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arcadechan · 2 years ago

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Hello, I'm absolutely in love with your work, and most especially your use of color!

Apologizing in advance if you've answered this sort of question already, but do you have any particular methods of choosing/applying color to your pieces? I've struggled with choosing interesting colors/palettes alot personally and would love to know if you have any tips or anything about it!

Hello, thank you so much for the question!

I've been sent a similar ask before, but I also don't mind talking about art so your ask is more than welcome. Plus you touch on an interesting point! The way you apply color can be just as effective as the color itself. FUN.

The ask I linked above talks about how I choose color palettes, so check that out if you're interested~. I'll expand a little bit more down below since you got me thinking about stuff

(One note though: I primarily work digitally, and I might on purpose or accidentally frame my tips around that mindset.)

It's time for a list because I love lists so much:

If something breaks the rules of reality but looks COOLER or fits your style or theme or you just LIKE it more....maybe do it anyway. Why not? At least see what it would look like! (Make a new layer if you're working digitally, sketch it out on some scratch paper if you're going traditional) (this is especially good with color. I KNOW not many shadows are that shade of teal but it just looks good jerry, sorry!) (Light sources are good for this too)

You are not locked into anything, ESPECIALLY if you're working digitally. If you don't like how something looks, try first to figure out what WOULD make it look better and then give it a shot (I say to think about it a little bit first to try and prevent the sketch-delete-sketch-delete cycle, but....sometimes you NEED that cycle too. Even deleted art still lives in the memory of your hands and experience. It’s just trouble to get stuck there.)

When struggling with colors, look to simplify. Maybe do more pieces with JUST flat colors, see if that doesn’t help your palettes. You will find your renders more appealing if you start with a base you like, and even if you don’t like your renders…you’ll have a base you like, and that’s good enough! Flat color art is COOL. Knowing when NOT to add detail is just as masterful as knowing when and where to

When it comes to something you're struggling with, look to other artists. That's part of why I'm very happy to answer asks like this - it's good to remember you don't have to come up with every answer yourself. Even if you can't ask directly, there's a lot to learn just from...looking at art. What inspires you? What looks cool, or appealing? What solves a problem you've been struggling with?

For example, going back to color, you learn early in digital art that a purple/blue layer on multiply (or you know, other colors, but it's an example) can be a quick and easy way to do some shadows. and it is! I use it even today! But I never really liked it. So I started struggling with shadows. So I started looking to other art for inspiration. I've just always liked vibrant colors and watercolor as a medium, so...I started trying some things with that as my inspiration point.

I began applying shadows with watercolor brushes and wash brushes, I started using teal and aqua for shadows on top of a thicker magenta base. I started doing rim-lighting (boy oh boy rim-lighting). I started pushing and pulling colors, adding layers like with colored pencils. I started using more glow dodge layers, a separate layer for more opaque hard light and less opaque blooms; making pieces brighter instead of darker. I STARTED. Doing things I just LIKED more, and found out that hey…..some of it works. Some of it sticks.

There’s a lot of advice out there on how to overcome artblock; and while I know that isn’t the exact nature of this question, from my own experience I’ve usually found I hit an artblock when there is a specific THING I am struggling with (for a long time it was feet. Right now it’s shoulders, necks, and noses. For you, perhaps it’s color). Whenever I hit this point there are a few easy things I try and lately it’s been working out.

I start by stopping drawing. I go out and get inspired again. Reading, watching animation, going out and seeing nice scenery in some good lighting, looking at other artists’ work…I take my mind of my own stuff and refill it with Good Juice for Creatives

I wait. I wait until my hands itch and I just gotta draw again. I wait until I have at least ONE thing I know I want to draw or try (like a new brush or challenge or IDEA)

When I start drawing again, I take it easy. Sketching in the sketchbook, drawing fanart or oc’s, not trying to come up with too much from scratch. The break we took earlier at least gives me enough energy and want-to-draw to power through the struggle of any remaining artblock

When you’re learning…there can be a frustrating SLOWNESS to it. And with art, well. It’s tricky. You’re training your eyes, hands, and mind on something…almost completely subjective. That’s why I keep coming back to studying things you like! Not only does that make for a more enjoyable experience…well. When I was in college, my art teacher told us to “trust your gesture”.

When you are actively doing or studying art, you’re building a mental catalog. When you’re LIVING you’re doing this too! That’s where trust your gesture comes into play. You know colors you like when you see them. Trust the colors you like to be some of the colors you can use. Trust some of the things you like to be things you can learn from. A lot of art will come more naturally when you say “I know I can do it this way…but I WANT to do it this way”.

And that’s why so much of my art is Like That.

#chan says #replied #oh goodness it's long and i had too much cheesecake and also it's a monday and i'm alive so #i #rambled #sorry!! i hope this helps in....ANY way.#frankly you just asking questions like this is a good part of due diligence! to you and your art!! well done!!

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rosemaidenvixen · 4 years ago

Text

A Secret’s Worth

Chapter 16: Walter

Ao3

Over the years Strickler had lost track of how many times another changeling had made a joke about how it must rankle him to teach history that he knew was false from firsthand experience.

But what most other changelings didn’t realize was that between ineffective funding and highly biased textbooks he’d be teaching falsehoods one way or another.

The truly ironic thing about being a changeling educator was being forced to leave out key events responsible for shaping the modern world as they knew it that no human was aware even occurred.

“Can anyone tell me who the final king of Camelot was?”

The predictable grouping of hands went up; Claire Nuñez, Seamus Johnson, Darci Scott, Eli Pepperjack. He had no doubt that they all knew the correct answer, maybe it was time to check that one of his less alert students was still mentally present in some capacity.

“Ms. Longhannon?”

The girl in question jerked her gaze away from the window “Wha?”

A chorus of snickers came up from around her. Shannon flushed.

“We were discussing the final ruler of Camelot, Ms. Longhannon,”

“Oh….that was King Arthur…..right?”

He smiled “Correct,”

Pressing a button on the remote in his palm, Strickler switched the view on the projector to a timeline extending from the years 400 to 1200 “The Pendragon Empire, founded by Uther Pendragon in the fifth century, lasted until the early twelfth century, ending during the upheaval surrounding the death of his descendent, Arthur Pendragon. A large part of the chaos after Arthur’s death was due to the fact that Arthur left no immediate heirs apparent. That combined with crumbling infrastructure and opportunistic invasions from neighboring nations is what led to the fracturing of the empire,”

Strickler paused as the soft scratching of pencils on paper filled the room.

Neighboring nations, what drivel, it was enough to make any self respecting changeling want to laugh and vomit at the same time.

Granted, Strickler himself hadn’t been present for Camelot’s true downfall. He’d been a young changeling back then, trying to sell a remote clan of Slavic trolls on the benefits of an alliance with the Gumm Gumms.

He hadn’t succeeded. But in the end it turned out rather moot.

No, that was putting it far too mildly. It had taken over a century for the Janus Order to recover from the chaos; setting their goals back by nearly a millennium.

Arthur might have lost the battle against his kingdom falling, but the victory he’d gained in the war was exponentially greater.

He’d prevented the extinction of the entire human race.

Strickler shut his eyes and pulled in a deep breath to ground himself back in the present as the last few students finished taking their notes.

No.

Not prevented. Delayed.

“Your final project will be done in groups, each group will be assigned a single century during the Pendragon empire and will put together a presentation summarizing the events and the impact of your assigned century. This presentation should last twenty minutes and we will be doing them in class at the end of the month,”

The entire room broke out into groans.

Strickler chuckled good naturedly “Consider it a small price to pay for not having any work over spring break, now I want you all to break into your groups, three to five people each, and have one member select your century, and enough rubrics for all of you,” he gestured towards the small slips of papers on his desk sitting next to a fat stack of rubrics “The rest of the hour will be in class work time, so I suggest you get started,”

There was a shuffle of desks and sneakers as the students settled into their groups, a handful darting up and snatching their centuries and rubrics under Strickler’s keen eye. Had to make sure everyone settled into proper groups and keep track of who was working on what century after all. He waited until things had nearly settled down before speaking up again.

“Jim Lake,”

The boy in question started in his seat, both him and his groupmates turning and looking at Strickler inquisitively.

“Yeah?”

“Do you mind stepping outside with me for a moment?”

Based on his expression Jim certainly minded quite a bit, a gauntness present in his features that hadn’t been there a month ago, but he stood from his chair all the same “Ok….sure,”

Strickler ignored the course of oohs that filled the room as Jim headed over to meet him at the door. Only after he had stepped out and closed the door behind them, the two alone in the hallway, did Strickler speak again.

“Jim, I’ve been monitoring your behavior these past few weeks, and quite frankly I’m concerned,”

Someone less observant and experienced at the art of subterfuge would have missed the subtle way Jim’s shoulders stiffened, the flicker of panic on his face before it settled into a calm veneer.

But Strickler missed nothing.

Jim forced out an uncomfortable laugh “Well...uh, sorry to worry you, but I’m totally fine,”

Strickler had to bite back a sigh. It looked like Jim, not unexpectedly, had decided to be evasive; no matter. In that case the only thing to do was strike at the heart of the issue, bluntly and without delay.

He whipped a comb out of his front pocket; cheap and still sealed in its plastic packaging, but very fine toothed, holding it out in front of him “I want you to run this through your hair,”

Blinking, Jim stared at the comb and then back up at Strickler “....are you serious?”

“Humor me,”

Looking more confused than anything else, Jim slowly took the comb, pulled it from its wrapper, and ran it through his hair once before promptly handing it back “There, is that all? Because I need to--”

“Jim. Look at the comb.”

He did, all the color instantly draining from his face.

From end to end the comb’s teeth were stuffed to the brim with short, black hairs.

“Your hair is falling out.” Strickler’s tone brooked no questioning. He wasn’t asking, he was stating a fact “So do not tell me that everything is fine. If everything were fine you wouldn’t be losing your hair from stress,”

Of course there were plenty of non-stress related medical conditions that could cause a sixteen year old boy to start losing his hair, but Strickler found that his intuition was rarely wrong.

Jim hadn’t so much as twitched, standing frozen in place, eyes wide and locked on the comb.

Strickler let out a sigh and tossed the comb into a nearby trash can “I’m going to be frank with you Jim, I know CPS is investigating your family,”

Now that got a reaction, Jim snapping his head up, breathing quick and shallow, voice tight with pure panic “You do!?”

“Keep your voice down, yes, the investigator called the school with a few questions,” Strickler saw no reason to bring up the fact that he had been the one to make the initial call, much less that he had done so at the behest of Mr. Domzalski.

“But I’m not going to ask about that. That case is a matter between your family and the state, now if you want to talk I am more than willing to listen, but I’m not going to pry into your family’s private matters,”

Just like that the wind went out of his sails. Jim practically going limp, swaying on his feet overcome with relief. But before he could relax too much, Strickler was talking again.

“That being said, in the weeks that the investigation has been going on, I have become seriously troubled by your behavior,”

“What...behavior...are you talking about?”

“You’re anxious and unfocused, I’ve caught you nodding off in class no fewer than three times in the past week. And this is pure speculation on my part, but I don’t think you’ve been getting nearly enough to eat, which could be contributing to your hair loss,”

Squirming under his scrutiny, Jim ran a shaky hand through his hair, before he quickly realized what he was doing and pulled it away “Ok things have been hard… and maybe I’ve missed a meal or two...but I’ve just...really been focusing on keeping my grades up,”

It was true. Strickler happened to know for a fact that Jim was pulling all A’s in every subject. But while that was a fact it certainly wasn’t the whole truth.

“You’re grades are exceptional, and normally I would applaud you for being so diligent with your studies, but I get the feeling you’ve been hyperfocusing on your schoolwork in order to avoid dealing with the other problems in your life,”

From the way Jim flinched at his words, breath catching in his throat, Strickler knew he’d struck the truth.

“Look...I...I know that there’s a lot going on, but I swear I can handle it,”

“Jim--”

“I promise it’s really not that bad,”

“Not that bad? For goodness sake Jim, your hair is falling out!”

The boy had no response to that, downcast eyes locked on the floor, unable to meet Strickler’s gaze.

Squaring his shoulders, Strickler clasped his hands together and netted his fingers in front of him. Bluntness had served its purpose in this conversation, now it was time for the olive branch “With everything going on in your life I imagine it must feel like you’re carrying the world on your shoulders,”

“Yeah,” Jim mumbled “Something like that,”

Strickler gave him a small smile “Have you heard of the greek myth of Atlas?

Jim looked up at that “No….should I have?”

“Atlas was a titan that took part in the war between the gods and titans, and when the titans lost Atlas was condemned to hold up the sky for all eternity,”

“Okay…but what does that have to do with...me?”

“In the myth Atlas alone bore the weight of the entire world on his shoulders, but Jim, you aren’t Atlas. However heavy your burden is, you don’t have to bear it alone. The faculty here can put you in touch with some excellent counselors and--”

“Actually I really don’t need anything like that,” Jim stepped around him and tried to go back into the classroom “And I should really be getting started on--”

“Jim.” Strickler allowed a trace of stone to creep into his voice “We are not done talking.”

The boy froze midstep, slowly turning back towards him with clear hesitation.

Once Jim was facing him again Strickler cleared his throat and started over “The purpose of counselors and therapists isn’t to scrutinize you or your family, but to give you tools and resources, coping mechanisms to help you better deal with the struggles life throws at you. And before you ask, no, you don’t have to talk about the investigation with them either,”

Jim’s mouth abruptly twisted into a scowl “If I don’t have to talk to them then why should I bother...even….”

He trailed off once he noticed Strickler’s expression, the boy couldn’t possibly see down to the depths of Strickler’s true thoughts, but he clearly saw something that gave him pause.

“...sorry,” Jim muttered, looking down and away.

Strickler just stared back at him evenly.

One didn’t survive as a high school teacher without developing a thick skin in regard to teenage impertinence. But this kind of snide back talk was far more in line coming from Steve, or even Seamus. Hearing it from Jim it was...troubling.

Not wasting any more time, Strickler pulled a sticky note out of his pocket and held it out “Here are a few of the counselors and therapists that I most recommend, but if you want more options let me know and I can get you a complete list,”

Jim didn’t move, arms not so much as twitching from their position at his sides. Staring at the note with a sour expression on his face.

“I’m not going to force you to go see any of them, but you will take their contact information and keep it,” One of Strickler’s eyebrows quirked up “Unless of course accepting the contact information of guidance counselors and therapists would put you at risk for some reason? If that is the case I certainly wouldn’t want to put you in any danger, but I would need to know exactly what kind of danger you would be in,”

Jim chewed on his lip, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Strickler held his gaze, kept his hand extended, and waited.

Finally after what must have been a solid minute, Jim reluctantly reached up and took the note. Tucking it into his pocket under Strickler’s close scrutiny “Can I go back in now?”

Strickler frowned. He was not pleased with how this had turned out. Despite his best efforts the boy seemed dead set on refusing every helping hand extended his way. But as the saying went, one could lead a horse to water, but can’t make them drink. The only thing to do was continue to offer the water and hope one day he bent his head and accepted.

“You can, but please remember, as a teacher it’s not just my job to educate you, myself and every other staff member in this building has an obligation to look after your wellbeing, so please don’t forget that, young Atlas,”

Jim rolled his eyes “Yeah, sure,”

Strickler frowned; darker, harder this time, Jim shrinking under the force of his gaze. Brusqueness gone as quickly as it had come.

“I...I’m sorry…”

It wasn’t as though Strickler was losing his patience with the boy, compared to his dealings with the order’s underlings this was as relaxing as a day at the spa. Rather he was becoming increasingly concerned by Jim’s uncharacteristic outbursts.

Despite Jim’s best efforts to bury his troubles and pretend that they didn’t exist, his woes were finding their way to the surface one way or another.

“More people care about you than you know Jim,”

Strickler was suddenly struck by inspiration. For whatever reason Jim wasn’t comfortable reaching out to Strickler, or any other adult it seemed. Perhaps the idea was to appeal to his peer relationships.

“Like your friends,”

He gestured towards the window in the classroom door, at cluster of five desks with four students at them in particular “You happen to be graced with a group of companions who would go to the ends of the earth to help you, not everyone can be so fortunate,”

Strickler turned his head slightly, trying to gauge Jim’s reaction. But to his shock, rather than looking relieved or even uncertain, something hard and inscrutable had settled over Jim’s face.

“Yeah, they would wouldn’t they,”

The boy’s tone cinched it. Strickler had accomplished all that he could for today, pushing Jim any further right now would do more harm than good.

With only a pang of reluctance, Strickler opened the door and allowed Jim back inside, following shortly after.

He went over to his desk to grade quizzes while the students worked for the rest of the hour, Jim taking his seat at the cluster of desks, rejoining his companions and enmeshing himself in their project.

Despite his best efforts to file this incident in the back of his mind, Strickler found himself dwelling on his brief interaction with Jim. Keeping a subtle eye on him and his group.

Strickler had been doing this for a very long time and found that for good or for ill, his intuition was rarely wrong.

You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink, only keep offering and hope one day he bent his head and accepted it. And Strickler’s intuition was telling him that Jim would break before he ever bent.

#tales of arcadia #Trollhunters #fanfic #A Secret's Worth #rmvwrites #walter strickler #jim lake jr

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shihalyfie · 4 years ago

Note

Out of curiosity, I’ve noticed you don’t touch on tri, any particular reason? I know a lot of fans myself included don’t care for it but I don’t wanna assume that’s the case

I had a feeling I was going to get this question eventually, and I tussled with myself for quite a while on whether I should answer it publicly or privately, since this is a blog I’d like to mostly dedicate to appreciating the nuances and themes within Adventure and 02 and how carefully they handled all of the topics within, and I’d like to hold back on negativity for the most part (just because I talk about there being a meaningful reason behind most creative decisions in Adventure and 02 doesn’t mean I necessarily like all of them, I just don’t feel like this is the place to be adding those kinds of personal sentiments, because this is meant to be an analysis blog, not a review blog). That said, my meta has been getting a lot of traction lately (thank you so much! I really appreciate it!) and I do feel like this question must have crossed people’s minds at some point since it is a bit of an elephant in the room, so I think people have the right to know the answer.

To those of you reading this who are fans of tri., I sincerely apologize, since some less than kind things are going to be in this answer (although I do hope that maybe the tag would have successfully caught in some blacklists for those trying to avoid this kind of negativity).

The short version of the answer is that “I couldn’t get it to work, and I don’t have the energy to do it.” The long version of the answer is that I did actually try to analyze and pick apart tri. in detail a year ago, but unlike with Adventure and 02, where looking at it deeply and trying to extract details out of it revealed that a lot of it did make sense or at least have a reason behind it, looking at tri. with this level of depth made it fall apart even more. The contradictions and things that don’t make sense aren’t just one or two things you could safely ignore like with, say, Armor Evolution to the Unknown or Tag Tamers or Hurricane Touchdown, but practically permeate the entire text of it (and this is especially the case when you bring 02 into play, but even if you were to isolate Adventure into a vacuum, there are too many things that still don’t make sense), and it’s on every level as well; not just plot and worldbuilding, but also meaningful theme.

In the end, I don’t think this is just something that can be chalked up to mere happenstance, and I think the core of the problem is something that can be accurately summarized in the story of the two tri. scriptwriters who were fans of the original series, but kept getting their scripts rejected because it wasn’t “mature” enough. It’s not limited to just this incident, and it permeates a lot of the sentiments behind what you hear in tri. staff testimony -- a constant sentiment that the original series was a “kids’ show” that didn’t go into any kind of meaningful depth, and that the new series was meant to be “mature” in comparison. This is very, very painful for me to read, as someone who adores the original series because it had a significant level of depth and nuance that so many kids’ shows at the time wouldn’t even dare (and sometimes even to its detriment, since I’ve often complained how the series was too subtle for its own good, or kept going into things that would go over its target audience’s heads) -- contrast the statement about 02 that they wanted it to be a lighter series at first, but felt that it would be wrong to shy away from important things they wanted to say.

The entire premise of the series doesn’t work if you take even a single Adventure episode into account (45, which singlehandedly dismantles most of how tri. is even supposed to work), and there’s this thread of acting like the morality of killing/the morality of friendly fire was somehow new to this series when it comprised a whole quarter of Adventure and nearly the entirety of 02, and with so many other sentiments like this, the only conclusion I can reach is that they cared so much about that “maturity” that actually paying any mind to the series it was meant to be a sequel to was that low on the priority list. For me, who's mainly here to pay respect to the level of detail and thought and depth that the original Adventure and 02 staff put into their series, it just feels unfair to expect me to bend over backwards and compromise the integrity of the analysis just to make it “comply” with a series that never intended to be consistent or make sense in the first place.

Even if you do selectively include tri. elements, the more you try to involve, the more all of the contradictory facts and themes between Adventure/02 and tri. come into conflict like two magnets with the wrong sides facing each other, and you are repeatedly going to come into crossroads where you will have to commit to one over the other. At that point, the sheer level of speculation and workarounds to make it happen, and the things you'd have to toss out or modify from what was originally meant to be a comprehensive analysis, make it into less of an analysis and more headcanon and fanfiction. Which is perfectly fine if you want to go that route, I mean -- it's just that this isn't what this blog is for, because I'm trying to analyze and inspect what (the very uniformly consistent) Adventure and 02 were trying to say before another series (one that clearly had zero fundamental interest in maintaining any of that) came around fifteen years later. I include Kizuna mainly because it is incredibly easy to fit in comparison, given that it not only had original staff, but also is clearly made with just as much attention to detail and focus on meaningful theme as the original series was, and so it’s fairly easy to integrate it into an Adventure/02 analysis without much trouble -- in fact, Kizuna additions conversely often enhance and further elaborate on things that were already in the original series, so the helpful additions it adds far outweigh the work it takes to include it -- but that’s not the case for tri. at all.

Nevertheless, as I said, this is not a blog meant to focus on negativity. There are people who found something in tri. that spoke to them, or don’t really put so much weight into what the staff said or thought, and would like to see it in a way that works for them. I personally encourage this sentiment; just because I happen to be someone who treasures Adventure and 02′s integrity so much that I refuse to compromise does not mean I should inflict these feelings on others who don’t see it the same way. Because of that, I personally felt it was better to simply not cover it, rather than derailing every single analysis to make an aside about everything about tri. that doesn’t make sense, because that’s also going to be hurtful to anyone who does like one or more of the series and wants to make it work. But, after all, this blog is my personal analysis and way of seeing the series, and I cannot see it in a way that makes it work (and especially don’t have the energy to make an attempt for something I do in my free time), and so I would rather just pass the baton to those who feel more up to it instead; in other words, I’m not trying to invalidate tri.’s existence for those who want to make it work, and rather my stance is “I can’t figure out a way to make it work myself, so I will leave the reasoning to you.” Moreover, I’ve implied this a few times, but a lot of the ideas on this blog or in any of my analyses are not things I came up with on my own, but from sharing ideas and having discussions with friends in my private time, and I feel like I would be doing them a disservice by weaponizing all of the insightful things they’ve given me to dunk on something else. I love 02 a lot, and one of its major themes was trying to make the most positively productive thing you can out of what you have, and advocating for people to maybe appreciate something they may not have thought about before feels like a better use of my time.

If you are interested in my analysis of tri. from last year, I still keep it on hand mainly because -- well, to be frank about it, nearly every tri. diehard fan I’ve had a personal encounter with has said some very nasty things to me about how I’m not “smart” enough to appreciate the series, or how I’m being “unfair” about it, or how I’m not a “real fan” for not singing its praises, and so I mainly put this together as a collected document and proof of how I (and the few others who helped me put it together) did actually make due diligence and put proper scrutiny into trying to make it work (and couldn’t). (If you happen to identify as a tri. diehard fan and have not said this kind of thing to people, I sincerely apologize and want to make clear that I don’t want to pin the entire tri. fanbase as this kind of person; this was just my personal experience.) I wrote it mainly as catharsis and for the sake of other people who were interested in a detailed analysis, and also for the sake of other people who might have gotten these kinds of dismissive insults and wanted confirmation that their feelings weren’t baseless, or for bridging the gap between people who did like the series but want to understand why there are people who don’t (this apparently was a testimony from a few people who read it). That’s also why I’m linking it right now, since I imagine that there might be people curious about said aforementioned analysis after I’d just brought it up. However, I do warn that there is a lot of frustrated negativity, and that there is a sense of bias in that I wrote this “going in with doubt” instead of the more positive attitude I have with Adventure or 02 in that I assume there was a good reason for everything, and, frankly, if you like tri., I don’t actually suggest reading it or bringing that kind of negativity about something you like into your view. I also ask that people understand that the linked document is where I dumped all of my feelings cathartically and I do not enjoy dwelling on it further, nor bringing up this document when it doesn’t feel necessary, so I apologize, and I hope the stance I just expressed won’t taint anyone’s opinion of me too much...^^

#tri negativity #jollyshitshow #long post #digimon adventure tri (tagging this to catch filters but please don't put it in the main tag)#shiha's ask box

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barid-bel-medar · 3 years ago

Text

More of a real life ramble than anything else but...

This year has been weird. At the start of the year it did not look like it would be a good one. I’m not going to touch on shit like the Capital Riots, but more in light of the fact I had a goddamn seizure through my medication. That was theorized to be a result of me just being so stressed out over things like the pandemic, and the fact that at that point I’d been out of work since June 2020. Pandemic paranoia to some extent started to drop once both me and my grandma got vaccinated (I qualified pretty early due to the epilepsy; I actually got a weird look when I arrived for my appointment due to how young I am and then mentioned the epilepsy and got an understanding nod). The only good thing was with the Pandemic Unemployment Act for once I qualified for unemployment insurance (since my previous jobs had been contractor positions I didn’t which is BS), since it had been changed so that contractors/temps could qualify. None of my job applications seemed to be working, I was barely getting interviews, and it was just frustrating.

Then one day in March I get an email from an employment agency I’d sent my resume to in the past but never heard from. It was an email to ask me about if I would be interested in a two month temp contract to work at a small bank helping process PPP loans. I said yes, curious and frankly bored if nothing else. To be honest I wasn’t even entirely sure it was legitimate, since that does happen at times. That discussion went well, and I was then set up to do an actual interview with the bank the next morning.

I was given a verbal offer by the bank within five minutes of my interview. Two thirds of my interview was the HR person going over what my specific duties would be. I had the official offer letter in my email the following morning, did all sorts of paperwork, and by Friday of that week I was working at the bank (remotely). Did my one day training, and then started to process loans.

So initially I was on one team, that dealt directly with applicants, and being supervised by someone from the credit division. It seems however, that I was not supposed to be on that team. To some extent it had been a matter of me getting some degree of experience (I assume), but I’d actually been supposed to be on the team run by the head of risk management that dealt with brokers rather than direct clients. My previous supervisor tried to convince HR not to move me in terms of teams (she was very satisfied with my work), even offering up another team member. HR said ‘no’ and the following week (my third week at the bank), I was now on the brokerage team.

Now for that first week my boss actually wasn’t there (he’d been on vacation), and I was under the supervision of the CFO. Lovely man, did enjoy working with him and I get along well with him. Made a few errors, but I picked up quickly what I was doing wrong and fixed it. Actually lead to the semi-irritating aspect of realizing some of the temps/interns who’d been there months still hadn’t picked up some of that shit...But next week my actual boss came back.

First thing Monday morning was a meeting with him. He’d gotten progress reports on me from both the prior supervisors and HR and had been pleased. I’d demonstrated that I could pick things up quickly and fix errors. I was also willing to reach out if I felt I was missing something or needed help. So I chat with him and make the off handed reference to how I was looking for full time, permanent employment. Didn’t really think much of saying it, more was as a forewarning that if I found something I’d take it and likely be leaving very quickly. He got a very interested look at his face, but at that moment didn’t say anything else. It made me wonder, and there had been a part of me already wondering that if I did good enough job with the loans if they’d keep me on long term. I figured though if that did happen, I wouldn’t be asked anything until basically the end of my two month contract.

So here’s what I didn’t realize. My boss had recently convince the bank president to let him hire on an assistant/team member. Previously the bank president didn’t really believe him on just how overworked he was, but PPP (where everyone at the bank basically had to do it on top of their regular duties) made the president realize just how bad it was. So boss now has approval, but hadn’t yet been allowed to post the job.

And that’s apparently where I came in.

Again, I’d been getting praise, demonstrated interest in what my boss’s regular job was, and also had a skill set that could easily be transitioned to doing risk management (my background is in libraries/archives/information governance). I also proved over the course of that week I could easily handle the PPP workload and that again, I picked up new skills easily. I got along well with my boss, and did things also like give him heads up when I thought something was going weird.

So Friday of that week comes, and my boss, maybe a half an hour before my work day was over asks me the question I was not expecting. “What would your expected salary be for a full time position?” Again, I’m figuring even if heard something, I’d be hearing it closer to the end of my contract. Not barely a month into it. I spent the weekend figuring out the salary range I should ask for, asking my sister’s partner what he thought I should ask (he works risk management at a much larger bank but still had an idea on what I should ask for). Monday comes, I give the range, and from there my boss spends like the next two weeks practically chasing down the president to set things up.

Did have to do an ‘interview’ for the job with the CFO and my boss, but honestly the interview with my boss was mostly us chatting about random shit, and the meeting with CFO was more just verifying certain things (also he was nice and took the generous look at my previous work history as ‘they may just like doing short term jobs’ [I in fact very much do not]). A few days later I got my verbal job offer, and a few days after that my official letter. Part of why it took a bit was due to the temp contract and there were some things there apparently. But I now had a full time, perm job that gave me a salary I was very happy with and basically all the benefits I wanted (the only one I didn’t get is tuition reimbursement and I know HR is trying to convince the President and bank owner they should do it too; also I admittedly already have a Masters degree, but depending on how much I like this job [which I am] I may try to do either a Masters of Legal Studies or an MBA).

Part of also why was apparently due to PPP. They didn’t exactly want to transition me over to the permanent job until it was closer to over, which they expected to happen by late month. Then, as some of my may know, PPP ran out of funds faster than expected. My boss and I had chatted about it, but both of us were still expecting at least a week longer than what ended up happening. Which then lead to a different issue at that point; HR wasn’t quite ready for me to do all my paperwork stuff, but since they’d done my offer and the like what ended up happening was I was kept on the temp contract, but started my new duties. Also there was apparently a certain ‘we get hit by a fee’ thing there, if they took a temp ‘too soon’.

In a very technically sense there was still PPP stuff going on. They were starting to set up things like the forgiveness program, and dealing with applicants complaining over rejections or that they had applied and gotten nothing since the funds had run out (and there wasn’t much we could do there). However my boss didn’t want me doing that. He wanted me to focus on figuring out how to do my new job, which meant reading up on a bunch of stuff. Which was nice since I didn’t have to deal with applicant complaints, of which there were a lot.

So I started to transition over to doing risk stuff, learning, training and like experimenting with writing policies and procedural stuff (though looking back at that I still don’t really get why he was having me do that but whatever). He started me doing the real reason he’d hired me in June, doing IT due diligence reviews. The reviews on average take me at least a day and a half (there’s generally a lot of information and I have to read all of it and write up a report). First time I did one he assured me ‘don’t worry if you mess up, this is your first time’. Did it, spent a day or so paranoid, and then we had a meeting to discuss it. Apparently I did it perfectly which delighted him since it meant I could start doing it seriously.

And it’s just been nice. I’m working something I find interesting. I have a boss who has the view of ‘work to live, not live to work’ which he views as an incredibly unhealthy mindset. Meaning if something comes up like say, visiting my parents and I’ve been able to do half days so I can get to their house, including this past Friday (thought that was also partially a result of how messed up public transit due to Ida but that’s a different matter); he actually said I could head out Thursday but since public transit was such a mess it wasn’t viable (my train line was down). Back during PPP the one broker kept annoying him by emailing/calling him at fuck o’clock and not respecting that it was after work hours. My boss also trusts me to attend things like meetings that are with senior management, and I suspect he’s starting to groom me to take over his position (especially based on a comment from last week).

It’s just very weird to realize this year started so shitty, showed no signs it would really get better and yet now all this. And it’s just really nice.

#real life ramblings

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foxofthedesert · 3 years ago

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So I just finished my 3rd watch thru of Merlin, and yet again am brokenhearted. Not only by Arthur's death and Merlin's grief, but by Morgana's tragic descent into madness. Though I loathed the choice, I always understood why the writers went the direction they did with Morgana. What I did not understand was the way they handled her relationship with Gwen. It just never made any sense to me that Morgana could be so cruel to someone she clearly loved very deeply - even if only in the platonic sense. To me, it seemed like the Morgana that existed at the end of season 2 was replaced by a totally different, inexplicably cruel and insufferably smirky one by the start of season 3.

Still, prophecies need fulfilled and such, and after all it is a fantasy series based on a complicated mythology where Morgana sometimes is portrayed as evil. I just wish it was handled better.

Be that as it may, as a writer I tend to gravitate toward the untold stories within canon. That being the case, Gwen and Morgana's relationship is a natural attraction. I adore their chemistry, which makes them so easy to pair up. Since I am also not necessarily beholden to canon, that means I can imagine whatever the hell I want for them. Such an AU where their potential is realized before Morgause enters the picture to warp Morgana into her father's daughter.

This little piece is part of that. I may or may not add more entries in the future.

As a side note, this was initially supposed to be much shorter, but my fingers wouldn't stop typing words. Silly digits.

Ficlet below the line!

Morgana awoke giggling in an entirely unrefined manner. Her uncharacteristic bubbly mirth, she discovered, was due to a gentle tickling sensation all across her face. Once the wispy haze of sleep was blinked out of her blurry eyes, a familiar shape resolved into an entirely too handsome face wearing such a love-sick expression that her chest reflexively suffused with an affectionate warmth that quickly seeped into her very bones.

“What time is it?” she asked to the person hovering above her, voice still gravelly and slightly slurred from having been roused out of such a deep, blessedly dreamless repose. The pleasant tickling sensation began anew immediately after her half-slurred inquiry, and when she lifted her gaze she was greeted by rich brown eyes she would swear on her life she could live and die in.

“Just after dawn.” The utterly enchanting creature paying her such lovely attention continued to delicately and reverently brush calloused fingertips across the expanse of her jaw. “Sorry I woke you. I meant to let you sleep in a bit longer, I just really couldn’t help myself.”

A pause allowed a full, dusky lip to be pulled rather invitingly between pearly white teeth before her beloved added, “It seems I never can where you are concerned.”

Morgana smiled. A genuine smile, too. Nothing like the false ones she graced her guardian with, full of barely suppressed loathing and rage. Lately she had been consumed by disgust for the man who so many times proclaimed to cherish her, a man who would see her burnt at the stake if he knew who she truly was. Uther Pendragon claimed to be a fair and just king, yet he waged unlawful wars against territories that dared stand up against his brutish rule and relentlessly persecuted innocents whose only crime was to be born different. People like her. People with magic.

Coming to terms with her gifts had cost Morgana both countless nights spent in wakeful torment over horrific visions that plagued her dreams and untold days spent wrestling with throat-clogging anxiety over the possibility of discovery. There were many occasions during that frightening period in which she felt as though tottering precariously over a dark, abyssal chasm at the bottom of which lie only inescapable madness. Every second spent at court was an exhausting exercise in choking down a nauseating terror of the tyrant who held the power of life and death over her and would surely decide upon the latter should he learn the truth about her magic. Meals were a unique form of torture due to the perpetual knot residing in her stomach and every event she would normally revel in was transformed into a dreaded affair during which she could scarcely breathe for the crushing weight resting upon her chest.

Frankly, if it hadn’t been for Guinevere and Merlin she is sure she would have already plummeted headlong into those foreboding depths, right into the waiting arms of a hatred no human heart could withstand without incurring irreparable damage.

If Merlin hadn’t told her the truth about his magic as he lead her to Aglain’s druid camp, the pervasive sense of isolation and desperation worming insidiously through her mind would have inevitably forced her into drastic choices. Even before her magic manifested she had silently nursed treasonous thoughts toward Camelot’s cruel monarch. What might she have done if the walls closed in so tightly on her she felt there was no avenue of escape outside of acting upon those unsavory impulses? It hardly bears thinking about for risk of inviting such evil desires back in to her heart when of all her attributes, it is her heart which makes her most special – or at least that is what Guinevere insists to be the case.

Thankfully, finding a steadfast friend and ally in Merlin had done much to ameliorate the suffocating feeling of helplessness she felt as a member of the court harboring so deadly a secret. With much diligence and patience he was teaching her to control her powers, to harness them for good, and to have faith that better days were ahead for their kind. It was also mostly due to the Merlin’s deceptive wisdom and boundless optimism – and to be fair what reasonable person could resist that impish, dimpled smile? – that she began to view Arthur through a fresh lens.

If she bothered to look deeply, as Merlin insisted, to ignore the chauvinistic bravado and infuriating superiority complex, it was not difficult to recognize Arthur’s innate nobility and compassion that existed despite his monstrous father. And seeing as Merlin was as stubborn as he was convincing, it did not take long for Morgana to accept with a cautiously hopeful heart that with the aid of loyal friends, Arthur had it in him to become to the greatest sovereign Camelot had ever seen, a king who might actually prove himself worthy of the people both common and magical to whom he would be sworn to serve. Of course, she and Arthur still had their mundane squabbles and butted heads frequently over political and legal matters, but in the months since Merlin began her training, Morgana had acquired a new appreciation for the young man who was to her as good as a sibling.

As much as Merlin had done for her, however, it paled in comparison to Gwen’s contributions to her health and happiness.

For as long as Morgana had known Gwen she had held the blacksmith’s daughter in esteem far higher than any Lady should their maidservant. What started out as mutual respect born from shared grief over the loss of a parent soon flowered into genuine friendship. For many years they were the best of friends, each providing for the other a refuge from the storms of life and a confidante more reliable and wise and loyal than could be hired with all of Midas’ gold.

By the time Morgana entered womanhood, her fondness for Gwen had only swelled to become boundless as it was profound. In her eyes, Gwen was the most wonderful person in all the world; none could hope to be her equal in breathtaking beauty, charitable kindness, seemingly endless stores of patience, altogether praiseworthy meekness, a silent strength surpassing steel, or in nearly saintly levels of graciousness. Gwen was the unfailing light to Morgana’s rapidly encroaching darkness, the quickening sun to her deathly pale moon, the Aurora to her Luna. She neither trusted any more deeply as she did Gwen, nor did she desire the company of another so keenly. As a result, they were rarely parted until retiring for bed, and then only by necessity of station. So inextricably attached were they Gwen’s friends often jested that she must have accidentally stitched herself to her lady’s garments at the hip. The noblewomen were not nearly so kind. Some of the more prominent Ladies in the castle questioned the innocence of their arrangement, going so far as to exchange idle speculation which painted them as clandestine devotees of Sappho.

If Morgana could be bothered to care about the rumors, she would have confronted the useless busybodies long ago. But quite frankly, their opinions on her relationship with Gwen mattered for naught seeing as Arthur dismissed them as absurd upon reaching his ears and, beyond even that, Morgana would rather die than provide the snide gossipers ammunition that might serve as tacit confirmation that their unwelcome conjecture was not without merit – which was in fact the case.

All the same, though, she took great pains to prevent them from reaching the ears of the king. Uther already disapproved of their unusual bond and reminded her of such every time she treated Gwen with an ounce of basic human dignity while in his presence. Rather than censure the prejudice as she might have no long ago, Morgana now bore the chastisement with pride. Were it required, she would gladly wear forty stripes upon her skin if that be the price of Gwen’s love. The haughty bigotry of her guardian could never dissuade her from the path her heart had chosen to travel. Gwen was far too precious to ever surrender without a fight, to death if she must.

For what felt like ages, Morgana had believed her feelings would never be reciprocated. And that was perfectly acceptable to her, so long as Gwen remained an integral part of her life. The constant yearning that caused her chest to ache, sometimes almost painfully, was something she could endure so long as Gwen was happy.

That perspective radically transformed the night Gwen’s father died.

The midnight bells sounded in the citadel as Morgana slipped out into the upper town. Her intentions were pure at the time. She had only meant to visit her friend and offer what support she could, no matter the reckless impropriety of her visiting the her maidservant’s home so late at night. Instead, one glimpse of Gwen’s devastation over the pointless tragedy reignited her rage. All too quickly it boiled over, allowing those old, bitter feelings to spill out as impetuous threats of vengeance, and not only on Gwen’s behalf but for all those wronged by the merciless hand of Uther Pendragon. For what felt like hours she railed, heedless of the effect her malicious speech was having on the distraught girl she was supposed to be comforting.

It was only when Gwen – sweet Gwen, kind and thoughtful and selfless to a fault – had been pushed to her limits that Morgana’s perilous vitriol was interrupted.

Casting aside station, Gwen grasped her by the face and made her swear to never utter such dangerous words again.

“My brother has already abandoned me and now both my parents are dead,” Gwen had said, lips quivering and cheeks stained by tears. “I can’t lose you, too. I can’t. I won’t survive it.”

“Of course you would, Gwen. You’re the strongest person I know,” Morgana had replied, grasping reflexively at lean wrists, Gwen’s hands having migrated to the back of Morgana’s neck, thumbs cupped round the front of her ears. It was the first time she had been embraced so intimately, and if it weren’t for her anger she most certainly would have shivered with excitement at the surprisingly welcome contact.

“I’m not,” Gwen had half-sobbed, voice hoarse from hours surrendered to grief. “I’m only standing at all right now because the person I love most in all the world is here with me.”

Morgana hadn’t understood the nature of that declaration at first. Not until Gwen tucked her lip between her teeth, her nostrils flared with what could not be misinterpreted as anything but raw want, and her eyes went impossibly dark. A sharp gasp of realization was all Morgana could manage as a response, so stunned was she that her most secretive and treasured wish was being fulfilled.

But when Gwen nodded, chest heaving with emotion, despair and fear warring with adoration in her eyes, Morgana could no longer contain herself. Suddenly all the pieces of the puzzle fused together, revealing the explanation as to why a simple smile from Gwen was able to chase away the storm clouds gathering above her head, or why Gwen’s chiming laughter kicked up butterflies in her stomach and a captivating warmth in her chest, or why even the most airy of touches from Gwen left a wake of goose-flesh in her skin. It wasn’t just love. It was destiny.

In retrospect, Morgana probably should have been as if not more terrified of crossing that final, socially forbidden line between mistress and servant, friend and lover, than she was of being magical. The thing of it was, the only relevant factors in that moment was Gwen willingly offering of herself more than she probably should and Morgana being selfish enough to accept.

They made love that night beneath Gwen’s threadbare sheets, and it was glorious, just as Morgana had imagined it would be.

All of their sorrows and anxieties and animosities drifted away like dandelion seeds upon a crisp summer breeze. Cliches regarding such unions suddenly made sense. Somewhere along the journey that began by laving the stiffened peak of a pert breast then languidly progressed into nestling her face into the delicate, aromatic flower situated between smooth bronze legs, she lost all sense of self. It was as if with each bruising kiss, playful nibble, and greedy draw with open mouth, she and Gwen were merging into one being. Gwen’s throaty noises and keening pleas reverberated through her every muscle fiber, down even into the very marrow of her bones. Gwen’s intoxicating flavor permeated her senses until it was all she could taste or smell. And Gwen’s gratification became hers as her hand slipped beneath her ridiculously extravagant undergarments to relieve the desperate pressure upon a mound so slick with arousal that the sound of her feverish rubbing was positively obscene.

Mere heartbeats after Gwen went taut with a silent scream, stars exploded behind Morgana’s eyes as the most exquisite mixture of pleasure and pain engulfed her mind and set her nether regions aflame. Spent and unable to control her trembling limbs, she collapsed across Gwen’s heaving chest. Strong arms immediately wrapped around underneath her arms to pull her in tight, and as she buried her nose in the damp curls at Gwen’s neck, all she could do was weep, utterly overcome by an unspeakable joy she understood without needing to ask was fully mutual. They fell asleep like that, Morgana stretched across Gwen, encased in an embrace that felt like a subconscious announcement of a claim upon her, heart and soul and body, something she not only welcomed but reveled in.

Wonderful thoughts about publicly belonging to Gwen lulled Morgana into a peaceful sleep that went markedly undisturbed.

In the pale light of morning she was still so drunken upon pure, heady, all consuming bliss to realize she would be missed if she did make an appearance in the castle. Had Gwen not pointed that out, she would have been more than glad to spend the entire day wrapped around her new lover, discovering every last spot that made Gwen’s toes curl ‘til the girl was too exhausted to move the tiniest muscle.

Alas, the constraints of reality marshaled both of them to action, and so once they had dressed, they sneaked carefully into the castle by auxiliary corridors during the changing of the guard. By only the slimmest of margins, they slipped into her chambers just as the fresh patrol rounded the corner in their direction. Once inside, the thrill of the close call and euphoria over their consummated love invigorated Morgana into a passion she could not ignore. Overcome by a need – more like an almost maddening hunger really – to touch, smell, and taste every delicious inch of the skin she had feasted upon last night, she unceremoniously dragged a breathless, ruddy cheeked Gwen straight over to her bed.

After that thorough christening, they lingered together in a tangle of limbs, both sated and happy. At least until the sound of Camelot’s awakening resounded through the chambers from the courtyard below and with it the first doubts crept in. Morgana could recall the subsequent conversation as though it had just happened.

***************

“I should see to my duties directly,” Gwen had said, immediately rustling to exit the bed upon hearing Arthur’s booming voice rattle down the hallway, clearly a response to the latest in an endless string of mistakes by his loyal yet tragically clumsy manservant.

Morgana hadn’t wanted to turn loose quite yet, so she tightened hold around Gwen’s waist, halting the undesired escape.

“They can wait,” she replied between leisurely kisses trailed up a shapely arm. “The laundry isn’t going anywhere, nor is the evening gown that needs mending. Stay with me a while longer.” She paused to nuzzle into Gwen’s shoulder. “Stay with me forever.”

Rather than struggle, Gwen melted the embrace. “You know that is all I wish for. I love you, Morgana. More than anything. But…”

“But what?”

“What if someone catches us?”

Morgana scoffed, having missed the long term nature of the question in addition to the concern pouring off of Gwen in waves she should not have missed. It was not her finest moment. She hadn’t meant to be insensitive, though. The idea had just seemed so preposterous at the time because she had thought Gwen was only speaking about the present.

“Who would be so bold as to enter my chambers without permission?” she had said. “Not even Uther at his most disrespectful would dare venture such a trespass. We are entirely safe here. No need to worry your pretty head.”

Gwen shifted in Morgana’s arms then so that they were face to face. “I do, though. Worry that is. And I have to ask: why aren’t you?”

“Why should I be? For that matter why should you be?” Morgana replied. And then she met Gwen’s eyes. Large, and impossibly dark, and unmistakably upset.

All of the sudden it was impossible for Morgana to ignore how frightened Gwen really was. In response, her stomach twisted almost painfully and her heart fell as the happy bubble she had been floating in abruptly burst.

What in all the world, she wondered in a moment of regrettable obliviousness, had Gwen afraid of them being caught? Her brow furrowed as deeply as it ever had as she mulled around potential causes.

Certainly they were going to have to be careful in the future to avoid exposure, she reckoned, but Gwen was as fully cognizant that there were more perilous secrets both were currently keeping. Morgana’s ability to pull the wool over Uther’s eyes was well established, and no one else besides the two of them had unfettered access to her chambers. Besides all that, Morgana knew every nook and cranny of the citadel and was able to slip out and into the upper town undetected at will, of which Gwen was also very well aware. So there had to be more to it. But what?

Only one other possibility occurred to her, and it was the one she least wanted to entertain. And yet...

“Unless you regret what has transpired between us?” she asked at length, unable to disguise her own fear, which manifested through a faint trembling in her voice. “No!” Shaking her head fervently, Gwen grasped Morgana’s face much as she did the night before. “Not even for a second. I’ve lost so much, and I have much to regret, but not this. This is the best thing to ever happen to me. I just…”

Again Gwen trailed off, her hands retreating to clasp together against her mouth. And although Morgana’s anxiety had quieted with Gwen’s reassurance, there was clearly something still bothering her.

“Just what?” Morgana prompted, then reached out to stroke Gwen’s hair. “I hate seeing you so twisted up. Tell me. Please.”

A single, contrite nibble of a kiss-stung lip later, Gwen averted her eyes and gave her answer, “Don’t you wonder, even just for a second in the back of your mind, if what we did was wrong?”

Morgana very nearly sighed in relief. This was a problem she could easily remedy, as it was a one she had wrestled with for years only for Merlin’s simple yet profound worldview to unexpectedly resolve.

During the incident where Gwen was accused of using sorcery to heal her father, he had stumbled upon Morgana beside herself after a visit to Gwen’s cell. In her anxiety and grief she had confessed to having feelings for her handmaiden that although unseemly nonetheless had taken hold of her. Where she had expected disgust, she was instead given only understanding and compassion. In that endearingly provincial way of his, Merlin ensured her that love – if true and pure and unselfish, which he insisted hers for Gwen surely was – could never be wrong.

Morgana had felt something turn loose inside her at Merlin’s easy acceptance, as if her heart had been tied into a knot being slowly and perpetually tightened. Breathing became a relief once again. And as she learned to accept herself the way Merlin did, she began to hope that perhaps one day in the future a door would open for her to act upon her feelings without destroying what she and Gwen already shared. She could not have anticipated Tom’s death being the impetus for her to do so. Yet as awful as his tragic death was, it birthed something so infinitely precious that Morgana would never cease being grateful. And if only for the memory of that kind, thoughtful, patient man, she would never stop fighting for the love she shared with her beloved Guinevere.

“Gwen,” she had said, unsuccessfully vying for her conflicted love’s attention. Twice more she called Gwen’s name, and after receiving no response pushed up slightly on her elbow. “Look at me, Guinevere.” When large, uncertain eyes, brimming with tears, met hers, she leaned over so that she could press her forehead against Gwen’s. “We have done nothing wrong. Do you hear me? If you trust me, if you love me as you assert to, believe me when I say this. Something so wonderful and beautiful and perfect could never be anything less than rightly divine.”

***************

That phrase that swiftly became Morgana’s favorite answer to Gwen’s occasional concerns. The world at large, and most definitely those housed within the vaunted halls of Camelot’s citadel, would most certainly view their relationship as wicked and immoral and perverse. If that was indeed the case, Morgana did not believe she ever wanted to be either innocent or righteous. Their love was wonderful, and beautiful, and perfectly divine; an immutable fact which Morgana was determined to never allow either of them to forget.

No doubt lurked within Gwen’s eyes this morning, however, only unadulterated affection. And that made Morgana exceedingly joyful indeed.

“I understand what you mean,” Morgana at last said after escaping that precious memory. She sighed contentedly and shuttered her eyelids as yet another reverent brush of fingers smoothed along the crest of her chin. And while the diligent attention felt incredible, she grew increasingly curious why Gwen’s focus appeared to have narrowly fixated on that one specific region of her face.

“What’s the matter?” Gwen said after a bit of easy silence.

“What makes you think something’s the matter?” Morgana replied, still basking in the glow of Gwen’s magical touch.

“You have that telltale crease between your brow which means something is bothering you.”

This time Morgana opened her eyes. “I’m not bothered, merely at a loss as to why you suddenly find my chin so hypnotizing.”

Gwen sucked at her lip momentarily as if weighing whether to answer before a crooked smile bloomed across her handsome features.

“Well, not just your chin, but if you must know it’s all these little hairs…” And then she stroked Morgana’s chin again, this time allowing her fingers to feather over said hairs all the way down her jawline.

“Are you saying my face is hairy, Gwen?” Morgana asked, frowning as a thread of hurt pulled taut.

As should be obvious, she didn’t appreciate it pointed out that her alabaster skin failed to conceal what otherwise would have been a nearly invisible coat of fine hairs that covered all humans male and female alike. Arthur teased her about it relentlessly when she was a blossoming teenager, and even now some of the noble ladies who envied her would snidely comment upon how it clearly indicated that she was a witch destined for a life of barren unhappiness.

Up til now, Gwen had made no mention of that peculiar feature and Morgana would be lying if she claimed she wasn’t wounded that it would be brought up only now that they were in an intimate situation.

“No!” Gwen’s eyes went wide as the full moon. “No, not at all! I mean...well, yes, it sort of is.” A huffed breath of remorse followed Morgana’s gasp of offense. “Not that it’s a bad thing! I swear I meant no insult. I have some too, after all. It’s just less visible because of my skin tone probably. And don’t worry! It’s nothing like Lady Johanna’s fledgling beard. Not even close. On the contrary, they’re so tiny and delicate and wispy and soft, and I really am utterly obsessed with them because they are part of you and you are perfect, so they are also perfect by extension, and I just can’t get over how adorable they are, and I am currently babbling like a lunatic with zero manners. I am so sorry, milady.”

At the end of that adorable ramble, Gwen’s shoulders hunched in as her cheeks darkened and she yet again sucked her bottom lip between her teeth. Any insult Morgana felt evaporated as quickly as it formed. How could she be upset with such an enchanting creature?

Reaching across Gwen’s waist, she pulled her abashed lover down until they were flush, skin to skin from shoulders to hips.

“Oh, Gwen, there is nothing to be sorry for,” she said, legs instinctively parting as Gwen’s familiar weight settled against her. “My reaction is habit, I’m afraid, due to Arthur’s derisive mocking. It’s actually quite nice to hear a compliment for a change.”

“Are you sure you’re not cross with me? I’d understand if you were…”

No one with a functioning soul could be cross with those doe eyes staring at them, Morgana decided. She danced her fingers with lighthearted mirth across Gwen’s cheeks and over the ridge of her nose.

“Nonsense, sweetling. It’s no different than me admiring your freckles.”

Gwen’s features relaxed into a flattered smile. “You like my freckles?”

“Like them? I love them! How could I not? It’s like you said, they are a part of you, and you are perfect, therefore they are perfect by extension.”

In response, Gwen gave her an appreciative little smile before arresting her hand to place a kiss upon the inside of her wrist.

“So you won’t mind to be awakened like that again should I fail to curb my weird fascination?”

“Only if you won’t should I wake you by mapping the stars written across your cheeks,” Morgana said, then returned Gwen’s tactile affection with some of her own by again acting out her words with her own fingers. She was pleased when Gwen leaned in to the touch.

“I promise I won’t. I think I’d quite fancy that, actually.”

“Then I promise, too. And if you’re a good girl today, perhaps I will indulge your fancy tomorrow morning.”

“Well, then, I’d better get to work, hadn’t I?”

Eyes flashing with eager anticipation, Gwen threw the covers aside and made to get out of bed – a development Morgana was not prepared to authorize. Not only was she of a mind to lounge abed and cuddle away another hour or two, all of Camelot was blanketed in snow and she was loathe to be deprived of Gwen’s heavenly body...heat.

“Now, now,” Morgana tugged at Gwen, almost desperate with a need to curl right back into Gwen’s warmth and never move again while hoping she sounded at least somewhat the dignified noblewoman she was supposed to be. “Don’t be so hasty. Have you forgotten yourself and your duties to your lady? I haven’t yet had my good morning kiss.”

Gwen tumbled back into bed giggling merrily. “For shame! I have failed my lady most unforgivably. I shall rectify the trespass immediately.”

“See that you do, Guinevere, and promptly,” Morgana said, her eyes twinkling as her own merriment curved her lips into a smile. “As you know, your lady does not appreciate being made to wait.”

After a deliberately silly half-curtsy, Gwen draped herself across Morgana’s body, and once settled whispered her reply against Morgana’s already tingling lips.

“My lady’s wish is my command.”

The brief peck that followed was not enough for Morgana. Fingers winding into dark curls, she pulled Gwen into a much more passionate kiss, which lead to another, and another, until the embrace quickly evolved into tangling tongues and undulating hips. Soon enough, Gwen’s head was disappearing beneath the sheets and Morgana was having to recall how to breathe due to the magnificently excruciating pleasure coursing through her loins.

And that was how she came to be late for her first appointment of the morning, where she was relentlessly lectured about the importance of punctuality over manchet, eggs, sausage, and apples sprinkled with cinnamon. It was worth it, though. Her giddy grin throughout breakfast only made Arthur more bewildered and Uther more angry.

#bbc merlin #gwen #morgana #morgwen

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pleom · 4 years ago

Note

Hi :) May I request a fluff with kevin where you both like each other and the members rat him out pls? Thx

wc: 2.1k | CW: one (1) mention of weed

Saturday called your name. You had to wait painfully as the day dragged its feet through presentations and lectures. By the time the school day ended, you held no more excitement for the weekend as you sat in one of the university’s lounges waiting for your friend to drive you home.

All tuckered out from discussing and convincing your classmates of topics neither of you particularly cared about, you almost ignored Kevin when he approached you, phone two-inches from your face, headphones blaring in your ears at maximum volume, but then you remembered that he’s Kevin Moon, and when he’s got something to say, you listen.

“Sorry to interrupt you there,” he started, and from his backpack he pulled out a small container of—, “Brownies. I had baked them this morning and wanted to give some to you as thanks.”

“Oh,” was all you squeaked out, though it wasn’t a sound of disappointment or even mild surprise. You had heard about Kevin’s godly baking skills, from the full mouths of those he generously gave them to. Usually his classmates, sometimes the professors, and it was enough to instill that hope that maybe you'll be one of the receivers one day. Today, it seemed like an arbitrary gift. “Thanks for what?”

“For helping me with my group project.”

“Oh...Oh, yeah!” You gently took the container from Kevin’s hands. Soft confusion still lingering in your mind. “It wasn’t that big of a deal, I barely helped.”

“We got an A because of you!”

“Are you sure it was me? Because last I remembered, you guys did all the brute work, I just filled in the minor details.”

“Aren’t minor details the toughest part?”

You shrugged. You took a single brownie out of the container and put the rest in your bag. Kevin watched as you bit into it, humming a gleeful tune at the way you melted. It tasted even better than you expected. “This is too good to eat for free. How much do you want? Twenty dollars? Fifty?”

Kevin bit down a smile and waved his hand, sheepish. You noticed a brown mark on the back of his hand that wasn’t there the last time you saw him. You figured he must’ve burned himself.

“You’re just gassing my head.”

“No, I’m serious.” Kevin looked pleased to see you finish his brownie. “Did the others get some?”

The others being Sunwoo, Jacob, and Juyeon, the three who were assigned to the same project. You were actually called to help by Sunwoo, who pleaded and whined and bargained after your many attempts to say no, you had too much on your plate. Then, as a last resort, he began naming his teammates; guilted you with Jacob, tried to lure you in with Juyeon, and finally—the nail in the coffin—mentioned Kevin. You could imagine the cocky face Sunwoo must’ve had when he realized he had reeled you in.

You gave up on trying to deny his accusations. You wouldn’t say you had a full-blown crush on Kevin Moon, but you were definitely fond of him in a way that could be described as infatuation.

Now that the project’s done, you would see to Sunwoo’s promised reparations for the emotional damages he dealt. You were pretty sure he owed you five free milk tea bobas.

“The others?” Kevin’s face contorted in confusion for a split moment, like he had already forgotten who had worked diligently on the project with him. He didn’t sound completely sure of himself when he answered, “yes, they did. I baked an extra large batch for everyone involved. Even gave some to the professor.”

“Is that why you have that burn mark?”

Kevin looked down at his hand before covering it with the other. “Oh, that. Yeah, this is what happens when you have an oven only as big enough as you can afford.”

“When I say I feel that…” You became increasingly aware of the dwindling topics to speak about, so before an awkward silence has time to settle in, you stand up from your seat and raise a hand for Kevin to shake. “My friend is probably waiting outside for me right now. Thank you again for the treat, really appreciate it! I’ll make sure to share some with her to spread the love around. Seriously, you should patent that recipe.”

“Learned from the best,” Kevin chuckled. “Thank you for helping. See ya later.”

“See ya!” And you were outside less than a minute later.

Maybe you were the one that owed Sunwoo free drinks.

Saturday called and you answered, a bit more jubilant this time. Now that you had finished most of your homework and spent an hour cursing yourself to sleep over missed interactions with Kevin, you felt revitalized.

You took the bus to Sunwoo’s dorm and let yourself in. On weekends, Sunwoo’s dorm room was rarely locked, considering that it took the name as the unofficial common room of the apartment building. Today, it was less crowded than usual, which to you was a relief. That meant there were less people you had to fight for access to Sunwoo’s computer. At times, you felt silly for acting so starved, but when you’re a broke college student with only one shitty laptop to your name, you had to take your graces as they came.

Juyeon and Eric lied by the foot of the couch, competing with each other over some game displayed on Sunwoo’s TV. Sangyeon snacked by himself in the kitchen, and you spotted Changmin, Sunwoo’s roommate, quietly moving from room to room down by the hall.

You decided to head into the kitchen first, whether to steal change off counters or food from the fridge.

The fridge was destination number one, and frankly, it was empty. It was normally the usual sight, but you still had the faint taste of chocolate fudge on your lips that led you to ask, “you guys finished the brownies already?”

“What brownies?”

“The ones Kevin made yesterday.”

“Ah, man, Kevin made brownies?!” Eric shouted from his seat. He screamed a second later, which was followed by Juyeon’s laughter, then rose to his feet to mirror you at the fridge door. “I told him to wait till Haknyeon gave me my $20 back! Can’t believe he made edibles and handed them out without me.”

“They weren’t edibles. Kevin made regular brownies for me, Juyeon, Jacob, and Sunwoo. Said it was because we worked on a project together due last Monday,” you said. You found a seat by Sangyeon on the kitchen island. Juyeon, who had set down his controller to stroll in after Eric, looked puzzled.

“Huh? Kevin didn’t give me any brownies.”

“Kevin made brownies? Where the hell is he?” Sunwoo barged loudly into the room thereafter, with mussed hair and grease-stained shirt and looking wholly comfortable up till he heard the commotion in the kitchen. He swept the room and the living room for signs of the boy, and brushed aside ingredients in the fridge for a confectionary he apparently did not receive. He came back empty-handed and confused; you were no different.

“Uh, didn’t you get them yesterday?” You asked. You were met with Sunwoo’s blank stare. “He said he baked them for all of you. I have a few left back at my house.”

“Yeah, as far as we know, there are none,” Juyeon peeped, though he didn’t look half as bothered as Sunwoo did.

“Are we sure you’re not playing us right now?” Sunwoo narrowed his eyes at you. He looked just about ready to kick you out. Changmin walked in, eyes wide but mischievous. It’s obvious that he’d been listening this whole time, and something in his gaze said that he knew much more than both of you, and that he was withholding it for the sake of drama.

“Why would I lie?!”

“I dunno, to brag? To make us look like second-rate friends? You’re not even in any of Kevin’s classes!”

“Maybe he pulled a raffle…” Changmin said not-so-absentmindedly.

Sunwoo’s face was contorted with semi-offense. He patted his pockets before turning to dash down the hall to his bedroom, just in time for the front door to open and reveal the star in question. Kevin entered the room with exasperation etched clearly on his face. He didn’t seem to register you, his eyes glazing over people’s faces in search of one in particular.

Changmin, this time wide-eyed with panic, darted to hide behind the island.

“Hey, is Changmin here?”

“No!” Changmin yelled, slightly muffled. “But Changmin did relay a message. He said that he’s really, really sorry for any unfortunate events his actions may have caused. But he requests an extension on—”

“I’m too tired for this, Changmin. Just give me my—”

“Kevin, that burn mark still hasn’t healed?” You found yourself speaking without ever really considering what to say. You spoke on pure reflex, when Kevin came and leaned over the island kitchen with his hands curled around the edge, and the mark had turned less brown than inflamed red; the sight made you wince.

“Is that…!?” Eric’s jaw dropped when he laid eyes on the same sight. He dramatically fell against one of the kitchen stools. “Oh man, he really did bake brownies without telling us.”

Sunwoo came back just in time to witness the climax of Kevin’s-secret-brownie-adventure story. Kevin looked like a deer in headlights. Changmin took the moment to crawl out from beneath the island to escape into his room. Sunwoo looked genuinely betrayed by Kevin’s arrival.

“Yeah, sorry bro, but that constitutes a two week ban from our place unless you pay us back in both brownies and cookies with interest.”

“I don’t even care about the brownies itself anymore,” Eric said, still curled up over a stool. “How come they got to have some but not us?”

Something about Eric’s question set something off in Sunwoo. Suddenly, his dramatics cooled down, and he looked at Kevin slyly.

“No idea,” you said. At this point, as confusing as the whole thing was, you quickly grew tired of it. It became too much trouble for what seemed like a simple act of gratitude by Kevin, which was never out of character for him. And to top it off, now Kevin seemed to actively avoid looking at you, and the following disappointment was hard for you to swallow.

“I have some idea,” Sunwoo said, but he made no attempt to follow up on that statement. He sat down on one of the kitchen stools, pleased with himself.

“I do, too.” Juyeon said and sounded like he had an epiphany. “I think Kevin must really like (Y/N) to be able to do that!”

Silence. All eyes in the room shifted from you to Kevin. Too scared to look directly at the boy himself, you peeked at him from the corner of your eye and saw the look of pure devastation on his face. Juyeon seemed oblivious to it all. Sunwoo, luckily, was there to reel it in.

“Hey, Juyeon, can I borrow you for a second?”

“Gah!” Unfortunately, the damage had been dealt. Kevin hightailed it out over Sunwoo’s apartment with you hot on his tracks.

“Kevin wait!”

You found him sitting out on the apartment steps, face buried in his hands. He didn’t respond when you called out his name, nor when you sat down beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. The sight broke your heart, so you thought of ways you could help soothe his panic.

Reaching down you pulled Kevin’s hand into yours, the one with the bright red burn, and massaged it with the pads of your fingers.

“To be fair, I don’t think Juyeon’s assessment really holds any weight, so please, don’t worry about it,” you said. Kevin took a while to respond, but eventually he lifted his head. He didn’t look you in the eyes when he spoke.

“It does though,” he sighed. “I was going to wait for the right time to confess.”

His words made you halt.

“Confess?” You shot up straight, dropping his hand into your lap. “Kev, do you actually mean that?”

You watched as his ears and cheeks began to redden. He chanced a shy glance your way, and you could feel his fingers flex in your lap.

“Uh...depending on your reaction, hopefully…?”

Returning your hand on his, you pulled it closer to you. You traced around his injury, keeping an eye on his reaction in case he pulled back or winced with pain. Then, bravely, you interlocked both of your fingers and inhaled with relief when he tightened his grip.

You did it all without ever breaking eye contact, and with a small smile, you asked, “do you want to give it a try at least?”

Kevin’s stress seemed to have dissolved from him completely then. He mirrored your smile.

In the back of your mind, you hoped Sunwoo wasn’t scolding Juyeon too hard.

----

me mentioning sangyeon in the kitchen once before dropping him entirely from the fic 🤡🤡 anyways anon thank u for requesting!! this was kinda cringe but also kinda fun to write so lol

#the boyz scenarios #tbz scenarios #kevin moon scenarios #the boyz imagines #tbz imagines #tbz fanfic #the boyz fanfic #the boyz #.mine #Anonymous

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hetacakes · 5 years ago

Text

clink.

terushima yuuji x fem! reader

in which reader is the cute, shy nerd of johzenji high that terushima has for some reason set his eyes on. she lets him in on a little secret of hers, and the two make a bet, deciding the fate of their possible relationship

or alternatively, reader is cute but secretly is a little shit and terushima is head over heels for the duality

i wrote a proper one shot for once (even though it's super self-indulgent) and not a half-assed drabble, yay!

warning for cussing

word count: 4,971

Terushima really, really liked his tongue piercing. Hell, he loved it, because it a: made people flirt with him more, and b: made people kiss him more. The number of times people have told him his piercing makes them want to jump him couldn't be counted on his fingers, or his teammates' fingers, or the fingers on his whole team combined, which Terushima was very proud of and appreciated, thank you very much.

That being said, he did have one question.

"What does it feel like?"

If there was a school with the most cliche stereotypes in its student body, it was Johzenji. The student athletes were the volleyball team, the popular kids were the basketball team, and every school has their self-proclaimed outcasts, with their limited freedom to be anti conformist due to the school dress code.

And of course, there were the smart, always a pleasure to have in class students: top of their classes, and focused only on their studies.

Lucky for you, you were one of the quiet, bookworm types, unsuspecting and safely away from any spotlight of attention, whereas others are accurately named "teacher's pet". More often than not, you were curled in the corner of the library or classroom, books open in front of you as you wrote neat, organized notes, color coded and highlighted. Yeah, people labeled you as a nerd most of the time, but if being a nerd meant actually having a normal high school life without the added stress of drama, which then made it easier for you to stay on top of your school work, which then would help you get into a good university, and then have a smooth ride from there on out, then whatever, guess you're a nerd now. Plus, it made your parents really proud of you and gave them bragging material to other parents, so if you really needed drama, your parents always knew what gossip floated around.

Terushima doesn't know why he even bothers. She isn't even his type! Though he doesn't exactly have a type that's more specific than hot, pretty girl. Yet there he was, stepping into his classroom, making a beeline for the desk in the corner. Others find it surprising that he was in the "nerd class", but Terushima knew that he was smarter than most, and wasn't some mindless idiot who knew nothing more than girls and their right hand. But that was a secret he kept to himself, because he liked having that trick up his sleeve, so when other students watched curiously as he walked into one of the top classrooms, he shrugged it off, telling them he wasn't sure why he was there, too.

You saw him approach from the corner of your eye, and inwardly sigh. Trying your best to focus on reading the notes in front of you and preparing for the history test you had in less than fifteen minutes, a shadow appeared over your notebook as an arm draped over the back of your chair.

"No book today?" a husky voice whispers directly into your ear, which would've gotten a reaction out of you if you were in a better mood.

"I don't need to take notes from a book if I already have notes, obviously," you said without looking up from your review, avoiding giving Terushima a satisfying amount of your attention. It was tiring, honestly. All you did was mind your business and study! You never stood out, and most people forget you even exist, at least until they need to copy notes they conveniently forgot to do themselves, to which you always said no. You did nothing to gain his, or anyone's attention, yet there he was, resting his cheek on your shoulder and turning to speak, his breath ghosting over your ear. His persistence was starting to get on your nerves, and you couldn't afford to get distracted from your education with him. You had to figure out a way to scare him off, fast.

"Aw come on baby, can't you at least let me see your pretty face?" He twirled a lock of your hair around his finger, trying and failing to get any sort of sign that you were even listening to him. Every other girl he flirted with fell for it, so why was it so addicting to him that you never did? Why is he trying so hard for you, why is he so pulled to you? To him, this was as real as soulmates could get without an actual red string manifesting in front of his eyes.

As usual, you ignored him. Just as he opened his mouth to sweet talk some more, the bell rang, telling him to get over to his seat or face the consequences.

"I'll see you later, baby." He straightened, sending a wink in your direction.

While most students filed out of the classroom, ready to either get home or attend club activities, Terushima strolled to the side of the door once everyone left.

That is, everyone except you.

There you were, diligently jotting down something in your planner, slipping both your notebook and textbook into your backpack.

As you approached the door, he blocked your way, staring down at your shorter form with a charming smile on his face.

He took in your appearance, noting how your skirt wasn't short, but short enough to let his mind wander, showing him the exposed part of your legs between the hem of the skirt and the top of your socks, which came to your knees. The cream colored sweater you wore over your white blouse gave you a cute and innocent look, sweater paws included, and your olive jacket was tucked neatly over your arm, hanging by your side. He almost drooled at your oh-so-kissable lips, as pink as the ever present rosy liveliness on your cheeks. Your eyes stared up at him, like a kitten, in a way that made him want to coo, and had you not been glaring at him, he would've basked in the cuteness of your appearance, soft clothing and all.

"Please, just one kiss? Don't you want to feel my piercing for yourself?" he asked suggestively, smirking down at you.

"Not really. Do you?" You asked as you set your bag down on the nearest desktop.

He was taken aback by your response. "Well I- I mean- uh-"

You cut him off by tiptoeing, pressing your lips on his. Oh damn, they were soft as hell. Yeah, this is why he was so attracted to you. Yeah, he'd like to get your kisses way more often. He even almost forgot what you had just said.

As he licked your bottom lip for permission, he then realized what you meant.

Clink.

You pulled away, snickering at the confused look on his face. You pulled a childish face at him, pulling at your eye and sticking your tongue out at him, confirming his suspicions.

In the middle of your tongue sat a shiny silver bead, the twin to the one in his own mouth.

"Nobody's gonna believe you," you taunted, slinging your bag over your shoulder and walking out of the classroom as he stepped to the side distractedly, dumbfounded, obviously still processing what just happened.

Then it struck him.

Well, shit.

"I'm telling you man, she has a tongue piercing too!"

"Yeah, whatever dude. A girl like her? The most she's ever done is probably truth or dare in middle school, and she'd only pick truth!"

Terushima had to admit that he used to think the same of you, based on the way you wore mainly comfy sweaters and kept quiet, speaking softly and rarely. "Bobata, I'm serious. We kissed! I even saw it!" He insisted, yet as the words came out of his mouth, he himself didn't know if they were true or not. If it did happen, then you were right, nobody was believing him, not even himself.

"Dude, she probably doesn't even know how to kiss," Bobata laughed as he walked away, joining a two vs. two match.

Terushima had walked into volleyball practice after he got over what had just happened, though it still felt like some fever dream, and the coach and Hana had gotten mad at him for being fifteen minutes late, and he had to warm up by himself before he could play a match. He would've skipped it, but then they would've killed him for being so careless, and he didn't want to face their combined wrath again.

"Nah, that was a hella good kiss," Terushima whispered to himself, staring at the ball in his hands, "but was it real?".

"Can I have another? Please?"

You almost laughed at the way he was asking you, like a child asking his mom for another cookie or something. "I didn't give you anything," you said, tilting your head.

Terushima stared. "Yes you did! You gave me the best damn kiss I ever had!"

"I haven't even had my first kiss yet," you lied straight through your teeth, pretending to look surprised yet embarrassed.

"Nobody calls a kiss like that their first kiss."

"I really don't know what you're talking about. Now, stop bothering me." You flushed, proud of the fact that he basically called you one of the best kissers, but you played it off as being embarrassed that he was making a big deal out of your so called "first kiss", or rather, the lack thereof.

He could see the genuine innocence in your eyes, which frustrated him to no end. Either it was real, or he was on drugs. He hoped it was the former.

"Then explain your tongue piercing!"

"Tongue piercing? I would never get something as wild as that. I barely got ear piercings!" You looked scandalized, like a strict mother's embarrassing teenage years being exposed to Helen and all her kids at the PTA meeting.

"You have one! And how else would I know if you didn't kiss me!"

"Terushima, I really don't know what you're talking about, and frankly, I'm worried for you." You looked at him, concern in your eyes. "You're in this class with me because you're smart, and as far as I know, you're not flunking out. So why are you saying all this nonsense?"

Terushima didn't know how to feel. On one hand, he felt like preening, taking in your praise at his hidden intelligence, but on the other, he was frustrated that you kept calling the truth nonsense.

"Fine! If you don't have a piercing, show me."

"I'm not a child; I'm not going to stick my tongue out at you."

"If you don't, you're admitting defeat."

"Fine! If you insist," You relented, sticking your tongue out at him.

To his dismay, there was nothing there, no bead, no flash of something shiny.

He looked you in the eyes.

Well, shit.

"Am I tripping or did yesterday actually happen?"

"Of course yesterday happened, it was yesterday," you sighed, looking at Terushima, not in the mood for more of his antics. Once again, it was you and him in the empty classroom, the campus deserted. Just yesterday, your camera broke, and you turned it over in your hands before slipping it into your bag. So long, photography club.

"You know what I mean!"

An idea popped into your head. "If you mean this," you purred, lightly pushing on his chest with one hand until his back hit the wall. You used your other hand to pull him down by his blazer, placing your lips on his.

Clink.

"Then yes. Just in case you needed to ring a bell."

"You damn tease. Why are you doing this?" Terushima's eyes kept flitting to your lips. Who would've guessed that he was also into tongue piercings?

"At first, I wanted to drive you away by telling you something no one's gonna believe, so you'd go crazy or something. Now, I think I'm having a little bit of fun with it," you said, swiping your tongue across your bottom lip. Terushima watched as the silver bead flashed, reflecting the light coming from the windows.

"You put it back!"

"Of course I did, what's the point of getting a piercing just for it to close up? Now, Teru, how about we make a bet?" You stood on your tiptoes, whispering into his ear. There was no way he could've suppressed the shiver that ran down his back. Well fuck him, you were pushing his buttons in all the right ways, a stark contrast from the cold shoulder you've been giving him the past two weeks. Hell, he was loving it, fully pulled in by you and your addictive flirting.

"Depends on the bet," he whispered back into your ear, lightly kissing it. He held your waist in his hands, humming appreciatively at your sharp intake of air as he pulled you closer to him.

You backed down. "If you convince at least one person that I've got a tongue piercing, I'll do a favor for you, no questions asked." You wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your chin on his chest.

Oh god, Terushima was sure he ascended to a higher plane of existence. If his eyes were cameras, he would've taken a dozen pictures of you hugging him, staring up at him with those adorable kitten eyes, chin on his chest, his chest! He couldn't stop himself from cooing, "Awe, well when you're looking up at me like that, how can I say no?"

You smiled, amping up your cute factor as soon as you realized it was working in your favor. "Then if you win, I…?"

"You go out with me," Terushima said simply, to nobody's surprise.

"And if I win, you stop bothering me. Deal?"

"Deal." Both of you knew that if you won, Terushima wouldn't follow through with his penalty, but well, at least he'll make an effort.

"Seal it with a kiss?" He knew he sounded desperate, but honestly he was: desperate to kiss you again, to feel your lips on his, to hear the soft sound of your piercings meeting, to finally call you his.

You didn't answer, instead pulling him down again to give him a light peck on the lips.

"Bye!" You slipped your backpack over your shoulders, waving a hand in the air as you looked over your shoulder.

"Wait, not like that! I want a real one!" Terushima called, running out the door, watching as you walked away and out of sight.

Well, shit.

He saw you sitting a few tables away, chatting away with your friends around you. When you caught his eye, you stuck your tongue out at him, taunting him with the bead that only you, your friends, and him knew the existence of. He did the same, watching as the two of you started making faces at each other, each one worse than the last, like elementary school rivals.

"Bobata, when I tap your knee, you have to look where I'm looking, okay?" Terushima whispered, a plan to win the bet in his head.

Bobata looked at him weirdly, "Sure dude, whatever you say."

Grinning, Terushima stuck his tongue out more, making sure his piercing was as clear as day. When he saw you open your mouth to do the same, he quickly tapped Bobata's knee.

"Dude, I don't even know where you're looking. There's nothing there."

"What?" He exclaimed, watching helplessly as you turned around, piercing hidden yet again.

"There's just the back of some girl's head."

It was then that Terushima realized your friend sat across from you, effectively shielding you from prying eyes.

Eyes that would've sealed the deal for him, in his favor.

Terushima turned to Bobata, devastation clear on his face.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Guys, why don't you just believe me?"

"Believe what?" Futamata looked at Terushima, confused.

"He's been going on and on about how the girl that sits in the corner all quiet has a tongue piercing. A tongue piercing! He's gone crazy," Bobata said, leaning back in his chair.

"It's true! I was gonna show you earlier but some girl was in the way!"

"Why would she have a tongue piercing in the first place, and why would you know?" Futamata asked.

"Because it's the only piercing nobody can see unless you show them, so she only told me about it because she knew nobody would believe me! Like you two right now!" Terushima exclaimed. "How often do you guys see my piercing everyday?"

"All the damn time," Futamata and Bobata said in unison.

"Okay, how often do you see it when I'm not going around showing it off?"

"Now that I think about it, I never see it during class the way I can always see your ear piercings," Bobata mused.

"That's because it's in his mouth," Futamata quipped, hiding his laugh behind his hand.

"Exactly! Hers is in her mouth too!" Terushima insisted.

"Why would she show you in particular, though?"

"'Cause I've been trying to get with her and she always rejected me and she got tired of it but now she's always flirting but nobody believes it and it drives me insane but I finally have a chance if I can just prove it to somebody!" Terushima ranted, exasperation setting in.

"Dude, you gotta realize how unbelievable your story sounds right now. You're basically saying Hermione Granger from Harry Potter had a tongue piercing," Futamata pointed out, Bobata nodding in agreement.

"Okay, but Hermione Granger was badass."

"Yeah, you're right," Futamata said. "But that's not the point! The thing is, all she does is study, take notes, pass classes, and get the highest grades! She's just so, ordinary. She seems so innocent and naive."

"Yeah, but so was Hermione until we found out she was cool as hell," Terushima said.

"Good point," Futamata added.

"Fine, fine. If I see it, I'll believe it, one hundred percent. Deal?" Bobata relented, watching as Futamata repeated after him.

"Deal."

Terushima leaned over the desk next to yours, looking down at you. He watched as you looked up at him, memories of yesterday flashing in his head.

"Can you watch me play volleyball?"

"What do you mean?" You asked, unsure of what he was asking of you. There were no games, and the Interhigh Prelims were already over, so what could you watch?

"After school. Sit and watch us during practice, you can even help Hana if you want," Terushima offered.

You looked at him skeptically. Something about his request felt off, like he had an ulterior motive, but you didn't know for sure, which is why you answered the way you did.

"Sure, I guess."

You stood outside the gym doors, shuffling your feet from side to side. Just ten minutes earlier, you were wrapping up some notes and flashcards you were using for an upcoming literature test as Terushima walked out the door, waving goodbye. Back then, you thought nothing of it, deciding to visit their practice after they were done. Now, you regretted that, because you had to open the doors alone, by yourself, and interrupt whatever they were doing.

Basically, you had to bring attention to yourself, which you hated in the first place, and knowing how chaotic the Johzenji volleyball team can be, you weren't sure you'd live to tell the tale.

Sighing, you braced yourself, placing a hand on the door handle.

Three.

Two.

One.

You pulled open the door, timidly peeking inside. As soon as the sound of the door opening echoed throughout the gym, the sounds of sneakers and bumps quieted. It was as if everything has paused, freeze frame. A ball in the air fell to the floor, bouncing away.

And the whole team was staring at you.

"Hey! You made it!" Terushima called out as his face lit up.

"Um, hello. Terushima told me to come and watch the practice," you explained softly, glancing around the gym.

"Oh, great! Come over here," their manager, who you recognized to be Hana, said, waving a hand at you. You dropped your bag by the door before making your way over.

"Hi, I'm Hana Misaki, the third year manager, and this is our coach, Anabata Takaaki," Hana introduced, motioning to the coach. He waved politely, saying, "Nice to meet you."

Someone tapped you on the shoulder, and as you turned around, you were met with the face of a girl, obviously a first year, looking down at the floor.

"I'm Ryuna Kuribayashi, and I'm the first year manager," she said, shyly looking up at you.

"Nice to meet you Ryuna," you said warmly before introducing yourself as well, watching as she gave you a gentle smile in response.

"So, what brings you here? Other than that idiot Terushima," Hana asked, throwing a glare towards Terushima's direction. As if he had super hearing, he turned around, pouting, just as one of his opponents, number eleven, sent a ball in the air, landing on his head.

You stifled a laugh as you overheard him complain loudly. "Nothing else, he just told me to come by, and since I had nothing to do, I had no reason to decline," you answered sheepishly, rubbing the back of your head.

"So you have no club activities?"

"Yeah, I was part of the photography club but my camera broke and I haven't had the time to either fix it or replace it, so I've basically just been a placeholder."

"Well, how about you become a manager for these bunch of crazy kids? Soon, you'd be the third year manager, and I'd really appreciate it if we continued having two managers, just in case they decide to tear Ryuna apart, since once their tournament is over, I'm leaving," Hana sighed, watching as Ryuna shrugged her shoulders. You looked at the team, playing two versus two matches, jumping and yelling like madmen, then back at Ryuna, who was watching fondly, albeit a bit worried.

"Yeah, okay. I can see why you can't trust them with one manager." You gestured at them with your head, just as Terushima jumped in the air, yelling his lungs out.

"Great! If you come here for a second I can give you a form to fill out, and- oh wait. Do you know anything about volleyball?" Hana asked. "It's just one of the things I'm supposed to ask you, since it's a volleyball club and all."

"Yeah, I played in middle school," you assured.

"Great! Here," Hana said, handing you a form. Fishing a pen out of her pocket, you took it gratefully before putting the paper against the wall, filling it out.

"Then that settles it! I'll call a break and tell them the news." Hana turned to the coach, waiting for him to finish correcting one of the teammates. She tapped him on the shoulder and asked for a time out. The coach blew the whistle, and Terushima called, "Alright!"

Once everyone had gotten water and a towel, Hana called for everyone's attention. "Everyone, this is (L/N) (Y/N)! She's a second year, but most of you know that because I hear a fly keeps buzzing around her." Hana sent a dirty look at Terushima, who put his hands up and stuck his tongue out, guilty as charged. "She's becoming our third manager to take my place once I leave," the team whined, obviously going to miss her, "so when next year comes around, we'll have a third year and second year manager. Since most of you will be graduating with (Y/N), when Ryuna is a third year, we may only need one manager, since she might be actually looking after a volleyball team, not a group of overgrown kids." The team protested, unknowingly proving even more so that they were a childish bunch. "Yeah, yeah, I'm just kidding. Everyone, welcome (Y/N)!"

"Welcome to the team!" The team chorused, jumping in the air, reminding you of a certain redhead you used to go to middle school with.

"Thank you," you said, bowing slightly.

"Alright, back to work!"

"So I heard you're becoming a manager? Why, you need to keep tabs on your man?" Terushima sidled up to you, towel around his neck, water bottle drained.

"No, I just feel bad for Ryuna having to deal with you all the time," you replied, looking over your shoulder at Ryuna handing out water bottles to the crowd of teammates around her, looking overwhelmed before Hana came and smacked them in the head.

"Well then, meet some of the team. Hey, Bobata! Futamata!" Terushima called to numbers 2 and 3.

"Hey, I'm Bobata Kazuma," number 2 said as he jogged over, tipping his head slightly.

"I'm Futamata Takeharu," number 3 introduced as well, nodding towards you.

"And I'm number one!" Terushima yelled proudly, with you looking unamused.

"So who's the captain? I bet it's Futamata, he seems better than you, Terushima," you said, trying to make fun of and get a reaction out of Terushima, and it worked.

"No! I'm the captain, number one!" Terushima insisted, pulling at his practice jersey.

"Fine, fine. Do you guys really only play two on two matches?" You asked, looking at the three of them. Damn, they towered over you. No wonder Ryuna was overwhelmed earlier, had you still been your little first year self, you too would've been intimidated.

"Yeah!" Bobata answered proudly, "It's what makes us the 'party team'."

"But volleyball is six on six…" you trailed off.

"Well yeah, but doing two on two makes it more competitive," Futamata pointed out.

"Yeah, but when game time comes around, you all will be running into each other, because two suddenly tripled." You rolled your eyes, already seeing them crash into each other like bumper cars.

"But when that happens, you'lll come and save us, right?" Terushima asked, looking at you with puppy eyes.

"I guess…" you grumbled, not wanting to indulge Terushima.

"Aw, c'mon! You'll help us with anything, right?" Bobata pulled the same act, dodging as Terushima tried to elbow him.

"Just say it! If you say it, we'll believe it!" Futamata added, catching on to something, something you were suspicious of.

"You're being awfully insistent," you looked at them dubiously, raising an eyebrow.

"Just say it! 'As your manager, I'll help you with anything'," Terushima said, speaking slowly. As he spoke, his piercing glinted in the gym's lighting, the sun already setting, unable to provide its sunlight.

"No, that's weird."

"Just do it!"

"No!"

"Please?" All three of them chorused.

"Fine! As your manager, I'll help you with anything," you relented, not noticing the incredulous look on Bobata's and Futamata's faces.

"Say it slower, just in case I heard wrong," Terushima suggested, looking at you evilly.

Seeing as you were in no position to refuse, you did so, "As your manager, I'll- oh." Your face fell as you realized why they made you repeat those exact words.

When you said 'I'll', your piercing was out in the open, exposed to two of Terushima's friends, who were looking at you with disbelief written across their faces. You mentally smacked yourself for overlooking the fact that when Terushima said it, his piercing was visible, too.

"I believe the bet has come to an end? And the winner is?..." Terushima said slyly, looking like that cat that caught the canary.

"You…" you mumbled, unwilling to admit it.

"What? I couldn't hear you."

"You!" You huffed, looking to the side.

"Wait, bet? I thought you were just trying to not go insane," Bobata said as Futamata agreed with him.

"You see, if I was able to prove she had such a piercing to at least one person, I'd be able to do this." He snaked an arm around your waist, pulling you into his side. "And you, Bobata, Futamata, make two people."

"So what did you win?" Futamata asked, not following.

"I won this one right here," Terushima replied happily, stepping to the side to hug you from behind.

"Everyone!" Terushima suddenly yelled, waiting for everyone's attention. "Meet my girl, (L/N) (Y/N)!" Terushima declared proudly, leaning back and lifting you up into the air from the waist, peeking over your side and snickering as you protested loudly.

"Hey! Put me-"

You were cut off by the team's wolf whistles and yells, their cries loud enough to be heard miles away as they all jumped in the air excitedly. Do they ever stop jumping? Even Hana and Ryuna were clapping, fond smiles on their faces.

Accepting your fate, you crossed your ankles, holding on to Terushima's arms for dear life.

"Thank god you're in good shape," you whispered, squeezing his bicep.

Terushima grinned. "Like it?"

"Love it," you rolled your eyes as he preened, hugging you even tighter, before putting you down.

"Guess I got my girl after all," Terushima said as those who overheard cheered softly for him.

"Yeah, yeah, it took you three weeks and a bet to get little old me."

"Yeah, but little old you tricked everyone by having a tongue piercing, so I wonder, what else are you hiding behind that innocent façade?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," you said, crossing your arms and petulantly looking to the side.

"Well, can little miss innocent give me the hottest kiss of my life?" He said mischievously, eyes sparkling at you.

"Whatever you say, mister handsome-as-hell," you smiled, leaning up as he bent down, your lips meeting in the middle.

If it was even possible, the team got louder, and even the managers were whooping for you, relieved that you finally got together and happy because you two made a really cute couple.

Terushima smiled into the kiss, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you even closer.

Clink.

#haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyū!!#haikyuu terushima #haikyuu oneshot #haikyuu fic #haikyuu x reader #yūji terushima #terushima yuuji #terushima yuuji x reader #johzenji #mention of hinata lol #my sweet baby #basically piercing shenanigans #reader is truly a little shit #my writing

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skvaderarts · 3 years ago

Text

Hiraeth Chapter 49: Structure

Masterlist can be found Here!

Chapter Forty-Nine: Structure

Notes: LOL I’m deliriously tired today. IDK why. But anyway, I hope you enjoy it. And congrats to HunterJamie for being the only one I know of for sure to catch that little reference regarding the demon! I was so worried that I didn’t do a good job describing them.

(-~-)

Diving out of the way just in time, the intrepid group of young devil hunters realized very quickly that the foe they were up against was distinctly different from anyone that they had faced in the past. He possessed a certain calm diligence that was hard to put into words, but it made simply running up and attacking him infeasible, and that was before his weapon or his frankly ferocious summon was taken into account. Every step that one of them took towards this foe ended in him shifting to the side or back and blocking them, only for them to immediately be flanked by his absolutely relentless familiar.

The devil didn’t move like anything that the youngest of the Dark Knight Sparda’s descendants had ever faced in the past. It was cold and calculated, waiting for the perfect moment to strike as it pinwheeled in and out of the darkness. It stalked them with a methodology not unlike Shadow’s, but with a speed and fluidity that made it difficult to keep your eyes on where this creature was actually headed next. They couldn’t watch it at all times and also keep their eyes on the summoner it was protecting. That would literally require extra eyes. And while one of them possessed a set of wings that possessed an additional set of hands, none of them had any additional eyes. It backed them into a corner that they frankly didn’t want to be in, and they were resentful of that, fact to say the very least.

Jetting towards the train car, Flora slid underneath one of the downed pillars in an attempt to momentarily confuse her pursuer. It only partially worked, forcing the devil to bolt around the other side of the pile and search for her, but not stopping its pursuit. Not even a bullet in the back from Nero a moment later could succeed in that endeavor, distracting it for a moment as it turned to snarl at him in irritation, but not culling it in any meaningful manner. The young man cursed under his breath and hurried after it as he hurried to swap out a few of the rounds in his revolver. This might be worth breaking out something a bit more powerful.

Lucia blocked an oncoming attack from the summoner, locking their weapon in place for a moment as she hoped that V would take the opportunity to attack. Thankfully, he did just that, sending Shadow to attack their shared opponent in the form of a rush of black spiked tendrils that slammed forward out of the floor, destroying the already heavily damaged pavement as she leaped forward and towards the summoner’s throat. He managed to pull away from the guardian, turning his weapon on the demonic panther, a move that saw her retreat in mid-air in the form of a dusty black powder that retracted until it reached V. That wouldn’t have killed her by any means, but any harm that he could prevent happening to her he would gladly welcome.

A well-placed trio of thin, razor-sharp throwing daggers nearly found their mark as Lucia aimed at the mysterious individual’s head, nicking their hood, but nothing more. They seemed to pause for a second, looking over their shoulder to find the instruments that had nearly caused them to meet their end stuck in the side of the wall. This gave Nero the perfect opportunity to fire a charged round at them from his place across the room, succeeding in causing them to stumble, but not killing them or even wounding them, by the looks of it.

They slumped over towards the floor, looking down as they placed their hand on their face, something black dripping from within the confines of the hood. V could only assume that it was blood, but he couldn’t be sure from the distance that he stood. It was too dark in the terminal to see much of anything. If he was willing to make a guess -and he was- he’d say that the terminal had electrical damage. It was hard to believe that a major metro line wouldn’t have some sort of backup power capabilities.

Standing upright, the individual looked over at V, anger radiating off of them in waves that took the white-haired summoner somewhat by surprise. They seemed fixated on him, tuning everything else out. And as they did so, the sound of metal pulling apart could be heard from the other side of the room. Flora had reached the train, and she was using what seemed to be a great deal of power to force open the bent train doors. But as soon as she succeeded in getting them open, she let out a sigh of exhausted relief and was immediately beset upon by the unfamiliar devil. It launched itself off of the ceiling, slamming its two large hands like appendages down into the concrete in front of Nero and gripping it, ripping the concrete tile out of the foundation and sending him tumbling back into the train’s undercarriage. He fired a few misplaced shots at it in retaliation and most met their mark, but this only served to enrage the beast further as it tore tunning after him. Flora turned away from the screaming civilians that were running to safety from within the mangled train car to try and waylay it, but was struck down for her trouble, letting out a loud, agonized cry as she did so, clearly in a great deal of pain and totally taken aback by the sudden attack. It had turned so fast…

V felt his blood run cold as he witnessed this, sharing a momentary look with Lucia. One of them needed to get to Nero and Flora as fast as possible, and he knew that it wouldn’t be him. They were in a hard spot, and would be in grave danger without assistance, not to mention the lives of the dozen or so people who were only now making their way to safety; a path that was intersected by an extremely dangerous fie that they stood no chance against.

With a slow, prolonged blink, he silently asked her to go instead, choosing with much difficulty to allow her to save the both of them from what would otherwise be certain death. It hollowed his heart to do so, but he knew that he could handle their unwelcome guest on his own if she could handle that demon. And he knew without a doubt that that demon, as fast as it might be, couldn’t outspeed Lucia. She would see to that, and he would handle this mindless murder. V was certain that if he kept his cool and focused on the task at hand that he could defeat them. After all, he’d gone up against dangerous foes before, and many of them had been several times larger than him with powers beyond his wildest imagination. At least this opponent was the same size as him.

Stepping forward, the other summoner adjusted their stance in an obvious bid at attempting a follow-up attack. Part of V wondered if his opponent was clearly telegraphing this on purpose to mislead him or if they were simply starting to grow tired and were unaware of what their body language was giving away. Regardless, the young summoner would be prepaid for whatever this individual threw at him.

As they stepped closer to him, V took notice of something rather interesting to him. His opponent had a limp. It wasn’t especially obvious when they were standing still, but during the brief windows of time that they spent moving forward towards him, V had noticed that their right leg was clearly weaker than the left. It stuck out to him like a sore thumb, the young descendant of Sparda personally understanding the discomfort it caused and the detriment it could be at times. Injuring it during his fall several years back had sent him down a rabbit hole of continuous reinjury that broken bones seemed to be so prone to, but he made a point of not allowing that to stop him. He would manage. All in all, it wasn’t that bad, not to mention the fact that it gave him a convenient reason to explain the presence of his signature weapon. People didn’t like to question that sort of thing. He only really carried it at this point due to his pension for sudden bouts of weakness, but that insight gave him an especially devious idea.

Playing into what he assumed they might attempt, they rushed him suddenly as they had previously. The difference was that this time he was ready for them. Calling Shadow to his side, V easily phased past the pillar that he’d been pretending to have his back against, blocking the attack with his cane. Shadow went for the stranger’s back, a move that they seemed to anticipate to some degree as they sidestepped her, a slight graze that did substantial damage to the back of their coat being the only evidence of the strike. But just when they seemed to believe that they had dodged the attack, Griffon materialized and hit them with a wall of powerful electricity, causing them to step back right into the waiting jaws of a very enraged panther. They were taken to the floor in an instant, calmly raising their hand to signal for their familiar to return to their side. A loud demonic screech from the other side of the room, indicating that his request was being denied as the demon was pinned to the wall by Lucia’s twin blades, the guardian withdrawing them and spinning as she slashed their throat. She then stepped back and allowed Nero to put another charged round square in the demon’s head as a final act of overkill, the bullet detonating a moment later and ending the beast.

Looking over at their struck-down familiar, they craned their neck up at V, barely paying any mind to the fact that Shadow was standing with her right paw on their chest, severely restricting their movement. After a moment they exhaled, a breathless, soundless laugh coming from their chest as they did so. They nodded to themself, never taking their focus away from V as they did so. A part of him felt as though they were almost sarcastically impressed with his actions and those of his companions. They would probably clap if they were capable of doing so. But without the ability to see their face to be able to look them in the eye, he had no way of knowing for certain.

“Okay asshole, you’ve got a lot of fucking explaining to do,” Nero said, clearly furious as he stumbled over with Flora in tow. The young woman had her arm wrapped around his shoulders and he was supporting her carefully by attempting to hold her up under the arm, but she was at least still conscious and coherent. For his part, his head was bleeding from his tumble down under the train, but he was otherwise unharmed. She said nothing, her fury evident as they made their way over to the rest of the group. Lucia juggled a couple of her throwing daggers between her fingers, her eyes trained on the individual who had caused them so very much harm. She had no intention of allowing them to so much as breath too hard.

A procession of terrified but grateful townspeople shouted thanks at them as they passed, running for their lives in the direction of the stairs. The escalators might have been non-functional at the moment due to the lack of power to make them move, but they were still stairs either way and all that they wanted to do was get out of there as soon as possible. All they knew was that the train had crashed and that two strangers being attacked by a monster had pulled the doors open. That was more than enough.

Seemingly paying no mind to Nero’s emotionally charged question, they kept their eyes locked on V. He could tell that much just looking at them. They were most certainly human, that much was clear. And with that fact established, that only left two outcomes. That they possessed no emotions, or that they were so devoted to whatever it was that they were trying to accomplish here that they had forsaken them. There was no semblance of fear or concern anywhere in their demeanor. Even with Shadow holding them down, their own sumon temporarily despatched, and four powerful foes standing over them ready to strike them dead at a moment’s notice, they just didn’t seem to care.

“In case you didn’t hear them, they both asked you a question. It would be wise of you to answer it after everything you’ve done.” Lucia said patiently, her pleasant but firm tone belying the fact that she was rapidly losing her patience with this individual. Well, that was if one were to assume that she had ever possessed any towards them in the first place. She very likely hadn’t and was simply unwilling to jump the gun in a situation like this. Any information that this deranged psychopath could provide them may prove to be useful. So long as their existence might be useful, then they were safe from her ire. But for their sake, it was probably best that they start talking sooner rather than later.

Without warning, darkness suddenly enveloped the station. It was a sort of all-consuming presence that felt physically heavy. And from that darkness manifested a long, centipede-like demon covered in a hard, almost shell-like carapace. It bulldozed through the already mangled building, jetting up out of the ground and towards Shadow. The group was knocked back against the wall of the supports buckled under the level supports, a large hairline crack splitting through the ceiling above them. The horrifying creature coiled around the other summoner as the structure around them began to lose its structural integrity.

V called Shadow back to his side, sharing a concerned look with his companions as they realized that they needed to get out of there as fast as they could. Making a B-line towards the defunct escalators, they ran as fast as they could manage, the ground caving in on them as they went. Dangerous chunks of concrete and metal toppled to the ground above them as they made their way towards the exit. They were cutting it dangerously close and they all knew it but none of them dared speak a word in relation to it. Speaking that into existence wasn’t the best idea.

Instead, they all made haste towards the last exit that wasn’t obscured, diving and tumbling out onto the pavement as they managed to just barely escape with their lives. The sounds of sirens, collective speech, and emergency vehicles drowned out every thought that they might have possessed in their minds as they simply laid there for a moment and allowed the gravity of what had just happened to fully sink in. They had tried their best to face off against their unfamiliar opponent, and they had rescued as many people as they could from the wreckage caused by the accident. Everyone else had fled, but V and Nero especially hoped that once they left and the emergency services took over that they would be able to find as many people alive as possible. The area had seen enough death, and the people in that station had been innocent bystanders whose only crime had been being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

As they laid there catching their breath, V internally cursed himself. He now had a more concrete idea as to why that masked murderer might have been quietly laughing to themself. They had an ace up their sleeve, and it was quite the boon in such a short space. Had they been above ground, things would have no doubt gone differently. “And next time they shall. This won’t be the last of them that we see. I refuse to believe they are actually dead. It’s never that easy.”

“… That one I do know. Scolopendra. An infernal demon; as ancient as they are enormous. I believe that they never stop growing. Thankfully that one was relatively small by their standards.” She waited for a moment to see how they reacted, noticing that none of them seemed to respond in the way that she expected them to, she shrugged painfully, allowing Nero to help lower her to the floor. “They come from the deepest depths of the underworld and care little for our tawdry affairs. It’s exceedingly rare to see one in the human world. I’d love to know where that summoner got them from.”

“Well, what a wonderful fucking surprise. I hope we never see it again.” Nero said as he shook his head, unsure as to what they should do next. They needed to head back and talk to Vergil, sure… but then what would they do? Would they accidentally lead their enemy back to the office or to V’s house? They needed a plan. Perhaps it was best to track down a phonebooth and call the others to let them know that they were alright? After all, it stood to reason that they knew what had happened at the station by now. Vergil being injured probably wasn't going to keep him from going to search for them. They had to beat him to the punch.

But as they stood up and started to brush themselves off, something familiar caught their eye from the other side of the crowd that had started to gather near the station. All the shouting and commotion suddenly evaporated in the presence of something more familiar to them, a welcome sight after the horrors and near-death experiences that they had all just sustained.

Vergil had just arrived. And he had a lot of catching up to do.

(-~-)

Sorry for any mistakes. I was super tired when I was editing this. Like, I got to the last two pages and I was falling asleep sitting up. It was bad. Anyway, I can’t wait to read your thoughts on this one. I had a blast on this chapter, and I hope you did, too!

#Hiraeth #My Post Devil May Cry 5 AU #V #Nero #Vitale #Lucia #My OC #DMC #DMC5 #DMCV #Devil May Cry AU #Devil May Cry 5 #Devil May Cry V

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maximumninjavoid · 4 years ago

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Mining for Unobtanium part 21

Oh my gawd, yes, twenty one.

Ya’ll have been so good, you get TWO parts of this nonsense today. that’ll make your Monday suck less.....

I’m having a GREAT time writing this. I need to put it all into one BIG WORD DOC. an asbestos word doc.

Unbeta’d, we die like appliances . And cheap cars.

@fishcustardandclintbarton, that’s their line. I stole it.

At eleven packages arrived. One was from a lingerie shop I had browsed at online, Bordelle. Their stuff was exquisite, really, cutting edge fashion, and wickedly sexy. I assumed he either knew or guessed my sizes. I had already done my due diligence on the dreadmill, hoping some of this whatever this was would dissipate, but even an hour at an incline of three and a half didn't settle the starlings in my stomach. Those were no butterflies. I spent an indulgent amount of time in the bath, lotioned everything that could be with almond oil, touched up my cuticles, decided my pedicure was in good shape, exfoliating, buffing, it was madness. Nerves, I suppose. I mean, wouldn't you be? I began opening boxes. Stockings, of the most fine denier, that you could read a newspaper through, and a Cuban heel with a seam up the back. A suspender belt of black straps, almost like an open bottom girdle, with six garters. A matching balconette bra that would really display my decolletage. There didn't seem to be any panties. Hmmmmmm. There was a beautiful pair of shoes with a low heel and an ankle strap, which was amazing, because I don't have the grace or the talent to wear heels. The dress that accompanied it was simple and elegant, well made, and also rather retro in it's styling. Fitted bodice, sweetheart neckline, sleeves that ended just at the elbow, rather fit and flare in its styling, and the skirt was voluminous. My God, there was even a hat with a little veil and gloves. He didn't miss a trick. I began to dress. Fortunately two weeks in a hotel had not been all that bad for me. The circles under my eyes required minimal spackle, a bit of blush, a swipe of contour here and there, with my contacts in, eyeliner was out of the question and it hadn't occurred to me that I should pack lashes. Mascara it is then. Lip stain, blotted, fixed,reapplied, blotted again, this was NOT coming off, on my mask or on a shisuitAollar. I spritzed some scent in all the proper places and I hoped he wouldn't recognize it, and that it would please. I've never been one for traditional women's fragrance. It smells artificial on me. I like darker notes, spice, leather,and they're much better balanced in men's fragrances. I get lots of compliments, and never find myself wearing the same scent as anyone else. Seams straight. Pearls. Hat. Bag. Gloves. Aaaaaand it's 6:45. I've got fifteen minutes to make macrame out of my internal organs. And now, for entertainment, our brain will show a selection of every possible disaster scenario it can conjure, no matter how ridiculous. And I pace. I look at the clock again, and I swear it's moved backwards and now says 6:40. That cannot be correct. I shake my head. I pace some more. I pop breath mints like they're drugs I did in the eighties. I am not going to smoke. I might pass out. There's a knock on the door. My heart pounds. I walk to the door and try to breathe....{internal voice; don't lose your shit} I open the door and there he is. In a suit. Not just any suit. I mean, you can't. Not when you're built like a brick...... House ( apologies to the Commodores). I could write epic poems that would put the Iliad to shame just describing his fair countenance....but I would be doing him a disservice if I didn't spent some time on just how much style he possesses. Tailoring is one thing. Fit, proportion, but he has raised style to high art. Like old Hollywood meets English Nobility, and unless I miss my guess, that's a bespoke Huntsman suit. Made specifically for him. To his precise measurements, by HIS cutter, who has a file on him, and all their other clients; about their preferences, in colors, fabrics, linings, how they want their trousers, best preferences, THE WHOLE NINE YARDS. Did you see *The Kingsmen*? That place. It's actually Huntsman. I think they have been on Saville Row for over 100 years. Might even have a Royal charter. The suit is perfection. Fits literally like it was made for him..... Because it was. And it took twelve weeks and multiple fittings. Charcoal grey, with a hint of a chalk stripe, very subtle, crisp white shirt, double breasted vest, with a watch chain no less, and the trousers are perfectly tailored, break at the perfect spot, and his tie is a perfect four in hand, and the tie is splashy, but flawless. Me? Oh I'm taking this all in, trying to remember to breathe, and he takes my hand, bows a little, brings it to his lips and just as his mouth is almost at my hand he turns my wrist and kisses the bare skin above my glove, and looks up at me with that smirk he has. "Ma'am? Shall we?" I put my finger under his chin and raise him to his full height . " A moment, please. " I step toward him and slide my hands up each side of his chest and lean in toward him. "Before we leave I wanted to thank you for your excellent taste. Your gifts were lovely and I hope I do them justice" and I pressed my lips to his. He pulled me in closer and wrapped his arms around me, his tongue sought to part my lips and I allowed it, my hand reaching up for the side of his face, as our tongues explored each other's mouth, tentatively at first, quickly catching fire. I didn't want to stop. But I knew if I didn't, we'd be rutting in this doorway and whatever he had planned would be for nothing. Difficult as it was, I pulled back and smiled. " I could do this all night, happily. And more, or did you want to keep our original plan? " He adjusted himself ( I don't think he knows I saw that ) and took my arm in his. "Do you have everything?" " Thank you, yes. I have my key, my bag, I am in your hands" . He closed the door behind us and walked me down the hall. We exited the hotel through a side door and got into a car with tinted windows. " Please tell me I'm not wearing your lipstick" Smiling again, I remarked that he wasn't but if he wanted to... And he laughed and pulled me in for another kiss. We made out. Like teenagers. In the back of this heavily tinted car, and I couldn't get enough of his kisses. We drove for a bit, I'm not certain how long, I frankly was too caught up in kissing him, and occasionally pulling back to look into those eyes. We could have driven off the cliffs of Dover, I'd never have known. We turned down a side street, then an alley and stopped in the back of a building. He got out of the car and said he'd be around to get me. Ok. I'll behave. He opened my door, offered me his hand to help me out, said something to the driver and then took my arm and we walked the few steps to the door in the back of this building. Henry was grinning like the cat that are the canary, and I couldn't figure out why. He knocked on the door and after a minute or two, it opened, and we went down a short hallway into a kitchen where there was a booth, IN. THE. KITCHEN. It was all I could do to not scream and go completely fan girl, for at that moment I realized where we were. This was the imagination station; the chef's table at Gordon Ramsay 's restaurant on Royal Hospital Road. I turned to my dinner date and threw my arms around his neck, peppering his face with kisses. " How did you know? How did you manage this? You realize that this might just kill me....oh, right, we have a provision for that. " He bowed from the waist " My Lady is pleased? "

" Oh darling, pleased is not the word! " Dinner was spectacular. Course after course of the most delicious ingenious things the chefs could create, with pristine service and just the two of us. Sharing bites, oh you must taste this, ooh! This, taste! Stealing kisses in between courses, and such easy conversation. we talked about books, and we talked about music, and he ribbed me about my ‘frozen in amber’ musical taste and I told him I had checked out some of the bands on his running playlist and liked quite a few of them. we sat close to one another, thighs touching, holding hands between courses, I kept getting lost in those eyes, but I did manage to hold up my end of the conversation.

I asked him if he was disappointed about not drinking during dinner and he countered with “ I haven’t seen you smoke”. We agreed that kissing was worth some sacrifices. Truth be told I did want a cigarette, but not as much as I wanted him. Dessert, coffee, more conversation, and I asked what else he had up his sleeve. He smiled. “ There is that american expression about the gun show?” I threw back my head and practically roared. “ I have this well in hand. Shall we?” And he took my hand and we got up and walked out the same back way we had come in, to the waiting car.

#henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill smut #henry cavill x reader

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tortoisesshells · 4 years ago

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Buying Time (2/6, probably, who knows, ~2,800 words, some salty language and more ways to not deal with grief)

Customs and Duties, but make it a modern!fake-dating AU with a severe lack of fake dating and more historical minutiae than any self-respecting modern AU should have; Part the Second, in which neither party has any luck with antique clocks, despite planned and unplanned meetings.

He never did see that coat again. Either someone had taken it, or maybe it had somehow found its way into the water that seemed omnipresent in that place – tidal creeks and ponds, the little river, the sea itself. One of life’s mysteries. There were others, from that day in January, but it was easier to think about the coat he’d lost.

Or why that particular shop: there was a bookstore nearby, and frankly that seemed a better place to finish sobering up before driving on to New York – where he would, in all likelihood, end up maudlin drunk on Andy Gillette’s couch, but at least get the thin satisfaction of someone worrying about him. At any road, he’d looked at the sign for S. J. Treat & E. C. Treat, Antiques – quaint, with a little hour-glass carved next to the names, and found himself inside – where he’d proceeded to make a complete ass of himself before the proprietor, who, contrary to what a sensible person would have done, sat him in a (modern) chair behind the counter and poured coffee from a thermos that might have actually have been an antique, listened to him ramble about Decatur and Barron because he’d been thinking that maybe his ancestors had been onto something, with their elaborate and ritualized pretenses for beating the shit out of each other over “honor” – and, after she was satisfied he was safe to drive, Mrs. Treat made sure he had his keys, wallet, phone, and a water bottle before wishing him well.

When he returned to Boston, he penned a note of thanks, knowing that it was wholly inadequate. Then, after his series of stilted emails with Elizabeth over the disposition of the apartment and everything in it, he’d had the idea.

Mrs. Treat politely insisted he pick the restaurant , since he was paying, and he insisted that she pick the restaurant, as she knew the area better than him. They probably would have stood there in the square batting courtesies back and forth like a deranged game of shuttlecock, before he made a tentative suggestion – which, contrary to her earlier assertions that she wasn’t picky – Mrs. Treat scoffed at as both too trendy and too loud, and steered them off in the direction of an unassuming shingle-sided tavern he hadn’t looked twice at on his initial and inebriated visit.

“It’ll be reasonably quiet,” she said, “And there’s a decent chance they’ve got the Franklin stove going.”

With that ringing endorsement, she ushered him into the bar, waved to the bartender, and pointed to a table that was, indeed, right next to an ancient woodstove – and sat in the chair closest to it.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Mrs. Treat said, by way of an apology, “I get cold easily.”

“Not at all,” he replied, looking around the low-ceilinged room. “The decoration is …”

“A little idiosyncratic?”

He nodded.

“It’s what the tourists expect, I think.”

“They expect harpoons?”

“They’re not used,” Mrs. Treat said, with an expression that was very nearly a smile, “You’d be able to tell if they were. There’s a lot to be said about common misconceptions regarding 18th and 19th century maritime activity in this neck of the woods – or the coast, as the case may be – but that’s not what we came here to talk about.”

James privately wondered how you went about telling how a harpoon had been used, but missed his chance to ask: Mrs. Treat briskly arranged the tablet, folders, and notepads on the table, pausing only for the waitress to take their lunch order. Mrs. Treat recommended the scallops, and a local brewery with atrociously punned names, but he noted she only ordered a sandwich for herself. He thought of reminding her that he had asked her to find a clock that might very well cost more than a car and he wasn’t going to begrudge her a pint, but just as quickly scrapped the idea as horrifyingly bad-mannered. She might not drink, after all. Or hate seafood.

“I’ll start with the bad news: the sum total of it is, I haven’t found your Williams shelf clock.”

“I assumed so.”

“I would get in touch right away if I had, absolutely. But I haven’t.”

Watching her twist her wedding band, he cleared his throat and asked: “Any good news?”

Mrs. Treat stopped her fidgeting and laughed. “The good news is that I can probably teach a specialist course on clock manufacture to 1850? I found more information on the Boston concern that Williams tended to purchase his clock-faces from, the history of brass rolling mills in New England – mostly Connecticut, by the way, none of your Hub nonsense here – though I don’t know for sure if Williams bought from Abel Porter and Co. or imported from England. You said your clock was early 18-teens, which makes trade with Britain a tad unlikely. There’s more information on the mahogany trade in there, as well. Book review for a monograph creatively titled Mahogany, by a Dr. Anderson – I suppose that’s part of the commodities trend where every other book was titled Cod or Pepper or whatever have you – in case you’re interested. Oh, and did you know that Williams once rented shop-room that had previously been occupied by a silversmith named Zenas Fearing?” She pushed a full manila folder across the table to him.

“If you want it,” she said, quickly, “I have all this in scans and pdfs as well, I can just email it to you. But I prefer hard copies.”

He took the folder and leafed through the pages, her annotations in red standing out against the page. “At this rate, Mrs. Treat, I’ll be able to construct it myself.”

“You might consider it. Shelf clocks are more common by the Federal period, but they’re still rare. If you could find a good source for Honduran mahogany you’d be able to make a pretty close replica to an original. Or just 3D print it, I guess.”

She sat back in her chair and swirled the ice around her glass with an apologetic smile. “I want to be clear, Mr. Norrington. I do believe that David Williams likely made multiple clocks of the type you’re describing, and I do believe that several have survived the last two centuries, and will come up for sale if they’re not already – these things can get misidentified. My failure isn’t an indication that it doesn’t exist, only – hmm. I say this as a professional: I appreciate your business and the trust you’ve put in me, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t at least tell you to consider going through a specialist. I don’t know clocks as well as I do desks and highboys.”

When he said he had consulted a specialist, Mrs. Treat cocked her head, and frowned. “Well. That’s good.”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that – she didn’t seem upset or offended, more puzzled than anything. He hadn’t meant it as an insult to her professional abilities; the dealers he had consulted spoke highly of her, tempered by the recent loss of her husband, who had been the founder of the business. Still, she looked at him cautiously – like she suspected something was afoot. “You care a great deal about this clock, I see.”

“One needs goals in life.”

“A lawyer’s answer,” she shot back. “But I understand, I think. And that really is all I have for you – there’s copies of correspondences with a few auction houses about Williams’ clocks – mostly tall clocks that have come up in the last half-century, some research from Newport Historical Society I called in a favor for – mostly about Williams and his contemporaries. Shockingly, most everyone wants to hear about William Claggett, so this is a bit thin – but if you ever get to Newport – the antiques show really is something! – you really should see the Claggett clock in the Redwood Library; it makes the to-do about him and his workshop seem very, very justified. There’s some auction results for the last few times one of his has come up, too. Just for comparison. Close to the back, yellow tab.”

Well. That was a number of zeroes.

“I appreciate your diligence,” he replied, closing the folder and pushing it to the side, to make way for the two plates the waitress was sweeping up with, and was very grateful for it, because he wasn’t sure what else there was for her or him to say. At least Mrs. Treat seemed to think one shouldn’t talk during the first few bites of a meal, efficiently clearing away half of her turkey club before setting the rest aside, and pushing her chips around her plate, which seemed an oblique signal that she’d welcome conversation, or still had something to say.

He didn’t say anything – a lawyer’s habit, maybe, though God knew it’d never helped him outside of the courtroom; or maybe he was still feeling a little foolish for letting the blind grief and very old scotch go to his head that day, and wasn’t entirely sure who Mrs. Treat was, even after doing some due diligence of his own: she seemed personable, dedicated, and honest – too honest for her own good, if she was encouraging him to look elsewhere. The glasses she wore on a chain gave her the air of a librarian, or slightly eccentric aunt – appropriate enough for her occupation. Still, it was rude to be too quiet for too long, and Mrs. Treat really had done an admirable job given the conditions.

“Will you permit a question, Mrs. Treat?”

“Of course.”

“You needn’t have given me all this information – or anything else that you’ve sent along. I would have been satisfied with an email that was some variant on ‘Not yet.’ Why all this?”

“It’s the slow season for me. Almost no foot traffic between the holidays and Memorial Day weekend – a spike around Valentine’s Day and St. Pat’s, because of the road race – but all in all, winter into early spring’s my designated vacation time. I liked the challenge – and I spent a lot of summers in Newport, when I was a teenager.” She paused, before looking at him curiously. “Will you permit a question?”

He nodded.

“I’ve been assuming you’re looking for a Williams clock because there was one passed down in your family – how did your family come to acquire the original? I’ve had to get very good at family genealogies over the years, but I wouldn’t have to have done so to know you’re not from a Newport family.”

“An antecedent married a woman from Newport; it came with her to the marriage.” If there had been an implicit question in why he did not have that original clock, he ignored it – better leave it as some question or quibbling over inheritance. Old families were fairly notorious for that. His cousins still weren’t speaking, even after fifteen years had passed, over the disposition some porringers. God alone knew what Hell would break loose when Grandmother passed away, and left the Burt silver tea service to one her descendants.

“Good provenance,” was all the reply that Mrs. Treat made on that score – all the reply she could make, because her phone began to ring and, apologetically, she checked the ID before blanching. “It’s my daughter’s school – if you’ll – just a moment – I’ll be right back!”

And she was – dashing back to the table looking like she was either about to break something or cry. “I am sorry, Mr. Norrington – I have to cut this short – my daughter’s been in a fight at school – she bit someone, actually – no blood, thank Christ – and, well –”

“I understand,” he said, rising to his feet belatedly, because he felt he ought to.

“Bless you! Do you want the folder with all the copies? Yes? Great. I’ll be in touch in June. Enjoy the spring up in Boston!”

Mrs. Treat rushed out the door, and he sat back down with the folder. If nothing else, it’d be more interesting that his current caseload.

In his inbox, not a few hours later, was a painstakingly polite email containing more than one apology and several thanks for understanding as he had: Just in case (she wrote) I’ve set up a DropBox with all the info in the folder, find it at this link, I am profoundly sorry for my unprofessional behavior, Best Regards, Elinor Treat.

He replied immediately that there really was no need for her apologies: though personally unable to relate to the experience of managing children alone, his sister’s children were enough of a handful, and – came the sobering thought – they hadn’t just lost their father the year before.

Biting, though. He wanted to ask, but that would be rude.

And as May rolled through into June, Theo reminded him that it had been six months, and there was no time like summer to at least try to start dating again. This struck him as profoundly collegiate, and he said so, which led to a completely fruitless argument over whether or not either of them had dated in college, and why or why not, and how that at all had any bearing on the subject at hand – the only thing worse than arguing with a lawyer, he supposed, was being one yourself and doing it anyway. Like being an electrician and still sticking a fork in a wall socket.

He won a one-month moratorium on the topic, but that seemed pretty pyrrhic, all told. Weatherby Swann still couldn’t look him full in the face – and he didn’t anticipate that starting to date again would at all endear him the senior partner turned Gubenatorial hopeful. Or maybe it would? Swann could breathe a sigh of relief that it hadn’t been so serious as it seemed at first – no broken hearts, no resentment. Just two people who weren’t quite meant to make it.

He was out of his office before he knew it, saying something vague about getting lunch to Ned Jarsdel and he’d be back shortly, etc. etc. – and didn’t even notice he had a shadow until Theo Groves jumped into the elevator behind him with an obviously innocent expression.

“Someone’s got to make sure you eat your greens,” Theo said, airily.

“I’m not six years old,” James replied. He said it petulantly enough that it sounded like he was, and his junior snorted. Decades of incredibly expensive education, and that was the best he could do.

“You eat like you are.”

“And you know many first-graders who survive on scotch and bagels?”

“More in the sense of, ‘You can’t be trusted to eat a nutritionally balanced meal on your own account,’” Theo corrected, following him into the noisy lobby, “Honestly, it’s a marvel you haven’t developed scurvy by now.”

James tried to think of concrete proof he’d eaten something with vitamin C in the last week, but came up short, and settled for sniping that Theo had a job and caseload of his own – which, somehow, turned into another bout of unproductive bickering that lasted up State Street, and James pretended he didn’t notice he was being herded towards Sweetgreen (or however it was spelled). With the vaguest glimmer of self-knowledge, he knew he was bristling from the shame of being seen to be incompetent; it didn’t stop him bristling, but at least he let himself be chivvied along through the crowds and the late-spring sunshine.

This was, of course, the moment he encountered Elinor Treat again.

“Mrs. Treat?”

She was standing on the edge of a group of children, clustered around a tricornered guide at the Old State House – and whirled around at being hailed with a puzzled look, until she spotted him and waved. With a word to another woman, she broke away and jogged over. “Mr. Norrington, hello! Forgive me – I’m here with my daughter’s class – end of year field trip, you know. I hope you’re well?”

Very aware that Theo was suddenly Interested in the proceedings, James was as dry as possible in introducing the two: Theodore Groves, a junior associate; Elinor Treat, antique dealer.

“Allegedly,” she said, with a sort of chagrinned cheerfulness, “I’m afraid I haven’t been very helpful yet.”

“Yet?”

Mrs. Treat looked at him rather than answering Theo’s question outright; he supposed he appreciated her discretion. “She’s investigating a family heirloom for me,” he replied, which was at least partially true.

“An interesting line of work,” said Theo.

“It has its moments. It does put a target on my back for chaperoning these kinds of trips, though – and we’ve still got to make to Charlestown.” She glanced over her shoulder at the school group, anxiously, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to get back. Responsibilities aside, my daughter’s a firecracker and even the Massacre won’t be enough to keep her occupied long. Goodbye! I’ll be in touch!”

Blessedly, Theo said nothing until after they’d gotten their lunches, and sat out in the sun. “So. She seems nice.”

“You have another two weeks before you’re allowed anything on the topic,” James replied, stabbing at his under-dressed spinach bad-temperedly.

#the self-indulgence continues!#god save me from myself [she says not actually intending to stop or be saved]#buying time #customs and duties aus #customs and duties #fic #my fic

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deviationdivine · 6 years ago

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Be The One Destroyed (RK900!Prompt Request)

TLDR: When your ex makes an unexpected appearance Nines decides to show you what you really mean to him...

Word Count: 4.4k

TW: Fluff to Smut, Language, Mentions of Abuse

A/N: Follower/Reader Appreciation Drabble | Prompt: “Ice King? More like spice king.” - @tropfenlady request! Here we go baby! Thanks for putting in your prompt request! Could it be fluffy/protective Nines? It just might be!

I'll never see what you wanted, love

RK900′s protocols are state of the art. He analyzes data at utmost accuracy. Sampling DNA at crime scenes are much more proficient than this burning sensation he feels. Deep in his artificial gut a fire spreads. This inferno is agitating. Furthermore it melts a perpetually stoic facade into heated anger. Showing emotions is not part of his repertoire. Deviancy is a means of feeling. He does so. Others do not need to see it for their pleasure however.

Curiosity is an abomination of this human race. While adept at integration just as his predecessor it hardly means he wishes to “chit-chat” with these fools.

Does it stop his interest in you? An officer who works quiet but diligent filing piles of paperwork. At first he assumed you were simply another typical leech such as Gavin Reed. Most do not seem to take proper consideration of time management. It would seem they are not actually working as detectives in a precinct.

Nines’ attitude does not make easy conversation. Yet that did not stop you conversing with him. The first time he imagined you somehow mistook him for Connor despite several glaring clues to the contrary. To say this stern android was taken aback at your genuine interest to converse with him is - frankly undesirable.

Or so he thought – until he spies you one afternoon in presence of another man during a lunch break. Enjoying such at a cafe located several blocks from DPD, Nines similarly found himself in the area following a locally reported incident. He took notice easily through shop window.

Something stilled him where he would otherwise continue without distraction. Witnessing your downcast exterior, lips drooped and not that insufferable smile he replays to memory. There is an odd atmosphere surrounding your company. Unwanted company from body language and RK900 is equipped with all the latest technologies. Reading humans is part of his programming but you-you are…different.

The android also does not like another male around you. He sneered, entering shop without a care. Eyes glued to him instantly. A tall imposing figure standing out in white stepping foot in an all human establishment will create a circus for them. He scoffed before deciding to interrupt your ‘date.’

You were the one rising from seat. Not giving him a chance to come over but practically hurrying to reach him.

Nines’ indicator became a glow of amber. Deciphering your actions only seemed to be more difficult. It makes him uncomfortable. Is that the correct word for this strange feeling cast inside his gut?

“Nines!” You smile automatically washing away whatever anxiety is left in your body. Seeing him spurs life into you, warm and safe.

“Detective,” he greets curtly. “You are needed back at the station.”

Blatantly the android lies. He glowers at the back of the man who does not turn around. Merely sitting with hunched shoulders but presumably listening. His death glare snaps away from your unknown companion under a snag of your hand. Fingers dance at the cuff of his sleeve. Warm digits brush atop synthetic skin as you pull him back outside. The event comes to haunt his system. There is something uneasy surrounding you but it is not due to him.

He casts a look back into cafe. Seemingly aware of the culprit it may not be as he suspected after all. “Is there something you require?”

“Is that how you’re always going to talk to me?” Poking at his chest under that emblazoned RK900, you can’t help grinning up at him. His face holds this permanent resting bitch face. You’d like to kiss it right into submission if you’re being honest. Still, android Darcy is at his finest playing hard to get in genial conversation.

Nines’ eyes shift down. Fingers catch in his before pulling away and he feels how stiff you freeze. Your eyes float up to his and he gently allows freedom to your soft hand.

Clearing your throat isn’t cutting it. What was that? Can’t tell if he was annoyed that you poked him or-?

“You’re not very sociable are you, Nines?”

The playful tone suggests you are teasing. Perhaps flirting would be an appropriate alternative. A tiny smirk curls lips but he forces them to a line just as quickly.

“I am programmed for sociability if it is required of me,” he bites back. “Perhaps you would prefer Connor’s demeanor for idle conversation.” Part of his statement is a test to see if you hold interest outside this vexing meeting inside cafe.

Is that jealousy? Please. Please, let your ice king be jealous. That’d be so good. “Um, don’t get me wrong. I love Connor. He’s just a cute bunny. One that can rip my head off but… So could you. Probably worse. But I prefer your company - Ice King.’

Letting it roll off your tongue for the first time leaves no shame. You hope it riles him just a little bit.

While the android does not show his hand it does exactly what you wish. He believed this is the moment he gives you proper permission to approach him more. While he does not elaborate or confess any strange sensation building up in him, Nines unfortunately does not realize what you need from this cordial relationship.

“Perhaps if you paid proper attention none of this would have happened!” Invoking frustrations to the end results of this case leaves Nines in a state of fury. A simple apprehension would have been by the book and most assuredly productive. If it were not for your senseless distractions!

“Shoot me for having a bad day once in my life!” Shouting back in his face only amplifies stress. You feel it piling on some days. This-this is not helping!

Why does he have to be the one to say it’s a fuck up? Why can’t someone else do it? Why not Connor for once?! Just let the very android that you’re growing so goddamn attached to be the one to crush you in his bare hands.

Those hands could do unspeakable things. Oh, how sure you are. Too bad fantasizing at work doesn’t get you past this friendship. Is it even that? Sometimes you wonder why you bother!

“Suffering what you refer to as a ‘bad day’ is not an excuse!”

You seize to the spot. Having to listen to this is too much. “You know what Nines!?”

“Pray do tell!” He snarls. Leaning closer, eyes sweeping over you as if prey ready to be caught on a live hook.

Something stirs in your stomach that hasn’t taken over in a while. It’s not good. It just makes you feel sick. You shrink back from him. All too aware that your flighty reaction will only make you look worse.

“Never mind,” you whisper quietly. Anger dissipates too quickly not to cause a swirl in his indicator. He is scanning isn’t he? As if you asked for that or-or him to latch on.

Is he truly attached? No. You continue to work frustrated with how easy it is to fall. When his attitude is hardly pleasant most times with others around why do you continuously go for the asshole type? Depends which type but-but maybe it isn’t fair to compare. Honestly there is nothing at all to compare. He wouldn’t…

The android snaps straight at your abrupt departure. His gaze glues to you until there is no more hesitation.

Something drives this advanced android to follow. Unaware of how much this will change things. Perhaps unaware of how much is to change. No. He does know. The RK900 wants you.

Slamming locker door only rings in ears causing your pounding headache to worsen. Banging your hand into the metal surface won’t cure it but it will make you feel better. Just beat something in since that was such a great way for that motherfucker to do when he-

A sob chokes. Coming fast along with your slide down to bench you land in a huff. Isn’t it enough that work gets to you sometimes? Added personal drama doesn’t help nerves and insecurities.

God. You were so over this. Just because that son of a bitch starts popping up again. He blew the city a long time ago while you were still a weak wisp compared to now. You work at the damn DPD. If you wanted to you could punch that bastard in the throat and he wouldn’t be able to take you down. Not like he used to knock you down…

“Y/N?”

Your head snaps up. Realizing your current state is on full display to the last person you want to see you fall. What is he doing? Did he need to add more to a list of offenses you perpetrated today? According to him the list must be a mile long.

“I heard you already, Nines. I don’t want…”

“I am sorry,” the android interrupts firmly. Can you stop speaking for one minute?! “Is that not what you wanted to hear?”

Wanted to hear because what? He doesn’t mean it?

You get up. Finding inner strength is easy. “Oh, that’s funny. I thought you actually wanted to come down here and apologize. Not tell me what I want to hear as if I’m some…!”

Nines’ fingers snag around your wrist. Pulling you slowly to him, he narrows steely ice searching for a true answer now. “Why were you crying?”

Zero hostility floods his voice. He genuinely wants to know. Why tell anyone? Why not tell anyone? At least tell the android…man…that you’ve fallen in love with.

“Do you remember the cafe that one day?”

An unnecessary question, he finds, for a prototype who stores information. However, he nods without adding more words that may upset you further.

“That man at my table,” you explain disgusted. “Who I didn’t want to sit down? My ex.”

Ex? As in ex partner. RK900′s lip twitches nearly curling a sneer.

“Just kind of popped back around. Another reason why I wasn’t exactly focused today.” Where does this bastard get the gall anyway? As if you’re that stupid? Anybody who goes back to that type of situation is just beyond getting out. “I just - want to not have to see that scumbag. After what he…”

Nines does not have need for an elaboration. Flinching away from him previously offers insight into residual trauma. It would appear this so-called ex laid hands upon you at one time.

“Y/N,” his voice softens. Uncharacteristically he allows the facade to fall entirely for you. “I would never harm you.”

Tears run freely in a river of personal woes. Problems should be hidden in some capacity while working. Have a bit more self respect for yourself why don’t you? You find a small laugh suits.

Fingers brushing streaks off your cheek is unexpected but not unwanted. For a haughty one he sure makes your heart thud.

“OK.” Trusting him is easy because he’s different. Even if he is a smug hardass, Nines is something special. “Ice King.”

The RK900′s brow creases sharply at such an endearment. He scoffs. How strange and beautiful you are.

I was the one that you needed, love

Snowflakes never looked prettier dotting his head of rich dark hair. Resembling dollops of whip cream atop steamy cocoa it sure touched your sweet tooth. Craving his lips is nothing new. They do know how to zap breath right out from your lungs. Lately you’ve been really craving him and not just those spicy make outs.

Maybe it’s time to take this to another level? Dating Nines is definitely a roller coaster, a safe one that won’t derail any moment. Doesn’t mean it’s dull by any stretch.

Who would’ve thought you’d wind up falling for a chiseled, pompous prince? He meets all those standards and more.

Grabbing his hand is perfect since he clearly hates PDA. In this frigid atmosphere he does not disentangle. He heats up those systems just a bit. His fingers are warmer now against your chilled digits. Mister advancement likes showing off subtlety.

“Is this necessary?” he huffs impatiently.

“Don’t tell me my big, strong android is afraid of a little snow.” Teasing relentlessly produces such a smolder. Nines can ravage you with his eyes alone. They are so beautiful. Silver chimes tinkle goose bumps all over your body. “You’re not going to melt, Nines. Unless you suddenly became the wicked witch of-”

The android halts you. Sweeping an arm around your waist drags you to him. For this moment he will forget the derision he holds for public display. The more you move your mouth the more Nines wants to devour the curve of lips.

Breath hitches divinely and his eyes are fire. “Ice King? More like spice king.”

Leaning up on toes settles you directly against his warmth. His lips melt softer than snow. Into yours, savoring and teasing with teeth as he nips your bottom lip for access. Willingly parting lips for his tongue sends you somewhere distant.

For being against PDA he certainly is holding snug to you middle of snowfall. Dotting atop your figures, creating a frosty cocoon and this is the warmest you will ever be.

“Y/N?!”

Breaking the kiss prematurely wipes away this cozy moment. Dropping down on level after leaning to exceptionally tall boyfriend attention falls to one witness that inherently makes your blood run cold. You shift towards Nines instinctual and also a means to prevent something happening.

You already know this is not going to go well. The tension in Nines’ arm is clear beneath your fingers. Still you squeeze in hopes he will not kill someone.

“It is you.” Your ex laughs a bit before nodding at the android. “Who’s this guy?”

“Who do you presume I am?” The RK900 detaches from you with a snarl on his breath.

“Wait, a minute. You’re an android?” Squinting at the LED glowing in the snow your ex couldn’t help laughing. It was particularly gut busting. “Are you fucking kidding? You’re with a goddamn android? Wow. How low can you go? I mean, I always knew you were a hard up, worthless…”

Before another word drops from his breath Nines has him slammed into the nearest chain link fence. It comes so swift there is no reaction time.

“Nines!” You move quickly over snow. Trying not to slide on any unsuspecting ice this is just great!

“I will gladly rip the tongue from your throat!” The android growls ferociously.

“Let go. Nines, just don’t. It’s not worth it!” Is he even listening? No! He’s not listening! As much as you hate this piece of shit you don’t want anybody to have their limbs ripped out of sockets. There is no doubt Nines could do it effortlessly. “Nines…please!”

Drawing his gaze to you relinquishes the flood of rage in his system. Stress levels are higher than normal. For you he will do anything and if you do not wish him to pulverize this leech so be it.

“If I ever see you near Y/N again,” the android twists his collar threateningly. “I will destroy you. Do I make myself clear? You pathetic worm?”

“Y-yeah! I-I won’t bother Y/N. I won’t!”

Nines wrenches him clear of fence. Boosting him along makes the human stumble but he continues a speedy exit. “Shall I escort you home now, My Flower?”

You shake your head. He’s not going to say a word about what just happened? “I swear to God, Nines!”

I was the one when you needed love

Throwing a coat down doesn’t stop your nerves. Everything’s haywire when things were just fine. Of course it goes south. What else did you expect?

“You should not have stopped me from squashing that pathetic insect.”

Just what you want to do is argue, right? Twisting around, you watch him drape long black coat and pull sleeves up forearms. The black sweater is snug definitely warm to look at. Eyeing his arms through material does offer a pleasing sight.

Let it be known you are attracted to strong forearms. Make that strong everything. Never would’ve guessed while dating that scum years ago. “It wasn’t worth doing. Besides, aren’t you supposed to be a detective? We both are.”

Incessantly stubborn you are for a morsel he desires on his artificial tongue. He says nothing. Moving towards you is all the words he will speak.

A shiver runs teasingly down spine. Nines’ wolfish gleam makes you weak in the knees. Already he is there sweeping you against his hard body. You have nothing to protest just succumb.

Lips on lips, hands clawing, pinching; his teeth nibble your earlobe sending a wave straight between legs.

“I want you,” he hisses into the grind of your hips. “I will show you how precious you are.”

“Nines,” a whimper crawls up throat.

He too crawls, slithers cool fingers between your legs. Swiping delicately, his eyes train upon your face. Watching eyelids droop for him in surrender and he pushes your knees apart.

All that DNA sampling you witnessed him do never prepares you for how smooth his tongue actually is. Running up your slick trembles sweetly through your body. Your hips rock on this wave. Reaching to pull at the hem of your shirt to get it off while your android boyfriend goes down on you so passionately it’s about to get interesting.

“Oh. Oh! Nines!”

His head lifts at the frantic grab of his hair. He removes his fingers from their deep stroke. “Do you want me to stop yet, Little Bite?”

“No. I want you to come up here.” Reaching down for him nothing stops his slink up your figure to oblige. He pauses before making any move to kiss. You watch him shift to unbuckle dark jeans and completely shed himself of any remaining garments. Biting your lip is the only thing you can think to do when appraising him.

Cyberlife designers must be perverts because he’s delicious.

You laugh when he grabs onto your hips. Cupping his face drags him into you for a sweet kiss. There is still the essence of you inside hot mouth. You moan past his lips, shifting legs to give him access.

His thick waist welcomes the squeeze of your thighs. Welcoming him in return, wanting his torso between legs for all eternity. You come undone, naturally accepting him sinking up to the hilt in all of his thick glory.

Your head falls back.

The android lies heavily against your heat. Creak of the mattress beneath your supine form a soundtrack stuck in his audio processors. A naturally human aura to find in a bed with you sprawled, naked and unafraid of his android exterior. Instead you plead for him and Nines aims to deliver.

“Please,” begging him to move is futile. Peering up into his eyes they are silvery wisps, morphing a glacial hideaway for a mere mortal loved by power itself. Swiping hands along his hips you can’t help but tease that modeled perfection. Even his ass is a sculpted wonder.

Digging fingers there into the flesh finally gets his hips moving. You sigh. Wrapped up in how good he feels shuts thoughts off to the world.

Those hands are to die for. Clutching in sweeps and drawing you further down to deepen this tantalizing connection. Nines curls fingers beneath your thigh. Forcing your leg up props the limb against his shoulder opening you up further for his pleasurable snap.

Your lips part breathless. The more he fucks into you the more you lose whatever worries plague the heart. This is more than that. This is all you want.

“N-Nines, please.”

“I want to hear you say it.” The android groans delectably within your clenching walls.

“I-I’m going to…”

“Not yet,” he hisses, snapping his body.

A sculpted piece he hovers serene in his shivering euphoria. Experiencing this rush through his system overheats but coolant releases itself automatically to stifle this burn. His advancement allows for many things.

Tonight he will simply show you what these inane emotions have done to him. They are as real as this deviancy but never more true than you are.

Protesting any upcoming ideas is farthest from mind. Questioning your android lover might not end well for this night. Depending on how one from an outside perspective views this relationship. They may think so. Not you, never you because an unwell end means the most satisfying, spirit rendering fuck you will ever receive. In your life he makes you like a cloud floating on horizons distant, euphoric in cosmic heavens.

Gladly your body responds as he grips onto your hips. Hoisting up from where you lie on back, your arms drop around his neck. His eyes lock onto yours glimmering.

“Oh,” you huff against his lips. “God, Nines.”

He moves with your body attached to his. Carrying you center of bed as his knees sink into mattress under weight of a muscled plastic frame; he is alive, precious to your heart. Bringing you down atop his lap now rests your bodies in a comfortable entanglement. Wrapping legs around adjusts you better onto his hard body. Despite that inner shell his synthetic skin is creamy.

Caressing him with lips is a dream become reality. Often imagining what he might taste like. Kissing the broad curve of his shoulder doesn’t disappoint. There is something too natural about androids. Honestly it gets things going even more.

His hips move up into you as he groans sharply into your collar. Such a beautiful sound rumbles deep from that chest you dig nails to. Swirling a thumb to circle the android’s nipple heightens his growl. The sound gets you off better. Knowing he feels everything just as you do. This is beautiful. He is a beautiful being and you rock hips to swallow him whole.

The android grazes teeth along your flesh. Nibbling at your skin he takes time to flick tongue over each mark he imprints. Causing your moans to heighten, his fingers dig into your hips hard and possessive.

“Mmm. Yes. Nines, you’re so good to me.”

Slipping in with you brightens a smile. Tugging at your swollen lips, snuggling into him you do not fear rejection. Where he began cold he warms you every night. You completely come into contact with this muscled android. He allows you just as he allows this peace.

Others might find it strange. Smug Nines with his penchant to turn nose up at most people whether they are android or human. Hardly matters when he has the indifference against the world. With you though? This man is the best lover you ever had. Not just when it comes to his bedroom skills, which are plenty amazing. He is just strength, sheltering and today proved that.

Whisking you off after running into your old ex. Nines barely managed out of that without murdering the asshole. Upset after did no good but this-this is everything.

“Are you well after our session?”

An uncontrollable giggle slips out. Who calls it that?! Oh, you love him.

Everything stands still battling these fantasies of the mind. This is reality. Finally being together this way but does he mimic those very words desiring escape? Confessing may ruin it all. Always a story told with you the main character; you twist away to break transparency untold. How it shines so brightly in your eyes. He will read it then. Only thing left is turning a cheek to the one. An android of all beings in the world.

Silence does not bode well for an android as meticulous as Nines. He shifts. Silver sparkles in glacial heat making your entire body fidget. Soft rustling of blankets, sheets do little to hide.

“I love you, Nines,” professing undoes the world.

Inside his space you feel mighty. A shield cast of steel not once dented even though you most certainly were before. He comes as a crystal knight riding the palest steed. He is a handsome prince not of sunshine or rainbows no not he; one of pursed lips, naturally harsh brows. Never is he harsh with you. Power that can crush in those wonderful, large hands if he so chose.

He chooses to grip, caress and fondle you into oblivion. Ecstasy pours from fingers, wine spills from his smooth lips; your heart cannot stand it.

“I’m sorry if you…” Shuddering breath slips your tongue at cool fingers. Gently kissing skin of cheek, strokes to calm erratic thrums of your heartbeat. Does he realize that will not work? Touch alone arouses wonders in you that never rose to the surface until this.

He makes you feel wanted. He makes you feel worth. You deserve actual love and protection. Why did it take so long to find?

The android does not speak. Simply using action to seal an oath as he already did by taking you every which way you desired. Many more ways will come. Many other times he will make stars come alive in the hues of your eyes that capture his human side. Deviancy will be his to share.

Nines captures soft lips. Hungrily he cages your form pressing beneath his sturdy frame. The tangle of your leg with his sends a delicious shudder in an otherwise unsettled shell. He cracks under sweet pressure of you.

“Nines,” a number craved mumbles wet.

Vibrating on the android’s tongue flicking against yours does not end this affection. While he pleasured you any way you asked it’s still amazing to feel those edges go soft. Kisses with him can be ravenous but also sweet. This is a mixture of both sides. Two coins clink together in harmony.

The RK900 does not shun your confessional. He does not detach because it is too late. You are part of his circuitry. Lifeblood of thirium could not power his existence more. Even if he bled every ounce Nines will continue to function…live for you.

Resting forehead against yours, drawing fingers to dust gorgeous curves, tracing delicate. He will show you that nothing will come to tarnish your beauty again. None will touch you, inflict harm upon you without swift retribution.

“I love you as well,” the android reveals in your shared solitude. “I will always protect you. My Flower.”

Tag List: @elydith @your-taxidermy @tropfenlady @connorswink @tommy-10-k

#rk900 x reader #dbh rk900 x reader #nines x reader #dbh nines x reader #rk900 #fluff #angst #follower/reader appreciation #tropfenlady #nines gave me my needed fluff quota #this is nice #even if there is some angst #songfic inspo #be the one (destroyed)

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candle-jacked · 6 years ago

Note

Your post seems pretty one sided? and uhh is actually illegal in most places to say stuff like that about someone publicly....

Good evening, Anon. I want to let you know that I am aware that my ask box is open, even to anonymous asks. So while I know this is probably part of the same game… I see that you are attempting to play your hand with “defamation”. This exact topic, by the way, is the word of the last 48 hours IRL so it’s pretty coincidental that this ask immediately appears after my gif-response.

I will call and raise you.

So, what you’re trying to say is that:

As a person receiving consistent threats and harassment from the same individuals repeatedly over a course of time—which does not exclude the use of a child as a weapon in said active harassment, or the harassment of immediate family in order to make an attempt to communicate with me, which I have already stated, on numerous occasions that I don’t want to talk to them— that I legally cannot:

On an anonymous social platform,

That has not made information public in which reveals either party’s personal identification—

Is, by the way, not a credible source to make or publish a statement to be used by a third-party source with the intention of revealing personal information—

Or has otherwise professionally damaged their reputation or career in which hinders or discredits their ability and/or career,

Share my thoughts and opinions on the bad experiences I’ve had during this whole debacle? That I am legally bound from sharing my personal journey, provided that I do my due diligence to protect all the identities involved, which include my harassers? You’re telling me: that it is illegal for me to do that. On a social media platform. In 2019.

Where abuse is not okay.

Let’s just call it for what it is. Here’s the definition of oppression. For the hell of it, I would like to share the definition of coercion, too. I would like you to read it.

This ask was specifically, by design, sent to me in order to victim shame me (among my other opinions); to encourage a thought process that I shouldn’t say anything about my situation. That I should keep quiet; that perhaps it’s really not all that bad…

Fuck that horseshit.

This is one part of a base foundation formulated for manipulation; to make me question my decision to share my thoughts. To make me question my opinions. To make me reconsider my plight to Tumblr.

This, my friend, is gas lighting. It is used in combination with many manipulation tactics that I, unfortunately, am now use to. Specifically, it’s being used in an attempt to silence me; to make me compliant with a toxic system that, frankly, I won’t be a part of. They have shown their sadistic behavior and have openly admitted to it. They “can’t wait” to destroy me. That’s it. That’s the motive of this whole ordeal. It’s revenge. And the endgame is to see how much of me that they can destroy.

thank u, next.

Disclaimer: I am not liable for the egos and prides that I just curb stomped in the process of answering this ask. It’s not my fault that they keep coming back here for more of… well, me. I didn’t invite them here. Or anywhere, as a matter of fact. I’ve been minding my own damn business. Just like they should be minding their own.

So to that, I’ve already put myself out there. I have already set clear expectations and limits. There’s just a boundary you don’t cross with me.

This is one of them.

#asked and answered #anonymous #abuse #harassment #stalking

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witchfall · 6 years ago

Text

the silver lining still remains: ch. 3

SUMMARY: “I'm glad you are here,” he finally says. “I'm glad it wasn't the alternative.”

Heat spikes in her spine. His voice isn’t loud, but its intensity fills the room like a vapor, pressing against her skin like warm breath. She stares at his fidgeting hands. Which alternative?

A Connor x F!OC fanfic. Read on AO3. ch. 2.

Hank hates hospitals. The chalky, fluorescent light makes his skin crawl. The chattering junkies, the sobbing husbands and wives, the harried nurses snapping at each other -- it’s too much hell for one damn building. It may be the worst possible place for Connor to experience his latest Fucking Mysterious Emotion, but like most crapshoot things in life, Connor didn’t get a hand in choosing it (and neither, frankly, did Hank).

Still. He can’t exactly leave the kids to deal with this all on their own. He and Connor have a job to do, after all.

Emma sits silently, boot heels digging into the examination table. An android nurse softly dabs at the wounds on her jaw. Hank and Connor sit in uncomfortable, plastic chairs off to the side as the nurse pointedly puts herself between Emma and the detectives, prompting frustrated jolts of movement from his android partner.

“Just sit still. Whatdya think is going to happen?” Hank hisses.

Connor stares at the back of the nurse, messing with his coin. “I don’t know.” That’s the problem, his tone implies.

But Hank and Connor do their due diligence, because Emma’s made it clear she “just wants it over with.” They take down her statement (“I was called out to some weird ass place on the east side and got ganked by some fucking weirdos”), swab for ballistics and DNA, and schedule a time for an interview. She says as little as possible. Hank can’t blame her.

They’re nearly to Hank’s car before Emma says anything unprompted.

“I don’t want to go back to my house,” she says, not looking at either of them. Her voice has that muted quality of one trying not to cry. “So we can just go back to the station or whatever.”

Connor’s hands, which are rubbing together in that nervous way he does, freeze in the air. “There are not many comfortable areas to sleep there.”

Emma shrugs. She rubs her arms. She pointedly doesn’t look at either of them. Something’s eating at her. And not just the fact that she was almost shot.

“You’re not a criminal,” Hank says pointedly. “I’m not bringing you to the station.”

Connor’s face is unreadable but his eyes are trained on Emma. Hank has that old sinking feeling in his chest that signals he is about to do something absolutely dumb as hell.

“We probably have room for you,” Hank says.

Emma finally looks at him, eyes sharp. The woman isn’t stupid. “Really?”

“Yes,” Connor says before Hank can respond. “My room is available to you.”

Emma turns to him slowly, as if the words are reaching her from across a far distance.

“I don’t require a bed,” Connor says as unhelpful explanation.

Hank rubs his forehead with his palms. “One of us can take the couch. Take the offer or leave it.”

She closes her eyes for a long moment. “Fine,” she says, so quiet he barely hears it.

Connor gives him a look -- the minorest of smirks. But as Hank watches his partner’s shoulders relax for the first time all evening, he remembers why he does dumb things like this in the first place.

Hank’s house is more lively tonight than it has been in months, but that isn’t saying much when the audience is a dog, a perturbed android and a woman who’d been shot. Emma plods off to Connor’s room clinging to a pile of clean clothes that Hank scrounged up for her with little more than a ‘thanks,’ and Connor sits primly on the couch, watching her as she goes.

Hank sighs.

He’s not blind. Something about her makes Connor act like a lost boy from Neverland. Hank doesn’t know everything about their friendship -- he doesn’t really ask, because its not his business -- but he knows it at least exists, in some form. Tonight proved that. Which is more than he could say about Connor’s relationships with most people.

Revolutions are slower than they appear. And Connor was a...strange case.

“Talk to me,” Hank says, throwing his coat on one of the dining chairs. “You’ll short out or something.”

Only once Emma closes the bedroom door does Connor take off his tie with a sharp whap . “This case isn’t over,” he says. “Don’t let Fowler tell you it is.” He leans over his knees and places his head in his hands -- a split second loss of control.

He may be an android, and thus preternaturally good looking. But he looks like hell.

“You were scared,” Hank explains flatly. “It’s one thing to stare your own death in the face. It’s another when its…”

He doesn’t finish that sentence.

“Well, it drove me to drink,” he says instead.

Connor leans back against the sofa, head slowly tilting until he’s looking at the ceiling. Hank sighs. He knows too well that Connor won’t find the answers he’s looking for up there.

Emma flings her arms out against the cool sheets, eyes closed against the roiling storm in her gut. The anxiety stretches out like a claw from her pelvis to her ribs, squeezing.

There will be no sleeping tonight. There wouldn’t be sleeping even if she wasn’t in Connor’s bed (weird), alone (not unusual), watching the shadows of the electrical lines dance against the curtains (creepy). For once, she’s not alone in the house -- but it’s just not enough.

None of her tools are working. The deep breaths, the thought breakers. She tried Aikido stances earlier and that helped until she got back into bed, where the anxiety pounced as soon as she wrapped herself up in his stiff sheets. Just get through this moment. Just breathe through this moment. You will survive this. You can survive this. What’s the worst that could happen?

But she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know. She thinks of Connor’s face in the alleyway and she has no fucking clue how she could survive the worst that might have happened. It's like trying to rein in a monster that'd been deprived of food for too long. She's lost control, and there is no getting it back in the cage.

So she rolls out of bed again, swinging her feet to the floor, and walks quietly as she can to the door. She opens it slowly. Blue light from the TV spills into the hall and Sumo huffs unbothered in his sleep outside her and Hank’s rooms.

Would Connor be in low-power mode yet? Android sleep? Zoning out? He explained it once, but he seemed vaguely embarrassed by it at the time so she didn’t press. But even his persistent questioning would be better than languishing in this semi-sleep nightmarescape all alone, so she takes the chance.

Naturally, he is sitting up on the couch, alert as if the sun was out, facing the TV. He is looking down slightly, so there was likely a book or something in his lap. For a strange, beautiful moment, he doesn’t seem to notice her at all.

She openly observes the back of his head -- hair perfectly kept, except at the top. Collar wrinkled, coat slightly askew...

He tilts his head slightly and she does so as well to match him, curious.

What does he think about, all alone late at night?

His LED spins from blue to yellow to red before she can move and he whips around with unnatural speed. Their eyes meet; it reminds her of an icicle slipping from the roof. Something cracks between them. She nearly jumps back at its power.

But then she remembers what she’s wearing.

Emma has on a navy t-shirt that says ‘I DON’T TRIP I TEST GRAVITY’ and sky blue sweats that are tied as tight as possible around her natural waist. Her shoulders are at once too broad while her arms are too short, putting the t-shirt seams in strange places. The pants are tight around her butt but drape like curtains to the ground. Another shirt ties her coily hair up. She looks like a laundry pile that’s gained sentience.

In fairness, she’s never seen him so disheveled before. His tie is gone, his shirt is unbuttoned part of the way and his blazer is rumpled. He also looks good, still, because he’s a fucking android. God, disappearing would be better than this.

“Do you really sleep like that?” she blurts.

He looks like a deer ambushed in the night. “Can you...rephrase?”

“Do you sleep in those clothes?” She nearly winces at the bitterness in her voice. “Just like that?”

“No,” he says too quickly. His eyes dart to the side, as if caught in a lie. “I don't…really sleep in the traditional sense…”

She bites her lip (annoyed that she's amused) and lets the moment pass, hoping he leaves it be. She mutters about needing air (thinking, unfortunately, of the casual wear she knows Hank must have forced upon him) as she shoves her feet into boots.

“I would not recommend going outside…”

She pushes out to the front yard, into the wind and snow showers just to feel it on her skin. Of course, he doesn't leave it be, which she's grateful for.

It’s a real bitch of a situation.

He follows out at a respectful distance. His presence is like a bloom of light, impossible to miss in the corner of her eye. “Your life signs are clearly elevated,” he says quietly. She can see him turn more directly toward her in realization. “You feel unsafe.”

His tone signals deep confusion.

She isn’t in the mood to explain how her brain remains convinced that danger is around every corner and has worked that way since as long as she can remember. She has a danger sense that won’t shut the fuck up. A young girl cowers in the bedroom closet as the storm rattles her windows. The fear, illogical, possesses body and spirit, uncontested.

She crosses her arms and stares at the ground. The cold is sharp and real, defanging the sharp coils working through her body.

“I feel like I’m about to crawl out of my skin,” she says, a little more truthfully than she’d like. “It just happens, sometimes.”

She expects him to ask what he can do to help, and she’s ready to say nothing because there is nothing. No one can make her brain stop malfunctioning except herself and maybe the meds she ran out of prescription for years ago. It’s a singularly individual war with a battlefield well-beaten from engagement.

He puts his thin coat over her shoulders. He stands there in a thin white shirt, unbothered.

“Where did you learn to shoot like that?” he asks quietly. She can feel his eyes on her cheekbones, watching.

She covers her face a moment as if rubbing warmth back into it, but mostly to hide her surprise at the question. Deep breaths. “My dad.” She lets her hands flop back down to her thighs. “I dunno. It always came natural. I was eight years old shootin’ cans off of stumps.”

He stares out into the night with her. It's a good thing no one is out tonight. What a sight they likely make. “Is this a normal thing to teach a young child?”

“It is in the Midwest.”

He adjusts his sleeves nervously as he moves closer, angling himself to block the worst of the wind from her. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up bad memories.”

She looks up to the sky -- clouded and starless -- and shivers hard. “Not bad.” She lets the silence linger a moment. Lets herself miss her father. “I dunno, I just…I can't shake the feeling like something is catching up.” She wraps her arms around her middle. “I know it's stupid.”

It's the same tectonic plate, the same force wave that followed her parents’ deaths. She’s tipped over into something and there’s no stopping the tsunami now. That's what it feels like. Running from a shadow that looms so large its unfathomable.

Moving from town to town…she hadn't thought of it in so long, how commonplace it was until suddenly it wasn't. She'd been in Michigan, at least, for over 7 years now. And then this happens. Maybe she’s just cursed.

But Kid Emma would have killed for a tenure of that longevity. For a chance to make friends like...

“You say you were lucky,” Connor says, and something about his tone makes her shift her gaze toward him. “I don't like to rely on luck or coincidences, and there are…too much of both.”

She gives a small nod at that. She lets her eyes linger on his face.

“You’re conflicted,” she observes.

“You’re the first person that hasn’t successfully disappeared.” He looks to her boots. “I’d rather you not be embroiled in this investigation at all.”

“You and me both.” She smiles a little bit to ease the blow. He frowns; the joke didn’t land, so she presses on. “Don’t change your entire workflow because of me. You have to do what you have to do to stop this shit.”

His LED spins yellow and red and back again as he stares at her in silence. She turns away and gives him time to process. She shivers so hard her jaw aches.

“You’ll soon experience symptoms of hypothermia if you don’t go inside.”

She sighs. “Yeah.”

He moves to open the door to the house, looking to her expectantly. She rolls her eyes dramatically but she follows the unspoken command.

The living room is blessedly warm. The monster in her gut finally starts to let go as she kicks off her boots. She turns to say something to Connor, something sassy maybe so he knows she isn’t completely cowed, but she’s shocked into silence when she nearly runs right into him. He’s watching her, unreadable.

“Are you okay?” She asks him instead.

“I’m not the one that was injured today.”

“Con.”

He blinks a few times, like he’s getting a call. She’s grown attached to the way he responds to the nickname, like he’s suddenly come into possession of a strange secret -- but he doesn’t say anything.

She turns away before the thrumming in her head turns her blind.

Instead, Emma settles into the far end of the couch, picking up the book that he may have been looking at before. Some old sci-fi book, from the looks of it. Ender’s Game. She flips through the well-worn pages, curious -- pointedly not looking at him as he finally sits down.

“I'm glad you are here,” he finally says. “I'm glad it wasn't the alternative.”

Heat spikes in her spine. His voice isn’t loud, but its intensity fills the room like a vapor, pressing against her skin like warm breath. She stares at his fidgeting hands. Which alternative? Maybe she isn’t the only person in this house kept awake, in a sense, by what had happened today. It feels too big to wrap your head around alone.

“Living is good when you got it.” She glances up to his face. He’s staring in that way again, like he’s trying to write the vague nature of memory into code.

He looks so painfully serious that she smiles to try and break it up.

“So what do you do out here at 3 a.m.?” she asks. “Read? Brood moodily?”

His face flickers from shock into the approximation of a smirk. “I read, sometimes. Work on cases. Watch whatever is on.”

She glances at the news channel running silently on Hank’s set. Nothing good, as usual.

“I have an idea,” she says, just as the idea forms. If she says it now, maybe she won’t get spooked enough to reject it outright. “How about I read this book to you? Have you gotten very far?”

He tilts his head in thought, eyes dancing away. “I couldn’t bring myself to start it.”

Her heart clenches a little. “Maybe it’ll be really boring and we’ll both fall into sleep mode. Or maybe it’ll be cool and we’ll stay up all night anyway. What have we got to lose at this point?”

Connor freezes in place, as he often does when processing something complex. His LED spins red as blood and her face burns brightly in turn.

God, her stupid human brain just lets ideas spill out all over the place, doesn’t it? She’s living on a lark but of course he can’t.

“I didn’t mean to--”

“Please stay,” he blurts out suddenly. “I’d like to hear you read it.”

Fear warms over and settles in her bones as relief.

Hank steps out of his room in the morning and is stunned into silence by the sight.

Emma is on the couch, clearly asleep. She breathes slowly, head and shoulders slumped against a pillow propped up on Connor’s torso, book on her lap with the spine pointing up. Just let me close my eyes a minute. Connor’s jacket is on her shoulder. And Connor sits up with his head tilted slightly to the opposite side that Emma is leaning upon, LED blinking blue -- the tell-tale sign of low-power mode.

Well...shit.

Hank slams the door to the bathroom just a little louder than usual to try and spare them the embarrassment.

#dbh connor #connor rk800 #detroit become human #dbh connor x oc #dbh connor x reader #dbh #kathryn writes #long post

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blackrose-ffxiv · 7 years ago

Photo

Just a Few Routine Questions 03/20

Lebeaux Desrosiers set his teacup down, balancing the saucer expertly on his knee as he rooted around in his overcoat’s inner pockets. “I’ve been trying to make it a habit to be a bit more thorough in my interviews of new medics. Perhaps it will lessen the frequency of nasty surprises amongst my assistants.” He explained as he removed a scuffed silver flask and poured a generous splash of its contents into the cup.

Rathien Tia blinked and then gave a small chuckle. "I didn't realize I was being tested, but very well." He took to sitting on the couch, setting the saucer and cup on a nearby table. "I was just an acting mercenary when I first discovered by curiosity for aether manipulation. I was seventeen at the time and knew nothing; one of the head chirurgeons in the company I worked for at the time took me under her wing and taught me the basics. When it became known that I had a talent for such a thing, the head of the infirmary brought me in as an appentice."

Lebeaux capped the flask without offering to share, tucking it away under his coat and picking up the journal once more. The cup and saucer remained balanced on his knee as the quill scratched a few more notes onto the pages. “Yes, well I’m sure you understand. If you have an inclination towards impromptu amputations, have no actual clinical experience, or are hiding true colors as a Dravanian sympathizer I should like to know this now.” Lebeaux mused, his saintly smile ever-present despite the topic of conversation. “So, you didn’t actually train in Ishgard. You had already left to join a mercenary company. It was there that you received your training.” He tutted quietly under his breath, keeping his gaze down on the pages.

Rathien lifted his brows at the remark, ears going back slightly. "I have no interest in the political views in Ishgard," he started slowly. "I didn't train in Ishgard, but once I realized I had a knack for this sort of thing, I did return home and spent half a year studying at the Athenaerium. The scholars there have become mutually invested in the principles of Sharlayan astromancy, and so I learned both during my stay."

Lebeaux quirked a dark brow, full lips pressing a little thinner though his smile didn’t budge. “Ah, I see. Sharyalan… Astromancy...” He repeated the words slowly, as though they left a sour taste on the tongue. A taste he promptly washed away with a generous sip of his fortified tea. “I’ve still not decided whether I find Gridanian Conjury with their wishy-washy tree-fondling or Sharlayan sky-staring more ridiculous.” And there was his charming personality, he had been so good until then. “I suspect the finest test will be to put both you and Idristan to task and see who muddles it up more.”

Rathien merely stared for a moment and then let out a soft chuckle. "Well not all of us can be elite wealthy heirs who have all of our schooling planned out since before we could walk," he reached for his cup, smiling with a smile that was perhaps, a bit too sweet. "Some of us have had to make our own path, and that of course means taking whatever advantage comes our way."

Lebeaux smiled right back at him as he gestured lightly at their surroundings with his own cup. “Speak as you like of pre-determined paths, yet here I sit same as you.” He corrected before he took another thoughtful sip. “Have you ever considered furthering your education since you are, technically, an Ishgardian citizen? I’ve heard the Scholasticate has extended enrollment to… all sorts. While there is the theological requirement it does often pave the way into specialized studies for those who show aptitudes beyond reciting scripture.”

Rathien takes a long sip of his tea, expression turning a bit thoughtful. "I can't say the thought has crossed my mind," he said after a long moment. "But...I did not leave Ishgard on the greatest of terms, and while there may be those at the Athenaerium who might vouch for me, if I needed a letter of recommendation I would surely not get one from the house in which I used to serve." His ears lowered. "The other concern is my family. Both my children and my husband are tribal born seekers... while I have grown accustomed to the Coerthan cold, they have little immunity to it, and I could not ask them to relocate to Ishgard just for my sake."

Lebeaux considered that for a moment, adding another small splash from his flask to refill what he had already drunk. He took a small sip to test the new balance of sweet tea to brandy and nodded, finally it was at the perfect ratio. “So, you would let what could be considerable potential rot out of consideration for your kittens’ thin skin.” He mused. “You’re a well-to-do mercenary now, are you not? Surely you can afford thick jackets.” Lebeaux scratched a few more writings into his journal, the corners of his smile quirked in a decidedly wicked manner.

Rathien's tail fluffed at that and his ears went back. "It's not about what's best for me," he started and there was an edge in his voice. "It's about what's best for my family. There's no point in staying in Ishgard if they would all be miserable." He was more worried about C'lai than the children, but he wouldn't say that aloud.

Lebeaux smiled ever-so-sweetly over the edge of his glasses at the miqo’te, marking down something else. “Oh yes, wouldn’t it be such a shame if your dear husband were forced to wear a shirt.” He teased before he set his quill down again to return his attention to his tea. “Nonetheless, I believe I have the measure of your educational history, as well as overbearing sentimentalism.”

Rathien's tail twitches, just the tip, in irritation, the cerulean fur puffed out. "I don't expect you to understand," he replied, a bit of bite in his voice, small fangs snowing as he sneered. "But I have my reasons, and quite frankly they're no business of yours." He huffed, cheeks puffing up as he took another sip of his tea.

Lebeaux lifted a gloved finger, shaking it back and forth lightly with a quiet tutting sound. “Incorrect, they are every bit my business. If you’ll be serving as my assistant I needs must know where your loyalties lie. If you’re willing to let yourself be held back by sentimental ties that’s an important factor.” He explained, his pale gaze darting briefly to the miqo’te’s tail and the hint of fangs in his sneer before he looked back to his notes, marking a few more. “You are aware that dipping your fingers into dark waters, black market dealings and shady mercenary work, they may seep through you to your precious family as well?”

Rathien frowned. "My family is the most important thing to me. In fact, it's why I chose this sort of work in the first place." He hesitated, looking down into his tea cup, ears flattening and then slowly coming up. "Lai has a condition, that so far has been incurable, and if it continues to progress, will be fatal." He said quietly. "My mate is strong...he has been a mercenary for far more years than I have. He will not give in so easily, and he will fight to keep us safe, so I have to do the same. I don't really care what lengths I have to go to if I can find an answer that might save him in the end. At the same time though, I have to think about their health and safety," he smiled a bittersweet smile. "How far does one tread into the abyss?"

Lebeaux lifted his shoulders in an idle shrug. “While it may have been part of my duties previously, I’m not here as Chaplain nor Confessor. Such matters are between yourself and the Fury. Turn to Her, should you seek guidance in your personal affairs.” He offered unhelpfully as he finished the last of his tea, setting the cup in the saucer and setting both on the chair’s arm. “I’m merely trying to ensure that you will not crumble under the pressures of an emergency situation.” Lebeaux checked once more over his notes. “I’m fairly well satisfied with the results. A desire to make it home to your family should prevent any reckless acts of misplaced heroism, theoretically.” He eyed the miqo’te over his glasses then looked down again. “As a medic it is your duty to remain unharmed so you may assist others. While it may be impossible at times I expect due diligence in avoiding unnecessary injury.” He turned a page. “The family is a glaring weak point, one you make little to no effort to hide. It’s a concern should pressure be applied there, but I see no immediate concerns.” With his judgment rendered, he closed the journal and offered the miqo’te a smug smile. “Any questions?”

Rathien let out a small huff, flattening his ears a bit. "I'm fine, thank you." He said politely, already feeling like he had be raked over the coals a bit. He eyed the book now with a bit of suspicion where as before it had just been naive curiosity. "You may believe what you want, but my actions in the field are first and foremost to the company and its members. It's what I get paid for after all, and besides....I just like helping people."

@eorzeansky

#rathien #lebeaux #golden fox tradehouse #lets play inquisition

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bluraaven · 7 years ago

Text

Smoke and Mirrors

El Abuelo is the most notorious of crime bosses, and it falls to Special Agent Reynauld Maurouard to take him down. His only lead: Dismas, an ex-bandit whose outfit was in the mobster’s hire. Things go downhill from there.

Chapter 2

"I thought you wanted to quit?"

Dismas jerked and cursed when the cigarette he was about to roll slipped through his fingers, spilling brown tobacco leaves into his lap.

"Shite!" He turned to glower at the woman who smirked at him from behind a glass full of what Dismas hoped was wine, and not blood. With Audrey, you could never be sure. "What's wrong with ya?"

Audrey shrugged and sashayed over to kiss his cheek in welcome. Dismas got a whiff of the heady perfume that surrounded her like a cocoon, the effect of which was only slightly spoiled by the alcohol on her breath. Audrey then gracefully sank down onto the seat his feet had been up on just a moment before.

"I thought you were on a date tonight," Dismas asked, eying the blonde's high heeled boots which reached just above her knees, and her form-fitting dress. With her nails painted black and dark red lipstick, she looked like she had stepped out of one of those old spy movies; the ones where all the men wore coats and hats, and the women were as likely to seduce the protagonist as they were to poison him. He liked Audrey, she was one of his closest friends – not that he had many of those – and he enjoyed working with her, but that did nothing about the fact that she was batshit crazy.

"I was," Audrey confirmed, brushing the matter aside with a wave of her hand as if it were no more than an annoying fly. She swirled her drink around before taking a dainty sip. She must have brought the wine herself. With the exception of beer, Boudica would never touch anything under forty percent.

"You were what?" the woman in question asked, coming in just in time to overhear the last part.

"On a date, darling," Audrey replied, and fished a pack of thin cigarettes out of her purse. The smokes were more expensive than the ones Dismas could afford, which did not stop Audrey from making pleading eyes until, with a sigh, he tossed over his lighter. "I'm sure you remember what that is like."

"Barely," Boudica replied drily, and Dismas watched his two best friends exchange kisses in greeting.

They couldn't be more different in appearance, the dame fatale and the rocker girl who repaired cars for a living. Just like Audrey, Boudica was tall, but unlike her, she was also muscular and wore leathers and tattoos instead of silk and jewellery. Boudica owned a garage where she ran a small business of repairing and selling cars, and in the evening when all the work was done, it was open to friends. It was and a good place if you wanted a drink or a chat, and she let Dismas borrow her tools whenever he needed to fix his bike.

She had a boyfriend whom Dismas had not seen around today. Secretly he was glad, because there was something about Tardif that had Dismas convinced that he was a serial killer.

"How is my favourite grave robber?" Boudica asked, grabbing herself a bottle of beer that she deftly opened with a screwdriver, before plopping into the beat-up leather couch and putting her boots up on the table.

"I'm an archaeologist!" Audrey protested in fake, albeit perfectly credible outrage. She tilted back her head and released a plume of aromatic blue smoke towards the ceiling, her posture somehow even less ladylike than that of her friends.

"What's the difference?" Boudica asked, taking a healthy swig right from the bottle.

"The difference between archaeology and grave robbing," Dismas explained before Audrey could, "Is that they need to be stiff for more 'n a few centuries –then if you dig them up, it's considered scientific excavation."

"So which one's your job and which one's your hobby, now?" Boudica asked Audey with a grin.

"Judging by what pays better... ," the blonde snorted, then suddenly shot upright, one hand disappearing inside her purse. With a cry of victory she held up a small item so that it could catch the light of the naked bulb overhead. "Look!"

"What's that?" Boudica asked, leaning closer to have a better look.

Dismas recognized the trinket in Audrey's palm as one they had collected on their latest stint. It was a ring in the form of a raven. The corvid carried a crest that depicted a tower on a field of red and gold. A fine piece of craftsmanship, but way too ornate and old-fashioned for his taste. No wonder Audrey loved it though. She collected mementos of her midnight outings like saner people might collect stamps or cards of their favourite sports team.

"Gotta do some research on who this crest originally belonged to," Audrey said, fondly looking at the ring before trying it on. "Think they'd want it back?" she asked with a cheeky grin, holding out her hand for all to admire.

"No," Dismas immediately threw in. "It's ugly."

Boudica laughed as Audrey pouted, pocketing her little treasure again. "What did the Chief ever do to you anyway?" she wanted to know.

"He took my money," Audrey hissed, her painted eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Don't you mean your ex-husband's money?" Dismas asked. Audrey's husband had been some business mogul, a CEO of one syndicate or another. Like all of them he'd been running a crooked shop – unlike all of them he'd been caught. Dismas had seen the bloke only once, and frankly he was glad he wasn't going to do so again. Someone in prison had seen to that.

"We had a deal!" Audrey fumed. "I was going to file for a fault divorce, which meant I was due most of our martial property and alimony! Of course, no one told me that I would only get what was left after the fiscal authorities confiscated every last penny."

Which, as far as Dismas remembered, amounted to a quite sizable debt. "Why did ya trust the police anyway?"

"What else was I supposed to do?" Audrey fumed. " Did I know that pig was a mobster? Of course I did! Should I have gone to prison alongside him?"

Dismas shrugged. He did not blame Audrey, but he also did not pity her. After all, she had never lied about having married her ex only because of the money and social status it had given her. "Well, better luck with the next one."

"Oh, I don't want to remarry," Audrey declared proudly.

"You sure? Might be more money that way." Out of the corner of his eyes, Dismas caught Boudica shaking her head and running a finger over her throat.

Audrey smiled indulgently, but Dismas could see a spark in her eyes that confirmed he had overstepped some line. "And when will we finally get to meet Mr. Paixdecouer?" Audrey asked in a voice as sweet as nightshade essence.

"Fuck off," Dismas grunted, regretting ever having told her his real name.

"Speaking of lovers, future and past," Boudica made an attempt to steer their talk to safer waters, "Have you seen or heard from Louet? He wanted to meet me, but didn't show up, and I haven't heard from him since. I think he said he had something for you, Audrey."

"Oh?" Audrey perked up, but Dismas wasn't paying attention to her.

It wasn't like Louet not to come to a meeting. He was one of the few people that could be really relied on. Dismas shifted, a spark of worry gnawing at him. He wasn't on the straight and narrow by any means, but he was a different man now than he had been during his time up North. Back then, he had lived for the thrill of life, the rush of a raid. But with the anger and vigour of youth spent, the lust for adventure abated, and recklessness gave way to caution.

Experience had taught Dismas him that banditry was going to lead him to an early roadside grave, and age made him value stability over a quick profit, even if it was in the form of shitty day labour. s

As far as he knew though, Louet was still involved with some of the local gangs, smuggling goods and information. Unlike Dismas, he still liked what he did, but then Louet had always believed himself invincible. It was part of what Dismas had loved so much about him.

The conversation turned away from Audrey's love affairs and filthy lucre and to more everyday things. Boudica suspected Bigby, an employee of hers who was responsible for the paperwork, and whom Dismas remembered as a morose gothic kid with lanky hair, to be smoking pot. As long as he stayed away from any real drugs she was willing to close an eye – the type of customers that she had certainly didn't care either.

Audrey in turn bitched about university life, about her colleagues, and how their funds for a project she had been applying for were being cut again. "I swear," she said, "Either they give me tenure, a raise, or the Dean's gonna have to buy himself a better car insurance. Again."

A feral grin suddenly lit up Boudica's face. "Well, Tardif and I were planning a trip to Fraehaven anyway."

Dismas was well aware of where Boudica's main income came from. A quick exchange of plates, some readjusting of the odometer and a paint job was all it took for a car to be ready to be sold to a new owner. Up North, if you knew the right people and diligently paid your bribes, this could even guarantee you a living. He himself had provided plenty of spare parts and even some of the vehicles for a share of the revenues.

Audrey elbowed Dismas in the side, jostling him out of his thoughts. "What do you think? A few more cars and you can forever say goodbye to that dratty motel and find yourself a proper place to stay in."

Dismas suppressed a flinch at Audrey's chosen topic instinctively hunching over. "I'm not in the market."

Audrey wasn't so easily dissuaded. "It doesn't hurt to look, you know? You might just find a place that you like."

"If I find a place I like, I'll let you know," Dismas retorted, annoyed with her relentlessness. Out of everything she could latch on to, why did she have to choose this? Why not his clothing, or his hairstyle? "Motel's gotta do for now. And it's cheaper than paying rent."

"It's filthy."

"Would you look at that," Dismas sneered. "The woman who digs up corpses for funzies is complaining about dirt. Ever considered I might like it filthy?"

He didn't. He loathed it; everything from the cold lamps with missing shades, over the flaking tapestries to the cheap furniture marred with burn holes like pockmarks. Dismas did not want to think about what manner of vermin lived in the cheerless grey carpets, where or who the stains on his bedding came from.

Audrey raised like a perfectly plucked brow as if she had read his mind on the matter, but she did not comment.

Of course Dismas would be delighted to leave that shithole. And when he felt bold and dared dream big, he even imagined what it would be like to have a real home. A nice, cozy place to call his own. But the truth was that unlike miss professor, he did not have a prestigious, decently paying job.

In fact, he did not have a regular job at all. He drifted between working at gas station a couple miles out of the city, selling cigs and wank mags to passing truckers, to being a burglar and car thief. Sometimes Jubert would let him work behind the bar, or as a bouncer on others, but nothing he had ever done would make the best impression on a CV.

No law-abiding person was going to employ him, not for a wage he could live from. Dismas did not have citizenship, a passport or ID card. It said something about a person when getting fake documents was less of a hassle than getting the real deal.

He could probably get one made up North, but he wasn't going back up there. Dismas had been with the outfits for too long to return to the North, and he couldn't go further South if he didn't want to tangle with the Holy Church of Light.

So he squatted in-between, with no insurance, no prospect of pension, no access to healthcare – hell, even the card in his mobile was prepaid. Dismas might be blessed with the constitution of a horse, but what when he got older? He did not want to spend the rest of his life doing one miserable day job after another.

Most of the time he managed not to think about the future (or his lack of one) at all. He'd gotten very good at that.

Motels at least made things a tick easier. They never asked questions and they did not want to see identification papers, as long as you were good on cash.

Audrey knew of his position. It was a sore topic between them. He knew she meant well. It wasn't her intention to nag him about his way of living. Hell, she would probably give him the money he'd need to get an apartment. She had offered only once, but he had never asked.

There was a part inside Dismas that resisted the idea of accepting help. He loathed owing people. He had seen firsthand what a simple favour could lead to, and he had already done things for money he would regret to his dying day.

"Well, it's been nice to see you but we'll better get going," Audrey said and stood, stretching.

Dismas began to nod along, before the meaning of her words actually reached his brain.

"Where are you going?" Boudica asked and rose too.

Dismas would love to know as well. He didn't have to wait long to find out.

"Jubie's. Dismas promised me a night out. "

Dismas brows rose. He had done no such thing, yet Audrey had lied without so much as batting an eyelash.

"I wasn't aware you had planned on me taking you out for drinks," Dismas said once they had bid Boudica goodbye and had made their way outside.

Audrey shook her head and raised a hand to shush him. "I wanted to tell you first," she said, appearing to be in a hurry to get whatever it was that was bothering her out. "Thought you might appreciate it." She took a deep breath, then dropped the bomb. "The police got Louet."

"Fuckin' hell!" Dismas cursed through clenched teeth, trying to ignore the ice-cold fear that suddenly gripped him. "How do you know?"

"Para told me."

Para? Dismas was confused for a moment, before he realized that it had to be Audrey's lover. "Your girlfriend? She's in the police?"

"Forensics," Audrey corrected, one hand grabbing the lapel of his jacket. "You should leave, just for a few days."

"No way."

"If the police finds your whereabouts– "

Audrey did not have to finish. Dismas knew full well what awaited him, if law enforcement found him.

"Louet's not going to talk," he stated with as much conviction as he could muster. Perhaps it was naive of him to think so, after all, they weren't a team anymore. It was every man for himself, but he still needed to believe it, for the sake of having something, anything, to believe in.

"That's not what I've heard," Audrey said bitterly. "Of course, if he snitches on me, I'm going to have to kill him."

Dismas was shaking his head, trying to get his thoughts into some semblance of order. And then it hit him: Audrey knew someone on the inside.

"Why can't she get him out?" he enquired, drawing to a stop.

"Who?" Audrey blinked, confused.

"Para," Dismas clarified, "your – something."

"Oh, I don't know," Audrey sighed. "Maybe because there is a fundamental difference between passing on snippets of knowledge when we're in private and breaking out a wanted criminal straight out of high security ward which – wait for it – is located right under the station."

Dismas grunted and began to pace again.

"Why don't you break him out himself?" Audrey muttered. "Aren't you the man with the magic touch when it comes to security? Either they'll get you and you'll make things quicker for yourself, or they won't and you'll have what you wanted."

"What's gotten into you tonight?" Dismas paused long enough to get a good look at his friend.

"Oh, I don't know," Audrey snapped. "Maybe I don't want to see all my friends land in jail! You know," she began again, much calmer this time, "you can stay with me. Just for a while and then we'll – "

"Look, I – I gotta go, yeah?"

Occasionally, Dismas wondered if he was just too proud or too thick skulled. Would it really be so bad to bite the bullet and move in to Audrey's loft? He knew her well enough and she had more than enough space. But he could not in good conscience stay when every step he took over her polished hardwood floor made him feel like he was leaving a stain.

"Dismas –!"

"Love ya too, hun," Dismas said, hurriedly kissing Audrey's cheek. He heard her growl in frustration, saw her throw up her arms as if to say, 'I surrender'.

His heart was thundering in his chest and his keys jingled in his hand. Dismas had already broken every traffic regulation at least once, but never before in a single ride. If they had gotten Louet... Audrey was right about one thing; he needed to move.

Dismas accelerated, feeling the noose draw tighter.

He drew to a sudden halt a few blocks away from his motel. For a second he had the impression of having stepped into a discotheque. There were no sirens, but blue lights flashed everywhere and the parking lot was taken up by squad cars and people in uniforms.

AN: You can also find the story here, on AO3!

#blu's corner #writing #fanfiction #darkest dungeon #reymas #reynauld #dismas #Grave Robber

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