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tinyinvadr · 2 months ago

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I’m sick today so I’m doing self care in the form of bed rest, having some chicken soup, drinking water, and writing about tiny lesbians. It’s all part of the recovery process.

Anyway, this is a little prequel to the Psychoborrower series about Sibilia’s parents!

By Lantern Light

I held my sweet Faina’s hand tightly as we trudged through the snow. It was the harshest, coldest night of winter, and we had just been forced to flee as our colony had been discovered. Our families and friends were all scattered across the Grulovian countryside, and we were unsure if we would ever see them again. We were lucky to still have each other.

And… our baby.

Faina was well towards the end of her pregnancy, and our child would be along any day. We thought she’d be able to give birth back in the colony, but with our abrupt departure, survival looked bleak for all three of us. The cold, unforgiving snow was no place for a newborn to be brought into the world. We needed shelter, even if it was only temporary.

My family name, Lantern, originated from my grandfather. He traveled through the harsh conditions of the outside world, until he eventually found a house to settle in, led by the glow of a lantern. That small firelight has aided us for generations, and I could only hope the same would go for us.

Just as I thought we would never find a place, Faina pointed out a slight, warm glow in the distance.

“Elina, look!”

It was like my prayers had been answered. That beautiful glow was calling to us. Our beacon of safety and hope for the future. It was our only chance.

I hoisted Faina up on my back and ran. She’s physically stronger than I am, but the adrenaline helped me carry her. I knew this would hurt the next morning, but I didn’t care. My wife and our baby were far more important.

We soon arrived at the source of the light. It was a small caravan, and it looked to be pretty run down. I’d almost think it was abandoned if it weren’t for the lit lantern. At the very least, the humans that lived in it didn’t appear to be home. Perfect.

I pulled us up the steps, and we made it inside, sighing with relief as the warmth set in. We were going to be okay.

The first thing I did was scout out the caravan, see if there were any places to hide. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to work with. It was an open space, and if we weren’t careful, we could easily be spotted.

I also took note of the cradle. Whoever lived there had a baby, or possibly a small child. That could be an issue.

Still, we had to make do with it until the weather cleared up. We couldn’t afford to be picky, so we just had to be careful.

“Elina!”

I turned to see Faina, breathing heavily with her hands resting on her belly.

“Are you…?”

She nodded, and I rushed over, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. We needed to find somewhere hidden for her to give birth. There was no telling how long she’d be in labor, and if the humans came home and saw us…

My worst fears were realized when a woman suddenly appeared in the doorway, her eyes immediately falling on us.

“Huh?”

I took a defensive stance, guarding Faina as I unsheathed my needle. I knew fully well that I didn’t stand a fighting chance against a human by myself, but damnit I was gonna try.

“Don’t come any closer!”

She didn’t make any moves towards us, but I kept my stance, ready to strike if need be.

“It’s alright, I don’t mean any harm, I just…”

Her attention shifted to Faina, and I moved to completely block her.

“Don’t even think about it!”

The woman frowned. “I know you’re scared, but I can help. Please, I understand. I’m… also a mother.”

It was then that I noticed the sleeping baby in her arms. He was maybe about a year old. But that didn’t change the fact that she was a human. This had to be a trick.

“I’m not falling for it! I won’t let you near my wife, you hear me?!”

Faina took my free hand, stepping forward so I was no longer blocking her.

“Wait. Let’s hear her out.”

She stood beside me, focusing on the human for a second. She was trying to get a read on her.

Faina had told me before that she has the ability to read people. She described it as being able to hear people’s inner voices, learning their true intentions. That was how she knew I had a crush on her back when we first met, and that gave her the courage to ask me out. In this case, she was going to determine whether this woman intended to kill us or not.

“She’s telling the truth. She genuinely wants to help us.”

I put my needle back in its sheath, not taking my eyes off the human the entire time. I trusted Faina’s judgement, but that didn’t make me any less wary of the human before us. The baby in her arms didn’t do much to ease my nerves, either. Human babies are far too unpredictable. But at least he was asleep.

We agreed to let the woman help us, and she set her baby down in the cradle. She then went over to the kitchen, grabbing a tissue box and a clean towel. She placed the box on the floor next to us, laying the towel over the top layer of tissues. It almost looked like a bed.

“I know it’s not much, but I thought I could at least give you someplace comfortable to have the baby. I’ll give you some privacy, but I’ll just be on the other side of the room if you need anything.”

At that, she settled into the rocking chair beside the cradle, keeping true to her word by focusing on a book instead of watching us.

I helped Faina settle into the tissue bed, pulling the towel over her like a blanket and planting a kiss on her forehead.

“God… how did I get so lucky to end up with you?”

She smiled. “It’s not luck, Elina. It’s fate.”

About an hour later, the woman’s husband came home, and she explained everything to him. He was confused, but was generally understanding. They both kept their distance from us, which I appreciated, though I could tell they wanted to do more to help.

Faina managed to fall asleep after a while, and I took that time address the humans.

“I can’t thank you enough for letting us stay. I’m not sure what would’ve happened to us if we hadn’t found a place to have the baby.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble. Though, I do have to ask, what were the two of you doing out in the cold?”

At that, I reluctantly explained what happened to our colony. There wasn’t much of a point in hiding it from them. There was no going back to our old home.

As expected, the man was surprised by the revelation that tiny people exist, though the woman was unfazed.

“I see. You’re borrowers, aren’t you?”

I was taken aback, but I kept my cool. There wasn’t anything inherently wrong with her having prior knowledge of us, but it still caught me off guard. She noticed my reaction, and gave me a reassuring smile.

“Borrowers lived in my house growing up. I never saw them, but my sister could hear them with her psychic powers, and she told me about them. We left them alone, though, since they were afraid of us.”

“I see. That’s good that you respected their boundaries. Not many humans would do the same.”

She frowned. “I’m sorry about what happened to your last home. Please, feel free to stay as long as you need to. At least until the weather warms up. I can’t in good conscience let you back out into the cold with the baby.”

This felt unreal. She was actually offering to let us stay. I had my doubts, and had to consider the possibility that this was a trap, but then I remembered that they couldn’t hide anything from Faina. If either of them had any cruel intentions, she would know, and we could escape before they could try anything. Though, even without psychic powers, I had a feeling that wouldn’t be necessary.

“I don’t think we’ve properly introduced ourselves. My name is Lazarus Aquato, and this is my wife, Marona.”

Marona chuckled. “And that’s our little Augustus in the cradle over there.”

The baby was still a concern, but we would probably be alright as long as we stayed out of his reach.

“I’m Elina. Elina Lantern.”

While Faina continued to sleep, I spent some time getting to know the Aquatos. They were a couple of traveling acrobats, and they’d been putting on circus performances all across the country. Their dream was to eventually take their show worldwide. They also planned to train their son in the art of acrobatics, in the hopes that he would one day carry on their legacy. “The Aquato Family Circus”. It had a nice ring to it.

Later into the night, they set up sleeping arrangements for me right next to Faina. That way, I could be close by to coach her through her contractions.

The next morning, our baby was finally born. A beautiful little girl with thick, dark hair and green eyes. Against all odds, our precious daughter was delivered in perfect health.

Marona and Lazarus were awestruck when they saw her. I could only imagine just how tiny she must have looked to them. They both made sure not to raise their voices above a whisper, and kept themselves at enough of a distance so as not to overwhelm us.

“Have you decided on a name yet?”

I turned to Faina. We had discussed several options, but we knew we wouldn’t be able to reach a definitive decision until after we actually saw the baby. I already knew which name I wanted, but I wanted to make sure we were on the same page.

“She does look like a Sibilia, doesn’t she?”

I chuckled. “Still reading my mind, huh?”

“What can I say? Your inner voice is very talkative. And pretty.”

God, that woman knew how to make me a blushy mess.

From that day on, we stayed with the Aquatos. They were more than happy to provide us with food and shelter, and we came to form a unique bond with them that I don’t think any borrower ever had with a human before. They were our protectors, but they didn’t see us as inferior in any way and treated us with full respect.

Sometimes I worried about Sibi growing up to be too comfortable around humans to the point where her survival instincts wouldn’t develop, but I knew that if anything were to happen, the Aquatos would go above and beyond to save her from any danger.

As long as we stayed together, we would be okay.

#giant/tiny #g/t #giant tiny #g/t writing #psychonauts

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liketwoswansinbalance · 24 days ago

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@the-royal-rot Thank you very much for your thoughts!

-The theatrical references (and the prophetic-exploitation plot thread) were new developments while writing—they weren't fully planned, so I'm thrilled that you liked them!

-Thank you for teaching me something new! I was not aware that it was proven. In fact, I thought it was a myth. The partial coinciding of their headaches wasn't intentional either. But that's an interesting find nonetheless. All the migraine/headache were meant to emphasize were how much of a pain Vulcan was and the extent to which Rhian did not trust in Rafal's plans.

-Yes! In Rise, his eyes were "sky-colored," which implied blue, and since this fic is set during Rise, I chose for him to have blue eyes. I chose "frost-blue" as the descriptor because I wanted to signal that his character has become colder than it had been before. Also, the only time I ever write him with green eyes, partially because I'm used to picturing him with blue eyes as Fall changed his appearance, is when I write him as Good, which has only happened in one fic so far. Therefore, when he remains Evil, I just leave his eyes as blue.

-Yes! Though I don't remember that somehow, as in I remember saying it about the riding boots, but I wonder what the context was... but, again, I'm happy that I'm not the only one who thinks the boots would suit him! (We also have slight evidence from the prequel illustrations, although those boots seem shorter, and TLEA's cover, despite it not being him.) Completely agree that as a fashion statement they fit anyway. He might even have a better silhouette in his human or shadow/incorporeal form with tailored things, so it could be down to vanity. Ngl, I wear a long, black coat with a vent in it and black boots during the colder months because the impression I had of his fashion sense (and actually Sherlock Holmes' as well) influenced me...

Look out world! I'm dressed like a covertly dead man who probably belongs in a psych ward—and he probably has more undue influence on me than it's worth from beyond the grave. /j

-Ahem, I still partially support the idea of baggy clothes, as he'd probably appreciate the comfort/ease or range of movement, and it makes some sense for certain Modern AUs, yet I'm also glad that I've "converted" you into agreeing with my logic, haha. However, I'll also say, I probably just deviated from canon then because we don't know if his School Master robes were loose-fitting or tailored/structured, so really, he could prefer either fit, unless I'm misremembering. I think the book 1 robes were loose though. Plus, at least given the illustrations, the twins' blue suits seemed narrow. So, rather conflicting, overall.

⸻

Sorry, I'm getting into an aside...

-Off-topic: if he did prefer tighter fits or more structured pieces, so as to not interfere with his workflow, why would he design his students' uniforms to be baggy?

My best speculation is that this would be part of the dehumanization found in conformity/mistreatment, limiting basic agency in appearance alone, or a subtler form of torture (creating small, daily inconveniences for others' workflows, if students are ever expected to do similar magical tasks). It's also not in line with Nevers' values to be concerned with appearances, so ugly uniforms could be passed off as a form of values "instruction."

I (non-seriously) think that Rafal must've stolen inspiration from the Stanford Prison Experiment for the uniforms because they were basically bedclothes/unstructured shifts or smocks. You could probably produce them inexpensively (Rafal the cheapskate, lol) and in theory, it'd be one-size-fits-all.

And it saves the unfortunate students from "wasting" time and energy on dressing their best/neatly when it has been made futile. Ironically: does his sadism know no bounds?

Ok, for educational purposes (why not?! Sorry in advance if this becomes less interesting.): deindividualization is a phenomenon in which people are united by having their usual identities stripped away and are safely anonymous as part of a greater crowd or even, military unit. Thus, they become more prone to following the actions/"wisdom" of the (often, but not always, hostile) crowd. This is likely how we get any kind of mobs in masks by the way, present-day and historical.

People involved in such situations are more likely to do things that are out of character for them because they have relinquished their individual identities to the greater group without realizing they are caught up in it. They're just doing what anyone else does, but it's less consciously done and more insidious than the workings of peer-pressure.

And, under certain circumstances, atypical actions can become extreme or violent ones, which is to say: not every example of deindividualization is criminal/bad, but most examples I've heard of are chaotic/aggressive/destructive. Deindividualization could also be benign, like a person losing their reserve/temper and shouting at a sports match in the presence of others doing the same. (But regardless, take a pause and try looking in the mirror, humanity!)

If this were applied to the Nevers, I strongly suspect more Evil could happen while in (group-)disguises, or if they're one of many indistinct soldiers, united by the banner of one cause.

So, deindividualization has the potential to be dangerous or even lethal. Try to avoid its possessing you. It is distinct from but sometimes associated with dehumanization (also to be avoided, of course).

Hmm... just to reiterate in case a general audience unfamiliar with SGE is reading this: I do not wish harm on anyone or on any living beings.

(Next, as a general warning to anyone reading this, don't search for the Stanford Prison Experiment if you do not wish to read about irl torture and humanity's surprising capacity for evil. The less tame, more horrific example would be Abu Ghraib, but the images are disturbing, so, uh, I'd also advise against looking into that one. I'm just putting this here as here as psych. study references for myself because some of the visuals/uniforms happen to be similar. If you're curious, I won't stop you though.)

Now, off my soapbox for the day—

⸻

Response continued here...

-Oh, great! I had no idea I had that the blue amplified the effect of his hair specifically—I just imagined it as being part of general characterization. I wondered if it would look silly as a visual, but I reasoned that blood was not quite the same as dyed hair, which he'd probably find more frivolous?

Thank you again!!! And, well, bejabbers, it's certainly not unfunny. Bizarrely enough, most of the things that you mentioned weren't the references I had planned. Yet, you are absolutely right that his appearance/clothes were intentional. And I grinned the whole way through at your discoveries!

(I will probably reveal the few remaining things I snuck in when I have more time to create another post.)

Return of the Inagrotten

This fic is also available on Wattpad or AO3, if you would prefer to read it elsewhere.

⸻

@heya-there-friends Here’s to another fic—since I remember you mentioned that you wanted to be tagged in the future. Cheers!

If anyone else would like to be tagged on my fics, just let me know!

Further, you might be surprised to know I’ve referenced this fic before, in this post and in this post, and that it is no longer a one-shot but two chapters long.

Additional fun fact: Some of the fic’s narration was probably slightly influenced by how I sometimes feel like I’m watching a surreal play, as a passive observer in front of other humans when they interact.

NO CONTENT WARNINGS: The violence is largely canon-typical.

And now, without further ado—I hope excessive eye contact and almost nothing entertain you.

Summary:

Rafal becomes what he hates most to “save” Rhian at a steep cost—himself.

Rafal puts on a grand “production” for Vulcan.

⸻

CHAPTER I: Eclipses, Ellipses, and Lapses in Judgment:

Right as Vulcan and Rhian stepped into the shaded clearing from opposite sides, an inkblot-like portent appeared on the horizon. Neither of them noticed.

Rhian looked chary, eyes welling with tears that threatened to fall, as his substitute swaggered up to him. What had he agreed to? And why—why a Trial that could potentially endanger one of his charges. And all because he wouldn’t submit and roll over for a takeover by his once charming traitor.

And now, his Evers would see him risk losing everything to, to this—this impostor School Master, this great boor of a man whom he never should have trusted! And Rhian hadn’t even been granted the chance to parley much further with the vile opportunist the last time, due to Vulcan’s burgeoning popularity among Evil’s students.

But Good always wins, he told himself. Simple. His side would win. It had to. He’d known all along and always would. He’d seen Good win the last few tales.

But he had everything to lose, a darker voice of sharp-edged rationale joined the chorus in his head. His opponent had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

He did not feel any better.

Swallowing bile and his pride, Rhian reached out to shake Vulcan’s hand when a tidal wave crashed onto the shores of Good, sloshing onto the lawn, dousing Rhian and everyone else, and forming a heavy fog.

Rhian dropped Vulcan’s hand like it had burnt him, and the two competitors froze as the fog began to subside, neither daring to move from where they were rooted in place.

Indeed, Rhian’s boots had already begun to sink into the grass, drowning in the muck. Muck! His white boots and swan-feather doublet would be soiled by muck!

He exhaled heavily. There was nothing he could do about it now.

The seawater chilled Rhian, dripping down from his collar, and his spine hurt, as if he had lost his balance and fallen—and yet, he didn’t feel afraid.

Vulcan on the other hand looked as if the living daylights had been knocked out of him, but shortly recovered.

Even the students backed up a bit, and some of the cowardly ones scattered away. Several remained and held their breaths, even the Nevers.

Rhian and Vulcan’s heads swung to the newly-arrived, amorphous… whatever-it-was, alien through the veil of fog.

It docked right before them, banging into the shoreline, as waves hauled it up and retreated, letting it skid further across the lawn, upturning sod and carving out a shallow trench.

It turned slightly, its long side facing everyone, and settled with a thud, halting just inches away from where Rhian and Vulcan watched.

It stood at an imposing height, a hulking block of pure onyx—upon closer inspection, a ship.

A ship that eclipsed them all with its broad starboard, its ever-darkening, looming shadow, that obliterated the sun, swallowed the students gathered around the warring pair, and eclipsed the clearing whole.

The ship stood still, as if watching for the School Master and his substitute’s next moves.

When no one moved, it lifted off the ground, levitating above the wet grass by about an ell.

Jaws dropped at the marvel, and more than a few students wondered if it would float higher or coast over their mute, little pates, and take off into the sky after this odd detour at the Schools as it surely had to be an unidentified flying object.

Instead, the ship righted itself, deftly rotating so its bow faced the clearing. It plunked down with half a hollow thump on the craggy, stone shore and half a squelch in the grass as it rocked and tipped forward marginally, mast angled, jutting out like a magician’s bow.

Cheeky, Rhian thought—assuming he were right in knowing what to expect from the vessel. Yet he still couldn’t stop his involuntary shaking.

It was the cold, wasn’t it? In response, his stomach lurched and roiled like the dark waters.

The ship boasted diaphanous, black sails and itself was rather solid-looking with an ebony hull, encrusted with sleek onyx and obsidian.

The clearing stood dead still, fragile. It was silent, except for the water lapping the shoreline with great, constant slaps. The only movement was the flapping of the sails, snapping, stiff against the cutting winds.

Would it leave? The students mused to themselves. Would it leave them be and return their daylight? Return them to delight in their sunshiny Ever picnics and resume their Never picket lines at the encampments?

No, it seemed.

Beyond them all, lighting split the sky, crisscrossing erratically, fracturing the silence like the shattering of glass—right on cue, as if orchestrated by a willing conductor.

Many students startled, already having anticipated the swell before a storm after such dreadful, broken silence.

Several more jumped and fled for their lives, hiking lengths on foot, as fast as mortally possible towards the cover of the treeline or Good.

They didn’t want to stay when everything fell to ruin, but Vulcan and Rhian remained firm despite the fog and the dark.

Rhian cringed. He couldn’t bear his own impotence. But he couldn’t do anything without assessing the threat at hand. Something or someone had changed the game.

Then, the last of the fog cleared, rolled away and swept to the side like the parting of theater curtains, as if creating an open channel for the bow of the great, anchored vessel.

The Inagrotten seemed to be commandeered by a boy nearly as alabaster-pale as his otherworldly crew.

Rhian squinted. He and Vulcan were forced to crane their necks up to meet the icy eyes of the visitor, unnerving eyes that skewered cleanly through Vulcan’s soul. Vulcan turned away, shaken, but did not flee.

Rafal? Or was he not—

Even in the supposed privacy of his own thoughts, Rhian faltered—his brother’s stare, it bore straight into him.

Yet Rafal looked as if he weren’t seeing. It was as if he were staring through, at the nothing beyond.

And after he’d been gone for so many months—it was approaching six months—Rhian knew. And—

He could only rub at his eyes and hope, hope that this sight, this apparition-like boy wasn’t a mirage, that this was his brother.

Rhian’s voice caught in his throat while Vulcan stared bemused at the Evil School Master, perhaps, a School Master no more.

He did… certainly, look as youthful as ever, Rhian assured himself. He had not aged. One less fear to harbor. They were still immortal. Probably.

But, the shadows carved into his face were deeper, like in his time apart from his twin, he’d seen a ghost or unspeakable, maritime horrors.

Yes—he seemed… rougher, somehow. He carried himself differently, standing there, at the bow, with a haunted look. His eyes seemed sunken, or perhaps it was the way the sun cast over him from above, the dark cast it produced, at his height far above the clearing, a clear-sighted gaze.

It was his usual hard-eyed countenance, the same as always… except not.

He was eerily still, more disarming than usual, creepier, Rhian dared think, as if he’d picked up the traits of his comrades, those creatures—from months at sea with them.

His movements, if any, were too languid, like his bodily systems had shut themselves down, constricted like ice. And he looked gaunt, veins and collarbone more prominent, and his face, angular, more so than ever, with those shadows lining his face, like he didn’t have a heart pumping blood left to speak of. Like he ran cold, colder than the rest, colder than ever, as a specter, a shade of his former self.

The iron stench of blood clung thick in the air, clung to Rafal’s strange, new garments.

Craning his neck even further upward at the barque, Rhian could’ve sworn his brother’s clothes smelt of blood, but he couldn’t see a trace of blood on them. Just, smears of—blue—a strange, deep, sapphire blue on his clothes, tinting spikes of his hair, a spray of the inky substance speckling his jawline and the side of his face, and streaks of blue on the… Night Crawlers, assembled in rough formation behind him.

By the Storian’s grace, were those real Night Crawlers? He’d never seen them outside of storybooks. It was like Rafal had dredged himself out of a storybook, out of the deep undersea, like a myth among myths.

Night Crawlers. Bad idea. Rhian winced and closed his eyes, starting to develop a migraine. Not Night Crawlers! Not Night Crawlers at Good!

Rhian would have concluded it was blood, but it couldn’t be, could it?

He opened his eyes in a flash. Yes, they were still there…

They flanked Rafal, falling behind him, like sentinels, even paler than their leader’s bloodless pallor, eyes ever-watching, roving, moving, momentarily eying him in his sodden doublet, spattered in muck, before sweeping from side to side, from person to person, as if in search for something more, or someone from the sparse crowd in particular.

All Rhian’s mind could grasp was the sensation of eyes, Vulcan’s glare, the Night Crawlers’—and his wet socks.

Then, finally, the last set of eyes flicked too-quickly over everyone in sight and once again settled on the restless pair below. Rafal’s.

But Rafal just as quickly lowered his gaze to a sash at his waist and then his black, cavalier boots.

Why yes! Rhian hadn’t noticed. His brother was shod with tall, new boots. It was a miracle in itself that Rafal wasn’t wearing the same, old boots as always. Albeit, these ones were rather scuffed and dripped blue ink.

Rafal tapped his foot impatiently, exhaled, as if waiting for something, then casually scraped one boot on the edge of the ebony deck, attempting to clean it off and dislodge a glop that had practically fused itself to Rafal’s sole.

Vulcan huffed and muttered, “Stupid snowman,” under his breath.

Rafal ignored the trespasser, and shook his booted foot tetchily until the indistinct gobbet of blue flew off his boot and smacked Vulcan in the bat tattoo, just missing the lout’s eye.

“Oops. Didn’t see you down there, peon,” Rafal breezed, blatantly lying. He swept his hand through his snow-white hair, cresting it with more of the blue from his hands without realizing it.

Rhian quelled his mysterious, rising sense of nausea. At what? The rich, blue stains that he thought should be laundered sooner rather than later?

If he hadn’t known any better, Rhian would’ve been sure that something smelt of rust, of blood. He had to be imagining things. He blinked at the Night Crawlers.

They stood motionless, stolid like statues.

Rhian frowned harder and realized that he had been frowning all along. And this new Rafal was slovenly! And blue!

Rhian glanced at the grisly gob sliding down Vulcan’s face as the man swatted at it blindly.

Squid ink, he decided, again, trying to set his nausea aside to no avail. Saliva coated his gullet. Rafal must have stepped on a squid. That was it. The substance was a squid with, with… ventricles. Ventricles? Wait.

The lurid, inky blob resembled some creature’s innards, Rhian reflected, sickened. Had Rafal—

About to burst from curiosity, Rhian started, “Wha—”

Rhian must’ve been addled. Rafal cut him off. “You must know, I have returned to reclaim my post,” he enunciated evenly, as if Vulcan were deaf or dumb, projecting his voice as if he were playing the lead role in a theater production.

Rhian shook his head vigorously, hand slicing the air at his neck, trying to signal to Rafal to stop talking in front of Vulcan!

Rafal paid his brother no heed and examined the blue underneath his ragged fingernails, having resumed tapping his foot on deck, stalling. He didn’t have a watch, but knew he had arrived on set early.

Even the birches stared at him accusingly as he looked out on everyone else.

Forget it.

Bah. Now he had to wait for everyone else to catch up, the blasted imbeciles. Nothing like—nevermind.

Vulcan fumed, his ears turning red, a pugnacious grimace crossing his face.

Right on schedule. Rafal nodded at him imperiously, eyes turned to slits, furtively glancing at the man’s ill-concealed pocket lump.

Placidly, Rafal rolled up his sleeves. He loathed this frilled tunic. It was too baggy, and therefore too impractical for his taste. How did the filthy, drunken idiots stumble around without catching themselves on their own cutlasses? The same critique went for the pantaloons—and the fussy sleeves easily soiled, but they were already soiled, so no matter. He could burn these ‘pirate’ clothes later and forget about the whole incident. Besides, his proceedings would be civilized, unlike those pests’ sorry excuse for discipline.

That was when the midday sun at last emerged and reached its summit. His next cue.

Finally. Rafal looked at it directly and smiled like a loon, frost-blue eyes glowing in the light.

Meanwhile, Rhian worried for his brother’s mental state as Vulcan grew more agitated. Why wasn’t he moving?

Rafal spared a glance at his incapacitated, seafaring crew. Unfortunate that they didn’t fare well under the sun. Now was not the time to lose composure—but it didn’t matter. They didn’t matter. Yet.

The Night Crawlers—all of them veiled in such a funereal way, decked in wide-brimmed hats—hissed, and others recoiled into their cloaks, blinded by the brilliance of Good’s lit glass castle.

Rafal observed Rhian’s feather-adorned clavicle rise up and down as he heaved great gulps of air, the fool practically navel-gazing, contemplating the blue-tinged muck of all things.

Coward, Rafal thought lightly, suppressing a sigh.

Rafal gave a subtle hand signal, dismissing the students, who responded to his gesture eagerly.

A few waved back gleefully like they had their heads screwed on the wrong way. Pah. Children.

They ran for their lives, no longer a captive audience. But he hadn’t truly done them a favor. He had other plans in store to sort out the bad, rotted-through apples later.

The others, the better-shielded Night Crawlers, clustered together, like a malignant pox, and grinned, revealing fanged-toothed smiles, stained blue, that gleamed like slivers of upended crescent moon.

They stared greedily at Vulcan.

Rafal shook his head slightly, not wanting to err, and kept his eyes fixed on Vulcan. Almost.

A few slumped, and the rest rearranged themselves idly, like predators evaluating prey.

Not yet.

⸻

CHAPTER II: Salutations, Immolations, and Confrontations:

Expectant, Rafal continued to peer down at them, his makeshift puppets, his brother and the enemy—as if he were sitting in an audience, awaiting a grand performance from the mezzanine.

Then, he took note of Vulcan, shaping up to be quite the aggressor, and his lip curled at the cur in disgust.

“Well. What is it that you are waiting for?” Rafal coaxed sibilantly. “Stage directions?”

Rhian turned back and discovered everyone but he and Vulcan had left the clearing. Not a single student in sight.

“Rhian, it’s your move. And the show must go on. How ever will you deal with this dastardly stranger? Or is he not a stranger at all?” Rafal mocked.

On cue, Rhian immediately flushed red. He had frozen in place, holding his right arm bent at his side the whole time, wrist hanging limp! His hand dropped to his side instantly. Rafal hadn’t known about the Trial agreement? And the handshake! Had he?

Rafal addressed his brother again. “What are you doing, Rhian? Something rash? Something you'll come to regret? I suppose it's almost prophetic that I returned when I did, or else, you'd let our School fall to ruins, wouldn't you?”

Vulcan inched forward to face Rafal, straining his neck, not that could’ve stepped any closer to the Inagrotten without plastering himself to the hull like a figurehead. “Hah! Cold, Evil Master back, Duckling?” he boomed. “What does Duckling do now? Evict Lord Vulcan?”

Rafal’s scowl deepened at the term of endearment. Duckling? What conversations had he not borne witness to? Forget it. He gritted his teeth, setting his jaw.

His head was already devolving into a cradle for a pulsing headache due to this Vulcan character slamming down on his last nerves like a guillotine. This was exactly why he hadn’t hired the man the first time.

He turned to Rhian. “You liked this numbskull?” he called out.

Rhian, who still seemed queasy, shrugged and gave a little, diffident smile.

‘Lord’ Vulcan sneered, maniacally whisked his hands around in the air, then feigned some sort of hideous mock-terror, all while his eyes rolled back into his skull so the whites showed.

It must be amateur hour, Rafal groused. What a poor man’s impression of a true Never. A pathetic final performance. And such low production value.

“Or, will brother save Duckling and Duckling’s fat cats?”

Fat cats?

Rafal quickly dismissed the aberrant image of Rhian with cats, and turned his back for just a moment.

Through rustling fabrics and veils, and low, slurred, susurrated murmurs that approximated speech, Rhian made out something like: “You’ll get your prize soon enough, after I deal with the trespasser and my brother. Just fall back, and I’ll do the talking as always.”

It was as if his brother meant to-to pacify these killers, these man-draining monsters.

But the Night Crawlers never posed the problem, Rafal well knew.

And, naturally, problems the first and the second were still watching him confer with his crew from below in the clearing.

The Night Crawlers shuffled around, rearranging themselves once more, skulking behind Rafal, chastened but petulant. Most slipped below deck, several adjusting their hats.

The intrepid few kept watch. One in particular, with his black-gloved hand, pulled out a silver pocket watch and flipped its face open before clapping it shut.

Rhian couldn’t puzzle out the strange sight. At least they weren’t swarming.

Just then, Rafal leapt down from the side of the ship and stalked over to face Vulcan, stopping at a spot a few yards away, looking blasé.

Not yet.

Vulcan shoved a hand into his pocket.

Not yet.

Vulcan made to attack, eyes probing Rafal, dagger gripped in hand.

Not yet.

Rhian’s eyes widened as he caught on. He opened his mouth, about to call out and warn his brother to move—

But Rafal, as if stone deaf, reached into the depths of his long, coal-black, wide-cuffed greatcoat, and tugged at something.

A collection of bone-dry matches that had once been wrapped up spilled out of his pocket onto the wet ground.

At last, he pulled out a white handkerchief, flecked with the barest hints of blue, and raised it skyward, dismissing his brother’s shouts, brushing off Rhian entirely.

With the handkerchief, a few more matches spilled out of his pocket, skittering into the path of Vulcan’s forthcoming advance.

Vulcan raised an eyebrow at the gesture.

Not yet.

The lowly cheat stepped forth to check the limits of Rafal’s surrender, or rather, his resistance to pain—completely insubordinate to the universal gesture Rafal had just executed. He wanted to test the so-called Evil School Master. School the coward himself.

Not yet.

Vulcan feinted once with the dagger.

Not yet.

Moored in place, Rafal did not move, did not flinch, his neutral expression unwavering and handkerchief tossed aside.

Twice.

Rhian gasped.

Not yet.

NO, Rafal mouthed to Rhian.

There. The viper slung the dagger, aiming for Rafal’s heart the third time.

Now.

The Good School Master valiantly intervened anyway… He took off and dove, but overcorrected, launching himself too far, and straight into a patch of muck to Rafal’s far right, the sludge blinding him.

Rafal, for his part and parcel, simply stepped aside, two paces to the left.

The dagger whizzed by.

Silence.

Then Vulcan roared with the vengeance of a thousand suns and thrust forward with the intent to clobber Rafal.

Hurry up, clod, Rafal carped.

Vulcan slipped on the wet grass, and careened forward, landing onto the scraggly bed of matches.

Rafal laughed and laughed until his stomach started to ache and flicked his wrist in Vulcan’s general direction, scorching him to death by white-hot incineration.

The kindling was meager but effectively fueled.

His proper pay-off! And Vulcan’s send-off! Good riddance! At last.

And all at half past twelve on the dot—praise Adela’s soul! He almost regretted killing her with questions.

Ashes cascaded to the ground, and blew off, carried away by a sorcery-induced wind.

Deceitful designs paired well with dishonorable foes.

Disoriented by the sound of the blast, the puissant odor of charred flesh, and his brother’s psychotic laughter, Rhian groped blindly and used Rafal’s fallen handkerchief to wipe at his eyes. What in the Woods—

Rhian blinked back acrid, grey tears.

Plumes of smoke, cinders still asmoulder, raining down from the sky, and the odd, new Rafal in pirate garb swam into Rhian’s vision—a Rafal curled in on himself, still convulsing with laughter, silent spasms racking his narrow frame, until he straightened up and inhaled deeply.

All that remained of Vulcan was one blackened, steaming tract of lawn.

Rafal sunk into a bow, arms outstretched behind him like a wide ‘V,’ like the wings of a tainted, blue swan, hair glinting brilliantly beneath the sun.

The Night Crawlers broke into rhythmless applause from their places.

And Rhian? Rhian gawped, sat in his puddle, almost catatonic with shock, spitting blades of grass, taking in the scorched clearing and… his brother, the actor.

That squid dye or whatever-it-was would never wash out, Rhian mourned without a second thought for his once-substitute.

The Evil School Master strolled further into the clearing, irreverently stepped over his would-be usurper’s spot, and strode past Rhian, greatcoat flagging. He left his Night Crawlers be on the Inagrotten, fixed his sleeves, and headed towards his School, towards Evil.

Dealing with everything else would be trifles.

He paused in his half victory lap, half impromptu inspection-to-be of student quarters, and glanced over his shoulder at Rhian—poor, feckless Rhian—still agape and paralyzed by shame and the prospect of his own mortality.

Rafal smirked. “Rhian? Now that our Schools, plural, it seems, are settled, why don’t we have a chat? You still have escapades to tell me about, to catch me up on what’s gone on while I was away, don’t you?”

Rhian gawked at Rafal vacantly.

Three…

Two…

One—

Rhian shook himself, wild, golden curls bobbing, and clambered to his feet.

His blue blur of a brother continued across the walkway to Evil.

Rhian gathered his wits about him and wisely decided not to mention the deadly Trial he’d been about to agree to. His soles suctioned up some of the muck and sod as he frantically chased after Rafal.

Before Evil’s raised portcullis, Rafal came to a dead halt, and looked back at Rhian sprinting across the clearing as it sank with the seawater. It’d have to be drained another day. A pity his brother couldn’t fly.

“Aren’t you going to join me?” He crossed the threshold and peered at Vulcan’s great hall. How garish. He’d have to alter all of it.

Rhian arrived, panting, doubled-over in front of Rafal.

Rafal waited for him to catch his breath. “Good.”

Righting himself, Rhian began to enter the dim antechamber, but Rafal held out a hand.

“Wipe your feet outside. I don’t want Vulcan underfoot,” he said pointedly. “And I don’t want his presence tracked anywhere near my castle, much less within it. Oh, and here’s a lesson: I take care against inviting strange men in.” He eyed Rhian’s now-drooping, feathered doublet. “Indeed, you’re rather strangely dressed, but today, I’ll make an exception. Just this once—knowing it won’t bring about ruin.”

Rhian sighed and obeyed.

Rafal hastened down the hall, and Rhian sped past his brother to face him.

“It’s not what you think! Vulcan was a temporary replacement—no, not a replacement!” Rhian rushed to correct himself. “No one could replace you! An inferior. An inferior figurehead—he occupied the position of Dean, originally! I never meant for him to campaign to become a School Master, but the students! It was them! The students were so taken with him that he snaked his way into their hearts and, and—” he rabbited on, “Or, Hell! It may be what you think, but I can explain!”

Rafal tilted his head, vaguely amused, and thought to himself that the situation was looking to be exactly what he thought had happened. He knew his brother well enough to guess that Rhian had succumbed to a misbegotten bout of infatuation. If not that, then Rhian had run afoul of the Rules in some way—that was for certain.

And Rafal knew better than even Rhian’s slip into old patterns from his taste of Seerdom. He’d had to wait around for Vulcan, to sufficiently irritate and thus, provoke him, so the cad struck first—all so Rhian wouldn’t blame him for an unlawful Attack.

That way, he’d just be parrying back—however disproportionately the man’s fate had turned out, it’d needed to be done. And besides, Rafal thought the scoundrel had deserved worse.

He also made a mental note to ask Rhian for the names of the Nevers who’d backed Vulcan, who’d favored a weak-willed imposter of a Never over him, those traitorous, little ingrates.

All the while, Rhian kept jabbering about strawberry salads, and Marialena, the conwoman, and bats.

Rafal shut his eyes and inhaled, trying to regain some semblance of sympathy for Rhian, but couldn’t take the prattling anymore. “Rhian.”

His brother jolted to attention, wide-eyed, like a scolded child.

Rafal sidestepped Rhian and continued down the hall, a purpose in his step. “I swear, not another word, or I swear I’ll sell you off to Bluebeard. At a discount,” Rafal deadpanned, a hint of mirth in his eyes.

Rhian gasped and spluttered, highly affronted. “N-No!”

Rafal bit back a smile and shook his head. “It’s that or a fair trade with the Night Crawlers for their services. Your pick. What will it be?”

“No,” Rhian held firm, glaring murderously at the back of his brother’s partly blue-clotted scalp.

Rafal swanned further down the hall. “Well—I doubted you’d assent to that. Proves you’ve got more than cats under that crown of yours. Fussy, fussy, in all your frippery, hmm? Regardless, if blue or piracy are what you’d want in a companion or savior, I suppose you’d best stay here, with the Night Crawlers and me,” he offered with mock-gallantry.

“JUST LISTEN TO ME!”

Rafal stopped abruptly on his course, and spun on his heels to face Rhian, wet boots screeching on the tiles, as if for mercy, his soles slapping down, echoing. “I already know most of what went on without me here.”

“Oh, really? For Storian’s sake! Why did I ever want you back?”

“Well, it’s what you once wanted, wasn’t it?” Rafal accused sharply. “You despaired when I left. And let’s just say: I’m never leaving you again, if this, this revolting disorder, is how you running the Schools by yourself is bound to turn out.”

“Fine! Good even!” Rhian agreed far too quickly with vestiges of vitriol. “That’s fair and absolutely fine with me! I’ll gladly put up with anything as long as you stay,” he vowed, attempting to appeal to Rafal’s Good side. He didn’t bother to consider that he’d presently rue the words he’d just spoken ere long.

Rafal grinned roguishly. He’d extracted all that he’d needed to proceed with his plans.

His pace became more brisk by the second as Rhian hurried to match his brother’s gait and racing mind. “Lovely. I suppose you won’t mind it if I make some changes. I’d thought I’d have a harder time convincing you, but it seems you won’t break your promise. That would be dishonorable. And Evil.”

Hostage to his word, Rhian swallowed his retort. Rafal would hold him to anything he said from here on out.

“Now, the first of the changes I plan to implement is a curriculum around discerning Good from Evil. With challenges. We’ll rank the classes from one through twenty. Disguises are far too prevalent these days, and I don’t trust you or your students to know any better. Besides, you are in need of remedial lessons.”

Rhian tried to interject, but Rafal held up a blue-stained hand to shut him down, and continued staunchly.

“Not only that—I require a moat. It’d be another line of defense against trespassers. Higher ground, too, of course. Also, a place to bury our dead.”

“What dead?”

“I don’t expect all the students to last long. The Evers almost expired under Vulcan’s reign, it seems to me, from the state of them, quivering like that, and the Nevers won’t last long under me. You can be sure now that some Nevers will perish—even once they’re out from under my regime—there are always failures in the tales, every now and then, no matter how well they’re trained. Ah, and let’s replace Humburg with fresh blood. I can imagine that dolt did nothing to stand against Vulcan, did he?”

Rhian’s eyes had grown wide now, and he was effectively silenced by shock.

“Also, I was thinking of a torture chamber,” Rafal added as if it were an afterthought.

His brother let out a questionable, strangled sound, but Rafal paid him and his antics no mind, and kept outlining his plans.

Rhian couldn’t expand his airways any further, but again, tried to steel himself, tried to marshal all his verve to contradict Rafal now. No, wait, what was he thinking? Opposing Rafal? He couldn’t! Not after Rafal promised to stay. Who knew if Evil upheld promises? Rhian himself certainly hadn’t, when he’d hired Vulcan against Rafal’s wishes that had been expressed long ago, and he was Good.

But before he ever got the chance to summon up the will to challenge Rafal, he lost his chance.

Rafal spoke up, “That should consolidate my power, don’t you think? It’s worked itself out neatly—the arrangement I have in mind. The Night Crawlers will be paid with the blood they’ll have drawn from our mutinous, young charges. No need to hire the Man-Wolves after all, at the high rates they’re demanding. It’ll all be self-contained, and we’ll spare fewer expenses in the long run.”

He continued on blithely as Rhian paled increasingly with every word, complexion turning bloodless.

Rhian swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat.

“And, remind me to replace that Marialena, won't you? I just know—ahem—suspect that she'll sow more chaos if we don't keep a close eye on her, and I'd rather get rid of the potential complication altogether. If we don't rid ourselves of her soon, she could cause a rift between us.”

No, Rhian thought tartly, lungs burning, the new Rafal was doing that all on his own.

“Fortunately, I’ve removed the other variables that could come between us,” Rafal assured himself, picking at the congealed, inky blue at his wrists. “And I know now: the best solution is the proactive one. We'll be far better off without her, trust me. All Seers are meddlers at their cores.”

Determined, Rafal nodded at his new vision for Evil and all that he had armed himself with for the future, and set his hands clasped behind him.

Rhian nodded along weakly, a thin smile gracing his lips, following several paces away from Rafal’s heels, like a puppet tangled in wire, almost running to match Rafal’s ever-accelerating pace.

SLOW DOWN, Rhian desperately wanted to shout. Slow down with all these ‘improvements.’ But he couldn’t get overly excited over these matters—Rafal might call him ‘hysterical.’

He locked his jaw, numbly. It could always be worse.

Then, at last, the twin School Masters reached Evil’s rear entrance, which looked out onto the seaside beyond.

Huffing and florid-faced, Rhian leaned on the doorframe and coughed—what sort of Storian-ordained exercise had his brother done at sea?

He was glad his brother was back. Really. He was grateful to be alive, grateful they were both alive. Yet, he still feared the worst for Rafal's students.

But that was a problem for another day. Best to just give up for now.

Rhian plodded down the polished, black-granite steps, onto the ashen sand after Rafal, who stood facing the shoreline of the Savage Sea, and then, finally took in Rafal’s new attire as a whole, during his first moment of calm in hours.

He really did resemble a swashbuckler. In fact, Rhian almost didn’t recognize his brother. Almost.

Gone were fine, scholarly, gold-trimmed robes of days past, the olden days—an open, militaristic coat in their stead.

Gone were the starched, white shirts—now replaced with a poet’s shirt, no, a pirate’s shirt, loose-fitting, with flaccid sleeves, laced-up with string.

Gone were the crisp, pressed suits and triple-mantled cloaks. The iron-creased trousers and slim, elegant boots had been banished, replaced by pantaloons, tucked into high, bucket-top boots.

And for the first time, Rhian found he didn’t want a pirate. Not this pirate, setting the ‘ship’ the Storian had entrusted them with on a warpath. This one was more like the warden of a brig besides—keeping him prisoner! He just wanted the old Rafal back. His brother, the School Master, his equal.

But the new Rafal… this was the new Rafal… he was here to stay.

Rhian tried to clear his head.

The Inagrotten was docked at shore, no longer blighting the clearing in front of Good. How considerate of Rafal.

See? The new Rafal wasn’t that bad.

Rhian ambled down to the shore, where Rafal had dropped down to kneel with a twig in hand, black greatcoat splayed over the pale sand, like a flag of oncoming death… or a penitent’s mourning robes.

After his ordeal, Rhian thought he deserved at least one proper question, and yet… what changed? seemed… too complicated. He didn’t want to pry, if anything had gone wrong while Rafal was gone. Perhaps—“Rafal, why are you dressed like a pir—”

The twig snapped. “Not a word, Rhian,” his brother choked out drily with warning in his voice. “My old clothes had blood on them, this was all the Night Crawlers had, and that’s all. End of story.”

Rhian needn’t know about his brother’s recently-acquired status as a Woods-wide felon. Rafal inhaled shakily and returned to leaning over his sand drawing.

Rhian watched, silenced for a moment. “But—”

Rafal sat back on his heels. “Rhian. Nevermind all that. I’ve had a thought. Look.”

Rhian stared down at the twin swans Rafal had etched in the wet sand.

A School crest. And he was part of it.

Was this proof? That the new Rafal still cared about him?

Yet something still needled at Rhian. Leave it be. No more detective work. Rafal’s trip is done. It’s over, he urged himself.

It was low tide though. The tide drew in and washed the sketch away, forever.

But Rafal didn’t care about the sketch. Another thing of his was ruined. Probably broken. For all his spectacle and pride about being early, he had probably been too late. Rafal frowned, hands cold as death, now flattened against the sand.

The tide receded again.

He didn’t say anything for a long while, staring out at the waters, washing in and out, his eyes unfocused, seeing nothing but blue.

Rhian placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “O Captain—” he baited.

Rafal’s voice revived itself. “Shut it.”

But he smiled nonetheless, truly, and slowly rose to his feet.

Rhian looped his arm through Rafal’s and Rafal locked hands with his brother. One more thing he wouldn’t be caught dead losing.

The Good School Master leaned into the Evil one’s side for support, and the Evil brother slackened for once, tension draining from his muscles.

For now, Rhian was just glad to have his twin back. Safe and in one piece.

That was all that mattered in the End.

Right?

⸻

Note:

I think this fic probably has the most “understory,” compared to all the others I’ve written. But you know more than Rhian does as a narrator here.

More accurately, this fic could likely have been entitled: "Rafal Is Essentially a Primo Uomo, Murdered Three (3!) People, and Treats Rhian Harshly > 70% of the Time." Yet, I wanted the title to sound serious in tone, so ideas such as these had to be scrapped.

If anyone wanted to know, I referenced this short poem: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45474/o-captain-my-captain

Of course, it cannot be taken literally or in its original historical context, but the captain being cold and dead fits Rafal having hardened more inside lately, and become more deadened/more like the probable undead, like the Night Crawlers themselves.

It’s some sort of “heroism” at a personal price, I suppose. Had to be done.

I’d love to play the audience (and respond to) to any feedback you have—any thoughts, feelings, reactions, or concrit you have.

If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. I’m always willing to elaborate!

Did anyone catch any of the other references I made? Anyone catch wind of my… implications?

I imagine that you’re probably wondering: What happened to James?

Rafal sealed the deal and allowed the Night Crawlers to kill James, but James’ death started off so harrowingly slowly that Rafal decided to intervene and “mercy-kill” him before the Night Crawlers got any further in their feasting. He couldn’t retract his orders. Not after he’d gone this far. Not after James was bleeding out beyond the point of no return. So he let it happen. All to get back to Rhian.

It’s the closest thing to a Face-Heel Turn Rafal could undergo, given that he’s already Evil/grey, I’d like to think, while not being completely amoral and having lost his mind.

Also, please be sure to correct me about anything, if I got anything wrong. I suspect I overly manipulated the setting to fit story purposes, if I did forget certain details.

⸻

Playlist:

“TICKING - SLOWED VERSION” - TIN

This one is like something emerging into your line of vision, gradually? At least the start of it conveys that. I thought it could mimic the beginning effects and the tension. Or slow, dawning horror.

“Darkness Falls” - UNSECRET, Cece And The Dark Hearts

Similar to the atmosphere.

“Natus Vincere” - Future Heroes

The title translates to “born to win.” Seems fated. Also, gives off a time-is-running-out and triumphant, overcome-it-all vibe.

“Future Heroine” - Ecca Vandal

Some lyrics, not all, fit, I thought. Admittedly, the tone doesn’t fit well.

“The Albatross” - Taylor Swift

These lines were particularly relevant (partly ironically with “angel”):

“Devils that you know / Raise worse hell than a stranger”

“Spread my wings like a parachute / I'm the albatross / I swept in at the rescue / The devil that you know / Looks now more like an angel”

“He’s a Pirate” - Klaus Badelt

“Haunted” - Taylor Swift

“i am not who i was" - Chance Peña

Potentially, some parts fit Rafal’s unwritten, internal monologue, to an extent.

“Behind the Sun” - Helgi Olegov

Strikes me as epilogue-esque music.

#rafal #rhian #vulcan of netherwood #reblog #my fics #my writing #others' fic analysis #my fic analysis #psychology #unethical experiment #war #blood #atrocities

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allsassnoclass · 4 years ago

Note

Prompt: 28, 10 and Lashton

You said lashton in an art gallery. I said Off-Screen circa 2017 (aka Luke’s Utah Era). this might feel a little out of context, because it is. the theoretical prequel that I'm writing would explain more of the surrounding circumstance, but the most important thing to note is that Luke moved in with Ashton in Utah after the end of the SLFL tour. This takes place in January of 2017.

lashton: “Where are all of my hoodies? Did you borrow literally every single one of my hoodies?” + art gallery

The last guest has left when Luke arrives, the gallery technically beginning to close for the night. Ashton is tired, all of the frantic energy from the past few months building up to this evening of schmoozing and revealing the deepest parts of his soul to be judged by the art community, and he feels empty now that it has passed. There’s a glass of some sort of fancy alcohol in his hand, but he hasn’t had the chance to drink it all night, and his suit feels like it doesn’t fit his shoulders correctly. It’s been bothering him, but he’s been too focused on smiling genially and making nice with every single person who passed through the doors to look at his art to do anything about it.

The sound of the main doors opening is loud in the quiet of the space, and Ashton tenses where he’s talking to the owner of the gallery. He relaxes once he sees that it’s not another art snob or a random person who got lost, but Luke. He stands at the threshold awkwardly, fiddling with the hem of one of Ashton’s college hoodies, beanie stuffed unceremoniously over his hair. It’s getting longer, and he’s been letting it curl more instead of spending hours styling it and trying to get it to sit right.

He looks just as breathtaking as ever, and Ashton is almost overwhelmed with how lucky he feels to be one of the only people to see famous rockstar Luke Hemmings with his guard completely down.

“Luke,” he sighs, relief too obvious. Luke just smiles and wanders, stopping short when something in a painting catches his eye.

“Friend of yours?” the gallery owner asks, and Ashton turns his attention back to her. It’s too easy to forget that anyone else exists the moment Luke enters a room. Ashton needs to get a grip.

“Yeah, that’s my housemate. Do you mind if we look around for a bit? He couldn’t make the normal gallery times.”

He logistically could have, because Luke doesn’t have responsibilities here in Utah, but Ashton knows that the idea of him having to look nice, be in a crowd of people, and possibly be recognized almost sent him into a panic attack.

“Sure. I’m locking up by 10, though, so be out before then.”

Ashton thanks her profusely, and the look she gives him is a bit too knowing for his taste. Still, she heads towards the back with an artistic grace, and Ashton joins Luke where he’s staring at one of Ashton’s paintings.

“Hi,” he says quietly. Luke leans into him in a practiced move, shoulders brushing together. Luke has always been familiar and comfortable, despite how little they see each other.

Ashton knows he should feel bad that Luke felt so lost in LA that he had to come all the way to Utah and Ashton to try and find himself, but selfishly he’s glad. For a few months, he gets Luke to himself, curled up on his couch and eating at his kitchen island instead of off traveling the world and meeting adoring fans. Besides, having Luke here helps. Ashton can’t take care of another person if he’s drunk every night, and meals are easier to prepare when there are two people to eat them. It’s easier to fall asleep if someone else is breathing slowly next to him. It’s easier to keep the loneliness at bay with Luke stepping into the gaps in his life.

“Was it a good showing?” Luke asks.

“It was,” he replies, resisting the urge to do something inappropriate like pull Luke closer and tuck his face into his neck just to breathe him in. “I even sold a few paintings.”

“You did?” Luke lights up. “Ashton, that’s amazing! Which ones? Wait, I want to see them all anyway. Walk me through them as we go.”

Ashton does, trying his best to remember the thought process and inspiration behind each of the paintings hanging in the gallery. For the earlier works it’s easier, because objects inside are more defined and they have clearer stories. For recent creations featuring bold strokes and swirls of color and more ambiguous shapes, the inspirations shift towards ideas. Some of them he created while drunk, and he has to check the title cards to figure out what he was going for, because while drunk Ashton isn’t good for much, he at least always writes titles in his notes app when he paints.

His professors made him include some of those works, saying that a few are profound and mesmerizing and probably your best work. It makes Ashton feel like he can’t create anything if he doesn’t have a few drinks in him. It’s a mindset he’s trying to move away from, but it’s hard. At least he has endless inspiration with Luke in the house.

Luke looks at a piece entitled Longing for a few minutes, and Ashton prays that he doesn’t ask who or what he was longing for while painting it.

“Come on,” he says when the swirl of blues and purples (with just that shimmer of gold to represent the person of desire, possibly forming a hazy constellation of Luke to anyone who knows what to look for) becomes too much. “I want to show you the synesthesia section.”

“Section” is a generous term, because it’s actually just four paintings on the same wall. He has many more paintings for various songs and albums back home, most of them on smaller canvases he can get from the craft store, but there are a few songs that evoke such strong, beautiful visuals that he had to paint them properly.

The first painting has a primarily blue background, mixing with black in short strokes by the edges. Traveling diagonally across the canvas are an assortment of other colors, mostly yellows and reds until they meet strokes of white in the middle. The paint is thick, creating textured mountains where the colors meet, and that’s Ashton’s favorite part about painting, really. He’s not very good at 3D forms, but paint never lays completely flat. He likes how dynamic it is because of it.

“Gravity,” Luke croons as he looks, “is working against me.”

Ashton loves hearing him sing. He was worried for those first few weeks Luke came to him, because he rarely heard it, but now he can count on random melodies filling the house at all hours.

“John Mayer makes nice songs to look at,” he says. Luke smiles at him, then they move on to the next one.

This painting has a bit more variety in color. Ashton remembers mixing them on his pallet, unbothered by the streaks it caused in the brush strokes, knowing that it was necessary to capture what the song makes him see. A dark background gives way to a curve of reds, purples, pinks, blues, ending in some greens and yellows and a hint of orange. He splattered white and black on afterwards, just a little bit near the middle of the curve, and Luke leans forward to see all the small dots.

“This one really does look like ‘Karma Police,’” Luke says. “Even I can see it.” He straightens and gives Ashton another grin, and he knows that he can’t capture that smile in a painting (he’s tried, so many times), but he still wants to attempt it again.

“I can’t believe how talented you are,” Luke says. “It’s almost unfair.”

“Thanks,” he says, ducking his head. Luke nudges him with his elbow and moves on to the next painting. This one follows a similar pattern to the other two, a dark background with color in the middle, but it’s messier. Blue and purple feature the most, but there are hints of orange and yellow, and white overtakes the painting in peaked chunks and thin streaks.

“You’d think that for a Prince song, there’d be a bit more purple,” Luke says, tilting his head.

“Maybe he should have written more purple songs, then,” Ashton shrugs. “‘Joy in Repetition’ has more blue.”

“Wait, is “Purple Rain” even purple?” Luke asks, alarmed.

“Yes, that one fits the title.” Luke looks reassured at that, and they continue to the last painting. Ashton feels nerves clench in his stomach.

He didn’t submit any of his photographs or colored pencil sketches of Luke, not even the really good one of Luke sleeping in his bed with an arm over his face that Ashton drew one night when the insomnia was hitting him hard, but this painting could be just as damning. It’s different from the other three because it’s slightly bigger and oriented differently, vertical instead of horizontal. The background is also based in white instead of black, primarily creating a pale blue to match the cautious optimism of the song. More blue meets with seafoam green, peach, and white in the middle, dripping down the canvas until all the colors fade into just the green. The lines of this one are smoother, blended together evenly, but there are bursts of gold in the middle and near a few edges that he bought a specific brand of metallic paint for. Ashton watches as Luke’s eyes trace the painting before he turns to the name card.

“Luke?” he asks when a few moments have gone by with him completely frozen.

“Really?” Luke asks, voice cracking. “This is what you see?”

“Yeah,” Ashton says. He knew he was going to end up painting the song as soon as he first heard Luke’s voice singing about tasting the ocean. “It’s mostly “Outer Space,” but I incorporated some of what I saw for “Carry On” at the bottom.”

“Oh,” Luke says, then turns and tucks himself into a hug, squeezing Ashton tight enough that he feels short of breath. Ashton wraps his arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer and letting Luke cuddle into him in a way that he’s almost getting too big for.

“I take it you like it?” he asks, just to be sure. Luke nods, and when he does finally pull away he swipes at his eyes with the sleeve of Ashton’s sweatshirt.

“Can I buy it?” he asks.

“Luke, you can have it for free.” Luke shakes his head vigorously.

“No, you’ve already given me too much. I want to buy it from you. You should be paid for your art.”

“Okay,” Ashton says quietly. Luke’s eyes are still fixed on the painting, and Ashton comes back to slide a hand around his waist again. “We can negotiate a price later.” He presses a kiss to Luke’s temple, because that’s something he can get away with still.

“Don’t try to give me a discount. I’ve already stolen your food and half your clothes.”

“Speaking of,” Ashon says, “I’m absolutely positive that this hoodie was the last one in my closet. Where are all my hoodies? Did you borrow literally every single one of my hoodies?”

“Yeah,” Luke says sheepishly. “They’re comfortable. They smell like you.”

Luke is going to kill him like this. Ashton can’t even be upset, because what a way to go, but things like that are not helping him keep a lid on how absolutely head-over-heels he is.

“I’d be more upset if you didn’t look so good in them,” Ashton says before he can stop himself. Luke’s breathing stutters, but he doesn’t do anything besides lean a little closer. Ashton’s heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest.

“Come on,” Luke says. “I still want to see the rest of your pieces, then we can go home.”

Home, Ashton repeats to himself. Luke thinks of your house as his home.

They wander their way through the last few canvases, then stop briefly in the photograph and colored pencil room before stepping out onto the street. Their hands brush as they walk, and Ashton wonders if he can get away with grabbing Luke’s. This night feels significant in so many ways. Something has shifted, and he’s not sure if it has to do with his art career or the man beside him. He wants it to be both so badly he aches with it.

When they have two more blocks to go before reaching the house, Luke reaches over and threads their fingers together.

A/N: I don’t have synesthesia, but the first three song paintings really exist and can be found here. the one for os/co was made up by me.

#my writing #lashton #drabble #off-screen #this just set multiple things in stone that were undetermined before today #but when (if) I ever write the prequel things could shift and change #also this Ashton has synesthesia. the kind where he can see music #also me writing the piece with os/co: 'oh Helen isn't going to like this'#ugh I had something else I was going to say about this but now I've forgotten #this is a little treat for the people who follow me here after reading it because this is not going on ao3 until after the prequel #off screen

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ofstoriesandstardust · 3 years ago

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break up in a small town (jake “hangman” seresin)

a/n: no one talked me into doing this, my undiagnosed adhd hyperfocused and produced this. i’m gonna write what is a sequel to memory i don’t mess with and this is the prequel in a sense, but you should definitely read that one first if you haven’t read it yet. sets the tone and context and such

mildly inspired by sam hunt’s “break up in a small town”

memory i don’t mess with | when i get where i’m going

main masterlist | top gun: maverick masterlist

warnings: break-ups, slight angst, brief mention of terminal illness, she a shortie, i still don’t know how the military works, i included a lizzy mcalpine quote courtesy of my friend but i’m not telling you who it applies to you have to guess,

word count: 1,211

“and the funny thing is I would’ve married you/if you had stuck around”-lizzy mcalpine, doomsday

Jake loved his little town, he did. He couldn’t even leave his house without the ghost of his past haunting him, memories floating in his peripheral. He was tired of the looks from his friends, the people in town, even neighbors he’d never spoken to since news of your breakup had hit the masses. Everyone had said that it was the two of you till the end of time. And for a while he had agreed, kissed your temple, and talk about how he couldn’t wait to marry you someday. But Jake hadn’t been the one to make the decision to end it had he? Never mind all that though, he wasn't going to waste an unnecessary second thinking about the break-up or how much it had hurt. He wouldn’t think about how angry he was that you had thrown away the relationship before it ever really had a chance, how terrified he was for the day he’d see you again. Terrified he’d leave for the Navy and never see you again. What Jake didn’t expect to hear about was you moving on so quickly. He had thought, assumed, that your relationship had meant more. It had to him. You were his forever and the only girl he considered marriage for. He wouldn’t admit or think about how much his heart broke when he got those all knowing looks from his sister or heard whispers of your new flame in town. He was torn and conflicted and so he settled on not thinking about it all, making the most of his last few weeks at home before leaving for basic training.

Jake couldn’t forget the night it had all ended though, the memory replaying everyday in the back of his head, meticulously picking apart the fight and your relationship for a decision, a choice, a sentence, a word that could have changed the outcome. But you’d made the choice and he couldn’t change your mind. You had stood firm in what you wanted and what the future held for the two of you.

He couldn’t understand why you were upset. He’d enlisted in the Navy just a few days prior, was in the process of going through all of his tests, and after passing them, he’d wait and then get his basic training placement. This wasn’t news to you, all things the two of you had discussed before he’d ever even sent in his papers. But you’d mumbled about seeing Mrs. Thompson, the widow of a Navy officer, in town today, had had dinner with the woman, and were now in some kind of freak-out about him enlisting in the Navy. The two of you had been arguing, but there’d been a pause as the anger seemed to run out of you. You slumped down at a chair at your kitchen counter and Jake followed suit. His hand reached out for you, placing it on your thigh as you held your head in your hands. He shifted some your hair so it was no longer covering your face as he realized you were crying. “Baby, I don’t understand what’s happening.” He whispered, rubbing a thumb across your thigh.

“Jake, I can’t-” He visibly saw the words get trapped in your throat and his heart sank. He knew where this conversation was going. You stayed silent for a few more moments, clearly trying to formulate a sentence around the tears. He’d give you all the time you needed if it meant you would stay. “I’m so scared you’re going to leave and not come back. And I- I’m just supposed to wait here in this stupid town not knowing when or if I’ll see you again?” Jake desperately yearned to take you in his arms, hold you close, let you know that it was all going to be okay.

“Sweetheart, we’ve talked about this. When I leave for basic, I’ll see you afterwards. Once I get my deployment orders, we’ll know more. You’ll be in school, working towards your degree okay? We’re gonna figure it out together.”

“I’m not going.” You muttered. He froze. What? “Mom’s getting too sick, someone needs to stay here and look after Tyler and the business.” He didn’t know that. Why hadn’t you told him that? “Called the school yesterday and officially changed my enrollment notice.” A heavy silence hung in the dim room as he took in the news. You weren’t going to college. Passed up on something that had been your dream to look after your family and here Jake was, getting ready to leave you alone to wherever the Navy would send him. “Jake, it’s not- not just the long distance.”

“Baby, what are you saying?” He knew exactly what you were saying.

“Okay, so we go through basic. And then deployment. And then what? Jake I can’t handle knowing every time you leave me it may be the last time I see you. After losing my Dad, I will not lose you too.”

“Baby, you aren’t gonna lose me.”

“You can’t guarantee that! Jake, you can not guarantee that wherever the Navy sends you isn’t gonna cost you your life!” He swallows. You weren’t wrong.

“I’m gonna do my very best to come home to you baby, I promise. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“And I’m supposed to sit here, taking care of my baby brother and dying mother, living everyday in fear and anxiety that the next time my phone rings it’s gonna be some Navy officer to tell me my boyfriend is dead? No thanks, Jake. That is an awful way to live and I can’t - won’t - live like that.” His heart pounded in his chest, mind reeling as he took in the severity and sincerity of the words. He knew what was about to happen. “It’s better if we end it now. I’d rather lose you like this, where I get to say goodbye, than lose you like that.”

“Baby, please don’t this, we’ll figure something out I promise, please just don’t-” Jake was desperate, tears of his own starting to form.

“My decision’s been made. You're not changing my mind.”

“But I love you.” He whispered, voice cracking. His head bowed, body shaking with silent tears.

“And I love you.” His heart held out a dangerous flame of hope. “But I can’t force myself to live like that.” The flame of hope extinguished painfully in his heart. “I love you enough to let you go.” He took a deep breath and then stood up from the table, wondering if he should say anything. But you wouldn’t look at him and you were right, your decision had been made. He walked out of your house, shutting the door behind him for the last time, missing the way you whispered goodbye. He slid into his truck, breath catching in his throat. He drove down the gravel road, trying not to think about what he was leaving behind, focusing on ignoring every part of his body that was screaming at him to go back, fix this, don’t let her leave.

He loved her, but he would have to love her enough to let her go.

#jake hangman seresin #jake hangman seresin fic #jake hangman seresin fics #jake hangman seresin imagine #jake hangman seresin imagines #top gun maverick #top gun maverick fic

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gonzo-rella · 3 years ago

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How I Met My Ex-Boyfriend’s Ex-Girlfriend | Robin Scherbatsky

MASTERLIST | AO3 | KO-FI

Relationship(s): Robin Scherbatsky x gn!reader (implied romantic), Ted Mosby x gn!reader (formerly romantic; mentioned),

Summary: Your ex-boyfriend, Ted Mosby, is the thing that brings you and Robin together after they break up.

Warnings: None! (Let me know if I need to add any)

Word count: 0.5k

(A/N: My life has become a cycle of rewatching How I Met Your Mother. I’m sure my feelings about some of the characters (namely Ted) will become pretty clear. This was inspired a lot by Robin and Barney’s breakup, if you couldn’t tell. Anyway, I really want to write for these characters beyond this ficlet, so, if you have any ideas for requests, check out my fandom/character list to see who I write for. Also, I’m a big fan of hate-filled angst, so I might end up writing a prequel to this about the reader’s relationship with Ted.)

You had dated and hated Ted Mosby.

You weren’t his ideal partner. Your faults weren’t endearing or quirky to him, and your actual quirks weren’t the quirks he wanted you to have. You thought he was a nice enough guy until you realised this, and the realisation sparked what had the potential to erupt into an inferno of insecurity. However, you dumped him within a month. Better to get out early with a slightly bruised ego than spend months allowing your feelings to be battered, you thought.

That was around four years ago. Four years since you had yelled these feelings at Ted. Four years since Ted defensively attempted to convince you that he really liked you even though you weren’t his ideal partner, then proceeded to insist that you were being ridiculous. Four years since you became a hysterical villain in Ted’s story.

When your friend had suggested meeting up at MacLaren’s, your heart dropped. The last time you had gone to that bar involved you locking eyes with Ted and standing there awkwardly until your friend spotted you and guided you to the bar so you guys could order drinks, his friends and a woman you presumed to be his girlfriend gawking at you the whole time.

Not going because of Ted meant that you were letting him win, your friend had said in an effort to convince you. So, that’s why you went.

You stood at the bottom of the steps, taking in three deep breaths to brace yourself to possibly face Ted.

However, you were so distracted by your whirling thoughts when you took a step towards the door that you ended up colliding with a crying woman. Once you had steadied yourself and gotten your bearings, you recognised who you had crashed into. Robin Scherbatsky. Ted’s girlfriend, and someone whose name you only knew because of her TV presence.

“Ah, shoot, sorry,” you apologised. “I didn’t mean to crash into you.”

She didn’t respond, nor did she move. She just nodded, sniffled and wiped away her tears.

“I didn’t do that, did I?” you asked, pointing at her tear-stained face.

“No, no. I’m sorry.” she replied. She hesitated before continuing, “It’s my ex-boyfriend. He’s being a completely insensitive jerk. God, I hate him right now.”

She looked up at you and her eyes widened.

“You’re Ted’s ex.” she stated, surprised.

“Yep.” you said. You awkwardly shifted on your feet.

“I guess we have that common.” she returned, folding her arms as she forced a smile and a laugh.

“Oh, you guys aren’t together anymore?” you questioned, the both of you stepping aside to let someone past.

“We broke up a few months ago.” she answered.

“Eh, well, good riddance.” you shrugged.

“Excuse me?” she said, brows knitted as she looked at you through teary, reddened eyes.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like that much of an asshole.” you apologised. “I just mean...Ted’s the kind of guy who hopes that you’ll change to fit what he wants. Like, he forced me to watch Field of Dreams, and I had to pretend that it was the best film I’d ever seen just so he didn’t act like I had just ripped out his mom’s liver right in front of him.”

She let out a sincere laugh at this, and you joined in with her.

“I’m Y/N. But, I’m guessing Ted told you that.” you said, extending your hand out to her.

“Robin.” she returned. She shook your hand with a smile.

“Well, Robin, welcome to the ‘I Hate Ted’ Club.”

#robin scherbatsky x reader #how i met your mother x reader #himym x reader #ted mosby x reader #robin scherbatsky #how i met your mother #himym #ted mosby

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djarinsbeskar · 4 years ago

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PREQUEL ARC: PART 3 - THE BOUNTY

A/N: Part 3 of Stitches has arrived! This chapter was difficult to write, I'll be honest. And I'd really appreciate any feedback if it doesn't read as well as the first two chapters or doesn't make sense or is boring etc. etc.

This is the penultimate prologue chapter, with the story very much shifting to surround the dynamic and growth of the readers relationship with Din so if you can hold out for me just a bit longer, I promise, I'll make it worth the wait. You know what I'm talking about friends.

Pairing: Din Djarin/Fem!Reader

Word Count: 7k

Rating: 18+ (NO Minors)

Warnings: None

Summary: You encounter Mando suffering one misfortune after another.

AO3 | Stitches Masterlist | Main Masterlist

9 ABY, on the Hydian Way.

Din prided himself on the strength of his principles. An unwavering certainty in everything he did that gave him a modicum of peace as he wandered throughout the galaxy amidst wars, rebellions and the chaos that ensued in their aftermath.

He was certain when he took the Creed, when he sacrificed a future for himself in service of the covert; something he had never regretted to this day. He had never regretted any bounty taken; unmoved by pleas, promises or threats. Neither tears nor anger could sway his resolve.

Truly, he could count on one hand the things he regretted in life; the job on Alzoc III, challenging a fully grown Mandalorian to a fight while still a hot blooded, angry teenager, and not trying to pull his parents into the bunker where they had hidden him from Separatist droids as Aq Vertina was invaded.

In his line of work, there was seldom room for self-doubt. Inner conflict led to hesitation, which could be a death sentence for a bounty hunter.

And yet, as he came out of hyperspace, that unfamiliar gnawing presence in the pit of his stomach began to rear its’ head again. The job he had accepted was… dubious, to say the least.

Din snorted in self-deprecation; most of his jobs were dubious in nature.

What brought on this unnatural doubt, however, was that this was a job for Imperial remnants. Din wasn’t a fool; he knew half the jobs he had taken in the past could have been traced to the Imps if he cared enough to look, but taking a job from them personally… well, he didn’t know how to feel about that just yet.

He pondered the feeling in his stomach again and frowned. Was it doubt… or instinct? Instinct was his most trusted companion as he travelled through space alone. A tickle at the back of his neck, a wary step forward, even a flash of electricity down his spine; those were only some of the ways that instinct spoke to him. And he always listened.

An uncomfortable feeling in his stomach though? Never that.

If it was instinct, then he was going against his very nature in ignoring it. If it was doubt, based on some misguided sense of morality in dealing with the empire… that he could deal with. He could smother doubt with control and consistency; going through the motions of a job brought security and familiarity. Sooner or later, that doubt would make way for a stoic acceptance, a state that had gotten Din through some of his roughest years.

His eyes were drawn to his shoulder, where the glint of newly crafted beskar shone in the gentle lights of the cockpit.

A down-payment…

“Makers Helmet…” he groaned, running a gloved thumb and forefinger across his tired eyes to pinch the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on as the pressure at the back of his skull increased due to the loop his thoughts were going in.

A job was a job. He circled back to his original thought that had led him to accept the clients offer. A job with a bounty greater than anything he could have ever hoped to receive in his lifetime, let alone in one go. It was mere sentimentality and conscience getting in the way of good business. That beskar could not only provide him with armor to reaffirm his loyalty to the covert, but assistance and support to the foundlings and those who raised them.

His resolved steeled. He had never regretted putting the covert before himself, and he wasn’t about to start now.

Turning his attention back to the navicomputer, he scanned the co-ordinates that his most recent lead had pointed to. He had hunted the trail of his latest bounty to the general direction of a vast area of space that straddled the outer reaches of the Outer Rim and halted as it reached Wild Space. There was nothing to stop the bounty from being in those unexplored parts of the galaxy, and if the tracking beacon led him that far, he would have to be ready. With no spaceport on any of the planets he had seen dotting the area on the navicomputer, he thought it wise to refuel and gather provisions should he be there for any prolonged period.

As he lazily assessed which planet to land on, his eyes were drawn to a familiar name. A memory brushed against his thoughts. Not necessarily a pleasant one, but not entirely unpleasant either. For the sake of fairness, Din scanned the planets surrounding the one he pondered; some were equally as well equipped for his needs but the majority he had not been on in years if ever. Somewhere he knew, even briefly, gave him more comfort than the unknown.

At least, that was what Din told himself as he punched in the co-ordinates of Dandoran, the flicker of warmth the memory brought him was something equally as unnatural as the doubt coiled in his stomach.

Bantha balls, maybe he had been poisoned again...

Din tossed a few credits to the human female who received the Razor Crest into the hanger she was managing.

“She needs to be refueled.” Was all he said as he made his way out of the hanger and into the not unfamiliar streets of Mynock. It didn’t look like much had changed in the several months since he was here last; the place was still crawling with a mixture of criminals, bounty hunters and people who just didn’t want to be found. All in all, a good example of most Outer Rim cities.

Mynock had two main pedestrian streets that ran for over two klicks and intersected at the middle. From what he could tell, all legitimate business ran from those two streets, the further into the alleyways and twisted lanes that branched off those two streets one ventured, the seedier the business.

From what he knew, the practice you worked at was on one of these main streets. He paused, causing a few disgruntled pedestrians to have to jerk to a halt and make their way around his imposing frame. He was not here socially. He was never anywhere socially. He shook his head; between self-doubt and sentimentality, the tight leash he usually kept himself on was looser than he remembered and he had no idea just when it had started to slack.

That could not continue. But being aware of a problem allowed him to deal with it. So, with a greater sense of fortitude, he mentally choked any distracting feelings beyond the determination to collect this bounty. That included the somewhat interesting possibility of seeing you again.

Thankfully, Din only needed to stick to the main streets. The road was flanked by stall upon stall of foodstuffs, clothing, trinkets, ammunition and what looked to be a husbandry of Massiff dogs. The large, reflective eyes turned to the Mandalorian; all bared fangs and hostile snarls. An understandable response by most non-sentients when a Mandalorian had no real physical cues they could read, being as covered as they were. Until he lifted his hand for the one closest to sniff, they could only assume he was a threat.

A sniff was usually all it took however, before the snarling stopped. Din brushed a hand over the scaly head as he continued on his way to collect what he came here for.

An hour later, and Din was feeling much more at ease as he picked up the last of the supplies he thought he may need; ration packs, bactapads, generic ammunition that he liked to keep well stocked on the ship and so on. He was once more mentally compiling the information he had gathered on the location of the bounty, running through various routes in his mind that would cover the most planets in the parsec in the shortest amount of time.

He nodded his thanks at the change the Rhodian merchant returned to him and began to make his way back to the Razor Crest. If it hadn’t been for the long flick of your hair in the tie you kept it up in when you turned your head to look at someone at a stall across the central walkway of the street, Din was certain he’d have walked on none the wiser. But alas, that same higher power that had gifted him with a keep perception of his surroundings cursed him in the same fell swoop as the movement attracted his attention.

He came up short, running a mental check on himself immediately. No, no injuries. His shoulder still ached on occasion from being dislocated six months earlier, but it was a phantom pain at most these days. He was fit as a mythosaur and he wasn’t about to have that good streak ruined by getting injured in your presence… again.

Din wondered if he could escape to his ship without you noticing; he didn’t want to tempt fate anymore than he already had. Plus, awkward interactions that left him feeling frustrated both mentally and physically were not high on the list of things he enjoyed, thank you very much.

As a Mandalorian, Din expected attention wherever he went. It was just something he chalked down to being a necessary evil to live by his Creed but he had never wanted to be more invisible than he did in that moment, thinking that at any moment he would be trip into a sarlacc pit or something equally unpleasant.

But you hadn’t seen him, thankfully; much more invested in the choices at the fishmonger’s stall.

Despite his better judgement however, he paused from slipping back to his ship silently.

He was taken by the slight pink flush that rose to your cheeks at something the woman behind the stall said, intrigued by the color and what caused it. Din tilted his head slightly. He had noticed you getting flushed in frustration or annoyance both times you had treated him. It was fascinating to see your cheeks flush for a reason other than irritation and anger.

That particular thought touched a dangerous part of Din’s mind, a part that made him wander into the realm of curiosity to ponder what else might make you blush like that.

Oh, but it was a delightful color on you, and he watched longer than he ought to, a small quirk lifting the corner of his lips. The image of domesticity as you adjusted the parcels of food already in your arms to accept the fish was so foreign to his eyes and certainly not one he ever associated with you until now. It spoke to a part of him that still slumbered but began to fidget in its sleep, on the verge of consciousness.

That tentative smile that he had unwittingly been giving into as he indulged his senses by watching you, dropped the moment three males approached you. The Twi’lek was standing too close for you to be comfortable and by the rigidity of your spine, he knew you were not.

You had taken a step away from the men easily, your body language read cautious but not fearful and he knew better than to underestimate your abilities to wrangle men into whatever position you wanted them in. He had first-hand experience in that department and honestly, it wasn’t nearly as fun as it sounded in his head.

Din relaxed the grip he had unknowingly tightened on the blaster at his hip when you made to leave the stall, away from the three. He shook his head at himself; you had lived here for years. You knew how to handle yourself perfectly fine.

Letting out a breath, he was about to continue back to the ship when that same cursed perception caught the Twi’leks arm shoot out to grip your upper arm tightly, preventing your exit.

Din was behind you before he even realized he had moved.

You examined the range of fish on offer, eyes skeptically crossing off anything that looked like it had been sitting out too long or anything with more than four eyes. You weren’t squeamish by nature, but the fewer dead eyes that were staring at you while you prepared dinner, the better.

One of the few perks of Mynock, was its proximity to the Great Basin of Dandoran that opened out to one of the many oceans to cover the planet. Fresh seafood was a staple in the city and after years of ration packs between the Rebellion and Klatooine, eating fresh was a luxury you would never take for granted again. Your own home planet was mostly covered in water too; the greater population spread over countless clusters of islands where seafood was also the meal of choice for most. It was a tenuous connection but being able to cook dishes somewhat like the ones your mother made when you and your brothers were younger made it feel like you weren’t so far away.

You smiled to yourself at the thought as you pointed to the light blue colored Berbersian crabs, knowing the trawlers had come in only this morning that carried them. The claws were meaty with the slightest sweetness to their flavor that complimented most dishes. Not to mention that when cooked, they turned the most vibrant blue that their shells alone could be used for decoration and craft.

You chatted aimlessly with the fishmonger as she cleaned and prepared the translucent peachy pink fish you had also chosen for good measure.

“Busy at Biran’s?”

“When are we not busy?”

“It’s all them fights between the gangs. Folk say since the Hutts were chased out that things are better but it’s even more dangerous with the others tryin’ to take their place.”

You only gave a non-committal hum to that; you didn’t get involved in politics of any kind. Gang or otherwise.

The mindless chatter continued on nonetheless to more safe topics.

“Did I tell ye, Drea had her baby not three days ago. Another girl.”

“Poor Nej will have his hands full when they all get older.”

“I’m sure they’re dying for a boy at this point. Great excuse to keep sowin’ the crops though, ain’t it?”

“I’m sure they don’t need any excu—”

“Ever think of havin’ any of yer own? Yer well into that time of yer life, I’d say no?”

You blinked, nearly missing the bag of produce as she handed it across the stall to you. You could feel your face heat up at the direction this conversation had turned, and you definitely never thought you would be discussing your biological clock with a fishmonger over Berbersian crab.

“Well I---”

Movement from the corner of your eye stole your attention from that progressively awkward conversation and the no doubt insufficient answer you would have given as three males came to stand at the same stall, facing you. Your eyes scanned the trio sideways, not prepared to give them your attention unless it became unavoidable. There were two humans and a Twi’lek and given the way the humans flanked the large blue male; you had a fair idea about who was in charge as he sneered at you in what you assumed was meant to be a disarming smile.

The blasters at each of their hips and the emerald green coloring on the right sleeve of their jackets told you they belonged to one of the gangs the fishmonger had been complaining about not a few minutes earlier. This gang in particular, the Quai-Kisu or Emerald Dagger in Basic, were a faction that splintered off from the main Hutt crime syndicate once their influence in Dandoran lessened. Their trademark was spice smuggling but anyone with two braincells knew that they accepted the lesser charge to hide the true wealth of their criminal activity, flesh trafficking.

Suffice to say, you didn’t want anything to do with them and you most certainly didn’t want them to want anything to do with you.

“Can I help you?” You kept your eyes on them as you handed the fishmonger what you owed her when it was clear they weren’t going to leave; the woman wisely remaining quiet as she accepted the credits.

None of them responded immediately, and you wondered if this was a new scare tactic they were employing to make people anxious. The crimson hue of the Twi’leks eyes glinted as he contemplated you, running down your figure lazily before meeting your eyes again when you frowned,

“Ol’ man Biran available for a house call?” He rumbled, the sun catching the points of the filed canines as he spoke.

“I’m afraid Biran doesn’t make house calls anymore. Besides, he’s been under the weather for the last few days unfortunately.”

You reeled the lie off effortlessly, having learned over the years who Biran would tend to and who he would rather see succumb to whatever ailed them. It was a steep and difficult learning curve for you, your initial training taught you that you must do your utmost to save every life. Biran had laughed in derision, saying that that mindset wouldn’t serve you well out here. These were gangs, not the flyboys of Corellia. Saving one of their lives might condemn countless others. So while you struggled, you accepted that it was his practice and he made the rules and after over two years on Dandoran, you had seen enough victims of the gang warfare to not feel any pity when one of them suffered an injury.

“C’mon beautiful. One of our pals was injured in a… terrible, terrible accident.” The taller of the two human males, a lanky man with a neck that looked much too long and eyes that took way too much liberty in running over your body.

“There are other doctors in Mynock.” You replied steadily, “I’m sure one of them can help.”

To humor them any longer would be to encourage trouble, so you cut the conversation short and turned quite deliberately to make the point that the conversation was over, flashing the fishmonger a wan smile before turning back the way you came.

“We weren’t done talkin’ to you.”

Your eyes widened marginally when an iron grip closed around your upper arm, your free hand dropping the items in your arm immediately to click the safety off your blaster and lift it in the time it took for the Twi’lek to yank you into facing him again.

“Did I say you could lay a hand on me?” You hissed, the blaster pointing upward from where you held it close to your body towards the underside of the Twi’lek’s chin.

“Quite the little spitfire, ain’t she lads?” He crowed, amused by your action. His laughter was like shattered glass on your ears, making you want to wince, but you kept your hand steady even as your heart pounded. You received as much training as anyone when they joined the Rebellion, but your experience in actual combat beyond treating people on the front line was limited. You knew your own limitations, and that there was no way you would be able to take on all three of them.

The hand around your arm squeezed painfully and you clocked the blaster, lifting it closer to sit under the Twi’lek’s chin, “Release me. Now.”

And like most men of his ilk, he ignored you in favor of his own voice,

“From what we’ve seen, you work with the good doctor. Shouldn’t be a bother for you to fix him up. Nicer to look at too, eh fellas?” He tossed over his shoulder to the snickers of his lackeys.

“Then you can go back to target practice with your toy gun.” He chuckled darkly, leaning in where the pungent smell of his breath made you turn your head away in distaste, “That is, if we let you go at all.”

You swallowed thickly at the threat, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as your mind scrambled to come up with a solution, a way out, something. You felt the familiar sting of tears at the back of your eyes when each avenue came up blank. You couldn’t think of anything and suddenly, you felt so terribly alone in this shithole of a town on a faraway planet far from anyone who gave a bantha crap who would actually be able to help you.

Their laughter only grated on your already frayed nerves and pissed you off even more. You had fought too hard and suffered too much to let these assholes take the one thing you owned, your freedom. Your eyes flashed with anger and snapped back to the Twi’lek, ready to pull the trigger because if you were going out, it would be on your terms.

Their laughter suddenly ceased then, and you blinked. Had they copped that you planned to take at least one, maybe two of them out with you? Before you could figure it out, your arm was shoved away. You raised your now free hand to steady the blaster as you aimed it at them, but they were backing away, eyes averted.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” You growled, hiding the waver in your voice.

They said nothing in reply as the Twi’lek bared his teeth and made towards you again. One of the humans grabbed his arm and hissed something to him. You couldn’t make it all out, but you swore you heard a name you never thought you’d hear again.

Teff.

With one last growl and glare, the Twi’lek conceded to the advice of the humans and all three of them melted back into the crowds of Mynock leaving you to release a heavy breath as you lowered your weapon, replacing the safety with ease as your eyes continued to scan the street. You wanted to be certain they had really left.

“Huh, maybe they were smart after all.” You muttered to yourself, proud that you had dealt with the situation somewhat and holstered your blaster against your hip again, “Still got it girl.” You commended yourself as you stooped to pick up your dropped groceries.

A snorted, “I beg to differ” had you blinking up over your shoulder at the familiar, cocksure figure of the Mandalorian; a hand only grazing the blaster at his hip as he stood casually behind you, his head tilted down to look at you and a resounding sigh leaving his helmet when you smiled.

“Mando?”

An incline of his head was the only greeting you received before he crossed his arms across the wise expanse of his armored chest.

“One sec.”

You got back to your feet and, as if by instinct, ran your eyes over his body, “You didn’t poison yourself again, did you?” You teased lightly, realizing that you were seeing him uninjured for the first time. Well, the second time. But walking into a cantina to do battle with a Houk didn’t could in your estimation.

It gave you pause to notice things about him that you didn’t usually; the way he stood, leaning his weight back on his left foot that gave him an air of lazy arrogance that wouldn’t be misplaced in a loth-wolf relaxing in the winter sun. The strength of his thighs seems to be accentuated by the posture; one hand placed securely at his blaster. If you didn’t know any better, his stance was like an open challenge to every male around him; submit or suffer. But you did know him somewhat, and you knew that he didn’t need to lay down any challenge. He had already won the second he stepped off his ship. The wide breadth of space given to him by passers-by only highlighted that fact.

Even with every patch of skin covered, you could feel the raw power rolling off of him, or was it testosterone? Whatever it was, it tugged at a more primal instinct and ignited a slow, steady heat inside of you that made you both embarrassed and intrigued.

Okay, so you were attracted to the way the man stood. That was fine, that was acceptable. You were a warm-blooded woman in her prime who knew her desires and embraced them. Finding how a Mandalorian… stood, was just another interesting thing to add to your list of things you found attractive.

Along with a raspy baritone and penchant for trouble…

You know what, it was probably just a fantastic indication that you hadn’t been laid in a while, so you made a mental note to deal with that particular issue later.

“I never poisoned myself.” That same low, gruff voice rose to your bait so easily and you had to bite your lip not to laugh, his hand fisting at his side before he unclenched it. Probably thinking about strangling you, honestly. Now there was a thought, for later. Nope, it was definitely the recent dry spell that had you like this. And the sun. The sun always had a part to play in these delusions.

Mando seemed to figure out your game of teasing him however, when you couldn’t fully mask your smile and responded in kind,

“You’re welcome, by the way.” His voice rumbled and you were certain that if you were only a few inches closer, you would be able to feel the vibrations brush against you.

“For what?” You laughed in disbelief, “I had everything under control before you decided to strut into the fray.”

You tried to prevent the frown from creasing between your brows when you thought a little more on the situation. You had a blaster literally pointed to the neck of one of those thugs and they didn’t care. It didn’t even seem like Mando had drawn his weapon and all three had scarpered? Was there any fairness in the galaxy? Obviously not.

The unpainted helmet tilted, the impassive T-visor giving away nothing of its wearers feelings beyond the sigh that left him, “What did you plan to do? Shoot the son of a mudscuffer and have an entire gang out for blood in less than an hour? Yeah, that’s smart.” He snorted.

Your mouth fell open in incredulity, “Talk about the Jawa calling the Ewok short, you’d have done the exact same thing!” You cursed your short temper, especially when it came to the stubborn mule of a man in front of you. The fact that his voice never once rose frustrated you. It remained gravelly but soft, like the sound of pebbles and stones being pushed and pulled by the ocean you could hear from your bedroom as a child.

You were a mature person; you were proud of how you dealt with most things. But in this instance, you allowed your immature side to rear her head momentarily as you began to stalk back to the practice. A piss poor option since the Mandalorian scoffed and kept up with you easily, obviously not content with you having the last word.

“But I wouldn’t be so reckless to not think it through before shooting them.” He tipped his helmet back a little, as if he dared to look down his nose at you. Frustration simmered in your blood as your eyes narrowed at him sideways.

“I was wrong, you obviously are injured. A blow to the head this time was it, Mando? Must be hidden under that kettle you call a helmet” You let out an exasperated breath, shaking your head, “I’ve no cure for that unfortunately.”

You could have sworn you heard a soft noise that sounded remarkably like a chuckle, but it was so quiet and the streets so noisy that you were certain you were wrong.

When the door to the practice-come-living quarters for yourself and Biran came into view, you stopped short. How did you get back here so quickly? Looking over your shoulder, you realized you had led the Mandalorian on a merry chase to nowhere he needed to be. He didn’t look particularly fazed, but the small voice of guilt that sounded an awful lot like your mother had you opening your mouth before you could think twice,

“Do you want to come in?”

What possessed you to invite him in?

It was obvious from both the stilted way you asked and the drawn out, deeply awkward silence that followed. You were about to tuck tail and run inside, slam the door, and pretend you weren’t as mortified as you knew you were when he cocked his head. The movement made you pause in your escape, opening your mouth to tell him to forget about it before the words got lodged in your throat.

“Sure.” Was all he said, and that was how you found yourself staring at a fully armed Mandalorian taking up two thirds of the small settee in the living room to the back of the practice, his hands placed on each thigh as they spread a bit when he sat.

Biran, bless him, took up the last third of the same settee, unfazed by the type of man in his living room and chatting merrily about the last Mandalorian he had met over fifteen years ago.

“And that wasn’t you?”

“No.”

“Ah maybe someone you know then!”

“Maybe.”

Mando’s conversation skills were abysmal.

You didn’t have very high expectations in the first place, but watching it without being a participant, was downright comical. You hid your smile behind the glass of water you had fetched for yourself but the slight tilt of his helmet in your direction told you he had caught your amusement. For someone whose face you couldn’t see, you could practically feel his eyes narrow at you. It made the giddiness from being equal parts anxious and entertained from watching Mando try make nice with the elderly Mirialan rise again and you had to physically bite your lip to stop.

Mando wasn’t listening to Biran anymore, that much was obvious. He wasn’t even looking in his direction, more comfortable blatantly glaring at you instead. Biran was unfazed. Truly, the Mirialan didn’t need a response to have a conversation. A listening ear was sometimes all he wanted. It was a characteristic that endeared you to the him in the first place. The elderly were so often overlooked and written off, but when one only cared enough to listen, they would find themselves enriched with experiences no history book could ever compete with.

“…So how do you two know each other?”

Your attention was dragged back into the conversation so fast you might have given yourself whiplash. You blinked a few times as the Mirialan watched Mando with a clueless smile on his face, completely ignorant to the stiff body beside him.

“Coercive medical attention.” You choked a bit on the sip of water you had taken to buy yourself some time to think; coercive? That rotten---

“Ah, you were a difficult patient, were you?” Biran chuckled, knowing your methods well, “Sweet as pie if you do as your told, but the minute you resist she’ll go for you like a sand panther. I can’t imagine there was much room for bedside manners in the Rebellion, but thankfully that attitude works well in cities like Mynock.” You spluttered again, putting the glass down since it was out to get you too apparently.

Of all the treacherous--, why were you so nice to this old sod again? You would show him a sand panther when you ‘forget’ to buy his favorite tea next time you went shopping.

You seethed to yourself, leaning back in the armchair you had perched yourself on earlier, flyaway hairs from the breeze outside falling into your face which you blew away with a frustrated breath.

“Hm, a panther?” Your eyes rose as the low baritone filled the air after Biran had finished having his laugh at your expense. Mando cocked his head pensively to the side as he looked at you briefly, “More like a kitten, I’d say.” And with that, he looked away.

He didn’t bother saying anything else after that, content with letting Biran’s laughter fill the room and smother the tense silence the two of you were sitting in.

You could feel your cheeks heating up once more as you glared daggers at the tin can in front of you. Why did it feel like you were being simultaneously insulted and flirted with? You couldn’t make the distinction, so you didn’t know how to respond.

Instead, you decided to poke at a different part of the conversation.

“For someone who was coerced, you sure do find yourself on my table quick enough when you need treatment.” Your eyes ran up and down the length of his body candidly when he looked back at you, “and when you don’t need treatment, evidently.”

You smirked when the Mandalorian clenched a fist on his thigh, the third occupant in the room seemingly forgotten as Mando hissed,

“I never asked for your help.”

You scoffed and decided not to deign that with a response.

“Besides, I only stopped over for supplies and fuel.” He admitted and a treacherous part of you sunk a bit at the honesty in his voice. Seeing you was just a coincidence, like always. The unspoken words hung heavy in the air and you fought the twinge of sadness that chased you because of them.

Biran looked between the two of you before standing shakily and patting the Mandalorian on the shoulder with no hesitation, “Allow us to provide you with something extra for your travels then.” He turned his wrinkled face towards you with a smile, the deep groves of his crow’s feet increasing as he nodded to the bags of forgotten groceries, “I think our guest should try the crab. Knowing you, you bought too much as usual.”

You flushed at being caught out, were you really that predicable?

“There’s no need. I got what I came for so, I’ll be going now.” Mando stood fluidly despite his armor, and you were once again struck with how different it was seeing him injured as opposed to healthy. You felt you needed to get used to his presence all over again, with how much it filled the room.

“Thank you, for your hospitality.” He tipped his helmet towards Biran, his voice still rather gruff but laced with a polite softness uncharacteristic to him. Biran waved him off and started making his way back out to the practice when he heard the binary from his medi-droid welcoming a new patient.

That left the two of you standing in a room that suddenly felt much too small for the tension that hung around you both like a blanket. You moved into the kitchen to separate the food you would keep and the food you would give to Mando on one of the countertops, tying the bag tightly by the straps so that it stayed clean and fresh when you were done. You couldn’t hear him move, but you could feel the slight disturbance of the air when he leaned his shoulder casually against the doorframe, arms crossed enticingly once more as he watched you.

“So… what did he call you again? A sand… kitten, was it?”

“Oh, shut up.” You growled over your shoulder at him before turning and shoving the bag with two of the Berbersian crabs and some herbs you knew went well with them, into his hands.

“I don’t need these.” He held the bag out, straightening his stance as he pushed himself from the doorframe. You wisely ignored him.

“All you need is a pan. And water. And heat. Boil them and actually give your body some proper nutrients, would you?”

You explained as you began leading him out towards the private entrance of the residence, through the small kitchen and out into an alleyway that gave you an immediate sense of déjà vu the moment Mando stepped outside. The sun was still beating down and it glinted across the helmet that was becoming as recognizable as a face to you.

“In case you didn’t realize, I’m perfectly healthy.” He replied smoothly, getting his bearings as he examined the alleyway and noted the sounds from the nearby street as the direction he needed to go.

“That’d be a first.” You griped at him, but there was no venom in your words, and he knew it.

You knew he was about to leave, and the suddenness of his departure was as jarring as his arrival. You didn’t know why you felt the need to stall, and you pushed that urge down rapidly in the face of the warrior when he looked back at you from assessing the street not a few feet away.

You sighed and let out a chuckle, wondering again how this man constantly came barreling into your life, disrupting the precarious peace you had brokered while here. You might have said it was a nuisance, but deep down, you knew that he brought a breath of life back into yours every time he crossed your path, reinvigorated the aimless routine you found yourself in. It was unsettling, the way this man had wormed his way into being such a… significant presence in your life. Even after only meeting him three times and always under less than pleasant circumstances.

Part of you wanted to tell him he could stay longer if he wanted; but you knew he would refuse.

Part of you wanted to tell him to be safe; but you knew he wouldn’t be.

Part of you wanted to tell him that you would see him around; but you knew that you probably wouldn’t.

So you settled on a lackluster, “good luck on your hunt” with a small smile as a peace offering for the fraught bickering you always seemed to fall into with him. A peace offering, he seemed to accept as he lifted the bag silently and looked inside,

“Pan. Water. Heat. Right?” His own attempt made your smile grow as you chuckled and nodded,

“You got it, sunshine.”

He nodded once in affirmation while you moved around him back towards the door of the practice. For some reason, you didn’t want to watch him walk away this time. It was easier for you to leave instead. A rumble of your name from the Mandalorian had you looking over your shoulder at him questioningly, the blush that had risen to your cheeks at the sound of your name on his lips not lost on Mando. He had turned back towards you when you moved and after a beat, spoke again.

“See you next time.”

And just like that, your chest hollowed, and a warmth filled you. The weight of his words were like an embrace, a reassurance you didn’t know you needed. Had needed, for longer than you probably knew. It was something secure and encouraging in these times of change and uncertainty, and you felt yourself cling to those words like a lifeline.

The placid nod you offered him with a gentle smile was all he stuck around for. Spinning on his heels, he took off towards the streets of Mynock once more, disappearing in a flash of beskar and steel and for once, you didn’t ponder about possibly seeing him again. You knew you would.

Din settled back into the pilots’ chair of the Razor Crest twenty minutes later, running through the familiar process of flying the ship out of the atmosphere and into the comfort of space, eager to escape into hyperdrive as soon as he was clear enough from Dandoran.

See you next time?

He groaned leaned his head back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling of the cockpit, his brows drawn low over his eyes as he frowned. What possessed him to offer that promise, he didn’t know. Maybe it was the way your eyes had dimmed slightly when he was about to leave, or when you had wished him luck on a job he was still so uncertain about. Maybe it was the way you blushed when he said your name.

Or maybe it was just because he wanted to see you again too.

And that was the most troubling reason of all.

Din didn’t do friends, he had acquaintances and colleagues even if the term was tenuous. He had the covert and the foundlings, but he didn’t have people he actually wished to see. Never trusted anyone beyond what they could each offer one another. You hadn’t looked for anything from him, and it was unsettling. He didn’t know if he could trust you, years of training and experience told him otherwise. But from the old memories of you pressing Raquor’daan poison from his wound to the teasing friendship you displayed with the old Mirialan, his resolve softened a little.

His eyes flicked to the rapidly shrinking planet he was leaving.

Trust was too strong a word right now, but respect… he could admit that he respected you. And that alone put you on a very short list of people, one he was sure you would never truly understand the importance of.

And he was right.

You would never know the significance of being on that very short list of people, but in that moment, Din’s grudging respect for you set both of your lives on a very different course than either of you ever anticipated; one that revolved around a very special, very small, green child.

Once Dandoran had faded sufficiently behind the Razor Crest, he keyed in the co-ordinates to the far reaches of the Outer Rim and entered hyperspace and after several days of travel, he finally struck beskar when the tracking fob starting beeping as he coasted through space. He smirked behind his helmet as he changed direction and noted the closest planet on his navicomputer where his bounty was hidden.

Arvala-7.

Gotcha.

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sadclearance · 4 years ago

Text

right hand

pairing: katsuki bakugo x male!reader

summary: 5 things bakugo uses his right hand for + 1 thing bakugo uses his left hand for *wrote with “left hand” being in mind as a prequel, but can also be read as a standalone

category: fluff

warning(s): none

word count: 1500

key:

s/t - skin tone

when they were in high school, midoriya izuku noticed that bakugo katsuki--his childhood friend and bully--always started fights with a right hook.

which was incredibly powerful, albeit predictable.

midoriya still remembers a specific sunny morning in their third year when this expected yet efficient move was used for something that wasn't exactly a fight. a second year had made the unbelievably stupid mistake of--

"watch it, dumbass!"

and immediately after bakugo caught y/n before he could fall on his ass, bakugo's right fist met with the second year's nose, successfully breaking it and scorching off the hairs of the kid's eyebrows.

at the time, nobody really thought anything of it. bakugo was protective of the few people that he considered--but would never outright admit--to be his friends, and y/n was one of them.

ii.

but it was at the christmas social event that was held for the third years to get a chance to make connections as well as have fun before the end of their student years that it became clear that it was much much more than just friends looking out for each other.

"what're you doing all alone?" kaminari asked as he leaned against the wall next to y/n.

"everyone's either flirting with pro heroes or kissing their asses, and i'm not really in the mood to do either."

"yeah, i can see that," kaminari snickered as mineta got slapped in the face by mount lady after both a series of terrible flirting and a horrendous attempt to literally kiss her ass.

"surprised you're not doing the same."

"well..." kaminari said as he pointed up. he was wearing a hat with a hanging mistletoe.

"how not unexpected," y/n laughed.

"you know the tradition," kaminari winked pointing at his lips.

"okay, okay. for the holiday spirit--"

and as y/n leaned in to give kaminari a peck, a strong right hand grabbed his chin, and his lips met with a pair that belonged to someone else.

kaminari was too shocked to be disappointed after being pushed away by none other than bakugo.

"fuck off, dunce face," bakugo said before crashing his lips against y/n's.

that was one hell of a way to find out that two of his best friends were dating.

iii.

bakugo's jealousy only got worse after graduation.

but to be fair, that was his own fault.

he may have chilled out since their time together as first years, but he was still a headstrong ambitious hero.

they didn't go public with their relationship because bakugo figured it would be distracting to his goal.

which was a decision that he immediately regretted when he remembered just how attractive y/n was--something that other people clearly appreciated as well.

y/n got gifts, compliments, and very suggestive comments wherever he went, which did nothing but fuel bakugo's anger and displeasure.

there was a solution to this problem, and it was to let it be known to the world that y/n was his and his only.

instead of doing what normal couples do and going to an interviewer or announcing their relationship on his social media accounts, bakugo decided to--

"so... y/n," the barista looked at the name she just wrote on the cup and then back to y/n. "are you seeing anybody?"

"what's taking so fucking long?" bakugo asked as he came up behind y/n, right hand harshly meeting y/n's left ass cheek.

"ow! what the hell? there's paparazzi right outside of the window," y/n scolded, gesturing toward the crowd of people with cameras on the other side of the glass wall.

bakugo's only response was to press a kiss against y/n's lips, smirking into it as he saw a flash of light in the corner of his eye, fully aware of the fact that his hand was still on y/n's ass.

iv.

when he saw a building crumbling on top of y/n, he knew what he had to do.

he had faced a similar obstacle to this in his first year of high school, when he was up against round face--ochako. she had collected rubble that he had unknowingly provided and gathered it all up to the sky, later using it as a weapon by making it rain down on bakugo.

a building, however, had much more stone than a collection of collateral concrete that an individual collected over only a few minutes.

"y/n!" he shouted.

recreating the move from his first year, he raised his right hand and released a massive explosion--one much larger than the original maneuver.

he had succeeded for the most part. small bits of rubble rained down on them, but it was more like getting hit by hail than being buried by a boulder.

"bakugo!"

the mentioned man gritted his teeth and pressed the rough fingers of his left hand into his terribly cramped and pained right hand.

"you overdid it, you idiot!"

y/n rushed to get medical attention, and bakugo reluctantly let himself be pulled around.

he would've crudely yelled back that he didn't need help, but the worried look on y/n's face stopped him.

"i'm not gonna die, dumbass," bakugo rolled his eyes. the words were intended to come off harsher, and more like bakugo insulting a subordinate for not being able to see the obvious, but they came out closer to a soft reassurance instead.

"do that again, and i'll kill you myself," y/n glared. he looked more like an angry puppy.

"as if you could even land a hit on m--"

y/n's lips shut him up.

"even though that was the stupidest thing i've ever seen, thank you for saving me," y/n smiled, rubbing soft circles into bakugo's right hand.

"'stupidest thing you've ever seen'..." bakugo grumbled.

"what the fuck are you doing?"

it's been a habit to hold hands while doing almost anything since their time together at u.a.

hell, they used to hold hands throughout basically all of high school except during hero training.

subjects like math, language, history--they didn't require both hands. they only needed to write on a piece of paper, and they only needed their dominant hands for that.

so it comes as no surprise that that habit followed them to their pro hero years, pale left hand entwined with s/t right hand as they finish their paperwork.

bakugo's confusion was prompted by y/n's sudden fascination with his right hand.

"i rarely ever give this one attention," y/n shrugged.

"it's not its own being. like a pet or a person."

the look bakugo gave y/n told him that he was the biggest dumbass in history, but y/n ignored it in favor of responding, "still a part of you i rarely get a piece of."

"i hate the way you worded that, creep..."

"you're still blushing."

"in your fucking dreams!"

+i.

going to a nice place was somewhat out of the ordinary for the two of them.

bakugo was focused on being the top hero, and being the top hero meant sacrificing a lot of time.

y/n doesn't know what changed bakugo's mind so suddenly, but he wasn't about to reject a once in a lifetime opportunity.

"the breeze is so nice," y/n breathed in the fresh air of the beach.

he had ran up to the gorgeous ocean, cold water hitting his bare legs while he tried to convince bakugo to join him.

"not up to the challenge? that's rare," y/n teased, turning his back to him and going deeper into the sea.

"oh, shut your trap! i have a damn good reason."

"yeah, i'm sure you do. you sure you aren't just cold?"

"i said shut the fuck up!"

"okay, okay," y/n complied and entertained himself with the vibrant blue waves.

"i love you," came bakugo's voice abruptly.

"that's weird, you never say it first, especially not without any form or profan--" y/n turned around to give bakugo a ridiculous look, laughing as he did, only to stop almost immediately.

"fuck y--" bakugo had to stop his habitual reflex. "marry me... dumbass?"

bakugo with a nervous tone, one knee in the sand, struggling to not get up because of the annoying shifting and imbalance, and a ring in his hands was a priceless sight to see.

"yes! yes! yes!" y/n ran back to the dry sand.

bakugo grinned and accepted the kiss but broke it off sooner than he would've liked for the fear of dropping the ring and losing it to the waves.

he slid the ring on y/n's hand with a proud smile before y/n demanded to have the other ring.

"shit, calm down," bakugo laughed, but he couldn't help but feel happy that y/n was just as ecstatic.

although he was the one to say that, bakugo's left hand struggled to stay still as y/n put the ring on bakugo's ring finger.

"i love you," y/n pressed his lips against the trembling left hand once he was done.

with the rings safely on their hands, bakugo could freely go back to enjoying the treasure that was y/n's lips.

❥๑━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━๑❥

a/n;

a sequel exactly a month after

i like this format because i'm shit at transitions

i mean just look at the shift from iii to iv...

i had an idea for the right hand theme for a while now since the battle trials when izuku mentioned the right hook thing but i was like woah i could do it with this while writing left hand

#katsuki bakugo x male reader #x male reader #male reader #katsuki bakugou #katsuki bakugo #boku no hero academia #bnha x male reader #bnha #my hero academia #mlm #male reader insert #anime x male reader

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whimsicaldragonette · 2 years ago

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Audiobook ARC Review: Saint by Adrienne Young

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Publication Date: November 29, 2022

Synopsis:

New York Times bestselling author Adrienne Young returns to the world of The Narrows with Saint, a captivating prequel to Fable and Namesake. As a boy, Elias learned the hard way what happens when you don’t heed the old tales. Nine years after his lack of superstition got his father killed, he’s grown into a young man of piety, with a deep reverence for the hallowed sea and her fickle favor. As stories of the fisherman’s son who has managed to escape the most deadly of storms spreads from port to port, his devotion to the myths and creeds has given him the reputation of the luckiest bastard to sail the Narrows. Now, he’s mere days away from getting everything his father ever dreamed for him: a ship of his own, a crew, and a license that names him as one of the first Narrows-born traders. But when a young dredger from the Unnamed Sea with more than one secret crosses his path, Elias’ faith will be tested like never before. The greater the pull he feels toward her, the farther he drifts from the things he’s spent the last three years working for. He is dangerously close to repeating his mistakes and he’s seen first hand how vicious the jealous sea can be. If he’s going to survive her retribution, he will have to decide which he wants more, the love of the girl who could change their shifting world, or the sacred beliefs that earned him the name that he’s known for―Saint.

My Rating: ★★★★★

*My Review below the cut.

My Review:

I really enjoyed this. Adrienne Young's writing always seems simple on the surface but then immediately draws me in and I remain hooked throughout the story.

I loved Fable and Namesake, so I was excited to read Saint. I wasn't sure about it at first, because he and Isolde are hard characters to get to know. They keep everything so close to the chest and are very wary about trusting anyone. As the story progressed, however, they began to let down their guard little by little and I cared about them a lot before I even realized it.

The romance was the sort where they're instantly attracted to one another but fight it, which isn't my favorite trope but I think in this case it worked well. For Saint his attraction to Isolde is almost like his mystical rituals about the sea. For Isolde it's like the Midnight. Like it's bigger than the two of them and they can't understand it or change it but just ride it out.

The story moved along at a good clip and there was plenty of action to keep me riveted. I loved that it was set either out on the sea or at various ports. Those are my favorite sort of books.

The side characters were great as well. They all felt real, as did the setting, like I could walk into those ports and those people would be there, exactly as described.

The story also managed to feel very new and yet end in a place that perfectly set up Fable and Namesake. It left a good span of years between the end and the start of Fable, but it arranged the playing pieces in such a way that I could see how they were lining up and how they would fall.

I will definitely be seeking out more of Adrienne Young's books when they are published.

The audiobook narrators were excellent as well. I enjoyed their voices and the character voices they chose. It definitely helped bring the story to life.

*Thanks to NetGalley and Macmillan Audio for providing an early copy for review.

#adrienne young #saint #fable #namesake #macmillan audio #netgalley #arc review #shilo reads #young adult fantasy #YA fantasy #audiobook arc review

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dionnaea · 4 years ago

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If I Could Love You | Zeke x Reader

pairing: zeke yeager x reader

warnings: reader is magath’s daughter, smoking, angst

wc: 1.7k

a/n: kinda want to write a prequel to this? like the start of zeke and the reader’s relationship. any interest in that? also, thanks for reading!

attack on titan masterlist | general masterlist

“Welcome back, monkey man.”

The sound of your voice tumbled into Zeke’s ears, a jumble of longing, elation, and teasing all mixed into your tone. You had been waiting for him, he knew. He knew before he even stepped out onto the balcony that you were standing there, and he knew that he shouldn’t have let himself step out in the first place. Choosing the safest option on this dangerous encounter, he ignored you. But when you said his name, his head immediately turned so that his eyes could meet yours.

He was met with a cloud of smoke, and when it cleared, your grin stared back at him, cigarette hanging from your fingers. He left his face blank, seemingly unamused by your tricks, and turned back around, taking a few steps forward until he could lean on the railing.

You were quick, though, and twisted your body in one fluid motion so that your back was pressing against the metal railing and your feet were crossed as you placed most of your weight on one leg. Zeke was used to this by now, and didn’t spare you a glance as he himself hunched over to rest against his forearms.

The night sky in front of him was dark, only a few stars untouched by the light pollution of the city. In the distance, he could see the beginning of the sea, a black abyss promising the unknown. He could feel your eyes on him, hear the sounds of you sucking tobacco into your lungs and blowing it back out. The heat that waved off of your body was smothering, and Zeke didn’t know if the air was getting caught in his chest because of that or the smoke.

“Those things will kill you,” he stated.

“Sure,” you shrugged. “But won’t just about everything?” You took another puff, lightly pushing the exhaled smoke towards Zeke. He brought his hand up and swiped it away. Annoyance played on his features, but you knew that you weren’t really bothering him. “What’s up with you?”

Your gaze was studious, and Zeke knew you were trying to gain any hint of insight from his subtle reactions. He remained stoic, repressing the downturn his lips so desperately wanted to perform. He was well aware that you’d catch him if he even attempted to lie so instead he remained silent, letting you dissect him all you wanted but knowing you would find nothing.

“Zeke,” you sighed and for some reason it was more exasperated than disappointed. You lifted your free hand up, brushing it side to side. “I get it. You’ve been at war. You’ve seen things. You’re sad or angry or whatever the hell you are. So what? I don’t care. Stop acting like a baby and talk to me.”

Your words, your tone, was harsh, but coming from you, Zeke knew it was gentle. He knew you meant it all in the best way possible, knew you just longed for his attention, knew all you wanted was to be with him, and that killed him. That knowledge killed him in the most delicious way. Your existence was sugar laced with poison, and still, Zeke kept consuming you like it was the last meal he’d ever eat.

Which quite possibly, it was.

“Don’t you know how to leave a man alone?” He was fighting a smile, you could tell.

“Absolutely not,” you replied, shifting your position so that you leaned on only one arm and your whole body faced him. His mouth had formed a small grin, but he still wasn’t looking at you, choosing the darkness rather than the light right beside him. “Zeke. Look at me?”

There was an unspoken ‘please’ on the end of your sentence, a light desperation dancing across your tongue. He was hopeless, absolutely hopeless, Zeke lamented as he turned only his head to finally meet your stare. Your eyes were pools of liquid, a shine on them as if you were fighting off tears. But no, Zeke realized, it was the moonlight dancing off of your irises, creating shadows of your eyelashes that rested along your cheeks.

You breathed a sigh of relief and offered the cigarette to the man, dangling it between your dainty fingers so lightly that Zeke was scared it would fall. He closed the distance between the two of you, pulling the drug into his lungs until he could breathe no more before tilting away and blowing the smoke behind him. The wind picked up in that moment, aiding the smoke’s departure but cursing Zeke as your sweet scent wafted into his nose. It filled up his head, dizzying him until he was able to breath fresh air again.

He dared to look back down at you, and for the first time in months, truly took you in. You were wearing pajamas, the strap of your camisole loose as it rested on the curve of your shoulder. There was lace on the front, enticing his eyes to glance where they shouldn’t. Your shorts were a bit too short, and your legs looked a bit too soft. As his eyes grazed back up your figure, he was met with a soft upturn of your lips, pink and plush and begging for his own.

It was obvious, you made it obvious, that you wanted him in whichever way he would give himself to you. It had always been like this, you opening yourself up fully and gladly taking whatever pieces of himself that Zeke would give you. You had roped him into a game through sweet smiles and subtle glances, and it seemed every time he felt like he understood the rules, you changed them. You were not something to be understood, you were something to be chased, to be longed for, to be loved, and Zeke cursed himself for not being able to do all three.

“I know what you’re thinking,” you started, dropping the cigarette and pointing at it with your bare toes. Zeke obliged your silent request, stomping it out with his boot before kicking it in between the wooden slats. “You’re thinking that you shouldn’t, that it isn’t right or that it isn’t worth it.” You bit your lip, eyebrows furrowing, and Zeke couldn’t help but like the way little wrinkles appeared along your forehead. “But I’m telling you now that it is, okay? Just… just trust me for once.”

That was the problem, Zeke thought, he always trusted you. He put too much faith in your reassurances and let himself fall too deeply into your fantasies. Thinking about it, Zeke realized that you were exactly like the sea: something he would inevitably drown in in search for answers and a warm embrace. You were a known unknown entity, and that scared Zeke more than he could express in words.

Remaining silent, Zeke lifted his hand, and you froze in anticipation of what he would do. Gently, he brushed his calloused fingers against your upper arm, lightly pushing your camisole strap back up so that it rested properly against your collarbone. Your body involuntarily shivered, and chillbumps dusted across your skin. You waited with held breath, his fingers resting against the curve of your neck. After a moment of reverie, Zeke brought himself back to reality and pulled away. To your surprise, he shrugged off his jacket, casting it over your shoulders and waiting until you had thread your arms through the much too long sleeves before saying anything.

“The armband doesn’t suit you.” His words were firm, almost angry.

The weight of the band burned into your being, but you kept your eyes locked with his. “It doesn’t suit you either.” Zeke was well aware that you were dead serious, an anomaly in your family when it came to compassion. “Is this…” You already knew the answer, you had asked a million times. “Is this about my father?”

Zeke sighed, running a tense hand through his hair and turning away once more, resting back onto the railing. He didn’t know why you asked when you already knew the answer, but he supposed that a small part of you kept the hope that someday something would change. It wouldn’t.

“Why?” Your volume rose. “Why? It doesn’t have to be! Why do you let it!” It wasn’t even a question at that point. It was just a statement, an indisputable fact that Zeke’s future was decided by everyone but himself.

“Zeke.”

He gave a noncommittal hum in response.

“Do you think I’m an idiot?”

He could hear the anger in your voice, the frustration, but he also heard something else. Sadness? Loneliness?

He wasn’t given a chance to respond before you were speaking again. “I know you’re leaving. You’re going to Paradis, and you’re going to fight back against Marley, and then you’re going to die. Maybe not even in that order.” You took a deep breath in and reached out, placing a soft hand on the side of Zeke’s face and turning it until his grey eyes were forced to look into yours. He automatically leaned into your touch. “So tell me this: With how much you’ve given up in your life, why are you still choosing to give up me?”

There was pain dancing across your face, and suddenly Zeke didn’t think those forehead wrinkles were as cute. He had underestimated you as he always did, and was once again stuck in your crosshairs, having to make the decision of trying to run or giving himself up completely. His entire being begged him to do the latter.

Because for Zeke, you meant more than every war combined. You meant more than most everything. But you didn’t mean more than his conviction, and he was a very stubborn man. So when you asked him to stay, even offered to come with him, he had to refuse.

That night, Zeke realized something. Until that moment when your heart shattered and your face hardened over, you had always been known. You had never changed the rules, only adapted them so that you could be with him for just a little bit longer. All you had wanted was to love him.

And the one time you had asked him to love you back, he had said no.

#zeke x reader #zeke yeager x reader #attack on titan #attack on titan x reader #snk #attack on titan fanfiction #zeke jeager x reader #zeke jeager #zeke yeager #mere writes

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rsitb-second-account · 4 years ago

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Borrower Intruloceit

Janus, Remus and Logan were (very happily) in a polyamorous relationship. However, to most of the world, Janus and Remus were just a couple. You see, Logan was a borrower; a tiny person that lives in the walls of human houses and steals from those humans in order to survive. And, he’s a secret.

Here’s three close calls and the one time everyone found out about Logan.

1. The time Remus’ brother showed up unannounced

Logan was sitting on the arm of the couch, having a movie date with his boyfriends, when the door slammed open. He quickly gestured to Janus’ pocket, hoping he would understand. Luckily, he nodded and quickly scooped up the borrower and deposited him in the fairly large (to Logan at least) pocket.

“good evening, Roman. Is there a reason you showed up unannounced, or did you just want to ruin our date?” Janus spoke coldly

“oh- I- uh.. I didn’t know you two had a date tonight..” Roman rubbed his neck sheepishly

“us three” Logan corrected under his breath, shifting his position slightly. Unfortunately, Roman seemed to notice the movement from the pocket.

“What’s in your pocket?” He asked hesitantly

Logan stilled and held his breath as Janus answered “why do you want to know?”

Remus was staying silent, not trusting himself to not accidentally let something slip.

“I want to know beca-” he was cut off by Remus

“why are you here Roman?”

That quickly distracted the human “oh! I was just-” he explained why he was there, Logan still forcing himself to be still.

Once the dramatic man had left, the borrower let out an annoyed sigh “you really need to take away his key, so he can’t do this again. It is rather annoying to have to hide every two seconds that Roman shows up unexpectedly”

Remus giggled “and what would we tell him? ‘oh yeah our secret tiny boyfriend doesn’t like it when you burst in randomly so we’re gonna take your key’ I don’t think that would work very well, tiny nerd”

2. Janus’ brother shows up slightly less unannounced than Roman

Janus, Remus and Logan were watching random Youtube videos, with Logan sat on Remus’ shoulder. They heard the door open at the same time as Janus got a text message from his brother, Virgil

Was on a walk and saw your house. Am now in your house :)

Luckily, there was an entrance to the walls right next to where they were sat and Logan practically ran into it, the entrance closing just as Virgil entered the room.

“Virgil, do you have a reason to be here other than being an annoyance?” Janus raised an eyebrow at his younger sibling

“Nope!” Virgil replied with fake cheerfulness, before sitting cross-legged on the floor staring at the other humans. Remus just stared back, but with a slightly more eerie tone to his actions.

Janus just sighed at his boyfriend and his brother. He had no doubt that Logan was watching with an annoyed face that he would deny ever making. Almost everything they tried to do together was interrupted by someone bursting in uninvited, and it was getting tiresome. He heard a faint noise from the walls and by the looks of it Virgil and Remus heard it too.

Logan had gotten into a fight with a (luckily non-venomous) spider, and had just killed it, when he tripped. The impact made him hiss with pain and, unfortunately, made a semi-loud sound on its own. “... what was that?” He heard Virgil ask

Janus and Remus looked at each other for a split second, before Janus shrugged and said that it was probably nothing

“Anyway, emo, if you’re scared and you didnt come here for a reason, you can leave” Remus said, slightly too bluntly.

Virgil, thankfully for Logan, did in fact leave. It was at exactly that moment that the borrower decided that Virgil was better (if only slightly) than Roman

3. The time with Patton

Logan was wandering around the house (its his house and he can do that now that the humans knew about him) when a knock at the door sounded. Suddenly really glad that he stayed near the walls on his walk, he rushed into the closest entrance.

He knew that this would be Patton (he was the only person who ever bothered to knock) but he still couldn’t decide whether this particular human was as good as Virgil or not. He was better than Roman, not as loud (though still pretty loud), and not as keen on staying somewhere that he didn’t own. However, he wasn’t as quiet as Virgil, and had accidentally hurt his ears quite a few times, but at least he knocked instead of bursting in randomly with little to no warning.

He watched from a vent as Remus opened the door

“Heya Remus! Can i come in?” Patton greeted with obviously fake happiness and Logan could see a smile that seemed just a little too forced

“of course, do you want to sit down? I’ll go get Janus” Remus genuinely had no clue what to do, but Janus was slightly better at comforting people. Logan was better at it as well, because he’d bring up facts about why you’re good, but it wasn’t like Logan could comfort Patton..

Janus quickly rushed to the living room, where his best friend was obviously trying to hold back tears.

Logan watched Patton rant about both everything and nothing at the same time, obviously just needing someone to talk to. As much as he hated to admit it, he was still annoyed at the interruption that had forced him into the walls. He couldn’t control what annoyed him, and that in itself was an annoyance. He wanted to sympathise with the human, but did he have to show up right as Logan was finally relaxing? He decided to just randomly do things on the phone his boyfriends had given him. It had been hard to drag to his house in the walls but it made it easier to not get bored and to contact the two humans

4. When everyone (finally) finds out

Logan had had enough. The three humans that didn’t live in the house had all shown up unexpectedly, together. Whilst Logan, Remus and Janus were trying to finally have uninterrupted time together. Of course that’s when they show up Logan thought bitterly. They had showed up for, as they put it, a ‘surprise sleepover’

He glanced at his phone leaning on the wall next to his bed and a thought popped into his head. The humans were bound to find out anyway, if they were to keep bursting in unexpectedly, so why not just tell them?

Logan unlocked his phone, opening Whatsapp and typing out a message

‘tel VIrgl patan and romun to stay were they are. im reveeling mysellf to them. im going throo the enterance on the bukshelf. see yoo soon’

He probably spelt most of it wrong, but he hadn’t exactly gotten taught spelling. All he was taught in regards to reading, was just barely enough to figure out what he was taking and if it was dangerous or not. And he was making a life-changing decision, so he thought that meant he could make as many spelling mistakes as he did, and play it off to nervousness.

Janus and Remus both looked at their phones and paled. What was Logan thinking?! It seemed that the other humans had noticed their uneasiness “what’s wrong? What’s on your phones that is making you react like this??” Virgil asked, worry lacing his tone

“Don’t worry, Vee. It’s nothing bad, it’s just.. unexpected. ...You’ll see, just stay there” Janus soothed his brother

“you two stay there as well” Remus added , getting up and walking towards the bookshelf, Janus soon joining him. They looked at where they knew the entrance was, waiting for it to open.

Roman piped up “uh, care to tell us what is going on?”

“we will, but not yet. We need to wait”

“well, that was ominous..” Virgil commented, seeming slightly nervous

Then, the entrance opened and Logan walked out glaring softly at the shocked humans

“uh, Remus, what the fuck is that?!” Roman practically shouted, reminding Logan just why he was on the bottom of his list of favourites.

“He is our boyfriend, and I expect you to treat him with respect” Janus said, his voice venomous. Remus held out a hand for Logan to climb onto, which the borrower did, still glaring at the other humans (mostly Roman).

“Salutations. I am Logan, do not introduce yourselves, I already know who you are” He spoke before muttering an “unfortunately”

Remus, being the only person close enough to hear the mutter, let out a chuckle “Lo, if you revealed yourself just to complain about them to their faces, this will be hilarious”

The three humans were staring in shock, until Roman snapped out of it “Wait- why would he be complaining? I don’t know about those two, but I am positively amazing!”

Logan scoffed “yeah, amazing. You’re too loud, burst in randomly, and it’s always for the stupidest reasons. You have hurt my ears far too many times to count, and almost every time me, Janus and Remus try to do something together, you show up, and I have to hide or go back to the walls. So, yeah, amazing” He spoke, voice dripping with sarcasm.

He turned to the other two “you two aren’t as bad, but you still manage to show up at some of the worst possible times. Patton, you are quite loud, but not as loud as Roman, so that makes you slightly better. Also, you don’t burst in, and you knock so that’s something good. Virgil, you’re not as loud as these two, which is good, and you always send a text message when you show up, so I have at least a little bit of warning before going into the walls, so you’re both better than Roman” not that that’s saying much he added mentally.

-/\-/\-/\-/\-/\-/\-/\-/\-/\-/\-/\-/\-/\-/\-/\-/\-/\-/\-/\-/\-/\-/\-/\-/\-

I kinda wanna write a prequel about how Logan, Remus and Janus met..

Tag list: @icantthinkofacreativeurl @vann-cat @moonfrost-star-comics

#sanders sides #sanders sides fic #sanders sides au #borrower au #sanders sides borrower #borrower logan #human patton #human roman #human virgil #human janus #human remus #g/t au #sanders sides g/t #intruloceit #i wrote this whilst very sick and dizzy so its probably not the best #Ash tries to write something

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whatisgoingonpaul · 4 years ago

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Lost boys backstorys

I made a post while ago on my ideas of the boys past but now I want to update it. I just want you to know I’m still a firm Prequel lover/follower however we don’t get much info on the boys Pre 1906, so that’s what this is for! However personally I would have had more Max so this is going to be both pre 1906 but also include relationship with Max a bit.

I am also including my personal ideas on Last names and age. However I am under the idea that they wouldn’t know/take their last name seriously if the did know it cause- ya know. Orphans. This is going to be lengthy and I’m going to pin it, not just because I want it seen but also to remind myself in fic writing (when I don’t follow these ideas in a fic it’s gonna be Marked as Au- as I’ll probably be messing around with a different past.)

I’ll be doing appearance but only physical as there’s some stylistic changes. For clothing? Honestly so thinking workers clothes/cowboy esc

Also! Their stories are all going to kinda intertwine so I’d there’s not enough info under one theirs a solid chance there’ll be more for them under someone else’s!

David Hardy-

Age(as of 1906): 19

Born: 1887

Appearance: Average height, his hair a dirty blond- near reddish and is around shoulder length. Bearded. (Think doc but with slightly updated clothing)

Backstory:

David Is the only of the boys to grow up with at least one of his parents, living with his mother until her death when he was around 7. They lived in a decent, though cramped little space in San Francisco, by the docks. His father worked on and off- a not so stable style ending in him getting involved in not doing saviory things - getting arrested. His mother worked as a washerwoman. David worked the streets awhile, as a young child now left alone, he learned to pickpocket and live off what he could manage. It was around this time he had found Marko- doing the same thing he was - though arguably less effectively do to his more sporadic nature. At around age 10 the two became extremely close and rather inseparable, Marko even looking up to him despite being the older of the pair. However david wasn’t one to living completely criminal like... he did NOT want to be his father, which lead him to not drinking , EVER. (Even as a vampire he still doesn’t do alcohol.) he poked towards more honest work, also forcing Marko into doing the same , which he wasn’t exactly thrilled about- but did anyway. Tried. David did a lot of work on the docks, odd jobs and stuff like that- but it never paid even half as good as nabbing a wallet or cheating at cards. He wouldn’t be his father- he’d be better- better then all the nobody’s. More level headed then Marko though ambitious, big headed and still wildly child like- eventually Paul , Dwayne and Jasper joining the pair. Well now, David had himself a full on gang. Never robbery, not that far. The group pickpocketed , cheated at any sort of game or match, that sort of thing... they were still young after all. Smart enough not to go wild like some famous bandit (Though David will admit to his slight admiration of Billy the kid.). He’s a quick learner, and when he learns something- he learns it well- becomes a damn near expert. When he is good at something he is good at it. He is the leader out of the groups mutual respect towards him , quick thinker. Notable flaws: Huge ego, hopeless romantic.

Marko Connelly-

Age(as of 1906): 20

Born: 1886

Appearance: on the shorter side, golden - darker brown hair in this fluff of ringlets it’s long about just past his shoulder blades and typically tied back. Usually dirty somehow (Think Poli but with longer hair and updated clothing)

Backstory:

Born to a rich family , one of those who moved from east to west and actually did make it big. He was a pretty little thing, more a doll to his mother then particularly a child- only taken from Nanny to be dotted over or photos taken. However around the age of 3 or 4 things had tipped, scandal! Missing. That is what the newspapers said anyway he was found missing- was it that he was given away? Or stolen? He was never particularly a child to be quite or sit still or anything such as that... so who is to say? Marko doesn’t remember a lick of that either way as he was far far to young for it but he does remember being alone. This is how he had grown his attachment to birds, they always stuck around. He grew comfortable with being alone, having himself to depend on, getting good at grabbing what he needs- A mansion is stark contrast to dirty winding alleyways. He was always cursed with his looks- even filth covered at 6 he could make sad eyes and tend to swindle whatever he wanted... but he wasn’t completely quick. He’d get in trouble, his face memorable he could rarely pass the same trick again. At 11 David came across him, the two started working and living together (that is where they could find a place to sleep.) he sort of gained this complex. He felt he owed David , in some strange sense he became attached at the hip- a helper, a second- almost servant like the guy had saved his life and he is now the others. It didn’t help that at a young age, Marko had developed what was come to be understood as a deep crush- at times as teens this was reciprocated. As loyal and loving as he was to the other male he wasn’t nearly as cautious, as rule following... he had come to despise authority, to despise the fancy, the rich all of the crowd. He was never sure why. Even regular work got on his hate list... but he gave in and would try to do a normal amount pf work.. it never really worked as there was something, how he would sass, how he looked or smelled or spoke (neither him nor David really spoke ‘proper’ English - meaning no slang or accent). Around when Paul came things started to shift in the group, more mouths- more work and more thinking. Oh yea David and his thinking. Marko is a bit hostile right off the bat when it comes to people he doesn’t know, eventually he cracks and will be more loyal to you then to anyone you’d ever know. He opened up to Paul, a lot sooner then he would have thought the guy was funny and sweet - lil stupid too. David had this grand idea of a little gang, naturally Marko was all for it because illegal activity is fun- it was like a game to him. A liked stealing from pockets and playing distraction for David, as time grew he began to hate how young and gentle his face appeared to be. He LOATHED absolutely appalled the pity glances he would get, the hand outs the whole “oh you poor fragile little dear 🥺” he hated being babied and still does. He hated the stares he got on the opposite direction ... at first, it was funny, it was nice to be wanted in that sense rather then some baby. However... it grew creepy, it wasn’t women or a fella his age...it was more the gaze of older men. Marko detested it so much- he KNEW he’s seen what some of the guys... even younger then him ended up doing- he could see the occasional look in david’s eye. No he would never really consider....no. Paul was more his shoulder to cry on, someone to go to , to ramble to to speak with and just be with. The two were touchy, always leaning against eachother or grabbing their arms, laughing or sleeping or- eventually it became more then casual, it was serious. The two started ‘dating’ at some point- none of them were ever serious on titles but it was good to put a word to it.

Paul campbell-

Age (as of 1906) : 18

Born: 1888

Appearance: tall and lengthy, he has a mole on his left cheek, he has stubble/shadow opposed to a beard. He’s also usually dirty, dirty blond , long hair think Buffalo bill with volume and his hairline not receding

Backstory:

Grew up in a orphanage, hundreds of kids all stuffed together into a few rooms, often sharing beds and everything else. He was never a still child, he would always figit and move and shift - whenever he’s supposed to be quite or still like lessons or Mass he just couldn’t. This - got him most of the attention from the mistresses and overseers- much more quick to slap then to explain... he was docile , quick to flinch and try and stop. Never worked well. Once you get to 7-8ish you work if not adopted by a decent age. Sweeping, factory work he tried it all. He was particularly desensitized to violence at a extremely young age while working in a textile factory- he’s seen a kids arm come clean off. Terror turns to fascination eventually. At some point he’d stopped returning at night finding David and Marko at 15, he started hanging with them- it was safer in numbers that sort of thing- Paul could read a bit , David could write a bit- the three worked it out together. always so distracted- the others learned right off the bat he wasn’t built for pick pocketing no matter how hard he begged about it. Instead he’d do real jobs- sweeping , fighting, placing crooked bets that sort of thing. He always complains. A massive softie since he was young, Paul can’t quite handle being on his own- he’s used to having at least one other person around him at all times causing him to get quite hooked onto the other boys. He hovers around the same places. He is also a fan of dancing- Paul- is music obsessed the moment he heard the first noise of any sort of music he was hooked. He is one about fun- being restrained from it for so long as a child- always to sit out and watch or to think about whatever he did.. oh. Dancing, drinking, drugs, clubs, all of it is his kind of deal- he would drag the others with him when they had a bit of extra cash to deal with. Dwayne and his brother, when they joined on he was instantly accepting, unlike Marko he didn’t have the deep seeded trust issues, he was immediately touchy and happy to share a joke or a comment no matter the glares. He is the one to get Dwayne to lighten up a little bit, to smile he loves to see that smile :). He got around to dating Marko, when they finally put a label on it he was really giddy about it, making jokes and comments- he adores the little names like ‘sweetheart’ or ‘bo’ - he eventually gets around to just plain ‘sugar’ . Marko is the one who really entertains Paul’s love for dancing, the two of them trying to get the others to do something lighten up- eventually their pawing would bare fruit. Paul makes the best out of the worst situation, even if they end up sleeping on the beach more often then not- he somehow makes it seam alright. Except that one time he had gotten sand in Dwayne’s eye and all hell broke lose. He is the current youngest member of the group after Jaspers passing.

Dwayne Maher

Age (as of 1906) : 22

Born: 1884

Appearance: Tall, muscular , tanned(I will establish this now but Dwayne is Native American.) long Black hair with burnet highlights, reaches half down his back.

Backstory:

Born out more Midwest unlike the others he was not born in San Francisco, eldest son of a decent sized family of four kids. Do to conflict he and his younger brother skipped town, skipped state and fled to California.. better options you know?. He’s strong built, hard working and good with his hands though, rather playful most of the time. He looks after his younger brother closely, when there is work they work the same place, when there is not they both still do the same. Quickly took to David and the gang , having a tight knit bond with each of them. He was sort of the muscle - if there was trouble, he knew how to fight and it would likely work better then the knives the boys carried around or the gun David could barely shoot. It was Paul who got him to open up more, about himself and just to speak in general, he’s much more under his breath and jokingly commenting then he is saying something out loud- however if he dislikes something or thinks it stupid you WILL know it. Like David he carries the occasional thought of caution, however he’s not nearly as quick to worry. Maher is not his actual last name , nor does he ever mention it- he simply uses this one when it’s needed as some sort of identification or document. He’s surprisingly good at money, he ends up counting with David and is better at budgeting no matter how he may want or need something. He doesn’t speak on his past as he tries to make it seam he has little of one, he likes to make things mysterious he finds it amusing.

Jasper Maher-

Age (as of 1906) : 16

Born: 1890

Died: 1906

Appearance: shoulder length black hair, typically tied back and braided , tanned, string bean.

Backstory:

The younger brother of Dwayne who is much much more open on how he grew up, casually mentioning things he learned from his parents of his brother (he doesn’t remember his parents that much.) young hot shot sort of kid who’d much rather have action then he would some serious job, loud, energy filled and one for violence- however he’s surprisingly sweet. He often got himself and his brother into trouble. He was a quick and fast young child who grew surprisingly closest with Marko, the two having a habit for breaking every possible rule they could manage together. Their close friendship lead to Marko naming one of his birds after Jasper long after his passing.

Max-

Unknown age but he is seen as extremely old and powerful

Relationship with the boys:

After finding them he has decided to take them under his metaphorical and physical wing, acting as a sort of guardian. Food, clothing, shelter, he was everything the boys didn’t have and was surprisingly inviting in the beginning. ‘I do this for you, you on occasion do this for me’ sort of deal. He wasn’t a leader so much as he was a usual figure, the boys knew and understood him to be above them... so they followed you know? The whole new vampirism thing and the clueless kids- he had to explain and show nearly everything... especially to David, he wasn’t so much harsh to him as he was strict- more of a lead by example sort. Honestly he was father like in a strange sense- that someone is almost like a parent but very much your boss. See... with Max’s strength, there’s this almost automatic level of control- you can’t say no to him. You literally can’t not do what he asks (some supernatural level messing-). There’s something dark about him, in him that the boys still don’t understand in the 80s- but it scares them. It’s strange, it feels unlike him... he seams just like a Dorky , sweet man until...

Some random thoughts that don’t really fit anything

The boys are explicitly religious, past what you’d hear in passing or remember from growing up. Saying “oh god” and respecting religious officials are about what you’ll get

Whoopsies! This was a extremely long post lmao. Sorry for the long read but I could go on and on about them this was just a small blurb to all of it. If you ever wanna hear more do tell me. Also tell me if I should add tw for anything as I know I got a little dark at some points.

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yesimwriting · 4 years ago

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Anastasia (prologue)

A/n ive been talking about my Anastasia x SOC story for awhile and im finally ready to post the prequel,, ive also been working on some requests and thinking about my next multi-part fic (ive made some posts about it lol)

things to know before reading: i tend to like to make up my own countries when writing these type of politically/plot driven fics that revolve around a royal family bc i think it makes it not only easier to write but less confusing bc it takes out the issue of potentially conflicting with canon, so i made up the country ‘Anastasia’ is from,, this also follows the musical Anastasia a little more bc i feel like that version of the story is more mature and easier to write for SOC (the only difference is that not everyone is happy that Anastasia is alive and someone tries to kill her bc they hate the royal family)

Series Summary: y/n makes an unconventional deal with Kaz to save the life of her best friend. No one’s ever made a deal with the infamous Dirtyhands that resulted in them shedding the title of orphan from a revolution-torn country that can’t remember her life before the orphanage and taking on the title of Princess Anastasia. As time progresses, things are made more complicated as y/n has to deal with royals, revolutionaries, a grisha general who has a lot to gain from an alliance with a princess that doesn’t know what she’s doing, and potential feelings for a conflicted Kaz Brekker that has more to do with Anastasia’s disappearance than he’s ever admitted.

The world seems to be made up impossible things. Each day, people defy odds, strangers fall in love, the universe expands, and the Saints watch it all. I am not the kind of person to sneer at a miracle, to try to explain it away instead of acknowledging it for what it is.

But what this stranger is proposing is laughable.

I lean more into the chair, doing all I can to get away from the desk that he sits at. A nervous kind of giggle threatens to escape me, a laugh at the expense of the foolishness of the situation. If his demeanor was any less brooding, I would have already laughed at the irony. Kaz Brekker, the Dirtyhands, creating a ploy so colored by the fairytale notions of dreamers.

The longer I go without reacting, the worse this situation becomes. I haven’t seen Verne since Brekker and his people separated us. I can see the world of torment my eldest friend must be experiencing at this very moment while I sit at this desk.

“Me?” I’m the most ridiculous part of his plan. He said the only reason me and my partner are still alive is because I fit the general description of the kind of person he needs, and if I’m blackmailed into it he won’t need to waste kruge paying me. “A princess?”

He blinks, as uninterested and stoic as he’s been since he first ordered me into his office. “A pretend one,” his correction feels like a slight, “a surrogate one.”

My eyebrows furrow together. “But what--I know the odds of the real Anastasia coming back are beyond slim, but if we’re caught in a lie the Dowager Duchess of Avila will have all of us killed. She may be in Ravka now, and her title nothing more than decorative due to the revolution, but she still has people loyal to her.”

“Anastasia can’t come back.” The graveness of his voice is so certain a part of me has to wonder if he could have anything to do with her death. I dismiss the thought almost immediately, I don’t know his exact age, but he doesn’t look much older than me. He couldn’t have been more than two or three years older than Anastasia when she died, and she was a child at the time. “No one remains missing that long unless they’re dead.”

I awkwardly scratch the back of my wrist, “You’re the expert here.” No--I did not just say that out loud. “Sorry--I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Not that thinking it makes it any better, but at least then you wouldn’t know and I’d seem like less of an idiot and I wouldn’t be talking about it right now, and just rambling at a really inconvenient time for me to just...” I cringe slightly, opting to stare at his desk instead of meeting his judgmental gaze. “Sorry, again. Normally Verne is here, and he just kicks me in the shin or something to shut me up.”

“If you’d like to see what apparently is your only source of impulse control alive and in decent enough condition to kick anything ever again, you’ll agree to what I’m proposing.”

I straighten my posture slightly, nerves and guilt twisting in my stomach. “I’m going to be as transparent as physically possible.” The warning is for both of us, the urge to hide all my weaknesses bubbling in my chest. “Mr. Brekker.” That’s awkward--what am I supposed to call him? “I’m a university student that’s only in Ketterdam because of an academic scholarship. I’m from somewhere average--I’m not from a place nice enough to give me the manners I’d need to pass as a girl who spent her fundamental years growing up in luxury and I’m not from a place grimy enough to make me a quick enough liar to make up for what I don’t know.” I inhale slowly, ignoring the sting of the flaws I laid out for a cruel stranger. “I’m not particularly graceful or sly or talented in any field that someone like you would value. The closest thing I have to talent involves things that can be tracked on paper. I wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight, I was just doing a friend a favor.”

“You claim that you’re not a decent liar or a thief and yet your closest friend is one who believed himself talented enough to challenge me?”

I resist the urge to shrink back into my seat. “This is Ketterdam, you try finding someone that doesn’t dabble in crime and ambition.” He does’t reply to my retort, which I think means I won. “Cards on the table, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to save Verne, but you don’t want me for something like this.”

He pauses, jaw locked and eyes too stony for me to interpret. “Every flaw you just pointed out, every reason you think makes you unfit for this job, is exactly the reason I’m offering you this.” I keep a thousand questions to myself as I wait for him to continue. “Those used to lying lack the warmth that will be needed to sell this. The Dowager Duchess is a grandmother first when it comes to Anastasia, that’s why she’s offering so much gold. She, and the rest of the royals that desire to know what happened to Anastasia, want to believe the story I’m telling. If you present yourself as someone real and warm and you understand table manners enough to not disturb the serene picture they want, they’ll squint at ugly details until they disappear.”

Wow. I know that he’s intelligent, but what he’s constructing is so much more bullet proof than I thought it’d be. “I’ll admit you’ve constructed an airtight narrative.”

I know my approval means nothing to him, but it’s the most agreeable I’m willing to be. “A narrative the background you told me of fits perfectly.” I shouldn’t have answered all those questions he asked me earlier so honestly. “A child born in Avila who was sent to a Kerch orphanage due to a war-relief effort during the revolution. A faceless orphan who was found during the height of the revolution with no memory of anything before the morning she woke up in a hospital cot.”

I say nothing. My skin burns in protest of someone knowing so much about me. He must take my silence as a sign of me teetering the line away from what he wants, because he then says, “your friend is fortunate, if things aligned a little less perfectly he’d be dead already.”

Dead already. The words elate my heart in a way that pinches. He’s still alive. Verne is alive. “If I agree, you let me see him and then you let him go.”

“If you need a contract to believe me, I can have that arranged.” The words have an almost mocking edge. I guess it’d be a little ridiculous to get an official contract drawn up for something so small. “If you at any point change your mind, I’ll do the same.”

The threat is clear. I back out and Verne pays for it in blood. Verne’s safety is once again in my hand. This situation is much more precarious than Kaz Brekker wants it to seem. “You need me to do something that will literally last the rest of my life. Tiaras aren’t something you can slip in and out of.”

“Yes, I’m forcing you to give up a life in the slums for a palace for your friend’s life. This must be a difficult choice for you.”

I look down to avoid rolling my eyes. “It’s still permanent, and it’s large because at any point I could reveal the truth and take you down with me.”

“Remember who you speak to.” His voice has turned to pure darkness.

Don’t wince. Don’t wince. Don’t wince. “All I’m saying is that you’ve offered Verne’s life to buy my cooperation, but you have yet to mention the cost of my silence.”

His expression is sharp enough to draw blood. “The Dowager Duchess is old and sick, wait at most two years and you’ll have more gold than you could ever spend. The revolution took that family’s power, not the wealth the Duchess took with her to Ravka the night of the massacre.”

I shift awkwardly. “I’m not trying to get kruge from you for me.” I fold my hands neatly on my lap to avoid fidgeting. “Verne--he’s beyond desperate for kruge, that’s why he risked angering you.” The urge to shy away threatens to break my resolve. I think of all the times Verne has saved me. “Let him keep what he tried to take.” The request is awkward from my lips. I’m asking for more when I should should be grateful any type of mercy came from him. Any type of offer. “Half. Let him keep half.”

He’s silent for a long moment, weighing the implications of loss. “You’re already entitled enough to pass for royalty.” I don’t let myself shrink. “Deal, but not because you threatened me--try that again and you’ll find yourself wishing you had never left the orphanage you came from.” The relief is practically crushing. Verne is going to be okay. He’s going to live and my resistance earned him enough kruge to have a week or two without worry as he plans what he’ll do in my absence. “You better be as good a study as you made yourself seem to be.”

I don’t understand the second threat. “Studying?”

“You didn’t think you could wander into the Dowager Duchess’s home, use the excuse of amnesia to explain why you don’t even know your own mother’s name, and expect them to think you more than an Avilan orphan with a desire for wealth.”

“I actually don’t know my own mother’s name because of amnesia.”

He’s in no mood to be contradicted, glowering sharply, “not anymore, anything that doesn’t fit the narrative I’m constructing is no longer true.” He straightens slightly as he begins to pace away from me. “You’ll have five minutes with your friend and then we’ll see where your table manners are at. I know someone who knows enough to correct you.”

I try to picture where someone like him would meet someone that knows about etiquette. My mind provides nothing useful, but it doesn’t matter--I’ve agreed. It can’t be undone, not without having the blood of my dearest friend on my hands.

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chicgeekgirl89 · 4 years ago

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Puzzles and Limes and Family Times

Fandom: 911 Lone Star

Characters: T.K. Strand, Carlos Reyes

Summary: Parenting kids is tough. Growing up and parenting your parents is even harder. Luckily T.K. and Carlos have each other to help figure things out. A post-ep for 2x11 "Slow Burn." Thanks to @bluenet13 for the help with the spicy food stuff and for inspiring what will likely be a prequel. And for just generally always being a supportive friend!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“How about a book?” Carlos asked.

T.K. shook his head. “He has books. I want something different. Something that will really distract him.”

“I still think a couple DVD’s might do the trick,” Carlos told him.

“He has every streaming service known to man. If he can’t find it on one of those, it’s probably not worth watching.”

“T.K. as nice as it is that you want to get your dad a gift for his surgery, maybe we should think about it a little more since you don’t seem to know what you want.”

They’d circled the aisles of Target more than once, T.K. turning down every one of Carlos’ suggestions. “I just want something that’s going to keep him busy,” T.K. said. “He’s terrible at sitting still. I’m afraid if we don’t do something he’ll try and run a half marathon three days after surgery and kill himself.”

“Babe I don’t think there’s anything in the world that’s going to keep your dad recovering the way you want,” Carlos said. “He’s kind of a strong willed guy.”

T.K. sighed and turned the cart into the next aisle. “I know. I know, I just have to at least try.” He paused and grabbed a box off the nearest shelf. “What about this?”

Carlos raised his eyebrows. “A puzzle? Your dad doesn’t strike me as someone with the patience for puzzles.”

“Exactly. Maybe this will help him learn some. And,” T.K. tapped the box for emphasis, “this one has dogs playing poker on it. He loves dogs and poker.”

“That is true,” Carlos said, keeping his tone even and his expression neutral.

T.K. shot him a look of fond exasperation. “I know you’re humoring me but I’m going to pretend that was genuine.”

“And now you can humor me by picking out new towels,” Carlos said with a grin.

T.K. groaned. “I thought we already picked new towels.”

“We picked new master bath towels. We need some to match the guest bath.” Carlos grabbed his hand, towing him along toward the home goods aisles.

“I didn’t realize you were going to use my moving in as an excuse to redecorate the entire condo,” T.K. said.

“I want it to feel like our place.” Carlos stopped and picked up a washcloth. “How do we feel about cream?”

“I feel like towels are towels. Especially in the guest bath.”

Carlos rolled his eyes and moved further down the row. “We have guests coming next week. Everything needs to be perfect.”

“Speaking of which, are you sure you want to invite my dad to dinner with your parents?” T.K. asked as Carlos silently debated the merits of blue versus off-white towels.

Carlos looked at him in surprise. “He’s your dad. Of course I want him there.”

“It’s just…he can be…a lot sometimes,” T.K. said.

Carlos raised his eyebrows and T.K. held up a finger in warning. “If you say I’m also a lot sometimes I’m taking the keys and leaving you here to Uber home.”

His boyfriend smiled and turned back to the towels. “My parents want to meet him. And your dad is very charming.” He looked at T.K., eyes sparkling with mirth. “Just like you.”

Now it was T.K.’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Besides,” Carlos said, dropping the blue towels into the cart, “having your dad there will take some of the attention off of me so my mom doesn’t tell every, single embarrassing story about my childhood. Instead your dad and my dad can try to one-up each other talking about crazy calls they’ve been on.”

T.K. wasn’t convinced yet. “He’s just really not been himself lately. And I have no idea what his mood is going to be like post-surgery. I don’t want him to leave a bad impression with your parents.”

“I’m sure it will be fine. Besides, it would be good for your dad to get out of the house. Be around family.”

T.K. sighed. “I guess at least if he’s with us I’ll know he’s safe. And it will give him something to do to keep his mind off how bored he is.”

“I thought that was what the puzzle was for,” Carlos said with a teasing grin as they walked toward the checkout.

T.K. sent him a withering look. “Just let me pretend it’s going to work and not sit on a shelf in the closet until the next time he has a garage sale. It makes me feel better.”

Carlos nudged him good-naturedly. “I will let you keep your delusion.” He stopped pushing the cart and leaned against the handle. “But it’s going to cost you.”

T.K. took a step closer and bit his lip. “Oh is it?” he asked, wondering exactly how randy Carlos was going to get in the kitchen appliance aisle.

“Yep.” Carlos grinned. “We’re having camarones a la diabla for dinner tonight.”

T.K.’s face fell. “What? No! Come on I already looked at towels with you!”

Carlos just smiled and sauntered away with the cart, leaving T.K. alone in the middle of the aisle to hurry after him. “Okay but only a little spicy all right? Not ‘accidentally almost kill T.K. spicy’ like last time?”

“That was your own fault and you know it,” Carlos called back.

T.K. huffed. “That’s exactly why we don’t need a repeat!”

Carlos stopped and let him catch up. “If we’re going to live together we have to build up your tolerance to heat. Don’t worry,” he said, patting T.K.’s cheek, “I’ll be gentle.”

T.K. eyed him warily. “Nice try Reyes. I know behind that smile is a conniving, spice loving, diabolical monster.”

“What if I promise you homemade ice cream for dessert?”

“What because I’m a five-year-old and can be bribed to eat my dinner?” T.K. asked.

Carlos cocked his head and raised his eyebrows.

“Fine,” T.K. said grudgingly. “But I want chocolate.”

“Then chocolate it is.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

T.K. had never seen his boyfriend panicked before. Upset yes, excited for sure, but the most emotionally intense his mild mannered boyfriend typically got was moderately annoyed. Tonight however, he seemed like he might actually be about to lose his shit. And as intrigued as T.K. was to see where that might lead, a little voice in his head reminded him that Carlos losing his shit five minutes before his parents were due to arrive was probably not going to leave a favorable impression.

“Where are the tortilla chips?” Carlos asked, his voice sharp and pitched a note or two higher than usual. “I thought you picked them up on your way home today.”

“Right here,” T.K. said smoothly, opening the cupboard and pulling out the bag of homemade chips he’d purchased from a favorite restaurant down the street.

“And you told them to make the guacamole fresh right?”

“Yes, I stood there for fifteen minutes while the guy went out and hand picked the avocados,” T.K. said, trying not to let too much amusement color his tone.

Over the last few days the tension in their home seemed to have changed direction. As T.K. had grown more comfortable with the idea of his dad coming for dinner, (despite the one minor, running into a burning building incident that T.K. was trying not to think about) Carlos had gotten increasingly tense.

The condo, always in a state of near perfect cleanliness now sparkled like something out of a magazine. And the list of instructions Carlos had left for T.K. to complete after his shift had been so detailed and exact that T.K. wondered if he’d stayed up all night writing it. Personally he thought that doing a deep clean of the refrigerator and painting over scuffs on the baseboards was a little bit of overkill, but he’d done as asked. Now, as he watched his boyfriend dart from one side of the kitchen to the other in a slightly manic state, he was wondering if he might need to intervene.

Carlos pushed past him to take the perfectly made guacamole out and put it in a bowl. “Did you put a clean hand towel in the bathroom? The blue one?”

“Blue? I thought you said black.”

Carlos froze and glowered at him. “I’m kidding,” T.K. said, holding up his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Blue towel is freshly laundered and in the bathroom. I’m not sure exactly how the color of a hand towel could ruin the evening but I certainly didn’t want to risk finding out.”

Carlos’ face dropped a bit, emotional exhaustion pulling at him. “I know I’m being crazy.”

“Oh I think we surpassed crazy about two hours ago when you were picking individual pieces of lint off the throw pillows,” T.K. said with an amused smile. “Relax. Tonight is going to be great. You’re making a damn soufflé. How could anyone not be impressed by that?”

“Maybe I should have gone with something more traditional,” Carlos said, running an agitated hand through his curls for the hundredth time that evening. “My parents are traditional people. But your dad is coming so I wanted to pull out all the stops.” He peered through the oven door at the soufflé. “Maybe I should have done the beef. I’m going to take it out just in case.”

“Carlos, Carlos whoa, hey,” T.K. stopped him by putting his hands on his shoulders. “The soufflé is going to be great. Everyone is going to love it. Do not take that beef out of the refrigerator.”

Carlos’ eyes widened. “Oh my god I forgot to put the ice trays in the freezer!”

“Whoa, hey, nope,” T.K. held on a little tighter and didn’t let him go. “You asked me to do that this morning. Let’s just go sit for a minute—“

“I need to—“

“What you need to do is take a few deep breaths and get yourself together,” T.K. told him, pushing him gently onto a bar stool.

“I just want it to be perfect.”

“Babe I know. But it’s not going to be. Nothing ever is, so you need to let got of that expectation. It will be a great dinner because everyone who’s coming loves you and wants you to be happy.”

Carlos slumped a bit, mussing his curls a little more with his hands. “I’m nervous.”

“I know. But I’m going to be right beside you the whole night. And nothing your parents say is going to make me upset. Or want to leave.” T.K. leaned a little closer as Carlos deliberately avoided making eye contact. “That’s what you’re really worried about right? Not that they’ll say something to make you upset, but that they might hurt me?”

Carlos chewed at the inside of his lip and covered T.K.’s hands with his own, twining their fingers together nervously. “They just might not be as careful with their words as I want them to be. Sometimes they speak without thinking. They have old biases, things from church and the family…”

T.K. brought one of Carlos’ hands up to his mouth and kissed his knuckles. “I know the difference between willful hate and accidental ignorance. I’m not worried.” He ran a hand through Carlos’ hair, fixing some of the damage he’d done to himself. “And nothing, not even rude parents or a fallen soufflé, would ever make me want to leave you.”

T.K. watched as some of the tension eased out of his shoulders. “I love you,” Carlos said quietly.

“I love you too,” T.K. said, squeezing his hand.

There was a knock on the door and Carlos sucked in a deep breath. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

T.K. leaned forward so their lips met in a sweet kiss. “Absolutely.”

#911 Lone Star #Tarlos #Carlos Reyes #T.K. Strand #Tarlos Fanfic #Post-ep #Slow Burn #2x11 #Fluff #Anxious boys #They love each other #And are also a little over the top

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