speed of your movements: the first, is the begrudging acknowledgement that your day must start, that your shift is looming upon you and you are forced to greet this responsibility with aplomb. The second, and you think this is possibly the primary reason you rush at all, is because every action you make brings you closer to the sound. Brings you nearer to the moment when you can play the song that has possessed you, in peace and on repeat until you must go without once more.

It’s fifteen minutes later than usual when you finally step out your door, fingers fondling your headphones and feet hurrying into the dim hallway. You're halted in your tracks when you see your old neighbor, Mr. Kim, struggling up the stairs with several bags of groceries.

‘Mr. Kim!’ you exclaim, rushing forward to guide him up the last few steps. ‘Let me help you with those.’

Sliding his bags over your wrist and forearm, you grip his hand to steady him, and relish the feeling of his cool skin against your flushed palm. The weight tugs at you, makes you plant your feet into the rickety wooden steps, and you wonder briefly how he’s made this trip without any help.

Weakly, he attempts to wave you away with his hand, almost immediately letting it fall to grip the railing. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he says with a tut of his tongue. ‘I’ll be fine. It’s just these damn old knees.’

To emphasize his point, he shakes his legs slightly and moans with melodramatic flair, the sound echoing off the walls of the small hall. He flashes you a beaming smile, blinding you with tender warmth, and making wrinkles form at the corners of his eyes. It’s hard not to feel so endeared to him when he’s like this, playful and feeling well, clinging to the shades of his youthful glory, and you find yourself starting to laugh.

‘It’s not a problem,’ you chuckle, holding his hand a little tighter.

When you reach the landing, he huffs, stretching as if meaning to crack his back and his joints. Straightening, he glances to you, already waiting patiently for him at his door, and cocks an eyebrow with a compassionate scowl.

‘Aren’t you late for work?’ he asks slowly, eyeing you conspicuously.

Gently you nod, fixing pleasant smile on your features and purposely giving pretense of being unaware of his concern. ‘This is more important,’ you say, brightly.

Keeping his eye on you as he heads to his door, he digs his into his pockets for his keys.

‘You dote on me too much,’ he sighs, though it is a half-hearted complaint, the words losing their meaning thanks to his slight grin.

‘On the contrary,’ you contend, shifting your weight happily on your feet. ‘I don’t dote on you enough.’

His small chuckle at this statement is quickly diminished as he tries, unsuccessfully, to unlock his door. There is a tremor in his hands, worse now, you assume, because of his exhaustion from walking to the shops and back, which makes him unable to angle the key properly into the lock. For a few moments, you let him try to stabilize, knowing that feeling independent and useful is fundamental to his lifestyle, but, after a while, you can see the stress of the last several minutes starting to wear thin on his person. Lines form around his mouth, those of a frown and those of personal disappointment, and your stomach drops at the sight.

‘I’ve got it,’ you murmur, gently placing your hand over his and smiling up at him.

He does not look at you, rather just frowns sadly at the lock. ‘These damn things are so hard to see,’ he sighs, pushing through his door once you get it open. In truth, both of you know this isn't the reason for his struggle, but, just for now, you let it be so. ‘I’d be lost without you.’

A fond smile spreads itself across your lips as he takes the bags from you and you watch him move through his flat. His hunched shoulders as he is brought down by the weight, his slow, yet steady, steps as he moves through into his kitchen, all of these things make you want to reach out and hold him to you, to let him know he is not truly alone. Perhaps, you think, your favourite part of him are his hands, weathered, old, and filled with so many stories. They tremble now, slightly more so than they used to, but the liver marks and the worn skin tell stories of love, of youthful recklessness, and kindness. Always, when he tells you things about his life as a boy and a young man, he holds your hand, clinging to you as if his words are meant to live through you. Always, you hold onto him just as tightly, almost afraid to let him go.

Gracelessly, he drops the bags to his counter and chuckles at the way his bananas tumble from the bag. An odd, albeit happy, reaction to such a small event.

‘I think the same would be said for me,’ you mutter softly, unsure if he could hear you at all.

You mean every word of the statement, the reality that you view him more as a grandfather and less as a neighbor always seeming to wash over you when you see him. When you first moved to the city for uni, you had no one to truly help you settle. Kate, close as she was, was still a train journey away, and, with her student budget, was never truly able to afford to visit as often as she would have liked - not until she moved into the city herself. Your family, off in Kettering, were unable to offer any form of assistance, the distance and the time putting a strain on their ability to provide aid. When you think back on your first days alone in the city, the predilection of that time comes from the memories of days with Mr. Kim, his tattered couch, and his strong builder’s tea.

From your position in the doorway, you can see into his flat and into the living room. Pictures line the walls, many in black and white, others in bright technicolour. Like usual, you are drawn to his wedding photo, a faded image framed and hanging over his record player. Striking, as always, how beautiful he and his wife looked, turning the image into something closer to a glamour shot than a wedding photo. Striking, as always, how blissfully, incandescently happy they were.

In stark contrast, below the image is a record player atop a cabinet filled, messily, with records. Collection too large for such a small thing, they spill out into several crates surrounding the wood, some even nestled in the space between his end tables and his couch. Trinkets, small things his son and grandchildren send him from abroad, are scattered around the room - treasured by him, though many existing entirely without use or purpose.

Turning back to him, your eyes catch the time on the microwave.

Late. You are terribly late, but there’s a slight tug at your heart at the idea of leaving him, especially when he’s just started to unpack the bourbon cremes.

With a sigh, you look down at your feet and pout. ‘I want to stay and help but -’

‘Go, go,’ he cuts you off, not bothering to turn and look at you, still puttering with his items. ‘This is the easy part.’

You allow yourself to rush, then, tearing down the stairs with a shout that you will see him later. Scolding yourself for staying so late you have to run, taking the underground steps in leaps and swiping your oyster with impatient force. A train is already waiting at the platform, doors open and beeping that they will soon close, and you run through with a wheeze just as they shut behind you with a click.

All eyes are on you, commuters watching the cacophony of you with distaste and regarding you as an impolite disturbance on such a quiet ride. With a blush, you find a seat towards the middle of the car and relax, eager to disappear from this moment and into the song you’ve been anxiously waiting to hear. Closing your eyes and resting your head back against the carriage wall, you put your headphones on and sigh. In this false darkness, you let the first notes of music carry you, let them allay your heartbeat with ease.

The goosebumps happen all at once and almost instantly, raising along your flesh as though you are passing through a chill in the air and sending a shiver down your spine. They walk along you, the sound of the arrangement and the instruments, traversing the totality of you as if you are territory made for charting. Giving yourself over to this feeling, willingly and completely, makes a small smile spread across your face with contented joy. Arresting, you think, the flood of emotion that comes with truly, really letting yourself go. Arresting, you think, the liberation that comes with letting your soul wander through sound.

But then, it happens. You cannot call it a slip, because you can feel you are still on the tube, in the seat, and breathing in compressed, recycled air. You cannot call it a pull, because you are not being lead anywhere, rather something is being brought to you, something important, something that makes you feel vulnerable. Furrowing your brow, you try to make sense of it, this intrusion. It’s not that you don’t want it, it’s simply that you did not invite it and cannot fathom why now, after days of listening to this song, it means to take a hold of you.

And then, all at once, you hear it: breathing.

It is not your own breath, yours a shallow symphony of confusion and this a languid drawl of passionate nonchalance. In your headphones you hear it, a small hum, the low, baritone rumble of male intonation. The sound is deep, soft enough to simply be a vibration in your ears, and your eyes open, wide and panicked and searching the carriage for answers.

This, you know, is wrong. Every single moment this continues is wrong and impossible. No one is leaning into your shoulder to share your music, no one is even really looking at you, your interruption from before either entirely forgotten or ignored. Yet, still, you hear it, living inside your headphones as though it was made to be there, as if it always had been there and all you needed to do was listen.

Your fingers move to change the track, but something stops you. All of you wants to keep listening, feels like you need to keep going, like changing the track would sever something inside you and your soul would take to bleeding internally. Instead, you simply listen, listen to the way the breath and the voice glide along each note as though they are making love, as though they are living every possible, glorious aspect of life through the sound of music itself.

Swollen, is the feeling that erupts in your chest. Found, is the feeling that blossoms in your heart. You know this sound, you know this breath. It’s the one you heard in your dream, the one you felt in your hair as it spilled down and over your shoulders, onto your skin, and into your bones. Your heart skips a beat, takes to racing in this mystifying elation, and it takes you several seconds to find your voice, the cadence of it having wandered off to join the body of the man in your ears.

Heat spreads across your face, cheeks and lips blushing in excitement and bashful glee while your tongue suddenly goes dry. Nothing, you think, has ever sounded quite as glorious as the cascading breath of this imaginary person. Nothing, you think, ever will.

And then, just as quickly as it started, it’s over. There is no warm breath in your ears, no low voice, just another track on the album and the groan of the tube as it grinds to a painfully slow halt. Without the comfort of the hum, you find surrendering to any magic impossible and unbearable, and you don’t know why you would have ever felt this way at all. Cruel, you think this is, cruel and needlessly unkind of yourself, to trick your mind into bringing something so important to life when you cannot truly have it. Cruel, you think, to return you to your true nature after giving you a glimpse of a softer you, a kinder you, without ever giving you a chance to truly bloom.

Holding your phone in your hand, you study the album for a long while, regard it coolly and find you see it now as something offensive. This small, inanimate thing tricked you, tricked you into a feeling of comfort and joy, and now, you think, you want nothing to do with it. You find it offensive. You find it repugnant. Whatever connection you had with this album is gone, now, departed from you and off to find another lonely hand to hold. Or, perhaps, this connection still lingers inside you as a raw, flayed thing, skinned and severed and aching to be brought back to fruition by a dream.

You find you cannot bring yourself to listen to it, not anymore. Not after it hurt you so viscerally.

You scroll through your music.

You listen to something entirely different.

Three days later and still you cannot stop thinking about the breathing in your headphones. In truth, you would not call this a haunting, rather it simply feels like a piece of you, something you did not know you had wanted, has abandoned you once more. Now, mostly, you just want to know why.

It has not happened again, not even with all your focus, and you find comfort in the thought that this was likely just a fluke. In the days prior, you had dreamed, rather intensely, of too many things. A song. A blurred husk of a man you will likely never meet. You dreamed rather intensely and yet, there are reasons for all of these things, reasons for why you dreamed at all.

The song, you know, played in your mind because you had briefly been obsessed with it. Had you tried to count the number of times you listened to it, you would be embarrassed and sheepish, regarding the amount with downcast eyes, and now you are glad to say you've moved on. Today, it is easy to move through other albums and artists, without feeling the need to return to it all.

The man, you assume, is because Kate bonding with her soulmate has resulted in a paramount shift in your life. Nothing, you know, will likely ever be or feel the same, and navigating through this shift has been a daunting undertaking, regardless of how thrilled you are on her behalf. You would not say that you are envious of her bond, merely wish that, if you have a soulmate at all, it would just happen. The waiting is what makes you bitter, not because you are eager but because it gives you time to apply logic and memory to a thing that circumvents both, exists beyond both, and you resent it. If it would just happen, then it would be over, and you would find relief from all this thinking.

There are answers for everything, about the dream and the hum and the song, and you find that, having these answers firmly rooted in your mind, makes it easier to let the event go.

Three days later and you don't really miss any of these things at all.

Today the early morning sun has been replaced with clouds, thick, bulbous things that mean to spill their deluge over the city. Sitting on a bench in Camden, just beyond the market, you recline against the old wood and smile up at the sky. Around you, couples and people race into The Diner or into small shops to avoid the oncoming torrent of rain. You don't move, though. You've always loved the rain, thought of it as something holy.

When the first drops of water hit your nose, you giggle, readying yourself to be drenched - with everything. This rain feels important, you don't know why you think that, but you do. Something about this storm means to overtake, change, and cleanse, and you want to be the first victim of its onslaught.

When the first drops of water hit your nose, the song changes, and, with your eyes closed, you bark out a laugh. Fitting, you think, this song so terribly suited to this event. You sigh. You turn the volume up.

And, just as before, the world around you begins to change.

Suddenly, it’s very important you consider all the bodies that have sat on this bench before you. Bodies in time and bodies in space, and you wonder seriously about their lives. Were they happy? Were they content with the chaos of their brief, small existence? Were they ever, truly, able to say they were pleased with the outcome of their life? Heavy questions, meaningful questions. They slither through your mind, too fast for you to truly hold them, but they feel nice, you think. Considering them feels almost sweet, almost familiar.

Hands were held here, on this bench. Hands and fingers entwined, many in the euphoric discovery of love, and others in the trembling clutch of farewell. Love and life have lived and died here, and you suddenly start to view this bench as a totem. This, you think, is the most important thing your hands have ever touched.

And then, just as before, just as quietly and just as naturally, the breathing returns.

Panic floods your senses at the sound, makes your blood heat and start to boil, flushing your chest and your cheeks as you try desperately to cling to this moment. Sitting upright, you try to hold onto this feeling, to focus all your attention on it so that it does not slip between your open palms. Unlike before, your voice has not left you, rooted now to your heart and your body. Unlike before, you have the power to speak.

‘Hello?’ you snap, staring straight ahead and into the crowded street.

No one bothers to look at you, assuming you are simply taking a call and there is no reason for them to care. You want to scream at them, shout at them, tell them that something beautiful and something horrible is about to happen, or is happening, and you are furious no one wants to notice.

This, you think, is the great wave of change brought on by the rain and by your heart. Skin suddenly damp and moist, you find you are trembling, though you are unsure if it is because you are wet or if it is because you were grossly, childishly, unprepared for something this grandiose.

‘Hello?’

The voice resonates through your headphones, deep and low, the image of chocolate suddenly igniting in your vision, and you find you are overcome.

You know this voice. You love, and have loved, this voice. You think you’ve loved this voice into the very depths of your being without ever knowing its cadence. This voice possess and captivates you, takes control of your body, your ribs, your veins, and makes you feel as though you capsizing. You are capsizing beneath the strength and the ardor of it, and, for this, you are glad. You are glad and you will never have your fill of it.

Tears pool in your eyes, even though you are smiling. They burn as they spill out and over, staining your cheeks with their warmth in contrast with the coolness of the rain. All along your skin there are sparks, sharp tingles that feel like static, body and soul becoming an electric, volatile thing, and you think your flesh has never looked as good as it does now, now when it finally feels alive. Blood rushes into your lips, breath tumbling between your open mouth in a shallow rhythm. Red, you think, the colour and shade of this moment is red.

Three days later and you find you missed this, craved this sound with the entirety of your being, and, somehow, you have convinced yourself you did not; somehow, you convinced yourself you were okay. Three days later, and finally it feels like you've come back. You've come back to him.

‘Who is this?’ you whisper, and you know that, whatever or whomever this is, he has a name. For you to even know it is a gendered body you are hearing surprises you, but this, he, feels like yours. This person feels like an extension of you and, therefore, it is difficult to think of it, of him, as anything less.

‘What the fuck?’ he mutters, frustrated over the clatter of objects you cannot place. ‘Is the tape broken?’

Alarmed. Bewildered. Confused. Frightened. He is all of these things, muttering and cursing to himself, and so blissfully human and so blissfully alive that your laugh at the mess of it all is mixed with a choked sob.

You're laughing. You are laughing. You do not think you can stop. You do not want to.

‘Listen to me,’ you say, giggling and shaking through your tears. ‘Who is this?’

There is a long pause, one that is neither tense nor comfortable, one that simply is, and you smile the whole way through it.

‘God?’ he tentatively asks, but you can hear the grin in his voice.

For some reason, you cannot stop giggling, and his proclamation that you could be a deity starts your laughter all over again. ‘You're God?’

‘No,’ he snorts, and he seems just as shocked as you to be comfortable with this development. ‘Are you God?’

‘No,’ you say with a breathy sigh. ‘I am not God.’

Both of you fall silent for a long while, perhaps both just smiling and existing contentedly with one another as the song plays distantly in your mind. It’s going, playing along and waiting for you to listen to it, but you don’t care, not really, not anymore. The music is meaningless, even though moments before it was so important to your enjoyment of the rain. It’s white noise, at this point, there but not really necessary. There, but fractious in its efforts to command your attention. You find you want no part of it, desiring only the sound of his breath over the din.

Eventually, finally, he speaks

‘I'm Chanyeol.’

Relief floods you, the sound of the syllables something wholly cosmic, wholly magical. This is what you had been seeking, the tangibility and power of a name, the identity of something yours.

You make to give the same power back to him, open your lips to tell him your name, the words trying to rush off your tongue at a breakneck speed, but, before you can even form them, before you can lick them from your mouth and put them in his, he is gone.

The song has changed. He is no longer there, yours but missing. Lost, yet again, and this time worse. This time, you have been halved, severed and skinned, and feeling the tragedy overtakes you.

Now, there is nothing.

Now, all you have is a small, fragile name.

Chanyeol.