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ewebie · 11 months ago

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2023: An Author's Review

I've gotten in the habit (over the past 10+ years) of posting an author's review of what I've done on AO3. Since I started my Patreon, I've been posting it here and sharing across Tumblr and Twitter (*cough* I mean X? *cough*). I think it's good to take stock, be honest about what was possible and look and what I want for the next year. So here it is:

2023... I am not sure I'd say "astonishing" but it was a year of surprises (good and bad). It was a busy and chaotic year, but I really have been on a healing journey and both mentally and physically am much better than this time last year.

Hubs and made a temporary (planned for one year) move across the Atlantic in 2022 and came back to Ireland in July 2023. I was working part/full-time with research and grant writing, doing hands on clinical and remote parts. I enjoyed it more than I thought I would, though it was much more sedentary than what I'm used to for a day's work. It's been rough coming back... the stress on the systems from the pandemic and (frankly) fucking conservatives ruining anything good has made remaining here untenable. After losing my FIL in the autumn and my own family having ongoing health scares, Hubs and I have decided to go back to the US in 2024... So... it's been a bit of a limbo.

Even with all the chaos of a move and work and... *gestures at everything* I did manage to accomplish a few things.

Summary of writing in 2023:

I set out with the goal of posting The Hayloft on a weekly posting schedule (without break) until complete. I'm SUPER proud of myself for managing that. It's >70k words and 38 chapters (with a 39th for ANs). Between the schedule, having 2 betas (thank you Paia and Sky), responding to comments, and the HTML bits of posting, it consumed a lot of my time (we won't mention that I finished writing it while posting)... But I'm very happy with the final product and with myself for keeping to the schedule.

In April, fresh out of 221B Con, I did a Mystrade Monday based on the prompt "Don't threaten me with a good time." It's a short one-shot, and lyric-based in title (Nod to Panic at the Disco) called Champagne, Cocaine, Gasoline. (because who doesn't want a damp Lestrade?)

So that brings us to May - when things started to get really busy as I prepped to move, and the Mystrade is Family collection, to which I submitted 2 fics. The first was in response to Paia sending me a tiktok: Mistakes Were Made (though not by me), tiktok is at the end of the fic. And I somewhat love Greg's much younger sister, Roxy. I also dipped back into the When You're Fast Asleep series with Think Happy Thoughts.

June and July were mental... packed up my life again, drove the length of the US, moved back to the other side of the Atlantic, moved BACK INTO my flat, repaired the car, resorted my jobs, lost my FIL, went back to the US for the funeral, went back to the US again for Thanksgiving. A lot of stress... not a lot of writing. But I did keep up with Hayloft posting and finished the end of September.

October, I took some of the nonsense in my real-life and the MRC server members' real-lives and made a fic strictly to name-shame people we met and or didn't like. Queue's Next was rather cathartic for that.

In November, I (finally) finished a fic for the RGBA for Lav. She'd asked for something in the Safety First/KKBB universe, and a pet... and we ended up with Blunderbuss. Because murder husbands needed an orange cat. And having dropped back into the Safety First universe, I added H is for Heel and I is for Industry Standards to the work.

Still a bit stuck in Safety First, I wrote a murder husbands Xmas fic with J is for Jingle Bells and put that up mid-December.

On Christmas Eve, I posted a soft short from the When You're Fast Asleep series called All Is Calm. The series really suits calm and warm drabble.

Because I was SO soft of Christmas Eve, I posted a SPICY short in Safety First on Christmas Day called K is for Knife's Edge. And just to round out the year, I dropped a New Year's Eve present with L is for Line of Sight.

Overall, I published shy of 100k words (though, I only wrote about 70k... Hayloft was mostly written coming into 2023, but all of the posting was this year) with 16k hits and I now have 380 user subscriptions and 7000 bookmarks. It was a solid effort and I've spent the year only writing Mystrade -- though... I've expanded my reading ships (for this I blame BeautifulFiction).

Plan for 2024: Keep myself sane. I have another few chapters for Safety First in the works... there's something so very compelling about the murder husbands. I have 2 WIPs that are very nearly done and I just need to push through the last... 2k or so. So I hope to be putting those up in the first quarter. Be on the look out for The Marshmallow Experiment and Ambien Wife (though, those are both working titles). There’s a few bigger projects that I’ve back-burnered or have been plodding along with, including "the sad one" and "the Pretty Woman one" and some complex, multichapter things. Trello has been excellent this year to keep my bunnies sorted and in some sort of order.

Working titles of a few:

Lesser Things

Used Books

Wrecking Ball

The Time Has Come

Attack the Cheese Block

Of Legwork and Dogs Bodies

Make Yourself

Bad Santa

I hope to keep adding shorts to Safety First and Badges and 'Brellas (I didn't manage any in B&B in 2023... though, Champagne was short enough). I'm not going to aim for monthly new works, I know how much time and energy the move is going to take. I also will try to learn the new features here on Patreon and the collections thing... maybe organise this a bit better.

Many thanks to everyone who has beta'd works for me through the year (this year was mostly Paia -- many times for her many many sins, but also Sky for doing a French language beta on Hayloft, Anne and Stella for the on-demand, and Mousie for the murder feedback). Thank you to the Asylum (nee Jail) - you're all gremlins and I-A-Door-You! Thank you to the MRC for being just... whatever it is you are. And the OGC - because intercontinental chat groups are their own, special nonsense!

I want to thank my patrons (you can find me on patreon here... thank you for thanking me for existing!). Everyone that has left kudos and comments and reblogs and likes. Anyone who has dropped me a message or a thought and has generally enjoyed or encouraged my writing this past year. And those of you who followed Hayloft posting and commented along the way -- amazingly supportive! ILY all!!

#2023-2024 #Author's Notes #Annual Review #Writing Milestones

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lavendulachronicler · 6 days ago

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Hey, Lav. It is MichikoQueen from Ao3. I wanted to ask, who are your favourite characters from the Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss, separately? First, in Vivziepop's show, and then who is favourite in your own portrayal of them, whether it is is writing them or the changes you made to their character arc or storyline because of your own writing?

Also, who is your favorite from your oc's? Again, whether it is writing them or the changes they brought to the original story?

And how would you describe Syrup's relationship with Alastor, like he slept with him, called him 'Dad' accidentally, and how he is kind of possessive and protective of Syrup, from Alastor's point of view? Like, what does Alastor feel or think since the first meeting to the latest chapter you wrote? Unless it is spoiler territory.

Oooh so many good questions!

Favorite character from Hazbin Hotel: I love all my babies equally but I think I have to say Angel Dust. I fell in love with him the first time I saw him. Well, not strictly true. When I first saw him it was in Gooseworx's 'Spider Mobster Polka' and, lacking context of the source material, I genuinely thought he was a girl. Ironic. I liked him well enough then but when I learned the actual gender of the matter then I fell in love with him.

Alastor may be a close runner up but that may be entirely because of how I write him and interpret his character.

Honorable mention goes to Husk and Charlie who I found a real appreciation for as I wrote them.

As for who I enjoy writing the most in terms of my own writing: Hrm. Lucifer is the obvious choice because he's so different in my work, but I am a big fan of how I characterize Valentino, if I may say so. We don't have confirmation, of course, but I just feel like I put an entirely different pack of thoughts into that big, horny, doofus's head.

Favorite character from Helluva Boss: I am far too far behind on HB, something I really need to rectify, but it has to go to Stolas. It's for entirely different reasons than Angel, though. Granted not too different. He appeals to me on a deeply personal level and I feel very seen by him.

Honorable mention goes to Fizz. I just think he's neat.

Shout out to all the different Sins, though. I've long been fascinated by depictions of Hell and the Seven Sins and Viv's has to be my favorite. It is also probably where most of my writing will break from canon. I intend to write them all in a very specific Way. The eyes of the storms that are their various sins. Being their embodiment, yes, but also doing their absolute best to encourage the sin in others.

As for my favorite OCs that is way way harder. My reflex is to say Inkwell but that might just be because I'm working on his story right now so he's in a lot of my thoughts. Fibonacci, actually, is a lot of fun to write and toss into situations like a large, gold, hand grenade, but I may be saying that for similar reasons to Ink. He's going to have a big impact in the next part of Sickly Sweet.

Then again considering I literally named myself for my Helluva Boss OC, maybe I should say it's him.

As for that last question: From Syrup's direction, he does view Alastor as something of a father figure, but he'd never admit that, least of all to himself. He looks to Alastor for approval and guidance and trusts him maybe more than anyone else in Hell.

Which is very funny because when I wrote the first Sickly Sweet, I meant for Alastor to be an antagonistic force. He was meant to be the person who set Syrup up to be found by his victims, after all, but as I wrote their first interaction I found, that they actually got along really well.

From Alastor's point of view, well...

He isn't lying, firstly. Every nice thing he's said and done for Syrup he has totally meant. I don't think Alastor is capable of lies of that magnitude. He does see Syrup as a kindred spirit. A scamp, a confidant, even a ward. There's a lot I put into Alastor's character (A reverent view of personal agency and good manners, a distaste for cowards and those who flinch from what they are, etc.) but there's an old character trait of Alastor's shared by Viv and it might not even apply anymore but it goes like this: "Alastor likes people who are like himself but dislikes people who are too like himself" and I keep that in mind a lot when writing him.

From that lens, Syrup is kind of ideal. Violent and clever, of course, viewing the Work in of itself as important while still straying from Alastor's own tastes and preferences enough to be, to Alastor, interesting.

I think to Alastor someone being interesting and someone being likeable are about the same thing.

Alastor does genuinely want to see Syrup become all that he can be... but Alastor is still a demon, and just because his like of Syrup is genuine doesn't mean that Alastor shouldn't be able to profit, in his way. Syrup is one of the sharpest knives in the drawer, after all.

And what good is a knife if you do not use it?

#text #hazbin oc #hazbin fanfic #fanfic thoughts #oc thoughts #oc lore #hellaverse #hellaverse oc #hellaverse fanfic #hazbin hotel

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lavs-library · 3 months ago

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What's good y'all! I'm Lavendervenom, or just lavender/venom/lavenom/or lav (she/her) for short. I adore writing and drawing as a hobby and my fav generes are horror and thriller! I also typically write yandere based stories and reader inserts (that are 90% of the time self indulgent lol)

As I'm currently in college, my update schedule is unfortunately trash due to irl stuff so apologies in advance for that😭🙏🏽

IMPORTANT!!

I want to stress that I DO NOT condone yandere or yandere like behavior in real life under ANY circumstances! Fictional works like these are harmless, oftentimes guilty pleasures. Simply fantasy and escapism. However, if you're dealing with a toxic or dangerous individual in real life then please take caution and protect yourself! You're health and safety are more important🖤 Feel free to block my account if you find yourself uncomfortable with this subject matter! All my stories will come with the appropriate TWs at the top of each post.

Please DO NOT interact with this blog or my works if you are a minor or, at the very least, younger than 16. While I won't be posting any smut/NSFW on here, I still don't feel comfortable with having minors read my stories especially considering the subject matter. Thank you in advance for understanding!🙏🏽

☠Socials☠

🖤 Main Blog

👽 Quotev

☠️ Ao3

💔 Wattpad

☠Masterlist☠

Work in progress! (Currently NOT taking requests🙇🏾‍♀️)

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lumosatnight · 1 year ago

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Day 14: Something Different About Her

Parvati can’t get over Lavender, no matter how much she tries.

@kinktober2023 day 14: Cloning & Selfcest

Parvati/Tonks, Past Lavender/Parvati, E, 500 words

Shapeshifting, Thigh Riding, Grief

—

“So, Harry told me why you’re here, and I have to say, I usually don’t do this. In fact, I actually don’t recommend it.”

“I know,” Parvati sighed. “I just… It’s been years, and nothing helps. I think I’m stuck. I need closure… or something.”

Tonks nodded along as she talked, pink hair bobbing with them. “So you’re dead set on doing this?”

Parvati nodded.

“Well, alright.” Tonks stuck out their hand. “Did you bring the picture like I asked?” Parvati took a small photograph from her wallet and set it in their palm. “Be right back, then.”

Tonks left the room, and Parvati waited, fidgeting nervously.

Eventually, the door opened again, and Parvati dared to hope.

“Lavender.”

She was here. She was real.

She was just how she remembered. The braids in her hair, the freckles across her nose. Brown eyes, beautiful eyes, looking at her like she was the most precious person in the world.

“Hello, Parv.” Her voice was huskier than usual, but it didn’t matter because she was here!

Parvati shot out of the chair. She crushed her body against Lavender’s, crying into her shoulder. She smelled so good, like cinnamon and campfire, different than her usual apple-blossom scent, but Parvati found she liked it even more.

“You’re here. You’re really here. I’ve missed you so much.”

“Shh, don’t cry, love. I’m here.”

Lavender stroked her head, making her cry harder. Her hands were unfamiliar, more calloused than Parvati remembered, but they were gentle as they touched her — like Parvati was delicate, like she would disappear in a wisp of smoke. But she was the one who had disappeared, not Parvati.

“Lav, please. It’s been so long.” She pressed closer, grinding their hips together. “Please, can I?”

Lavender pulled back. “Wait. I think we should talk first.”

“I c-can’t —” She backed Lavender against the table, thighs parting automatically. Parvati straddled one, rocking her hips. “I want you. I need you.”

“Parvati,” Lavender said and grabbed her waist in warning, but it only made her grind down harder, Lavender’s muscular thigh rubbing deliciously against her clit. She didn’t remember Lavender being this muscular, but she found she liked it.

“Touch me,” she begged. “Make me come. Please. It’s been so long.”

Lavender’s brow furrowed. “Have you not —”

Parvati shook her head. “No, only with you.”

Lavender still didn’t move, so Parvati took her hands and shoved them under her blouse and up her bra. “Please,” she said, crying again because Lavender was right here, but she wouldn’t give her what she needed.

A finger flicked over her nipple, and she arched, her entire body flooding with heat.

“Amazing,” said Lavender faintly. “You’re so sensitive.”

“Please. Please, I need it.”

Lavender looked at her strangely, sadly almost. Parvati didn’t understand. Lavender shouldn’t be sad; she should never be sad.

“Alright,” she said finally. “Only once, alright?” And she tweaked Parvati’s nipple beneath her blouse.

“Yes,” she gasped, riding Lavender’s thigh and pressing her chest into Lavender’s hand. “Anything.”

Also read it on AO3!

← Day 13 | Masterlist | Day 15 →

#kinktober 2023 #parvati x tonks #hp femslash #hp fanfic #500 words #lumosdrabbles

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viscountessevie · 2 years ago

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since you mentioned shonda & love triangles! lets hear some cursed love triangle ideas for the upcoming seasons! my nightmares are sienna coming back and michael being into edwina 🧿🧿🧿

Related to this ask

Ohmygod anon thank you so much for this ask because my GC and I had THE most fun time coming up with these but also being traumatised because the writers might just do it.

Here’s what us clowns (s/o to Franzi @anthonykatebridgerton Triv @hptriviachamp , Lav @sweetestviscount , Belle @sophiamariabeckett) came up with/have seen before in AO3:

The Traumatic Ones That I Am Shaming Yall For:

Colin/Sophie (Ew Sophie would never; Book!Colin maybe)

Michael/Pen/Colin (SO cursed cos the Pelicans keep doing Pen/Michael its so stupid but I also feel like the show writers would 10/10 go onto AO3 and steal this triangle gross)

Pen/Anthony

Pen/Gregory

Pen/Edmund I (not her nephew but her dead father in law!!)

I don’t know who needs to hear this but newsflash yall: as much grief as I give Show!Penelope, Book Penelope is her own person and not a self insert you can use to project onto the men of Bridgerton. Actually both versions are their own characters and like at least write ships that makes sense?? If you hate their canon ship so much and wanna insert yourself with a Bridgerton man, just create an OC lol. But yeah honestly Pen and Gregory/Edmund are very real tags on AO3 and that’s gross like Gregory is a whole MINOR and Edmund is DEAD and also in what world would he leave Violet for his son’s almost wife?? [I have thoughts on Ant too but that’s a whole other post lmao]

Ben/Sophie/Edwina (not to bad but still not a fan)

Enough traumatising ones, here are some fun crack ships!

Lady D/Thomas Dorset/Mary

Lady D/QC/Mary

Lady D/Ben (I don’t see it but yall do you lmao)

Colin/Portia (ala Stacy’s Mom but make it Penelope’s Mom ahahah)

About your nightmare ships, anon, yeah I don’t really want Siena back as much as I like her and want her & Kate to be besties. Her arc with Anthony was resolved and closed perfectly. If Sabrina does come back for a cameo, I just hope its to sing at one of the balls and Siena and Anthony give each other looks of acknowledgement and that’s it. I do not trust the writers to write them meaningful convos that isn’t causing drama while Kathony is married so no dialogue between any of them thank you.

I rather Eddie/Michael than Pen/Michael - the latter fan ship annoys me so much like Hello Mikey canonly has loved ONLY Frannie. I don’t know who needs to hear this but pining is not a personality trait for those two to bond over and fall in love. I swear it’s like these idiots who ship them haven’t read their respective books. They only had eyes for Frannie and Colin respectively, leave Pen/Michael in the trash thanks. I think Eddie and Michael would be good friends that’s it - remember his rule, he won’t compromise marriage mart girls and Eddie is still on the mart.

#Bridgerton #Cursed Ships #Bridgerton Love Triangles #Cos these ships were CURSED #Sophie Beckett #Benedict Bridgerton #Edwina Sharma #Lady Danbury #Mary Sharma #Thomas Dorset #Colin Bridgerton #Portia Featherington #Penelope Featherington #The GC Stamp of Approval #Kanthypants & Eldest Daughters GC #Bridgerton Asks

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greyeyedmonster-18 · 3 years ago

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i was not tagged but i love doing this kind of thing as it's the only sense of organization my brain can work with, also personal reflection is kind of my whole thing.

Also, 2021 i started this whole journey and *biggest baby*. Honestly, most proud of starting to write and continuing to do so.

(link to all the works mentioned here)

2021 YEAR IN REVIEW

BY THE NUMBERS:

words published this year: 365,738 (on AO3, since late April 2021)

# of fics published: 3, and 1 WIP

# of one shots: 1 and a half (if you count my alternate endings as oneshots)

# of completed multi chapters: 3 (Carry Me Away, From Fire to Fire, Chef's Kiss)

# of WIP multichapters: 1 (ten reasons (to go to Michigan))

# of drabbles on tumblr: infinite. literally so many, i don't even track them anymore.

# of ideas waiting their turn: i have like...half of one.

# of WIP one shots: 1

Longest work: From Fire to Fire (134k+ words)

Shortest work: traditions (3k+ words)

Highest Kudos: Carry Me Away (357)

Highest Hits: From Fire to Fire (9391)

Top 3 by kudos: Carry Me Away, From Fire to Fire, Chef's Kiss

Top 3 by Hits: From Fire to Fire, Carry Me Away, Chef's Kiss

BEHIND THE NUMBERS:

Most challenging fic to write: Chef's Kiss! It was my first one and I was so nervous every step of the way. and the imposter syndrome was real.

Fic that came easiest to write: (actually probably my current WIP, ten reasons) Carry Me Away. Literally had the idea and wrote the fic in a week. the rest was just editing

Most true-to-the-outline fic: Chef's Kiss

Most unlike-its-outline fic: Lol. Is all of them an answer. (also probably a current WIP, No Matter the Wreckage)

Favorite Reader freak-out: as much hate as the CMA ending gets, I equally love all the readers who freak out positively about it.

Most controversial scene: CMA ending...

Hottest ask box topic of the year: CMA ending or just how I write James Potter in general

Most loved OC: I don't think I have any of those?

Most hated OC: See about

My favorite thing about writing Wolfstar: i love writing dialogue between them. i think they are both like exceptionally smart and Sirius in particular has a really quick wit so it feels like a spar when I write them together and then it'll just SKRRRT into the most feelings ever.

Most I’ve laughed writing a scene: Idk if it was a LOL laugh, but I had a really great time writing the scene in Chef's Kiss where Lily and Sirius meet and get drunk together for the first time. And they watch Grey's Anatomy together and Sirius says, I would let McDreamy rail me.

It's still one of my fav's.

Most I’ve cried writing a scene: I don't tend to do this either? It did hurt a lot to write Remus getting in the cab in CMA though.

Smuttiest smut scene: I don't write smut lol, but the spiciest scene and one of my favs is in Carry Me Away when Sirius/Remus go into the public lav together.

Favorite Wolfstar kiss: Chef's Kiss. the one in the car.

Hardest trope/thing to write: and I'm sure everyone knows this-- I really really struggle with imagery/descriptions of places. I'm such a visual person that I can see it in my brain and draw it out, but my brain can't find the correct words to describe what I see. Also that my brain, when writing fics, almost works in color palettes? (ex: in Carry Me Away, I mention the color brown a lot and autumn, and that's because my brain is like-oh yes, everything in London is warm tones--but that's not... any way to describe an actual place because that's not how places work.) so it's a goal to get better at this.

Easiest trope/thing to write: Dialogue. Dialogue. Dialogue. I could make a whole fic of it. Dialogue.

Any fic regrets?: We're trying not to have though. I keep reminding myself that at one point this was the story i wanted to share. and someone else reading it might be at that point in their life as well...so it's all worth it.

2021 fic habits to break: lol, i have a really bad habit of jumping guns and working to fast. slow is the theme of the new year. also writing WAY MORE than i should (100k+ fics are highly paired down and honestly...)

2022 fic habits to make: outlines. outlines. outlines. also, stop writing on post-it notes.

#ao3 #ao3 writer #fanfiction #year in review #2021 #harry potter #wolfstar

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rosy-cheekx · 4 years ago

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from the dialogue prompts! 6: “go away” “no, not until i know you’re okay”

Oh boy this one was hard to write for whatever reason, but she’s done! just in time for us to pretend a world in which Jon or Martin’s lives are ever in real danger doesn't exist....right?

AO3 Link in source on OP

On Being Fine, Absolutely Well-Adjusted, and OK

Martin supposed he should count himself lucky. He hadn’t needed to go to the hospital after the Prentiss attack, had come out with only a few worm scars to show for it, god especially when he thought about Jon and all the worms he and Sasha had had to corkscrew out of him, his face and neck and arms and legs—

See? Martin shook his head, clearing his mind’s eye of the silver and crimson kaleidoscope. It could have been worse. He scratched at his calf, where a close trio of scars had begun to heal, skin-tight and shiny, and, at last, remembered he was supposed to be washing his hands. He was glad the unisex Archive lav didn’t have a mirror by the sink; he didn’t need a reminder of how tired he must look.

The return to work had been difficult, but not as bad as he had expected it to be. Knowing Prentiss was dead had made it easier to return home, though he had immediately spent his first pain-free day rearranging the furniture, as recommended by his therapist. (He had lied to her, of course, claimed an attempted break-in + assault had traumatized him. It wasn’t that far off from the truth, anyways.) So Martin had been spending his evenings repositioning, redecorating, cleaning; anything he could to erase Jane Prentiss and those horrid things from his mind. It wasn’t easy, and Martin still spent nights awake, hyperaware of the smallest sound of squelching or the smell of rot. But he was alive, he reminded himself at home in the mornings, concealing eye bags and trying to reassemble his appearance into some approximation of normal, and shouldn’t that be enough? He hadn’t been seriously injured, like Jon or Tim, hadn’t had to risk a lonely end save them all like Sasha. He should be the most well-adjusted of the three of them.

So why was he here, in the Archive toilet, gripping the edge of the sink so hard he might crack it?

Martin released his grip and watched his blood flow back into his fingers, flexing them. He should really go do...something. Work, probably, if Jon ever decided to stop speaking to him like he was a jigsaw with too many pieces. He splashed some water on his face and exhaled deeply. He was fine, he could-

“Oh shit!” Martin yelped as he turned to face the door into the bullpen. In the reflection at the corner of the mirror that hung on the back of the door was a shiny, squat, silver worm. “Fuckfuckfuck!” Martin cursed, backing into the door and pulling his shoe off with one hand. He patted for his beltloop, where had taken to keeping his corkscrew, and huffed to find it gone. Of course. He was trying not to be paranoid.

Picking up his shoe, he threw it at the worm, half-hidden by the rubbish bin. It bounced harmlessly—or, maybe it hit? Martin couldn’t tell. Either way, the worm moved, and that was when Martin’s vision greyed dangerously, heart leaping to his throat. Oh god, he couldn’t breathe? Why couldn’t he breathe? Was it the carbon dioxide? No. The fire alarm wasn’t going off. Martin’s thoughts raced and he desperately jiggled the door handle, only to find it turning against him. Oh god, it was her. It was-

“Martin?”

It was Jon.

“Jon? Jon, fuck, hey, don’t come in, okay? There’s a worm and I don’t want any of you getting hurt.”

…is what he would have said if he could catch his breath. Instead, all he could let out was a raspy, strangled “Jon.”

“Martin, are you alright in there?” Jon’s voice was too calm, too casual for the bile rising in Martin’s throat.

“W-worm.” Martin sputtered as he heard a click of a cane through the door; probably Jon taking a step backward at the word. “Got-gotta kill it,” he babbled, more to himself than to Jon. He could try with the shoe again, but it hadn’t worked the first time, and that would leave him unprotected if he wanted to step on it.

“No! Martin, don’t-”

Oh, he could step on it. Seized in a moment of something, a peculiar blend of bravery, fear, and plain exasperation, Martin crossed the few squares of lino between him and the worm and moved to step on it with precision. To his great surprise, it rolled out from under his foot, glinting against the overhead lighting.

“What?” Martin mumbled aloud, and the realization hit him all at once: this wasn’t a worm at all. Cautiously, he picked up the metal tube and spotted a small label on the bottom. The thin silver tube contained MAC #239: Not Like Other Girls, according to the reddish-brown sticker.

“Lipstick?” Martin whispered to himself, slumping against the wall of the bathroom and letting out a relieved sob. He had been terrified of lipstick?

The realization that should have calmed him down instead sent him spiraling. Martin Blackwood wasn’t always the calm one, but he was always the shoulder to lean on. He couldn’t do this, not have a breakdown in the middle of his workplace, not with—

Tapping came from the door outside. “Martin? Do I need to break the door down?” Jon was still outside, Martin realized with a start.

“Uh-” Martin choked back a sob. “No, no, it’s alright, Jon. I’m fine.”

“You certainly are not.”

“It was just a-a bloody lipstick tube, Jon, I’m alright. Just leave me alone.” Martin shuddered a breath as he swiped at his eyes with the hem of his sweater, praying to anything and everything that for once Jon would just do as he was told.

“No.” Of course not. “Not until I know you’re okay.” Jon’s voice was softer now, a part of Martin realized. The gentleness of his tone struck Martin and he found himself shakily standing and moving to the door. Unlocking and opening it, he saw Jon, leaning heavily on the medical cane he had been given after the incident, eyes a mix of panic and concern, like the way one might eye a wounded animal. Somehow, that look managed to make Martin feel small, protected, loved, and it warmed something in him.

It was that look that broke something in him and Martin felt a taut string inside him snap loose. Tears welled up in his eyes and he desperately swiped at them with the sleeves of his sweater, leaning against the doorframe. “I feel so stupid,” he mumbled, choked laughter mixing with his tears. He held up the lipstick tube, which he had pocketed earlier, and held it up to the light. “It doesn’t even look like them, not really, I-I-I just saw the squat and silver and panicked.”

Jon’s hand was on his arm, but he was quiet, not saying anything until Martin had collected himself, heaving sobs to hiccups to shallow breathing as he brought himself to baseline again. “Martin,” Jon said quietly, flexing the fingers that held his bicep, “I know you’ve had a rough few months.” Martin scoffed. “Fine, okay, maybe rough doesn’t begin to cover it. What I mean to say is, well…” Jon’s mouth floundered for a word properly, lips forming a few different shapes before settling on, “are you, you know, getting help?”

“Yes, Jon, I’m in therapy.” Martin surprised himself with his own honesty. “But there’s not really much I can say, you know? Not without getting carted off to a sanitorium or getting doped up on meds of some kind or another. I mean, evil worms haunting my house and my workplace? A worm woman determined to kill me and everyone I care for? Not exactly something cognitive behavior therapy will fix.”

Jon sighed in assent, nodding. “That’s fair, I suppose. I just-Martin.” The hand squeezed his elbow and Martin felt a jolt of electricity run through his skin. “You’re allowed to hurt, you know?” Martin’s eyes must have given away his thoughts because Jon continued, voice soft and gentle.

“We all suffered, Martin, but you were the one who was locked in your home, and then the basement where you work, for months on end. Just because you’re not-” he shifts to wave his cane idly, “-doesn’t mean you haven’t gone through hell alongside us.” Jon’s voice has taken on a hardness to it, an insistence Martin last remembered seeing when they were locked in Document Storage together, when Jon was so afraid of being forgotten. It made Martin shiver, not from fear but from something in the way Jon’s eyes bored into him. He was determined to make Martin believe him. Who was he to refuse The Archivist’s words?

So Martin listened, letting Jon’s insistence settle in his chest. He had suffered; he had lost months of his life to Jane Prentiss, he couldn’t sleep without a fear of worms crawling into his skin and mouth at night. He didn’t feel safe until he was in the Archives at his desk, the one that surveyed the whole room and had two fire extinguishers still tucked into the drawers. As Jon spoke, Martin let his muscles relax slowly, until he was leaned up against the alcove in which the door to the toilets stood, helpless under Jon’s gaze and yet feeling the strongest he had in weeks, if not months. Tears welled in his eyes and he heard Jon hesitantly break off.

“Ah-Martin? You-ah shit, I’m sorry.” Jon’s voice had lost the severity it had previously held and was back to its quiet insistence. “I’m sorry, you-you didn’t ask for a soapbox.”

“No, no,” Martin shook his head, raking his nails through his hair. “I...I think I needed to hear that.” He smiled; a shaky, fragile thing. He scratched the back of his calf awkwardly, trying not to dislodge Jon from where he was precariously balanced between the hand on his arm and the hand on the cane. “Thank you, Jon, really.”

Jon smiled and shifted his hand from Martin’s arm to his hand, squeezing gently before releasing it and sliding the lipstick tube from his hand before turning to the bullpen. “Anytime. C’mon, let’s see if this is Sasha’s or Tim’s. I think it’s more Tim’s color, hmm?”

#jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jmart #fanfic to a tea #cw panic attack #tma #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fanfic

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ahankar1610 · 3 years ago

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Hey, how's everyone doing.

Ah, it is an hectic, so was the past week.

I updated Trojan Princess and now I am updating this. I hope you all will like it. ☺️

FFnet: ⬇️

Ao3: ⬇️

A Tale of Ron and Hermione Chapter-3 (The preparation) The day of the Ball was pretty hectic for her as she had to do multiple works in four hours, two actually she needs other two to get ready. Not that she wants to get dressed that well, like she did for the Yule Ball in their fourth year. Well Viktor Krum was her date for that time and she had to look best for the occasion, after all turning up at the Ball with an international quidditch star was a big deal. Viktor, she sighs at the thought of her ex-boyfriend. Viktor was a gentleman at the Ball, and it was really a surprising, actually shocking thing, for every single person of Hogwarts when the bookworm Granger turned up the date of the Victor Krum. Viktor and her continued their relationship even after the Triwizard Tournament. He used to visit her during the Hogsmead visits and they used to spend the day together. It was really heart breaking for her when he sent her the break up letter, before the starting of her sixth year. Five months later she heard the news of him dating a fellow quidditch player who belongs to Italy. After that their letters became rare and she lost the contact with him. Not that she didn't had boyfriends after him. Cormac McLaggen was the person who had asked her for the Slughorn's Christmas party and then they kissed later at the party and they were in a relationship which lasted for six months. He was a prat many times to be honest and he started getting on her nerves. But she really liked him because he was a solace after her break up with Viktor and she started liking spending time with him. Then, she sighs sadly. He dumped her at his graduation day. She couldn't believe her luck that every bloody time she was the one to get dumped. Though it didn't hurt that much as much as it did before during Viktor's time. Now here she is sitting on the vacant seat, sweaty and tired with a glass of a butterbeer in her hand and watching the Hall they had prepared for the Ball. They did a good work with all of decorations, Headmaster Dumbledore was immensely impressed with the decorations and all. Even Professor McGonagall had remarked and it really made her feel proud of herself and her the members of the Council. She hoped everything goes better this evening. She had asked Ron, he told her it would be okay if she calls him by his first name, that she'll meet him near the courtyard. Her friends didn't give her that much of a hard time as much as she had expected. Lavender and Parvati were surprised but they just shrugged and let it go easily. Dean and Harry understood that she took this step because of the no one left problem. It was Seamus who had given her a hard time for it, with his teasing. She hoped that Seamus would get busy because she can face the teasing but she didn't want Ron to face it, because Seamus can be a bit heartless when he had firewhisky on. She walked towards the Gryffindor tower musing about the upcoming Ball when she heard someone call her. She turned and Ginny Weasley was walking towards her. She had her Quidditch kit on and she had her broom on her shoulder. "Hello Ginny," she greeted with a smile. "Hi," she said with a small smile, "If you're not busy, can I talk to you for a moment?". Hermione was confused as to why in the world would Ginny Weasley want to have a conversation with her. Not that they are not on good terms or something. It's just that they really didn't interacted that much to strike a friendship. Harry and Ginny are friends, she knows as both of their families are close. "Sure," said Hermione. "Well, how's your year as the President going?" Ginny asked and she can sense awkwardness in her tone. "It is well till now, though it's been only a month, I can say that the first month was hectic. Don't know what will the upcoming time will bring." She chuckled. Ginny smiled and sway her hands through her straight red hair. She cleared her throat, "So, I heard you asked my brother to be your date, is it

true?". "Yes," she said a little confused, "Didn't he tell you?" she asked. Ginny rolled her eyes. "My brother won't tell anything if you don't ask him." They both again went into that uncomfortable silence. "Do you mind if I ask you a question?" Ginny asked her with her eyes a little narrowed. "No." Ginny stared at her gloved for a moment as if contemplating her words, "Why did you ask to the Ball?". Hermione frowned, "I really didn't understand what you mean by that Ginny." "You're not planning to…. embarrass him, are you?" Ginny asked seriously. What!?, she's really shocked by the accusation of Ginny, "Why do you think that?" bewildered and astonished by Ginny's accusation. "You and your groupies don't have any pranks planned for him?" Ginny asked looking suspiciously at her and Hermione didn't know from where this all is coming. "Look Ginny," she said firmly looking straight at Ginny, "I needed a date for the Ball and your brother was dateless. So, I asked him for the date, it's all simple. There is no pranks or scheme to embarrass your brother." Ginny stared at her for a minute then breathed a long sigh relaxing her shoulders. "I am sorry, it's just, you know?" Ginny shrugged her shoulders. "I understand," Hermione said, "My friends really had the bad reputation of Hogwarts' best pranksters since your twin brothers graduated." Ginny snorted, "No one matches my prats of brothers," she said with a laugh. Hermione laughed, "That is something I can agree with." "Are you done?" she asked frustratedly. "Be a little patient, will you," Parvati snapped back while applying a little lipstick on her lips and a little makeup on her face. "Why're you so fussy today?" asked Lavender, who is sitting at her bed and enjoying the eclairs Dean had bought them. Hermione was preparing early because as the president she and her date would have to be present at the Ball before anyone else. "Why can't I can go without Parvati trademark makeup?" she huffed while Parvati shot her a look with narrowed eyes, Lavender rolled her eyes. "Because Parvati won't let you go out of this until she is done with you," Lavender said while jumping from her bed, she walked and stand behind Hermione with a teasing smile on her face, "You were not like this before the Yule Ball?". Hermione glanced at her on the mirror. "Yule Ball was different," she said trailing. Lavender suddenly frowned, "And your date was an international quidditch star and this time a simple seventh year student?" Lavender said wearily. "No!" Hermione said quickly, but went quiet as soon as her voice went high realizing that what Lavender said is true. Lavender sighed, "Hermione," she said shaking her head. She bent down and kissed Hermione's top of the head and plop down on the stool placed beside Hermione. The stool was really small as Lavender's head, who is of a medium height, is reaching the hands of the seat. She took Hermione's hand in hers', "Look Hermione. My mum always used to say that people will always try to be good with you if you always try to be nice to them," she said with a smile, "Look at us, we didn't even like each other when we first met and now, we're best friends." Lavender said cheerfully. "So! my dear bookworm," she said clapping her hand on her shoulder. "Though Ron was a troublesome person during our starting year. He is a real nice guy, so be good with him and I am sure he will also try to be a good date." "Since when our deary became so wise, Parvati?" Hermione asked teasingly to Parvati who giggled and then said with mocking emotional expression, "My dear Lav is all grown up now," she said wiping the invisible tears. Lavender huffed and rolled her eyes at them but her lips are twitching on both corners. "It isn't about Ron being my date," Hermione said sighing. "It's about that he must not have any expectations." "Why?" asked Parvati, her brows furrowing. "I don't want another trail of rumours behind me again," she said sighing sadly. Lavender and Parvati flinched when they remind of the fourth year after the Yule Ball. There

are hundreds of rumours regarding Hermione and Krum. It all started because of Rita Skeeter's article in Witch Weekly, and then it was a thunderstorm of howlers and all from Bulgarian crowd and Krum's fans and many of them were unkind. "It's just a date for the Ball Hermione," said Parvati, "Don't worry, I am a respected member of the rumour mill of Hogwarts. Nothing passes me." She said proudly and they all laughed.

#romione au #romione fanfic #ron x hermione #a walk to remember #ron weasley #hermione granger #A tale of Ron and Hermione

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friendlylocalwriter · 4 years ago

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The Quiet Stranger

Pairing(s): Geralt of Rivia x fem!reader

Warnings: Slight mention of violence, mild language, bit of a meet-cute, nothing too bad

Requested: No

Prompt: You live a quiet life in the forest with your mother after the fall of Cintra, selling grains and produce to keep enough coins for survival. When your mother leaves for a long journey to the market, you're surprised to meet a white-haired stranger in dire need of help, and even more surprised by how you feel about him.

Word Count: 2452

Chapter: 1/?

A/N: Hello friends! I have decided to do a multi-chapter Witcher fic because like,,, have y’all seen him LMAO. I’m hoping to actually get on a schedule and post every Saturday for this fic, so I hope you all enjoy! And, I’ve decided to stray away from writing real person fics (like my timothee chalamet fic I posted earlier this year) so there will be no part three to that, so I apologize! Pretty please comment/reblog if you enjoy, because that’s what keeps me goin! This is also posted on my AO3 @/violettaren. Enjoy loves! <3

Your back is aching.

You turn over on your poorly constructed wooden bed to see your mother opening the curtains to your shack, letting the bright light of the morning shine into your eyes. You groan and let your head fall back onto the cheap fabric that works as a makeshift pillow.

“Get up urgently, young one. We’ve much to do before I leave for the market” your mother says as she gathers various tools from the main table in your home. Well, home is generous. Nilfgaard had taken your home in Cintra many years ago during the war, robbing you and your mother of your father, your home, your livelihood. You were so young that any memory of Cintra escapes you, but you see it on your mother’s eyes every time she looks out onto the large acre of land you two now occupy deep in the forest, alone. This isn’t where she’s meant to be.

It’s this thought that forces you out of bed to help your mother gather the grains and berries you grow in your garden to sell in the town miles over every few months. The coins your mother makes isn’t much, not nearly as much as your father made in Cintra, but it’s enough to keep you alive. Enough to allow you to stay home while your mother is gone for many weeks and study the books your father left behind.

“I’d appreciate it if you actually put the grains in the bag,” your mother grins at you, looking down at the empty rucksack that should be full of the tall brown plants cascading across the field. You drop your head and apologize, quickly feeling around to see which are ready to be picked. You feel your mother’s hand on your shoulder, forcing your gaze up to see her expression.

“I was only kidding, dear. What has you so disquieted?” her voice was soft and plush, enveloping around you like a warm cotton blanket. Christ, you were going to miss her.

“I wish you didn’t have to leave, Mother. At least not for so long.” You sighed, pressing the pads of your fingers into your hands. “I feel so lonely here, all I can do is tend to the garden and read Father’s books. Can I come with you, just this once?”

You already knew the answer, but it didn’t hurt to try.

“Now, dear, you know it’s much too dangerous for you to leave here,” her voice stopped as she took in a deep breath, looking into your eyes with a sad smile.

“I’ve lost- I’ve lost too much to take the chance. I’m sorry. And with Lav’s sickness, the journey will take even longer since I must go on foot. You have to understand.”

Lav was your family horse who’d been with you for many years, but her age was starting to catch up with her. She could barely walk, let alone carry pounds of produce.

"I do, I do understand." you sigh and carry the bags of food to the front of a trail where a barrel stands, and you begin the load to load the produce. Once the last of the bags are set, you grab your mother tightly, and you drink in her laugh, hoping it'll stay with you for the coming weeks.

"I'll be just alright, dear. Just make sure Lav doesn't eat any of my damn berries."

•••••••

Lav’s loud neighing woke you up as the sun was just starting to rise over your shack. You assumed it was just your old horse coming across some little rodent in the garden, and snuggled back into your blanket, thinking nothing of it. But her sounds got progressively louder and more shrill, and you sighed, ripping the blanket off of your body and rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. You glanced in the mirror next to you to see your sheer pale nightgown outlining your body. No one comes around even miles close to here, you thought. Shrugging, you make your way outside to the garden to see Lav and … nothing. Like you thought.

“What is it, girl? What’d you wake me up for?” you pet her brown mane, looking around to see if there was anything out there.

“You get scared so easy, Lav. Make no more noise, please, Lord knows I need the beauty sleep.”

You give her a few more head pats and yawn, turning around to walk back to your bed when you are met with two amber eyes looking at you.

It takes you a few moments to realize that there is an actual person, a massive one at that, staring at you with no expression on his face. Once your brain decides to work, you remember what you’re wearing and your hands immediately fly to cover your chest.

“I am - I didn’t know anyone was around here. I’m sure you’re just passing through, I’ll get out of your way,” your voice comes out much quicker and more child-like than you would’ve hoped, and you try to speedwalk past him. You only get maybe two steps in before a calloused hand grabs your arm, turning you back around to face him again, forcing you to get a good look at him.

Funnily enough, his amber eyes are the least striking thing about this stranger. His long locks are a dusty white shade, with a few sparse strands framing the front of his face. He’s wide, god why is he so wide?, and he easily has at least 6 inches on you. He has three or four fresh scars on his face, and what looks like the handle of a sword is peeking out from behind him. Your eyes fall down his heavily dressed chest only to see a large hole at the bottom, right above his pelvis. Your brows furrow, and you quickly realize that it is a knife wound, noticing the dark dried blood. Your heart stops and you run through all of the things your mother told you to do if a Nilfgaardian came to your home.

“Listen,” he says almost immediately after feelings your pulse quicken under his touch. “I am not here to hurt you. I am Geralt, of Rivia. I need attendance.” His voice is deep and ragged, with such a severe intensity that you hesitate to reply. He lets his grip loosen on your arm but still keeps it there, ghosting over you.

“Please, I will give you no trouble.”

“I don’t know, a wound of that caliber kind of indicates to me that there’d be a bit of trouble,” you joke, lightly gesturing to his abdomen with your free arm. He says nothing, his eyes scanning your face.

Yeesh. You haven’t seen another person other than your mother in years, but you didn’t think your jokes were that bad.

Once the silence begins to verge on uncomfortable, you slowly remove your arm from his grip and move back a bit, crossing your arms over your torso.

“I can try and help you, Geralt, but I’ve no magic nor any healing powers. I can possibly stitch that wound you’ve got and give you some fresh ale to help with the pain?” you propose, even though you had quite shoddy sewing skills. You swear you see his rock hard expression falter quickly, but it goes right back before you could figure out if it truly happened or not.

“I would appreciate that, uh…”

“Y/N, my name is Y/N, of, well formerly of Cintra,” you smile tightly, forcing those thoughts out of your head.

He simply hmmed, and you spot his eyes trailing down your collarbones to fall onto your chest. You feel the heat come onto your face and you turn around, trying to concentrate on anything except the amber of eyes of the stranger.

“Come inside. I’ll get changed quickly and then hopefully get you back to health, and on your way.”

•••••••

He was bad at talking. Or rather, he just didn’t want to talk to you.

Once you two were inside, you tossed on a large tattered poncho over your nightgown and grabbed the old sewing kit on your nightstand, praying that you had the skills to hopefully help this man. He was sat on your bed, constantly fidgeting around to try and get comfortable.

“I know, it’s quite hard, isn’t it? I wake up feeling ten years older every night,” you look up to smile at him while you try and get the thread through your needle. It feels like hours pass before he says anything.

“I am used to discomfort.”

You try to rack your brain to think of what to say, because who the hell says that, but you come up short and decide to work on the pressing task at hand. As soon as you prepare the needles, you stand up and walk towards the back of your shack where all of your food and drink are stored, and grab the beer you and your mother made with the fresh grains.

“Here,” you hand it to him, ignoring the electricity that runs through your arm when his fingers brush against yours. “Hopefully this will help with the pain.”

He gives you another hmm and takes a large swig while you sit next to him, being extra cautious to make sure there is enough space between the two of you. He quickly finishes his drink with a sigh and places it on your nightstand, looking back at you with expecting eyes.

“I, um, need you to remove your dressings. For me to work, of course,” you sputter, mentally kicking yourself in the head.

You notice Geralt’s lips rise oh so slightly into a little smirk as you stuttered, and he wastes no time tossing his bag with his weapons onto the floor and then slowly removing the many articles of clothing on his torso. You feel an odd pull in the bottom of your stomach when you see his shirtless body, his arms veiny and riddled with scars, his chest muscular and equally as blemished. That same heat rises to your cheeks and you look down at his wound, wincing as you examine the gash.

“Lean back, please,” you murmur, cringing at how weak you sound. “I can’t properly stitch you in this position.”

He obliges wordlessly as he splays his half-naked body onto your cot, closing his eyes. You realize how much effort you’re putting into just breathing, and you get to work on closing the wound, getting into a rhythm with your sewing. His abdomen clenches but he lets out no audible indication of pain, his mouth sealed in a tight frown.

“How did this happen, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I do.”

Shocked at his rude candor, and embarrassed, you say nothing as you press your head down, hoping to make no further eye contact with him. He hisses as you work towards closing the largest part of the wound, and you thought of apologizing but decided against it due to his track record when it came to talking. You continue to stitch in silence until the wound was closed, and you sigh in relief as you looked at your finished work. Wasn’t great, but wasn’t going to kill him.

“It should heal soon, hopefully,” you stand up, moving to rub your hands on your thighs until you notice the bloodstains all over them. With a shiver, you grab a wet cloth and roughly scrub at hands. You couldn’t stand the smell of someone else’s blood any longer.

You hear a creak and turn around to see Geralt standing up with his clothing in his hand, and you immediately feel anger cloud your head.

“What the hell? You’re going to pull the stitches, you idiot,” you grab the clothes out of his hands and toss them back on the ground. “I did not just cover my hands in blood for God knows how long for you to mess up my work minutes after!” you exclaim, putting your hands on your hips. Geralt laughs in such a condescending way that you can’t even begin to hold back the fury in your voice.

“You asked me for help, remember? I should be hearing ‘Wow, thank you Y/N for helping me, a random stabbed stranger!’”

Geralt’s smile falls as he stares into your eyes, and you feel that same discomfort from when you first found him outside. He just did everything with such intent and passion that when it was directed at you, you felt like jumping out of your skin.

“Thank you, Y/N, for what you’ve done, but I will be fine. I must be on my way,” he grimaces as he takes a step, and you can almost feel the pain with him.

“Geralt, listen. I get it, you’re a strong guy,” you step in front of him and try and remove the anger from your voice. “But you’re going to need to relax for at least a day. Give the stitches some time to settle.”

“I’ve no place to stay. It’s just forest, for miles.”

“You can stay with me.”

The sentence leaves your mouth before you can even recognize what you’re saying. Geralt’s eyebrows raise and he tilts his head slightly, eyeing you as one would to a lost puppy. Any confidence you had immediately dissipates when you realize what you just suggested, and you open your mouth but nothing comes out.

“I mean, only if- if you’d like. If not, I’m sure you can make it to a town on foot by tomorrow. I’m sure your fast,” you finally choke out with a scratchy laugh, and you shut your eyes, wishing this entire situation would just disappear.

Geralt laughs again, but this time it’s much more earnest and kind of … adorable? Not that you should think of this strange man who’d been knifed and wandered through a forest as adorable, but he kind of was.

“Y/N, open your eyes,” he says, his voice surprisingly stern. You look up at him, preparing for another blunt response, but are met with much softer eyes.

“I wouldn’t wish to overstay my welcome.”

“You wouldn’t be,” you breathe, shyness creeping up under his gaze. “I- I would like for you to stay. Just so I can make sure the stitches are okay.”

You didn’t notice it until now, but Geralt’s fingertips were so lightly touching yours that there was almost no contact, but just close enough to get that same pull in the bottom of your stomach. You’d never felt anything like this before, and as much as it terrified you, you didn’t want it to end.

"Alright, then it's settled, Y/N. I'll stay."

#the witcher #witcher x reader #witcher x y/n #the witcher fanfiction #geralt #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia fanfic #the witcher fandom #henry cavill #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill fanfic #fanfiction #reader-insert #fluff #witcher fluff

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needtherapy · 4 years ago

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open always petal by petal (ch 1)

Song Lan knows his only passenger, Cao Huan, is more secrets than truths, but he's still the best passenger Song Lan has ever had: paid up front, self-sufficient, and silent.

It shouldn't matter that Cao Huan plays the guqin like his heart is broken.

It shouldn't matter that his smiles light up the darkest corners of Fuxue's passageways.

It shouldn't matter that he makes Song Lan curious, curious in a way he hasn't felt in years.

It's just an ordinary transport, a regular fare, a mostly-honest way to make a living. All they have to do is get from Sichuan Station to Caiyi Port. The galaxy may be a dangerous place, but Song Lan is very good at his job, and this should be an easy two-week trip.

The rest doesn't matter. It doesn't.

READ ON AO3

Notes: Rated E for Explicit. Title from e.e. cummings' poem "somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond". Thanks to @cirilien, @coslyons, @treemaidengeek and tucuxi (AO3) for the beta reads!

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

⋆ Day 0 ⋆

The papers are fakes, Song Lan thinks, but damn good ones. It’s really only the feel of the paper—a bit too clean, a bit too smooth—that tips him off. The ID badge is probably fake too.

He examines the man standing in front of him. He’s handsome in a patrician sort of way, if a bit too thin, and nearly as tall as Song Lan himself, dressed in graceful Eastern Sector robes that rustle the way only real silk does. They’re a far cry from Song Lan’s utilitarian jacket and comfortable shirts and pants in shades of constant black, only a small step up from the uniform he used to wear.

Song Lan wonders why this obviously wealthy man would need forged travel docs. He doesn’t really care, of course. Everyone has their secrets. But he doesn’t need trouble with the Goldlighters. It’s already tricky enough to be unaffiliated without drawing the attention of the galaxy’s most powerful economic cultivation guild.

With a sigh, Song Lan fishes the comm out of a pocket and holds it to the tiny neural node on the side of his head.

[Why the fake name?] the comm speaker asks in a cheerful, melodic voice that still twinges painfully in his chest. It’s been five years. He should really get the damn thing re-coded.

Instead of being offended, the man—supposedly named Cao Huan—tilts a wry, weary smile at him.

“I had hoped to be anonymous a little longer,” he says, his elegant accent denoting excessive amounts of privilege and education. “If you require my real credentials, I can produce them.”

Song Lan shrugs and shakes his head. As long as the man is legit, he can call himself whatever he wants, but now Song Lan has another question. Frowning, he lifts the comm again.

[Why not just travel on a Goldlighter transport? You’re headed for Caiyi. It’s a major port. You know it’ll take two weeks to travel through all four sectors in my ship? The trip might be more dangerous than on a sanctioned vessel,] Xingchen’s voice asks.

Song Lan is under no illusions about his typical fares. There’s usually a good reason they want to travel without questions, and usually a good reason they choose Fuxue. He might be unaffiliated, but he’s not cheap. The galaxy is a dangerous place, and he’s very good at his job. In ten years, he’s only lost one person. It was, however, the only one who mattered.

“I am returning to my family after...some time away. I am in no hurry,” Cao Huan answers, with an edge that Song Lan takes to mean the topic is closed.

Well, he’s happy to take the man’s money; he paid extra to be the only passenger. Song Lan shrugs again and motions for Cao Huan to follow him on a very short tour: kitchen, guest bedrooms, sonic lavs, the foolishly indulgent bath, infirmary, bridge, engineering, cargo bay, plus half a dozen corridors that serve as storage, computer terminals, short-term passenger seating, and whatever else Song Lan needs them to be. He’s even strung up hammocks in emergencies.

[Make yourself at home,] he says with a nod and quick, slanted smile.

“Thank you Captain Song,” the man says with a wide, genuine smile that starts in the corner of his mouth and spreads, opening like a flower across his face. It surprises Song Lan in a way he can’t quite articulate, as though neither of them expected today to hold any need for smiles. “I have been told you are the best pilot, and I look forward to the journey.”

Song Lan finishes prepping Fuxue with supplies for the two-week flight, plus extras, because it’s always better to plan for the worst. He checks to make sure his one luxury—six skeins of outrageously expensive qiviut yarn—is carefully stowed in waterproof cases. Having warm socks and something to do with his hands in the long dark expanse of space is worth any price. Cao Huan busies himself with loading his own gear, waving Song Lan away when he offers to help.

“Commander Song! Commander Song Lan!”

Song Lan turns at the familiar voice calling a half-forgotten title, but it takes him a minute to recall the person: Ouyang Ju. They had served together some ten years ago in the war that brought down the Wen High Chancellor. Fat lot of good that had done.

“Man, it is you! Haven’t seen you in ages,” Ouyang grins, slapping Song Lan on the back. “How’s it going?”

Song Lan tries not to flinch. He has never understood the need people have to touch each other when they’re talking. It’s annoying. He smiles and tips his head, the universal motion for a polite and disengaged fine, and hopes he won’t have to elaborate. It’s not that he doesn’t like using the comm. He would just rather not use it.

Alright, maybe it’s that he doesn’t like using it.

The man’s face twists with sudden, embarrassed recollection, and Song Lan knows what’s coming next.

“Sorry to hear about your partner and...everything,” the older man says with an apologetic grimace. “He was a great guy.”

[He was,] Song Lan acknowledges, giving in to the blasted voice box. [Thanks.]

“Hey, I’m XO on the Goldlight Ren,” Ouyang nods at the huge transport vessel resting in the nearby docking bay, just visible through wide banks of windows designed, Song Lan assumes, to show off the might and power of the ships that travel here. Nothing like Fuxue, who might be ninety meters if he squints just right, can be flown by a single person, and only requires a landing pad.

“Anything you ever need, you tell me, okay? I owe you.” Without waiting for a response, Ouyang strides away, whistling a fairly dirty bar song.

Song Lan watches him go, wishing it was that easy, wishing he could reduce the war to favors performed, a series of tit-for-tat exchanges that balance to zero instead of a perpetually-red loss column.

Wishes are pointless. Only the road ahead matters.

Song Lan sees his new passenger idly poking through a bag, head dipped away, back turned, and something about his posture rings a distant alarm bell in Song Lan’s mind. He has flown the route from Sichuan Base to Caiyi Port hundreds of times in his life. It should feel exactly the same as every other trip. And yet this time, he senses trouble brewing, and he does not like it.

⋆ Day 3 ⋆

Other than the unexpected music, it’s almost like flying alone. Cao Huan seems to have a sixth sense for knowing where Song Lan will be and avoiding him. He only occasionally catches glimpses of the tall man, white robes swirling behind him as he disappears through doorways or around corners.

It suits Song Lan just fine, and he laughs to himself about his initial concern. Cao Huan is the best passenger Song Lan has ever had: paid up front, self-sufficient, and silent. Song Lan finishes his first sock less than two days out of port, a record.

The only place he consistently runs into his passenger is in the kitchen. After the third day, it occurs to Song Lan that, as strange as it seems, it must be on purpose. Song Lan gets the definite impression that Cao Huan waits for him to arrive before he eats, as though it’s some ceremony he wishes to observe.

There’s no good reason for it, but Song Lan starts to eat his meals at the narrow kitchen table too. After all, there’s no reason not to, either. He just doesn’t usually eat in the kitchen. He’s grateful to discover that conversation is not the reason Cao Huan prefers company; meals continue to be quiet, peaceful affairs.

“Captain Song?”

Cao Huan’s voice startles Song Lan into dropping the knife he’s using to stir his...whatever this goop is.

��My apologies, but...will you join me for tea tomorrow morning? It is not as enjoyable to drink tea by myself.”

Without meaning to, Song Lan looks at the cabinet that contains the “tea” and “coffee,” thinking, it’s never enjoyable to drink that swill, and Cao Huan laughs.

It’s only a laugh on the barest technicality, a soft huff of air, but it changes things so profoundly, Song Lan has trouble staying on his feet. Suddenly, Cao Huan is a person, not a passenger, not a potential problem. The word no forms in his head even as he feels himself nodding.

Cao Huan smiles and inclines his chin, pleased, and Song Lan finds himself smiling back. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s not usually so soft-hearted. Xingchen was the nice one, he reminds himself, and look how that turned out. The cruelty is the only way he can snap himself out of the whispering camaraderie, a pointless train of thought, and back into his role as captain of a ship, nothing more.

[Captain, your attention is required.]

As if to punctuate the computer’s notification, an alarm sounds—unexpected, as this part of space should be smooth and easy sailing. Song Lan grimaces, shrugging apologetically.

“I’m coming,” he signs to the computer’s security camera, before running back to the bridge.

It turns out to be nothing major, only a debris field. Either a small ship had a catastrophe here or a large ship dumped trash. Neither option is particularly heartening. Bad enough if ships are carelessly leaving obstructions on a primary transit route, worse if a ship has been attacked and destroyed here where it should be safe. He knows the Joint Senate is doing its best, and Hanguang-jun, the new chairman, is by far the best leader the four sectors have had in decades, but it’s hard to protect everyone.

There’s no signs of life anywhere after three scans, and Song Lan steers them out of the mess before he resumes course and autopilot.

He doesn’t go back to the kitchen, though.

It isn’t wise, he tells himself, to think of passengers as anything but temporary. Even if they seem nice, even if they’re friendly, they always reach their destination and move on. That’s what he likes about flying transport.

Like clockwork, at 8 pm the music starts. The first night on the ship, Song Lan had thought he was going crazy, hearing the eerie twang of an instrument he didn’t think still existed outside of private art collections.

But no, his passenger had been seated in the mostly-empty cargo bay, eyes closed, playing the guqin. An actual wooden guqin. The music had echoed through the hold, wrapping its notes around Song Lan and reverberating in his chest. He had listened with a mix of disbelief and reverence to the beautiful melody flowing from the fingers of the obviously skilled musician. He listened, in fact, until Cao Huan lifted his hands off the strings and sighed, a long, plaintive sound of grief that piqued Song Lan’s curiosity more than was healthy, and he’d hurried away before Cao Huan noticed him.

The next night had been the same, the music winding into access shafts, around the bridge, even through engineering.

Which Song Lan knows, because he tried all of those places to escape it.

Tonight, though, he gives up. If he is going to be treated to an impromptu concert by a master musician every night, he may as well enjoy it. He knits on the catwalk over the cargo hold and listens, wondering if the song has words, wondering what it means to Cao Huan, wondering how long you had to practice to make the guqin sound like an ocean of sorrow.

⋆ Day 4 ⋆

Evidently, Cao Huan had not been referring to Fuxue’s stores of tea.

He had his own.

Song Lan tells himself to stop being surprised that a man who carries a guqin and can afford a private transport would have a jar of aged white tea that smells like honey and the summer sun. He sits at the table across from Cao Huan and watches him gracefully pour tea, holding back his draping sleeve with one hand.

Cao Huan notices Song Lan’s raised eyebrows.

“You must think me overly indulgent,” he says, pouring his own cup. “I am not particular about many things, but I do enjoy good tea. I am fortunate that it is something my...my family can provide.”

Oh, Song Lan thinks, his family must be tea merchants, which does explain quite a bit, and he feels a little guilty for judging the man on appearances. He wonders if it’s flash-cloned or actually soil-grown, and he peers into the cup, considering the color and shape of the leaves he can see, as though they will give him an answer.

“It is soil-grown,” Cao Huan answers Song Lan’s curious thought, and smiles when Song Lan looks startled. “It is the obvious question. Unless you were seeking your fate in the leaves?”

Song Lan snorts, and Cao Huan laughs again, again that soft exhale that feels more intimate than raucous laughter. It highlights faint lines around his eyes and softens his usually-tranquil angular features with a hint of playful teasing.

“Perhaps you do not believe in fate? Or perhaps you do not believe tea can tell the future. It is considered a noble art, Captain Song. Could so many fortune-telling market grannies be wrong?”

Song Lan laughs, a sadly rusty sound, he thinks with an internal wince, and shakes his head. The man looks pleased.

“Captain Song, may I ask a nosy question?”

Sometimes when people say things like that, they mean I am going to ask a nosy question whether you like it or not, but Cao Huan sounds sincere. Song Lan considers. With a sigh, he finds the comm.

[You may ask. I can’t guarantee that I can answer.]

The man’s mouth twitches in an almost smile. “That is fair. It is only...I noticed you signed to the camera yesterday. Do you…” he pauses, seeming to reevaluate his question, which is good, because Song Lan has frozen.

He forces himself to relax. Hand sign languages are no longer illegal, but he still can’t stop the fluttering fear from pooling in his gut.

“Does the computer understand your hand signs?” Cao Huan finishes, and Song Lan practices breathing normally.

[Yes. It’s easier to sign than find the comm sometimes, especially if I’m in a hurry,] he says through the little speaker, only a little defiantly. He won’t let this man shame him.

“Would you prefer to speak this way?” Cao Huan asks, lifting his hands and signing as he speaks.

Song Lan just stares at him.

And stares.

And stares until Cao Huan’s eyebrows raise. “If you would rather not…”

“No, I do prefer it,” Song Lan signs hurriedly, not wanting him to withdraw the offer. “It’s just...unusual to find someone who knows hand signs these days.”

The High Chancellor had been a paranoid and suspicious man, and he had outlawed the use of hand signs decades ago, fearing them to be the language of bandits and assassins. He wasn’t entirely wrong; hunters and thieves did use the signs, but so did countless others. His replacement, who preferred to be called Xiandu, wasn’t much better. All in all, almost thirty years passed before the current Joint Senate legalized them again after Xiandu’s death three years ago. In so many places around the four sectors, the sign languages that correlated to the spoken languages have been lost entirely.

Song Lan had learned the sign language after Xingchen died five years ago, after he was left for dead, after he decided he was done with the future. His teacher was a wizened old woman on an unaffiliated space station, Rogue Sky, and she was most likely one of the High Chancellor’s feared bandits. Song Lan hadn’t cared then and he didn’t care now. All he knew was that she’d refused to let him wallow in misery, no matter how much he felt he’d earned it.

Song Lan still takes her snowflake cakes whenever he’s near Qinghe space. It’s the least he can do.

Cao Huan nods in acknowledgement, still signing as he talks. Even though it’s unnecessary, Song Lan finds he likes watching, the words and motions blending together to make something wholly different.

“I have always loved languages. This one is particularly beautiful and unique.” He grins suddenly, eyes twinkling with mischief, and the expression turns his face brilliantly luminous. “Plus, it was an appealing novelty to learn something forbidden.”

Song Lan’s first reaction to the man’s captivating smile is an unwelcome surprise. Instinctively, he covers his embarrassment—which he hopes has gone unnoticed—with something he’s more familiar with.

“I did not have the luxury of enjoying the novelty,” his fingers cut angrily through the air. “I was taught illegally on an unaffiliated station by a former bandit, but it was better than never speaking again.”

Swiftly he stands and goes back to his room to berate himself. He isn’t sure which is worse, yelling at his passenger or feeling a knee-buckling surge of desire for him. He has no business doing either.

Song Lan flops on his bed and stares at the ceiling, at the sword that hangs above his head. Shuanghua, Xingchen’s pride and joy, the sword he brought with him when he joined Song Lan’s crew, the sword that couldn’t save him in the end. Couldn’t save either of them. The guilt throbs in his gut, as familiar as the vibrations of Fuxue’s heart, and he sinks into it. This is an emotion he understands.

[Captain, do you need assistance?] his computer asks, and Song Lan wants to laugh. It seems that even Fuxue thinks he’s being a moody child.

He shakes his head and signs to the camera. “What would you do if I did? I’m the captain and the crew.”

The computer is silent, the question apparently having stumped the AI.

[Zichen, do you want to talk about it?]

“No,” his hands say emphatically. He’s not an expert, but he’s pretty sure it’s not going to help to get a psych eval from a computer that’s using his dead partner’s voice.

“Captain Song?”

And now Cao Huan is on the other side of the door. Why can’t everyone just let him sulk in peace?

“Captain Song, I profoundly apologize. It was a terrible, insensitive thing I said, and I am so sorry. It is not an excuse but...I have not been around...people much lately. Evidently I am still quite bad at it. I will not disturb you…”

Song Lan yanks open the door.

“It’s nothing,” he signs slowly, calmly. “I overreacted.” Song Lan smiles ruefully. “I’m not around people much either. Thank you for the tea.”

Cao Huan blinks in surprise, and his face shifts through a series of expressions Song Lan doesn’t recognize before landing on careful neutrality.

“You’re welcome. I...I would be happy to share tea with you every day. If you wish.”

He looks like he’s considering saying something else, but he doesn’t, just nods his head once and goes. Song Lan doesn’t exactly watch him walk down the passageway, one fist resting on the small of his back, but he doesn’t not watch him either.

⋆ Day 5 ⋆

Song Lan is amused to discover that Cao Huan is insatiably curious about everything on Fuxue. It’s not hard to believe he’s been isolated for a while. He is unfailingly polite, and still mostly avoids Song Lan, but occasionally, Song Lan finds him in the oddest places: staring at the engines, examining at the computer core, meditating on the catwalk, sorting through supplies in the infirmary. Song Lan wonders if he’s bored.

He finds Cao Huan on the bridge one day, running his lithe musician’s fingers over the flight panel, murmuring something to himself. Song Lan knows as soon as Cao Huan is aware of his presence. He doesn’t startle, exactly, but he stiffens and steps back slightly. His face, when he turns to Song Lan, though, is tranquil and uncomplicated.

“My pardon, Captain,” he nods, and steps to the side as though he intends to move past Song Lan, but for once, Song Lan is curious.

“Were you talking to Fuxue?” he asks before Cao Huan looks away.

Cao Huan’s neck flushes, and he shrugs. “I have heard these Jian-class AIs have distinctive personalities, as it were. I prefer to err on the side of caution.”

Song Lan doesn’t understand what he means, but Cao Huan is still blushing, the tips of his ears turning a distracting shade of pink, and it makes him want to know.

“I don’t understand,” he says, and Cao Huan sighs.

“I was introducing myself,” he explains. “It seemed courteous.”

Song Lan can’t help his smile. He wonders if Cao Huan introduced himself to Fuxue with his real name.

“Yes, Fuxue is somewhat unique,” he agrees. “My...my partner was a gifted tech, and he gave her more autonomy than is customary since we flew alone so often.”

Cao Huan nods. “So I gathered. She tells me about him sometimes. Is her voice…” he pauses, noticing the look of surprise on Song Lan’s face. “Is that strange?”

Fuxue talks to Song Lan, and of course, she used to talk to Xingchen—one of the reasons, Song Lan suspects, that his ship is so unusual. Talking to Xingchen for extended periods of time would make anyone a bit odd. But as far as he knows, the ship has never spoken to any other passenger, much less talked to them about Xingchen. He can’t decide why Fuxue would start now, whether it’s a bug in the programming or something about Cao Huan specifically.

“Yes,” Song Lan acknowledges. “She still manages to surprise me sometimes.” He smiles up at the camera in the corner of the room and adds, “Don’t make trouble, my love.”

“I believe she likes the music,” Cao Huan says, stepping around Song Lan and moving into the passageway. “I apologize again for intruding on your bridge.” He smiles, a minute flicker, and Song Lan catches his sleeve impulsively, probably foolishly.

“You are welcome on the bridge any time,” he signs swiftly, before Cao Huan can leave. “Whether I am here or not.”

Cao Huan considers for a moment and nods, his smile a little wider, a little more genuine, and Song Lan doesn’t regret his words at all.

⋆ Day 7 ⋆

“How did you learn this?” Cao Huan asks one day, touching the toe of the sock Song Lan is knitting.

They are sitting in the two bridge seats, and Song Lan is working through a heel turn, shaping the rows to reinforce the curve. He finishes the section before he sets down the sock to answer.

“I learned when I was a boy. I grew up with scrappers, and there was a lot of downtime.”

Cao Huan is silent, rubbing the soft wool between his fingers, and Song Lan wonders why he bothered to ask.

“Would you like to learn?” Song Lan asks, and Cao Huan shakes his head slowly.

“Yes, but I am not certain I will ever...I do not know what my future holds. There may be no point in learning.”

He sounds so bleak and disappointed, dozens of questions pop in and out of Song Lan’s head, and he firmly shuts them behind a door. He isn’t going to intrude on this man’s private life.

“There is always value in learning something new,” he signs instead, and Cao Huan smiles ruefully.

“You sound like my brother,” he says, then snaps his mouth closed and hides the expressiveness of his face behind the neutral mask Song Lan is beginning to recognize, even if he’s still not certain what it means.

“Mm,” he agrees, one of the few sounds he can still make. To his surprise, Cao Huan laughs.

“Now you truly do sound like him. He is not a man of many words, but he is very eloquent with noncommittal sounds,” Cao Huan explains when Song Lan looks puzzled.

“You’re close?” Song Lan asks, and the shuttered expression returns.

Still, the man answers after a pause. “Yes, we were, but...he is gone now, living his own life. I am proud of him, but...it makes going home seem...different.”

Every word is reluctantly spoken, as though giving shape to them makes them dangerous. Song Lan vows not to ask any other questions, but Cao Huan keeps talking, and he can’t very well tell him to stop, either.

“Home used to mean people, but...they are grown or changed or…” his eyes close in obvious pain, and Song Lan wants to tell him to stop or distract him with a starboard nebula, but there’s nothing, just this palpable misery.

“Or gone,” he finishes. “Home is only a place now. It should be enough but…”

Song Lan understands this much at least.

“It’s too quiet.” He finishes Cao Huan’s sentence, and he means that home has always been Fuxue, but it no longer hums with love and laughter and Xingchen. It is the same place it was five years ago, but...it isn’t.

Abruptly, Cao Huan leans forward and squeezes Song Lan’s knee, his face softening in sympathy. It’s only a brief touch, but Song Lan’s body reacts like the brush of fingers is a line of electricity, both sharp and crushing, nothing like he expected, not that he could ever have expected this particular cataclysm. Has it been so long, he wonders, since someone touched him with kindness?

He stands, covering his sudden need to escape by hunting through one of the storage bins for a bigger set of knitting needles and a chunkier-gauge yarn. He sets them on Cao Huan’s lap.

“You may as well learn,” he signs with an easy smile. “We still have a week of travel left.”

Cao Huan laughs in disbelief when Song Lan shows him how to cast the yarn onto the needle, but he turns out to be a quick study, which Song Lan should have expected, given his dexterity with the guqin. Song Lan admits to himself that he likes the way the man’s face lights with the satisfaction of meeting a challenge, even more the way he brandishes a square of fairly smooth rows with such pride.

The quiet stretches out like a lazy cat, broken by the sound of clicking needles, and it settles serenely over Song Lan. Usually on transports, he is busy every waking moment, herding children, answering questions, sometimes even preventing bloodshed. He could get used to this uneventful kind of trip.

As if the gods have heard his thoughts, a piercing blue alarm sounds. Not an environmental emergency. Blue is an enemy attack.

Song Lan jams his needles into the yarn and tosses the whole bundle into the corner before turning to the screens, grabbing the yoke with one hand and snapping the comm headset onto his neural node with the other.

Where? he asks Fuxue through their mental link, and Xingchen’s voice relays the coordinates through the overhead speakers: 403 225 687.

He enlarges the image. Junk pirates. A mini-fleet of five. It could be worse, it could be Red Robe mercs or Goldlighters or soldiers of any major faction, but he isn’t looking forward to a run and gun. He scours the sector for a nearby...anything. There’s an asteroid field and two tiny stations, one in either direction, all so much further than is particularly helpful. He makes a decision and changes course, doubling back on the pirates and surging past them.

[Cao Huan, we have pirates,] he says via the comm. [We’re going to try to outrun them first.] He doesn’t bother explaining what the other option is.

“Give me tactical control,” Cao Huan says, calm and insistent, and even though he has no reason to think this man has ever even flown a ship before, Song Lan flips on the secondary pilot display and unlocks the manual gun controls.

[Fuxue is adapted for neural node. You’ll have to shoot manually, but it might at least scare them off,] he explains.

Cao Huan grins. “Or I might surprise you, Captain Song.”

He does, of course. Song Lan is busy avoiding the pirates’ attacks, so he can’t watch as carefully as he suspects he'd like to, but his new co-pilot seems to be racing through calculating targeting coordinates like he’s half computer. Interestingly, he isn’t aiming to destroy, only damage, and he knocks out the first two ships’ navigational cores with single, identical, virtually impossible shots.

Fuxue is easily faster than one of the ships, and Cao Huan clips its starboard wing, only dislodging the thruster, before they pull away. It’s enough to send the forty-meter ship spinning out of control in the opposite direction.

The last two though...they’re a problem. The smaller of the two has an expert pilot and gunner, and Fuxue takes several hits. One explodes against the side of the lifeboat bay, others destroy sensor arrays and scatter pieces of shielding into space. They’re going to have to do something drastic or they aren’t going to survive this.

[Rolleram?] he asks Cao Huan, not entirely sure if he’ll understand, but he nods once and waits for Song Lan to turn.

Song Lan rolls Fuxue in an arc and flies directly at the larger ship, avoiding a few shots before dodging around the ship on its right side, swooping down, using the ship as a blind. With a hard bank, he brings Fuxue up on the other side of the big pirate ship. The smaller ship is right in front of them, a perfect shot.

[Now!] he yells, but Cao Huan has already fired the phaser cannons, and without even looking, Song Lan knows he’s calculated Fuxue’s path and the pirate’s trajectory perfectly.

[Target disabled,] Fuxue confirms. [Nice shot, XO.]

Cao Huan’s mouth tips in the corner. “Thank you, Fuxue,” he says.

Song Lan shakes his head at them both. Since when did the passenger become his executive officer, and who thanks a ship’s AI?

But there’s no time to celebrate. The last ship, the largest ship, is less agile than Fuxue, but more heavily armed and is throwing everything at them in a last ditch effort. With a jarring lurch, Fuxue shudders, and Song Lan grimaces.

[Port wing…]

[Yes I know,] he snaps. He only barely has enough rudder to pivot Fuxue, pure luck more than anything. They won’t survive one more impact like that.

“Wei Drop?” Cao Huan suggests, and Song Lan snorts.

[Play dead?] No one who has ever seen the Wei Drop is fooled by it twice. But even as he derides the idea, he realizes it might work. It’s going to have to. Cao Huan is a good enough shot, and they don’t have a lot of choices left.

[Fine, but if this doesn’t work, you owe me a ship,] he says, killing Fuxue’s engine, shutting down all the systems, and letting his ship slowly start to drift oh-so-subtly in a circle.

It works. He can’t believe it works, but the pirates stop shooting, probably reluctant to break their new salvage any more than necessary, and coast toward Fuxue.

When Fuxue has made a full rotation, when Song Lan can almost see the attacking crew through the shielded fore windows, he looks at Cao Huan, who nods.

It happens so fast, the two of them working in unison to flip on all the power, stabilize Fuxue, take aim, and fire twice. At the last second, the pirate ship banks, trying to escape the shot, but they’re too close, far too close, and instead of disabling the wing or navigation, or whatever Cao Huan was aiming for, the ship explodes in a blinding blast of nuclear white light.

The last thing Song Lan thinks, the last thing he has time to think before the shockwave hits them, is Xingchen is going to be so mad about his ship.

#the untamed #cql #mdzs #mo dao zu shi #lan xichen #song lan #lanlan #space au #in which there is knitting and space battles #tea and music #and both of these wounded men get to heal a little #Kristina writes tiny stories #this one is medium sized

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