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s1ater · 4 years ago

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highschool rivals, part one. eli moskowitz x reader

summary 📣: in which reader believes hawk is fucking with her when saying he does karate, but he won’t prove otherwise, no matter how much she begs.

warning/s 🚫: swearing, UNEDITED, MAJOR CRINGE

slater’s note 🗯: au where robby and miguel and hawk are all friends. this is kind of a crack fic because reader really just wants to get punched in the face and it doesn’t make sense

part one, part two

hawk is a pussy.

that’s all you could think as you walked down the west valley high school halls, searching.

for what? hawk.

where? you didn’t know.

you didn’t even go to the high school but rather the private one on the richer side of LA, east high private school for exceptional girls. you had your school uniform still on, the blue plaid skirt they made you wear swished around your waist as you marched down the blue tiled halls.

the idea of finding hawk seemed to be a lot easier in your head then when it was put into motion, it was like you had completely dismissed the fact that you had never been in west valley high, and you had only met this boy two weeks ago.

you had been parked up on the north carige hills, looking over the city lights with your friends when a silver beamer with tinted windows pulled up and parked right next to you, three boys and their siloettes inhabiting the inside of the new looking car.

it wasn’t long till they rolled down the passenger side window causing a chain reaction of you and your friend who sat in the backseat to do the same.

it revealed a teenaged boy with spiky red hair and a loud looking smirk on his face, an angry red scar that resembled lightning struck up the tip of his top lip.

“how’re we doing this evening, ladies?”

“oh dear god,” your friend harper mumbled under her breath from the passenger seat, the only one without her window down.

you chuckled lightly, glancing at the already annoyed brunette, before drawing your attention back to the boy and his friends.

“fine,” you nodded in a more upbeat tone then your friend, “and you?”

“good,” he nodded his head before looking between his friends, “say, you up for some car hoping?”

the answer was obviously yes and as soon as it was offered, mia, your other friend, practically hoped out of the backseat and into their own.

“depends,” harper shouted over your shoulder before anyone made a move, “how much weed do you got in that nice car of yours?”

he rolled his eyes, looking back to the boy in the drivers seat, a boy with tan skin and hair gelled up like all teen boys. he was smiling, and then shrugged when the boy with the mohawk looked to him.

“just get in.”

the night felt like a fever dream. immediately after your exited your own car, locking the door, you were shoved into the lap of the mohawk boy, not literally but it all felt quick enough to be a shove in the situation.

there had seemed to be no space in the back, another boy and your two friends already seated and buckled.

harper smiled up at you innocently after rolling down the window, “oh no, whatever will we do?”

“you can sit on my lap, princess.”

you rolled your eyes, thinking about if you had never gotten into that car or sat on mohawk boys lap, you wouldn’t be in the stupid situation you were in now. and it wasn’t really a situation, but more of a problem.

the sound of your ringtone echoed from the inside of your skirt pocket, you grasped the rectangle shaped devise before sighing, seeing the contact name ‘mia’.

“hello?”

“are you actually here?”

you exhaled while pinching the bridge of your nose, “yes.”

“no way, y/n, you’re fucking crazy.”

mia went to west valley high unlike you and harper, she was considered ‘the public school trash’ of your friend group, a long going joke ever since freshman year for the three of you.

she had never met hawk or miguel or robby, the boys you had acquainted in the silver beamer. which wouldn’t make sense until you actually got to meet her and how antisocial she was until she was around you and harper.

she was ditsy, clumsy, but could never put herself in very confrontational situations unless you or harper were there.

“he’s a pussy, mia.”

“so you just showed up?” she cried as you nodded even though she couldn’t see you, her own head shaking back and forth in disbelief at how impulsive you could be with your decisions, “and now you’re going to kick his ass... just because he wouldn’t kick yours?”

“c’mon mia, there is no way this boy actually knows karate, and if he did, why wouldn’t he at least try me?”

“y/n, you’re crazy!” she yelled in your ear but then it’s real silent causing you to frown, narrowing your brows.

“mia, he’s a pussy.”

“y/n, you’re crazy,” she repeated, but this time in a whisper, “and you’re also a female... who he made out with.”

your cheeks redden and you pressed your phone closer to the side of your face out of consciousness. it made you roll your eyes at how easily self conscious and embarrassed you got just at the thought of him and his body pressed against yours.

“female, mia, female. it’s 2021, how sexist could he be?” you said after a long pause, completely skipping over the part of ‘who he made out with’.

“where are you-“ the sound of the bell made her stop mid sentence, her eyes tracing the clock, “wait, y/n, wait for me before you make anymore crazy decisions.”

you rolled your eyes, hanging up the phone without any hesitation.

people begun to fill the hallway, squishing you tighter and tighter until you felt like you were in an impact box.

and even in that tight impact box, you could make out hawk’s stupid red mohawk bouncing through the air as he walked the opposite way you did, completely oblivious to the path he was about to cross, and the large storm heading his way.

you grabbed onto his arm, yanking him into the flow of your river, surprising him as well as miguel, who was previously by hawk’s side... until he wasn’t. his head stuck out from the opposite side of the hall, shock and confusion written in his face as he kept walking, there would be no stopping in a high school hallway.

“what the fuck man- y/n?” he looked like he was about to swing and you almost wished he did, but he recognized you way too fast, “what’re you doing here, princess?”

“don’t ‘princess’ me,” you taunted, “punch me in the face.”

“what?”

“punch me in the face.”

“y/n, we’ve been over this,” he rolled his eyes, not even bothering to look at you, now knowing how ridiculous the conversation you were about to have would be.

“yeah a week ago,” you said, falling into step with him, and he looks over to you with a look of unbelievability, scoffing before looking away from you again.

“what?”

“you’re fucking crazy.”

“you’re the one lying about doing karate,” you say, looking up to him causing him to scoff again.

“why would i lie about that?”

“you tell me mohawk boy.”

“shut up, i’m not punching you in the face.”

“who even does karate anymore anyways?” you mumbled more to yourself then him as the two of you continued to hustle down the hallway.

“shut up, babe,” he mumble right back, “you’re just mad i won’t touch you.”

“shut up, you couldn’t get enough of me last week,” you shot back, almost wanting to look at him and glare, but you kept looking forward, keeping your composure.

“please, you were the one-“

“y/n!”

before hawk could finish his sentence, mia appeared from around the corner, her hands out lifted in the air as if to question why you were actually standing five feet away from her.

you rolled your eyes while hawk raised his brows in question.

“you’re actually crazy!”

“that’s what i’m saying.”

“y/n, i thought i saw your face,” miguel rounded the corner out of no where, his hands stuffed in his pockets while a small smile was printed on his face.

you look to all three of the teenagers that stood before you, your mind whirling around as you tried to comprehend the words that came spitting from their mouths.

“slow down,” you raised your both your hands, giving each of them pointed looks, “one, i’m not crazy, two, you’re the one crazy because you’re most definitely lying about doing karate, and three,” your face softened as you turned to miguel, giving him a smile, “hi miguel.”

he smiled back before laughing, his chest vibrating up and down, looking to hawk, “yeah, hawk, why you gotta lie like that?”

“shut up.”

“just punch me in the face.”

“no,” he practically yelled, glaring at you, “shut up.”

“why not?”

“because it’s the stupidest thing i’ve ever heard and if you don’t want to believe me, you don’t have to,” he rolled his eyes, waving you off, starting to walk down the hall again, only this time with miguel.

you could tell that he was increasingly getting annoyed, which could only be good for you. maybe he’d finally cave.

“so, are we hanging out this weekend?” miguel called back to you and mia, trying to break the awkward silence that settled over all four of you once you guys existed the high school and out into the parking lot.

“i don’t know, i might be busy,” you lied, and they all rolled their eyes to the obvious snark in the back of your throat, key to your lying.

“c’mon princess,” hawk began to mumble, “we all know you have no other friends.”

“shut up,” you stopped along with mia for you had reached her car, “at least i don’t lie about doing karate.”

miguel laughed to himself, leaning against a neighboring car as hawk looked at you with annoyance, shaking his head.

“bye, guys,” miguel nodded off to you and mia as he began to walk to his car, cuing hawk to walk with him, no longer feeling like entertaining a conversation about lies and karate and all the teasing that flew out of your mouth.

you waved goodbye, your lips pursed as you watch the red dyed hair boy walk off, your mind swirling at all the stupid things you had said in the past ten minutes.

“oh one more thing,” you watched hawk stopped short, turning back around and jogging back to you and then closer and closer then before, his mouth touching the crest of your ear, “you look really hot in your school uniform.”

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alittlebitmaybe · 4 years ago

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tying you to me

For @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: crafting

Pairing: Geraskier, implied Geralt/Yen in one line

Rating: T for language

Warnings: None

Summary:

As they lay in bed, Jaskier snuggled and breathing humid against his chest hair, Geralt remembers the pattern from Novigrad. A sweater with stretchy ribbing around the wrists and bottom hemline, a high collar. Intricate cabling criss-crossing up the front, making the fabric thick and sturdy. The scroll is stuffed into one of his saddlebags where he’d put it after purchase when he’d cursed himself for wasting the coin.

Jaskier snuffles closer, his grip tightening around Geralt’s waist as he soaks the added warmth through his skin, and Geralt has an idea.

Or: Geralt doesn't know about the boyfriend sweater curse.

Read more on AO3 or below the cut!

Geralt learned to knit out of necessity. Winters in Kaedwen, especially up in the mountains, are bitter cold, and require not only animal skins but woolen socks, hats, scarves, blankets. They keep a flock of sheep for the very purpose. And before—when there were others, even occasionally a proper staff—it would be part of the normal workings of the castle to have several sets of hands dedicated to knitting up useful garments to keep them from freezing their balls off when the frost came.

There are fewer hands now, but also fewer balls in danger of freezing. Geralt and Vesemir handle the bulk of it, these days—Eskel with fingers too big and clumsy to be much help, Lambert too fidgety and quick to rip out all his progress into a tangled mess of wool in a fit of frustration. In the evenings they sit by the great hall fire in mostly silence and take turns spinning the roving into yarn, winding skeins, chipping away at the endless miles of plain stocking stitch, and seaming panels together. (Sometimes Geralt will embellish the design with cables, or a moss stitch—unconventional patterns he’s started to see in the larger cities, sold by the fancier merchants. He may have paid a few crowns for the scroll describing the pattern for one particular sweater he saw in a shop in Novigrad. He has not mentioned this to Vesemir.)

It may be necessity, but Geralt would choose it even if it wasn’t. These are the things his hands are good for: wielding a sword; harvesting various glands and organs; curling into fists; crushing windpipes; skinning rabbits. Bandaging Ciri’s scrapes. Bringing Yen’s pleasure. Curling around the back of Jaskier’s neck, drawing their lips together. And, when it’s over, when there’s nothing to kill and no one to care for, he can create. He can put it all to the side and count off to himself, knit-purl, knit-purl, knit-purl, knit, knit, knit, around and around, back and forth, and this thing will grow from the rhythm of his fingers, from the steady loop and pull that he’s done thousands of times, taught by some witcher instructor decades ago whose name he no longer recalls. He had bushy eyebrows that waggled as he worked. That’s all the memory that’s left of him.

Anyway, it’s easy to allow the hours to pass until Vesemir excuses himself to bed and the fire burns down and takes the light with it. One such night, just as Geralt is squinting at his work to finish this one last row, the hall door creaks open.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says sleepily, “are you still in here? ‘S late, love.”

Knit, knit, knit. “Mm,” says Geralt. “I’m here. Just finishing up.”

“I’ll wait for you, then.” Jaskier pads in his sockfeet across the stone to the armchair Geralt occupies. He sits himself on the rug with his back against Geralt’s legs, knees pulled up to his chest. “Brr. ‘S chilly, too.”

Geralt drops the needle in his right hand, maintaining tension on the working yarn with his left. He runs his free hand through Jaskier’s bed-mussed hair, brushes against his cold ear, down to the soft skin behind it. “Not wearing a coat.”

“Well I wasn’t heading outside, seemed like a—” He yawns, jaw cracking. “—a lot of trouble just to come downstairs. But I now see my mistake.”

“Always have to wear a coat at night,” Geralt says. “Or be under blankets. Or both.”

“Or acquire a personal witcher furnace, unless he’s down here ‘til gods know what hour making yet more mittens for the princess.”

Geralt looks down at the large rectangle he’s been working on. “Lap blanket,” he says. For Ciri, when she’s studying in the library. It gets drafty in there even with the fire blazing.

“For the library?” says Jaskier, tipping his head back to see Geralt. “Good thinking. She’ll love it.”

Geralt releases him and goes back to his work, but knits at most ten stitches before Jaskier shivers again, his teeth chattering before he gets himself under control. Setting the blanket aside, middle of the row be damned, he concedes, “Let’s go back to bed.”

“No, you’re—you’re not done with—” Jaskier cannot finish his sentence for the yawn that overtakes him. “M’kay. Let’s go.”

Jaskier snuffles closer, his grip tightening around Geralt’s waist as he soaks the added warmth through his skin, and Geralt has an idea.

The next evening, after dinner has been consumed and cleaned up, Vesemir and Geralt move to the fire as usual. Vesemir is working up a new hat for Lambert, who has the shortest hair among them and has one practically pasted to his head all winter long.

Geralt spares a glance to his blanket-in-progress, and then veers toward the wooden chest that stores their yarn stash. He puts aside plain ball after plain ball, until finally he admits defeat and turns to Vesemir and asks, “Do we have any dye?”

“No,” says Vesemir, not looking up. He knits with the yarn looped around the back of his neck to keep the tension, instead of around his fingers. He says it’s easier on his old joints. Geralt thinks it looks preposterous, but it gets the job done. “Not a drop. And that’s never bothered you before.”

“I’m thinking of making a gift,” says Geralt. “I think they’d prefer it to be dyed.”

“Ah, the bard. Yes. I suppose he would.”

“I want him to actually wear it.”

“Indeed.”

“He says coats are too bulky and ponderous, and they dampen his spirits.”

“Foolish boy. He’ll learn.”

“So we have no dye? Of any color?”

“None,” says Vesemir. “Though it may be that there are some old skeins in the back of the cupboard by the linens. I recall that some of our forebears had rather expensive taste, for witchers. Quite wasteful of them. If you ask me.”

Geralt murmurs his thanks, pulls on a cloak, and makes his way through the frozen corridors to the cabinet in the laundry. Along the way he passes the study, and overhears Eskel dominating Jaskier in another round of Gwent.

“Eskel, you dirty cheating bastard, there is no way you just had that card.”

“Where d’you think I kept it, bard?”

“Up your sleeve, behind your ear, under the table, I dunno—”

“Down your pants,” Lambert chimes in, and Geralt hears Ciri giggle. She’s been spending too much time with the witchers now that Yen has departed for the season. Geralt should probably intervene more often.

“—maybe you magicked me with a sign thingy so I wouldn’t notice, but I’m sure you didn’t have it in hand a turn ago, I’ll swear that on—”

“Yes, Lambert, I’ve got Gwent cards lining my codpiece, naturally, even a few stuffed between my—”

Geralt rounds the corner and their voices fade away.

As Vesemir said, there is a small box pushed all the way to the back of the cupboard in amongst the linens. He opens it without much hope, but is surprised to find it full to the brim with yarn of deep reds and blues, all of some soft texture very unlike the itchy wool they’re accustomed to. Sniffing it, he decides it is from some type of goat. He also decides, based on its lack of musty odor, that it is not nearly old enough to have belonged to one of their forebears.

Well, in exchange for the use of the yarn, he’ll allow Vesemir his secret.

He carries the whole lot back to the great hall.

“You found it,” Vesemir remarks, now nearly done with the hat.

“Right where you said,” says Geralt. “You don’t mind if I use it?”

“As much as you like,” he replies disinterestedly, “if you’ll leave me the fuck alone while you do.”

Fair enough.

Geralt selects the red—a deep burgundy that will pair with the blush on Jaskier’s cheeks after a few glasses of wine. He pulls the scroll from his trouser pocket, and begins casting on as the pattern instructs.

When he hears Jaskier’s tread in the hall, he hastily pulls the half-finished lap blanket over his new project.

“Bedtime, Witcher,” says Jaskier, peering over his shoulder. “Didn’t make much progress on that tonight, did you?”

“It’s a big blanket,” Geralt grunts. “Eskel’s been practicing sleight of hand since we were boys. Don’t play him for money.”

“I bloody knew it,” Jaskier exclaims. He wheels around and stomps back out of the hall, suitably distracted. “Eskel! You’ll never believe what Geralt’s just told me!”

The sweater is slow going, since he does have to put real work into the blanket every once in a while to keep Jaskier’s suspicions to heel.

Over the next few weeks, it becomes near an open secret in the keep what Geralt is up to. Lambert catches him cursing late one evening as he is ripping back several rows to fix a cable he’d mistakenly crossed the wrong way.

“Whazzat,” Lambert says, crunching on a mouthful of tree nuts.

“Fuck off,” Geralt says. He squints and carefully tries to secure a dropped loop back on the needle. If it ladders down, he’s done for—there’ll be no fixing it while maintaining the pattern. He’s not nearly good enough for that.

“Looks like you’re fucking it up,” Lambert chews.

“I am. That’s why I told you to fuck off.”

“Thought that’s just how you decided to greet me now. That’s what Vesemir does.” He shoves another fistful of nuts into his mouth, though Geralt isn’t sure he’s swallowed the first.

“It’s not a bad idea.”

He manages to pick up that last loop before disaster strikes, and moves the stitches around on the needles to make sure they all look right. Then he shoves the left-hand stitches all the way up to the tip so he can continue.

Lambert leans down to examine the fabric, then runs his finger down the pattern with his eyebrow raised. “This is some fancy shit, Geralt, you giant poof.”

“It’s not for me,” he says.

Lambert swallows, belches, and says, “My point exactly. ‘S for Jaskier, innit.”

Geralt doesn’t bother answering as he approaches the cable he’d made a mess of the first time around. Lambert claps him on the shoulder with the hand he’s been using as a nut-to-mouth delivery tool, which leaves salt behind on his tunic.

“That’s okay. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Thanks,” says Geralt wryly.

“Anyway, I’m outta here. This boring bullshit still gives me hives.”

He exits the hall and the door shuts heavily behind him. Geralt finishes recrossing the cable and, turning to check his pattern, finds it covered in greasy fingerprints.

Eskel, on the other hand, sits himself in Vesemir’s usual seat one night and sets to quietly whittling a whistle. After several hours, Geralt holds up the near completed front panel of his sweater and says, “Do you think Jaskier will like this?”

Eskel doesn’t even look at it. “Geralt, you could spit on a log and hand it to him and Jaskier would love it.” His knife stills. “Maybe don’t do that, though.”

To their credit, none of the other witchers say a word—possibly for lack of caring—and Geralt is able to rely on them to keep Jaskier occupied most nights while he finishes the front and back panels and seams them up.

Before he begins work on the sleeves, the pattern warns, the wearer should try on the body to ensure proper fit.

“Well, shit,” he says aloud. He can’t ask Jaskier to try it on and ruin the surprise. He holds it up against himself, trying to judge if they are similar enough size to judge whether it will fit Jaskier. Geralt, certainly, is wider in the chest and shoulders, but as long as he can get it on without stretching it too much he should be able to check the length. And, if it fits Geralt or is loose, it will certainly be too large on Jaskier.

It will have to do.

The next morning he rises early and takes the sack in which he’s been storing his project to Ciri’s bedroom. He knocks softly.

“Ciri?” he calls, mouth close to the door. “Can I use your mirror for a moment?”

“Mnnngh,” he hears. He takes this as an invitation.

The only visible part of her, when he lets himself in, is a tangle of hair escaping from under the pile of furs on the bed. He sets his sack delicately in front of the only full-length mirror in the keep and says, “Morning, Princess.”

“F’ off,” the fur pile groans. “No it’s not.”

“You really have been spending too much time with Lambert,” Geralt comments mildly as he pulls the unfinished sweater out and checks it for damage in transport, though he knows it was safe in the bag and only traveled up some stairs. “He’s a bad influence.”

“I’ve always been like this when rudely awakened at the crack of dawn,” Ciri says, muffled. “Don’t think any of you are special.”

“You cursed at the royal servants?”

“Quite regularly.”

Geralt shrugs the layers off his top half down to his undershirt while she continues to stretch and grumble wordlessly in the warmth of her bed. He pulls the sweater over his head; the neckline snags on his ears but otherwise he should be okay to try to get his arms in. He squeezes his right arm in and up, aiming for the proper hole—

“Geralt,” Ciri says icily, “what, by the gods, is that?”

He turns around, contorted in the confines of the too-tight sweater. She’s sitting up with her hair a wild tangle and her eyes wide in horror. “What’s what?”

“That garment!”

“It’s…a sweater? I’m making it.”

Geralt thinks he may be missing something very important.

“For yourself?”

“…No, for Jaskier. He needs another—”

“Don’t you care about the curse?”

Geralt finishes fitting himself into the sweater and tugs it down over his stomach while Ciri continues to stare at him in expectant horror. Thus no longer trapped, he decides to engage. “The what?”

Ciri slumps forward, briefly puts her face in her hands. “Good gods, Geralt, you really can’t be helped. But I also cannot allow you to give Jaskier a handmade sweater. Despite your…personal challenges”—at this, Geralt tilts his head and opens his mouth to ask exactly what the hell that means, but she barrels on—“I really have become fond of the two of you, so I cannot let you carry on with this foolish nonsense.”

Her voice goes more posh the longer speaks. Geralt thinks she will make a fine queen someday. “Ciri, I—”

“And really,” she continues, “it’s like you’re trying to sabotage a good thing. He does nothing but care for you, and this is how you repay him? Honestly. Melitele’s tits!”

“Melitele’s—? Where did you learn that one?”

“I’m hardly sheltered. And you’re one to talk, caring about my language when you’re about to lose Jaskier for good!”

“For good? Lose Jask—okay, Ciri.” He sits down at the foot of her bed, probably looking downright silly confined to a sleeveless sweater that is at least one size too small for him. He can feel it constricting the rise and fall of his chest and stretching tight in his armpits. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. What curse?”

The expression she aims at him is sharper than at least four of the blades in the armory. “The sweater curse, Geralt. If one makes a sweater for a person one is interested in romantically, that person leaves within a fortnight. Everyone knows this.”

“Oh, of course. How stupid of me,” Geralt says.

Ciri raises an eyebrow that says Yes, obviously.

“So you’re telling me that if I finish this sweater and give it to Jaskier, he will suddenly no longer be able to stand the sight of me and will stomp off on down the mountain, even with the good foot of snow and ice blocking the path.”

She sniffs. “Indubitably.”

“Hmm,” says Geralt. “I think I’ll take my chances.” He claps his hands on his knees as he stands and moves back to the mirror to inspect the sizing more closely. The armholes are definitely a bit small—he’ll have to let out the seam to increase the circumference—but the rest, if he tries to overlay Jaskier’s body onto his own, seems like it should be about right.

Ciri leaves the bed with a fur wrapped around her as a cape and comes to his side. “You’re impossible,” she declares, though the royal snootiness is diminished somewhat by her morning breath and tangled hair. Then she reaches out and touches the textured pattern between the cable running up the front. “Though, you know, it is quite beautiful, if horribly misguided.”

He grins indulgently at her. “Thank you, Princess.”

“Have you heard of the sweater curse?”

Vesemir snorts. “Poppycock. Who told you about that old superstition?”

“Just came across it.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Vesemir looks at Geralt over his spectacles. “I hope that it’s not bothering you.”

“No,” says Geralt. “Of course not.”

He has fuck-all in his hand of cards, but he stares down at them like they might contain the secrets of the Continent.

“It’s your turn, Geralt,” Eskel says.

“I know,” he replies, absently rearranging the cards.

“So…you gonna play or pass?” Lambert asks. He digs his hand into the bowl of nuts at his elbow.

“Not sure.”

“Is something on your mind?” Eskel, again.

“No. Well…do either of you believe in the sweater curse?”

They both look at him blankly.

“Nuh uh,” says Lambert with his mouth full.

Geralt says, “Pass.”

He speaks clearly into the xenovox. “Yen? Are you there?”

“Geralt?” comes the reply, as if she were beside him in the room. “Is Ciri all right?”

“We’re all fine. It’s good to hear from you, too.”

“If there’s no trouble, then make it quick.”

Now he hesitates, but he chokes the question out anyway. “Do you know about the sweater curse?”

There is silence.

“Yen?”

“For the love of the gods, Geralt, please don’t bother me with frivolous garbage. I’m much too busy. Is that all?”

“Yes, that’s all,” Geralt says, suitably shamed.

The finished, washed, and blocked sweater rests folded at the bottom of his wardrobe for more than a week before he works up the nerve to bring it down to dinner with him in his knitting sack.

Even with the flaws that Geralt, as the creator, inevitably notices—a few loose stitches three quarters down the back panel, the right sleeve is slightly longer than the left—he has to admit that it turned out well. He could fetch a pretty penny for it in a large city. Silky soft, thick, and vivid burgundy, it would be a stand-out piece among any merchant’s wares even without the detailing that stretches collar to hem and even down the outside of the arms.

Knitting it was a nightmare. He will never do anything like it ever again, so Jaskier had better appreciate this one.

Still, every time he resolves to finally gift it, Ciri’s words echo in the back of his mind. You’re about to lose Jaskier for good.

On the ninth day, he shushes that voice, takes the sack, and marches straight into the hall for dinner. After all, if Yen and Vesemir aren’t worried, then he shouldn’t be either.

Everyone but Jaskier is there already. Eskel looks up from pouring ale into each mug and says, “Hullo, Geralt. What do you have there?” and Lambert says, “Ooh, didja finish it?” and Vesemir digs wordlessly into his mutton.

Ciri’s eyes zero in on the sack.

“Hello,” says Geralt. “Is Jaskier still washing up?”

“Yeah,” says Lambert. “He fell in a pile of snow.”

“Lambert pushed him into a pile of snow,” Eskel amends.

Geralt glares at the accused, setting the sack on the bench at his usual spot.

“He asked for it. Bloody said ‘Lambert, throw me into that snow over there!’ didn’t he?”

“Since you were alone with him at the time, I don’t think I can confirm or deny—”

“Geralt,” Ciri interrupts, “tell me you’re not still planning what you said.”

“I am,” he tells her.

“You were standing not ten feet away.”

“My back was turned—”

“You’re a godsdamned witcher! Or have you gone deaf?”

“Even after what I told you! I thought you were going to think about it!” Ciri pushes back from the table. “I forbid you from giving that to him.”

Geralt snorts. “Or what, Princess? Look, I don’t think Jaskier is planning to leave—”

“Of course he’s not planning to, the curse will make him! Why are you tempting destiny this way?”

“I’m just saying, Lambert, that it wouldn’t be out of your character to shove an unsuspecting bard into a snowbank.”

“Oh, and hustling him at Gwent wasn’t out of your character, so maybe you’re actually the one who shoved him. Thought about that one, Eskel?”

Geralt says, “If he tries to leave, I’ll tie him to the bed until the urge passes.”

She wrinkles her nose in disgust, but then moves past that comment. “At least let me give it to him. I’ll say I brought it from Cintra, or bought it on the way here.”

“And let my hard work go unacknowledged? I don’t think so. And why would you have bought a man’s sweater?”

Among the arguments, no one notices Jaskier enter the hall and come up behind Vesemir, wide eyed. “What did I miss?” he stage whispers.

“Just open your present, bard,” Vesemir mutters, gesturing to the sack at Geralt’s knee.

“Ooh, a present? For little old me?”

He picks up the sack and tests the weight curiously, before opening it and drawing out the most marvelous sweater he has ever seen.

“Jaskier, no!” Ciri cries, and everyone else falls quiet.

“What, why?” he says, looking between Ciri’s stricken face and the furrow between Geralt’s brows. “What is this?”

“It’s for you,” Geralt murmurs. “I made it.”

“You made it?” he repeats dumbly.

“Yes. For you. Because you were…cold.”

“Because I was cold?”

Geralt gently takes it from him and holds it up so he can see the full design. “That night, you came in when I was knitting, and you were cold. I wanted to make you something warm to wear that you would like.”

Jaskier squishes the soft fabric between his thumb and forefinger.

“Do you,” says Geralt, “like it?”

“It’s stunning,” Jaskier breathes. Geralt may as well have hit him over the head with a hammer.

“I cannot believe you, Geralt of Rivia,” Ciri cuts in. “You never listen to anyone. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” With that, she turns on her heel and leaves the hall.

Geralt grimaces. “Do you, er, have any particular desire to leave me?”

“Leave you? Why would I—Geralt, is this a breakup gift? Is it pity?” He panics, pushing the sweater back into Geralt’s hands. “I don’t want your gorgeous pity breakup sweater, Geralt. I’ve played that game before.”

Geralt steadies him, as ever. “No, it’s—Ciri thinks there’s a curse, or something. And that if I made you a sweater, you would leave.”

“Oh,” says Jaskier. “Well, I assure you I will not. And in that case I do want the sweater.” He shucks off his coat right there at the table and pulls the sweater on over his tunic. “There!” He spreads his hands wide. “How does it look?”

The smile Geralt gives him is answer enough. “Perfect,” he says. “You look perfect.”

“Not bad, bard,” Eskel says.

Lambert shoots him a thumbs up. Vesemir does not appear to be paying attention.

Jaskier leans in and kisses Geralt on the lips. “Thank you very much,” he whispers. “I adore it and promise to thank you more appropriately later tonight. For now, shall I go after Ciri?”

“That may be best,” Geralt says. “I don’t think she likes me much right now.”

“My pleasure. Say,” he says louder, “while I’m gone, don’t let my food get cold.” He opens the door and barely feels the usual chill of the drafty hallways at all. Over his shoulder, he adds, “You can get Lambert to tell you all how he threw me in a snow pile today! It was great fun!”

“I told you—” he hears, but then the door closes behind him.

#my fic #geraskier #the witcher #geralt x jaskier #geraskier fic #someone pls teach me to write drabbles i'm dying

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purble-turble · 4 years ago

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Hey, do you have any advice for how to draw like you? I like your style and I want to know if you have any tips.

Thank you!! I’m glad you like my style, that’s really nice to hear :D I feel like I’m not super qualified to give advice but I will do my best!

Of course the first thing I have to say is I’m a 29 year old person who has been drawing and writing in various fandoms for two decades and if that’s taught me anything it’s that you’ve gotta be patient with yourself and your art. If you don’t think you are where you want to be yet, be kind to yourself and give yourself time to grow and get there. Practice practice practice is how you get better so if you’re enjoying yourself then don’t give up because you’re not quite there yet.

Anyway, that aside, let me give you some quick tips that might actually help you ;P

First of all, I always start my drawing off with a skeleton of the pose I want to draw... excuse the drawings I’m going to use I did them very fast and they’re not super accurate or fancy~

Here’s a really simple pose to show you the concept. For the head I always start with a circle, even if the head shape is actually a rectangle or some other shape, the circle gives me a point to start and establishes the size of the drawing I’m going to be making. Also notice the shape I use for the torso and shoulders: a rectangle with a curved arch denoting where the rib cage ends. That helps me get a sense of what direction the body is facing, so if this pose were from behind, I would not include that arch to remind myself they are facing the other way. Also note that the torso is not just a flat rectangle. I’ve included another dimension to it where the side of the body begins. Having your skeleton be more three dimensional will help you when you’re doing a more dynamic pose and trying to figure out what goes where.. here, I’ll scrap this one and do a more dynamic pose so you can see what I mean:

On this one you can see more of the dimensions of the torso. The flat top of the rectangle means that more of the tops of the shoulders are showing in this post. Same goes for the triangle shape I use for the pelvis- you don’t see the top of the pelvis on a person because it’s inside their body, but it helps me with my posing of the character to draw the triangle as if it has a three dimensional shape so I know that the character’s hips are bent away from me. Also on this skeleton I took it a step further and drew the silouhette. This I do just by doing quick rectangle and cylinder shapes over the arms and legs and torso to get an idea of where the outline is going to be.

Now, once you’ve got your rough outline, it’s time for details.. in my case I am using a digital medium so I can set the opacity of the sketch layer to very low and draw over it on a new layer so it looks a bit cleaner, like so:

There he is; the boy is starting to take shape! In this case, I’ve drawn MK so many times now that this took me like 45 seconds to do. That’s the thing though, it’s only because I’ve done it so much that it came easily. When I’m drawing a new character it takes me way longer to get the hang of them. My first drawings of Macaque or Red Son were not super great. It just takes time and practice.

Anyway, this more dynamic pose is actually more complex and clean than my usual method because I was trying to demonstrate the skeleton method.. what my first rough draft usually looks like is more like this:

So that’s the most important thing I’ve learned about drawing.. here are a few more tips in bullet form that I think are also important:

-When you’re drawing an expression make the face. Yeah it’s weird if you’re in front of people but I swear to god it helps. And if you’re having a lot of trouble with it, go find a mirror and look at yourself making the face.

-TRACE THINGS. No, I don’t mean try to pass off traced drawings as your own. I mean in order to practice, find a drawing or screenshot of a character that you want to be able to emulate and draw over it. Try to recreate the skeleton I showed you above over other drawings to get a hang of it, especially if they’re dynamic poses or foreshortened limbs or something. Also, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it as long as you’re not trying to pass it off as your own art. It’s FINE I promise you. It will help your brain with the muscle memory of drawing and make you better.

-Use lots and lots of references when you draw! I can’t stress this one enough. I’ll have tabs and tabs full of references for poses or the way clothing flows or even just a cool expression I want to be able to draw. It’s the same as I said above with tracing, as long as you’re not doing a 1-1 copy and trying to pass it off as your own, it’s FINE. Don’t be afraid of using reference. It’s not cheating like some people seem to think.. you’d be surprised how often I’ve run into that attitude and it’s stupid. Just look at references you guys.

-Anatomy tips!!

The ear isn’t as far back as you probably think- it’s smack dab in the middle of the head when you’re looking at it from the side.’

The little T used in my above drawings to divide the face is a life saver. Use it. And also note, although legos don’t have ears, if they did I would have drawn MK’s too low on that skeleton. The ears are always level with the eyes.. perspective can shift this depending on if you’re looking up or down at a face, but as a general rule wherever the eye line is on the T for the face, if that line is extended around the head that will give you the location of the ears too.

Speaking of eyes.. if you’re going to make a mistake, don’t make it in the eyes. That was a saying back in art school. Everyone always looks at the eyes first, so practice practice practice drawing good eyes.

Do that thing where you flip the canvas to see mistakes. It actually works, especially if you’re looking to correct eye positions on the face.

If you’re drawing a character who is standing still and is not off balance, their neck should be aligned with where the pressure is on their feet. If the pressure is equal between their legs, their neck should be positioned in the middle of the legs. If they’re leaning on one foot, the neck should be aligned with that foot.

.....I’m sure there are other things I could say, but I’ve run out of ideas :U hopefully this helped or was at least fun to read! If you have any specific questions about drawing or art I’m happy to answer. This was really fun to do and I hope you all continue making art ❤️

#ask #blog #tutorial #art tutorial #art tips

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gotham-ruaidh · 5 years ago

Text

Pas De Deux - A Moodboard (Three Part) One-Shot (Part Three)

@iamnottrisha - thanks for organizing!

@taamagams - thanks for creating this beautiful moodboard!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

They split the bill for dinner, and then Claire let Jamie take her hand and lead her across the street. Lights in the fountain sparked reflections across all three buildings at Lincoln Center.

“I’ve never been here before,” she breathed.

Jamie pulled her tightly against his side, watching people bustle about the complex. “I’m glad to give this to you,” he whispered, kissing her temple.

Something surged within her – but Jamie was already tugging at her hand, striding toward the building at the back of the square.

“Sometimes I’m sorry that I didn’t see the original Metropolitan Opera House, before this complex was built by Robert Moses in the 60s.” Jamie’s voice was strong, quiet, as they approached the theater. “But I do have to say – there’s something very special about this place.”

Once inside, he went directly to the Will Call.

“Two for tonight’s performance, please. Last name is Fraser.”

And then she stared down at her ticket.

“Swan Lake,” she whispered.

“Of course. I told you it’s one of my favorites. But I didn’t tell you that my sister Jenny is dancing in it tonight.”

Stunned, Claire met his smiling eyes.

“How else do you think I could have afforded these tickets?”

Walking up the curving, red carpeted staircase to their seats was like something out of a dream.

“Some people say that orchestra seating is the best,” Jamie explained as they carefully walked down the sloping aisle to their seats at the front of the balcony. “But I like sitting up here – you can see the entire stage, plus the musicians.”

Heavy gold curtains draped across the stage. Claire watched individual musicians warm up in the pit, practicing their scales, laughing with each other.

“How long has your sister been with the ballet company?”

“About ten years now – she’s worked her way up to be what they call a principal dancer. And one of only a handful of dancers in the New York City ballet who are actually from New York City. The company truly seeks the best talent from all around the world.”

Claire thumbed through her Playbill – Jamie was right. Dancers hailed from Kiev, and Buenos Aires, and Paris, and Moscow, and Los Angeles.

“I don’t see a Fraser,” she frowned.

Jamie’s finger pointed out a smiling, dark-haired woman. “Janet Murray. She’s married to my best friend Ian – we all went to school together. She’s one of the only married dancers.”

“Is Ian a dancer as well?”

“God, no!” Jamie laughed. “He’s a police officer. Passed the sergeant’s exam earlier this year.”

Claire shook her head, then squinted at Jenny’s photograph. “I’d expected she’d be red-haired, like you.”

“She takes after Dad’s side of the family – they were all much darker in complexion. I take after Mom’s side.”

She turned the page. “Jenny is dancing Odette. Is that the main character?”

“Yes. She’s danced in this ballet many times, but only this season she’s started dancing Odette.”

Claire set down her Playbill, and took both of Jamie’s hands. “Thank you for taking me here. It’s – it’s all so much more than I ever could have expected.”

He raised one of her hands to his lips, and kissed it ever so gently. “Thank you for allowing me to take you here. It’s…I’ve never had anyone to share this with. Who would appreciate it.”

He flushed.

“Did you ever dance ballet, Jamie?”

“I tried – but I don’t have the coordination for it. I’d rather be drawing.”

“So – what do you draw?”

“Whatever I see around me. I like charcoal – it’s so simple, so freeing. Just a few strokes and life begins to take shape.”

She crossed one leg, rubbing her boot against his. “Anything in particular that you like to draw?”

“People. Faces. I drew a lot of dancers when Jenny and I were growing up – I had my Degas phase. It’s very hard to capture movement accurately.”

“Would you like to draw me?”

Quickly Jamie glanced at his watch, then fished around in his jacket pocket, producing a small rectangular metal case.

“That looks like what my uncle would put his cigarettes in.”

He lay the case on the armrest between them, and carefully flicked it open. “It used to be something like that.” He turned it around so that Claire could see inside – six neat rectangles of chalk, black and white and four shades of gray. “Now I never leave home without it.”

He flipped through his Playbill, removed the paper insert announcing the casting change for the night, and placed it, blank side up, on his knees. He turned in his seat, balancing carefully, facing her. Began to draw.

Suddenly self-conscious, Claire swallowed, feeling her cheeks flush.

“Hold still,” he whispered, eyes flicking between her face and the paper.

She did, mind racing, watching as he rotated the paper, smudged it a bit with the pads of his fingers, then smiled once it was all done.

“Here.” He held it out between them.

It was her, all right – rendered in the most delicate of lines. With just three sweeps of chalk he had captured her brow, cheeks, nose, chin – and smile.

Simple. Stunning.

She swallowed, fishing in her purse for a tissue. “Here – I didn’t see anything in that case to clean your hands with.”

Tentatively she took the drawing, studying it as he wiped his hands.

“It’s amazing how quickly you can do that.”

“It’s easy when I have a beautiful subject.”

She closed her eyes. Knowing he could see her hands shake.

“What are we doing, Jamie?”

“We’re going to watch the ballet. I’ll hold you close to me, and tell you the story, and hope against hope that you’ll continue to open your heart to me. And then when it’s done, I’ll introduce you to my sister. Maybe we’ll go for a drink. And I’ll see you back home to Adso.”

His warm, warm hand carefully rested on her knee. “I hope that one day, you’ll see this drawing and remember every moment – every second – of this night.”

She swallowed. “I can’t believe I found you.”

Her hand found his. Carefully he slipped the drawing into his Playbill, set it on the floor, and enveloped her hand in between both of his. “We found each other, Claire.”

Then a chime sounded, and the light fixtures began ascending up to the ceiling, and they settled into their seats – Jamie’s strong arm around her back, his hand safe between both of Claire’s.

He kept his promises that night.

Whispering the story unfolding on the stage:

That’s Prince Siegfried, and his overbearing mother who tells him he must choose a bride at the royal ball. He’s upset that he can’t marry for love. His buddies try to cheer him up, but it’s no use. As evening falls, Siegfried sees a flock of swans flying overhead, and suggests they go on a hunt to clear his mind.

Now here we pick up the story a bit later – and we see Siegfried lost at the lakeside. A flock of swans lands – and just as he aims his bow, one of them transforms into Odette. I can say Odette, and not Jenny, because to be honest I can’t recognize her with her hair and makeup and costume. You can see how terrified she is – but Siegfried explains that he won’t harm her. She tells him that she and the other swans are the victims of a curse from an evil sorcerer. By day they are swans, and by night, beside this enchanted lake, they regain their human form.

Odette tells him that the spell can only be broken if a man who has never loved before, swears to Odette that he will love her forever.

Then the sorcerer appears, and Siegfried wants to kill him – but Odette persuades him not to, for she fears that if the sorcerer dies, she will be cursed to live under the terrible spell forever.

Odette and Siegfried fall in love, that night by the lake – and as dawn breaks, she and her companions turn into swans again.

Now here we are the following evening at the costume ball – where Siegfried has been ordered to find a wife. Here are the girls his mother wants him to marry. And look – here is the sorcerer, in disguise, with his daughter who is disguised to resemble Odette. Siegfried gives her attention, thinking she is Odette.

And now we see Odette appear in her human form, trying desperately to warn Siegfried – but he doesn’t see her. And he proclaims to the court that he will marry the sorcerer’s daughter. But then the sorcerer shows Siegfried a magical vision of Odette – and he realizes she’s not there. He flees the castle, hurrying back to the lake to find her.

Odette is distraught. Siegfried appears and apologizes. Odette realizes she can never have the life with him that she wants, so she chooses to die. Siegfried chooses to die with her, and they leap into the lake. This breaks the sorcerer’s spell over the other swans. He dies. And in the last scene of the ballet, the swan maidens watch Siegfried and Odette ascend to heaven together.

The orchestra rose to a crashing crescendo, followed by a sliver of silence. The crowd rose to its feet with thundering applause.

Claire turned to Jamie, tears streaking down her face. She caressed his cheek and pulled him close for a long, long, sweet kiss.

“I’ve never loved before, Claire,” he rasped against her lips. “But I hope – ”

“I only want to be under your spell, Jamie,” she whispered, pulling him back for more.

#outlander #outlander fanfic #pas de deux

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calumcest · 5 years ago

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you and i were fireworks that went off too soon - chapter seven

[ao3]

did i just pull this entire chapter out of my arse tonight? maybe! not that i don’t write these chapters all in one sitting at like 9pm-1am every single time don’t get it twisted i’m not organised i am a binge-writer

i always do my long ass a/ns on ao3 i dont know why feels more REVEALING to do them here because i know people actually read them and i think probably one person on the whole planet has ever read my ao3 a/ns its a safe haven so i’m just going to say my brief thank yous: thank you to @clumsyclifford for literally everything you do always, thank you to @ashesonthefloor for listening too me bitch about this fic and having the most wonderful thoughts and ideas about it, thank you to @kaleidoscopeminds for motivating me to keep writing this fic w your kind words, thank you to @allsassnoclass for always being so wise and understanding of authors dilemmas and encouraging me w your lovely words, and thank you to my spoiler anon for being so lovely about this fic and holyverse and also for asking about another chapter because i swear to u i would have kept putting it off were it not for u. also big thank you to noel and liam gallagher for writing the SMASH hits i wrote this entire chapter to and for being [redacted] and also to richard madden because i just fancy him and feel like i should thank him for existing and allowing me to perceive him

It’s a twin room, thank God, because Luke would have rather slept in the hallway than shared a bed with Ashton for four weeks.

“I’m taking the window bed,” he announces, before Ashton has a chance to say anything, out of pure spite, because he knows Ashton likes sleeping by the window. Or knew, maybe. He’s not sure anymore.

Ashton opens and then closes his mouth, nods curtly, and puts his carry-on bag on the bed nearest the bathroom. Luke puts Clifford down on the bed first, muttering at him to stop fucking yapping (which Clifford, of course, ignores), and then drops his suitcases next to it with a sigh.

“So,” Ashton says, and his voice fills the entire room, too loud and too much, a jarring reminder that Ashton’s here, in Luke’s space, and Luke’s got no option but to live with it. “Should we go out?” Luke blinks at him.

“What?” he says.

“Well,” Ashton says, with an uncomfortable shrug. “Study doesn’t start ‘til tomorrow, and it’s only nine. Thought we could spend the day exploring?” Luke stares at him.

“Think I’d rather spend my last day of freedom alone,” he says, a little harshly. Ashton blinks, and Luke doesn’t miss the flash of hurt that crosses his face, but then he nods again.

“Have you still got my UK number?” he says, and Luke hesitates, and then nods. He’s not sure why it feels like he’s giving something away by admitting that he’d never deleted Ashton’s numbers; he’d been the one to text Ashton about the tattoos first, so clearly Ashton already knows that Luke still had his Australian number, at least. “Well. Text me if you need anything?”

“Don’t think I’ll need anything,” Luke says, and Ashton sighs, and Luke feels a little small, a little stupid, like Ashton’s a patient parent putting up with a melodramatic teenager.

“I’m going to head off, then,” Ashton says, a touch awkwardly, and Luke just nods, busying himself with getting Clifford out of his travel cage, thinking he’ll ask at reception for directions to the nearest park and let Clifford stretch his legs. He steadfastly doesn’t look at Ashton as Ashton gathers his things together, patting his coat pocket to make sure he’s got everything, and then slips out of the room, door clicking shut behind him.

As soon as Ashton’s left, Luke suddenly feels simultaneously relieved and overwhelmed. He feels like he can breathe a little easier, think a little clearer without Ashton in his personal space, making him feel like he has to be alert, on edge, but the hotel room feels strangely empty without him. Luke shakes his head, tries to get the latter thought out of his mind, focusing on Clifford’s insistent yaps to draw him back to reality and distract him.

“Alright, little man, we’re going,” Luke mutters, fumbling around in his bag for Clifford’s lead. Clifford jumps around at his feet, already panting, and Luke rolls his eyes, clips the lead on, checks he’s got his room key and phone in his pocket and heads out of the room.

He decides to take the stairs, since he doesn’t think Clifford’s got the patience to wait for the lift, which proves to be the right decision when Clifford’s straining at his lead trying to bound down the stairs, giving Luke reproachful looks whenever he tugs him back. They’re only on the second floor, so it’s not long before Luke’s back in the lobby, and Clifford finally pulls himself together and trots smartly at Luke’s heel, giving other people milling in the area imperious looks as they pass.

“Hi,” Luke says, and the receptionist smiles politely up at him. “I’d like to walk my dog. Can you tell me where the nearest park is?” She nods.

“Of course, sir,” she says, and pulls out a brochure. Luke mentally pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s going to look like a massive fucking tourist walking around with one of those. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t get mugged.

“You just need to turn left out of the hotel, take a right at the end of the road, take the second left after that, take two rights, and you’ll be at the park,” she says, trailing her pen across the streets and ending it with a flourish, circling a rectangle of green on the map and smiling at him again. Luke smiles back, having taken absolutely none of that in, thanks her, pockets the map and decides he’ll probably just walk around the nearby backstreets for a while until Clifford’s worn out to lower his chances of getting lost.

Clifford, it turns out, is surprisingly tired, having apparently spent all of his energy on pestering Luke to take him out. He only manages about half an hour of walking up and down a few streets around the hotel before he’s flagging, sitting down and staring up at Luke beseechingly when Luke tries to pull him along. A passing couple throw Luke an amused look and titter to themselves, and Luke sighs.

“C’mon, little man,” he says, tugging again. Clifford refuses to budge, just stares up at Luke with a look that Luke knows all too well. “Come on, Cliff, you’re embarrassing me. It’s two streets away. You can walk that far.” Clifford stays put, and Luke rolls his eyes, but bends down and scoops Clifford up into his arms. Clifford immediately nuzzles into Luke happily, licking at his neck, and Luke pulls back, wrinkling his nose. “Gross, Cliff, don’t do that.”

Luke pretty much speedwalks back to the hotel because little though Clifford is, he’s surprisingly heavy after a while, and Luke’s much weaker than he looks. He throws the receptionist a polite smile on his way back up to the room, unclips Clifford from the lead as soon as he’s in there and rummages around in one of his suitcases for the bed Michael had shoved on top of all of Luke’s warmest clothes. Clifford watches him patiently, and hops into the bed as soon as Luke’s unfolded it, curls up and closes his eyes. Luke can’t help but smile fondly down at him, bending down to press a kiss to the top of Clifford’s head and scratching behind his ears.

“I’m going to go out again, little man,” he tells Clifford. “I’ll be back to give you your dinner, though.” Clifford just sniffs, which Luke takes to mean ‘yeah, sure, now fuck off and let me sleep’, and Luke straightens again, throws Clifford one final fond look and heads back out of the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

He decides it’s probably fine if he wanders aimlessly, since the brochure in his pocket has the name of the hotel on it and Michael had paid for his phone plan to cover the UK for six weeks so he can look it up when he inevitably gets lost. Having spent half an hour in the streets surrounding the hotel already, he decides to get on the tube and head somewhere new, picking a stop name he recognises - Leicester Square sounds vaguely familiar.

Leicester Square, it turns out, sounds familiar because it’s a tourist hotspot. Luke’s ducking and weaving between people, mumbling apologies as he slips through gaps that he doesn’t actually fit through and splits up groups (but seriously, he thinks, slightly irritated as he smiles politely, who the fuck walks in a row of five?). There are countless little side alleys and back roads leading off the main street, but even those are difficult to walk through, filled with the native Londoners who know their way through the labyrinth of twisting streets and know better than to be anywhere near Leicester Square in the first place.

Eventually, half to get out of the crowds and half because he’s actually pretty hungry, Luke ducks into a Costa and buys himself a ham and cheese toastie, balking at the price when the cashier rings it up. Five fucking pounds, what’s that, ten dollars? For one sandwich? Fucking hell. He’s definitely going to be demanding those reimbursements from the university.

He’s waiting for his sandwich to come out of the toaster, only two baristas serving a queue of at least twenty, when someone taps him on the shoulder a little tentatively, making him jump. He whips around, wondering whether he’s in the way or something, and comes face to face with-

Ashton.

“Are you serious?” he demands, before he can think about it. Ashton shrugs, and looks a little uncomfortable. “Are you following me?”

“I was already here,” Ashton says. “I’ve got a table.” He waves his hand in the directions of an empty table in the far corner, and Luke can see Ashton’s coat bunched up on one of the chairs.

“Oh,” Luke says. Ashton gives him a look, simultaneously sad and calculating, and for a brief moment, Luke thinks fuck, his eyes are pretty. Jesus Christ. Maybe he should have stayed at the hotel and napped.

“D’you want to sit with me?” Ashton says. Luke hesitates - not particularly , is the first petulant thought to cross his mind, before his rational side kicks in and tells him sleepily that he won’t find a seat anywhere else - and then nods.

“Ham and cheese toastie?” the barista calls, and Luke steps forwards, takes it from her hand and heads wordlessly in the direction of Ashton’s table, Ashton in tow.

“Sorry,” Ashton says, when Luke picks up Ashton’s coat off the seat and holds it out for him. He takes it from Luke and his finger brushes against Luke’s, and something like liquid gold rushes through Luke, making him giddy from head to toe. It’s the sleeplessness, he tells himself, averting his gaze and snatching his hand away. God knows he’s felt even more unexplainable things on the same amount of sleep.

“‘S alright,” Luke says, sitting down to avoid thinking about the warmth of Ashton’s finger brushing against his own and the way his finger is still burning from the contact. “You didn’t know I was going to be here.” Ashton hesitates, and then busies himself with tucking his coat behind him, like he’s looking for something to do that isn’t stare across the table at Luke. Luke’s not going to complain about that, and takes a bite out of the first half of the toastie so he won’t have to say anything else.

They sit in silence for a moment, Luke eating his toastie, Ashton fiddling with the bracelet on his left hand. The silence is uncomfortable, oppressive, and Luke kind of wishes he’d just sat on the fucking floor or something. Nothing makes him wish that more, though, than when Ashton opens his mouth and says: “I wondered.”

Luke swallows his last bite of toastie with a frown.

“You wondered what?” he says. Ashton shrugs, tension and discomfort visible in the movement.

“I wondered whether we’d bump into each other,” he says. Luke rolls his eyes.

“Not this again,” he mutters, but it’s more tired than anything. Ashton sighs, and drops his hands onto the table.

“Look,” he says carefully. “I don’t think us bumping into each other all the time is a coincidence.”

“Fucking hell,” Luke says, but there’s no heat behind the words. He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes and squeezes them shut. He’s too fucking tired for this.

“Luke,” Ashton says, like Luke’s being unreasonable. “We’ve lived in the same city for years-” Luke opens his mouth to interrupt, because Ashton was always away half the time when they were together, and he can’t imagine that’s changed much “-okay, on-off, because I’m in LA sometimes - but we’ve not once bumped into each other. Then we get the tattoos, and suddenly I’m seeing you every other week?”

“What’s your point?” Luke says, a little irritably. “You think this is some grand plan from the universe to make us fall back in love? What, I’m Cathy, you’re Heathcliff?” Ashton bites his lip, and Luke’s mouth twists bitterly in a humourless smile. “This isn’t fucking romantic, Ashton. You leaving me was-” he cuts himself off. He’s not quite ready to tell Ashton that , yet. “Awful,” he says, eventually. “This isn’t part of some, like, big romantic redemption arc for you. You fucked up, and you fucked me over, and we’ve just got to find some way to live with the tattoos. That’s why we’re both here, isn’t it?” Ashton’s silent for a moment, and if Luke’s not mistaken, looks a little paler than he had a minute ago, and then nods.

“Can we at least be civil?” Ashton says, and then, seeing the look on Luke’s face, adds: “We’re stuck together for four weeks, Luke. I know you don’t like me, and I’m not asking for- for friendship, or anything. I’m just asking for you to be civil with me.” Luke exhales heavily.

“Fine,” he says tiredly, before he has the chance to think too much about it. “Civil.”

“Civil,” Ashton agrees.

(Luke’s pretty sure civil doesn’t involve thinking God, I’d forgotten how long his eyelashes are, and the way you can see a hint of his dimple when he speaks, but he’s also pretty sure that’s entirely to do with the exhaustion, and nothing to do with him.)

-------

Ashton talks Luke into going down to the Houses of Parliament, with a combination of a sincere look on his face, big, serious eyes as he says look, we don’t want to risk another bumping-into-each-other tattoo, and it’ll just be civil, and the fact that Luke just doesn’t have the energy to argue. Plus, he thinks, Ashton seems to know where he’s going, and Luke had forgotten to take his charger with him so he’s kind of fucked if he gets lost.

The walk down from Costa to the Houses of Parliament is only about twenty minutes, but feels so much fucking longer, both of them all too aware of the awkward silence hanging between them, amplified by the noise of the city surrounding them. They walk through Trafalgar Square, and Ashton tells Luke something about art installations and the fourth plinth and Luke just nods along, trying his best to do this whole civil thing by quelling his instinct to snap I don’t fucking know what a plinth is and you know full fucking well I don’t care about art. Ashton seems to sense it from him anyway, though, because he falters and then says, with an uncomfortable laugh, “You probably don’t care about this anyway.”

“Not really,” Luke admits, because they’d said civil, not dishonest. Ashton smiles wryly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Sorry,” he says, and Luke just hums, and they fall back into an awkward silence.

It’s easier, Luke finds, when a man in a suit shoulders into him and keeps walking without so much as a mumbled apology and Ashton turns to him, outraged, and says Londoners really are cunts, if they interact with each other through their surroundings. Talking about people, things, even the fucking weather, adds a sheen of superficiality, a layer of removal that they can both look at and pretend there’s nothing more to it, no years of hurt and pain bubbling beneath the surface.

“How is it this sunny yet this cold?” Luke grumbles, shielding his eyes and squinting up at Big Ben.

“You should be here in April,” Ashton says, stabbing the button at the traffic light repeatedly.

“I’ve got no intentions of being here any longer than I have to be,” Luke mutters. “What are we looking at, again?”

“It’s parliament, Luke,” Ashton says, like that’s supposed to mean something to Luke.

“So?” Luke says. “We’ve got a parliament.”

“And? Have you ever seen it?” Ashton says shrewdly, and Luke scowls, biting back the scathing retort on the tip of his tongue. Civil and Ashton are two concepts that he assumes will take a while to marry in his mind.

“Whatever,” he says, stepping out into the road as the light turns green. “Just don’t get why I’m supposed to care about some random country’s government, is all.” Ashton doesn’t seem to have anything to say to that, jogging to catch up with Luke, and they walk the rest of the distance to the buildings in silence.

It’s quite imposing, Luke thinks, up close. The buildings are sort of dirty - or maybe they’re meant to look like that - and incredibly intricate, bordering on fussy. It towers over them, looking more like a palace than a place of governance, Big Ben casting a long shadow across the road. He’s not sure he’d want to be governed from this place.

“I don’t like it,” he says.

“Really?” Ashton says, squinting up at the buildings. “I think it’s kind of pretty.” You would, Luke thinks darkly. Old, ornate and overcomplicated? That’s exactly the kind of thing Ashton would get excited about and find unwarranted symbolism in.

“Yeah, well,” Luke says instead, because he’s pretty sure that thought doesn’t count as civil. “Think it’s just a bit too elaborate.”

“It’s Gothic Revival,” Ashton says, like Luke’s supposed to have a single fucking clue what that means. Actually, Luke thinks bitterly, he’s probably fully aware that Luke doesn’t have any idea what that means, and is hoping Luke will take the bait and ask so Ashton can demonstrate his massive intellect, or whatever.

“Right,” Luke says, a little shortly. Ashton glances at him, looking a touch taken aback, but then looks back at the buildings.

“We can go somewhere else,” he says, and it’s an offer. An olive branch.

“Yeah,” Luke says, because annoyance at not knowing anything about architectural styles aside, looking at an old building is just pretty fucking boring.

“There’s an aquarium not too far away,” Ashton says. “I remember you-” he stops himself, and Luke swallows. Yeah. He loves aquariums. He loves them so much that Ashton had taken him to the Sydney Aquarium for their third anniversary, a month or two before he’d broken up with Luke.

(Two months on the dot. Not that Luke has both dates seared into his mind, or anything.)

“Yeah,” Luke says again, to fill the silence of both of them thinking back to that day. “Let’s go to the aquarium.” Ashton hesitates, and glances at Luke like he wants to say something else, a sort of semi-pained expression on his face, and then he sighs, shakes his head, and throws Luke a tight smile.

“Let’s go to the aquarium,” he agrees.

-------

The aquarium, it turns out, is a much better choice.

Despite the odd screaming child, the aquarium has a calming silence to it, an almost pensive quiet that pierces to the depths of Luke’s soul. It settles the air between him and Ashton, means they’re not silent for lack of civil things to say, but rather because they’re both caught up in the muted beauty of the ocean.

They don’t walk together, because Ashton likes to pore over every single placard and study every creature in minute detail and Luke’s drawn to the pretty, colourful fish. It’s Luke, though, who’s always the last to move on, and Ashton waits for him before they head to the next room. It’s almost nice, Luke thinks, as he heads for the door and sees Ashton slip through it when he sees Luke’s ready to move on, that they don’t have to have awkward conversations about it, that they can just understand and fall into it.

(He tries not to think about why.)

They spend hours in the aquarium, dawdling in every room, because they spent so much fucking money on it and they’re both going to be damned if they won’t milk it for all it’s worth. Luke spends an extra long time looking at the clownfish, for some reason, hypnotised by the way they can weave in and out of the anemones. There’s some kind of symbolism to be found there, he thinks, something about toxicity and safety, but he’s too tired to come up with it himself. Ashton would probably correct him if he tried, anyway.

Ashton’s particularly taken by the sharks, it turns out. He’s already staring at the huge tank in awe when Luke gets into the room, barely even blinking as his eyes follow one shark after the other. The room itself is dark, like the rest of the aquarium, but the tank’s so huge that Ashton’s bathed in light, rippling and shimmering and Luke, for the briefest of moments, feels something sharp stab at his heart, something he remembers feeling the last time he’d stood in an aquarium with Ashton. It makes his stomach clench, twist in on itself, because he knows exactly what he’d identified that feeling as before.

“They’re fucking beautiful, aren’t they?” Ashton says, interrupting Luke’s train of thought before it can take the leap off the cliff edge of panic, and Luke looks up at the sharks.

“I guess?” he says, because he doesn’t really see it.

“You used to like them,” Ashton says, sounding a little surprised.

“I used to like a lot of things,” Luke says. I used to like you, he adds spitefully in his head, and sort of hopes Ashton’s telepathic.

“Guess I’ve got to get to know you again,” Ashton says, and it’s a little wistful, a little sad. Luke doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t know what would sum up I’m not sure I want you to, I don’t think I’ll give you a chance and Good fucking luck in a civil way.

They stand there for a while, watching the sharks, and people filter in and out of the room behind them. It feels oddly hypnotic, being stood there with Ashton, the only two static parts of a moving whole. He wonders if the sharks feel the same, swimming aimlessly in their tank, watching the world pass by and powerless to move with it.

“I’m sorry,” Ashton says quietly, after at least ten minutes have passed. It’s so quiet that Luke thinks he might have misheard it - maybe it was the family behind them, or just the sound of the tank - but he can sense Ashton stiffen next to him, like he’s preparing for backlash of some sort.

“What?” Luke says, just to make sure he’s heard right.

“I’m sorry,” Ashton repeats. Luke pauses, waiting for Ashton to elaborate, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t really have to, though, Luke finds, because he knows what Ashton means.

“I know,” Luke says eventually. Ashton swallows, but says nothing, just carries on gazing at the sharks, but out of the corner of his eye Luke can see that Ashton’s gaze is fixed now, not following the sharks around.

They stand in silence until an announcement blares through the system telling them that the aquarium is closing soon, making them both jump.

“What time is it?” Luke asks, just for something to say.

“Uh,” Ashton says, pulling his phone out. “Five.” Fucking hell. It feels much later than that. “Do you want to go back to the hotel?” Ashton adds, like he knows what Luke’s thinking. Luke nods.

“I’m fucking exhausted,” he admits, as they head back up the steps away from the sharks and towards the exit.

“Me too,” Ashton says. “I wanted to stay up until at least ten, but…” he trails off, stifling a yawn, and Luke can’t help but snort. Ashton smiles, small but genuine. “Fuck off,” he says, but it’s good-natured.

“Yeah,” Luke says, as they traipse out into the little shop. “Think I’m just going to crash when we get back.” Ashton nods, pushing open the door to the exit. Luke’s expecting the glare of brilliant sunlight to hit him, squints in preparation for the onslaught of light, but it’s pitch fucking black.

“What the fuck?” he says, sounding kind of perplexed and kind of outraged.

“What?” Ashton says. Luke gestures up at the sky with one hand, and uses the other to pull his coat in closer towards himself, because fucking hell, it’s freezing.

“It’s five o’clock,” he says. Ashton looks up at the sky, and then at him, an amused expression on his face.

“Wrong hemisphere,” he says, and Luke rolls his eyes.

“Fucking miserable place,” Luke grumbles, tucking his arms in and huddling in on himself. “No wonder they invaded the rest of the fucking world, Jesus. I wouldn’t want to stay here either.” Ashton says nothing, but when they pass under a streetlight, Luke sees the corners of his lips tilted upwards, and something warm and pleasant spreads from his stomach outwards.

“D’you actually know where you’re going?” he asks, when Ashton takes a sharp right turn onto a bridge.

“Of course I know,” Ashton says, in that infuriating, I’m-Ashton-Irwin-and-I’m-an-intellectual manner that Luke had never liked. Luke rolls his eyes, not entirely playfully, and jogs to keep up with him.

Ashton leads them across the bridge, past the parliament buildings again, up a long road that a lot of people are ambling down, and then cuts into a small alley on the right.

“You definitely don’t fucking know where you’re going,” Luke says, standing at the mouth of the road, something uneasy in his stomach. “I’m not going down here.”

“I know where I’m going,” Ashton says.

“Where are you going?” Luke says sceptically.

“Charing Cross.”

“Why is that down an alleyway?”

“It’s just a shortcut.” Luke stares at him, narrowing his eyes.

“Why can’t we walk on the main road?” he asks, because it feels right. Something about the alleyway feels wrong.

“We can,” Ashton says. “But it’ll take longer.” Luke makes no indications of moving, and Ashton sighs, and it’s tinged with sadness. “Come on, Luke, are you serious? You think I’m going to, what, murder you in an alley in London?” Well. Not specifically, but something’s telling Luke not to follow Ashton into that alley. Much more than that, it’s telling him not to let Ashton into that alley, but Luke’s trying to ignore that part of it.

“I just don’t want to go that way,” Luke says stubbornly. “Let’s just go on the main road.”

“It’ll take much longer that way,” Ashton says.

“I don’t care,” Luke says. “We’re not exactly fucking wanting for time, are we?” Ashton takes a step further into the alleyway, almost out of Luke’s line of vision.

“Come on , Luke,” he says, and takes another step, and Luke’s stomach tightens uncomfortably as he does.

“Don’t,” Luke says, before he can stop himself.

“Why?” Ashton says, sounding exasperated. “Look, the longer you stand here arguing, the longer it’ll take us either way.”

“I’m taking the main road,” Luke says. “Just- let’s fucking walk on the main road.”

“You don’t even know the way,” Ashton says. “I know the way.”

“I’m not going that way.” Even in the darkness and despite the distance, Luke can see Ashton roll his eyes.

“There’s nothing fucking down here, Luke,” Ashton calls, taking another step into the alleyway, and Luke edges forwards without even thinking about it, needing to keep Ashton in sight. It’s not really working, though, because Ashton’s walking further in and Luke’s at an angle to the alleyway, and it’s making him panic a little.

“Don’t fucking go down there,” Luke says, through gritted teeth. “Ashton, seriously. Just fucking come on the main road with me.”

“What’s your problem?” Ashton says, and even though he sounds genuinely surprised and curious, it makes a flash of anger flare up in Luke.

“Can you stop being a cunt for, like, two fucking minutes?” he bites out.

“Luke, I-” Ashton cuts himself off with a shout, and the anger’s gone, replaced with pure fucking fear and panic and protect protect protect running through Luke’s mind, and Luke’s barely even aware of his surroundings as he takes off, sprinting as fast as he can to the alleyway, getting to the entrance to it just as Ashton comes running out, wild-eyed. He doesn’t stop or say anything, just grabs Luke’s hand as he passes and tugs him hard in the opposite direction. They run to the main road, Luke’s heart pounding in a way that definitely isn’t just from the exercise, and then they run up it, and they don’t stop running until they’re outside the station. Luke doesn’t even realise that they’re still holding hands until Ashton drops his hand to lean on his knees, panting, hair completely windswept as it falls into his eyes.

“What the fuck was that?” Luke spits, fury beginning to set in between the racing heartbeats and gasped breaths.

“Someone fucking-” Ashton waves a hand, like it’s going to explain what ‘someone’ did. It doesn’t fucking matter, because those two words alone are enough to make Luke’s heart tighten, to make his stomach clench

“I fucking said-”

“I know, but it’s fucking five p.m., and I always go that way-”

“I told you-”

“I know, Luke,” Ashton says, breathing almost back to normal, and he straightens and gives Luke a look that looks almost sad. “Why d’you think that was?”

“Why do I- are you fucking insane? Because it’s a creepy fucking alleyway? Anyone would fucking know not to go down there!” Luke says, throwing his hands in the air.

“You were so fucking adamant,” Ashton says.

“Yeah, and if you’d fucking listened-”

“Luke,” Ashton interrupts. “I didn’t sense fucking anything.” Luke stops.

“Are you trying to say this is another fucking soulmate experience?” he says. “We don’t have three. Most people don’t even have one. ”

“No,” Ashton says. “I think it’s the same one. The first one. The protecting one.”

Oh.

It’s kind of a blur already, even though it’s only been like, three minutes, but Luke remembers the haze of protect protect protect that clouded every single other one of his thoughts, that stopped anything and everything else - including his own safety - from mattering, that made him move without even thinking, running straight fucking into the alleyway he’d been so uneasy about because nothing mattered more than Ashton.

“Fuck,” he says, and Ashton nods grimly.

“Yeah,” he says. Neither of them need to say didn’t realise it went both ways, because it’s both written clearly across their faces.

“You got this on the fucking phone?” Luke can’t help but ask.

“Yeah,” Ashton says again. Luke rakes a hand through his hair, trying to organise his thoughts. All he can really focus on is the what the fuck and Jesus Christ and fucking hell swirling around in a mess in his mind.

“Well,” he says. “Shit.” Ashton huffs out a shaky laugh, raises his eyebrows, and nods, and Luke thinks that about sums it up.

-------

They don’t talk much on the journey back to the hotel. Luke snipes at Ashton when Ashton tries to show him how to use his contactless card on the barriers, because he’d much rather use a paper ticket, thank you very fucking much, and Ashton calls Luke back when he heads down the wrong escalator. Luke asks once what their stop is and nods when Ashton answers him, and then they don’t speak again until they’re in the safety of the brightly-lit hotel lobby.

Luke’s not entirely sure how to take the silence between them in the lift up to the second floor. It still feels awkward, stilted, uncomfortable, but there’s something grander now, something bigger than the both of them that they can both feel but neither of them want to acknowledge.

Luke fusses over Clifford when they get back into the hotel room, pulls out the pack of dog food he’d brought with him because he hadn’t been sure what brands the UK would have, and Clifford munches his dinner happily while Luke carefully removes his coat and plugs his phone in to charge, not looking at Ashton. It feels overcrowded, even though the room is made for two people and certainly big enough to accommodate both of them.

He takes his time washing up Clifford’s bowl, refilling his water, but Clifford seems perfectly content to doze back off to sleep after his meal, leaving Luke with nothing to do but think about how fucking tired he actually is.

“I think I might sleep,” he says, even though he doesn’t really have to announce it to Ashton. Ashton looks up from where he is on his bed, book in his hand, and nods.

“I think I might too,” he says. “Do you want the bathroom first?” Luke blinks at him.

“Oh,” he says. “Uh. Yeah. Thanks.” Ashton nods, and turns back to his book, but when Luke turns his back to get his things out of his still-packed suitcase, he can feel Ashton’s eyes on him.

He makes quick work of putting his pyjamas on and brushing his teeth, only hesitating with his hand on the bathroom door handle to leave as he throws a quick glance at himself in the mirror, because he looks so fucking disarmed in his pyjamas, so strangely small and vulnerable. Whatever, he thinks, forcing himself to push the door open, because what the fuck else is he going to do, sleep in the bathroom?

“Bathroom’s free,” he says, because it feels like what he should say, turning his back to Ashton and making a show out of putting his clothes in his suitcase. He should probably just unpack it, he thinks - he is going to be here for four weeks, after all - but not tonight. He’s too fucking tired for that.

“Thanks,” Ashton says, and Luke hears the sound of a book closing and then feet shuffling as Ashton heads for the bathroom. He waits for the door to click shut behind him before tucking himself into bed, drawing the duvet close to his chin to try and keep the cold out. Why the fuck is it so cold in England, seriously?

Ashton doesn’t take long, or maybe Luke falls into microsleep, or something, because it feels like it’s about two seconds before he’s coming out of the bathroom, placing his clothes on the chair opposite his bed, and getting into bed. He’s got plaid pyjama bottoms and a casual t-shirt on, and he looks just as disarmed and vulnerable as Luke had in the mirror, which makes Luke feel simultaneously better and worse.

“Can I turn the light off?” Ashton asks, and Luke nods. Ashton reaches over, clicks the light switch, and they’re plunged into darkness.

“Night,” Ashton says after a moment, and there’s a shuffling sound from his bed.

“Night,” Luke says, suddenly wide awake. He rolls onto his side and stares at the wall opposite him, willing the exhaustion that he’s felt all day to return. Even if he hadn’t slept, like, three fucking hours, he should be tired; it’s the middle of the night in Sydney.

He feels the time passing, times it by Ashton’s shuffling and Clifford’s even breathing and the noises from the street outside, and he’s sure it’s been at least an hour before there’s what sounds like Ashton flopping onto his back and sighing.

“Are you awake?” he whispers. Luke debates saying nothing, but knows if he evens his breathing out now it’s going to be pretty fucking obvious he wasn’t.

“Yeah,” he says, a little reluctantly.

“I can’t sleep,” Ashton says.

“Me either.” There’s a moment of silence, and then Ashton says-

“We could push the beds together?” Luke squeezes his eyes shut, and Ashton takes the silence as hesitation. “Just for tonight. We’d sleep much better, and we probably need it for tomorrow.”

“No,” Luke says. Civil is one thing, but spending an entire night pressed up against Ashton? That’s something else entirely.

“Luke, I-”

“Ashton, I said no.” Ashton’s silent for a moment, and then sighs.

“Okay,” he says, and it sounds a little small. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to, like. Push.” Luke inhales deeply, exhales heavily, and rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

“It’s fine,” he says.

Ashton says nothing, but Luke doesn’t hear his breathing even out until Luke himself falls into an uneasy, dreamless sleep, and when he wakes up in the morning, exhausted and grumpy, Ashton’s staring up at the ceiling again (or maybe still).

taglist: @sadistmichael @callmeboatboy @clumsyclifford @angel-cal @queer-5sos @haikucal @tirednotflirting @cthofficial @tigerteeff @i-am-wierd-always

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#lashton #malum #5sos fic #5sos fanfiction #5sos fanfic #i am so exhausted i am gonna answer messages tomorrow i'm so sorry #but i hve seen and appreciate all of them and i LOVE each and every one of u #and i do not deserve any of u #u are all so lovely and sweet to me and then in return i give u This #hmm...helen is cancelled #its confirmed

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foliea · 6 years ago

Text

Guess The Band - Awsten Knight Imagine

Pairing: Awsten Knight x Reader

Word Count: 919

Warnings: None, this is a super fluffy fic. There’s not even swearing.

Author’s note: I wanted to write something and I love Awsten so I thought why not. Video mentioned is this. Enjoy. Story starts in Awsten’s pov then switches every time there is a breaker ( looks like ---- ) so it goes, Awsten, reader, Awsten

“Can you give me like a 5,4,3- and then 2,1 is silent.” The boys laughed. “Hey, what’s up. My name is Awsten, and I sing and play guitar in a band name Waterparks. And we’re playing a game... For you.”

After I was finished drawing My Chemical Romance, Geoff stood up and I took his seat. “Oh this is a good one...” I heard him mutter.

Soon after Geoff started drawing a rectangle with a crossed out O in the center. “What the... Geoff what is this?”

“Oh! I know it.” Otto chuckled from beside me.

“What? How?”

“I mean it’s pretty obvious dude.” Otto looked towards the camera. “Can I help him?”

The camera man nodded and Otto got up to help Geoff. They kept drawing random things like a roll of tape and a tombstone. “This isn’t fair, you both suck at drawing.” I pouted.

“Know you just suck at guessing.” Geoff retorted.

“Say it again and you’re out of the band.” I jokingly threatened.

“Here how about this.” Otto said as he drew a heart, then he started writing something inside it.

“Is that my name?”

“Yeah, whose else would it be?” Geoff responded to my question.

I sat in silence for a bit, trying to think of who it could be. “Oh my god. I’m an idiot... The Internet Hates Us?”

“Yes!” The boys cheered.

“Y/N’s gonna be disappointed in you. I mean it took you that long to guess her band.” Otto joked.

I smiled at the mention of my girlfriend. “Ooo are you blushing Awsten?” Geoff asked.

“No... Shut up... Geoff you’re out of the band.”

----

“Hey what’s up I’m Y/N from The Internet Hates Us, and we’re playing ‘Draw That Band’!” I smiled. “Okay let’s see.”

I looked down at the piece of paper and read what was on it, Neck Deep. I drew a squiggly line meant to represent water and a person from the neck up.

“Neck Deep?” Codi asked.

“Mhm.” I smiled sitting down.

After a few more round Katie was up to draw. She smiled mischievously as she looked at the paper. She drew what appeared to be a person in a bathing suit and some weird shapes behind it.

“Dude what the eff is that?”

“No spoilers.” Katie laughed.

Soon everyone had understood what the drawing was, well except for me. “Here try this.”

Morgan drew a heart and started writing my name in it. “I have no clue- is... Is it Parx?”

They all nodded with smiles on their faces. “That took forever.”

“Awsten took longer to guess your band when they were here.” The camera man spoke up.

“Really?”

----

I woke up to a knock on my apartment door. “Coming!”

I quickly pulled on a shirt and made my way to the door. Opening it I could see Y/N standing there. “Hey. Sorry it’s so early I just wanted to hang out since we haven’t in a few days.”

I quietly pulled her into a hug, her frame fitting perfectly into mine. “It’s fine, but now you gotta cuddle with me.” I muttered into her hair.

She let out a small giggle. “Okay, but you’re gonna have to let go so I can get to your room.”

“Nope.” And with that I picked her up, shut the door, and walked to the couch. I fell back onto it Y/N still in my arms.

“Awsten!” She squealed, shifting around to get more comfortable. “At least let me watch something since you’re falling asleep.”

I let go of her a bit so she could grab the remote. “Oh what’s this?” I hummed a bit to acknowledge I was listening. “Waterparks Guess That Band? I forgot you guys did one of these.”

My voice filled the room as I shifted a bit. “What the... Geoff what is this?” With those words the memories of what was coming next flooded my mind.

“Nope turn it off!” I jolted from my half sleep.

“What why?” Y/N said alarmed at my sudden loudness.

“Oh my god. I’m an idiot... The Internet Hates Us?” My voice rang from the TV.

“It took a heart with your name in it to guess my band?”

I looked down in shame, nodding to answer. “I’m sorry, I’m just a sucky boyfriend I guess.”

“No Awst, you’re not a sucky boyfriend. I promise.” Y/N put her hands on each side of my face, lifting it up. “Here, this’ll cheer you up.”

She clicked on another video, I didn’t know which one until the intro was said. “Hey what’s up I’m Y/N from The Internet Hates Us, and we’re playing ‘Draw That Band’!”

We sat contently watching the video until Katie started drawing. I was confused on which band it was until she drew a heart with Y/N’s name in it. “Oh my god...” I mumbled.

“I have no clue- is... Is it Parx?” Y/N paused the video.

“See, you aren’t a sucky boyfriend cause I couldn’t guess your band either.”

“Well maybe you’re just a sucky girlfriend.” I joked.

“Oh, you wanna go there?” She giggled. “I know where you sleep at night.”

“Is that so? I’ll just fly back to Texas.”

“I’ll still find you.”

We both laughed and laid back down on the couch. A new video was playing on the TV and Y/N was tightly pulled to my chest. “I love you, you know that? Sucky-ness and all.” I muttered into her hair.

“I love you too, Awst. Even your sucky-ness.”

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kymanifesto · 7 years ago

Text

Dream I had that I wanted to draw but I’m lazy so uh... here’s what it would of looked like.

So the main four (plus butters) see an ad for some new hella cool space boots. Yet they are a entire 20 dollars!! And damn that’s a lot to some kiddos.

They get a idea to set up a lemonade stand,It’s actually doing pretty well and they are getting plenty of customers. This of course leads cartman to start bragging about it until Wendy gets tired of his shit and gets the girls to set of their OWN lemonade stand which draws customers away from them.

This makes cartman mad.

He of course thinks it’s a good idea to put some “special sugar” in their lemonade to help boost sales.

It works and the boys are pretty ecstatic about getting that sweet sweet cash.

Randy checks in on stan to see what he is doing and is like “Woah! A lemonade stand,I remember having one of these as a kid.” He tosses the boys a quarter after picking up one of the lil plastic cups of lemonade. Then proceeds to take a sip,then makes a small “hmn” noise and takes another sip,and smacks his lips.

“There’s cocaine in this.” He says in a monotone voice and suddenly Kyle gets that face with the angry eyebrows as he stared at cartman,who’s putting on his “innocent” face.

Then kyle and cartmam argue along the lines of

“YOUVE BEEN PUTTING COCAINE IN THE LEMONADE??”

“ssSsshh SHUT UP KALH!! we can’t speak of our special ingredient to the public...It’ll give em ideas”

“Oh my god why did I trust that you wouldn’t somehow turn this whole ideal illegal?! ... where did you even get the fucking cocaine?”

“Hm,I was thinking of telling you out I don’t like that tone... I guess you’ll never know KAHL”

After then having a short staring contest of strong glares and Kyle’s eyebrows getting even more angled he cracks

“FINE FINE! I got it from my moms sock drawer....”

“Wait... what??”

“Yeah I know it’s nasty that it was around all her probably cum soaked socks. You caught me this lemonade is very unhygienic”

“IM TALKING ABOUT YOUR WHORE OF A MOM OWNING COCAINE DIPSHIT!”

Then stan speaks up

“Wait you didn’t already know? I mean...she’s a prostitude dude. Of course she does hardcore drugs. It’s like the square rectangle thing,all whores are druggies but not all druggies are whores. Geez dude”

Meanwhile cartman would be looking pretty flustered and mad

“Ay! Keep your hippie mouth off the topic of my mom!”

Kyle looks enraged

“Wait so you can call my mom a bitch but we can’t call your mom a whore?!”

“Mmm....yes. Thanks for understanding Kalh”

the smallest of grins would appear on Kyle’s face

“whore whore whoRE WHORE WHORE-“

“AY! BITCH BITCH BICTH BITCH BICHt-“

Their screaming overlaps and then like... I think they kissed?? It was really blurry. But damn is kinda cool my dreams happen to be pretty similar to southpark consept ideas.

And uh... I forgot the rest. This dream was pretty wild tho. I think Cthulhu was there all for some reason?? Yeah...

I swear I’ll post art again soon. But artblock is killing me

#south park #kyle broflovski #erica cartman #its kinda kymanish??#no not really #ill tag it anyway #kyman #stan marsh #randy marsh #kenny mccormick #leopold scotch

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tilltheendwilliwrite · 7 years ago

Text

Balance on the Head of a Pin

Chapter Thirteen

Previous Chapter

Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x OFC | Word Count: 5992 Warnings: smexy, swearing, angst and heartbreak

Lauren stared at the change in the pendant around her neck with awe. Towel wrapped tightly around her, she touched the web of intricately laced branches which now rested where once the delicate chain had. It was only about an inch wide, maybe two where the branches fell to a point beneath the pendant, surrounding it as if to highlight the golden rectangle. It was exquisite, like nothing she’d ever seen before, but she wasn’t so foolish not to realize there was more going on here than a simple gift.

“Loki, explain this to me?” She tapped it gently with her nail.

He appeared behind her in the mirror, chest bare, towel riding low at his waist. The smile he wore was simply sinful as was the look in his eyes when he peered at her through the glass. Tapered fingers landed ever so gently on the delicate gold filigree, tracing the design with care.

“Isn’t it stunning?” he asked, stroking his fingers up her throat to cup and lift her chin.

His touch made her shiver most delightfully. “It’s gorgeous, but why is it different?”

Even though he’d followed through on his comment to wash everything, he’d been… mostly a gentleman about it. His soaping of her back, belly, and chest might have been a pleasant experience, but it had just been a washing, one which she’d returned in kind, washing both their hair as well.

It had been fun, actually, to do something like that for him, especially when she’d scrubbed her nails lightly over his scalp and he’d darn near purred with pleasure.

“Because,” he murmured, lightly kissing her cheek, keeping his eyes on hers in the mirror. “You are my Ástvinur, my chosen. As we learn and grow together, as our bond grows stronger the more you accept me for who I am, so does the brúðr steinn.”

“Brúðr steinn,” she murmured, touching the pendant. “Sounds fancy.”

“Very fancy,” he whispered against her ear.

The heat in his eyes had her lips parting on a sigh. “Loki.” She watched, enthralled as he ran his teeth over the shell of her ear.

“That’s four, my darling,” he crooned against her before slowly pulling away, allowing his finger to trail down her neck and over her bare shoulder.

Lauren picked up her brush with a shaking hand and began running it through her hair, hoping to regain some semblance of composure only to have him return to her back and steal the brush from her fingers to do it himself.

“Seeing as how you have enticed me out of bed at this unseemly hour, I think you should make it up to me.”

Arching a brow, she ignored the heat in her face when she muttered, “After the last twenty minutes, you’re gonna whine about gettin’ up early?”

He paused in his brushing to look at her with eyes full of censure. “An act we could have easily accomplished had you remained in my bed.”

She tilted her chin up defiantly. “You’re short-term memory is goin’, peaches. You’re the one who flounced off into the shower.”

“I do not flounce!” he scoffed. With a narrowing of eyes, he dug his fingers in along her ribs and made her squeal. “Oh, ticklish are we?”

“Loki, no!” she laughed when he did it again. “Stop! Stop! Noooo- aha!” Grabbing hold of her slipping towel, she darted out the door with him hot on her heels.

It came as little surprise when strong arms banded her waist, scooped her up off her feet and tossed her to the bed, causing her breath to oof out before being replaced by gasps and giggles as he attacked her ribs with a vengeance. She belted out a peal of laughter as she tried to keep her towel in place, pushing at him to stop. “Stop!!”

Crouched over her, Loki snickered as he captured both her hands into one of his and held them above her head. “Admit I do not flounce, and I may grant you mercy.”

She bit her lip to hold in her giggles. “Fine, you don’t flounce.”

“Very good.” He smiled triumphantly.

“But you do skulk!”

“Why you little…” he growled softly, skating his hand down her ribs.

“Ah haha!” she screamed, twisting to get away, only to finally have her towel come free. “Big bully!” she pouted when he stopped, eyes full of appreciation for her half-naked form.

“Poor baby,” he chuckled, skimming his hand up her bare flesh to caress her exposed breast. “Should I kiss it better?”

Lauren bit her lip while nodding.

The way his eyes went from sky blue to deep oceans as they warmed was enchanting.

Her eyes dropped to his lips, waiting for him to lower them to hers. She sighed and tilted her face up, the anticipation half the fun when his nose brushed gently along the tip of hers, and his breath washed across her lips.

He settled slowly to the bed, his body at her side, arm stretched out to keep hers contained. The softest touch of his lips made hers tingle. They brushed, a whisper, brushed again, brushed and made her whimper a quiet plea.

When they finally sealed to hers, she moaned, arching up, loving the shock of heat which rapid fired through her system with his kiss, with his closeness. Lauren hooked her heel behind his knee and tugged until his weight half pressed her to the mattress. But it was his mouth she focused on.

The silky glide of his tongue against hers. The way he seemed to be able to twist it in the most impossible way. He flicked it over her teeth, discovering every corner of her mouth. He moaned, deeply, and the coolness of his voice along with the magic which lived inside him washed down her throat making her shiver.

The release of her hands saw them flying up to sink into his damp locks as she kissed him unendingly, catching a breath when he let her only to have him dive back in until her lips felt swollen, and the hand on her breast wandered down her side to jack her thigh up around his waist.

His hand was making its way over her ribcage again when a loud growl came from her stomach.

“Oh!” Jumping at the unexpected noise, Lauren flushed with embarrassment.

Loki groaned softly in disappointment as his head fell to her shoulder. “I forget how often you Midgardians need to eat,” he said, sounding distinctly grumpy.

“I forgot how often you don’t,” she grumbled. “C’mon, hun. I’ll make you a breakfast that will have you wantin’ to eat.”

“And just what, pray tell, are we having for breakfast, my sweet?” Loki asked, lips gliding across her cheek. “What could you possibly feed me that would make letting you up worth my while?”

Smiling, Lauren traced her nails down his back. “Mm, you’ll have to wait and see, peaches.”

Nipping at her lip, he sighed, long-suffering and full of irritation. “If I must, but you will simply have to make it up to me.”

“Me? Make it up to a God? Why however, shall I accomplish such a thing when I am just a shy, fair maiden with not but pennies to my name?” She fluttered her lashes, smiling innocently up at him.

He snorted out a bark of laughter before fighting it back to give her a dark look laced with mischief. “By using your own two hands, fair maiden, to treat me as I deserve.”

“And whatever shall I be doin' with my hands, oh gracious God of Mischief?” she asked, a touch breathless.

“Why, what every man desires of his woman,” he murmured softly, eyes drawing down to land on her lips. Leaning closer, his mouth a breath away from hers, Loki whispered, “Bake me a cake, woman.”

Her eyes widened in disbelief as he leapt from the bed, laughing wickedly while escaping back into the bathroom.

“You’re a horrible tease!” Lauren griped.

“But a fantastic flirt!” Could be heard before the door shut tight.

***

With his chin in his hand, Loki watched Lauren move around the kitchen with an ease born of familiarity. She was at home here, cracking eggs and cutting up peaches, strawberries, and bananas. There were bowls of fresh berries on the long marble island and a cup of steaming coffee at his elbow.

She stood before the hot stove, bowl of batter in her arm, stirring gently while she waited for the pan to warm. A white t-shirt, old and thin from many washings clung to her curves, while shorts made from jeans bared the generous length of her legs.

He was having a decidedly hard time pulling his eyes away from her long limbs and colourful bare toes. The soft pink was most enticing, making him wonder if she would giggle if he nibbled upon them or if a moan would fall from her lips. Her pert bottom in those shorts wasn't helping matters either.

Drawing his eyes up, he smirked a little for her hair really did curl in the humidity already present in the early morning heat. Soft waves fell around her shoulders, caressed her cheeks, and draped down her back. She looked adorably youthful, like the girl in her Gran’s pictures.

She hummed softly while pouring batter onto the hot pan, hery smile small but happy as she did something which obviously pleased her.

Loki sipped his coffee and glanced toward the clock upon the wall, one reading just gone six-thirty, an hour he would not have been awake at without a good reason on any other day he’d chosen to sleep. Still, to watch her cook for him, just him, in a kitchen with whitewashed cabinets and marble countertops, glass front doors and gleaming steel appliances that put the kitchen of Stark’s to shame, caused his heart to clench at the domesticity of it all.

He could get used to this.

He set his coffee down with a quiet click of porcelain on marble. “Whatever was your sister trying last night with her action? I cannot figure out her motivation for breaking into your room as she was.”

She placed the bowl down beside the stove and took up a utensil to flip the first round of pancakes. A slight sigh escaped her as the smile fell from her lips, and Loki regretted asking. “The belt.”

“Excuse me?” he asked, stiffening in shock.

“The one you made me. It wouldn’t be the first time Cissy took what wasn’t hers cause she wanted it.” Moving toward the big double door fridge, she opened it and took out a small silver bowl filled with cream she’d previously whipped up into frothy peaks.

He stared at her aghast. “She steals from you as well?”

“Borrows, hun. Only she conveniently forgets about returnin’ what she's borrowed,” Lauren muttered, putting the bowl on the counter near the berries before ducking down to open a cabinet and remove a small canister which she placed near the bowl. “That’s how Cissy explains it at least. At which point I get, Lauren Guillemin, why can't you just let Cissy have whatever this one time? ”

“Lauren,” he sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face, unable to believe the audacity and how it was compounded by what was evidently her mother.

“There’s a reason I only brought one bag. I’ve had things disappear before when I brought them home with me. Considerin’ I could smell the booze on her last night from across the room, ain’t surprised she fell against the door.” She shrugged, dismissing it. “She’s doomed to disappointment anyway.”

That Cissy was. The belt and the outfit he’d created for Lauren no longer existed. He could bring it back should she wish it, but he was really beginning to despise this family.

Flipping the pancakes onto a waiting plate, Lauren poured more batter into the pan and turned toward the island where she began spooning fruit over the hotcakes. The canister was opened and a sieve obtained to shake the fine powdered sugar over the plate. Dollops of the whipped cream were added next before she drizzled a smattering of honey over the entire thing.

Lauren set the plate in front of him with a smirk and nudged a fork his direction. “Eat.”

He eyed both her and the plate before arching a skeptical brow. “I have had pancakes on numerous occasions, my sweet. How is this any different?”

She scooped a bit of cream up with her finger, a dab with a drizzle of honey on it and held it out. “You ain't never had pancakes till you've had ‘em with fresh cream and wildflower honey.”

Loki watched her face as he took her by the wrist and brought her finger to his lips, swirled his tongue around the tip, and placed it into his mouth where he sucked it clean with a sensual purr of pleasure. “Delicious. Especially off your skin.”

She gave a slow blink, a sly smile, and leaned closer to kiss him only to suck his lip into her mouth. “It's even better off yours, peaches,” she murmured, flicking her tongue over his lip. “Eat.”

“There's something I'd like to eat,” he muttered, setting her laughing and blushing as she returned to the stove.

When he dug in, Loki had to bite back a moan of pleasure for her meal was just delicious. As he ate, he again watched her move with ease around the kitchen.

Before the pancakes, she’d mixed a large bowl of batter, poured it in pans, and placed them in the oven. The entire kitchen smelled of spiced cake, mouthwateringly scrumptious. She returned to the fridge, took a block of something - the box reading cream cheese - from it and set it on the counter. The oven was checked, and she flipped her own pancakes before turning her attention back to him.

Collecting a piece of peach on the end of his fork, he held it out to her temptingly. She walked toward him, a sway in her hips, leaned over the counter and opened her mouth.

Pulling the fork back, Loki tsked, “Closer, pet.”

Lauren skirted the counter and stepped forward. “Here?” she asked, smiling.

Turning toward her on his stool, Loki slipped his foot between hers, caught her around the waist, and pulled her forward to straddle his thigh. “Here,” he quipped, bringing the peach to her lips.

Her eyes danced and sparkled when she bit the peach off the tines.

While she chewed, Loki stroked his hand down her back, gently cupped her bottom, traced his fingers over the curve and down past the edge of her shorts where he could lightly caress her bare skin. “What would you have us do today, darling?”

Her fingers traced the line of buttons on his white shirt. “Anythin’ long as we’re outta this house.”

“It has been some time since I rode. Yesterday’s adventure with your stallion reminded me of how I missed it.” Loki slipped his fingers beneath the hem of her t-shirt, dragged them gently over her skin, squeezed her ribs and brushed his thumb over the underside of her satin encased breast.

Plucking a strawberry up between her nails, Lauren brought it to his lips. “We could take the horses out. Go down to the river. We could swim and have a picnic for lunch.”

Sucking the berry from her fingers, Loki hummed happily. “Sounds delightful.”

“I think so,” she smiled, leaning down to kiss him gently, pulling away only when the scent of pancakes got stronger. She returned to the stove, clicked off the burner, dished up and prepared her own small mound of pancakes before taking the seat at his side.

Loki gave her stool a quick jerk, drawing it in close. She squeaked, grabbed for her plate, and made him snicker. A sharp glare was sent his way before she stole his coffee to sip from his cup. He slid his hand up her thigh and gave her a second jerk that saw her sitting nearly on his lap. Not an easy feat to accomplish, but he wrapped her leg behind his hips and settled his hand on her lush bottom to keep her in place.

Perched on his leg, she eyed him with amusement. “I could sit on my own stool.”

“But then how could I do this?” Stealing her fork, he speared a piece of banana, dipped it in the whipped cream and held it before her mouth.

Her lips twitched, fighting to contain her smile. “I could feed myself as well.”

“Oh?” he pouted, rubbing the edge of the banana against her lips. “Pity,” he crooned, pulling the fork away. “Feeding one’s beloved can be such a… sensual experience.” Lifting his foot to the rung on her stool had her sliding down his thigh, the seam of her shorts bumping up in just the right way.

When she gasped at the sudden jolt of pleasure, he tucked the fork between her lips.

“Now, be a good girl, pet, and let me have my way.” He rocked his foot on the rung of the stool, smirking as he watched her eyes darken when the hard seam rubbed and pulled just right.

Lauren reached past him, ran her finger through the last of the cream and honey on his plate and held it before his lips. “Two can play these games, Loki.”

The mischievous light was back in her eyes. He made to lick her finger when she pulled it away and sucked it between her lips, right to the last knuckle. She moaned softly, eyes on his, as she pulled it from her pursed lips, leaving it slick with saliva.

“Flames of Valhalla, woman,” he groaned, feeling the sudden throb and tightening of his core.

“Still want to play?” she teased, leaning closer.

“So many, many games, darling,” he breathed, sinking his hand into her hair.

Her arms went around his neck, and her body softened into his. “You’ll have to teach me all of them,” she whispered against his lips.

“And invent a few just for you, my heart.” He nipped her bottom lip, making her whimper. Stroking his hand up her spine and back down, he rocked his thigh into her core as he played with her lips, kissing and coaxing, leaving teasing bites and tender kisses, contemplating how quickly he could clear the space on the counter to lift her to it.

“Hey, mama! I smell somethin’ delic- oh, shit!”

The masculine voice had Lauren jerking back, but Loki only held her tighter as he turned his head to glare at the interloping male.

“Uh, mornin’, Lafayette,” Lauren mumbled, cheeks as bright a red as the strawberries on her plate.

She pushed at his chest weakly, but Loki didn’t let her go. The man was wearing a look of embarrassment, but there was envy in his eyes when the dark brown of them connected with Loki’s blue. He knew the instant his flared green for the man dragged the hat from his head and held it twisting between his fingers.

“Miss Lauren. Sorry, I didn’t expect anyone but mama to be up cookin’ this time a day.”

This time the push was less weak and followed up with a solid fist to the chest. Grunting, more out of surprise than pain, Loki finally allowed her to escape, dropping his foot to the floor so she could slide off his thigh.

Lauren smiled at him as she did, her hand stroking over where she’d punched him in apology, one Loki accepted graciously with a tilt of his head.

“It’s good to see you, Lafayette! I missed you yesterday when I was showin’ Loki around.”

Loki watched narrowly as she hugged the large stranger.

A big man, Lafayette had the ruddy complexion of a person used to working outdoors. His sun-darkened skin and bronzed hair confirmed this as fact. Bulky muscles were encased in a t-shirt already sweat-dampened and blue jeans with dirty knees, while a red handkerchief hung from his back pocket. Though he hugged back, Lafayette didn’t touch her with his hands, keeping the dirt on them from smearing Lauren’s white shirt.

“Had to run a few errands in town for Teddy, plus pick up more party things for your mama’s shindig,” Lafayette said, pulling back and heading for the sink to wash up. “Didn’t mean to interrupt… uh… breakfast.��

It came out more a question than a statement.

Getting to his feet, Loki prowled slowly toward Lauren where he collected her fingers and brought them to his lips. “Yes… breakfast,” he smiled as he kissed her knuckles. “You should finish yours, love.” From the corner of his eye, he watched Lafayette flinch at the endearment.

“I will, but I want to introduce you first. Lafayette and I grew up together. His mama is Sue Ann.”

“Ah, the lovely woman from yesterday. She was quite charming,” he said, leading Lauren back to her stool with a gentle tug, encouraging her away from the man who clearly had feelings for her.

“Yeah, mama was full of praise for you, too.” Lafayette leaned against the island and looked him over.

“Really? How delightful.” Loki smirked at the assessing eyes and played with Lauren's hair. While the man was almost as big as Thor, there would be little contest in who would win in wits or strength. The man was quite out of his depth.

“Lafayette, meet Loki Laufeyson.” Lauren smiled up at him.

“You eat, darling. I can make my own introductions.” Loki lightly stroked his palm up her arm. The move had Lafayette’s eyes glued to his hand.

“Don’t summon the staff,” she mumbled, reaching for her fork, oblivious to the tension in the room.

“Why ever not?”

“You’d shake the china. It’s fragile,” she warned, returning to eating.

“As you wish, darling.” Loki kissed the crown of her head, keeping his eyes locked on the brown ones across from him.

Lafayette’s jaw tightened.

Chuckling softly, Loki made his way around the island and held out his hand. “As my Ástvinur has said, I am Loki.”

“Lafayette.”

The large hand grasped his, squeezed in the way most men of this world would to try and intimidate a rival. It only made Loki grin. “She did leave out one thing though.” He increased the pressure of his grip ever so slightly, gaining a modicum of pleasure when Lafayette’s eyes widened.

“What’s that?” the man asked, tightening his grip as well.

He gave a slight shrug. “That I am the adopted son of Odin, brother to Thor, prince of Asgard, and the God of Mischief.”

Lafayette’s hand jerked in his. “What?”

“And one of the Avengers,” she said from behind him. “Don’t be so modest, peaches.”

Glancing at her, Loki shook his head. “Are you teasing me, my sweet?”

“Who would dare?” she gasped as if shocked at the very thought.

“Troublesome woman,” he grumbled, removing his hand from the slack one of Lafayette.

“Holy… fuck,” breathed Lafayette, stunned. “I thought you looked familiar but… sheet!” He slapped Loki roughly on the shoulder with a wide grin. “An honest to god Avenger runnin’ round Annandale Farms! Son’ bitch! Good to meet you!”

Loki blinked, surprised by the about-face in the man’s demeanour. “Excuse me?”

He chuckled, evidently amused by Loki’s confusion. “Thought you were some high society fucker Lu brought home with her to screw with her mama.”

Lauren snorted, covering her mouth as she chewed, eyes sparkling with wicked amusement.

“Did you set me up, darling?”

“Maybe, little,” she smirked, continuing to eat. “Kinda got both of you in one. A double set up. Natasha would be proud.”

“The Captain would be horrified at your deviousness, but Barnes would be quite amused.” Loki shook his head and returned to her side.

“Shit, Lu. Still can’t believe you know the Avengers,” Lafayette muttered, helping himself to the coffee.

The timer on the stove buzzed, but when she made to go to it, Loki pressed down on her shoulders. “Sit.”

“The cake.”

“I have it.” Flicking his finger, Loki moved the cake from the oven to the racks on the counter, turning the oven off in the process.

Lafayette jumped, sloshing coffee over his hand and hissing at the burn. “Fuck me!” Shaking off the liquid, he wiped his hand on his jeans.

“I see your mouth ain’t improved a lick,” Lauren snickered. “Don’t let your mama catch you using that language, or she’ll wash it out with soap.”

“Can you blame me? Damn, Lu! He just… and the cake just… and y’all are just sittin’ there all pleased as punch!”

Lauren smiled. “Takes a little gettin’ used to, but then I’ve had the time.” Her hand drifted up to rest against her pendant, hidden by the neck of her t-shirt.

Sitting beside her, Loki nudged her cheek with his nose, kissing the enticing line of her jaw. “That you have, my love.” Hand settling on her thigh, he rubbed circles with his thumb.

The clicking of heels on hardwood coming at a rapid pace had Lauren stiffening. “Yeti.” She tilted her head to the side, and Lafayette scooted around the corner into what Lauren had termed the butler’s pantry.

Arching a brow, Loki squeezed Lauren’s thigh.

“Mama. She and Yeti don’t get on. He’s a bit... brash for mama’s sensibilities,” she snickered, “It’s better if they just avoid each other. She puts up with him cause Sue Ann’s the best cook in the county. Plus he’s got a knack with the gardens no one can compete with.” She shrugged, dismissing it.

Loki hummed his understanding as Magnolia burst into the kitchen, robe flapping and hair in disarray, day-old makeup beneath her eyes, and a piece of paper clutched in her hand.

“Lauren! Have you seen George?” she asked, breathless.

Lauren shook her head. “No, mama. Why?”

“This!” Magnolia shook her fist with the paper in it. “This was left on his bed this mornin’!” Stalking forward on heels which had fluffy toes, she thrust the paper at Lauren, dismissing him altogether.

“Good morning, Magnolia,” Loki smirked, forcing her attention from her daughter. “How your beauty astounds me, transcending from night to day in such a way.” The choked sound from the pantry would be heard by none but him, though clearly, his words amused Lafayette.

“Oh, well, yes.” She patted down her hair and closed her robe. “Thank you, uh, Loki. I do apologize for soundin’ a touch… frantic. It’s just this letter has got me all stirred up.”

“Oh?” He arched a brow, leaning to read over Lauren’s shoulder. “What a pity. Montgomery has been called away. And look, my love,” he traced his finger over the hastily written line, “it appears he has acquiesced to your wishes and will no longer seek your hand.” It wasn’t what he’d wanted the idiot male to do, but at least he was out of the house and away from his Lauren.

She tilted her head, sending him a quick smile. “As it belongs to you, Loki that was only ever goin’ to be the outcome.”

“Be still, my beating heart,” he breathed, kissing her shoulder. The shudder went unnoticed by her mother, but Loki felt the quake of her desire right to his soul.

“But that can’t be!” Magnolia wailed.

“Mama?” Lauren frowned. “Why can’t that be? George knew last night I wasn’t gonna marry him. I made that perfectly clear. Why else would he have stayed?”

Magnolia paled swiftly before an angry flush came to her face. “Why for the party of course! What other reason could there possibly be? Don’t be stupid, girl!”

Going ridged at her side, Loki glared at Magnolia when Lauren flinched at the harshness. “Yes, what other reason could there possibly be for Montgomery to be in this house? To stay the night when, clearly, the reason he was here was moot?”

Magnolia blinked at his vehemence, blinked again when the words sank in and stepped back quickly. “I… I don’t have a clue what you might be talkin’ about, sir.”

“No? Hm, I thought not.” Lifting his chin, he stroked his hand down Lauren’s spine. “Well, it seems Montgomery has left us. What a shame.”

She eyed him, worry and fear on her face. “I… I guess, yes. Too bad.” Turning on her heel, she fled the room.

Shifting his attention back to Lauren, he had a moment of concern with how still she was, staring at the last of her breakfast, the note clutched tightly in her hand. “Lauren?”

She spread the note out on the counter with both hands. “Loki, I’m gonna ask a question. I need you to tell me the truth.”

“Always, my love.” Stilling the hand on her back, he brought the other down on hers.

She blew out a hard breath, inhaled deeply and asked, “Was my mother sleepin’ with George?”

Everything about her braced as if awaiting a blow, one he was seriously disinclined to give. “Darling…”

“Oh… wow,” she gasped, his non-answer answer enough. “That hurts more than I expected.” Turning from him, she bent over her knees to pant softly.

The pain tearing through her was so intense, Loki could feel it himself. “Please, love,” he whispered, lurching from his seat to gather her close when she nearly slid from the stool. Holding her as she shook, he became aware of Lafayette watching, eyes full of pity before the man slipped away.

They both ended up on the floor, Lauren sobbing into her hands, completely destroyed by her mother’s betrayal. When harsh cries eventually became soft whimpers, he gathered her into his lap. Limp and exhausted, she turned her face into his throat.

“How long?” she whispered.

He sighed while rubbing her back. “I can’t say with certainty.”

“Hazard a guess, Loki.”

The harshness of her voice nearly made him flinch. “If not the beginning, likely near it.”

“Was this what you were hidin’?”

He closed his eyes and held her tight, wishing with all his heart this was not happening, that her family were not these wretched people. He wished almost desperately for Frigga to be alive. For her to meet and mother his Lauren. To fuss and coddle the woman who was his heart. “I’m sorry, elskan min. I’m so sorry.”

Fresh tears soaked the collar of his shirt.

A few minutes later, when the pounding of her heart was not nearly so strong, Lauren pushed back from him, but her head remained bowed, her hair falling down to hide her face. “Why?” she finally asked, lifting her head to look toward the ceiling. “Why?”

He cupped her face, bringing her eyes to his while he wiped at her tears. He’d never seen her so sad, so heartbroken, and twice in less than twenty-four hours she had cried like her soul was crushed over these people. “I don’t know, darling. I don’t know why people are this way. I don’t know why they do these things. I don’t know why they hurt you.” He drew her in until her forehead rested against his, and her fingers wrapped around his wrists. “But I won’t. I will never hurt you. Not ever. I will never cheat. I will never lie. I will never dishonour you or treat you like less than the queen you are. I vow it, my heart. I swear it!”

She whimpered softly, “Loki.”

“I love you, Lauren.” Her lips tasted of tears and sorrow mixed with shame and regret when he kissed her, but he sank past it, sank deep, kissed her and poured out his heart. He wrapped her in his love and his magic until sadness turned to fire and left him breathless on the tile floor.

When she pulled back a second time, her lashes were slow to lift, but when they did, her eyes were full of sweet affection. The sorrow was still there but muted, and a smile was beginning to bloom gently on her lips.

“That was quite the promise,” she said softly, lightly touching his lips.

He nipped gently at her fingers. “And Asgardians always keep their promises.”

She wiped at her cheeks. “I know, peaches.”

Disentangling their limbs, Loki assisted her back to her feet. “What now, darling?” Did she even want to stay? Would she ask to go home?

She breathed out, composed herself, and headed for the cake on the cooling racks. “Now, we finish your cake, make a picnic, grab the horses and get the hell outta this house before I do somethin’ else I regret.” The worry from last night was present between her brows again.

Flicking his hand at the dishes, he set everything to rights from their breakfast. “Your mother seems to have forgotten you made that declaration.”

“Figures. Magnolia ignores anythin’ which don’t fit in with what she wants.”

If there was a touch of bitterness to the words, Loki didn’t hold it against her. Lauren had gathered a bowl and what ingredients she needed for this next step of cake making when Loki moved up behind her and pinned her hips to the counter with his own then wrapped his arms around her waist. “Will you be alright?”

Her hands clenched on the countertop before relaxing to lay flat. “The worst part? I can’t hate her. She’s still my mama. I seriously want to whip George’s behind from here to the next county, and I’m a little… nauseous, but I can't hate her. Does that make me weak?”

Tucking his nose into her hair, he sighed. “No, darling. It makes you far stronger than most. Frigga said nearly the same to me once. She hated what I’d done, what I’d become, but she still loved me.”

Her hands went back to adding things to the bowl before they, again, slowed to a stop. “Do you ever wonder if the mind stone was part of the reason you gave in to the Chitauri?”

“What?” It was such a jump in topic it took him a moment to follow her leap.

“I’ve seen the files. How you used the sceptre on Clint and the others. If you could use it on them, couldn’t the Chitauri have used it on you first?”

“No… I… no.” He pulled away, frowning, shaking his head in denial. “I don’t… my magic...”

“It’s possible, isn’t it?�� she asked softly, turning to look at him.

Scrubbing his hands over his face, Loki shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. My magic is far too powerful.”

“More powerful than an infinity stone?”

He stared at her for a long moment, her question causing his mind to race with the implications. “There isn’t much more powerful than an infinity stone.”

Her brow arched, she nodded casually, then turned back to her bowl. “Hm, ain’t that somethin’.”

He blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Did you just… distract me, woman?”

She bit her lip, but the giggle still erupted. “Maybe.”

“What a tricky creature you are becoming,” he snickered, returning to press himself against her spine. “I like it.” Placing his hands on her ribs, he nipped at the ear her hair was tucked behind.

Laughing softly, Lauren murmured, “I know.”

“Cheeky, girl.” He liked that too.

With her laughter drowning out the sound of her tears from but moments ago, Loki sighed, happy to be her distraction, sneaking his finger into the bowl of frosting, tickling her ribs to make her squeal, and generally being a nuisance to keep her smiling.

When the feeling of being watched registered, he turned his face to the heavens, grinned wickedly, waved his hand and hid them from Heimdall's view.

He could almost hear the Guardian laugh.

Next Chapter

#balance #loki #loki laufeyson #loki fanfiction #avengers #avengers au #avengers fanfiction #fanfiction #southern belle #testy

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elvendara · 7 years ago

Note

Stay safe Elvy! It says you're offline, so I'm not sure you'll get this until after you get power back. I also don't know if you've done this one yet or not, but what about a family game night with the Pack? Board games or video games, or maybe they start with one and move to other.

Hi hi! Thank you for the kind words. Still holding strong here, the winds are definitely getting stronger, but, the news is getting better, the winds are not going to be as strong as they had been predicting. We might not even lose our electricity! Fingers crossed! Oh, I took of that feature, it isn’t accurate anyway, since I usually have Tumblr on in the back ground whether I am using it or not. Anyway, I hope you like the pack playing Pictionary! It’s one of my favorite board games!

“Comeon, let’s go! Everything is set up. Saeran! I got ice cream!” Saeyoung bangedon the bedroom door.

“Youreally know how to bribe him don’t you?” Yoosung laughed behind Saeyoung.

“Ifit’s what I have to do, I’ll buy all the ice cream in town.” Saeran opened thedoor.

“Whatkind?” he asked, holding the door, ready to close it again.

“Strawberry,Mint Chocolate Chip, Butter Pecan, and Mocha.” Saeyoung said and waitedexpectantly.

Saeranmulled it over. “Fine, but, I swear to God Saeyoung, if you try to cheat, I’mwalking away!”

Saeyoungappeared offended, his hand flying to his chest. “I don’t cheat!”

Yoosungand Saeran stared at him hard. He closed his mouth and looked away.

“Okok, I promise, no cheating!”

ThePictionary Board was on the round kitchen table, two easels set up for eachcouple.

MCwas behind the counter, scooping ice cream into four bowls.

“Saeran!Here you go!” she handed him one of the bowls, there was a scoop of all the icecreams in it, along with some nuts, coated chocolate candy, and whipped cream,a cherry on top. MC giggled as Saeran’s eyes lit up. Yoosung sighed, envying,not for the first time, the twin’s metabolism. Saeran could eat whatever hewanted and not gain an ounce. He didn’t even have to work out to maintain hiskiller abs.

Yoosungeyed the bowls, he really shouldn’t indulge. He’d gained about ten pounds sincehe’d moved in with the pack. He placed his hand on his growing paunch and wasabout to decline the bowl MC was handing him. Saeran wrapped his arms aroundYoosung, squeezing his belly fat.

“You’reperfect babe! Eat the damned ice cream.” He kissed his neck, nibbling on itlightly. Yoosung giggled and grabbed the bowl.

Saeyoungwas super excited as he stood at his easel. He already had the first card inhis hand.

“Ok,we ready?”

Theyall nodded.

“Who’sfirst for your team?” he asked.

“Uh,I guess I’ll go.” Yoosung walked to their easel and picked up the dry erasemarker. Saeyoung handed him the card and Yoosung looked at it. He wrinkled hisnose, he should have let Saeran go first, he was a much better artist. Yoosungwas always so slow. He preferred when it was not an ‘all play’. He sighed andset the card down.

“Ready?”he asked. Yoosung nodded.

“Go!”MC said, turning the hourglass timer. They both began to draw straight lines.Four vertical lines then several horizontal lines connected above them.

“Wagon!Oars! Wheelbarrow??” MC shouted. Saeyoung shook his head, darkening his lines.

Saeranlooked from one to the other, they were both very similar. Then Yoosung beganto draw a stick figure, it’s ‘hands’ on one of the lines, seeming to danglefrom it.

“Monkeybars.” He said.

“Yes!”Yoosung yelled. He gave Saeran a high five and a kiss.

Saeyoungpouted as he sat back down.

“I’msorry babe.” MC wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek.

“It’sok.”

Yoosungrolled the die and they moved ahead.

“Myturn.” Saeran scooped up another spoonful of ice cream as he grabbed a new cardand stood by the easel. He read it and nodded.

“Notan ‘all play’. Ready Yoosung?”

“Ready!”Yoosung took a spoonful of his own ice cream then settled in to guess. At leastthere wasn’t any pressure.

Saeranbegan to draw a figure. He drew pants, then a belt.

“Man!Pants! Belt!” Saeran was nodding at Yoosung, encouraging him in that direction.He then drew a square in the middle of the belt circling it with an arrow toit.

“Buckle?”Yoosung guessed.

“Yes!Perfect!”

“Oh mygod! That was so easy! It isn’t fair!” Saeyoung complained. Saeran stuck histongue out at him as he hugged Yoosung.

Lessthan an hour later, Yoosung and Saeran were so far ahead, one more win on theirturn would end the game.

Saeyoungwas pouting, MC having to calm him down when he began to growl, his fursprouting. Saeran didn’t help either by rubbing it in.

Yoosungwas beginning to worry that the twins would come to blows. They were both verycompetitive. He and MC exchanged a look and she shrugged, sighing as shemassaged Saeyoung’s shoulders.

“Allplay.” Saeran said with a frown. Saeyoung jumped up and snagged the card fromSaeran’s hand. He looked at the word, then back at Saeran.

“Really?”

“Don’tlook at me, it’s not like I chose the word.”

Saeyoungset the card on the table and turned towards the easel. It was going to comedown to who could draw the fastest.

“Ready.Set. Go!” MC called, turning the timer once more.

The twinsflew through the white board. It was difficult to tell what they were drawingat first, but it was clearly an animal.

“Cat!”MC yelled, they kept drawing.

“Pig?”Yoosung called.

Therewere long ears and a long snout, Yoosung felt silly, obviously it wasn’t a pig.

MCturned her head and squinted her eyes.

“Dog!”Yoosung screamed.

“Wolf!”MC stood. Saeran threw the marker down and Saeyoung jumped up and down invictory.

“It’snot as if you just won Saeyoung.” Saeran growled.

“Ha!In your face!” he teased Saeran.

Saeransat heavily.

“Ah,I should have guessed that! We could have won.” Yoosung patted Saeran’s hand.Saeran turned his attention to Yoosung.

He graspedhis hand and smiled at him.

“Youdid good, MC was just a little faster.” He kissed his cheek. Yoosung smiledtoo. It was supposed to be fun, not stressful. He forced himself to relax and enjoythe game. It didn’t matter who won or lost, the important thing was they weretogether.

“Comeon MC. Let’s catch up!” Saeyoung bounced on his seat and Yoosung giggled.Saeran shook his head and pulled Yoosung against him.

MCgroaned when she saw her card.

“Youcan do this babe! Take your time, it’s not an ‘all play’ is it?”

MCshook her head, setting her card down and turning back to the board.

“Go!”Yoosung stated, turning the timer.

MCbegan to methodically draw lines radiating outwards from a circle in thecenter. Then she connected the lines with curved ones.

“Labyrinth!Maze! Sun!” Saeyoung pelted out words. “Oh, oh, web! Spider web!” he screamedwhen she added what was clearly a spider on the lines. She nodded aggressively.She wrote out web with a line in front of it indicating there was a wordSaeyoung had not guessed yet.

“Notspider web? Uh…”

MCdrew more lines on the web that were not perfect, making it look like a mess.

Saeyoungkept spitting out words, but none were correct. MC circled and circled the webunsure what else to do.

“Time!”Saeran yelled with a laugh.

“Tangled!Tangled web! Ugh!” MC said with a defeated air.

“Oh.Of course!” Saeyoung sighed.

“You’reup babe! Let’s win this thing!” Saeran pushed Yoosung up. He grabbed a new cardand took a deep breath.

“Ok,not an ‘all play’. We can do this!” Yoosung said confidently. He set the carddown and turned to the board once more.

MCbegan the timer and Yoosung drew a circle, and then a very accurate depiction ofthe continents.

“Circle!World! Earth! Planet!” Saeran shouted.

“Yes…”Yoosung wrote the word ‘earth’ with a line behind it to indicate one more word.He then drew squiggly lines to either side of the earth.

“Globalwarming?” asked Saeran. Yoosung shook his head vigorously.

He drewa street and rectangles to show buildings. He then drew jagged lines on thestreet and the buildings. Then he drew a building fallen onto the street. He tappedon the jagged lines and the buildings, willing Saeran to get the answer.

“Cracks?Ruins? Quake?” Yoosung screamed and wrote quake on the line behind ‘earth’ andmotioned for Saeran to say the whole thing.

“Earthquake!”Saeran stood, knocking his chair over.

“YES!”Yoosung squealed and jumped on Saeran, who held him up easily. Yoosung’s legswrapped around Saeran’s waist and he hooked his ankles together.

“Whoop!We win!” Saeran hollered, twirling Yoosung around the kitchen.

Saeyoungthrew the die at Saeran’s head.

“Hey!”he stopped and glared at his brother.

“Okok, you guys! Come on, they won fair and square Saeyoung. Apologize.”

“No!I don’t have to.” Saeyoung pouted.

MCleaned over his shoulder and nuzzled his neck. She began to purr softly as shenosed his ear.

“Prettyplease, for me.” She whispered seductively.

“That’snot fair!” he groaned, turning towards her and capturing her lips.

Saeyoungsighed heavily and focused on his brother.

“Ok,fine, I’m sorry, and, congratulations for winning. Now, let’s play Monopoly!”he jumped up and ran to the hall closet. The other three groaned, Yoosungfalling from Saeran’s arms.

#asks #my post #Yooran #Yoosung #Saeran #Saeyoung #MC #Werewolf Chois #thanks for this ask #it's been a while since I wrote for the pack #I hope you liked it #zinniarush

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thinceiling · 8 years ago

Text

rupture and repair (1/4)

“Mind if I join you?”

Angela opened her eyes, fully prepared to refute some clueless man, and choked on her drink. The reigning champion of People She Did Not Want to See Unless Absolutely Necessary stood before her, wearing a leather jacket and a grin—Fareeha Amari.

“Fareeha,” she sputtered. Damn her. “What are you doing here?”

“Drinking after work.” She jerked her thumb at the men. “I’m legal now, you know.”

“Well—yes, of course…”

“Can I join you?”

“Fareeha…”

“Ah, come on. For old times’ sake?”

Modern AU. Angela is a therapist. Fareeha is a firefighter, and her most difficult client. Together, they save each others’ lives—albeit in very different ways.

If you like what you read, please consider liking and/or reblogging this fic! Thank you ^^

c/w: depression, sex, alcohol

After challenging sessions, some therapists ate powdered donuts or smoked American Spirits.

Angela sorted emails.

Absently massaging her shoulder blade, Angela organized her messages into the usual junk and not-junk piles, blue eyes glazing over. Junk... junk... junk… wedding invite?

Begrudgingly, she clicked. Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” trumpeted through her headphones. Lena Oxton and Emily Murphy were cordially inviting her, the esteemed Dr. Ziegler, to their ceremony and ensuing reception, formal attire optional. Angela drummed her fingers. Well. She was happy for Lena. Accepting the invite, she returned to her inbox. A name caught her attention. From: Fareeha Amari. She clicked.

Dr. Ziegler,

It’s Fareeha, Ana’s daughter. Been awhile, hasn't it? My mother swears I am depressed and says you can cure anything. I would like to schedule a single consultation.

Cheers, Fareeha

Fareeha. She remembered her. God, how many years had passed? Fifteen? Twenty? Memories, unbidden, rose to the surface. Twanging strings; a humming amp; nimble fingers, spidering across a fretboard; a nervous grin. I wrote that for you, Angela!

After some consideration Angela responded to the email—blew out the candles—and returned to her apartment alone.

The following week, there was a brisk knock at the door.

“Come in,” said Angela.

The door opened and a woman entered, gold cuffs shimmering in her hair. Fareeha.

She had gotten tall; muscular, too. Fluid and noble facial features evoked royalty from a bygone age, and a tattoo under her eye—that was new—curved toward her ear. An udjat, just like Ana’s.

Attraction stirred within Angela, rusted from years of wilful negligence. She pressed it down—down—and extended a hand. “Fareeha! How have you been?”

“Fine.” Her grip was firm, the handshake brief. “And yourself?”

“Fine as well, thanks.”

As they settled into the chairs around the fireplace, Angela propped her Moleskine journal onto her knee. “So. What brings you to—”

“Is that lavender?”

“Sorry?”

Fareeha indicated the candles on the windowsill.

“Good nose,” smiled Angela. She was proud of how she had decorated her office—the candles, the veneers, the books. After a patient complained of shadows, she’d even brightened the dusky concavities of the room with potted plants. “If the smell bothers you, I can blow them out.”

“It’s not the smell,” Fareeha said flatly, “it’s the fire hazard. You shouldn’t have open flames near curtains or books.” She pointed. “Or plants.”

Angela hitched an eyebrow. “I’m not sure bamboo is flammable.”

“It is.”

“Oh.” She tapped her pen. “I suppose I’ll blow out the candles, then.”

“Don’t bother.” A smile twitched at Fareeha’s mouth. “I like lavender.”

Angela wasn’t sure how to feel. Irritated? Amused? Perhaps she ought to be straightforward. “Why are you here, Fareeha?”

A callous shrug. “You know my mother. She thinks I’m depressed.”

“Do you think you’re depressed?”

“Do I look depressed?”

“I don’t know.” She studied her. “What does depression look like to you?”

“Not sleeping, eating. Minimal showering.”

“Do you relate to those things?”

“Not really. My job doesn’t allow it.”

“And what is your job?”

“I’m a firefighter,” said Fareeha. That explained the lecture on fire safety—and the musculature. “I eat, sleep, and shower on a schedule. Hell, I have regulated piss breaks.”

Angela chuckled, and a smile fluttered at Fareeha’s lip. Her childhood precociousness had evolved into a roguish sort of charm; it was disarming.

Angela cleared her throat. “How do you feel about your job?”

“Fine? It’s not something you do for the money. I just like helping people.”

Angela looked at her carefully. Some hidden emotion seemed to scrape the edges of her expression, raw and painful, straining to breathe. “But you’re here for a reason.”

“Yes, my mother. She worries.”

“Why does she worry?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it because of your actions?”

“No.”

“Your feelings? Your words?”

“No. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I say things, sometimes. To her.”

“And what do you say?”

“How I feel.”

“Which is?”

“Nothing,” said Fareeha, looking straight through Angela. “I save lives, and I don’t feel a damn thing.”

Their second session got off to a promising start. Fareeha spoke at length about her rigorous but happy childhood—game-winning goals, the heat of Cairo, learning the guitar.

Yet when Angela inquired about anything deeper than the perfunctory facts of her upbringing, Fareeha crossed her arms and refused to speak. Breaking her self-imposed omertà proved impossible, and the session ended on a stale note.

Their third session went the same way. So did their fourth. And fifth.

Angela deployed every strategy in her arsenal. She asked Fareeha to draw how she was feeling, to write poetry, to describe her mother. Nothing worked. Late at night she lay awake, mulling over their circuitous conversations, trying to will a solution into being.

“Tequila on the rocks?”

“Yes, Gabe, thank you.”

The bartender nodded and turned, tossing ice into a glass. Angela sighed. She sat at the far end of the counter, where the stools met the exposed brick of the wall.

“Tough client?” asked Gabe, handing her the tequila. She knocked it back. “Well, shit. Sorry for asking.”

“Could I get—”

“Another? You bet.”

As Gabe turned to make her drink, the bell above the door jangled. A group of men tramped inside, chattering idly yet loudly amongst themselves.

Angela looked down. She heard boots shuffling, chairs being rearranged. She sipped her drink. One more shot, then. One more and she would leave. From the corner of her eye, she noticed someone leave the group of men and approach her.

Poor bastard. She closed her eyes and drank.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Fareeha,” she sputtered. Damn her. “What are you doing here?”

“Drinking after work.” She jerked her thumb at the men. “I’m legal now, you know.”

“Well—yes, of course…”

“Can I join you?”

“Fareeha…”

“Ah, come on. For old times’ sake?”

Angela hesitated. Establishing boundaries with patients was critical to the success of therapy; any armchair psychologist knew that.

But... what if this was an opportunity?

She considered the empty shot glasses. A month of sessions had been fruitless; every tactic in her toolbox was exhausted. Perhaps... perhaps a little rapport could go a long way.

She nodded. “Go ahead.”

Beaming, Fareeha sat next to her. She smelled like cologne. “I’ll have what she’s having,” she directed to Gabe, who shrugged and poured her a shot. She sniffed it. “Tequila?”

“You’re a bloodhound.”

“And you’re a heavyweight, apparently.” Fareeha raised her glass. “To my mother, for reuniting us.”

Angela smiled. “To your mother.”

They clinked glasses and drank. Fareeha’s nose wrinkled. “Ugh. How do you stand this jet fuel?”

“It’s an acquired taste,” she admitted with a small smile. She glanced at the men. “You’re with your coworkers?”

“Coworkers—what a cold word. We’re more like a family.”

“Of course.”

“Who’d you come with?”

“Don’t you know?” Gabe cut in, swinging by with two more shots. “Angela sits on her stool and gets hit on by attractive strangers. It’s an eclectic kink.”

Fareeha snorted; Angela leveled a dry look at the bartender. “Thanks, Gabe.”

“You’re welcome, doc.”

“So it’s true?” Fareeha’s eyes glinted.

“Of course not.” She sipped her drink. “Why, do you want it to be?”

Fareeha raised an eyebrow; Angela flushed. The words had slipped out her mouth, a vestigial habit from when she used to flirt at bars. The tequila didn’t help. “That is—I meant—”

“I know what you meant.” Head tilted, Fareeha fingered the rim of her glass. “You think I’m attractive, don’t you?”

Oh God oh God. “No, I just—”

“You think I’m ugly?”

“No! I—”

“So which is it, Angela? Am I attractive or ugly?”

Angela stared. Fareeha was grinning from ear to ear. “You’re screwing with me.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Angela downed the rest of her drink. Laughing, Fareeha knocked her shot back too, exposing the soft skin of her throat. She really was attractive. She was stupidly, unfairly attractive.

Fareeha set down her empty glass. Color tinged her cheeks; her eyes shone.

“Another drink can’t hurt, can it, Ms. Heavyweight?”

In the dead of night Angela awoke. Tangled between her legs was a sweat-caked blanket. Her underwear was hitched around her ankles.

She sat up. The room was dark and quiet. The door yawned ajar. A half-rectangle of light spilled over the floor, illuminating hardwood panels.

Her eyes stung. She removed her contacts and placed them in the case on her nightstand.

She smelled smoke.

Angela swung her legs over the mattress and stood, swaying on the spot. Her head was light. She slid her feet into a pair of silk slippers and fumbled through the dark, following the smell to the balcony.

The sliding glass doors were open.

Angela stepped onto the moon-soaked tile and blinked once. Twice.

Fareeha leaned over the railing. She smoked a cigarette. She was naked.

I’m dreaming, she thought. Then she thought, Has she been crying?

Fareeha tapped ash over the railing and said, “This is illegal, right?”

Angela stared.

“Come on. This must violate all kinds of policy.”

Angela stared.

“Please say something.” Ash flaked off the cigarette. “I’m not used to silence after sex.”

“Sex?”

“Sex.”

Angela said, “Fuck.”

“That too.”

“Fuck,” said Angela. She slumped against railing and closed her eyes. It was all coming back now. Drinking at the pub, confused flirting, suggestive touches; the Uber home—Fareeha’s eyes—sex. Good sex. Memories returned in shaky snatches—bending, clinging, panting, eyes rolling back—and her face grew hot.

Fareeha touched her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“No.” The cigarette. She stared at the cigarette. “Smoking is bad for your health.”

Fareeha stopped touching her and took a drag. Smoke came out of her nose and washed over the balcony, curling toward the stars. “I know.”

“Have you been crying?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Have you lost someone before?”

She paused. “Yes.”

“He was the captain before me. I could have saved him.” The tip of her cigarette glowed. “Why didn’t I save him, Angela?”

Angela did not reply. She did not know how to reply. For a long time, the two of them stood there on that balcony and looked at the lights in the cars and the buildings and the lamps lining the dark streets below.

#overwatch #overwatch fanfic #pharmercy #rocket angel #angela ziegler #fareeha amari #fareeha x angela #angela x fareeha #modern au

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thecrystalauthor · 7 years ago

Text

For All of Us [Part 5]

Sorry this took so long. I have no excuse I just didn’t wanna do it. Chao finally managed to get to the basement. His pieces were cracked, and he was coated in enough paint to remake the museum fifty times over.“Giuliana!” He shouted, “Giuliana show yourself!”Even a monster like Chao couldn’t see through the pitch black smog Giuliana laid out for herself. “Ahhh Chao,” Giuliana purred, “You’re just in time.”“I swear if you hurt her!” Chao warned.“And risk my only chance of getting free?” Chao sighed, relieved.“She doesn't have anything to do with my entrapment,” Giuliana assured Chao, “besides, she's cute.”The lights returned in the basement to show Giuliana and Jane sitting at a little table, drinking tea and eating muffins.“ Isn't it so darling how much he cares for you?” Giuliana asked Jane. Jane only snorted and Chao frowned.“Well excuse me if I don't want our main chance of salvation to die on their first mission.” Chao glared daggers at Giuliana.“Hey,” Jane looked from Giuliana to Chao and back, “how come your magic doesn't affect Chao? Does it only work on humans?”“No darling,” Giuliana began, “Chao has a certain type, besides he's probably gotten good at not being affected over the centuries.”Jane examined Chao.“Do you have magic too?” She asked.“You haven't shown her?!” Giuliana hissed at Chao.“No, as a matter of fact I haven’t,” Chao was seething, paint practically bubbling off his form, “I thought saving you would be more important, but if I had known you were going to attack me, I would have just left you here.”“Chao!” Jane yipped.“Oh dear Chao, don’t get paint in your creases,” Giuliana grinned, “oh wait.”Chao growled, but Giuliana payed him no mind.“Alright summoner,” she began, “freeing me is easy. Just get me off this pedestal.”“That’s it?” Jane mused, “That’s easy!”Jane grabbed Giuliana’s arm and tried to pull her down. She wouldn't budge.“Darling?” Giuliana began, watching Jane tug, “If you keep this up, I'll end up Venus de Milo before you get me down. I'm a statue, not a woman standing on a box.”Jane looked down and understood a little more clearly what Giuliana mean, the base was a part of her, she was fused right to it.“Oh..” Jane muttered, “oh.”“‘Ey genius?” Chao interrupted, “try this.” Chao handed Jane a paint smothered, brick constructed crowbar. Jane took it examining it closely.“Aren't you made of wood?” Jane asked, “won't this break?”Chao shrugged and did jazz hands as he muttered “magic.”“Alright then.” Jane shifted slightly, adjusting her stance. She pulled off her eye patch and took a couple test swings. “This won't hurt you will it?”“No darling,” Giuliana smiled slightly, “but thank you for asking. Us monsters don't really feel pain like you do.” Jane nodded and threw all her weight forward, chipping away a large chunk of the base. Jane, suddenly feeling more confident with how well that worked, swung again at the base. She shattered more and more with a fever. Eventually only a petite base was left under each of Giuliana's feet, almost like heels. “Thank you summoner,” Giuliana hugged Jane, who blushed slightly.“Alright, now let's get going before the cops show up,” Chao interrupted.“Good idea,” Giuliana agreed“But how are you guys gonna get outta here?” Jane inquired, “your disguises are gone.”The two monsters looked at each other, then back at Jane.“We're gonna run,” Chao decided.Giuliana nodded, but Jane just scowled at their nonsense.“We don't really have any better plans, summoner,” Giuliana admitted.“If we run through alleys we can't probably make it,” Chao added.“Are all our missions going to be like this?”“No,” Chao growled slightly.“Probably,” Giuliana contradicted.“Yes,” Chao admitted.Jane rubbed her temple.“C'mon,” she relented, “let's go.”Surprisingly the monsters were right. Maybe everyone had been gawking at the destroyed museum, or maybe monsters were just as lucky as a 30 time lottery winner. As Giuliana slipped into Jane's apparent Jane suddenly felt flustered.“So this is the new summoners home,” Giuliana looked around, poking at little decorations and the like, “how adorable.”Jane blushed, and rubbed the back of her neck.“As much as I'd love to stay longer, I need to get going,” Giuliana glided over to Jane, “it's been way too long since I've been home.”The beautiful statue wrapped her arms around Jane, as she had done when they first met. Jane felt her face heat up even more, and Chao simply rolled his eye.“Thank you summoner,” Giuliana kissed Jane's cheek before stepping towards the basement. Still stunned, Jane didn't move until Chao nudged her forward.“It's polite to see your guests out, summoner”Jane followed Giuliana curiously into the basement. The statue stood examining the remnants of Chao's summoning circle.“How quaint,” Giuliana noted, “you haven't even set up a door yet.”“Door?” Jane repeated, “this is my basement where would we go?”“Not that kind of door, darling,” Giuliana plucked a leftover piece of chalk off the floor and gently drew a large rectangle on the wall. Jane watched.“Oh, so like another summoning circle,” Jane guessed.“Almost,” Chao finally spoke up, “unlike a circle, and kind of creature can go through any door.”“Although,” Giuliana added as she finished the rectangle and passed the chalk to Jane, “no one can come in here unless you open it.”“But we can still leave,” Chao clarified.“Just add your seal and I'll be good to go,” Giuliana nudged Jane towards the door.“My seal? I don't have a seal.”“Make one up,” Chao shrugged, “as long as you draw it, anything goes.”Jane nodded and drew a small crescent and star on the door. Looked edgy enough, she decided, rubbing the tattoo of the same symbol on her collarbone and stepping back. Giuliana gently peeled at the edge of the rectangle, and it opened. A handle pushed itself through once the door was opened, and just like that Giuliana was gone. Jane stared a moment longer, before turning to Chao.“Well,” he began, “despite that mission being quite.. Chaotic,” he chuckled to himself, “I'd say it was a success.” Since Jane said nothing, he felt as though he should continue. “I'm sure you have a lot of questions after that, so ask away.”Jane finally took a deep breathe, and Chao braced himself as if as soon as Jane started talking, all her questions would burst out of her like some kind of bomb. “So there are other summoners?” “Not that we know of, but there have been and there could be.”“I can learn magic?”“Well you summoned a god, so I'm gonna go with yes.”“Giuliana mentioned her summoner are all summoners linked to one monster?”“Yes.”“And you're mine?”“Yep.”“Does that affect what kinds of magic I can learn?”“uh-huh.”As Jane racked her brain for more questions Chao leaned against the wall.“I'm not going anywhere, Y'know.”She looked up at him.“You can ask me questions anytime, now’s not your only chance or anything.”“Alright,” Jane nodded, “just one more then.”“Hit me,” Chao leaned forward.“Can I learn magic now?” Jane felt herself bounce slightly as she asked, she felt like she was in one of her novels, about to learn all the secrets of the universe.“Yeah sure,” Chao shrugged. Jane couldn't help but feel this was slightly anticlimactic. Who was she kidding she didn't care she was gonna learn MAGIC.

#For All of Us #Part 5 #sorry #it's short #And it's been forever

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