#hawks offering since its a trim

[catkettle]

haircut from the enemy

[bakugosatoru]

Pretty for the Press

Requests Open! Warnings: Graphic Smut (This is pure PWP smut, MDNI) Genre: Smut Fic Type: Medium Length Fic (4.5k Words) Fandom: My Hero Acadamia Ship: Dabi x Hawks Authors note: My first longer fic! I'm not sure how I feel about it but I like it enough that I do want to share it! I've been working on it for an embarrassingly long time so I hope you like it! Also Dabi is really soft in this and its a little out of character but oh well. Synopsis: Hawks has defected to the side of the villains and is now standing in the League of Villains hideout bathroom, and he needs a haircut. Dabi offers to help. What could go wrong.

Also here on AO3 if you prefer to read over there.

It isn't exactly the Marriott. The yellowing porcelain of the benchtops and the stained brown sinks work to remind him exactly where he is. The bathroom at the league of villains hideout. The porcelain is cool against his hands, his face leaning in towards the cracked and dirty mirror.

It's been three months since Hawk defected to the side of the villains, away from the world of heroes, the world of being a hero. So here Hawks stands, instead of his hero funded penthouse with the nicest things money can buy, he stands in a bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. Tugging at the strands of his hair. He always forgets how quickly hair grows when not being cut every two weeks to keep up an appearance. 

“So this is why you spend so fucking long in the bathroom huh? Damn you really love looking at yourself that much Birdie?”

Dabi stands, lounging against the doorframe dressed in black sweatpants and a ratty old tank top. Hawks scowls, wondering how long he’d really been there.

“Fuck off Dabi, was just trying to figure out which one of you psychos I’d trust with scissors to cut my hair” The ex-hero smirked, leaning back from the mirror to meet Dabi’s gaze.

“And what was the verdict?” Dabi mused as he wandered over to stand next to Hawks, whose wings quickly tucked into his body to make room. 

Hawks didn’t answer, just going back to pulling and rearranging his hair before huffing and messily tying it back in a stubby ponytail. Dabi spun around and sat against the sink, watching Hawks intently. Hawks feathers puff and ruffle slightly, subconsciously, as he feels Dabis gaze dig into him. It's not often they get time alone together, usually they are either surrounded by other members of the league or fighting for their lives. Doesn’t exactly leave a lot of time for talking. Dabi picked up the discarded and rusted scissors off the counter and held them in front of his eyes, cutting at the air a few times for good measure.

“I mean, I could do it..” Dabi said, spinning the scissors around his pointer finger and tapping his other hand mindlessly against the counter.

“Promise I won't slice ya” 

“Well that just fills me with confidence” Hawks scoffed.

“I mean, the offers there if you want. If you want to keep growing out your hair ‘till you start looking like a homeless guy hanging outside the headquarters that's your call Birdy” 

Hawks paused for a moment, looking over at Dabi. Dabi glanced at him momentarily before returning his gaze to the scissors spinning in his hand. Hawks hated to admit that Dabi was probably his best choice. He couldn't trust Compress or Twice to just do a small trim (they always had a flair for the dramatic), Himeko might get a bit too snip-happy with the scissors and Shigaraki isn't exactly a big fan of… hygiene in general. 

“Fine” Hawks huffed, finally leaning back from the counter.

“Yea?” Surprise painted Dabi’s voice as he hopped off the counter and strolled behind Hawks, yanking a cheap plastic chair over from the corner of the room and placing it right in front of the mirror.

“Well take a seat, get comfortable. Want me to wash your hair first, scalp massage maybe? Perhaps I should get you a cup of tea?” Dabi mocked in a sing-song tone.

“Oh please do, I expect only the best service from a stylist as famous as yourself” Hawks scoffed as he rolled his eyes. He sat down on the chair and leaned back, Dabi now towering behind him in the mirror. A moment paused between them as Dabi looked down at his hair, a hand reaching out gingerly to hold a few strands between his fingers, the back of his hand brushing against Hawks neck gently. Hawks felt a shiver pass through his body to the tip of his wings and he just prayed Dabi didn’t notice.

“Uh actually I might have to wash it…” Dabi mumbled, all the joking bravado in his voice replaced with a nervousness Hawks had never heard coming from the villain before.

“Hm?” Hawks questioned, tilting his head to look up at Dabi, seeing the living skin on his face dusted with a soft pink hue.

“It's just easier to cut wet hair.” Dabi said as he spun the plastic chair around, so that Hawks was now facing him, his back to the sink. Hawks' breath caught in his throat as he looked up at Dabi, who was leaning over to turn on the faucet. Was Dabi going to wash his hair? This really hadn't been how he expected this to go, he assumed Dabi would cut a few inches off his hair and be done with it, but this was a side of Dabi he hadn't seen before. A softer side.

“Okay lean back, the water shouldnt be too hot but my hands aren't exactly great for gauging temperature so if your skin melts off, not my fault.” Dabi said as he moved over to the shower in the corner of the bathroom and snatched up a bottle of shampoo and conditioner. Hawks leant back, awkwardly tilting his head under the faucet to line himself up so the water was in his hair instead of covering his entire face.

“Twice will kill you if he finds out you're going to use his weird expensive shampoo”

“No, he’ll kill you. You're the one using it, I'm just putting it in your hair” Smirked Dabi as he strolled over to the left of Hawks and reached into the sink to help rinse his hair. Hawks felt himself tense as Dabis fingers brushed against his scalp, before relaxing into the touch and letting his eyes shut to prevent getting water in them. 

“So what about that tea you offered?” Hawks smirked as he felt Dabi pour some shampoo on his head and start massaging it into his hair. If he tried really hard he could probably pretend he was back in one of those swanky hair salons his agency used to send him to, but honestly? He preferred this, though he wasn't fully sure why. 

“Hey what the-” Hawks sputtered as he felt water be splashed onto his face. Dabi laughed as Hawks wiped his eyes with his sleeve, opening his eyes to look up at Dabi. His mouth opened to scold him but he paused, Dabi had this mindless smile on his face, not one of his signature smirks, but a genuine smile. 

Hawks hadn’t ever seen Dabi smile like this before.

“I was about to say you were good at this but after that I might have to retract that statement” Hawks teased.

“Aw c’mon Birdy, you like it” 

“Yea I guess I do” Hawks said, his voice quiet, so quiet that Dabi nearly didn't hear him…. But he had heard him.

“I’m sure you had this done all the time when you were a hero” Dabi snipped, a strange venom in his voice, but Hawks just shook it off.

“Yea, too much actually. They would send me every few weeks to make sure my hair was always perfect. ‘Gotta keep up appearances’ they would tell me. So they’d send me to some overpriced salon and get me all dolled up for the press” Hawks sighed, remembering his old life wasn’t exactly his favorite pastime. 

“Which do you like better?” “Hm?”

“Your old salon experiences or this one?” Dabi asked as he washed the last bit of conditioner out of Hawks hair and swapped to rinsing the hair clean. Hawks paused for a moment, staring up at Dabi.

“My old hairstylist was never so gentle” Hawks mumbled, still gazing up at him. Dabi tensed at his words, pulling his hands away and wiping them on a towel. Hawks scolded himself in his head, he was having the perfect moment with Dabi and he had to go say something stupid and spook him. 

He opened his mouth to apologize, or try to play it off, or do something to turn back time to only a few moments ago, but he was stopped by Dabi’s hand resting against his cheek as he leaned in and began to softly dry his hair. Hawks leant forward so he was no longer halfway in the sink as Dabi gently dried his hair with the towel before using the towel to wipe away the water that had splashed on Hawks face.

“I'm sure your old hairstylist never did this either.” Dabi whispered as he placed the towel on the counter and leant down, cupping Hawks face in his hands and brushing their lips together ever so softly, as if asking for permission. Permission that Hawks was more than happy to grant as he reached up and wrapped his arms around Dabis neck, kissing him deeply. Hawks’ mind was racing at a hundred miles an hour. Never in his wildest dreams could he have expected this. Of course he liked Dabi, Dabi was strong, funny, passionate and beautiful. But Dabi was also, well, Dabi; he didn’t expect him to feel the same way.

“Well?” Dabi asked, breaking the kiss but not pulling away. Their lips softly brushed against each other as he spoke.

“Oh, huh?” Stuttered Hawks, every thought in his brain fully occupied with what had just happened.

Dabi chuckled softly, gazing at Hawks' kiss-drunk expression. 

“Have any of your hairstylists ever done that before?” He smirked, kissing Hawks for just a moment before pulling back to allow him to answer.

“No, but I don't mind if this one does” He murmured, mustering every ounce of confidence in his body to stand up and pull Dabi back into a scathing kiss, his hands gripping his black spiked hair, being careful not to pull any staples or hurt the scarred skin. Hawks was usually good at this kind of thing, being a confident hero was all part of his image. Swooning the ladies, charming the press, it was second nature to him. But this? This was different, he had never felt so exposed, he was laying himself bare for a man who he had assumed wanted nothing to do with him. He was offering himself to Dabi, and if Dabi pushed him away now? He would never recover.

But Dabi took his offer

“Wanted to do this for months” Dabi whispered against Hawks lips. Scarred hands gripped his thighs and lifted Hawks up onto the bathroom counter. The plastic chair clattered to the side as Dabi stood between Hawks thighs, kissing him deeply. One of Hawks hands began to tug at the hem of Dabis' shirt. Dabi lifted his arms, allowing him to lift the shirt over his head and toss it to a corner of the bathroom. His hands began to trail along his scarred chest, his finger gently tracing the seams between scarred and living skin. For the first time, Dabi seemed to pull back, breaking the kiss and turning his head to the side.

“You okay? Does that hurt?” Hawks quickly started to pull his hand away but Dabi grabbed it and placed it back on his chest, holding it there and squeezing it slightly.

“No it's fine, just… been a while since anyone touched them, I guess; weird feeling. Just…keep going” Dabi sighed, his head dropping against Hawks shoulder, his hand dropping to the birds thigh as he began kissing along his neck.

“Okay” Hawks whispered, his hands dragging along Dabi’s chest, dragging down towards the hem of his sweatpants, mindlessly fiddling with the drawstring for a moment as he felt Dabi bite down against his neck, licking at the indent left behind.

“Shit- Dabi” Hawks hissed, his hips twitching. 

“Your room, now, please” 

“Don't gotta tell me twice songbird” Dabi hummed, stepping back and dragging Hawks off the counter.

Songbird… Hawks liked that one.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hawks got the wind knocked out of him as Dabi slammed him against the now closed door to his room. He was going to wake up the entire League and he truly didn't seem to care. Because he finally had that stupid bird in his arms.

“Do you know how long i've been trying to get your attention?” Dabi growled against his ear, his hands grabbing Hawks waist. Hawks let out a whine, flattening his chest against Dabis.

“So fucking pretty birdy, everyone wanted to be with the hero Hawks hm? Fucking sucks for them all, ‘cause I get villain Hawks and he is so much better.” Dabi used his grip on the ex-heros waist to push him towards the bed, shoving him backwards. He fell back, his wings splaying across the bed. Dabi couldn't help but smirk. Laid out just for him. He crawled over and straddled Hawks, before leaning forward to catch his lips in a kiss once again, their hips rolling against each other sloppily. They were making out like two teenagers and they couldn't care less. Hawks broke the kiss for a moment to rip his own shirt over his head, but it took a little longer as he had to slide his wings out of it, which Dabi thankfully helped with.

“Always wondered how those wings got in the way of getting dressed, guess now I know” Mused Dabi, his thumbs rubbing circles in Hawks thigh.

“Heh, yea, just as cumbersome as you would think” Laughs Hawks as he finally manages to escape his shirt, launching it across the room.

Dabi paused for a moment, his hands now pressed flat against Hawks chest as he shifted his weight, sitting on his lap. 

“Well Birdy, how do you wanna do this?”

“I mean, being on the bed is a good start…”

“No you dumbass,” Laughed Dabi.

            “Do you wanna top or bottom, I don’t mind either, I mean I usually top but I could be convinced to switch…I just need to touch you” He hummed as he dragged his nails across Hawks chest.

“Oh yea.. um” Hawks paused, his heart leaping into his throat as he looked at the ceiling, his face going bright red.

“Songbird?” Dabi paused, his hands flattening out to gently rest against Hawks hips.

“We don't have to do this if you don't want to. I didn't mean to…” Dabi trails off, self doubt filling him. Did he force Hawks into this? Hawks was probably grossed out. Was it his scars?. Dabi's mind raced a hundred miles an hour as he slowly went to climb off Hawks lap.

“No No it's nothing like that” Hawks exclaimed with a slight panic, his hands pulling Dabi back to his lap. He paused, Hawks entire face was burning red.

“I've just… fuck this is embarrassing. I've never done anything like this… before?” He mumbled, his eyes still avoiding meeting Dabis at all cost.

“What? Really? This is your first time with a dude?” Dabi exclaimed. He didn't mean to sound so surprised but, the number 2 hero? The professional flirt? Had never been with a guy?

“No not just with a guy” Hawks whispered, he looked like he wanted to curl in on himself until the world itself disappeared.

“Birdie, you a virgin?” Dabi asked, surprise lacing his voice.

“Yea…. The commission didn't exactly like letting me out of their sight and dating or hookups were out of the question so…” Hawks shrugged. 

Dabi paused for a moment before reaching a hand out and gently tilting Hawks chin down so their eyes met.

“Songbird, do you want to do this?” He asked, his voice that soft whisper from before that made Hawks heart melt.

“Mhm”

“I need words, Birdy.”

“Yes,” Hawks said before kissing Dabi softly. There's no one else he'd rather have his first time with. He threw his old life away to join the league, but deep down, he threw it away to be near Dabi, he wanted a new start, he wanted to do all the things he could never do, and if one of those things is getting railed by his hot edgy villain friend? Then he was going to do it.

“Alright then Songbird, here’s what we’re gonna do, you're going to leave everything to me, I’ll take the lead and take care of ya’. Any point you wanna stop, just say the word and we will.” Dabi smiled, that sweet smile again. Hawks would trust this man with his life… ironic considering their past. Dabi hooked his fingers into the loops of Hawks pants and worked to pull them off his legs. Hawks lifted his hips so Dabi was able to fully free him, his boxers doing absolutely nothing to hide the shape of his arousal straining against the fabric.

“This hard for little ol’ me Birdy? I’m flattered” Dabi teased, his mouth latching to Hawks exposed collarbone as one of his hands gave Hawks a light squeeze over his boxers. Hawks opened his mouth to reply, but he was only able to muster a whispered whine as Dabi set his mind racing with just a few touches.

“Fuck, your voice Songbird” Dabi groaned as he pulled back for a moment, quickly ridding himself of his own sweatpants. He grabbed Hawks hand and pulled it to feel against the growing bulge in his boxers.

“Feel what you do to me baby?” Dabi asked, Hawks didn’t respond, his hips shifting as he fought to get any friction against the growing desperation between his legs. Dabi smirked. Watching Hawks get so desperate before even getting his boxers off was driving him crazy. Dabi finally gave Hawks some respite, grabbing the waistband of his boxers and pulling them off him, his cock red and the tip wet with precum. 

“Lie back for me okay? I’m going to make you feel so good” Dabi murmured as he tilted Hawks back on the bed before positioning himself between Hawks legs. He leaned over to the nightstand and grabbed the small bottle of lube he kept there for… personal reasons. He quickly discarded his own boxers before pouring some of the lube on his fingers and warming it up.

“This might feel weird at first but I promise it gets better” Dabi said as he dropped his slicked up finger down between Hawks legs, gently circling it around the rim before pushing it in softly. Hawks let out a hiss as his body got used to the strange intrusion. Dabi leaned forward and kissed along his collarbone in apology as he began to work his long finger in and out. He kept going until he was sure that Hawks was ready.

“Shit” Hawks moaned quietly as Dabi slipped a second finger into him, moving them around and scissoring them apart gently, working him open.

“Oh just you wait Songbird” Dabi smirked as he started to move his fingers slightly deeper, moving around, looking for that spot that would make his Birdy see stars.

“Fuck Dabi!” Hawks clenched around his fingers as he moaned loudly.

There it is.

Dabi let out a chuckle as he slipped a third finger into Hawks, loving how the ex-hero had begun rocking back onto his fingers. He kept working him open, making a conscious effort to only brush against his prostate once and a while, as to not end their fun too early, it was the birds first time after all. Hawks moans grew louder as Dabi continued to fuck into him with his fingers, his lips attacking any blank patches of skin across the birds chest, covering him in hickies. They would definitely have some questions to answer from the rest of the league tomorrow but neither of them could care at this moment.

“Dabi, fuck me please, I can’t take it anymore” Hawks whined out, his hand gripping against his partners scarred shoulders.

“Well how could I say no to that pretty voice baby?” Dabi purred out, but his mind was anything but calm. He didn’t realize how much of an effect Hawks voice had on him, he was shocked he didn’t cum right on the spot from hearing him beg, he was even more shocked he had just called Hawks baby. But no time to unpack that right now, right now all he needed was to get inside the stupidly sexy bird hero strewn in front of him. He quickly poured some more of the lube onto his hand, stroking his neglected cock a few times. He locked eyes with Hawks, the ex-hero was breathing heavily, his eyes watching Dabi hungrily, his whole face and neck bright red, besides the patches of hickies that were already starting to turn purple. Every breath seemed to send a quiver through each and every one of the feathers that sprouted from his back.

“Deep breath for me Birdy” Dabi pushed Hawks thighs apart as he lined himself up between his legs and slowly began to push inside. 

“Holy shit”

“You okay? Need me to stop?”

“Stop and I’ll rip your dick off” 

Dabi let out a laugh that quickly tapered into a groan as he bottomed out inside Hawks. He paused for a moment, his thumbs rubbing circles in Hawks hips, in an attempt to give the bird a moment to adjust. Hawks quickly let out a frustrated chirp and began to rock himself back against Dabis cock.

“No fucking patience” Dabi smirked as he slowly started to thrust into Hawks, not wanting to be too rough and hurt the poor bird. He dragged his nails up and down Hawks chest and shoulders, worshiping his toned body and the way his feathers quivered every time he brushed them with his fingers. But it wasn’t enough for Hawks, he wanted more. Don’t get him wrong, he was very thankful that Dabi was being so gentle and patient, but he didn’t want gentle, he wanted Dabi to make sure he never forgot this feeling. He wanted Dabi to make him scream. He rocked his hips impatiently back into Dabi’s thrusts, willing him to speed up.

“More Dabi, please” Hawks pleaded again, in that begging voice that Dabi couldn’t resist.

“Your fucking insatiable” Dabi chuckled darkly.

“Here I am, trying to be a gentleman” He slowly pulled out, until only the tip was still in.

“Be nice and gentle for your first time, but I think you just want me to fuck you into this mattress… isn’t that right Birdbrain” Dabi quickly slammed back into Hawks, yanking his thighs to bring them flush against each other. Hawks let out a choked moan, nodding eagerly as Dabi set a brutal pace, using Hawks hips and thighs to yank him back to meet his thrusts. Moans began spilling out of Hawks mouth completely unashamed, his hands gripping into the sheets for any kind of support as his body shook with each of Dabi’s thrusts. Dabi reached up and grabbed Hawks face, yanking him into a searing kiss, his tongue exploring every inch of the whimpering bird's mouth. 

“Fuck me your tight” Dabi growled against Hawks lips.

“Your jus -fuck- just big” Hawks choked out between his moans, eliciting another laugh from Dabi. He gritted his teeth, still slamming his hips roughly into his whimpering Birdy. Dabi really didn’t want to cum first but fuck did Hawks feel fucking incredible.

“Hey Birdy, roll over for me okay, wanna try something” Dabi said, pulling out and helping Hawks roll onto his stomach, his wings splaying out into the air after being cooped up against the bed for so long. Dabi slowly pushed himself deep back into the ex–hero, Hawks letting out a satisfied coo as he felt himself be filled again, this position making it feel even deeper. Even more intense. Hawks lifted his hips up, leaning forward on his knees, arms folded on the bed, his head resting against them. His ass on full display.

“Fuck Birdy, you’re gonna be the death of me” Dabi growled out as he returned to the brutal pace he had started before. Hawks kept up his chorus of moans, whimpers and chirps as he felt Dabis cock hit his prostate head on, this position making it even harder for him to keep it together.

“Dabi” He stammered through his whimpering tears “Not gonna last”.

“Gonna cum for me Songbird? Need to feel you clench around me, come on baby” Dabi cooed, one of his hands snaking down to Hawks dripping neglected cock, stroking it roughly in time with his thrusts, while his other hand grabbed the base of his wings roughly, his fingers curling and tugging on the sensitive feathers.

“Agh- Fuck Dabi!” Hawks let out a litany of loud moans and whines as his back arched into Dabi’s touch, his climax hitting him at full force, painting his stomach and the mattress with his cum. 

“That's it Songbird, just a little more, you're squeezing me so tight… shit” Dabi gasped out between gritted teeth as he felt Hawks climax rack his body. Both his hands shot to the base of Hawks large wings, gripping them tightly as he hit his limit. He collapsed forward against Hawks back and wings as he came, filling Hawks as deep as he could. Hawks mewling and chirping from the overstimulation. 

They laid there, both desperately trying to catch their breath. Dabi using the last of his energy to pull out, earning him a quiet whine from Hawks, and flop to the side of his sweet, exhausted bird (being careful not to crush his wings).

“C’mere birdy” Dabi mumbled, yanking the tired bird onto his chest, allowing him to nuzzle into the crook of his scarred neck, a hand gently running over his sides and the tips of his wings. The large wings had curled around the two of them, covering them both in a soft red canopy.  

“You good?” Dabi asked, turning his head to press a kiss onto the side of Hawks head.

“Mhm, so good” Hawks sighed, his words muffled by Dabis' shoulder. Dabi lets out a relieved breath he didn't realize he was holding and wraps both his arms around Hawks waist tightly, kissing the top of his head. 

“You know, we still have to cut your hair, Songbird” Dabi mused, resting his head against Hawks’. 

“Can do it tomorrow, don’t wanna move” Hawks whined.

“I have a feeling we’ll be a little busy tomorrow” Dabi smirked.

“Why? I didn't think we had a mission” Hawks asked, suddenly much more conscious.

“We don't, but Birdy, you just moaned on my dick loud enough that I'll be shocked if anyone didn’t hear it. We’re gonna have some questions to answer”  Dabi laughed, rubbing Hawks back as he saw his neck and ears turn red.

“Shit…” Hawks let out a groan. He had forgotten about that… tomorrow was going to be a long day. Dabi let out a laugh, hugging Hawks tightly to his body.

“A problem for tomorrow Birdy, get some rest for now” Dabi sighed, pulling the blanket over the two of them and relaxing back into the mattress, clutching his Birdy closely to his chest. He finally had him, he wasn't going to let him go any time soon.

[dear-mrs-otome]

Holy Knight - Court of Darkness (Knight)

Fandom: Court of Darkness/CoD Warnings: None, other than vague spoilers for Knight's Main Story Summary: 2k words of Knight fluff I wrote for a Secret Santa exchange on Discord - figured I'd finally post it since it's his birthday today even if it is a little out of season. If you like masquerade balls and mistletoe snogs, this fic is for you <3

(NOTE: THIS WAS WRITTEN FOR AN MC NAMED 'ANGEL')

Holy Night had come at last.

You glance once more around the crowded hall, the glissandos of a waltz rising to curl about the high rafters overhead, echoing the swirl of dancers on the polished marble floor. They were a gauzy, colorful riot of fantastical beasts and figures - masks firmly affixed on faces, some even in full costume, all in deference to the masquerade that the Headmaster had abruptly declared this year’s event to be.

Not you, though. No dancing for you, at least. The costume part you had down, dressed in a brilliant red gown that shifted like flames and a gilded half-mask complete with tiny devil horns. A play on your name that had amused Sherry to no end when the idea had occurred to her, and she’d spent the better part of two days giggling along with you over the outfit as you both worked on the spells to craft it.

You’d been excited too…but that excitement had faded as the first sets of dances had begun and your dance card remained empty. As you scanned the crowd from the sidelines alone, the stem of your glass clutched tightly in your fingers, and searched in vain for a particular diminutive blond.

“He’s not coming…” Sherry had ambushed you shortly after walking in with the disappointing news, taking your hands in hers and squeezing them consolingly. “Something came up, Roy told me, and even Toa isn’t able to make it tonight.”

“Duty is duty.” The smile you plastered on felt thin and scraped on, but you held it up. “And it’s not as if we were supposed to attend together.”

That would have required you coming clean with your feelings, and that had been the last thing you wanted. Unwilling to take any chances when it came to upsetting the delicate balance of your friendship with Knight - your rock ever since ending up in this foreign, unfamiliar land.

“Are you not dancing?”

The words startle you out of your cup and you lower it, nearly choking on the sip you’d taken as you find a man standing before you. An unfamiliar man, for despite the feathered eagle-like half-mask he wears you’re sure you’d remember a figure as striking as this - tall and trim and broad-shouldered, finery cut in such a way it was impossible to miss the well-hewn muscles defined by fabric.

Eyes an almost painfully bright blue peer down at you through the furrowed hawk’s cutout, and his fair hair fading to an equally bright azure at the ends is pulled back in a neat queue. For half a moment the ridiculous notion that he shared Knight’s exact same coloring crossed your mind, before you dismiss it.

This man had a good eight or nine inches on your dear Knight…not to mention the brawn.

His expectant silence suddenly reminded you that you hadn’t answered him at all yet, and you scramble for a reply. “No, no, I…was hoping someone in particular would show up but it seems they weren’t able to make it.”

You wonder if the disappointment you’d tried to hide still managed to slip its way into your voice, when he cants his head slightly and studies you. “Who might that have been? Perhaps I know what became of him. This school isn’t all that large, after all.”

But you only shake your head. “I’ll only say that he’s a fellow countryman of yours. Any more and…” You trail off, not sure how to finish that exactly, but he seems to read your meaning in the way your cheeks flame. Cursedly exposed under the edges of your mask.

“Ah. So that’s how it is.” A flash of something akin to a frown tugs at his lips slightly, before he smooths it away. “Seems a shame to come all this way, dressed up, and not dance at least once though, doesn’t it?”

You had no counter to offer him to that, only a rueful smile, and are not exactly surprised when he extends a hand in your direction, clad in crisp white glove. “Fancy a turn about the floor, then, if your dance card is open?”

There was no compelling reason to turn him down at this point, you figured. It was clear that Knight had been irrevocably held up, and no one else had dared brave your gloomy little corner to ask. And so you set your drink aside on one of the many floating trays, and slipped your hand into his.

He guides you to the floor, just as the strains of the prior song draw to a close, and you step into an empty space between couples. His other hand curling around your waist as you take up positions, hesitant at first before settling firmly.

“May I at least know the name of the gentleman whose toes I am sure to step on?” you only half joke. “I’ve never really done this before outside of…a few tries practicing.” Your mind wanders back to the hidden study room and Knight’s offer to show you a few steps that he’d learned over the years when you admitted your ignorance. The empty tables and flickering fireplace and the two of you circling to unheard music.

But this was nothing the same. You have to tip your head far up to meet this man’s eyes - though they are no less fixed upon yours than Knight’s focused stare had been. “I s’pose you can call me…Gryphon.”

“Oh, so we’re to be coy then are we?” You laugh a bit, tickled. It is a masquerade, after all, you reason. “Then you may call me Gamine.”

That blue, blue gaze holds yours, unblinking. “A mischief maker? How fitting, for a fallen angel.”

Was it only your imagination that there had been an extra inflection on his last word? You shake it aside as the music strikes up, the gradual soaring of strings grounded by basso, and there is no more room left for thought as he pulls you into step. Only a whirlwind of sensations - the firm strength of his grip on the dip of your waist, the steady hand clasped around yours. The faint heady scent of his cologne, somehow both familiar and not. Frustratingly so, almost like the man himself.

He was no virtuoso but he was capable all the same, holding you easily when a complicated turn tripped you up and setting you back on your feet. His measured presence having the opposite effect on your heart, which tumbled over itself traitorously as your dance went on…skipping a beat entirely every time you steal a glance up only to find his eyes ever locked on yours. As you feel the faint wash of his breath warm over your cheek and ear as he bends in, talking over the swell of conversation that picked up in the silence as the musicians excused themselves for a break.

“You look flushed. Would you care to step outside for some fresh air?”

Breathless as you still are, the most you trust yourself with is a nod, and Gryphon weaves the both of you a path through the crowds towards the balcony doors, never relinquishing your hand tucked into the crook of his elbow even when you both step out into the cool night air.

It’s not quite the same as Christmas back home, you muse, as you turn to look through the wall of brightly-lit windows at the twinkling lights and evergreen swags decorating the hall. But it’s close, close enough to bring you a bittersweet pang of nostalgia.

“Something wrong?” Gryphon asks, and you realize you must have let it show on your face.

“No, no. It’s just…this makes me think of home, is all.”

“Do you find yourself homesick?”

“Not particularly. There was a time when all I could think of was going home, but that’s changed. I’ve met people…” Or person, singular, your thoughts unhelpfully supply. “I would miss them terribly if I left.”

“Ah.” He fidgets, seeming almost uncomfortable, and something like a shadow seems to darken his gaze for a moment. Or perhaps it’s just the cant of his mask darkening them. “The person you were hoping would show up at the ball, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” you hedged. But you knew you were fooling neither of you.

Gryphon looks away then, almost sulkily, and makes a small noise of frustration low in his throat.

A growling, wolfish sort of huff that you knew, oh so very well.

“Knight?” The question was out before you could reel it back in, spoken without thought even as the rational part of your brain told you this couldn’t possibly be Knight….even as the irrational part of your brain told you that this was Saligia, and stranger things had happened.

His startled jump is all the confirmation you need, and you take advantage of his moment of shock to reach up and slip the mask from his face, exposing the oh-so-familiar sapphire of his gaze.

It was Knight but it wasn’t. His jaw far more squared, features more chiseled - as if all traces of cherubic softness that defined his usual good looks had been sculpted away. The Knight you knew and loved was handsome in a precious, puckish way.

This man is downright stunning.

“What? Who? How?” You stop yourself just short of finishing out the five W’s and stare at him blankly. “You are Knight, aren’t you.”

His gaze darts about, meeting yours only to shift away again at your question turned statement. “Many an odd thing happens on Holy Night.”

“I think this -” You rake your gaze up and down his new, towering form, albeit appreciatively. “Is a bit more than ‘odd’.”

He shrugs helplessly, a faint dusting of pink on his cheekbones. “Tis all the explanation I’ve got. I don’t know any more than you do really.”

An awkward silence falls between you as a million questions tumble through your mind. And when you glance over at Knight again, it was to see his attention focused intently on something over your head.

A sprig of green with white berries hanging from the veranda roof. And looking closer you see them dotted all along the roofline amongst the festive greenery. Either a school committee member’s sly doing or a prank perpetuated by the headmaster, they both seemed equally possible.

“Mistletoe…Are there any traditions about it here?” you ask. It was a scramble for time, because it was obvious from the placement of them this was deliberate.

“It’s bad luck to stand under it and not receive a kiss, as long as there are berries left. You pluck one off for each.” Knight swallows thickly, and the banked heat in his eyes has you rooted to the spot as he leans in, hands carefully coming to rest on your shoulders as his lips hover just above yours. So close you can feel them move as he murmurs. “May I?”

You get only the first fraction of a nod out before his mouth brushes yours - almost clumsily at first, enough to make you wonder if this is his first kiss, before something seems to click. His palms smoothing down, one coming to rest in the center of your back and press you closer while the other finds the flare of your hip and pulls. A needy, desperate strength in the way he fits you flush together just as his tongue finds the seam of your lips and parts them, dipping inside to meet your own. A yearning in the way he devours you, like a feast so long off limits. Only seen, never sampled.

And when he makes a greedy sound, deep in his chest, almost a snarl - it rumbles through you like the prequel to a landslide. Stealing the strength from your knees and leaving you wilting, clinging to him.

He finally, mercifully, breaks away far enough to gaze into your eyes, his own brilliant and feverish above cheeks flushed. His breath little more than a ragged pant. Something huge and shattering in his stare as he starts to step back. “I shouldn’t have...I mean…Dragon’s Teeth.” Swearing, he abruptly lets you go and you almost stumble, still sapped from that searing kiss. “You were waiting for someone and…”

Dismay turns to relief, as you realize his mistake. “Knight. Knight. I was waiting for you.”

The look on his face was priceless, eyes flown wide and jaw dropping. “Me? But I…I was sure you meant Toa, and -”

Taking pity on his faltering, you cut him off with another brief kiss, and pull back only long enough to reach up and pull one of the small white berries from the sprig of mistletoe overhead, shooting him a cheeky grin. “Happy Holy Night, Knight. There’s a whole row of these we can work through.”

His only answer is to reach for you again…and it wasn’t long at all before counting berries was the last thought on either of your minds.

[aiiwa]

SUMMERS WITH YOU — OIKAWA TOORU.

— oikawa tooru.

genre: fluff, fluff, fluff

warnings: cursing, suggestive themes, a tiny, tiny bit nsfw - i can’t help it. not really proof read since its 4am.

word count: 1.7k

— a/n: it was about time i wrote a fic for him hehe. what if i said this was originally a hawks fic i wrote but never posted lol.

— navi. | m.list

oikawa loved summer.

summer mornings where the sun would bathe you in its radiance; capturing the soft glow of your bare back, and the cheeky glint in your eyes as you rolled on your side to face him. you’d giggle at the way your hair stuck out at odd angles, leaning into his touch as he brushed the strands away from your face. and with a pretty smile on your pink lips, you’d whisper the sweetest, “good morning, babe,” leaving oikawa with no choice but to pull you on top of him. he’d claim just five minutes of cuddling, ignoring the roll of your eyes as you snuggled into his warm chest. it was always an hour later that the two of you would leave the comfort of your shared bed.

then there were summer days spent at the beach, with you laid out on your stomach between his toned legs. oikawa could taste the sea salt, and a hit of your cherry lip gloss, on his tongue; a smirk tugging at his mouth as he remembered the kiss he’d stolen from you in the parking lot. electrifying tingles spreading across the palms of his big hands, as he continued to rub the cool lotion on your smooth skin - hands moving lower and lower-

“ah, tooru.” you hiss as his wandering fingers massaged dangerously close to your clothed heat, brushing the underside of your lush thighs. you turned back to playfully glare at him. “watch it, there’s people here.”

“oh c’mon, mi amor. that’s never stopped us before, has it?” when he teasingly dips under your rose tinted bikini bottoms, pads of his long fingers trailing a scorching path against you - it was fair to say he earned the swift dig to his side with the heel of your foot. “ow, baby, shit that hurt.”

holding his side as if he were a wounded soldier, he stared at you with pouty lips and wide eyes, insisting you kiss it better. and when you had sat up to, begrudgingly, press a kiss to his poor boo boo; you’d find yourself in his lap, with his lips moulded to yours. it was easy to say days at the beach usually ended much easier than you wanted them to.

but the warm summer nights spent with you, were his favourite.

intimate dinners prepared together, were eaten on the balcony of your shared apartment - a real gem located right by the water, and a short walk away from the markets you frequented. oikawa would refuse to eat unless you had taken a seat on your throne, rather his lap; which was right where you belonged. and he always got his way. so together you would eat, with you talking animatedly about your day, and him relishing in the feel of your body against his.

after washing and drying the dishes, oikawa had offered a walk along the beach - a makeshift apology for cutting your beach time in the daylight short. though he didn’t seem the least bit sorry, you still agreed.

so walking hand in hand, you tugged him to a stop before the gentle tides.

the golden sun had long set, in its place a full moon high up in the darkened sky; wispy clouds were sparse, allowing the bright constellations of the glittering stars to be seen. but with the way you stared up into the heavens - the shadowed angle of your jaw, the soft curve of your cheek, as your sweet lips parted slightly in awe - oikawa could feel his mouth run dry. the stars, the moon, the galaxy; had absolutely nothing on you.

he hadn’t even noticed you were speaking to him, his heart beating heavily in his ears until you turned around and...and…

“holy fuck, mi amor...you’re an angel.”

your eyes widened at his admission, a giggle escaping your mouth before you shyly lowered your gaze, long lashes brushing your heated cheeks. the chalk-white moon beamed from behind your silhouette, the luminescence haloing around your body, an ethereal glow that had oikawa believing he had truly been blessed with an angel. he held his breath when you looked back up at him; pink tongue swiping across your bottom lip, oikawa mimicking the same motion wantingly.

“how about a swim?” you propose, brushing your hand across the back of your lithe neck, down to your chest.

“oh? do you want me to grab our suits?” he asks distractedly.

his eyes focus on your hand trailing down the side of your body, dusting the trim of your white baby doll dress that barely brushed the top of your thighs. his hands began to twitch at the obvious teasing, so eager to touch you.

“no need.” and with a smirk, you swiftly pull the dress over your head, revealing yourself fully to him.

oikawa gapes, as he commits every luscious curve and sexy dip of your exposed flesh. every time you stood before him, in all your unrivaled beauty, it was always like he was seeing you for the first time. as if he was still that same senior in high school who almost combusted at the sight of your naked flesh; rather than the professional volleyball player who had learned and loved your body every day and night. he couldn’t help but thank whichever god was watching over him; blessing his eyes, and his eyes only, with you.

suddenly remembering where the two of you were, and with the thought of other undeserving eyes being able to see what was his; he forced his gaze away from you. keen eyes scanned the perimeter of the beach, only relaxing a bit when he was certain the two of you were the only ones out.

“tooru.” you called out for him, the sound of your soft voice sent a shiver down his spine. you commandeered his attention and he was all-willing.

refocusing on you, he held in the groan that almost escaped his lips. you had waded into the water, shaped legs languidly gliding through the waves, and the sightly view of your full ass was obstructed once you halted your movement, hip-deep in the water. it was unfair how easily you made his body react to you; ragged breaths, heat spreading across his body, and the uncomfortable tightening in the crotch of his shorts, were telling.

“are you gonna strip and join me?” the question was almost innocent, but from the lilt in your tone, oikawa knew it was anything but. especially when you smirked and teased him over your shoulder. “come and get me, oh great king.”

oikawa was sure he’d achieved a new record with how fast he had torn off his clothes to chase after you. with a shriek you had attempted to run off, though the sound of your laughter was cut off once he easily trapped you with his arms around your waist. leaning down, he nuzzles his face into the smooth spaces between your shoulder and jaw, inhaling deeply, an crooning at the smell of your scent invading his senses.

he began peppering a path of wet, open-mouthed kisses, tasting the sweet and saltiness of your skin; your small hands grasped at his arms around your waist, arching back into him. he halted by your ear with hot, bated breaths.

“i caught you, mi amor.” he hummed throatily.

wriggling in his grasp and turning around to face him, oikawa felt his breath leave him once again. the sound of his racing heart beating echoed in his ears as he took in the vision of you before him.

you were flush against him, the soft cushioning of your chest against his own; had his straining member pressed into your belly twitch, eager for your attention. oikawa was ready to beg for your touch, to put him out of his misery, but his clouded thoughts were pushed aside.

your fingers trailed from his wrists, upwards, tracing the veins of his forearms and giving his biceps a self-indulgent squeeze. reaching his broad shoulders, you almost had to tip toe to slide the flat of your palms around his neck; one reaching further to tangle into the tufts of coffee-toned hair at his nape. tugging at the strands, oikawa releases a whine as you pulled yourself closer to him. craning your neck to look up at him, he glances down and gulps audibly at the emotion painted on your pretty features.

“i hope you know you’ve caught me for life.” you whisper to him, tightening your grip almost painfully. “i’m so deeply in love with you, if you ever left me...i-”

overwhelmed with the purity of your love and raw affection, oikawa let’s his instincts take over. bending his knees, he slides his large hands down your body, lifting you up into him by the silky underside of you ass. like second nature, your ankles lock together behind his back, and the gasp that tries to escape your mouth is swallowed as he presses his lips to yours.

at first the kiss is slow and familiar. swiping his tongue across the soft pout of your bottom lip, he welcomes the tastes of the cherry-flavoured lustre. the heat shared between your flushed besides increasingly becomes scorching hot, the shape of you searing into his skin. oikawa wonders if you can feel his heart trying to escape the confines of his heaving chest; when you melt in his hold, delicate hand tracing along the scruff of his jaw as you deepen the kiss. his fingers dig bruises deep in your thighs, grinding you against the taut muscles of his abs.

yet it was when you gently suckled on his tongue, that oikawa submitted himself to you. the guttural sound that escaped the back of his throat was slightly muffled, and only encouraged you further. feeling himself almost being fully consumed by you, oikawa pulls away. breathless - the lewd string of silver connecting your mouths, and the dazed look in your eyes did nothing to calm him.

oikawa may have loved summer, but he loved you even more. so he leans forward again, pressing his damp forehead against your own, your laboured breaths caressing his mouth as he swore to you;

“we’re forever, mi amor. i’m never letting you go, in this time or the next. i love you.”

© 2020 AIIWA. please do not copy, modify or repost my work.

[keigosbirdie]

I love your way of writing and despite language barriers (German potato) I can read your texts well and fluently! ♡ you can tell that you put a lot of work into it and I don't have to start with your drawings they are awesome !! ♡♡ my first fail question was answered nicely by you ♡ I wanted to ask if you can give my day a good start with a few lovely words from Hawks in your style so that I can go to work motivated ♡

Thank you so much !! Ahh! Im so happy you could read my story despite the language barrior! I try to write bluntly, so to speak- to the point, you know? Im glad my style of writing works for you!! A few words from hawks? Well, since you sent me such a sweet message I wrote something for you! Its short and I wrote it on my breaks at work so i hope its okay ;u;

---

Morning Coffee

The morning was cold. Flecks of snow fell lazily from the blackened sky above you, so you pulled your scarf up over your nose to keep warm. You were alone at the train station, just like every morning before. The world was engulfed in darkness beyond the reach of the buzzing lights above you. Used to, the dark of early morning felt ominous and frightening. Especially walking in it alone to the station, but it became a comfort when it became familiar. The rest of the world was excluded from your early morning train rides to work. It was the only time of day that truly belonged to you. When you thought of it that way, the blackness all around you felt more like a protective blanket from the world beyond it than something to be feared.

But it was still lonely.

You clasped your coffee cup tightly in your palms as you waited for the train. Well, it wasn't your coffee cup. Your favorite thermos was forgotten on the counter in the rush of the morning. Your only alternative was a paper cup filled with whatever elixir the gas station peddled you that morning. It helped warm you against the chill of winter, but it did little for your soul.

You clasped your coffee a little tighter and glanced up at the world above it's brim. It was so early in the morning in your rural town that you were the soul occupant of the train station. There was no casual chatter of strangers or the shuffling of other people living their lives separate from yours. There was only you and the faint buzz of the lights above you.

The loneliness was an excuse for your mind to wander to thoughts of those close to you. Close, but not close enough. Friends you only saw during friday outings. Your mother, who lived a few hours away. Your husband, who moved in with you just a week prior, but it hardly felt like it. He had little time for domestic bliss in the midst of his own busy troubles. It was fine, you were incredibly busy yourself, and just having him there more often was a comfort.

The memory of the night before warmed your core up better than your cup. He came home a little early, and you stayed up way past bed time to build a pillow fort, per your request. The rest of the night you laid together in the makeshift hovel. His familiar voice filled the tiny space with gentle, nostalgic words that set sparklers off in your chest.

He was still in bed when you awoke for work, which made leaving even more difficult. It took several minutes of mental preparation to climb out from beneath his warm plumage, and he chirped and rolled in his sleep at the loss of your warmth. You decided not to wake him, —sleep was a rare luxury for the overworked hero— so you left with a worldless kiss and a note on the fridge. It made standing alone at the station all the more bitter, though, knowing he was at home keeping the sheets warm.

Your chest quaked gently under the weight of your loneliness, but only for a moment before you straightened your back out to stand a little taller. It would be fine. You'd be home again after your shift, and you'd see him again when he eventually made it home after his.

You reached into your coat pocket and fingered the top of an aluminum can. It was also coffee, but his coffee. The too sweet, triple shot canned stuff he sipped on to get through the day. You'd buy one for him when you stopped by a gas station. And sometimes for yourself, simply because the shiny yellow can on your desk gifted you with thoughts of him through the day.

"It's quiet out here," a voice resonated from behind you. Right behind you.

"F-Fuck!" You jolted. The paper coffee cup that'd been comforting you was crushed in your startled fist. What little was left of the hot liquid gushed out and burned the knuckle of your thumb.

The redness on your hand was pale in comparison to the flush of your cheeks, however, when you realized who'd landed behind you. Hawks. The man you'd abandoned in bed. He was dressed for patrol in his hero get up. He lifted that yellow visor of his atop his head, the same one that sat on your bedside table at night. He looked down at you apologetically. His wings folded tight against his back as if to make himself appear smaller; less threatening.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you-"

"Oh, no, you're fine-" you blurted as you straightened yourself out and rubbed the ache of your hand against your thigh. "You just startled me, Jesus, why don't your wings make any sound when you come swooping in? At least give a gal a warning."

He offered the smallest smile.

"I wanted to catch you before I took off," he said, though his expression was still a bit solemn as he eyed the hand you'd burned. "You left your thermos on the counter."

He reached into his thick jacket and pulled the thing from his pocket. You blinked, and you suddenly didn't feel cold anymore. With a long, contented hum you dropped the crumpled paper cup into the can behind you, and then he placed your thermos into the cradle your hands made. The metal was hot. He must have made you a fresh cup.

The gesture shook you just a little. He'd been in your life since you were children—he grew up to be your husband, for God's sake—but you never stood beside him in a public place. He was too protective, and the thought of you being outed as his spouse brought on his anxieties. Yes, the eagle eyes of strangers always made him nervous when it came to you, but there wasn't another soul in sight that morning.

"You'd risk being seen with me just to bring me my coffee?" You pondered as you popped off the cap and breathed in the familiar, healing aroma of your favorite brew.

"And to get my goodbye, since you ran off without one. I was worried," he added. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't lose his playful grin when he tacked, "You butthole," onto the end of his sentence.

You snorted at his childish insult. It was so like him to peck at you gently. "You never get any sleep- I was trying to be nice! And you know when I leave for work, Birdbrain. I even left you a note on the fridge."

"Ah, I didn't see it," he said. His gloved hand scratched at the back of his head as he tried to hide his small tinge of embarrassment. He came to bring you coffee, yes, but he also came just to double extra check that you were safely on your way to work and not a corpse in a ditch somewhere. "Sorry."

He worried. A lot. It was one of those things he was trying to work on, but it didn't bother you as much as he thought it did. He lived a treacherous life. The secrecy around your relationship and the anxiety he harbored for your safety always made sense to you.

A small cloud expelled from your lips as you let out the smallest laugh. "Don't be. I'm glad you came. Waiting out here is the crummiest part of the day, usually. Company is nice, especially if its yours."

His face softened. His lips quirked up into the faintest of grins, and his narrow eyes crinkled gently at their dark corners. It was the same smile that made your heart flutter when you were a little girl. His face was rounder and a bit more pudgy, then. His eyes were dowey, his voice was high, and he'd yet to be ripped apart and put back together into someone else. That little boy faded more and more as years and hardships passed, but you still saw him every time Hawks wore his smile.

"It is pretty cold," he said, and a wing unfurled from behind him. It draped around you like a heavy coat, battling away the chill in the air. Your smile grew a little wider as you stepped into him.

You fingered the edge of the can in your pocket before pulling it free from the confines of your coat.

"Here. We can have a little coffee before my train gets here," you offered.

His head tilted at the offering, as if startled by it. But then he took it graciously from your hands. You huddled close together under the canopy of his wings to keep warm as you nursed the edges of your drinks. Soon your train would come, and he would fly off into the darkness that became so familiar to you. You'd be on the tram alone once again, but the warmth of your thermos would keep you good company the rest of the way to the commission.

"Thank you," you managed to say. You were huddled so close together you could feel the fur trim of his coat brush against your cheeks. Warm puffs of your intermingling breaths chased the cold away from your cheeks and the loneliness from your once tight chest.

"For the coffee?" He asked before taking a noisy sip from his own elixir. "I knew you'd be lost without it."

"For everything."

[bitterlavenderwritings]

lovely little thing

a/n: i haven’t written for hawks for a long time then this scenario settled in my head for some reason. what was supposed to be a drabble turned into a fic of sorts lol.

(take note that the reader acts aloof and doesn’t express herself often than most people, so if you feel like you can’t relate  it’s alright for you to not read this.)

pairing/s: yan!hawks x reader

wc: 1 688

tags: kidnapping, yandere themes (obv), stalking, manipulation, implied drug use.

Any sane person would panic right now.

Waking up in an unfamiliar room should already set off alarms in your head that most people would immediately heed to. How did you get here? Were you taken by force? Where was your phone-

You moved to grasp anything, a headboard or  whatever solid thing that’s closest to you. But there is nothing but silk sheets and pillows scattered around. Your eyes struggle to lift open,for some reason they feel heavier than usual. After a few blinks you open your eyes to see yourself in a huge cage-?

With shaking arms, you get up on your knees to survey your surroundings. It’s then you realize your wrists are bound with individual cuffs with long, thin chains locked in two small hooks at the very back of the cage. You give them light tugs, testing how heavy and durable they are. Despite it’s light weight, it would still be impossible for you to break them without any heavy tools. 

But that wasn’t the most peculiar thing you were seeing right now, what puzzled you is the cage you were currently in.

It was huge, and had a lot of space. It wasn’t a box or any cage that resembled that of a dog’s. it was shaped like a bird’s cage, long gold thin bars encasing you in that stretched to the ceiling. It had intricate designs that made it look elegant and beautiful, something you would’ve appreciated if it weren’t for the fact that it held you captive. 

You spot a small door, locked shut with a padlock that looks brand new. You give it a few shakes, rattling it a bit to test how tight it is. After a minute you give up, opting to observe everything else in hopes of finding a way out.

It’s odd how everything seems to be staged just for you. The room the cage is in is a lavish bedroom, the type you see on television. A four poster bed in the middle, a dainty dresser complete with a wide mirror on the opposite wall, and a walk in closet that seems to be closed as of the moment. 

You look down at yourself, taking notice of the nightgown you’re wearing. It doesn’t seem to be one of yours, an expensive material that’s soft to the touch with pretty lace trimmings.

You feel so out of place, estranged to the unfamiliar room that speaks nothing of someone like you. You’re here for a reason, but you can’t put a finger on it.

Your inquiring thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an opening door. You stiffen in fear as you hear the door close again with the nearing footsteps of an unknown person. They take their time approaching you, light steps that seem to have a bit of a pep in them as they make their way to you.

You feel a gust of wind that billowed on your bare back, causing you to shiver for a moment. You desperately want to see them, your captor, the person responsible for your captivity. But you don’t move, choosing to stare at the blurry window that shines a glowing light to your meek frame that feels oh so small in the cage. 

“Once again you’re not saying anything. Quiet as always, aren’t you baby bird?” That nickname...

Slowly, you turn behind you, eyes meeting a familiar pair of honey gold irises. He smiles, a soft curve that speaks of quiet triumph and glee. His gloved hands are grasping the bars softly, sending a message of possession and dominance.

You know him, hell, everybody does. Being a number two hero was no joke, especially for someone as young as him. His wings, a deep shade of red that spreads out at his back, flutter in light flaps as he takes his time looking at you.

He seems to be pleased, barely containing his excitement as he caresses the bars fondly. There’s a soft look in his eyes, the type a person would give to a dear lover of theirs. 

But you’re not his lover, at least you think so.

There’s no mistaking the dark gleam in his eyes, something too hidden and cryptic for you to decipher. It’s sends an unpleasant feeling in your chest but you keep shut about it. Who knows what he might do if he’s displeased.

You remember how sharp and deadly those feathers can be, despite how soft and pretty they can look at first glance.  

Fear settles in the pit of your stomach, but you ignore it. You had to know, why were you here and why you of all people. You only managed to utter one word.

“Why?” His eyes widens just for a tiny fraction, surprised at your newfound courage. His lips curl into a smirk, seemingly satisfied that you’re not screaming your lungs out or protesting like he’d expect any person would.

But of course you weren’t like most people, which is why he had chosen you in the first place.

“Do I really need a reason?” His smirk widens even wider at your raised eyebrow. To think you can still hold your own at a time like this, how interesting...

He reaches out through the small gaps of the cage, just wide enough for his right arm to fit and enter your rightful place. He preens at the thought, your new home, just where he is.

He holds a strand of hair in his fingers, playing with it as he looks at you endearingly. A spread of warmth fills his chest as he sees your usually blank face fluster at his touch.

“You’re mine, isn’t that easy to understand? Ever since that day I saved you, I’ve already claimed what’s rightfully mine.” Your brows furrow, taking in his words. He doesn’t hear a word of objection, but he knows you disagree despite your silence.

“Don’t you think I’m right, little birdie? I saved you from a painful death after all, that building would have crushed your frail body when that villain struck it’s concrete walls. Rescue wouldn’t have made it in time, so it was all my efforts that kept you alive and breathing ‘til this day.”

It’s then he sees it, a crack in your argument that you hold between your lips. He knows just how he can convince you to stay, and he won’t stop until you believe it completely yourself. 

You’re a stubborn person, something he observed after keeping track of you ever since seeing you that day. You haven’t met him personally at the time, but he saw you first.

You looked blissfully in peace tending to your row of lilies, smiling softly to yourself unaware of the prying golden eyes of a hawk latched onto its prey.

He thought the flowers fit you perfectly, sweet innocence that blossomed beneath the loud, massive noises that dominated the crowd. 

He’s kept watch of you since then, trailing behind you up in the skies where you couldn’t see him. He even went as far as to disguise himself, hiding his identity to speak a few words to you as a stranger. 

He wasn’t even disappointed when you limited your interactions, choosing to utter a few words then cut off the conversation entirely. You disliked talking to people, especially strangers. So you made sure to make it obvious that you weren’t an open person anybody could just approach.

He liked that about you, something that set you apart from the rest. He thought it couldn’t get any better, but you surprised him again once more when he saved you that day.

You were grateful of course, despite your cold nature, you still had feelings and  manners like any other person. But you didn’t gawk at him, or praised him endlessly like a god like his fan girls did. 

You even refused when he offered to fly you home! Not wanting to abuse his generosity as you put it. You were blunt and wanted nothing more from him. He was instantly hooked.

He couldn’t possibly just let you go now, could he?

So when the time finally came, he didn’t hesitate to use your vulnerability to his advantage. You always left your windows wide open at night, preferring to sleep with the moonlight lighting up your dark room softly.

He found that habit of yours adorable, but also too dangerous. What if there was someone else like him who could reach your floor and possibly harm you? He couldn’t have that, no no. All the more reason to keep you safe and sound, he reasoned. But on his own terms.

It wasn’t that hard if he was being honest, you were already tired when you got home to begin with. So when he held the dampened cloth to your nose, your struggles weren’t that strong to budge him the slightest. 

Within a few minutes you grew limp in his arms, making it easy for him to carry you up in the night sky, taking you home right where you belonged to.

Seeing you calm and collected on that cage nearly sent him to a frenzy. You sat  like you belonged there, ignoring the way your eyes darted from you to him apprehensively.

“It’s okay now sweetie, I’ll take real good care of you.” He cooed as he held your face in his hands. Your skin was smooth and delicate to his touch, something he noted while admiring your beauty. 

“You’ll see, sooner or later you won’t have to worry about a single thing.” He’ll make sure of it. He can already see it, you craving him as much as he does with yours. But first he has to be patient, he’s not deluded enough into thinking you won’t go down without your own defenses after all.

He’ll have to take his time breaking down each and every one of the walls you’ve built around yourself to finally lay a hand on how you truly feel. He grinned in anticipation.

You were an interesting, lovely little thing after all, and he’s gonna have so much fun with you. 

[nomanwalksalone]

BOOK REVIEW: RICHARD JAMES SAVILE ROW

by Réginald-Jérôme de Mans

As Troy McClure said about playing the human in a musical adaptation of Planet of the Apes, reviewing this book is “the role I was born to play!”

Simply entitled Richard James: Savile Row, this book commemorates the 25th anniversary in Savile Row of the fashion house and tailors of the same name.  A read is somewhat disappointing, full of short essays by what amounts to a rather incestuous school of longtime Richard James fans in British media and entertainment, among them British GQ’s Dylan Jones and Richard’s most notorious client, Elton John.

Elton’s known as a voracious devotee – to not say addict – of his favorite outfitters over the decades, buying out entire shopfloors at times.  His twenty-year devotion to Richard James is a key to understanding Richard James’ enormous if unrecognized positive influence on contemporary men’s clothing and British tailoring. Forty years ago Elton dressed head-to-toe in psychedelic Tommy Nutter, switching in the 1980s to over-the-top Gianni Versace glitz.  Since the end of the 1990s, he’s evangelized Richard James.

Tommy Nutter, the last tailor-designer in Savile Row, dominated British men’s tailoring in the 1970s.  Custom tailoring took a back seat to the cult of the ready-to-wear designer, mostly the Continentals: Pierre Cardin, then Armani and Versace.  Nutter had a few isolated 1980s hits, like dressing the Joker in 1989’s Batman, before dying in 1992.

What had become of the British? 1980s attitudes towards luxury and clothing meant regression, selling an image of Britain as Raj, pith helmets, and gin among palm trees, not progress. Ralph Lauren did a much better job selling that ethos in his more expensive lines than any of the British could.  Some tried; those of us of a certain age (me) remember seeing cashmere sweaters made in China sold in Bloomingdales under the label of Savile Row tailor Gieves & Hawkes, or blocky ready-to-wear suits at Barneys sold with the name of Savile Row tailor Kilgour, French & Stanbury, although made in Canada by Samuelson.  An ersatz Britishness for export markets, an ersatz image and look created by ready-to-wear licensees with little input from the British tailors desperately trying to sell their names abroad.

Into this breach came Richard James. Like Nutter, James is categorically not a trained tailor.  What he is, though, is an inspired designer who, since opening on Savile Row, has offered true custom tailoring as well as ready-to-wear in visionary designs.  I remember the first Richard James items I noticed, beautiful belts and wallets of gorgeous quality hand stitched in England with contrasting linings in deeply saturated color.  I still have one of those belts, in all its magnificence.  What did they have to do with British custom tailoring?  Nothing – and everything. For the first time a Savile Row name appeared to be doing something relevant, interesting and elegant – and doing it to the fullest extent and the last detail. Savile Row survives by its export markets and by the reputation its tailors have forged for beautiful items of a certain Britishness.  No more uninspired licensed items that has as much to do with British elegance as a Sterling car (derided by Consumer Reports for “Industrial Revolution-era” English technology, remember those?). What Richard James has done is modernize British elegance from the creepy colonial-obsessed ethos that today only blinkered Brexiteer bluestockings and Internet edgelords cling to.  Even the past James references uses other, more inspired touchstones of British greatness, including his bespoke offer (initially serviced by the Savile Row tailors Anthony J. Hewitt and James Levett before being brought in-house), but also ready-to-wear shirts in stripes that recalled the best of Swinging London; handmade ties whose lush, delicate patterns rivalled the best of midcentury Sulka or today’s Charvet; magnificently, decadently warm alpaca pile ‘teddy bear” coats originally created for 1920s motorists; astonishingly soft leather or suede jackets in the café racer style 1960s London Mods would have died for; and even the made-to-order cashmere socks with custom monograms Corgi used to make for defunct shops of yesteryear like the custom shirtmaker Beale & Inman.  It was a vision of Britishness far, far from Lauren’s fantasies, a Britishness that admitted the turmoil of Ted Heath’s premiership, that added much-needed glamor after John Major’s greyness.  And James reminded us what was wonderful about the British suit by invoking all that was dashing in its cut.  Ready-to-wear suits were made in beautiful cloths from British mills like the impeccable Taylor & Lodge, in unexpectedly evocative colors and patterns: sharp mohair sharkskin, gorgeously patterned real Scottish or Irish tweeds or a French navy that was lighter than the normal shade; even rainbow chalkstripes on a sober dark ground.  The cut was always tapered at the waist, double-vented, slant pocketed in the “hacking” style, a look espoused by Patrick Macnee’s subversively too-British John Steed in the 1960s.  Richard’s linings were often boldly colorful, to remind us what could be playful about the suit, everything that 1980s pretention (clinging to all the trimmings of colonial oppression) had repressed.

Richard James the book shines in cataloguing those designs in beautiful detail.  James really has been the best colorist in the business, as Jones termed him.  Even more importantly, this book also shows how James has aced the tricky game of tennis without a net of innovating within the classic: in addition to recreating ruffle-fronted tuxedo shirts like those of George Lazenby’s louche Bond in 1969’s On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, James also invented tuxedo shirts whose fronts (instead of pleats or stiff waffle-weave Marcella) were hand-beaded by Hand & Lock, beaders and embroiderers to Her Majesty the Queen; Corgi (knitters and hosiers to the Prince of Wales) knitted thick, thick cashmere sweaters with hand-inlaid abstract intarsia designs; elegant cufflinks (always double-sided) recalled childhood marbles in the forms of hand-blown translucent glass or semiprecious banded agate (a real “Aggie”) or amber set in sterling silver; and even a travel bag that recalled the bags given away by Pan Am or Concorde in the early days of jet travel was rendered in ballistic nylon with reflective silver piping and brilliantly contrasting linings.

I’ve never owned a Richard James bespoke suit.  I know that his ready-to-wear suits were disappointingly half-canvassed or fused, despite their wonderful materials.  But they helped remind me that Savile Row could still be relevant, and that those tailors, despite past reputation, could be approachable and contemporary – and that has been my experience with the other tailors of Savile Row, including the impeccable, evocatively named Steed, whom I loved for their name before ever using them.

Every item with the Richard James name carried and carries the same visionary, whimsical design philosophy, a Britishness less fanciful and more romantic than Paul Smith’s, and far less caricatural and cynical than those of Ralph Lauren or Hackett.  Socks, always made to a high-standard by Pantherella, are accented in amusing contrast colors or mad patterns. I have a number that are doing fine almost 20 years later.  My Richard James Concorde bag has been a beloved, perfect gym bag for years, while his larger, tougher Japanese denim bag (trimmed in the best British bridle hide) is my go-to travel holdall no matter where on Earth I go. My beaded Richard James tux shirt is a prized piece of design genius, as is a magnificently waterproof raincoat made for him by Mackintosh in a beige twill that cunningly iridesces turquoise or orange from certain angles. For years I’ve searched for the same shade of gorgeous Thomas Mason turquoise twill cotton that an old Richard James shirt is in, but most of his materials are specially made for his designs; even the fine-gauge cotton knits that John Smedley or Peter Geeson created for him seemed to be in special colors and to his own patterns.

That wealth, that treasury of a vision and genius, tumbles out of Richard James’ new book, pictures that really are worth thousands of words and that speak for themselves about the importance of this designer’s contribution, reminding us that Savile Row, indeed British menswear itself, still had things of wonder to offer us.

[allycryz]

Duende - Uri & Haurche :3

PG because Haurchefant makes innuendo, set during early Stormblood.

The first draft of this was super easy to get out. The edits were a little harder because Urianger’s voice is very different from mine, but a good challenge all the same!!

‘Tis expected of a Scion to battle as expertly as one might pen a treatise. Urianger schedules two ventures per day to hone his physical talents: a bracing run before dawn and a lengthy solo training session at dusk. For the latter, he takes to the rocky shore along the coast line. The precarious climb to his preferred spot (providing both privacy and space) is part of his regimen.

Urianger picks the times when visibility is low and most residents occupied. Small talk is not his wont, nor is he at ease with those not in his immediate circle. There is something about his unmasked, unhooded face that gives strangers tacit permission to approach.

His position and decorum dictate that he engage somewhat in chatter during his errands. The residents do not press overmuch, for which he is grateful. Still, the task fits him worse than the too-small aldgoat leather gloves Lyse gifted him on his last Nameday. (Except, those he could not put on as easily as he might a polite demeanor. They refused to go past the breadth of his palm.)

There are days when the convenience of sunrise and sunset for sundry reasons, prove incompatible with other needs such as visibility and safety.

The unexpected rain pours down as he wends his weary way up the cliffs. It sluices through his hair, running rivulets over his brow. For the dozenth time, he swipes at his face and squints against the onslaught.

His feet remember where to place, his hands where to grip for balance. These are his cliffs and his winding, narrow path. No one knows it better. Should that memory etched into his muscle fail, a fall here would not be deadly.

‘Twould be painful though, and impact his duties for the next few days. For that latter reason–above all–he takes longer than usual along the rain-slicked terrain. 

There, he thinks as he nears the safety of the plateau. Urianger blows out a soft breath of relief, relaxing muscles he has kept tense during the arduous journey. For this stretch he has always found it best to walk sideways, arms spread for balance. It has never been a treacherous spot, simply steep enough to warrant caution.

Today, treachery comes at last. He takes a step up the incline, shifts to lift the other foot. The slippery grass beneath his boots gives way and both feet shoot out from under him. He has enough presence of mind to throw his gravity forward rather than backwards.

The impact is unpleasant but survivable; naught but his palms and dignity scraped. Dirt and mud bespatter the front of his shorter training robe. The cotton garment ends below his knees, the boots just above. Thus the joints are spared injury besides a dull ache. He chooses an ignominious crawl up to the plateau rather than risk another fall by rising on the sodden incline.

The rain is not so courteous as to clean his garments. It does offer some reprieve as he turns his stinging palms up to the sky and rubs the rainwater against the creases of grime and grass.

Ah, well. Rain is uncommon enough that he should be glad when it comes. Should his comrades ever summon him to battle in such precipitation, he shall be well-prepared. Lord Haurchefant oft speaks of how training in winter climes these five years have better forged him for difficult conflict. (Urianger suspects it is not only snow and ice that stood in the knight’s way.)

He finds himself smiling, thinking of his new colleague. Though their base is near underground, ‘tis not wholly cut off from the outside world. Vents let in sunlight, rain can be heard pouring upon the streets. Like as not, Haurchefant put a kettle on soon as he perceived the change in weather. 

The Waking Sands are enchanted to remain a cool temperature. If the sun does return in full force, they shall not overheat drinking cocoa.

Befouled, bedraggled, and besodden; he returns to the outskirts of Vesper Bay. The twilight and the rain have not put off the residents. A knot of people gathers near the market stalls, the hum of their voices rising just above the thrum of rain upon roof and stone and sea. The citizens hold cloaks and hands over their head as shields, one has a parasol meant for sun and aesthetics. 

‘Tis a lovely pink one with expensive-seeming trim. A shame it is likely ruined.

The reason for their cluster becomes apparent. Lord Haurchefant is the focus upon which they circle, tallest among them save two other residents. His silvered head is bent to them as they harken to his low voice. This eve, he has garbed himself in a long scarlet coat over his usual apparel. ‘Tis the first time he has donned sleeves since his arrival.

 (For all the good it did me to be tempered by winter, his lordship had said. It does make me rather pitiful in a desert. I shall do my best to acclimate to Thanalan.) 

They all gaze upon him with utter rapture. It has ever been so, since his lordship’s residence began in the Waking Sands while Urianger’s comrades and Haurchefant’s love continued on to Gyr Abania. Their adoration is not due solely to his fair countenance or noble title, though both must aid the cause.

There is an...openness in him that beguiles all he meets. Urianger has witnessed the surliest residents and most peevish of vendors open like blossoms to the sun when Haurchefant turns the glory of his attention upon them. Such an unusual power he has seldom witnessed and never from so kind a soul as this knight.

There is no avoiding this throng, even would it not be unconscionably rude to avoid his guest. At least there is a smaller chance of strangers engaging him in conversation. Not with a beacon such as Haurchefant seizing their attention, both intentionally and involuntarily.

“-suppose he will be alright, he knows the land better than I.” He hears Haurchefant saying as he approaches. His noble brow is drawn down, his battle-sculpted arms folded. “But do let me know if you see him. No one expected this rainfall.”

Doth he….speak of me? Urianger wonders. As if attuned to his thoughts, his lordship turns his way. Surprise, then relief, and then rapture all pass across his handsome features.

“Urianger!” He exclaims. “Thank the Fury. I was worried–I know you favor treacherous paths,and with the dark and the rain…”

“I am well,” says Urianger. “Thy concern is much appreciated and noted. ‘Twould have been a perilous journey had I not been close acquainted with yon cliffs.”

Haurchefant steps towards him, gaze sweeping up and down. Lingering on his bare face, throat, and collar. “It seems it was perilous for your clothes. Let’s get you inside and taken care of, yes?”

One of the crowd smiles at Urianger. Mara, he recalls, the tall Hyur woman who hawks fruit.  “Well, we’re glad you’re alright, ser. I was just telling June that I worry when I see you go off in the dark.”

“Ah,” he says, trying to recall which is June. The baker. Yonder woman with the braids who oft gives thee extra tea biscuits. “Tis not my intent to cause worry. I am well versed in the land and how best to scale it.”

“Even knowing that, do be careful.” Mara gives an imperious nod. Others nod as well, their eyes on him and not the handsome knight.

He can only nod again, bearing and smile stiff. He does not recall all their names. It makes him feel the most ill-mannered of scoundrels. He sweeps into a bow towards them, hoping it goes to some measure in repaying their concerns. “I shall endeavor to have a care, my lady. Your solicitous care bringeth warmth into mine heart, ‘tis only right I do well by all gathered.”

She smiles and pats his arm. This seems a signal for all to disperse, more residents bestowing upon him pats and nods. It is a wholly alien experience, and he considers he may be lying at the bottom of the cliff in the midst of a delusion. Surely he is not dear to all these people with whom he barely speaks.

“Come friend,” Haurchefant says. “You need to get out of those wet clothes and have something warm in your belly.”

“Thou art just as sodden,” says Urianger. “Pray also attend to yourself. Thou shouldst not catch sick for mine sake.”

“Ah but I would have done so gladly if I had to save you today.” The knight’s smile is wide again, fair dazzling in its potency. Again, Urianger is astonished any resident would look at him with Haurchefant there. Do they not sense the charm radiating from his very core? “I do thank you, for arriving when you did. There are much better games we might play in the dark than hide and seek.”

Urianger near trips on the steps up to the door. Of course, Haurchefant is there to catch him, strong hands righting his balance and smoothing over his back. 

“I beg thine pardon,” says Urianger. Regretful that he has no mask or hood to hide the heat upon his cheeks. As Lord Haurchefant is cheeky himself to everyone, he is likely used to it. ‘Tis not the first time Urianger has witnessed or received innuendo delivered so warmly from this man. “Mayhap I used more energy than I surmised, during my exertions today.”

“Yes,” Haurchefant nods, opening the door. “All the more reason for you to come relax with me once you have cleaned up. I shall not have you burying yourself in work when you have earned respite.”

“For a little while,” says Urianger. He glances back at the streets, at the residents seeking shelter in houses and under awnings. At the way some of them look at them–at him. Relief and concern and warmth in their gazes. He frowns and cannot lose the change to his mien, even in the warmth and dry of the building.

Haurchefant pauses at the top of the stares, giving his shoulders a roll before beginning his descent. ‘Tis late and his friend is often tense in his upper body by the time supper comes. He will need help working the knots loose again. Perhaps Urianger might put off his tasks even further to repay Haurchefant’s worry and concern.

As to everyone else in Vesper Bay, he is at a loss on how to make recompense.

His friend reaches the door to their sanctum and turns back, looking up at Urianger still upon the landing. “Dear Urianger, what is the matter? That’s a rather pensive expression.”

“...I didst not realise the depth of their regard for mine person. Yon residents and I art not particularly close.” He shakes his head.

“Oh,” says Haurchefant, that entrancing smile returning to his mouth. “Do ask me an easier one next time.”

Facetiousness is not Haurchefant’s way. The ironic reply seems out of character. “Yes, I am aware the reasoning seems difficult to determine-”

“‘Tis not.” Haurchefant’s eyes crinkle with laughter. It does not sting–there is no malice in it. He doubts such a quality resides in the knight. “You are quite charming, even when cloaked. It inspires others to take interest in you.”

For the second time, Urianger says “I beg thine pardon? I am not given to using mine wiles-”

“No, no. We should all be in trouble should you do it apurpose. But you have a natural draw that leads people to want to know you. As you signal that is not what you want, they have kept their distance.”

It is an absurd supposition that Haurchefant says with all the conviction of his noble heart. So much does he seem to believe it; that Urianger wants to also trust it, if only for his friend’s sake. “I am...uncertain of the validity of thy premise. However, thy kindness and belief warms my heart. Wouldst that every man hath such a friend as you, my lord.”

At this, Haurchefant lets out a clear, ringing laugh. Again, there is no mockery in it. The sound is joyful and pleased, as seductive a sound as every part of the man. ‘Tis a wonder such a man as he thinks his draw is mirrored in Urianger.

“So I must endeavor to convince you of it, till you are no longer agreeing to humor me.” Haurchefant opens the door, shivering at the blast of magically cooled air upon his wet person. “Well, I look forward to the process. One could do far worse than spending an evening convincing a beautiful man of his charms.”

To that, Urianger has no answer. Nor does Haurchefant expect one. He winks and enters the Waking Sands, door closing behind him.

It occurs to him and the rapid beating of his heart, there is a reason he perceives Haurchefant as charming and beguiling and the one who everyone should desire. Projection has not been a key failing of his, but he has fallen prey to it before. And presently, it seems.

And Haurchefant is correct in one thing: there are far worse ways they might spend the evening. Perhaps Urianger shall put his work on hold tonight, to see the knight’s endeavor in full.

[otheliame]

Day 4: “A Man In Love”

thank you @gentapprentices for such a fun week so far!! im loving seeing everyone’s masc folks having a fun time!

I actually wrote a fic on this, Shift about my apprentice Jamie coming to Vesuvia and meeting Asra for the first time, and then later Nadia, Muriel, and Lucio before the Plague. It’s stinking cute, and here’s a little segment from the first chapter, the Magician, when the fated two meet in the most cliche of circumstances. It’s written from 1rst person POV, 9 years before the canon.

The sun glimmers brightly overhead as I make my way down the crowded streets, weaving between shoppers while keeping close to the fringes of the walkways. I cusp around the edges of the multicolored stalls to avoid the majority of foot traffic, but it’s proving hard as it’s a particularly busy day in the market, everyone is out and about, not just buying but lingering, talking over each other with excited voices in large clusters spanning the entire street. Something’s happening in Vesuvia today, something special. As much as I’d like to know what that something is, I don’t want to get caught up with the crowd… it’s been a long day. 

Today of all days I feel my patience is shorter, Isaac was a bit more of a hardass than usual and it makes the above-average bustle of the street that much more difficult for me to handle, every voice seems to multiply and reverberate in my thoughts like the vibration of insect wings. I’ve lived here for a month now, trying to get by and make a living and it’s been alright thus far, especially since Ksasthra took me in; here is better than there and there was worse than that, so long and so forth, unimportant details now because this is better. Vesuvia is going to be better for me. I can feel it. 

A colorful stream from a showcased scarf plays in front of me on a caught breeze as I try to make my way through the market stalls heading towards the lower district, I have to duck to avoid the hawking shopkeeper so I don’t get drawn into a purchase. Luckily, the multitude of customers I have to dodge and weave to get through keep them busy enough to not pay me the slightest attention. I just finished my shift at the local community theatre, doing basic backstage work for all sorts of performances, and right now I want nothing more than to hide away in my small, shared apartment by the waterfront and rest, especially while the one who agreed to house me, Ksasthra, is still back at the theatre for work until much later. The work I did today wasn’t particularly stressful or anything, but being around my coworkers just made me tired. I still feel like there’s hot breath on the back of my neck wherever I turn, and even now it’s still a hard thought to shake. 

I originally questioned my own decision in living in a city - I’ve never lived in an area with more than a hundred people in a given spot - but at the time I made the choice, I thought I had no choice. There just aren’t any jobs out in the foothills, and I never learned how to live off the land alone. Though, mostly it was the fact that my attempts to blend in or hide in the vast, sparsely populated, wintry lands of the deep northeast proved largely unsuccessful. Soon I had the realization that my best bet of finally being left alone was to find someplace where I could melt into a crowd. And in order to melt, one must first find a crowd, so to the city I had to go. Vesuvia was the largest, farthest city I could’ve gone to without taking a boat, so it was to Vesuvia I went to escape… to escape. It helped as well that the further south I went, the less people’s gazes would cling to my shoulders, which I quite liked. A lot. I’m not sure why though, for I’m certain I stick out like a sore thumb anywhere. Up north it was the… things… I could do. Here it’s the fact that everyone is colorful and loud and I’m not.

I don’t like being around people, usually because people also don’t like to be around me. I’m… weird, for lack of a better word. I have certain… abilities that other people don’t have, and in my experience if you have something that other people don’t they either envy you or fear you, and both of those things are the worst emotions to see on other faces. But here, in a city full of so much vibrant color, varient life, people of a hundred different types… I’m just another uninteresting face. That’s what I wanted when I came here. It’s thoughts like this that keep my grounded when I get too overwhelmed by citylife around here, such as now, when I’m just trying to get home. Before I came to Vesuvia, I would see the amount of people on this street alone over the span of several months. It’s still very… difficult to get used to this new atmosphere, even three months later. Almost to the street corner, almost there, then I’m home free… Maybe I can finally finish that book Ksasthra gave me… 

Suddenly, over the jumbled voices of the shoppers on the street, loud, victorious trumpets resound through the air, stealing all eyes from their tasks to the mouth of the street far down the way. I look up and peer through the heads and shoulders of onlookers to try and see what it is that’s causing such a disturbance before I realize that regardless of whatever it is, this is the perfect opportunity to escape through the crowd to the lower district. Quickly I turn and make my way there, but as I grow close to the corner I realize that whatever is happening is also happening on this end of the street; I see mounted soldiers in gleaming silver armor bearing unfamiliar emblems on tall, colorful standards and shining trumpets, using both of these items to loudly announcing the presence of someone important, someone that I now realize is about to enter this street. 

Other shoppers quickly seem to realize this as well, and like a tidal wave people start to shove others from the middle of the street into the outskirts, pressing shopkeepers back behind their stall counters and pushing everyone in their way into the wooden fixtures. I barely get out of the way just as a burly masculine figure makes his way through but I get caught up in the wave as others start hurrying out of the street’s center, I scurry to keep upright. 

Suddenly I get shoved back by a gaggle of inattentive shoppers trying to get out of the way right as I try to duck between stalls. I trip and lose my footing, I let out an innately sharp cry as fear of being tramped leaps into my throat but before I hit the ground I smash straight through a market stand’s doorway, which was just a wooden bar draped with a velvety, purple cloth hemmed with gold trim. My shoulders smack the cobblestones as a multitude of things fall on me from the counter’s surface, ripped down from when I took the tablecloth with me. I hold up my hands as I’m hit with a waft of rich, heady herbs and dried grasses, then with strange light smacks, like a small stack of papers just fell on me. 

Hands reach under my arms and pull me a little farther backwards into the stall I had fallen into, the touch startles me so much I flinch, making the hands immediately disappear. An intimate voice like honey and wind gasps by my ear over the loud din of the rowdy street, “Are you alright?” 

When the strange hands touch me I snap back to attention and regain my bearings like the flare of a starting fire, I sit up and blink as I try to figure out where I am right when I meet the stranger’s gaze… layers of periwinkle, lavender, and lilac, glimmering like stardust in the evening sunshine. They appear masculine presenting, young like me, definitely not old enough to be considered fully gown, with hazelnut skin that gleams like bronze armor and thick, fluffy, silver-white hair that hangs over those starry eyes in wild, soft curls. Starry they are in more ways than one, because the stranger stares at me with such an awestruck expression I suddenly feel incredibly self conscious half-lying on the floor of their stall - it must be their stall, as they’re the only one behind the counter… The counter I just fell through getting pushed by the crowd. 

“I…! Oh no, I’m so sorry!” I stammer in embarrassment, brushing myself off as I perch my feet in preparation to stand, though as I do I realize I’m covered in all kinds of herbs, dried flowers, and other reagents that I must’ve accidentally taken with me when I ripped this cloth off the counter in my fall. There are also a dozen or more rather beautiful cards scattered on the cobblestones, though they are like no deck of betting cards I’ve ever seen, even at a passing glance and I can tell as such. An array of masks also accompany this strange collection, the first two I see is one that depicts a fox with little ornamental gems hanging from the ears, the other that’s rugged wood configured in a bear’s face with runes carved into its realistically crafted fur. The stranger’s hands linger no longer on but near my shoulders as I pull myself upright, he continues to stare at me with wide, owlish eyes as I speak so fast my words bumble over each other, “I didn’t mean to, that was completely on accident, please forgive me-!” 

“It’s alright!” The boy quickly speaks again with that same gentle, sweet tone, gripping my shoulders to return my gaze to his lavender hues rather than to the cobblestones now littered with his stall’s offerings, and this time I don’t flinch. His lilac eyes flicker across my features then down over my form, checking for injuries as he mutters, “You’re not hurt, are you?” 

I shake my head, kneeling down as I try to gather the fallen reagents and masks onto the purple cloth and recollect the fallen, oriental cards, “I’m fine, I’m fine! I’m so sorry, I should’ve been paying better attention, let me help-” 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” His hands, with long dextrous fingers, smooth palms and marble-carved knuckles breach my vision and stall my hands where they are hovering over the cloth, returning my gaze back to his. I start when I feel the sparks under my skin where we touch, but now that I’m paying better attention I realize it’s not simply just me being startled by the touch, but rather it seems to be some sort of… energy… coming from this boy. A deep torrent of something, power, internal lightning, vitality, runs under his palms like I plunged my hands into the rush of a waterfall. 

He smiles at me when I remeet his gaze, a warm and amicable smile that showcases a handsome dimple in his left cheek as he hums, “Really, it’s alright.” 

I let out a slightly relieved breath, and look back down at our conjoined hands over the spilled tablecloth. Does he feel it, too? I’ve never felt someone’s aura so tangibly before- 

I realize this must be strange, how I loiter over his hands, so I quickly clear my throat and pull mine away. “Erm… What do I owe you for your lost goods?” Idly to distract myself from the embarrassment I pick up a small fallen herb between my thumb and forefinger, I think it’s a rose petal as that’s what it smells like, then one of the fallen cards; it depicts a plain with a sun hanging overhead with long, golden beams down onto the grass, a numeral 0 at the bottom to show which way is up or down I suppose. It looks hand painted too, very ornate and intimately crafted, it’s incredibly impressive, did he paint this himself? I hold these two things up with a curious hum, I glance back up at the stranger after a moment and tilt my head to the side,  “What’re you selling, anyway?”

The boy looks at the rose petal in my hand, then at the card, and then back at me with that same owlish look as before right as the air rings with more trumpets, and the crowd just outside of the safe haven of the stall begins to warble. Intrigued, the both of us rise up to look over the counter just in time to see a carriage driving by through the carved path in the streets that the people have rushed to clear. The carriage is richly ornamented, emblazoned with the same colors as the crests the armored knights accompanying it carry, and obviously is not Vesuvian made, drawn by one white, one black horse with thick, luxurious manes. In the open windows the pulled back, rich violet drapes reveal a regal, female presenting person inside. I only get a few seconds to see her through the crowd, though just by her long, royal facial features and her stature alone I know that she must be some sort of powerful noble, most likely from a far away land. 

Once the carriage passes and the knights fall in on her, the crowds bustle and burst with noise, people whisper amongst themselves theories of who this newcomer is. I idly recall that there was supposed to be some big summer festival happening soon, so perhaps she’s here for that. Though, I’m not very keen on politics or current events beyond that a war just ended, so I don’t know much beyond that. And, frankly, it’s a miracle I know that much. The politics of this land are very different than they are back up in the depths of the northeast. There things are… very different. 

In my peripheral I see the stranger moving again, so I turn towards him just as he lifts the herbs, the masks, and the cards, which we had collected onto the fallen tablecloth, back onto the counter. Then he lifts a hidden leather satchel from within the stall’s inner walls and pack them away inside it, slotting the cards carefully in his palm as he goes. The movements of his arms draw my gaze away from his face for the first time and instead to the layers of colorful cloth around his person; his half-buttoned baby blue tunic that reveals his sternum and a little more above a dark magenta scarf with gold fringes that hangs across one of his shoulders and around his neck. He also dons a vibrant pink, blue, and peach overcoat without sleeves covered in radial patterns, and black trousers that his blouse is loosely tucked into. I swear I see something move around his waist beneath his coat but before I get the chance to investigate further he turns in my direction. Beneath his scarf I catch a glimmer of gold, a choker; it’s engraved with waved designs and somewhat blends in with the rich hues of his skin. Below that a turquoise pendant on a leather chord around his neck hangs over the bared part of his chest in a manner that makes it gleam like the depths of the sea in the sunlight. Richly adorned with beautiful baubles, just like everyone in this city, yet somehow… different. Unique. 

Suddenly I realize just where my eyes are lingering so I quickly snap my attention to his face, where it should have been this whole time. As soon as I do he fixes his gaze to mine and speaks in a low hum, “It doesn’t look like anything was damaged, no need to worry.” A sudden, sly smirk slightly plays the edge of his lips as he catches my gaze, I wonder idly if he caught me looking over his form as he adds with a more heartfelt touch, “I’m glad you’re alright.” 

I blink at him in surprise and feel another rush of crimson snaking its way to my face, I have to clear my throat and rein in my thoughts to pull my attention back to the present. “Right! Of course… Yes. I mean, good. That’s good to hear. That nothing was damaged, I mean…” Jamie, please. I glance over at the broken wooden shards on the ground and paw them with my boot as my mouth continues to run, “Not even something for the stall door?”

The amusement in the boy’s eyes lights like sparks flying from a blacksmith’s hammer as he regards me, a small chuckle escapes his lips as he begins to fold the now-empty tablecloth on his now-barren stall. “If you’re truly so troubled…” He pauses as if he’s reconsidering his words but after the moment’s hesitation he continues, his expression morphing from teasing and playful to curious and… hopeful, almost. “I was just going to close up shop anyway to get dinner… I wouldn’t be opposed to company. Would you consider that a form of ‘repayment’?” He says this with a lilt of sly humor, the light of the evening sun making his gaze seem to truly dance with entertainment.

Now, I am no fool, but for a moment he almost had me thinking that I was one, as my mind reeled and somersaulted over itself trying to figure out what he was implying, but once it finally hits me like a clock striking midnight I blink with a stunned hum as I nervously worm my fingertips into the strap of my satchel around my shoulder. “... Oh!” 

The boy’s gaze softens, quickly adding after a moment as he folds his tablecloth in triangles, “Only if you want to, of course. It’s not every day that someone falls into my stall… I simply can’t help but think it’s a sign of some sort. I’d love to know what kind of sign it is by getting to know you a little.” 

I raise an eyebrow at the other in surprise, thumbing my satchel idly as I respond slowly, tasting my words, “A sign?” 

He looks back at me with an amused raise in his lips, and only then do my thoughts suddenly jog and dig into the scene I find myself in. The herbs, the curious, colorful attire, the cards… cards unlike any playing cards I’ve ever seen. “Oh.” I murmur, flickering my gaze back to his bemused expression, “Are you one of those fortune tellers? Do they let you do that so young?”

The boy smiles and chuckles, placing the tablecloth in his satchel before he splays out the cards in his palm before him, I can see him counting them with his thumb as he answers, “I suppose some would call me that. Though I don’t think there’s an age limit on reading cards…” Content with the amount of cards he has, he returns them into a pile and slides them into a hidden pocket in his apparel before his hand sweeps before me and gentle takes up mine, before I can react he brings it to his lips and kisses my knuckles with a gentlemanly bow, I can feel his lips move on my skin when he speaks in a playful hum, “But you may call me Asra.” 

I swallow thick on a sudden knot of roots in my throat, I smile shyly and chuckle as he releases my hand and straightens back upright. Nervously I laugh a little, simply out of nerves because no one has done that to me before. “... Right. Okay, uh… Asra.” 

There’s a beat of silence as Asra the fortune teller regards me with what I think to be an expectant look, after a beat’s pause he tilts his head to the side with a raise in an eyebrow, “And you are?” 

“Oh!” I blink and laugh awkwardly, rubbing the back of my neck as I feel the heat return to my cheeks, “Right. Names. Introductions… Er- I’m Jamie.” 

“Jamie.” Asra echoes, nodding in response as he seems to savor the vowels on his tongue before he gives me a soft smile, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

I start slightly when someone jostles the stall, apparently on accident as they were attempting to get by a group of people wagging their jaws. When I look back at Asra I see his gaze is flickering across my features with a pensive expression I’m not quite sure what to do with as he moves like water around me towards the hole in his stall where the latch once was. “Have you ever been to the bakery down the block?” He asks suddenly, pausing in the entrance and looking back at me over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. I shake my head, prompting the fortune teller to smile with genuine amusement as he holds out a hand towards me, an open invitation. 

I hesitate, looking at him then at his hand for a long pause. Of course strangers are never to be trusted, but he is rather visually unassuming in terms of combat skill so I have faith that I can handle myself if this one were to try anything. I have been able to protect myself plenty of times in the past. But paranoia aside, I can’t lie, I am a little intrigued by their… disposition. I do find myself wanting to get to know them better, and this aura of theirs… I simply must know more. And I hadn’t exactly had other plans for the evening… 

This may as well happen. 

I slowly take his hand. 

...

Wanna know what happens next? Keep reading !

[cardstumble]

https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/The-Year-of-Dangerous-Days/Nicholas-Griffin/9781501191022

police brutality    drug crisis     immigration    white/latin/black tribes

Excerpt

Chapter 1 CHAPTER 1

DECEMBER 1979

By 1979, there were several Miamis that barely lapped against one another, let alone integrated. The county itself was a strange beast, twenty-seven different municipalities with their own mayor, many with their own police departments. But Miami wasn’t divided by municipalities; it was separated into tribes.

There was Anglo Miami, which the city’s boosters were still hawking to white America: beaches, real estate, hotels, and entertainment. Tourists dominated the region. Dade had 1.6 million residents but

2.1 million international visitors a year. Anglo Miami was far from monolithic. There were southerners, migrants, and a large Jewish population that ran some of the most important businesses and institutions in Miami Beach.

Across the causeway in Little Havana and up the coast in Hialeah sat Latin Miami, created by the Cubans who’d fled Fidel Castro’s revolution twenty years before. Whenever there was violence south of the border, Latin America coughed up a new pocket of immigrants. Most recently that meant that the Cuban population in Dade was being watered down by Nicaraguans, Salvadorans, and Colombians.

Then there was black Miami. It, too, had more divisions than cohesion. There was a strong Bahamian presence, plenty of Jamaicans. Both felt distinct from the African Americans who had moved south from Georgia, and those who were born and bred in Miami. The latest immigrants were only beginning to spill in: a large number of unwelcome Haitians. Arriving on rickety boats, fleeing both political persecution and economic despair, they were docking at a time when not one of Miami’s communities was in the mood to reach out and welcome them.

For all the nuances, if you were black, white, or Latin, you tended to know so little about the other tribes that you regarded them as rigid blocs. Who knew a Jamaican turned his nose up at a Georgia-born black, or that a Puerto Rican couldn’t stand another word from a Cuban, or that a Jew couldn’t walk through the door at the all-white country club at La Gorce? There was enough inequality to go around, but in this one thing, the black community got the most generous helping.

In 1979, if you were black in Dade County, you most likely lived in one of three neighborhoods: Overtown, the Black Grove, or Liberty City. Liberty City was the youngest of the three, dating back to 1937, when President Franklin Roosevelt authorized the first large public housing project in the South. It was Roosevelt’s response to local campaigns for better sanitation. In the ’30s, Liberty City had what most houses in Overtown and the Black Grove did not: running water, modern kitchens, electricity. Overtown remained the center of black life in Miami until the arrival of I-95, the vast stretch of American highway that ran from Maine down the East Coast all the way to Miami. It stomped right through the middle of Miami’s most prominent black neighborhood in 1965, a ravenous millipede with a thousand concrete legs.

Had the 3,000-kilometer highway been halted just 5 kilometers to the north, black Miami might have had a different history. Instead the highway, touted as “slum clearance,” bulldozed through black Miami’s main drags. Gone was much of Overtown’s commercial heart, with its three movie theaters, its

public pool, grocery store, and businesses. Goodbye to clubs that had hosted Ella Fitzgerald, to the Sir John Hotel, which had offered their finest suites to black entertainers banned from staying in whites-only Miami Beach. But more important, goodbye to a neighborhood where parents knew which house every child belonged to. Goodbye to the nighttime games of Moonlight Baby, where kids would use the bottle caps of Cola Nibs to mark the edge of their bodies on the pavement. Goodbye to unarmed

black patrolmen walking black streets.

Overtown had its own all-black police station, with strict rules. Black officers couldn’t carry a weapon home, since “no one wanted to see a black man with a gun.” They could stop whites in Overtown but

had no power of arrest over them. The closest affordable housing for Overtown’s displaced was in and around the Liberty City projects. Block by block it began to turn from white to black, until neighboring white homeowners built a wall

to separate themselves from ever-blacker Liberty City. White housewives in colorful plaids and horn-rimmed glasses carried protest signs: “We want this Nigger moved” and

“Nigger go to Washington.” Someone detonated a stick of dynamite in

an empty apartment leased to blacks. Nothing worked, and by the end of the 1960s the first proud black owners inside Liberty City were joined by many of Overtown’s twenty thousand displaced. As white flight accelerated, house prices declined, local businesses faltered, and unemployment and crime began to rise. By 1968, Liberty City had assumed a new reputation. The CND—the Central-North District—had

earned the nickname “Central Negro District” from both the city and the county police departments.

There was still beauty in Liberty City, still sunrises where the light would smart off the sides of pastel-painted houses, and the dew on the grass would glisten, and churches would fill, and the jitney buses would chug patiently, waiting for the elderly to board. Still schoolchildren in white shirts tightening backpacks to their shoulders and catching as much shade as possible on the way to the school gates. There was still beauty, but you had to squint to see it.

Eighty percent of South Florida homes had air-conditioning in 1980, but in stifling hot Liberty City,

only one in five homes could afford it. It was a neighborhood without a center, few jobs to offer, seventy-two churches but just six banks,

not one of which was black-owned. There were plenty of places to pray for a positive future but few institutions willing to risk investment in one. The fact that a teenager called Arthur McDuffie got out at all was unusual. The fact that he came back, found a good job, earned steadily, and raised a family was rarer still.

Frederica Jones had been Arthur McDuffie’s high school sweetheart at Booker T. Washington, one of Miami’s three segregated schools. They’d met while Frederica was walking home from the local store, where she’d bought a can of peas for her mother. She’d swung her groceries at her side, and McDuffie, who’d been watching her from across the street, fell into step beside her.

After a few moments of banter, McDuffie made a simple declaration. “I like you.” Then he asked for Frederica’s number. That night McDuffie called, and the two talked for an hour. At the end of the conversation McDuffie, two years Frederica’s senior, asked, “Would you go with me?”

“Yes!” she said.

They became inseparable. They were in the Booker T. Washington band together. McDuffie was the baritone horn

and Frederica a majorette. She watched McDuffie win the local swim meets. When McDuffie graduated, he joined the Marine Corps, and for the next three years, they communicated through letters. Then, within two months of his honorable discharge, they married. Two children quickly followed. After which came problems, separation, and, in 1978, divorce. McDuffie had always had a reputation as a ladies’ man, and now he had

a child with another woman to prove it.

Yet toward the end of 1979, the thirty-three-year-old McDuffie was back visiting the house he’d once shared with Frederica. He mowed the lawn, fixed the air conditioners, and trimmed the hedges of their neighbor, the last white family on the block. The warmth in the failed marriage seemed to be returning. The two spent the night of December 15, 1979, together, and McDuffie asked Frederica to join him on a trip to Hawaii—a vacation he’d just won at the office for his performance as the assistant manager at Coastal States Life Insurance.

The following day, Sunday, under bright 80-degree skies, Frederica, a nurse at Jackson Memorial Hospital, drove McDuffie back to his home. She parked the car feeling like there was positive momentum.

They’d talked of remarriage in front of their families. The deal was that if McDuffie could make “certain changes” in his life, then they could go ahead and make it official. As they sat in the car, McDuffie kissed his ex-wife goodbye and promised to be back at her place that evening to take care of their children before her shift. Normally, Frederica worked only afternoons, but the hospital was short-staffed over the Christmas period and she’d agreed to work that night at 11:00.

Shortly after 2:00 p.m., McDuffie walked into 1157 NW 111th Street, the home he now shared with his younger sister, Dorothy, a legal clerk. It was a modest building, painted green. Inside there was a record collection and books of music. McDuffie played

five instruments, all horns. There was

an entire white wall “covered with plaques and certificates of achievement,” including his “Most Outstanding”

award from his Marine Corps platoon. He wasn’t a war hero, hadn’t fought in Vietnam, but McDuffie had been faithful to the corps, a military policeman who had done his job impeccably.

A dutiful father, McDuffie had already wrapped Christmas presents for his two daughters and hidden them in a closet in his bedroom. His nine-year-old would get a wagon, a jack-in-the-box, and clothes. His oldest would get a watch, a tape recorder, a radio,

and a pair of roller skates.

He’d saved for months, but it hadn’t been an easy year to make money. Under President Jimmy Carter, the country, most especially the South, had been battered. Unemployment was stubbornly high, and it looked like the president was being swept downstream by the economy. For all Carter’s preaching of forbearance, the reality was that interest rates were up to 17 percent. In thirty years, inflation had never run higher.

Gas prices had doubled in two years. Even hamburger meat was two dollars a pound.

Despite all this, Carter was about to enter an election year in comparatively good standing. Whatever America thought of his ability to steer the country, he retained the people’s sympathy,

with an approval rating of 61 percent. Six weeks before, the Iranian revolution had become very real to the distant United States. The sixty-two hostages captured in the American embassy in Tehran had helped generate a sudden sense of solidarity in the United States. Between that and the following month’s Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, there was an understanding that Carter had a tricky hand to play. He would promise a strong and quick response to both situations. By the end of the year Carter led his presumptive challenger, Ronald Reagan, by

an enormous 24-point margin.

Still, the mood was summed up best by the

Miami Herald

in 1979. It was a year the average American wallet had “barely survived.” The unseen benefit, according to the paper, was that Miamians like McDuffie lived in Florida. They weren’t being hammered on heating oil like the rest of the country.

By Miami standards, the evening of December 16 counted as cold, expected to dip below 70 degrees and then drop below 60 the following day. Miamians traditionally overreacted, digging out winter coats and scarves for a rare outing. McDuffie selected blue jeans, a navy shirt over a baby-blue undershirt,

and a black motorcycle jacket. He searched his house for a hat to wear under his helmet. At 5:00 p.m., he closed the door behind him.

His own car, a 1969 green Grand Prix, wasn’t parked in its usual spot in his driveway. A friend had borrowed it. So he climbed on an orange-and-black 1973 Kawasaki 2100, “a more or less permanent loan” from his cousin. McDuffie turned the key, revved the engine, and drove the motorcycle south to Fifty-Ninth Street, to his friend Lynwood Blackmon’s house. He pulled up at the front door, feet still astride the bike, and talked to Blackmon’s seven- and eight-year-old daughters. He explained to them that he couldn’t help their father tune their car as he’d promised. His tools were in the back of the borrowed Grand Prix. Next he drove to his older brother’s house, his most common stop, and found him washing his car in his driveway. McDuffie grinned, revved the engine, spat up dirt over the clean car, and sped away before his brother could grab him. He raced to the far end of the street, turned, and braked hard.

“You better slow that bike down,” shouted his brother. McDuffie nodded, grinned, and pulled away.

Sometimes on weekends McDuffie moonlighted as a truck driver, making deliveries to Miami Beach. Sometimes he gave up his time to help jobless youngsters, teaching them how to paint houses. Just two years before, he’d painted the Range Funeral Home, where his body would arrive in exactly a week. On this particular Sunday evening, he was going to see Carolyn Battle, the twenty-six-year-old assistant that McDuffie had hired at Coastal Insurance. She was pretty, independent, and stylish, with a preference for dresses and wearing her hair in an Afro. He’d brought a helmet for her.

McDuffie shouldn’t have been driving at all. His license had been suspended months before, and he’d paid his thirty-five-dollar traffic fine with a check that had bounced. He’d told a coworker that he was worried about getting stopped again, but there were no alternatives for

driving back and forth to work. Public transport was pitiful in Miami, and Liberty City—barely serviced—was reliant on independent jitney operators who rarely worked weekends. Not having a car was a self-quarantine.

McDuffie collected Carolyn Battle. They drove fifteen minutes south, to the edge of Miami International Airport, where they watched planes arcing out over the ocean or dropping into landing patterns above the Everglades. Tiring of the airport, McDuffie drove Battle across MacArthur Causeway to Miami Beach. When McDuffie was a child, dusk would have found an exodus heading the other way:

black Americans subject to a sunset curfew. But on December 16, on the three lanes that ran east over the bright blue shallows, McDuffie showed off, hitting eighty miles an hour. They walked in the sand, stopped for Pepsi, and then at 9:00 p.m. headed back to Battle’s apartment at 3160 NW Forty-Sixth Street, just

five blocks from the Airport Expressway.

At one in the morning, McDuffie slept in Battle’s bed while she watched television on her couch. At 1:30 she woke him up. “Jesus,” said McDuffie, reaching for his watch. He was far too late to show up at his ex-wife’s house. Frederica would have taken the kids over to a babysitter two hours ago. How was he going to make that up to her? Had he blown it? McDuffie gathered his watch, his wedding ring, his medallion. Still dressed in his blue jeans, two blue shirts, and boots, he put on his knitted cap under his white helmet, tied his knapsack to the back of the Kawasaki, and headed north toward home.

Was it a wheelie, a rolled stop sign, a hand lifted from a handlebar to give the finger that caught the sergeant’s attention? The officer would later offer all three explanations of why he’d first noticed the Kawasaki pass by him. It was 1:51 a.m. The sergeant got on the radio, described McDuffie’s white helmet and the tag number of the motorbike, and flipped on his red light and siren. On a cool night, with the rider in jeans, jacket, and helmet, he couldn’t have known if he was black, Latin, or white.

McDuffie appeared to glance in his mirror and then sped through a red light on NW Sixty-First Street. As the sergeant followed in his white-and-green county squad car, McDuffie blew through another red light and swept around corners,

not even slowing for the stop signs. He’d picked a very quiet night for these traffic infractions. Within sixty seconds of the beginning of the chase, McDuffie was being followed by every available unit within Central District.

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: Val Royeaux

Chapter 4 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) is up! Excerpt is below. Read the rest on AO3. 

In which Fenris and the crew head to Val Royeaux for the first time, and Fenris has some (hopefully?) interesting chats with Solas and Cassandra. 

****************************

Hawke sighed and shifted her pack on her back. “We do a lot of walking, don’t we?” she lamented.

Cassandra frowned. “We are nearly there. We will be at the golden gates in another hour.”

Fenris wrinkled his nose. “Golden gates? Is that a literal description?”

“Yes,” Cassandra confirmed. “Access to Val Royeaux has been severely restricted since the mage rebellion began. It is a credit to Josephine that they are opening the gates to us at all.”

Fenris grunted. He’d thought the trappings of wealth and power in Kirkwall were bad, but if Val Royeaux had gates made of genuine gold, it seemed that they were in for a display of prosperity more gaudy than anything that Hightown could offer.

“Flaunting their fortune so blatantly,” he muttered. “It is practically an invitation to invade and conquer.”

“I do not disagree with you,” Cassandra said. “But this city is the heart of Orlais. Such displays of wealth are considered… necessary.” She wrinkled her nose slightly, as though at a bad smell. “But Val Royeaux has always relied on the protection of its Templars more than its gates. Until recently, at least.”

“Ah, Templars,” Hawke sighed. “I’m sure they’ll be pleased to see me, if there are any left here. And Solas, for that matter. How do we look? An attractive pair of apostates, I hope?” She ruffled her dark tufty hair with mock vanity. Fenris had recently helped her to trim it back to her signature pixie cut, since they were no longer in hiding.

Solas smiled faintly. “I believe we will be left alone as long as we remain inconspicuous.”

Varric chuckled. “Haven’t you been paying any attention these last few weeks, Chuckles? There isn’t an inconspicuous bone in Hawke’s body.”

Hawke gasped and pressed a hand to her chest. “Varric, how dare you? I can hardly be blamed if my infinite wit and beauty make me the center of attention.”

Varric snorted, and Solas’s smile widened slightly. Meanwhile, Cassandra pursed her lips in disapproval, and Fenris simply smirked as he observed them all. Cassandra’s reactions to Hawke’s antics reminded him of Aveline when he had first arrived in Kirkwall so many years ago. Indeed, there was something about the Seeker’s single-minded commitment to her duty that made him think she would like Aveline very much, if ever the two had the chance to meet.

He sighed at the thought of Aveline and of simpler times in Kirkwall. He had never imagined that his tumultuous years in Kirkwall could be thought of as simple, but compared to the heaping number of problems that kept on coming up since the Breach, Kirkwall had been a veritable picnic. First it was fighting through the madness of power-hungry Templars and apostates in the Hinterlands to find that Mother Giselle. Then it was fighting their way across the Hinterlands to speak to Dennet, then closing a handful of rifts and exorcising a pack of wolves and erecting a handful of watchtowers, all so the horsemaster would finally agree to work for them…

The task of recruiting Dennet had ultimately taken weeks of effort. And still he had to get his horses to Haven, which was going to take weeks longer still, hence this journey to Val Royeaux being done on foot.

Not that a horseback journey would necessarily have been faster. Fenris was unfamiliar with the riding of horses, never having learned during his youth in Tevinter, so he was certain his lack of equestrian ability would only have served to slow the journey even further.

Hawke sidled up beside him and briefly squeezed his fingers. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said automatically. He adjusted his pack and brushed some travel dust from his sleeve.

She raised one eyebrow. “No qualms whatsoever about speaking to these Chantry mothers?”

He twisted his lips. “If by ‘qualms’, you mean ‘strong doubts that they will listen to a Tevinter elf cursed with magic and accompanied by two apostates, a random dwarf, and a Chantry traitor’, then… no, none at all.”

“Watch who you’re calling random,” Varric quipped over his shoulder.

Fenris cast him a flat look, but Hawke ignored him to focus on Fenris. “You’re not just some Tevinter elf,” she said quietly. “You and Varric are the most intelligent men I know. If anyone can logic some sense into these people, it’s you.”

Solas subtly cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, logic may not be the most reliable strategy in a situation such as this. A sky rife with unknown magic, the fear and uncertainty in the air…” He shrugged. “A passionate plea may prevail, even though cooler heads would be best suited for finding a solution.”

Hawke wrinkled her nose. “I can’t decide if that was helpful advice or not.”

Fenris huffed softly. That was his general impression of Solas so far. The elven mage seemed to know a great deal about a great many things, but there were times when his advice or observations seemed oddly nihilistic or world-weary, particularly for someone who couldn’t be more than five or ten years older than Fenris himself.

Solas bowed his head deferentially. “It is simply a suggestion. Fenris may wish to have more than one strategy lined up before we encounter the Chantry mothers.”

Hawke clicked her tongue ruefully. “You’re probably right. Hey, Varric!” She peeled away from Fenris’s side to join the dwarf instead. “Can you come up with some clever bullshit for Fenris to feed to the Chantry people?”

Cassandra scowled and moved forward to join them. “That is not necessary,” she said sternly. “Varric’s particular brand of help is not what we need right now.”

“Oh come on, Seeker, don’t you know the meaning of ‘forgive and forget’?” Varric complained. “It’s been weeks now…”

They continued to bicker, with Hawke’s bright interjections to break things up, and Fenris sighed and idly rubbed his left palm.

“Does it pain you?” Solas asked softly.

Fenris glanced at him, then let his left hand fall to his side. “No. But I would still rather it not be there.”

Solas nodded once. “I will continue to search for ways of removing it.”

Fenris shot him a quizzical look as they continued along the road to Val Royeaux. “When are you finding the time to do this research?” he asked. “We have been on the move constantly. I can’t fathom when you would be finding the time to read.”

“Ah,” Solas said. “My methods of searching are somewhat more esoteric than simple reading.”

Fenris frowned. “Explain.”

“My searching takes place at night, when we are asleep,” Solas said. “In dreams, I travel to the deepest corners of the Fade. I've watched as hosts of spirits clash to re-enact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten. In ancient buildings and battlefields, I can find memories no other living being has ever seen.”  

Fenris narrowed his eyes at Solas’s enthusiastic tone. “You are a somniari,” he said slowly. “You do this without supplementing your mana with lyrium or blood magic?”

“Yes, that is correct,” Solas said. He raised his eyebrows appraisingly. “You are well-versed in the ways of magic, for one who does not carry it.”

Fenris grunted. “Knowing your enemy’s weapon is the first step to successfully deflecting it.”

Solas tilted his head. “You view magic as a weapon?”

“It is a weapon,” Fenris retorted.

Solas lifted his chin slightly. When he spoke again, his voice was cool. “What of healing spells, such as those that Hawke uses so freely? Or the barriers that protect you during battle?”

“A dagger can be used to slice fruit or to cut a bandage,” Fenris replied. “That does not make it any less dangerous.”

To Fenris’s surprise, Solas smiled slightly. “Interesting,” he murmured. “So you admit that magic can be beneficial, when utilized by the right mage.”

Fenris scowled. “That is precisely the problem. Of all the mages I have ever known, I can count the number of such ‘right’ mages on one hand. On one single finger, in fact, and she is walking ahead of you as we speak.”

Solas glanced at Hawke as Fenris continued to speak. “Magic is a weapon,” he said firmly. “Very few are strong enough to wield it safely, or to wield it without being corrupted by the lure of power that it affords.”

Solas didn’t reply, and they walked together in silence for some time while Varric, Cassandra, and Hawke continued to converse ahead of them. Eventually Solas broke the silence.

“Thank you for your perspective,” he said. “It is… truly eye-opening.”

Fenris glanced at him quizzically. He seemed sad, or perhaps resigned, and Fenris wasn’t quite sure how to respond to his melancholy reaction. He’d never had this argument with a mage who didn’t either get angry (Merrill and Anders) or crack jokes until the argument was rendered moot (Hawke).

Fenris felt awkward. He shrugged wordlessly and was considering slipping away to join Hawke instead when Solas spoke again. “May I ask about your lyrium tattoos?”

Fenris frowned and instinctively adjusted his scarf to cover more of his neck. “To what end?” he asked suspiciously.

“Truthfully, I am uncertain how the mark might be interacting with them,” Solas explained. He blinked at Fenris in that benign manner of his. “The more I know about your tattoos and how they work, the more I might be able to predict about the behaviour of the mark.”

Fenris pursed his lips. “I can tell you little of how they work. My former master never deigned to explain the details of his most vile and closely guarded spells to me.”

He didn’t bother to hide his bitterness as he said this. Solas bowed his head respectfully in response.

After a moment of awkward silence, Fenris sighed bad-temperedly. “Ask your questions,” he grunted.

Solas nodded an acknowledgement. “The burst of lyrium-fuelled energy that you use to stun your enemies. How do you channel that energy?”

Fenris hesitated and considered his response. “The tattoos vibrate when they are active,” he said carefully. “I can… focus the vibration. Push it to the very edges of my skin. And with a final push, the vibration flares beyond the bounds of my body to lash my enemies.”

Solas’s eyebrows rose steadily during the explanation. “Fascinating,” he murmured. “And when you make yourself scarce on the battlefield. When you phase short distances, or pass your hand through an enemy’s body. How is this done?”

Fenris shook his head slightly, then rubbed his forehead. He’d been using the lyrium scars for so long now that he no longer actively thought about their use. Being forced to do so now was like being asked to explain how to walk: the more he tried to consider it, the more awkward and unnatural it seemed.

But the lyrium scars weren’t natural, and Solas’s questions only served to remind him of this.

He sighed in annoyance. “It is like a meditative state, but… an active one. When I… when the marks camouflage me during battle, it is like I’ve been hidden somehow, but… not by being covered. By being… shifted.” He trailed off and rubbed his forehead again in frustration. “When I tear out a heart, it is as though my hand slides through a different version of the enemy’s ribs. It is still his chest, but… parallel somehow. I cannot explain it better than this.” He glanced at Solas again.

The mage was watching him with a very intense sort of attention. Fenris scowled. “Well? Can any of this help you to remove the mark?” he demanded.

Rather than replying, Solas asked another question. “You were never trained in doing this? Your mastery of these powers... you acquired this on your own, with trial-and-error experimentation?”

“Yes,” Fenris bit off. “I had no choice but to experiment. I was lucky to gain any control at all over these marks.” He narrowed his eyes. “What is your point? What are you driving at?”

Solas opened his mouth to reply. Then Hawke appeared between them and slung her arms around Fenris’s and Solas’s necks. “Good news!” she chirped. “Only thirty minutes until we arrive at the Fancy Gates of Ponciness, or so Cassandra tells me.” She smiled at each of them. “How are my two favourite elves in the party?”

Solas smiled in response. “We are the only elves in this party,” he said.

“Exactly,” Hawke said cheerfully. “Aren’t you glad I like you, then?” She looked at Fenris. “Are you hungry at all? Would you like some trail mix?”

Despite her casual smile, he could see the sharpness in her amber eyes. He shook his head to reassure her. “No, thank you. I’m fine,” he said.

She gazed at him for a moment longer, then nodded. She released Fenris’s neck and briefly squeezed his arm, then pulled Solas along the path with her hand hooked through his elbow. “So, Solas, tell me - what’s your favourite way of tricking Templars into thinking you’re not a mage? My personal favourite is to flirt with them to throw them off the scent, but I don’t know how partial you are to that strategy. I should tell you about the first time I met Cullen…”

Fenris watched with no small amount of relief as Hawke dragged Solas away. He sighed, then moved forward to join Varric and Cassandra, who were still quietly arguing.

“I still don’t know why you brought me to Haven in the first place,” Varric was saying. “You were her Right Hand. I don’t know what I could have told the Divine that you couldn’t say yourself.”

“I thought she needed to see the chest hair for herself,” Cassandra muttered.

Fenris literally stopped in his tracks, and he and Varric stared at each other for a surprised moment.  “What was that you said?” Fenris asked. Surely he was hearing things.

Cassandra scowled. “I thought she needed to hear it from the horse’s mouth, as it were.”

“Ohh, that’s not what you said,” Varric drawled. “Now come on, Seeker, tell me the truth. Have you been admiring my manly chest all this time? Is that the real reason I’m here?”

She made a disgusted noise. “Of all the things that are unbelievable about you, Varric, the chest hair is what stretches the imagination the most.”

Varric’s grin widened further, and he looked up at Fenris. “Two mentions of my chest hair in the space of a minute. What do you think that means?”

Fenris shrugged and smirked. “I believe it means you need to learn to sew buttons on your shirt. Or perhaps the Seeker is flirting with you.”

Cassandra growled at them both, and Varric chuckled. “All right, all right, I’ll cut my losses while I’m ahead. I’ll go check in with Chuckles there. Make sure he’s not going to steal your lady from under your nose.” He winked at Fenris.

Fenris scoffed and eyed Solas’s bald head. “I am hardly concerned.”

“I don’t know, elf. It’s the quiet ones who you need to keep an eye out for,” Varric said. He smirked as Fenris rolled his eyes, then picked up his pace to catch up with Solas and Hawke.

Read the rest on AO3.

[bossuary]

belated WIP Sunday snippet

from a longfic i’ve been tinkering with, “A Crisis of Epilogues,” in which Varric rescues Hawke from the Fade. it’s been almost three years since the events at Adamant, and Varric is afraid to face the truth about how Hawke survived the raw Fade. at Hawke’s insistence, they return to Lothering, where an old Fereldan folk song helps her locate a cellar she remembers from her youth. the little dirt room, a child’s hiding-place carved into the field, contains more than just memories. Afterward, they shelter at the rebuilt Dane’s Refuge, and from outside their room, Varric listens to Hawke singing the song again.

     For the first time since he’d lost her, Varric felt peace. Hawke sang liltingly, like nothing he’d heard from her before.

    “And your name may it ever sow a smile. And never be forgotten by a friend.” Her voice drew low as she went on, as if the words were reluctant to be born. “May the hearth be always warm, and the ashes. . . pale and few. May we. . . be brave at winter’s end.”

    From the hallway, he listened to the closing stanza, and its meaning fell into place as neatly as an urn of ashes in a niche. As perfect as home. As bittersweet as a child wearing her father’s smile.  Or, his spectacles.

    I knew he’d given them to one of the children.

    If Varric closed his eyes and just listened to the song, to her, he could almost see how a home was a regret worth fighting for. He could almost see the Hawke he’d never met, who’d never met a stranger, giving away his last treasure to a kid with muddy feet.

    He could almost see the Felly family gathered at the funeral of their neighbor, who’d been dark and bearded, lined with laughs as much as pain. If not for staying put, if not for the gift of the spectacles, they wouldn’t have known the man called Hawke. Wickedly funny, handsome, but plagued by a familiar shadow in the eyes, where only a fellow traveler could spot the wear and tear of a hard road.

    As Hawke sang the closing refrain, Varric pictured the Felly father holding his ribbon-trimmed hat against his chest. He would’ve stepped up to the pyre beside Leandra to offer the only the thing he could afford to give. . .a song of parting.

     Let the right path be the one you’re on,      And steady stars cheer you in the night.      When sorrow comes to call, may you be an hour gone,      Roaming where the valley meets the dawn.

[foxwitchaine]

Please Remember Me: Chapter 2

Can you hear me?

If you can

Please… answer

I hate it here

I want to get out

Will you please?

Even if I’m stuck here

Please, talk to me

Your voice

Is the only thing

Keeping me sane

          “Oh, come on!” Karen nearly roared. Taking in the situation, Ib stayed silent. It took about a week to actually set up a date where Karen and Ib could visit the gallery no thanks to flat tire expenses, a brotherly leech, an oil change, and a whole slew of other setbacks that cost them a week. To add insult to injury, it took another week to make reservations… again. The reservations Karen had made before were canceled without notice, so the girls were stranded at a cheapo while Karen looked for another hotel (Ib had a few suggestions, but further research proved them to be over the budget). Needless to say, it was unbelievably stressful and frustrating couple of weeks, even for winter break.

       “A week. A week! It took a freakin’ week to find another freakin’ hotel! It’s ludicrous! Just plain ludicrous! How many times does it take a week to find a stupid place to stay! Never~, nope, nada. Never has it taken a full, freakin’ week to make some freakin’ reservations for a freakin’ two-day stay! Can such a simple transaction really take an entire week?!?”

         It’s a wonder Ib still had her hearing intact after Karen’s impossibly high-pitched screeching. Well, who can blame her? To make such great preparations only for the effort to go down the drain like… never mind, it’s too gross.

         HONK!!!!

         Ib snapped back into reality. From the passenger’s seat, she reminded herself what was going on: the girls accidentally slept in no thanks to a blackout during the night, which messed up their alarm clock. Karen’s phone had an alarm setting, but it ran out of battery during the night. How that happened… well, let’s just say they’re still scratching their heads over it. Further piling on the frustration was the fact that because of their impromptu sleepover, they were currently stuck in rush-hour traffic… which had come to a complete standstill.

         HONK!!!!

         This time, Ib was aware of the source. Karen had gotten impatient, and was honking at the drivers ahead to move. First disastrous reshaping of plans that were later scrapped because of unforeseen circumstances, now standstill traffic followed by ominous-looking clouds and rain.

         Wait a minute. Rain?!?

         “What in the name of--!"

         Soon it started pouring. It was as if the heavens themselves had opened up and released whatever water they had accumulated. No one, especially the pedestrians who forgot their umbrellas, was happy.

         “Oops.” Ib suddenly remembered something she forgot to tell Karen.

         “What now?”  Karen grumbled.

         “I just remembered. I watched the forecast today and…” Karen perked an eyebrow. “…they said it was gonna rain.”

        “… … … … Oh for crying out loud!” Karen banged her head on the steering wheel, causing it to honk once more.

        “Sorry.” Ib grinned sheepishly. One glare from Karen was enough to make Ib shrink back in her seat.

        “… Well, at least we have umbrellas in the back. That’s a good thing.”

        Only good thing about this entire trip, no doubt. Ib mused. Slipping back into dream world, Ib dozed off yet again…

        Can you hear me?

        Ib jumped awake, eyes blinking. Was that a voice she just heard? Or did Karen just say something?  To ease here concerns, Ib glanced to the side where Karen was. Judging by her fixed, concentrated glare, furrowed brows and pursed lips, it was obvious Karen was too focused on the standstill traffic to even mutter a word. Not to mention the voice sounded male.

        You can hear me, right?

        This time, Ib was conscious enough to recognize the voice was not of a corporeal origin.

        It was in her mind.

        But why her? Why didn’t Karen hear it? Or…?

        “Karen.”

        No response.

        “Karen?”

        Still no response.

        “Karen.”

        “What?”

        Ib flinched a bit at the harshness in Karen’s tone. She was angry and frustrated for good reason right now. Would it be wise to ask her about the voice now? It was worth a shot.

        “Did you hear anything?”

        “… Aside from you and the nincompoops on the road, no.”

        “’Kay.”

        Not exactly the response she was looking for, but hey at, least Ib knew it was just the two of them in the car.

      And that voice.

        …

      …

      …

        Are you still there?

        There it was again. Loud and clear in her subconscious. By now, Ib was debating whether or not to answer back. If she were to talk back, how would she go about it? Conversely, if she were to stay quiet, what would happen then? So many questions were swimming through her mind, yet they all seemed so irrelevant. Call it crazy or not, Ib had to have answers. And the only way to answer the multitude of questions was to ask the voice itself. Gathering up her courage, Ib muttered one small word.

        “Hi.”

        Glad to know you can hear me.

        For some strange reason, Ib smiled. It wasn’t as nerve-wrecking as she initially thought. In a strange sense, it was actually comforting talking to him, assuming the voice belonged to a man and not a woman with a masculine voice. Speaking of which, despite sounding masculine in tone, it talked like a lady. Since it was brought to mind, Ib felt bold enough to ask a personal question.

        “Why do you talk like a lady?”

        Ah -- erm, well…

        It paused.

        I just took to it. Besides, it’s better to be gentle rather than rough.

        Ib giggled to herself.

        I -- uh…

        Another pause, another schoolgirl giggle from Ib.

        Did I say something?

        No answer, only giggles.

        You’re kinda freaking me out.

        “Am I?”

        Ib was almost ready to split her gut when she felt a jolt forward. She snapped out of her subconscious conversation long enough to observe her surroundings.

        “Alright, finally! We’re moving!” Karen exclaimed happily. Apparently, whatever was causing the standstill was now gone, and traffic could finally start up again. It was impossible not to notice Karen’s wave of relief.

        Is she your friend?

        “Mhm. Not for very long, though. We’ve only known each other since orientation.”

        Ah, I see.

        “Even so,” Ib paused, glancing affectionately at Karen. “She’s the best friend I’ve ever had.”

        I’m glad to hear that.

        “Thank you.” A sudden question popped up in her mind. One she’d been meaning to ask but couldn’t remember until now.

        “What’s your name?”

        …

      …

      …

      No answer. Did she offend it?

        “Hello?”

        …

      …

      …

        Still no reply.

      “Are you still there?”

        …

      …

      …

        Another unresponsive moment. Ib sat there wondering, Did I insult him?

        …

      …

      …

        Oh dear. It must’ve been insulted because it didn’t answer for a full five minutes afterwards. When it finally did come back, it was not in the tone Ib was expecting.

      Dear me…

        It was barely audible, but Ib caught it. It didn’t sound angry, thank goodness, but it sounded so… so sad. And lonely. Why was that?

      “Is something wrong?”

        …

      …

      …

        Another pause. Seriously, the long and increasingly frequent pauses were starting to unnerve her, if not slightly annoy her.

        Nothing’s wrong.

        Finally, an answer. Ib wasn’t convinced it was alright, but under the circumstances, it’d be best to leave it be… for now.

      “That’s good to hear.” It was the most she could offer for comfort, even if it wasn’t much. Ib silently cursed herself for not being able to offer more.

      “Oh man, get a whiff of that.” Ib turned to face Karen, who was eyeing a café on the other side of the street. Out of nowhere, a sudden aroma filled Ib’s nostrils. To say it was sweet was a severe understatement. It smelled absolutely divine. It was as if someone took two of the world’s sweetest flavors, in this case chocolate and vanilla, trimmed them of their sugar content, combined them, and created something akin to the ambrosia of the Olympian gods. Ib noticed drool on Karen’s chin. Of course, that’s not to say Ib herself wasn’t drooling. The sweet perfume was too good to be ignored.

      “Macaroons…” Karen whispered silently, albeit with a predatory tone. Ib couldn’t help noticing the drool had increased, combined with the hungry hawk (or coyote) look in Karen’s eyes. It was impossible not to realize Karen was dying to munch on a macaroon, whatever those were. It was also impossible not to notice the car’s gradual lean towards the café.

      Hold it. Was it supposed to be leaning like that?

        I see she likes macaroons as well.

        Ib snapped back into her unconscious chit chat.

      “Mhm. Karen has a weakness for sweets. I sometimes have to pull her away from the snack aisle whenever we go grocery shopping.”

      For a few scant seconds, both Ib and the voice were laughing. It felt good to relieve the tension from before, where Ib thought she had insulted it by asking its name. Out of the blue, the voice’s tone changed.

      Ummm…

        Hesitation. Okay, these silences were starting to grate on her nerves.

        Are we supposed to be heading that way?

        “What?” Ib hadn’t realized before that Karen was slowly edging toward the café… in front of an oncoming car barreling from the opposite direction.

        Eeeeeeeyaaaaaaah!! Ib!! Please!! Stop her! Stop her!! Stop her!!!

        It was practically screaming its lungs out, assuming it has lungs. Nevertheless, Ib had to do something, anything, to get out of that car’s way. An idea popped in her head, but it was dangerous.

      “I know what to do.”

        Huh?!?

        Without a second thought, Ib jerked the wheel and swerved their car out of the oncoming vehicle’s way. For a split second, there was honking and screeching of tires, and Ib swore she heard a shrill, high-pitched shriek in the depths of her subconscious. As quickly as it had passed, everything was back to normal. Sort of. It didn’t help to settle down Ib’s trembling nerves and bug-eyed face. What the heck was Karen thinking?!?

        “Um, Karen?”

      No response. Just a blank stare ahead.

      “Karen?”

      Still nothing. Ib would’ve waved her hand jokingly in front of Karen’s eyes, but they were still on the road, and she was still too scared stiff to move right now. Karen blinked once before turning to face Ib, smiling(?)

      “Say Ib?”

      “Y-y-yes-s-s-s?” Apparently, Ib was also too scared stiff to speak clearly as well.

      “Once we’re done at the museum, wanna stop by the café for some sweets? I could sure use a sweet treat.”

      “Y-y-y-y-yea-a-a-a-h. S-s-s-su-r-r-re…” was all Ib had the strength to mutter, barely enough for Karen to hear. The near-death experience was still vivid in her mind.

        Is she always like this when she smells sweets?

        “Almost, not always.” To say she wasn’t surprised the voice was as frightened as she was would be a severe understatement. No sane person would be smiling after a high-adrenaline experience like that, unless said “sane” person was a daredevil.

      “Can I ask you something?”

        Yes?

        “What are macaroons?”

      Yet another pause. By now, Ib was quite irritated with this voice. She’d had enough of the frequent pauses, and this last one was the nail in the coffin.

      “If you’re not going to answer me, we might as well end it right here!” The ire was clear in Ib’s tone.

        “Who’re you talking to?”

        This time, it was Ib who was pausing. Board stiff and upright. Had Karen heard the conversation?

      “Ummm…” Ib tried to imitate her usual sleepy-eyed look. It didn’t fool anyone.

      “No one,” she squeaked meekly. Knowing Karen, she wouldn’t be fooled by something so obviously fake. Still, it was a good thing she was nice… sometimes. This was one of those times.

      With a small shrug, Karen returned her attention to the road when her eyes lit up.

      “Hey, look! We’re here!”

      “Huh?” Ib hadn’t noticed they were so near to the gallery they were heading to. Thank the standstill, rain, voice, and the café for that. Speaking of the rain…

        “Hey! The rain cleared up! What a relief!”

        Corny. Just plain corny. Well, Karen wouldn’t be Karen without a corny joke flying off her sharp tongue every now and then. Ib just nodded, smiled, and tagged along.

        So I’ll see you again inside?

        See her again? What in the name of--?

      “What do you mean?”

      Thankfully, no pause, but there was a heavy, sad sigh from the other end.

        You really don’t remember, do you?

        Remember what? Now that he mentioned it, there was an eerie sense of nostalgia about him. Was it just déjà vu? Thinking further about it, Ib did recall him shrieking her name during the café incident. Just who was he, and how did he know her? Where and how did she know him?

        “Aw crud!” Karen’s yell interrupted Ib’s train of though.

        “What?”

        “No questions! Move! Move! Move!” Karen burst out of the car at lightning speed, not even bothering to look both ways, and barreled towards Ib’s side. She pretty much threw open the passenger door in her quest to get Ib on her feet. Were they even-- oh yeah. They parked. But why the rush? Checking her watch and the pamphlet on the glove compartment, Ib realized they had arrived just as the museum was closing. Oh dear.

        “I guess I’ll see you inside then, whoever you are.”

        Perhaps, once she was in the gallery again, she could finally have the answers to her myriad of questions.

Part 1

Part 2 - you are here

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Epilogue

[stephenmccull]

Why Doesn’t Medicare Cover Services So Many Seniors Need?

Sorry, Joe Namath. Despite what you keep saying in those TV ads, under Medicare, seniors are not “entitled to eliminate copays and get dental care, dentures, eyeglasses, prescription drug coverage, in-home aides, unlimited transportation and home-delivered meals, all at no additional cost.” But if Democratic lawmakers in Congress have their say, seniors could soon be entitled to some of those services.

Namath’s commercial is hawking private Medicare Advantage plans, which frequently do offer benefits traditional Medicare does not — in exchange for being limited to certain doctors and hospitals. “Traditional” Medicare does not cover many benefits used overwhelmingly by its beneficiaries, including most vision, dental and hearing care, and drug coverage is available only by purchasing a separate insurance plan — Medicare Part D.

But Democrats in the House and Senate plan to try to change that as soon as this fall. On Monday, Senate Majority Leader Chuck Schumer released an outline of a coming budget bill that includes a directive to the Senate Finance Committee to expand Medicare “to include dental, vision, hearing benefits.” The catch — all the Democrats in the Senate and almost all in the House will have to agree on the entire budget bill for it to become law.

Still, that raises a question about Medicare: Why has it taken so long to add such obviously needed benefits?

As with almost everything to do with the U.S. health system, the answer is complicated, and a combination of policy and politics.

“Medicare is the kind of program where you’d expect the benefits would be expanded over and over again. It’s popular, and benefits expansions poll well,” said Jonathan Oberlander, a professor of health policy at the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill and author of the book “The Political Life of Medicare.” “It’s one of the great puzzles of Medicare politics: why benefit expansions have been so rare.”

In fact, in the 56 years since Medicare became law, only a few benefits have been added to the package, which was created to emulate a 1965 Blue Cross/Blue Shield plan. During the 1980s and ’90s some preventive care was added, like pneumonia vaccines and mammograms. Republicans spearheaded the addition of prescription drug coverage in 2003, when they controlled both Congress and the White House. But they decided to make that coverage separate from the program’s traditional benefit package.

Other efforts to expand benefits have not gone so well. In 1988, a bipartisan effort in Congress produced the Medicare Catastrophic Coverage Act, which would have added drug coverage to traditional Medicare and also would have plugged a hole: the fact that there is no limit on the amount patients can be charged for their share of covered services. That law, however, was repealed just a year later after seniors rebelled against being asked to foot most of the bill for the new benefits via a new income “surtax.” Today, Medicare beneficiaries still face the risk of unlimited expenses.

Medicare is funded by a combination of money paid directly to the government from paychecks and taxes paid by working Americans and their employers. That brings us to another big reason Medicare’s benefit package hasn’t been beefed up more — the cost of the current program.

“When Medicare was created, its architects assumed expansion, both in terms of population and in terms of benefits later,” said Oberlander. “They didn’t anticipate the shift in American politics to the right, and they didn’t anticipate that Medicare would be labeled a fiscal problem and that policymakers would be more concerned with avoiding the next trust fund shortfall than expanding benefits.”

Indeed, in the ’80s and ’90s, Medicare spending was more often restrained than expanded. A series of budget reconciliation bills trimmed millions of dollars out of Medicare — usually at the expense of payment to doctors, hospitals and other health providers.

As the years wore on, Medicare has remained popular, but it has grown less generous than most private insurance policies. Many Medicare patients, however, have been able to find supplemental coverage to fill in what Medicare does not cover, through private “Medigap” policies, employer-provided retiree plans or Medicaid for those with low incomes. Increasingly popular in recent years have been those Medicare managed-care plans, now known as Medicare Advantage, that were first authorized in 1982 and often provide extra benefits for members.

All of that “has taken some of the pressure off” lawmakers to expand the program, Oberlander said. And a final reason that vision, hearing and dental care have not been added to standard Medicare is that they are far from the most critical gaps in Medicare’s benefit package.

For example, Medicare does not cover long-term custodial care — the sort of non-nursing, personal care that provides assistance in activities of daily living such as bathing, dressing, eating, getting in or out of a bed or chair, using the bathroom or preparing food. Custodial care tends to be both very expensive ($50,000 to $100,000 a year or more) and needed by a large number of beneficiaries, particularly after age 80. Efforts over the years to create a government long-term care benefit have been largely unsuccessful. A very limited program, the CLASS Act, was part of the Affordable Care Act in 2010 but was repealed before it could take effect because its financing was deemed insufficient. President Joe Biden has called for Congress to include billions of dollars for caregiving in the infrastructure package Democrats will work on this fall.

Also, as previously mentioned, traditional Medicare includes no limits on patient cost sharing — the percentage or amount of a medical bill that a beneficiary must pay. Its basic hospital benefit runs out after 90 days, and the 20% coinsurance (the percentage patients are responsible for) on outpatient care runs indefinitely.

So why are dental, vision and hearing coverage on the front burner now as lawmakers consider beefing up the program? Part may be self-serving for lawmakers tasked with appropriating funds. All three benefits “are less expensive than [adding] nursing home” coverage, said Oberlander.

But a big part is politics. On the campaign trail, Biden promised to lower Medicare’s eligibility age from 65 to 60. “Medicare for All” advocates like Senate Budget Committee Chair Bernie Sanders (I-Vt.) pledged to try to do the same, and lowering the eligibility age is included in the outline Schumer shared with Senate Democrats as an option.

But lowering the eligibility age is vehemently opposed by hospitals and other health providers, who fear they will lose money if people currently covered by higher-paying private insurance are covered by Medicare instead. That makes benefits expansion the much easier choice for Congress.

That is not saying it will happen. The Congressional Budget Office said the vision, hearing and dental benefits included in a bill passed by the House in 2019 would have cost an estimated $358 billion over 10 years. But this is the closest the benefits have gotten to enactment since Medicare’s inception.

HealthBent, a regular feature of Kaiser Health News, offers insight and analysis of policies and politics from KHN’s chief Washington correspondent, Julie Rovner, who has covered health care for more than 30 years.

KHN (Kaiser Health News) is a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues. Together with Policy Analysis and Polling, KHN is one of the three major operating programs at KFF (Kaiser Family Foundation). KFF is an endowed nonprofit organization providing information on health issues to the nation.

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[fanfoolishness]

no words for heaven or for earth (4/?)

Hawke was left in the Fade, but Varric thinks, or hopes, that she’s still alive. And he has some surprising evidence. Read here at AO3.

Part 1: Where’s Hawke? |  Part 2: because you aren’t here | Part 3: the lonely ruined tower

Part 4: what’s real, anyway? 3000+ words.

Varric sat in his tent, set up in a sheltered area of the ramparts of Griffon Wing Keep.  Here the daytime sun was not quite so fierce, and the night winds were broken by the sand-worn stone.  The dawn would be coming soon, but despite trying, he could not fall asleep again.

Just one more dream, he thought, and then cracked a smile in the dim predawn.  What a fucking weird thing for a dwarf to think.

He sat up, groaning, and fumbled for the small thieves’ lantern he’d kept at the front of the tent.  He rummaged in the half-dark for his firesteel and lit the lantern, its small glow enough to illuminate his tent.  Bianca lay at the ready at the front of the tent; jumbled to the side were his clothes and armor.  Closest to him lay Hawke’s things.

He didn’t know who had packed up her belongings from their camp near Adamant and carried them to the Keep; didn’t know who had bundled them neatly in his tent after setting it up for him.  He didn’t remember very much after he fell out of the Fade and Hawke didn’t.  

He suspected it might have been Cole.  Possibly it was Cullen.  A matter of Fereldan respect for the fallen, maybe.  His stomach clenched.

Varric reached out to touch her pack; soft supple leather and travel-stained cloth, its top slipping open to reveal a rogue’s delight.  Spare daggers, a kit of poisons, raw wire and steel for traps.  And folded beside them a red scarf trimmed in gold thread, its weave warm enough for Skyhold.  

The scarf.  He remembered giving it to her a few winters back, after Kirkwall had a rare snow.  He’d been the cold one -- she enjoyed the snow, as it reminded her of Lothering -- but he’d seen the scarf in a stall in Hightown and thought she might use it.  Really, that was all he’d meant by it.  

She’d thanked him and given him a strange look.  She only wore it a handful of times in Kirkwall; it just didn’t get cold enough.  

In those few short weeks they had in Skyhold, she wore it every day.  

He took the scarf in his hands, raised it to his face, took a long breath.  It smelled like the soap she used, cinnamon and peppery spindleweed.  It smelled like her.

Varric waited for the Inquisitor, kicking his feet idly against the stone ledge on which he sat.  The desert sun was fierce even this early in the morning, and he wiped the sweat from his brow.

“Varric,” said Namira, sitting down beside him.  Her voice was careful.  Controlled.  She’d probably practiced this conversation.  She was awfully tenderhearted for some of the shit she’d seen, he knew that much.  Her question to him was simple.  “How are you?”

They hadn’t yet had a chance to speak since Adamant.  Well, that wasn’t exactly true.  She’d tried and he’d pushed her away every time.  He blamed her and he didn’t, and both truths were too difficult to face.  But he needed her help.  

Varric shrugged.  “I could lie,” he offered.  “Might make us both feel better.  I hear that I’m very good at it.”

She put a hand on his shoulder, then looked hard at him, her eyes watering. The control was gone, collapsed in an instant.  “It’s my fault,” she said quietly.  “She -- she said she should stay behind to fight the Nightmare.  It was blocking our path to the rift.  She said Corypheus was her responsibility, that Alistair should rebuild the Wardens.”

Varric closed his eyes.  Damn but if he couldn’t imagine her saying it.  He could hear her voice, steeled, determined.  Ready to do the Right Thing.  Again.

Why had he called for her?  Why had he brought her here?  She’d already given so much, so damn much, for a world that would never afford her the same courtesy.  The Nightmare’s voice thundered in his head.  Once again, Hawke is in danger because of you.

“Nah.  It’s my fault.  I should never have dragged her here.”  He let out a shuddering breath and opened his eyes, looking anywhere but at Namira.

“But I’m the one who told her yes,” she said.  She pulled her hand off his shoulder, gazing into the sunsoaked morning.  “Do you want to know what she said?”

“Yes.”  Then he thought about it.  “No.”  Another shuddering breath.  “Yes.”

“She said, ‘say goodbye to Varric for me.’”

It was hard to breathe.  He tried.  He knew it was something he had to do.  He closed his eyes again, worked at it, tried to bring the desert air through his nose and mouth into his lungs, tried to remember how to make his heart beat.  It sort of worked.  “Fuck, Doodles.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said miserably.

He scrubbed at his face with a gloved hand.  The leather came away dotted with moisture.  Sweat?  Tears?  Hard to tell.  He gritted his teeth.  “Have you talked to Solas?”

“Not yet,” said Namira.  She searched his face.  She had circles under her eyes.  Inquisitor wasn’t a role he would have pushed on anyone.  But if he’d just told them where Hawke was in the beginning, maybe she’d be Inquisitor now, maybe she wouldn’t be in the Fade --

He shoved the thought aside, banishing it with a strong wave of denial.  Thinking like that was bound to fuck you up.  He couldn’t afford to do that right now.

“Well,” he huffed, his voice cracking, “I think Hawke’s alive.  And before you tell me it’s impossible, you know what else is impossible?  A dwarf having dreams.”  He pointed at himself with his thumb straight out, fingers loosely curled.  “Solas confirmed it.  Apparently I am now a Fade-touched dwarf.  So.  That’s exciting.”

Namira stared at him, her mouth slightly falling open.  “You’ve been dreaming?”

“It’s weird as shit, but I’ve been walking in the Fade,” said Varric.  “Where we -- where we lost her.  And I think she’s still there.”  He felt almost brave, laying it out for her.  “I’ve already got Solas looking for her when he takes his twenty winks, but he doesn’t know her -- I don’t think he’ll find her, not like maybe I could.  I’ve sent out letters on the fastest birds to our friends in Kirkwall; maybe they can help guide her, protect her.  But if we do find her, she’s still going to need a way out.”  He eyed Namira’s left hand, the sizzling green light faint under the bleaching sun.  “If there’s a chance… any kind of chance at all… will you help us?”

Namira reached out, laid her hands on his arms, and leaned forward.  “Yes,” she said fiercely, and he remembered how to breathe again.

The discussion raged for hours.  Namira insisted on bringing in the other mages, and they sequestered themselves in one of the Keep’s back rooms, the stone walls not enough to cool the stifling air.

The mages fought amongst themselves.  Varric sat at the end of the table, letting them talk; the only thing he fought back was a yawn after hours of deliberation.  He wavered in his seat, holding back his exhaustion.

“It simply shouldn’t be possible,” said Solas.  “A mortal left alive in the Fade -- it defies explanation.”

“There are two precedents,” said Vivienne.  “The Tevinter magisters of old --”

“And me,” said Namira.  “I do still seem to be alive.”

“Three precedents,” corrected Dorian.  “After all, Solas, Varric, the Warden and myself all walked in the Fade without perishing.”

“Hawke was brought in the same way we were, so the Fade itself may not be fatal to her.  If she doesn’t attempt to get to the Black City --”

“She wouldn’t,” said Varric, rubbing his eyes.  This was the sixth time they’d had this conversation, or so it felt like.  “Her dad was a mage, her sister too.  She knows the risks.”

“I would not have thought she could survive the Nightmare,” said Solas.  “But perhaps it was more weakened by the Divine’s spirit than we believed.”  

“What Varric describes is an unusual level of clarity in a dream, even for a mage,” said Dorian.  “The clues he has seen… it could be her.”

“Let us assume that it is her, and not a scion of the Nightmare, or a similar spirit,” said Solas.  “I walked Adamant in the Fade for hours last night, and found no whispers of a demon holding that remnant of the Fade.  The spirits are quiet.  Perhaps it is because there is a mortal among them.”

“That’s rather a large assumption to make, my dear,” said Vivienne.  “But I do acknowledge we tread here in lands uncharted.”  

Namira ran a hand across her lips thoughtfully.  “There was water in the Fade.  She could survive for weeks without food, if need be,” she said.  “Supposing she needs it there, that is.  Do any of you recall feeling hungry?  Thirsty?  Any physical needs?  Who knows how time moves there?”

“What’s real, anyway?” Varric murmured, but they ignored him as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

“I am not certain of the nature of time in the physical Fade,” said Solas, looking disquieted.

“I asked Cullen,” said Namira.  “They thought we were gone for less than an hour.  But I thought we were there for longer, nearly a full day.”

“Even if time is flexible within the Fade --”

Varric yawned.  Mages.  They always had something to say.  He supposed he couldn’t exactly fault them that.  This was some pretty weird magical shit, after all.  He rested his chin in his hand, blinking slowly.  The light was so dim in here, just a few small candles and an oil lamp at the other end of the table.

“Do you recall sensing any temporal distortion?” Vivienne asked Dorian.  “After all, you do have additional training in time magic.”

“Things did move differently there,” began Dorian.  But Varric’s eyes fell closed.  He’d have to catch up with what Dorian was saying later.

Hawke peered warily out of the tower window, watching for any signs of movement below. The rocks shifted as they always did here, but she saw no signs of spiders, shades, or demons scurrying on the stairs. Good.

The lack of demons had been surprising at first, but she had plenty of time to think about it, didn’t she? The Nightmare had been such an all-consuming force in this part of the Fade, according to the elf Solas, and when it crumpled, or vanished, or retreated, it must have left a vacuum behind.

She had been less troubled by creatures than she would have expected.  Still, though, once she found the Tower of Ishal, she had gratefully taken it as a place to shelter.  The longer she stayed, the more constant it became, as if it was trying to change itself to suit her.  Amell banners fluttered at the walls, a tiny memory of home.

She thought back to Dad’s lessons, mostly for Bethany, but she had often listened in as well.  Memories shape the Fade just as surely as our hands shape the world this side of the Veil.  In the great places, where history has been changed or many lives have been taken, the Fade forms itself in response to the memories left behind.  But maybe her memories shaped it, too.

She hadn’t seen many creatures, but she had seen many wisps, hints of people dreaming who stalked the stairs of the tower.  One of them had reminded her of Warden Alistair, but she couldn’t say why; just something about the way it hummed to itself as it passed, oblivious to her presence.  It made her feel less lonely, for a moment.

It also reminded her to continue to keep her wits about her.  She wasn’t sure what traps would do to creatures of spirit, but she figured it wouldn’t hurt to find out.  It gave her something to focus on, anyway, besides that storm of howling terror waiting for her in the back of her mind.  You are lost, lost forever, no one will ever see you again, you’re going to die here --  It was quite the unpleasant litany.  

So she tried to ignore it.  She pooled all of her trap supplies from the pouches on her belt, bits of metal and flint, wire and string, and she worked.  

Her efforts reminded her of Kirkwall.  She’d been decent with dueling and daggers when she arrived, years of practicing behind the barn sparring with Carver an aid.  He’d had so much strength she’d put her energy into evading, dodging, ducking.  But she’d been hopeless at some of the other aspects of roguery when she came to Kirkwall.  It had been Varric and Isabela who had taught her, somewhat patiently, but mostly with an enormous degree of teasing, how to be truly clever.

She fought back tears, thinking of Varric’s sturdy hands on hers.  She remembered being impressed by how nimble his wide fingers were, showing her how to jigger a lock or how to thread a tripwire just right.  She’d been surprised by how sure his touch was.  He could be unexpectedly serious when he was concentrating.

“You fool,” she said into the empty, echoing Fade.  “You rather liked him from the start, didn’t you?  What would Mum say about an Amell and a dwarf?”  She laughed, finishing up her trap, and turned to head back through the door into the tower room.  

Only it wasn’t the tower any longer; it was their home in Lothering.  And she was not alone.

Mum was pale and wan before her, her eyes as dull as they had been in that terrible foundry.  Hawke scrabbled for her daggers, suddenly gasping for air.  “No,” she said weakly.  “Mum.  Please.  Don’t make me look at you, not like this.  I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Mum said, her voice soft but strained.  She reached out, her hand jerky, twitching. “I forgive you, Min, sweet girl.  It wasn’t your fault.”

Hawke’s hands shook on the hilts of her daggers.  “Just stop,” she begged.  But she missed her mother, too, wished she could take her hand, meet her in an embrace. Leandra had been such a beautiful woman.  Her flat, scarred eyes blinked in her ruined face, one after the other.

“Please don’t worry, my love.  I’m with your father again.  And Carver.”  They appeared behind her, their faces ghostly pale, their eyes hollow.  “We miss you and your sister.  Please, my Min.  Come with us.”

“We miss you,” echoed her father.

“I miss you,” said Carver.  “Honest, sister.  Even I miss you.”  He hitched a grin on his face, where it looked wrong, somehow; too wide, the teeth too even.  But she stared at them, fighting back false hope.  It was so hard.  

If she tilted her head, if she squinted, they didn’t look so pale; didn’t look so strange.  The color came back to Carver’s face.  Mum’s eyes looked clear.  Dad smiled, crows’ feet creasing at the corners of his eyes.

They didn’t look strange at all.  They just looked like her family.

“I’ve missed you all so much.”  They smiled, and she stepped closer.

He was back in Kirkwall.  He’d missed the shithole more than he’d let on, though if he was honest, he suspected a discerning listener just maybe might have picked up on it over the past few months.  He suddenly remembered all the times in the Inquisition he’d constantly mentioned Hawke and their friends, their adventures in the Hanged Man, stories from around the city, and he had to laugh.  It was obvious now.  

He’d been fucking homesick.  For Kirkwall!

Sure, it was good to be back, even if Lowtown was surprisingly empty this time of night.  Was it night, or was it a strange, shifting twilight?  The rebuilding was proceeding differently from how he had remembered.  He didn’t remember doorways opening from the second floor of some of the houses, for example, or windows set in the cobblestone ground.  He shrugged.  Maybe this would withstand an explosion a little better.

Streets soaked in blood, beggars with their throats ripped out, the roar of the abomination shattering the windows, a red sun, a fell sun --

No.  No, that wasn’t all Kirkwall was.  He tried to remember better times.  Happier times.  It’s a shithole, but it’s our shithole!  He tried to forget the backs of Hawke and Anders, leaving the city; tried to forget the smell of smoke, the hum of the lyrium shimmering from what had once been the Knight-Commander.

He shook his head, mouth narrowing in a hard line, and kept walking until he saw something better than old, dark memories.  The Hanged Man.  

Varric squinted up at the wooden man hanging from the roof; it looked different.  Smaller.  Sleeker.  It hadn’t been painted in gold and red before, either.

His hands curled into fists.  “Min?” he called hoarsely.  The wooden figure shimmered, then disappeared.  “Right,” he said.  “Okay, that seems normal.”

He shoved open the door and stepped inside.  The chairs were stacked on all the tables except one.  Hawke sat at the table, studying a mug of ale.

“Varric,” she said warmly.  “I’ve been waiting for you.”

He pulled up the chair beside her, put his hand on hers.  “Min.  Do you know how good it is to see you?” he asked.  “I -- I’ve missed you.”

She grinned, winking at him, leaning into his touch.  “But I’ve been here the whole time.  Where have you been, you foolish dwarf?  It’s not like you to leave Kirkwall behind.”

Varric looked at her, feeling a little confused.  Hadn’t she been the one who left?  Or -- no, maybe he had it backwards.  It was hard to say.  He busied himself with watching two pints of ale appear, disappear, reappear on the table.  

He was here for something.  He tried to remember.  His next book was due, wasn’t it?  Damn publishers on his back.  With his free hand he tried to reach into his pocket for his pen and journal.  Something about them seemed important.  

“Something distracting you, love?” she asked, her expression sunny.  “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

“Of course,” said Varric.  “But I was supposed to do something.”

Hawke nodded, suddenly serious.  “I see.  You’ll do what you must, I suppose.”

Varric pulled out the journal and pen, and hesitantly pulled his hand away from hers.  “I’ll just be a moment,” he explained.  He gazed at the blank paper and set the pen to it.  But the words wouldn’t come.  “I don’t understand,” he said.  He closed his eyes, tried to remember.  The memory hit him like a blast.  

“I’ve with the Inquisition.  Corypheus -- he’s back.  I’m doing the noble thing and trying to stop the bastard.”  He gasped, remembering.  “We have to get you out of here!”

Her smile faded.  “I can’t leave, Varric.”  Her mouth quirked to one side, her lip trembling.  

He tried to write something; he wasn’t sure what.  He ripped the paper out of the book and let it float away, setting down his pen and turning to her.  He took her hands in his.  They were softer than he remembered, without the callouses he’d grown used to.

“Why can’t you leave?”

But she just stared into her drink, letting go of his hands.  Tears shone in her eyes. “You were too late,” she whispered.

[freedom-shamrock]

All I Want for Solstice is You

Happy solstice to all and to all some tasty wassail. also on AO3

Adrien smiled, warmed by the energy of the holiday market wrapping around him.  He caught a whiff of cinnamon as he passed one stall, and he closed his eyes, thinking of cider and Mari's apple tarts.  The squeals of children caught his ears, still sensitive though he no longer donned a magical suit to protect the city on a regular basis.

He adjusted his course to head for the ice rink.  He leaned on the boards and looked around.  He saw Marinette on the other side of the rink, hunched over, her fluffy pink mittens fully enveloping the tiny hands of the stocky little boy she was helping glide across the scuffed sheet of ice.  Ivan's son looked so much like their long-time friend, though he was clearly quicker to smile.  A toothy grin was plastered over his face as his little legs frantically shuffled in an ineffective effort to go faster.

"Adrien," a deep voice said, just as a hand came down on his shoulder.  "We didn't think you were going to make it."

Though he'd topped out at six two, Adrien had to look up to meet Ivan's gray eyes.  "Sorry I'm late," he apologized.  "The board was being pig-headed and stupid."  He'd actually had to haul out a slideshow to push the point.

Ivan rolled his eyes.  "Ugh.  Stuffy businessmen.  Don't know how you stand working with them."

Adrien shrugged.  "Fortunately it's only a quarterly pain in the ass, and then I can go back to ignoring the company again."  When his father had been sentenced to prison for his side gig as a magical terrorist, Adrien found himself saddled with company he had no interest in.  Much of his father's financial wealth went into a fund for restitution to those who had suffered at the hands Hawk Moth's akuma.  Going from supermodel to son of a super villain had been quite the trip, and Adrien was keen to distance himself from his emotionally cold father.  At Alya and Nino's suggestion, he'd embraced his role as Gabriel's primary stockholder, forcing the company to change its name to Agreste and donate heavily to emergency and mental health services in Paris.

"I'm surprised you're not on the ice," Adrien said.

Ivan let out a little huff.  "Mylène doesn't let me do open skates anymore."

Adrien raised one eyebrow, sensing a story.

Ivan shrugged.  "I sometimes forget I'm not playing hockey, and I terrify people." 

"Ivan, do you go knocking down grandmothers and children?" Adrien demanded, grinning.

"Hardly," Ivan said.  "I have much better control of myself on ice than that.  I just look like I'm going to mow them over when I cruise by at my usual speed."

"Hello beautiful," Marinette called as she approached their side of the rink.  Her cheeks were pink with cold and her whole being radiated with happiness.

"You stole my line," Adrien protested, pouting a little.  "You always steal my line."

Marinette shrugged, entirely unrepentant.  "Can't fault me for speaking the truth."  She looked at Ivan.  "Michel's getting pretty tired.  We were thinking it might be time for cocoa."

The little boy giggled, stomping his skates on the ice.

Adrien grinned down at him.  "Do you like cocoa, too Michel?"  He reached out and lightly ruffled the hat, clearly a Marinette creation, on his head.

Michel nodded.  "She said we can have marshmallooooos."

Marinette glanced at Ivan.  "Mylène went to take off her skates so she'd be ready to help us.  You guys stay right there, and we'll grab you before we head over to the vendor."

Adrien leaned over the barrier to press his warm lips to her cool cheek.  "Sounds purrfect, mi'love."  He and Ivan watched for a moment as Marinette pushed off the ice, taking the little boy toward the exit.

"Michel is going through a really shy phase," Ivan noted idly.  "But I swear you and Mari have kid magic.  He's happy being alone with her, and he talked to you."  He shook his head.  "That's impressive, dude."

Unsure what to say, Adrien just shrugged.  Marinette was the lucky one.  And while he'd spent time with kids as Chat Noir doing holiday and fundraiser things, he had no real experience caring for them.

"When are you guys thinking of having your own?" Ivan asked.

"Our own?" Adrien asked, confused.  As realization hit him, he felt like snow had been dumped down the back of his coat, and a heavy dread settled into his stomach.  Him and Mari have kids?  Was that the expectation?  Did she want that?  They'd never discussed it, and he had a sudden fear that this was something important to her.  He had no idea how to be a father; his own had been an abusive asshole.

A huge hand gently patted his shoulder.  "Adrien?   Are you okay?"

Adrien shook his head.  "Uh.  Sorry.  Uh."

Ivan's eyebrows bunched as he looked at his friend in concern.  "You need to sit down or anything?" he asked.  "You looked like you were having a panic attack or something."

"It was something, all right," Adrien agreed.  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, focusing on the light rumble of Plagg purring in his shirt pocket, right over his heart.  "I'll be okay.  I just… maybe need a minute."

Ivan wrapped an arm around Adrien's shoulders.  "Come on.  We'll go find you a seat, and I'll text the ladies so they don't freak out."

Adrien pulled the strap of his small gym bag over his shoulder.  "I'm going to hit the dojo a little early tonight," he said, offering the love of his life a small smile when she looked up from her sketchbook.  She was so talented.

She held his eyes for a moment before setting aside her pencil and getting up.  "Are you okay?" she asked, her face pinched with concern.

He quickly nodded, then looked away as he realized he should have played stupid or acted surprised.  His fast response was a tell she'd figured out before they'd shared identities.

One of her hands came up to rest on his cheek.  "Hey," she said softly.  "Look at me, Kitty."

With a sigh, he met her eyes again.  Why did his eyes feel so dry all of a sudden?

"It's okay if you're not all right, you know," she said.  "And I'm here if you want to talk about it."

He nodded.  "My head's kind of a mess right now."

Her thumb caressed his cheek.  "I know this time of year is hard for you, but I thought it was going a little better this year."

"It has," he agreed.  His memories of fun and joy at Christmas were so old and faded, like a photo left on display too long.  The more recent string of holidays spent alone in his father's mansion had apparently conditioned him to avoid and resent the trimmings so pervasive in December.  "I guess the… uh, awfulness kind of snuck up on me."  It definitely didn't help that his revelation about their future and his current aversion to having children coincided with his usually gloomy season.

"Can I do anything for you?"  She tilted her head in the way he found so adorable.

"Not yet."  He needed to figure out how he felt before he could bring it up.

"Are you ready to tell me what's wrong?" Tom asked, settling himself across from Adrien, coffee and mini custard and fruit pavlova between them.

Adrien glanced up at the big man who'd been a steady source of support since Adrien first showed up at their house in the middle of the night.  It had been months before discovering Hawkmoth's identity but only a few weeks after Ladybug let the cat out of the bag.  He returned his gaze to his mug, wrapping his chilly fingers around it.

"You know you can talk to me about anything, right?" Tom asked.

Adrien nodded.  This was going to suck.  Tom probably wanted grandkids.  Why would he want his daughter saddled with a broken man terrified of having children?  He heard the soft clink of Tom's mug on the table, then a groan of his chair as the big man got up.  Adrien rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hands.

"I'm worried about you, son," Tom said gently, sitting down next to Adrien.

Adrien sucked in a sharp gasp.  His own father didn't address him with such love or kindness.

"I don't think this is just your usual holiday glooms, is it?"

Adrien shook his head, his throat too tight to speak.

"Whatever it is, it's eating you up, Adrien."  Tom's voice continued to be soft and concerned.  "It's not healthy.  We're all worried."  His hand settled lightly on Adrien's head, but instead of touseling it with a tease, as he normally would, he offered a hesitant caress.  "And whatever it is, we'll work through it, okay?"

Adrien nodded.

"Can you try to talk to me about it, then?" Tom suggested.  "You've told me I'm a good listener."

Closing his eyes, Adrien focused on relaxing his throat.  "I don't want Mari to hate me," he blurted.  "Or you and Sabine."

There was a moment of surprised silence before Tom responded.  "Have you done something that makes you think we'll feel this way?"

Adrien shook his head.  "No, but…"

"But?" Tom encouraged.

"I don't want kids," Adrien finally forced out.  "I'm not sure I'll ever be ready for that."  He shook his head.  "I know I'm not my father, but… I don't know anything about raising kids.  I'm terrified that I'd fuck it all up.  That I'd hurt them."  Instead of being chastised and ordered out of the house as he expected, he found himself wrapped in a warm hug.

"Oh, Adrien."  Tom sighed.  "None of us could hate you for feeling this way."

"B-but I want to be with Mari," he mumbled, pressing his face into Tom's blue sweater.  "I've been thinking about p-proposing."

"And that would be lovely," Tom assured him, rubbing his back.

"But she probably wants kids," Adrien countered.  "She's so good with them.  And I can't promise her that."

Tom held him, his patience seemingly endless.  Once Adrien's breathing was regular again, he asked, "Have you talked to her about this?"

Adrien straightened up and shook his head.  "I'm a coward.  I'm afraid that conversation will be the beginning of the end for us."

Tom let out a little laugh.  "Chat Noir is no coward."

"What?"  Adrien looked up startled and vaguely fearful.

"We've known for years, son."  Shaking his head, Tom smiled.  "Between the dumpster fire you call "father" and the conditions you put up with Chat Noir, it's clear you're not a coward.  You're too hard on yourself."  He patted Adrien's shoulder.  "Talk to my daughter about this.  She's a very understanding little bug."  He winked before turning serious again.  "How long has it been since you left therapy?"

Adrien shrugged.  "Couple years."  After the nightmares stopped and he was able to let go of the guilt by association that he felt, he'd figured he was done.

Tom rubbed his chin contemplatively.  "Maybe it's time to revisit that."

"You think they'll be able to help me want to have kids?" Adrien asked, surprised, but willing to give it a try.

Tom shook his head.  "No.  That's only something that will change with time, if at all.  I think this all just highlights that maybe you still have some healing to do."

"Oh."  Adrien took a deep breath.  "You're probably right."

Tom gestured to the mini pavlova, heaped with custard and Adrien's favorite fruit.  "Now eat up.  We have an hour before we head back to your place."

"You're coming too?" Adrien asked.  These coffee visits with Marinette's father started shortly after he moved in with her family, and they'd kept them up through university and three apartments.  Normally Adrien headed back home alone.

"Sabine's over there, scheming with my daughter, if I'm any judge," Tom said happily.  "We're going to go out to dinner, so I may as well head back with you."

Later, as he and Tom approached the door, he was assailed by the scent of cloves and apples.  "Mmmmm.  I wonder if Mari's experimenting."

"Probably," Tom agreed.

Adrien opened the door to find the apartment lit with candles, evergreen swatches festooning the walls, and a clove and ribbon bedecked lemon hanging off center in the doorway.

"Happy solstice, Adrien!" Sabine said, rushing forward to give him a hug.

"Oh, hey dude, Tom," Nino called.  "Blessed be."  His greeting was accompanied by finger guns.

"Ah… what?"

"It's a solstice gathering," Tom said, clipping him on the shoulder.

Marinette appeared then and took his hand drawing him through the apartment and to their bedroom.  In passing the balcony, he noticed that someone had put out a copper fire bowl and it currently held a log adorned with cranberries.  Their bedroom was lit with candles, and it was quiet once the door was shut.

"Hi," Marinette said, sounding uncertain.  "Is this okay?"

He stared at her for a moment.  "I'm just a little confused."

She smiled sheepishly.  "You've been so down, Kitty.  We've all seen it.  And we know we can't fix the past, but we all want to help."  She shrugged.  "I thought maybe if we made our own traditions, something completely new and different, it would be a good start."  She reached up to run her fingers through his hair over his ear.  

"I love you," he said, giving her a small smile.  "You're amazing."

"So are you."

"Can I tell you what's been freaking me out?" he asked.  Maybe this wasn't the right time, but her father was right.  She deserved to know.

She nodded.  "I'd like that."

He took a deep breath, comforted by the weight of Plagg suddenly settling in between his collar and his neck.  "You're amazing with kids Mari.  And… people have started to ask me when we're going to have our own."  He watched her vibrant eyes go wide.  "And… I'm not sure I'm ever going to be ready for kids.  The very idea terrifies me."  He swallowed.  "And…"  A finger lightly covered his lips.

"Can I interrupt for a teeny moment?" she asked.  "If you have more to say, I want to hear it, but… I think I have something relevant to add here."

He nodded.

"I have thought about having a family with you," she admitted.  "You're the only person I would consider that with.  But it's… not a deal breaker.  I'm fine with us not having kids.  I'm fine with revisiting the topic someday if you want to.  But really, all I want is you."

He pulled her into a hug, burying his face in her neck.  "Thank you."

"Love you," she replied.

When they stepped back from each other, he could feel the difference in his smile.  "Okay, so what's this solstice thing we have going on?"

She giggled.  "It's just our family, the family we've chosen, having a nice candle-lit evening together.  Mama and I made wassail and treats."

"And this is our new tradition?" he asked.  It was a nice idea.

"I hope so."

"I like it."

She beamed at him.  "I have one more thing I want to do before we go back out there."  She walked over to her dresser and rummaged around for a moment.  He heard a dull snap and then she came back to him with something closed in her hand.  "I was going to do this in January, but…"  She tilted her head from side to side.  "I think now is better."

"I don't know what you're doing, but you're adorable."  He kissed her on the nose.

"Do you really believe I love you?"

"Yes," he said with a chuckle.  "Though sometimes I wonder why."

She beeped his nose lightly with her index finger.  "Do you believe that you're really important to me, and that I can be happy with just you?"

He nodded.  That was still too new and too tender for him to joke about.

"Can I prove it?" she asked, her eyes wide and hopeful.  Without looking away she raised his right hand to kiss the ring he wore.  She let go and took his left hand.  "Adrien, will you marry me?"  She gently placed a metal band on his palm.  "Will you be my best friend and dearest love forever?"

He stared at her for a moment, completely stunned.  Then he looked at the ring in his hand, silver with two small stones, blue and green, embedded side by side.  "Wha… Really?"

"Really," she insisted, plucking the ring and holding it up.

Grinning so big his face hurt, he held out his hand, fingers splayed.  "Yes.  Very yes.  All the yes."

She giggled while she pushed the ring on.  "Now come on."  She grabbed his hand.  "I want to show everyone what I got for solstice."