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vanchlo · 4 years ago

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The Firsts / #1 “The First Time Meeting The Family”

ABOUT: A blurb series retelling the important firsts in the first year or so in Becks and Harry’s relationship, covering the gap between the end of The Assistant, and the beginning of its sequel, The Partner.

---> NEXT BLURB: I hope that I can put it out on October 4th, following the every other week rule, but I’m not sure with my busy schedule. Keep an eye out for updates on the series masterlist!

READ THE ASSISTANT, AKA WHAT CAME FIRST

SERIES MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

READ ON WATTPAD

LEGEND:

+ : a break in the story; a time jump.

italics : a flashback in the story.

++ : a point of view change in the story.

WARNINGS: Some mild language, and a small incidence of physical assault

WORD COUNT: 10.9k words (!!!)

SONG: A Love Like This by Ben Rector (CLICK TO LISTEN AND I KNOW I USE TOO MANY OF HIS SONGS BUT THEYRE SOOO ROMANTIC)

* SNEAK PEEK, DUH BC ALWAYS *

“Always, baby - protect you, save you- you name it and ‘ll be there,” Harry coos with the softest of smiles, tracing with his thumb the new red lines that litter my face in places. “Always,” he whispers, leaning forward to kiss the place under my eye where my birthmark sits, and beside it a new scar that he’s kissed more times than I could count.

I could never keep track of how many times I’ve looked at him and silently said those three words that once itched to jump off of my tongue and into his ears. The very three that sit in his eyes, just for me.

“No matter how much it hurts, no matter how hard it gets, you gotta keep grinding. And that’s how we’re gonna win. We’re gonna win and anyone that gets in our way? Well, God help them.” - Dean Winchester, Supernatural

The phone rang with a shrill bringggggg!, yanking a sigh from my lips.

Another one.

Another sigh.

Another call.

It’s just another normal day for me.

After sliding back on the mask that I so often wear within these walls, I at last leave my office and the phone that tends to keep ringing off the hook. Ignoring it and letting the answering machine take it this time, my heels click-clack on the dark tiled floor, a sound I had long ago become accustomed to.

Yet another sound is that of the hot coffee churning into my mug from the Keurig in the break room, and the splash of the creamer I pour in next.

A sound that I don’t think I could ever get used to, nor would I want to become mundane, is that of the breathy giggle trickling out from my open office when I return. He doesn’t see me yet, but I see him as I take a page from his book and lean in the doorway to watch him. Steam wafts across my smiling lips before the coffee meets them, my eyes fixed on the back of his tousled curls.

“It’s about time your meeting finished,” I announce, returning to my stride as I close the door. Setting down the hot mug on the corner of my desk, I tread over to my chair and let my arms wind around his neck from behind.

“Yer tellin’ me,” he nearly scoffs, switching apps on his phone quickly.

“What are you being secretive about, hmm, Harry?” I tease with a peck to his satiny smooth cheek.

“Oh, nuthin’, I jus’ wanted t’ check tha weather. Reckon we’re in fer some sun this weekend, yet anotha thing that’s overdue. We should go on a hike or sumthin’ Sunday, but we might need our Wellies.”

“You say that I’m a bad liar, but you should know that so are you,” I huff against his cheek, catching a whiff of his aftershave’s notes of cucumber and aloe vera.

“I dunno what yer talkin’ ‘bout, Becks,” he insists with a measly shrug of his shoulders, but he tries to act like I can’t hear the slight snicker in his voice, or see the red appearing in his cheeks.

“Fine, I give up . . We should get cracking on those testimonies already, seeing as now I’m done waiting on you.”

“Agreed. ‘m gonna go grab a cuppa, and ‘ll meet you in me office. ‘Kay?” Harry responds, standing to his feet, and turning around to face me. The smile falling into my cheeks is instantaneous at the mere sight of him, making me realize that I somehow missed him for the last three hours he was in his meeting. Well, I wouldn’t be wrong to say that I’m most definitely spoiled getting to work with my boyfriend for nearly every second for five days a week. My dream at last came true. “Wait, I thought you were gettin’ sick o’ me earlier? ‘sn’t that right, bug?” he poses with a perfect raise of his eyebrows, taking a step towards me.

“I uh, dunno what you’re talking about.”

“Yer a bloody terrible liar, still dunno why ya think I can’t sniff ‘em out on you,” he smirks, clicking his tongue in disappointment as he taps my nose. The tall white roses on his baby pink slacks billow with every step of his, only worsening my giggle. “Becks, Becks, Becks,” he tuts with a shake of his growing curls. My lips sparking with a happy nervousness bring out the dimples in his cheeks.

“What, Harold?”

“Dunno how many times ‘ve told ya not t’ call me that,” he exhales with a wag of his finger, only a few steps between myself and the door now.

“But Rory gets to call you that!”

“He doesn’t get t’ call me anythin’, bug. Rory doesn’t listen t’ a fookin’ word I say, so he’s not goin’ t’ start callin’ me by me real name fer tha first time in eight years, I don’t think,” he chuckles, and I let an eye roll slip, but not quick enough. “Ya betta watch it now, and my bloody God, Rebecca Holte, you best put that pout away befo’ I-.”

“Before you what, Harry?” I tease with a cock of my head.

“Y’know yer pushin’ me buttons, right? Oh wait, yer fully aware o’ that, arentcha, Becks? I can see tha look on yer face right now, y’know yer diggin’ yerself a hole here, babe,” Harry tuts, continuing to wag that finger at me until my back meets the door and he lays his hands above my head to steady himself. “And, t’ answer yer question - reckon ya won’t get any kisses fer tha rest o’ tha day if yer gonna be a brat,” he shrugs with full composure, sliding a hand to my back that he presses on to come closer to him. “Make this one last,” he whispers, leaving a kiss on my forehead before opening the door.

“Harry!” I exclaim, whirling around to find him already escaping down the hallway.

His hearty laugh wanders down to grace my ears, and then, he turns around with that smart grin on his face, “‘m jus’ grabbin’ a new cup o’ coffee, ‘ll meet you in me office, love,” he calls back ever so innocently, almost running into one of Asher’s blokes from IT. Groaning, I imitate his typical stance of leaning against the doorway with crossed arms, watching his figure become all the smaller as he stops to talk with Amelia and then to Jennings with an always cheerful smile.

At times, it still boggles me how different things are, although it’s difficult to remember how things were before. How they were when my view every day was this very hallway from my measly desk sat at the end of it. It makes it all the harder to remember how much I longed for, how it tore me apart, and not just that, but how different of a person he was. I wasn’t the same either - I started off cold and brash with him, as did he, and I could never entertain the thought of what things would be like if he hadn’t warmed up to me, as well.

Memories flash in front of me as the sofa molds to my body, like all of the other times, followed by the thud of my heels falling to the floor. With a blink, I’m propelled back to the days when I’d be scared to set foot in this office, his. Now, I can’t imagine feeling anything other than safe to be in here. Despite the traumas that took place inside of these four walls, my lips curl up at the thought of the lovely things that were born in here as well. The hidden kisses. The beginning of our friendship. Our first hug. My beginnings as a lawyer, and so much more that warms me from the inside.

My, all of the firsts that we have had.

Pulling my cardigan around me tighter, I round a corner and then another, hoping I’m at least going in the right direction. The images keep flashing before my eyes - the silence that fell over the room when he entered it, a completely different person than the one that I know. A pride that I want to deny and forget still clings to my body and every thought that I have. So often, I find myself hating him, and yet I couldn’t have been more proud sitting in that room and watching him do what he does best, argue.

Coming to a halt, I look around for a sign to tell me where I’m going, in the hopes that the front doors are somewhere near. Shaking my head, I take another left on a whim, and regret it within a matter of moments.

“Holte?” comes a voice from ahead of me. Glancing up, I freeze in my place before my feet try to scurry away. “What tha bloody hell are you doin’ here, and where are you goin’ so fast?” they say, almost making a sound. A laugh, perhaps?

“I was just uh, meeting a friend.”

“Since when do friends meet at a courthouse?” he asks with skewed eyebrows, his steps ending in front of me. His hand full of rings cards through his long curls, and my, they only look better up close.

“My friend . . works here.”

“Oh ‘s that so? What department do they work in?” he continues, the dimples slowly finding their place in his cheeks, especially as the words fleet me. “Yer lyin’ t’ me arentcha, Holte?”

“Fine, I wanted to come and watch you argue your case, since you were making a big deal out of how important it is,” I sigh, turning around and placing my back to him.

“Hey, you. Wait!” he calls, and I soon feel his rings against the flesh of my bicep. “What’s tha rush?” he titters, and when I turn around, this all only gets all the more weird.

“What, is it a crime to come and watch you in action?”

“No, so why’re you actin’ like yer doin’ sumthin’ yer not s’posed t’ do?” he smirks. “Huh, Holte?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Styles,” I sigh, wishing I could sneak a look at his fingers gentle around my arm to prove that it’s real, but . . that would give it away and perhaps make him stop. That’s the last thing I want, even though two seconds ago, I thought that running into him here was the last thing I wanted. Now, I’m not so sure. I should have known that this would happen, though. “You were great, you know,” I say slowly, a smile mirrored on his reddening face.

“Thank you,” he responds quietly, looking away and regrettably, letting his hand fall from my arm. “I didn’t know you were there . . watchin’ me.”

“I wasn’t planning on it . . but I’m glad that I came and spent my lunch break watching you.”

“Me too,” he replies softly, his bottom lip escaping to between his teeth.

“Well, good luck and I’ll see you at work, I guess.”

“Ya, you too, Holte. Thanks,” Harry says, and I find it painful to walk away from him now, and awkward. Sighing, I find a hallway in each direction when I reach the corner, and take one at random.

“Tha main entrance ‘s tha other direction, Holte,” Harry giggles, and I stop in my tracks, hearing his familiar Saint Laurent boots click-clack on the tiled floor. “Here, I was jus’ goin’ t’ lunch, I can show you tha way.”

“No, I’m okay.”

“No, please. Let me,” he insists, and when I steal a glance at him he’s pushing back the dark sleeve of his smooth black blazer to look at his watch. I’m left wondering which was more expensive, the suit or the watch. “I was jus’ poppin’ ova t’ a restaurant down tha street fer lunch, if ya’d like t’ join me, yer welcome t’.”

Gulping, I quickly look away and to the ground where he can’t see my eyes threaten to pop out of my skull. Did he really just ask me to get lunch with him? What should I say? Wouldn’t it be awkward? What would we even talk about? I should say no, he’s probably just being nice.

“I um . . “

“‘ll take that as a yes then,” he pipes up eagerly, accompanied by the sound of his booming steps. “Hurry up, Holte, time’s a tickin.’ I reckon this ‘s tha only time you’ve been in these walls, so ‘ll be kind enough t’ show ya t’ tha front doors, even tho’ me car ‘s on tha otha side.”

Because of course he would say that, Mr. Hotshot Lawyer who is cocky, annoying, frustrating, full of himself, bossy, rude-

“Thank you,” I say, interrupting my thoughts and taking a plunge, right into those deep green eyes that land on me, and to my surprise, with a smile.

“Welcome, Holte.��

“Thank you,” he says with a rose colored smile to the server, plucking the black book from the middle of the table before I could even think to grab it first. With a quiet sigh, I watch him fish out his wallet and slide a sleek credit card out from a sleeve, stuffing it into the small pocket inside the book, without even a glance inside. “What’s yer problem?” he huffs, chewing on the mint-flavored toothpick and pointing his eyes at me. His eyebrows do all of the talking that stops me from refusing.

“You don’t have to pay for me, I can pay for my own meal,” I insist firmly, touching my wallet that I had pulled out and placed next to my dwindling glass of water.

“I know that,” he begins with strength in his voice, and I worry that I just offended him. I’m afraid it could erase the memorable first meal we just had together of brunch, talking about his case and actually finding out things that he likes and enjoys. “But I would like t’ treat you, and I did invite you after all,” he finishes, smiling briefly when the server returns the book. Sliding out his credit card, he replaces it in his wallet and instead grabs a few bills that he tucks into the black book. “Goin’ t’ argue with me some mo’, are we?”

“No.”

“Good choice,” Harry replies, and when he meets my eyes across the round wooden table, I think that I may see him smile at me.

“But-.”

“And what tha bloody hell d’ya want now?” he grins, propping his chin on his upheld fist, his cheeks round from his smile.

“Maybe I wanted to pay for your meal too.”

“You can tha next time, love. Alright?” he replies softly. When he tears his eyes away to glance at his dinging phone, something stirs inside of me and I wish I could make him look at me like that again. I wish I could create another moment where it feels like he actually likes me.

“On one condition.”

“What’s that, love?” he asks with that breathy laugh of his I’ve only heard a few times now, and never has it been because of me.

“You go back to calling me Becks . . no more ‘Holte,’” I announce slowly and carefully, because if I said them too fast or not just right, I’m afraid that they may break altogether and ruin it. One corner of his mouth reaches higher up his cheek, and I think that for the first time, I’ve made him smile all on my own. “I like it when you call me that.”

“I like it too, darlin’. Reckon ya could be a good lawyer, y’know, with that convincin’ face o’ yers, yer hard t’ say no t’,” he answers, standing to his feet and sliding on his coat, waiting for me to do the same. Does that mean my puppy dog eyes worked on him, fucking finally?

“Thank you, Mr. Styles.”

“Yer not allowed t’ call me that anymo’ then,” Harry says, looking back over his shoulder at me, a few steps ahead of me now.

“Okay,” I agree softly, and the breath hitches in my throat when his eyebrows raise at me with the smallest of smirks. “Harry.”

“Good, I like tha sound o’ that betta.”

“Me too,” I echo ever so quietly, stepping out into the fall air as he holds the door open for me, dreading the strange friendship of ours that will end in the next few moments. A friendship that I wish could live within the walls of the firm, and inside of my heart as something more.

“Ya, that all sounds great. I can’t wait fer this weekend . . Ya, ‘ll ask her soon and let y’know . . Alright, bye,” I hear from down the hall in a happy lilt. Within moments, the smile I hear in his voice appears before my eyes, and somehow only grows brighter.

“What are you smiling about? Oh, and what’s this you’re going to ask me?”

“I neva said I had sumthin’ t’ ask you,” he shrugs with a rosiness to his round cheeks, gliding into his office with his bottom lip held between his teeth.

“Don’t be rude.”

“‘m not,” he giggles softly, stopping at his desk to grab his dark gray Macbook.

“You don’t have me convinced, Mr. Styles,” I sigh, letting my chin fall into my hand as I open up my Google Docs.

“Ah, I rememba when ya used t’ call me that, ‘s been awhile.”

“You can say that again, and God, don’t get too big of a head about it,” I huff with an ironic laugh, feeling myself pulled down memory lane regrettably. “I was just thinking about that, and how much things have changed.”

“Too true,” Harry hums, getting comfy beside me on the sofa while his Macbook blankets his face in a soft glow. “You were Holte and I was Mr. Styles or sir sumtimes. Talk ‘bout a bloody blast from tha past,” he tsks and I find myself nodding along with him. Glancing over to him, my eyebrows fall as my cheeks deceive me with a balmy warmth filling them.

“What are you looking at me like that for?” I wheeze, my fingers drifting to my hair nervously. After all of this time, he can still make me blush like there’s no tomorrow.

“What, I can’t admire me pretty girlfriend?” he scoffs with a shake of his head, booping my nose with his finger. Sometimes, I really still can’t believe that I get to be called that by him.

“I guess you can.”

“Reckon ya should be nicer t’ yer boss, miss. ‘m tha person who signs yer checks,” he tuts while I admire the beauty of his side profile, still trying to get used to how he looks without a beard. Give him back his long hair and it would be like the beginning all over again, although I’m not sure why I keep thinking back to then. I’m not even positive if it’s a good or bad nostalgia.

“Hey!”

“Hey!” he returns in a high pitched voice, imitating me, I suppose. His bubbly laugh soon follows and so do those olive greens that return to me, quite possibly my favourite color in all of existence. “Look at us, bug, back where it all started, aren’t we?” he coos, pulling me into his side and pressing his lips to my head in a loud smooch.

“Mmmhmm, better than ever.”

“Yes, we are. A new beginnin’ o’ sorts, Becks. I dunno how I got so lucky with you,” he winks and thumbs at my chin, his lips only a breath away.

“I think I’m the lucky one.”

“No, that’s me,” he argues with his trademark breathy laugh, and before I get two words out, my comeback is smothered with a kiss. I really did get lucky, luckier than little old me ever thought I would, or could.

God, I’m so proud of her - the old Becks. Him, too. The new us, and especially the old us. We earned this.

“Woman, I swear t’ bloody God if ya send me one mo’ bleedin’ photo o’ a puppy ‘stead o’ writin’ yer brief, imma boot you outta me office and yer not allowed back.”

“Harry!” I scoff after a sound of disbelief, my eyes tearing away from the Google search and to him. His chin is held in his palm while he taps his temple with his pointer finger, eyebrows raised in a silent question at me. “You wouldn’t!”

“Oh, you wanna try me, Holte?” he returns with his eyes narrowed at me, giving me a nod.

Huffing, I look away and back to my laptop, to a screen filled with photos of golden retriever puppies. “Y’know, you’ll seal yer fate if ya roll those pretty eyes at me.”

“I won’t,” I grumble softly, closing out of the tab sadly.

“Good girl,” he hums, tapping the corner of my laptop from above. Looking up, his green eyes draw me over, but I don’t let them pull me in. “Good girl listenin’ t’ yer boss, bug,” he finishes with a wink.

“Don’t call me that, you know I don’t like it,” I retort curtly, switching tabs to my brief where the cursor stares back at me, daring me to try my hand at it.

“But ’s cute, brings back good memories. I like tha name, ’s yer last name. Rebecca Holte,” he teases, nosing at my cheek that grows warmer with every word he speaks.

“For you it does, not me, Harry,” I almost snap, closing the laptop with a sudden clap! He clears his throat and the sound is followed by that of his velvet black Chelsea boots backing up. Spiegel im Spiegel floats from his iMac across the room, a black folder sitting in front of it with now forgotten documents.

“‘m sorry, Becks, it wasn’t tha best o’ times fer me either . . ,” Harry says softly. I wouldn’t have to even look and I know that his lip is held between his teeth like a vice. At my eye level, he twirls a red gemstone ring around a finger, much like I do when something is itching at my insides annoyingly.

“It was the best of times and the worst of times, somewhat minus the best part,” I mumble, picking at the Coldplay sticker already peeling from the lilac case of my laptop.

“Hey, it wasn’t all that bad when ya think o’ tha good parts, babe. Tacos at Pedro’s, stayin’ late drinkin’ wine coolers togetha, tha Halloween party, all o’ our games o’ Scrabble, takin’ you t’ that charity ball with the masquerade theme, and meeting me best friend in tha whole entire world.”

“You know how to work the floor, you know that?” I say gently, smoothing down the sticker with the back of my fingernail.

“Looks like we need anotha night at mine, paintin’ our nails togetha,” he pipes up, but when I remain silent, he returns to my comment that he so easily ignored. “Well yes, yer datin’ a lawyer here, bug. That’s how I swept you off yer feet, dontcha rememba?”

“I dunno about that,” I giggle, ever so slightly, distracted by his hands that come into view and his rings that I bother with. At last, I find those green eyes waiting for me, just as they always do.

“Hey, why tha long face, my love?” he coos sadly, eyebrows bent beneath the weight of his words. “‘m sorry t’ upset you, ‘m not gonna kick you outta me office, y’know I couldn’t handle you bein’ gone eitha.”

“I know,” I titter softly, sliding off his silver ring dotted with little figures and placing it on my thumb where it still hangs loose.

“I like tha name, maybe even fer a boy one day . . Holte,” he muses happily, but I can’t find any words that I’d be willing to say. Instead, I pry the jewelry from my hand and swiftly glide it back onto his. “Altho’ I reckon I treated you like shit when I called you that.”

“Just a bit.”

“‘m sorry t’ drudge tha memory up like I did,” he whispers, only feeding the awkward tension waiting in the air. His lanky figure leaves its place in front of me, reminding me of the money tree sitting across me by the window, an ironic gift from Myles last month. “Can I help you with yer brief, li’l one?” Harry continues, the cushion underneath me dipping with his weight. I nod before I even feel his hand squeeze my adjacent shoulder and pull me into his side with a lasting kiss to my forehead. “Love you.”

“I love you too,” I echo, tipping my head to his shoulder as he lifts the closed laptop from my lap. Laying back, he props it on his spread lap as I snuggle into his side.

“I like what ya have so far, I think yer inna good spot. How ‘bout this, next we . . . . ,” Harry says after reading the document, but with his greens back in sight and that dimple threatening to pop loose, I find it hard to listen to a word he says while staring up at him. My boyfriend. Can you believe it, Becky? “You even listenin’ t’ me there?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just hard to when you’re so cute.”

“Bloody hell,” he chuckles with rosy cheeks, the dimples loud and proud at the helm of his smile. “Alright, let’s take a break from goo-goo-gaga land for a few, Ms. Holte, and work on yer brief fer yer case that’s bein’ heard next week. Alright?”

“Alright,” I sigh with a slight pout that he sees instantaneously with a shake of his head.

“Shall I entice you? Dunno why I should hafta, but I guess we all need a li’l bit o’ bribery e’ry now and then,” he smirks, finishing his words with a wink. “My Becks likes bribes.”

“Oh and what, you don’t, Ha-,” the giggle flows from my lips, and is yanked in by his that silence my words. Sometimes, I really do wish that I could tell The Old Me about how good it gets, and to hold on, because it may be a bumpy ride, Old Becky, but it’s going to all pay off in the end.

“Bloody hell, no wonder ya’ve had t’ pee ten times t’day. Chill on tha caffeine, would ya?” somebody gripes from behind me, but it falls away when their arms come around my middle, soon nosing at my neck.

“Hey, I gave into coffee long ago. It owns me by now,” I return, closing the top to the Keurig. After pressing a few buttons, the machine begins to whir and spit out the dark liquid. My neck tickles from his warm breaths behind me, and the feeling of his lips.

“Becks?”

“Yeah, Harry?” I respond, my hands finding their way to surround his that lay clasped over my belly. The tip of his middle finger ghosts over my several inch scar, making me wonder when he had memorized it in his mind.

“My mum ‘s comin’ t’ visit this weekend, t’ see Gemma and tha kids, and me. She’s comin’ over t’ mine Saturday mornin’ fer brekky . . and I was uh, wonderin’ if ya’d like t’ join us? If ya’d like t’ meet me mum at last? She hasn’t stopped askin’ t’ meet you fer tha last two months.” the words leave his lips in an announcement, taking away all else and no longer do I feel his hands on my stomach or hear the churning of the coffee. Turning around, his dimples live far away and so does his bottom lip that’s trapped between his teeth, telling me that I’m not the only one being consumed by my nervousness. “I reckon she’s mo’ excited t’ see you than she ‘s t’ see me,” Harry chuckles but the light on his lips sputters out when I tear my eyes away from his hopeful ones.

“Harry, I . . “

“What ‘s it, Becks?” he whispers. My eyes close when he noses against my cheek, his next words crawling along my neck. “Y’know she’ll love you, ‘ssa given, babe.”

“How can she love me when she hasn’t even met me?”

“‘Cuz yer so lovable, that’s why,” he insists from below my ear, mouthing at the hollow that lives there. “Why’re ya so nervous, babe? I reckon this ‘s a piece o’ cake compared t’ how I met yer bloody parents, in hospitals o’ all places.”

“Yeah, I shouldn’t complain,” I respond quietly, but that’s all that I can think of when we pull apart at the sound of a voice from behind the break room door. Clearing my throat, I turn back to my mug of coffee where the last few drops plop into the steaming liquid.

“Promise you it’ll be okay. There’s nuthin’ t’ be nervous ‘bout, she’s tha sweetest woman ‘ve ever met- well, besides you that ‘s,” Harry says quietly, eyes wandering between our guest and me. “‘s jus’ brekky and if ya like, dinner at me sista’s that night too.”

“Two in one?” I exclaim, setting down my coffee and turning to face him where he leans against the counter. The smirk painted across his face spreads to his shoulders that he shrugs ever so smugly. “God, Harry, bombard me much?” I sigh sarcastically with a shake of my head, turning away from him and watching how the coffee does somersaults when I pour creamer into it.

“Well? Ya aren’t jus’ gonna leave me hangin’ there, Becks, are you?” he plods on, pulling at the cuff of my blazer impatiently while one of the blokes from IT rummages through the refrigerator.

“I dunno, Harry, meeting two family members in one day is a lot to ask of me,” I tut jokingly with my lips pressed into an uncertain line. The disappointment on his face melts away when I find his greens with my own again. “Of course I’ll meet your mum, but I’m supposed to have dinner with Skye and her parents Saturday night, so I can’t make it to your sister’s, I’m sorry. It seems to be a popular weekend for parents to come into town.”

“Oh, I rememba you mentionin’ that now. ‘m sorry, I forgot. No worries on meetin’ me sista, she lives in town y’know, so we’ll jus’ find anotha day,” he agrees in a soft voice, brushing it off expertly. “Yer not gettin’ outta that one that easily, Becks,” he teases, pointing a finger at me that I push away.

“If you meet Skye’s mum, I’ll meet your sister. Sound like a deal?”

“Skye’s mum?” he questions, crossing his arms over his chest with knotted brows. I almost giggle at the confusion swept over his face until the bulging of his muscles beneath the arms of his button up pulls me in and far away. Once again, this man really does know what he’s doing to me, even when he’s not exactly aware of it.

“Yes,” I exhale, dragging my eyes back to my tan colored coffee. Finished with the creamer, it closes with an excited snap! “I was nervous for you to meet my mum, although I never thought it’d happen, but I’m more about you meeting Eliza, Skye’s mum. She’s more of a mum to me than mine ever was, always letting me sleep over when things got bad with mine, and Robbie too. I’d really like for you to meet her, maybe lunch or something while she’s in town the next few days.”

His eyes are soft and light dances within them, just for me. “‘Course, bug, ‘d love t’ meet her. She sounds lovely, and so would lunch with her and Skye. Altho’ ‘m not sure how somebody who birthed Skye could be lovely,” he jokes and quickly laughs when my jaw slackens. “‘m bloody jokin’ and whateva ya do, don’t tell her I said that,” he chuckles, enjoying this far too much than he should be.

“You’re really going to be in for it with Skye now,” I giggle with a dismissive shake of my head as I lift the mug to my lips.

“What’s new?” he asks with his hands held out in front of him, leaving my side to grab a Styles and Lawson mug from the cabinet, identical to my own. “I thought you and Rose didn’t like our mugs, so why d’ya keep usin’ ‘em, hmm?”

“I dunno, they have . . good handles.”

“Sureeeee, Becks,” he tuts as the K-Cup falls into the holder with a signifying pop! “So, Saturday then?” he says nonchalantly while placing the mug under the impending stream of caffeine. He continues his trained practice of his voice dipping when the bloke gets too close to us- Brian, I think it is, I can’t remember. He really does know what he’s doing, this man of mine.

My name on his lips rouses me from my overactive thoughts and pulls my eyes over to his and his already five o’clock shadow, distracting me from the clang! of the door closing. “What should I wear?” I wonder aloud with placid lips that only move to imitate the emotion yanking his towards the heavens.

“You’ll look gorgeous in absolutely anythin’, bug, and ‘s jus’ brekky. Please, ya don’t hafta worry ‘bout meetin’ her, she’s so easy t’ get on with. ‘s like she already knows you from everythin’ ‘ve told her ‘bout you over tha years.”

“Wow, no pressure or anything,” I exhale loudly, glad to have the room back to ourselves, and for the way his arms lull the monsters away. “Do I even want to know what you’ve told her?”

“I dunno, sumthin’ along tha lines o’ how ‘m in love with this girl, and have been fer awhile now,” he coos into my ear, zings sent down my spine when his lips brush my earlobe. The next words stop in their tracks on my tongue and my arms stop halfway to wrapping around him.

“Wait,” I begin lightly, taking a step back and wishing I could in this conversation. “You’re in love with me?” I say tentatively, the front of his blazer grounding me to this moment when my fingers grab onto it.

“I thought that you knew . . that it went without sayin’,” he giggles with cheeks resembling apples, both by shape and color. “I couldn’t be anythin’ other than that, Becks.”

“Huh,” I hum absently, admiring the threads of each white flower that climb from the sides of his slacks and all the way up to his lapels between my fingers.

I think I lose my grasp on them when his lips attach themselves to my forehead, and I just hope that he can’t feel the racing of my pulse all the way up there. That may not be possible, but to feel the way his lips curl against my skin is, and a whisper of a laugh.

“Reckon ‘s time we have a li’l argument over who’s been in love with tha other fer longer, innit?” Harry begins before a kiss brings an end to his words, their sound whisked away by a long silence that I fear. “Ya don’t hafta say it back y’know, I won’t-.”

“It’s not you,” I interrupt, my fear quickly being allotted to the same emotion that wipes his face clean. “The winner, I mean. I’ve been in love with you far longer, that’s for sure.”

“Can ya maybe not gi’mme a bloody heart attack there?” he giggles, clutching at his chest.

“What, I rarely get the chance to one up you, so I have to take it!” I exclaim and my eyes grow wide when I see the look on his face. One of his signature looks. A squeal tickles the air when he lifts me off of my feet and into the air. “Harry Styles!”

“What, Rebecca Ann?” he titters after a few spins, soon setting me down on my feet. My lips have only parted when he silences them with his, and I wonder how I went from dreaming a dream that I knew could never exist and now, getting to live it every second of every day.

“I think I fell in love with you when I saw you get off that lift,” I begin, looking away shyly, but he doesn’t let me get away with it, lifting my chin with his finger. He may let me get away with loads of shit, but no, not this time. “That night in Madley, at the hospital . . . but I think I had fallen in love with you a little bit loads of other times before, and not known it.”

“I swear, woman, tha amount o’ times ya make me fall fer you all over ‘gain,” Harry wheezes with damp eyes, shaking his head with the largest contradicting smile. “C’mere, my love . . Bloody hell, I think ya win this one, ‘cuz I can’t even rememba tha moment I fell fer you, ‘s been so many times fer me as well. Reckon I prolly told me mum each time they happened too.”

“Saturday should be fun then,” I joke from the corner of his neck, relaxing with my exhale against him.

“Yes, it shall. Until then, let’s get goin.’”

“What, where?” I giggle, finding the glitter in his eye that I have a hard time remembering them being without.

“‘s Tuesday, silly,” he titters with dimples shining, and face skewed into a confused question. “Let’s go get our tacos. ‘ll even buy ya extra churros.”

“That’s the only reason I’m going,” I joke, feeling him squeeze my hand. When I look over to him, I find those warm greens painting their happiness all over me.

“Don’t be bloody rude,” he chuckles with a shake of his head, holding the door open for me.

Although this impromptu ‘meeting the parents’ gig is eating away at my nerves, I can’t help but grow in excitement at the idea of meeting the very person I have to thank for him.

My God, I have my whole world to thank her for.

We had fallen into our own routine at work and quickly, but that was due to ‘push came to shove’ and there was no real way around it. Much to my mortification, Harry had told me that while in the hospital Myles had informed the rest of the legal team at the firm that we were dating, and so they knew. There wasn’t any way around it really, trying to explain why Harry was also gone for the same length I was from work, and suddenly. Regardless, Harry and I still avoided acting like we were dating, and at times I let it get to me, dwelling over the fact that everybody knew our secret. It was fun at first to keep, but it grew out of hand swiftly. It frustrated me often and I think it did the same for Harry, refraining from hugging when a team meeting went well or we won a case. The rules of the courtroom were far stricter, but it still upset me at times.

Like now, seeing how Amelia’s substitute was flirting it up with Harry, unbeknownst to him. It’s not like I could exactly walk up to them and tell her to stop, although it bothers me how her flirting goes through one of his ears and out the other while he shows her how to do something at the front desk.

“Fuck me,” I groan, giving up on waiting for him and going ahead with what I was doing. Blinking hard and filling my lungs with air, my opal necklace dances below my collarbones with every step.

I find that I have the room to myself, and as the copier beeps with each button that I press, I hum a song to myself. The documents sitting in my hands are whisked away by the large machine, a newer and larger one since my first time here. Thank God, because that thing was always having problems.

“I think somebody’s got a little crush on our boss out there,” somebody snickers from the doorway. My eyes flit over to find Jennings waltzing into the copier room, his horn rims perched on his long nose. Awkwardly, I look away and answer with a soft ‘mmhmm.’ I occupy myself with watching the machine spit out new sheets onto its bottom tray. “I hope you’re not too jealous,” he jokes with a loud laugh, but I don’t echo it. Why would I? Could you bring up anything more awkward or inappropriate to say to me, Jennings?

“I’m fine,” I answer gently, picking up the stack after the whirring sound finishes. Stepping to the side, I tap the stack against the black counter and slide open a drawer.

“Figure I owe you a congrats on your Employee of the Month recognition, that’s a rather big deal,” he continues, meandering through the wire shelves of supplies across the room from me.

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” I return with emphasis in my voice, feeling out the lack of compassion in his. Clearing my throat, I dig around in the plastic tray set in the drawer until I grab a few large binder clips.

“I’ve worked here for years, and haven’t had the luck of getting it since they started it this year,” he remarks, shaking a box of pens that he plucked from the shelf.

“It’s only April, I’m sure you’ll have your chance,” I say slowly, separating my piles and tapping them against the counter until they’re neat and tidy.

“I dunno about that, I haven’t even made bloody partner yet here. You’ll probably make it before me, seeing as how you have an in with the boss,” Jennings nearly retorts, and I gulp hard, suddenly reminded of the iffy feeling I’ve always had about him. I can’t place the blame on myself though, because he’s given me good reason for it, and I hope that he isn’t about to give me more. “It’s a shame you lost your case last week though, I hope Harry wasn’t too upset with you, but I’m sure he couldn’t be mad at his little girlfriend. He would’ve been mad at Rose, or even me, but no, not you. Isn’t that right?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” I begin, the papers threatened between my suddenly clammy fingers.

“Excuse me? I’d say it is, I don’t want you giving the firm a bad name now, but it looks like your boyfriend can’t save you from everything.”

“What are you implying?” I demand curtly, turning around swiftly just in time to watch him slip a Macbook charger into his pocket.

“I thought you were supposed to be a brilliant lawyer from what I hear, Becky, so I’ll leave that one up to you, wouldn’t you say?” Jennings poses with a dark glint in his eye, raising one thick eyebrow at me. “Oh wait, maybe I’ll give you a little help, seeing as how you couldn’t even win the case of that ex-wife racking up debt in her ex-husband’s name . . How do I say it? Well, I find it rather unfair the special treatment you receive, wouldn’t you agree? No, I guess you wouldn’t, would you?” he snickers, the swing and fall of his shoulders and eyebrows being more than enough for me to see.

Turning back around, I hastily fasten the clips onto the stacks of documents for Harry’s new case, and well, mine too, much to somebody’s dissatisfaction. Excerpts from legal books, testimonies, and rough drafts of the argument. The tapping of a pen against the wire shelf gnaws at my ears, and accelerates the time bomb inside of me.

“I don’t receive any special treatment, because of Harry or from him,” I mutter through gritted teeth, gathering the stacks all into one final pile. “I’d say that you’re being out of line and that you need to stop while you’re ahead.”

“Or what, you’ll tell your big, bad, boss boyfriend? Nobody likes snitches, you should know that. Plus, I’m his friend and I’ve known him longer than you, so who would he believe?” he chuckles darkly, igniting the hairs on the back of my neck with his impending footsteps. “Don’t deny it, you do receive special treatment. You get out of meetings and trainings even, the firm pays for your lunch several times a week I’m sure, you get overtime when you want it, you got a free thousand-dollar laptop again, and I’m sure your reviews will come out just sparkling. Not to mention, still having a job after being gone all that time after your accident. Did I miss anything there, Becky?” he finishes, his snarky words slithering along my back and into my ears where his breath wafts over me.

“‘s everythin’ alright in here?” comes a voice from out of the blue. The three-level paper organizer sat in front of me blurs as my eyes widen. The ball in my throat is met with an unsuccessful gulp when I feel a hand on my arm. I shrink away from the touch before he can squeeze it.

“Oh yes, I was just congratulating Becky on her Employee of the Month recognition. She deserves it,” Jennings answers for us, voice boisterous with faux cheer.

“Becks?” Harry murmurs, cautiously touching my arm again and this time, I don’t run away from his touch. “Alright?” he whispers questioningly, the gentleness of his voice wills my eyes over to him. There’s a pang in my gut when I watch the emotion mirrored on his face - alarmed with fear and confusion. “Hey, what’s tha matter?” he probes, the warmth of his rings seeping through the thin fabric of my long sleeved blouse.

“H-He . . was saying this stuff to me- awful stuff, and . . ,” I trail off quietly, my eyes flitting to the sandy brown hair I see from behind Harry, watching and listening as well.

“What tha hell did ya say t’ her, Pete?” Harry questions, turning to face his colleague as he holds my elbow firmly.

“Nothing,” he almost laughs, and then he makes a sound as if something came to mind. “Okay, okay. I guess I upset her when I told her that I saw her nick one of the Macbook chargers the other day. I approached the subject gently, just letting her know that they’re eighty bucks a pop, and she can only have one here at-.”

“What, I did not! You’re the one who just stuffed one down your pants, you liar!” I scoff, spinning to face them both. “You did it when you were accusing me of getting special treatment from Harry!” I exclaim with my voice breaking in mid-sentence, the explanation soon growing wet.

“What?!” Harry breathes, shock coating his every syllable. “Pete, what in tha bloody fuck ‘s tha matter with you? Becks would never steal and- wait, yer accusin’ her o’ gettin’ treated special jus’ ‘cuz she’s datin’ me? Have ya fell off yer fookin’ rocker, mate? I don’t treat Myles any bleedin’ different fer bein’ me best friend all me life, I treat e’rybody here tha fookin’ same, if ya hadn’t noticed. I reckon ‘s none o’ yer damn business how I mentor her, and don’t forget who fookin’ hired you as well, mate, and who can fire you.”

“I just dunno why I’ve been here for how many bloody years as only a senior associate, mind you, and in walks her and-.”

“I don’t care what yer fookin’ problem ‘s, Pete, but maybe I would’ve if ya’d bloody brought it t’ me instead o’ takin’ it out on her. ‘m yer boss, mate, I coulda helped you, so what good was it t’ cuss her out ‘cuz ya feel like shit?” Harry interrupts defensively, and with a blink, I see the redness rising in their faces.

“Harry, please, let’s just go. I’m fine,” I beg, taking his hand and pulling on it. He doesn’t move an inch, and neither do his eyes from Jennings.

“I tried, if you hadn’t noticed, but you were always too fucking busy for me, weren’t you? ‘Cause apparently, the only people who can get your bleeding attention as of late are those who are sucking your prick,” Jennings shrugs matter of factly. The surprise morphing my features and shaking my body is nothing compared to the shift in Harry’s demeanor.

“Harry,” I begin when his fingers slip from mine. “No, don’t!” I exclaim, stepping forward and grabbing onto his arm, but my fingers only grasp at air.

“A li’l fookin’ jealous, are we? Would ya rather it be you suckin’ me dick?” he jests at Jennings who steps closer to him.

“Jealous of that? Fucking, hell no. I can’t believe you even call her a lawyer,” Jennings retorts, pushing his glasses off his nose and into his hair. “I see now why you hired her, she must be pretty fucking good at giving head and-.”

“Harry!” I almost shout, wanting to step forward and instead backing up when I watch his fist fly. A wrenched sound escapes my lips when I see it connect with Jennings’ face, but it shrinks in comparison to the tear that splits my heart when Harry’s knocked back by Jennings’ swing. “Stop it! Now!” I nearly scream through a curtain of tears, my throat burning. Only then, does Harry lift his head of messy curls to look at me, wiping his fist against his nose that comes back red.

Muttered curses fall from Jennings as he leaves hastily clutching his cheek, and I remain frozen until I see the blood gush from his nose.

“You idiot! What were you thinking?” I cry, rushing forward and surrounding his face with my hands.

“What was I thinkin’? I was thinkin’ I was standin’ up fer you, I wasn’t gonna let him say one mo’ nasty word ‘bout you, Becks. I could do with a thank you, y’know,” he sighs, eyeing the scarlet plummeting to the marbled floor with silent plops.

“Harry,” I sob with a dismissive shake of my head, brushing back his hair to find the shock of red skin surrounding his nose below his eye.

“Oh, baby, ‘m so sorry,” he huffs, grabbing a handful of tissues from a shelf and shoving them against his nose. At last, he yanks me into his arms and there I shed my tears into his cream button down that’s already marred by his sudden bloody nose. “I didn’t mean t’ frighten you, it jus’ happened so fast . . But I don’t regret it, standin’ up fer you . . I can’t believe tha mouth on him . . ‘m so sorry he said those things t’ you, none o’ them are true, I hope y’know.”

Sniffling, I move away and find his eyes that beg for me, “Don’t let what he said get t’ you fer one second, e’rythin’ he said was lies, Becks. Every li’l thing, I promise you that,” he says firmly, pulling away a strand of hair that sticks to my cheek slick with tears. “‘d never let sumbody hurt you like that . . never ever.”

“I haven’t even sucked your dick yet,” I giggle from beneath him, and then, can I start to relax when his giggle graces the air.

“Ya, ‘d rather we keep that info’ t’ ourselves, wouldn’t you?” he snickers with that breathy laugh I love so dearly. “Don’t need tha whole bloody firm knowin’ I haven’t even gotten me dicked properly sucked yet.”

“Hey!” I shoot back, slapping at his chest ever so faintly.

“‘m kiddin’, bug. Y’know I don’t care it hasn’t happened yet, e’rythin’ in good time,” he insists, pulling me back against his front. I relent, but remain with my eyes pointed skywards. “I mean it, don’t worry yer pretty li’l head ‘bout inconsequential shit like that, or what he said.”

“You’re still an idiot,” I sigh, caressing his cheek that tickles my hand with its stubble.

“Why, ‘cuz ‘ll have a bruised up face fer our lunch with Skye and her mum t’day, or fer brekky with mine?” he jokes with a grin half hidden by his handful of Kleenex.

“Yes, and no. Wait- you will. Harry!” I whine, only making him laugh against my hair when he kisses the top of my head. “No, you idiot, you’re not going to get it to stop bleeding like that. Sit down.”

“Yes, m’am. I always knew I had a thing fer in charge women,” he snickers with a click of his tongue, stealing a kiss from my cheek before dragging over a chair against the wall.

“Okay, give me the tissues. Thanks, now- No, you’ll only swallow blood that way. What, are you stupid?” I instruct, leaving him one to manage the nosebleed by himself as I fold up the rest. “Here, you need to hold them against your nose and with your other hand, pinch the bridge of your nose as you look down. Do that for, I dunno, five or ten minutes until it stops bleeding. Let me go and get you some ice for that shiner of yours.”

“‘m fine, Becks. Really. All I want ‘s fer you t’ stay,” he says, grabbing hold of my hand when I turn away to leave. His expressive eyebrows near his hairline when he raises them at me in a near dare, but all I can see is the man I love and those eyelashes I’m so jealous of. “And t’ apologize, even tho’ ‘m not even really sorry for what I did.”

“Apology accepted,” I concur sarcastically, stepping back to lean against the counter. “I’ll let you be an idiot this one time.”

“Hey, don’t get yer hopes up too high now,” the sound of his giggle floats away and then my eyes are lulled to our hands that he laces together with a squeeze.

“Thank you, Harry,” I tell him sincerely, finding those greens hidden amongst his obnoxious curls.

“You’re sure?” she asks in between the noises that sound like bubbles trickling from her lips.

“Yes, ‘m sure. Dunno how many times I hafta tell ya.”

“You know it’ll never be enough,” she giggles below me, her face screwed up in absolute happiness. “Harry!” she yelps, shoving at my chest weakly.

“I know it won’t, yer stubborn as a bloody bull, you are,” I tsk with a click of my tongue, her body jolting with every stroke of my fingers across her ribs. Chuckling, I back up and watch how the laughs still peel off of her lips. “What’re you laughin’ at now, hmm? ‘m not even ticklin’ you anymo’ and yer still laughin’, li’l one.”

The crinkles around her eyes remain and so does the divot in her left cheek that I love almost as much as her eyes, but not quite. Speaking of, those very blues open up and land on me with a glitter to them, only to flee when the chime of the doorbell rings throughout the house. I watch how the skin of her throat is disrupted by a nervous swallow, followed by the automatic twirling of her ring around her pointer finger.

“Coming!” I call behind me, glancing to the door and then her. The way her dark waves are splayed across the sofa cushions. The glittery opal that sits perfectly above the scoop of her maroon blouse. The pink seeping through in her cheeks that I could kiss until I taste their sweetness.

“You’re really sure, Harry?” Becks asks softly, her eyes wandering nervously to the front door and then me.

“Yes, ‘m absolutely positive she’ll love you. Now, take a deep breath and let’s go answer tha door.”

A small ‘okay’ greets the air as her fingers fall between mine that I reassuringly squeeze. My steps come to a halt in front of the cherry oak, but I’m not quite there. Looking up, my thoughts are confirmed when I see my arm outstretched holding onto her where she stands, much too far away.

“C’mere,” I laugh in a whisper, tugging on her arm until she arrives at my side. The smell of orange blossoms and vanilla flood my senses as I pull away from the forehead kiss.

“You know, she’s going to be mad, don’t you?” I pose, ghosting my thumb over the concoction of purple and blue painted below his eye.

“Hush, li’l one, I already have one mum. I don’t need anotha,” he chirps with a teasing wink, twisting open the door.

“What is this I’m going to be mad about?” a voice pipes up with a curious accusatory sound to their voice. “Harry Edward!” she exclaims, not even one foot in the door. “What’d you do to your beautiful face?”

“I uh, ran into a door. Y’know, my sunglasses were really dark and-,” he begins, but much to my surprise and happiness, his mother doesn’t let him get away with the terrible lie. I’m liking her already.

“Don’t lie to your mother, son,” she tuts with a shake of her head, lightly smacking the back of his head that he mutters an ‘ow!’ at. The oddly cold Spring day rushes in with her first steps, but my insides warm at the sigh she shares with me when our eyes meet. “I thought you were old enough to know better to avoid fist fights.”

“Pete started it, not me!”

“I don’t care who started it, you’re a grown man, Harry.”

“That’s what I tried to tell him,” I groan, watching him take her coat to hang in the closet beside the stairs.

“Bloody hell, I see you two are gettin’ on already. Who’s side are you on, anyways?” Harry scoffs, closing the dark cherry wood door.

“Yes, I see we are. It’s so wonderful to finally meet you, Becky. I’ll just blame it on me son keeping you away from me,” Harry’s mum croons, her lips painted with lipstick spreading into a cheery smile. Chuckling, I ignore Harry’s arguing ‘hey!’ as I step forward into her outreached arms. “I think I have a bone to pick with him, you’re prettier than he ever said you were.”

“So are you,” I chortle, picking up on the geranium and amber notes of her perfume before I step away to find her cobalt blue eyes smiling at me.

“I do like her!” she chuckles to Harry, squeezing my opposite arm that she still holds onto.

“What’d I tell ya?” Harry pipes up, nodding at me. “Two peas inna pod already, you lot are. Talkin’ shit ‘bout me and motherin’ me togetha in tha first bleedin’ minute ya’ve met,” he sighs, taking down three white plates from the cabinets that he reaches easily with his height.

“That’s good, I need somebody else here to mother you while ‘m away. I reckon it doesn’t help much when you’re too stubborn to avoid boyish fist fights,” she returns, turning to me with a joking look in her eyes. Our laughs echo the others as she leads me over to the oval wooden table on the other side of the kitchen island, against the sliding patio door. “Who better than your girlfriend and colleague?”

“I guess so,” Harry groans, pulling back a chair for her to sit, soon falling into the chair across from me. “Neither o’ you even let me get t’ tha introductions, you women and yer talkin,’” he grunts, pulling himself closer to the table. With a calming breath, he runs a hand through his hair and pushes up the sleeves of his olive green knitted jumper. “Mum, this ‘s me girlfriend, Becky, but I like t’ call her Becks. And bug, this ‘s me mum, Anne. Shall we finally have that brekky togetha we’ve been talkin’ ‘bout fer months?”

“Yes, let’s dig in,” Anne chuckles, a sliver of Harry’s song heard in her voice. “Oooo, ‘s this apple bread by the famous chef I’ve heard so much about?”

“Yes, she doesn’t disappoint, never ever,” Harry winks, licking a crumb off of his thumb after grabbing a slice of the bread. A pink sits in his cheeks that I’m sure is mirrored in my own, and perhaps greater. I look away with a small smile, shoveling the egg bake onto my plate. “Not in tha court room, with baking, or with how good o’ job she does takin’ care o’ me,” he muses with a glint in his eye and cheeks rounder than I’ve ever seen.

I go on and listen to the stories, I even help tell some of them. Some of them make me tear up, whether it be from laughing, the wetness in Harry’s, or the love shining through in his and in hers.

“I told ya so.”

“Yeah, when don’t you?” I bite back, and immediately regret it when I feel his fingers along my ribs, eliciting laughs from my lips.

“Hey, watch it, li’l one. I have you inna compromisin’ situation here, so ya betta watch yerself,” Harry giggles, the words tickling my ear. The sounds continue from my lips and I hear them shadowed in his, and how they play off of each other while his hands keep my stomach warm. “I told ya she’d love you, and she did. Couldn’t shutup ‘bout you at Gemma’s last night, ‘specially tha fact you gave her a whole loaf o’ yer apple bread. You made her bloody day, ‘m sure. Speakin’ of, ya ready t’ meet me sista properly fer lunch t’morrow?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I groan, the words whisked away with a sound that my lips, I sometimes think, hold just for him. His stubbly face is itchy against my temple, but he remedies it with soft pecks to the skin.

“You guess?!” he exclaims, squeezing me around the middle. My head knocks against his, and he keeps my fingers secure between his while the smells of greasy pizza and floor cleaner lull me with their familiarity. His argument dissolves into a soft chuckle muffled against my hair where he mouths kisses.

“You know who I wish you could meet?”

“Hmmm, who’s that, bug?” Harry replies. Gulping, my eyes fall away from the crowds of people mingling around at the their tables, sucking the last few drops from their soda or guzzling pints. The answer flees from my lips, but after I twirl it around my finger a few times, I think he knows after he nuzzles his head against mine. “I wish I coulda meet yer gran,’ too, y’know. I wish you coulda met my granddad as well. ‘m sad I didn’t get t’ meet yers eitha . . . You’ll have t’ come home t’ Cheshire one o’ these weekends and meet me Gran’ Clara- Claire, she likes t’ go by. She’s a real hoot and already knows ‘bout you, naturally. She reminds me loads o’ Skye’s mum- bloody hell, I see where Skye gets tha crazies from now.”

“I agree with you on that one,” I titter and he nods into my neck, but the sounds fall when he spins the ring around my finger before folding my hands inside of his own.

In a whisper against my cheek, he whispers words that take away the breath I didn’t know that I had left. “‘m so bloody glad that I met you, Becks, and that we’re here . . finally. Met me mum, met Skye’s tha other day, and meetin’ me sista t’morrow. Harper will be delighted t’ see you, I know, and tha baby ‘s gettin’ bigger e’ryday.”

I nod and any words I had wanted to say escape me with the squeal garnered by his fingers digging into my tummy, remedied by a kiss below my ear.

“You lot are fucking disgusting, y’know that, don’t you?” comes a voice with a disdainful scoff. “It’s been your turn for a good thirty seconds now, Ree. Get going, would you?!”

“I know, ‘s great, innit? Go on, babe. Show me how t’ get a strike,” Harry teases with a loud kiss to my cheek to annoy Robbie, pushing me off of his lap where his arms wrapped around me kept us arm. It’s drowned out by the sound of surprise I utter when he slaps my ass with his hand.

“My fricken God, you two are embarrassing me,” Robbie groans, walking past me to pick up his pint from the table, and taking a seat beside his muddy Wellies. Turning around in shock, I find Harry’s greens lit with a smirk that shines on his face. “C’mon, Ree, bowl already! You’re shit half of the time anyways, what’s the difference now?” he jokes and a loud scoff graces the air, much to Harry’s amusement.

Sighing, I step up to the little contraption that wheels forward Robbie’s glittery navy blue bowling ball. I lean over to grab my electric yellow one etched with a white ‘7’ and widen my eyes at Harry’s green ‘10.’ Threading my fingers into the three holes, my clown like shoes step onto the polished wood, and I try to remain cool and calm. Closing my eyes, I grimace at their teasing of me from behind, but Harry’s contagious breathy laugh propels me forward.

“Ya, that’s me girl! Three pins down, woohoo!” he shouts loudly in a squeaky and sarcastic voice, holding up his beer in a fake cheer. Shaking my head with red cheeks, I wait for my ball to return and to try again.

Slowly, I realize with the ball heavy in my hands and my score falling far behind theirs on the tv above, that just like any other time, I don’t care if I win or lose. This time is different, listening to how my boyfriend and my twin brother joke from behind me and laugh, their conversation quickly turning to football and then music.

Sometimes, I have a hard time believing this is a day in my life after everything, and it’s only one of the firsts.

A/N: Hello, friends! Thank you SO MUCH to those still reading, and also to new readers! Welcome, and I’m so glad you’re here! I’m so sorry that this blurb took awhile than I originally planned . . it boggles me how I spend basically every minute I’m not working and shadowing doing homework :/ I hope to have the next blurb out in two weeks, so I’ll keep you all posted! Enjoy and let me know what you think, please! I love you all and good luck with everything!

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wongiemei · 5 years ago

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Roommate!Jeno

a/n: maybe i should just turn this blog into an nct dream one

okay

letsgetit!

first of all,

story time!

your uni is fucking expensive and it’s more expensive if you live in the grounds

so you being the wise human,

you went to get an apartment near the campus

it was great and all since roommate!jaemin was paying for his stuff

you were both living respectively until he had to leave

the dumbass didnt even bother to tell you

one morning you just woke up and found his note

‘hey bitch! figured you were too much of a rock to wake up but i moved out! the family wants me to go back home and tend the restaurant’

the whole day yesterday, you were working

bc,,, yknow

broke college life

and you just walked in half asleep towards your room and fell asleep

so you didnt really see or notice

but were you freaking out bc your roommate suddenly moved out?

ofc you were freaking out

not only was your roommate gone,

how were you going to find a new one?!

jaemin expected your phone call that afternoon and he endured through all your screaming

‘babe, i’m just going to be gone for a year-or two’

‘oR tWO?!’

‘hun, my dad’s injured and his back can only let him do so much. ma’s working too much and i dont have any siblings to help. i figured i could just hold off college until my parents are ready’

ugh, jaemin is such a family boy

‘but jaems! you couldnt have at least told me that yOu wERe mOvING OuT?! and! rent is due soon! i can’t pay for that myself!’

jaemin couldve easily told you to warn yoy

but he didn’t want to tell you bc he couldnt handle you sad and didnt want to upset you

however, now jaemin really understands how shitty that move was

‘tell you what. i’ll pay for this month and make a few phone calls and i’ll get you set up with a new roommate, deal?’

knowing how much of a social butterfly he was, you agreed

ofc you trusted jaemin but part of you feared that he might pair you up with a freak

but he’s not that mean, is he?

you can definitely see renjun doing that but not jaemin

so there you are,,

sitting on your couch alone

without jaemin, your apartment felt really empty

its been a few days since he moved and you were miserable

jaemin hasn’t even texted you about that potential roommate

just as you were about to call him,,

your doorbell rang

you froze and you looked at the time

it was nearing 11 at night and you don’t remember ordering delivery

see,,

if jaemin was here,

he would answer it for you since you would be too scared to do it

but you mustered up your courage and peeped through the peep hole

the man was dressed in all black with a black mask and a black cap with his hood over it with a black hoodie and black pants

ngl, you were terrified and trembling

he rang it again and you jumped

typing out a quick text to jaemin saying ‘hey bub, if i don’t text you in an hour, that means ive been kidnapped so call the police’

you grabbed a pan from the cupboard and gulped before you opened the door

thinking he would just walk forward and grab you, you closed your eyes and raised your pan over your head and swung

a shriek from in front of you made your eyes snap open and found the guy on the floor with a fetal position

you both just froze for like a phat minute

snapping back to reality, you held the pan in front of you

‘if youre going to kidnap me, i got a pan and im not afraid to hit you with it!’

you tried to sound intimidating but your voice was shaking so much

the guy stood up and he took off his hat and the mask to reveal a blonde haired kid

okay, so you were sHOokETh

damn! this boy is fine!

he gave you a shaky smile and held out his hand

‘hi! i’m lee jeno! you must be y/n? jaemin told me you had an opening for a roommate?’

now you noticed the two duffle bags at the side

the embaressment and the shame settled in slowly and you found yourself burning up

nodding, you motioned him to come in

jeno awkwardly walked in and was amazed at how big the layout was with the low rent

‘yea, its kinda hard to believe that we only pay that much. at first i thought there was a ghost in here and that’s why its so cheap’

you tried to make small conversation but laughed weirdly at jeno’s slightly terrified face

‘no! there really is not ghost here! ive lived here for a year and there hasnt been anything so please dont understand! please be my roommate!’

you begged and jeno thought you were weird

but jaemin was right, you were weirdly adorable in a way

so that’s how you and jeno became apartment buddies!

now onto the good stuff!

so, jeno is a vv clean guy

like he’s the type to just pick up a wrapper in the street and throw it in the garbage

so naturally, he likes to keep the apartment as tidy and neat as possible

but you being a mess you are,

you usually leave a lot of things everywhere

lets just say you have a short memory

‘oh? how did that get there?’

eventually, jeno gets sick of it and he confronts you with it

ofc you understand and you actually try to be better

since jeno is literally the most perfect roommate

maybe even better than jaemin

(but don’t tell him that)

jeno is the type to re-stock the pantry with snacks and the fridge with ice cream

since youre both college students, ramen is practically always available in the house 24/7

he also makes the coffee every morning since he works early and wakes up first

even though he doesn’t like the drink and prefers milk, he still notices how you survive off of coffee

babie likes to pick you up some iced americano while he gets a frappe

you on the other hand,,

you’re very surprised

when you got to bed after showing jeno around,

you messaged jaemin

ofc he was worried af and was blowing up your phone

‘WHAT?!’

‘bitch answer the damn phone!’

‘whatthe fuck is happening?!’

‘i need to know if you’re still alive!’

‘oh fuck i shouldnt have moved out’

smiling softly at how worried he was, you responded to him

‘you hoe, it hasnt been an hour yet so chillax. i’m alive, unfortunately, and i just met my new roommate. again, thanks for the heads-up. youre so bad at those. i literally thought he was a burgular or a kidnapper. but he seems chill and emo. just my type.’

but jeno is F A R from C H I L L

oh my goodness,,

hes a crackhead

theres this sound he makes when he’s confused and you couldnt figure out if its cute or weird or if he’s doing this on purpose or thats just how he is

you and him basically communicate with memes

sometimes, at the weird hours at night, he sends you a dumbass meme

you cant help but snort

also, you promised to take jaemin out to dinner to repay him for the great roommate

‘hes literally one of the best people youll ever meet. it just so happen he needed a place to sleep. now you owe me’

hes a science major while you were a computer major

he basically brings home weird stuff to analyze and it just hella stinks

but hes considerate enough to actually put it outside

whenever he’s focused, he talks to himself or the thing he’s analyzing

‘okay mr. fishy. your scales are really big and its bigger than average’

its so cute

oof also!

jeno doesnt have a job yet he always makes rent on time with extra money to spare

he even sometimes buys you stuff saying, ‘they reminded me of you’

for your birthday, he bought you a pearl necklace that mustve costed thousands

at first, you thought he was a chaebol or smth

which you wouldve been vv jealous of bc youre a struggling college student who works at the coffee shop

but, you were answered when you caught him walking in half-dazed and half-asleep with cuts all over his face

it was like 2 in the morning and you were pulling an all-nighter for some project and wanted to get a glass of water

but here he is, hood up, lip busted, black eye, cheek cut

you shrieked and ushered him to sit on the dining chair

thinking he got mugged or something, you start drilling him questions

‘hun, if you were beat up, we need to call the police! this is illegal!’

but jeno chuckles and brushes the stray hairs out of your face as you tend to his lip

‘pls dont. if you do, ill be broke and i wont have money to pay rent then i cant be your roommate anymore’

cue confused y/n

‘wUT?’

‘if i dont make money, youll kick me out and youll have to find another roommate. i dont want you to go through that hassle again’

ofc you were flattered that even during this situation, hes still thinking about you

‘how is this making money?!’

‘i cant believe youre oblivious to so many things. i thought for sure youve caught on.’

more confusion

‘eXCUse mE, lEE JEno? since when have you started coming home with all these things in your face?’

you were worried that this wasnt the first time this happened

but if you think hard about it, thats why he always wears his mouth masks and he always has his blonde fringe down and sometimes wears sunglasses even though its cloudy outside

‘ohmygod lee jeno are you in a gang?!’

jeno was shocked that you came to that conclusion but laughed at how adorable you were rn

with your wide eyes and mouth open

‘nah, bro. i box. its the only way i can make easy money.’

‘but,,, why did you hide this from me? if you needed money i couldve helped you’

he looked at you skeptically

‘sis, you could barely afford that muffin the other day’

lee jeno now looked different from the jeno you met the first day

What you thought to be an innocent little squish was a fighter at night

‘yah, can-um-you need to take this off’

you mumbled while tugging on his sweatshirt

he nodded and slipped it off

he explained why he came late when he first moved

‘i had a late night match and yknow,, school and all, i barely had enough time to come'

as you dab the wound, you try to make small talk to distract yourself

‘so,, youve been boxing this whole time?’

you asked, trying not to get distracted to the way his tight shirt clung to him, showing his defined body

there were bruises up and down his arms and his knuckles were busted

‘yea. i have been since senior high. gotta make money, yknow?’

‘but jen, you can work in coffee shops or at local bookstores. its not worth seeing you busted up like this’

your lips trembled at the thought of him being beaten up too hard to the point he gets into a coma

jenos eyes widened at your wobbling lips and he softly cupped your face

‘hey, im okay and ill be fine. you dont have to worry about me. i usually win, anyways’

his confidence made you chuckle

‘i trust you, lee jeno. just make sure to make it home to me every night.’

‘i know you do and i will. always.”

ever since then,

youve become his little caretaker

youve informed jaemin of what hes been doing and he knew but didnt want you to judge him immediately

smh, jaemin really sucks at informing people

but jeno tries to help you keep up

he even sends you texts that hes fighting that night and your little ‘fighting!’ always makes him smile

his manager and friend, chenle, noticed that hes starting to smile more

chenle likes boxing and wants to be a part of it but doesnt want to be hurt

so,, what better to be the manager of his friend

‘yah, hyung. what’s got you giggly today?’

jeno pointed to the screen and giggled at the little good luck gif you sent

his eyes turned to crescents and chenle smirked

‘wah, you like her, don’t you?’

at the mention of ‘like’, his smile dropped and he shook his head

‘no. of course not. shes just a friend.’

chenle being chenle,,

he continues to prod

‘okay. so every night, you make it your priority to make sure you’re home by 2 in the morning for your friend’

smh, chenle youre so annoying

but hes so right

ever since you caught him,

hes been making sure he gets home at the same time

he sends you a text that hes on his way and you set your ringtone at a very high volume so you wake up and take care of him

during fights, he makes it his sole mission to make out of this alive and a winner for you

but that never crossed his mind as his feelings for you

he just thought of it as making you not worry for him

but then, he starts to think about your stupid little habits

the way you make this face whenever you dont understand

or when you still leave little post-it notes everywhere with ideas you come up with

he noticed it all and he loves them

‘hOLy ShIT!’

that night was when he realized his feelings for you and he was so dedicated on finishing it that he quickly won and he dashed home with his money

bursting through the door, you looked at him with wide and startled eyes

‘what’s wrong?’

you came running but he scooped you up to a hug

ok you were confused but relieved that he was home and alright

jeno looked at your face and wanted to confess but chickened out at the sight of you

you were so good to him and honestly, he doesnt deserve you

(his thoughts, not mine)

‘i-i’

he stuttered and you motioned him to continue

‘i won!’

he shouted and you congratulated him, even though he literally won all the time

guiding him to the chair, you began to dab his cuts

(dab that bitch)

‘im starting to think that your opponents either really suck or youre like the god of boxing’

he didnt know how to take that but blushed red at the mention of him being a ‘god of boxing’

‘nah, im just good’

you eyed him and smiled

he continued to watch you heal him and inspected your face

heavy eyebags and sunken cheeks, it mustve been a long night

he felt a pang in his chest thinking that you push your stuff away just to help him

‘you dont have to keep doing this for me, yknow’

you halt and look at him seriously

‘i know i dont. but i cant sleep at night thinking youre in pain and alone when i can be there for you’

even though he just realized it, jeno was pretty sure he fell in love with you a long time ago

but if it was possible, he fell in love with you even more

‘thank you’

his soft voice filled the silence and you vowed that you will always be there for him whenever he needs help

a few days later, jeno hasnt been to a fight

sure you were worried at what was going on in his head but partly relieved that you dont have to see him so battered anymore

but this was so un-jeno

just as you were about to talk to him about it, he announces he got a job at the bookstore down the street

‘huh? i thought you didnt want to work’

you question while he looked sheepish

‘i realized that i was starting to become a burden since you take care of me every time. so i thought i should quit and get a regular job. besides, it doesnt hurt as much’

he laughed but you didnt react

‘lee jeno, you gave up boxing and the money,,, for me?’

he nervously looked up at you and you noticed the redness of his cheeks

‘i-well-if you put it that way’

‘listen to me, im flattered and i truly love that you dont want to get beaten up anymore. but i dont want you to quit something you like because of me'

‘but you always take care of me and push your priorities away to clean me up. i dont do anything in return and i dont think its fair!’

he argued and a soft smile crept up your face

‘yah, lee jeno'

your voice became a whisper

‘it doesnt matter to me if you dont do anything in return bc i dont see this as a favor. you are mine to take care of and i will do anything for you, you understand that?’

he looked at you in shock after hearing your response

he also turned red at the mention of him being yours

‘so-but-i dont think-'

he stutters but you place your hands on his arms making him stop

‘all i ask is you to come back home, to come back to me'

by now, yall were blushing

even though it might not sound like it,

but yall just indirectly confessed to each other

yall stared at the ground and jeno looks up, biting his lip

‘hey, y/n, can i make it up to you with some coffee?’

your head darted up and looked at him with wide eyes

‘like-like a date?’

it came out suddenly and you stepped back in surprise, cursing yourself

but jeno chuckled, eyes scrunching cutely

‘it'll be one of many'

lmao i didnt really like this but i made it at 2 in the morning and i kinda like boxer!jeno

#lee jeno #jeno #jeno imagines #lee jeno imagines #boxer!jeno #nct dream jeno #nct dream jeno imagines #lee jeno scenarios #jeno scenarios #nct dream imagines #nct dream scenarios #boxer!jeno imagines #roommate!nct dream #roommate!jeno #lee jeno fluff #jeno fluff #nct dream fluff

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dragonrajafanfiction · 5 years ago

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Dragon Dancer Chapter 21: The Awakening

I sprinted all the way to the Executive department, arriving out of breath. I saw that Caesar and Nono already arrived. Not only were students here but older people I assumed to be professors were here as well, sitting behind computer consoles. All eyes turned to me as I stood in the doorway out of breath.

My mind was trying to work out where in the world I should go when I heard someone behind me. I quickly stepped aside as Lu Mingfei tried to stumble to a halt having almost run full tilt into me. I panicked as he hit the floor, sliding a few inches.

“Lu-Senpai! Are you okay!” I tried to help him up.

He rubbed his forehead. “I’m fine! I’m fine!” He said as I followed him to his chair. Then he looked confused. “You’re not going to sit with Johann?”

“He’s not here.”

Master list

Professor Schneider rolled out in a wheelchair. An oxygen mask on his face, he spoke in spurts gasping between phrases. “An artifact recovered from Siberia has activated. It contains valuable dragon genetic material. However, unless we can find a way to shut down its container, this material could be lost.”

"Our top scholars have placed the urn’s origins between 6,000 and 7,000 BC. Before the first dragon revolution, predating the four lords. We cannot lose its contents.”

I gasped. On a large screen was that urn, the one from the photo in Siberia - that same urn that caused the earthquake!

I averted my eyes but it was too late. Whispers came in waves even louder than before.

“We believe the activation is a fail save, to prevent the contents inside from ever being released or opened.” Schneider was continuing to talk, but I couldn’t listen for the growling voice demanding my attention, snarling and barking orders.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Lu whispered to me. "Are you okay?

"It's that-...” I whimpered. “-The picture!”

"What picture?"

"They shouldn't have-!" I wanted to cry. The voice in my mind was so threatening and cruel. The minute I started to speak it overruled me, screeching, startling me to silence!

“Carli, do you have something you’d like to share?” Caesar curled one fist under his cheek smiling, but his smile was short-lived when he saw that I was in actual pain.

The mental voices didn’t need to breathe or take a pause to collect their thoughts. They were thoughts, running in a continual unending stream, robbing me of my own will.

I could feel Lu’s hands on me, shaking me. I looked him in the eye. He was beautiful, in radiant light. I smiled and placed my hands on his face as if to kiss him. Caught in a trance, the words in my head and the words coming from my mouth were one chorus.

“So indomitable is your strength that they sought to contain you. But you can’t be contained. Rise to your fated victory.”

Lu’s face paled. “Carli, what are you saying?”

A voice came over the loudspeaker. “Sir! The urn! It’s moving? Like a mechanical device!”

“Get a video on scre-” Schneider’s voice cracked and descended into coughing.

The screen came on anyway. The urn had unfurled mechanical wings and from the wings hung a hideous one-eyed worm with needle teeth . Its wings made a rapid chittering as it rose. Metal bells rang from its tail.

The last vision for the Cassell students who were unlucky enough to be in the lab where this creature awoke was of a spinning ethereal wheel surrounding it. They heard the hum as it gathered power and they felt, however briefly, its flash of obliterating dark energy. Their screams stopped short. The video cut to static.

The ground rumbled with the power of the blast, throwing me to the ground and waking me up out of my trance. Alarms sounded throughout the campus. “Dragon attack! Dragon attack!”

“Carli! Are you okay? Get up!”

I pushed myself up to my knees.

Caesar vaulted up over our desk. “Get up! Go!”

I got to my feet staggering out of the hall.

Manstein was shouting into his phone. “Get Anjou on the line! Raise the restriction on Speaking Spirit!” He turned to another device connected to the PA system. “ All students report to the Library!”

The front courtyard of the library building had collapsed into a gaping hole in the pavement. The creature floated over it, hovering with its buzzing mechanical wings. It seemed half living creature and half machine. The sound of its wings were the whirring of gears in its joints. Its scales were augmented with metal plating.

As I looked up, some sort of protective shield was descending over the entire campus. “No one gets in or out until that thing is dead!” Caesar roared. “To the last man! For Gattuso!”

The dragon opened his putrid maw. Its voice growled out over the campus. "Kneel before the Great God or Perish!"

Caesar led the charge, sending a rapid fire barrage at the beast. The bullets whistled and roared, like no gun I’d heard in my life.

The dragon shuttered it’s mechanical wings around his fragile soft body, sending bullets pinging and sparking. Eyelets on their outer edges opened, whined with energy and discharged a hailstorm of glassy ink-black shards..

I screamed and threw myself to the ground. The shards exploded on impact with the pavement, pummeling me with sharp bits of shrapnel that tore my clothing and left me bloody. People fell, impaled in the face, neck and chest. People were screaming.

I crawled under a bench for cover. But what cover could ever withstand an attack like that? Ground-shaking booms sent my ears ringing. Cannons had surfaced from the tops of the buildings and rained down a constant bombardment on the beast. It shrieked in fury from the fire and the smoke. The spinning ethereal wheel of death whirled once more, letting out a threatening hum. Streamers of dark substance sprayed out from it and slammed into one of the buildings, sending rubble crashing down.

A dark aura burst from it blocking any return assault. Energy swirled around it, pulsating. Its single yellow eye glowed brightly behind the shield.

I peered about for any sign of my friends and spotted Principal Anjou who tossed his lit cigar to the ground and threw out his arm. “Time Zero!”

True to the name, everything went frozen and silent. He turned and looked at me. “My dear.”

I looked up at him, feeling like I was so close to fainting.

“The creature is immature, it’s using its strength to grow to its mature state. The time distortion will only last three minutes.” He pulled out a gold pocket watch from his custom suit with a cheeky grin. “Let’s see how much damage you can do.” He started the clock ticking.

I got to my feet and rushed forward, eyes closing. I didn’t have to see the light beam to know it was there. “Ielia!”

She was beside me.

There was no time to think or plan or strategize. I flung as many shards of light as I could at the dark bubble, knowing that everyone I’d met, everything I had left depended on it. With the same determination, Ielia, who was much more experienced in battle, turned to me, urging me to imitate her as she formed hers into a ball and tossed it at the protective hull. It exploded on impact. I stared in surprise, not realizing I had that ability.

The shell was starting to fracture under the bombardment. Ielia extended her hand and her shaft of energy grew longer, sparking like a comet. I looked at my own and imitated her stance, it worked. Its hissing grew louder and the light grew brighter. It started to smoke.

“15 more seconds!” Anjou shouted.

It was starting to shake loose from my hand. I let it go and it hung in the air. Only by my mental say-so did it fly to the bubble and stick there, drilling its way through. I lifted my hands and raised ten more like it and threw them all at once.

Anjou held out his arm and snapped his fingers.

The entire campus exploded with a burst of light, bright like a sun. People shielded their eyes as everything I had done seemed to happen all at once.

The bubble collapsed. One mechanical wing was shattered. The dragon listed to one side as it came under unrelenting cannon fire. It smashed into the ground and thrashed, screaming.

Anjou retrieved his cigar where he’d tossed it and brushed it off. “Very well. That’s quite enough.” He said into a device on his wrist, his voice coming over all channels. “We need to leave something to study.”

The thunderous artillery fire went silent. The moans and cries of the wounded filled the courtyard.

He approached me. “Well done.”

“This was my fault… I woke it up…” I whimpered.

“I’ve been at this war for many decades. This goes far beyond you my dear. However, having you at my side… It’s enough to give me hope.” He solemnly watched the medical personnel sort out those they could save from the hopeless.

I looked up at him. “But I woke it up. People are dead now. People always die around me!”

“It is not…” He said sharply, before softening his tone. “... your fault. There is an effect called the Blood Call. In short, those with high purity can stimulate the awakening of dragons. It could have been any of us. But even if it was you, that’s hardly your problem.”

I twined my fingers and hung my head. “Yessir.”

“This dragon was exceptionally strong and strange. Its words… concerning.”

He walked away as Manstein approached wailing about the massive damage that had occurred to the campus and his students.

That thing had woken up and it attacked so harshly, pitilessly and immediately. It was so different from my father.

Already, the gear department was working on getting the pieces of the dragon onto a truck.

Lu walked up to me, clear concern on his face. “Are you going to be okay?”

The way he was looking at me. Expecting me to turn servitor again? “Yes. My blood is up but… not that far yet.”

“I… I didn’t mean that.” He said quietly. “I mean, you’re okay… right?”

“I… don’t know.”

I watched Caesar. He was gathered with a few of his club members, no doubt accounting for their losses. He had so many people willing to throw themselves into the breach for him. Maybe if things had been different I would have been the same way.

He seemed alright so I wouldn't approach. I was sure he lost more than one of his club members.

Instead, I said, “I’m thirsty.”

And I walked away from the battlefield. I was feeling strangely numb. The danger was over, gone. But I wasn’t a shaking mess like I had been after the party just a few days ago.

I checked my phone. I had a message from Johann. I responded that I was okay. And that I was happy he was okay too.

Lu retrieved a cola from a vending machine for me. We sat in silence on a bench. I was feeling a little more now. The image of Lu, shining bright, had stuck in my head, the words of the dragon regarding him we're pure admiration, whereas towards me, they were anything but adoring.

He looked over at me and I realized I was staring.

"What is it?"

"If I told you, you'd get upset."

I may have stirred the dragon but it didn't wake up for me.

#Lu Mingfei #Luminous #Johann Chu #Caesar #Nono #Anjou #dragon Raja #Fanfiction #writing

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unpeumacabre · 5 years ago

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my kingdom for a horse: chapter 2

the year is 1601, a messenger has been sent to dongnae, and he has not returned. lord cho-hak-ju advises the joseon king to send crown prince lee chang to dongnae to investigate, but the plot he unravels there threatens the safety of the entire kingdom, and the stability of the dynasty.

a rewriting of kingdom, and lee chang finds love.

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Lee Chang/Yeong-shin

Read on AO3 (bc tumblr might mess up the formatting + more extensive author’s notes on the story)

Count: 5k

<-- previous next -->

A/N: ahhhh yall were so amazing it gave me the motivation to finish editing the next chapter early !! this is my first kingdom ff but omg the fandom is full of such amazing people, please enjoy and lemme know what you think <3

When they return to Jiyulheon, it is just as the sun sinks below the horizon, and darkness envelops them. As they run into the compound and shut the gates behind them, they can already hear the gnashing of the monsters’ teeth and their ghoulish cries of hunger echoing behind them.

They barricade the gate with a nearby cart, filling it with sandbags and other heavy items to hold its weight. Only then does Lee Chang turn to face the compound, and observe what lies within it.

It is truly a sorry sight. Blood has seeped into the sandy floor and the wooden floorboards of the main building, and there are, by his count, around thirty people left inside Jiyulheon. Most are too old - and others, too young - to wield a sword. The subdued wails of grieving women fill the air, as does the stench of death and the rot of carrion.

The man drops his load of bamboo poles next to a group of men, who obediently pick up their axes and other sharp implements, and begin sharpening the tips of the poles. “Seo-bi!” he calls, striding off towards the main building, and with a glance at each other, Lee Chang and Mu-yeong follow.

A weathered-looking woman hurries out of the building to meet them. Her hair is tied up in a utilitarian bun, and her clothes are stained with blood and other unidentifiable fluids. As she approaches closer, Lee Chang realises that she is not as old as he would have first thought – it is the lines of tension around her features that age her beyond her years.

She draws up short when she reaches them, and casts assessing but neutral eyes over Lee Chang and Mu-yeong.

“Who are you?” she asks, and she uses formal speech, in acknowledgement of their fine clothes and obvious nobility. It is in stark contrast to the uncaring way the man had used to address them.

When Mu-yeong hands her Lee Chang’s identification plaque, her eyes go wide, and she falls to her knees.

“Your Highness,” she says, to the ground.

“You may rise,” Lee Chang says, nodding in acknowledgement of her gesture. Again, her obeisance reminds him of the man’s defiance of his royal status, and he cannot help but turn his head and direct his gaze at the subject of his thoughts. The man returns his gaze, but makes no move to follow in suit to the woman’s deference. Against his will, Lee Chang finds the corner of his mouth quirk up in weary amusement at the man’s stubborn determination not to bend knee to him.

In Hanyang, we would have his head, he thinks absently, but they are not in Hanyang, and he has never been the tyrant his father had attempted to mould him into. Lee Chang has never been able to force himself to cruelty, and it is a trait he has not mastered even in adulthood.

The woman stands up slowly, not meeting Lee Chang’s eyes. He asks for her name and station, and she answers that she is Seo-bi, a nurse who had been working under physician Lee Seung-hui here at Jiyulheon, a safe haven for the sick and poor.

“Lee Seung-hui?” Lee Chang asks, upon hearing the name. “The royal physician? I recall him being dismissed from his position many years ago, but I do not recall the matter over which he was dismissed. Can we meet him? Surely he must have much knowledge of these monsters, given his experience and wisdom.”

Seo-bi shakes her head. “He went missing three days ago, when first the monsters formed among us,” she explains. “We do not know where he has gone. We think he is now one of the monsters’ party, but we cannot be sure.”

While her face is a near-perfect mask in its inscrutability, Lee Chang sees her hands tremble as she speaks of the fate of her master, and he feels a great swell of grief.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he says, and inclines his head. “Although I did not personally know him, I had heard many great things of his work. When this is over, we will give him the honourable burial he deserves.” Seo-bi’s head dips lower, and she nods in thanks.

“Did he leave behind a journal, or any other record, perhaps with details of these monsters?” he then presses. “Or did he ever speak of them to you before?”

Seo-bi nods. “He mentioned it in passing, many years ago. I think he did not mean for me to hear… but he was very distressed over a particular case at that time, and his mind was otherwise occupied. He said that the disease originates from the resurrection plant, found deep in the heart of the coldest of mountains, and that he had once had samples of it for study, but they had been lost, somehow. He did not mention how. And of his journals and notes…” she shakes her head. “We have searched in our waking hours for any information on the monsters we could find among his keeping, and there is none. There are records with pages missing, torn out, and we have searched all over the clinic, but we cannot find them.”

“That is suspicious indeed,” breathes Mu-yeong. “Do you know anyone with a motive to remove this information from Master Lee’s keeping?”

Seo-bi shakes her head again, firmly. “There is no one but Lee Seung-hui and a few of the nurses who knew where his journals were kept – and of those few, I am the only one alive still. The other nurses all perished at the hands of the monsters.”

There is a loud bang on the gate, and they all spin around and stare, hefting their weapons and unconsciously stepping in front of Seo-bi. A click sounds beside them, and Lee Chang looks over to see the man swiftly and deftly loading his musket, clearly with great experience. As he looks away quickly to the gate, he catches Mu-yeong’s eyes, and sees in them the same thought.

There is no time for further suspicion as the monsters pile in against the doors, their combined weight making the carts creak and moan – yet still, against all odds, they hold.

“How long have they been pounding at the gates?” yells Mu-yeong. “They do not look as if they will hold much longer!”

“We have been holding out here for three days,” the man says darkly, stalking forward. Lee Chang and Mu-yeong follow, hefting their swords, while Seo-bi hurries the women and children into the shelter of the main building.

“Did you not approach Dongnae for help?” asks Lee Chang, lowly. “The magistrate… ”

“We did,” the man says sharply, casting him a side glance from under his lashes. “We prostrated ourselves in front of the magistrate of Dongnae, Seo-bi and I, but to no avail. They did not believe us without proof, and refused to send a constable here to investigate matters. We were nearly thrown into jail for spreading lies and causing hysteria.”

“Your ruffian-like appearance probably didn’t help matters,” mutters Mu-yeong under his breath, but he subsides when Lee Chang shoots a reproving glance at him.

“We will go to Dongnae tomorrow,” Lee Chang tells the man, “and I will make them listen. How is that the monsters have not yet visited Dongnae?”

“They are drawn by the smell of blood,” the man says softly. Lee Chang feels the slickness of the gravel under his feet, and they need say no more on the matter.

“What is your name?” Lee Chang asks. He watches the man. He keeps himself deathly still, every cord of his body wound tight and perfectly in place. But the restless tap of his fingers against the wood of his musket betrays him.

“Yeong-shin,” says the man shortly, after a pause, and his voice is rough.

“Yeong-shin,” Lee Chang repeats. The petulant moans of the monsters rises, loud and clear, beyond the gates, and Lee Chang remembers their fetid breath against his neck, the unholy light in their eyes.

“Aim for the head,” Yeong-shin says, hefting his gun.

I will survive, Lee Chang tells himself. If I die, so will the people of Jiyulheon. I will survive.

***

“It is a miracle,” cries Mu-yeong, as the sun breaks past the horizon, and still they are all standing in Jiyulheon, alive and well. There had been a few tense moments, where the monsters had almost broken through their defences, but Yeong-shin had shot a monster in the face, and Lee Chang had cut off one’s head, then they had wedged the bodies in the holes created by the monsters as a temporary stopgap. It is indeed a miracle that they have held out as long as they have.

“This door will not hold one more night,” Yeong-shin says, his hand against the weathered wood. He turns back to them, his eyes burning. “We must get help from Dongnae.”

“We will,” Lee Chang says, with all the conviction he can muster. “You have my word.”

Yeong-shin casts him a scornful glare. “And the word of a prince means nothing to me,” he says hollowly. “Here we lie starving and sick and wasting away, because of the greed of the nobles. Forgive me if I do not trust your words.”

“You dare - ” Mu-yeong hisses, drawing his sword, but Lee Chang flings out his arm, staying him. He fixes his eyes on Yeong-shin.

“Then have the word of a man who has seen what these monsters can do,” he says, finally. “Have the word of a man who would not see a drop of blood further shed – no matter whether it be the blood of a noble, or a peasant, or even a dog.”

A long moment as Yeong-shin turns a searching, scorching look on him. Lee Chang feels sweat gather under his robe. Then Yeong-shin nods, in grudging acceptance, and turns away.

“We ride to Dongnae, then,” Mu-yeong says, sheathing his sword and turning to their horses. As they mount and ride down the path, Lee Chang feels the heat of Yeong-shin’s gaze on the back of his neck, and he feels the weight of that gaze all the way till they reach Dongnae.

The gates of Dongnae lie open, and limp on their hinges. Lee Chang feels that familiar feeling of resigned dread creep under his skin. There is the vile scent of blood on the air.

The streets are deserted, and their horses have to pick their way over the piles of wood and stone that have fallen from some of the houses. A man lies crushed underneath one of the pillars that had given way from the porch of a house, and his mottled black face is twisted beyond recognition into an inhuman snarl. Lee Chang has to avert his eyes.

There are some signs of life, still. Men and women emerge from the rooftops like ghouls, their eyes hooded and their clothing stained with blood. They watch, silently, as Lee Chang and Mu-yeong make their way through the streets. There is muted crying from a girl standing in front of her home, calling for her mother, and it breaks Lee Chang’s heart.

“Where is the magistrate of Dongnae?” calls Mu-yeong, and the ghouls on the rooftops shift, whisper and exchange glances. Then one particularly brave soul breaks the silence, a woman with a baby suckling quietly at her exposed breast.

“They have fled!” she wails. “The officials, they left us to die. The moment these monsters invaded our streets, the magistrate and his fellows upped and ran. They had no pity for those of us without horses and with our children, our elderly to carry on our backs.”

“This is all that’s left of Dongnae?” Lee Chang says, and although his voice is quiet, it carries. The whispers among the ghouls stop, and they stare.

“Aye,” says a man, weathered and old, as he perches wearily on the shingles of a roof. “It is all that is left of our people.”

“The monsters will be back tonight,” Lee Chang says, and he waits patiently for the sudden alarmed cacophony of murmurs to subside, before he continues. “Load your oldest and youngest on carts, and go to the docks before sunset. The monsters fear water – we will put you on ships and send you to Sangju for sanctuary.”

“Who are you to guarantee us passage to Sangju?” shouts one of the men. “And how will we sail? Only the magistrate has the authority to loose the ships docked at the harbour.”

The jade of Lee Chang’s identification tag flashes in the light, as he holds it up. The peasants inhale, a collective gasp, and they scramble to fall to their knees.

“All hail the Crown Prince!” calls the old man, his voice quavering.

“Rest assured,” Lee Chang says quietly, “we will get you to safety. This I swear to you.”

And so the peasants descend from the rooftops. They set about finding carts and supplies from what remains of the rubble, and loading their vulnerable onto the vehicles. When Lee Chang is sure that they will be able to manage on their own, he approaches the old man, who seems the calmest, and who has assumed some sort of leadership role over the group.

“Do you know where the magistrate and the other officials have gone?” he says, lowly. The man shakes his head, then pauses, and thinks.

“Most likely the barracks,” he answers. “The gates are heavy, and would have withstood the monsters’ attacks.” He then gives them directions to the fortress, and they mount their horses and ride again.

When they reach the barracks, the sun is already high in the sky, and Lee Chang curses the time they have wasted running to and fro. “When we find those cowardly officials…” he vows, and Mu-yeong nods from beside him, his jaw set.

“Where is the magistrate of Dongnae?” he roars, glaring up at the soldiers stationed at the top of the fortress walls. Immediately arrows are trained on them, and the ring of Mu-yeong’s unsheathed blade echoes in answer.

“Shoot, and your families will be annihilated!” Mu-yeong bellows. His voice is so sure, the archers hesitate, and turn to look at each other in confusion.

“State your business with the magistrate, or leave!” comes a voice from behind the soldiers, and Lee Chang dislikes it immediately. It is a cold, weaselly kind of voice, the voice of a coward.

“Must the Crown Prince have a reason to seek an audience with the magistrate of Dongnae?”he thunders, and for the second time that day, he thrusts his identification tag towards the sun.

A short little man in blood-spattered white robes shoves his way past the soldiers to squint at the tag. It is gratifying to see his eyes go wide, and his thin body begin to quiver.

“Th-the-the four-clawed dragon – it is the Crown Prince!” he howls, and falls to his knees. The archers quickly follow suit, their bows and arrows falling to the ground.

“You have already committed a grave insult by allowing your archers to aim their arrows at me,” Lee Chang says quietly. “Will you continue adding to your list of crimes by making me repeat myself?”

“O-open the gate!” squeals the little man, gesturing wildly to someone behind him. “It is the Crown Prince and his guard!”

The gates open and they ride in. There to greet them are the magistrate, in rich silken purple robes, and the weaselly man. Both are prostrate on the ground, but Lee Chang grasps the magistrate by the fabric at his throat, and hauls him up.

“A man who is charged with the safety of his people,” he says softly, “fled to the barracks like a coward, and left his people to die. Do only the lives of the rich and well-born matter in this world? I think not.” In disgust, he casts the man back down, where he falls into the dirt and grovels.

“Your Highness – beg pardon – we did not know - ”

“Hundreds of men and women and children died last night,” roars Lee Chang. “Hundreds of them, while you and your officials sat here and cowered behind the walls of your barracks. You do not deserve your title. You are lucky I have not yet asked my guard for your head.” The man shrieks and blubbers, grinding his head deeper into the ground.

“We must assemble ships and sail to Sangju,” Lee Chang continues, looking down at the two men crawling on the ground, with immense loathing. “We must leave before the sun sets. Send some of your men to find the creatures – they will be hiding under houses and in caves and wherever the sun does not shine – and burn their bodies, or remove their heads. That is the only way to kill them. At least we can try to thin their numbers, to delay their spread.”

“Your Highness!” comes another voice from inside the main building, and Lee Chang looks up to see an old lady in silk robes and an ivory pin through her hair emerge from the darkness. She prostrates herself at his feet.

“I am the mother of the ex-commander of this battalion. Please, you must allow my son’s body to be honoured with a proper funeral, or else our family will be disgraced.”

“Y-Your Highness!” another official calls, running out from the building and kowtowing as well. “My son’s body should also be honoured with a funeral. Please do not let his body be defiled.”

“Yes – the officials’ bodies must be protected!” cries the weaselly man in white robes. “We can separate their bodies by the clothes on their back. Silk for officials, linen for peasants. We must honour the officials’ bodies.” His words are followed by a concordant chorus from the rest of the nobles, who have now assembled around them and are kneeling on the ground.

Lee Chang bites back the repulsion in his throat. “I understand your pain, and your loss,” he says finally, “but we must destroy these monsters, if we are to minimise further casualties. They are no longer human. We must destroy them all, whether peasant or noble. That is my final word on the matter.”

The commander’s wife looks as if she has more to say, but at a threatening glare from Mu-yeong, she subsides, pressing her head closer to the ground as if to hide her expression. Lee Chang makes a mental note to keep a close eye on her.

“Those are my orders,” he repeats. “Am I understood?”

The magistrate rears upright on shaky legs. “I, Cho Beom-pal, magistrate of Dongnae, shall heed Your Royal Highness’ commands!” he shouts.

“Good,” Lee Chang nods in approval, and turns away. Mu-yeong stops him before he leaves.

“Your Highness, that man is not to be trusted,” he whispers. “The magistrate is a fool, but his adjutant seems a sneaky, cunning, lying sort. He’d soon as turn around and bite you as he’d lick your boots and grovel at your feet.”

“You are right,” Lee Chang concedes. “Then, Mu-yeong, you must stay here and ensure my orders are carried out. I will return to Jiyulheon by myself, to deliver the good news to them.”

“But Your Highness - !” Mu-yeong protests, his eyes going wide at the notion of the prince having to journey on his own. Lee Chang steadies him with a glance.

“It will be barely half a day that we are apart,” he promises. “Do not worry. I will keep myself safe.”

Mu-yeong finally capitulates, although it is with immense reluctance. Lee Chang understands his feelings – even in Hanyang Mu-yeong had been unwilling to let him out of his sight, though there had been thousands of palace guards to keep him safe. Perhaps even more so because of the guards – both of them knew that trust was to be found few and far between among the residents of Changdeokgung, given how much influence the queen, Cho Hak-ju and the rest of the Haewon Cho clan over them. And when it came to areas outside Hanyang… It had been even more unimaginable for Mu-yeong to let them separate, when there were so many unknowns and potential agents of disaster out there.

Until now, he supposes. But they have no choice – Mu-yeong is the only one he trusts to carry out his wishes. Ever since he had saved the man from certain annihilation of his family because of petty theft, and had earned his loyalty, Mu-yeong has proven that loyalty a thousand times over. Lee Chang realises that there is no one else in this world who he trusts more.

He knows Mu-yeong understands all that, and it is the only reason why he permits himself to leave Lee Chang’s side. Lee Chang gives him a tense smile, to reassure his old friend, then he remounts his steed, and rides through the gates.

It takes only a short amount of time to ride from the barracks to the base of Mount Geumjong again, and when he arrives, he finds the people of Jiyulheon taking their midday meal. He dismounts and hands the reins to one of the men guarding the gate.

Yeong-shin comes out to meet him, a large-brimmed hat shading his eyes from the sun. He is pocketing a knife as he emerges from the main building, and Lee Chang observes how his fingers are coated not with food crumbs, but with bamboo dust. He does not greet Lee Chang, but the question in his eyes is clear. Lee Chang nods in response.

“We must get the people to the docks,” he says. “I have spoken to the magistrate of Dongnae. They have sent men to thin the numbers of the monsters, and to ready the ships for departure to Sangju.”

“How do you know the magistrate won’t leave without us?” Yeong-shin says. Seo- bi comes out from behind him, wiping her hands on her apron. She smells of steamed rice, and her brow is furrowed with weariness. There is fresh blood on her skirts, but she hardly seems to notice.

“I left Mu-yeong to guard them and ensure they would carry out my orders,” Lee Chang replies. “You need not worry. I trust him with my life.”

“I hope you trust him with our lives as well,” mutters Yeong-shin, bad-temperedly, and stalks off towards the carts without a word.

“Seo-bi,” Lee Chang turns to her, “We must get the people of Jiyulheon onto the carts, along with sufficient food and supplies.”

“We do not have much food, but I will prepare what we have left, along with the medical supplies,” she says. “We should have enough to last till Sangju at least.”

They do indeed have enough, Lee Chang realises with some relief, when later they are standing before Dongnae’s ships, and watching the soldiers load cages upon cages of pigs, chickens and other livestock onto the ships. It looks enough to feed an army, and hopefully will be enough to allay the burden placed on Sangju by the arrival of so many refugees.

Mu-yeong meets him as he walks along the docks with Seo-bi and Yeong-shin, helping where they can – assisting an old man up the ramps of one of the ships, catching a bale of straw as it falls off a cart, guiding a lost boy back to his father. All seems to be going well, and in good time, and Lee Chang smiles in approval at Mu-yeong.

“Were you given any trouble?” he asks, under his breath. Mu-yeong’s eyes darken, but he shakes his head. “Not much,” he murmurs in answer. “The commander’s mother tried to load her son onto the ship in a golden casket, but I caught it in time. Her son’s head is now separated from his shoulders, and they are both buried in the mass grave in the forest.”

These selfish fools, Lee Chang thinks to himself furiously, compromising the safety of everyone on board – and for what? Their petty honour and familial pride? These things matter little in a crisis of this magnitude – can they not understand that?

But instead of voicing his thoughts, he asks, “And the monsters?”

“We couldn’t burn them all. There were too many – their numbers appear to have more than doubled, likely from attacking some of the surrounding villages.”

“Your Highness!” comes the magistrate’s voice from somewhere in front of them, and Lee Chang turns, squinting through the dusk light to make out where he is. He is standing on the deck of one of the ships, excitedly waving. His adjutant is standing by him, an extremely sour expression on his face.

Cho Beom-pal tumbles down the ramp of his ship, almost tripping over his feet as he scurries over to Lee Chang and the rest of his group. He falls to his knees.

“Your Royal Highness!” he barks, lifting his head. “I, Cho Beom-pal, magistrate of Dongnae, have carried out your orders in full! We have loaded all our supplies and people onto the ships and are now ready to depart. We have saved you and your companions space on our last ship – it would be a great honour if you would join us on our vessel!”

“Your Highness,” Seo-bi says quietly, and Lee Chang turns to look at her. She is pointing towards a group of four peasants who are cowering on the ramp.

“Ah – we do not have enough space on the ships for some people,” Cho Beom-pal explains, scratching his head in embarrassment. “We could barely fit the food as it is… And your guard already stopped us from taking all our treasures and silks and accoutrements… There really isn’t any space left for more people.”

“If we do not board the ship, there will be space for those men, will there not?” Lee Chang says sternly. There is a sharp inhale from beside him, where Yeong-shin is standing.

“W-w-w-we?” stammers Cho Beom-pal, chancing a peek up at him from his prostrate position. “You mean – you and your companions will not be boarding the boat?”

“You, your adjutant, my guard and I,” Lee Chang says lowly. “As nobles of the Joseon kingdom, it is our duty to protect and serve the people. Those peasants have faced one night of death with courage and strength – they deserve to see many more nights. I trust that you have no issue with my plan?”

“No, Your Highness!” cries Cho Beom-pal. “We will – we will fetch our horses immediately!” He grovels for a bit more before hurrying away to his ship, eyes averted and head bowed.

“Your Highness!” Mu-yeong says from behind Lee Chang, and his voice is aghast. “It is not safe for you. You must board one of those boats and go to Sangju.”

Lee Chang looks at the peasants clutching each other on the ramp of the ship, their bodies thin and spindly, their clothes worn and ragged with the wear and tear of poverty. He thinks of his own childhood, spent clothed in silks and jade and regalia that would cost more than these peasants would ever see in a lifetime.

“I am different,” he says quietly in answer to Mu-yeong, the words slipping unbidden from him.

“Your Highness?” Mu-yeong asks, in disbelief.

“I am different from the petty, greedy officials of Dongnae,” Lee Chang says, his voice growing stronger and surer with every word he says, “and I am different from the Haewon Cho clan. I will not abandon these people, not in their time of need.”

There is a beat of silence as Mu-yeong stares at him, his mouth open. Then his mouth twists, almost a sad smile, but not quite, and he nods softly in acknowledgement.

“Your Highness,” comes Seo-bi’s soft voice from behind him. She meets his eyes for the first time, and he is taken aback by the iron will reflected there.

“I am a healer,” she says. “I will go with you.”

Lee Chang nods in acceptance, after a surprised pause. While it seems like a rash decision to make – she could, after all, be sailing in comfort and safety towards Sangju, instead of fleeing from the monsters on horseback, with little guarantee of survival – he appreciates the thought that must have gone into such a choice. And it would be no great loss – in fact, it would be a great advantage – to have such a steadfast woman at his side, especially one with knowledge of the healing arts.

“Your Highness,” says Yeong-shin, and it startles Lee Chang – this is the first time he has heard the title come from the man’s lips with so little pugnacity. “I am a tiger hunter. I would accompany you as well.”

“He needs no further guard,” Mu-yeong splutters, looking at him with intense dislike. “I am more than capable - ”

Lee Chang holds out his arm to stop him, for the distrustful glare Yeong-shin darts at the retreating back of Cho Beom-pal, and the figure of his assistant still standing atop the ship’s deck, speaks volumes.

“Then I would be honoured,” Lee Chang says softly, seriously, “to have you at my back.”

Yeong-shin looks at him, and his eyes are dark with some unreadable emotion, and he holds his gaze for a second too long, before finally he casts his eyes downward. In any other, it would seem like a gesture of obeisance and deference to one of a much higher station, but Lee Chang has the sneaking feeling that Yeong-shin holds little respect for the royals or nobles of the kingdom.

Unfortunately, Lee Chang has to agree with his bleak outlook, from what he has seen of the upper class so far, and he vows to himself that he will prove himself to be different.

Mu-yeong fetches enough supplies for the six of them to last the next few days. Cho Beom-pal returns with two steeds and his adjutant, whose expression – if it were even possible – is sourer than ever.

“You swore an oath to protect these people,” Lee Chang says, to the two of them, while he stares at the departing vessels. “You were supposed to be men of the people, but you turned your back on them. Did your oath mean nothing to you?”

“Your Highness!” wails the adjutant. The two of them fall to their knees yet again, and kowtow to him. “Forgive us our errors – we will not make that mistake again!”

“Get up,” he says harshly, already sick of their constant boot-licking. They are a tiresome lot, just like the other simpering officials back in Hanyang, and he wants to have nothing more to do with them. And yet they will have to spend the rest of the next few days together. Already he is beginning to regret his decision to bring them along – but he’d be damned if he were to allow them safe passage on the ship without repercussions for their earlier cowardice.

“Your Highness, there is no time now, we must ride to Sangju,” says Yeong-shin urgently, from beside him. The sky is turning a dark foreboding purple, and the sun is sinking below the horizon. In his mind Lee Chang can already hear the awful moans of the undead monsters.

“Right,” he answers, quietly. “We ride to Sangju.”

#changshin #kingdom #kingdom netflix #lee chang #yeong shin #upm works #upm #kingdom fanfiction #changshin fanfiction

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synchlora · 4 years ago

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if i crash ? uwu

Summary: Party Poison learns how cruel the city can be to those that don't like it's rules

(aka Party Poison experiences divine intervention aka the phoenix witch is tired of having to pull every string of fate to keep Party Poison's dumb ass alive)

Warnings: this includes the idea that Party Poison's memory was wiped and manipulated by BLi, and though it's not spoken about in detail in this particular scene it is still implied.

how did you manage to choose the one witch-related wip on here man?? anyway im not complaining this'll be a fun one bc it's abt Party's backstory!! not so much fun for them. but hey, youll get backstory!! anyway, all u need to know for this is that Poison is abt 13/14 and has just recently been taken from their family and had their memory wiped. they were then basically just left out on the streets by BLi and then they followed a weird purple light into a warehouse w some people before they passed out of exhaustion.

-----

When they awoke, they found themself in a very strange place. Yes, it was a warehouse much like the one they faintly remembered being in before losing consciousness, but it seemed much brighter somehow. Not bright in the sense of the flickering LEDs and blindingly white halls of BLi buildings, but bright in more of an emotional sense.

The first thing they noticed was the graffiti splashed across the walls.

Beautiful paintings of figures they’d never seen before, words hardly readable in their massive letters and unique fonts. Even abstract patterns littered the halls of this place, color weaving its way into every corner until no monochrome concrete walls were left. Though they didn’t know how, seeing the graffiti filled their chest with the saddest sense of nostalgia. Particularly one figure that they couldn’t quite place.

A tall, hunched silhouette- no, rather just someone cloaked in black- covered in feathers obscuring all but their face, hands, and feet. Though not covered by feathers, their face was still hidden behind a white mask, haunting hollows of eyes staring out from behind its porcelain cover. In their hands- more like claws- they held a cheap metal shopping cart. One hand was wrapped around the handle, pushing it forward with ease, while the other held something that took them a moment to recognize.

A mask.

Bright yellow with blue triangles above and below each eye-hole, held dangling from one claw on a flimsy little stretched-out length of string. The more they looked at the mask, the more familiar it felt, though they certainly had no idea why. The painting practically seemed to glow, the same purple-ish shade that had guided them here in the first place. They looked back up to the eyes, somehow seeming to be looking back at them now despite not having the appearance to do so.

“You religious or somethin’, kid?”

#and thats all u get!!#evil cutoff i know but im still figuring this bit out #eventually ull get to meet one of my juvie hall ocs >:) but not just yet #thank u for the ask abt this one!!#i rly need to work on partys backstory lmao #killjoys tag #writing #brain washing tw #narratorexclaimationmark

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hermannsthumb · 6 years ago

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ok to kick off october (aka the month of halloween) bc its officially past midnight heres a little ficlet i tweeted the concept of a few weeks back! some classic “hermann gets dragged along into a corny fake haunted house and newt is the semi-incompetent worker who keeps flirting instead of actually trying to scare him” au meetcute. also dedicated to @newts-geiszler and @ee-void, the former who indulges me in all my halloween newmann talk, the latter who drew VERY cute art of this on twitter. im gonna make this longer for ao3 lol

The house is large, full of dark corners and artificial fog, fake, too-red gore splattering the walls, the hardwood floors, and cobwebs—these quite possibly real—hang from the chandeliers and wall-set candle holders. It all looks a bit like the set for some bad horror movie. Something that would come on the television at midnight that Hermann would deliberately skip over. “Forty dollars,” he sniffs, as he waits in line with Tendo, Mako, and Raleigh, “for this.”

Piercing, electronic screams drift through the shadowy doorway. The line moves forward. “Look, it’s totally worth it,” Tendo insists. “We’ve done this—what, how many times?”

“Three times,” Mako says. She smiles at Hermann. “It is fun.”

A “zombie”—face green, clothing hanging from its body, groaning—ambles past them, nearly bumping into Hermann, and Raleigh takes a small step between it and Mako.

By the time their group is ushered inside fully, three more zombies and a vampire have wandered by and Hermann is more than ready to go home. His leg isn’t aching him—not yet—but his head is, and it’s been a long day and it looks as though there are a great many stairs to climb in the house. And the flashing strobe lights aren’t helping anything. “Where first?” Tendo says, and points at a little signpost listing the different attractions the house has to offer. Knife-wielding serial killers are delegated to the dining room and kitchen, evidently, vampires to the master bedroom, bloodthirsty scarecrows to the field beyond the house and the undead! to the graveyard beyond that. “Your pick, Hermann!”

Whatever will get them out of here faster. There’s a large group clogging the main entrance that leads to the dining area and Hermann doesn’t particularly fancy standing around anymore, so he examines the sign for their other options. “Basement?” he says.

“The mad scientist’s lab,” Tendo says, lowering his voice ominously, and Hermann sighs.

A few people in costume leap out at them on their journey to find the basement, or, the mad scientist’s lab: a man in a hockey mask wielding a bladeless (and blood-splattered) chainsaw, a villain Hermann recognizes from one of those countless 1980s slasher flicks, a murderous and fanged clown. Much to the delight of Mako, Tendo, and Raleigh, and much to the disinterest of Hermann. He spares a glance at his phone when they finally descend upon the lab. Half past nine. Hermann would normally be in bed by now.

The mad scientist’s lab is decked out in sterile metal, flickering overhead lights, and shelves lined with strange disembodied things in jars. Hermann catches sight of some sort of animatronic Frankenstein’s monster-esque creature strapped to a metal table. That’s all there seems to be. It’s terribly anti-climatic. “Shouldn’t someone be jumping out at us?” Raleigh says, as they stand there staring.

A door swings open, and a short man in thick glasses and a lab coat stumbles in. He’s covered in more fake blood from his face to his clothing and holding what appears to be a large alien brain in a jar. “Shit!” he hisses. He nearly drops the jar in his haste to get to the side of the strapped-down creature, and he’s muttering under his breath. Hermann finds him oddly charming. Tendo and Mako are snickering.

When it’s clear the man won’t be leaping at them or stabbing himself with a retractable knife or any of the host of other things Hermann’s seen others do tonight, he can’t help but say “Are you meant to be scary?”

The man prods the animatronic creature one last time and turns his attention to them once more. “Uh. Obviously,” the man says, and he holds up his bare hands. “You see any gloves here?” He taps at his glasses. “Any goggles? I’m a walking OSHA violation, man. I’m a fatal lab accident waiting to happen.” The animatronic creature suddenly jerks to life with a deep yell, sitting up ramrod-straight and fighting its bonds. The man also yells, in surprise, and he falls back and does drop the jar this time. “Fuck! Now it works.”

Hermann has a hard time stifling his laugh; his colleagues are not even trying. “Are you quite alright?” Hermann says, as green liquid and the fake rubber of the brain ooze across the floor.

The man hauls himself to his feet, brushing off his bloody lab coat, and shoots Hermann a broad smile. “Yep! Yep. All good. Technical difficulties. All minor, though.” He ducks out of sight again, presumably for a broom.

“Come on,” Tendo says, grinning, and nudges the small of Hermann’s back.

They wander on through the basement. The short “mad scientist” they left behind isn’t the only thing to see down there, but he was certainly the only one that caught Hermann’s eye, and the rest of it passes by in a blur. They’re ascending the staircase once more—Hermann, slower up it on account of his cane, bringing up the rear—when a familiar face pops up in a gaping hole in the wall.

“Hi,” the mad scientist says, not making any move to shout or make a grab for Hermann. He’s just leaning on the jagged wood.

“Hello,” Hermann says, and frowns. “Shouldn’t you be—”

“Jumping out at you?” he says. “Probably.” He hoists one leg over the hole, then the other, much to the surprise of Hermann, then lands heavily on the staircase just behind Hermann. He dusts off his lab coat. “So,” the mad scientist says, “uh, I’m Newt. What’s your name?”

“Hermann.” It’s hard to make out Newt’s face from underneath the makeup and fake blood and the poor lighting to boot, but he has pleasantly round cheeks and a very nice smile that Hermann likes instantly.

“Hermann,” Newt repeats, and then goes and spoils the moment by waggling his eyebrows ridiculously. “You come here often, then?”

Hermann makes a face and begins ascending the stairs once more. “Not if I can help it,” he says. He’s lost Mako, Tendo, and Raleigh, but he’s got a new companion, evidently—Newt’s trailing after him, hands shoved into his lab coat pockets.

“Not your scene?” Newt says.

Hermann shakes his head.

“Well, don’t worry,” Newt says, and winks cheekily. “I’ll protect you from—fuck—!” An animatronic skeleton swings out at them from another gaping hole in the wall, and Newt jumps and grabs onto Hermann’s left arm.

“How heroic,” Hermann says dryly, and pats Newt’s hand. Newt does not let go, but Hermann finds he doesn’t really mind. “Why are you working here, exactly?” It doesn’t seem like Newt’s scene, either.

“I’m part time for the season,” Newt says, eyeing the dangling and fairly innocuous skeleton nervously. “I just love Halloween.” They step up another few stairs. Nothing else jumps out at them; Newt starts to relax. And talk more. “I’m a full time biologist, though,” he says. “So the mad scientist shtick isn’t totally a shtick.” He plucks at his lab coat. “I actually stole this from work.”

“You’ve covered it in fake blood,” Hermann says. “Doesn’t that count as some sort of contaminate?”

“Maybe,” Newt says, and shrugs. “I never actually wear it. Anyway, what do you do?”

“I teach maths at the university nearby,” Hermann says, and Newt’s face lights up.

“Oh!” he says. “This—” he waves his hand over Hermann’s—sensible—cardigan, tweed blazer, and glasses chain, “—isn’t a costume, then? I thought you were supposed to be a librarian or something. Math professor makes a lot more sense, though. Cool.” Hermann supposes he should be offended over the jab as his appearance, but Newt’s endearing in some odd, infectious sort of way. Like a particularly animated and particularly resilient weed.

They’ve reached the top of the staircase and Hermann’s colleagues are nowhere in sight, so he doesn’t let go of Newt’s hand quite yet. They wander out to the front of the house together, through a kitschy little graveyard of Styrofoam headstones engraved with terrible puns and more rolling fog.

“My shift’s over in five minutes,” Newt suddenly says, casual. He’s watching Hermann from the corner of his eye. “Just so you know. If you wanted to ditch this place and, uh, grab a drink or something.”

“A drink,” Hermann says, and then he realizes what Newt’s implying. “Oh. Yes. I would like that.” He doesn’t imagine Tendo will be too upset if he calls it a night early. Especially considering the circumstances: Newt is even nicer to look at in the moonlight, faux blood splatters and all (and he does hope Newt has a change of clothing, or else they may not be let in to any bars), and though Hermann isn’t the type to run around falling for handsome strangers at Halloween attractions something about Newt feels different.

“Ha! Awesome!” Newt’s near-bouncing on his feet with excitement and beaming at Hermann, which is probably why he doesn’t see the chainsaw-wielding man in the hockey mask from before until he leaps out right in front of them. Newt swears loud enough to wake the dead and undead alike. “Shit! Okay,” he says, as Hermann smothers his laughter behind his hand and the man in the hockey mask crouches behind a tombstone once more, “I’m so over this.” He starts dragging Hermann towards the exit. “Let’s go, Hermann.”

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #halloweeeeeeeeeeen!

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tevotbegotnaught · 6 years ago

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“The conductor…in the power he has over others…it is in his interest as a human being, as well as that of his musical achievements, to resist the temptation to misuse it. Tyranny can never bring to fruition artistic-or for that matter human- gifts; subordination under a despot does not make for joy in one’s music-making. Intimidation deprives the musician of the full enjoyment of his talent and proficiency. Yet I should certainly not want to impugn the employment of earnest severity or even the occasional borrowing of the Bolt of Zeus; the latter if the hand knows how to wield it, can in exceptional situations bring surprisingly good results. Severity is a legitimate even indispensable means of dealing with people...”

Bruno Walter

In my Summer of 42 (years), I was a college freshman…again. With neither Mexican weed nor dormitory hijinks to distract me, I worked through the full Brooklyn College Core Curriculum and a handful of music courses. My degree plan also required an ensemble each semester. When the Assistant Dean interviewed me, he looked over my CV and immediately suggested their Jazz Band. After hearing them, I chose a contemporary music ensemble founded by a composition professor. Fall semester, she was on sabbatical and a trumpet prof, Juilliard guy and veteran freelancer, ran the class. To begin, he sat everyone in a circle and asked us to play “Happy Birthday" in hocket. Most of the class was unsure of the melody and some also thought it a stupid idea. With our nonstandard instrumentation, we massacred Second Viennese School composers for the rest of the term.

Spring term, the founder returned. She was just over five feet tall, brown-skinned, with narrow shoulders and mineshaft dark eyes. When she listened, her head nodded while bottomless eyes fixed on you. Raised in a distressed country, her life moved from prodigy to conservatory-trained professional with impeccable musicianship: piano, score reading, solfege, conducting, improvising, composing. Then, she came to the US, with zero money and English and rebuilt her career from scratch. At BC, she conducted the orchestra until politics pushed her out. Now, she gave composition lessons and led this ensemble.

Our roster still read as spare parts: three singers, three pianists, two flutes, violin, saxophone, clarinet, guitar; some highly skilled, others not. For most, English was a second or even third language. Our professor's first assignment: list your colleagues’ instruments, find pieces for a subset of our forces, select only pieces written after 1960, bring scores/parts for audition.

The following week, we presented our finds. First, someone showed her a John Cage duet. As she turned pages, Maestra’s face went blank .

“Why did you get this?”

A mumbled answer.

Maestra closed the score. “You got eet because eet looks easy. Didn't you? First of all, it’s a short duet. Three, maybe four minutes of music. Nothing to do on a real pro-GRAM. Not serious. Not serious at all.”

More mumbling.

“Get something else. Thank you.”

She jabbed the score into their hands, then addressed the class.

“Nothing about John Cage. John is extraordinary. When you choose music, don’t just take a name you theenk you know. Read the score. You are musicians …supposed to be….”

Next, one of the singers produced a folio. Its font, ornate and oversized. I winced. Maestra saw it was a Puccini aria with piano accompaniment and recoiled.

“After nineteen-sixty? Thees? You are kidding me!”

Again, she faced us.

“Thees is NOT opera work-SHOP. I know some of you did not make it there. I'm very sorry about that. Please find some other music to sing. There are so many good theengs. I hope you will find out. Music does not end with Verdi, Puccini.”

So it went. Gratefully, she anticipated our poor choices and suggested some pieces.

Meastra spoke Spanish to some students, aware of the terrain they navigated and supportive. Jorge, a Mexican pianist, was one of her projects. He was a skilled player, an enthusiastic and warm colleague. His giggle often broke up the class. In our third meeting, we rolled the piano front, Jorge sat on the bench. While he longed for mama's home cooking, he wasn’t missing any meals in Brooklyn. His midsection expanded well beyond his tight-waisted pants, straining shirt buttons. Maestra questioned him on preparation: “you’re playing the second movement, what about the third?”

Unaffected by the prodding, he began to play. A minute in, she said, “stop”.

He continued, eyes closed.

She shouted, “Stop! I’m telling you, STOP"

He looked over.

“JORGE….WHAT…ARE…YOU….DOING?”

It wasn’t meant as a question. Jorge smiled and gently shook his head.

“Why are you smiling? Look at you!”

Her voice leveled.

“This is not ready. It’s better, but it's not ready.”

She shifted.

“I am very worried about you. Look..at…your…STOMACH. You need to take better care of yourself. You know, pianists perform in pro-FILE. Theenk what you show to the audience.”

Jorge wasn't smiling. He put his hand on his belly.

“Everyone should con-see-der an exer-CISE pro-GRAM. I am forty years, Dio mio! Almost FEEFTY years older than some of you. Take care of yourselves.”

She dismissed him with a sweeping gesture.

“Ok, who is next? Anna, where is the list? Geeve it to me!”

Her assistant, a brilliant, tiny, Yankee grad student, always cleaned up.

Maestra partnered Jorge with another pianist for a Gyorgy Ligeti duo. Its ingenious architecture, a complex cycle revealed one beat at a time. In Yogi Berra's construction, half the score was ninety-nine percent rests. The players needed infallible inner time. While they played, Maestra leaned over the piano, right hand supporting her, left turning pages. She nodded her head slightly in tempo. The pianist's hits charged toward and away from each other like Pacman's gobbling goblins.

“You are late!” she slammed her left hand down. They went back. Another hammer blow. Back again. The piece never made it to the program.

At the end of the initial class, she approached me about Milhaud's “Le Creation du Monde", a chamber work for winds, including alto saxophone. We didn’t have the other winds, of course, but a young woodwind quintet, in residence for the year, would help out.

“Le Creation" story moves from brooding chorale to a raggy bolero where the winds pass around jumpy tunes, then strut them all, polyphonically, in a joyous finale.

At the first of four rehearsals, we were less than half personnel. Maestra had been enthusiastic about the quintet, encouraging us to meet, hear and study with them. But they were collaborating with major artists and appearing all over the world. Their residency, now in name only. No one in the group even bothered to return her emails. Our conductor was livid. (Later, the assistant assured us that Maestra never returned emails, either.) In rehearsal, the music just marked time. In long stretches with no tune and no landmarks, I fell into a hole and missed my entrance.

“What are you DOING! Counting! Count-ting! I can’t do everytheeng for you.”

Concert day was the first we all sat down to play. In the midst of my disciplined colleagues, I was a bellowing hippo. During the chorale, my slow descending notes were either out-of-tune, out-of-time, the wrong dynamic, or all three.

The baton came down hard “NO..NO..NO. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

“How can you be late. It's jazz. Jazz! You play jazz? Right? You know who is John Col-TRANE? Play it like Col-TRANE! Why should I have to tell YOU this. Come on!”

I wore other hats that night: soprano, clarinet. Still, my mind remained fogged through the Milhaud finale.

The quintet players all demolished their solos. With a huge smile, Maestra gave each well-deserved bows. When they were done, she flashed her eyes at me, scowling. Then, jerked both her hands upwards, like she was flipping a pool toy. I stood up and stared straight down.

Next semester, a composition student brought a score. It was mostly squiggles and arrows, notation designed to move the music forward without defining functional harmony or conventional melody. She conducted a circle for each “bar”. We could gauge the length of each gesture and respond in time. Simultaneously, she sang the gestures using their pitched start/end points, conducted, turned pages and offered substantive commentary. If one of us was even a second late, her glance immolated them.

I became friends with some of her students. Waiting outside her office, they often heard shouting. When the door opened, students walked out in tears. Some planned to work closely with Maestra toward their Master's or DMA. Those plans would change...

An alumni couple created an endowed chair for Maestra, protecting her from political games. To celebrate, students accompanied her to the donors’ Connecticut home for a musicale. We loaded two vans with the usual music school suspects: waifish Asian virtuoso string players, an Eastern European sturm und drang pianist, a diffident “difficult” composer, and bit players like me.

Both donors were in their eighties and fabulously rich, earnest, lefty intellectuals. The wife wore a gas mask-like apparatus, its hoses attached to a whirring box on her back. I strained to understand her speech, but her eyes shone with love and curiosity. The couple warmly welcomed us to a large room packed with guests.

I was part of a quartet: oboe, flute, clarinet and piano, playing a student work. The composer, a young Dominican guy, rising star in the program. A Caribbean undergraduate writing skilled takes on contemporary European music. His piece used the difference-tone clusters of Gyorgy Ligeti: loud, high notes, staggered and longheld, producing acoustic anomalies: window-fan undertones and piercing oscillations. Bathing in timbral waves and madly counting beats, I couldn’t find the piano part, though we made it to the end without requiring oxygen or a conductor. The composer took a awkward bow and disappeared.

With Maestra as Maitre’d we served up a baroque cello sonata, Beethoven piano music and some Sondheim. Then, our little foursome loudly dropped a turd on the buffet table.

The donor husband was one of those ruddy-faced white guys who wear baggy corduroys and turtle necks over their barrel physiques. He sought me out, towering above me as I packed up my clarinet.

“What did he mean with that piece?"

“Sir, I…I wouldn’t want to represent the composer, he never said anything about..”

“Now, you must know something.”

He was an important man accustomed to getting answers, fast and in full.

“I know my part and how it fits with the others. The woodwinds are playing difference tones, Stravinsky used...”

“Why didn’t HE explain that to us? We go to concerts all the time. Conductors explain new music. They give examples, give context. You can’t just write something like that and expect people to automatically understand it.”

Gulp....“Of course.”

“It’s his responsibility to help the audience understand the music”

I looked over. By the buffet, the composer was holding a plate, one of the string players laughing next to him. Mrs Donor approached me, extending her hand. The box on her back hissed and clicked. Above the mask, searching eyes, below, a voice from a radio in another room. Was she talking about the quartet? It was too uncomfortable. I interrupted.

“Thank you so much for your hospitality and the opportunity to play for you. You and your husband are so generous.”

She squeezed my hand and leaned in, radio transmission drowning in static. Her husband came to her side.

“My wife is saying we've been to many, many concerts of new music. Starting way back, with Lenny Bernstein. He taught us there’s always something to learn. He introduced us to many extraordinary artists”

He put his hand lightly on her back. Over her shoulder, Maestra was listening to a guest, head level with their sternum, eyes searchlights in reverse. The radio faded and its whirring submerged in the din.

We got back very late. Our vans parked by the gatehouse and turnstile on the east side of campus. A few yellow lights glowed in the music building. Maestra thanked us. We said goodnight.

Drifting on an acoustic sea, our ancestors explored sound, harnessing the waves. Between foaming peaks and psychic undertow, they found power. From our African beginnings, to the stars, every lineage counted on those who navigated, who mastered instruments, who carried in them songs and stories. They became the music, while it lasted.

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delanceyxbrothers · 6 years ago

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Time— Part One

((Psst, @dimenovelhero I’m still trying to decide if I like Jack and Lucille better as a couple or as best friends… if you can’t tell by the fact that I’ve now written two fics and neither of them are romantic despite me totally shipping them. Also, bc I wrote Lucille protecting jack from his worst nightmare, here’s jack protecting her from hers))

The man had showed up fifteen minutes before the end of Medda’s show, and five minutes before Lucille would come in from her dinner break. Jack would usually have eaten at the deli with her, but he’d eaten at the lodging house, and the headlines had been horrible the past few days—so, he was looking through costumes as he waited for her to come back, taking a rain check on their usual meal. He was an inch or three taller than him, with dark blond hair and a clean shaven face that did nothing to hide his age. There wasn’t anything particularly suspicious about the man— other than the fact that he asked for Lucille Delancey instead of Lucille Lancey, the name she went by in the theatre— but there was something too familiar about him that made Jack feel on edge. However, he had said that she was expecting him, and they let him through the back door, so who was he to refuse to let him stay.

It became very obvious when Lucille finally came back that she had not been expecting anyone at all. There was an instant change the moment she saw the man, her whole body went still, her jacket dangling centimeters from its hook by the door as she kept eye contact with her visitor. Jack had never seen her this startled, not even when Snyder showed up, and that was almost scarier than the fact that there would not be anybody in their area of the until the show ended.

“Lucy, baby, it’s been too long.” The man said, smiling cordially despite the tension in the air. “‘Lijah said I’d find you making dresses in a theatre— you always did mirror your mother’s style in everything you made. I saw that picture above the marquee and I knew it had to be you.”

“What do you want, Phineas?” She asked, voice flat as she rigidly put her jacket down. “You’re supposed to be in—“

“Is that really how you’re going to talk to your father after almost eight years?” Phineas snapped, and Jack moved closer to Lucille as she took another step towards her father. “Come on, baby girl— after all I’ve been through, I need some help getting back on my feet.”

Jack had barely started to ask what was happening when Lucille started laughing, shaking her head at the request. There was an edge to everything she did, brown eyes cutting through him as she straightened her posture. There was only a few inches between them, two generations battling for dominance in the costume shop of a Bowery theatre.

“Get out.” She replied harshly, motioning to the door. “Either get out, or I’ll get the bouncer to show you the way.”

“Lucille, you don’t need to be so—“

“She told you to get out, now leave.” Jack snarled, trying get Lucille behind him, but she stood firm, shrugging him off.

“Jack, I need you to go get O’Riley, and maybe even ask Medda to call the police if he doesn’t leave.” Lucille said calmly, squeezing his hand gently as he tried to argue— although she knew there was no way in hell he was leaving her alone, not when he had seen the terrified look on her face when she saw her father sitting by the half-finished gown she’d worked on all day. “Do it, please.”

“Go ahead, Jack,” the man said, seemingly taunting him. “I would like to speak to my daughter alone.”

“You’re not saying anything to me! You’re going to leave this theatre and never come back, or I’ll sent you back to the hole you were thrown in eight years ago!” Lucille snapped, and time seemed to slow down as Jack watched her father’s face twist with fury as he lunged for her.

Lucille barely had time to react as her father grabbed her by the arm, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises as he snarled threats. As Jack attempted to get between them, there was a loud crack and a sharp pain under his eye, causing him to reel back as Phineas did.

“I told you to get out!” Lucille screamed, and Jack finally saw what had hit him— a sliver of wood from a now-broken hanger, the other half across the room with the force Lucille used against her father. She was still holding it in her hand, determined to give him a matching bruise on the other side of his head if he came after her. “Just get the hell out and don’t come back!”

“If I leave, I’m going straight to your brothers— and I won’t be as gentle as I was with you!” He hissed, wiping blood off of his face. “All I need is a couple bucks to get me straight—“

“The only thing you’ll get if you ever talk about my brothers again will be much worse than a knot on your head, do you understand?” She threatened, raising the hanger another inch in the air. “If you even think about going near them, I swear I’ll—“

“What in the world is going on in here?” Medda asked furiously as Jack pulled Lucille away from her father, blood smeared across his face from the scrape. They must have been a sight to behold, two men bleeding all over the shop from various wounds while Lucille held a broken hanger over her head like it was a medieval flail.

“Nothing, Miss Medda,” Lucille responded quickly, leaning heavily on Jack. Her heart was pounding so heavily that he could almost see her pulse with every beat, her entire frame trembling. “He was just leaving.”

O’Riley—who had followed the sound of screaming and fighting—took a step forwards when Phineas didn’t move, but the older man smiled with as much charm as he could muster as he picked up his hat and coat.

“I’ll see you soon, Li’l Lucy.” He said over his shoulder as he left, easily moving passed the small crowd as if he wasn’t dripping in his own blood.

“Honey, do you need me to call the police, or maybe someone to walk you home?” Medda asked after a moment, looking worried for Lucille. She had gone at least three shades paler and two shades greener, the hand clutching Jack’s arm almost cutting off his circulation. “I’ll make sure everyone knows never to let him in here again.”

“I can walk her home, don’t worry.” Jack said quickly, doing his best to gently take her hand before she managed to crush him.

“He won’t come here again, don’t worry.” Lucille replied, finally setting the hanger down on the table after five minutes of gripping it as tightly as she could. “I’m sorry about all of that— I didn’t know he was on the streets again.”

For a moment, the woman was silent, her face a mask of worry and displeasure. She knew that Lucille had told her as much as she was going to say about the event, and Medda wouldn’t have pushed the issue either way. She was too shaken up to be pressed for answers, so Medda finally nodded, patting Jack on the arm.

“Don’t bother doing any repairs tonight, Lucille— just take a few minutes to breathe, and go on home.” She gave her a gentle smile, hoping it said all she needed to hear. “It isn’t like there’s much work for you anyways— I’m not that rough on your costumes.”

Lucille smiled in relief, nodding when the words to thank her didn’t come. She felt dizzy, and sick, and scared to death, not even Medda closing the door behind her enough to calm her down. Jack did the only thing he knew to do, carefully leading her to the chair by her desk, moving fabric aside so she could sit down before her legs gave out.

He knelt down beside her, still holding her hand when she started to cry. After a moment, he put an arm around her shoulders, letting her lean on him until her sobbing subsided.

“Just tell me if you don’t want to talk,” he finally said once she had wiped her face, her eyes bloodshot. “I just… can I ask you what just happened?”

Lucille smiled sadly, still wiping at her eyes, flinching as he put pressure on her bruised arm. “It’s a long story, Jack.”

“I’ve got time.”

#blood mention #abuse tw #if you need me to tag anything then i will!!!#dimenovelhero

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hereticaloracles · 6 years ago

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Asteroid Files: Medusa

Helios on Medusa– Fuck it. We’re doing Medusa.

The Astronomy– 149 Medusa is a bright-colored, stony main-belt asteroid named after the Gorgon Medusa, a snake-haired monster in Greek mythology. When it was discovered, Medusa was by far the smallest asteroid found (although this was not known at that time). Since then, many thousands of smaller asteroids have been found. It was also the closest asteroid to the Sun discovered up to that point, beating the long-held record of 8 Flora. It remained the closest asteroid to the Sun until 433 Eros and 434 Hungaria were found, leading to the discovery of two new families of asteroids inward from the 4:1 Kirkwood gap which forms the boundary of the main belt.

Photometric observations of this asteroid gave a light curve with a rather long rotation period of 26.038 ± 0.002 hours and a brightness variation of 0.56 ± 0.03 in magnitude. It has an orbital period of 3.21 years or about 1171 days.

The Myth– In Greek mythology, Medusa (“guardian, protectress”) was a Gorgon, generally described as a winged human female with living venomous snakes in place of hair. Gazers upon her face would turn to stone. Most sources describe her as the daughter of Phorcys and Ceto, though the author Hyginus makes her the daughter of Gorgon and Ceto. Medusa was beheaded by the hero Perseus, who thereafter used her head, which retained its ability to turn onlookers to stone, as a weapon until he gave it to the goddess Athena to place on her shield. In classical antiquity, the image of the head of Medusa appeared in the evil-averting device known as the Gorgoneion.

The three Gorgon sisters—Medusa, Stheno, and Euryale—were all children of the ancient marine deities Phorcys and his sister Ceto, chthonic monsters from an archaic world. While ancient Greek vase-painters and relief carvers imagined Medusa and her sisters as beings born of monstrous form, sculptors and vase-painters of the fifth century began to envisage her as being beautiful as well as terrifying. In an ode written in 490 BC Pindar already speaks of “fair-cheeked Medusa”.

In a late version of the Medusa myth, related by the Roman poet Ovid (Metamorphoses 4.770), Medusa was originally a ravishingly beautiful maiden, “the jealous aspiration of many suitors,” but because Poseidon had raped her in Athena’s temple, the enraged Athena transformed Medusa’s beautiful hair to serpents and made her face so terrible to behold that the mere sight of it would turn onlookers to stone. In Ovid’s telling, Perseus describes Medusa’s punishment by Minerva (Athena) as just and well earned.

In most versions of the story, she was beheaded by the hero Perseus, who was sent to fetch her head by King Polydectes of Seriphus because Polydectes wanted to marry his mother. The gods were well aware of this, and Perseus received help. He received a mirrored shield from Athena, gold, winged sandals from Hermes, a sword from Hephaestus and Hades’s helm of invisibility. Since Medusa was the only one of the three Gorgons who was mortal, Perseus was able to slay her while looking at the reflection from the mirrored shield he received from Athena. During that time, Medusa was pregnant by Poseidon. When Perseus beheaded her, Pegasus, a winged horse, and Chrysaor, a giant wielding a golden sword, sprang from her body. Harrison’s translation states “the Gorgon was made out of the terror, not the terror out of the Gorgon.

A number of early classics scholars interpreted the myth of the Medusa as a quasi-historical – “based on or reconstructed from an event, custom, style, etc., in the past”, or “sublimated” memory of an actual invasion. According to Joseph Campbell:

The legend of Perseus beheading Medusa means, specifically, that “the Hellenes overran the goddess’s chief shrines” and “stripped her priestesses of their Gorgon masks”, the latter being apotropaic faces worn to frighten away the profane.

That is to say, there occurred in the early thirteenth century B.C. an actual historic rupture, a sort of sociological trauma, which has been registered in this myth, much as what Freud terms the latent content of a neurosis is registered in the manifest content of a dream: registered yet hidden, registered in the unconscious yet unknown or misconstrued by the conscious mind

In 1940, Sigmund Freud’s “Das Medusenhaupt (Medusa’s Head)” was published posthumously. In Freud’s interpretation: “To decapitate = to castrate. The terror of Medusa is thus a terror of castration that is linked to the sight of something. Numerous analyses have made us familiar with the occasion for this: it occurs when a boy, who has hitherto been unwilling to believe the threat of castration, catches sight of the female genitals, probably those of an adult, surrounded by hair, and essentially those of his mother.” In this perspective, the ‘ravishingly beautiful’ Medusa is the mother remembered in innocence; before the mythic truth of castration dawns on the subject. Classic Medusa, in contrast, is an Oedipal/libidinous symptom. Looking at forbidden mother (in her hair-covered genitals, so to speak) stiffens the subject in illicit desire and freezes him in terror of the Father’s retribution. There are no recorded instances of Medusa turning a woman to stone.

Archetypal literary criticism continues to find psychoanalysis useful. Beth Seelig analyzes Medusa’s punishment from the aspect of the crime of having been raped rather than having willingly consented in Athena’s temple as an outcome of the goddess’ unresolved conflicts with her own father, Zeus.

Why She Matters– IT’S FUCKING MEDUSA. She is arguably the most enduring figure from the entire insane rogue’s gallery that is Greek Myth. Now, this asteroid has been picked apart by literally everyone, with just about all of them coming to the same results; Medusa means rape. Now I don’t necessarily disagree with my fellow astrologers on this topic (except Ami Manning, she can die in a hole for all I care) but let’s see if we can find something they might have missed, shall we?

Right so, one theme that echoes throughout the story (and is included in her name) is that Medusa is linked to the idea of protection. She was the guardian of the sacred in her role as priestess, and Campbell’s interpretation (along with Harrison) leans heavily into that without outright saying so- but what is she protecting? Well, I think Freud was onto something (*vomits off-screen* That was harder to admit than you guys know.); It doesn’t take a genius to recognize the similarity between the female genitalia and a snake-haired monster to the untrained eye, especially the child’s mind. If we put the pieces together we get a narrative: A lost snake cult of early Greece, before the Age of Heroes, where the women ruled and the mysteries of Life were the sacred secret. There are weird stories of Athens being ruled by snakes in the earliest dark days, and Mt. Olympus itself was originally owned by a giant snake before the Titan Kronos claimed it in his wrestling match. Medusa can be seen as a conduit to this deep past, and in the chart it will represent a point that is sacred, a secret you must defend and carry through your life- a sacred duty.

The real reason I did Medusa today of all days is due to her other connotation. I posit that Medusa does not necessarily represent rape by itself. Look, we know that there is real evil in the world, and 80% of it is evil that men do, especially to women. It happens and we would be fools to deny it. Just because its ugly doesn’t mean we should shrink from its terrifying reality. Today, while Venus is in Scorpio and we are in Libra season, a brave woman is testifying before a panel of men who don’t believe her about a sexual assault of a man who she has to sit mere feet from. She is speaking up to prevent him from being put in a position to affect millions of lives and take power from even more women. She has to relive her horror under the scrutiny of an entire nation. I put forward Medusa’s other function- The protectress of those who have been raped. Medusa defends women against men and the evil that they do- Remember that the only reason Perseus could defeat her was with the help of Athena. The abused need a monster to defend them from the other, scarier monsters that haunt them- and there’s no one more up to the task than Medusa.

To find out where she shows up in your chart, go to astro.com, put in your birth details and in the extended options, at the bottom of the next page, there will be a menu of additional objects. To the right of that is a blank space where you can enter the number 149, for Medusa. Once you have it entered, generate the chart! Where does Medusa affect your life? Let us know in the comments below!

Asteroid Files: Medusa was originally published on Heretical Oracles

#149 Medusa #65489 Ceto #asteroid astrology #asteroid medusa #astrology of rape #Ceto asteroid #donald trump astrology #Kavanaugh hearing #Kavanaugh hearing 2018 #Kavanaugh hearing astrology #Medusa in Astrology #Trump 2018 #Trump astrology #astrology #tarot #fuckstrology #bruja #brujeria

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lesbrarians · 6 years ago

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GenFic:: A Proposition

Title: A Proposition

Pairing: (Sort of?? Vaguely mentioned) Ai/Javik

Characters: Ai Shepard, Javik, Grist (cameos by K. Shepard, Sam Shepard, and Tiffany Shepard bc MultiShep verse)

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Ai and Javik spend their shore leave examining the ship, when they find an unwelcome visitor in their private hideaway. Warnings for dead bodies and general unsanitariness

---

"Okay, I'm not saying I'm gonna trounce your ass at Shattered Eezo… but I'm gonna trounce your ass at Shattered Eezo," K said. After a particularly taxing mission chasing down mercs on Omega, the Normandy crew was gearing up to enjoy some well-earned shore leave, and K had her heart set on visiting the Castle Arcade. "C'mon, look at me." She flexed her biceps. "I'm a Bruiser, you really think I'm gonna lose at a punching game?"

"First of all," Tiffany began. "It's an arcade game. Your muscles mean nothing here. Secondly, you've never seen me play. I'm good. You don't stand a chance."

K laughed. "Them's fighting words, Tiff."

"Loser buys the drinks!" Sam chimed in as the three of them exited the Port Observation Room lounge.

"What-- you're not even playing!" Tiffany exclaimed.

"I mean, I'm game," K said. "Win, lose, I get alcohol either way, so really, it's a win-win--"

They rounded the corner and ran squarely into Ai and Javik, who were leaving the mess hall.

"Hey guys!" Sam said brightly. Tiffany was diplomatic in her hello, while K just mumbled something under her breath that could have been what's up, or it could have been oh god.

"Samantha," Javik said, nodding at her. Ai lifted her chin slightly in acknowledgment. "We were just discussing shore leave plans."

K had been pregaming in the lounge, and what little self-restraint she possessed was completely out the window. "Oh, no you don't," she said, pointing at Javik before swinging her finger over to Sam. "You chose them over us last time. The three of us are going out, I'm beating Tiffany at Shattered Eezo, then we're getting shitfaced at some expensive bar somewhere, because I won't be the one paying for it."

"Wow, K," Tiffany said, shaking her head at her.

Sam grimaced apologetically at Ai and Javik. "Yeah, sorry…"

They both stared at her in response, as if hoping she would come to her senses.

The five of them stood at an impasse outside the elevators, the seconds dragging out interminably.

Sam clapped her hands to break the tension. It wasn't entirely successful. "Okay! Okay, I'll catch up with you guys later, I promise. We can do our plans then!"

Ai stared at her unflinchingly, tilting her head slightly.

Sam sighed. "The neutral face of displeasure. Alright, I'll just be a few hours, then I'll find you guys, I swear!"

Tiffany called for the elevator. K whistled to fill the awkward silence as they waited for it to arrive.

Sam’s perky voice floated through the elevator doors as they slid shut behind the trio. "See, everyone's happy!"

"I'm not," Javik said, his voice dark with displeasure.

Ai said nothing, but she privately agreed.. She couldn’t understand what Samantha saw in Tiffany and K -- Tiffany was a goody two-shoes with all kinds of disgusting traits like proper morals and honor and loyalty. K was more unscrupulous, but she was obnoxious and had no filter to speak of.

"A poor decision on Samantha's part," Javik continued.

"She will regret it." Her flat tone made it impossible to tell whether it was a threat or simply a statement of fact.

"I suppose we'll wait for her, although she doesn't deserve our magnanimity."

Ai nodded once. She didn't particularly care for visiting the Citadel during the day anyway, and despite Javik's insult, Sam's presence was desirable, especially when they went ashore.

Javik locked eyes with her, and Ai returned the stare, stoic and unblinking, an unspoken challenge.

Javik's lower two eyes remained fixed on her, but the other two wandered up to linger on her hair in a way that made her skin crawl.

"I suppose we'll just have to find an… alternative way to entertain ourselves."

"You are revolting," Ai informed him. They both knew this didn't necessarily constitute a "no," but she wasn't feeling charitable today.

Her eyes flicked over to Life Support. She'd broken the standoff between them, but she couldn't stand looking at his disgusting face for even a second longer. She consoled herself with the fact that this one loss meant nothing; she was still the superior one and had prevailed countless other times.

Ai stared at her quarters for a fraction of a second, then glanced back at Javik, who had an insufferable expression on his face.

She turned on her heel and called for the elevator.

It was a scathing rejection, refusing to invite him to her room that was barely ten feet away from where they stood. Life Support was where they had most of their… encounters, for lack of a better word. It gave her the most control over the situation. Pointedly denying Javik access to that space shut down any possibility of anything happening between them that day.

Ai could feel Javik's eyes boring holes into the back of her head as they boarded the elevator, and the corner of her mouth quirked up into the faintest hint of a schadenfreudian smile.

"We may as well take advantage of the empty ship. Inspect it top to bottom." She needed to make sure everything was in proper working condition, and she couldn't be thorough when there were eyes everywhere.

The elevator rumbled to a halt on the fourth deck of the ship, where the port side cargo room served as Javik's quarters and the bowels of the ship as their lair.

They exited the elevator and resumed walking, hands clasped behind their backs and a Sam-sized space between them so that there was no possibility of accidental contact. They didn't need to speak to know exactly where they were going.

They descended the stairs to the engineering sub-deck.

At the bottom of the steps, Javik stopped so suddenly that Ai nearly ran into him.

"Something is not right," he said.

The spike of irritation she'd felt dissipated. She still didn't trust Javik fully (for all his talk of loyalty, she wasn't entirely convinced that he wouldn't stab her in the back), but she did trust his ability to read people and the environment, as disturbingly creepy as it was.

Her gaze swept the space, searching for anything out of the ordinary. "Elaborate."

Javik took a few cautious steps forward and bent down, fingers grazing against the metal floor.

“Death," he said, straightening out. "The DNA of a… human male. A gifted biotic. Did a member of your crew die here?”

Ai could think of one or two former crew members who matched that description. “Regrettably, no.”

"The residue is strong. Recent. He was not honored in death."

Ai was not often made to feel ill at ease, but a strange apprehension stirred in the pit of her stomach. Maybe it was psychosomatic, but she was beginning to think she smelled the stench of decay, and if it was Javik just getting into her head, she didn't appreciate it. She called up her omni-tool and scanned the ground. She trusted her technology more than she trusted Javik's psychometry.

The scanner chirped in response to organic matter. Imperceptible specks of skin and hair lit up on the orange holo-display of her omni-tool with the readings: "Data: 100% Human."

Ai lifted the scanner. The flakes of rotting organic matter continued in a meandering trail, as if the corpse had shuffled around aimlessly.

Death did not faze Ai. She didn't bat an eye at a bloated corpse or decomposing remains. But she preferred it to be at her own hands. Her germophobia went strangely quiet when she knew that she was the cause of the gore -- she could revel in the blood that she'd spilled.

But when it was of someone else's doing, there was no triumph or pride attached, and while there was small comfort in feeling superior to the dead, regardless of whether or not she'd killed them, her aversion to uncleanliness won out over her egotism.

So when the path ended at the panel in the floor that led to the hidden room where she, Sam, and Javik so often convened, her mouth went dry. She did not invite anyone into her personal space, she did not invite disease into her personal space, and if someone had stuffed a dead body--

A loud clang rang out from below. The panel that led to their secret hideaway thumped rhythmically as whatever was inside struggled to get out.

If Ai had a heart, it would have been in her throat. As it was, she was only mildly alarmed. For one brief, ludicrous moment, the part of her that watched far too many East Asian horror vids stupidly thought "kyonshī."

The next moment, her rational side wanted to shoot herself.

The panel gave way. Something burst out with an unholy screech, its gaunt face twisted like a grotesque Halloween mask, with too many teeth and a flattened snout of a nose.

Ai fired an explosive round from her omni-tool at precisely the same time as Javik biotically yanked the thing in the air and slammed it to the floor. Ai hissed out a curse as the incineration blast clipped its target on the arm.

The creature howled, clutching its arm and retreating to the shadows the second it wrangled free from the glowing green aura of Javik's biotics. In the low, red light of the ship's underbelly, it was hard to tell what it was at first, little more than a dark silhouette of something spiny and vaguely human shaped skulking in the corner. Only when it turned its attention on her and attacked again did she realize what it was -- a charcoal-colored vorcha with sickly green, mottled markings and lurid red eyes to rival her own.

Javik didn't interfere when the vorcha pounced this time, allowing her to fend for herself. She lashed out at the vorcha with an incendiary backfist, causing it to recoil.

It dropped something. Ever the tactician, Ai quickly looked down to assess it before snapping her attention back up to her target. A human ear.

Rage flared up in Ai, a sudden spike of violent emotion at the knowledge that her sanctuary -- their sanctuary -- had been violated. Every warning bell in her head was clanging, counting off everything that made this such an egregious offense: invasion of her privacy, by an alien, bearing a scavenged corpse and filth. Contamination.

"Kill it!" she barked. She switched gears on her omni-tool, transforming it into a forked blade.

With a great, rippling shockwave, Javik bodily threw the vorcha against the wall. Ai had the impression that he was doing his best to put as much distance between them as possible. She couldn't fault him for the tactic, given that her preferred battlefield combat style consisted of sentry turrets, drones, and her trusty sniper rifle.

Ai couldn't figure out whether the vorcha was resilient, or just too stupid and stubborn to know when to give up. He picked himself back up, shook his head violently, and dodged Javik's next biotic attack by leaping onto a support beam. The sub-deck was too small a space for a full blown fight, and the vorcha quickly sealed the distance between them.

All four of Javik's eyes widened as the vorcha sprang at him, feral and bloodthirsty.

Javik snagged him in self-defense, just as the vorcha latched onto his arm.

He froze.

---

His sensory ability was a gift. A single touch could transmit a lifetime of memories, experiences, ideas at a speed that would liquefy the brains of inferior species. As he read the vorcha, he was hurled into several simultaneous memories, with the most recent standing out in his consciousness.

The gritty streets of Omega. Fluorescent lights flickering overhead as the vorcha scurried through the lowermost alleys of the Kenzo district. A wasted human in the throes of a creeper high, mumbling to himself about all the colors he could see. The vorcha's interest was piqued by the latter, but he kept going. He hopped over a barrier and rounded a corner to find a nest of vorcha. The space was teeming with dozens of vorcha, a tight-knit mass that he had to pick his way through.

He didn't make it very far.

A larger, older vorcha stood up from where he was squatting and conversing with other members of their clan.

He pushed the vorcha, a direct challenge, and a full-out brawl ensued that ended with the vorcha flat on his back and gasping for air.

"No more room!" the other vorcha hissed. "We no space for you. You start own clan!"

Physically subjugated, he ducked deferentially as he climbed to his feet. “O-kay. I leave. I leave now.”

He slunk away from the nest, away from his home. Javik could feel the emotions roiling in him. Just simple anger and sadness; he was too dim for a very nuanced outlook on the sudden rejection.

"Poor, poor me," the vorcha muttered. "All alone…"

Javik had heard that language before. The same primitive tongue. His brain leapt unbidden to past memories, neurons firing rapidly and sewing together connections as he cycled through the Echo Shards he had had the privilege of experiencing. He had been born in the heart of war, long after the fall of the great Prothean Empire. Most of his knowledge of his people and their subordinate races came from the memory shards passed between Protheans. The shards he'd received from his fellow warriors, then passed on, let him live the glory of the empire that he'd never experienced. They let him see old triumphs and conquests and joy in the days of a happy people, before the Reapers came -- and they gave him an intimate knowledge of other species: the races they had dominated and assimilated into their empire, the primitives they'd studied, and the lesser species that were good for nothing but food. Their memories became his, then he passed the torch to another warrior.

He'd heard that language before. A vision of the Prothean scientist who had visited the uninhabitable planet of Heshtok to observe its sapient life, discovering the vorcha.

Fifty thousand years.

He had witnessed the demise of his people, risen from their ashes, walked amongst races thousands of times more advanced than their ancestors, the ones he had grown to know from Echo shards of old.

Fifty thousand years, and the vorcha hadn't changed one bit.

---

He hesitated for the briefest of seconds.

Needle-sharp teeth sank into his arm.

The noise Javik made upon returning to the present was undignified and entirely unbefitting of a Prothean. He threw off the vorcha with a bright green biotic blast.

"Pitiful," Ai spat in his direction. She wasn't sure who she was more disgusted with: Javik for freezing in the face of an enemy, herself for going soft and trusting someone else, or the vermin they needed to exterminate.

She should have known better than to trust someone else to do the job. If you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself, and Ai always had to do everything herself.

She jammed her forked omni-blade against the vorcha's throat, pinning him against the wall. With a guttural, horrific gagging sound that made Ai's ears bleed, the vorcha thrashed about, sharp claws scrabbling at her arm.

She stood her ground and sent a jolt of electrical energy surging through the omni-blade -- unfortunately, it wasn't powerful enough to roast the vorcha alive, but it was enough to stun him.

All Ai needed to do was drive the blade through his trachea before he bounced back from the shock to his system, but she was so consumed by rage that it was becoming very difficult to concentrate on the target before her. Javik’s incompetence was blinding her. This was why she didn’t get involved with people. Social connections were so tiring. They kept you from focusing on what was really important.

Senseless violence and the eradication of useless alien scum.

In one swift motion, she pulled back and summoned up a combat drone to take her place. The vorcha lunged for the tech drone, only to howl and retreat as he was zapped. He hunched over in the corner to lick his wounds.

Ai rounded on Javik. Her tech drone was equipped with mass effect fields that allowed it to levitate safely out of the vorcha's grasp, and it was trained to open fire at the slightest movement from its target, which bought her enough time to yell at her companion.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right now," she snarled. "You could have compromised everything, you useless idiot!"

"I was studying the enemy," Javik answered by way of explanation, his voice even. "And I had the situation under control, that was just a minor setback."

Ai sneered. "You lost control of the situation the moment that hideous piece of vermin bit you. Studying the enemy. An involuntary reading, then. Those garbage powers make you a liability on the battlefield."

Javik bristled. "False. If anything, they are an asset, not a liability. When I choose to use them--" Perhaps anticipating Ai's reaction, he raised his voice and soldiered on to explain, "--In the sense that I ordinarily choose long-range biotics to avoid triggering them -- I can read my enemies in an instant, witness their last memories, discover their battle strategies--"

"--become incapacitated and attacked--"

"For a split second, and I retaliated!" Javik retorted.

They stared each other down, both simmering with barely restrained anger.

Javik took a deep breath and continued. "Regardless, my momentary lapse of attention was due to a… revelation."

Ai was at odds with herself. Her fury at what she perceived to be weakness on Javik's part conflicted with her drive to know everything and thirst for knowledge.

Curiosity won out. "Explain," she said.

"Vorcha. They... haven't evolved."

She was seized by a sudden desire to roll her eyes, smack Javik, or both. She settled for a derisive scoff and folded her hands behind her back. She'd already lost control of herself today; she needed to rein herself back in. "I could have told you that," she said. "They don't evolve."

She turned her head to look at the vorcha. He hadn't learned his lesson and was still attempting to attack the drone, with disastrous results.

Javik did not look thrilled to learn that his epiphany meant nothing to Ai, but he continued his train of thought regardless. "I can see how all the species in this cycle have evolved, except for them. Before the war, my people studied primitive species. Groomed them. Before offering them the... choice of joining the empire."

Her face remained as blank a mask as ever, but Ai exhaled through her nose, a faint huff that was the closest she ever came to a laugh. A "choice." Amusing.

"We were in the midst of studying this cycle's species when the Reapers arrived. Humans. Asari. Krogan. Never the vorcha." He paused. "Not the lizard people, either. I still don't know how they managed to evolve."

"You failed to account for their freakish metabolism." She allowed herself a faint smirk. She didn't care for salarians, to say the least, but it was entertaining to see just how badly the Protheans had misjudged a race known for its intelligence. "A grotesque miscalculation on your part. Embarrassing."

"The point," Javik said, "is that the vorcha were primitive then and they are primitive compared to your allegedly advanced species now."

The vorcha squatted on his haunches and sprang upright, hands scrabbling over his head in a desperate bid to reach the drone.

They watched him in silence for a few seconds, neither of them able to come up with an appropriately scathing comment for the spectacle in front of them.

"What is their purpose in this cycle?" Javik finally asked.

"Cannon fodder." Ai did not mince words.

Javik gave an appreciative hum. "The strong dominate the weak. The weak become a tool for the strong, then perish. The Cosmic Imperative. Perhaps you humans share more similarities with Protheans than I thought."

"Other humans, maybe. I am without equal." She flicked her eyes down the length of Javik's body, then back up to meet his gaze. "An alien could never compare. No matter their ideals."

"Our strategies are the same. You use vorcha as 'cannon fodder.' Their species is not strong enough to thrive alone. They are expendable. In my cycle, weak links became resources. When the Reapers were busy conquering the weak, they were not watching us. It was the logical tactic."

"That does not make us equals. I am still superior."

"You are a fool," Javik said, and Ai was struck with another twinge of irritation. "No, we are not equals. You're still a primitive. If my warriors survived the cull, we would have reclaimed the galaxy. You would be under my command right now."

"I would sooner kill myself than be under your control," Ai said, and she meant every word of it. "I am not one of your weaklings to conquer and discard. I am above that."

There was a clattering noise, and both of them sharply turned their heads to look at the vorcha, having gotten so wrapped up in their disagreement that they'd nearly forgotten about its catalyst.

The vorcha had sat down, beaten into submission and drained of its bloodlust.

"This is not finished," Javik said.

Ai inclined her chin in agreement. It was a temporary peace treaty, she supposed. Neither one of them would forget the argument until it reached its bitter end.

"The question now is: what do we do with this… thing?" Contempt dripped from his voice.

It was a valid question. "We could still kill it." It wouldn't be quite as satisfying as killing it in the heat of battle, but it was still an option -- and given the vorcha's aggression, she suspected it would put up a fight even if they had subdued it for now.

"We could," Javik agreed, his voice as casual as if the two of them were discussing what to have for dinner.

"Or--"

She paused, noting how the vorcha's eyes slid over to the two of them. His gaze was sharp, focused, and she was suddenly acutely aware of his intelligence, limited as it was. She'd grown careless with her words, having already dismissed the vorcha as a mindless, savage creature.

She did a quick visual scan of her drone and, satisfied that it would keep the vorcha in line if he got unruly again, she shifted to face Javik. "We need to speak privately." She held up her hand. "Keep it brief, I don't want to touch you any longer than absolutely necessary."

Javik ignored the jibe. Ai was still irritated with him, not to mention uncomfortable with the very concept of linking minds. Her mind belonged to her, and welcoming another person into her innermost thoughts was deeply disconcerting. It wasn't just invasive, it was intimate, and Ai had no experience with intimacy. It was unnatural to her.

Javik touched the pads of her fingers with his own three fingertips.

Ai closed her eyes as she entered the dreamlike state of mind she had, on more than one occasion, shared with Javik and Sam.

What did you want to tell me? Javik's voice sounded in her head.

She did her best to carefully wipe her mind of all thoughts, save for the words she wanted to share with him. There's another option besides killing it. It is beyond idiotic, but it was a worthy adversary. We could bend it to our will.

Use it as cannon fodder.

Exactly.

It could prove useful. It may even be agreeable to being a pawn. Allow me to share with you one of its memories.

He transmitted the vorcha's last memory, and Ai watched as the vorcha was rejected from his clan. A pitiful display. Agreed, a new start may make it more amenable to our cause.

Indeed.

Enough talk. Get out of my head.

Ai pulled her fingers away, severing the connection between her and Javik. She had all the information she needed, and she didn't need to linger. For some reason, the encounters were more bearable with Sam involved.

She motioned at Javik, who stepped forward. "You, vorcha--"

"Grist!" the vorcha hissed. He might have been docile, but he was no less terrifying.

Javik and Ai looked at each other. Ai was not the type of person who asked questions. If she asked a question, it was a demand for information, never an admission of ignorance -- she hated looking like she didn't know everything all of the time. She was supposed to be flawless, not some simpleton who was easily puzzled or thrown off guard.

So she was pleased when Javik asked the question: "Is that… a word?" It was difficult to tell whether he was communicating with them, or if the sound was another one of his primal noises.

The vorcha thumped his chest with one clawed hand. "My name Grist."

Javik’s lip curled. “The primitive speaks at last.”

The harsh cry that Grist emitted in response made Ai grind her teeth. "Why use words when teeth?" He bared his teeth at them to demonstrate how useful they were in combat. Unnaturally long and spiny, they were crusted with blood.

Repulsive, Ai thought.

"Too many words." Grist clutched his head and shook it vigorously.

Ai suspected that combat was his preferred communication style simply because his grasp of language was not nuanced enough. Javik was right, as loathe as she was to admit it; vorcha were primitive.

Regardless, she needed words from him. "I do not care." She took a step towards him.

Perhaps it was her generally menacing presence, or the fact that he overheard them discussing the possibility of killing him, but Grist did not react well. "Back!" he snarled, hackles raised. "Back! You no come closer! I kill you!"

As if you would succeed, Ai thought to herself, but she kept silent and retreated. Grist settled down, apparently reassured, if still wary of her motives. "Tell me why you are on my ship," she said, attempting to regain control of the situation.

"Grist clan too big," he said morosely. "No room on Omega. Find ship, sneaky sneaky, hide away. Then go to new planet, make new clan!"

Ai was not going to question the logistics of this plan. The thought of vorcha breeding -- anyone breeding, really -- revolted her. "That doesn't explain the corpse."

Grist gave her a toothy grin. "Food," he said. "Me hungry."

Of course. She didn't know why she even asked. Of course the scavenger brought a dead human on board the ship as sustenance. Or part of a human, at any rate; Ai couldn't imagine him sneaking on board with a full corpse, and oh, she would have words with whoever had been guarding the ship while they were on Omega. She was not looking forward to seeing how, exactly, he had besmirched her hideaway.

Grist reached into a pouch on his hip and pulled out a severed human finger. Ai sharply inhaled, the closest she came to a gasp or exclamation of moral outrage.

He nibbled on it until he noticed Ai staring at him with murder in her eyes. He looked down at the half-chewed finger. Looked back at Ai. Extended the dessicated finger bone out to her.

Some people would have viewed it as a proverbial olive branch, and an unusually civilized gesture for a vorcha. Ai viewed it as a heinous insult to everything she held dear: cleanliness, logic, not sharing food with an alien.

"I am going to kill it," she announced, calling up her omni-tool. Grist was too busy sucking the last meat off the bone to notice her threat.

"Don't," Javik warned her.

Ai fixed him with a look. She was seized with the urge to ignore him and kill the vorcha anyway purely to spite Javik. She did not like being ordered about and actively disobeyed any direct orders she received.

But logic was stronger than rage, in this particular instance, and she deactivated her omni-tool. "I am not doing this because you told me to," she informed Javik. "I am doing this because I have reassessed the situation and come to the same conclusion."

"If that helps you sleep at night," Javik said, and, not for the first time, Ai questioned why she chose the company of such a smug bastard.

They looked down at Grist. He was chewing on his arm, his burn wounds already blistering.

Javik turned back to Ai, his jaw set. There was only one thing they could do. "Get Samantha."

#javik #ai shepard #vorcha #mass effect fic #my fanfiction #mass effect

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