#because malice does actually understand how the weather works | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sakiyo · 4 years ago

Text

━ # ONE A.M EYELINER | suna rintaro

+ pairings: suna rintaro/reader

+ tags: best friends 2 lovers, suna being a pretty mf, mutual pining, uni!au.

+ warnings: none

+ word count: 2.2k

+ summary: suna rintaro has never let you do his eyeliner, simply because he’s afraid to let you get too close.

+ listening to: FLESH by miguel & A Warm Touch of Light by Isabella LeVan

+ note: nothing but me rambling on about how pretty suna’s eyes are and how they’re pretty enough to deserve a whole fic dedicated to them. dedicated to my dom @kiyoomae i hope you enjoy babe because i finished this shitty fic for you <3.

“i could get hypothermia if i go out there, you know.”

working with suna always ended up the same way, there was no doubt about it. by the time that the clock plastered on your wall hit twelve-forty five a.m, the project was finished, but completely half assed as a result of neither of you paying enough attention during lectures to actually know what to do. yet, somehow, the same desultory assignment would always receive an undeserving ‘A-plus’. mostly because your professor never cared to actually observe the material, as long as it was in, it was good enough for him. [but you would grade it a solid 64 percent]

there's one variable that’s different today; it’s raining. it’s one a.m and it’s raining, and suna decided that it would be a sublime idea to walk to your apartment today, of all days. [as much as you encourage him to do so, he still never checks the weather]. the disruption in your routine was anything but an easy adjustment. and as much as you wanted to kick him out, the rain was growing heavier and heavier and—

“okay fine! you can crash for the night!”

he smiled, unaware of the fact that you would have said yes to him either way.

+++

you can’t help but notice that suna has pretty eyes.

honestly, you picked up on his bizarrely unique vulpine-like eyes years ago, when you had first met him. but now, as you sit on the couch that occupies the majority of your compact living room, you’re drawn back to them.

its an odd thought to think about your best friend at one in the morning.

but...he’s admittedly pretty.

you think back to a random fact you learned in the biology course you took in your third year of highschool; you grow into your eyes. never in your life did you believe that such a miniscule piece of information would find its way back into your mind two years later, and because of suna no less.

it’s one a.m and your legs are situated in his lap, his fingers deftly toying with the tip of the anklet he bought you for your sixteenth birthday [he doesn’t believe that you still wear it, even after all the passed time],

but you’re still fixated on his eyes.

if it was even possible, the creases accented them further, like each line was strategically placed to lure one’s undivided attention to them. it’s funny though, because suna was never fond of attention. [which was also why seven year old rin never took a liking to overly-exertive you.

you still share a laugh with him thinking back to your rock hard resolve as a child and his burning desire to stay away from you.

it’s funny how easily time changes things.]

you almost feel like you’re dreaming as you watch his eyelids ghost over, his glassy skin reflecting the coral tint of the cheap ceiling light. but you’re not dreaming, he’s right there, in all his ignorant glory. suna doesn’t notice your residual gaze, he’s fixated on the ‘NBA playoffs highlights’ video streaming on his instagram feed. yet you feel creepy, overanalyzing him like this.

but you allow your mind to wander, just a bit.

“hey, rintaro?” you lightly dig your heel into his thigh.

it’s merely a sporadic case of wishful thinking. you’ve known suna rintaro for many years, which was more than enough time to figure out his complex personality.

and if there’s one thing he never allowed you to do, it was his eyeliner.

six times.

you had asked to apply the liquid to his eyes six times, and each time you had received the same answer. a simple no. he doesn’t say ‘no’ with malice, though. no...the last thing he would want is you thinking that he just hated you enough to constantly reject your proposals.

suna hums quietly, shifting to meet your gaze. “yeah?”

he still thinks you haven’t caught on, but you picked up on his tendency to immediately drop his phone in a reflex to hearing your voice a while back— you like it.

“do you think,” you shift your legs from the comfort of his lap and move your body closer to him, “i could do your eyeliner?”

your question doesn’t register.

instead, suna’s hyper fixated on the inching proximity between you two— he doesn’t like it. it’s one a.m and you’re moving one couch cushion closer, your knee is brushing against his thigh, has your skin always been this cold? he can barely focus, but he still hears the droplets of rain assaulting the window and roofs, they��re getting louder and louder and—

“suna? did you hear me?” your voice is accompanied with slight confusion.

you narrow your eyes as he blinks out of his trance. you’re not shocked though— his tendencies to space out were never limited to lectures alone. “wha?”

your shoulder rests against his, and he swears he feels his heart cease its rhythmic palpitations for a fraction of a second.

[no you idiot, that’s just your regular heartbeat.]

there’s apprehension in your voice, “can i...do your eyeliner…?” suna is a relatively simple man, the worst he can say is no, but you want a yes this time around.

“i’ve already said—”

suna’s breath hitches, as if his words are lodged at the back of his throat. your fingers grip onto the peak of his broad shoulders. [you’d rather die than admit it, but you always loved when he’d roll them back and inconspicuously stretch his neck]

suna stares at you squarely in the face. he can feel the outline of your fingernails lightly tacking into his skin. shit, he’s dreaming. his eyes shift around the room, it’s still one a.m, and he can’t get any words out of his mouth.

speak, speak, SPEAK—

you beat him to it.

“before you say no!” your voice rises as you try to appeal. “i’m letting you crash at my place for the night, i deserve a payment.” your words come out as more of a jumbled mess than a proper sentence. subconsciously, you take your bottom lip between your thumb and index fingers, biting it every now and then. suna lifts a brow at your familiar mannerisms— he likes to think he knows you better than anyone else, and he knows that you toy with your bottom lip before taking a test, receiving a report card, or going in for a job interview.

are you nervous?

he sighs.

“fine…” he whispers softly. suna doesn’t exactly know if he should regret agreeing to your question, but he doesn’t miss the way your eyes visibly light up when he does.

you look pretty.

+++

he regrets it.

it’s one a.m and you’re situated on his lap, straddling him innocently as you dab the brush into the bottle of ebony ink. suna can’t help but feel like a putty in your hands, the same ones that gently grip his jaw to hold it in place.

he’s still not sure how old he was when your touches started to feel like fire.

suna feels trapped, he IS trapped. between your legs, between your soft body and the tender cushion, between the thin line of friendship and-

he should stop.

[he still can’t believe he’s doing this]

“would you like thin, or thick eyeliner, rin?”

has his name always rolled off your tongue so effortlessly?

“thin, like yours.”

you hum with content, looking him over with a small smile etched onto your face. he doesn’t understand how you can keep eye contact with him so easily, especially while you’re moving closer and closer to his chest.

he holds his breath as you exhale. he can still smell the lingering scent of peppermint from the gum you were chewing minutes before– usually he can’t stand it, but right now it feels like home. suna knows his eyes shouldn’t be trailing down to your cherry balm stained lips, and he knows that his chest shouldn’t swell at the sight of you wearing his old bleach stained t-shirt that stretched past your shorts.

suna knows that he’s not supposed to see his best friend in that light; so why is it all that he can think about?

“close your eyes for me please?”

he really doesn’t want to, afraid that if he opens them back up again, you’ll be gone and he’ll be in his bed [he still believes that he’s dreaming]. but he knows that he’d rather dance with the devil [the twins] than say no to you, so he complies.

you hum a light tune to yourself as you bring the fine-tipped brush to the edge of his eye. as the pen glides across his skin, suna can’t help but flinch at the intrusive feeling. instinctively, his hand darts up to hold your wrist, stopping you from drawing any further.

“that feels weird.” he can’t see, but he can feel the smile tugging at your lips.

“you’ll get used to it in a bit, rin.”

it’s weird, best friends don’t usually sit in each other’s lap with less than five inches of breathing room between each other. what if he were to do this with one of the twins–

that’s a disturbing thought. he immediately forgets about it. he shifts in discomfort mid-stroke, making your hand slip.

you groan in frustration; it’s at times like this that you can’t stand suna.

“stop moving! you made it smudge!” you lightly smack his chest [though, it’s just a pitiful excuse to touch him].

“sorry, sorry.” your giggles die down as you clean up the line, and suna quickly goes back to overthinking.

tik

the rain is still pouring.

tok

he counts that you breathe twice every ten seconds.

tik

you’re getting closer to his chest.

tok

he can still smell the leftover pizza on the coffee table from today’s takeout.

tik

the gel feels kind of nice now.

tok

its one a.m and suna’s falling in love with–

“earth to suna?” you huff as you lightly tap his shoulder, “don’t tell me that you’ve fallen asleep on me.” it’s quite funny to him when you say that; you’re actually what keeps him up at night.

you lean back as he opens his eyes, looking at the eyeliner from afar. you can’t help but get a bit jealous– even without trying, suna had always managed to look perfect.

you’re so caught up that you don’t notice yourself starting to slip.

“watch out.” his hand slips around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

it’s one a.m and your hands are back on his shoulders. you know that your eyes shouldn’t be on his slightly chapped lips, and you know that you shouldn’t want to throw the hoodie adorning his body somewhere across the room.

inhale

his hands are still around your waist.

exhale

you watch as his tongue ghosts over his lips to wet them.

inhale

you can smell the residual scent of the same cinnamon cologne you got him for a ‘secret santa’ event between your friend group.

exhale

sometimes, you forget that you’re just friends.

inhale

has suna always been this attractive?

exhale

the tipped over bottle of eyeliner is spilling onto your clothes.

inhale

how would his lips feel against–

“wanna kiss you.” the hesitation in suna’s voice is clear. he knows better than anyone that best friends shouldn’t want to kiss each other. his heart is racing. when your eyes widen in surprise he wants nothing more than to push you off of him and leave without saying goodbye– but he’s already said it.

“w-what?” you stutter out. you can’t help but wonder if you’re dreaming. you want to pinch yourself, but if it is a dream, the last thing you’d want is to wake up.

“i want to kiss you. will you let me?” he says, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

little does he know that you want more; to touch him, taste him, love him–

you take the easy way out instead, “yeah...alright.”

he moves a stray strand of hair away from your face, is he doing this right? You move in closer, eyes slowly fluttering shut, but suna’s gaze still lingers on you. he thinks you look even more beautiful than before [he didn’t think it was possible]. It’s one a.m and he’s about to kiss the person of his dreams.

shit. he should close his eyes.

the journey seems like forever, but you both finally feel each other.

no, his lips don’t ghost over yours.

they press together, full of pent up passion. it’s hot, too hot for even best friends.

can you even call each other that anymore?

not with the way his hands claw at the tip of your shirt in a futile attempt of pulling you closer to him, not with the way you gather tufts of his hair in your hands, and certainly not at the way you both feel at home like this. you both can taste every last inch of each other.

he swears that he hates peppermint, but he’s drunk on the taste of it on your tongue.

you’re meant to be nothing more than childhood best friends, but you want more and more and MORE.

this shouldn’t be happening, but he wants more and more and MORE–

you both break for air after an eternity, pulling away with heat-flushed faces, heaving chests, and swollen lips. he rests his forehead against yours, peppering ghost-kisses between breaths that tickle your skin.

“i’m not supposed to love you, but i do.”

it’s two a.m, and two best friends are melting into each other.

they’re unaware that the rain has stopped.

#ending lowkey did not turnout the way i wanted but it’s decent #suna rintarou #suna rintaro x reader #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #.my works

366 notes · View notes

multifandomwriter56 · 4 years ago

Text

A Foal For a Friend

A/n: I just love how Tommy talks to horses, okay? I love this gif. Also I’m pretty sure Polly talks about how Tommy used to sleep in the stables at Charlie’s yard.

Summary: Tommy wakes up in the middle of the night to find his youngest sister gone. It doesn’t take him long to guess where she is.

Characters: Tommy Shelby x Sister!Reader (10 years old)

Warnings: language

Word Count: 1,512

Tommy wakes up with a sense of dread. He's not sure if it has anything to do with the tunnels or if it's something else.

So he pushes himself into a sitting position on his bed, wiping away the sleepiness from his eyes.

Anytime he wakes up like this, which is quite often, he always checks on his two youngest siblings. It helps to calm him, knowing they're both safely tucked into bed where he put them last night.

He quietly makes his way through the hallway and to their bedroom door. Having done this a million times since he's come back from the war, he skillfully opens the door with only a short, soft sound from the creaky door.

Some of the pressure in his chest lightens when he sees the top of Finn's head peaking out over the covers.

He shifts his eyes to the other bed and the pressure is back, except it's ten times worse.

Where's Y/n?!

He remembers tucking her in last night. The twins had talked him into telling a story. Afterwards, he kissed their foreheads (even though Finn complained) and told them goodnight.

When Tommy actually went to bed that night, he had sneaked a glance into their room, just like now; but unlike now, he had counted two heads.

He shuts the door, standing in the hallway as he calms himself down.

"Alright, Tom, think. No one broke in, so Y/n left the room voluntarily. Where would the little rascal go?" Tommy mutters to himself as he runs his fingers through his hair.

The answer to his question flashes in his mind and he heads back to his room to grab his boots before making his way downstairs. He grabs his coat and the keys to his uncle’s yard as he quietly shuts the door to #6 Watery Lane behind him.

He slips on his coat, cursing at how cold it is. He's going to bloody well kill his sister if she gets herself sick.

The closer he gets to Charlie's yard, the more his anger builds. The little brat could freeze to death, someone could’ve kidnap her, or worse! He swallows when he pictures his sister's lifeless body laying in an alley.

He unlocks the front gate, heading straight for the stables where he's hoping- no, where he knows his baby sister is sleeping.

He doesn't truly believe he's right until he sees the month old foal curled around his sister.

His whole body relaxes.

A few weeks ago, a young mare gave birth and Y/n had pleaded with Tommy to let her be there. The birth didn't happen until late into the night. The mama was having a hard time pushing, but Curly worked his magic and saved them both.

His ten year old sister instantly fell in love.

Polly always claimed that Y/n is the female version of Tommy. He agreed with his aunt on their physical features and their love for horses, but Y/n has a pure heart. Sure she's stubborn as hell, and she was known for her temper tantrums as a toddler; but there was no malice in her actions, and there still isn't.

She loves everything and everyone; and Tommy will do anything to keep her that way.

He steps over the pair and greets the mother; whispering comforting words before focusing back on the lump of human flesh. He squats down, rubbing his hand up and down her arm and back.

"Sstooopp, let me sleep." She whines, blindly pushing her hand at the dark brown foal, believing it's him that's waking her.

Tommy doesn't even try to curb his smile. She's just too adorable. "Y/n, wake up." When she whines more, he rubs a little harder. "Come on, Y/n, open your eyes."

His smile widens at the frown on her face, but he schools his features when she finally opens her eyes.

"Tommy?"

"There she is."

She looks around, trying to remember where she is. When she does, Tommy can see the guilt washing over her face.

"Am I in trouble?"

Tommy's not surprise that her first thought. She hates disappointing him. "I haven't decided yet."

"I just wanted to make sure he wasn't lonely."

"Well, he has his mama to look after him."

"But what about the cold? It's freezing out here."

Tommy's eyes narrow as his sister’s reminder of the weather. "Horses, even baby ones, can handle the cold a lot better than a human can."

Y/n squirms at her brother's stern gaze. "He's my only friend, Tommy. I hate being away from him."

He leans back, letting his back thump against the wall, before sliding down until he's sitting on a somewhat clean pile of hay. He gestures for Y/n to come closer.

Y/n doesn't hesitate to crawl into her brother's lap.

Tommy waits patiently for her to get comfortable before speaking. "I thought you and Isiah were friends?"

"Finn says Isiah is his friend, and I need to find my own friends. He says I need to find girl friends." Y/n leans back against his chest so they can lock eyes. "Do all my friends have to be girls?"

Tommy shakes his head. "No, love. They do not. If you and Isiah want to be friends, then you're friends. Finn has no say." Not yet, at least. "Finn and I will have words."

"Don't be mad at him, Tommy. He wasn't mean."

He grins at how quick she is to defend her twin brother. "He's not in trouble and I'm not mad at him."

Y/n grabs one of Tommy's hands, bending his fingers and drawing different shapes om his palm. "Then why do you need to talk to him?"

I need him to take care of you both when I can't. "We're not here at Uncle Charlie's yard because of Finn, eh? We're here because my baby sister decided to sneak out in the middle of the night and walk alone across town to see a fucking foal."

Y/n winces as her brother's voice hardens with each word. "I thought I wasn't in trouble."

"I said I hadn't decided. Well, I have."

Y/n slams her head back against his chest as a whiny "Tommy!" escapes her lips.

"Y/n!" Tommy scolds as his eyes widen in surprise. He did not expect that to hurt as much as it did.

The ten year old slams into him again; but this time she turns to face him so she can wrap her arms around his neck and bury her face in his shoulder. "I'm sorry!"

Tommy barely heard the muffled apology, but it still softens his features and when he hears her sniff back tears; he wraps his arms around her. "Calm down, little one." He consoles, muttering comforting words until she calm downs.

He still does understand where her sensitivity comes from. His only guess is Arthur.

Y/n shivers as a cold wind comes through the cracks in the stable.

Tommy bites his tongue to keep himself from saying, "I told you so" and stands to his feet; his sister in his arms. "Let's go home."

The two walk in silence most of the trip back home; but when Tommy turns onto Watery Lane, Y/n has to know.

"Are you really angry with me, Tommy? Like as angry as when Aunt Polly hit you at the church?"

Tommy's glad she can't see the anger on his face. He was not happy to have that conversation with his sister in the room, even if they did send her away to light candles at the front of the church. He was even more upset when Pol let out her displeasure at his mistake from stealing the wrong crates (even if that part wasn't his fault) in front of his sister. His pride was wounded when his eyes locked with the ten year old and he could see the pedal stool being swept away from underneath his feet.

"I'm not that angry, little one. I just don't like waking up to you gone. We've told you it's dangerous walking the streets alone during the day. Why would you think at night would be any different, eh?"

Y/n sighs, wishing she kept her mouth closed. She buries her face in the crook of his neck, hoping he won't force her to answer.

He doesn't. Tommy figures this conversation can wait until later. He'll tell Polly and they can lecture her about safety together. That'll teach the little devil.

He freezes mid-step. Is she- He cranes his neck back so he can see her face. Yep. She's asleep.

His lips spread into the biggest smile yet when he hears her soft snores.

Not wanting to chance waking up Finn, Tommy heads to his room. He lays his sleeping sister on the far side of his bed before stripping himself of his boots and coat and climbs in. He's surprised it only takes a couple of minutes for him to fall asleep.

Forevers: @beautycinders @desiredposion

#tommy shelby x sister!reader #shelby!reader #peaky blinders one shot #tommy shelby #peaky blinders

800 notes · View notes

hypnoticwinter · 3 years ago

Text

Gamifying the Story Outline: A Simple Tool to Revamp Your Writing Process

0. What the heck is this? Ever had trouble figuring out what kind of story you want to tell in the first place? Not a fan of outlines, but end up with meandering, pointless stories that don’t do what you want them to? Do you mainly write pulp fantasy or sci fi?

This is a tool that will guide you through outlining a story using some of the same concepts as a solitaire roleplaying game. All you need is a few ideas, a pen and paper, and a six-sided die.

You also need to understand some basic concepts: This tool isn’t a substitute for creativity, and if you think you have a better idea, run with it. This tool assumes that you’re going to be writing a fairly grounded story in the vein of a Dragonlance novel or similar - hero’s journey stuff. It’s not very good for more cerebral stuff, or anything more abstract.

With that being said, let’s get started. First, we need to ask some questions and define some notions.

1. Who is the Hero? This section assumes that there’s just a singular protagonist, but there’s no reason you can’t make it work for a small group of characters.

The story is about a Hero, someone the story will focus on as they go on a journey. They’ll grow, change, face challenges, deal with setbacks, and so on. To that end, we need to know a few things about them. Aside from basic characteristics like name, appearance, etc., we also need to know:

1a. What makes them special? You could be writing the story about anyone - why them? What about them is special enough to write a story about? 1b. What are their strengths? Don’t get too cerebral here. Just list off three or four things they’re good at, and come up with a small backstory or notion for why they’re good at them.

1c. What are their weaknesses? Same thing here. Some weaknesses - real weaknesses, ones that can cause issues, and why they’re there. Remember, the more work you do at this stage, the better you’ll be equipped to move on later. 2. Who/what is the Villain? If there’s a Hero there has to be a Villain. Now, I’m using Villain as shorthand - this doesn’t necessarily mean a literal villain who’s a force for evil, it means whatever overarching force wants to prevent the Hero from accomplishing their goal, whatever that might be. Sometimes the Hero might not know who or what the Villain is, sometimes there might not even be a concrete Villain. But there has to be some kind of conflict or opposition - otherwise the Hero doesn’t have anything to overcome.

Just like the Hero, we need to know some information about the Villain.

2a. Who/what are they? 2b. What are their strengths? 2c. What are their weaknesses?

Remember, this is all the ground work. Put in the effort here and you’ll appreciate it later on. 3. What is the Hero's goal? The Hero always needs to have a goal. It's the reason that they keep going through the story. Their resolve can falter, of course, they can have doubts and misgivings and so on, but the goal has to always be present. This can be concrete or abstract, nebulous or poorly defined, but it has to be there to keep the story moving. If the kind of story you want to write doesn’t really have a goal, this tool probably isn’t going to do much for you.

3a. What is the Spark? The Spark is what some other story outlines might call the 'inciting incident.' The Hero's Spark is what gets them off their asses and starts them actually pursuing their goal for real. This is going to depend on what the goal is, what the setting is, who the Hero is, a lot of different factors, but there has to be some kind of tipping point that makes the Hero realize ‘okay, there has to be a change and I have to be the one to do it.’ 4. Creating the Timeline. The Timeline is a track of major events that will occur during the course of the story. The Timeline begins with the Spark and ends with the Confrontation. Prior to the Spark, of course, you can have as much set up as you want, and a lot of the time you’re going to not want to launch right into the story with the Spark, but that’s something you can figure out later. For our purposes, we’re starting with the Spark. In the space between the Spark and the Confrontation, the Hero will encounter Complications, both Minor and Major. Minor Complications are small incidents that stand in the way of resolving Major Complications. Major Complications are large incidents that stand in the way of the Hero's victory entirely.

You can use any number of Minor or Major Complications that you like, but I recommend 2 Major Complications between the Spark and the Confrontation, and 2 Minor Complications between each Major Complication, give or take. This can change on the fly depending on how the story goes, so remember to be flexible. Between each Complication obviously there will be time to lick wounds, make friends, develop plot, and so on, but that's something you can figure out yourself. We want to get the plot points down, knitting them together coherently is a job for later.

4a. Complications. To determine what kind of Complication you’re dealing with, roll the die. 1-3: A Complication of Circumstance Complications of Circumstance are difficulties that arise for the Hero without malice or intention behind them. Maybe the weather turns at the worst possible moment, or something is rescheduled, or sweeping changes of some other kind affect them.

4-6: A Complication of Intent Complications of Intent are difficulties that arise specifically because the Villain is targeting the Hero and trying to hinder them. They can take forms similar to a Complication of Circumstance but the cause is specifically because of the Villain. They can also take more precise forms than might be appropriate for a Complication of Circumstance, like an assassin, a battle, a conflict, etc. You can also roll the die again to refine Complication type: 1-3: General A General Complication is one that affects many people or a wide area. Blackouts, flooding, famine, wildfires, are all examples of General Complications. The Hero might be the root cause of the Complication, if it is a Complication of Intent, but it will affect many more people than just the Hero. 4-6: Specific A Specific Complication is one that affects just the Hero, or the Hero's immediate allies. An assassin, a theft, a parking ticket, and so on, are all examples of Specific Complications. Even if a Complication is Specific the Hero might not be the cause of it - it may just be random chance without interference from the Villain. 4a1. Minor Complications Minor Complications fill the space between Major Complications. A Minor Complication is an opportunity to learn more about the Hero and the other characters, to explore the world of the story, or to develop the plot in other ways. Minor Complications only have, as the name suggests, minor implications on the story as a whole and don't affect it much, BUT they do still need to affect it in some way. 4a2. Major Complications Major Complications are serious events that have the potential to change the direction entire story. Major Complications are plot points that require several chapters at least to resolve, and will change the Hero for better or for worse once completed. 4a3. Resolving a Complication At a base level, all you have to do is ask the question, "does the Hero win?" and then roll a die. Look on the below table for the answer. 1: No, and... 2: No. 3: No, but... 4: Yes, but... 5: Yes. 6: Yes, and... Now stop. Think about the answer you rolled and interpret it. Apply it to the Complication you came up with. Does it make sense? You always have the authority to roll again, or just say screw rolling and choose what happens. But sometimes it can be fun to just see what happens. You do want a healthy amount of variation, of course - the story will probably be pretty boring if the Hero manages to just effortlessly cruise through every Complication, or if the Hero is getting curbstomped repeatedly by bad rolls, but given how many Complications there are to resolve, most likely there’ll be a healthy spread of wins and losses across the course of the Timeline. Now, moving on - what exactly does ‘no, but...’ or ‘yes, and...’ mean? First, yes or no always answers the question ‘does the Hero win?’ That’s the outcome for the Complication. The story still has to move forward but depending on whether it’s a yes or a no and whether it’s a Minor or Major Complication, you might want to do some brainstorming as to the direction the story will go next. If the result you rolled has ‘but’ in it, that means the result is tempered. A ‘yes, but...’ isn’t a perfect victory, something bad happened as well, and a ‘no, but...’ isn’t a total defeat, there’s some kind of silver lining.

Likewise, an ‘and’ means that the result occurs in the superlative. A ‘no, and...’ means the Hero lost hard, just like a ‘yes, and...’ means the Hero wins hard. Whenever the Hero wins a Complication (i.e., rolls a yes), they get a Minor Boon. Whenever the Hero loses a Complication (i.e., rolls a no) they get a Minor Bane. If the roll includes a ‘but,’ they get both a Minor Boon and a Minor Bane. And if the result includes an ‘and,’ the Boon or Bane they get is Major instead of Minor. Mark down what they got and read on to see what exactly that means.

4a3a. Boons and Banes. Boons and Banes are assets the Hero gains through the course of the story that have the opportunity to render aid or cause harm when the Hero is involved in a Complication. There are three types of Boons and Banes, Minor, Major, and Superlative. Minor Boons or Banes are lost after being used in a Complication, while Major Boons or Banes remain in play but become Minor after being used in a Complication. Superlative Boons or Banes are never lost after Complications - if these are ever changed or lost, it’ll be because you the writer stepped in and changed them. The Hero begins the story with one Superior Boon and one Superior Bane, each based on the Hero's greatest strength and weakness respectively. The Villain also imposes a Superior Bane based on its greatest strength, and a Superior Boon based on its greatest weakness. Banes and Boons can only be used in Complications where they would be relevant. A Hero who has a Boon for fighting, for example, can't use that Boon if the Complication is about socializing. A Boon can be used in a Complication, if applicable, to grant a +1 bonus to the roll to resolve the Complication. Likewise, a Bane can be used in a Complication, to impose a -1 penalty to the roll. The minimum roll is still 1, and the maximum is still 6.

When you’re resolving a Complication, you can choose not to add a Minor or Major Boon or Bane and instead choose to hang on to a Boon or Bane the Hero already has that would be lost due to being used in the Complication. You can roll the die to refine the type of Boon or Bane a Hero has: 1-2: A Boon of Knowledge / A Secret Bane This Boon/Bane reflects knowledge kept secret from others. As a Boon, it reflects something the Hero knows but the Villain does not. As a Bane, it reflects the opposite. 3-4: A Boon of Improvement / a Bane of Entropy This Boon/Bane represents tangible improvement in the Hero's or the Villain's equipment, assets, skills, or talents. It can also represent the opposite - a Boon of Improvement could represent a new weakness the Villain develops, for instance. 5-6: A Boon of Allegiance / A Bane of Servitude This Boon/Bane represents an ally to either the Hero or the Villain. They may be temporary or they may become a recurring character in their own right. It can also be an organization or group rather than one person. It could also be used to mean a betrayal - a Boon of Allegiance could mean one of the Villain’s servants switching sides, or vice versa. When completing a Complication, you need to keep several things in mind: 1. How exactly did the Hero complete the Complication? 2. What did the Hero use to complete the Complication? What Boons and Banes were involved? How did they affect each other? 3. What's the explanation for Minor Boons and Banes being lost after the Complication? What's the explanation for any gained Boons or Banes? 4. How does this affect the Hero moving forward? Will they have to change their objective, or rethink things? Are they on the offensive or the defensive? Are they confident?

5. The Confrontation. When you've dealt with all the Complications in the way, you get to the Confrontation, which is the final standoff between the Hero and the Villain. Every remaining Boon and Bane should factor into this one - this is the big moment, probably the climax depending on how you structure your story, so all the stops should come out. But don't roll. Whether the Hero wins is something you have to decide, based on the story so far. This one can't be randomly generated.

And after the Confrontation the rest of the story should be pretty easy for you to wrap up on your own. The Hero either accomplishes their goal, or they don’t, and the consequences of each have to be dealt with.

6. Example. Let's work through an example. Let's call our Hero Veronica, and the Villain Louise. Veronica is good at swordfighting and archery, so she gets a Superior Boon for that, but she's shy and standoffish, and can't swim, so she gets a Superior Bane for that.

Louise is an Evil Knight. Louise is good at burning, pillaging, and fighting, so she imposes a Superior Bane on Veronica for her expertise in that, but she constantly underestimates her opponents and doesn't treat her underlings well, giving Veronica a Superior Boon for that kind of thing.

For Veronica's Spark, we decide that her Goal is to rescue her boyfriend Sylvester from Louise's evil clutches, and that the Spark, therefore, is Louise kidnapping Sylvester.

The first step for Veronica is to travel to Louise's fortress, which is a long ways away, through the Windy Woods and over the Moldy Mountains. We're going to go with the standard template, with two Minor Complications between each Major Complication and two Major Complications in total before the Confrontation.

So, to recap, Veronica is a shy, standoffish warrior woman who's excellent with a sword and a bow but who can't swim or handle social situations, who is setting forth on her trusty mount Roanoke towards Louise's Frosty Fortress to rescue her boyfriend Sylvester.

The first Minor Complication is a Specific Complication of Intent. This means that this is an action by Louise specifically targeting Veronica with the intent of preventing her from rescuing Syvester. Let's say that Louise gets word that Veronica is coming and sends an underling to go and push a boulder onto Veronica as she passes under a cliff. Now let's think about our Boons and Banes. Veronica has a Boon for fighting, but that isn't really going to help here. Similarly, her Bane for social situations isn't going to hurt her either. Louise imposes a Bane for her aptitude at pillaging, but I don't think it applies because she didn't come herself, she sent an underling. So it's going to just be a flat roll with no modifiers. Does Louise succeed and avoid the boulder? We roll a 5, which is just a flat yes, with no positives or negatives, but she'll still get a Minor Boon out of it. So, the boulder misses. For the Minor Boon we roll a Boon of Allegiance - let's say that she manages to catch the underling and convince him to join her by promising that she'll get rid of Louise. Let's call Veronica's new ally Bruce. Veronica and Bruce keep going, and there'll be plenty of opportunities to worldbuild, to expand on their character, and so on.

The second Minor Complication is a General Complication of Intent. Let's say that Louise found out what happened through her network of spies. She orders her raiding party to head in Veronica's direction and search through each village looking for her. Their paths intersect in one village when Veronica, riding through, gets stopped by the leader of the raiding party, who thinks she looks an awful lot like Veronica. There are too many of them to fight, and Veronica thinks she'll have to try and bluff her way through it, but Bruce can pretend to have captured her and be taking her to Louise himself. This is a social situation so Veronica's Bane comes into play, giving her a -1, but with Bruce as a Boon that negates the -1.

Now, here I rolled a 6, but we already had a success for the previous Complication, so I'm going to reroll it. This time we roll an appropriately abysmal 2, which is a no. Let's say that the raiding party leader wants all the glory for himself, kills Bruce, and takes Veronica hostage for real, and throws her into Louise's prison nearby. This means Veronica ends up with a Minor Bane - according to our die roll it's a Bane of Entropy. Let's say that Veronica gets hurt when she's tossed into prison, and can't fight as effectively.

Now we come to the first Major Complication, and with Veronica being trapped, there are plenty of opportunities for what it might be. We roll a General Complication of Circumstance, so this isn't anything that Louise is behind, it's just a twist of fate. Let's say that a few days after Veronica is captured, there's a raid on the prison by a group of elves who are trying to free their imprisoned friends, and they end up setting everybody free, but in the chaos the prison also catches on fire. Veronica needs to get out of the prison before she's burned to a crisp, but there's a catch - some of Louise's elite guards have been dispatched to make sure nobody gets out of the prison alive. There's no reasoning with them and there's no time to disguise herself - Veronica will have to fight. She's got a Boon for fighting, so that's a +1 bonus, but she also is hurt, which is a Minor Bane for -1, evening out.

We roll a 6, which is a 'yes, and...' Veronica manages to fight her way through the elite guards, which will be a spectacular action scene when you get around to writing it, and gets free of the prison before it burns down. The Major Boon we roll is a Boon of Knowledge. Let's say that Veronica finds a map of Louise's Frosty Fortress on one of the guards and is able to study it and determine a few sneaky ways in, as well as the likely spot Sylvester will be held in. In addition, the Minor Bane of Veronica being injured and therefore not being able to fight well goes away. It doesn't make very much sense for her to already be healed, so let's say instead that she's able to take some gear off of the elite guards and it makes up for her injury. She returns to her path through the Windy Woods and leaves the burning prison behind her with a renewed sense of determination.

At this point, we can proceed with the story as we see fit, either proceeding onwards with rolling for Complications and Boons and Banes or taking over and coming up with things on our own. This tool is meant to inspire the creative process, not replace it completely. Obviously there are limitations; if you want to write something more cerebral or abstract, while the same base system of Complications is still applicable, it'll be a little more difficult to wrap your head around. What does a Bane of Treachery mean if the Villain is Society or Nature, for instance?

#writing #writeblr #story outline #writing process #writing tips #writing tools #writing advice #literature

29 notes · View notes

lo-55 · 4 years ago

Text

Shattered Chains of Fate Ch. 15

A Lifting Fog

Ichigo sat patiently on the cot while Unohana poked and prodded him. He didn’t have a lot of injuries left. Mostly scrapes and bruises, but she was taking a very close look at his eyes, balance, and short term memory. .

Apparently laughing hysterically at the murder of 46 people was a sign of head trauma.

“You don’t seem to have any lasting damage,” she finally concluded. “Most of the injuries you sustained earlier have already healed.”

“That’s Hanataro,” Ichigo says with a smile. It fell quickly. “I mean, uh. I threatened him into helping me. He’s very talented.”

Unohana looked faintly amused under her serenity. “Of course you did. I’m sure you held your zanpakuto so close to his throat he couldn’t even use his shinten to knock you unconscious.”

Ichigo nodded solemnly. “Oh, yeah. Definitely. But anyways, I’m fine. Is Rukia doing better? She was really wiped out…”

“Both of Kuchiki’s are fine. I believe they’ve had a long overdue discussion, actually. That technique you used when she was fighting was certainly… unique. Who taught it to you?”

Ichigo considered his answers before he decided to tell her the truth. They were allies for now.

“I made it up on the spot.”

“You made it up one the spot.” She repeated. One eyebrow arched high. She looked young, but when she’d healed the last of his bad injuries up earlier he’d felt the dangerous undercurrent of her power. She was at least as old as Yamamoto. It was only a shiver of fear at the idea of calling her old that kept him from asking her the same question he’d asked him. “You really are a very unique person, aren’t you?”

“It’s not that impressive,” Ichigo argued. He could feel his face turning red. “I did something similar as a human. I just pushed my energy into her. Although, as a human I could kinda heal with it…”

“Yes, that’s similar to how healing kido works,” she mused. “ Kaido is a method we use to insert our own energy inside of the body and manipulate the spirit particles, the reishi, that make up the body of the patient so we can put them back together again.”

“That makes sense,” Ichigo taps his fingers on his leg idly. His brows furrowed. With his mystic codes he’d been able to heal grievous wounds and keep people fighting, but he’d never been very good at doing it without. He could make due, he had with Uryu, but that was just jumping his natural healing into overdrive.

Ichigo looked up at her. “I get that I was your enemy not that long ago,” began the boy, “But is there a way for me to learn to heal while I’m here?”

Unohana looked surprised. “You want to heal? I was under the impression that your expertise was in combat.”

“It is,” Ichigo said honestly. “Orihime is a good healer, better than almost anyone I’ve ever seen. But we got seperated here. If it wasn’t for Hanataro, I might have been seriously screwed. Or I might have been fine, but Ganju could have been hurt. A lot of people could have been hurt. And what I can do is very basic. Humans have to study for years to be able to-”

“Yes,” she stepped in, holding up a hand to cut off his rampant justification. Ichigo couldn't help noticing the callouses on her palms and fingers. She was a fighter. She also smiled at him. “ I can teach you.”

Ichigo offered her a half of a grin. “Just so you know, I suck at spellwork.”

“I’m sure we can make due. Now, I’m going to clear you. Please behave while you’re in my division.”

Her smile turned tight at the edges and her eyes narrowed minutely. Fear shot striaght down his spine.

“Y-yes ma-am!” He said quickly. He made his escape quickly. He still wanted to see Rukia, and find out what her and her brother had been talking about. Of all the people to try to step in and protect them he could scarcely believe it was Byakuya. Maybe he’d misjudged him?

Or more likely he’d smacked some sense into him.

Typical.

Ichigo was just trying to figure out how to navigate his way out when he stumbled into someone. Which was weird, because he should have really felt them coming.

Pink kimono, straw had, wavy brown hair.

“Oh. Kyoraku, hey,” Ichigo waved at him.

The man smiled at him. He’d barely had any malice to him the last time they’d met, and now any he’d had ever is vanished behind a kind smile. His assistant, Nanao if Ichigo remembered right, was missing for once.

“Ichigo. It’s good to see you again.”

“You too,” Ichigo nodded to him. “What are you doing here? You didn’t get too banged up, did you?” He’d been worried. Those two had spirited away a man born before the human era, one who Ichigo had been informed was the strongest person in the Seireitei.

Ichigo had picked a fight with the strongest person in the entire dimension. And then started lecturing him on his morality.

That... sounds right.

“Just a few bruises,” Kyoraku clapped him on the shoulder and forcefully guided him down the hallway. “I’m here visiting Juushiro. Come along.”

It really wasn’t a question. Ichigo shot him a glower.

“I’m not a dog, you know.”

“Really? You look a little mangy…”

Ichigo elbowed him in the ribs. “Fuck you. Speaking of dogs, is that one guy okay? The werewolf.”

“Werewolf? You mean Komamura? He was in nasty shape, but he’ll recover. He’s a few doors down if you want to introduce yourself properly.”

“...Nah. I don’t think I should. He seemed pretty torn up about the whole betrayal thing and I was kinda just an enemy. It doesn’t really, I guess, feel right?” He struggled to find the right words. Even if he wasn’t the most eloquent, Kyoraku nodded along with him sympathetically.

“Anyways. You said you were here visiting Juushiro, like Ukitake? What happened? You don’t look charred around the edges.” Ichigo gave him a critical once over.

Kyoraku snickered at him and they entered a room. A private hospital room, where Ukitake was sitting up in the bed. Ichigo hadn’t noticed before, he’d been too busy assessing the man’s energy and fighting for his life and Rukia’s, but Ukitake was actually very thin. His wrist bones were too prominent, his cheeks were too thin, and with the low drop the hospital provided robes he could see his collar bones starkly.

If he was this strong sick, how strong would he be normally?

If ‘Ukitake notices Ichigo’s critical once over, he says nothing about it. Only smiles when they get closer.

“Well this is certainly a surprise. Kurosaki, it’s good to see you.”

“Just Ichigo is fine,” he waves his hand. “You helped me after all, and none of my friends call me by my last name.”

“Friends,” Ukitake repeats. His green eyes gentled. “Why don’t you sit for a while with us then. We were just visiting today.”

Ichigo doesn’t know what to do with the way they’re both looking at him. It’s friendly and kind but there’s something else there. Like they’re trying to see where his sharp edges are and where he folds and what will make him change his mind.

To be fair, they’d been enemies before.

Ichigo pulls up a chair and flips it around so he can straddle it and cross his arms over the back.

“How are you, Ichigo? We heard you didn’t very torn up during your confrontation with Aizen.”

“I’m fine. He had me locked in a kido for most of the fight. The worst things I had were some burns from where I broke out of it. Unohana took care of it for me. She’s… nice. Terrifying, but nice.”

“You asked about Ereshkigal before,” Ukitake pointed out. “Why did you-”

Whatever else he was going to say was cut off by a rough coughing fit. Ichigo lurched for him immediately, with Kyoraku only twitching forwards before grabbing the water off the bedside table.

They waited for the coughing to slow down, a full minute later, before Kyoraku gave him the glass. Ichigo was frowning at him.

“Are you okay?” He asked, once he was done with the water. Ukitake nods and smiles crookedly.

“It’s been a frequent occurrence for most of my life, I’m afraid. Even Unohana can’t do anything about it. It’ll go away in a few days, I’m sure.”

Ichigo frowns at him, but nods all the same. A chronic cough could be about a billion things. If it started as a kid that might mean less. Honestly Ichigo is trained for field medicine. Emergencies and stopping bleeding. This kind of thing is beyond him.

Still, he grew up next to a family clinic.

“Have you ever tried human medicine?” he asks. Ukitake looks surprised, but shakes his head the negative.

“No. I can’t say I have. As I understand it isn’t always very effective.”

“Maybe not a couple hundred years ago,” he admits, thinking of battlefields and field hospitals, and how hard Nightingale had had to work to get people to wash their damn hands. “But it’s come a long way recently. Maybe you should give it a try? My dad and Uryu’s both run medical facilities.”

Ukitake eyes him for a long moment, the mention of his father catching his attention. Finally, he nods.

“I may look into that. Thank you.”

The conversation moves on, Ereshkigal forgotten under the feeling that Ichigo had just fucked himself somehow.

* *

Ichigo opened his eyes to grey skies and an amalgamated landscape.

Zangetsu and Nieve were leaning over him, one of them clearly irritated and the other just as calm looking as ever.

“Uh. Hi?”

“It’s about damn time!” Nieve barked at him. Ichigo sat up, slowly, and then stood. It still felt weird to be standing up on the side of a building like this. It was completely unnatural.

“Time for what? I’ve been busy, and I can’t just pop in here whenever I want you know. In case you missed it I’m still in potential enemy territory. I keep expecting to be arrested, whether they say I saved them from something or not. Which, again, I really didn’t. I didn’t even help them unearth that coup! It’s fucking stupid.”

“Are ya done yet?” Nieve asked, his arms crossed over his chest.

“... Not even remotely, but go ahead.”

“Good. We’re bored in here and you’re an emotional disaster-”

“Hey!”

“-in the making. Just look at the sky!”

Ichigo did. It was grey, and cloudy this time.

“What does the weather have to do with anything?”

“The weather,” Zangetsu said in his deep, smooth voice, “is a reflection of you, as all things here are. It reflects your emotions. When you’re sad, it rains here.”

“And ya are sad,” Nieve poked in.

Ichigo scowled at the both of them. “Yeah so what if I am? I just found out one of my friends is now an enemy, a traitor, and I don’t even know what else right now! I lost my chance to talk to him because I hesitated, and now he’s gone full megalomaniac and he’s going to go overthrow the king.”

He paused.

“Not that I’m against that part. But I like some of these shinigami. I don’t want to see them go to war with him over a king that doesn’t give a rats left tit about any of them.”

“Next time you shouldn’t hesitate,” Zangetsu said wisely. Ichigo nearly hit him.

“What next time?! How many friends do you think I have that forgot we knew each other two hundred years ago in a timeline that’s been erased because it was the end of the world?!”

“At least three,” nieve said without missing a beat. “Maybe four.”

“Okay you know what,” Ichigo pointed at him. “I’ve decided, I don’t like you.”

“No shit? I wonder why,” he rolled his yellow eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean, huh?” Ichigo barked. It felt good though, to speak so openly with people who already knew everything about him. How messed up was it that his best conversation basically happened with himself? He stalked toward nieve, “How did you even get here, huh? I was too busy to care before but I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to have a hollow in my head. That is what you are, isn’t it?”

Nieve froze for just a second, like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He collected himself a second later with a loud scoff and a laugh in Ichigo’s face.

“If you wanna know so bad, maybe you should ask that shop keeper. He seems to be tied up in everything else bullshit in your life.”

“Okay. So maybe he is. I’m not asking him.” Ichigo stalked forwards, effectively cornering a piece of himself against a part of a sky scraper. “I’m asking you. You were pissed that I wasn’t listening to you before. Well I’m listening now, aren’t I?”

“I-” Nieve looked over Ichigo’s shoulder at Zangetsu. “I can’t tell ya, partner.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“Can’t!” He snapped, glaring over Ichigo’s shoulder.

When Ichigo looked over it, Zangetsu was gone, and when he looked back Nieve was too.

* * *

Ichigo was getting really, really sick of running for his life. Shoudln’t the return home have been easier than the journey to get there?

It wasn’t, and the only thing that saved the five of them from tipping headfirst onto concrete was a timely save from Urahara.

Who apparently had a flying carpet.

Because why not.

He’s not even surprised anymore.

He catches the look in Urahara’s eyes when the man starts to turn around, but Ichigo catches his shoulder before he can do whatever he was planning on doing.

“You know where everyone lives, right?” he asks, perhaps a touch too quickly. “Once everyone’s been dropped off, I wanna talk to you.”

The others are silent. Urahara regards him from under the shadow of his hat before agreeing quietly.

Ichigo bids fond farewell to his friends and sort-of-cousin before their ride takes them back to the little shop that Urahara runs. They touch down in front and walk inside, with the blond in the lead. As soon as they are inside everyone else, even Yoruichi, makes themselves scarce.

Urahara takes Ichigo into one of the back rooms before he sweeps his hat off his head and kneels on the ground before him.

It makes Ichigo's stomach twist in discomfort.

“I know by now you heard about me. I’m really, very sorry.” It’s the most genuine the man has ever sounded to Ichigo’s ears. Some of the last threads of anger melt away.

He drops to one knee in front of Urahara and knocks his head lightly with his knuckles.

“Cut that out. I’m barely even mad at you, you know.” Now that he’s had a few days to cool his temper.

“You should be,” Urahara looked up at him, his grey eyes searching and weary.

Ichigo shrugged. “I don’t really hold grudges. If anything, you should apologize to Rukia for putting her in harms way. You were trying to do the right thing, weren’t you? And the reason you didn’t tell me anything… It was because you thought I’d run off, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right. Can you honestly tell you wouldn’t have?”

“Yeah,” Ichigo stood up. “I can. If nothing else I would have still needed you to get that gate open. And I don’t run so easy, even from shady shop keepers. Now,” He offered Urahara a hand. “If you’re really that contrite you can make it up to me.”

Urahara eyed his hand before he took it and let Ichigo pull him to his feet. His hat found its rightful home.

“And would that entail, exactly?”

“Two things,” Ichigo held up two fingers. “One; next time you need my help for something, just tell me outright what’s going on. And two; I have two questions that I’d like the absolute truth to.”

“That seems fair. What’s the question?”

“In october, 1888, did you go to the human world?”

Urahara fell silent. He stared at Ichigo for a long, hard minute before he nodded once. “I did.”

Ichigo thought as much.

“Is that when you discovered your Hogyoku?”

Urahara looked like he’d been slapped with a living lobster.

“How could you possibly know that?” he asked, stepping right into Ichigo’s space. “I told everyone that I created it. Did Aizen-”

“He didn’t tell me,” Ichigo planted his hand on Urahara’s chest to keep him from coming in closer. “There were things happening in 1888 in the human world. Things that Chaldea was involved in.”

He hesitated.

“Things that I was involved in.”

Ichigo could see the gears turning in Urahara’s head. He was too smart for his own good.

“That’s impossible. Humans don’t live that long. You were only born a couple of decades ago.”

“Nothing is ever impossible,” Ichigo said frankly.

Urahara’s eyes narrowed minutely. “This has something to do with those friends of your Kon found, doesn’t it?”

Now it was Ichigo’s turn to stare at him. “Huh?”

Urahara changed on a dime. He snapped his fan open over his mouth and shadowed his eyes under his hat. “So you’re not omnipotent. I was worried for a minute there Ichigo!”

“Wouldn’t it be omnipresent? Or omniscient?” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. What were you talking about? What friends?”

“Not until you tell me how you knew about 1888. Everyone else I’ve ever told anything about the Hogyoku to I’ve always said I created it. Not discovered it. So it’s only fair for you to tell me,” he sang.

Ichigo scowled at him. “Would you cut that shit out? You’re so weird. Whatever, I’ll find out on my own.”

“Ichigo-”

“I’ll see you around, Kisuke.”

Ichigo gave his chest a light shove to get past him. Urahara didn’t try to stop him, for which he was grateful. He had too much on his mind. Was he really about to tell a guy he knew had played him like a fiddle once already a truth he’d never admitted to anyone who hadn’t been there with him?

Fuck, what was wrong with him?

He fled the shoten and made his way home under the pale light of the moon. When he carefully stepped through the front door (a trick he would never get used to ) he froze entirely.

In the living room, sleeping on the couch and up against a chair respectively, were two people he thought he’d never see again.

Medusa and Cu Chulainn.

He sprinted up the stairs as fast as he could move and without even a how-do-you-do to Kon he launched the mod soul out of his body and shoved himself inside of it. He left Kon sitting on his pillow before he bolted back down the stairs on light feet and skidded into the living room.

It was still enough noise and movement to have both of the legends up on their feet.

He stood there for a long beat, out of breath, eyes wild and bright.

“Ichigo?” Cu asked, slowly standing. They were both dressed like normal people. “Is that..?”

“It’s him,” was all Medusa said before decking him in the face.

Ichigo stumbled back but didn’t fall. He looked between the two of them. It was hard to see, his eyes were all blurry. How weird.

“You fool. You went rushing into danger without us,” she hissed. Her hair moved restlessly but he knew it was worry more than anger.

“Sorry, Medusa. I didn’t know you would be here. I still don’t. How are you here?” He searched her face. He touched his jaw. “I know I didn’t summon you.”

Cu touched his hand and turned it over so he could the red wings spread across the back of it. Command seals.

“You’re little friend did, using your body for it. We are yours again, master,” Cu said quietly. He didn’t move away when Ichigo’s head fell against his shoulders and when Ichigo’s hands started shaking Medusa’s arm draped over his shoulders.

“How?” He asked quietly. “Chealdeas and the grails supported eighty percent of your mana consumption. I thought there was no way anyone could support a servant outside of Grail Wars.”

“Ichigo,” Cu sounded amused. “How many of us did you have in Chealdeas?”

“Huh? I don’t know. Forty, fifty total?” He hadn’t been close with all of them, but there had been plenty of them.

“Right. So twenty percent of thirty servants equals the full upkeep of at least eight servants. Ichigo. You could have had us with you the entire time.”

Ichigo choked.

He’d been swallowing grief for so long, and he’d never had to.

Nimble fingers pulled through his bright hair.

“We’re here now. And there’s one more waiting for you. Kon didn’t have the fine control to summon someone so rawly powerful. But you do.”

“Tomorrow,” Medusa said firmly. “Tomorrow you can summon him, and tell us about your newest adventure. And,” her hair hissed with her, “You will take us with you on whatever your next one is.”

“Can I even do that? What I’m doing now is basically what Kyo was doing in North America. I know you have spirit forms, but that’s different from human souls. That’s-”

“I’ve never known you to think too much,” Cu mused. “You’re a creature of instinct, aren’t you? Rest. We’ll work it out.”

Ichigo still had questions, but he was such an emotional wreck he didn’t have it in him to fight when the pair bullied him up the stairs and into his old room. The bed was too soft.

The three of them camped out on the floor.

* * * *

Ichigo found, much to his amazement and amusement, that Medusa had basically adopted his sisters while he was gone.

She and Cu had told Isshin that they were Ichigo’s friends from Chaldeas and he’d agreed (much too easily) to let them stay in the livingroom while they were looking for a place to stay. Medusa explained that they’d been guarding his body for him as well.

The entire morning Ichigo felt warm and almost bubbling with excitement. He helped Karin with the table while Medusa and Yuzu puttered around the kitchen and Cu fed birds on the back porch.

It was the most surreal day of his entire life.

The trio left after breakfast and made their way towards Ichigo’s house. Once they were far enough to be overheard, Ichigo started to talk.

“Okay, so how do you expect to help me with what I’m doing now?”

“Well. You know that all heroic spirits have a physical form and a spirit form, yes?”

“Yeah. And that your spirit form isn’t the same as being an actual spirit, since your souls aren’t bound the way regular ones are. Instead of being a part of the cycle of reincarnation or the World, or even the time axis you’re connected to the Throne of heroes, and you manifest through a thaumaturgical anchor. In this case, me.”

“Yes. And it’s because you are our anchor that we’ll be able to do this. Any normal humans we would only be able to interact with them the way a regular human would,” Cu said cheerfully. “You leak power like a broken pipe. You always have. When we were in North America your influence started to take hold. You engraved a part of yourself on our souls, Ichigo. We can see the dead, we can interact with them.”

“We’re supposed to forget,” Medusa said suddenly. “We’re supposed to forget the events of Grail Wars we’re summoned to when we go back to the Throne. But you. You we remember. We all remember. You’re really something, Master.”

“Stop calling me that,” he said automatically, even while his mind turned over the information. He admitted to them. “I never knew I’d be fighting ghosts. I never thought anything like this would happen.”

“I doubt even that trouble maker Merlin could foresee this,” Cu laughed at him. Ichigo elbows his side.

“Quiet you.”

“Am I wrong?”

“... not even remotely. But he gave me back the two of your so I feel like I should be a little nicer to him than normal.”

Cu laughed at him again.

It was interesting, seeing the two of them outside of a war zone and outside of Chaldeas Cu was relaxed in a hawaiian shirt, with his silver earrings glinting in the mid-morning sunlight. Medusa looked smart in a black turtleneck with her hair braided back tightly.

The three made quite a sight.

They were about to make an even weirder one.

Ichigo let them into his house and headed for the basement, flanked on either side. He touched up the magic circle and gathered up two stones in the middle. One grey, one red.

“Is this a piece of your spear?” Ichigo asked, holding it up to Cu.

“A piece of an earring, actually.”

Ichigo’s fingers ran over the rune engraved in it.

“So it is. And this is a piece of your artwork right?” He held the grey stone up to Medusa, who smiled and nodded. That was morbid. Ichigo went to the cardboard box sitting on the table. The one he’d abandoned in his internal crisis. If he’d just opened his damn mail he could have taken Seireitei without any trouble at all.

“If I switch to my own spirit form, will you still be able to draw on my power?”

Cu hummed. “Normally I would say no. In your case? Probably.”

“Lucky me,” Ichigo said. For once he actually meant it.

He pulled out a soft orange scarf. It was tattered and torn, and utterly ancient. Over 3000 years old.

Ichigo laid it down delicately in the middle of the circle and stepped back. Medusa handed him a knife. He cut his palm across an old scar and stepped to the edge of the circle where he held his fist out and over the chalk circle. Blue light crawled across the floor and raced along the edges where it crackled and sparked.

“Let silver and steel be the essence. Let stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation. Fill, fill, fill, fill, fill. Repeat five times and after each is filled, destroy it,” The blue light turned red and lashed upwards.

“I shall become all the goodness of the heaven’s. I shall embody all evils of hell. My will creates your body, and your sword cleaves my destiny. If you obey this will and reason, heed my call! Let shut the four cardinal gates and open the three-forked road winding to the Root. Appear now, thou Guardian of the Scales.”

Romani had told him once that each war used a different summoning chant in their rituals. Participants and factions tailored their to specific desires, ancestors, and faction colors in some cases. Ichigo’s was an amalgamation of a half a dozen.

It worked. Ichigo could feel the energy of life swelling up under his skin and filling his magic circuits as he drew it out of the planet and into himself. He was a conduit. The mana of the world rolled through his veins.

He poured it through the circle, filling it until the limits were fit to burst. His blood sang with power.

The light grew, rolling over and over until it was too bright to see beyond it.

Ichigo felt the world give way and shift as the atmosphere made room for someone new. Someone powerful.

“I ask you,” came a familiar voice, “Are you my master?”

“I ask you; stop calling me that already.”

The light parted light a curtain and Ichigo found himself yanked into a sudden, strong embrace. Powerful hands clapped his back firmly.

“I thought I heard your voice!”

“You said you would come whenever I called. No matter where or-”

“When, I remember. I do keep my promises when I’m able to, master.”

“I swear to god,” Ichigo smacked him and shoved the servant away. Green hair, tanned skin.

Achilles grinned down at him.

* * * * *

Before Kyo, before America, before the dark circle was printed on Ichigo’s chest, he stood in a city bathed in fog.

It was thick and filled with the scent of sorrow.

From the second they landed they were in a fight. Dolls, a strange girl in armor, and homunculi. It was after the last one that Ichigo finally decided they needed to find a base of operations.

Ichigo touched Mash’s shoulder gently. “Let’s get a move on.”

There was something bothering her. She wouldn’t say what. She blamed it on the environment, but Ichigo had known her too long to buy into that.

They get blitzed by a servant before they can find a safe place to hunker down, but just as soon as the fight is over Ichigo forgets what they look like. Mash and Romani are the same. It’s a frightening power. How can they fight someone if they can’t remember anything about them as soon as they’re gone from sight?

They need back up. They need to find a Ley Line so he can summon Cu and Medusa to help them.

Help comes in the form of a brash spitfire of a blonde in knights armor. The same strange girl they’d met earlier.

Her name is Mordred, a knight of the round table. She has a safehouse, and a doctor.

There’s something about Jekyll that makes Ichigo’s skin prickle. He’s a sweet faced young man, with kind green eyes, but there’s something dangerous about him.

Ichigo peers out the window while he gently chides Mordred for revealing her name. The streets are full of ghosts here, that walk uninhibited and forlorn in the mists.

There’s a lot of blondes in this city.

* * * * * *

#bleach fanfiction #Ichigo Kurosaki #BAMF!Ichigo Kurosaki #Ichigo Kurosaki is Ritsuka Fujimaru #mash kyrielight #jack the ripper #urahara kisuke #medusa fate grand order #cu chulainn #Achilles #Achilles Fate #Zangetsu #yoruichi shihouin #hollow ichigo

8 notes · View notes

masquerade-story · 3 years ago

Text

Chapter 4 - Memories

Lillian awoke late into the evening, after everyone collectively agreed to take a nap and process everything Crystal told them. Her throat was dry and scratchy, so she carefully rolled out of bed to avoid disturbing Grey, who'd crawled into her bed for comfort like he always did when he was upset, and padded quietly out of the bedroom.

Since there wasn't going to be any sort of heating bill, they'd left the mysteriously working heater on to combat the unexpectedly cold weather. Lillian stopped by a window to peek outside, and was momentarily startled when she could pick out individual leaves on distant trees.

"Right, our vision got all fancy." Lillian laughed softly at herself, turning her gaze from the trees to the starry sky.

An unfamiliar sky.

Three moons scattered across the horizon, a couple of planets close enough for their rings to be distinct to the naked eye, and a brilliant aurora ribbon streaming across more stars than Lillian ever remembered seeing when she looked up back on Earth.

"There's no North Star," she whispered to herself, her warm breath briefly melting some frost on the window glass. "Different constellations, different horoscopes... I wonder how long a year is here? Or a season? Can we... Even communicate with people to find out?"

An oppressive sense of loneliness settled in her chest. Lillian blinked back a few tears and turned away from the window, resuming her earlier mission of a glass of juice. She slipped downstairs into the kitchen, drank an entire glass, and went to bring her second cup upstairs in case she woke up again, when a soft sound caused her to pause mid-step toward the stairs.

Sobbing. Wretched, mournful sobbing, from the living room which currently had no light on.

Lillian felt her heart clench in sympathy, and changed route.

Rayne sat on the couch, curled into the corner with a blanket around her shoulders and a phone in her hands. She glanced up when Lillian approached, hurriedly dashing her tears with the corner of the blanket. "H-hey, what's up?"

Lillian had the sense to put her juice cup down on an end table before sitting heavily on the couch, encroaching on Rayne's personal space with reckless abandon. "I was gonna ask you the same thing. Why are you down here alone in the dark?"

"Oh, I..." Rayne muttered, her gaze flicking back to the phone. Lillian glanced down, and saw a photo of Rayne and her boyfriend trying on mouse hats during their trip to Disneyworld. His expression was exasperated, but his affectionate gaze was fixed on Rayne's laughing face.

Rayne locked her screen and set the phone down, but it was too late and she knew it. She retreated further into the warmth of her blanket, faking a shiver to cover the fact she was trying to hide her face.

Neither Rayne nor Crystal appreciated it when other people saw them cry, but Lillian knew that it was sometimes exactly what someone needed, whether they wanted it or not. So she leaned on Rayne's shoulder, resting a gentle hand on the other woman's knee.

"You know," Lillian said softly, closing her eyes. "There's three moons."

Rayne was quiet for a moment. Then she sniffled, before whispering: "Really?"

"Yeah. And some ringed planets, and an aurora. Wanna see?"

The bundle of blanket shook in a hesitant nod, and both Lillian and Rayne moved to sit on the window seat overlooking the front yard, keeping throw pillows between them and the frozen glass to seal in their bodily warmth.

Silence stretched on between them as they stared together at the foreign night sky. Whenever Rayne gave a soft cry or pained whimper, Lillian reached over to squeeze her hand without turning to look at her, giving the other woman a measure of privacy while still providing comfort until she was ready to talk.

"It's unfair," Rayne whispered finally, reaching out of the blanket to draw a frowning face on the frosty glass.

Lillian nodded. "It ate our bonds so they all forgot us, but we still have to remember them? It's totally unfair."

"Actually..." Rayne looked over, locking gazes with Lillian, her dark brow furrowed. "That's the thing. Lils, do you remember your parents?"

"Of course. Robin and Larry-"

"Their faces, Lils."

Lillian opened her mouth, then immediately shut it. Her curious expression turned to one of realization, then panic suffused with horror. "No, I... What...?"

"I don't remember his face if I'm not looking at the photo," Rayne said, crossing her arms tightly under the blanket. "I don't remember his voice anymore. I did at first, but... Every passing moment, it's harder to remember the times we shared. The bad, the good. Even while looking at the photos! And I just... I felt like I should have a good cry, while I still felt enough lingering emotion for him to do it."

Lillian felt as though her heart was caught in her throat. She swallowed, swallowed again, then wheezed as she tried to remember how to breathe. Rayne hurriedly wrapped her arms around Lillian's shoulder, squeezing tight in a hug that contained all her comfort and sympathy.

"We'll do everything we can to remember, them, okay?" Rayne whispered, her voice shaking with emotion. "Let's go wake Grey and Crystal, then we can all start writing stuff down. Alright?"

Nodding, Lillian clung desperately to Rayne's hand as they both hurried upstairs, rolling their respective siblings out of bed for an emergency meeting. Grey's horror was contrasted starkly by Crystal's numb nodding, as she apologized for not realizing it would happen. They dug into the boxes of personal belongings, finding some notebooks and pens, and sat together in the master bedrooms writing down everything they remembered about Earth and their loved ones until well into the next morning.

"On the one hand it's a mercy," Grey said sleepily, as he doodled another picture of his parents in the margins of his notebook. "So we won't be grieving our loss very long, I guess? But it still feels..."

"Wrong," Lillian mumbled, looking through her phone for a picture of her cat to use as a reference.

"It's not like the time was wasted," Rayne said, adding another bullet point to the list she was writing. "Our experiences shaped who we are whether we remember them or not. It does feel pretty crappy, though..."

"I wonder, will they forget us like this?" Lillian asked, unable to stop the words in her heart from escaping. Her hand paused above the page, the pen in her hand shaking violently. "Will they just... Slowly forget us? Or was it sudden and merciful? Because this... This is cruel."

"Cruelty implies intention," Crystal said softly, her voice shaking almost as much as Lillian's pen. "That... Thing. The Eater. It didn't have any malice, it was just hungry. But I dunno if that makes things better or worse..."

"I dunno man, you ever seen a cat catching prey? Pretty sure eating something alive has some inherent malice in it." Grey grumbled, trying to force his chicken scratch handwriting into something legible.

Crystal, who'd already given up on her own handwriting and embraced the chaotic glyphic nature of her lettering, nodded sagely in agreement. "That's true. I got the impression the Eater wasn't exactly sentient or sapient though. More like a force than a being, if that makes sense? Or maybe I just can't conceive of it, since that thing exists outside our dimensions of understanding."

"You say that so easily, do you even know how wild that whole statement was?"

"Do you even know how wild this whole situation is?"

"Look, we've passed absurdity at this point. Now I'm just down with whatever weirdness comes our way."

"We don't have to pay bills anymore," Rayne said slowly, staring at her paper. Her handwriting was the neatest by far, and she'd finished writing down most important events she could think of, but she kept having a nagging feeling she'd left something out so she kept reading the pages over and over hoping to trigger another memory. "We won't have to buy groceries unless there's things we want specifically that wasn't in our house to begin with. The electricity will never go out, damage to the property will be repaired, and even though we're in a new world with unknown levels of development and technology, we will never have to worry about toilet paper. In exchange for a very comfortable standard of living, we lost our connection to our home and families."

"Personally speaking I think it's fair," Crystal said with a scoff. "But that's because our family sucks so I'll be glad to forget them. All my most important people are here with me! I know Robin and Larry will take good care of all our cats, my exes all sucked, and my other friends will get along just fine without me. I don't have anyone to worry about, just regrets for stuff I never got to do. Like visiting the Grand Canyon, or going on a long cruise."

"I wanted to hike around Europe someday..." Rayne said wistfully.

"I wanted to vacation in the tropics. Or maybe Spain? For like, two years. With some hot guys and infinite fruity alcohols." Grey said, staring off into space with a dreamy look in his eyes.

"I wanted to be famous enough for us to visit the space station," Lillian sighed. Grey snorted, and everyone started laughing in a combination of absurdity and delirium from lack of sleep. They started listing everything they could think of, starting with shopping sprees and game show appearances, and ending with complex bank and casino heists to dismantle capitalism.

When Crystal started dozing off while sitting up, they all agreed to get some sleep for real. The notebooks were stacked lovingly on one of the end tables, which reminded Lillian to run downstairs and chug her long-forgotten cup of juice in the living room before trudging back upstairs into bed.

------

"We can't just stay in the house forever, right?" Grey muttered as he stared out the living room window later that night, curled up on the window seat with his knees hugged to his chest.

"Technically we could," Rayne said, drumming her fingers against the recliner arm as she waited for her laptop to boot. "Infinite food and basic supplies, stuff for our hobbies... We have our instruments, we have our computers and game consoles and several external drives worth of movies and books and music since you and Crystal obsessively insist on collecting or hoarding anything of interest for later use."

"Hey, hey." Grey wagged a finger and feigned an offended scowl. "Look at our situation. How bored would we be if the two of us didn't hoard everything? In fact, maybe our desire to hoard entertainment was preparing for this day!"

"Damn psychics always preparing for everything they couldn't possibly know about," Rayne muttered rebelliously, and Crystal laughed. She'd stretched out on half of the corner couch taking up an entire section of the living room by itself, looking cozy with a pile of blankets and her special edition Switch.

"It's only gonna get worse from here, Ray."

"Open your town, I need to sell my oranges," Lillian interrupted, nudging Crystal's feet from her spot on the other side of the corner couch.

"Alright, lemme finish making this waterfall first."

"Your villagers are never gonna have scurvy again for like, three generations."

"That many oranges? Isn't that a bit overkill?"

"If they don't want an entire island nation's agricultural sector's worth of citrus they should learn to adjust their economy for inflation."

"You know the shop is run by literal children, right?"

"It's good to learn early that nepotism leads to ruin. The business world is harsh and so am I."

Rayne chuckled at the sound of Lillian's low, malicious cackling, but her expression swiftly turned serious. "What do you mean it's gonna get worse, Coco?"

"All four of us have abilities for real, right? Being in this world is gonna make them grow exponentially, whether we try to train them or not. New ones will pop up too, or existing ones will change a little as they grow. Okay Lils, gate's open." Crystal spoke nonchalantly, but every word drained a bit more color from Rayne's face. Meanwhile, Grey turned away from the window with an excited glint in his eyes.

"So psychic powers can get real strong in this world?"

"Yeah. The impression I got when we were coming over was... Magic exists here, and it's something anyone can learn to use with practice. But abilities like ours, psychic powers? Those you have to be born with, and it's rare. That's about as much as I know about it though," Crystal sighed and shrugged.

"Can you list everything you know about our situation?" Rayne said, opening a new document on her computer and typing away with her nose inches from the laptop screen. "I wanna write it all down. I got the thing about our bonds and memories, and the house being indestructible-"

"It's not indestructible, just protected." Crystal seemed startled as soon as the words left her mouth, as though the information was somehow new. She furrowed her brow, nose wrinkling as she carefully examined her thought process. "I see, protected... Like a barrier, almost? It'll always rebuild itself and restock supplies overnight no matter what happens, even if it's all burnt to ash, but the property itself is also shielded unless we draw attention from a big threat."

"A big threat? Like what?"

"I don't know. Big animals like those Nessies on the beach yesterday. Or monsters like the Eater, maybe?"

"Monsters?!" Lillian sat up straight, pulling her feet under her body. "There's monsters!?"

"There's magic, why wouldn't there be monsters too?" Grey pointed out, but his twin just stuck her tongue out at him.

"It's just an assumption," Crystal hurriedly explained. "For my power to work, I'd have to come into contact with stuff related to what I want to know about in order to get more information, I can't just pull stuff out of the ether whenever I have questions!"

"Then how do you know what you know already?"

"Well, we were in contact with the house. The house is made with really powerful magic, so I learned magic exists, and that it was used to make the house echo and ensure our supplies remain the same. I think I also learned about the barrier then, but didn't think about it or really absorb the info cuz I was thinking about other things, so it only just popped up." Crystal shrugged and let out a half-hearted laugh.

"What about the Eater?"

"The Eater was menacing us directly and I looked at it so I was able to get some info on it and the bond-eating shenanigan, but not much else because it's way stronger than me, I think? And my power activated as soon as we started our... Transfer, I guess? Away from Earth. And you all were in the room with me, so I knew you all had powers as well as myself, got the basic gist of how mine work, and that we'd all get much stronger whether we wanted to or not. That's really about it for what I know. I told you it wasn't much."

"Why the house though?" Rayne muttered. "It just wanted to eat our bonds and it did that. So why did it drop us on another planet, and why give us this cushy house echo thing?"

Crystal shrugged again. "I honestly have no idea. I think I could know if I got a lot stronger, but... That won't be any time soon. I can tell there's a reason, though. I just dunno what."

"Maybe it's compensation?" Grey said, his expression hopeful.

"Or bait, like a beacon, so it can find us again..." Lillian whispered with a shiver, and everyone's faces fell. Seeing their reactions, she hurriedly straightened her spine and forced a smile to her face. "But it didn't hurt us, and we're all still together. Imagine if we'd been flung to different planets instead of staying together!"

"That'd really suck," Grey agreed. "So like, Crystal, your power activates if you come into contact with stuff?"

"I think so. I'd have to test it to get the hang of how things work, precisely."

Grey chuckled, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. His expression made the three women exchange worried glances, especially once he started rubbing his hands together like a two-bit cartoon villain. "Looks like we got ourselves an excuse to head to that town for some reconnaissance!"

"In the snow?" Rayne asked, raising her eyebrows.

"With only summer clothes in our wardrobes," Crystal pointed out.

"We wore hiking boots for the walk up here so that'd be fine, but the warmest clothes we have right now are..." Lillian trailed off, then suddenly doubled over and started giggling.

Realization dawned on the others soon after, and Rayne covered her face with her hands. "Oh no."

"Oh yes!" Grey hissed, pumping his fist into the air. "That'll make one heck of an entrance, wouldn't it?"

"Our music video costumes? In PUBLIC!?" Rayne wailed while the others laughed.

"That might not be what we want to do though," Crystal said after her moment of laughter had subsided. "We don't know what kind of world this is. If they'll be friendly to strangers, especially ones who can't speak their language - or any language on this world. They won't know English, you know."

"But do we really have a choice?" Lillian asked, putting down her console and staring up at the ceiling. "We don't know anything about this world. About magic, except that it exists. About the people. And hiding here in our safe cozy house will be fine short term, but what about long term? Are we gonna spend our whole lives holed up in here?"

"I, for one, embrace the forest witch hermit lifestyle," Grey said. "And I know Crystal does too."

"Sure do. Cottage life."

Rayne sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I don't wanna be caught completely off guard by whatever nonsense comes our way. We know it's winter, but we don't know what the other seasons are like yet. What if they have a raining magma and diamonds from the sky season? We can't apply Earth logic here! Or if we can, we don't know to what extent! There were dinosaurs on the beach!"

"That's a fair point. There were indeed dinosaurs on the beach. Counter points?"

"There were dinosaurs on the beach."

"A fair counter point as well. I do want to see the dinosaurs up close."

"From a safe distance."

"Up close from a safe distance, of course."

"Plus, we don't know what's gonna happen with our powers. You said they'll get stronger, what does that mean?"

"I don't know. More powers will manifest, I think? And the ones we have already will be more potent. But I don't know how potent, or what exactly will happen."

"Exactly! You psychically downloaded only a little info about our situation and it gave you a nasty seizure! Right?"

"Pretty much."

"So what if something worse happens? A big huge infodump? If you can't control your powers, or shut it off when needed or whatever, what if..." Rayne's shoulders sagged.

"What if I have a big seizure every time I use my powers now?" Crystal finished, a wry smile on her face. "Yeah, I was wondering about that too. Honestly, everything about our situation has me so terrified I've circled back around to just feeling numb about it all."

"That's a hell of a mood," Grey sighed, stretching out on the window seat and propping his feet up against the wall. "Everything's happening so much, am I right? It's hard to be freaked out about everything simultaneously. It's easier to just phase out of existence, mentally speaking."

"I... Have an idea."

Everyone turned to look at Lillian, who sat perched on the edge of the couch. She glanced at all their faces, then offered a shy smile.

"Well? What's your idea, sis?" Grey encouraged, when his sister kept fidgeting in place instead of finishing her thought.

"Well, those warmer clothes we have... They're our costumes, right? And Crystal said we dunno how people would react to that sort of outfit, or to strangers in general, but what if... I mean... We have our instruments? What if... We pretended to be minstrels?"

#writing #chapter #original #original story #masquerade #fantasy #isekai

1 note · View note

holdthosebees · 5 years ago

Text

Memento Mori

A/N: Here we are again! Reposted w/out the horrifically embarrassing typo, which I’m sure y’all would have forgotten about if I hadn’t just mentioned it. Shoutout to @screechfoxes for reminding me! Anyway I’m still thinking about Mike Crew/Oliver Banks, and I will be until I die. Fic is rated M for mild, nonexplicit sexual content and canonical character death.

It’s storming on the day that Oliver meets Michael Crew, which feels appropriate enough. Later, Oliver jokes that, if Mike were more of a drama queen, he’d think he’d done it on purpose: the lashing rain, the heavy wind, the crack and roll of thunder shivering through the air. A summer storm, out of season. It’s driven away most of Oliver’s usual customers, the alternative kids and the middle aged hippies; he’s rearranging a display of cat-themed tarot cards for the fifth time for want of something better to do when the bell above the door rings.

The vertigo is immediate. Oliver raises his eyebrows as his stomach lurches; it had been a while since something impacted him like this. Ever since point Nemo, physical sensation has been... not numb, but dulled, certainly. Even the anxiety, once a constant companion, doesn’t leave him nauseous the way it used to. Then he registers the smell of ozone, and he sighs.

The man in the doorway is short and narrow, with a friendly, square face and sandy brown hair dripping rainwater onto his forehead. He’s dressed down for the weather, no raincoat or umbrella, and above the collar of his plain blue button-down Oliver can see a branching white scar.

“Good afternoon,” Oliver says, to be polite. “Anything I can help you with?”

“Oh, I’m just browsing,” the man says. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his trousers, as if to indicate how uninterested he is in touching anything. “I’ll try not to drip on your stuff.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” Oliver says. Then, because he feels a little silly, playing retail associate with a fellow monster, “Sorry--you’re Michael Crew, right?”

“Guilty as charged,” Michael says, with a quirk of a smile. “But please, call me Mike. Who was it that told you about me? Simon? Jude?” He looks at Oliver’s expression, and laughs. “Figures it would be Jude. She’s such a gossip, that one.”

“I suppose,” Oliver says. His conversation with Jude hadn’t been long, but it had left an impression. He’d felt rather like she was trying to recruit him into some sort of alliance, and when he hadn’t been receptive, her demeanor had been... unpleasant. She’d mentioned Michael--Mike--as something of a casual acquaintance, and so he’d expected him to be somewhat like her: so full of gleeful malice that it oozed out the edges.

“Anyway. I figured I’d drop by, see the man who hijacked Harriet’s plans for Point Nemo.” Mike punctuates this with by giving Oliver a slow once-over, up and down. Oliver smiles reflexively. It’s hard to tell whether he’s being threatened or checked out; neither option is as daunting as it might have been, once, but if Mike is planning on starting something he’d rather they not do it in his shop.

“Oh,” Oliver says, “sorry about that. I wasn’t exactly thinking much, at the time.”

“Don’t worry about it. Sea water under the bridge.” Mike says, and smiles, taking a hand out of his pocket to wave the matter away. He has a nice smile, Oliver thinks. Not too wide, not the tooth-baring threat that most of the avatars he’d met seemed fond of. Nice. “To be honest, I don’t have much to do with what the Fairchild’s are up to, these days. I don’t really bother with the macro. Yes, I know, ironic.”

“Seems very reasonable,” Oliver says.

“I thought you’d approve. Your lot doesn’t bother with that sort of thing, right? Everyone dies, after all.” His smile quirks up at the corner; a shared joke between two dead men.

“Memento mori,” Oliver says. He’s beginning to suspect that he actually is being chatted up, a suspicion confirmed when Mike asks him out for a pint a few minutes later. He considers saying no, citing the shop: it’s too early in the day to close up, after all. But there aren’t any customers coming, and Mike’s cute enough, and it’s not like he has many options. And it’s been a very, very long time.

They talk shop a bit over drinks--”Most people just don’t understand how big eternity actually is,” Mike says, all quiet intensity, and Oliver finds himself nodding along--and then, tentative, like he’s actually nervous, Mike asks Oliver over to his flat.

Oliver hesitates. He hasn’t gotten mixed up in any of the inter-avatar politics; he’s had no need to, and an entanglement just seemed like a pointless bit of risk. Besides, he’s always found the delight in death and pain paradoxically distasteful. He loves it, worships it, recognizes it as the truth that underwrites the universe; that doesn’t mean he has to enjoy it.

But Mike seems reasonable enough, and he’s handsome in an anemic sort of way. And there’s--something, in his eyes, the tilt of his jaw, an echo of defiant exhaustion, a coldness that Oliver recognizes. He is fairly cold himself, after all.

Going to bed with Michael Crew is--well, it would be overwhelming, if Oliver were capable of being overwhelmed. Touching his skin is vertigo, is free fall, the first crack of thunder when a storm breaks. Oliver licks the scar on his chest and tastes ozone. He can only imagine what Mike feels, touching him. They aren’t human, anymore; their bodies are vessels for something monstrous and huge, beautiful in their horror; but they can still sweat, and bite, and gasp so gently at the shock of sudden pleasure. Afterwards, Oliver lays his head on Mike’s chest and is relieved when he doesn’t feel a heartbeat.

It becomes almost a regular thing. They don’t date. They don’t have a relationship. The part of themselves that could be given to another person was already dedicated to something else; Mike will never look at anyone the way he looks up at the night sky, and Oliver will never feel as sadly tender about anything as he does when he sees the soon-to-be-dead walk past. The secret that Mike keeps is that the world is very big; the secret Oliver keeps is that your experience of it will be small. The space they make fits somewhere in-between.

The truce that they keep between them is simple. Mike comes by the store every few months or so. They make smalltalk, discuss the state of the powers, have sex sometimes. It’s nice. Mike, it turns out, is just as much of a homebody as Oliver; he lets the silences between them stretch on, doesn’t both texting ahead, doesn’t make demands of Oliver’s time. This is, of course, ideal. It is hard to care about investing in another person when you keep in the center of your heart and in your bones the knowledge that they, too, will die.

But still. It’s nice. One evening Mike swings by the store just before closing, and Oliver looks at his grey eyes and narrow shoulders and feels--something. It isn’t joy, and it isn’t exactly lust, and it’s certainly not love--Oliver does remember what it was like to be in love, although the memory feels like a reflection in water, murky and warped and far away. But something unclenches, somewhere in his chest, and he smiles without thinking when he says hello.

“Hey,” Mike says. His hair is a mess, sticking up in all kinds of windblown directions. It suits him. “I brought you something.”

“Oh?” Oliver says. Mike isn’t the gift-giving type; they aren’t exactly in a gift-giving business. Mike nods, rooting through the pockets of his faded grey trousers. What he pulls out looks at first like a lump of pale rock, but Oliver can feel the cold emanating from it, familiar and soft. He holds out his hand, and Mike presses the lump into it.

A chunk of bone, worn smooth, the pockmarks of its structure exposed all along one side. A piece from the spine of a sea creature long extinct. Oliver can feel the layers of dead things condensed on the ocean floor, the sediment of thousands of years of endings. It was, not the last of its species, but second to last. With it died the last chance they had.

When he closes his eyes, he sees the dark ocean stretching out forever.

“Thank you,” he says. He rolls the bone back and forth, savoring it. “It’s--very nice.”

“You’re welcome,” Mike says. He sounds uneasy. He puts his hands back in his pockets, shoulders hunched. He doesn’t seem self conscious, not exactly, but--this isn’t something that they do, and they both know it. Still, Oliver smiles as he tucks the bone into the pocket of his work slacks, and after a moment, Michael relaxes again.

“Drop by my place, yeah?” he says. “When you’re done closing?”

Oliver doesn’t ask why he doesn’t want to linger. When Mike opens the shop door the is a rush of wind strong enough to tug at the covers of the paperbacks on display. Then the door shuts and the bell rings, and Oliver is left in stillness.

He rings up his last customer, a middle-aged woman buying a crystal pyramid and a book on chakra manipulation. There is a black tendril wrapped around her middle, and Oliver allows himself a moment to feel the soft, cold whisper of his god. It feels good. He knows, intellectually, that he might have felt guilty about that, once.

He closes up, and goes to Mike’s flat. Mike has a cup of tea and some takeaway already waiting for him. While they eat Mike tells him, in dreamy snippets, about his trip to the ocean. The sea, he said, that was big, but the sky--the perfect black, stretching on forever, unmarred by light pollution, the incredible, indifferent distance of the stars--that was something else. He closes his eyes while he speaks, savoring the memory. Oliver doesn’t ask what happened to the sailors he was with. He doesn’t have to. All the avatars serve the End, in their own ways.

They go to bed. When Mike removes his shirt Oliver sees a new scar, a patch of raw red skin in the shape of a handprint on his shoulder. Mike’s mouth twists when he notices Oliver looking.

“Had a bit of a disagreement with Jude Perry,” he says, wry. Then he frames Oliver’s face in his hands and kisses him, all sudden intent, and Oliver feels the vertigo again, twisting with arousal in the pit of his stomach. He smiles.

Afterwards, they lie together, Mike’s head on Oliver’s chest, Oliver’s fingers tangled in Mike’s hair. This is another thing they don’t usually do, the cuddling. Mike’s not a cuddly person, just like he’s not a clingy person, or a gift giving person, or--arguably--a person at all. Oliver finds himself remember the last time he did this. Years and years ago. In bed with Graham, who he didn’t let himself think about for so long that it became an unconscious habit to repress.

But his memories are hazy and confused, another life, full of feelings that no longer fit in his body. And there are details that he can’t line up: what color was Graham’s hair? His eyes? It’s all fading away, now, tangling and strange, like an old movie in a foreign language. Oliver gives up. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift, listening to the quiet rush of Mike’s breathing.

He dreams. In his dreams he is in the middle of the ocean, water like black glass stretching out in all directions. Forever. And above it the sky, the black and endless sky, full of cold and distant stars.

The water rolls. A huge wave, a wall: the back of some great creature, larger than a ship, than a whale, its bulk enough to change the entire landscape without breaking the surface. Oliver sees miles of barnacle-ridden skin, a single sunken eye. And around it, familiar as breathing: the tendrils of death, black and fleshy, like the arms of a kraken drawing it down. The behemoth groans, and the world shakes.

Oliver wakes up. At first he thinks he is still sleeping: he smells salt, and can feel the press of one of the death-tendrils against his hand, fleshy and cold. But no. He is awake, in Mike Crew’s flat. The smell is Mike’s hair; he hasn’t been able to wash the sea off of him, yet. And the touch--

There is a tendril around Mike’s neck.

There is nothing else to do. Oliver presses his mouth to the top of Mike’s head, closes his eyes. Then he slides carefully out of bed and begins to dress. Mike won’t wonder why he left. He won’t notice anything amiss, not until tomorrow, maybe, or the day after that. However many days it takes. Oliver pulls on his trousers and feels the lump of bone press against his hip. He does up the buttons on his shirt, pulls on his coat. It is raining. A soft, light rain, streaking down the window in the grey dawn.

He stops at the doorway, looks back at Mike’s small frame curled up under the comforter. One hand grasping at the pillow.

“Rest well,” Oliver whispers. Then he turns, and closes the door behind him.

#my fic #tma #the magnus archives #Oliver Banks #Mike Crew #OM #I Bet You Thought You'd Seen The Last Of Me #this will go on Ao3 One Day I promise

83 notes · View notes

aewriting · 5 years ago

Text

Loathly - Chapter 4

Here is part 4 of my Sir Gawain and the Dame Ragnell AU.

Previous parts are here on AO3.

Warnings for sexism, ageism, homophobia, mentions of past violence.

***

Day breaks, and the Lady Guerin exits her cottage. She carries with her a small package, efficiently wrapped. “My belongings,” she says to Alex, thrusting the bundle into his hands.

Alex considers it. “This is all?”

She nods. “I am to reside in the castle at Unidos with you, as your wife. What want could I possibly have for my simple possessions?”

Alex bites his lip a bit, looks at her. “But… not all of your possessions are simple,” he finally says. “I have seen your fine cloaks, the gold necklace at your breast… You needn’t tell me all of your secrets now, dear lady, but if we are to be married…”

Lady Guerin smiles at him, approvingly, he thinks. “All will be revealed. I can promise you that,” she says.

She looks quickly around the clearing. “You and your brothers have made quick work of the camp.”

“Indeed,” replies Alex. He’s been up since well before dawn, packing up, ensuring that they will be prepared for the journey ahead.

Jesse sees the woman, walks toward her. “Good morning, Lady Guerin.”

Another one of her expansive curtsies. “Good morning, my king.”

“Have you a steed?”

Alex hears the huff of amusement. “A simple old woman like me, my lord? The answer is no, I’m afraid.”

Jesse nods. “Alex, since you and this…” his mouth twists a bit in dark humor, “lovely woman are to be married, I’ll allow you the thrill of sharing a mount.”

He… he thinks he is being humorous. This is his father’s way, always has been, likely will be until he is on his deathbed. Alex hates it, the casual way he cuts down others. He looks to the Lady Guerin to see if she is offended. She does not seem to be.

“Thank you, father,” Alex says tightly.

Jesse leaves, and Alex helps the woman up from her low curtsy.

“My thanks, Sir Alex,” the woman says, brushing off her dress.

Alex peers at her. “I know you do not have many options, but will you be alright, sharing a horse with me?”

The woman gives him a wide, open smile. It, it takes Alex off guard. “Truly, Sir Alex, there is no one with whom I would rather ride.”

***

“By the gods…”

“Lady Guerin?” Alex frowns, twisting around to address her.

“My apologies, Sir Alex, it’s just…”

“Just what?”

She laughs, lightly. “You men. Of Unidos. You are really so concerned with your women’s modesty that you prefer them aside a horse, rather than astride it?”

Alex frowns a bit. “I had never considered it.”

“How lucky for you,” the woman says drily. “I am to be your wife. Would it offend you if I sat astride the animal?”

Alex was thoughtful. “I would not be offended. And we can explain it away as your lack of horsemanship, though… I do not think that is actually the case, Lady Guerin.”

A pause. “It is not, Sir Alex.”

Alex feels pleased to have guessed correctly. “Well, then, I leave the choice to you. Either ride astride, or continue aside. You can grip me tighter, if need be, whichever you choose.”

He hears the small huff of laughter from the woman. “Ah, you’ve sweetened the pot, Sir Alex.”

Alex laughs a bit. “Please, none of that.”

The woman laughs too, but it dies away quickly. He feels her rearrange her body so that her legs are astride the horse, feels her hike up her skirts to allow the motion. And then he also feels an arm circle his torso, then another arm. Not too tight, nothing untoward. “Is… is this alright?” the woman asks, voice uncertain.

“I am fine, if you are.”

“I am,” the woman says quickly. “It… it is odd. It has been a while since I have had occasion to ride, and I have never shared a mount before. Thank you for allowing me to make myself feel more comfortable. More… secure.”

“Please, my lady,” Alex says, “if there is anything I can do to assure your comfort, I wish to do it.”

“By the gods,” the woman says, fondly, “I believe you.”

***

They get to know each other, Alex and the Lady Guerin, on the back of their steed. It is four day’s journey back to the castle, and they are spending all of their time together. All time except for the night, of course. Lady Guerin continues to insist on privacy in the evening. “Beauty sleep,” she explains one night, to Flint of all people.

Flint scoffs. “Then I fear you may have to sleep all winter, my lady.”

Alex is horrified at Flint’s insolence, but Lady Guerin actually laughs, loudly. “That was rather quick for you, Sir Flint,” she says, casually, as she retreats into her tent. “Sir Alex?” she calls, just before securing the opening.

“Yes, my lady?”

She fixes him with a serious look. “I ask that no one disturb me before daybreak.”

Flint rolls his eyes. “Who in the gods’ name would try to sneak a glimpse in your tent, my lady?”

Lady Guerin is unmoved. “Sir Alex?”

“Of course, my lady,” Alex says quickly. “I shall move my own bed roll to the front of your tent. Should anyone want to disturb you, they shall have to get through me, first.”

He sees her face go soft, her eyes go warm. “Thank you, Sir Alex.”

***

The woman is wearing another one of her fine, heavy cloaks. She has it spread over her, concealing the lower half of her body, concealing the way her legs are gripping the horse, one on each side. Alex feels the solidity of her grasp around his torso. In, in another situation, with another type of person, he can see how such a touch could be… intimate. Welcome. As it is, with the woman, it is fine. Reassuring, even, to know that she is safe. Alex is surprised at how much he desires her safety. But it does make him… wonder…

“My lady,” he says. “I hope this is not too invasive a question…”

Lady Guerin pats his chest, gently. “We are to be married, Sir Alex. Despite our chats in the clearing, we are still nearly strangers. You may ask me anything.” He feels her inhale, exhale. “I shall not lie to you, my lord. I, I may not tell you everything. A lady needs her secrets, after all. But I shan’t lie.”

Alex nods. “Have you been married before?” The woman is quiet, and Alex is quick to elaborate. “Again, you needn’t answer, if you do not wish to… I simply, thought perhaps, in your younger years��”

The woman laughs, lightly. “I am not so old as I appear, Sir Alex.”

“My apologies, my lady,” Alex says, genuinely contrite. “I meant no offense.”

“Oh, I know, Sir Alex.” She pauses, thoughtful. “How old are you, pray tell?”

“Four and twenty,” he responds.

“Ah,” she says. “Well, then, I suppose I am a bit older than you after all,” she says, mirth in her voice. It’s infectious, and Alex finds himself smiling too at her humor. “I have never been married,” she continues. “Honestly, I never really considered the prospect until I encountered your party on the roadway and realized it could be my best way of gaining protection.” She is silent, for a moment, before leaning forward, lips close to Alex’s ear. “I have lain with men, though.”

Alex nearly startles. “My lady?” he says, sure he’s misheard.

But the lady chuckles a bit, leans back slightly. “Have I shocked you?”

Now it is Alex’s turn to chuckle. “Ah, a bit, I confess.” He thinks on it, then. Frowns. “My lady, such an admission is… dangerous, for a woman of Unidos, about to wed. There are those who would spurn you, or worse.”

“And hearing this now, would you spurn me?” She leans in again, breath warm on his neck. “Or worse?”

“No,” Alex says softly. “Of course not.”

“Then I see no danger here.”

Alex shakes his head a bit, looks ahead at his father, his brothers. “There is danger all around us,” he mutters.

“Have you ever lain with a man?”

This time, Alex does startle, whips around to face to woman. He sees no trace of malice there, despite his expectations. Only openness. Curiosity.

He looks around quickly, speaks in a low tone that only the woman can hear.

“Yes.”

He turns back around to face forward, but feels the Lady Guerin’s eyes on him.

Her voice is surprisingly small when she finally speaks. “Does he wait for you? At court?”

Alex’s jaw tightens. “No.”

He closes his eyes, for a moment. Allows himself the rare pleasure of picturing Kyle’s face, his body. As he was in life. Not… not the last time. By the gods, it gets harder, every time. Like a fresco, faded in the weather. Some aspects so sharp – mostly the sense memories. The way his mouth had felt, hot around him, the way he smelled of tinctures and herbs… But other aspects… his eyes, always so merry, so clever. Until they weren’t. He… he tries to remember the warmth of them, for he finds that he can’t remember the color. Not anymore.

A gentle touch from the woman brings Alex back to himself. “You are pained,” she says, sounding genuinely remorseful. “I am sorry I asked.”

“He is dead,” Alex says simply, though he finds it likely that the woman already knew. And by degrees, he tells a story that he has told no one.

A story of a campaign. Jelnos. A flesh wound. A shoulder, nicked by an arrow. A begrudging trip to the medical tent. And the handsome field doctor therein. Not… not one of the charlatans from the court. No, this man had been sturdy, straightforward. Had applied a salve to Alex’s shoulder, wrapped it. Efficient. Had sought Alex out, the next day, with a bitter liquid. Had sought him the next day, too, to look over the wound. Had let his hand linger, a beat too long. Had looked at Alex in a way no man had ever looked at him before.

He was his first. His only. The Jelnos campaign was rough. Alex now understood the lust his brothers and father spoke of, the way they craved a woman after a fight. But… but he didn’t understand their callousness, the disposable way they used their women. Their whores. Worse names, many a time. Because for Alex, there was nothing disposable about Kyle. And he believed that, for Kyle, there was nothing disposable about him, either.

Alex would go to him each night, sometimes still bloodied, and they would couple. The things… the things Kyle would do to him, his body. The things Kyle would allow, nay, encourage…

It was on one such night that his father entered the tent.

The next morning, Kyle was on the front lines.

That afternoon, he was dead, run through with a sword. Those merry, clever eyes gone vacant and unseeing.

Since that time, Alex hadn’t dared… hadn’t dared seek his own pleasure. Hadn’t dared seek anything for himself.

“And I won’t,” he told the woman. “His death… his death is on me. It was selfish and wrong.” He swallows, with difficulty. “Unnatural.”

The woman’s hand is clasped over his, now, gripping so hard. “I want you to listen to me, Sir Alex,” she says, in a voice low and steady. “Your… love for this man. His love for you, for that is what you have just described to me. Such a connection is a gift from the gods themselves, and should be seen as such. Not selfish. Not wrong. Certainly not unnatural. There are as many ways to love as there are people under this sun. Love, real love… it is the most natural thing. Precious.”

Alex composes himself. Clears his throat. “You… you are not from Unidos. I’ve suspected from some time, but now I feel very sure.”

The woman is quiet for a moment. “You are right. I am not from Unidos.”

When it becomes clear she does not intend to elaborate, Alex sighs. “I… I am glad.” He chances a look back at her. Tears are streaming down her face.

#my fic #malex #roswell nm #sir gawain and the dame ragnell au

13 notes · View notes

lestered · 5 years ago

Text

lost in your paradise

m, 9.3k

It’s been six years of surreal friendship, and an even surrealer crush. Six years of traveling all around the world, and wanting to kiss him in every place.

Six years of chickening out every time.

Dan has no reason to believe that Japan will be any different, but anything can happen when you get lost under the Tokyo lights.

read on ao3 or under the cut

written for @starboydjh for @phanfictionevents spring fic exchange! thank you Hadley for giving me such an amazing prompt to work with!

many thanks as well to my beta, irl bff @b-j-e who definitely isn’t reading this because he hasn’t used his tumblr in five years and has probably had enough of this fic by now, but still deserves an mvp award.

He wants to kiss him in Manchester.

60 meters up in the sky, gazing out over Phil’s favorite city in the world. The one he’d insisted that Dan come to visit so that he could really meet his new best friend.

Well... he'd phrased it that way at least, but Dan could’ve sworn that the words ‘best friend’ were laced with something else. Something in Phil’s eyes, in his tone of voice, in the way Dan could see his eyes moving over the screen, flickering from his lips to his bare chest and back into his eyes - that said they were best friends, no doubt, but maybe they could be more. That maybe Phil wants more. Wants what Dan had suspected himself of wanting since before they’d even spoken, and what had been confirmed on that train platform when he’d finally locked onto that ocean-blue gaze in person and been tugged so easily into a warm, tight embrace that had left him flushed and happy and still, hours later, charged with an overwhelming urge to pull Phil in close again, to put his hands on him and kiss that adorable, lopsided smile off his lips. To put it all on the line even though it’s a bit terrifying.

Not even a bit terrifying, actually. Just… regular terrifying. So he sits close and lets their thighs press together and their hands and elbows brush and meets each of Phil’s curious, unreadable glances with something just as unreadable, just hoping Phil picks up on his wanting and leans in and does what he doesn’t have the courage to do himself. But whether Phil’s just as nervous and unsure as Dan, or because he genuinely doesn’t want to, his wish goes unfulfilled.

He doesn’t kiss him on the Manchester eye. He also doesn’t kiss him that night in his bed, or all the other times in Rawtenstall, or in Phil’s crappy first apartment or the first that they share. He doesn’t kiss him all the times they find themselves leaning in too close, holding each other’s gaze for too long, letting little offhand but suggestive comments drift out and float almost antagonizingly in the space between them.

He wanted to kiss him in Manchester.

But he didn’t.

***

Their hotel room in Japan is unreal. From the plush beds to the high-tech toilet to the mirror-TV, it’s by far the nicest room they’ve ever stayed in. It’s cool - too cool for them, frankly, but no one really needs to know that. Dan’s definitely not one to complain.

Personally, he’s a particularly big fan of their jacuzzi tub. It’s big enough to fit his giant noodle body, for one - a luxury that most tubs don’t afford him. And for another thing, he’s found that there’s nothing quite like a nice hot soak after a full day of walking around, exploring, because they can’t miss a thing, because Tokyo’s been their dream destination for years and who knows if they’ll ever get to come back.

It’s a lot of activity.

And it’s definitely worth it; it’s just also a bit strenuous for someone who spends most of his time slumped in front of a computer screen. Some warm bubbles go a long way when it’s time to unwind from it.

He may have stayed in a bit too long tonight, judging by the pruny state of his fingers and toes, but he can’t bring himself to care as he dries off, taking some extra time to towel the wetness out of his hair. The sooner it dries, the sooner he can straighten it.

A puff of steam follows him when he steps out into the bedroom a moment later in just his t-shirt and boxers, causing an unintentionally dramatic scene.

He half-expects Phil to notice and tease him for it. However, Phil’s laid out on his bed, still in the exact position he’d fallen into upon arriving back to their room - flat on his back, fully starfished save for the phone that he’s now holding to his ear.

“No, come on, don’t apologize. Tell him we hope he feels better soon, yeah?”

Dan gives him a curious glance as he flops forward onto his own bed, stretching out on his stomach and sliding his arms around to hug the pillow that he’s smushed into his cheek.

“Right, good luck. And seriously, thanks for everything you guys’ve done for us here, alright? Yeah… talk to you later.”

Phil blows out a breath, sets his phone down and rolls over to face Dan in a position that mimics his own.

“That was Mimei.” He tells him, though Dan figured as much. “They can’t come out tonight, apparently Duncan’s a bit under the weather and she’d feel bad leaving him alone. I guess he doesn't handle being poorly too well.”

Dan feels the corners of his mouth turn down in a small, disappointed frown. “Oh." He shifts to adjust the positioning of the pillow under his head. "That sucks, I wanted to go out one more time. I guess we could get room service, though, and now I won’t have to straighten my hair…”

“What are talking about?” Phil interrupts him before he can finish his thought. “We can still go out.”

Oh, god. Six years later, his heart is still full to bursting with love for his best friend, but he can’t deny that Phil has a tendency to lack crucial self awareness in situations like these. Phil must sense the apprehension on his part, because he quickly follows it up:

"It's our last night, we can't not go out!"

“Phil.” He rolls his eyes. “We can’t go out alone at night. We don't know where we're going, we can’t read the signs... we can’t use data here, so Maps is out of the question if we get lost which, since you have the navigational proficiency of a blind goose with vertigo…”

Phil’s spare pillow lands against his face with a soft thud before Dan can finish whatever hyperbolic insult he was ready to make up on the fly.

He knows what comes next: the pillow falls away and he’s met with big, blue puppy dog eyes and a pout. Phil doesn’t even need to say anything, and he knows it. Pure evil, he is.

(Not really. Pure evil would be if he knew what those eyes really do to Dan, if he knew how desperately Dan wants to make them light up and kiss the pout off his lips. But he doesn’t know. As it stands, Phil just believes himself to be an exceptionally talented beggar.)

“Fuck off.” He groans, and turns his face fully into the pillow before he gets too caught up. “Fine, we’ll go out if you'll stop being an insufferable spoon.”

The giggle he gets in return lets Dan know that Phil’s very pleased with himself, but he doesn’t need to look up to see his smile. He’s got it memorized already.

***

He wants to kiss him in Wokingham.

It’s not the right time, though.

Wokingham isn’t what he wants or who he wants to be; It's everything he wants to leave behind. It's loneliness and confusion and self-doubt - really, it's everything that Phil’s not.

Phil is warmth and support and a genuine hope that maybe he won’t have to define himself by the first eighteen mediocre years of his life. Phil is someone who actually believes in him in a way that he hasn’t believed in himself for years.

Phil’s the future he wants. Their first kiss ought to be in some place that represents his hope for that future, not the place he’s so eager to ditch.

Right.

That’s what he tells himself. Really, it's a convoluted excuse to cover the fact that he’s just scared shitless. Again.

Having Phil with him in Wokingham is strange. He’s been happy letting these two parts of his life exist completely separate from each other so far. Of course, Phil makes him feel safe, but he’d be lying if he said that having him in his hometown doesn’t make him feel… exposed. Vulnerable. As if Phil would arrive here and immediately sniff out all of Dan’s yet-unspoken baggage - that uneasy balance between stupid teen angst and real, confusing, lonely, amorphous sadness that hangs so heavy in the air of his teenage bedroom that it’s almost tangible to him.

He thinks, at first, that Phil's not picked up on it. Phil’s just happy to see him, always so happy to see him. Inexplicably so, in Dan’s opinion, no matter how many times Phil tries to tell him otherwise.

He doesn’t realize until late that night, in bed, that Phil’s more perceptive than he’d given him credit for.

“Thanks for letting me come here, Dan.” His voice is laced with understanding when he whispers into the dark, tugging him into his chest and sending Dan's heart into overdrive. It’d be so easy to do it now, to tilt his head up, to lean in just a bit, to brush his lips against Phil’s.

But he's frozen in place because a kiss could lose him this embrace if Phil doesn’t kiss him back. And he realizes he’s not ready to take that risk.

Will he ever be?

“You’re welcome.” He whispers instead, letting his eyes fall shut and releasing the breath he’d been holding. “I’m glad you’re here, Phil.”

He wanted to kiss him in Wokingham.

But he didn’t.

***

“Remember you want the tuna roll to end up in your mouth, and not on the back of some poor unsuspecting lady’s neck across the room.”

Phil kicks his shin under the table, but his blush and bitten-back smile betray any malice he might’ve been attempting.

“I hate you.” He mumbles. “You can't just let me live that down?”

“Do you even know me?” Dan crumples his straw wrapper into a tiny ball and flicks it across the table. It lands in Phil's lap and his mind may or may not be playing tricks on him when he thinks he sees a hint of fondness in the eyeroll that follows. “Of course not.”

They’re sat at the sushi restaurant from a few nights ago. It was their safest bet - the majority of the waitstaff speak at least some English and they know enough rudimentary Japanese food-words to pick things off menu. The overlap is enough for them to order their rolls and an extra side of spicy mayo, which suits them just fine.

Last time they sat at the bar, this time they're tucked into a table-for-two in the back corner. It's clearly not meant for two men as tall as them. They keep accidentally stepping on each other's toes.

(Maybe not always accidentally on Dan's part. Lamely, he knows that it's probably the closest he'll ever get to a game of footsie.)

“Do I get to tell the internet about how you cried at the Ghibli museum, then?” Phil asks, and this time there's definitely a fond glimmer behind his teasing expression.

That earns Phil his own kick to the shin. “Go ahead. They won’t judge me for it, they’ll judge you for being the soulless robot who didn’t cry.”

The look of shocked indignation on Phil's face before he schools his features into a cooler, more neutral expression is incredibly precious.

“Whatever." He retorts. "I was emotional too, I just held it together so I could be there to support you.”

The joking lilt of Phil’s voice unfortunately doesn't tame the swooping sensation he feels by default in the pit of his stomach every time Phil says something that makes him wonder if there's any truth, any genuine feeling behind the bants.

He decides that he's feeling a little too sober for this.

***

He wants to kiss him in Blackpool.

It's a getaway, not quite the way they’d planned it, but it can still be… romantic. Maybe. If he manages to actually do something right.

It’s just the two of them and that’s gotta to mean something. Do strictly platonic friends go on holiday for no other reason than wanting to enjoy each other’s company in a more private setting?

Maybe, but do they? Dan can't shake off the feeling that this trip means something more. He’s sure he senses it in the way Phil’s fingers still for a moment on the trackpad on his laptop, the cursor on the screen hovering between the one- or two-bed options on the hotel website.

The brief silence is excruciating, but no more so than the mouse click when Phil ends up selecting the room with two beds.

He supposes that doesn't necessarily mean anything. It's just that neither of them spoke up.

Blackpool turns out to be a shithole, though, so is it the right place?

Probably not, but… it'd be far less shitty if Dan could muster up the courage one goddamn night to crawl into Phil’s bed with him, instead of his own.

He actually almost does, stumbling into their room giddy and wine-drunk after a too-expensive dinner on the last night, trusting Phil to support about half his weight with the arm slung around his waist, and his arm around Phil’s shoulders.

“Fucking hell, finally.” He doesn't bother untangling them before falling backwards onto the bed, landing Phil on top of him with a surprised 'oof.'

“Shit, sorry mate.” He manages with an indelicate snort as Phil lifts himself onto his forearms. Then suddenly, Dan isn’t sorry at all - not with Phil on top of him, face flushed from the alcohol, eyes half-lidded and searching.

He really, really isn’t sorry.

“S’ok.” Phil mumbles in reply. He stays hovering over him, unmoving, his voice barely above a whisper and Dan swears he sees those pretty eyes flicker down to his lips.

If there’s ever been a go-ahead to kiss him, kiss him right fucking now, this would have to be it.

He just needs to collect himself first. Just a few deep breaths.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale— oh.

Oh no.

“Uh, Phil. I need you to get off me now.”

All he registers is a glimpse of the confusion in Phil’s expression when he rolls off of him, only for Dan to bolt straight to the bathroom. He makes it to the toilet just in time to collapse onto his knees and empty the entire contents of his stomach.

Perhaps he’d overdone it on the liquid courage.

“...Dan?” He hears Phil’s voice drifting in from the bedroom. “You alright? Can I get you anything?”

He sounds concerned, and understandably not the least bit turned on. Nice.

“Totally fine.” He rasps in reply, and groans internally over how his voice echoes pathetically out of the toilet bowl while he rests his forehead on the cool porcelain rim.

They go to sleep in separate beds that night.

He wanted to kiss him in Blackpool.

But he didn’t.

***

Phil, in an unprecedented display of chopstick dexterity, manages to actually finish his sushi without accidentally assaulting anyone. Dan is secretly a little bit disappointed. Dumbass moments like those become fond memories and inside jokes and another reinforcement to a bond so unique that nobody ever could manage to steal it away from him.

He'll make a memory anyway, a mental snapshot. Phil looks handsome and the lights are low and the music is soft and the food is good.

Oh, and the scorpion bowl in the middle of their table is very strong, and should definitely be shared by more than two people. But they're not letting that stop them.

In fact, Dan's been sipping a steady stream out of his straw for god knows how long.

“Christ, Dan, you're not eighteen anymore.” Phil nudges Dan’s foot with his own under the table. "Slow down if you don't wanna be hungover on the plane tomorrow. Plus you keep slurping."

“I’ll slurp your mum.” He replies without thinking, still holding the straw in between his teeth. He registers what he's actually said a second too late, just a moment after Phil looks at him with a horrified expression and he sputters before dropping his head down into his hands.

“No, no. I take it back. I didn’t say that, I did not say that.” He tries to insist, but he’s wheezing and his shoulders are shaking with laughter and he can’t take it back. Phil's joined in on the laughter and he's definitely not gonna let him take it back. “Fuck.” He sighs out when he catches his breath. “Don’t tell Kath.”

Phil’s cheeks are flushed a dark, rosy pink by the time he regains his composure and takes a long sip out of their shared drink again.

“As if I’d ever repeat one of your terrible jokes to her. She’d be scarred for life.”

Dan almost points out that Phil’s mum watches their videos, and he’s said worse on camera, but he stops himself.

Because one day of vlogging aside, this vacation has been a welcome escape, a break from the constant thought loop of youtube, youtube, fans, fans, radio, radio, youtube youtube youtube that refuses to leave them alone back in England.

His life could be a lot worse. But that doesn't change the fact that they're here right now in a whole new world where they've not been recognized, not even once, and he's breathing so easy, like a gigantic weight he hadn't even registered before has been lifted off his chest.

It’s amazing. He looks across the table at Phil. He can do that here, where they won't run into anyone, where it's unlikely that anyone's secretly watching - look at Phil for as long as he wants, not bothering to worry about schooling his features into something that definitively does not resemble heart-eyes. Phil catches his eye and stares back at him with an intent, albeit slightly unfocused gaze. He's not used to Phil looking at him this way, but his fuzzy brain can't bring itself to decipher what might be going on in Phil's head.

Whatever it might is, his best-friend-intuition tells him he likes it.

“Hey, Phil.” He says after a final decisive drink, still focused on those sparkling eyes. “Let’s go exploring.”

***

He wants to kiss him in Portugal.

It's what Blackpool was supposed to be after all, vacation-wise.

It can be what Blackpool was supposed to be kiss-wise, too, if he doesn’t majorly fuck up this time.

It’s much prettier here than Blackpool. Much prettier than anywhere they’ve been, really.

Phil especially looks pretty here, even with his pale skin slathered in SPF-one million. He’s pretty at the Zoomarine, where his eyes gleam with excitement and he makes friends with a large turtle. He’s pretty with his face flushed and his smile wide and uninhibited after a bit of sangria, when he tells him his skin looks nice under the blue sun.

He’s so very pretty on the coastline, with his sunglasses a bit crooked and his face turned up towards the sun and his hair tousled from the salty wind, sitting right next to him on the warm rocky ground.

His chest hurts when he looks at Phil like this. He’s scared sometimes of how badly he wants him.

Phil shifts closer to him, and their hands, outstretched behind them, overlap.

...Interesting. Is that more or less scary? He feels hot all of a sudden and he suspects it's from more than just the sun.

But they stay like that, and his heart races, and he has no idea what to do because Phil’s acting like they’re doing nothing unusual even though it’s been a while since they’ve touched like this.

His stupid inner romantic has never fully ruled out the possibility that maybe Phil wants him too.

So is this a move? Is he going to make another? If he does then that’s a lot of pressure off of Dan, for sure.

He waits.

He waits for a long time.

And he probably doesn’t have a right to feel disappointed when nothing happens, but he does anyway.

He wanted to kiss him in Portugal.

But he didn’t.

***

Stepping out into the fresh air sobers him up a little bit. Not a lot, but enough that he and Phil don’t need to lean on each other when they walk. That’s good, he doesn’t feel like looking sloppy even though Phil’s seen him at his sloppiest. And wherever they’re about to go, he wants to remember it.

They don’t talk about where they’re going, but head off at the exact same time in the exact same random direction. They walk in silence for a bit and Dan doesn’t mind. Silence is quite alright, especially if he’s sharing it with Phil. His mind is foggy and the Tokyo streets are loud enough and Phil’s right there, next to him like always. That’s enough for him.

He’s actually startled when Phil finally speaks up. “I kind of can’t believe we did this.”

Dan looks over at him and Phil’s gaze is a little distant, his voice a little dreamy, and his lips quirked into a bit of a smile. Dan’s heart swells.

“Came here, you mean?” His voice is barely above a soft murmur, but he knows Phil can hear him anyway. They find a break in traffic and cross the road towards some building he doesn’t recognize with some neon pink sign in the front that he can’t read. “I know. Kinda doesn’t feel real.”

He thinks back over six years, how many times they talked about Japan. Too many to count, and never in concrete terms, always some vague, faraway goal.

He thinks of the times they’d sit a little too close on the couch and watch anime over breakfast, all the skype calls in the very beginning when they’d spend ages rambling to each other about Pokemon and My Neighbor Totoro. He thinks of standing at their breakfast bar in Manchester and mixing up Popin Cookin sweets, of losing their shit over Bishi Bashi special.

When he glances over to his side, he sees Phil looking right back at him. Dan can’t quite decipher his expression again, and he’s not sure it’s from the alcohol this time. The look on Phil's face quite resembles the one he'd had after spontaneously booking their tickets and following the initial excitement, something softer, but contemplative too. He likes that look. He likes having it aimed at him. He’s pretty sure his buzz intensifies for a second.

“It’s real.” Phil breathes, locking eyes with him and then looking away a little sooner than Dan wants him to. “Definitely real.”

***

He wants to kiss him in Jamaica.

He thought Portugal was pretty, but Jamaica is on a whole new level. And, as with anything else amazing that’s happened to him as of late, Phil is right there with him.

It feels kind of like a dream, if he’s being honest - that anyone would consider him important or influential enough to be on this trip.

The only reason he knows for sure that it’s not a dream is his hobbit hair. In a dream, he’d have it perfectly straightened and under control. But with the water activities and humidity here, any effort he puts in to taming his curls is entirely in vain.

Phil ruffles his hair and tells him his curls are cute. He cares a lot less after that.

What he does care about is filming and jumping off cliffs and tubing and sunset swims where Phil photographs him without his knowledge.

“What?” Phil comments when Dan whines to him about it. “It’s a cool photo. It’s artsy. You look nice.”

He scoffs at that. “It’s just my silhouette.”

“Well, it’s a good one.”

Everything around them is shades of pink and orange and gold. Warm and beautiful. Especially the golden light, bringing out the specks of yellow in Phil’s kaleidoscope eyes. Looking into them, he feels a distinct tugging somewhere in the pit of his stomach, and drifts over to Phil almost mindlessly. Phil smiles when he’s close enough.

“You have so many new freckles.” He murmurs, and taps him lightly on the tip of his nose.

“Ugh, don’t remind me. They make me look like a fucking eight-year-old.”

It’s the least sexy reply he could’ve given and he mentally scolds himself for it, but Phil doesn’t seem to notice or care.

“Shut up, they suit you.” Is all he says in reply and Dan’s lucky that there’s not enough light for Phil to see the blush spreading across his cheeks.

He doesn’t even need to make an effort to get any closer to Phil; the current does all the work for them until their knees touch.

He’s close to leaning in. More than anything, he wants to close the fucking gap.

Just his luck, though, Phil glances up just then and sighs. “Crap, it’s getting dark. We should go back, don’t wanna be late for dinner.”

He can’t find it in himself to muster enough courage after that.

He wanted to kiss him in Jamaica.

But he didn’t.

***

The place with the neon pink sign that they can’t read is some kind of karaoke bar, they realize once they’ve crossed the street and lean up against the wall for a breather and immediately hear the distinct beginning of Get Low by Lil John and two, mildy-drunk sounding voices belting along into microphones.

“Oh my God.” Phil’s eyes are wide. “Do you think they know what this song means? Like, what they’re actually saying?”

Dan holds up a finger and they go quiet.

To the windowwwwww (to the windowwwww)

To the wall (to the wall)

Til the sweat drop down my balls

Til all these bitches crawl

“Definitely not.” Dan snorts, and Phil rests his head back against the wall to breathe out a disbelieving laugh as well.

“I mean… I guess it’s not hurting anyone.” Phil shrugs. “We sing anime theme songs all the time and we have no clue what they mean. For all we know they could be incredibly profane.”

“Yes, Phil. I’m sure the Attack on Titan theme tune is incredibly profane. Come on, you spork.” He pushes off the wall and walks off a few feet down the sidewalk, only to realize that Phil’s not following him.

“Uh, Phil?” He turns around, eyebrow raised when he sees Phil still standing against the wall. “Don’t you wanna go find something to do?”

Phil hesitates, seeming to ponder something for a moment before breaking out into a smile. He pushes off the wall and takes a few steps backwards towards the door to the bar, his eyes just the slightest bit challenging.

“I think we just did.”

***

He wants to kiss him in Italy.

Chris and PJ aren’t stupid. They nudge him, shoot him looks, strategically leave him and Phil alone multiple times a day with fully conspicuous parting winks.

And he won't do it. If he’s going to kiss Phil (which, admittedly, is feeling like more and more of a lost cause), it’s going to be on his terms. It’s going to be when he feels it’s right, not when their well-meaning but idiotic friends decide.

It actually does feel right at one point, when Phil’s chasing him in a tipsy, spontaneous game of tag while they’re alone. Phil catches him and he wants to spin around right then, crash their mouths together, let Phil know that he’s got him in more ways than one. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or adrenaline, or maybe he’s just damn fed up with not having Phil’s lips on his.

Probably a combination, to be honest. But mostly that last thing.

He spins and just like that, PJ and Chris come right up behind them.

Some God that he doesn’t believe in really wanted to fuck with him tonight.

They seem to realize that they’ve come upon something they shouldn’t have, but Phil catches sight of them too, and then the moment’s gone.

He wanted to kiss him in Italy.

But he didn’t.

***

Phil must be drunker than Dan previously thought, because the Phil Lester that he prides himself on knowing extremely well does not just get the spontaneous urge to saunter into a karaoke bar. Yet that’s exactly what he does, and Dan kind of has no choice except to follow him.

The air inside is thick and hot and noisy, with a couple fans whirring on either side of the bar and a floor setup of basic tables and chairs, some mismatched overstuffed armchairs against the far wall, and most importantly a small stage (more like a platform, really) all the way up at the front, complete with a karaoke setup of two mics and a screen that flashes song lyrics in bright, loud colors. Phil leads them to the only empty armchair at the edge of the room, conveniently wide enough for the two of them to squeeze into.

And Dan has to admit it’s pretty cool. The bar may be hot and crowded and loud but it’s entertaining. They hear some regular, innocent songs. They’re quite nice. But they also hear uncensored renditions of Pony by Ginuwine, The Real Slim Shady by Eminem, and a personal favorite of theirs, My Neck, My Back. They contain their laughter for the most part, meaning a lot of the time they’re red faced and shaking. The laughter gets harder to contain when they’re sent a free drink each from a couple older ladies at the bar.

They don’t really need to loosen up more than they already are, but they drink them anyway.

Of course, the best part of the whole thing is being pressed up so close to Phil. He’s warm and smells nice and Dan would very much like to kiss his rosy cheek, but he’s not quite uninhibited enough for that.

“Right, my ass is falling asleep, we can probably get walking around again.” Phil says when he stands up a while later with a stretch and a yawn. Dan follows, and just then the current song ends and the next karaoke slot opens up.

A seed of an idea plants itself in Dan’s mind, and he flashes Phil the same challenging look that Phil had aimed at him earlier. “Or, maybe not just yet.” He grins and pulls a shocked, protesting Phil up on stage. He’d be painfully too awkward to do this sober, but his head is swimming a bit, so he’s alright.

Phil is still looking incredibly alarmed as Dan sorts through the song selection, and it doesn’t take long for him to find the perfect one. He hits play and Phil pales when it starts up. Dan merely gives him a cheeky smirk and picks up his mic.

mmBaby can’t you see, I’m calling

A guy like you should wear a warning

It’s dangerous

I’m falling…

Your turn, he mouths to a Phil who now looks less terrified, more intrigued, and in a sudden show of bravery, grabs his own mic.

There’s no escape

I can’t wait

I need a hit

Baby, give me it

A loud cheer coming from somewhere around the bar puts what Dan could almost describe as a sultry smirk on Phil’s lips. Surely that’s not on purpose.

You’re dangerous

I’m loving it

It sends a rush of blood down in between his legs anyway. He breathes in deep, locks eyes with Phil and joins back in.

Too high, can’t come down

Losing my head, spinning round and round

...

...Do you feel me now?

***

He wants to kiss him in Orlando, Vegas, and LA.

He doesn’t even need an excuse as to why he won’t. More and more, they’ve been keeping some distance from each other. There’s pressure mounting. A rapidly growing fanbase, thousands and thousands of prying eyes.

Thousands and thousands of hopefuls wanting the things Phil said in that damn video to be true just as much as Dan does.

And just as much as he has to act like he doesn’t. The situation may not be that out of control, but he’s living in his own personal spiral of misery. Phil moves further and further out of his reach and it’s not supposed to bother him - hell, it’s partially his own fault.

He doesn’t know if it bothers Phil or not. They don’t talk about it. They still talk, all the time, about everything else. Just… not that. Never that.

He doesn’t hope at this point. Not the way he used to. He still wants, he still wants so bad that it hurts. All he can bring himself to hope for is that their on-camera life doesn’t bleed into their off-camera life more than it already has. He couldn’t handle it.

He wanted to kiss him in Orlando, Vegas and LA.

But he didn’t.

***

They’re giddy and nearly delirious when they stumble out of the bar later, courtesy of a couple more free drinks and the adrenaline from two encore performances after their smashing performance of Toxic.

“Fucking hell.” Dan laughs when they lean up against the outside wall again, right where they’d been leaning before. “That was…” He shakes his head and laughs again before gulping down as much fresh air as he can. “That was pretty fucking epic.”

“It was.” Phil agrees with the same type of laugh, wiping the sweat off of his brow. “We haven’t done karaoke in way too long.”

“We’ve never done karaoke, you dingus.” Dan snorts and bumps his shoulder weakly into Phil’s. “Rock Band doesn’t count as karaoke.”

Phil bumps his shoulder right back. “It does to me, you... you… rude person.”

Phil really isn’t good with the insults in his regular state. Drunk Phil’s insults, though, are simply laughable. “Ouch, Phil." He feigns hurt. "I might not ever recover from that absolute zinger.”

Without thinking, he grabs the shoulder of Phil’s jacket and starts to tug him along while Phil follows along with a weak retort of “your mum.”

He’s not sure how far they walk, arms and hands brushing and shoulders bumping and cheeks blushing, before they come upon a small, well-lit ice cream shop. Dan hadn’t even thought about ice cream, but now the light inside the shop may as well be a beacon of heaven.

They keep walking once they’ve got their cones, and Dan can’t hold back his satisfied groan when he takes his first lick and it instantly hits the spot. “God, why isn’t ice cream like, the most popular drunk food?” He asks around his next several licks. “It’s filling, it’s cold, it’s refreshing… it's literally perfect. We’ve been so blind.”

“It’s definitely better than those kebabs you used to slam with your uni mates after the club before stumbling back to my apartment.” Phil says with a shrug, occupied with his own cone.

Dan thinks that Phil’s teasing might be laced with a bit of fond nostalgia, but he could just be projecting. He has plenty of fond nostalgia over having an excuse to pass out in Phil’s bed, half on top of him a couple times a week. He also has some… slightly less fun memories of Phil nursing him back to health if he woke up particularly hungover.

“Hey, those were good times.” Dan defends, though he’s not referring to the kebabs or the clubbing or even his old uni mates. They walk further into the night, slurping their respective ice creams, and Dan lets himself wonder if Phil ever looks back on those times in the same way.

***

He wants to kiss him in London.

It’s not the first time they’ve been here. But it’s the most important.

It’s the start of something new. A huge step forward in their life, a big risk that they’re taking together, trusting each other to pull through.

There’s actual career advancement on the line. Actual grown-up shit. Actual jobs at the actual fucking BBC. They wouldn’t be here without each other, and he’s so happy. So grateful.

Now more than ever, he appreciates how much he's managed to change his life for the better since meeting Phil. How Phil's been there through everything, stuck by him at his absolute messiest. How he’s cared. So much. More than Dan’s ever imagined, more than he deserves.

They build a crappy wardrobe, and they're definitely a little too proud of themselves for it.

It’s right after that, lying side by side on the carpet next to the only piece of furniture that they currently own, that Dan feels that pull again. He feels it less these days, or maybe he just refuses to acknowledge it. It's hard for now, but he figures ignoring it will get easier at some point.

He’s just not there yet.

He wanted to kiss him in London.

But he didn’t.

***

“Stars are so pretty.” Phil sighs. “You know some of the stars we’re looking at right now are already dead? How crazy is that? They’re just… shiny little... beacons of death. So cute.”

“Oh my God, what are you even on about?” Dan mumbles as he rolls his head to the side. They’re both laying down on a bed of soft, slightly damp grass after happening on a quaint little park 15 or so minutes away from the ice cream shop. Conveniently so, as they were both just about dead on their feet.

They’ve been mostly silent, not talking, not touching. Dan gazes into the dark sky and listens to Phil’s deep, steady breathing. He feels like he’s floating, light and breezy in some space between his reality and a dream. It’s definitely not a bad way to be winding down. He checks the time on his phone. It’s nearly midnight.

“Hey Dan?” Phil’s voice pulls him back to the present after a pretty long while. “Have you got any idea where we are?”

Dan sighs softly in reply. “No clue,” he murmurs, resting a hand on his stomach and letting his eyes slide shut.

“Oh.”

Dan furrows his eyebrows when he hears a bit of an edge in Phil’s voice. It takes him a minute to catch on, but when he does, sits straight up so fast that his vision goes a little bit spinny.

“Oh.”

***

He wants to kiss him in Edinburgh, and New York too.

For no particular reason, except that he still wants to kiss him every-fucking-where they go. But he has plenty of reasons not to.

Firstly, they’re working. They have a professional relationship now. It doesn’t outweigh their friendship by any means, but it’s there. It’s important. They’re coworkers.

And simply put, you don’t kiss your coworker. Doesn’t matter that you’ve been in love with him for three years.

They make a living off of being friends and nothing more than that. Any failed attempt at love now wouldn’t just put their friendship on the line, but their livelihood too.

Their life is good. He refuses to be the one to fuck it all up.

Secondly, kissing Phil has been off the table for a while, anyway.

Along with self expression, along with anything else that might hint at him being not-straight with a gay-as-hell crush on his best friend.

Not just off the table, even. More like fully out of the question. More like aggressively denied.

Some fans love him for it, lots of them hate him for it. He hates himself for it.

He doesn't really care. He only hopes that Phil doesn’t hate him for it.

He wanted to kiss him in Edinburgh, and New York too.

But he didn’t.

***

Trying to get their bearings and retrace their steps back to wherever the hell they’d come from is by far the least fun part of their night. In fact, it’s not fun at all.

Phil worries his bottom lip between his teeth when they pace across the field in what might or might not be the direction they came from. Dan drags his hands over his sweaty scalp and tugs lightly at his hair that’s almost certainly started to curl around the edges.

“I’m sorry, Dan.” Phil sighs after a while, copying Dan and anxiously fixing his own hair. “I really shouldn’t have made us come out tonight, you were right about getting lost.”

Dan frowns when he notes that Phil seems, well… genuinely upset. This has kind of been the most fun he’s had in… a pretty long time. He doesn’t like the idea of Phil regretting it, much less feeling guilty.

“Hey, I went along with it.” He insists. “It’s my fault too. We just need to… fuck, I don’t know, but this is the direction we came from, right? I’m almost positive.”

Phil stops abruptly. “It’s not.” He says quietly after a moment’s pause. “But… oh my God, look.”

Dan follows his gaze and feels his eyes widen when he sees just what Phil’s looking at.

“Holy shit.” He whispers. “Are we gonna…?”

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

***

He wants to kiss him in Cyprus.

It’s hard for him not to think about it around Bryony and Wirrow, because with them around it feels like a full-on couples vacation.

Which would be the cringiest middle-class white people thing they’ve probably ever done, if that were actually the case. It’s not, though. It’s not a couples vacation; it’s a couple vacationing with their two lanky, emo, painfully single best mates.

Still, his heart flutters when he watches Phil sip down his colorful, sugary cocktail at dinner, the sunset casting angular shadows over his face. Feels nothing but adoration watching him flail in an unsuccessful attempt to swat away the gigantic, pesky Cypriot bugs.

And to no one’s surprise, especially his own, he does nothing to act on it. Doesn’t even entertain it as a real possibility anymore. It hurts. But it's just a pipe dream now.

He wanted to kiss him in Cyprus.

But he didn’t.

***

Cherry blossoms at night might be the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

Dan fancies himself a bit of a philosopher. Whether or not that notion actually holds any merit is a different story. Still, he’d like to think that all his hours spent facedown in his bed, at his desk, and mostly on the floor haven’t all been for nothing. He’d like to think that he’s formed some sort of coherent opinion on life - why he’s here, what he’s living for, what it all means in the grand scheme of things.

Really, he hasn’t. He waffles too much, he overthinks, and before he knows it he’s back to square one. But he’s learned a couple of things.

First and foremost, that sometimes it’s easier to think in metaphors, as long as they aren’t painfully contrived. Metaphors break things down into simpler terms, put things in perspective.

Cherry blossoms, he read somewhere at some point, are a metaphor. They bloom bright and beautiful when the time is right, and then two weeks later, all too soon, they fall to the ground. Much like existence, they are transient. Fragile. Gone possibly before you can find the time, the perspective, to marvel at them properly. But their fleeting nature doesn’t make them less beautiful when they’re in bloom. Far from it; they’re precious while they last.

Life, from the wholly optimistic perspective he rarely sees, can be the same.

But funnily enough, he’s not actually thinking of that right now.

He’s not actually thinking of much at all.

It’s hard to think, surrounded by so much light.

“I can’t believe we never knew about this.” Phil mumbles from beside him. He’s got his head turned up towards the tree that’s casting its soft pink glow down over and around them. “I totally would’ve forced you to get lost with me sooner.”

He’d almost forgotten not wanting to come out tonight in the first place. I’m glad you forced me out. He wants to say. I’m glad that I’m here with you. But when he turns to his side, Phil’s not standing next to him anymore.

Before he can even panic or call out to him, he spots Phil up ahead just a bit, ambling along among some of the trees that lead down to a nearby river. He’s looking up still, clearly caught up in the ethereal view - seeing the trees lit up, seemingly on their own in the dark, does look kind of like magic. They could be checkpoints in a fantasy rpg, Phil would probably say. Or something of the sort - Dan can always ask him later what’s going on in his mind. Something interesting and strange, he's sure, because Phil’s like that.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and walks up ahead himself, following Phil from a few feet behind. He has a tendency to lose Phil like this - on the street, in parks, in train stations, when he’s zoned out in his own private Phil world. It’s either endearing or incredibly frustrating, depending on the situation. Right now, it’s definitely endearing.

And it's always kind of funny to see how and when Phil comes back to reality, how he fumbles to regain his bearings and is always startled at himself for having spaced out so long.

Well, this time it’s actually not very long. Phil’s only been walking for about a minute before he trips, stumbling forward a few steps, then righting himself and turning his head to the side, confused. Dan knows it’s because Phil was assuming Dan to be next to him this entire time.

“Smooth.” He remarks with a snicker, coming up on Phil’s other side. “That’s what happens when you’re staring at the trees and not watching where you’re going.”

Phil turns with a startled jump before his face falls into a frown. “You were supposed to be next to me!” He complains. “You could’ve warned me I was about to trip on something.”

“You tripped over nothing.” Dan remarks when he looks down at the ground and sees nothing in the immediate vicinity that Phil could’ve tripped on. “Double smooth.”

“I hate you.” Phil grumbles. “And you’ve got petals in your hair.”

Dan’s cheeks heat up against his will when Phil reaches up and plucks them out. They heat up even more when he smooths his hair back into place for him. They’re on fire when Phil’s hand lingers for a second before he drops it back down to his side, resuming his walking with Dan actually next to him this time.

“The trees don’t even look real, right?” Phil asks, glancing up at them again, briefly and with much more caution this time. “I feel like some NPC from a fantasy game should be living inside.”

Dan has to bite back a grin. Okay, an NPC, not a checkpoint, but still. That psychic connection that their audience, friends and family accuse them of having really is uncanny at times.

“I could see that.”

They stop walking when they reach the edge of the river. There’s a bridge about 20 feet away from them that crosses over and leads to more cherry blossom trees on the other side, but they stay put, watching the lanterns that float along in the water.

When he looks at Phil, he sees the river reflected in his eyes and the warm pink light shining behind him and realizes that actually, the cherry blossoms are only the second prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

He feels something click into place.

“Phil.” He sighs.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing now besides chasing whatever feeling, whatever tug, whatever heat, whatever rush of courage he’s got washing over him, cementing his resolve. Whether he likes it or not, he’s not backing out this time.

There’s a storm of emotion looming very close in the distance. It’ll remain unnamed and indiscernible until he reaches his outcome here. Right now it’s only adrenaline, his racing heart and sweaty palms tell him as much.

He swallows down the lump in his throat.

“Phil.” He repeats in a slightly steadier tone of voice. “I need to tell you something, I—”

He turns to Phil and immediately can’t finish his sentence. He’s cut off when Phil’s lips are suddenly pressed against his own.

He freezes, his mouth slack and his arms hanging dumbly at his sides while his brain races to catch up with what the fuck is actually happening. Phil’s kissing him. Phil’s right here, right in front of him, he’s cupping his face and kissing him.

The delayed realization hits him like a freight train. His eyes slip shut and suddenly he’s a live wire, hot and electric from his head down to the tips of his toes and his inner voice screams KISS HIM, KISS HIM, KISS HIM BACK YOU IDIOT.

Phil pulls away before he can and Dan can’t breathe. He can’t even bring himself to open his eyes until a few seconds later. He waits for his vision to refocus and then locks eyes with Phil.

Phil’s taken several steps back from him, eyes wide and his expression utterly terrified, color drained out of his cheeks and both hands clasped tightly over his mouth.

“Oh my god, Dan.” His voice is muffled by his hands but Dan can still hear how shaky it is. “I’m so sorry, I’m— I shouldn’t have— I don’t know what—”

Phil, he realizes, is apologizing. Apologizing for kissing him. He feels his heart plunge all the way down to his feet and back up because Phil’s apologizing for kissing him and that’s fully unacceptable. His body feels like it’s running on autopilot when he surges forward, tugging Phil’s hands away from his mouth and just barely registering the desperation in his eyes before he grabs his face and kisses him again.

He kisses him hard and Phil’s reaction speed is far better than Dan’s because he kisses him back immediately, heated and urgent and impassioned.

They break apart technically sooner than Dan would like, but as far as he’s concerned, they now have more pressing matters to attend to.

“Phil.” He rasps, knowing that his pupils are surely blown as big and dark as Phil’s when he looks into them. “We need to get back to the hotel. Right fucking now.”

In the end, it's a matter of swallowing their pride and stumbling through a half-coherent conversation with a very patient park-goer, who does eventually understand what the hell they're trying to say and points them in the right direction.

Actually getting back to the hotel is a blur.

What's not a blur is the fact that Phil's mouth is on his again before the door's even closed behind him. That’s when everything turns crystal clear. His whole body’s on fire when they fall in a mess of tangled limbs onto the bed, kicking off shoes and wrestling each other out of clothes.

He straddles Phil once they’re both down to just their pants, their bodies pressing tight together when he leans down and slots their mouths together again

It's not quite the tender, romantic confession that Dan had been planning on.

But it turns out that he’s just as fine with words and half-sentences spoken in haste when they’re panting hot and heavy against each other’s mouths.

Phil scratches his nails lightly down Dan’s back and Dan tells him he wants him, wants him so bad. Phil flips them over and presses him into the mattress and latches his mouth onto the warm, sensitive skin of Dan’s neck and murmurs between hot open mouthed kisses all over that he wants him too, so so much, that he’s wanted this forever, since before they even met.

Dan feels like he could cry.

But he settles instead for an obscene moan when Phil kisses him roughly and slots their legs together and grinds his hips down and Dan notices that he’s just as painfully hard as him.

“Phil, please.” He whispers into one more kiss before Phil latches onto his neck again. Phil really doesn’t hold back, nipping and sucking and biting and there’s no way that Dan’s coming out of this without any hickeys but that’s fine. He wants to be marked. He waits for Phil to pull back a bit before reaching down in between them, hastily pushing down both of their waistbands so that Phil’s hard length is rutting against his and his precum smears onto Dan’s belly.

He feels the blood thrumming hot and fast though his veins, up and down his entire body with every hammering heartbeat. All he registers is Phil’s hot breath against his neck and chest and the sound of skin on skin and the white hot sparks of pleasure that start in his groin and travel all the way down to the tips of his fingers and toes.

“I’m… close.” He moans through gritted teeth when he feels his balls drawing up tight, wrapping one leg around Phil’s waist for leverage and meeting each thrust with his own. His squeeze shut and he sees stars and muffles his moan against Phil’s shoulder when he spills hot and fast in between their bodies. Phil’s hips stutter and he follows right after, and Dan kisses him and clings to him while he rides it out and then promptly collapses on top of him.

For a while there are no words. Just slow, deep breaths and tiny kisses pressed into any available bit of salty skin before Phil finally finds the strength to roll off to the side and halfheartedly clean them both up with the corner of the bedsheet.

They lay side by side, flat on their backs, chests flushed and bodies shimmering with a thin gleam of sweat and then at the same time, turn their heads to face each other and burst into disbelieving laughter.

“Oh my God. Jesus fucking Christ.” Dan manages, tucking his body up against Phil’s side and laying his head on his shoulder. “We actually just did that.”

“We did.” Phil sighs, and reaches over to grab Dan’s hand resting on his chest and lace their fingers together. “We should, uh. Probably talk.”

“In a minute.” Dan whispers.

When they do get to talking, the words exchanged are balm to a burn that’s been scarring Dan’s soul for so many years, for far too long. They talk late into the night, confessions and jokes and apologies and every way of saying I love you without actually speaking the three words, until they both can’t keep their eyes open any more.

They fall asleep tangled up in each other. For the first time in six years, Dan finally rests easy.

“Don’t wanna go home.” Dan mumbles, stretched out on his belly with his face mushed into his pillow the next morning. The sun streaming in from between the curtains is an unwelcome presence as far as he’s concerned. Phil runs his fingers lightly up and down Dan’s spine, pauses to rub between his shoulderblades, and taps on his cheek until Dan turns his head and lets himself be kissed.

“I know.” Phil sighs, burrowing closer and nudging his nose against Dan’s. “Me neither.”

It seems unfair, really, that they’re being pushed right back into their everyday grind when they’ve only just made such an amazing, dream-come-true level discovery. They need to go back to England, go back to work. And going back to work means… well, hiding in the closet. The idea of it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

“Nothing has to change.” Phil tells him, as if he’s read Dan’s mind. “I want you back home just as much as I want you here. We’ll…” He sighs, because he surely knows they’re not in for an easy ride. “I don’t know. We’ll figure it out. I’ll do whatever if you will too.”

“I’ll do whatever.” Dan answers without hesitation, melting into the warm kiss that Phil presses against his mouth. “Definitely.”

Hours later, he falls asleep next to Phil on the plane, letting his head rest against his shoulder with a final, half-conscious thought that sends a burst of warmth blooming throughout his chest.

He wanted to kiss him in Japan.

So he did.

this fic was prompted/inspired by lost in japan by shawn mendes.

also if you don't know what nighttime cherry blossom viewing looks like, look here because it's very very pretty and you can imagine how it might inspire one to finally kiss their crush of 6 years (inspo for the trees in this fic drawn mainly from #3 on the list)

thanks for reading!

#phan #phanfiction #phanfic #fics #*#*100

134 notes · View notes

desparikon · 5 years ago

Text

Murdoc/MacGyver fluff (+ bonus Murdoc/Bozer)

I knew I wouldn’t commit to any Flufftober prompt lists, but I still wanted to post something, so here are a few ficlets/misfires/small-things-that-probably-won’t-turn-into-actual-fics.

First up is a gift for @murdocsmacattack:

Murdoc stretched out on the couch, letting his muscles relax. He already felt calmer, and he’d been in MacGyver’s house for maybe ten minutes. Great decision, extending his trip so he could force their paths to collide.

How could he be wrong when his heart’s pull to Angus is this strong? They belong together. Keeping them apart left their lives incomplete and unnecessarily painful. Why couldn’t the world understand that? He would always be part of Angus’ life. They were inseparable now, nosy friends and “The Law” be damned.

"What're you doing here?" Mac took a few hesitant steps into his living room.

The waiting, loneliness, near misses. They’d all paid off tenfold. He'd dropped in on a half-naked Angus. No shirt, just PJ pants. Murdoc always had an appreciation for the beauty that is Angus MacGyver. Perfect mind, perfect body, but he’d outdone perfection this time.

MacGyver had been working out. His abs were smoothly defined, with a visible six pack. And his arms. Oh fuck. His arms were huge. God. Murdoc needed to touch them, feel the strength. There were so many things MacGyver could do to him. Give him a hug, hold him, maybe even carry him, punch him--

Or Angus could hold him down with them. If he started a fight, Angus would be willing to use force. Let MacGyver get the upper hand, then pretend to tire himself out. Angus would think he’d won, but the real winner would be Murdoc, as Angus restrained his arms and pressed that hard body against him...

"Hey!" A blush started to spread across Mac’s cheeks despite his glare; Murdoc's ogling hadn’t been subtle at all.

Murdoc blinked. "Hmm?"

Oh. Right, yeah, he wasn’t looking at a screen this time. Angus could actually see him.

"Why're you in my house?"

"Because I wanted to see you."

He didn’t look convinced, so Murdoc changed the subject before he accidentally said something sappy in reassurance.

"I was going to ask what you've been doing with yourself, but obviously. Like damn, there’s no way to ignore your immaculately toned arms! You belong in an art museum. A perfectly sculpted marble statue!”

“I’m not all that. You say stuff like that because you’ve built a fantasy of me. Some ideal that I’m never going to live up to. Then I’ll disappoint you, so you’ll have an excuse...” Mac sighed as he pulled his arms across himself and let his gaze drop. “You should know by now what’s wrong with me. That I’m not a work of art.” Murdoc followed his line of sight down to where he was letting his fingers brush over a spot on his chest.

Ah, yes. His bullet wound scar. Lots of emotional baggage attached to that one. But this wasn’t just about that. He’d apparently caught Angus on a bad day, and while he didn’t mind being an outlet for Angus’ feelings, Murdoc was probably better at the physical side of comfort.

“Let me make you feel better.” Mac didn’t hesitate to cross the room and lay his hand in Murdoc’s offered one.

Murdoc smiled as he pressed a few kisses to the back of Mac’s hand. “Well, I think you’re perfect the way you are. You know you’ll always be the masterpiece in my art museum.”

A small smile appeared on Mac’s face. “You don’t know when to quit. I feel like you’re about to pull out a bad pick-up line, saying something sappy like that.”

“I can set a mood.” Murdoc broke out his most charming grin. “If I said you had a nice body, would you hold it against me?”

Murdoc planned to use Mac’s laughter as distraction to pull him down onto the couch, but he reacted too quickly and pulled his hand free, grabbing Murdoc’s wrist instead. He instinctively pulled his arm back, giving Mac momentum to flatten him back into the couch and straddle him. He pulled Murdoc’s arms above his head and ran his hands along them, firmly pinning them down when Murdoc tested his hold.

"Does this set the mood?" Murdoc fought back a moan as Mac emphasized the question by squeezing his wrists.

That little smirk was going to kill him.

"Oh, definitely."

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

“I want to take a shower with you!” Mac playfully bumped against Murdoc as they walked down the hallway to his bedroom. “I’m gonna be lonely!”

“Should’ve thought about that before you pushed me into that bottomless mud pit.”

“Mud puddle. And I didn’t push you. You just lost your balance. Suddenly.”

“After-- Nevermind. Point is, now it’s dry, and it’s stuck to my skin, and it’s itchy.” He gestured toward his bed. “Why don’t you go make yourself at home on my bed? I know how much it appeals to your inner puppy.”

Mac couldn’t deny that. There’s something irresistible about a huge bed that begs him to roll around on it while rubbing his face on the soft blanket.

The sound of the bathroom door shutting caused Mac to whip his head around. “Hey!!” He rushed to the bathroom door and tried to turn the handle, even though he knew it’d be locked. “That’s cheating!”

“It’s not my fault you’re desperate to get into my bed.”

As he turned back, he noticed that Murdoc had forgotten his towel and clothes on the bed. Judging by the muffled groaning coming through the door, Murdoc had just come to the same realization.

"Ohhhh no! Who forgot this stuff on the bed?"

“Come on, MacGyver!”

“Oh my god! Are those--” Mac went over to the bed and picked up the pants Murdoc had laid out. “The best lounge pants ever! I love these! And they’re still warm from the dryer!” He kicked off his jeans and put them on, sighing happily at how well they fit. Why were Murdoc’s clothes always so comfy?

“These are mine now. Too bad for you, the dryer’s downstairs.”

“You think I won’t walk around naked in my own house?”

"Is it me, or is it a little hot in here? I’m gonna go turn the thermostat down, like, 10 degrees, and put this stuff back in the dryer, but don’t worry, I’ll be waiting right outside the door for you!”

It’d be great. Murdoc wouldn’t be able to dry off, so he’d be dripping water everywhere, with Mac hanging off him while he tried to get dressed—because how was Mac supposed to resist a naked Murdoc?

“Angus!” Mac knew from the whine that he’d won.

“I want a hand massage.”

“What?”

“You thought I was asleep that time, but I wasn’t.”

“Fine.”

“And I get to pet your hair! So. Fluffyyy~”

“You’re killing me, Angus.”

“I’m just acting as dramatic as you do.”

Murdoc opened the bathroom door and pointed toward Mac’s legs as he moved past him to get to his bed. “Take my pants off.”

“Gladly!”

Mac tackled Murdoc from behind, knocking him to the floor. Murdoc squirmed under him, trying to pry Mac’s hands from around his waist, where they were starting to unbuckle his belt.

"That’s not what I meant, and you know it!"

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

Bozer hummed as he finished winding the last light strand around his arm, and placed it onto the driveway next to the other rolls. The sun’s heat was made comfortable by the light breeze. When the weather was nice like this, he didn't mind that he’d spent the day untangling a box of lights.

And really, the worst part of decorating was yet to come: getting up on the roof, being careful to not fall off and die while hanging the lights. It'd be worth it though. Mac and he enjoyed the aesthetic of Halloween lights, and he couldn't wait to surprise Mac with a decorated house. Plus, the soft glow of holiday lights seemed to make everyone happy.

Now that all the strands were organized, he could better see what designs had been in the box of "Mystery Assorted Halloween Lights" he'd gotten for cheap. Pumpkins, black wire bats, ghosts, friendly-looking spiders, icicle style lights with whimsical skeletons. Those were Bozer's favorite. They'd definitely be going above the front door.

As he began lining up the piles in the order that he wanted to hang them, his back made contact with something. Furrowing his brow, he turned to look. He wasn't even close to the basketball hoop…

"Hey, Bozer."

Of course. Murdoc has the uncanny ability to detect when someone's having a good day. Then he’d ruin it because how dare people enjoy life.

Bozer rolled his eyes at Murdoc's self-satisfied smile. "Can't you ever greet people like normal?"

"You bumped into me before I could yell boo."

Bozer huffed and he turned his attention back to the lights. "Look, I didn't untangle all these lights just to have you murder me five minutes after. You better be ready for me to come back as a ghost and haunt you."

"Why does everyone assume I only appear to commit murder? I'm visiting."

Bozer debated whether to admit that he was home alone. If Murdoc knew Mac was gone, he might leave since flirting with Mac is his main entertainment, but it could also convince him to get on with whatever he'd planned, which didn’t bode well for anyone except Murdoc.

"Well, you'll have to cut your visit short. Mac's busy."

"I know he's not here."

A rush of fear ran through Bozer’s veins. How long had Murdoc been watching?

He crossed his arms, hoping to feign confidence. "Then...?"

"I’m visiting you, Wilt. You looked lonely. Figured you could use some company as you make your house all festive."

“No way. You’ll decide to make things “fun” and knock the ladder over, and then I’ll fall 500 feet to my death.”

“What if I said I’d get on the roof for you?”

“...Really?”

Bozer’s excitement must’ve been contagious because Murdoc’s smile lacked malice as he shrugged. “Sure.”

“I’ll get the ladder!” Bozer headed into the garage before Murdoc changed his mind. He saw a blur of movement in his peripheral vision and turned in time to see Murdoc launch himself up from the nearby raised planter, run up the house, \then pull himself onto the roof. Murdoc lived for the dramatics, but did he have to make it look so graceful?

And why did he have to parade around on the roof like a model owning a catwalk? Tall and confident. He knew he looked good. Although, maybe Murdoc wasn’t doing it on purpose. Mac wasn’t around to impress. Surely Murdoc didn’t like Bozer enough to want to impress him, right? No, Murdoc probably just enjoyed being up high so he could pretend to be a king overlooking his kingdom.

“Halloween!!!” Bozer bounced along the front of the house, amazed that all the lights worked. They were going to look fantastic when the sun set! “See! Even you aren’t immune to Halloween spirit. It’s chaotic. Just like you.”

When he looked up, Murdoc wasn’t standing there anymore. He’d moved to the part of the roof above the driveway, apparently considering it an acceptable spot to jump down to.

“NO!” Bozer ran over, frantically waving his arms. “You can’t jump off there! You’ll splat on the concrete!”

Murdoc’s mischievous smirk made Bozer nervous, and he unconsciously took a few steps back.

“Not if I land on you.”

“You’re not using me as a landing pad! Besides, you could probably still break something!” Murdoc didn’t look deterred. Risking injury usually didn’t, but it’s not like the situation was urgent. If he was going to be stupid and not wait for Bozer to get the ladder, then he’d have no one but himself to blame when he got hurt.

...But Bozer knew he’d feel bad if Murdoc got hurt. He sighed in defeat. “Fine.”

Murdoc’s face lit up. “You’re going to let me tackle you?”

“If it’s between that and you getting hurt, then yeah.”

Murdoc studied Bozer, his head cocked slightly. After a few moments, he walked to the side of the house, and carefully lowered himself before dropping the remaining few feet. He strolled over to stand by Bozer.

“Crazy,” Bozer mumbled.

“I try!” Now that he’d gotten some distance, Murdoc could better admire the lights. “I like it.”

“You did a good job.” Bozer hesitated before throwing his arms around Murdoc, trapping him in a sideways hug. “Thanks, Murdoc.”

#macgyver #mine

6 notes · View notes

diveronarpg · 5 years ago

Photo

In fair Verona, our tale begins with LILLIAN WEN, who is THIRTY years old. She is often called LAVINIA by the CAPULETS and works as their EMISSARY. She uses SHE/HER pronouns.

TW: ALLUSIONS TO SEXUAL ASSAULT

The world had exalted her upon her arrival, singing her praises as boldly as a lark in the midst of spring. It is the story that her mothers had told her, had raised her on, and it was the only one that she thought fitting to believe. After all, they did not have much, and such whimsical stories were treasures to hold onto. They were murmured by one mother sewing a patch upon a worn and weathered skirt; they were hummed by her other mother when she cooked by candlelight. This simple story that might have encouraged vanity in others gave little Lillian Wen hope where others might have found only desolation. Despite the woe-be-gone skirts and helpless shoes, each day she made sure to look as if she were the blessing that her mothers always believed her to be. With her hair neatly braided, her small lunch neatly packed, and her blessedly charming smile, she marched off to school, determined that no one should know about the sufferings she endured. Her schoolmates were none the wiser to the poverty that she lived in; her teachers were equally as oblivious to the hunger that knotted her stomach when they called upon their prized pupil. Lillian was an invaluable creature of beauty and brains, but only because she believed herself to be.

Belief was a powerful thing in the Wen household. It was a driving force in a world that seemed determined on remaining stagnant. Her belief in the beauty that she held and the intellect that she sharpened was what propelled her through the social ranks of life; her eyes and her lips were her weapons, her wit and her charm were her assets. She lit up Verona’s social scenes like the most dazzling of stars, ever-clear on the nights that seemed bleakest. But there were those who sought to strangle the incandescence that shone. Such brilliance does not remain untouched in a city like Verona, and Lillian was to be no exception. One does not rise without first paying their dues to those above them, and Fate had deigned that it was time for someone to come and collect. He had seemed reputable, trustworthy, adored—a photographer keen on making Verona’s little diamond shine. But Lillian soon learned that it was not her luster that he was after, no—just lust. In the span of a too-long moment, the rose-colored glasses with which she had viewed the world were ripped off and tread underfoot. Some might have found this event soul-crushing; others may have been cowed into shame. Lillian, however, simply glowed.

She cast a light upon all those who may have been preyed on like her, demanding justice against all who sought to commit such deeds. She was a voice for those who could no longer shout, a beacon for those who believed themselves to be cast in the dark. Once the world had gotten a taste of the radiance that Lillian Wen could bestow, they simply couldn’t get enough of it. No longer was her life filled with threadbare clothes and second-hand shoes; instead, it was filled with the cacophony of shutters clicking and people calling her name, with luxury brands and decadent foods. It was not the way that she had imagined her career beginning, but it was the way Fate had forged it to be: Lillian Wen had become a household name. The blessing of Verona was now a blessing upon the world. Her face was upon every high-end magazine, was plastered on billboards across the world – surely it would have been etched among the stars if only the world knew how to put it there.

But as all those who hail from Verona do, she felt herself called back to hearth and home. Her mothers had told her of the worsening conditions in Verona and suggested that the city might have needed its diamond to remind them that there was beauty to be found amidst the most decrepit of places, so she returned – a mistake she’d hardly known she was making, but a terrible one all the same. Her mothers had forced her engagement to Cassian Bhatt, a man of high ranking and an even higher reputation—for her own protection, they claimed, but what they did not understand—and what perhaps they never could—was that she saw in him none of the qualities they’d selected him for; she saw only a gilded cage. His ties with the Capulets became her bonds the moment the marriage was announced, what seemed to be a curse in exaltation, but she’s found in the Capulets something she’s never had a proper grasp on before, something that had always seemed to slip through her fingers like water, like sand: a voice. In the darkest corners of the city she calls home, a light of a woman has found her chance to make a difference—a real one.

CASSIAN BHATT: Fiancé. Every time she presses her lips to his, she wonders if there is more affection to be found when fraternizing with the statues of the museum. There were no illusions when she said yes to his proposal, or more precisely, acquiesced, to his request of legally binding her name to his. Love was not to be found here, nor was it to be forged in the years to come. How was one to be able to love another, to wish his good will, when she could not bring herself to wish anything but his demise? She knew him for what he was, for what he always will be: a snake that sought to bite the hands of those who fed him, a scorpion that stings the hearts of those who helped him. She knows this just as she knows that she may marry him, that they may be tied in the eyes of the law, but she will never, ever love the likes of Cassian Bhat. Lillian sees his heart for what it is – and she has seen black holes have more luster than whatever void lurks between his ribs.

KATARINA DU PONT: Best friend. Like calls to like, and these two woman are subject to such laws. Where she is the luminescence of the diamond that glimmers and gleams, Katarina is the uncut edge that pierces and severs. They work in tandem when they are together, Lillian’s wide, coaxing eyes drawing them in and Katarina’s biting, cutting words laying them out. It has been that way since they were children, and neither of them has gone a day without it. Although there were times where they came dangerously close to stalemates—Katarina thought the career of a model frivolous and trivial, for she believed that Lillian was meant for more substantial things, and Lillian thought Katarina’s choice of career was dissatisfying as well as oppressive, thinking that her best friend was meant for something more—they were open with these opinions, though they hurt and festered were far more preferable than the truths they’d never reveal. What kindness has a cop ever shown to a criminal – even if that cop were dirty themselves?

REGINA DALY: Caution. She knows a thing or two about voids – she has seen the those with voids that grow inside their hearts and those that seek to take comfort in the darkness that forms. It’s easy to spot them atop the pedestal that the world has placed her on. Her loftiness, regarded as a weakness that stems from arrogance, has actually become her strength when regarding such things. It is people like Regina that have always sought to drag her down. But what separates the Daly woman from the rest is the fact that she does not actively seek her demise with malice. It seems to seek her, fit her like a crown befits a queen. But if Lillian has learned anything from the many stories that her mothers have told her – wicked queens don’t often live for long.

ALVA FAE: Companion. There is something to be said for a purity that perseveres, despite the dilapidation of life that seems to surround it. But Lillian has found it, the blessing of an unabating companionship – that demands naught, but the fruit of love. Her husband knows little of the companions she keeps, but she thinks that he feels rather jealous of Alva, of the time that she spends confiding in them. There are times where she wonders if they know what she risks by being their friend, but even if they weren’t aware of what it costs her to meet them for their rendezvous, she knows that she would risk it all the more. Love has been harsh with her, so it is only justice that she should love harshly herself. To keep them. To keep their shared hearts together.

Lillian is portrayed by ADRIANNE HO and was written by ROSEY. She is DECEASED.

#adrianne ho fc #rp #rpg #lsrp #lsrpg #bio rp #active rp #crime rp #lillian wen #d

7 notes · View notes

brooklynislandgirl · 5 years ago

Note

Beth and UARF!Billy

All Hands || -

who wakes up first in the morning

He’s still asleep by the time she makes her way into his office with a small pile of reports from Dr Gates. Mostly because he’d been up until dawn watching the weather patterns out on the open water. She knows because she dragged her board out before the last stars faded into obscurity so that she could catch a few waves before proper sun-up. Sometimes when he sits on the docks with his laptop beside him, staring out at the sea, she swears he looks like he’s dying on the inside.Maybe he is. She would, if she couldn’t go out into the ocean.

who’s the first to fall asleep at night

And he’s still working when she leaves the actual facility a little behind the rest of the crew. There’s a get together over at John’s cottage, and they’re making plans on taking a cutter over to the Big Island for their days off, a rarity at the aquarium. But as much fun as everyone is having, it’s too loud. Too drunk. Too everything for comfort and she finds herself cleverly making off with a plate of appetisers no one is going to miss, and some cokes…because Billy doesn’t drink. Which was why they stopped inviting him.

By the time she makes it back to him with her ill-gotten gains, he’s all bent back and head bowed over his laptop. There’s not a single naked person on the screen; he’s editing video for a virtual symposium on seal reclamation. He barely acknowledges her presence except to mutter something under his breath.And much to her surprise, two quiet hours later, he gestures to the only thing that’s changed; a couch unearthed from the Miocene Graduate School epoch of random texts. There’s what looks suspiciously like a doggie blanket draped on one end, and a pillow that doesn’t match anything, anywhere in the universe.What else can she do but curl into a ball and nap?

what they playfully tease each other over

“Doctah Manderly, can you please pass the salt?”“Doctor Riley, have you double checked your figures? Random unsubstantiated facts…”“Doctah Manderly, not da salt I was aksin’ for.”“Perhaps you should have been more clear, Doctor Riley.”

John can’t roll his eyes any harder. “For fucksake, can you just pass her the condiment tray already?”They glance at each other. He’s almost smiling.

It’s going to be a good day.She never does get the salt, though.

what they do when the other’s having a bad day

It’s unusual not to find him with the seals. It’s even more so to have Annie come trotting up to her, teeth tugging at Beth’s skirts gently. By the time they get back to Billy’s office ~never his…parent’s bungalo, she’s noticed~ he’s curled up on the floor, arms and legs tucked as close to his torso as possible. Eyes squeezed shut. All the lights off until the darkness is a living, breathing thing.Not even his laptop is on.She can see from the sliver of light that penetrates the gloom from the open door that his bottle of tablets is laying on its side on his desk, and he tried to give himself a dose of Keppra. The groan directs her attention back to him and she quickly comes inside, Annie at her vanguard, and closes the door.In the silence she picks her way to him and slides down the front of the couch so she’s sitting next to him. Carefully she cushions his head in her lap and starts rubbing small circles between the atlas and axis of his c-spine. She can’t make his migraines go away, she can’t do anything about the seizures, but she can certainly offer what little comfort she can.

how they say ‘i’m sorry’ after arguments

“Wot’s’ee sayin’?” John asks.Ben narrows his eyes and focuses on Billy’s face. A minute later, the whippet-thin groundskeeper shakes his head and shrugs. Which invariably annoys Silver to no end. The blow out last night had been legendary in its own quiet way.Manderly had stood her up. The celebration of her first article co-chaired with Gates, and Tall-Blonde-And-Anti-social couldn’t be assed to show for the cocktail party and the grant announcement. Flint had slipped out and turned back up empty handed and Miranda…had the pinched face of disappointment twinned with worry.

The rest of the crew had taken bets on exactly how upset Hurricane-Beth had been and what kind of fresh hell Manderly had in-store for him. Silver had a hundred bucks riding on the outcome.~*~“In short… it was unavoidable, and maybe in the future, I could be given more than a day’s notice.”“Yeah, okay.”“You…keep saying that. But I don’t quite believe you.”“Okay.”“Doctor Ri–Eliza—Beth. Would you please look at me?”

“Why?”“Because I’m trying to apologise and it’s very disconcerting having to stare down at you.”“And I’m tryin’a read.”

“And I’m trying to apologise.”“Thank you, William. Apology accepted.”Billy throws his hands in the air and wanders off.

which one’s more ticklish

His hands are warm. They are wide-palmed but slender. Long, clever fingers, tapered at the tip. And they are evil. In one of his rare appearances, Billy is joining the pool party. Sits on the edge of her deck chair. In moving her feet so he didn’t crush them, he absolutely noticed the flinch when his thumb graced the line of her in-step. He tries it again and is rewarded with the most unladylike snort in the whole course of human history. She squirms and writhes and the more she does, the firmer his grip becomes because she doesn’t get to escape, and he’s not about to let her kick him.

Her feet are ticklish.He skims his way a little higher, intent on trying for her knees, now that her legs are laid across his lap. She jerks again. This time though there’s no laughter behind it. As soon as his fingers glide over the scar-tissue she bolts upright. Adjusts the wrap so it covers her from the waist down, over her bikini. The gaze she throws his way is full of hurt and full of malice before she stalks off.He mutters under his breath because once more he’s managed to much things up. There ought to be a precisely indexed and double-spaced codex somewhere detailing the nature of women. He doesn’t understand why everything with her is so hard. They aren’t with seals. They aren’t with Miranda. They aren’t with Annie who leans her head into the side of his leg.

their favourite rainy day activities

It’s the off-season and the facility is down to a skeleton crew. Most everyone’s gone to the Big Island or Oahu or even the mainland for some much needed rest. But Billy isn’t satisfied letting other people take care of his seals, and Beth… as much as they don’t get on sometimes… can’t stand the idea of him staying alone, with virtual strangers even if it IS only for a week.So they follow the same patterns they do every day. Walking the beach with Annie and his seals in tow, feeding treats now and again and she collects shells. They eat together quietly. He spends hours in his office, she keeps company with Dr Gates’ open water tank, daydreaming about swimming with the man-eaters that stop by to visit, and with the others. And the rain comes in the quiet of it all, because of course it does. Beth leaves half her hut open to the elements. It’s the least civilised one of the residences. There’s no real furniture, per se, beyond the bed that takes up most of the room inside, a fireplace, some book shelves, the hammock strung up to the beams, and little touches. Her surf-board in a corner, and a few suitcases that live in a perpetual state of Schrodinger’s packing.

Billy lays across the bed on his stomach, reading an honest to goodness novel. He’s got a blanket bunched up under his chest, his arms. She uses his side the same way and flips through her phone for something by Chopin. Annie’s in her own space, as close to him as she can be.They don’t talk, they don’t really do anything. It’s still the best week, ever.

how they surprise each other

“What is that, even?” Billy stares at the dubious blackened lumps of..oddly flat charcoal.“Pancakes!”“Panca-”“Ya know. Breakfast in bed.” The more he pokes at them with the fork the less amused she looks, the less proud.He’s so going to regret this. And so will Annie. And Gates. And Flint. And anyone else who comes into contact with him afterwards.

He forces himself to chew a bite he’s chisled free. His face strained as he whispers, “delicious.”

their most sickening shows of public affection

It’s the New Season Luau.Some of the staff have dug an imu and there’s an entire pig roasting in its depths not far from the long table covered with other things; local delicacies, people’s family recipes, a mixture of traditional and new. There’s no tourists, no visitors. Just the faculty and workers of the research centre.John and Ben and some of the others are flinging a Frisbee just down the beach in full light of the citronella torches. Miranda and Flint are debating with Gates who is content to trade a bottle with Randall.The night air is balmy and Beth’s standing further apart from the rest, arms wrapped around her bare waist. Billy comes up behind her and drops his chin down on the crown of her hair, breathes in the scent of the plumeria blossom tucked behind her ear, Annie leaning against his leg. He rests his arms over top of her. Pulls her closer into him.

He thinks about asking her to dance.She thinks about letting him.

#nolegacies #The Salt in my Bones|Billy Manderly #No Man's Land|Billy and Beth #Urca Aquarium and Research Facility|A Modern AU #Aloha'aina|Hawai'i

1 note · View note

chxoticpulse · 6 years ago

Text

nick robinson + male+ he/him + chaos manipulation.┊ ❛ ━ hey, is it just me or do you hear i’m still here by john rzeznik playing in the distance ? oh, that’s just robin haggis-latierre, a twenty year old student. according to my sources, i heard he can be true neutral and is intelligent, but also apathetic. that’s probably why they remind everyone of the sound of shattering glass, (post) apocalyptic scenarios & worn-out physics books so much ! anyway, whether or not they’re in favor of the supers, crystalline city is keeping a close eye on them ! ( if he had a super name it would probs be PARADOX, but it’s still a draft ).

( There is a TL; DR almost at the bottom bc I honestly exceeded myself )

Poor boy, he didn’t know what he was getting into when he saw his dad closing the door behind him. Robin thought he was just going for the groceries or maybe he was just going to get Christmas presents a bit too early in July... but he didn’t come back. Not that day and not any other, just late and secret phone calls when mommy wasn’t paying attention and for a couple of months, that was the reality.

He was a smart kid ( god bless the Haggis genes! Did you know a child inherits 80% of their intelligence from their mother? ), though, at the beginning he was also very hopeful... but that died with time. Robin didn’t take too long to realize what was happening and out of a little act of rebellion, he stopped calling his dad and he stopped giving bright smiles to his mother. Quite selfish, maybe? But at that age, all a kid wants is a happy family.

He was still young when the revelation of his powers happened. His parents were arguing downstairs and he was watching from the stairs, shrunk and half hidden behind the posts of the rail. A lot of emotions started to ball inside him and when the stress and sadness became uncontainable, a wave of energy messed up the whole living room and caused some light cracks on the walls. HOLY SHIT, THEIR SON WAS A MUTANT TOO!

It took them some time to really understand what kind of power Robin had, disintegration? Energy manipulation? Air manipulation? There were many options and theories, but there was something that didn’t change: whenever Robin touched something, it would cause it to crack, shake or completely break, depending on how strong his emotions were at the moment. Eventually, they found someone who could identify mutations and they resolved that what Robin had was CHAOS MANIPULATION. Nobody really understood what that was at all, since it was a very... generic name, but at least now the had an idea.

Robin was homeschooled for some time, at least until he managed to control his powers the best he could, but as soon as he was enrolled again, he didn’t take time to make some petty enemies. The problem was that Robin was intelligent and he knew it and he enjoyed calling out others on their mistakes and so on.

Poetically speaking, the boy had inherited the good heart of his mother, but the devious thoughts of his father. It was probably this ambiguity and the fact that his parents were the leaders of both factions, which made him grow annoyed and tired of both heroes and villains. He wanted nothing to do with it, he didn’t believe there was something as good or bad; Robin thought that eventually, whichever force was the one to win, would drown in power. AND ROBIN WOULD DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT. <------ but I’ll get to this a bit later on.

He eventually managed to enroll in a good university and decided to study Physics, partly ( greatly ) inspired by his mother, but on the other hand, as a necessity to understand his powers even better. Highly studious and ridiculously apathetic, Robin was a discreet sensation, mostly because of the surnames he carried. His mother as owner of Haggis Tech and his father as a renown forensic medical examiner. There was hardly a place he could go without giving away his identity. AND YOU THINK THIS WOULD BOTHER HIM! Oh, no, he always gloated over that fact and he would never doubt to introduce himself as the son of geniuses, but... being somehow related to HAZE and SILVER KNIGHT in any way was beyond embarrassing, since he wanted nothing to do with their secret lives.

Even with all this, Robin considers himself close to his parents, if he’s not doing his homework at Haggis Tech or the library, you can find him in the industrial area training by himself or maybe causing some mayhem with the villains at the back of his mother. I like to think this as the video game Infamous in which karma changes depending on the good and bad actions he does. His current karma is neutral, but let’s see how that changes, I have plans for both his hero and villain versions. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Okaaay, I’m already done, I promise asdlkf;lg.

Oooohh going back to Robin doing something about the current situation of supers... if everything turns out bad and he loses all faith at the hands of black and white morality he is DECIDED TO END HIS PARENTS’ EMPIRES BY HIMSELF. IF THEY DON’T REACH AN AGREEMENT BEFORE ROBIN MANAGES TO CONTROL A BIG PART OF HIS POWERS... I WOULD TURN UP TO WHATEVER GOD YOU BELIEVE IN AND START PRAYING, BECAUSE IT WON’T BE PRETTY.

HIS POWERS:

This is very complicated cause his power is... complicated?? Ofc I can’t have him do everything because that would be insanely off the charts, actually, he can do very little but very significant for now. There are lots of terms and names, but to avoid boring you, what he can do now is disintegration of small objects from afar and bigger objects but upon touch. He can... destabilize some other things, for example, he can create a hole in the ground or damage a bridge support, but he ( STILL ) can’t break and entire bridge. He is fascinated with molecules and is currently working on his thesis of matter alteration in which he could get to rearrange the molecules of an object to create another one and stuff like that. NERD BOY. There is also weather manipulation in his sack of abilities that belong to chaos manipulation ( primarily fire and water ) according to the wiki, but eehh that’s a lot so maybe not for now ( unless his dad offers him to teach him smoke manipulation or smthn like that ), but that’d be for the future. His powers are awfully connected to his emotions! The more he feels, the more power he accidentally releases, that’s something he hasn’t managed to control; that’s also why you will mostly see him very stern or serious. Different emotions cause different reactions, example, anger or sadness cause things around to break or crack, stress ( due whatever reason ) may cause things to float or glitch somehow ( like when in Spiderverse there were things blooming into other things ), stuff like that but to a waaaay lighter level, like a coffee cup glitching and a second cap appearing on the bottom or stuff like that.

IMPORTANT ( and funny ): Due his powers still being slightly out of his control, he tends to have a “bad luck aura” around him most of the times, causing little events like someone accidentally dropping their coffee on their recently printed homework, a dog peeing on you as you wait on the bus stop or tripping down and ripping your favorite pair of jeans and stuff like that. While he is aware of this, he never ( usually ) does him with malice, it actually just requires him to focus a little and the aura can stop, but he usually forgets about, so please, pardon the inconvenience.

TL ; DR. Robin is the son of the leader of the league and the leader of the syndicate. He is annoyed with both heroes and villains, but massively supports supers. Is studying physics, is apathetic and will cause you have to have bad luck. Is planning to conquer the city ( or the world ). Angel heart and devil thoughts.

PLOTS / CONNECTIONS:

Classmates and people he may have good or bad relationships with!

Neighbors. I love good a bad neighbors! Gimme petty neighborhood feuds or super nice friendships! Maybe Robin used to play with them in the local park when they were younger, why did they stop talking? (in vase they did)

Not a people’s person, but still... AN EX! Robin and this girl would have had a burning fire, but it was so wild that it burned them down. Their relationship eventually got toxic and maybe they broke up after she joined one of the leagues ( preferably the villains ). They still talk and the tension is HIGH! Probably end up hooking up every now and then.

Someone he accidentally ( or not ) hurt with his powers!

Villains / Heroes that know him bc he’s the baby boy of the leader (?)

Anything else, really! Just hmu and I’m sure we will be able to brainstorm something <3

#gloryhqs.intro #this is so long I'm sorry #also I didn't proof read so pls excuse my lazy ass #HYYYYYPED AF TO BE HERE!!

14 notes · View notes

aquilaofarkham · 6 years ago

Photo

title: vibas luxuri homo bone rating: general word count: 2,892 summary: set shortly after the events of Symphony of the Night, Alucard is still trying to adjust to his new life with Maria, Richter, and humans in general. He also decides to pay two very, very old friends a visit.

“Why did you decide to stay? You barely know us and we barely know you. Why do you care so much?”

Richter’s questions are blunt and hit all of Alucard’s softest points. But they are not malicious or come with any ill intentions. Glancing at Maria, the dhampir can tell that she wishes to know as well. No more half-truths.

“Because you remind me of two humans I loved a long time ago.”

read on ao3

I’m still not entirely certain about this plan.

Alucard has been repeating this one thought ever since they left the Belmont manor. When Maria Renard suggested that the three of them take advantage of the lovely weather, he assumed she meant something else entirely. The vision Alucard had in his mind was a simple walk throughout the grounds or extensive gardens surrounding their shared home. He did not expect a crowded marketplace filled with shop keeps, artisans, and farmers selling their freshest crops.

Apparently neither did Richter, for he looks just as anxious as the dhampir does. Alucard understands why and sympathizes with him completely. It’s not just the people who are overwhelming, it’s every sound of the market: dogs barking, merchants shouting, and carriages driving atop uneven cobblestones. The two men try to stay close to Maria as she leads them through the streets. Still their fearless leader even in the most mundane of situations.

“What do you think of this one?”

“It looks too dull,” Alucard replies. Richter merely shrugs, something that is uncharacteristic of him.

“How about this?”

“That one is far too gaudy.”

“It’s not the appearance that matters.” Maria rebukes, carefully placing the rose-coloured quartz amulet in her palm along with others all boasting their own unique properties. She withdraws a purse from her belt, shifting through the coins before handing the vendor a large amount. The stones aren’t only for herself; they’re for her two closest companions as well. Hopefully they will provide protection, good dreams, or just some peace of mind. God knows they need it.

It hasn’t been easy, but then again nothing ever is.

Alucard clings to his humans as they make their way from merchant to merchant. So much has changed in his absence; he hopes it has been for the better. Despite the intimidation of such a large gathering, Alucard finds the marketplace fascinating. There’s a small amount of enjoyment in catching brief glimpses as families, couples, children, elders, and foreigners come and go as they please. It reaffirms his love of humanity. Although he has struggled with this love (understandably so), Alucard keeps days like this as reminders. Why he, after three hundred years of regret over an ill-informed decision, finally made the choice to live among his mother’s kind.

It’s not long before something distracts the dhampir. A sudden cry muffled by dozens of other voices. Though to him, it rings louder than anyone else, coming from someone very young and very upset. Alucard searches past the crowds and sees a little girl on the other side of the wide street wearing a brown dress with embroidered flowers. Two older and much larger boys surround her; one dangles a hand-sewn doll above her head while his friend laughs at the girl’s many attempts to grab it.

“That’s mine! Give it back!”

“Like to see you try, runt!” The boy scoffs, holding her down with just one hand.

“I said give it back!”

“Or else what?”

Just as the girl feebly reaches for her doll, the bullies push her to the ground. Alucard hears their ugly snorts of amusement and sees the tears already rolling down her face. They try to run, but the dhampir is faster. Before the boy with the doll can take another step, he appears behind him and grabs the back of his shirt collar. The other one manages to get away, not even bothering to look over his shoulder and check if his friend is still behind him. It doesn’t take much to terrify the little thief; a single concentrated, blood-curdling glare is all Alucard needs. The boy opens his mouth, perhaps to scream or apologize, but all he can force out is a series of stunned gasps.

“That doesn’t belong to you.” Alucard’s tone, while calm, is laced with malice, sounding more like a threat than a simple statement. Without breaking eye contact, he takes the doll out of the boy’s hand and lets him go. He runs faster than a rabbit fleeing from a fox. Alucard wonders if he scared him too much, but it’s only for a moment - a brief one at that. He walks back to the girl who is still on the ground, wiping her tearful eyes.

“I believe this is yours.”

She looks up, uncertain at first, and sees Alucard offering her the doll, his appearance gentle and comforting. Her eyes light up as she takes it and hugs it close against her chest. Alucard smiles, helping the girl onto her feet. He doesn’t need a thank you, her overjoyed expression is enough for him.

“Your hair is so pretty!” She says abruptly. “Are you a prince?”

This isn’t the first time Alucard feels caught off guard and now that he lives permanently with humans, it most certainly won’t be the last. “I... well...” He could play along or tell her a half truth. That he is (or rather was) the son of a lord but before he can say a word, the girl grabs hold of his shirtsleeve.

“Come with me!” She brings Alucard over to a vendor occupied by a man with a white beard encircled by half-finished canvases, sketchbooks, and paintbrushes well past their prime. His fingertips are stained with everything from charcoal to watercolours. Upon seeing the little girl, a look of concern appears in his crinkled eyes.

“Shoshana, I told you not to wander off without telling me.”

“Zaide, look! A prince helped get my doll back! Isn’t he pretty?”

Alucard tells himself not to panic, as much as he wants to. Three hundred years of slumber have undoubtedly taken their toll on his social skills. “That’s... very kind of you, but-”

“She’s right, sir. If you don’t mind me saying.” The older man gently chuckles. “I see my granddaughter Shoshana has already introduced herself. My apologies, young man. She is easily excitable and often forgets that sometimes strangers do not like to be dragged around against their wishes.” He says this while looking directly at Shoshana. She turns her gaze to the ground, feeling a touch ashamed.

“No apology is needed.” Shoshana’s mood quickly shifts as she stares up at Alucard with a smile. There’s the ever-lingering fear that he will saying the wrong thing or open his mouth too wide and reveal his true heritage. So, Alucard keeps his words brief. He thinks it might be better returning to Maria and Richter. Yet that love and fascination with humans overcomes any cautious thought. “I see you are an artist.”

“More a simple tailor than an artist. It’s a diversion from my regular work and occasionally gets me a place in markets like this.”

Alucard looks over each canvas and parchment; everything from a vast landscape to an intimate portrait comes to life through colour and brushstroke. “You’re very talented.”

“And you’re too kind, sir. Actually... no, nevermind.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

“It would be no bother.”

“Well, would it be too forward of me to ask if I can paint a portrait of you? It’s just that I find beautiful people to be the best subjects.”

“Is that why you paint everyone, Zaide?” While the artist laughs at Shoshana’s comment, Alucard contemplates his request. Not too long ago, he thought he would live with humanity the same way a ghost does, showing himself only when need be. He never expected something like this, especially so soon. Yet despite all this, he agrees. After paying the artist generously, he prepares a fresh canvas, the perfect size for a portrait. Alucard takes a seat and waits for any further guidance while Shoshana plays with her doll.

“Turn your head to the side... a little bit more... there, that’s wonderful. Now if you could take your hair and place it in front of your shoulder.” Alucard follows the painter’s instructions to the best of his ability. He notices how his soft hair has grown much longer and wavier. Its’ also gained back some of its colour, changing from a lifeless white into a light gold, ever since the dhampir emerged from his coffin. Once the painter is satisfied with his subject’s position, he begins mixing colours and makes the first stroke on the canvas.

Throughout this process, Alucard is extraordinarily patient and immoveable. Two things which were very much unknown to him one time he had his portrait taken - an old memory that has remained untouched by the centuries. As the artist concentrates, glancing up occasionally, Alucard is taken back to the day when that very first painting of his life was created. It was a time when he was taught not to be afraid of shadows, and castle walls breathed with a soul of their own. When “home” meant safety, trust, and love. It should be a memory that gives him comfort or at least some bittersweet nostalgia. He wishes it would, just to quell his worry of whether or not he still has a heart. But it’s been far too long and too much has happened. And no amount of sadness changes the serene expression on his face.

“There, all finished.” The artist announces triumphantly. He takes one last proud look at the canvas before turning it around. “What’s your opinion? I tried to capture as much of your likeness as possible, but... to be quite honest it was like painting the sun.”

Alucard relaxes his body and carefully takes the painting, struggling to say anything. In every portrait, he has been portrayed as the perfect balance between his mother and father - innocent, regal, sometimes intimidating. Never like this, never so humble, so contemplative, or so... human.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispers. Realizing what he just said, Alucard lowers his gaze. The artist laughs.

“It’s alright! It’s not narcissistic to say that.”

“Thank you.”

“I should be thanking you for your kind patronage. Let me wrap that up for you.”

After the portrait is safely packages, Alucard says his good-byes to the artist and Shoshana. He walks back through the marketplace wondering where it should be hung in his new home. The dhampir’s thoughts are interrupted when he sees Maria heading towards him with Richter tagging behind.

“There you are,” she exclaims. “You had us worried!”

“My apologies. I was... distracted.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. Oh, what might that be?” Maria asks, pointing curiously to the brown envelope that’s as big as his upper body.

“A gift. For myself.” Alucard awkwardly clutches the portrait in his hands. His attention shifts to Richter who refuses to make eye contact. In the (admittedly) short amount of time that Alucard has known him, the young Belmont mostly keeps to himself, favouring quietness. Not unfriendly, just quiet. Still, it’s enough to concern the dhampir. Maria also notices Richter’s behaviour. How could she not? He’s nothing less than the older brother she never had.

“Come. Let’s get away from these crowds.” With Alucard leading the way, Maria gently takes Richter’s hand and pulls him along. There’s confusion, but he does not protest. The three of them walk down the steps of a nearby alleyway until they arrive at a much smaller and practically deserted street. Maria decides to break the tension herself.

“Are you alright?”

They’ve asked him that question before - multiple times. While his choice of words always vary, Richter’s answer remains the same. “Of course I am.” “I’m fine, I promise.” “I’m just tired, nothing to worry about.” Those are good days. Then there are the days filled with “leave me alone”.

“Do we have to do this with all those people around?”

“We can go home,” Maria reassures him. There’s a look in her eyes that says, “this is my fault. I should never have put you through this.”

“Good. Then no one has to see me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve seen the way people look at me.” With every sentence, Richter’s voice wavers, causing another ache in Alucard’s chest. He’s seen this sort of emotion with another Belmont and it hurts all the same. Every thought he’s ever had of Trevor hurts with longing.

“It just... it doesn’t feel right being around the people I once protected. Not after what I did.”

“Richter...” Maria begins, her voice softer. “It wasn’t you. You had no control over that.”

“It was still me. It was still by my hand. I can’t even use my whip anymore.”

“That wasn’t your fault. None of it was.” Alucard tries to offer his support, but Richter says nothing. He avoids the dhampir’s eyes, opening then closing his mouth as though he cannot bring himself to say what’s truly on his mind. Alucard and Maria wait, never pushing him. Never using force. Finally, he raises his head.

“Why did you decide to stay? You barely know us, and we barely know you. Why do you care so much?”

“Because you remind me of two humans I loved a long time ago.”

It’s a weight off his chest. Judging from the look of shock on both Maria and Richter’s faces, it might have been a poor decision. Yet it is the truth; they deserve that much. Alucard braces himself for their responses, whether they uneasily walk away or berate him for living in the past. The first comes from Richter in the form of him giving his hand to Alucard. He stares at it, puzzled, but accepts.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Alucard can feel him trembling. He offers him one more piece of comfort by placing his palm upon Richter’s cheek. The Belmont once again lowers his head but does not pull away. Leaning forward, Alucard closes his eyes, and softly kisses Richter’s forehead. It isn’t the first time he’s done this. But as long as there are those who need him, as long as there are humans in this world that he loves, Alucard will not deny himself or others of affection.

They turn to Maria, who gives them a weary yet loving smile. “Let’s go home.”

THREE DAYS AFTER

When visitors to the Belmont Cemetery arrive at the front gates, they are greeted by a single straight path guiding them deep into the woods. Standing guard on either side are stone statues of warriors who have long since passed. It’s a peaceful place, not one of sorrow but of remembrance. The Belmonts have always willingly put themselves in death’s way for they do not fear what awaits them beyond the veil. For their bravery, deeds, and compassion, it is only natural to celebrate them in life and death.

Alucard walks alongside his horse further and further into the cemetery. While it is a grey autumn day, the skies are not entirely dark and not all the flowers have died yet, making way for the first snowfall. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a few small butterflies moving through the rows of gravestones. He carries on, slow and leisurely.

Eventually, Alucard comes across a hill. He must be on the right path. Reaching into his large bag, he pulls out an apple and gives it to the horse before tying it to a nearby tree. He looks up and begins his upward trek. Any normal human being would feel the weight of the bag straining against their shoulder but for Alucard, it’s barely an inconvenience. When he makes it to the very top, the first thing he sees is the sweeping vista of the greater Wallachian countryside. The next thing he sees is the very reason why he decided to come here. Two large gravestones not only old, but ancient.

He walks towards them; despite nature reclaiming the stones, they look to be in fair condition. Alucard is surprised, but also relieved. He brushes a few strands of vine away, revealing the occupants of this isolated, special gravesite: Trevor Belmont and Sypha Belnades. Engraved below their names are the words “In times of despair, there is always hope”.

“I’m sorry I took so long.” Alucard says, trying and failing to make this reunion less heart-rending than it already is. Raising his hand to his lips, he kisses his fingertips, placing them on Trevor’s grave first then Sypha’s. Only one word comes to Alucard’s mind: selfish. He was so selfish to leave them. He’ll never see their faces again or hear their laughter. His stomach clenches as the lump in his throat grows.

Now is not the time for tears. Wiping his eyes, Alucard reaches back into his bag and offers the graves two white roses. His and his mother’s favourite. He then pulls out three glasses along with a bottle of red wine. “I couldn’t find any ale.” He mutters, staring down at Trevor. Once all of them have been filled, the dhampir arranges the first two on top of the stones before sitting on a soft patch of grass with his own.

He takes a sip and looks out towards the horizon. Off in the distance, he can see the Belmont manor standing strong. A calm breeze rustles the branches sheltering Alucard as it blows through his hair.

#castlevania #alucard #adrian tepes #richter belmont #maria renard #symphony of the night #castlevania symphony of the night #my writing #*cvfic #i haven't even listened to nocturne of recollection...............

64 notes · View notes

takemedancingmaine · 6 years ago

Text

No Quartets Here

Louis was fidgeting.

His feet were tapping, his knees bouncing, his fingers moving against his knees, and his head bobbing a bit. It was tempting me to either throw him out or throw myself out of the moving train we were sat on.

Instead of such drastic measures I just listened to the voice of the CTA announcing we’d arrived at Belmont. One more stop to go. I could make it.

Or perhaps I couldn’t.

“Louis, I swear if you don’t stop fidgeting I’ll… I’ll- I don’t know, but please stop!” I ground out as the doors closed and we were almost free.

Friday’s had a sense of surrealism about them. They seemed limitless as if the weekend that stretched out before it was a wormhole of never-ending possibilities. It was a thrill, to be sure.

I always loved Friday’s.

I don’t look at Friday’s like a lot of people do: I’m never one who is constantly waiting for the weekend, waiting to live. I’m someone who tries hard to live during the week as well. If I ever get to a point in my life where I live for days off, that means I’m not doing what I should be doing.

Still, Friday’s have that quality about them. They open a door to self-care time or friend-time or just binge-watching a show on a streaming service time. There’s so much to do, so many places to go and see, so many people to enjoy company with during the weekends and on a Friday night the possibilities of things to do as well as the amount of time, seems to stretch on forever and just that feeling, that Friday feeling, was intoxicating.

I know Louis loved the feeling too. He and I had talked before about how much we enjoy our daily lives while still indulging in the weekends to their fullest. Sometimes his Friday was actually a Saturday, but he made it work however he could.

“Sorry,” he mumbled now, beside me. “M’just nervous about Niall.”

“Why?”

“I know I haven’t talked about him much,” Louis shrugged as we stood up together when the train pulled into the Addison stop. “I think it felt weird because I genuinely didn’t know if he’d ever move back, but he really was my best friend, Ruby. I lived with him for four years. If our other friends don’t like him…” he trailed off, as if he was afraid to say what he was thinking, afraid to give his concerns a voice.

“I like him just fine,” I reassured him as we jogged down the stairs together. I’ll never tell him this, but I love that Louis only takes stairs--in either direction--at a jog. It was something I’d always done and before him had never met someone that did the same. “I think you’re just building it all up in your head.”

“You’re right. I know you’re right,” he sighed while pushing through the turnstile. I followed right behind him. “I’m glad you met him the other day,” he said, buttoning his denim jacket once we got to the street. “Niall’s not one to say when he’s nervous, and I know he’s a bit nervous to meet everyone. It’ll help that you’re on his side as well.”

“I’m glad we told him to meet us at mine then before we head over to Ana and Harry’s,” I say buttoning my own jacket up. We’re still in false fall and as the sun sinks down the air nips at my skin. If the weather reports are to be believed, next week will be sunny and back in the seventies. Perfect time to head to the beach with a book.

“We’re leaving yours at seven, right?” he asked and pulled his phone out, checking the time. It was quarter to six. I’d gotten him to leave the bakery at a reasonable time today. Practically dragged him at first, but now there was a pep in his step. He was taking tomorrow off and that meant he could get drunk. He was living the high life at the moment.

“Yes,” I nodded. “They’re setting up a taco bar and I’m shamelessly going to watch Cleo drink Ana’s entire pitcher worth of margaritas.”

Louis laughed loudly at that. The sound filling my ears and echoing down the street we were walking down.

“Sugar or salt?” he asked now, his giggles still escaping as he glanced at me.

I hesitated, but only for a moment. “Salt,” I nodded. Louis nodded in agreement.

“She can have all she wants. I think I’m going to stick with beer,” Louis said. “Either way I’ll have a hangover tomorrow, but I’m not sure I’m feeling a tequila hangover.”

“Smart choice,” I bumped his shoulder with mine.

“What about you?” he asked.

“I think I’ll stick to water tonight.”

“God, you’re so boring,” Louis groaned and grumbled as he unhooked my front gate and gestured for me to go ahead through first.

“You know it,” I winked at him over my shoulder.

“Did you get a new front lock?” he asked as we climbed the stairs and arrived in front of my door. I was glad my hair was still down because I was pretty sure my eye twitched at the memory of just why I had a new lock.

“The old one wasn’t working,” I explained as I punched in the code. “So my landlord, Dan, just decided for forgo a traditional key and put in an access code lock. Took him a whole day to set it up with the lock company.”

The numbers flashed green and when I turned the extended deadbolt, the door opened we were let into the foyer and entrance to the stairs.

I was ecstatic for the new lock. I could use a key if I wanted, or I could just use the code and turn the lock. There wasn’t even a door handle anymore, which was odd but I was getting used to it. I actually kind of liked it now.

Dan had spent all day Wednesday installing it and making sure it was working. He also put in a door chain on the inside of my front door upstairs as an extra precaution.

He felt miserable about what had happened. He knew, of course, because the police contacted him as the owner of the property. He apologized profusely and offered to knock off an entire month’s rent as a result. I refused to accept his offer, unwilling to accept apology money or compensation money, but the notion was appreciated.

After we kicked off our shoes outside my door I let myself and Louis inside where we shed our coats and threw our backpacks down on a nearby chair. We’ve done this more than a few times before, and the routine of it all is welcomed like a warm blanket of comfort.

Louis followed me into the kitchen where I pulled out two glasses and my bottle of whiskey, the expensive Irish kind, and pour us each one glass.

I jumped up to sit on the counter while he leaned his back against the corner adjacent to me as he picked up his glass. We cheers-ed mid-air, neither of us a fan of clinking glasses together, and then each took a slow sip.

The warmth of the alcohol spread down my throat and into my belly. It was a good feeling, that.

It was then that I turned to look at Louis.

“Hey, Lou?”

“Mm?”

“Do you really want to open a fourth location or were you just saying that to get me to look into the numbers?”

He sighed and closed his eyes before tilting his head forward so that his chin was just a small gap of space from his chest.

“Sorry,” I made to backtrack. “It's Friday and I shouldn't have brought it up, I just was curious.” I leaned back a bit so that my shoulders hit the cabinets. I tilted my head up toward the ceiling.

“No,” Louis was saying. “It's fine. I just… You know I feel weird about any moderate success I have. I always thought I’d be living paycheck to paycheck, selling pastry and bread from my own oven at home to anyone who’d buy it. I never thought I’d have three bakeries that do pretty well. Running my own business was horrifying until you showed up and could help me out.”

I closed my eyes as I looked up my shoulders releasing some tension.

“I don’t think I want to open a fourth location, no,” he said after a moment. I heard him swallow, so he’d taken another sip. “I’ve looked into it managerial wise. It would spread me too thin unless I make Louis’ Bakery into a real company and run it like a president. I don’t want that. M’happy with how well I’m doing, and as it is I might start shifting to five days a week for myself. I’ve got baker contacts I could look into hiring so that I can save my sanity.”

“I think that would be a good idea,” I lowered my head to take a sip of my drink and peaked at him from the corner of my eye. He didn’t look tense, which was a good sign when talking about business.

“My mom does too,” he smiled ruefully. Louis and his mom were close and she thought he was running himself ragged.

“So you wanted to see if you had the stability to open a fourth?” I opened my eyes fully and looked out in front of myself at my oven, just staring off.

“Yeah,” he said now. “It was an exercise. I know how much I’d have to invest to open a fourth and I was using it as a gauge. As it is, I’m using it to hire another baker, knowing I’ve got the ability to be flexible.”

“You could’ve just said that,” I moved my hand gently in a circle, swirling the amber liquid around and around in the glass as I watched, mystified by the sight.

He laughed and tilted his head with a contemplative look on his face.

“When had I ever made things easy for you, Ruby?” he asked.

“Fucking never,” I shook my head and chuckled a bit, our laughter commingling in the air around us.

“Thank you for understanding,” he said after our laughter died down and silence had surrounded us for a minute or so. “I really appreciate having someone who just knows without me having to say something.”

“Saying something helps,” I gave him a pointed look but there was no malice in it or my tone. “But of course I understand you, Louis. We’re friends and m’always here for you, even when you don’t tell me why. I’m always here.”

“Have I given you a raise recently?” he asked, his smile ill-disguised as he attempted to keep it off his face.

I laughed and reached out my free hand to shove him a bit. He laughed with me, taking another slow sip of whiskey as I ran a hand through my hair, effectively mussing it up.

A silence fell over us again and together we just sat a moment and unwinded from our week. Louis had visited the bakery in Bucktown yesterday and was going out to West Loop to see the third on Monday. He liked to visit each one personally at least twice a month.

Louis would spend the day catching up with the bakers in person and even manning the till if he felt like interacting with customers, the locals and the regulars. Louis was so personable that he made everyone feel just how special he was, just being around him was like being high on life.

He’d always ask the question, ‘Whose life can I make better today?’ And as often as he could, Louis would follow through and make someone’s life better in whatever way he could.

It was never just that Louis and I had an easy friendship because we do, but it’s also about how he makes me want to be better. He has bad days, says stupid things, has bad habits, is a normal flawed human being. He never lets the bad things define him though and that’s what I love about being his friend.

He’s constantly reminding me, not purposely rather just by being himself, to always try to be the best in regards to others and to make myself happy first and foremost. It’s why we get on so well. I build him up because he deserves it, and he builds me and everyone else up.

I rolled my shoulders back and took a deep breath.

“I’m going to go change. Please don’t start a fire in my kitchen,” I said as I jumped off the counter and headed towards my room at the opposite end of the apartment.

“Will try not to,” he gave me a mock two-finger salute before he drained the rest of his glass in one swallow.

In my room, I quickly pulled off my black skinny jeans and slipped myself into my softest, most worn pair of blue jeans. They would probably only last a few more washes if I was lucky, and that would be a tragedy, but I’d savour them until I absolutely had to let them go.

Once I’d fastened the button on the jeans I traded my light cardigan and blouse for a soft Eagles concert t-shirt I’d gotten in an online sale and pulled a chunky cable knit sweater on over top. I was going for comfort tonight, in company and in clothing.

When I returned to my kitchen, Louis was lowering his phone from his face as he clicked it locked.

“That was Niall,” he told me and I nodded in understanding. “I’ll go let him in,” he slid his phone into his back pocket before heading over to my door.

I glanced at the clock on my wall that told me it was just about seven. I jumped back onto my counter and retook my spot before grabbing my glass and bringing it up to my lips.

I heard my front door below and then heard two sets of footsteps on the stairs.

“-didn't know if I needed to bring anything so I decided I should,” Niall’s deep Irish lilt travelled across my apartment as he and Louis stepped in.

I noticed Niall was absent shoes but was with a bottle of red wine. Louis must've told him about my rule and made him kick his shoes off at the door. I needed to remember to thank him for that.

“I hope that's not for me,” I said as Niall and Louis made their way into my kitchen. Louis went back to his spot while Niall stood across from us, still holding the bottle of wine.

“Erm, no,” Niall gave a shy smile and shook his head. “Louis told me you wouldn't drink it anyway. It's for Ana and Harry for having me over to theirs.”

I tilted my glass at Louis for his knowledge of me and he shrugged with a raise of his hands.

“Ana will love you for that,” I told Niall now and his smile grew as I spoke. “Harry will love you even more.”

Harry would probably drink the whole thing before Ana even had the chance to go open the bottle. Harry was a bit of a wine-o. He especially went for red wine.

“Oh good,” Niall said. “Maybe I can bribe my way into the crew.”

Louis snorted. I laughed.

“Niall, I'm telling you,” Louis said seriously, which was hard considering he clearly was on the verge of laughter, “You don't need to bribe your way in. They'll love you.”

I looked at Louis and smiled. He was nervous before, but he would never let Niall know that. He'd never clue him into the doubts and worries that flooded him for days. He'd only ever give his friend pep talks and build him up. Always doing for others.

“What is that you're drinking?” Niall gave Louis a sceptical look before glancing over at me as I took my final sip.

“Whiskey.”

“Irish?”

“Of course,” I said, almost offended he questioned it.

“Jameson?”

“Bushmills,” I placed the glass down on the counter and then hopped off of it to joint the boys on the floor.

“Damn,” Niall let out. “You've got good taste.” His blue eyes were lit up as he looked me up and down, as if in a new light.

“I know,” I smirked, not at all humble. Quickly I rinsed both glasses and placed them on the drying rack.

“Shall we get a move on then?” Louis asked, spirits high despite the underlying nerves.

“We shall,” I clapped him on the back before the three of us made out way over to my door where we grabbed our coats, slipped our shoes back on, and headed out.

It wasn’t that it was cold, not really. The wind, however, was murder tonight and as we sat inside Harry and Ana’s apartment we could hear it whipping by, bitter and unforgiving.

“Wait, you’re actually a blonde?” Ana was looking at Niall with a critical gaze, her face scrunched and eyes narrowed. She was sitting on the floor in front of her television with Cleo’s legs laying over her legs. “But your eyebrows are dark! Do you dye those too?”

“He was blonde,” Louis called from the table where he was helping Liam and Harry set out all the food. “He bleached it like every six weeks in college.”

“Seriously?” Cleo raised her eyebrows as she lifted her torso off of the floor, propped up on her elbows. She had what was her third margarita of the night sitting beside her on the floor. I looked from Cleo to Louis and we shared a smile.

“It was cool!” Niall defended himself, but I could see his cheeks colouring pink as we all looked over at him. He looked like he desperately wanted to keep talking in order to defend himself but thought better of it.

“Are there pictures of this hair?” Liam called over while putting out a bowl of shredded cheese. I glanced over quickly and noticed that Harry has indeed uncorked the wine Niall had brought and was sipping from his glass with the most content look on his face while watching all of us.

“Loads of pictures,” Louis smirked as he pulled a Mexican beer from the fridge and undid the cap with his hand.

“I still like it,” Niall mumbled as he pulled out his phone and began scrolling through his photos. “I only stopped bleaching it about a year ago because I started to get really lazy about it. I moved from full bleach to just the top bit to no longer bleaching it at all.”

He found a photo and started passing his phone around the group. It went to Ana on his left first and then she passed it to Cleo. It was intercepted by Liam and Harry before it got to me. Each of them telling Niall in turn that it actually looked quite good and that he might have to go back to it at some point in the future.

He made a face about that.

When the phone was handed to me I wasn’t sure what I was going to see, but when Harry eventually passed me the phone I immediately felt my face break out in a smile.

Not only was he incredibly blonde, which brought out his bluer than blue eyes even more, but his face was cleanly shaven. He looked so young, but he was definitely still handsome with his dyed hair.

My eyes inspected the picture silently and I realised as I did this that I was the only one who didn’t just say something in passing and hand the phone away. I was still gazing at it silently with a smile on my face. I willed my mind to quickly come up with something to say as I looked up from the phone screen.

“I think it looks good. The blonde definitely made you look younger though.”

I handed Niall his phone back as Harry called everyone over to start making their plates. Niall locked eyes with me and smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he pocketed his phone and gestured for me to stand as well so that we could get food.

I tried not to think about the way his hand felt against mine when I handed him his phone back. I certainly tried not to think about the way his eyes made me feel whenever I noticed them looking at me.

Instead, I focused on eating an exorbitant amount of tacos and rice and laughing with my friends as we put on a college basketball game and started playing cards.

“I don't get it,” Niall said as he looked around at us all. We were trying to explain Anomia to him and he just stared at us like we were nuts.

To be fair, we were.

“How about you just watch the first round or so and then when you get the hang of it you can join in?” Ana asked. Sometimes I'd forget that Louis and I were surrounded by teachers and then one of them would come up with a simple solution like this explained in a very placating tone and I'd remember.

Niall nodded. “Alright.”

So we went through a round, and from the corner of my eye, I could see Niall watching us with his brow crinkled as he studied both us and the cards. When we finished and Harry looked up at him to hand him a card to start, he nodded.

I liked to think of myself as being pretty smart. Economics is not an easy topic, not really. And I went to a pretty good college. But I wasn't just book smart.

I knew a few current events: I read the news every morning on the way to work and checked the markets and all that. I knew some pop culture trivia because of the music I listened to or the shows I'd binge on a rainy Saturday. I could usually hold my own at this game.

After a few rounds of Anomia with Niall playing, I was beginning to feel inadequate. It helped that Cleo and Harry were both a bit drunk and therefore slower at calling out words.

Even with that advantage, Niall and Louis, who were both pretty well and drunk too, we're not slowing down, and if anything, were quicker to the draw. Ana and Liam were always just bad at this game no matter what. It was adorable watching them sputter in frustration when the words were on the tips of their tongues and not coming out.

I looked down at my own card pile and made a face. I had five cards but it looked like Louis and Niall each had at least ten. I groaned as Louis snatched a card from me.

“You've had five beers,” I complained. “How are you still beating me?”

“I'm just that good,” he winked. I shoved his shoulder and he shoved me back.

“You're such a butt,” I shoved him again and he rested his head on my shoulder before giving me puppy dog eyes.

I gave in immediately. I still pushed him off though.

I could feel eyes on us and when I looked up to remind Harry that it was his turn I saw Niall beside him watching Louis and me. It was almost like he was studying us, trying, hoping to find his place amongst us.

The best part was that he didn't even feel new. He felt like he'd been with us all along. He kept pace with Louis and Cleo, was charismatic and had an infectious laugh. He was polite and not one of us seemed to feel weird with him being here.

I spent most of the night watching as the tension drained from his and Louis’ face at the thought of him getting along with us. They had no reason to worry at all. I'd been right.

I hadn't realized how right I was until a few minutes later when we took a break for Ana and Cleo to take turns using the restroom and for Louis, Niall, and Harry to refresh their drinks. I was filling my glass with water when Niall bumped me just slightly while trying to squeeze past Harry.

Louis was sitting back down with his new beer and Harry had his back to us as he poured himself a new glass of the wine Niall had brought. And Niall was beside me reaching into the fridge to grab a bottle.

Niall turned to give me a smile.

I hadn't felt secure or safe in quite a while. I hadn't been able to feel settled completely since I'd been attacked.

It's not that I felt unsafe, really. It was just that I couldn't quite relax. Even my home, my normal restorer of my sense of calm, where I would go to recharge, felt violated. I would sometimes find myself getting out of bed to triple check both the front and back door locks of not only my apartment but the house itself.

I would tell myself everything was fine, that I was safe, but that couldn't stop me from getting up and checking, couldn't restore my sense of security I was so desperately grasping for.

And yet there I was, stood with an almost stranger and not for a moment did I feel anxious or flighty or insecure.

Niall's energy had this influence over my nerves, could make them return to a state they had until now permanently vacated. It felt as if I'd spent two weeks as a live electrical wire and now I was finally able to let go and breathe without any tension filling me.

I smiled back at him and then the two of us headed into the living room and the game resumed in full force.

“Forgive me if I'm overstepping,” Niall said now as we made our way to the train station. It was nearing one in the morning, I was more than glad Niall was with me.

Cleo had passed out on Ana and Harry’s sofa, Liam had taken a Lyft with Louis, but I had shrugged off their offer. They lived far enough away that sharing a Lyft would've been ridiculous. Plus, I actually like the train. Even this late at night I don't mind it.

That didn't mean I wasn't grateful for Niall’s company. He was shorter, but he was broad, looked like he could hold his own pretty well.

I was also very aware I'd been mugged recently. The incident was doing weird things to me. I was terrified to think about what happened or what could occur should something happen again to me. Still, I did things like this, like taking the train after midnight.

When you think about it though, it might be better than a Lyft driver knowing where I live. There's always going to be a negative.

I shook my head and gestured for Niall to go ahead, ask away.

“D’you like Louis?”

I nodded. “He was my first friend here. Aside from Cleo, but I knew her in college-”

“I meant as more than a friend,” Niall interrupted.

“As in romantically?” I asked, my pitch raising up an octave and my eyebrows raising as well.

Niall nodded.

I sputtered a bit before I outright laughed. “No,” I shook my head quickly. “No, no. Ew.”

“So no?” He asked with an amused look on his face.

“Absolutely not,” I told him as I buried deeper into my sweater as the wind picked back up. “I love Louis as a friend, but no, I have never been in love with him.”

Niall shrugged and stuffed his hands in his pockets. His cheeks were pink and I couldn't tell if it was because of the wind or if he was embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he looked over at me. “I felt like I had to ask. After seeing you guys together at the bakery and then again tonight… you just seem so comfortable together.”

I nodded as we passed under an overpass, shadows falling across our faces.

“I was raised in a culture where couples don't hold hands or even date in a traditional sense. But friends were always very close, very showing of affection, so even though Louis is a guy and it was weird for me at first, just like it was weird for me with Liam and Harry,” I shrugged again, “becoming affectionate with them was second nature after I got over the initial weirdness.”

“That makes a fair bit of sense,” he smiled. “I noticed in uni here that being Irish, or I guess being from Europe, means I'm much more affectionate than most of my mates. Except for Louis. He kind of just allowed it, adopted it himself after a bit of time.”

“Plus you lived together,” I pointed out. “That adjusts the boundaries of friendship quite drastically.”

“You and Cleo lived together right?” He asked.

“Three years in college and a couple of months when I first moved here,” I nodded. He held the door open for me into the station and together we swiped Ventra cards and walked down the stairs.

“She and I are very close,” I told him. “And honestly I'm lucky to have her. She's the person that builds me up, makes me laugh, understands what I need before I need it… I used to come home from my evening class and she'd force her leftover dinner on me while she chose which episode of Parenthood we needed to rewatch based on my mood.”

“Not long after Louis and I started living together he made me try a Chelsea bun recipe and I mentioned that they reminded me of home. My dad would pick them up for us on special occasions,” Niall shrugged as we came to a stop on the platform to wait.

“Whenever I felt homesick over the next few years he'd not say a word but I'd wake up in the morning or from a nap and there would be a batch, still warm on our counter waiting for me.”

I smiled thinking about Louis and Niall’s friendship. I smiled thinking about mine and Cleo's. When you find a good friend, you just have an understanding that the universe gave you a gift.

“He's a big softie.”

“He really is,” Niall agreed. “After a bad week for either of us, I'd wake up to mountains of crepes with a topping buffet. Chocolate sauce, cream, fruit, whatever worked on a crepe he'd put it out and we’d just eat until our stomachs were bursting. Then we’d spend the day avoiding all our work by going over to the beach and playing footie or volleyball. Even if it was freezing out.”

“Wow,” I laughed, “all Cleo and I ever did when we were upset was down sleeves of Oreos together and make giant bowls of popcorn and watch comedy specials… or Moana on repeat”

“S’pretty much the same thing,” Niall smiled.

“Basically,” I nodded.

“So is Ana always that mothering?” He asked now.

“Pretty much, yeah,” I told him. “She and Harry are also good if you ever need to talk through a big decision or if you just want to watch romcoms and weep through them with someone so you're not alone in your room crying into a tub of vegan cookie dough ice cream thinking about the vastness of the universe and sending a handful of vague existential tweets.”

“Oddly specific,” Niall smirked as he looked sideways at me.

“The tweets were later deleted,” I waved it away. “It was fine.”

His smirk turned into a full smile.

“Liam is a little finicky,” I admitted. “He's incredibly charismatic but you sometimes don't know if you can connect with him depending on circumstances… He’s always cracking silly jokes and making us laugh, but he's also unafraid to tell it like it is. One time he insulted someone Cleo was seeing to her face but he did it so subtly that only we picked up on it and the poor girl had no idea.

“He's got a big heart though, so it's easy to forgive him for being a little brash. He means well. I honestly just think it's because he doesn't see himself as having the time to deal with anything that isn't real or worth his effort.”

“He seems like he's good crack,” Niall said as the red line came into the station.

“Crack?” I asked as we stepped on and took two seats side-by-side near the door away from the two other people in the carriage.

“Fun,” he explained. “It's a term for fun.”

I nodded.

“I really like them all,” he said after the train had begun moving. “You were right about Harry drinking the wine,” he added with a smile. “And it's been a while since I've just gone and spent with people my own age. I really enjoy them all.”

“You didn't go out in Ireland while you were back?”

He shook his head, his mouth turning down for a moment before fluctuating back to a neutral expression.

“I lived in a tiny village outside of Dublin and the only people there my age were lads from school I'd been more than happy to be done with when I moved here for uni.”

“No bonding then?” I asked.

“Eh,” he shrugged. “A bit like Liam I guess in that I didn't really think it worthwhile to try and make friends with people I knew weren't genuine or weren't going to last.”

“I think that's perfectly fair,” I allowed. “Still, two years of not really seeing friends or enjoying company must've been hard.”

“It wasn't the worst,” he shook his head. “It wasn't always easy though when I just wanted to get out and have a pint or two and just talk football or music or whatever. Let's just say I'm glad to be back here. Tonight was fun.”

“And we’ve got that marathon tomorrow.”

“We’re watching what, again?”

“Stranger Things,” I told him as I watched two college students come into the carriage. They were all over each other. Hands always in contact with the other person. Their giggles could be heard across the carriage.

“Harry is too scared to watch it by himself. So we agreed to make it easier for him. Trouble is,” I smirked at Niall, “with Cleo and Louis around it'll probably be worse for him.”

Niall laughed at that.

“Can I tell you something and trust you not to tell Cleo and Louis?” Niall asked. I gave him an amused glance but made no such promise. He continued anyway. “I'm a bit scared to watch as well.”

I bit my lip to keep my smile from coming out fully but Niall could tell I wanted to laugh. He groaned and leaned his head back so that it his against the window behind him before he leaned forward again and looked at me.

“You're never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“I won't tell,” I reassured him. “However, I will not let you live this down. No.”

“This is Fullerton. Transfer to Purple and Brown line trains at Fullerton.” The CTA voice boomed overhead. Some trains you could barely hear the announcements and some trains it felt like the announcement was in your head it was so loud. This was the latter for sure.

“This is me,” Niall said standing up.

“Please tell me you know the song.”

“What song?” He asked, confused. The doors opened.

“I'll explain tomorrow. See you, Niall,” I waved as he stepped off, confusion still clouding his features as he looked over his shoulder once before making his way toward the station exit.

#lots of louis - i really adore their friendship #more niall #more friends #here we go #fic: oth #fic: only ticket home #OTH4 #niall horan fanfic #1dff

9 notes · View notes