#BEFORE EVERYONE EXPECTED HER TO HAVE A PERFECTLY FORMULATED PLAN AGAINST THE GREENS

[denouemente]

there is something so tragic to me about rhaenyra losing everything and everyone important to her and people act surprised when she has the audacity to react to it!!

[welcometoels]

Session Seven - The Good, The Bad, And The Sexy

They say you should never split the party, but clearly they didn’t tell this particular group.

At the end of the last session, Oddsock was running off west in pursuit of his magical ball, Julius - in direwolf form - was making a break east to Dogwood, and Kadis and Talion were held at spearpoint by a dozen leather hotpant clad guards.

Having retrieved his ball, Oddsock secretes himself in a shrubbery, and watches as his friends are led off into the castle.  Panicked and alone, he sniffs around for clues, and formulates a cunning plan as he dashes off through the forest.  More on that later...

Julius is also running, and after a while his form reverts from wolf to otter.  He has made good time, but it will still be a short while before he reaches town.  He too has a plan in mind to help extricate his party from their dilemma.

Meanwhile, Kadis and Talion have arrived at the castle, where they encounter strange, short, scruffy individual.  Though his clothes consist mostly of a dirty toga, scruffy sandals and questionable underpants, he also wears a golden crown, pendant, and rings on each finger.  He introduces himself as King Lord, and inspects the two new arrivals thoroughly.

Understandably, both monk and bard are unhappy with this situation, and make their feelings known.  King Lord is amused by this, and tells the cloaked figure - whom he addresses simply as Advisor - that they would be perfect for the Arena.  The Advisor agrees, and ushers them along, with Talion feeling strangely compelled to do whatever they say.

The guards hustle the duo further into the building, past a dimly lit cell, within which Talion can see a huge, muscular figure, slumped in the gloom.  The Advisor tells a guard to fetch this figure and bring him along, but the two adventurers are pushed through another door before they can see who it might be.

This last door leads to a large, sandy floor, overlooked by a balcony, upon which sit King Lord and his Advisor, flanked by two members of the King’s Guard (whose uniform is, if anything, even skimpier than the other guards).  Talion and Kadis take up position, and wait.

From the same side door emerge two figures - one dressed in guard uniform, and the other in a loose chainmail vest and tight leather trousers, bulging with an overabundance of muscles.  The former is Dandy Bianco - a guard who pulled the short straw to round out the numbers - and the latter is Freginald Biceppe - seemingly a prisoner being pressganged into fighting in the Arena.

---

Meanwhile, in Dogwood, an out-of-breath Julius is searching for friends to help assault the castle.  He finds X in the same meditation spot near the chapel, though she is now joined by a very pale-looking former-mayor, who is counting his fingers whilst a scowling Gyder towers over him, cleaning a knife.

Julius begs for assistance, and X suggests to Gyder that the castle could provide a new lead on her hunt for the man who killed her husband.  With terse agreement, Gyder goes to obtain transport.

Aberron Clutchstraw is stood before a finished building, looking very much like he has not been to sleep since arriving in town.  Indeed, signs of his handiwork abound: many of the carpenters are now wielding rudimentary nailguns instead of hammers.  Furthermore, he has enhanced a battered old cart so that it now includes a pedal-powered contraption at the front.

With a small degree of persuasion, Gyder commandeers this vehicle, while X and Julius ride on the back.  The construct a plan to park up nearby so that the druid and the cleric can sneak inside while Gyder distracts any guards.  First, though, they have to get there.

---

Oddsock ploughs on through the forest, his quarry in his nostrils.  It is a familiar scent, and one which he hopes will bring much-needed support.  Time will tell.

---

Back in the Arena, the Advisor sets out the rules of engagement.  The four players will be engaging in Sexy Wrestling - combatants must engage their target with a chat up line before striking, pending approval from King Lord.

Freginald makes the first move, striking Talion twice - first with charm, then with fists.  Despite his enormous muscles, the blow lands with a fraction of the impact Talion expected - almost as if Freginald was pulling his punches.  This is confirmed as the bruiser moves in for a grapple, and growls into the bards ear with a plea to help him escape.

According to Freginald, the Advisor has everyone on lockdown, and all the staff are under the mysterious figure’s spell.  This intel, alongside the physical blow, clears Talion’s mind of his infatuation, and the two begin to formulate a plan.

Dandy Bianco does a better job of chatting up the monk than he does of hitting him, while Kadis’ proves himself to be equally on target with both.  A couple of vicious strikes, an the guard is down.

---

As the Arena battle continues, Julius and The Green Goddesses (name pending approval) arrive a little outside the castle on their converted wagon, ready to put the plan into action.

Julius casts Pass Without Trace and melts into the forest.  X, with typical grace, faceplants off the back of the cart.  So much for stealth.

Gyder marches directly up to the two guards at the entrance, with X traipsing long in two.  Striking her best intimidation stance, Gyder encourages the guards to step aside and allow them access.  They do so, and Julius slips by, still unseen.

Inside the castle is a different story.  Three more guards approach the Half-Orc and tell her to leave, which Gyder refuses to do.

What follows is little short of a bloodbath.  Though the guards get a couple of strikes on Gyder, she merely shrugs them off and slashes back with unmatched ferocity.  Between Gyder’s greataxe and X’s spiritual whip, half of the guards fall before they even understand what is going on.

Meanwhile, Julius has posted up next to a door, from beyond which he can hear sounds of more guards talking over a boisterous game of cards.  One of them seems to have noticed the kerfuffle outside, so Julius readies his staff and holds position.

In the Arena, Talion and Freginald have formulated a plan: Freginald will let the bard free, allowing him to take a run towards the balcony to attack the Advisor with his electric breath.  Freginald will then offer a boost to allow both bard and monk to mount the balcony and bring the fight to their captors.

A perfectly good plan, which sadly nobody let Kadis in on.  The monk hammers an apple into Freginald’s face with alarming power, bolstered by Bardic Inspiration.  The apple thunders into Freginald’s alarmed mouth, flipping him clean over in a startled somersault.

Talion passes word of the plan on to Kadis, and all three players rush the balcony.  Talion releases his electricity at the Advisor, and, though they sidestep the worst of it, it is enough to cause a ruckus upstairs.  As Kadis and Talion leap up from Freginald’s linked fingers, King Lord and the Advisor flee, accompanied by one of the King’s Guard.

Further shenanigans ensue in the entry hall.  The first of the guards emerge from the side room, as one of the card players calls “SNAP!”.  Though Julius’ staff falls wide of the mark, it is followed by a brace of greataxe swings from Gyder.  The guard, newly bisected, smashes into the card table, as Gyder leans through and shouts “SNAP!”

With a dry, cool with like that, she could be an action hero.

The three remaining guards emerge from the side room, and two more come down from the flight of stairs leading to the balcony, ready to face off against the assault.

Then, something nobody could have expected takes place.  Over the wall swarms a flurry of ambulant furniture, carrying a triumphant Oddsock aloft.  His landing is less graceful than his arrival, but the important thing is that he brought help in the form of a furniture golem, cheered on from outside by Zeriah Fernbough and his sofa steed, Em.

The ensuing hallway battle makes the previous on seem tame in comparison.  Gyder continues her trend of halving the opposition, while the golem hammers its plush fists into an unfortunate guard.  X and Julius rush for the side door, towards the arena, while Gyder and the golem - Oddsock riding proud upon its shoulder - head for the stairs.

Up on the balcony, Talion unleashes a Thunderwave against the Advisor and the King’s Guard who headed for the door, pitching the guard completely over the edge and onto the ground beneath.  Leaving Kadis to fend off the remaining balcony guard, Talion heads in pursuit, firing off a Dissonant Whisper on the Advisor.

Kadis attempts a strike, but swings wide, dislodging a peculiar lamp from its pedestal.  The lamp - simple in design, but wrought from beautiful silvery metal, and giving off an ethereal white glow - strikes the ground hard, but does not break.

Freginald leaves the Arena through the side door, hammering into a short-robed priest with uncannily smooth legs.  The fighter’s fists don’t quite put the priest down, and the priest responds with a Guiding Bolt.  Fortunately, X appears and lavishes the blessings of Sune upon Freginald’s wounds, as Julius assails the cell guard with cold magic.

King Lord, thinking himself free of assault, descends the stairs into the path of Gyder and golem.  He calls on his guards to attack, unaware that most of them are lying either unconscious or in pieces.  Oddsock relieves the grubby miscreant of most of his HP with an Eldritch Blast, and Gyder relieves him of his head.

Continuing her path of destruction, Gyder charges upstairs, encountering the Advisor head on.  The Advisor greets her with questionable familiarity, and their form begins to change - widening, becoming more masculine, as the cloak hanging from their shoulders changes from a deep royal purple to a bright yellow.

This is Erano.

This is the person who killed Gyder’s husband.

[the-foxes-fangs]

I Wish I Was the Moon Part IX

As always, tagging the wonderful @louveau​ and @you-mass-effect-my-dragon-age​ <3 extra tag for @otomediary who has been so patient <3

Part I//Part II//Part III/Part IV//Part V//Part VI//Part VII//Part VIII

Warnings: Angst, otherwise sfw

***

He had left her regretfully, slipping away in the dead stillness of the winter night, the cold stealing her warmth from him and leaving nothing but a dull tired ache behind. He wished that he could taste her, could know her scent, could burn it into his memory the way that the texture of her skin and the feeling of her hair slipping through his fingers stayed with him, and would for far longer than he wanted to admit to himself. 

Changing back into his usual clothing in the icy light of dawn made their time together feel even more like a fading dream, already receding into an unfathomable distance. There were moments, few, but vivid, that divided his life cleanly into what had been before, and what came after. He could feel the demarcation like a prison door slamming closed. He had only himself to blame for making it a ragged tear and not a clean cut. 

He found Kyubei waiting for him as agreed, and greeted him with a nod. 

“As you predicted, my lord, the former nun is one of Kennyo’s, but she was paid by someone else.” He said as they rode astride. 

“Those monks have just as much reason to hate me as Nobunaga, but I don’t see him having the patience for fighting by eliminating the Oda vassals one by one.” Mitsuhide answered, too tired to be indirect. 

It had been unlikely that the attempt on Nobunaga’s life had come from peasants plotting a rebellion but part of him had hoped that there was an outside chance that he could clean up the mess without blowing the embers of war into a conflagration. There were simple, straightforward reasons for a peasant rebellion-- concessions could be made, needs could be met.

But the tangled warp and weft of personal pride, loyalty, spite, ambition and vengefulness that drove those higher in the hierarchy was impossible to satisfy by its very nature. The ghosts of Mt. Hiei and Tanba castle wouldn’t be laid to rest so easily. 

The day was still and gloomy, the town barely stirring as he rode toward the castle to make his official return. A crust had frozen over the snow that creaked under the hooves of his horse, and made every pace sound more reluctant than the last. He caught a glimpse of someone in green beside the castle wall, before they vanished with a speed and skill that marked them as a spy. 

Guards greeted him ceremoniously, as did his retainers, lined up as neatly as archers on the battlefield, and like archers, it was impossible to tell just which one had an arrow nocked for him. 

He arranged for a council to be called by mid-day, and spent the rest of the morning examining intercepted correspondence and interrogating them in the guise of casual conversations. He relied on instinct as much as experience to keep from overplaying his hand, to keep his true loyalties a question that became a trap. The field narrowed itself as the day dragged on and he began to assemble the various bits of information into a cohate pattern. 

Staff filed in and out to answer the same handful of questions during the council-- questions whose answers were less relevant than the reaction they elicited from from those being asked and those watching. 

She finally filed in dutifully behind the other seamstresses, attempting with moderate success to stem her habit or boldly studying people. She was an object of curiosity in her own right by now, drawing gazes that ranged from lecherous to calculating as she approached the dais. 

“Since you’ve only recently joined us, I have no questions for you.” He said, feigning as much disinterest as was possible. 

She kept her face down, but he caught the most fleeting glimpse of amusement in her expression before she composed herself, bowing lower than she ever normally would’ve and addressing him with more formality than she had used since the night they had met. “Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.” 

Perfectly polite to everyone watching them and outrageously mocking just for him. He kept his usual smile fixed on his face, but he was fighting laughter. It was hard to believe that she was the same wide-eyed, terrified woman that had emerged from the fire acting as if she had only just fallen to earth that same night. Whatever her unfamiliarity with the mores and customs of the upper class, only a fool would deny that she had more than enough grit to make up for it. 

By the time he made his way to her in the night he had a reasonable outline of the conspiracy and its participants, and had formulated a loose plan. She was asleep, and he sat down beside her, her face illuminated in a circle of winter moonlight, as soft and cold as the hand he laid upon her head. She stirred and blinked sleepily at him before she sat up with a yawn. 

“I had given up on seeing you tonight,” she said, her voice thick with sleep, yawning again and adding “my lord,” sardonically. 

“My but you’ve grown bold. Wherever has the little mouse who was afraid to look me in the eye gone?” He answered, as he felt along the floor for the hiding place he knew was there. 

“I wasn’t afraid of you, as much as I was afraid of your mind-reading abilities.” She said offhandedly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. 

He loosened the floorboard and left the letter detailing the names of the conspirators in the hole below. 

“Now I wonder why you’d be afraid of me reading your mind?” He asked, returning to sit next to her and smooth out her bedhead. 

“Not everyone wants their barely restrained lust to be an open book a few days into meeting someone, naturally.” She answered, leaning against his shoulder comfortably as he draped an arm over her. 

“Oh is that all? You did a wretched job of hiding it.” He replied, pulling her closer. 

“I have no regrets.” She said with a soft laugh. “Did you know that you always, always smell like gunpowder?” She asked as she leaned into his chest.

“I suppose I do.” He answered, flatly. “You’re taking too many pages from my book, my dear. A normal person would’ve asked me what I just hid away.” 

“I’ve never once claimed to be normal. But I do have enough pattern recognition to realize that you’ll tell me what you want, when you want, if you want. I’m not here to change you.” She answered, looking out the small window into the clear frozen sky. 

“How fortunate for us both, since I lack both the capacity and desire.” 

He looked down at her face, and tried to pick out the shadows there from the night. “If something should happen to me, find Kyubei and tell him that I left a letter for the Oda forces there. He’ll get you back to Azuchi.” 

“I guess we’re both a little unusual tonight. You’re being very direct.” 

“I’m just telling you what I want to, little mouse.” 

“I’m guessing that means that you’ve got an idea of who sent the haori?” 

“Your commitment to not asking questions faded fast.” He answered, looking into her searching eyes. 

“Curiosity killed the cat,” she said, quirking a brow up at him, and adding “but satisfaction brought it back to life.” 

He stretched languidly and slid down into the warmth of her bedding, head on her lap as if it belonged there. There was no calculation in her expression, only honest concern. “I have a good idea. Although I think I saw an Uesugi spy rather far from home this morning, so the ravens may truly be circling.” He said, as she ran her fingers rhythmically through his hair. 

“I had the impression that Kenshin Uesugi was too direct for an assassination attempt from sitting in on war councils.” She said, tracing the line of his jaw with a feather light touch, as if memorizing his face. 

“He keeps rather shifty company, I’m afraid.” He said, and reached up to fold her hand in his. 

“I don’t expect any details, Mitsuhide. But I hope that you aren’t planning anything reckless.” She said, concern on her face and in her tone.

“Have you confused me with Masamune?” He asked with a low laugh at her expense, a cheap cover for the way his heart lurched at the care on her face. Unearned, undeserved. 

“You’re too good at being yourself for me to confuse you with anyone else. But for all your planning, you don’t seem to care much about yourself. You don’t eat, you don’t sleep. That’s a kind of recklessness too.” 

“And here I thought you weren’t trying to change me.” He said, reaching up to twine a strand of her hair around his finger idly. 

“I’m not. Just making an observation. Even your plans can fail, good as they might be, and it frightens me to think that you come in last in all that calculation.” 

He dropped his hand and sighed. “What was it you said? Something to the effect that one person’s life can’t outweigh a hundred or a thousand others.” 

“I said it and I believe it, but you can’t live by that idea alone. It’s not always clear what the greater good is. Thinking that any one person can decide that on their own is what leads to massacres.”

He froze in place for a moment, stiffening under her hands, mind flooded with memories of smoke and gunfire and blood in the air. She was too far under his skin. Too close to the unforgivable truth. 

“No retort? Did you fall asleep in the middle of a conversation with me?” She asked, softly, nearly to herself. 

“Your childish philosophy is far too amusing to put me to sleep, little mouse.  What if I said that I had a massacre on my head? Would I not be serving the greater good to die for that?” He asked, fighting to keep his voice level. 

“Alright, I’ll play along.” She said, and brushed his hair out of his face. “I think I can safely presume that you had a plan that didn’t involve killing innocents.” 

“I’m not sure why the presumption matters-- what someone intends is far less important than the outcome they create.” He countered, bitterly. 

“Even if that’s true, it doesn’t follow that your death is a good outcome.” 

“Why it almost sounds as if you, earnest lover of peace and freedom, don’t believe in justice.” 

She looked down at him with sadness in her eyes that drove the knife he’d put between his own ribs deeper. 

“Of course I believe in justice. I just think...” she paused thoughtfully, and continued, “no matter what you’ve done, the only way to atone for it is to live and try to save as many people as you can. All of us will die some time, so why not live while you can and try to do what good you can?” 

“And if my idea of good just results in more bloodshed?” 

She cupped his cheek gently and laid her other hand over his heart, and he hoped she couldn’t feel it pitching in protest at the sensation of being wounded by her kindness. 

“You have an uncanny mind, Mitsuhide, but you’re not a god. Your best is good enough.” 

The moonlight was moving away from the window, leaving them in deeper darkness and a heavy silence that hung between them like a chasm. 

“We’re never going to agree, little seamstress.” He said, at last. 

“Even so--” she began, with a sigh, cut off as he sat up to kiss her tenderly. He pulled her into his lap, arms wrapped around her, his cheek pressed against her hair. 

“It will be over soon enough.” He murmured, and felt her shudder, reached up to feel the heat of a tear as it ran down her face. 

Her voice was raw and low as she recited-

“Winter has frozen its double-edged breath   and blows it down from the icy heavens,   like a dry fire coming apart in threads,   like a huge ruin that topples on soldiers.   Snow where horses have left their hoof-marks   is a solitude of grief that gallops on.   Snow like split fingernails, or claws badly worn,   like a malice out of heaven or a final contempt...   This violence that splits off from the core of winter,   raw hunger tired of being hungry and cold,   hangs over the naked with an eternal grudge   that is white, speechless, dark, starving, and fatal...    Soldiers are so much like rock crystals   that only fire, only flame shapes them,   and they fight with icy cheekbones, with their mouths,   and turn whatever they attack into memories of ash.”

He felt the sting of every word as if she had slapped him. Felt her grieving for the things she wanted from him that he did not have. 

“You were bound to hate me.” He whispered at last. 

“That’s the hell of it, Mitsuhide,” she answered, voice hoarse and heavy, “I don’t hate you. I never could. I love you so much it hurts. I know that it’s one sided, I know that I’m nothing but an amusement to you, and I don’t care about that.”

He closed his eyes against the razor edge of her words and felt her draw a ragged breath. 

“You treat yourself with such cold indifference. As if it doesn’t matter whether you live or die, whether you’re in pain, whether you’re lonely or sad. But until the day we part, and even after that, for the rest of my life-- I won’t think of you like that.” 

Her tears fell on to his sleeve and it would’ve been so much less painful if she were weeping for herself, if she didn’t see him through such clear bright eyes.

***

Oof sorry this took 20 years to update! I hope to get back to updating regularly <3 Thanks to all of you who are still reading this. 

This chapter’s poem is  “The Soldier and the Snow” by Spanish poet Miguel Hernandez

[pervasivescariness]

[ Catching Up ]

[ This is a small scene @ivaan-ffxiv and I did a bit ago that I wanted to share because it is super cute. ;w; It’s a bit longer than what I usually post, so I put it under a cut~ Thank you for reading <3 ]

"He really has taken a liking to you, you know. That is a pretty special thing.”

The late afternoon sun glittered off the rolling waves as Ivaan's voice pulled Bee's attention from the distant shore below. She looked over her shoulder as he and Mossfoot crested the hill, first to Mossfoot, then to Ivaan with a smile.

“I’m just happy that he’s at least stopped trying to preen me all the time.” she laughed, turning back to face her companion, crossing her arms as the two joined her upon the hill.

“He might have consigned your curls to being a lost cause.” The gentle breeze picked up to rustle the long blades of grass which surrounded them as Ivaan lead the chocobo over to where Bee stood.

“How terribly rude. What does a bird know of fashion?" she tossed her head indignantly in response, curls tumbling over her shoulder and across her back, "No matter, as long as it is enough to keep his beak out of my hair…”

Bee watched as the chocobo in question ignored her, choosing instead to find a comfortable place among the greenery to rest. Following suit, Bee settled in herself, curling among the swaying grass and flowers which carpeted the cliffside. Ivaan soon followed suit, taking up a place adjacent to the miqo'te, eyes still on Mossfoot.

"I think he does have his moments of vanity. I have caught him picking up feathers he has dropped, and tucking them back into his tail.”

“Does he now?” Bee eyed the bird with a smirk, “So then perhaps he does understand, but his opinions are just wrong.”

“You do know that you are trying to insult a chocobo, yes?”

“Yes, and?”

“And that he cannot understand you? Because he is a chocobo?”

“And just how do you know he can’t understand me exactly?" Bee turned her attention back to the bird, eyeing him suspiciously, "I have a sneaking suspicion that he understands perfectly well. ”

“Are you suggesting chocobo understand common, but choose not to resp-” Bee's enthusiastic and eager nods were enough to halt Ivaan mid-sentence. Easing back with a smile, he sighed, " You really haven’t changed, have you…”

“Have you any proof to the contrary?” Bee challenged with the rise of an eyebrow and a lash of her tail.

“Well, he has never spoken to me…”

“Perhaps he has and you merely weren’t paying attention?”

“How about it?” Ivaan looked up at the courser, who merely looked back at him with a cheerful whistle.

“Perhaps he simply doesn’t feel he needs to speak?” Bee gave the bird a thoughtful look and a slow flick of her tail.

“Mmm...we have a good enough rapport that I usually do not need to even give a verbal command. I do not even wear spurs.”

“Then what need of a common tongue does he have?”

“None then, I suppose…”

“And in a way, it proves he does understand...you at least.” Bee beamed at Ivaan, sitting up straight and giving him a victorious wiggle of her ear. “Which means I am correct.” Her focus snapped to the red-plumed chocobo resting across from them as she pointed dramatically at him, crying out, “And he knows what he is doing!”

“Then perhaps you should be nicer to him. He does have a short temper.” Ivaan retorted.

Shock crossed her face as she whipped her head back to Ivaan, a picture of innocence, “What do you mean? I am perfectly nice to him!”

“You were just saying he had no fashion sense not a minute ago.”

“That’s not being mean, that’s merely stating facts.” Bee crossed her arms once more, nodding once for emphasis.

“Would you not be offended, were I to tell you the same?��

“That’s wholly different!” she protested, “You’ve no reason to tell me that, as it simply isn’t true.”

“Say you met somebody on a bad laundry day, where you had to make do with a less than stellar ensemble, and somebody said something questioning your taste. You would be offended.”

She scoffed, “Ivaan, I have never had a bad laundry day. I can make any outfit stellar. It simply wouldn’t happen!”

“That is the trouble right there! You need to prepare mentally for any scenario, no matter how unlikely.”

At this, Bee broke into laughter, “There you go again! Always so serious!”

“It has kept me alive.” He shrugged, matter of fact.

“Is that what you do when you get all quiet and thoughtful then? Sit there and prepare for any and all scenarios?” Bee teased him with a playful grin.

He nodded, the teasing going right over his head. “It is always safe to assume that I have already formulated a plan to kill everyone in the room, as well as plotted every means of egress.” The miqo'te stared at him flatly as he added, “Be polite. Be efficient. Have a plan to kill everyone you meet.”

“How dreadful! You’re not very fun at parties, are you?”

“I do not find myself attending them often. Besides, they make for a good place to stage an ambush.”

Again, another laugh from the woman as she shook her head, "Can one even truly prepare themselves for any scenario?”

Ivaan paused to think her question over, “I suppose not...but the more you can prepare for, the harder you are to take by surprise.” Leaning forward, Ivaan rest his forearms on his knees, "For example, during my time clearing the Crystal Tower, we had a researcher with us who specialized in voidsent. So adamant they were that they knew everything there was to know about imps, succubi, demons and the like, that when one of them reacted in a way that he did not anticipate...Well, he was dead before we could intervene.”

“I feel that is perhaps different, Ivaan. You speak of battle! It is always wise to consider every scenario going into dangerous situations, I will agree with you there. However! Not everything is a danger! There is a vast difference between not being prepared to handle a rude stranger and tangling with a bunch of voidsent.” She looked upon the hyur with an exasperated look.

"A rude stranger may have a knife behind their back, or friends waiting nearby. I have learned countless times the value of being ready for anything."

"So you go into every interaction expecting a knife? Where does that leave you exactly? How would you ever enjoy anything if you are always preparing for the worst of it?"

"Yes. And I am alive, to continue my work. That is all that matters."

Bee stared at him in disappointment, the only sound between them the crash of distant waves upon the shore and the quiet rustle of grass which surrounded them. Then, very quietly she asked, "Are you even enjoying yourself now?"

There was a pause. Ivaan regarded her with a concerned look, taking on a slightly softer, conciliatory tone when he spoke again. "...I am. Granted, I am keeping my eyes and ears peeled for anything approaching, but yes. I am genuinely enjoying this time with you."

Bee shook her head in defeat, “You really ought to learn to relax, Ivaan. You'd enjoy yourself more if you weren't so wound up over what could happen." She offered him a reassuring smile, "Besides, not much ever happens here, so there's really nothing to worry about. You can afford to relax, just for a little bit."

"...Not much used to happen in the Twelveswood, remember?" Ivaan sighed, looking out over the darkening horizon for a time. "...What did you have in mind?"

Bee motioned toward him and sighed to Mossfoot, with that same exasperated tone, "And again!" The chocobo tilted his head at Bee with a questioning whistle. Knowing that she'd get no further in her argument, she turned her attention back to the surrounding meadows. "I thought it might just be nice to take some time among the flowers, is all. Like we used to."

"Like we used to, huh..." Ivaan looked about at the various wildflowers carpeting the meadow. He leaned forward, regarding one carefully before reaching out and plucking it from the earth. And another... and another... The stem of each was carefully twisted into that of the one picked before it. A look of concentration fell over Ivaan's features, a distant memory fluttering through his thoughts.

Bee watched him pluck the nearby flowers from the soil, a small smile forcing the serious slant of her lips to leave once more. "I was always fond of those trips out to the meadow." Her focus fell from his thoughtful face to his hands as he twist the stems together. "The grass was always so much more lush and vibrant than here. And there were so many types of flowers!" Before long, Bee was beginning to pluck her own handfuls of flowers, mimicking Ivaan's movements.

"I remember telling you all about the different ones... Their names, little tricks you could do with them, like holding a buttercup under your chin." The smallest of smiles began to tug at Ivaan's lips, delicately weaving the thin stems of green together. Occasionally he would look at her out of the corner of his eye, roughly judging the size of the crown against her head.

"You remember, I would mix the names up sometimes...call one by the other..." Bee glanced up, taking note of the slightest of smiles forming on his face, which only broadened her own. "I didn't know so many different flowers even existed until that summer, you know." She dropped her eyes back to the small pile of flowers in her own lap as she saw his gaze shift towards her, busying herself with lining them upon her lap by size.

"You would tell me that I would probably get the names of all the fish your dad would catch mixed up too, when I teased you about it. I was always so excited for the summer to come... I would count the days. It was the highlight of the year, even more so than All Saint's, or Starlight..." He paused, looking up at her from his work. "I am sorry... That I never came looking for you, after... After everything happened. I was convinced I was going to hear of your deaths. I could not take that..."

Bee's movements stopped, the stem of a flower pinched delicately between her fingers, his words stealing the growing smile from her face. There was a brief silence before Bee resumed twisting stems together, a single slow curl of her tail to indicate her thought. "I...can't really blame you for that." Bee at last looked up at him, "After...everything that you'd gone through...well I suppose I might've done the same, really." She relaxed her tail, curling it back about herself. "I'm not angry with you for it. Not really."

"Part of me feels justified, but the other..." he trails off, taking the completed crown of flowers and placing it delicately atop her head. Bee tilt her head forward slightly, ears flattening so that he could slip the ring of flowers over them easily. "Part of me wonders if I would have been better off, finding you early on. If I had, maybe I would not be so... so..." He fell silent, not sure how to describe what he was getting at. His golden hues met hers, hoping she could understand what he was getting at.

That soft smile brushed her lips momentarily as she put the final twists in the stems of her own ring of flowers. "...serious?" She finished his sentence, a more playful grin spreading across her face now as she moved closer to him. Her arms were not so long as his, after all.

"So...stoic?" Once settled in, she leaned in to place her own crown of flowers upon his head, adjusting it so it sat correctly, pausing to tilt her head slightly.

"So...well...you?"

"Yeah..." He smiled in spite of himself, bowing his head forward for her to place the flowers upon it. "So me..." It was a small, sad smile, admitting the dim view he took of himself.

"For what it's worth..." She pulled away from him at last, once more placing her hands in her lap as she looked him over, "I hardly mind. I think you've turned out well enough....all things considered.”

The sun sank into the sea behind them as they exchanged quiet smiles, crowned with rings of colorful wildflowers; an image mirroring happier times.

[emeraldtawny]

Edgar x OC: Masquerade (Pt. 1/5)

Okay...attempting something a little different this time around.

So, I’ve never made an OC for Ikemen before but then this lil idea popped into my head and I wanted to write it....but I didn’t want to put Alice through the torture and angst I have planned, so I made a character to fit the prompt~! If OCs ain't your thing, all good. Just for this story (which should be around 4 fics long depending on if my brain has another sudden epiphany), I will be using this OC who I have drafted out already, name and all but shhhhh, it’s a surprise ;3

The angst build-up begins hehehe >:3

The Bright Family business. It isn’t anything glamorous - and hardly something to brag about - yet, to the man behind the closeted affairs, it’s all he knows and all he will ever know if history is to remain the unchanging mistress she is. He learned quickly never to ask “why?”; questions like that would be answered insufficiently, always leaving a bitter taste in his mouth and still does to this day. He’s a natural at this point, being the flawless Jack of All Trades that he is. Emotions are repugnant and make the jobs he does unsavoury, questions never help anyone and the best option is to remain silent and commit to the job at hand. As long as he remains the good puppet that he is, there won’t be any problems - as long as the blood-soaked hands of a sinner are never exposed to the light.

Tonight is a tame job, a simple infiltration into a coveted party for the elites of Cradle. He is to find evidence of possible espionage and, if any spies exist to conspire against the Red Army, to eliminate them without a commotion. He enters the mansion without incident, his clear emerald eyes brightly contrasting against the black masquerade mask he wears, a party theme he can’t help but smile at how perfect it is for him. Edgar keeps his carefully trained smile on his face, flowing through the throngs of people as his eyes scan the crowds and his ears eavesdrop each conversation with pinpoint accuracy.

The sound of a body hitting a table and glassware clinking loudly against other glasses pulls people’s attention to the scene unfolding, Edgar’s included. An older gentleman has a woman pushed against a table, his arms on either side of her enclosing her in. Her face hardly seems phased by the man’s incredibly aggressive actions, yet she attempts to free herself by grabbing his arm. He shoves her rather forcefully back, her hips hitting the table with a thud clearly resonating pain, yet still, the woman remains impassive.

(How very intriguing.)

Despite his priorities lying with his family duties, his gentlemanly upbringing - as well as his interest in this enigmatic woman - pulls him towards the discourse. As he gets closer, the man’s rushed, semi-slurred words become clearer.

“You woman are all the same. All you want is money and expensive jewellery, so why the hell are you turning my offer of everything you could ever want down?!”

(Ah, a man trying to save his fall from grace by shifting the blame. How boring.)

The woman’s response, however, makes him have to repress the sly quirk of his lips. “Because that would require me being within metres of you for long durations. No amount of money is worth that torture.”

Her delivery in the most aloof tone causes the man’s rage to peak. “Why you--!”

“Pardon me, sir.”

It is now that Edgar intervenes, the two sets of eyes moving from each other to focus on him. Edgar assesses the woman, her lavender eyes piercingly bright beneath her jet black mask, the edges adorned with golden feathers. The man seems flustered to have been interrupted but maintains a haughty demeanour against Edgar.

“What do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy reprimanding this lady’s unsavoury manners?”

Edgar’s eyes move to the man now, his calculated smile constructed perfectly to give no hint of weakness away, “I was just going to thank you for entertaining my date. I was running late and couldn’t notify her in time, but I appreciate you keeping her company before I arrived.”

While the man seems taken aback and confused, the woman’s eyes remained locked on Edgar in a gaze that could only be described as analytical.

(Let’s see if my hunch about you is correct, shall we?)

Edgar’s lips curl into a more dazzling smile, holding his hand out to her. “Shall we be off then, my darling?”

Her eyes move to his outstretched gloved hand then back to his eyes, hues of green and purple conversing silently through vision alone. Then, as naturally as one could imagine, she takes his hand and moves to stand beside him, her free arm looping around his in a way reminiscent of couples, love one would dare say. The man baulks, completely stunned as the two saunter off as if nothing ever occurred.

Out of earshot, Edgar grins as he guides the mysterious woman adorning his arm through the ballroom. “Are you alright?”

“Fine. You don’t need to feign sympathy for me. I appreciate the help though, so thank you.”

He chuckles in response. “That’s an awfully bold assumption you’re making of someone you’ve only just met.”

She meets his gaze, an almost apathetic look in her eyes, “I consider myself quite good at reading people, as I’m sure you think so of yourself.”

(Well, well...she is just as I thought. Curiouser and curiouser.)

Allowing himself this slight diversion to his goals at hand, he guides her into the middle of the ballroom where couples move and sway to boringly dull orchestral music. Sensing his intentions, she releases his arm and Edgar takes the opportunity to pull her towards him, his hand resting reservedly on the curve of her waist as they stand in a ballroom dancing position. They meld perfectly into the crowd as they dance, becoming nothing more than two more faces in a nameless crowd; a perfect opportunity for discussions.

“You’re a curious girl. At a distinguished party for Cradle’s finest, and you’re here alone and already causing an uproar. Just what are you planning?”

She remains silent, simply keeping her eyes locked on his own as they move perfectly in sync with each other and the music, anyone watching their dance enraptured by the precision and perfection of their almost fluid-like movements. After a twirl, she leans in close as if having lost her balance, whispering discreetly, “Why would I tell the Jack of Hearts my reasoning for being here?”

Any other soldier would pale at their mission being uncovered, but Edgar simply chuckles, the sound almost delightful in a bone-chilling way. He wraps his arm tighter around her waist, holding her close enough for his hair to brush against and tickle her cheekbone as he whispers back, “So I know for sure what your objective is, and if it conflicts with my own.”

Edgar was expecting her lithe body to tense in his grip, her breathing to catch or at least shorten. Yet here she is, her eyes as calm and as emotionless as….as his own. It’s her turn to lean closer, to let the strands of hair that hang free from her partial updo brush against his skin, to hear her lips part to take in a breath before she whispers, her tone still calm despite the clear implications in her actions.

“White suit, red tie. In the far right corner. He’s who you’re after.”

“What--?”

Before he can even formulate a question, she pushes against his chest to free herself from his grip. He thinks to grab her and demand an answer to her cryptic clues, but thinks better of it; he’s already given himself more leeway on this mission than is necessary so any lead to reach his goal is one he will take advantage of. The woman, nameless and enigmatic, turns and walks back through the crowd, Edgar’s eyes lingering on her as she’s swept into the mass of people.

His eyes move to the corner of the room, a man in a pristine white suit and a blood red tie, his demeanour obvious to Edgar of his hushed whispers and failed attempts of being discreet.

(Got you.)

…

As Edgar leaves the building, his gloves removed and carefully disposed of, he can’t help but think back on the odd night that has occurred. Espionage was in play and he quelled any chance of it rearing its ugly head, enough of a reason to be satisfied, albeit in an empty, hardly fulfilling way. However, his way of obtaining the information he needed still sticks out in his mind.

Coming and going as quick as the wind, breathing a message to steer him towards his goal before leaving without a trace. Once again, she becomes just another faceless human in this hardly unique world. But for that brief moment, her individuality shone through, and Edgar couldn’t help but reflect on it.

(She knew who I was and what I was doing. If she was just guessing of my title as the Jack of Hearts, then I would have been liable to believe her...but she also knew who I was looking for.)

His delicate eyebrows furrow as his face is set in a hard frown, infuriatingly unable to reach a conclusion that makes any sense. Resigning himself to reaching no end to his stream of unanswerable questions, he sets off back to the Red Army headquarters, an odd feeling of relatability flickering softly in his chest.

For just a moment when that woman didn’t back down from his clear threat, when she just stood there and stared at him without an inkling of fear, he was reminded of himself; Edgar saw himself in her, this feeling of connecting with someone whose name he doesn’t even know foreign to the man who has been trained since birth to keep everyone at arm’s length. The thought makes him laugh, the sound melancholic and far from the feelings a laugh usually elicits.

(I’m not even worth the ground I walk on. My hands have caused so much strife that Hell likely has a seat reserved just for me.)

He smiles once again, the masquerade mask not the only concealment of the Jack’s true face. One final thought crosses his mind as he drifts off into the night.

(I’ll find you somehow, and then you’re going to tell me everything.)

[sky-kiss]

oooh, can you do Urzai #22?

So…I know I said. I would do angst for this. It is not. It is. Really not angst. It’s…horrible schmoop. It is the opposite of angst.Though, to be fair, Ozai would angst very loudly if anyone ever found out.

22. I don’t owe you an explanation.

Kya wants the dorm for the weekend. It’s not a problem, not really, Ursa is sure she can find somewhere else to stay. They insist she doesn’t have to go anywhere, it’s not going to be like that, but she knows better. College is nothing if not…eye opening.

She is in the process of formulating an escape plan when Ozai volunteers his place. It’s an off handed remark, blase as you please, while they’re at lunch, so cool that it takes an extra five to ten seconds for her brain to process  the offer. They’ve been seeing each other informally, off and on, for the past few months but he’s never taken her home. Shit, the only reason she has his address is because the four of them had carpooled to a restaurant once.

“You’d be alright with that?” she watches him carefully, a forkful of salad halfway to her mouth.  

Ozai shrugs, “Would you rather sleep on the street?” 

She rolls her eyes, turning her attention back to her meal. Conversations with Ozai were always a risk, liable to leave her fighting a migraine. He’s not wrong, though. She needs a place to stay and a part of her wants to see where he lives, what’s it’s like. His aloof disposition, the arrogance, made it difficult to picture, “Well. I’m grateful. Thank you.” He grunts in reply and that’s the end of that.

For all his faults (and that was a list), she can’t deny he’s…reliable. Ozai promises he’ll be by to pick her up by five and he’s there precisely ten minutes early, looking wildly out of place in front of the dorms. He refuses to wear his dark hair back and it falls around his shoulders, perfectly smooth, coal black. He’s still wearing a suit, immaculately tailored, but has opted to forgo a tie. The Ozai equivalent of “casual.” He stands up straighter when she exits, crossing the few steps to take her bag. Ursa glanced away, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

Those…little gestures, completely natural, were inexplicably charming.

“Are you alright?”

She smirks, reaching out, fingers curling over his forearms. It’s easy to touch him. His skin is always warm and he always smells…uncomfortably nice for a man. Like vanilla and sandalwood, and something else, vaguely spicy. “I’m fine. Hakoda was just…early.”

He looks genuinely apologetic, “You didn’t deserve that.”

“It’s…fine. Just…remind me to pick up. Purell on the way back. I’m going to have sanitize everything.”

He chuckles and it’s such a genuinely nice sound that she can’t help but stare. Ozai takes her elbow, helping her into the car before making his way to the driver side.

____

To no one’s surprise, Ozai lives off campus. He’s maybe five miles away at a push, right in the center of downtown, surrounded by light and life and fine dining. His loft is near the top of one of the older buildings (he’d preferred the character, he’d mumbled). It’s small than some of the newer suites but at least seven times larger than what she’s been living with the past two years.

It’s more natural than she expects, dark mahogany wood, red accents. A few potted plants break up the monotony, their foliage a deep, dark green. It’s uncharacteristically tasteful.

“Set your things in the bedroom,” he takes her jacket without comment, motioning towards the room in question with a tip of his head. “I’ll make us dinner.”

“We aren’t going out?”

“Would you prefer that?”

She swipes her tongue over the seam of her lips, “No. No. It’s a weekend in, right? So…let’s cook.”

He eyes her, his expression dubious, “Not ‘us,’ Ursa. Me.  I’ll cook.”

She wants to snap at him but he’s already turned away, moving with that confusingly lazy grace. Without his jacket, his dress shirt seems molder to the planes of his back, his chest, and it’s a distressingly fine sight. She shakes her head, more irritated than ever, and grabs her bag. Bedroom, yes.

_____

The evening is basically what she expects. They have twenty minutes to kill once he’s got their food in the oven, so he fucks her over the kitchen island. It’s a good icebreaker and makes the ensuing silence when they eat easier to stomach. They share a bottle of red wine that she could never afford on her own. She’s feeling magnanimous, and a little light headed, so she sucks him off under the table and he returns the favor somewhere en route to the bedroom.

It’s par for the course for their ‘relationship.’ Ozai is an exceptional lay and a terrible conversationalist.

So here she is, boneless, her skin still tacky, tangled in sheets she’s halfway convinced cost more the entirety of wardrobe. She hugs the duvet around her, shivering pleasantly. Ozai tosses her the remote before he climbs out of bed. He hasn’t bothered to redress. Something tells her he doesn’t plan to either. Her attention lingers on his toned chest before she realizes he’s talking.

“What?”

“I’m going to shower. Find something to watch.”

She pulls a face at him. But again, she’s curious. Ozai has never struck her as an…entertainment, sort of guy. Live plays, maybe, the opera, if push came to shove. But nothing so banal as films. She flicks the television on, finds his catalgoue.

It’s dry. There are a bevy of war films (World War two seems a particular subject of interest, as is feudal Japan), political dramas, more period pieces than she can shake a stick at. They are uniformly dour and mostly pretentious. She’s about to give up and suggest they go out for drinks when she stumbles on the one outlier in his otherwise immaculate collection.

Ursa is waiting when he finally emerges from the bathroom, a towel slung low across his hips. She chews her lower lip between her teeth, one perfectly manicured brow arched, “The Devil Wears Prada? Really?”

For one one beautiful, perfect, moment, the ever collected Ozai doesn’t know what to do. He stares at her, his gold eyes wide and furious, bordering on accusative. His mouth opens before shutting. She watches his posture shift, no longer languid, his shoulders squaring, arms coming across his chest. When he speaks, it’s a low grumble, tossing his dark head, “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“No, you don’t. But I’m genuinely curious.”

He blinks, “What?”

“Everyone has a guilty pleasure, stupid,” he rankles a bit at the endearment but his guards drop, however slightly. She crooks a finger, strangely satisfied when he indulges her, coming to sit on the edge of the mattress. She likes the way she fits against his side, “I just…don’t see you as a…Prada guy.”

He picks up her right hand, turning it this way and that, making a show of inspecting her wrist, “If I tell you. You will keep this information to yourself?”

This is one of the longest conversations they’ve had. She tries not to dwell on that, smiling as she reaches up, scratching her nails through his damp hair, “Of course.”

Ozai glances heavenward, sighing, “It…resonates…with me.”

“It…resonates? With you?”

“Yes,” he snaps. Ursa snickers, looping her arms around his neck to keep him from pulling away. He’s still grumbling, “One employee. More attractive, harder working, a constant resource, and her efforts are constantly overlooked in favor a less deserving candidate.”

“Ah,” she supposes that makes sense.  Ozai doesn’t talk about his home life but she knows enough to reason it’s unhappy. He’s always staying late after class, slaving away when he clearly excels. She presses her palm flat over his heart, “That doesn’t seem fair.”

He rolls his eyes, “Life seldom is.”

She nods, glancing down. The conversation fades back into silence. It’s more comfortable than she’s expecting, a little cleaner. Ursa kisses him without thinking, a gentle brush of the lips that’s far too chaste. When she pulls back, he’s staring at her. Confused, but nakedly fond. She smiles, “I’ve never actually seen it. The movie.”

“No?”

“I wouldn’t mind watching. If you’d…be comfortable with that.”

She thinks he’ll refuse. For a second, it looks like he will. But his features soften and he nods, taking the remote from her. His voice is grave but there’s more mischief in his expressions, “Very well.”

He adjusts himself so they’re laying more evenly amongst the pillows. And he’s…surprisingly vocal, more business savvy than she would have expected. He lets her rest his head on his chest and he preens when she sides with the young woman he clearly identifies as his surrogate.

It’s a surreal evening and yet she can’t help but feel oddly charmed.

[a-k-a-ruenis]

Present

Rating; General

Fandom; Aldnoah.Zero

Relationship; Slaine Troyard / Kaizuka Inaho

Series; Inaweek 2017

Story under the cut!

Alternatively, please click here to read it on my Ao3!

“You aren't very popular, are you?”

Inaho raises his head at the familiar voice, noting that it is just as teasing as it usually is, though for some reason, it feels a bit much today.

Calm pulls out a small handful of Valentine's cards and bags of assorted candies and chocolates from his pocket, gently placing them down on Inaho's desk. The candies are all brightly coloured, save the chocolates of course, and are decorated somewhat with neat, white adornments: hearts, a few childish smiley faces.. “What'd you say to the girls in class this time, Inaho?” he asks curiously, and this time he does sound genuine, though Inaho knows full well the blond is still going to tease him relentlessly.

Inaho picks up one of the smaller packages, and starts to open it slowly. “Nothing..” he says, tone even, and he pulls out the smallest piece of candy, something that resembles a cookie with a heart-shaped strawberry centre, “You do know most of these aren't homemade?”

“And that, Inaho, is exactly why you didn't get anything for Valentine's Day..” Calm points out, sighing quietly as he takes the small box from Inaho's hands, inspecting it himself. It does look to be store bought, though he is not one to actually care about that kind of thing; the girl who had given it to him, after all, is kind and sweet. “You know, in Canada, we don't make a huge deal about that kind of stuff. Most of us are just happy to get something,” he says, shaking his head a bit and gesturing for Inaho to return the cookie; he knows the other will not eat it.

Inaho does return it, placing it gently back inside its assigned compartment. He shifts his attention back to the other packages, and sets two of them aside; these two are clear bags with colourful hearts and Japanese characters pasted onto it, and the contents inside are all seemingly chocolate of varying degrees. “These two are homemade,” he says, ignoring what Calm had said before.

“Those two are from Inko and Nina,” Calm says, sighing again. “They didn't give you yours yet, because they figured it'd melt in your bag, and you don't eat sweets that often, anyway. If you come to the party tonight, they'll give it to you before you leave,” he explains, and he starts gathering up the cards and packages again, shoving them into his pocket; how they all seem to fit rather nicely comes as little surprise, given the blond is prone to wearing things with ample amounts of air to breathe and space.

“What party?”

Calm lifts his head a bit at the question, narrowing his eyes a bit. “Are you.. serious?”

“Yes. What party?”

“The.. party that the girls have been talking about all week. That party.”

Inaho pauses for a few moments, thinking, trying to recall when they had discussed such a thing. They had certainly discussed getting together and perhaps going out, to a restaurant or some other place, but.. “It was implied that we'd be having a get-together, but whether or not it was a party is debata–..”

“It's a party, now,” Calm interrupts, and he is not annoyed or bothered, just merely stating a fact before Inaho can go off explaining, which may take several minutes for him to finish. Smiling somewhat, playful again, he asks, “So? Are you coming? Yes or no?”

“.. I was planning on studying tonight for a test..–”

“Slaine's coming.”

Inaho tenses up a bit, hesitant, now.

“Wouldn't you like to see him again? Outside of university, I mean. Since he graduated, he doesn't come by the high school as often..”

“.. I'll come,” Inaho says, completely disregarding Calm's comment.

“Great. I'll tell Inko to mark you down as 'present', then.”

“You have to change.”

Glancing down at his outfit, Inaho does not see anything wrong with the way he is currently dressed. It is, after all, just his high school uniform; because he wears it often, it leads to him being mistaken for a cosplayer.. people think he is much younger than he looks. Despite his birthday having been recently, people still have trouble believing he is an eighteen year-old high school student. “Why?” he asks Inko, who is frowning somewhat as she gazes at him.

“You can't wear that to a restaurant. You have to wear something nice,” she insists.

“This is nice,” Inaho says simply, and he means it.

“It's Valentine's Day,” Inko points out, “We're taking a nice picture after dinner, please wear something suitable. Everyone's going to be wearing pink, white, and red. Match with us.”

Pink. White. Red. The standard, normal colours for Valentine's Day.

Of course.

Inaho is tempted to point out that there is white and red in his uniform, but thinks better of it when Inko crosses her arms against her chest, clearly about to shoot down whatever comment or rebuttal he attempts to make. So, instead, he says, “Look through my closet and choose something suitable, then.”

That seems to work perfectly, because the brunette grins as she strives past him, humming, “Gladly.”

The restaurant is noisy.

Well, at least, slightly noisier than Inaho is usually used to. They usually dine at the school's cafeteria, or the nearby café that serves particularly good coffee, as well as a nice spread of breakfast; they enjoy dining there whenever they have free time in the morning, before classes, though Nina sometimes insists they get dessert after dinner.

Gently pulling at his red sweater, Inaho remains quiet as he tries to get comfortable in an unfamiliar setting.

Inko kicks him from under the table, not hard, just enough to get him to look up, and she is frowning again. “You look fine,” she insists, and her violet eyes flicker between Inaho's rose red woollen sweater and the blush coloured vest under it, “Your clothes are better than Calm's, at least, which you would've had to wear if you didn't keep those ones.”

Inaho glances over at the blond, who has a sheepish grin on his lips. “Wearing bright pink would have been distracting, yes,” he mumbles, looking away from Calm after a few moments; Calm's shirt is bright enough that is casts bright, bright pink shadows, even in the dimmed lighting. He is not sure he would have even fit into Calm's clothing, much less have looked decent in it; this outfit, at least, Yuki had bought for him a few years ago for some other Valentine's event, and he does not hate it.

The girls, at least, decided to wear red and white in moderation; Inaho thanked them earlier for not wearing something painful to look at, for not wearing something unnecessarily bright.

“Inaho, you could eat the chocolate while we wait,” Nina suggests, and she looks kind of excited, green eyes aflame, “Calm liked it, even the dark chocolate ones.” They had spent many hours trying to get all the pieces correctly sized, trying to make sure they had gotten the taste exactly right, and the orange jam inside had taken a bit to perfect; they had burnt a few batches.

In other words, “Please try the chocolate we handmade for you”.

Pulling out one of the plastic bags from his sweater's pocket, he sets it on the table between them, listening to the chocolate pieces clunk quietly against the wood, and he gazes at the bag in silence for a few moments.

“It's not poisonous, Inaho. Just eat it,” Inko insists, and she has that knowing frown on her features, the one she unconsciously puts on when Inaho starts to overthink things. She has been working part time at her parent's restaurant after school whenever she is free, and intends on majoring in something Inaho recalls related to the culinary arts.. Food science, it might have been.

“What's not poisonous?”

Inaho turns his head immediately at the familiar voice, and finds himself gazing up at a familiar, stunning mixture of blue-green and white. “Slaine,” he breathes, the name caught in his throat.

Slaine smiles warmly upon meeting Inaho's eyes, holding up a hand to politely wave, “Good evening, Inaho.” The blond gently pushes on Inaho's chair, forcing him to adjust the chair, “You know, you might fall out of your chair if you keep doing that. Please face forward.”

Calm beams, leaning forward a bit in his own chair, “As expected of the future kindergarten teacher! Always worried about children's safety!”

“I'm not a child,” Inaho retorts, though he does as Slaine says, facing forward so that he does not end up tipping the chair over; such a thing, in a public place – in front of Slaine – may have consequences.

“So? What's not poisoned?” Slaine asks curiously, slowly pulling out the chair beside Inaho's own so that he can sit himself down. His gaze flickers to the small plastic bag full of chocolates and Inaho's face, a curious look in his eyes, “Oh, the chocolates? They're not poisoned. Inko and Nina outdid themselves; mine were white chocolate with blueberries inside. I'm going to have to return the favour when White Day comes.” At that, he shifts his attention to the two girls, and he has that warm smile on again, the one that makes Inaho's heart catch.

“I didn't know you could cook,” Inaho finds himself saying, the words coming out before he can properly formulate a response to the new information.

Slaine looks at him again, a pleasantly surprised look on his features, “Of course I can cook. I have to make meals on my own, since papa's out often doing scientific research.”

Ah. That makes sense.

“Slaine, didn't you say you had something for Inaho's birthday, since you've been busy with university this week?” Calm asks, but from his tone, it seems as if he already knows the answer.

“I do, but it's for after dinner. And I don't think it'd be kind to present Inaho with a gift when Yuki isn't here.”

Inaho finds himself intrigued.

Slaine only became a student at their school two years ago, and he graduated last year, is now attending a university that is close enough for them all to still be together, but his classes and extracurricular activities leave almost no room for free time. He helps a preschool teacher with classes, most days after his own.

The blond only offers Inaho a smile when they catch each other's gaze, and Inaho swears his face feels hot all of a sudden.

“Here, Nao! Say 'ahh'!”

Inaho feels the tips of his ears burning, lit aflame by some kind of voice in his head telling him that this is not how to properly behave in a rather nice restaurant; no doubt, if his friends had any shame, they would notice people shooting them odd looks from how energetic and rowdy they currently are.

“Please stop taking odd pictures, Inko,” Inaho mumbles, frowning slightly at his sister, who is leaning a bit over the table to try and give him some kind of mushroom soup.. it has a rather odd look to it, the soup itself a greyish colour, and it seems to be full of chopped mushrooms and bits of potato and nothing else. Still, he indulges his sister, allowing her to spoon feed him the morsel without any complaint.

Slaine laughs beside him, laughs for what seems to be the hundredth time tonight, and he is again hiding that smile of his with one of his hands; he has always seemed rather reluctant to laugh around people. Last year, Calm had accidentally made him cry from one joke too much, though he had been laughing at first – Inaho later learnt that that particular occasion was the first time Slaine had been able to laugh like that in a very, very long time.

“.. you shouldn't hide your smile,” Inaho says after a moment, and Slaine looks shocked for a moment, eyes wide –

A soft snap cuts him off, the sound of the shutter on Inko's camera.

Inaho blinks a few times, trying to get the bright white out of his eyes, and when he opens them again, he finds Slaine doing the same, looking a bit owlish as he struggles to clear his vision. He remains quiet for a few moments before shifting his gaze to Inko, who is beaming at him, as if she had done the most wonderful thing. “Are these many pictures necessary?” he questions, wondering just what she intends to do with all of the photos; it is almost certain that she will get each and every one of them developed, but what happens to them afterward is anyone's guess.

“Of course,” Inko says simply, leaving it at that.

“I think she said earlier, she wanted lots of pictures of you being 'in the moment', or something,” Calm offers, and that is a slightly better explanation and reason than Inko's simple response. Another of those sheepish grins rests on his lips, and Inaho cannot figure out why tonight seems to have everyone acting a bit differently than normal.

Valentine's has never really been a sort of special event for them, it was just a slightly busier day than normal, with everyone giving gifts to everyone else, giving out cards and candies and chocolates. Sometimes, they do go out, though it is usually to just get ice cream or crepes at some nearby café, whatever they feel like doing, that day.

But today, they are acting odd. Even Slaine, who is not talkative, but talks, has yet to bring up a topic of interest or anything about what he is doing in his classes.

Nina is first to break the awkward silence, with the gentle, low tapping of her chopsticks against her plate. “Well.. it's.. always nice to have pictures when the photo is in real-time,” she says quietly, managing a tiny, secretive smile, “You know, when the subjects in the photo look as if they're living 'in the present'.. And we don't have many photos of you.. so Inko said she wanted to take a lot today, so that we could all look at them together in the future..” Her explanation ends with her trailing off, voice going lower and lower until she finally shifts her gaze toward Slaine, who ducks his head.

Inaho's gaze flickers between the two, and her explanation warrants a question: “Is today special?”

She had made it sound as if something was going to happen today, that there would be a reason for them to look back on today.

The sudden, blunt question causes Inko to lower her phone, and Nina tightens her grip on the chopsticks – if they were not made of metal, she may have snapped them in surprise. Calm swallows quietly, swallows what sounds to be a hard ball of nerves, and Yuki only shifts in her seat.

Slaine remains silent beside him, extending the awkward tension before he finally moves, pulling something out of the pocket on his pink sweater. “Here,” he mumbles, and he places the something on the table in the space between them, “I.. told you we should have waited until after dinner. Sweets ruin the appetite, and this was.. supposed to be.. more romantic..”

He sounds annoyed, almost, and it seems that Inaho's question had ruined whatever plans they had all made in an attempt to surprise him. He sounds annoyed, but he is also speaking the way he used to; softly, so, so softly, in that slow, careful manner that had Inaho wondering if perhaps Slaine just did not know what words to pick.

Inaho shifts his gaze to whatever it was Slaine had hidden in his pocket, and blinks upon seeing that it is merely a small, cardboard box with pink construction paper glued on its sides. “What is this?” he questions, picking it up and inspecting it – he almost flips it over when Slaine gently grabs his hand, stopping him, and he notices the pink blush dusting his cheeks. “Oh,” he breathes, “You..”

“I.. know I didn't get you a birthday present, and I couldn't attend the party, so.. Inko said she would plan out tonight, so that I could..” Slaine releases Inaho's hand after righting him, and he starts to pull at his hair, gaze slipping, “And.. and I didn't have very much time to make you something proper, so I stuck with dark chocolate and custard filling..” The annoyance is gone, now, replaced with his old shyness, and he seems to be having trouble meeting Inaho's eyes, again.

“This is my present?”

“It's – it's part of it,” Slaine admits, and Calm snickers quietly behind his hand. Ignoring the outburst, he continues, and the tips of his pale fingers start to turn red as he applies a bit more pressure to the small tuft of hair in his grasp, “The other part.. is, erm.. it's a question.”

“Go ahead.”

Going quiet, Slaine chews on his bottom lip, seeming hesitant to ask whatever it is he intends on asking. A quiet thud causes him to tense up, and he looks to Inko afterward, startled.

“Ask him!” Inko whispers, holding up her phone. The lens is still off, shutter ready to snap another photo at any given moment, and her violet eyes have that excited look in them.

“Ask him, Slaine. Nao's not going to bite,” Yuki prompts, and she, too, has that excited look in her eyes, excited and bright and expectant.

Slaine manages a tiny nod, cheeks still dusted pink, and asks in the softest voice Inaho has heard him use, “Will you go out with me?”

“You'd.. like to be my lover?” Inaho questions, “That's your present?” Setting the cardboard box back down on the table, he starts to open it as he waits for Slaine's response, wanting things to be perfectly clear before he gives him a proper answer; just one date will not suffice, if that is what Slaine intends.

Slaine nods again, and he still looks kind of shy, “I've.. been trying to figure out.. how to ask you, since last year..”

Since last year. Inaho allows the comment to repeat in his head, and his heart skips a few beats, body and mind trying to figure out how he had not picked up on that sooner; perhaps he was too busy wondering himself, how to properly ask out the boy he had only known for two years. “Yes,” he says after a moment, and Slaine looks relieved, finally allowing his hand to slip to his lap, “I'll accept your present. Thank you, Slaine.”

They hear a quiet snap again, and Inaho turns his head a bit to meet Inko's gaze, her eyes practically aflame with joy. “I'll print all these out and Nina and I will put them in a scrapbook,” she says, and the excitement is clear in her voice, still clear in her eyes, “That way, you can have chocolate and a reminder of this day as your present, Inaho.”

“Happy Valentine's Day, Nao,” Yuki hums, elated with how things had turned out, even if they had not gone exactly to plan, “You look happy.”

“You're smiling, Inaho,” Calm points out, and Inaho brings his fingers to his mouth, feeling the slight curve that affirms the blond's statement.

“.. happy birthday, Inaho,” Slaine murmurs, and he is smiling, too, happy as he gazes at the brunet at his side, “And happy Valentine's. I'm.. glad you accepted your present.”

“Of course,” Inaho says, nodding somewhat, “I'll be sure to treasure them both.”

[dresupi]

Come on Eileen

for @iamartemisday

Pairing: Jane Foster/Loki Length: 1008 words Prompt: [Come on Eileen - Dexys Midnight Runners - 1982] Rating:  T Tags:  Flirting, Hook up, Background Darcy Lewis/Thor Warnings: None Ao3: [Link]

Loki had dressed carefully.  He had been told multiple times that this evening was very important.  With extra emphasis on varying words in the same sentence each time he heard it.  

His older ‘brother’s’ engagement party was the talk of the tower and Loki was even less interested in petty conversation that was usual.  

Of course he was happy for Thor.  In whatever drab meaning he could squeeze out of the word. He genuinely liked Ms. Lewis.  She grounded him.  And that wasn’t in any way a pun.  

He simply despised public functions.  He would generally worm his way out.  Being a former supervillain in the eyes of most of the world still held some caché, apparently.  And it was sometimes better that he wasn’t there.  

Certain Midgardians still thought of him as that aforementioned villain.  It made for some uncomfortable situations.  And that was putting it mildly.  

But Thor had insisted he come to this.  And given that it was only close friends and family members of the duo involved, he assumed little to no dramatic bouts of discomfort would occur.  

He’d chosen a grey suit for the occasion.  Black seemed too overbearing.  Or that was what Darcy told him at any rate.  

Charcoal grey was the only budge he would make, however.  It paired well with the green tie and matching oxford.  

He sneered at his reflection in the mirror, however.  He looked more like a stodgy old professor than who he actually was.  

But the bride-to-be wished, so the bride-to-be got.  

And as he made his way down the hall to the elevator, he was already formulating the plan for his eventual escape from the festivities.  Knowing Thor, this would carry on late into the night, and Loki had no intention of being there past ten.  

Two hours was plenty of time to celebrate his ‘brother’ and his engagement.  

He was only a scant few minutes into the party when his plans changed, however.  

He caught her gaze from across the room and very nearly choked on his drink.  

What was the phrase Midgardians used?  She certainly cleans up well?  Dr. Jane Foster certainly cleaned up well.  

She was wearing a stunningly gorgeous dress.  One shoulder bare, revealing the dip of her collarbone and the length of her toned arms.  The skirt fell to mid-thigh, leaving very little to the imagination.  And when she spent her days in jeans and over-sized t-shirts, it was hard to discern the figure underneath.  

And while Loki had certainly grown accustomed to and had noticed Jane’s charms before…

This was almost like he was drowning in them.  

And he had no intention of fighting his way to the surface.  

He crossed the floor with purpose, ducking this way and that around Dr. Banner and Stark.  Side-stepping the Black Widow and Agent Barton.   

All the way across the rather large room to stand beside Jane.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, leaning back against the bar where she stood. 

((Read more link below))

She sipped at her wine and shrugged with feigned nonchalance.  “I suppose.  The wine’s good.”  

“As one would expect, given the extravagance to which Stark is prone…”  

“I assume you’re referring to my former boyfriend announcing his engagement to my assistant?  Is that what you’re rooting around for, Loki?”  she asked, her tone sharp and almost bitter.  

“I didn’t say anything about--”  

“Because I believe I talked about this with you before.  When they started dating.  I’m happy for Darcy.  I’m happy for Thor.  What he and I had was fleeting and forced.”  

Loki made a sound of agreement.  

“And I know I sound bitter, but it’s not about that…” she trailed off.  “I just...my god, why did my date have to cancel?  I’m here to be happy for my friends, but everyone’s looking at me like I'm about to break this glass and threaten Darcy with it...”

He mulled over that for a few moments before replying.  “For what it’s worth, I believe you.”  

“It’s not worth much, but thank you.”  

“And....I believe your date was a fool for cancelling…”  

She made a sound of disbelief.  “Sure.  Thanks so much.”  

“I say this with all sincerity, Jane.  You look positively bewitching.”  

A small amount of color gathered in her cheeks as she looked down into her nearly empty wine glass.  “Thank you.”  

“I’d have chosen green for you, but blue is perfectly acceptable.”  

She snorted.  “Green makes me look pallid and sickly.”  

“Nonsense.  It would bring out the rosiness in your cheeks and the stunning honey gold in your eyes…but blue is a worthy substitute.”  

“Worthy huh?”  

“Very,” he emphasized.  

“Worthy of what, pray-tell?”  

“Worthy of notice.  Worthy of comment. Worthy of my eyes passing over you repeatedly.”  

Jane downed the rest of her wine.  “Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to seduce me?”  

“I was going to ask you the same…”  he murmured, his gaze centering on hers.  She didn’t look away.  

“Even if I am now...it’s not why I put on the dress.”  

“My, my…” Loki sucked his teeth. “Won’t the tongues start wagging when the lovely Dr. Foster starts dating her ex’s brother?  Her ex’s evil brother no less.” 

“Hush…” she chastised, setting her glass on the bar.  “The only tongue that will be wagging is yours.  I’m going to go make my excuses.  Wait a few minutes before you make yours.”  

She began to walk away, her hips swaying slightly, causing the dress’ gauzy fabric to flow around her thighs.  Loki both wanted to remove it reverently and tear it to pieces.  

He ordered a glass of red, waiting patiently for it to arrive.  

He sipped at it and nodded his greeting to the few guests who bothered to acknowledge his existence.  

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he smirked, setting his half drunk glass on the counter.  He pulled it out, answering it as he ducked out of the room.  

“Patience is a virtue, Dr. Foster,” he said upon accepting the call.  

“Since when did either of us care about virtue?” she countered.  

“Touché.”

[felinehypocritical]

Could you write a prompt whenever you have time where Bill gets Stan a book about birds for Hanukkah and Stan is sososo happy?!

indeed i can babe

Stan sat in his living room, sandwiched between Bill and Mike, smiling from ear to ear. It was December 9, 1961, and, in one lone house in all of Derry, Maine, it was also the seventh day of Hanukkah. Stan Uris’s household happened to be that home. The house could hardly be described as lonesome, though. There were, indeed, nine smiling people sitting together in a circle, laughing and sharing good conversation, happy and content.

And Stan seemed to be the happiest of all. He was looking around at his friends and his parents. His two favorite groups of people in the world.

He’d coerced his friends to coming over for Hanukkah- after all, he’d argued, it’s only good manners to invite the Lucky Seven over on this, the seventh day of Hanukkah. How often do you get seven days of a holiday, much less eight?

“Sure, I can name one for ya, Stanny. It’s called the twelve days of Christmas, maybe you’ve heard of them?” Richie had shot back, earning himself a clout over the head from Bill, who was already nodding his head in agreement with Stan.

“I th-th-think that’s a gruh-great idea, Stan,” Bill had responded, shooting Stan a grin that warmed him to the tips of his toes, just as he saw Stan’s previously wide smile begin to falter at Richie’s remark. “And eh-anyway, most p-people don’t do ah-all the d-d-d-days of Christmas. Richie’s j-just a bruh-brat.”

And so he had smiled and said that’d be fine, just fine, Bill, and there the plans were set. The whole gang had turned up at around five, and it was already getting much too dark and much too snowy, so Mrs. Uris had taken them inside amidst a numbers of admonishments to Richie about getting too skinny and a flurry of compliments for Bill (she seemed to have a soft spot for him), and sat them down on the parlor couch. As Stan helped his father in the kitchen, she began drilling them for information of everything- how school was, how their parents were, and by the way, Mike, had his mother liked the casserole recipe Andrea had given her? Jessica Hanlon had, and she had a dish to give back to her soon, and that was peachy, just peachy, Mike.

Stan had finished up with the glasses as quickly as humanly possible, knowing how intense his mother could be, and practically ran to sit down with the rest of his friends. His mother thanked him for helping with the dishes, and everyone could see the adulation he had for his mother when she kissed his cheek and smoothed her skirt out, heading back into the kitchen to “leave the boys to their own devices” for a while, as she had put it.

Richie cleared his throat, saying, “gee, Stanley, if you wanted to go with your parents, you could have just told us…” They all laughed at Stan’s affronted expression, before lapsing back into their conversation beforehand. Stan simply watched as they laughed, taking in their appearances as he waited for an in to the conversation.

Mike and Ben could’ve made a singing group had they one more person- they were dressed simply in their white shirts and navy slacks, although Ben’s looked a little less borrowed in his than Mike did. Richie was in his usual cords and loud button up, though this one looked as if a drug addict attempted to dress formally, instead of Richie’s usual, ‘drug addict walking in a fashion show’ look. Stan snorted at the idea of Richie walking on a runway, tripping over his laces and yelling at the audience in all his different Voices, and passively noted Beverly’s pretty dress, her hair shimmering in a plait down her back as if incandescent dust from crushed diamonds had been tossed over her. Her pretty shoulders showed in the cold-sleeved cutouts, and Stan knew instinctively that Ben appreciated and despised them simultaneously.

Beverly and Bill really do have similar freckles, he thought passively, letting his gaze drift to Bill in a way he usually didn’t allow. He took careful note of Bill’s jaw and the sharp of his cheekbone which, even at fourteen, were already becoming more defined. He was wearing a pair of slacks, as well, but these were a bottle green that Stan’s artist’s eye noticed went perfectly with his eyes. His shirt was a whitish cream, and he’d rolled it up above his elbow so that his freckled wrists and forearms showed. It was a striking look, indeed, against Bill’s pale skin, and Stan thought bitterly that Bill probably didn’t even have to work that hard to find what looked nice, that lucky son of gun.

Bill said something to Stan that he didn’t quite hear, finishing with, “-d-do?”

“Pardon?” Stan watched carefully as Bill looked down at his hands, saying embarrassedly, “s-sorry, it’s just- I-I’ve nuh-hever done Hah-Hanukkah before. What d-d-do you…?” He made a vague gesture.

Stan perked up. “Oh! Well, usually you just light the menorah and say the blessings and open presents.”

The others all breathed an audible sigh of relief, and Ben said, “oh, thank God.”

Stan cocked an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

Richie ruffled his hair, saying, “well, we’re your friends, aren’t we? We got you presents and we were worried we wouldn’t be able to offload them on you and we’d have to keep all the dreidels and hotel soaps in our cupboards, so-”

“I got yuh-you a present, Stan,” Bill interrupted. “They dih-didn’t know whe-hether to or not, but I got yuh-hou one anyway. B-b-because I’m a good fruh-friend.” He flashed a charming smile to show he was joking. All of them were the best friends a guy could ask for.

Beverly shook her head. “No, Bill, Ben and I got one, too.” She produced a small parcel from her overcoat and smiled at Stan. She and the smaller boy shared a special kinship- not a large one, not one that signified friends for life, but they got along fine and understood each other well.

Richie suddenly got on his knees in front of Stan, holding his hands in front of him as if praying. “Oh, gee,” he said in a fake-sorrowful tone. “I’m sorry, dear Stanley, I didn’t get you a gift on this day! I’m sorry! Will you ever forgive me?” As he tended to, because he was Richie, he began to salaam wildly in front of Stan before Bill drew him up and sat him back down as they all giggled.

“Yes,” Stan said drily. “Yeah, I can forgive you this once, Rich. But I expect two gifts at Christmas. Two!”

“Eh, convert and I’ll think about it, toots.”

“Eh-Anyway,” Bill interrupted before Stan could even formulate a response. “Duh-do you want to open it right now?”

Stan blinked. “Well, sure, if you want, Big Bill.” He was still used to taking marching orders from Bill, and wasn’t used to Being His Own Person. Ever since he was a kid, he’d been taking orders from his parents. Then, when he was out of the house, it was teachers. When it wasn’t school, well, then it was Bill. Stan wasn’t a natural follower, but he couldn’t help but trust Bill with everything. Even his life. And especially the order of things, as long as it didn’t conflict with Stan’s own.

Bill nodded, picking up a little wrapped gift and setting it in Stan’s lap. “H-Here.”

Stan looked at Bill with luminous eyes. He somehow valued this little package more than any present he’d gotten before- and he’d gotten a telescope for his bar mitzvah! Bill nodded in a ‘hurry up’ fashion, and Stan hopped to it. He carefully peeled back the tape, putting the shell on Mike’s lap, where Mike unceremoniously crumpled it, much to his distaste.

He flipped the thing, which was now obviously a book, over, and his eyes lit up even further. The book was a pale green thing, with red gilding and a beautiful sparrow pressed in. ‘A Field Guide to the Birds’ gleamed up at him, seemingly calling to Stan with the likes of which he’d never had happen. He ran a finger over the spine of the book, taking it in with a smile as wide as he himself was long.

“Gee, Bill, this must be fifteen years old! At least!” Stan had a lot of bird books. A LOT. But he’d never seen one quite as beautiful or ornate as this one, he realized as he flipped from page to page. The works were hand drawn and the script loopy, and Stan felt his old soul longing to leap back to the time this was from.

“Ih-It’s actually oh-only f-f-fourteen years old, if th-that’s okay.” Bill looked anxiously at his small friend. “I c-c-couldn’t find an older one.”

Stan laughed loudly, a short burst of happiness that sent a jolt up Bill’s spine. “Are you kidding me? This is awesome! Bill, look at the drawings!” He seemed lost in his own world, and he pulled the book onto Bill’s lap. “Look at the heron! That’s so delicate!” He laughed again, and Bill laughed along with him. Stan looked up at Bill with earnest stars in his eyes. “Thanks so much, Big Bill. This is so nice.”

Ben cleared his throat. “Well, now I feel bad, ‘cause Bev and I just got you a catalog.”

Stan laughed at Ben’s worried expression, and patted his shoulder. “I think I can forgive you, Ben. I didn’t even think about gifts, you guys.” He looked apologetically at the rest of the Losers. “Sorry.”

Richie slung an arm around Stan’s shoulder as well as Mike’s in the process. “Don’ worry about it, Stanny, my man. We don’t want your stinkin’ trash.”

Stan hits in arm good-naturedly. “Beep-beep, Richie.”

The gang broke up again, before Andrea called them to dinner and they all got up, slowly, talking amongst themselves about tests and dates and the school play, and didn’t Richie get a lead in that? Homework was quickly forgotten, though, when they got to the table and Richie’s eyes fell on the plates of potato latkes before them.

“Oh, dear, gawd, someone squashed a bug and it’s on my plate!” Richie squawked, earning another slap from Stan.

“They’re potato pancakes, you klutz,” Stan chastised, taking a seat next to Bill. “Don’t be rude. They’re good.”

And good they were. They were so incredibly salty and well fried that no one could have denied that this Jewish staple, at least, was not one to scoff at. The applesauce was cinnamony and the sour cream crisp, although everyone made faces at Richie for putting so much on his. Richie had a ball mixing them together and they all moaned when he dropped the cream into the applesauce,, but he only cackled and told them to grow a pair. Beverly made a sound of delight upon her first bite and shook a surprised Ben’s shoulder frantically.

“Oh my god, Ben, these are amazing! Try them!”

Ben complied and he did, indeed like them, saying kindly, “you know, Stan, I think this is the present we needed. Your mamma’s cooking, I mean.”

Stan smiled and thanked him and appreciated Ben’s unabashed sweetness even more than usual. He was beginning to feel run down from his long day at school and Richie’s antics and now all six of his friends over. He was an introverted person, after all, and he would need to recharge soon. He’d hate to be disappointing, but-

Mike stretched, yawning. “Well it’s been fun, but I’d better get home, Stan.” He stood up, smiling graciously at Stan before tapping Richie’s shoulder. “Let’s go, Rich. Night, Stan!” He trotted out the door with Richie at his heels and Stan waved.

“Night, Mike.” He felt himself become more grateful for his empathetic friend by the second.

Ben stood up as well, with Beverly on his arm. He looked absolutely pink. “Us too. I’m driving Bev home.” Stan rose to meet him and gave them both hugs before they headed out too.

Soon the sound of the two cars leaving were gone and Bill and Stan were the only kids left at the table. Stan looked nervously at him. He could hear his parents talking quietly in the kitchen, but he also knew that they would be coming in soon, and he didn’t want to have to deal with them right now. Not while Bill was here, looking so handsome and content, leaned back in his chair with his eyes slitted.

“You tired?” Came Stan’s quiet question, and Bill smiled lazily at the low-hanging chandelier.

“A l-little. Can we s-s-sit on the couch?”

“Sure.”

Stan pushed his chair in carefully, cringing at the noise it made as it scraped hardwood in the echoing quiet of his house. He padded after Bill to the loveseat (how ironic, he thought absently) and sat down primly next to his much more comfortable counterpart.

He looked at Bill, saw Bill was looking back, and glanced away, his cheeks coloring under Bill’s green gaze. “Thanks for the book, Bill.”

“Sh-Sure thing, Stan.” Bill looked a little red too, come to think of it. He said, much quieter, but in a way that said he was hoping Stan wouldn’t think he was dumb: “Wuh-hanna show m-me? Show me s-some, I mean.”

Stan nodded eagerly, scooting much closer to Bill than he honestly needed to and opening the book between their thighs. “For sure. Okay, so first, this one’s a cowbird, and it’s-” Stan’s long, thin finger curled away from it’s spot on the page as Bill Denbrough quickly leaned over and pressed a kiss onto his lips, barely missing and hitting his cupid’s bow and nose. He tried again, getting it right this time, and smiled into it. The kiss was chaste, just a short one, but Stan could feel himself melting into it.

“Ooh-oops. Missed.” Bill said, smirking apologetically.

Stan was bright pink by now, from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head. “Y-yeah. Oops.”

Bill looked accusingly at the embarrassed boy. “H-hey. I’m the o-one who stuh-stuh-stutters.” He put an arm around Stan’s shoulder and drew him in again, putting his chin on Stan’s head. “H-happy Hanukkah, Stuh-Stan.”

“Yeah,” Stan said faintly. “Happy Hanukkah to you too, Bill.”

It was December 9, 1961, and, in one lone house in all of Derry, Maine, it was the seventh day of Hanukkah.

[isthatyoularry]

11 Fics I read Nov - Dec 2016

love is divine by stylinsoncity

Being a witch doesn't help when it comes to unrequited love. (Harry is a witch, unrequited love, lawyer!louis)

Because You Saw Me When I Was Invisible by supernope

A (not so) loosely-based Princess Diaries AU, in which Harry finds out he's the heir to the throne of a country he's never even heard of.

Taste of a Poison Paradise by objectlesson

Louis notices Harry's mouth right away.

hope your heart is strong enough by suspendrs

Prompt: Set in the US, Harry spends Thanksgiving with Louis' family, or vice versa. Chaos ensues.

Don't Look Down by zarah5

AU. In which Louis is a solicitor at one of London’s most prestigious law firms and Harry happens to apply for the position as his trainee. And everyone else is around, too.

True Love's Gold by alivingfire

Gemma starts responding to every single one of Harry’s texts—regardless of subject—with i don’t care, talk to louis. Liam lets Harry complain to him for hours on Skype, pretending he’s not doing other things while Harry whines about his problems. Niall thinks the whole thing is hilarious, texting Harry links to articles titled So, you want your man to propose? and 15 ways to get him ready for the aisle! and follows each of these up with page upon page of laughing emojis. Harry tries everything, literally everything he can think of short of grabbing Louis by tattooed forearm and yelling, “PROPOSE TO ME BEFORE I COMBUST.”

Or, it takes a village to arrange a proposal, but that doesn't mean it's going to go as planned.

Baby, it's cold outside by Conscious_ramblings

On the first of December Harry finds a Starbucks near his new flat. The barista is rude, snarky, sarcastic, beautiful, curvy, blue eyed and sharp as a tack. After Harry’s insulted for his coffee choice he should really find a new route to work, maybe with a nice Costa or a Pret. Instead, he takes it as a personal challenge to impress the boy behind the counter. How many coffees will he have to drink before he succeeds?

aka the advent christmassy coffee shop AU no one asked for

Nothin' I Would Rather Do by lululawrence

The one where Anne is determined to set Louis up with her son, but he's perfectly happy with the random sexting "relationship" he has running with the random he met at a bar several months back.

Amazing Sin by thecheshirepussycat

Gears started turning in Louis’ head. Purely mischievous gears that had Louis formulating a revenge plan against Taylor. He’d had enough of sitting around and taking it. If she was going to call him a whore, then fine, he’ll act like one for real. “I’m going to say something, and as my friends you are obligated to love me anyway.”

“This can’t be good,” Niall said, Zayn just groaned.

“So I know we have this strict ‘no lashing back at Taylor’ rule with me, but what if I can get press revenge a different way?” Louis asked. He wasn’t expecting an answer, because they knew by now to just go with it. “What if I stole her boyfriend?”

Or, the story of Louis ‘Steal Your Man’ Tomlinson.

Adore You by isthatyoularry

“We invited our new acquaintances from uptown. You’ve simply got to meet their oldest son!” said his mother with a flourish, and suddenly it became abundantly clear as to why his parents had so adamantly demanded he join them in Deansville for the entirety of the summer.

Against his wishes, Harry spends the holidays at his family’s summer estate, and is reluctantly pulled into a courtship he didn’t ask for. Harry doesn’t want to get married, but Louis does. They don’t fit, but then again they really, really do. Vaguely set in the 1920’s. Headpieces, jazz, fashionable canes, and flapper dresses, and that.

You Never Had a Camera in My Head by sittingonacloud

“He was even more stunning in this afternoon light, long hair framing his face, forrest-green eyes flickering over him with an interest that made Louis’ throat tight. If he was already developing some kind of crush on Harry, he knew he was in strife. If it’s not in the script, it simply can’t be.”

Harry is the star of a reality show - only, he doesn’t know it. Louis is an actor who needs a job. Maybe their love is the most real thing to ever happen in the front of the cameras. 

(This fic has been taken off ao3. Thank you to @silentlarryshipper who so kindly sent it to me. If you want to read it, I’ll send it along.)