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lu-undy · 3 years ago

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Another Sniper/Spy fluffy “short”

Spy and Sniper are sent on a mission where Spy has to disguise himself as a woman. Sniper falls for him *even more* and when he catches Spy flirting with the bad guy, well, the Aussie takes it badly. But in the end, all is well ;) Follow this link!

"Hey, Miss Paulin'?"

"Hey Scout, d'you know where I can find Spy and Sniper?"

"Ya got a job for'em?"

"Yes, I do." Miss Pauling had barely arrived at the base that the young man was all over her, like a bee on a flower.

"I can do it. I'm sure I can do it on my own too, I'm pretty strong, see?" He flexed his arm and Miss Pauling rolled her eyes before looking away.

"Scout, I need those two to do the job, not you."

"I can do it with them, if that works better for you, eh?"

The young woman sighed and pushed living-room's door.

"Hey everyone."

"Howdy, Miss?"

"Mmh-hmm!"

Most of the team was there but as Miss Pauling scanned the room, she didn't find Spy or Sniper.

"Any idea where Sniper and Spy are?"

"You'll find Slim in his van I guess, and for Spy? I'd say give a knock on his door." The Texan answered from the sofa, a beer in his hand.

"Alright, thanks." The young woman spun on her heels and bumped on Scout. "Scout!"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"You wanna do something for me?"

"Sure!" He excitedly answered.

"Get Spy and Sniper in the meeting room in 2 minutes."

"I'm on it!"

And a couple of minutes later, both mercenaries were in the meeting room with Miss Pauling.

"Alright, guys, I have a job for you two. I know, it's quite unusual for both of you to team up with anyone but unless one of you can split himself into two, you'll need each other."

Spy and Sniper were sitting face to face on one end of the long table, the closest to the screen. The Frenchman lit a cigarette and raised his hand.

"Spy?" Miss Pauling was surprised that he should have a question so soon.

"Is this mission only to be heard by Sniper and my ears?" He asked.

"Yeah, why?" The young woman raised an eyebrow. Spy stood up and went to the meeting room's door that he opened abruptly. Scout was trying to look and listen through the keyhole. "Ugh, Scout, if you don't leave right now, I swear I'm never giving you any jobs anymore!"

"You never do anyway!"

Sniper pushed his chair back to stand up but Miss Pauling put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

"I did! I asked you to go and get Sniper and Spy and you did it brilliantly, now, please let me have this meeting with them."

"Does that mean you… were impressed by how well I handled it?" Scout's eyes shone with enthusiasm.

"Yeah, it does, now please…?"

"Alright then, I won't be far though, just in case you need anythin' eh?"

Spy looked at Miss Pauling and she nodded, after that, the Frenchman pushed the door shut on the young man's face.

"Ooh, sorry about this, I know neither of you like to waste your time…" Pauling grabbed a remote and switched the big screen on. "Now, let's talk about the mission. The Admin's got you two tickets for a ball given by this guy. Apparently, he has a bar of pure unrefined Australium that the Admin wants. One of you will have to distract him while the other retrieves it." She pushed a button and the screen showed a mansion. "That's his house, where the ball will be. I'm told that the Australium is in his bedroom, upstairs, right there…" She pushed another button. "It's on that shelf. I talked to Engie and we'll have the CCTV system and the security rigged off so it's just a matter of picking it up."

"Do we know anything about this gentleman?" Spy asked.

"Yup," Pauling pushed a button and the next image appeared.

"Bloody hell, how many sheilas is that…?" Sniper straightened his back on the chair and started counting them. The picture showed the man surrounded by women of all colour and all tastes.

"Five." Spy answered. "Those ones are in a group of five, admirable women and very helpful in times of need." Sniper's eyebrows jumped and he looked at his colleague across the table. "So he enjoys the company of women?" Spy asked Pauling, unfazed.

"Yeah, so Spy, you'll have to go as one, keep him busy while Sniper goes upstairs and takes the prize. Any questions?”

Spy raised his hand.

“Yes, Spy?”

“When is this mission due?”

“The party is tonight. Here’s the address.” Pauling took a piece of paper out of her pocket and showed it to Spy. The Frenchman took a second to look at it then nodded, and Miss Pauling showed it to Sniper.

“Y’know the area?” Sniper asked his colleague and Spy nodded, blowing the smoke of his cigarette between his thin lips. “Alright then.”

Miss Pauling took the paper and burnt it. “There, you guys have the address. Now, the Admin insists on doing the job cleanly, no corpses. Besides, there’s no respawn there, so try to not get killed, ok?”

Both Sniper and Spy nodded.

“Right, if you don’t have more questions, I’ll be on my way.” Miss Pauling went to the door, both mercenaries on her heels. Spy opened the door for her and both Sniper and her passed through before he went through last and shut the door.

The evening came and Sniper had spent his entire afternoon on his own. After the dinner that he shared with his colleagues, he retreated to his van again and prepared himself. Well, a fancy ball, huh? Good thing he had kept a suit in his stuff. It had been his father’s so it was old, out of any kind of recent fashion and a bit on the short side for the tall Aussie, but who cared. He was just going to steal something and he would be back before midnight no doubt. Sniper trusted Spy to offer whatever distraction was needed for him to take the Australium stick easily.

When the Aussie finished putting on his black, now dark greying, suit, he quickly combed his hair and looked at his reflection on his van's window.

��Well, that’ll do.” He concluded and exited his van to go and get his colleague out.

“Ooh, looks like Snipe’s goin’ on a date, eh?” Scout said and whistled at the older man. Sniper growled and bared his teeth on the side. “Who’s the lucky one, eh? There ain’t any lady kangaroos over here, eh?”

“Bugger off, Scout.”

“Pfff….!” The Bostonian snickered as Sniper disappeared in the corridor.

There was a knock on the Frenchman's door.

“Go to your van, I shall join you.” The voice with the French accent answered from the other side of the door with the knife symbol.

Sniper rolled his eyes.

“Alright.” He answered, and left. A minute later, he was in his van and the door on the passenger’s seat squeaked open. “Are you read-oh, wow…”

“I am indeed ready, now let us not waste time.” Spy answered matter-of-factly.

Sniper’s eyes lingered on his now very lady-like colleague. He couldn’t see much but the long hair and the shine on Spy’s lips was a change and a half.

“Jesus, that’s one hell of a disguise… You really look like a sheila…!” He started the engine and off they went.

“Thank you, I take it as a compliment on my make-up and disguise skills.”

“Yeah... How did you manage that…? I mean, I guess the long hair’s a wig, right?” Sniper cast a glance at his colleague. “No... Is it really your hair?”

“Non, you Bushman, of course not. It would never fit under my mask. This is indeed a wig.”

“And you put on make-up?”

“Oui.”

“You know how to do that?”

“Oui.”

“Wow… ‘M not gonna ask how or why.” Sniper said more to himself but of course Spy heard him.

“It is a skill, like shooting, you get it through learning.”

“And trainin’.” Sniper added. “You did that much?”

“Oui, not usually to make myself more feminine. Make-up can be used to hide your distinctive features, or create some that you do not originally possess.”

“Makes sense for a spook I guess.”

Spy raised a curious eyebrow to his colleague but of course Sniper was way too focused on the road to notice it. The Frenchman was surprised that his colleague did not mock him for his womanly disguise but instead chose to compliment him on his efforts. Hm, surprising coming from Sniper. Although anything that came from Sniper was a surprise. The man lived like a hermit in his van, he was almost as secretive as the Frenchman himself. Looking at him better, Spy noticed that Sniper had put on a suit. Well, something that vaguely resembled one. Even through the darkness of the night, the Frenchman could tell that this was no custom-tailored three-piece suit.

“And you have put on a suit?”

“Well, it’s an old thing, but yeah, I tried.”

“If you wanted something a bit more modern, I could have lent you something.”

“What? Seriously? You’d lend me one of your super expensive ones?”

“Well,” Spy answered. “I would have given it to you, no doubt you would have deformed the silk and cotton. But still.”

“You’re smaller than me though, so I don’t think anything would have been my size.”

“Hm, that is correct. Such a shame we had so little time to prepare or we could have gone to find you something a bit more appropriate.” Spy said.

“We?”

“Well I certainly would not trust you to find something adequate on your own, no offense.”

Sniper smiled.

“None taken, I think you’re actually right…”

They exchanged a glance and a smile.

“Still, it’s weird to hear you with your usual voice but see you with long hair, I mean… I can hardly see anythin’, it’s dark, but your silhouette’s like a sheila’s.” Sniper’s eyes went down to Spy’s chest and nodded to himself. The Frenchman definitely looked like a woman.

“And you have seen the gloss of the lipstick and the longer eyelashes because of the mascara. You have keen eyes.”

“Guess so.” The Aussie took the compliment with a smile.

“No doubt about it.”

“Alright, Spook, we’re in the city now so you’ll have to guide me. I remember the address but no clue where that bloke’s palace is.”

“Fair enough. Go straight until the natural history museum…” Spy started helping out his partner in crime. After a few turns and a few more minutes, both could see the palace.

“That bloke’ house is as big as my parents’ entire farm.” The Aussie queued after the line of cars to enter the mansion’s parking lot.

“I take your word for it.” Spy answered.

“I mean, seriously, why d’you need a house that big? Must cost ya a fortune to take care of… Plus you’re eatin’ out space for other people or animals, makes no sense.”

“Animals?” Spy asked.

“Yeah, imagine if he had a normal house, the rest could be a forest or something, you could have a bit of life there instead of marble and whatnot.”

Spy smiled. That was such a typical thought of Sniper, thinking of the wildlife almost before he thought of himself.

“The queue’s not movin’ that much…” Sniper said, drumming the steering wheel with his index and middle finger.

“Indeed it is not. Cigarette?” Spy took his cigarette case out of his purse and flicked it open between Sniper and him.

“Oh, uh, why not? Thanks, Spook.” The Aussie helped himself to one and Spy lit both of their cigarettes.

“Sniper?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you mind if I adjust your tie knot. It is not straight.”

“Oh? Uh, ok, thanks, mate.”

“No problem, it is inconveniencing me more than you, no doubt.”

“Well, I’m not seein’ it so yeah, I guess you're right.” Sniper stopped the van’s engine and turned towards Spy.

“Is there any light in your van?”

“Oh, sure, here.” The Aussie flicked a switch and his eyes snapped wide.

Spy raised gloved hands to his collar. But it wasn’t his usual dark, short pair, nah, those went up to his elbows, they shone shyly, in white satin. The Aussie realised that Spy was wearing a dark blue, bustier dress with thin sequins, revealing a shy, yet womanly chest.

“You may breathe normally, Sniper. And I am only adjusting your knot, no need to be so anxious. I can hear your heart beat through your breath.” Spy chuckled, not understanding why his colleague was so nervous, but he soon finished and raised his eyes to meet Sniper's. And that's when he understood. Sniper’s face was flushed as red as a brick. “Sniper?”

“Huh? Oh, uh, yeah, thanks, ahem…” Sniper looked away and gulped down hard. That split second that Spy had looked into his eyes had been so intense. The Frenchman sure did know how to put on makeup! As Sniper shut his eyes to erase that image, those eyes so light, they look like angel’s, that eyeliner highlighting their mellow, curvy shape, the mascara making his eyelashes look like butterfly wings, and his thin, red lips… To no avail. The image of that face was burnt into the Aussie’s memory.

“Are you alright?” Spy asked. “Is my cigarette too strong?”

“N-nah, nah, it’s fine, actually, they’re not strong at all.” Sniper started the engine again and followed the caterpillar motion of the line of cars.

“Indeed, if it were my cigarettes, I would have been surprised.” Spy answered. “I know that I smoke like a fireman as we say in French, so I keep to light, menthol ones. I do remember you smoke occasionally too, don’t you?”

“Yeah, sometimes. But mine are cheap and taste like crap next to yours.”

Spy chuckled and Sniper followed him.

“I understand my appearance surprised you.” Spy said, blowing the smoke of his cigarette in a little cloud.

“Yeah, I mean, you really look like a sheila.”

“I have to.” Spy answered. “By the way, thank you.”

“For what?”

“For appreciating my efforts. I imagine that had I gone to complete this mission with any other one of our colleagues, my feminine disguise would have been almost blackmail material for them.”

“You mean they’d make fun of you for it?”

“Oui, I would imagine so.”

“Well, yeah, guess that’s true.”

“But you haven’t. Instead, you complimented my hard work. I appreciate it.”

“Hah, well, you’re welcome, Spook. And thanks for the tie. I never manage to get them right on my own.”

“An easy skill to learn, you just need more training.”

They eventually entered the property and found a parking spot.

“From now on, you do not know me and I do not know you.” Spy said when Sniper stopped the engine. The Aussie nodded. "You do have your earpiece on, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Good. Then we shall either communicate through that, or as we usually do."

Sniper nodded again. Over the months working together, Sniper and Spy had developed a form of wordless communication. It was useful ok the battlefield, when one distracted the enemy and the other took his chance to take them down.

"Anythin' I should or shouldn't do?" Sniper asked. "'M not exactly used to sneaking around and all."

Spy got flattered that Sniper should ask him for advice.

"Well, do not overdo it. The best way for you to go through people is to mingle with them. Those people are here to party? Well, you shall partake too, but reasonably so. Needless to say that a drunk partner in crime is a useless one."

"Yeah, o'course. How will I know when to go upstairs?"

"Keep an eye on me, you will know when you can go."

"Alright, ok." Sniper tried to store all these words preciously in his memory.

"Could you please switch the light back on for an instant?"

"Oh, uh, sure, here."

"Ah, I knew it. This isn't my usual brand of lipstick and part of it went away with the cigarette… I should have had some imported from France, I knew I was running low…" Spy looked through his white purse and took a tube of lipstick. The Aussie couldn't help but stare at his colleague fixing his make-up. "There…" Spy brushed his lips against each other to spread the red lipstick evenly. "This should do. How do I look?"

Sniper was speechless.

"Uh, I-I mean, great, I mean, for a sheila who isn't one, it's… I'd never guess you're a bloke, unless I hear your voice."

"And what about now?"

Sniper's jaw dropped, his colleague now sounded like a woman.

"Alright… You're a sheila alright…"

"Perfect, I shall exit the van first, you wait a few minutes and make your way inside."

"O-ok, yeah."

"See you, Sniper."

"Yeah, see ya…"

Sniper did as he was told and waited in his van, in the silence of his own mind. How the hell could Spy do that…? He looked like a sheila, sounded like one…! The bloke even had at least the upper body of a woman!

"Bloody hell…" Sniper leaned his head back and dived in his own thoughts. He closed his eyes and saw it all again, the feline eyes, the thin lips, the long mane of wavy black hair… "Gosh."

Spy looked attractive as a woman… too.

Sniper took a deep breath and sighed.

This was better than Christmas. He got to spend an evening with the ladykiller dressed and made-up like one himself. Even as a man, Spy was far from repulsive, Sniper thought even if his face was mostly hidden by his mask. His silhouette was exquisite, a bit shorter than Sniper, his shoulders slightly less broad, long, thin legs and he couldn't possibly dress more elegantly. The man was a candy bar for the eyes mounted on two skinny legs, and Sniper had nothing against skinny legs, far from it.

He remembered that one day he had seen Spy without his jacket, just with his white shirt, his tie and his vest. The Aussie had seen him from behind and only then did he realise that the Frenchman's trousers moulded his waist and thighs deliciously. Well, especially his waist from behind…

Sniper blinked and shook his head as if to land back on Earth.

"Right, anyway, time to go."

He exited his van and walked towards the house's entrance. Two massive bodyguards were standing there. He passed them without an issue and climbed the white stairs to the house itself.

Gosh, that's a lot of people…

Immediately, Sniper found himself swimming amongst the dresses and the suits, some waiters were coming and going with trays of thin, fancy glasses on them. One of them stopped in front of Sniper.

"Ah, thanks." He took one and walking through people to find Spy, Sniper kept close to the walls, melting with the wallpaper itself.

C'mon, Spook, where are you…?

The Aussie's keen eyes darted left and right, scanning the crowd.

Or I could find the bloke we're gettin' the Australium from, I'm sure Spy's not far from him.

Sniper looked left and right, crossing different rooms, some wider than others. Finally, he made it to the most spacious one. Along one of the walls were tables filled with food and drinks and opposite that, a jazz band was playing. The Aussie recognised the tune. He leaned back against the wall and sipped on his champagne while his eyes looked at each and every face. Without realising it, his foot was drumming the rhythm of the tune.

Ugh, there were so many people and they were dancing, swarming the place like bees around honey…

"You like this song? Maybe you'd like to dance?"

Sniper's eyes darted down to whoever the woman was who was talking to him. He gasped when he recognised him.

"I-I can't really dance, I mean…"

"Come on, it'll be fun and easy, follow me…"

Of course it had to be Spy. Ah, it had been too good to be true! The Frenchman had been too nice with Sniper and the Aussie had started to wonder if the mischief in his colleague was just something he put on with his colleagues and decided to turn off with him…! But no! Of course he had to play games like these…!

Spy had taken the Aussie's hand with his white gloved one and he pulled him to the dancefloor. The song in the background suddenly sprang to Sniper’s ears. The Frenchman put his colleagues’ hands on him, one on his hip and the other against his palm. Spy started moving left and right, gently rocking the both of them. Sniper looked down and his eyes shot back up when he saw Spy’s chest. Even though he knew it was all an illusion, make-up and some hard work, his parents had nonetheless not raised him to look down womens’ cleavages…

“Mh, not bad.” Spy said with his female voice. “You lead now.” He stopped moving and Sniper, still looking up at the ceiling as if it would burn his eyes to look at his dance partner, started leading. Well, leading was a big word, he was moving, rocking left and right. “Just follow the rhythm…”

Sniper’s heart threatened to burst out of his ribcage. Spy was leaning his head against his chest.The Aussie gulped down hard and looked down. The fact that Spy wasn’t looking at him eased him somehow, he relaxed and moved in rhythm now. His hips swung with the double-bass, and soon, without realising it, his hand slid from Spy’s hip to his back. The Frenchman smiled, his eyes closed against his colleagues’ suit, and he pushed his hands to splay them both on his broad chest.

“What’re you makin’ me do, Spook…?” Sniper had managed to forget the people around him to only focus on the warmth of Spy’s body against his. He spoke with his eyes closed too.

“You took your time to join me here.” Spy answered.

“Sorry… I just… Bah, whatever.”

“It is fine, as long as you are here now.”

Spy’s feminine voice just wrapped Sniper warmly in a fashion that only rivaled with his normal, male voice.

“S-Spook, we should be gettin’ to work…”

“Oh but we are.” Spy smirked before he raised his fair eyes to Sniper. “You see the man in the black and white suit over my shoulder? He is wearing a red satin scarf on his shoulders.”

Sniper looked in the direction indicated by Spy.

“Yeah, I see’im.”

“That is the man that I shall entertain. I tried getting his attention but I am afraid that the competition tonight is hard for me to match.”

“What’re you talkin’ about?” Sniper asked.

“Those women following him, he has eyes only for them. He is practically blind to the rest of the world. Arh, Miss Pauling should have told us earlier, I would have had time to dye my hair black….”

“What’re you talkin’ about? Your hair is already black.”

“It has some grey, too much of it. I couldn’t dye it so I had to use a wig with matching greying temples and front. It would have been odd to have long black hair but some grey roots.”

“I don't think your grey hair’s a problem. I mean, it’s beautiful as it is, I mean the wig, heh…”

Spy raised his eyes to Sniper again. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome… But uh, so what’s the plan, now?”

“Now, I need to attract his attention in a different way. If my looks in this attire are not enough, then I shall try something else. You, keep an eye on me and wait for my signal, d’accord?”

[Understood?]

“Alright.”

Spy freed himself from Sniper’s dancing embrace.

“Spook?”

“Oui?”

“You… You be careful, ok?”

Spy gave him a smile, one that he had never seen before, it was a lopsided grin, his eyes were smiling too, his eyelashes bowing gently.

“You too.”

And just like that, Spy was out of Sniper’s arms. The Aussie’s eyes lingered on the Frenchman and that’s when he realised that the dress he was wearing had two long slits left and right, revealing his legs up to a half of his thighs. Spy was also somehow managing to walk with high heeled stilettos, black ones, that laced up his calves. The laces then dissolved into black stockings that hugged his leg in the most enticing way, up to his thigh.

“God, he’s somethin’...” Sniper said out loud, even though no one heard him. “Hold on, what is he - what the…?”

Spy walked to the jazz band and Sniper saw him talk to the leader. After a few seconds of Spy talking, the leader of the band nodded and the music died down. Sniper went to the table and grabbed a glass before he leaned on the wall next to him.

The music started again and Sniper frowned. Why was Spy staying there? Why was he taking the microphone? Why was - oh…

{To the reader, the song is “Dream a little dream of me” by Pink Martini and the Von Trapps}

“Stars shining bright above you,

Night breezes seem to whisper "I love you",

Birds singing in the sycamore tree,

Dream a little dream of me.”

Sniper’s jaw dropped. The song was so delicate, the dancing area filled quickly, and as Sniper cast a glance over to the wealthy man surrounded by his harem of lightly dressed ladies, he noticed that the performance had caught his eye. Good old Spook, has more tricks up his sleeve than we imagine, Sniper thought. His eyes went back to Spy. He sang with his shining, satin, white gloved hands left and right from the microphone stand, his hips swinging deliciously, revealing in rhythm his left and right thigh. A spotlight switched on, right on him, and Spy pushed a lock of his fake long hair behind his ear. Sniper could definitely not agree with Spy, his greying hair at the front and on his temples was absolutely an asset, not a setback at all. It shone in silver under the spotlight.

“Say "Night-ie night" and kiss me,

Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me,

While I'm alone and blue as can be,

Dream a little dream of me...!”

A man shoved Sniper as he passed by and the Aussie was about to say something when he realised that it was the man in question, the man they were about to steal the Australium from. His face then radiated in triumph. Go, Spook, go! You got him! That's it! And you were doubtin’ yerself, look at you…! Who in their right mind wouldn’t take a second to look at you now? I mean now and anytime! You’re just… Sniper bit his lip. Thinking those words was too much. He shall not even think them but keep them in their raw form, as a thought, not mould them into letters and sounds, no, he shall keep that warmth inside him and leave it as a flame.

“Stars fading but I linger on, dear,

Still craving your kiss,

I'm longing to linger till dawn, dear,

Just saying this...”

Gosh, Sniper wished he could stay and listen to the whole song, listen to more of them even. How could Spy sing so well and with a feminine voice at that…? How…?

“Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you,

Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you,

But in your dreams whatever they be,

Dream a little dream of me…!”

The plump man and his flock of sheilas was at the very front now watching the show. Sniper saw him and his eyes quickly darted back up to Spy, he did not want to miss anything of his performance. It was certainly the first and the last time that he would hear the Frenchman perform this way.

But the song ended and the guests applauded loudly.

“Thank you.” Spy said in the microphone. “I would like to dedicate this song to the one hunter brave enough to climb the stairs of my stone hard heart and steal the golden wand of love that he put there.”

Sniper took it as his cue. Without hesitating, he spun on his heels and went to find the stairs. On his way, he heard Spy starting a new song.

So I have about three minutes before the song ends… He thought to himself and climbed the stairs. Once he reached the first floor, he walked through the corridors until he found the right room.

He gasped. A guard was coming! Quickly, Sniper stuck his back to the wall at thecorner. Arh! He needed something to distract the guy away from his path, but he had nothing on him but that short suit and - oh!

The Aussie got an idea. He took one of his sleeves and tore a button of his cuffs off before throwing it on the hardwood floor.

"Huh?" The guard heard the noise and went to inspect whatever caused it. Meanwhile, Sniper snuck past and slipped in the right room.

Alright, let's do this…

He closed the door after him and looked around. The room might have been part of a museum. It contained all kinds of artefacts, statues, coins, paintings, knick-knacks of all sizes and shapes.

Ah, there ye are…

A stick of Australium not longer than a pen but quite thicker was under one of the glass panes. Sniper looked left and right before he got his fingers closer to the glass.

Please, Engie, tell me you disabled the alarms…!

The Aussie put his fingertips on the glass and taking a deep breath, he pulled the glass upwards very slowly, the sweat breaking on his brow. No alarm rang, there wasn’t a sound.

Hah, piece o’piss!

Sniper put the object in his inside pocket and made his way out of the room. He luckily found his button back and picked it up from the floor to put it in his pocket. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he melted in the people, looking for Spy to tell him he had what they needed; that they could leave that posh party.

“Oh…”

Sniper stopped sharp. From where he was, people walking around him, swarming like ants, he stood tall, his head above the average crowd and what he saw had an unexpected effect on him. Spy had indeed caught the guy’s attention, no doubt about that. Sniper found the Frenchman off the stage, a bit further were laid a few sofas for the VIPs no doubt. Spy was on one of them, well, not directly on the sofa, the Frenchman was on the guy’s lap, a glass of champagne in his hand, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, his stockings showing entirely on one leg. The Aussie was fuming. He wanted to go there, cover Spy’s leg with his jacket, take the Frenchman’s hand and drag him out. He frowned, furious.

At some point, Spy caught sight of him. He murmured something in the guy’s ear and Sniper couldn’t bear it anymore, he spun on his heels and made his way to his van. Well, Spy would understand that those parties weren’t really Sniper’s natural habitat and that he preferred to wait in his van.

So Sniper left the mansion, hurtled down the white marble stairs, retreated to his van, and slammed the door shut as he slumped down on his seat. He sighed and taking the steering wheel in his hands, he started drumming his fingers impatiently.

Impatiently?

The fact that the patient hunter lost his ability to behave professionally and wait made him blind with rage, boiling on his seat. He shut his eyes and leaned his head back to take a nap. He tried, but the frown on his brow kept him up, he could not possibly relax.

“Sniper?”

He opened his eyes. Spy had opened the passenger’s door.

“Do you have it?”

“Yeah.”

“Perfect! Let us be on our way then.”

“Yeah.” Sniper waited for Spy to fasten his seatbelt before he started the engine, and off both of them went back to the base.

The drive back was mostly silent, if one ignored the rumble of the van’s engine.

“Sniper?”

“What?”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Spy frowned.

“What is it?” He asked.

"What's what?”

“This attitude of yours.” Spy answered. “I left you after the dance and come to find you another different man altogether, and not in a good way, what happened? Did you get caught?”

“No.”

“Did you have to kill someone?”

“No.”

“Did you get hurt?”

“Spook, please.”

“What?” Spy asked.

“Get off my back.” Sniper coldly answered.

“I will not.” Spy replied, determined.

“For Christ’s sake…”

“What happened for you to turn so… furious?” Spy asked. “I demand to know!”

“Pfff, you demand nothin’, mate.”

“Yes, I do.” Spy answered and removed his wig. “I thought you were in a good mood up until I left you, what happened then?”

Sniper sighed.

“Was it something I did or said?” Spy asked.

“Leave me alone.”

“Non.” Spy started removing the padding on his chest and he sat back on his seat.

The rest of the drive back to the base was utterly silent up until Sniper parked the van in front of the base. He waited for Spy to get out but the Frenchman remained marble-like.

“We’re here, Spook, you can get off.” Sniper undid his seatbelt and hopped off. He went to the back of his van to get a change, but as he climbed up at the back, he noticed that Spy hadn’t moved, as the van hadn’t shaken on its tired suspensions. So the Aussie went back to his driver's seat and opened the door. As he did so, the lights came on inside the van. “Hey, you heard me? We’re back at the base.” Sniper wasn’t even looking at Spy.

“I know.”

“Well then get out, go to your room and do whatever your spooky arse does in the evenin’...!” Sniper said, looking at the base.

“Non.” Spy answered. “Not before I know what is driving you to speak to me in this manner. But If you do speak to me so, then surely I am responsible for your foul mood. So I demand you tell me what I did wrong.”

“Arh, for fuck’s sake, Spy, you did nothin’ wrong! Now just go, will ya? I’ve got stuff to do!”

“Oh, that you have, Sniper.” Spy finally uncrossed his arms and turned to look Sniper in the eye, the Aussie raised his head and with the lights of the van on, he noticed that Spy had removed the make-up somehow and the wig had gone too. He was… He was Spy again... minus the mask! “And the first thing you will do is explain to me what I did for you to become aggressive!”

A light switched on in the base and it lit a window brightly. Sniper looked at Spy who was still in his dress and himself, still in his suit.

“We can’t stay here.” Sniper said and hopped off, followed by Spy this time. Sniper opened the back door and hopped in, he turned and saw Spy extending a hand up to get some help. Sniper raised a curious eyebrow.

“Some of us are wearing high heels and a dress, Sniper.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Sniper took Spy’s satin, gloved hand and pulled him in, as he did so, Spy climbed the high step as best as he could but his balance was fragile, so Sniper pulled him by the waist before shutting the door after both of them.

“Now, pray explain everything to me.” Spy said.

“There’s nothin’ to explain, I’m just… I’m just tired, is all.”

“Liar, and a very poor one at that.” Spy switched the light on inside the van and went to a jar containing some candy. He helped himself to one, which pushed Sniper deeper down in his anger.

“Alright, it’s you! I mean, me!”

“What did you or I do?”

Sniper sighed and Spy knew he had won.

“It’s just… It’s my fault, I got carried away…” Sniper sat on the bench and lowered his head, holding it in his hands.

“Carried away?” Spy asked, taking a seat next to him. “What do you mean?”

“The… The whole thing… You as a sheila, the party, the dance, your singin’... I put funny ideas in my head, is all.” Sniper admitted and immediately regretted it. It was Spy he was talking to, the man who used blackmail as butter to spread on his morning toasts…! “Yeah, alright, you can go tell the others or laugh at me, or whatever it is you wanna do with it.”

“Sniper…” Spy put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Do you mean that… you thought there was more to my performance than mere acting?”

Sniper silently nodded, still not looking his colleague in the eye, his head lowered.

“I enjoyed this evening too, you know.” Spy said. “And you surprised me with your dancing skills.”

“Spy, spare me your mockin’ and go straight to the point. You’re gonna ask me to pay you to not tell the others or somethin’? Well I don’t give a rat’s arse, you can tell’em, you can tell what happened and even more than what happened, I don’t care. I just…”

“I… I don’t follow you, Sniper.”

Sniper shook his head.

“I surprised you with my dancin’? Yeah, well I told you I couldn’t dance but you insisted. That’s what you get.”

“Sniper, I did not mean it that way, on the contrary!”

“What?” Sniper’s head jerked back up and he looked at his friend with wide surprised eyes.

“I… You were hesitant at first but when you finally let go, it was… divine.”

Sniper raised an eyebrow, he expected to see irony in Spy’s eyes, but either he was playing too well or there was really none…

“I didn’t really dance, I just, I just moved a bit, that's all.”

“Yet you held me close and…” Spy chuckled, hearing himself. “Pardon my sentimentality, it must come as a surprise to you.”

“That, or you’re really actin’ a part.” Sniper answered.

“I am not.” Spy shook his head. “Would I be sitting here with you, in a dress and face naked, to tell you lies?”

Sniper sighed.

“I don’t know.” He answered.

“But all that does not answer my question, Sniper. Why were you so tense, angry even?” Spy gently brushed his hand on his friend’s arm and Sniper turned to look him in the eye before he realised that Spy’s eyes were a lot to take in, and he averted his gaze instead.

“Well, I told you a bit, I might as well come clean with ya.” Sniper took a deep breath. “Look, I saw you today and uh… Well, I mean, usually… Uh… Arh, I’m sorry, I’m not the best when it comes to words.”

“Then, stand up.” Spy stood up and offered his still gloved hand.

“What?”

“Stand up, come on.”

Sniper obeyed, although he had no idea where Spy was going.

“Alright, now what?”

“Now close your eyes. Can you hear it?”

“Hear what?” Sniper asked with his eyes closed.

“The music, the same mellow tunes that we heard and danced to, a few hours ago. How were we, again? Ah, yes, just like so.” Spy put Sniper’s hands back where they were. “Are your eyes still closed?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you see?”

“We’re back there and uh… I’m wonderin’ what you’re makin’ me do.”

Spy smiled when he felt Sniper’s hand slide from his hip to his back, exactly as it had done earlier. The Frenchman leaned his head on Sniper’s chest.

“Gosh…”

“Now, tell me what bothers you.” Spy’s voice was velvet like.

“I just… I held you there and you, you looked amazin’, Spook, you were… beautiful. Heh, as a bloke you’re not too bad either, but I don’t know, seein’ you like that, it was just… Gosh…” Sniper was talking almost to himself, out loud, forgetting that Spy was against him, even though he felt the warmth of his body, the comfort of his sweet embrace. He was rocking him left and right, as he had when they danced.

“What happened that made you so angry?” Spy gently asked.

“Seein’ you on that bloke’s lap.” Sniper admitted, his eyes closed. "I just… I don't know. I felt like… I saw you there, drinkin' and-and your dress…"

"What about it?"

"It…" Sniper frowned. "It was wide open and… You might as well've been naked, it was wrong, it was so wrong, the way he… He groped you and touched you… I felt like…"

"What did you want to do?" Spy whispered, and he felt Sniper tighten his embrace around him.

"Wanted to cover your legs with my jacket… Didn't want him or anyone else to see you like that." Sniper had now stopped dancing, he was only holding Spy dearly against himself. "I'm sorry, it's… patronisin' and pathetic, I saw you like a defenseless sheila even though I know you'd never let anyone play with you."

"It is not patronising, I appreciate the thought. Besides," Spy slid his hands on Sniper's chest and raised his head. "I thought I was clear."

"About what?"

"Do you remember what I said at the end of the song?"

"Somethin' about a hunter climbin' stairs and getting some gold, yeah, that was your signal, wasn't it?" Sniper was looking down at Spy.

"Oh oui, it was a signal, it was a lot of signals. Do you remember my exact words?"

"Nah, not exactly."

"I would like to dedicate this song to the one hunter brave enough to climb the stairs of my stone hard heart and steal the golden wand of love that he put there.”

"Yeah, poetic, eh?"

"It was a declaration, Sniper." Spy's tone of voice was serious.

"A declaration of what?"

"Of love." Spy answered. "I sang that song, Dream a little dream of me, as a declaration of my love for you."

Spy paused for a second, to let Sniper take the measure of what he had just said. He saw the shock in his wide open eyes and his cut breath. The Frenchman leaned against Sniper again.

"I enjoyed dancing with you so much that for a second I dreamt that we weren't there for business, that we could take our time, that I could have a dance with you. While I was waiting for you, the hesitation of the choice gnawed me on the inside: should I go and dance with him? Should I not? Well, although the answer was 'I should not or we could get caught together', my heart decided to ask you to dance anyway." Spy basked in the warmth of Sniper's body against him. "I wished that we could make that music last forever, I wished that I could prolong that song and that dance until the end of time."

"W-what…?" Sniper's voice came out as a hoarse whisper.

"But listening to what you felt now," Spy went on. "I have to ask you." He raised his head to Sniper. "Were you feeling… jealousy in your heart?"

Sniper closed his eyes and nodded.

"It's stupid but… I felt like, because of that small dance with me, I felt like we were, y'know, something. And when I saw that guy touchin' you and treatin' you like one the other sheilas, I lost it. Because you're not a sheila, and even if you were, you wouldn't be one of those. You're different."

"You know, in my long career and even longer life, it is not the first time that I have to disguise myself as a female. However, it is the first time that I felt natural doing so, all because of you, Sniper."

"What d'you mean?" Sniper looked down at Spy.

"You looked at me as if you were looking at a woman, you did not see a shred of masculinity in me and your eyes devoured me, not the Spy me, the woman, me. The jealousy you felt, was all because I looked like a woman." Spy took a step back from Sniper. The loss of warmth between them made them realise that the van was quite cold in fact. "Thank you for helping in that wordless way, my performance was enhanced by your faith in my skills." Spy removed the long, white gloves. "I… I shall not bother you any longer, it is quite late already."

As Sniper had been mostly silent all along, not once contradicting Spy, the Frenchman thought that the Aussie had only been attracted by the disguise, not the person under it. He sighed and walked out of the van, leaving Sniper alone.

The Aussie 's knees gave up and he sat on the bench.

What? He thought. He sang… To me? What did the song say again? Uhm… C'mon, it's a classic, I know it…

Sniper closed his eyes and pressed his brains. The lyircs came back to him.

“Say "Night-ie night" and kiss me,

Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me,

While I'm alone and blue as can be,

Dream a little dream of me…"

Gosh. Sniper looked through the window. The lights were out in the base, at least the side of the building that he could see.

"I need to talk to him. He thinks I just felt jealous of the sheila he played, fuck!"

Sniper leapt out of his van and ran to the base, he entered and ran again through the corridor, he took a flight of stairs down, hurtling down, and stopped in front of the door with the knife symbol. He gave a knock. No answer. He knocked again and waited, looking at the keyhole and the whole door, wondering how he could enter even if Spy didn't let him in.

"Whoever is bothering me at this hour of the night, prepare your spine, my blades will kiss you goodnight!" A furious voice with a French accent roared from behind the door. Spy opened the door, in his pyjamas with a blade in his hand and a balaclava on his face. He stopped sharp and sighed, lowering his weapon. "What are you doing here?"

"We need to talk."

"I said all I had to." Spy answered and didn’t move from his door. "There is nothing for me to add."

“Spy, please…?”

The Frenchman sighed before he yielded and moved from the doorway, letting Sniper in. He shut the door after him and removed his balaclava and gloves, before he put his blade away.

“Can I…?” Sniper looked at the sofa.

“Pray do.” Spy nodded and took a seat on the sofa too.

“You were wrong.” Sniper said without introduction and Spy scoffed.

“About what, if I may ask?”

“Pretty much everythin’.” Sniper answered.

“Ah, well, in that case, please enlighten me at this advanced hour of the night where my heart and mind have suffered long and through, please add to my misery.”

Sniper looked at Spy in a way that meant that he had not come to him for an exchange of witty remarks.

“I didn’t just feel jealous cause you looked like a sheila and I somehow forgot you were a bloke. ‘M not stupid.” Sniper said. “I felt jealous anyway. I just didn’t like the way the guy touched you, regardless of what you look like.”

“Ah, charming and very gallant.” Spy’s sarcasm was a way to let his frustration go but it contaminated Sniper.

“Listen,” He answered and Spy could hear the annoyance in his voice. “I got jealous regardless, I got jealous because the guy had his dirty hands all over you, Spook, you.” Sniper pointed his finger at his colleague. “I didn’t care that you looked like a sheila, I didn’t care and I don’t care what you look like at all, cause before this evenin’ I had no idea what you looked like without the mask.”

Spy’s eyebrows jumped. He hadn’t thought of that.

“So… It wasn’t because of my disguise as a female?” He tilted his head.

“No, you idiot! I just… I loved the dance with you, it felt… normal. I’m not big on these things but it felt nice with you, even though I had no idea what I was doin’, it was almost like it didn’t matter. You were there and… And you were holdin’ on to me and… Me too. Felt nice, really nice.” Sniper crossed his arms on his chest.

Spy scooted over to Sniper on the sofa. He slipped one arm around the Aussie and hugged it while leaning on him.

“Spook?”

“Hm?” Spy had closed his eyes.

“Did you sing that song… to me?”

“For you, oui.”

“Did you… mean the stuff you sang?”

“Every single word.”

“Oh.” Sniper relaxed his arms and looked down to his left. Spy was clinging, breathing slowly.

“And you, were you really jealous?” He asked with his eyes shut.

“Yeah… Yeah, I was, for real. I’m a bit dumb like that. You touched me and I just… I just imagined things. Felt like a dream though, really.”

“The best kind of dream, the one that you make with open eyes.” Spy answered in a sigh, his heart swelling in his chest.

“Spook?”

“Oui?”

“Hold on…” Sniper pulled himself out of Spy’s embrace and the frenchman failed to hide his disappointment at the lack of contact. “It’s gettin’ late and uh…”

“You want to return to your van, I suppose?”

“Yeah, I mean… As much as I'd like to stay with you, uh…"

"Who said you couldn't?" Spy asked.

"No one, but… Even my bunk's more comfy than your couch."

“What about my bed?”

The surprise of the question made Sniper stop talking for a long moment. Spy smiled. He stood up and extended his hand to Sniper, the same way that he had done to invite him to dance. Sniper's eyes went from Spy's to his hand. He hesitated for a second, but raised his hand and put it on top of Spy's.

"Come on." Spy led him to his bedroom and shut the door after them. "I can lend you something to sleep with, although it might be a bit short on your legs."

"It's fine… I mean, I usually don't sleep with much but uh… Spy, you sure about this?"

Spy went to the other side of the bed. He satdown and gave his back to Sniper.

"I would love you to join me, please."

"A-alright." Sniper took the opportunity of Spy not looking at him to shed his clothes only to stay in his tanktop and boxer shorts. "You can turn, Spook."

"May I?"

"Yeah."

Spy turned and even in the low light of the night lamps Sniper saw his pupils blow wide.

"Uhm… So, you take that side?" The Aussie asked.

"The only side I take is yours."

Both slipped under the blanket and Spy latched on his lover. He put a hand on Sniper's chest, slithered a leg between his and rested his head on his shoulder.

"Woah…" Sniper said, overwhelmed by it all.

"If you would rather I faced the other side,-"

"No." Sniper cut Spy. "Nah, it's… you're alright."

"Sniper?"

"Hm?"

Spy raised his lips to be near the Aussie's ear.

"I am yours." He whispered.

"Gosh… c’mere…” This time Sniper wrapped his arms around Spy and hugged him dearly. He kissed his brow and the Frenchman moaned in thanks. “Oh, sorry, too much?”

“Non, on the contrary, please?”

Sniper kissed Spy on his forehead again and he felt the Frenchman’s legs stretch against his.

"Someone's happy, eh?”

“Delighted…” Spy purred and buried himself down Sniper’s neck, softly nuzzling there. He whispered words that the Aussie barely heard.

“Ah, wow… Spook, we’re never gonna sleep…” Sniper heard the soft sound of kisses, he felt the Frenchman gently exploring his skin. “Also, what’re you sayin’? Can’t hear you…”

“I am saying things that you know already, so you don’t need to hear them.” Spy purred.

“What? Nah, c'mon, tell me, I wanna know…” Sniper chuckled, Spy’s kisses were tickling him.

“I was saying…”

“Yeah?”

“Je t’aime.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I love you, Sniper.”

Sniper’s eyes snapped wide.

“I uh, me too, Spook. I… I love you.”

Spy pulled himself out of his hideout and looked down at Sniper, his cheeks red. He bent down until their foreheads touched, he gently brushed his hooked nose against Sniper’s. One of Spy’s hands was on Sniper’s cheek, the other was in his har, massaging his scalp.

“Gosh, Spook…” Sniper’s heartbeat filtered through his breath.

“May I?”

“May you what?”

“Do something that I have yearned to.” Spy whispered. “Please, I beg of you, Sniper, let me kiss your lips…”

Sniper’s breath hitched.

“I-yeah, pelase, Spook, I mean, yeah-mmmh…”

Spy did not wait for the end of the sentence and gently pushed his lips against Sniper’s, tightening the grip he had on his hair. Sniper rolled his eyes up in bliss and felt his entire body go limp. Only his heart burnt in his chest, and his lips too.

When Spy withdrew, they both took a deep breath and chuckled.

“Sorry, I’m…” Sniper looked away.

“Oh, please, don’t apologise you did nothing wrong.” Spy smiled and rested his forehead against Sniper’s again.

“Gosh, Spook, I can feel you breathin’ against me and… You’re layin’ on me… I love that, I mean, you’re warm and, I don’t know, it’s comfy.”

Spy chuckled.

“Spook?”

“Oui?”

“Can we do it again, I mean, pelase?”

“As much as you want.” Spy bent down to meet Sniper’s lips and the Aussie rolled on the bed to be on top of the Frenchman. He frowned as he took the lead and decided to kiss him better, not just pushing his lips. He gently grabbed Spy’s upper lip between both of his. Spy moaned low, like a pur, he hooked his arms up around Sniper’s neck and pulled his body down.

The night was spent. Sleepless, but it was spent.

#tf2 sniper #tf2 spy #sniperspy

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rouiyan · 4 years ago

Text

𝘖𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘊𝘈𝘚𝘛 𝘚𝘒𝘐𝘌𝘚 𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘛𝘏𝘖𝘚𝘌 𝘞𝘏𝘖 𝘋𝘐𝘌 [ 𝘭.𝘫𝘯 ]

⧏ the second volume of rouiyan’s debut series, till death do us part ⧐

synopsis: “i will keep you,” he says softly, as sweet as black tea, “and i will keep you warm.” (Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless)

✧ prince!lee jeno x crown princess!reader ✧ royalty au

✧ genres : fluff, angst ✧ word count : 5.0k ✧ disclaimers : brief descriptions of nudity (nothing sexual), allusions to sex (nothing explicit), malintent

read volume one here: of the heart.

when the moon, in all her glory, begins to set, Mother Nature begins each new day by inhaling the misfortunes of the day before and blowing out frigid breaths in their stead. this morning is no exception for nothing is so clear as the wisps of fog that lie just beyond the horizon, a velarium of sorts, over the forest canopy. the sun is a little early today, but it is for naught, since its rays are caught between the tendrils of fog right as they begin to show. perhaps Mother Nature woke up in a bit of a fit today, seeing as the skies are already oozing the grays before the blues have yet to surface. Her fingers gently stir the clouds to ensure that they collide right where the earth most needs it and She's joyful in the sense that Her work can be admired from far down below. after all, the paintings She conjures in the skies are nothing short of masterpieces.

like a ceiling folding in with the pressure of water leakage, the clouds from down below give off an air of distress. the air itself is heavily encumbered with a clarity found only after the rainiest of days. and if not for the sake of the story, the author could spend hours droning on about Mother Nature's tour de force, she really would, but instead she will insert a few lines from a symphony:

The autumn mist drifts blue over the lake,

The blades of grass stand covered with frost,

The flowers' sweet scent is gone,

An icy wind bends down their stems,

My heart is weary.

Der Einsame im Herbst (The lonely one in autumn), from Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde

in the exact opposite sense that Mother Nature loves her leaves, with tender fondness and a forgiving hand, prince jeno's father has never loved his second son more, with an impassioned sneer and a bagful of riches in mind. at least, that is exactly what prince jeno himself thinks as he skims through yet another letter, this time from his father.

son,

never did i think i would enjoy the prospect of a winter ceremony as much as i would this, perhaps you would also like to see an early coronation. i've made the necessary arrangements, i assure that you will not be suspected in the least but keep caution and wariness by your side, our family name is already a great deal tainted. thought not for long, i'll be sending a carriage to retrieve you for your rounds back home, we've ought to get going on them. the damsel is a sight for sore eyes, i presume, i'd hate for her to foil our ambitions; she is much in your hands to attend to now. i'll see you by the throne soon, my lad.

king of the southern mines, your father.

the prince's vision narrows upon the words 'coronation, arrangements, suspected, foil, throne,' and he is already a sight of frustration, fingers gripping the paper with such force that his short nails are digging into his palms through it. seething, he tears his eyes from the script before him but instead, they land on the previous letter sat atop the open escritoire. the one from his mother. the stamped edge of the paper lifts with the wind that filters through the window just above it and he has the sudden urge to let it be carried away wholly. jeno crosses the room in four steps.

with both the pages collected in his hands, jeno crouches by the mantle, the roar of a fire licking up before him. his face is drawn in concentration, jaw stiff and clenched. the lines of his brows are met with a furrow in between, set above the meek lines of his eyelids. his pupils dilate, albeit out of habitual need, in the reflection of the inferno before him. he's ever-so-aware of the distinct scent of burning coals that siphon and sharpen his reminiscence of home. it's sentient, the feelings of familiarity that overcome his senses, halting his movements, his fingers clutching the papers in a way that almost tells of longing. longing of a seemingly different world entirely, one that he has only ever known until a few weeks prior. being washed anew in distant lands and over the course of a single lunation, jeno finds that he's never felt more mismatched from himself, disconnected from the people who raised him in contrast to the people who have brought out the better in him. but the embers are not the only thing he smells, not the only he sees, or heeds to.

the pearly carrara marble of the mantle tells stories in the grayed lines that trail across its posh surface. his eyes rove over the white, the faith and purity of your heraldry binded with the emblem of your family. the white of angels, of untainted relations, sterility in empowerment, the inviolable you. the white tells stories that the black never could.

so jeno finds a warm pleasure in the way the flames overwhelm the papers with eager enthusiasm, the damned words of his parents receding into mere ash. prince jeno thinks he could forever part with the world if it asked him to feast his eyes on this very sight until the end of time.

despite arousing before the sun, you are disappointed when it starts to chase your wakefulness. there is something edging the growing unease in your mind, as if time is trickling down the drain of the past, too fast and too unforgiving. as if time is berating at your senses, telling you there is much more than what meets the eye but for the life of you, you cannot pinpoint what. for now though, you tend to the pressing matters at hand, jeno has been called home for his rounds, rather abruptly.

"perhaps i should go with you, rounds don't always have to be made by one per-”

jeno cuts you off effectively, "they are very much a one person duty," he assures pointedly. your nose scrunches, the light inconveniences starting to rub off on your exasperation. in a tired voice you mumble, "we could always change it up a bit, i'm sure." jeno chuckles heartily at that, his hand coming up from his side to rub out the lines of stress in your forehead.

"little miss princess, you're saying that as if you do not have rounds to complete of your own. i'm almost certain you host are a far greater amount of people that wish to be invited to the ceremony than i have-"

it's your turn to cut him off now, "why don't you stay with me then?" in attempts to enhance the force of your resolve, you uncover a hand of your own from under the sheets to comb through his locks. the way his eyes instantly close to relish in your touch paired with the little purr he gives is almost telltale of your victory. almost.

jeno pauses, his eyes flicker back open, and a soft knowing smile runs along the features of his face as he shakes his head, in knowledge of your artful tactics to wear him down. "and neglect my kingdom and their desires?"

you've left the feelings of frustration behind, instead deciding to fool around with the boy, to see what you can get out of him for good fun, "but we've yet to decide what flowers to use as centerpieces. and whether we're throwing a private or public ball. wedding preparations are surely more important than handing out personal invites…we can cut corners one some niceties." jeno knows better than to let his guard down. the jeno around y/n isn't to be trusted as easily. he settles for words of comfort instead, "i'll write."

"well, that's of course. silly of you to voice something as unequivocal as that."

a pause and his resolve is slipping, "maybe a few short visits back wouldn't hurt." you lick your lips in good-natured fun, another pause, "i'm sure my father wouldn't half mind if we cut it a week short." your eyes look hazy to him, though in reality they are simply amused, and drawing words from him he isn't even sure he's saying. "or- or maybe i could convince him, or try to at least…," he trails on and on.

your satisfied a certain amount and, suppressing a smile from giving away your plotted schemes, you mutter quietly, mostly for your own pondering, "i'm thinking alliums would make a statement, blue alliums." jeno gives a noise of confusion, unsure of how you've suddenly come to talk of flowers. "the centerpieces, i mean." jeno's silence only urges you on, "alliums, or blue alliums at that, are symbols of unity and good fortune. i think that'd make a nice combination with a base of milkweed, dignity and freedom, if my memory serves me right."

the prince has found his voice, "what of the rounds?" but he's met with a small chortle, "nothing, a month is a month, i'm sure we'll work around it."

"but, i- i'm not sure i understand. you were adamant enough a millisecond ago, and now-"

"and now i'm telling you i was toying with you, dear sir. such fun it is when you let on more than you'd like."

jeno's cheeks flush, the warm color dusting the bridge of his nose, apples of his cheeks, tips of his ears. your warm smile and benign banter bring him the simplest of joys. he's not sure he's ever felt this way before. familiarity. and, not the familiarity that comes from his assigned butler since birth, or the old lady at the apothecary he's been to all his life that's paid to tend to his wounds. not the familiarity that comes with blood and playing house, the type of sickened familiarity he feels with his brother, doyoung, that every second spent with him is forced. the familiarity he feels with you is by choice, by genuine and sincere desire. you want to wake up in the mornings with him by your side. you want to spend breakfast pushing each other's toes away underneath the table. you want to hold his hand when he walks you to your carriage. you want to make love with him in the most ungodly hours of the day. which is exactly what happens that morning.

a day is barely enough to do all the things you've penned in your journal. things to be done before you were to be married, with the one you were to be married to. the list had been written, curated, and refined by nine-year-old you, who you must say, had some very good ideas, though verily a romanticist.

jeno is departing tomorrow morning, as early as the sun will permit, and suddenly you wish that it would never rise again. whatever the case, you set out first thing this morning, hand tugging along a very tired prince, for the bathing pool. nine-year-old you must have misinterpreted the meaning of 'skinny dipping' for swimming but you thank nine-year-old you because things seem to have worked out in your favor either way. jeno is jolted awake by the gelid water, the seasons now mark three-quarters into fall.

"go in first," you state simply, hands on your hips and eyes drawn down into the water. the single toe you had dipped in to test the waters is frigid and frozen. jeno, who has yet to finish undressing himself, nodded at your words. if he were looking in your direction he would've noticed the smirk on your face. he stands straight, boxers on the ground behind him as he takes place by your side, "cold?"

"not at all, surprisingly," he's looking at you now and your countenance can't help but decompose in front of him, a small, unsuspecting smile adorning your lips. "oh really, can you attest for that?"

the smile is now blossoming unto your cheeks, "are you telling me to go in first?" the prince nods at that, fully aware of your schematics, "yes, i would like to see you enter the warm water."

"you agreed to go in first just a few seconds ago, don't tell me you've backed out on your word," a feeble matter against the boy but he defends himself by saying, "devious little princess, as if this wasn't your idea."

you're equally defensive when you point out, "not me, directly, but rather me as a child-" he pushes you in. lee jeno, second prince of the esteemed southern kingdom pushes you into the subzero degree bathing pool.

assuredly though, he dives in a few seconds after he's had time to relish in your shocked expression and piercing screams. he's coming up for air, his hands have found your bare hips to make sure that you resurface together. or drown together, you think, because it seems his foot is caught in the crevices between two rocks and since he's writhing like a madman, you're writhing with him too. it's a strange sight, two very beautiful individuals, absolutely in love but absolutely inane, for if jeno had thought to let go of his grip on you, you might've been able to unlodge his foot altogether if he had not been set on wrangling both your bodies about.

it's four minutes later that the two of you are on the leveled bronze rock, now, absolutely loosing it over jeno's lack of common sense. both of you are having trouble breathing, spurts of water still occasionally gushing past his lips. he thinks you're most beautiful in your bare skin, with nothing to define you but yourself. he's running his fingers up and down your torso, lips connecting with the surface of your neck. he appreciates that you kiss him with such avidity, you always do. jeno loves that you make it known to him, that what you say, you mean. and that even if you were never to utter a word again, he would still understand the sheer vehemence with which you love him.

you cross off paragliding, building a snowman, and studying together for a test. not because they've been completed but because there simply is no plausible way to get them done with the deadline closing in fast. the next activity you present to jeno has his eyebrows raised in intrigue. he's quick to reply when you ask him.

"a moon, a quartered moon." the knowing smile that grows on your face tells him he's chosen correctly.

jeno gives a squeeze to your hand as the needle comes in contact with your clean skin. the first few minutes are highlighted by the sensation of a million bee stings, racking through your brain, but the rest is relatively smooth sailing. yours comes out just as good as jeno's, a small moon, a quartered moon, tattooed into the skin just behind the left ear. there specifically, so that it's known by each other and each other only.

there will be months passed before the moon becomes a sort of unspoken but affirmative communication instrument. when jeno loves you a little too much, he rubs the inked skin softly. his sleepless nights are cured with the pad of your finger upon the spot. between the many general meetings you're required to oversee in a day, jeno waits outside the conference room for you to exit, his fingers stroking the moon for the duration of the few seconds allotted to him before you're whisked away again. the symbol of night is translated into accounts of bonding, the smallest of things giving way to happiness.

you would say the uses of the 'lovemark' are amplified as the sun retreats and the mascot of your relationship shines brighter than ever. it's evident in the look on jeno's face, especially, a few feet below you, peering up your skirt with a dumbstruck look on his face.

"jeno, dear, now is really not the time." the boy clears his throat and looks away, baffled at how you'd caught him anyways. your position is so frightfully awkward, one foot on the top end of your chamber's windowsill, another bent and hoisted onto the flat ledge of your roof. "come on up now, and get those dirty thoughts out of your mind. for heaven's sake, we're here to watch the sunset and stargaze, not to pound into each other."

the prince laughs at your offhanded remarks, arriving himself on the platform. the view is expansive in the way that you can see the forest from here, the ocean if you squint, the hills set in the far distance, and the sky has never felt closer to the earth while the things you've always known to be near appear smaller and more distant than ever. even the gregarious tree stalks of the forest rise to what could be measured as an only inch from this outlook.

"nine-year-old y/n seems to have known nothing but fun days." jeno muses, leaning his weight back upon his hands. your eyes are glazed in an omniscient mist, "i'd expect so, she was born and raised with everything." the prince picks up on the tone of distaste with which you'd spoken your words. he turns to you and studies the hairs that fall in your eyes, "hardly fair."

you reply not a beat after, "not at all fair. if i were to accomplish one thing during my run as queen, i'd give the children opportunities of a lifetime." the thoughts tumble out of your mind, as if you'd known of this conviction of yours since you were but a child. your drive as a ruler, firm and headstrong to implement your values and beliefs on your subjects has been the sole idea that's grounded you in the castle for your entire time being.

"and what if you cannot?"

your first reply is dealt with in humble humor, "at the very least, i'd like it to be engraved on my tombstone that i tried." the second, is laden with a sorrowful undertone, "housing, schooling, meals and warmth in the winter. we have it the worst here up north. if they are without school, they are left with nothing." jeno's head turns to yours, he sees the slip of a tear and he wipes it away, only to be met with another. your voice cracks in despair, "there are no mining jobs to take up, no farms to harvest, aqueducts to run. i dread that one day i must rule a kingdom of arts."

jeno tries, he really does, to gather you in his arms but your sobs rack your body with such force that he is left to comfort your desolations with words and a hand on your back, "what is there to dread? are the arts so difficult to maintain?"

bitterness forms at the tip of your tongue, "no, jeno. i regress in the face that art is invaluable. but the world seeks to attach a price to every viable thing, to label the passion of others. and now, now the arts are for the rich, only for the rich. have you ever heard of a hungry man paint instead of seeking shelter from the rain? a woman who writes prose instead of feeding her dying children? there is no one who can live solely on art but the heavens have sent me to rule a horde of those very people."

the prince knows you need to voice the thoughts weighing down your mind, so he gives them a platform, a nudge, "a kingdom of arts would be blessed to house a queen with intentions such as yourself, surely there are others who hold the same principles as you."

"no doubt," your eyes cast on the forming stars, "but as much as i would love to trail a path of meliorism and say that with a tide of willingness, there will be change, i must not forget the real nature of the world we live in."

"and what is this nature that you speak of?"

"the drive of greed and sadism, in exchange for the feeblest of pleasures."

the world comes to a still in this very moment. the moon begins her ascent. the stars unsheath their full luminance. the whites of their gleam reflecting on the rooftop on which the two of you are sat. time and space shrivel in the potency of untainted humanity.

"we will bring change, you and i."

you feel your heart calm as your rambling ceases. jeno looks over at you and smiles.

prince jeno is scheduled to return in twenty seven days time. there is something that feels wrong about him leaving. a feeling that if he leaves, all hell with turn loose and you will be unleashed unto the dogs for ravaging. there is a coated and unspoken thought that splutters in your mind whenever you even dare so much as to begin to think of it. the possibility that with jeno's leave, you'll be left with the realization that it was all a phase of infatuation. that when you see him again, all the feelings that you'd built up over the course of a month and a few days was just a glamourized dream. that he was never real; the real that you needed.

"i'll be forever thinking of those lips on mine, maybe even missing them," you let, comically. jeno eyes you conspicuously, "and i'll be forever thinking of you, as a whole, not just the lips unlike you. a little fixated you sounded there, mind you." his little sniggers are given in response to your hands pushing his chest in frisky response. the prince pulls you closer into a final embrace, the coachman of his black carriage is awaiting his departure.

he parts from you and you can't help but trail behind him down the paved path. he's over his shoulder now as you let loose a sliver of your deepest worries, meekly, "i hope we never change, jeno."

the prince halts at the bottom steps that curl into the palace. he sees you, feels you, knows you, for he quotes, “i will keep you,” he says softly, as sweet as black tea, “and i will keep you warm.” (Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless)

jeno can hear the light pellets of raindrops hit the roof of his carriage. the gray skies are darkening by the second, it's telling him something that he's sure he doesn't want to hear. his fingers fiddle with the cuffs of his tailored suit jacket, something you'd requested be made for him when his stay was first prolonged. the prince is entirely clad in white and he knows enough to imagine the face his mother will make when she first sees him home. lee jeno doesn't remember a time when he's donned a color other than black, but somehow, the white doesn't feel too far from home.

with the white, his mind flashes with the events of the past month or so spent in your noble abode. you, on the other hand, rarely ever wore a color other than white, the most differing shade being a cream or beige. but even with all the lights, you never seemed to mind when they were dirtied. almost always, a day in the fields or by the bathing pool would drench a good six inches of your skirts in mud and the unfurled hems of your frocks or crinkled fronts of those sweaters you so often adorned were always beyond your notice. you were free in that way, never stopping to fuss over the little things you deemed unimportant. jeno thinks if he could live that way too and though he isn't sure if he can, he knows he wants to.

jeno can hear the spindles of the carriage gyrating with added resistance against the now watered-down mud of the trodden roads. his eyes are caught in the sky that looks as if it's to detonate at any given second. he predicts the thunder before it rings loud in his ears and he hears the coachman slash a whip to a trepid horse, an echo of the natural phenomenon. he wonders what it would feel like to be the coachman, out in the clamorring downpour, or perhaps the horse, blindlessly running to the crack of a whip, or the trees even, awoken by the threat of a fire. he wonders if he has any desire to be the lightning itself, to jab at the delicate foliage as he'd like, to set fire to that of which he doesn't like, to wield destructive power. he wonders, but he knows he doesn't want to.

lee jeno is in his carriage when he realizes what it means to be free, but not in the hindrance of others. he realizes what it means, not to rule but rather to guide without the oppression of others. lee jeno is also in his carriage when the skies turn black and a deluge of rain is unleashed upon the castle of white.

a man a few inches brief to the prince, but of higher rank in swordsmanship, is propped on the limestone trellis that holds the awning in place, his two feet hooked between the vertical balusters of stone and fingers clung onto the ridge of the balustrade. he finds it ludicrous that every individual of importance he has ever met, is so caught up in their own belief that they are untouchable, where in reality they are the most vulnerable of all. he thinks this, specifically, as he upturns himself over the railing and onto the landing, only to see that the king's door are left wide open, the only shield of protection being the pristine white curtains glinting a sheen of blue in the moonlight.

renjun is humored when, upon drawing the curtains back, the king himself is simply laying there on the ground, unconscious as he was informed he'd be. the knight presses two fingers to the inner wrist of the withered man and finds that he still has a job to finish. brandishing a blade from the underside of his calf, he deems the inscription on the handle fit for the deed. he drives it into the gut but makes quick work of it, the sputters of blood that erupt from the now-awakened royal something he wishes the guards just outside not to hear. renjun makes further assurance that the blade is firmly put in place, the stout palladium shaft protruding from the king's abdomen like the ring of a windup toy.

a black body bag is used to sheath the quickly-paling bag of bones. it is left under the light of the moon, through a skylight rounded in the dead center of the palace. around the malefaction, stairs wind in all directions from the ground up and if there were even one maid to have crossed the landing once in the night, she would have been met with what looked to be an unassuming trash bag. but fate had it so the sun would rise before your dead father was stumbled upon, an inscribed shank planted between his internal organs reading, this star-like solitude (Giuseppe Ungaretti, from Last Choruses for the Promised Land: XVI (tr. by Patrick Creagh)).

the blood that seeps from the measly opening in the bag is not silver, nor is it gold. it is blood red. the red of a brazen senex that perhaps preceded and proceeded his times, entangled in the intricacies of the new age, the new game of politics he simply had no means to play at. akin to the webs of an arachnid, the string of fate hung around his neck, thin and unnoticeable, cinching with each passing second until Mother Nature deemed his time up. the blood that seeps writhes in the rays of the sun, twines like the veins in the marble beneath it. it seeps until the figure in the sack is drained and the clumping skin of human remains is the same shade as the white tiling. red against white, white against black, the black of a crying sky.

read volume three: dearly departed.

✧ end note — i had such a hard time trying to pull this outta my ass in a way that captures everything i wanted to say. so thank you for reading this piece. it’s one of my most favorite things i have ever written, undoubtedly.

#nct fics #nct scenarios #nct ff #nct jeno #nct lee jeno #jeno x reader #jenoxreader #jeno imagines #jeno fluff #jeno angst #jeno blurbs #rouiyan fics #rouiyan writes

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permanentcrossfics · 5 years ago

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Better Now Than Later // h.s.

It’d hit him like a tonne of bricks, then.

This bloke shared a bed with you.

He spent night after night with you.

He got to see you naked.

Nauseated hadn’t described the feeling he’d had to swallow back, and chest pains were a step below that funny, fluttery, squeezing thing his heart was doing.

He’d kept waiting for the feeling to go away, but the more it lingered, the worse it got, until he was snappy and irritable with just about everyone. Even seeing you didn’t help, because if you weren’t with the man, you were talking about him, or texting him, or reminding Harry he was waiting for you.

What had started out as wanting to assert that he knew you best had led him to wanting to know you better — to fill the missing holes (no sexual innuendos intended) in the relationship between you — but all of a sudden you weren’t just dating the man, you were living with him. He’d put on a brave face and tried to remind — convince — himself that your happiness was what mattered, but then the engagement had happened and he’d just… snapped.

I wrote this a few years ago -- there are some signs of that left in as Easter eggs for those who have stuck around this long. Happy reading -- thanks for wanting it after all this time x

Read NOW on Patreon // Tumblr // Wattpad

Now

Anybody could’ve told him, and many did.

“Is there... something going on? Between you and…?”

“What?”

How often had he shaken his head no?

“We’re just friends — I love her, but we’re just friends.”

Harry had been happy for you when you started dating your now fiancee. That was the right feeling to have for someone he cared about, right? It was casual, he seemed nice, and if you were happy, he was happy. At first, he was just a lad to have a laugh with, but then… something had changed. He didn’t disrespect you — never that, for which Harry remained grateful to this day — but Harry got the distinct impression that the other man thought he knew you better than Harry did. He’d tried to squash it, because personal relationships were not an arena in which his competitive nature should thrive, but he’d still coiled like a cobra ready to strike back at the insinuation that just because this bloke shared a bed with you, and spent the night, and got to see you naked that he somehow knew you better.

It’d hit him like a tonne of bricks, then.

This bloke shared a bed with you.

He spent night after night with you.

He got to see you naked.

Nauseated hadn’t described the feeling he’d had to swallow back, and chest pains were a step below that funny, fluttery, squeezing thing his heart was doing.

He couldn’t write music after that. He’d tried to write so many songs to put it into words, but the words he got out were stiff on paper and his fingers were clumsy on the strings of his guitar, and that made it worse. He felt mute though he hadn’t stopped screaming the entire time you’ve been planning your wedding, and now the day was here.

When he’d gotten the save the date card, he’d contemplated lying through his teeth — he could send a bloody waffle iron and call it a day and know that you’d at least be fed while he pretended to be in New York, Toronto, São Paulo, Munich, Tokyo, anywhere but where you were on your wedding day. He couldn’t do it, though -- hadn’t you pestered him specifically to find out when he was free? And warned him time and again to not slot anything in because you were planning your wedding around him and this would be the date chosen?

That was a punch to the chest if he’d ever felt one.

Similarly, as the weeks had dragged on he’d considered faking sick, faking traffic, faking anything to get out of it, but the morning had come. Wished he may, wished he might’ve, it was there at last. and he’d showered and combed his wet curls before drying them and spraying them with whatever Lou had forced upon him ages ago before zipping up his boots. You’d promised him he could be him — rings, necklaces, hair that’s annoying enough to require a hair tie around his wrist for when he needs it, and a shirt just shy of half its buttons being done — because you’d said you wanted to look out towards the crowd and find something familiar in the midst of all the symbolic change.

“You can be a rockstar,” you’d told him. “Just make sure you’re a rockstar at a wedding.”

How was he ever supposed to fake anything when you wanted so badly to see him on your wedding day?

That was how he wound up sitting in the church at one end of the pew with the little sheet of paper that had your name and your soon-to-be husband’s printed on it along with those of the ring bearer, and the flower girls, and the bridesmaids and the groomsmen, and all the people that were far too many to be what you wanted.

He flicked the edge of it repeatedly with his thumb and his mouth got tighter and tighter as he stared. You weren’t married — not yet. Harry shifted forward and twisted in his seat to look towards the back of the church, but he shook his head and turned back.

There was a ring bearer, flower girls, bridesmaids, and groomsmen who would all be sorely disappointed if he did anything foolish. Not to mention your family, and he supposed your groom might take issue, although, frankly, he was the least of Harry’s concerns right then — he was the root of the problem, actually.

Give it up, he chided himself. You aren’t going to do anything. What happens? She says no and you feel like a proper twat for having put her through that on her wedding day and left it on her mind from hereon out? You would do that to her? You’ve not got enough time to change her mind, and even if you did, you shouldn’t.

Harry closed his eyes, another voice springing up. What if you said yes? What if you changed your mind? What if — and he knew this is a demotion — you agreed to date him instead of marrying this tosser?

He didn’t have any idea if he loved you — if he was in love with you — but he knew he’d like the chance to try, and if he lost out on even the possibility….

He was at the door through which people had been barging in and out of for the past hour before he could process his feet had moved. Harry hesitated, looking at the rings on his fisted fingers, before knocking fervently. He winced, his whole face pinched inwards, knowing that he had better have something damn good to say, and before he could even entertain the idea that you wouldn’t let him in, the door opened and you peeked out cautiously before relaxing.

“Oh, it’s you.”

He wanted to laugh at how flippant you sounded, but you’d already ushered him in and shut the door behind.

Looking at you, his heart sank. Your hair and makeup were done and your dress was… it was perfect. It was exactly something you would wear, and he could only imagine how long it took you to find, because he remembered how long it took his mum to find something when she married Robin. You looked… beautiful.

“Thanks,” you said.

He hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud, and he cleared his throat. You looked beautiful, and he was about to do this? You deserved better — you deserved a man who wasn’t slow on the uptake and who didn’t choke on his emotions after trying to stamp them out for the better part of… ages. Ages and ages… Christ. He’d felt this way forever and it took this wanker to put it in perspective for him.

Hands shoved deep into the pockets of his slacks, he balled them in and out of fists.

Don’t be a coward, Styles. You either say it now or you walk away. Don’t drag this out for her.

“Don’t.”

It was a croak and he closed his eyes feeling like he just fired a gun in the dark. His heart pounded like he’d just run a 5k in as many minutes.

“Don’t fucking marry him,” he clarified. The room was so quiet the two of you could hear a pin drop, and when he opened his eyes, you were holding the back of the chair in front of the vanity that had all your makeup strewn over it. Your mouth was open and you blinked dazedly, eyes wide and almost frightened.

“M’sorry.” He withdrew one of his hands from his pockets and pushed it through the tamed, wavy curls. “M’sorry, I jus’—“

A knock on the door announced the arrival of one of your bridesmaids.

“Are you ready?” she asked you before narrowing in on him. “You should get back to your seat.”

You made some sort of sound — something like a gasp, maybe, but he can’t be sure — while he nodded his head. “Right, yeah.” He didn’t meet your eyes when he closed the small distance between you, grabbing your forearm instinctively as he leaned in. “See you in there,” he said gruffly just before pressing a strong, puckered kiss to your cheek. He should’ve shaved, he realized too late, but you didn’t protest about the whiskery stubble scratching your skin before he doubled back for his seat in the pew.

The rows were nearly full when he sat down and he picked up the sheet of paper once more and the reality of the situation sank in.

He wanted you. He really bloody wanted you, he’d admitted as much just now, but just now was too late and there was no way back. He tried hard not to take things, and places, and people, and opportunities for granted, but he had how many times he could realize and own up to his feelings, and he’d chosen now?

The swell of Pachelbel’s Canon in D rose from the front of the church and he lifted his suddenly heavy head to watch the first of the wedding party make their way down the aisle. Nobody came, though — no bridesmaid, no ring bearer, no flower girl, no you. The pianist, bless them, played on to fill the gaps in the titters despite the fact that it should’ve been long over, and all around him people exchanged confused glances and concerned whispers.

You loved that man waiting for you at the altar.

Right?

When that same bridesmaid of yours darted out and made a beeline for Harry, his heart skipped a beat.

When she leant down and whispered to come with her, it stopped entirely.

Harry glanced back towards the altar just before disappearing through the doors with her, and he had the strangest feeling of guilt when he spied your fiancee standing there looking simultaneously lost and as if he wanted to kill the rockstar who’d dared to crash his wedding.

Children sat on the floor, detained from their ring bearing and flower throwing duties, and where there had been just you in the room before there were now three others in it with you.

“Get out,” you told them, shrilly. “Get out.”

Harry watched you warily as you made short paces back and forth in front of him amidst your bridesmaids scurrying from the room. He’d only seen you this crazed a few times, but never once had it been directed towards him. He was just about to ask if you wanted him to leave, too, when you finally asked, “What is wrong with you?!”

It was a fair question, but any answer he had to offer would be unsatisfying.

“M’sorry,” he mumbled, proverbial tail between his legs. “I jus’—“

“Stop apologizing,” you hissed. Harry pressed his lips together and nodded as you bent slightly, not quite doubling over. “What am I doing?” The words were moaned in pure agony and he had the urge to tell you to straighten up to help your breathing, but he had a feeling he shouldn’t speak much right then unless he’s spoken to.

“I’m getting married,” you uttered, voice breaking. “Why would you ever…?”

“Better now than later, yeah?” he said and you shook your head.

“I’m so… so angry with you.”

He could tell by the way your words burned that you meant it, but he couldn’t shake the nudging reminder that you’d still brought him back to you.

“You can forget it if y’want,” he rasped despite the ache in his chest. “S’fine.”

The ache was slightly assuaged when you shook your head again and muttered a soft, “No… no….”

He’d only just started to process it when you twisted your engagement ring — that lump of glorified coal that’d been sitting on your hand and making him scowl in his sleep — and ordered him to, “Stay here.”

“No,” he protested. “That’s not—“

“He’ll kill you,” you said under your breath, looking at him at last. “And you’ll break your damn hand if you try to fight back.”

He wanted to quip he was a lover not a fighter, but he knew already that may not be his choice if he were out there, and he felt a jolt when you passed your hand over his ringed fingers.

It took all of thirty minutes, if that long, but you returned to the room at last looking all the wearier for battle. He frowned immediately when he spied the makeup smudges and how the whites of your eyes were slightly bloodshot. Suspicion prickled in him and he was convinced you’d asked him to stay because he would be in danger of doing the killing.

“Unzip me,” you requested hollowly, effectively extinguishing his fire.

It took him a moment to process it before he cleared his throat and stepped forward to oblige, grabbing your zipper and pulling it down just past the curve of your bum. You unceremoniously stripped out of it and then the frilly undergarments that hid your regular ones, allowing them to pool at your ankles. “Can you hang them?” you asked and he took on the task robotically, trying to figure out what hung and what zipped and what draped as you changed back into the jeans and t-shirt you’d arrived at the church in.

He was just wrestling with getting the dress to stay on the padded hanger and those silk loops that refused to stay inside when you spoke up.

“I’m awful.”

Two simple, frail words, and when he looked at you, the sadness on your face knocked him backwards. You’d been so aggressive with him that he hadn’t been able to read any other emotion, but he saw the guilt that he felt since he first knocked on the door reflected in your appearance. He abandoned his task, one of those silk hanger straps hanging from the side of the dress, and for the first time since it’s all really started to happen, he touched you.

Harry grabbed your shoulders firmly and pulled you in for a hug, and he was relieved when you wrapped your arms around him and gripped the back of his jacket for dear life. Your shoulders shook with a sharp inhale and he covered the back of your head with one of his hands to force you to nestle in close, and when you did, your whole body just… collapsed.

“You’re not awful,” he rasped quietly. “Better now than later, innit?” he repeated his earlier logic. How much more terrible would it have been if you’d gone through with it and decided no, no, you didn’t want this after all?

Harry’s heart squeezed unpleasantly from the phantom sound of your voice saying, “I do,” carrying all the way to him in the church. However terrible this might’ve felt, it had to be better than the alternative, didn’t it?

You took a deep, shuddering breath, and he pressed a kiss to your head on instinct. Your hair felt weird — a byproduct of all the creams, or mousses, or gels, or sprays, or whatever the hell it was you’d slathered yourself up with no doubt — but the result of you burrowing deeper against his neck was nice. He swayed slightly with you, but stopped instantly when your lips passed over his neck almost shyly.

Harry stayed very, very still when you lifted your face and leaned back. He peered at you through hooded eyes, hand still cupping the back of your head. It was like one of those stupid moments in a romance novel, but he saw your eyes drop to his mouth, and he knew that however scripted it seemed, he had to seize the moment lest he let another one go by like all the ones before.

You both stayed very, very still when your lips first made contact. Yours, he thought, were soft and pillowy — nice and smooth, perfectly pliable. You broke away before he could deepen it, but he grabbed your chin and silently coaxed you to keep your head up despite the shy expression that should have him begging off. He pressed his forehead to yours momentarily and your sharp intake of breath — preemptive for the kiss that he’s not granting you — compelled him to duck down again.

It was still chaste, by all standards, but it was less shocking the second time around, and neither one of you were as hesitant as the first time. Harry cupped the side of your face. This was the goal, wasn’t it? He hadn’t asked you not to marry the tosser so that he could continue to have you round for tea and send you home at half twelve in the morning or offer you up his guest bed. He hadn’t asked you to please, not do it, because he wanted to raid your fridge after a night of drinking and set bread to rise that he’d never bake because he’d be long gone by morning.

He wanted to share a bed with you.

He wanted to spend night after night with you.

He wanted to see you naked and leave you dozing in bed while he baked that bread himself instead of having you wrestle with a hangover and a gooey mass of dough.

Harry cupped your face a little firmer, squeezing a bit, grateful you weren’t whining about his stubble and more grateful still that he’d chosen to speak now rather than later.

Later

Calling off your wedding had been one of the most humiliating things you’d ever had to do.

Ever.

You’d loved your fiancee — part of you probably still did and always would. You’d promised him your hand in marriage, as corny as that sounded, and you’d had every intention of following through with it. You’d had every intention of living your life with him, first in a flat, then maybe in a house, and having whatever came from that the two of you saw fit.

But Harry had burst through that door and he’d been churning.

You’d sensed something had been wrong for quite some time, but he wouldn’t say what it was when you tried to dig. He’d just give some excuse like, “Can’t write any damn music,” or “I’m just…” and he’d leave it at that. You’d expressed to your fiancee how worried you were about Harry, and the end result had been the most ridiculous, laughable, question of all.

“Do you have feelings for him?”

No. Absolutely not, you’d assured him. You loved Harry, and you were worried about him, because couldn’t everybody tell he was just plain miserable? Your fiancee had simply harrumphed at that, and you’d withered and refrained from voicing any further concern, but with every day that passed it grew exponentially worse.

You’d had a sincere, gnawing fear that your friend — one of your very best friends — was going to skip out on your wedding. He got cagey when he talked about his plans and said there were a lot of things that might happen at the last moment that could cause him to jet off halfway around the world, and the thought of getting married without being able to look out into the rows of people to see him smirking mischievously with too many rings and too few buttons had kept you awake for more nights than you could count.

What choice had you had but to bully him into a corner to make sure that he had to come. “You won’t have anything happening on this day,” you’d told him sternly. “You can catch a red eye that evening or take one to get in the day before, but you will be there on this day.”

He’d looked so resigned when he’d wearily nodded his head to confirm he understood the date to be saved, but you’d thought… foolishly, you’d thought it would be good for him to get out and to partake in some festivities.

Never in a million years would you have thought your friend would knock on the door in the back room of the church and ask you to please, not marry the man waiting for you at the altar.

Never in a million years would you have thought your instantaneous, knee-jerk, gut reaction would’ve been okay.

He could’ve taken your hand and pulled you out of there into his car and driven to the opposite end of the country — or maybe to the shore, because you’d heard Brighton was lovely this time of year and he had always loved the water. Or maybe he could have booked a plane and you two could have retreated to the States or some island where nobody knew who Harry Styles was, and if they did they wouldn’t care.

Your whole future had reconstructed itself before your eyes when he’d burst in. Pieces of your fiancee had been swapped out for pieces of Harry — the small flat in zone six could had been replaced with moving your furniture into Harry’s house and an unknown number of children was suddenly cemented with the number Harry had always drunkenly proclaimed as his ideal (with one ringed finger stuck high in the air as he tried to focus his point in the tequila haze).

You’d woken up that morning with another man’s plans and all of a sudden you’d started making your own with Harry and it had felt… right.

That had been its own kind of scary realization. You loved — love — Harry. He was, and is, one of your closest friends, and it was why it was so important that he be at your wedding.

Somewhere along the line, you should’ve realized the thought of him not being at your wedding hurt more than the idea of marrying your fiancee brought you joy.

Then he’d left. He’d just… gone when you hadn’t said a word before one of your bridesmaids interrupted. He didn’t know — he couldn’t have. He would have let you marry that man if it was what you wanted, but all you’d actually wanted was to cry out for him to come back.

He would’ve let you get married.

He would’ve given you up.

Harry had left you with your bridesmaids and while they fussed over your dress and asked where your bouquet was, your head had roared. Every instinct in you had said to get out of there with him — people in the church be damned. You didn’t know where it had come from, but at the same time you weren’t surprised, and that in and of itself had been enough to make you hyperventilate.

“Harry,” you’d gasped, gown tight around your ribs from your quick breaths. You’d clawed at the front of it, scratching the fabric, the sound harsher than nails on a chalkboard. “Harry, I need Harry.”

Silence had fallen and you’d covered your face. “Get Harry!”

He’d have been liable to punch or be punched if he’d been out in the church when you ended it all, and you’d needed to see him to be sure of what you were doing. There’d been not a doubt in your mind when he had walked through that door, warily sizing you up as if expecting you to take a swing, that your choice was final.

You’d felt like a con artist when you’d stood at the front and called it off — and maybe you were — but you knew it was nothing compared to how you would have felt if you made it down that aisle, made it through I Dos, and had to look at Harry over your husband’s shoulder while you had your first dance as man and wife.

Knowing how he felt.

Knowing how you felt.

It’d been six weeks since that day. Six weeks, nearly seven, of moving out (with Harry’s quiet help — he’d called a realtor and found a flat for you on a temporary basis), returning gifts, explaining to those who hadn’t been there that the wedding had been canceled, trying to get a refund on a honeymoon package, and tabloids — loads, and loads of tabloids that were having a feeding frenzy over the fact that Harry Styles had broken up his best friend’s wedding. There was nothing confirmed, only “a source says,” but the fish food crumbs they had hit close enough to the truth to cause a stir.

There were good things, too, though, in what amounted to six weeks of dating and getting to know each other on these new terms. Quiet dinners, in and out, his moral support as he rubbed your calves while you were on the phone explaining to somebody that yes, yes, you really had called it off, and kisses.

Lots and lots of kisses.

You’d taken to kissing him like a fish would take to water. Although the first few had been shy and hesitant — introductions of open mouths and open souls — you’d both grown bolder. Your favorite time so far had been when you were waiting for the takeaway to show up and he’d just… he’d gotten so impatient that he’d pushed you against the kitchen counter, pinning your hips with his, and held your cheek while he kissed his way up and down your neck with greedy pulls of your skin between his lips.

You hadn’t wanted it to end, but the bell had interrupted, and that seemed to happen every time you two were close to taking the plunge in the deep end. It was starting to wear on you, and you were getting tired of not being able to enjoy the man you were finally allowed.

You were allowed this man — allowed to notice how his arms flexed and the way sweat clung to his neck and how his voice positively purred when he told a story. He, too, was allowed you, but you’ve not had each other beyond heavy petting and hands that dared to creep under shirts like you might be caught by your parents at any moment. You’d be stupid if you tried to insist you hadn’t noticed him before — of course you had — but he was just Harry and you had a boyfriend and then a fiancee. He could be objectively good looking, you could find him attractive, but you couldn’t be attracted.

Now, though, you were allowed, and it was blazing like wildfire through you.

Your inner thighs were heavy all the time, and although Harry was very good, and very patient, you thought he was feeling the strain, too. You’ve woken up from vivid dreams in which your legs had been spread and your throat cried raw, and after a hazy choice to confess the late night visions to him via text and a flurry of bold, well-written sexts, you’ve started saying his name when you cum with your fingers before turning into your pillow and screaming to bemoan the fact you wouldn’t get to see him again until your schedules allowed it.

You were at the point where you wanted him so badly you could be sick. It wasn’t an attractive description, but it was the truth — you wanted to touch him. You craved him. You wanted to put your hands, your mouth, all over, everywhere. You wanted to feel him get hard, you wanted to see him lose his mind. You wanted to take orders and give orders and hear him shout. You wanted sweat, and breathless vigor, and shaky, sore muscles that had you a little wobbly on your legs after. You wanted it so badly that when you were finally sitting on the couch with him watching a film that you curled and squirmed, trying to shake off the hypersensitivity and the need.

“S’the matter?”

Harry pulled on your wrists to try to dislodge your hands from their place over your eyes, but you shook your head.

“It’s a comedy,” he said, tugging again, mistaking your distress for mourning over a tragedy that hadn’t occurred. “What’s gotten into you?”

You could smell his cologne on his skin — that warm, spicy, musky vanilla scent — and you sucked in a great, deep breath.

“Iwantyou,” you exclaimed in one go. “I want you so badly, I….” You swallowed hard, the twisting ache inside you magnified now that you’d fessed up. You wrenched yourself gently free from his grasp and sat up, preparing to bolt from the couch, but a large, firm hand on your arm pulled you back before you could straighten up completely.

You didn’t even get to take much of a look at his face as you squeaked and teetered onto his thigh, but what you did see had heat flaring up in your belly. His eyes were burning with intensity, but you only just took note of them before he guided you into a smashing kiss. It was your most unrestrained, greedy kiss yet, and you positively melted into it. There was nobody and nothing to stop you — hands and mouths could go where they pleased, and you bucked forward over his leg, the thought alone and all its promise making you whimper.

Your moan was instantaneous. The pressure, the friction, the strength…. Both of his arms were locked around you firmly as you clamped his cheeks between your palms, but you had enough room to rock back and forth over his thigh. It was a little reminiscent of when you used to hump your pillow when you were first working out how to take out your sexual urges as an adolescent, but it was better because he was firmer and real. You ground down harder and you gasped softly in wonder, head spinning. It wasn’t right — not quite what you were after — but it was good in its own way.

“You want me?” he asked hotly. Your abdomen fluttered and you nodded. “Been givin’ you space,” he declared. “Didn’t want to push, did I? How fucking hard has it been when you’re telling me I fuck you in your sleep?”

A single moan punctured your ragged breaths and he pulled you closer with rough impatience as you kissed him again, pleased when he returned it with the same aggression.

No more space.

No more restraint.

His leg was nice and you were starting to feel pin pricks and tingles in your fingers and toes, but it was frustratingly inconsistent — if you shifted even a fraction of an inch, the angle was thrown off, and you had to find it again, and after the third time, he patted the outside of your thigh.

“Ge’ your trousers off,” he said against your mouth. “It’ll make it better fo’ yeh… c’mon… up….”

There should be something… not awkward, but noticeable about taking your trousers off in front of him like this. He’d seen you in your underwear before — and you him — but the circumstances had been entirely different and without this intention. Still, though, as you unbuttoned them and slid the zipper down and he helped guide them down your thighs, the only strange or noticeable effect were the goosebumps on your skin from his warm, somewhat calloused fingers (rings absent, for once) brushing against you.

“These too, then,” he muttered. He bit his lip only briefly when he looked up at you before giving a casual jerk of his head. “C’mon.”

You let out a keening sound when he hooks his fingers into the fabric and pulls the elastic so he can slide it over your bum and down your legs. When you chance a glance at him his eyes are dark and unblinking, locked on you, and the tip of his tongue is peeking out of the corner of his mouth as he stares before he swipes it discretely along his lower lip and leans back, patting his leg and pulling your wrist.

You nearly toppled back onto him and he caught you, righting you so you could press yourself against him again, and on top of his denim with nothing left between you, it was much easier to control the pressure and how direct the stimulation was.

“Ah!” you cried out in soft awe, fingers digging into his shoulder.

“Better?” he asked thickly. All you could do was nod in return while dragging your fingertips down his shirt, pulling the collar back sightly. His necklaces were askew, chains plastered to his skin and crosses tucked under his shirt or thrown back behind his shoulder, and his throat bobbed just above the two birds by his collarbones. Transfixed, you pressed the black ink and watched the design warp before leaning down to land a kiss. His skin was hot to the touch of your lips, and Harry let out a long, husky sounding growl as you peppered several kisses there before bringing them up his neck, resuming your momentarily paused gliding.

“Good,” he sighed as you kissed his jaw. “Want it to be good fo’ you….”

You could feel it already — either because it’d been almost two months and nothing had happened, or because he’d sent you saucily descriptive messages to aid your busy fingers, or because he was a novelty who smelled and felt so bloody good, but it was there. You whimpered helplessly before crying out when he tensed his leg.

“I’m gonna cum,” you moaned weakly -- as if he needed to be told.

“On m’leg?” he rasped. “Already? Jus’ from rubbin’ off on me?”

You shuddered, nodding, a mewling sound echoing in your throat, and when he kissed your cheek you could feel his lips curling with pride.

“S’it feel nice?” he asked.

“S-so….” You gulped for air and it turned into a gasp when he pulled you down harder on his leg. “Oh God, m’gonna cum!” you whispered again in disbelief, words running together. He had one hand on your back and the other on your bum, guiding you, and you had your fingers in his hair, right at the sweaty roots. Shoulders heaving, each moan was a deep, heavy wheeze -- they’d be embarrassing if you didn’t know he was getting off on them.

“Don’t stop,” he urged in that same purr that had you wanting to crawl onto his lap in the first place. “Get m’leg wet.”

Your eyes rolled up in your head and you moaned, shuddering anew, and he bounced his leg a bit to keep you on track.

“Think you’d be getting it nice an’ wet f’I didn’t have m’jeans on, yeah?”

The image of his bare thigh shining shouldn’t be as attractive as it was, but somehow all you could do is want it — it reminded you of marking him, and you could imagine how pink his skin would be underneath it from the friction. The idea of leaving his leg sore and cumming on him made your eyes snap shut and a long, low moan of his name escaped your lips.

“Harry….”

“There yeh go…” he muttered just under your ear, kissing your neck. “Good girl, jus’ like that. You’re gonna cum nice and hard, aren’t yeh?” He kissed you several more times while you continued, undeterred. “Gimme more than just some texts, pet,” he pled with a raspy voice. “Gimme more than… c’mere… gimme….”

One of your arms was against his neck and the other was braced against his chest as you ground faster and faster against his thigh. He grasped your wrist and tugged with determination until he lifted your hand away and up to his mouth. You hadn’t processed it apart from the lurch in your stomach from being thrown off balance before his hot, wet mouth wrapped around your first two digits. He exhaled through his nose against your knuckles. It was brief, but he frowned in concentration, and you wondered if he knew those were the fingers you found relief with after every time he detailed exactly what he wanted to do with you, for you, to you, and when he opened his eyes after sliding them out, you were sure he did.

He released your wrist and you pushed against his chest again, curling your fingers into his shirt as you rocked faster and faster. You recognized this feeling, and you knew you were already there — you just needed… you just had to…. Mouth hanging open, your breathing stilted until it stopped completely, and your whole body went so stiff you shook and the room spun as you pulsed and contracted, squeezing his thigh between yours.

“Fuck!” you choked. “Oh fuck…!” You whimpered weakly before going slack against him, hold weakening and head spinning. Even as you finally became aware of your breathing, the room still felt like it was tilting around you, and in the next second, it did. Harry turned you onto your back on the sofa, positioning himself between your sensitive thighs. You lifted your head to close the distance with his mouth and he lowered his body closer while supporting himself awkwardly with his forearm on the side of the couch, one of his hands just underneath your elbow. Hands wound around him and pressing into his back, you could feel his muscles moving with every slight rocking motion he made. He was smooth, and strong, and your fingertips suddenly itched with the need to pull across his bare skin.

You tugged at his shirt, each yank bringing it higher and higher over his head — it had buttons down the front, but you couldn’t be bothered to undo them, and, after a momentary mishap when his arm got stuck, it was on the floor. His necklaces dangled, and his hair, just a few short inches from darkened eyes and pink cheeks, was wild.

“A’right?” he asked gruffly. Your heart soared and you nodded.

“Yes,” you whispered, drawing him back in. The new kiss was tender and you stayed in the liplock for several moments, only breaking it to readjust slightly, and with each passing second he settled himself more comfortably against you. He was as warm, and heavy, and nice as you’d believed he would be, and although you were still a little exhausted and dazed, you still had that distinct ache in you — you needed more. You’d finished, but you weren’t finished, and the unmistakable hardness of his bulge was thrilling — more thrilling, even, than his hand making its way over your stomach under your shirt towards your breasts.

Your back arched when one of his hands spread over the gentle curve of your chest, and it was then he broke the kiss enough to rasp, “D’you want to go to bed?” granting you another one when you whined from his absence. “I’ve condoms in m’room,” he said between pacifying follow-ups.

Condoms.

You couldn’t remember the last time you used one, because you’d been very exclusive in your relationship, and your ex-fiancee had been, too.

(It was another reminder of how perfectly fine he had been and how he hadn’t deserved it, but you were a bloody bitch who couldn’t be sorry about the fact that you’d gotten this man between your legs instead. The thought of him hurting twinged more than any other regret, and so, therefore, you couldn’t.)

“I’m on the pill,” you breathed and you spied the tip of his tongue between his lips in thought.

“So….” Harry hesitated, frowning hard not out of displeasure, but rather like he was working through a difficult problem. “Do yeh not want…?”

“We can,” you whispered. “We can if you want… but we could also not.” You were beyond caring whether he had a rubber on or not so long as he got inside you. Your orgasm had only opened you up more — your legs were aching to be spread by his hips and you wanted so badly to feel him flush with you that you thought you could pass out.

Harry chewed his lips so hard his cheeks dimpled, and he had that cavernous crinkle between his brows that you always wanted to kiss away, but finally he nodded. “I’m… I’ve not—“

You covered his mouth, shaking your head a bit, and he nodded his silent understanding and agreement. “S’get this off,” he muttered of your t-shirt.

It was a little awkward — worse than his shirt — but eventually it, too, was thrown to the side, and he was free to settle between your breasts and pepper kisses to your skin. He didn’t even so much as blink in shock, and you were in awe of that — you felt like you were go back and forth between feeling floppy-limbed and spontaneously combusting when you thought about the fact that he was him, but he was cool, calm, and collected as he moved and touched with purpose.

As if kissing you so intimately was the most natural thing in the world.

As if he’d been waiting for it and you’d just needed to tell him go.

It’d been six and a half weeks of waiting, and space, and patience, and sexts, but he was done being good.

You sighed and your back arched when he closed his mouth around your nipple through your bra. Smiling breathlessly, you savored the pressure of his teeth, and when he pulled just a bit, you laughed quietly. You looked down to find him grinning, but there was something predatory about it that had your stomach twisting.

“Are you going to take your trousers off?” you whispered.

“S’the idea.” His voice was gravelly and warm, and you could’ve shudder from the promise of intent. He lifted up slightly and you winced when you felt your hair being pulled at the roots.

“Ouch!”

“What’d I—?”

“My hair— ow!”

“Sorry!” Harry shifted his weight to his other forearm and you rescued the strands he’d pinned and pulled before he dropped back and reached down to unfasten his trousers. “Okay… alright….”

He wriggled quickly on top of you and you felt his trousers bunching up around his thighs, so you pushed — first with your hands and then your feet once they were at his knees and too far for either of you to reach. There was a soft snap as he pulled the elastic on his pants and repeated the motion, and both of you paused for a second that lasted a lifetime when his cock fell on your abdomen with a dull, heavy smack.

He was full and thick and his head was red and looked ready to burst. He wasn’t, technically speaking, any different than any other cock you’d ever seen in your life, but you couldn’t stop staring in awe. Your hand was on him before you could process you’d moved your arm, and you pumped your hand down his length. Lifting your gaze when you heard his sharp intake of breath, you only just caught his strained, open mouth before he snapped it shut, jaw trembling. When he focused his gaze, his eyes were dark and demanding an answer to an unvoiced question, and all you could do was nod.

Harry lowered again and slanted his mouth over yours in a greedy kiss that threatened to steal your breath, but if you were supposed to be asking for a break, you didn’t want it. You pressed your palms flat against his back, feeling the way even the slimmest of muscles rippled as they expanded and contracted. His skin was warm and soft, and you could only imagine what it was like to have that much canvas to kiss. Before you could contemplate a scenario that would allow it, you felt his cock pressing against your entrance. A new burst of adrenaline pumped through you and you stopped breathing when he pushed forward, easily spreading you to accommodate his size.

It wasn’t the first time you’d ever had a man bare inside you, but this was… more. So, so much more. Was it his size? The pressure and pinch was something you hadn’t felt in awhile, and it wasn’t just because you couldn’t really remember the last time you’d had sex in the middle of all the planning madness. Was it how smooth and blazingly hot he felt sliding inside without even a bit of resistance apart from an initial squeeze around him? You tensed up just a bit when you felt him withdraw just a bit before he thrust forward fully, and the sudden show of strength had you crying out against his mouth — not from pain, but from how overwhelmed you were.

“S’wrong?” he mumbled, smoothing your hair back. “Alright?”

“I’m fine,” you panted. “I’m fine, I’m okay, I just….” Your breath hitched in your throat. “I need one second.” Steeling yourself, you threw one leg over the back of the couch to act as a brace and to make sure he didn’t fall off and take you with him, before you hitched your legs higher around his hips and squirmed until you were just slightly farther down the couch. The result was him sinking the last bit of himself inside you, and the two of you moaned simultaneously — you wordlessly and him with a tortured, “Fuck me!”

“You’re big,” you whispered, blurry gaze locked on the ceiling, and you laughed breathlessly. Praising size made your skin crawl — it sounded so artificially pornographic — but you were shocked enough that they were the only words that sufficed. “You’re really big— oh!”

Your head tipped back in a long, keening moan when he rutted inside you, gradually easing into a rhythm, and he held one side of your face while kissing your neck. You bit your lip and clamped your eyes shut as he thrust. He moved methodically — each fuck inside of you was a slightly quicker snap than the sensation of him all but dragging back out of you before he thrust forward again. He was fucking you — however tender some of the kisses you’d shared had been, there was no denying this was a fuck first and foremost — but the tempo was such that you were acutely aware of how he felt. Every vein, every ridge, every time his angle shifted just a bit and he bumped and glided along a new spot that had your mouth open in ecstatic awe felt exponentially more — just more.

“How’s that?”

His voice was faint and a little hollow and when he thrust quickly, as if punctuating his question, and you were pretty sure he’d only just barely gotten a grasp on his speech. “S’that good?” he asked. “That’s it?”

The fact that he’d bothered asking you what was good, what worked, and then followed through based on your lead was toe-curling in its own way.

“Yes…!” you moaned with a tight throat and he kissed your cheek.

“Jesus, I want yeh to cum!” he said through rattling teeth against your skin. “Wanna feel it ‘round my cock.”

You’d never felt the desire to orgasm for someone else before. They were for your enjoyment, either by yourself or with a partner who took the time to learn your body, but right then, you wanted to desperately cum for him — and again, not in that artificially pornographic way, but because you had the express feeling that it would be almost better than his own orgasm for him.

“Ungh!”

You cried out unintelligibly when Harry shifted so he was ever so slightly farther up your body and he could grind his pelvis against yours. It was nothing much at first, but then your nerves responded, quicker even than before, and you rolled up in time with him, a whole body shudder making you wrack underneath him.

“There we are,” he rasped, passing a kiss across your hairline. His pendants dragged and tickled your skin, adding another heightened sensation to the moment, and you shivered again when he said, “That’s it, feel tha’.”

He wasn’t close enough, but you weren’t sure he could possibly get any more up against you or in you than he was. You whined softly, frustrated tears pricking your eyes, and he shushed you, petting your cheek before a guttural groan rumbled in his throat as you dug your fingers into the strong muscles of his back. The simple thought of scattering kisses across it invaded your mind again, and, combined with him grinding against you, your abdomen fluttered and tightened from the overwhelming desire.

The sheer idea of everything you wanted exhausted you. You wanted to touch him — to kiss him — everywhere. You were allowed to explore, and you wanted to engage both hands and mouth in your adventures across his body. You wanted to hear his moans and taste his hot skin. You wanted to know if he swore when his hip was kissed or if he thrust despite himself when you hummed around his cock. You wanted to know what he smelled like first thing in the morning, wrapped in sex and sheets and yesterday’s smoky vanilla scent.

You moaned under your breath, fingers slipping against his back a bit before you scrambled to get a better grip once more, and you took a deep breath when your abdomen fluttered and twisted again. You were starting to pulse, feeling ever so slightly tighter when you clamped down, and your breathing was getting heavier as you volleyed between drawing long breaths in and out and panting quickly.

Don’t think about it. Just let it happen.

Harry ground a little quicker and he spluttered between his lips, his own breathing stilted between moans that sounded like they were meant to instill resistance in him rather than from actual ecstasy. You lifted your head a bit and pressed your mouth against his shoulder with a soft moan, breathing quick and heart erratic in your chest.

It swept over you almost out of nowhere; suddenly, you locked up around him and called out in a way that could be mistaken for agony as you dug your heel into the back of his thigh and your shaking hands pulled him closer. It was a swoop and a fall and you let out a punctured gasp, still clinging to him weakly but muscles completely void of all the tension that had wrapped you around him seconds ago. He stilled for the moment but his body hummed with energy and something unreleased, and when your head dropped back against the arm of the couch, you opened your eyes just as he resumed his thrusts.

He was beautiful. His curls stuck to his forehead and neck and when he managed to keep his eyes open, they were unfocused behind quick blinks. His skin was sweaty and flushed and his mouth kept opening and closing with moans and stifled shouts. Each thrust, he got rougher and more erratic with his rhythm — he took two strokes inside you before stopping to grit his teeth and shift above you to relieve some of the weight of his body so he wouldn’t crush you, and you could see the veins in his neck straining underneath the sheen on his skin. His next thrust was a little too hard, and you winced, shrinking back into the cushions beneath you, but then he stilled and you felt the first hot, wet gush inside of you, and your mouth dropped open as the quick spurts filled you and he made an inhuman noise deep in his throat.

You not only saw but felt his arms shaking before he collapsed on you, and after an ouch and some breathless fumbling of limbs, half his body crammed in between yours and the couch while his one leg slung over yours in a well-intentioned attempt to keep you from getting pushed off the edge.

Silence descended amongst your harsh, out of sync breathing, and kisses were abandoned in favor of thought. Seven weeks of foreplay via text and kisses against counters had resulted in a mad explosion. You weren’t even sure how much you’d been thinking about it. All you knew was you had to go, take, seize. A laugh bubbled up in your chest thinking of how frantic you’d been, but you pressed your lips tightly together to keep from giving him the wrong idea.

Jammed tightly next to you, he’d grown heavy, and his breath was hot on your cheek when he mumbled, “Get up in a mo’.” You nodded, the vibrations from the words quaking through your whole body.

A moment didn’t come for a long time, though. You were alone when you woke up on his couch, thighs unpleasantly (but not unsurprisingly) sticky. Harry was gone and his trousers were, too, although his shirt was hanging from the edge of the coffee table by a corner with the end of it carelessly on the floor. You groaned under your breath before sitting up bit by bit, and you grabbed your underwear and shirt before standing and walking to the bathroom.

After wiping down with hot water (and feeling a jolt in your stomach as you relived, in vivid, condensed detail, everything that had led to this), you slipped your knickers and t-shirt on and walked quietly through the flat. Noise was coming from the kitchen — soft clanking, running water that promptly got shut off, the refrigerator opening and closing —and when you appeared in the doorway, you found him at last.

Harry had his missing trousers on and an apron over his bare chest to protect the inked skin. He looked up before you could say anything and spared a smile before looking back to his task. A large bowl was in front of him full of sticky-looking dough, and you smirked with an automatic twitch of your lips.

“You’re not drunk,” you said, voice a little raw from sleep and earlier activities.

He laughed softly — a deep, raspy, boyish sound — and answered, “S’not the only time I can bake, is it?”

He turned and you pushed away from your spot against the doorframe to walk closer, but you stopped when you spied several angry red lines, some of which stemmed from dark purple spots blooming on his back where your fingernails had, presumably, dug in so deeply the skin had bruised around it. You gasped, stomach swooping with the knowledge you’d done that.

Harry turned the dough out onto a floured board, and he was starting to knead it (in not the most skillful way, you were afraid to say) when you wandered up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist. He tensed, but you pressed the first kiss to one of those dark marks gradienting into a scratch.

“M’busy here, aren’t I?” he asked. As indignant as the words were meant to be, but he didn’t sound upset in the slightest.

“Shh,” you murmured. “I’m not in the way, am I?”

He chuckled and you smiled against his shoulder as he resumed kneading, and you kissed your way along his back the way you’d promised yourself you would. Some promises, you kept.

#harry smut #harry styles smut #harry x reader #harry imagine #harry blurb #harry one shot #harry fanfic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles one shot #fanfiction #reader insert fanfic #reader insert fanfiction #permanentcross #original writing

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emhowling · 4 years ago

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e m m a l o u i s e v a n i t y

basics:

name: emma louise vanity. pronunciation: eh·muh loo·ease va·nuh·tee. meaning: emma- whole & universal. louise- famous warrior. birthday: august 13th. age: twenty-two. pronouns: she & her & they. sexuality: bisexual. siblings: heather, trey, & sage vanity. the pack. parents: darrell & darlene vanity. rosalyn & fenrir greyback. other family: the greyback pack. languages: english. romani. grunts. current residence: trailer in the greyback caravan. hometown: warwickshire.

wizard fun:

hogwarts house: slytherin. year of graduation: 1977. occupation: tattoo artist & piercer at markus scarr’s. pet: beta fish named nicole. blood status: muggleborn. species: werewolf. patronus: leopardess. leopards are graceful hunters. they symbolize elegance in spite of adversity and looming danger. they are great representations of warriors and hunters. it also symbolizes stealth and strength. both traits are good to have if you’re hunting or seeking something. sensuality and passion are usually attributed to them. additionally, they are considered symbols of privacy and secrets. boggart: emma is very, very claustrophobic. she is always terrified of being locked into a small confined space or being chain up. amortentia: blackberries. emma doesn’t necessarily love blackberries, but she does love anything that is blackberry flavored. blackberry pies, blackberry cobblers, blackberry jams, jellies, lollipops, and even blackberry wine is her favorite thing to have. they used to grow at the treeline of the playground behind the trailer where she was born. wildflowers. no matter where or what time if emma sees wildflowers growing, she’ll stop to enjoy them. they’ve always been a secret love of hers and frankly, she finds them far more beautiful than any curated flowers. they’re never the same thing twice, but they make everywhere smell infinitely better. whiskey. it isn’t even her drink of choice. if asked, emma would much rather be let loose with tequila. there is just something about the smell of high brow whiskey that reminds her of something happy. wand type: 9 1/3″, black walnut wood wand with a dragon heartstring core, stubborn and bouncy. less common than the standard walnut wand, that of black walnut seeks a master of good instincts and powerful insight. black walnut is a very handsome wood, but not the easiest to master. it has one pronounced quirk, which is that it is abnormally attuned to inner conflict, and loses power dramatically if its possessor practices any form of self-deception. if the witch or wizard is unable or unwilling to be honest with themselves or others, the wand often fails to perform adequately and must be matched with a new owner if it is to regain its former prowess. paired with a sincere, self-aware owner, however, it becomes one of the most loyal and impressive wands of all, with a particular flair in all kinds of charmwork. as a rule, dragon heartstrings produce wands with the most power, and which are capable of the most flamboyant spells. dragon wands tend to learn more quickly than other types. while they can change allegiance if won from their original master, they always bond strongly with the current owner. the dragon wand tends to be easiest to turn to the dark arts, though it will not incline that way of its own accord. It is also the most prone of the three cores to accidents, being somewhat temperamental. affiliation: de affiliated, loyalty only to the greybacks.

appearance:

height: 5′. hair color: brown. eye color: brown. typical hair style: tied up into a bun on top of her hand with a scarf wrapped around it or braided in intricate patterns. fashion style: emma wears a little bit of this and a little bit of that. a lot of her clothes are acquired by just being near her and wearable. she goes through a lot of clothes given how tough she is on the fabric. there is a lot of layering, but there’s nothing emma hates more than being too hot so she had the tendency to shed them until she’d comfortable. [ fashion ] distinguishing features: emma has a lot of scars over her body, some full moon related and other not. she has a few small tattoos. her weight fluctuates somewhat wildly based on the lunar cycle, and sometimes she does look markedly pallid. notably when she smiles, she has deep set dimples.

personality:

positive traits: innovative. nimble. artistic. negative traits: combative. disorganized. tactless. theme song: hungry like the wolf by duran duran.

headcanons:

emma has been drawing for as long as she can remember. if there’s a pencil or pen or quill in sight, emma will pick it up and set to drawing something. her favorite medium is definitely charcoal since it’s the easiest to come by and use quickly.

fuck shoes. if given a choice, emma would literally go barefoot all of the time. she kicks off her shoes at any given opportunity, and especially likes to go running when she is barefooted.

emma is a small girl and perhaps an even smaller wolf. it’s easy to spot her on a full moon as she is particularly small and irritatingly fast on her feet. she’s been lovingly referred to as the runt of the litter more often than not.

biography:

Darrell and Darlene Vanity never intended to be absent parents. Truly they didn’t, but they were young, and they were poor. Four children weren’t cheap. It took a lot of extra shifts, saving, and scraping by to just afford the power and water in their little trailer at the very edge of the park where the fence didn’t quite meet ends. More often than not, they were all four left to fend for themselves. More often than not, there just wasn’t enough room in the confined little trailer. The parents slept in the large bed crammed in the small side room with the eldest two kids, but the youngest two had a kitchen table that converted down so a mattress could slide on top. Needless to say, Emma Vanity always felt a bit trapped in such mundane circumstances.

There was a big hole in the fence around the back that the kids could crawl through while no one was looking. Emma couldn’t remember the first time she snuck through that old rusted metal to the playground on the other side. If asked, she would tell you that it was the first day she learned how to toddle out the front door of the trailer. She would spend hours on the swings, the seesaw, the merry go round, and the slides. Most of the fixtures barely worked, but it was a good escape for the Vanity kids. It was where Emma made her first drawing. It was where she broke her arm for the first time. It was where she first met the Greybacks.

Only eight years old at the time, and already far too keen to escape her surroundings. Emma skipped school more often than not, it felt like the trailer in too many ways. Small-minded and confined by the walls of a big prison where the adults yelled at you for needing to piss or drawing on your tests or running at full speed down the hall. It just wasn’t a place for someone like her, and she didn’t need to be any older to see it. There was more to her than the other snotty little kids around her. Even if no one else could see it from the trailer trash. She had been busy that day trying to repair the rusted chain of the old swing set with the little bit of that unexplained extra she possessed, which later Emma learned was the beginning of her magic slipping through, when she got caught.

From the treeline, a woman stepped forward. She was perhaps the most beautiful person that Emma had ever seen. The first thing she did was tell Emma that she was special. Well they could definitely agree on that. The woman offered her more. More than a trailer and more than a rusted playground and distant school. More than parents who forgot her and siblings who didn’t notice her. Emma took her hand and never looked back. Frankly, she never even knew if her parents put up missing posters or not. It was probably a relief to have one less mouth to feed.

Fenrir wasted no time biting her. That first transition was the hardest thing that she had ever had to go through. The pain of shedding her skin will be seared into the very core of her memory for the rest of her life. Yet, there was never any hesitation because she was a child or even any thought that she could not keep up with the rest of the pack. It was just expected that she would, and Emma lived for that independence. The Greybacks held to every promise made to her. They were far more parents to her than the Vanity’s had ever been. They raised her.

It was harder than she wanted to admit to leave them for Hogwarts, but ‘kids go to school’. So Emma went. It was confining at first. There was too much she wasn’t allowed to do again. It wasn’t easy to keep things under wraps, Emma had never been a very good secret keeper. Her first year, she certainly spent more time in detention than she ever did in class. She would spend hours drawing the intricate architecture of the castle and her classmates in various states of distress or joy. That is when she discovered Quidditch. She was hooked. The only reason she started to do her coursework was so that her marks would be good enough to play. A proper chaser in all regards. She even managed captain in her later years. It was likely the only reason she didn’t drop out in her fifth year like her parents had. That and a handful of good friends she wasn’t quite ready to lose. Besides, apparently the accommodations for werewolves had really improved in recent years. It wasn’t unbearable to tolerate the time.

After graduation, Emma returned to her pack. Fenrir had made a deal with the devil, and that was just fine by her. It wasn’t as if she was particularly keen on a war, but it was always fun to have something to do. It kept her close enough to her school friends too. She trusted him with her life. That included what said life entailed. If he thought it was the right call, Emma would believe him. However, there’s been a building tension about just how right that call might be. In her spare time, she picked up a relatively flexible job at the local tattoo parlor as an artist and piercer, but there is a part of her that is screaming- what’s next?

#ahintro #;emma #;about #;biography #;inspo

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beauregardlionett · 5 years ago

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unrationed 2/7

AO3 Link

bluebells (hyacinthoides non-scripta) – constancy

Thunder rumbles around the house, deep and sonorous, and Yasha feels it in her bones.

She has the balcony doors thrown open, propped in place with rocks she lugged down from the rooftop garden. There isn’t much change in lighting over Rosohna, the magical darkness replaced by the hanging cloud layer spread across the city. It had surprised Yasha and the others that it rained here, but they supposed the city needed to get their water from somewhere.

Either way, Yasha enjoys the heavy humidity in the air, the promise of rain on the horizon. Even if the storm doesn’t call her away, it draws her in. She’s not scared of the lightning and embraces the drizzle of rain on her skin as she stretches a hand out of the open doors. It reminds her she’s safe.

A loud roll of thunder follows seconds behind a distant flash, ominous and ear-splitting. Yasha smiles as the windows rattle.

Seconds later, the rain pours, splashing only a little against Yasha where she sits just inside the open balcony doors. The sheets of rain slant away from the opening, so she stays relatively dry. The grey stone of her veranda turns dark and slick in seconds.

The quiet peace hangs.

Her bedroom door bangs open. Yasha doesn’t startle, but twists quickly to look over her shoulder, fingers stretching to reach for her blade where it lays nearby.

Beau stands in the doorway, disheveled and wild-eyed, half awake. Yasha’s reach falls slack as she takes in the monk’s appearance.

“Beau?” Frantic blue eyes flash in the dim and find Yasha’s, and the Aasimar can see the tension release from Beau’s muscles through the dim. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Beau manages, taking a moment to fuss with her clothing so it isn’t so rumpled. It surprises Yasha to see the monk’s hair is down, loose from the intricate topknot Beau wears near every day. Her hair has gotten long, and when it falls like this—tangled and rumpled from sleep—the undercut Beau sports is near invisible. And lacking most of her vestments, Yasha finds that Beau looks so human her chest aches with…something.

“I just,” Beau’s voice draws Yasha from her musing. “I woke up from the thunder, and I was worried you uh…left.”

It’s easy for Yasha to forget how much they all care sometimes. After losing her wife, and then the circus and Molly, Yasha was hesitant to accept the Mighty Nein as her family—as her tribe. But she had given up that fight months ago, had given in to the urge to see them as people she could not lose. She was used to being the protector, used to people feeling they didn’t have to worry about Yasha because she was big and intimidating and strong.

The Mighty Nein always defied every expectation set on them.

“I am still here,” Yasha promises. “Would you like to watch the storm with me?”

This is how she ends up with Beau slumped sideways, head resting in Yasha’s lap and curled under the blanket from Yasha’s bed. The monk’s fingers tangle in Yasha’s tunic and Yasha’s are combing steady strokes through Beau’s hair. She braids a few strands together for the length of Beau’s hair and then carefully unwinds it to smooth it out again. Beau slumbers on, peaceful, as thunder rumbles overhead and the rain patters against the stone.

She watches Beau’s face for a while instead of the storm, and wonders. She knows that Beau’s life has been uprooted a few too many times, knows from Beau’s own mouth that the monk fears losing them all. Yasha sees the way Beau’s mind works, the way she comes up with plans, then back-up plans, and then a third just to be safe. The monk plays herself off as careless, callous; but she calculates every move she makes and rarely takes chances.

For Beau, nothing is set in stone.

Yasha reaches for her bag, careful not to shift the sleeping human against her leg, and drags it closer. From the deeper recesses of her pack, Yasha frees the only two books that she always carries with her. One is her gift from Molly with flowers pressed between the pages. The other is a book, a gift, handed to her on a quiet night. It’s a manual on flora from across the lands of Wildemount—spanning both the Empire and the Dynasty. Within its pages lay names, appearance, color, and common symbolic meanings to almost any flower one came across. She had had little use of the tome before, but she hoped it could come in handy now.

A few days after the storm that pulled Beau into Yasha’s room, the Aasimar visited Caduceus’ rooftop garden. She had spent hours pouring over the contents of her book, trying to find the perfect bloom for what she wanted to say. She wasn’t great with words, so Yasha was banking on this gesture being enough.

There had been quite a few flowers that represented the same thing, and it was all very confusing. But after much deliberation, Yasha finally made a choice.

Perusing the array of flowers that Caduceus somehow continued to coax into life, Yasha felt only mild surprise when she found the exact flower she was looking for. It sat nestled between a bush bearing bright yellow buds and what looked to be a rather healthy crop of mushrooms. The stems grew tall and proud until near the top, where it curved over itself like a shepherd’s crook. From the crook, several bell shaped blooms hung clustered around each other. The petals were long and waxy, curling daintily up at the ends to add to the bell like appearance.

They were perfect and beautiful—a rich indigo that Yasha thought suited Beau impeccably.

She had already spoken to Caduceus that morning and had gotten the okay from him and from the Wildmother to pluck the flowers. The Aasimar selected a handful of stems and tied them together with twine—simple but pretty. Carrying the blooms with delicate caution between her hands back down into the house, Yasha stopped at Jester and Beau’s door, knocking softly. Jester had told Yasha earlier that Beau was spending the afternoon going through her journals in the privacy of their room. She hated to interrupt, but Yasha wanted to do this before she lost her courage.

There was a quiet call from inside, and Yasha took it as her cue to enter, peering around the door to meet Beau’s curious gaze. The monk was cross-legged on her bed, papers strewn around her and a few journals flipped open among them. Yasha hadn’t realized how often Beau must stay up to scribble down things about their adventures each day. Maybe she would ask Beau to recount some things to her, just to see what went on in that wonderful head of hers.

“What’s up?” Beau set her notes aside and gave Yasha her attention. Her bright blue eyes flicked down to the flowers that Yasha immediately held out in her direction once the Aasimar had approached the bed. She stared at them for a moment before reaching out with hesitant fingers to take them from Yasha.

“What are these for?” Beau asked, looking every bit as flustered as she sounded.

“You were worried the other night,” Yasha reminded her, fingers twisting together. “About me leaving. These are uh…a promise. That I won’t leave. Uhm…yeah.”

Beau stared at Yasha, and then down at the flowers. Her lips twitched into a smile, and she laughed, soft and endeared. Yasha’s face flushed, her little courage from before long gone in the face of Beau’s smile.

“Thank you, Yasha,” Beau said as she looked back up at the Aasimar, eyes bright. Yasha was a goner.

“Yeah,” she choked out, awkward as ever. “Uhm, yep.” She fled the room, flustered.

And if Jester’s gushing and squealing about the ‘super pretty’ blue flowers in a vase in their room at dinner later made Yasha blush and duck her head, well that was no one’s business but her own.

purple hyacinth (hyacinthus orientalis) – please forgive me

Yasha still woke up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night sometimes. She never woke up screaming, though, so the only one who clued into her disturbed slumber was Caduceus. He had taken one look at her expression that shifted only a few degrees left of neutral, and next thing Yasha knew, she was sitting under the massive tree of their rooftop garden, being handed a cup of tea.

Caduceus didn’t push her—he never did—just sat with her until Yasha started talking.

“I keep having nightmares, of when I almost killed Beau.”

She would wake with an abrupt start, most times sitting bolt upright and sweating profusely. Her fingers would tremble, lacking the strength to even curl into a fist—to wrap around the hilt of her sword. For minutes after waking, Yasha could taste the salt of her tears on her tongue, smell the coppery tang of Beau’s blood. The blood was always the most vivid detail. It always smelled so harsh, always looked like communion wine creeping over the stones of the cathedral floor. But Beau’s blood was not her father’s wine; it did not wash away Yasha’s sins under the eyes of a god she didn’t believe in. It damned her, and it lingered around her even in the waking world.

“Have you apologized?” Caduceus’ gentle timbre tugged Yasha back to the garden. The herbal tea in her hands washed out the metallic scent from her nightmares.

“What?” Yasha croaked, having not registered what the cleric said.

“Have you apologized to Beau for what happened? Not that you have to,” Caduceus tagged on, making Yasha wince. “Your actions were not your own. But sometimes the mind needs to hear forgiveness it believes it needs, to trick it into moving on.”

Staring at the serene Firbolg across from her as he sipped at his tea, Yasha figured he had a point. Though she did not agree with them, the rest of the Nein seemed insistent that everything she did with Obann was not her fault. Realistically, Yasha supposed she understood that—but it was hard to forgive herself for things she remembered doing.

It was worth a shot, though.

After consulting her book and a well-known flower vendor in the markets of Rosohna, Yasha made her way back toward the house, a small bouquet bundled in her hands. The blooms were lovely, vibrant in their violet hue, the petals waxy and curling in toward one another to make the bushels look fuller. Yasha couldn’t help but to admire them as she walked, tracing reverent fingertips over the delicate flowers.

The seller had mentioned something about a myth behind the origin of the flowers, but Yasha hadn’t been interested in fairytales. The Aasimar cared more about the meaning she had found in her book and asked the vendor to confirm.

Arriving at the house, Yasha hesitated at the walk, her courage suddenly waning.

What if Beau was with someone else and Yasha had to pull her away? She loved her friends, but they were nosy as anything and Yasha didn’t want to handle their curiosity right now. Not when she was trying to apologize to Beau about something that still stung like a vulnerable sore spot.

Fate seemed to be on her side today, though. As Yasha stood outside their house, contemplating the merits of hiding the flowers and waiting until later that night, she heard a noise from around the far side of the house. Following it to the source revealed Beau—alone—working out in the open space of their lawn.

Seizing the opportunity, Yasha made her way over and waited for Beau to notice her. She didn’t have to stand there long before Beau was leaping to her feet to begin another exercise and caught sight of Yasha. Beau visibly brightened, and she opened her mouth to greet the other. Before her nerves crumbled, or she got distracted, Yasha closed the distance between them in a few strides and thrust the purple hyacinth toward Beau.

Blinking, Beau hesitated a moment before taking the bundle from Yasha, offering a confused, “thank you?”

“I got them for you.” Duh. “I wanted to apologize, since I haven’t yet, because I uhm…I hurt you pretty bad. And that makes me feel very, very terrible.” Yasha looked down, twisting her fingers together anxiously now that her hands were empty.

Beau looked up from the flowers, confusion written across her features. Yasha saw the moment it clicked. It shocked the Aasimar to realize that the victim could almost forget something so pivotal that left Yasha so gut-wrenchingly guilty. Nightmares plagued her, and Beau had catalogued it as another scar to her multitude and moved on.

Yasha felt a flash of concern for that fact, but she found herself more stunned by that thought than anything.

“Oh, that, pfft,” Beau waved one hand, eyes flicking downward. She fumbled over her words, trying to sound nonchalant but ending up tongue-twisted. “Don’t-don’t worry about it.”

Yasha stood there, brow furrowed. Don’t worry about it? That was all she had been doing for days on end. She had questioned how she would earn back Beau’s trust – but apparently she had never lost it.

“Still,” Yasha managed, trying to save the situation, trying to get Beau to understand that this apology would be good for both of them. She reached out a nervous hand and laid it overtop where Beau’s was wrapped around the bouquet. Giving the flowers a little push closer to the monk, Yasha felt herself blush a little under her war paint.

“I want you to have those, so you know that I am sorry. That I don’t want – nor do I intend to hurt you again.”

Beau stared at Yasha, quiet, before giving her a slow smile and a simple, “okay.”

sweet william (dianthus barbatus) – grant me one smile

It had been days since their brief stint in Kamordah, and Beau’s attitude did not improve much. It seemed like it had in brief flashes, but she was forcing false bravado with such obvious tells that it made Yasha’s chest ache.

She loved to see her friends’ smiles, and Beau’s was one of her favorites to witness. The monk looked more her age when she smiled, less tense, less angry at the world. It read like magic to watch Beau’s bitterness fade into the curve of upturned lips, a slight scrunch of her nose, and banished by the twinkle in her eyes.

Yasha knew the exact number of days it had been since she last saw Beau’s genuine smile.

They holed up in Nicodranas for the time being. With Veth’s restoration complete, they were now just killing time until the armada left. Yasha spent a night out on the beach, plucking at her harp and making mindless music. Her thoughts wandered to Beau, knowing that the other woman was spending a decent amount of their downtime on her own.

When she wore out her fixation of her harp, Yasha spent some time by candlelight flipping through her book on flowers in the Chateau’s tavern. Nearly three-quarters of the way through the book, she had found what she was looking for. In the morning, Marion had been kind enough to point her in the market's direction.

Now the Aasimar wandered through the thoroughfare of Nicodranas, eyes scanning. Marion had assured her there would be a vendor selling what Yasha was after. If anyone in all of Nicodranas knew which flowers one could get there, it was Jester’s mother.

It didn’t take long at all for Yasha to find a young half-Elf man hawking his massive array of flora. There were two broad carts on either side of the man, each overflowing with vibrant looking sprouts that immediately drew Yasha’s attention. She stood by one cart, mismatched eyes scanning over the various options, as she waited for the vendor to finish his transaction with another customer.

Reaching out, she brushed her fingers across some brightly colored daisies, smiling to herself.

“Can I help you?” The half-Elf’s voice from near her shoulder drew Yasha’s attention. He looked pleasant enough, but the nervous press of his lips served as a harsh reminder of Yasha’s height and appearance. She told herself to give him a tiny smile, trying to ease the tension.

“Yes, please,” Yasha answered. “I’m looking for something specific.”

She found Beau near the surf, the monk’s bedroll and backpack a little ways up the sandy slope so they didn’t get caught in the water. The individual in question had stripped off her boots and socks, rolled her pants to just below her knees, and was standing shin deep in the tide. Her back was to the beach, and to Yasha, facing the open ocean and just…standing.

Yasha hated to interrupt her, but she had been sitting by Beau’s things for almost twenty minutes now. She wanted to wait until Beau saw her, but the monk hadn’t moved at all in that time, save for to shift her feet whenever she sunk too much into the wet sand. At this rate, Yasha would be here the rest of the day. That wasn’t an issue, but she wanted to give Beau the flowers before then at least.

Making an executive decision, Yasha tugged off her boots and hiked her pants up, too. Scooping up the cheerful bundle of flowers she had gotten from the vendor in the market, Yasha carefully made her way down the warm sand towards Beau. Her bare feet catalogued the shift from packed, dry grain to the loose, shifting chill of water-soaked sand. The Aasimar took a moment to revel in the sensation, having never experienced this before.

The sounds of her delighted inhale and her feet against the wet sand alerted Beau to her presence. Beau twisted quickly, feet stuck in the shifting sand from where she had sunk to her ankles. She relaxed almost immediately upon realizing it was just Yasha, alarm fading into fond amusement with just the tiniest uptick at the corner of her mouth.

Not a smile—but a start.

“Sorry,” Yasha said, sheepish, shifting closer to Beau. She held out the flowers without preamble and delighted quietly in the pink that dusted the monk’s cheeks as her eyes widened.

“What are these for?” Beau breathed, cupping the bouquet delicately, like it was Frumpkin the One Ounce Owl. Her eyes scanned over the various, vibrant array of pinks that created the miniature bouquet of a flower Yasha learned was called Sweet William. (She wasn’t sure who William was, but Yasha thought he had excellent taste in flowers.) The petals were smooth and delicate, ranging from a deep, almost purple-pink shade to a paler blush color. A few of the blooms sported a white outlining the fringes of their petals, adding a pop of pattern to an otherwise solid color arrangement.

Yasha watched Beau take it in. What once was barely a smirk, was now a full grin. Her lips tugged up at both corners, lips parting to reveal Beau’s teeth as she turned the flowers this way and that to take them in. She realized recently, that while Beau despised wearing the color pink, the monk still found enjoyment in the strength and vivacity of said color.

“They’re just for you,” Yasha answered after a moment of observing Beau’s delight. “To cheer you up.”

Beau looked up, startled, and Yasha felt a quiet moment of fear that she had messed up. She worried that Beau might try to push down her smile out of self-consciousness, but was rewarded with a more bashful grin. Tugging her ankles free of the sucking sand, Beau worked her way closer to Yasha and reached out to squeeze Yasha’s elbow in a gesture of gratitude.

“Thank you, Yash,” Beau murmured. “They’re beautiful.”

“No problem,” Yasha murmured back, glancing down at her fidgeting hands.

They were quiet a while longer before Beau spoke up again.

“Do you want to stay and watch the sunset with me? It’s pretty nice from this part of the beach—and I know you like color, so you should enjoy it.”

Yasha met Beau’s genuine smile with one of her own.

“I’d like that.”

red tulips (tulipa) – declaration of love blue violets (viola) – faithfulness; I’ll always be true [historically the flower Sappho gave her female lover]

She hates to admit it, but Yasha agonized over this decision for far too long. It had gotten to where she forced herself to swallow her embarrassment so she could recruit assistance from Jester, Veth, and Caduceus. Things went about as well as expected, but the trio had eventually helped Yasha to decide.

Now all that remained was to hope Beau liked it.

Yasha sat on Beau’s bed, perched on the very edge of the mattress and fiddling with the vibrant, voluminous bouquet that Jester had helped put together. The Tiefling had proclaimed that her mother always received extravagant floral arrangements at the Chateau, and therefore she knew the basics of arranging flowers into a stunning array. Given how gorgeous Yasha thought this bundle was, she was inclined to believe Jester.

The bedroom door creaked open and Yasha was on her feet before she even registered moving. She reminded herself to breathe.

Beau blinked with surprise at the sight of Yasha standing in the middle of the bedroom, a half-eaten apple in one hand. Then she seemed to notice the flowers clutched in the Aasimar’s hands. The monk sighed, looking like she was fighting a smile as she shut the door behind her and made her way over to Yasha.

“I was wondering why Veth and Jester were giggling and following me around downstairs. Now I guess I know.” Beau sets the apple down on the table by her bed and faces Yasha, studying her.

“So, what’s the occasion?” Beau asks, coming close enough that she can smooth the waxy, red tulip petals between her fingers. There are a few violets scattered among them, organized carefully by Jester’s dexterous hand, a rich blue that borders on cobalt. Yasha catches Beau eyeing them appreciatively.

“I’m not so good…with words,” Yasha fumbles to begin. She had agonized over her declaration almost as much as she had the flowers. “You know that I like flowers, that they mean a lot to me. I have been letting them do the talking for a while now, so…”

She trails off and passes the bouquet to Beau’s hands. Letting her fingers linger where they cup around the monk’s calloused hands, Yasha focused on keeping them from shaking.

“These are for you, because this is me saying I love you.”

Beau blinks—first at the flowers, then up at Yasha, then back down to the flowers. Yasha can feel Beau’s fingers tighten around the stems bundled together beneath her own hands. The silence stretches and Yasha grows more and more nervous with each passing, thundering beat of her heart.

“You love me?” Beau all but whispers. Her eyes, when they look up at Yasha, are almost as blue as the violets. Those eyes look so vulnerable and hopeful it leaves Yasha breathless.

“I do,” Yasha breathes, afraid to speak any louder for fear of shattering this fragile tension between them.

“Why?”

Yasha doesn’t even hesitate.

“You’ve never judged me for the things I have done, for the person I have become. You have only ever believed in me and have never given up on me. I think you are funny, I think you are smart, clever, and I know you are driven. I admire you, and I’m drawn to how bright you are. I have never seen you give up or stop fighting. You aren’t afraid to ask questions, or find creative ways to get the answers you want when the direct route does not work. I realized that you were always excited to see me come back, but it took me too long to realize why. I hope I’m not too late.”

Beau’s eyes are watering by the end of Yasha’s brief speech. She slowly sets the flowers down on the bed beside them. Her arms wrap around Yasha’s neck in one of the strongest hugs Yasha has ever been on the receiving end of.

Yasha’s arms wind around Beau’s waist before she even has to think about it. The monk’s face presses into the juncture of Yasha’s neck, and Yasha is more than content to tuck her face into Beau’s shoulder.

They stay like that for a few moments that stretch into infinity.

Beau pulls back first, hands sliding against Yasha’s skin so she can frame the Aasimar’s face. Yasha can do nothing but stare back at the woman in her arms, feeling far too many emotions to even begin putting names to them.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Beau says, giving Yasha a moment to process, to reject her. Yasha doesn’t.

Beau’s lips press against Yasha’s, chapped and warm, and Yasha presses into the embrace. She imagined kissing Beau before, but this is nothing like her daydreams. If she is honest with herself, Yasha probably put a little too much of her past experience into those daydreams. She should have known that Beau would kiss the way she fights—just a little reckless and with every ounce of passion in her soul.

They don’t linger long, and before Yasha knows it, Beau is tucked back into her shoulder. She clings to Yasha like she never left the crook of the Aasimar’s neck in the first place.

“Yasha?” Beau’s muffled voice speaks up after a few moments.

“Yeah?” Yasha breathes against Beau’s shoulder, the monk shivering in response.

“I love you, too.”

Yasha doesn’t stop smiling for the rest of the week.

ambrosia (ambrosia artemisiifolia) – your love is reciprocated

Her book on flowers had been missing for all of a day and a half before Yasha finds it again. Someone had left it neatly atop her pillow; a clump of tall, yellow blooms tied off with string perched on the cover. The buds are small and golden, looking more like flowers that had yet to bloom, but Yasha recognized the plant from her book easily. Most considered it to be a weed, but it was still rather beautiful all the same.

Yasha scooped up the bundle and smiled as she set them carefully down on the table by her bedside. They were a pop of color in her otherwise monotone room, blending in well with the mural Jester had painted for her.

Curious, Yasha flipped to the page she remembered seeing the flower on to look up the meaning.

She went to kiss Beau mere moments later, cheeks pink for most of the afternoon.

#cr #critical role #beauyasha #beauregard #beauregard lionett #yasha #beauyashaweek2020 #writing #my writing #flowers #vignette

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dokuhebi · 4 years ago

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“Hi, honey,” Kabuto says, pressing kisses onto Orochimaru’s lips and cheeks in between his usual morning nuzzles. “Would you come for a walk down to the botany lab with me? I want to show you something I put together for Valentine’s Day.”

For Kabuto’s adoration of Orochimaru is endless, and on a day spent celebrating love, he wants to make sure that every little detail is perfect for them.

Within the lab, they will find a wisteria plant, carefully selected and maintained so as to be the best of its kind; a new katana, its sheath decorated with depictions of cherry blossoms and a white serpent to symbolize their marriage; the best sake and the best whiskey that money can buy; a set of koto picks, patterned with wisteria petals; and a handmade card on which he’s drawn four snakes, one white, one silver, and two pale blue.

“Do you like it?” Kabuto says, biting his bottom lip for a moment, because he’s bubbling with excitement. “I wanted to give you a nice arrangement, because I love and adore you and our boys so much. You’ve made my whole world. ”

(Not that this is all of it, either - when Orochimaru is relaxing later that night, Kabuto plans to serenade them with a song he wrote himself.)

It is unusual for the serpent to be the second one to wake up, rarely ever giving themself proper time to rest. Things had started to shift with their routines when they got married however. Amid loving him, and wanting to ensure he was faced with as little stress as possible, basic health care they had always skipped during the day was suddenly becoming a part of life. Not for themself, not because he was right, that they did feel better when they ate and slept more, but because there was a certain happiness in his night sky eyes when he saw that under his watch, they were doing better, feeling better. And so, because he wanted to give them the best, and they wanted to give him the best, they had somehow found themself living a more thoughtful and conscious lifestyle. No longer quite as harsh to their own body as they used to be, far more willing to be just a little kinder to it, rather than using it as a stepping stone in their pursuits of advancing in their own self made evolution. So as innocent a gesture as it is, waking up second, it is the first bit of proof what their love actually symbolized. The first bit of evidence of how good he had been for the viper. The kiss is returned, even if they are half asleep. A tired smile rising to their lips, as they shift closer to him in the bed to nuzzle that much closer, “morning dear,” a quiet and content sound, rare as ever, such tenderness only ever offered to their close family, Kabuto and their sons. Golden eyes brighten a little when he mentions his surprise, and they chuckle softly before sitting up, only to lean back down to place another kiss to his lips, “the fact you couldn’t give it to me in our room makes me think you may have gone overboard with gifts this year darling,” they quip lightly, before sitting for a moment to comb their fingers through their long black hair. Tossing on something more appropriate than a night kimono, they follow their husband to his botany lab. Until finally they have arrived at his surprise. How golden eyes leap to the weapon ornate with cherry blossoms and serpents dancing. Proof he knows them far too well, as he has littered the table in items that depict their very nature. Chocolates and roses simply wouldn’t do for them. Instead of the rose symbolizing love, they get their favourite flower, the poisonous wisteria with its beautiful violet petals. Instead of traditional chocolates, a strong brew of sake and whiskey. Instead of some trinket of jewelry, something the serpent did fancy, but not nearly as much as what he offers instead, a weapon of elegance. A stunning katana posed elegantly amid the arrangement, and the rather endearingly crafted card, and the tease to his next present with the koto picks.

They step toward the array of presents, running their fingertips over the sheathed blade, before grasping sheath and hilt to pull the two a part and see the weapons lithe and elegant body. The sharpness of metal shimmering in the botanical laboratories lights. They place the sheath down carefully, a natural ability to wield the blade as if it were a part of their own body. They run their hand over the cool metal, a shimmer of mischief in their eyes as they glance toward their husband, a seamless step to be at his side, so they can steady the blade at theirs when they lean up and forward to kiss his lips. Their free hand caressing his cheek. “I will take the liberty of assuming this sword and those drinks mean I am also promised a sparring match and a round of sake together later this evening?” they ask, wrapping their free hand around his neck so they can draw themself up to place another kiss to his lips, this time nipping lightly at the lower one he had just bitten himself in excitement. Their gaze softens, enamored by him and taking a few seconds just to memorize every detail. “Of course I love it, they’re all wonderful,” they say, golden eyes tracing his, “you’re wonderful.”

#毒蛇 IMMORTAL; the curse is broken (post war)#詩 Fūten; raichoose #raichoose #he's such a lovely loving husband #he knows them so well #;-;#they are smitten with him #submission

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themagicpotatoes · 5 years ago

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Untamed Spring Fest 2020

Day 2: Blossom

Sizhui thinks he can break most of the major events of his life down to flowers. (Involves Lan Sizhui/Jin Ling)

Apologies for the excessive use of flowers and flower meanings. I FELL DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE OF FLOWER MEANINGS AND SPENT LITERAL HOURS RESEARCHING SORRY IF THIS IS THE MOST PRETENTIOUS THING YOU'VE READ EVER

Sizhui thinks he can break most of the major events or revelations in his life down to flowers. His first real memory of his time in the Burial Mounds was centred around Xian-gege finally managing to grow vibrant pink lotus flowers in the arid, toxic soil of the Burial Mounds and himself tasting the lotus roots for the first time after that. Of course, Sizhui doesn’t remember that whole incident clearly until much much later; Xian-gege’s unrestrained joy at his achievement, and Uncle Ning and Aunt Qing’s fondly exasperated looks towards Xian-gege, all lost to the ravages of time and a raging fever.

His earliest memories of the time after he is rescued and adopted by Hanguang-Jun are of following him around like a little duckling as he walks like a silent ghost to the cottage that once belonged to Hanguang-Jun’s mother and the purple gentians that she so loved. Once there, he sits in silence as Hanguang-Jun (though at that time he was ‘Father’) plays a mournful melody on his guqin, full of longing for someone who Sizhui has long forgotten, as little blue forget-me-nots crept up around his feet.

The day Sizhui sets out for Mo Village with Jingyi and the other juniors, he absent-mindedly registers a sprig of white lily-of-the-valley growing near the entrance of the Cloud Recesses.

At Dafan Mountain, and later in Yi City, he and Jingyi make friends with Young Master Jin, Jin Ling, and he cannot help but think that despite his arrogant and brusque nature, the peony on his robes suited him well.

After Guanyin Temple, when all his memories of being a little boy named Wen Yuan flood back into his mind, he runs after Senior Wei and Hanguang-Jun. When he catches up to them, he smells the pine-like smell of a rosemary bush nearby, and barrels head-first into Senior Wei to give him a hug.

Sizhui, Jingyi and Ouyang Zizhen are visiting Jin Ling at Koi Tower and quickly decide to head off for a night hunt in one of the villages under the Jin Sect. It’s just as exciting as always, adrenaline rushing through their veins and the uncontrollable exhilaration of working as a team to defeat fierce corpses all on their own. Wen Ning, who Sizhui knows is following them in the shadows to make sure they have back-up if they need it, does not need to make an appearance at any point of the night. Sizhui can’t help but feel proud of that. It’s as they’re making their way back to Koi Tower, a boisterous group with Jingyi and Jin Ling squabbling as loudly as ever with Sizhui trying to mediate and Ouyang Zizhen egging the two bickerers on, when Sizhui realizes it. Jin LIng has just said something ridiculous while elbowing Jingyi, which still makes Sizhui feel unbearably fond, when Sizhui finally puts a finger on what he’s been feeling recently around the other boy. Later, he wonders if it can really have been a coincidence that it is at that very moment that Jin Ling brushes against a lilac flower and yelps as if it were a ghost, leaving Jingyi laughing at him for the next ten minutes while Jin Ling’s face flushes progressively darker in embarrassment.

A few weeks after his revelation, Sizhui is still not sure what to do about his feelings for Jin Ling. After all, Jin Ling is the Sect Leader of the Jins, and more than that...he does not know how Jin Ling would respond. Would it make everything awkward between them? If that were that case, better to leave it all unsaid, he thinks. He pets the fluffy white bunny on his lap as he thinks it over again. He’s almost desperate enough to go to Hanguang-Jun - or worse, Senior Wei! - for help, when Jin Ling takes matters entirely out of his hands. A flustered disciple comes up to him with an ornately gilded gold box in his hands. “Package for Lan Sizhui, from Sect Leader Jin!”

Sizhui thanks him, curious as to what Jin Ling could be sending over and why it’s so extravagantly packed - even more fancy and excessive than typical for the Jin Sect! He opens it and lets out a soft gasp. Inside is an exquisite comb, with intricate patterns of clouds and peonies on it. Placed above this is a single red tulip and a slip of paper. Sizhui reaches for the paper, though he’s certain that this gesture is difficult to misinterpret; there can only be one reason Jin Ling is sending him this. Sure enough, the letter reads, in Jin Ling’s usual brisk, no-nonsense script - ‘Dear Lan Sizhui, your beauty, elegance and loyalty is incomparable. I am grateful to call you my friend; I would be honoured if you would allow me the privilege of courting you. - Jin Ling.’

Sizhui chuckles; it seems like Jin Ling has actually learnt something from all those boring lessons on politicking and refined speech he had been complaining about. His laughter gives way to a soft smile; he has a red chrysanthemum to find.

Flower meanings:

Lotus - purity, enlightenment, self-regeneration, and rebirth

Purple gentian - passion, charm, loveliness and sweetness (for his mother)

Forget-me-not - true love memories, do not forget me

Lily-of-the-valley - return of happiness

Peony - riches, prosperity and honour

Rosemary - remembrance

Lilac - first love

Red tulips - declaration of love

Red chrysanthemum - symbol of love

Prompts by @fytheuntamed

Read on AO3 at

#untamed spring fest #mdzs #the untamed #zhuiling #day 2 #my writing #background wangxian #fic #fanfic #blossom #flowers #flower imagery #flower meanings

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ashswritingplace · 4 years ago

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Myōri’s Blessing

Here is a short story I wrote based on an idea I had penned in 2017. Yulia goes to a spirit festival with her parents, and she is punished by the spirits for her disobedience.

Content warnings: A child is harmed by supernatural beings.

“Myōri’s Blessing”

For one night every year, the world came alive in a dazzling foray of bright colors, cheerful music, and the mouthwatering aroma of deep-fried food to celebrate the spirits. Yulia had never been to the Spirit Festival before, and as she got out of her parents’ car, a hand in either of theirs, nearly tripping over her brand-new yukata, her excitement was palpable.

Never in her seven years had she seen a celebration like this. Her parents had always been too busy with their careers or social lives, and she often felt forgotten in the wake of their responsibilities. Now that she was finally here, she would never ask for anything again.

She wriggled free of her parents’ grasp and ran to a man welcoming people at the entrance gate. He wore a wide smile and a wider hat adorned with fox ears. He bowed in greeting, and Yulia replied with a chipper hello. “What does your shirt say?” she asked, pointing to the archaic symbols printed on the sleeve of his happi. She looked to the fox-shaped balloons he held. “How did you get them shaped like that?” She pointed to his hat. “Why do you have ears?”

Her parents caught up to her then, apologizing and trying to nudge her away from the greeter, but the man only waved them off with a chuckle. He turned his attention to Yulia. “Well,” he said, “this reads ‘Myōri.’ Do you know who that is?” When Yulia shook her head, he explained. “She’s the most beautiful and most powerful of all the spirits. She commands all the foxes of the forest, and she brings blessing and growth wherever she goes.”

Yulia looked on in fascination. “I want to meet her!”

The man smiled warmly. “You must be careful,” he warned. “Myōri is a kind spirit, but if you pull one of her tails, it is said that she will curse you for the rest of your life.”

The girl gasped. She tried to imagine why anyone would pull a spirit’s tail, but before she could ask the man, her parents were whisking her away. She waved the man goodbye and turned her attention back to the rest of the festival.

~~~

Yulia spent the night scampering through every cranny of the spirit celebration. She made her way to a stall and asked the vendor a million questions about the fried fish he was selling, where they’d been caught, if he’d caught them himself. She ran to another stall and asked the vendor there about her collection of uchiwa fans, what the patterns represented, how long they had taken to make. As she started for the festival games, her parents, exhausted from chasing her all night, caught up to her again, and they promised her cotton candy as long as she would just sit still.

The young girl poked at the pale green and blue sugary wisps, and she giggled when they evaporated to crystals on her tongue. When she had finished half of the sweet treat, she handed the cone back to her mother and wandered away. “Only where we can see you,” her mother warned, and Yulia obeyed.

She watched the festivalgoers all around her. Their yukatas formed an endless rainbow of elegant patterns adorning the fabrics. Many women wore their hair tied back with beautiful jeweled combs or silken ribbons. Yulia rubbed her fingers against the ribbon in her hair, the one her mother had gifted her that morning. She stroked it lightly, then tugged at it. It unraveled, and as she tried to pick her hair back up, the ribbon floated a little distance away.

She stumbled after it, nearly colliding with a group of university students. She grabbed her ribbon, and as she waited for the students to pass, her eye caught on something shiny. Behind a couple of stalls was a balloon, bright and yellow and all alone.

Yulia looked over her shoulder. Her mother and father were laughing with each other, ignoring her even here. She looked back to the balloon and, nodding to herself, padded towards it, slipping behind the stalls unnoticed. There, she realized the balloon was not tied down to anything; it was floating just above her as if by magic. She cocked her head to one side as she asked, “What are you doing here by yourself, Mr. Balloon?”

The balloon floated away from her, innocently beckoning the girl away from the festival. She tried to grab its string, but it jerked out of her grasp. Yulia tried again and again, following the string as it bounced just out of reach, giggling at the game it created. So amused, she didn’t notice the festival getting further behind her, nor the trees closing in around her, nor the malicious smile forming on the balloon’s face.

~~~

By the time Yulia stopped chasing the balloon, she realized she could barely hear the uplifting notes of the shamisen or the biwa that had filled the fairgrounds. She paused and looked over her shoulder. Behind her was a sea of trees and thick bushes, and she could no longer see the bright colors that had surrounded her before. Her parents were going to kill her for wandering away again.

The clearing she stood in was grassy, dark, with tiny, dull flowers blooming under her feet. Maybe, if she brought some back for her mother, she wouldn’t be as upset. But which way was the festival?

She looked back to the balloon, and for a moment, she glimpsed its intimidating face. It fell away, and she was left with a plain balloon once more. She took a cautious step away from her new friend, rubbing her eyes, knowing she had to get away.

A shadow stretched in front of her, enormous and haunting. The balloon shrunk under it and deflated into the trees, afraid. Yulia slowly turned around, and she saw a creature unlike any she had seen before.

Filthy golden fur, thick and matted, covered its bipedal body, tall enough to loom over her. It wore a man’s face save for the long, trunk-like nose curling towards her. A cheshire grin stretched beneath its nose, and its dark, vacant eyes stared through her. Its voice was low, grating, inhuman. “Hello.”

The girl tried to scream, but her voice was gone. The creature crept towards her, slowly, tauntingly. Yulia gasped, frozen in fear. When its face was mere breadths from hers, it smiled at her, and with impossibly long fingers, it reached into her mouth.

She lost consciousness in a blink, as if put under a curse. The demon followed her to her dreams, where it watched her greedily. Pain rumbled through her chest, seizing her heart, spreading through her limbs. Even in her subconscious, she was paralyzed and powerless while this creature haunted her. It laughed at her, a thundering sound that pierced her skull.

Yulia was ripped from her nightmare, and phantoms of pain turned to palpable agony. She tried to scream or get away from the creature, but her body was overcome with fatigue, and her voice was still gone, so she could only lay immobile and helpless. The demon made a deep sound like a laugh, tapping its feet in amusement.

She stayed there until the distant music died. She stayed until new darkness claimed the forest, then dull, filtered light, then dark again. Pain stole her movement, exhaustion stole her thoughts, and fear claimed her every breath. She dared not sleep, for her captor taunted her from her dreams, feeding on the fear it produced, making a feast of its reluctant prey.

The girl lost all sense of time. The creature came and went with the sun, but during the brightest hours, she still could not find the strength to escape. As the days went on, she gave up on ever seeing her mother or father again. She had disobeyed them, had wandered too far, and now, she was paying her price.

One morning, as sunlight trickled faintly through the leaves overhead, after the demon had left for the day, Yulia noticed a twinkling coming from between the trees. Even with the creature gone, she had no strength to move, so she only squinted, trying to make out the new light. Someone was approaching her.

The being was not human. Its skin was translucent, shining with an ethereal glow, and its hair, long and dark and iron-straight, was tied back with seashells and gems and delicate combs. A pair of cat-like ears poked from the top of its head, and they moved gracefully, taking in the silence of the forest. It wore a golden kimono wrapped in red silks. Its eyes were piercing, benevolent, the color of shimmering peridots.

The spirit approached Yulia and knelt beside her. As it grabbed her face in its soft, dainty hands, Yulia could see the fluffy, wavering tails behind its back. There were nine of them, black and tipped with silver, moving independently as if each had a mind of its own.

The tails brushed against Yulia’s cheek while the spirit looked at her. Could this have been the benevolent Myōri the greeter had told her about? The girl tried to speak, to ask the spirit for help, for anything, but her voice remained stuck in her throat.

The spirit lost interest, and she let go of the child’s face. She turned away, waving her nine tails tauntingly in front of Yulia.

As she started away, Yulia thought back to the man’s warning. If you pull one of her tails, it is said that she will curse you for the rest of your life. What, Yulia thought, could be worse than this?

She looked around the clearing. The long-nosed creature was still gone, but it would be back. It always came back. This was her only chance at salvation, her only opportunity to escape the evil demon. She had to take it before it was too late.

Summoning every drop of malice in her frail body, with all the strength she could manage, Yulia grabbed one of those beautiful, silken tails, and she tugged with all her might.

~~~

A new pain burst through her, rippling agony through her bones. Her skull felt as if it were shattering into millions of pieces, and a severe pressure seeped through the cracks. Her body spasmed violently, throwing limbs against dirt and rocks. Yulia soundlessly wailed and shrieked in a blind fury. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the pain ceased, leaving her broken and exhausted.

Silence settled over the clearing. Myōri was gone, and the long-nosed demon had not yet returned. For a blissful moment, Yulia was alone.

Then, a voice spoke to her. “Hey, you. Get up.” It sounded like it belonged to a girl not much older than her. “You can hear me, right? Get up.”

Yulia struggled to balance herself on her elbows, and she looked around the clearing. She was alone. “Hello?” she rasped. “Who are you?”

There was no reply until laughter split the silence.

Yulia startled. The laughter came from inside her own head, thunderous, painful. She flinched.

“You can call me Freya,” the other girl replied. “You shouldn’t have attacked Myōri, you know. Now it looks like I’m your curse.”

Yulia felt herself get up and walk a few paces, but she was not controlling her actions. “What are you doing?” she cried. “Who are you?”

“I already told you. I’m Freya. Just another rotten kid who thought to attack a spirit.” She laughed again, and the sound came from Yulia’s own lips, unwelcome. “We belong together, you and me.”

“No! We don’t!” Yulia tried to stop herself from moving, but it was as if someone else were controlling her legs.

“I can get away with anything I want now,” Freya mused. “You will take the blame. Oh, this is going to be so much fun!”

As Freya’s laughter filled her mind again, Yulia felt herself losing consciousness, leaving her life in a stranger’s hands.

#short stories #writeblr

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mollymauk-teafleak · 5 years ago

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more fjorclay

Happy Christmas @minky-for-short, thank you for being such a wonderful friend!

-------

Fjord had spent so many years trying to be bigger. Standing taller than felt natural, setting his jaw to hide his tusks and look tough, keeping everything tense until it ached.

Hating what he saw in the glass.

Anything it took to convince the world and himself that he was big enough, strong enough to survive.

Melora had changed that. Caduceus had changed that.

With Caduceus he could be small, he could want comfort and he could live safely in the knowledge that it was okay.

Fjord lay on his stomach, one arm lying under his chin, the other reaching over so he could trace the patterns shaved into the underside of the firbolg’s sweep of hair. His fingertip carefully followed the curving, swooping path, a seemingly aimless wandering that actually contained runes and symbols when you looked closely.

“Who did this?” he asked softly, the first words either of them had said in quite some time. Though they hadn’t been quiet by any means.

“My sister,” Caduceus’ voice was raspy and low, his eyes not opening as he answered, “She enchanted it so it wouldn’t grow out.”

“And what does it mean?” Fjord felt like he asked a lot of questions when he was with Caduceus. Like it was okay not to know things.

“It’s a map, dear.”

“A map of what?”

Now Caduceus’ eyes did open, their unnatural purple colour glowing in the low light, too light to be violets, to deep to be lavender, like a sky constantly shifting between dawn and twilight.

“Me.”

Fjord liked that idea, that everywhere you’d been and everything you’d done could be written out so beautifully, “Could I do that?”

Caduceus smiled, his broad, kind face lifting with it, “I imagine it would have a lot of waves…”

Fjord grinned, aware that it made his tusks rest against his upper lip but not hating that, “Yes, most like.”

“It would look nice,” Caduceus reached out and rested his warm fingertips against Fjord’s cheek, bringing them up to comb through his dark hair, as if imagining where the pattern would go.

Fjord knew he was blushing, he could feel the heat across his cheekbones. How something as simple as that touch could get his blood up after everything they’d done since the inn door closed behind them, he had no idea. Some things just got to him more than others.

“My journey isn’t exactly the most...inspiring,” he murmured softly, feeling the words in another voice, at the back of his throat, “Maybe there’s some things I don’t want to carry for all to see.”

Caduceus’ face softened, his fingers slipping through the silky strands of Fjord’s hair, where it went from black to grey at the front, “But they’ve gotten you here, they’ve helped you be who you are right now. And I love who you are right now.”

Fjord had to close his eyes for a moment, he still wasn’t used to feeling so many things at once. Caduceus just lay on his back, fingers still softly stroking, giving him time. He always understood.

“I don’t know if I love who I am right now,” he eventually murmured, opening his eyes a little, just enough to see a rough sketch of Caduceus still there, still here for him, still listening patiently no matter what he said, “But I’m okay with being him.”

The ear that wasn’t pressed to the pillow picked up happily. They reminded Fjord of the bell shaped mouths of some exotic plant.

“That means a great deal to the people who care about you, Fjord.”

People, meaning more than one. A whole group of people that could almost be called a family if you stretched the traditional definition. People he had been so scared of being unable to protect, people he’d been sure would find no more use for him after the loss of his magic. But it was only after that, after he’d felt himself broken down to less than he’d been before, that he realised he had a family. He had a calling. He had a lover. He had worth beyond what some demon from the depths could give him.

“Have, um…” Fjord had to clear his throat of the lump that was forming there, “Have I talked about my feelings enough to earn another round?”

Caduceus chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that was pure joy, “Is that what we’re doing? Trading personal growth for love making?”

Fjord stifled a fond groan. Caduceus always found the worst way to phrase it, he could never just say sex.

“It feels like it sometimes. That’s therapy, right?” he smiled, teasingly.

“Absolutely not, that would be quite unethical,” Caduceus grinned, teeth bright in the low light, the lantern had burned out long ago and there was nothing but the yellow moonlight in their little room, “Fortunately, I’m not your therapist, I’m your boyfriend.”

Fjord turned that word over happily in his mind. Boyfriend. He couldn’t even imagine having one of those a while ago but now he did, he couldn’t remember how he got along without one.

“Well, in that case…” Fjord rose up, pushing himself onto his knees and throwing a leg over Caduceus, straddling his hips.

Almost instantaneously, there was something hard pressing against the small of his back. The simple fact that Cad was big enough for him to feel the pressure there had that wonderful ache going between his legs, never mind how fast he could get it up at just feeling their bodies pressed against each other.

As calm and placid as he was, Fjord had soon found there were a number of different ways to wind his firbolg tight, to have him growling and begging and tense with need. But he didn’t want to do that right now. Right now he just wanted to feel like they were one person rather than two. He just wanted the closeness.

Caduceus reached back, massaging Fjord’s ass and slipping one finger into the crease of his body, “Still open enough for me?”

“Think so,” Fjord bit his lip, “Wouldn’t mind if you wanted to check…”

Caduceus smiled, even looking a little smug, pressing that finger against his hole, not insisting, only moving into him once his body gave him access. Sure enough, there was enough slack to his muscles from earlier in the evening to offer no real resistance but still he probed a little, just to see Fjord’s face tense in rapture and watch his chest flush, everything turning a warm, darker green apart from the scars that littered his body. The myriad of smaller ones and the two twin incisions across his chest that had actually been given time to heal cleanly.

“I think you’re ready,” Caduceus purred, the rumbling starting in his chest, “Talk to me, okay?”

Fjord nodded, knowing Caduceus would worry he was hurting him unless he communicated otherwise. Apparently he was much noisier than anyone else he’d slept with and it had startled him.

Not that his worries were unfounded, given his size compared to Fjord. It had taken time, a lot of exploring and going slow and morning afters where Fjord decided to gingerly walk alongside the cart rather than risk sitting in it. But now he was strangely proud of how easily he could cope with his firbolg lover and shamelessly turned on by their size difference.

So as Caduceus lifted him up, effortlessly, and seated him on his cock, Fjord loudly gasped and moaned in delight, “Gods, that’s good…”

Caduceus moved one hand from the half orc’s hip to cradle his face, “Sweet boy. I love how you look when I’m in you.”

Vision a little blurry, Fjord looked down at Caduceus, at his beautiful cloud of silky hair, growing paler by the day like a dying flower, at his slate grey hair glowing softly in the night, at his own slick beading on that fur where their bodies met. It could all so easily be too much, enough to make him come apart at the edges. But that hand against his face, large enough for him to almost fully rest in, kept him grounded.

He could feel small. He could feel vulnerable. He could allow himself to sink into it all and know there would be a way out.

He whimpered as he began to bounce on Caduceus’ cock, feeling his nerves come alive. Words spilled out of him in an endless rush, telling him how big he was, how much he loved to feel him, how he was his, always his. Caduceus said nothing in response, he only purred and groaned softly, saying much with just those gentle, loving noises.

“Can I touch you?” was the only thing he said, to an emphatic, desperate yes.

His fingers left his hip, letting Fjord take full control of the speed and intensity of his thrusts. Now one hand cradled his face, the other slipped down to the juncture of his legs. He pressed his thumb against Fjord’s clit, practically able to feel his pulse, the blood rushing wantonly under the skin.

After that, he was gone.

With a scream of Caduceus’ name, as devoted as any prayer, Fjord came hard. Caduceus was half a heartbeat behind, groaning through clenched teeth, filling him with heat. Muscles failing him, Fjord fell forward across the firbolg’s chest, enough to feel the aftershocks of his lover’s orgasm, the part of his brain still working delighting in knowing he’d caused them.

Once he was in control of himself again, Fjord sighed and pressed a soft kiss to Caduceus’ chest, shakily lifting himself up just enough to separate them. But still he didn’t move away, content to stay splayed across his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

Caduceus’ hand still cradled his face, thumb stroking across his cheekbones, the ones he’d always hated for being so frail. His other hand caressed his bare hips, the one’s Fjord had despised all his life for being so curved. When they finally did roll over, Caduceus bent and kissed the twin scars across his chest, the one’s Fjord’s stomach had always clenched at because they reminded him that his body hadn’t always been somewhere he wanted to live.

Everything Fjord had resented and hated, Caduceus touched with such tenderness, all of it parts of a whole he loved. And when he did, Fjord could start to love them himself.

Caduceus really had changed so much.

#jackie #fjorclay #fjord #caduceus clay #smut #critical role

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timelordthirteen · 5 years ago

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In All Things 1/?

Mr. Gold/BelleFrench, Explicit (eventually)

Summary: When Lord Maurice is unable to pay the King’s taxes, his debts begin to pile up, and the only recourse is to accept an arranged marriage for his daughter, the Lady Belle. After a failed betrothal to Sir Gaston, broken by the reveal of a personal secret of Belle’s, the enigmatic and powerful Lord Gold swoops in to solve all their problems. He will marry Lady Belle and pay off Maurice’s debts. The only catch is that Gold doesn’t seem to want a wife at all.

Notes: YES I KNOW I NEED ANOTHER WIP LIKE I NEED SEVENTEEN MORE HOLES IN MY HEAD I’M FUCKING HORRIBLE. So this is an idea I had literally years ago. This is a weird quasi-period romance fantasy. Like imagine Jane Austen but in the Enchanted Forest. IDK. I’m tagging some things I know are coming, and just going right ahead and putting the rating where it’s going to be so that everyone is informed up front. I’m sorry I’m like this. For the Writer’s Month prompt #26: wedding.

[AO3]

Belle winced and pulled the comb through the ends of her hair.

She worked out the last few tangles before twisting it into a thick braid that ran from the base of her skull to the small of her back. Tomorrow it would fall in fat, loose curls, perfect for being woven with some of the delicate white flowers that grew along the south side of the house. Angel’s Lace they were called, supposedly good luck for a bride to wear on her wedding day. Her dress hung on a form by her armoire, creamy white silk and light blue ribbons, ready for her to don in the morning.

She sighed and pushed away from the vanity, casting a longing look at her bed. This would be her last night in it, and her last night in her father’s home, the only one she’d ever known, forever. She wandered to the window and leaned out into the cool evening air. The sky was a swirl of purple and pink as the sun sank behind the treeline. The next time she saw the sunset, it would have a different view, and she would belong to someone else.

The thought made her stomach turn and she moved to the small table across the room to pour some water. After two gulps of cool water and a few deep breaths, she felt only marginally better. The last thing she wanted was to be married, but the state of her father’s affairs necessitated such extremes.

Belle had often dreamed of what her future might be like, her wedding and her husband. She pictured something like in her books or in the stories told by her old governess. Reality was nothing like that. In her fantasies she had a choice, she wasn’t bid out like cattle to pay debts that weren’t her family’s fault.

King George taxed his lord’s highly. Years of war had worn the people down, and as her father’s lands began to fail, the fields sallow from overuse, there just wasn’t enough to cover the King’s demands. Only a marriage to a wealthy lord could save them. Her father’s debts would become her debts, and her debts her new husband’s.

Lord Gold, she was told, could easily afford them. He was also a favorite of the King, sitting on the Council of Lord’s and helping to organize and run the kingdom. She hoped this would go better than the first time.

A shiver ran down her spine at the memory of her first betrothal. Sir Gaston was noble, but demanding, conventionally handsome, but ugly on the inside. He’d found out her secret and immediately broke off the engagement. It was just as well, a marriage to such a man would have been more of a punishment than losing everything her family owned.

Strangely, upon hearing of the disillusion of her betrothal, Lord Gold had sent a letter to her father, asking for her hand. They had never met, but of course her father agreed. He was only worried for himself and their family name, and the possibility of losing their standing. The fate of his daughter was secondary.

Belle startled at the knock on her door, and hurried to cover her nightgown with her robe.

“Enter,” she called out, still tying the belt around her waist.

The maid, Astrid, poked her head around the door and smiled. “Sorry to disturb, my Lady.”

Belle shook her head and waved the woman in. “It’s no matter, Astrid.”

“I - I brought you a letter,” she said, holding out a silver tray containing a folded parchment, sealed with red wax. “It’s - it’s from Lord Gold, my Lady.”

Belle’s eyes went wide and pulled back the hand that had been reaching for the letter. “Oh…”

Astrid raised her eyebrows. “Should I put it on the desk, my Lady?”

Belle nodded, and watched with trepidation as Astrid cross to the small writing desk by the window and set the tray down. A moment later, Astrid was giving her a curtsy from the doorway and bidding her a goodnight.

She stared at the tray and the paper for a long moment before tracing the wax seal pressed to the front. The symbol in the middle was odd, a spinning wheel surrounded on the outside by the usual laurel wreath of the merchant lords. She wondered what the significance of it was.

Sitting down at the desk, she took a steadying breath and broke the seal, brushing the bits of wax aside as she opened the folded paper. It wasn’t uncommon for those with longer betrothals to write each other letters, but she hardly expected a man she’d never met and who was at least ten years her senior, to be sending her affectionate missives the next before their very arranged wedding.

Lady Belle,

I will dispatch with the usual, odious pleasantries of hoping this letter finds you well, and asking after your father’s health, though I do hope you are not too distressed over the upcoming ceremony. I know that this arrangement is not what you might have desired -

She let out a light snort at his understatement, and continued.

- but I wish to alleviate some of your fears, that we may enter into our partnership without misunderstandings.

Partnership. The word made her frown. She had never known anyone to refer to a marriage as such. Arrangement, agreement, joining. Those were common among those who had their futures decided on the basis of beneficial political or social alignments, but partnership seemed like something more, like they were forming a business or some such. She thought perhaps he was more used to that word given his background as a merchant.

Beyond the covenant we will enter into in the eyes of church and family, I will make a promise to you that I shall never ask for more than you are willing to give, in all things.

Belle sat back in her chair, her lips parting as she read the line again. She hoped that it meant what she wanted it to, but she was very aware that men, especially Lords and knights, where capable of eschewing all honor to get what they wanted.

Allow me to be clear, in a manner which I pray you do not find offensive. I will make no demands upon you for your time, your companionship, or your presence in my bed. I have no need for more friends, though I hope, in time, we may come to appreciate each other’s company, and you may approve of spending time together. I also require no heirs, as I already have been blessed with a son from my marriage to my late wife. (Incidentally, his name is Baeden - Bae - and he will be eleven just before the solstice.)

She gasped out loud, and her heart began to pound in her chest. She read the paragraph again, as she had the sentence before it, in utter disbelief. Lord Gold was marrying her, and apparently had no intention of requiring her to do any of the things that everyone expected wives to do. And he’d been married before. That was not something her father had mentioned, nor that Gold had a son. The way he added the sliver of knowledge, both about the boy’s name and his birthday, felt oddly intimate, like he was allowing her a peek into his life ahead of her joining it.

Giving her head a shake, she continued reading to the end.

I’m sure you are curious as to my reasons for agreeing to this arrangement, and in time I may be willing to explain, but please trust that they are my own, and that I do not bear you, your father, or your family any ill will. I will make one small request of you, if I may, and that is simply to be yourself. I find there are enough airs put on at court, and I do not wish there to be any illusions or deceptions in my home.

Yours,

Cameron Gold

She let out the breath she’d been holding and her hands dropped to her lap. The letter was nothing she’d expected, but then, apparently, neither was Lord Gold.

Cameron.

Knowing her future husband’s first name made her smile. She hadn’t known anything about him before today, other than that he was older, and rich enough to afford her father’s debts. Now she felt like they had spent an afternoon together, talking over tea. It was strange, yet comforting.

Though he might change his mind in the future, for now it seemed her terrible secret would remain as such. It was possible than if it were revealed to him that they might have come to understand each other enough that he wouldn’t be as angry as Gaston had been.

A shudder washed over her and she reached for her shawl, pulling it tight around her shoulders. Then she folded the letter and placed inside her favorite book, right in the middle to keep it pressed flat by the heavy sides. She poured herself another cup of water and carried it to her bedside table before laying her robe and shawl over the end of the bed. She took her time smoothing her hands over the soft knitting, remembering how her mother used to sit by the fire in the evenings with a basket of yarn and an idle plan of what she might create.

Her chest tightened and she pushed the memory away as she climbed onto the mattress, kicking off her slippers before wiggling beneath the covers. She looked over at her wedding gown, relieved that her earlier terror had calmed to more of a light apprehension. Perhaps, she thought, an arranged marriage to a man who didn’t seem to want a wife at all, was the best she could have hoped for.

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #belle x mr. gold #my rumbelle fic #fic #in all things #i am the worst and i am sorry

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unfolded73 · 5 years ago

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To Come Out the Other Side (1/1) - schitt’s creek ff

Summary: David mourns his husband. That’s it, that’s the fic. (AO3)

Notes: I wrote this for the SC darkest timeline collection on ao3, a place intended for sad as fuck fics that don’t have a happy ending. I didn’t think I’d post it here at all, but based on the reception it got last night, I’m going to. WARNINGS: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH (in the recent past), grief, loss, and a brief mention of suicidal thoughts. Don’t read if wallowing in sadness isn’t something you want to do. Rated Teen, 4500 words.

_________________________________

Three months, two weeks, and two days

David crosses and recrosses his legs, shifting on the generic loveseat in the overly pastel office. He looks up and down at the therapist who introduced herself to him earlier as Vanessa. She’s visibly pregnant, and he feels a flash of irrational anger that she could get herself in such a state when she’s got patients to see. When she’s taking on new patients like him who are going to need her full attention. What right does she have to have a baby? What right does she have to have a happy family when he’s so—

“I’m sure it’s been a difficult few months,” she says.

He laughs bitterly.

“I know, that goes without saying. What prompted you to make an appointment to start seeing me?”

“My best friend kind of insisted.” He drags his hand up and down on his thigh, scratching at the soft denim. “She worries.”

“Well, that’s understandable. It was brave of you to actually go through with it, though.”

David sneers. He doesn’t want to hear someone calling him brave. He isn’t brave. If he were brave, he wouldn’t have spent the last hundred and eight days ghosting through the empty remains of his life like he has. He’d have done something dramatic. Something concrete. Sell the house. Sell the stores. Leave town. Walk into traffic.

“Can you tell me what a typical day is like for you right now?”

David heaves a sigh. “I sleep late. I have employees who open the stores.”

“The stores?”

“Yeah, we own…” He stops and corrects himself; even the act of correcting his language is becoming a habit now. “I own three general stores in the area. Schitt’s Creek, Elm Glen, and Elmdale. It’s called Rose Apothecary.”

There’s a spark of recognition in Vanessa’s eyes. “I’ve been to the one here in Elmdale. It’s great.”

“Thank you.” He looks down at his lap. “I sleep a lot.”

“That’s common, with grief,” she says in a kind voice. He doesn’t want that kindness from her. He wants her to fix him. He wants her to tell him if feeling like this will ever end. He wants her to tell him he deserves to feel like this, for daring to be the one of them left alive.

“I usually go in and check on the Elm Glen or Elmdale stores by noon. Spend the afternoon calling vendors, or…” Or staring at his laptop, not doing anything.

“You live in Schitt’s Creek, though, right?” Vanessa asks.

“Yes.”

“You don’t go to that store? The one near home?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Why not?”

He rolls his eyes. She’s sussed out the answer, she just wants to make him say it, obviously. “That was the first one we built. Before we were married. Before we were even a couple. We…” He feels tears burning behind his eyes. How can there still be tears left, David wonders. It doesn’t seem possible.

“That store symbolizes your relationship with…” She consults the clipboard she’s holding. “Patrick.”

He’s instantly furious with her for speaking his name out loud, and also for having to check what his name is, for not having it seared into her brain. For having it written on a piece of paper like it isn’t something sacred. Perhaps together with words like ‘aneurysm’ and ‘grieving’ and ‘widower’.

“Yeah, I fell in love with my husband there, so it’s not a huge fucking mystery why I don’t want to be there,” David says, crossing his arms and giving her his haughtiest, cruelest look. Vanessa seems unphased. She just gives him more of those kind eyes. He hates her. He imagines himself storming out of her office and never coming back, but Stevie would be disappointed in him, and Stevie is the main reason he’s made it through the last three months, so.

David sighs and stays put.

“How long were you married?” Vanessa asks.

“Thirteen years,” he says, his breath betraying him and hitching on the words. “Unlucky thirteen.”

“So what do you do after you go to work in the afternoon?”

“I go back home.”

“Do you still live—”

“In the house we shared? Yes.”

She waits, letting the silence stretch out. It’s excruciating.

“I packed up all of his things in the first couple of weeks. It gave me something to do. Boxed up mementos to give to his parents. Donated his guitar to the high school. Same with the piano — I paid a special moving company to come and take it away. Boxed up all of his boring clothes to go to Goodwill.” He stares at an ugly painting of purple flowers up on the wall.

“You didn’t keep any mementos for yourself?” Vanessa asks quietly.

“No.”

He expects her to ask why not, figures he’ll have to describe how Marcy Brewer had asked him the same thing, causing him to break down in front of her for the fourth time in as many days. She doesn’t ask. What she asks is worse.

“Do you ever think about harming yourself?”

“Yes, but not— I don’t have a plan.” He remembers that from a psychiatrist whose care he’d been under in high school. The overheard murmur as Dr. Herndon spoke to his parents. He has intrusive thoughts, dark thoughts, but he hasn’t made a plan to commit suicide. Having a plan was important.

“What form do these thoughts take?”

“I’m not going to kill myself,” David says with a huff. “He’d be so angry.”

“Patrick would?”

David nods. Not that he believes in an afterlife, but Patrick would find a way to be angry anyway.

~~~

Seventeen days

Alexis crouches next to him on the floor of the bathroom, and he can feel her hand resting on his back as he empties the contents of his stomach into the toilet.

“I can do this on my own, thanks,” he says after spitting into the bowl. His stomach is still churning.

“I know you can.” She doesn’t move, other than to rub his back.

He was crying before his stomach decided to reject the dinner he tried to feed it earlier, and the tears coming out of his eyes now as a result of vomiting don’t seem that different. He wonders if they are different. If some scientist with a fancy piece of equipment somewhere could measure a chemical difference between the tears that come from your eyes when you’re throwing up, and the tears that come from missing someone so desperately that you literally don’t think you can go on living without him.

He heaves again, but nothing is left to come up.

A few more minutes has him cleaned up and back on the sofa, Alexis wiping the sweat on his forehead with a damp cloth. She’s 44 now, and elegant, and as beautiful as he’s ever seen her.

“You should have gone back to New York a week ago,” he tells her.

“Actually, it was L.A. that I was supposed to be in a week ago, but it’s fine.” She combs her fingers through his hair, her eyes roaming over his face. He wonders if she thinks the way his hair is flecked with bits of gray now makes him look too much like Dad. “What good is all of this technology if I can’t do these meetings remotely?”

“You can’t babysit me forever.”

“I’m not planning to babysit you forever, David.” She sounds annoyed, and the sound of her annoyed voice is weirdly soothing. It’s the cadence of those years in the motel. It’s her being irritated by his cologne and his time spent in the bathroom. It’s her pining over Ted and talking him down from bumps in the road with Patrick. It’s the morning of his wedding when she fluttered about, making sure that everything was perfect on the best day of his life.

He starts to cry again, and Alexis pulls him into her arms. She’s deceptively strong, his sister, and he lets himself be held.

~~~

Four months, three weeks, and one day

“What did you do this week?” Vanessa asks, and he doesn’t want to disappoint her, he actually doesn’t. He wants to be the kind of person who can walk in here and say, I’m a little bit better this week. I went to the gym. I looked at a flower. I appreciated the ephemeral nature of life and love.

“I watched three seasons of Justified.”

Vanessa doesn’t show any judgement on her face. “How was that?”

David shrugs. “I don’t remember. Timothy Olyphant is hot, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

She smiles then. “What sort of thing?”

“That cowboy thing.”

“Ah.” She’s silent then, doing that thing again where she lets the silence settle to see what he’ll do to fill it. David studies his nails, trying to call her bluff. The seconds tick by.

He loses the battle.

“Sometimes I think if I’d just had time to prepare for it. If he’d been a heavy drinker or a drug user or if he’d gotten cancer. Something to ease me into the idea of him… of him dying. Instead one day I’m having a completely normal, mundane day, and the next day my whole world had fallen apart.” He stares hard at the ugly flower painting. “I gave him a handjob the night before, did I mention that?” His eyes slide down to Vanessa’s, to see if he’s shocked her. It doesn’t look like it. “After he… I kept thinking over the next few weeks that if I’d known it was the last time, I’d have… I would have made the sex more special. Not just given him a stupid handjob.”

“Any type of sex is special if it’s between people who love each other,” Vanessa says, and David throws his hands up in frustration. She’s missing the point.

“My point is, I didn’t get to say goodbye. I didn’t get to do anything to make his last day on earth good. He deserved… he deserved a good day. All the good days.”

“Who’s to say he didn’t have a good day? Also, you were married for thirteen years. I bet you gave him lots of good days.”

David shakes his head. “I was difficult. We were very different, and sometimes we argued.” He inhales shakily, trying not to cry. “I gave him bad days too.”

“Another thing that is totally normal with someone you were married to for thirteen years.”

His laugh is sharp. “Stop being so understanding.”

“You want to feel like you didn’t deserve him?” she asks.

“I didn’t.”

“It’s a way of explaining why he was taken away from you too soon. That it was karma or something. That you deserve this.”

David looks away, blinking rapidly.

“You don’t deserve this, David.”

~~~

One month

The edibles kick in just as the second episode of Great British Bake Off is beginning. He wouldn’t say he feels good — he hasn’t felt good for a single solitary moment since he lost Patrick — but the edge of the huge knife buried in his chest feels a little blunted. He can stop treading water for just a minute and float. He’s still in the icy cold water, still drowning, but he doesn’t feel the cold at the moment.

Stevie giggles at one of Sue Perkins’ terrible puns. David snuggles deeper into their blanket and tries to let himself get lost in the drama of baking a perfect Opera cake, but his mind wanders and he imagines that Patrick is at baseball practice, or out having beers after the game with his team. That he’ll come home late while David is on step four of his nine-step skincare regimen, smelling vaguely of cigarette smoke from the cluster of smokers who loiter outside the door of the Wobbly Elm. Patrick will shower to wash off the grime of the day and they’ll snuggle in bed together, David letting him be the little spoon for once.

He’s so lost in the fantasy that when he finally notices Stevie crying, her face red and puffy, it seems like it’s been going on for a while.

“Sorry,” she says, wiping under her eyes with her sleeve. “These weed gummies might not be for me.”

David watches her for a second, feeling like the biggest idiot on the planet. “You miss him too.”

“David—”

“Stevie, fuck, I’m so sorry.”

She eyes him with annoyance. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

“No, I’ve been leaning so hard on you that I didn’t even think about the fact that you’re… that you’re hurting too.”

“David, you lost…” He can see the wheels turning as she tries to come up with some way to say it that doesn’t just lay it all bare, ragged and bleeding like it is. “What I’m feeling is not relevant compared to what you lost. It’s a mosquito bite compared to your…”

“Gaping chest wound?”

Stevie laughs, and then just as quickly claps a hand over her mouth. “I’m a monster. I’m the worst friend.”

“No, you aren’t,” David says, pausing Netflix and turning to face her. The high is making words need to spill out of his mouth. “Do you know what I was thinking last night?” Stevie shakes her head. “I was thinking that Patrick would be so pissed off at himself for dying. Because it totally messed up all of his plans, and he hated having his plans messed up.”

Stevie laughs again, and this time she doesn’t try to stop herself. “God, you’re so right. He’d be fucking furious.”

“Not that he didn’t plan for it. I mean, we had wills only because he insisted on it, and he left me a file with all of his passwords in it, and to be honest, I kind of wish he hadn’t? Because now I have no excuse not to pay the bills.”

“David, I’ve been paying your bills.”

“Right, like I said.”

She kicks his shin under the blanket, and they regard each other in silence for a moment across the length of the couch.

“I started jerking off again,” David says with a sigh.

“Congrats,” Stevie says.

“Shut up.”

“No, I’m being sincere, I think? It’s a little piece of normal. It’s like… life moving on.”

“I don’t want life to move on.”

“Of course you don’t, you want to wear funeral blacks and pace around at the top of a lighthouse until you die of grief.”

“Consumption would also be acceptable,” David says, sniffing imperiously.

“David, I know it’s a long way away, but the day will come when things will get normal again. When you’ll wake up and feel okay, when you can go to the store and not be constantly thinking about him, when you even—”

“Don’t say it—”

“Date again.”

“I’m not going to date again. I lost the love of my life; why on earth would I date again?” He’s once again glad for the weed gummies, because speaking those words out loud sober would probably ruin him.

“Because some day you’re going to get tired of your hand, and I’m not going to fuck you.”

He picks up the remote to unpause the TV. “Well, warmest regards to you.”

Stevie shifts over, nudging and prodding him until they are snuggled together on the sofa. “Best wishes, David,” she whispers against his chest.

~~~

Six months, one week, and six days

He pours himself some of the terrible, burned coffee that percolated from the ancient coffee pot to give his hands something to do. He hates being here. He’s only here because Vanessa made him promise right before she gave birth that he go to group therapy at least three times during her maternity leave. David can stand three hours of anything, even sitting in a sad circle with other sad people with this sad styrofoam cup clutched in his hand.

The facilitator of course makes him introduce himself, because he’s new, and in that moment he despises Vanessa and her stupid baby more than he’s ever despised anyone.

“I’m David. My husband died six months ago,” he says simply, hoping that can be enough. The expectant looks on everyone’s faces tells him it isn’t. “It was a ruptured brain aneurysm, so there was no warning. One day I was married to the love of my life, and the next day I was wondering how the hell I was supposed to organize a funeral for…” He inhales and exhales slowly. “... for the best person I ever knew.”

People around the circle greet him with sympathetic smiles and platitudes, and he bites the inside of his lip to keep himself from telling them to fuck off. They go around the circle and talk about their grief — an older woman whose husband died of pancreatic cancer, another whose son died of an opioid overdose, a man whose teenage daughter committed suicide. All of their stories are tragic, as tragic as David’s, and maybe it’s supposed to make him feel better, knowing that people in the world are struggling the same way he’s struggling, but it doesn’t. It makes him think that the world in general and humanity in particular is irredeemably fucked up.

When he’s forced to talk again, he can’t think of what to say, so he ends up telling these strangers about the phone call he had with his mother-in-law earlier that day.

“She wants me to come out for Thanksgiving in a few months, but I just… I don’t think that would be good for anyone.”

“Why do you think it wouldn’t be good for anyone?” the facilitator asks.

“Because the last thing the Brewers need when they’re mourning their only son is to have their son-in-law who is different from him in every possible way — and generally agreed to be too much in every situation — in their house, reminding them of what they’ve lost.”

One of the older women reaches over and pats him on the arm. “You said your husband was their only son, but looked at another way, you are now their only son. Maybe it would help them to be with you. And maybe it would help you too.”

He tunes out the rest of the sad stories, and when the group session mercifully ends, David flees before anyone can talk to him. He doesn’t go back, his promise to Vanessa be damned.

He does tell Marcy he’ll think about coming for a visit, though.

~~~

Two months, three weeks, and three days

“David Rose,” Ronnie says when she encounters him in the cereal aisle of the Brebner’s. She looks at him as balefully as she always has, which is a comfort when he’s still getting sympathetic glances from everyone in town every damn day that he manages to leave the house. As if he didn’t have enough reason to avoid the café, Twyla’s eyes well up every time she sees him. It’s more than he should be expected to endure when he just wants a grilled cheese.

“Mayor Lee,” he answers before returning to his contemplation of the cereals on offer. Patrick liked cereals with nuts and granola in them. David is trying to decide if there is any reason not to buy a giant box of Fruity Pebbles.

Ronnie is looking in his cart, which actually isn’t the collection of shameful frozen meals for one that she probably expects to find. He may not have known how to cook when he moved to Schitt’s Creek but he knows now, and he’s trying to get into the kitchen again now that he’s run out of the frozen casseroles from friends and acquaintances that filled his freezer for the past several weeks. Besides, there’s something meditative about chopping things, even if he does end up throwing most of the leftovers away. It’s a step.

“How are you, David?” she asks, her eyes coming up from the contents of his cart to meet his own.

He shrugs. “I’m out of bed.”

She nods, and then reaches out and touches his arm. “It’s good to see you,” she says, and he feels his eyes burn with tears at the unexpected affection.

He turns and grabs the Fruity Pebbles, holding it up to her. “There’s no one to shame me about buying garbage cereal,” he explains, his mouth pulling to one side as he puts it in the cart.

“As long as that’s not your dinner,” she says.

“No, I’m actually making a stir fry for dinner.”

She eyes him sidelong. “Sounds like you might need company to help you eat all that food.”

David tilts his head. “I’m sorry, but are you inviting yourself over to my house?”

“Call it the mayor's prerogative,” she says. “I’ll bring the whiskey.”

An unfamiliar smile comes to his lips. “See you at six-thirty.”

Ronnie turns out to be the perfect houseguest for a grieving person. She talks about the problems she’s having with the current council members (“I never would have thought I’d long for the days of Moira Rose on city council, but here we are”) and her contracting business and she asks after the store, and whether he’s still liking the cabinets she installed two years ago. She doesn’t mention Patrick, but she also isn’t visibly avoiding mentioning him the way some people do. It’s only when they’ve finished eating and she pours a measure of whiskey for both of them that she gives David a nod and clinks her glass against his and says, “Patrick was a good man.”

David scoffs. “You hated him.”

“I didn’t hate him.” She takes a sip of her whiskey and tilts her head back. “He rubbed me the wrong way at first, but I got over it.”

“I think he’d be surprised to hear that.”

She smirks. “He just needed someone to keep him on his toes. Everyone else thought he was too perfect.”

David drinks his whiskey and mulls that over. “You had a lot in common, you know. Queer, small-business owners, an unhealthy fixation on baseball…”

Ronnie laughs, a satisfying cackle that’s as smoky as the whiskey they’re drinking. They both stare into their glasses. The constant ache in David’s chest swells with how much he misses Patrick.

“I’m furious with him sometimes for leaving me,” he whispers, surprised that the words have come out of his mouth. He’s not sure if he could have said them to anyone else, even Stevie.

“You’re allowed to feel that way,” Ronnie says. “You gotta go through all that to come out the other side.”

He lets go of a half-laugh, half-sob. “There’s another side? I’m starting to doubt that.”

“So they say. Give it time; you’ll get there.”

“Thanks for coming,” he says after a while, his voice raspy. “This was… it helped.”

She pats his hand. “I can always go for a meal I don’t have to cook myself. Anytime you want some company, you just give me a call.”

~~~

Seven months, two weeks, and two days

“Thanks for… helping me with this,” David says to his father.

Johnny Rose glances up at him over his reading glasses. “That accountant you hired could probably help with this as well as I can.”

“I’m sure she could, but the stores are keeping her plenty busy. I don’t want to burden her anymore than I already do.”

“It’s her job, David; it’s not a burden.” His hands tremble as he sets the paperwork down on the table. His father is getting old, David thinks, and he resists the urge to bundle his parents off to the hospital to have every possible test done, to try to extend their lives as long as he possibly can. “But I’m happy to help, of course,” Johnny continues. “Are you sure this is what you want to do with the money, though? Patrick’s life insurance money is there to help you. There’s no shame in using it to make your life a little bit easier.”

David’s been thinking a lot lately about the fact that he was once a person who grieved for the loss of his money, for the loss of luxury. Now he knows he’d go through that a million times over just to have his husband back. He’d sleep in a moth-infested tent, he’d give away all of his clothes, he’d spend the rest of his days in a pair of overalls from Walmart if he could just see Patrick standing in front of him again. It puts a lot of things he cares about in perspective.

“I’m keeping some of it. But this is what I want to do with the rest,” David says, tapping the papers.

His father gives him a smile, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. “He’d be so proud of you, son.”

~~~

One year, two months, one week, and six days

He stands next to the grave marker. It was several months after the funeral before he could even bear to drive by here. Then the anniversary of Patrick’s death came and went, and he started to feel a pull to come stand next to the grave. Now spring is in full bloom, and David looks around and has to admit that it’s a beautiful spot. Maybe he should have been coming here all along. Maybe it would have helped.

“Ronnie fixed the leaky pipes in the basement. And she gave me a good quote for the upgrades to the Elm Glen location. I know you’d say get quotes from at least two other contractors, but you aren’t here so I’m just going to give her the work.” He imagines the look Patrick would give him, the indulgent annoyance of it, and he smiles.

“They named the new band room at the high school after you because of the money I gave them. The plaque they put up is horrible, but I was gracious about it. You would have been proud.

“I still miss you every day,” David says, his voice husky. “Stevie suggested maybe it would help to stop wearing your rings, but I told her to eat a bag of razor blades. Maybe she’s right, but I don’t think so.” He twists one of the gold bands now. “It makes me feel better, I think, to have this tiny piece of you with me.”

The wind blows gently, rustling through the grass.

“I did go on a date with that alpaca farmer, though, the one I told you about. Chloe.” He runs his hand over the top of the headstone. “We realized we were at Coachella three of the same years, back before she left Los Angeles. She might have been even more ridiculous in her early thirties than I was.” He imagines Patrick laughing at that. “It’s true,” he protests, laughing a little bit himself.

“I don’t think I’m ready to love anyone else. Maybe I never will be. But it’s nice to… it’s nice to be with someone sometimes. Not all alone, rattling around the house. You always said I was starved for affection, so… Anyway. I think you’d like her. I think she’d have liked you.”

He stays for another several minutes, staring out over the rolling fields, watching a hawk circle in the sky.

Before he turns to go, he pats the headstone again, gold rings against the granite. “Love you, honey.”

#schitt's creek ff #schitt's creek fic #tw: suicidal thoughts #my fic #sc darkest timeline #dead dove do not eat

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glaciernps · 6 years ago

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A Botanist’s Dream

National parks capture our hearts. They take our breath away. And raise our spirits.

Some places resonate more than others. They sink into our soul…our bones…our being. And some parks take hold of us, keep us coming back–perhaps even change our lives.

Glacier National Park is known to have that effect. If you try to shake loose from its grip, it has a magical power to call you back. Its mountains, its meadows, its streams–all calling to you, whispering for you to see, to touch, and to smell them once more.

But imagine all of those habitats if you are a botanist, a person who lives and breathes plants and notices the complexities of each one, from the tiniest pygmy poppy to the towering trees in the cedar/hemlock forest. And imagine each day you wake up, gather your field gear, and set out on foot to some unique area of the park. Once there, you look up at the tops of the trees hovering above you or look down at the valleys and streams glistening below. Then, you breathe in the sweet mountain air and get to work, laying out plots and recording the diversity of plant life found in that particular ecosystem.

Jen Asebrook and Jen Hintz, two seasoned Glacier botanists, have spent many a summer doing just that. Affectionately known as, “The Jens,” these ladies come back each summer to document change within Glacier’s plant communities. Their studies provide baseline data, essentially a snapshot in time, of how a particular plant community looks on a given day. Baseline data is essential in natural resource fields, for both plants and wildlife, because it documents what and how much is currently there, allowing scientists to come back and take note of any changes in the years to come.

Although Asebrook and Hintz monitor a variety of sites for a variety of reasons (i.e. restoration success after construction, changes to alpine plant communities due to climate change, etc.), I caught up with them one brilliant July morning while they monitored grassland sites just east of the Rising Sun Campground.

***

Thick with the pinks and purples of geranium, lupine, and asters, I push through the low vegetation within the open meadow, soaking in the last rays of the still forgiving morning sunlight. The Jens are ahead of me, searching for a waypoint on their GPS. They are trying to find plots first created 20 years ago.

Jen Hintz uses a metal detector to find the metal stake that marks the Rising Sun grassland plot’s location.

At that time, park staff began to notice some of the park’s valuable fescue grasslands were changing. Invasive species, like spotted knapweed, began to appear among the native Idaho and rough fescue along with agricultural grasses such as Kentucky bluegrass and smooth brome. These species began to creep up from park roads into the adjacent, native fescue grasslands on Glacier’s east side. In addition, these grasslands rely on a twenty-year, light-fire interval to replenish nutrients and clear out trees and shrubs. Yet, many of the park’s grasslands had not burned for nearly a century. These factors prompted park biologists to obtain funding for a grassland study that would provide baseline data on what grassland species existed and how trees, shrubs, and weeds were impacting them. Interestingly, the biologist in charge of the study—and the person who created the plots—happened to be a park employee named Jen Asebrook, a botanist fresh out of graduate school.

Jen Asebrook examines plant species within one of the plots.

Twenty years later, Asebrook is still a botanist for Glacier and is now back searching for the metal stakes she used to mark the grassland plots’ locations years ago. Using a metal detector, photos from 20 years ago, and a sixth sense, Asebrook and Hintz scour the landscape looking for the metal that marks the Rising Sun plot’s location. Not an easy task with the amount of vegetation that has grown up. As the squealing buzz of the metal detector permeates the air, we walk back and forth, searching the ground. Nothing. The sun’s rays change from welcoming to unwanted. The flowers lose their morning dew. And just as I begin to doubt the stake’s existence, Asebrook casually announces she’s found it. Finally, the transect can be laid out and the plots within surveyed for plant species and percent covered.

As the Jens begin to survey the plots within the transect, I ask them if they’ve noticed any additional changes to these grasslands in the last 20 years and what implications losing native fescue and forbs has for the ecosystem. Although the plots will supply data to confirm any changes on the landscape, Asebrook and Hintz have been so intimately tied to Glacier’s ecosystems that they immediately tell me they are seeing grasslands being invaded by shrubs and trees as well as noxious weeds. It worries them because these open meadows provide essential habitat for certain species of birds, mammals, and invertebrates.

In fact, grasslands are prime foraging grounds for many species such as elk, deer, grizzly bears, and small mammals. Certain bird species, including mountain bluebirds and vesper sparrows, rely on these grasslands for nesting and foraging habitat as well. Losing this habitat not only reduces Glacier’s plant diversity, but also essential habitat for many different wildlife species.

Mountain bluebirds use grasslands for nesting and foraging.

Today, as I watch the Jens artfully comb through each plot, recording everything from a half-dead blade of grass to a swaying, lavender lupine, I can’t think of two better stewards of Glacier. Their dedication to this place is not just seen in their work, but how they describe their work. I begin to wonder what drives them to come back each summer. Why they give up other opportunities to return each year. Of course one might argue that the job itself is the reward, getting paid to work in a place like Glacier. I’m sure that is part of it, but I’m not totally convinced it’s all of it. So I ask them. The answers are heartfelt.

Asebrook explains that yes, she initially fell in love with Glacier’s landscape and its wide range of habitats. “Still today,” she adds, “there are places in Glacier where its pure beauty brings me to my knees.” But, the beautiful landscape isn’t the sole reason for her coming back each year. Rather, her passion in returning season after season stems from her love of knowing and learning about this place. Asebrook feels that only a lifetime of study and exploration can create the intimate connection one needs to understand a landscape such as this. This connection fosters an understanding of the biological components of the ecosystem, but more importantly creates a tie to the land, one that drives her to care for and fight to protect it.

Hintz agrees that it’s the beauty of the place that gets in your blood, but adds, “It’s also the work. I love feeling like my work is important and that you feel you are making a difference each and every day.” Hintz also informs me that in addition to the work, what makes this place special is the people. The people that live, work, and volunteer here are passionate about this place and some of the best people she’s ever met.

youtube

This video highlights two, long-term botanists and their love of Glacier.

As the Jens roll up the transect tape, I pack my gear and begin to head out of the sun-drenched meadow. I think about their work, their passion, and their dedication. And I think about their words too. Perhaps a place is special because of its beauty, its uniqueness, and its significance. But what about the people? For centuries, humans have sought solace here—have felt the magic of this land, honored it, and worked to preserve it. What if all the spirits that came before us—those people who cared so much about this place—are adding their voices to it? Perhaps they call us back, help us make connections, and guide us in preserving this landscape. Glacier may be a botanist’s dream, but its future relies on all of the dreamers of the past, present, and future. Those who have dedicated a part of themselves to taking care of this place—just like two, long-time botanists I know, who are affectionately called “the Jens.”

NPS Photos & Video/Melissa Sladek (Mountain Blue Bird/Daniel Lombardi)

[image descriptions: Top: Researcher crouches close to the ground in a meadow filled with wildflowers. Second: Woman walks through meadow holding a yellow, metal detector. Mountains loom in the background. Third: Woman bends close to ground looking at vegetation. Fourth: Close-up shot of small, blue bird perched in the top of a tree. Bottom: Female researcher looks at camera. Load video with play symbol on top.]

#Glacier National Park #glaciernps #botany #science #research #grasslands #national park service #fescue #seasonal employees

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edelwoodsouls · 7 years ago

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safe in my kingdom

Happy Christmas @fantasygfs! Here's your secret santa gift for @gotsecretsanta's exchange, for the prompts Sansaery and Margaery Lives. Sorry for the delay in posting it - hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing!

Also on Ao3

Word Count: 1,683

---

Her hand lingers on the door handle, the cold metal chilling her fingers. A shiver runs involuntarily down her spine, nothing to do with the winter winds echoing the halls.

She scolds herself mentally. She's faced Ramsey, and Joffrey, and Queen Cersei herself.

How hard can this be?

Squaring her shoulders, Sansa pushes open the door and steps into the room, unsure of what she'll find - or even what she hopes is inside.

The bed is empty, the furs undisturbed and still tucked into the straw mattress beneath, and for a moment Sansa's heart falters in fear. What if what she saw was just wishful thinking? What if the girl who collapsed outside the gates, a crumpled heap of limbs and rags, isn't who she hopes- needs- her to be?

There's a creak, a slight shift in the wind, and Sansa's eyes are drawn to the source.

A dark figure stands at the window, cutting a stark contrast to the snow backdrop outside. She's turned away, but what Sansa can see makes her heart ache. Despite the freezing wind curling in from outside, the girl stands unshivering, bare of furs or covers. Her limbs are thin - starved - and the borrowed nightdress hangs limply off her shoulders.

Even so, all it takes is one look for Sansa's hopes to be affirmed.

The other girl doesn't appear to have heard the door open. Her fingers drum a nervous rhythm against the wooden window frame; her gaze is captivated by something distant on the horizon - maybe the snowfall, or the arrival of white ravens, or perhaps unseeing of any of this winter beauty. Perhaps she's elsewhere, somewhere with flames, and blood, and the screams of a thousand dying souls.

"Margaery?"

At the sound of her voice Margaery flinches, fingers freezing, turning on her heels faster than a bolting deer. Her eyes are wide, frantically searching Sansa's face without a flicker of recognition.

She looks even worse than Sansa imagined. Her hair hasn't seen a comb in weeks, snarled with knots and matted with something that could be mud or blood; the right side is nothing more than a mess of charred ends. Someone has attempted to wash her, but it does little to change the shadows under her eyes, or the bruises blooming on her ashen skin.

It doesn't hide the angry black-red burns crawling all the way up her right arm and neck, curling across her skin like some furious dragon of old.

"Margaery?" She speaks softer this time, arms held out in front of her in what she hopes is a peaceful gesture. "It's me. It's Sansa."

Something flickers behind Margaery's eyes, and a little of that terrifying vacancy drains away from her face. "Sansa."

Her voice breaks, rough and ragged as if from screaming, and something in Sansa breaks with it.

The woman before her is simply that: broken. Gone is the sharp wit, the ambitious ruthlessness - the kind softness she saved just for Sansa, in lingered glances and touches, in full red roses a thousand times more beautiful than anything Loras could give her, left on window sills in the wake of intimate nights. The woman who taught her so much, who Sansa admired more than any man-

There is no trace of the things which made Sansa fall in love. The carefully guarded facade of girlish innocence is absent, yet there is no hint of that calculating sharpness Sansa always knew lay hidden beneath. This is not the woman she met so many years ago in the deceptive warmth of the south, just as she is not the naive summer child who delighted in lemon cakes and the attention of pretty boys. Both of them have been torn apart, destroyed by fire and ice.

Only- Sansa was reforged stronger in the flames.

Margaery seems frozen, unsure, so Sansa closes the distance between them. It feels so natural - more so than breathing - to fall into these arms again. Before, Sansa clung to her like a lifeline, the single, truthful anchor in a storm of deceit and betrayal; now Margaery clings to her with similar desperation, a frosted rose reaching for warmth.

After what seems like a lifetime, Sansa forces herself to pull away, moving to lace her fingers with Margaery's. They feel like ice, rough and raw with burns which pain Sansa just to touch.

"You must be freezing," she whispers - with nothing but the sound of the wind echoing in the room, the air is strangely intimate, quiet. She slips her outer fur off her shoulders, draping it around Margaery's frame. Underneath the dark material she seems even smaller, but she curls her fingers around it and draws it closer to her heart.

"Thank you," she nods hesitantly.

Sansa wants nothing more than to throw her arms around Margaery and never let go. To ask her what really happened - how did she escape the Sept? How did she come to Winterfell? Questions buzz on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows them down.

"I thought you were dead," she settles on eventually, brushing her fingers over Margaery's scarred knuckles - whether to comfort the other woman or reassure herself that she really is there, she isn't sure.

Margaery's eyes are fixated on their interlaced hands, as if she needs visual confirmation of their contact - as if, any second now, she could vanish like smoke on the wind.

"Two months..." Sansa breathes, reaching up to brush a stray hair away. The burnt, uneven ends fall across Margaery's face, obscuring the scars. She flinches, but Sansa continues the movment, tucking the strands behind Margaery's ear. The girl in front of her is beautiful, scars or no scars, and Sansa can feel every fluttering feeling she learnt to ignore and suppress rising to the surface.

"I'm...sorry, Sansa."

Sansa blinks, sure she hasn't heard correctly. "You're sorry? Why?"

Margaery shrugs helplessly, her eyes reverting to the floor. "For this. For everything. For not defending you from Cersei-"

"No one can stand up to Cersei, Margaery."

She remembers the last time she saw her lover, distant snatches of her during the ceremony in which she would promise herself to another for eternity. She remembers the fleeting moment of euphoric satisfaction at watching Joffrey suffer an excruciating death, less than half of what he deserved. She remembers the ensuing panic and chaos, being tugged away from the crowd-

And across the entire writhing courtyard, lit by the midday sun and bedecked in her wedding finery, was Margaery, more like a goddess than ever; and for a moment Sansa's feet had faltered, a voice in her head screaming stay, stay for her.

As if she had known exactly what Sansa was thinking, Margaery had mouthed to her: Run.

And that was what she had done. With Cersei's cries for her head following, she had fled for the Vale with Littlefinger without looking back, and finally back to the home she left so long ago, forging a path as best she could without the one person she envisioned doing so with - because she was a traitor to the crown, and Margaery wore that crown upon her head.

"If anything, I should be sorry- for leaving you behind. I left you to burn."

"That is a gross exaggeration," Margaery scoffs, and for a moment she almost sounds like herself, full of authority and underhanded scorn at the world. "You know that's not what happened."

"It still feels like it. Don't you remember what we used to dream?"

Curled under the covers, limbs entwined and fingers laced much like they are now - Sansa recalls their fantasisies of the future, their future, with crystal clarity, despite locking them behind steadfast gates in her mind so long ago.

"Where would we live?" Margaery had asked once, voice a mix between giggle and conspiratorial whisper.

"You always promised I would enjoy Highgarden," Sansa replied, tracing a finger along Margaery's collarbone.

"You would. On summer evenings, you can stand on the tops of the towers and see for miles - and when the sunset hits the flower gardens just right, the horizon seems to blaze."

Sansa always loved when Margaery talked of her home - the way her voice grew soft and reverent, like tale of the joys of Highgarden were a lovingly told secret.

"It sounds beautiful."

"Not as much as you."

Sansa giggled, blushing brighter than the rose resting on her dressing table.

"Or maybe we could journey North," Margaery suggested, and the almost serious, wistful tone in her voice made Sansa's heart flutter. "I've never seen snow, and I imagine the forests are a thing of beauty."

She wonders what Margaery thinks of the North, now that she's here. Did she come here to find Sansa, or simply because it was the furthest place from Cersei's influence?

Does she wish she burned in the flames like her family, or does she see that tiny glimmering hope for the future that suddenly blazes before Sansa's vision?

She imagines it now, and for once the future doesn't seem as unrealistic or out of reach as a dream. She is the lady of Winterfell, her brother is King in the North - and Northerners have always been more accepting than the politically-minded Southerners. Love is love, and any source of light and warmth should be cherished to weather the ice and dark.

Jon would certainly understand; she doesn't doubt that in a society devoid of female companionship, many of the men turn to each other.

Standing with Margaery's familiar warmth in her arms, she allows herself to envision it. Walking through the courtyard, hand entwined with Margaery's. Long winter nights spent talking by the fire, intimate moments snatched by candle light. She imagines a silver rose wrapped around her finger; Margaery draped in furs, the symbol of a wolf hand-stitched and emblazoned upon her dress.

Margaery looks up from her hands, eyes shattered and hopeless but still so achingly beautiful, and Sansa can't help the small smile which pulls at her mouth as she presses her lips to Margaery's forehead.

"Everything's going to be okay. I promise."

#sansa stark #margaery tyrell #sansaery #gotsecretsanta #fantasygfs #game of thrones #fan fiction #own work #happy christmas

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withinthescripts · 7 years ago

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Season 2, Cassette 6: Montreal Museum of Fine Arts (1978)

[tape recorder turns on]

Hello, this is Zoe Tremblay, lead curator of the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts. Bienvenue, welcome to our museum. This audio guide for the exhibit “Small Items, Big Picture” features assorted works by celebrated artist Claudia Atieno.

Shortly before this exhibit opened to the public, news broke that her body was found, confirming her death after five years missing. Across the art world, we are saddened to learn confirmation of Atieno’s death, but content in finally confirming what we had long suspected.

Before the news, we had invited artist, art historian and friend of Atieno, Roimata Mangakāhia, to orate this cassette. It would have been understandable in her grief for Mangakāhia to decline to record this audio guide after finding out the details of her colleague’s death, but Mangakāhia agreed to uphold her obligation. We are blessed and pleased she could do so.

The exhibit begins in the Desmarais Pavilion, second level.

[bell chimes]

Claudia Atieno was one of our New World’s most respected artists. Since the Great Reckoning, no one else combined skill, macroscopic vision, and subtle political rhetoric quite like Atieno.

I would like to start this audio guide by saying she will be missed. She has been missed for many years, really, but the pain is greater than before. It is real now. I didn’t think… [crying] I really didn’t think…

But this is not important, my feelings are not relevant to this audio guide. We’re here simply to contemplate Claudia’s work.

Painting 1. “Mantis on Branch”.

Look first at the branch. Atieno has used shades of lavender and green in the wood. Long, meandering lines of light colors contrasting the dark grays of the branch itself. These lines, like two pastel rivers…

I had hoped her disappearance six years ago was an attempt to revitalize her career with new ideas, greater ambitions, I was wrong. She just died. She’s just been dead all this time. We all just die, I suppose. Why expect more?

In her final years, Claudia had grown more artistically prolific. But as the quantity of her art increased, so did the quality for subject matter plummet.

I was with her often, in what turned out to be the final years of her life. Do I wish I had known they would be her final years? Would I have changed the way I spoke to her? Would I have broached different subjects? I suppose there’s no way to be sure. [sighs] I suppose it’s pointless to relive it, over and over.

I talk to her a lot. Our discussions about artistic evolution went from lively to combative in those years. She became obsessed with tiny objects and figures, finding microscopic details interesting. Searching for possible hidden meanings in the repetition and mundanity of everyday life.

With the exception of the parties and happenings which were plentiful, it was a life mostly spent alone in her home in Cornwall. Her lovers, including Pavel Zubov and Cassandra Reza, visited during times of celebration and merrymaking, they did not live with her. I lived with her during the other times.

I alone kept her from being alone.

Look at the mantis’ face in this painting. It is difficult to see it directly, as the insect is slightly turned away. I would like to tell you this is meaningful, and if you find meaning here, good for you. Most likely Atieno simply painted a still insect that she saw in the garden, because she was trying to keep busy. And rather than change her position and perspective, rather than attempt to seek out meaning elsewhere, she simply painted what was in front of her.

How many mantises have you seen before? What makes them interesting?

[bell chimes]

Painting two, “Rubbish Number 3”.

This is a wastebin with paper in it. With an impasto technique, it’s difficult to discern exactly what these papers are, but they appear to be standard and unbound A3 pages. We can assume they were old files or notes. A crumbled page lies behind the bin. Look closely at the crumpled paper. Can you read what it says? No. No. you can’t.

[bell chimes]

Painting three, “Rubbish Number 7”.

This is a banana peel. Looking at the Spanish floor tiles, I imagine this was painted in her kitchen. Atieno was, generally speaking, a tidy person. So I guess this is ironic?

Yep, it’s a banana peel. Hmm. I have little else to add here.

[bell chimes]

Painting four, “Rubbish Number 15”.

The final known painting in her rubbish collection, this is a wrapped stack of discarded newspapers along a street corner. It’s clear that these are the Western Europa Times, London Edition, but the text on the front page is not clear. All you can make out are the words “200 million” and “population”, which would suggest these were from October 1971.

Atieno talked often of the days before the Great Reckoning. She was an infant when our population was nearly eradicated by the new weapons of a great war, and by the toxic air, which took almost as many lives as the godlike explosions throughout the 1920’s. After the foundation of the society, those born prior to the Reckoning were not granted indirect contact with family, but punitive action was rarely sought in those cases.

Occasionally, she received letters and voice recordings from her grandmother, Renee. It’s not clear how Renee knew where her grand daughter lived, or if these letters were monitored for content. Renee was not allowed to communicate familial love or give any indication about Atieno’s family, dead or alive. So she simply told her grand daughter about what life was like before the reckoning. Foods they ate, like wild birds or boar. Detailed descriptions of robes and headdresses popular in the previous century, and even recitations of poetry she learned in school.

With the loss of so many libraries and information centers during the reckoning, Renee wanted to convey, if not love for her last remaining grandchild, a written and oral history of facts and tales that might otherwise be lost.

Look again at the painting of the stack of newspapers. Atieno was acknowledging the renewal of human life on Earth, and its new roles and rules. The new culture the society has brung and will continue to bring. The power of information and its manipulation.

You are one of 200 million in the world. Does that make you special, or insignificant? Is it possible to be both?

Atieno was always excited about the New Renaissance. After the Reckoning, new artist with little history to direct them had to find new methods, new narratives. Art had been stilted and interrupted for so long. It had felt like a luxury the world could ill afford.

But by the early 1970’s, Atieno seemed to have grown weary. In this oil painting of hopeful news, we see gray twine holding together gray pages on gray pavement.

Look at the painting for a hint of color. [whispers] Oh find some color, you really need to find colors!

[bell chimes]

Painting five, “Needlework”.

This is not a painting, clearly, but an actual piece of needlework, the only known example of this medium by Atieno.

When I lived with her, I used needle craft such as cross stitch and knitting to pass the time. I was never much of a reader, and painting for me was more draining than it was for Atieno. She could paint for hours without much of a break, whereas I often had to stop after 45 minutes or so to clear my head.

During afternoon high tide, I would go cliff diving to refresh my body, to energize myself for the more intellectual and minimally physical tasks of painting or drawing in my notebook. The shock of cold water slapping my skin woke me to a world with no thoughts, only instincts. My muscles tensed at every leap, calmed at every splash, and my mind was full not of thoughts or ideas, but feathers.

Atieno did not care for the thrill of a plunge into the sea. Her thrills came from challenging the rigid regulations of the society through her artwork. I suspect she often tried to keep in touch with her sister. I have no proof of this, other than the society secretary of trade, Vishwati Ramados saying this to me. Ramados once pointed out a childhood drawing of two girls in a garden, quietly talking. Claudia in the background watching. “That’s not Claudia’s school,” Ramados said, “she didn’t go there, see her sister clearly drawn?” [scoffs] “How would you know her sister?” I asked. Ramados cocked her head and smiled, as if I had complimented her hair.

Additionally, Atieno was paranoid that she was being watched closely by people. Obviously politicians like Ramados, but others too. She welcomed the stateswomen offices and agents into her home regularly, entertaining them with wine, food, music, dance and stories of her youthful debauchery often to the point of absurdity. Maintaining these amicable relationships alleviated any accusations cast on her of sedition or slander. Plus, as long as she kept her message abstracted in symbols and metaphor, Atieno could always claim that her painting was nothing more than a pig on a roast, or a vivisected mouse, rather than a direct poke at a specific security chief or geneticist. Indeed, she did claim this. even I cannot say for certain what her political views truly were.

Needlework was a pastime I never taught Atieno, she never asked. But she would on occasion walk past me in the parlor or outside in the garden, stitching phrases or flowers onto a linen circle. I had no idea, until the Montreal Museum showed me this piece, that Atieno ever took an interest in needlepoint. And I can only assume she taught herself the technique. She had no books on the subject, so it’s likely she found some of my needlepoint projects and watched my movement to learn how to do it herself. I’m not sure why she never asked me directly. I’m not sure why she felt the need to take this from me.

Of course, as this is Atieno, she was better than I was, taking my passive pastime and improving it to the level of fine art. In this piece, a simple arrangement of yellow carnations, she has clearly dyed segments of the thread to create a depth of color.

Pay careful attention to the simple dots and marks of blues and pinks and greens in the leaves. Not unlike some of the blots of color used by the impressionists.

Think of a time in your life when you were outdone.

[bell chimes] [tape recorder turns off] [ads] [tape recorder turns on]

[bell chimes]

Painting six, “Housefly”.

Flies were common at the Cornwall house in summer. They gathered on bookshelves and around edges of doors and windows. Atieno strictly kept food out of all rooms except the kitchen and parlor, which is where she entertained, but this is not where the flies gathered. Even with the tightly sealed windows and doors that remained shut, the flies found their way into the home and could not escape. Atieno would often return from her visits to Africa or South America to a Cornwall home lined with dead flies, like spilled raisins, who had attempted to escape along window sills.

This painting is of a living fly, along the top of a leather-bound copy of Alexander Dumas’ “The Count of Monte Cristo”. Atieno must have worked hard not to startle the fly away. There’s no existing photograph or sketch of this fly, so either she quietly and slowly painted, as a very patient fly quietly and slowly sat atop one of the few remaining copies of this French masterwork, or she painted the insect in great detail from memory.

[bell chimes]

Painting seven, “Darkened Room”.

This oil on canvas of an empty bedroom depicts a small unlit room the the very top of the house. When I lived with her, this was the room I slept in. I have a closer emotional tie to this painting than you could possibly have, dear listener. I can feel those cool cotton sheets, (--) [0:18:31] and billowy pillows under my head and across my body. Atieno tucked blankets tightly under mattresses, and the effect on the sleeping guest was not unlike a swaddled baby. Nights in Cornwall were cozy and nurturing, surrounded by ocean we could hear only cresting of the waves and the occasional birds and crickets through the cracked summer windows.

Daytimes could be different. While she adored throwing parties and filling the house with her eclectic collection of friends, Atieno sometimes grew tired of the guests with little warning. As I stayed with her for months at a time, I found I needed to escape her judgment and chiding some afternoons. She would want to work in the kitchen or on the patio or in the living room and my presence irritated her. She made this known with a curt “I need this area to work, find another place to do yours.” So I would paint in the bedroom, or sketch, or knit. Sometimes I would take the boat and head back to the mainland, go for walks in the rubble of nearby neighborhoods. Searching for old photographs of families, just to see what families used to look like. Wondering if my family was still alive and what it must have been like back in the times of fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters.

I know the final generation was full of violence and tribalism. A senseless conservatism of culture and values which led to war. But I still revel in how similar the awful purveyors of destruction looked just like us.

The few photos I found during my excursions into the rubble often showed two middle-aged humans with dead-eyed smiles and proper Sunday dress, standing behind two or three children, equally dressed and hiding their teeth behind stiff crescent lips. Sometimes the father would have his hand firmly on the oldest boy’s shoulders, holding him into place as if keeping a balloon from lifting out of gravity. The mother would sometimes have her hand on the daughter’s neck, as if she was holding a glass of water and not a small child. Sometimes in the ruins of these homes, I found pieces of ceramic lamps or shreds of sofa cushions. Sometimes I found saplings or vines growing through the twisted grids of stove top crates or out of bath pipes. It was not uncommon to find remnants of bodies too. Burned or brittle. And all but unrecognizable.

I suppose these findings would have made for good still life paintings, and with better foresight, I may have taken my brushes with me on these walks. But given the proliferation of destruction, still uncleaned by our tiny recovering population, I imagine every art student with an empty sketchbook has thought to capture the grisly aftermath of a global devastation. But art is often just record keeping, letting us know that an apple looked the same to Cézanne in 1895 as it does to a grocer in 1974. Or a dog in a 15th century tapestry has the same shape and size ratio to humans as one today, on St Catherine Street right here in Montreal.

When I did find photographs among the shells of former houses, I collected them in an album that I kept under Atieno’s guest bed, shown hre in this painting. Of course the guest room she has painted is uninhabited, ready for overnight guests. Even if its pristine neatness does not exactly welcome them.

In the open space next to the chest of drawers you see in her painting is where I set my easel. Mostly, my relationship with Claudia was positive, friendly. She was chatty during morning and afternoon tea and n the late evenings just before bed, but when she began to work, she disdained my presence. I have been critical of much of her work in this exhibit, and I hope the people of Montreal Museum of Fine Arts will not take offense. Claudia could create color and spectacle unlike anyone. Not only on the canvas but in social setting. She was not herself a rambunctious sort, but her demeanor brought out the wild side of so many. She quietly encouraged people to let go of inhibitions, while she displayed little of the same behavior. I always wanted more out of the work, and I hope you would have wanted the same.

We now know she’s dead, of course, so there’s not much that can be done at this point. Perhaps I should leave it be.

I loved her like a friend. Like a lover. Like a teacher. Like the sister the society won’t let me have.

The tide comes in and it goes out. You’re either there when you need to be or you’re not, time is impervious to critique. For all her supposed fighting against the new society, the society still is. Her most minor works hang on a wall in the former country of Canada- there should be more for her, for any of us.

[crying] I’m sorry. Montreal’s lovely. The Museum of Fine Arts is a real gem. Claudia… is lucky to have her work displayed. Let’s look at the final painting in this exhibit.

[bell chimes]

Painting eight, “Guests”.

Here Atieno depicts a party in the parlor. Look at the third guest from the right near the upper corner. That, I believe, is me. You can also see her former lovers, Pavel front and center and Chrisette just behind Pavel. Both are holding goblets of red wine and dancing, the wine spilling carelessly into the air, eternally aloft, never reaching the floor. [chuckles]

No musicians are shown here. Often guitarists and singers would perform next to the non-working fireplace and the piano. She rarely had anyone playing the piano, as if she felt it too stuffy. Also her record player was positioned on the bookshelf, but in this painting, its usual location is filled with books. She’s editing her life here, I believe, as in reality she had few books.

[scoffs] I’m not sure what the guests at this party are dancing to. Based on Pavel and Chrisette’s presence at the same party I was at, I place this painting as March 1972. Only days before the last time I saw her. This was the last moment any of these people would see Atieno.

Chrisette, Pavel. Deputy minister of culture, Sanjay Vishwanath. The woman who headed the childhood detachment and development program for the society. Those two men who claimed to be marketing manages for the World Bank, but were most definitely private investigators.

I was there, in Cornwall, on Claudia Atieno’s last day alive. [fights back tears] Last day seen alive. It was in March 31, 1972. I suppose there’s no way to know exactly when she died. I remember the evening clearly, I had returned from the cliff diving to return to a painting before the party. She was in the garden behind the house. Guests were just arriving. I don’t remember this party, I remember a-a-a quiet dinner.

The next day, or the day after, I can’t be sure… I, I left for Paris to visit friends or Amsterdam, was it? The Reichs Museum, I don’t know I can’t remember, it’s been so long. Oh, I really should know these things. It was Pavel who reported her missing to the police on April the 16, I don’t know why he came back to see her or why she let him. It’s strange to mourn someone who was never a regular presence in your life. My friendship ith Claudia was characterized by long absences. We were either together entirely, sharing food and shelter, work and leisure, sharing everything for months at a time, or we were wholly apart, with no contact a tall. Neither of us being much for letter-writing.

I’ve grown used to never seeing her these past few eyars, when there was still hope. So why now do I feel so broken? Why does it feel like she’s been pulled… so suddenly out of my life, when in reality she hasn’t been in it at all? [crying] I feel as bereft as I would if I’d been with her til yesterday. As if I would if she disappeared right from in front of me. Oh wait no, that’s not right, it was in autumn, she went missing in autumn. I’m sure of it.

[tape recorder turns off]

Within the Wires is written by Written by Jeffrey Cranor and Janina Matthewson and Performed by Rima Te Wiata, with original music by Mary Epworth. Find more of Mary’s music at maryepworth.com. The voice of Zoe Tremblay was Kate Leth. Don’t forget to go check out the amazing new Within the Wires T-shirts and Claudia Atieno artprint at withinthewires.com

Within the Wires is a production of Night Vale Presents. Another of our podcasts I think you’d love is Welcome to Night Vale. Perhaps you’re already familiar with the strange desert town of Night Vale and this is just a reminder that we have over 100 episodes for you to hear, for free, wherever you get your podcasts. And if you haven’t listened to Welcome to Night Vale, go listen to episode 1, or any episode really, you’ll be caught up in no time, and see what you think. Hear? Hear what you think?

OK, our time is done. It’s you time now. Time to stop by the museum gift shop, grab yourself a souvenir book of paintings about [ineffective (hotel) coffee makers], pick up a poster featuring [your high school sweetheart], and buy a commemorative vase made out of [whatever it is they make vases out of. Wet sand? IDK man.]

#within the wires #within the wires credits #season 2 #season 2 episode 5 #montreal museum of fine arts 1978 #this episode is so heartbreaking #i don't usually comment on here #but dammit

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greyskywrites · 7 years ago

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Wolf’s Price

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VI. Wolf Sister

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“Eighteen men, all at once… I’ve never heard of wolves doing anything like that, except in stories.”

It was all the women in the cedar bathhouse could talk about. I kept my eyes down, running hot water through my hair, combing out the tangles.

Lady Tyna had asked me only one question as we walked to the baths, quietly, and in Kressosi. “Did you have something to do with this?”

“I… I don’t know.” I had all but forgotten the dream until we reached the village, and in the dream, I hadn’t felt like quite myself. I hadn’t even thought, when I said “they will kill you” that it had been anything more than a warning, a consequence they would meet if they attempted to harm us. I didn’t know if that absolved me.

“Best not to linger too long in the hot water,” Lady Tyna murmured. She handed me my linen towel, and I pulled myself out of the bath, too aware of the other women’s talk.

“Poor Beldi… he was only what, twenty-three?”

Lady Tyna handed me something else, pulling it from the pocket of her apron when we had dressed. A slim bottle of dark brown glass, no longer than my smallest finger.

“What is this?” I asked.

“A tincture for dreamless sleep,” she said. “Just a few drops before bed, if you feel the need.” She shrugged her shoulders, glanced away.

“I didn’t say anything about dreams,” I said.

“You didn’t need to.” She shrugged on her jacket, looked skyward and let out a breath. “You have any place to go, if your man turns you out?”

I wanted to snap that Muras would never turn me out, but I knew better. A man might have no legal power over his mistress, but he had no legal obligation, either. All this could prove too much for Muras, for Todd—and gods only knew what would happen to me then. “Jasos,” I said, wondering if the Wolf would even let me go back to Kressos, if something happened before I had paid my price. “My son is there.”

My heart ached, thinking of Kip. If I died here…

Lady Tyna gave a crisp nod. “I see.” She paused, and finally looked at me. “If ever you need a place to go,” she said. “There’s a port city in Azira—Ekhum—and up on the hill is a big house, blue, walls growing over with flowers. Ask for Basim Umad.”

“And who is Master Umad?” I asked.

Lady Tyna gave me a wry smile. “He used to be my husband.”

She told me the story as we walked. We stopped under the narrow tent cover of a woman selling chilled cider, and stood under the shade of an old maple.

She truly was a Tyna, as she told it, though not one that would have been able to make a terribly impressive marriage for herself. Her father was killed by Kressosi before she was born, her mother died a few days after birthing her. “Afterbirth didn’t come out whole,” she said, as if she were speaking of something hypothetical. “She took an infection. Only lived long enough to name me after the river my father died in.”

Her grandfather provided for her until she was five, at which point she was apprenticed to an herbalist and midwife. “Couldn’t afford to feed me if I wasn’t going to pay my weight in brideprice when I was older,” she said, without any bitterness in her voice. “He supposed it would be better for everyone if I had a trade.”

She stayed there until she was seventeen, learning how to use the plants, how to deliver babies. She spoke fondly of the woman—Alvild—who she described as being both as patient as a draft horse and as ornery as a mule. “I was a wasp in her hair, gods bless her.”

Then, she met Basim Umad. He was traveling with his employer, a rather prosperous man who traded a number of luxuries for Sarenn pelts and ivory. Basim was, officially, his physician. Unofficially, he was what the Azirans call a poisoner. He specialized both in protecting his employer, and in dispatching those who got in the way.

He was maybe near thirty, when she met him. Basim’s employer was meeting with a merchant, and that merchant’s wife had just delivered a daughter a few hours before. Lady Tyna and Alvild were still there, keeping an eye on mother and child. “Basim made a nuisance of himself,” Tyna said. “Decided to test the limits of my knowledge, and I was tempted to tackle him to the floor and shove some hemlock down his throat.”

Instead, she decided to go to Azira, and seek training. She knew it would make her valuable, make her more than a village healer. “It wouldn’t have been proper for an unmarried woman to travel alone with all those men, of course,” she told me, rolling her eyes, “so Basim and I married, and slept in separate beds. As long as I knew him, I never saw him show interest in anyone, that way.”

They became friends, she said, by the time they reached Azira. I heard the first note of wistfulness in her voice, when she spoke of Ekhum. “It’s a beautiful city. It climbs over the hillsides leading down to the bay, smooth stone buildings stacked on top of each other, painted and tiled in beautiful designs that could make you dizzy looking at them. Gardens, everywhere…” She sighed, and told me how she divorced Basim in Ekhum, once she had been accepted into the university, and he made no fuss over it.

She had first been tasked with learning to read and write in Aziran, and once her skills were determined sufficient, her medical training began. “Near ten years I spent in that university,” she said, “I trained, and I worked, and when it was over, I stayed in Ekhum. Basim took it upon himself to train me as a poisoner, and for a while that was what I did. It’s valuable work, in Azira. Then I heard about the war.” She was quiet for a moment. “It had been over for months, when I heard. Corasin dead, the Forset line obliterated… that was when I decided to leave Ekhum.”

“And you went to Kressos?” I asked. “Why?”

She went on as if she hadn’t heard me. “I was a novelty, in Kressos. It didn’t take long for the prince to hear about me. When I told him about my skills, he was more seriously interested in my services.” Her smile lacked any amusement. “And now,” she said, lightly, “I imagine there are few people in the world Prince Andon trusts more than me.”

More fool him, I thought, looking at her. I wondered what the Kressosi prince had that she wanted.

“Trusts me enough he even turns a blind eye to how much time I spend with his wife,” she tacked on, in time to watch me choke on the last of my cider. That made her laugh, then. The first time I had heard her laugh. “Your face,” she managed to get out, pressing the back of her hand to her smile.

I mutter a curse when I could breathe again. “You aren’t serious,” I said.

“Oh, I’m perfectly serious,” Lady Tyna said. “I imagine Arabel enjoys my company more than she enjoys his.”

I couldn’t help but giggle, shaking my head. “Gods above,” I murmured.

“And you?” Lady Tyna asked. “How did you come to be Commander Emiran’s woman?”

I hesitated, wondered if she had told me her story to get mine. Wondered what she suspected me of.

“I was married once,” I said. “He was a good father but a cold husband. Wasted my chance to divorce him, I was so afraid of him.” I clutched the empty cider cup to keep my hands from trembling. “He was killed by Kressosi soldiers in the war, and I didn’t stay to bury him. Too eager to get away. Joined up with a Hasi clan for the winter, and in the spring I crossed into Kressos. Supposed there wasn’t anything left for me, in Saren. I worked as a maidservant, made my way to Jasos, had another child... that’s where I met Muras.”

Lady Tyna made a ‘hmm’ noise, her eyes searching out something in my face. She handed our cups back to the cider woman, who plunged them into a pot of boiling water so as to clean them. Then Tyna looped her arm through mine, as if we were old confidants, and walked with me down the road, the summer sun on our backs. “He doesn’t know who you are, does he?” she asked.

I looked askance at her. “What do you mean?”

In very soft Sarenn, she said, “I met Benwulf Anarin, before I went to Ekhum. If you think I can’t recognize your uncle’s face in yours, you’ve vastly underestimated both my memory and your resemblance.”

An icicle formed around my spine. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t. I’m sure you thought it was very clever, telling Emiran you were a wool merchant’s daughter from Arborhall. Why should he even think to look twice at the story of a Sarenn maidservant?” Her tone was casual, relaxed. “But I’m given to wonder why the only woman who escaped Morhall would stay hiding this long. Why she wouldn’t go back to her family.” Her green eyes slid round to meet mine. “You said you had had a second child in Jasos. I suppose the first must have been in Saren.”

I dug my fingers tight into her arm, nails deep in her sleeve. The only hint she gave of pain was the tightening in her jaw. “What do you want?” I asked, my voice as calm as I could make it.

She didn’t hurry to answer. “Every year that a Kressosi king rules Saren is a year that Sarenn folk get a little more accustomed to having a rope around their necks.”

“My son is not your bid to freedom,” I hissed, and cursed myself.

Lady Tyna’s eyes widened slightly. A son. A male heir. The only direct male heir Corasin had left behind.

A prince. A king.

“I don’t even know if he still lives,” I said, “I gave him up to another mother, and I haven’t seen or heard word of him since. And if he does live, I would sooner rip your heart out with my bare hands than let you endanger his life.”

“Bold words,” Lady Tyna said.

“Says the woman who believes I killed eighteen men in a dream,” I replied. My fingernails were still sunk in her arm. “Even an Aziran poisoner couldn’t have trained you for that.”

“You would keep Saren subjugated.”

“No,” I said fiercely, “I would free it from kings.”

She looked at me carefully, a question in her eyes.

“What makes you think I want my son to be anything like the man who sired him?” I asked. “What makes you think I want anyone in this gods-forsaken country to turn a seven-year-old child into a symbol of their freedom?”

“What else do you think will unite Saren enough for them to break free?” She hissed between her teeth. “What do you suppose they should do? Or are you that comfortable with what you see here?”

I tightened my grip, and felt more than heard the way her breath hissed in pain. “I think that they will have to realize that it was never kings that made Saren what it is.”

There had been a thunderstorm, a few nights before Veland was born. The wind had howled around Pitalani’s house, tearing at the mammoth hide. I remember sitting close to the fire, my hands on my belly, imagining the Wolf’s howl in the wind. I thought on my mother, how when thunderstorms frightened me as a child, she would smooth my hair and tell me it was only Thraldi, battling the Wolf and his pack. Lightning was the sparks from her hammer, thunder the sound of the blows.

That night, I had prayed to Thraldi to protect us.

Pitalani looked at me from across the fire, her dark eyes shining. Her girl was sleeping, her husband and brother talking in low voices. “You won’t stay, will you?” she asked me.

I shook my head. “I can’t.”

“A wolf needs a pack,” she said.

“I am not a wolf.”

“Are you sure?”

I didn’t answer her, at first. I only stared into the coals, and held onto the swell in my middle, trying to soothe the baby’s kicking. I felt in my bones that he would be born soon. “I’ll come back for him someday,” I said. “I will.”

Pitalani nodded. “We will be waiting for you.”

I threw out Tyna’s tincture, and slept restlessly.

I didn’t believe she would tell anyone who I was. Not yet, anyway. Not until she had figured out how to advance her goals by doing it. I was faced, then, by two equally troubling conclusions.

Either Tyna truly wanted to free Saren from Kressosi rule, and would do whatever she could to reach that end, or she was playing out some scheme for Prince Andon to ensure that there was never any threat to Kressos from Corasin’s line.

And I had told her about my son.

Morning couldn’t come soon enough. I washed my face at a pump behind the inn, in the barest light of dawn. It was cold, and that eased some of the exhaustion. The innkeeper brewed a strong tea that was bitter even with goat’s milk and honey but served to wake me a little further, enough so that I had an appetite for the fry bread with butter, goat sausage, and pickled apples.

I went out to the stables to brush Bili down and get him ready to travel. I couldn’t wait to be rid of this place.

Bili disliked being shut up in a stable, and he let me know by catching my sleeve between his teeth and yanking. I made a fist with my hand and knocked him in the nose. Not hard, just enough to surprise him and make him let go. He shook his head, offended.

“Mind your manners, then,” I said. I brushed him down and checked his hooves, swatting his side whenever he decided to be testy. I had no patience for him, just then.

“I wish you would have picked a gentler beast.”

I glanced at Muras over Bili’s back. He stood with his arms folded over the door, watching. “I know you do.” Impossible as he was, I liked Bili. The fact that he respected me, at least to some degree, and only me, had done quite a bit to restore my pride. I was still the rider I had been at seventeen. An elk was a Sarenn beast, nimbler and fiercer than any Kressosi horse.

Muras shifted from foot to foot, not flinching when Bili tried to escape my grasp and kick the door. “Does he have something to do with… whatever it is your mission here is supposed to be?”

I ran a hand down the back of Bili’s neck, smoothing the coarse hair. “I don’t think so. I just like him.” Bili turned and snorted in my face. I rolled my eyes and wiped my cheek with my sleeve. “Against my better judgment.”

Muras laughed softly, which put me a little more at ease.

“Muras,” I said, moving over to the door. Bili followed me, attempting to chew on the end of my braid before I pulled it over my shoulder. “There’s something… there’s something I need to tell you.”

He gazed at me, and I couldn’t tell what he thought I was going to say.

“My son may be among the Atsa Hasi, when we catch up to them,” I said. “The Kiruk clan travels through these parts, sometimes…” I didn’t know where I was going with this, and I didn’t want to babble, so I fell quiet. Every time I thought on Veland, I wondered what he looked like. If he was happy. If Pitalani really was waiting for me, as she had said she would.

“Do you want him to come with us?” Muras asked.

I blinked. “What?”

“If he is there,” Muras said, “do you want to bring him with us?”

He was seven years old, now. If he knew I existed at all, he only new me by the name the Kiruk Atsa had given me. Pitalani was more his mother than I was. “I… I don’t know.” I glanced away. “I won’t know until I see him.”

Having him with me would bring him closer to all the dangers that being my son would mean. But if he was there, and Lady Tyna knew he was there, and he wasn’t with me, I wouldn’t be able to protect him.

A voice in the dark parts of my mind asked why I thought I could protect him better than Pitalani’s family. Why I thought Veland would be any safer with me for a mother.

Muras reached over, touched my cheek. “You know I would have welcomed Kip, too.”

I leaned my face into his touch. His hands were always warm. “I know. But I couldn’t take him from Kaspar. Not like that.” I couldn’t have done that to Kip, no matter how much I wanted to hold him fast. Muras’ reputation might have been able to withstand raising another man’s half-Sarenn bastard, but a child didn’t deserve that shame. I would let Kip grow up with his father, and I would keep my pain to myself.

It was something I did well.

Bili rudely stuck his head over my shoulder, nipping at Muras’ hand, and I threw an elbow back into the surly elk’s chest. “Ought to turn you into sausage, you miserable bastard,” I muttered as Bili drew back, huffing.

If you are near to a camped Hasi clan, you can find them by sound, often as not. Under the sound of mammoths calling to one another, you are likely to hear human chatter, the bustle of work, and singing.

It was a large camp we came upon, two or three clans whose herds had begun to join up for their summer grazing. By the height of summer the herds would have come together to graze and breed until the beginning of fall, and in that time all the various Hasi peoples would trade with each other, share news, make marriages, and do all the work necessary to prepare for the migration south for the winter, and begin the cycle anew.

You can tell the Atsa by the designs painted on the mammoth hides of their homes—sharp and geometric, in blues, yellows, and reds. There were other tents, too, of Sarenn traders on their way north, looking for the same safety in numbers we were seeking. Their woolly rhinos grazed nearby, kicking up dust and shaking off flies.

Camped as they were in the vast meadow, we were spotted well before we drew near enough to the camp to call out to them. The mammoths announced our presence, their trumpeting drawing the attention of the Hasi.

Muras rode to my left, in uniform, and I saw some of those watching our arrival grow wary and anxious. I drew in a breath, pulling Bili to a stop when we were about fifty paces from the camp. I dismounted and walked forward, bowing my head slightly to indicate peaceful intentions.

I was going to ask after clan elders, to express our desire to join their company for a time, when I saw someone hurrying toward me through the camp. It took me a moment to recognize her, but I knew when she cried the only name she knew me by—“Wolf Sister!”

Pitalani clasped my face in both her hands and kissed my forehead and both my cheeks. She smiled and in Trader’s Tongue said, “I knew it was you when I saw that pelt.”

The wolf pelt was across Bili’s saddle, as bright and white as the thin clouds in the sky above us. “Pitalani,” I said, starting to smile. “It’s good to see you again.”

Her cry had drawn the attention of her clan, and people that remembered me were moving forward through the camp. I remembered some of their names, but not as many as I would have liked. They were so busy with their hellos, asking after my health, telling me how happy they were to see me again, that I was distracted from my foremost anxiety until a boy—tall for his age, and thin in the weedy way of children who only grow taller the more you feed them—shoved his way to the forefront, and stared at me with wide, amber-brown eyes.

He was the spitting image of any of my brothers, with that high proud nose, and a softness in his face that would temper with age. The only difference was that his hair was elk-brown, not crow-black.

I felt my breath stop in my chest.

Pitalani reached for him, smiling. “Veland,” she said, although she pronounced it Way-lan, “this is your mother.”

“I know.” His eyes never moved from my face, and I felt tears pricking at my eyes.

I sucked in a ragged breath, bringing a shaking hand to my mouth. “Hello, Veland,” I whispered.

He grinned, then, a wide open smile that wrenched a knife in my chest. “They told me you’d come back.”

As I tried to get everyone settled in the camp, serving as interpreter between Sarenn, Hasi, and Kressosi, I was constantly aware of the small shadow I had developed. Veland hovered always nearby, a gaggle of Atsa children around him, all talking fast and loud.

“You’re a popular woman,” Todd said, smiling.

I would have said I was the last of the spring ice threatening to shatter. Seven years and here was my son, knowing who I was and excited to meet me, and Lor Tyna lurking at the edges of my mind.

I couldn’t let Veland out of my sight—though the more difficult task was not tripping over him when I turned. “Alright, lad,” Todd said, clapping a hand on Todd’s shoulder. “Let’s give your ma a better way of keeping an eye on you.” I didn’t have time to point out that Veland didn’t understand a word of what Todd was saying before he had swung Veland up onto his shoulders. Veland gave a surprised yelp, but then he grinned, hands balanced on Todd’s head.

“Just don’t drop him,” I told Todd.

“He’s not an infant, he won’t break. I’m joking, Lya,” he said when I gave him a hard look. “I’ll be careful.”

“Veland, this is Todd,” I said, “he’s a good friend of mine, you can trust him.”

Veland nodded. “Yes, Ima.”

My heart constricted in my chest, and I looked away. What had Pitalani told him about me? What did she even have to tell? That the Wolf brought me from out the snow, and as soon as I birthed him I was gone without ever telling anyone my name?

I saw Lady Tyna watching us, and the wolf in me bristled and bared her teeth. Piss-poor mother I might have been, but no self-blame would make me let that woman near Veland.

Todd must have carried Veland on his shoulders for near an hour, keeping him out from under my feet, They couldn’t speak a word to each other, but they had their own way worked out soon enough. I saw Veland tapping Todd on the head with the flat of his hand and pointing when he wanted a change of direction. Todd would give a slight tug to Veland’s leg when he leaned too far one way or the other, and Veland would right himself, and they would be off again.

Muras watched them with a smile. “He looks like you,” he said.

A mercy, I thought. “I didn’t think he would know who I was.” Or that he would be so ready to call me mother. Pitalani had raised him, fed him, dressed him. All I had given him was a name, a name that he only knew as Way-lan.

Muras put a hand on my back. “How are you?” he asked, so soft an earnest it would have broken my heart if Veland hadn’t already.

I looked at him, my arms hugged across my chest. “Terrified,” I said.

He leaned over, touched his forehead to mine. “You know I’ll do everything I can to see you happy.”

I tipped my face up, brushed my lips across his. “I know.” He was a soft-hearted fool, like that. Had I ever been so devoted to someone?

I could only think I would have promised so much to Róana. I would have delivered her the stars to see her smile. I didn’t know what Muras saw in me that he kept promising me the world, even now.

That night, there was a celebration. I was sat by Pitalani, who had become an elder since I had last seen her, with Veland on my other side. We ate thimbleberries and pale-fleshed salmon and wild rice, and drank elk’s milk mixed with honey. There was quite a lot of singing, in Atsa, so I didn’t understand, but I joined in with clapping my hands, smiling at Veland when he joined in the singing.

I lost track of Muras and Todd. The focus of the celebration swirled around me and Veland, on our reunion, which apparently the Atsa had had a great deal more faith in than I had.

The ivory wolf’s head still hung on a cord around Veland’s neck. I hadn’t noticed it until then, perhaps he had been wearing it under his shirt. Now I saw it in the firelight, almost red, and I thought of the red dress I had worn when I escaped Morhall. I thought of the blood on Corasin’s shirt, across Muras’ face.

For a moment, just beyond the edge of the firelight, I thought I saw a man, tall and pale, something feral about his bearing, but when I looked up, there was nothing there.

“Ima?”

I looked back to Veland, managed a smile. “Yes?”

“Are you going to stay with us?” He looked so hopeful.

I smiled sadly, touched his hair. “No, puppy,” I whispered. “I’m going to Morhall.”

I watched the hurt bloom in his eyes. “Why?”

“It’s why I came north. It’s…” I paused. “It’s where White Wolf told me I needed to go.”

Veland’s eyes went wide for a moment, and then he clutched my sleeve. “Can I come with you?” He saw the hesitation in my face. “Please, Ima? Pitalani says White Wolf is my eba.” His father. Pitalani had told him the Wolf was his father.

I looked back over my shoulder, seeking out Muras and Todd. I found them together, relaxed, Muras’ head on Todd’s chest, the both of them untroubled, at least for the moment. I saw Lady Tyna, deep in conversation with one of the Atsa elders. I looked back to Veland, his eyes pleading.

“You know you won’t see Pitalani or anyone else for a long time, if you come with me,” I said. “You will have to learn Sarenn, and Kressosi, and to read and write. Things will be very different.”

There was a seed of doubt in his eyes for a moment, and then he shook his head, and looked only more determined. “I want to go with you.”

I drew him into my lap, and put my arms around him, kissing the top of his head. “Then you will, puppy.” I closed my eyes, and whispered a prayer into his hair. “Vintervulgas,” I murmured, “protect him, for me.”

Veland fell asleep in my arms, while I sat by the dying fire with Pitalani. The celebration had died down, and I ached from sitting on the ground for so long. “Thank you,” I murmured, “for everything you’ve done for him.”

Pitalani smiled at me, a little sadly. “I always knew you would return for him. I didn’t know it would be so soon.”

I stroked Veland’s hair, long and with the braid clubbed at the back of his head in the Atsa style. My fingers caught on the cord around his neck, and I found the ivory pendant, holding it in my hand. I wondered what the men would think, when they saw that. “You told him the Wolf was his father,” I said.

Pitalani’s dark eyes glimmered in the firelight. “He asked. I had nothing else to tell him.”

“It’s better, that way.” I adjusted Veland’s elbow so that it was no longer digging into my gut. “I suppose it’s true, in its own way.” He would never have been born, if the Wolf hadn’t brought me to Pitalani.

She offered me a cup of water. “The men you are with… is one of them your husband?”

“No.” I shook my head. “But they take care of me.”

“I see.” She sipped at her own cup, and looked up at the stars. “Wuritu is married, now. He has a daughter, and another child on the way.”

Her brother, my almost-husband. I smiled a little. “I’m happy for him.” I rubbed Veland’s back. “I’ll have another child, by next spring.”

“I will be glad to see them, in the summer.” Pitalani plucked a stray bit of grass from Veland’s shirt. “He prayed for White Wolf to bring you back.” She glanced at the wolf pelt sitting beside me, and then to my eyes.

I looked away. “The Wolf must have listened. I’ve had him on my heels ever since I crossed the River Lor.” In my arms, Veland stirred, and yawned, rubbing his eyes. “He should sleep with your family, for now,” I said, “until it’s time for us to part ways.” I trusted her to keep him safe. I trusted that Lady Tyna was not so bold as to try anything in a full camp of people who considered Veland their kin. I trusted that she knew I would kill her, if she did.

Pitalani nodded, and grasped Veland’s hand, speaking softly to him in Atsa, coaxing him up to his feet. I put out the last of the fire, kicking dirt over the embers. Bone-tired and bone-sore, I searched through the dark for Muras’ tent.

He was waiting for me. He greeted me with a kiss, and touched his forehead to mine. He must have known.

“Veland says he wants to come with me,” I said.

“Well, then,” Muras murmured. “I’ll have to get to know him, won’t I?”

I tucked my face into his shoulder, let out a breath. “I’m cold,” I said.

Muras put an arm around me, and pulled me inside. “Then we’ll have to fix that.”

The Hasi move nowhere fast. It is a joke nearly universal among them—if the mammoth hurries, there is more to worry than keeping up with them.

It was a more leisurely pace than I had set, surrounded by military men accustomed to hard riding. Bili was in remarkably good temper, perhaps because in the evenings he was left to graze freely with a number of cows, though none of them was yet of any desire to tolerate his interests.

I rode with Pitalani, making faces at her young son strapped to her back. He giggled and hid his face in his mother’s shoulders.

“I haven’t asked you,” Pitalani said, the warm red-brown planes of her face lit by the morning sun, “that woman traveling with you. Who is she?”

“She is of a Sarenn family,” I said, “but she serves the Kressosi throne, now.”

“Hmm.” Pitalani heaved a sigh. “We have had some trouble with Kressosi men. If you had not been traveling with these ones, they would not have been received so readily.”

I had warned Muras that the men must be on their best behavior, that as their intercessor and translator I would be responsible for them. I felt that pressure triply now. “What sort of trouble have they given you?”

“They do not understand how to trade with us,” Pitalani said. “They think us primitive. They attempt to violate agreements between my folk and yours.”

Land, I supposed. That was the biggest thing. Hasi routes could not be changed by human will. The mammoths went where they had always gone, and the Hasi followed. Or hunting—the Hasi tolerated hunting of solitary males, but if anyone made an attack on a herd, it would be met with retaliation, no matter how peaceful the particular Hasi people. “I don’t know how much Muras can do,” I said, “but he is influential. I will speak to him.”

Pitalani nodded, and gave me a warm glance. “I am sorry to have lost you as a sister.”

I smiled sadly. “I fear I’m more help to you as I am.”

“Perhaps.” After a moment, she asked, “Your men. Are they a help to you?”

I wanted to tell her that they provided for me, that I was never hungry or cold, but that was not what she was asking. “They do not always understand,” I said, “but they try.”

“And Way-lan?”

“Todd loves children,” I told her, “and Muras wants a family.”

“You trust them?”

“I would not have told them about Veland, if I did not.” It was Tyna I didn’t trust, that was why I wanted Veland close to me.

I saw him, then, on the back of a yearling cow, racing one of the older boys. He was lighter, but his elk was smaller. “He’s a good rider,” I said.

“Once he could walk I could hardly keep him away from the elk,” Pitalani mused. “He talks to them. I’ve seen him cozying up to your fiery creature, with sweets in his hand.”

I cursed softly. “He’s lucky he hasn’t got his head kicked in.”

“Oh, he’ll have that bull as sweet as a puppy,” Pitalani said with a smile. “Just give him time.”

#original fiction #prose #wolf's price

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