#in an ideal world it'd be it's own small chapter

[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Trevelyan returns to Skyhold. Permanently.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 4,118. Rating: all audiences.)

Chapter 47: Return with the Gift

The Ladies’ time in Val Royeaux had been particularly pleasant—if one glazed over the first few hours—but, like all good things, it was bound to its inevitable end.

Trevelyan and the Baroness watched from the balcony of the latter’s city-centre apartment, as their separate carriages were prepared upon the pristine streets below, under the particular instruction of the ever-efficient Lady Montilyet.

“How do you feel, about returning to Val Misrenne?” Trevelyan asked, as she rested upon the balustrade.

The Baroness could not rest so easily. “I suppose I am… frightened.”

“Frightened?”

“It will not be the same Val Misrenne I left behind. There will be faces missing from the crowd. I do not know how I shall withstand it.”

Trevelyan laid a hand atop the Baroness’. She had never confessed to such fear before. But of course she hadn’t. Hers was not to feel it, but to show resistance to it. And Trevelyan, in her heart, had every faith the Baroness would not succumb. But, at this moment, she needed to know:

“You don’t have to withstand it. Not alone. Your existence need not be self-sufficient, Baroness. There are people who can bear it for you; with you.”

Touledy smiled. “Indeed. Skyhold has been of great value, in that regard. I lived as an island for so many years. The mages returned what hope I had lost, and the Inquisition has seen it fulfilled. I have never... depended, or relied, so much since I lost my family. It is terrifying as it is beautiful.”

Trevelyan recognised the same feeling within herself. “It is.”

“You must come visit, when you may. I am certain Thallia would benefit from meeting a mage so accomplished as you.”

Trevelyan laughed. “From what you have told me, I believe it is I who would benefit from speaking to her.”

“All the more reason for it, then. And, of course, should the Commander ever vex you… you know where you may turn.”

“And allow him to finally have rid of us all? Never! I shall not give him the satisfaction.”

The Baroness quirked an eyebrow. “Shall you not?”

Trevelyan heaved an exasperated sigh, as if she did not thoroughly enjoy the Baroness’ teasing. As if she did not wish to keep it.

“I shall not give you the satisfaction, either,” she chastised. “Besides, I do not think he shall wish to be rid of me anytime soon. In fact, I rather got the impression that he’d like me to stay.”

“Oh, certainly—if the size of the soldiers he was willing to set loose upon your parents is anything to go by.”

Said soldiers were in the street, helping to load the Skyhold-bound carriage, lifting luggage as if it weighed nothing. Trevelyan was almost sorry they hadn’t been set loose upon her parents. Would’ve been a good show.

The Baroness smirked. “What a change in the man, hm?”

“Yes,” Trevelyan sighed. “Though I do not believe I would like him so much had he not so changed.”

“I wonder, then: when did you first like him? At what point of our many misadventures did he become a… prospect?”

Trevelyan thought for a moment. “I believe it was after the duel.”

“Ah. The nobility of defeat?”

“Hardly. Rather, the sight of him bloody, sweaty, and in the process of removing his armour.”

They giggled, at their debauchery; their larks; their repartee. But, joyous as it might seem, it came with a bittersweet taste upon the tongue.

There would be no more moments like this. The Baroness’ carriage was loaded and secured. Her footmen had climbed onto the dash. Val Misrenne called.

“I suppose I should say farewell,” muttered Touledy, shifting onto the support of her cane.

She offered an arm, understated in its invitation. Trevelyan collapsed into it regardless, holding on for dear life. It was as if the world around them was crumbling away, and to let go would be to fall with it.

The Baroness had been the stable ground upon which she had first arrived in Skyhold. She could not bear the thought of no longer having it beneath her feet.

“I love you,” she murmured.

“And I you,” said the Baroness. She parted, but kept her hand in Trevelyan’s. “Take my congratulations, as well.”

Curious, Trevelyan asked, “For what?”

“You won our little competition. Four Ladies came to Skyhold… and only one remains.”

Trevelyan scoffed. “I cannot revel in such victory. It means the departure and loss of three dear friends. I feel no triumph—only misery.”

The Baroness squeezed her hand. “No. I do not wish to cause you misery. Let us part in happiness—and one day, return where we left off.”

Trevelyan nodded. Those were terms she surely could agree to.

“When we meet again,” she said.

“When we meet again,” the Baroness replied.

Their hands broke apart. The moment had come. The sound of a cane echoed away.

Upon the streets, the Baroness climbed into her carriage. Six glorious horses all spurred to life, and a chorus of clip-clopping echoed around the city. A round of applause, for a remarkable woman.

Trevelyan pressed herself against the balustrade, eyes not leaving the carriage. Even as it rolled away, even as the tears blurred her vision. The very same carriage that had brought her to Skyhold now left her, to return to it alone.

And, as it had on that very first day, a long, elegant arm extended from the carriage window. Yet, this time, it waved farewell.

***

A bird soared over the Frostback mountains, a message bound upon its leg, a return heralded on its wing. No map needed guide it, no trail or track. The knowledge was intrinsic. It knew the way home.

A carriage traced the bird’s path, through the wildernesses it had glided over mere days ago, bearing those whose homecoming had been predicted. Within it, Josephine took to her reading, while Trevelyan contented herself with peering from the window.

There were trees on their trail, ancient and knotted, that she recognised. Villages, for which she already knew the inn’s location. Crossroads, for which she could choose the right direction. She knew it. Her way home.

Though she had enjoyed her whirlwind tour of Thedas, Trevelyan could not wait to return. The Dales were pretty and Val Royeaux shone—but none of it could compare to comfort she felt at the sight of those familiar mountain peaks, rising into view.

The snowy ascent was especially recognisable. Memories of the place echoed in her mind: of towering pines, of carriages and horses, of new beginnings.

A watchtower stood—same as it always had—before a mountain pass. Flags fluttered from its crenellations, banners adorned its every wall. The heraldry of the Inquisition. Soldiers within saluted the carriage, onward and through, to the valley beyond.

To Skyhold.

Trevelyan gazed at the castle—majestic crown atop the river’s head—and the camps that rippled out from it. She felt not a drop of the dread which had plagued her upon first seeing this place, for she knew the warmth of its hearths and the safety of its walls, now. There was nothing of it left to fear.

The gates were hauled up in anticipation. The carriage trundled through without hindrance. The courtyard opened out before them; its magic swept up to greet them. Stablehands swarmed the entryway, ready and waiting.

Two long weeks it had been. Yet, when Trevelyan’s foot hit the grass, it felt as if no time at all.

The place still bustled, the trees still bloomed, the birdsong still chimed. The keep remained, stalwart and strong, the same patrols on its battlements as they had left behind. Soldiers yet sparred, swords clashing in the air, accompanied by music, drifting from the tavern.

But there was something yet missing.

Trevelyan surveyed the courtyard, as the staff of Skyhold dispersed. Stablehands tended to the horses; servants, to the luggage. Their numbers depleted, the entryway emptied. Void was left in their place.

Trevelyan had, of course, prepared herself for the pain of realising that the Ladies would not be there, to welcome her home. But that did not nullify it. The pain yet thundered.

A soldier’s guiding hand saw Josephine down from the carriage. She came to Trevelyan’s side, sympathy offered through a touch of the shoulder. Together, they faced the barren courtyard—yet found it suddenly populated. By just one man.

The Commander waited at its boundary. He stood, spine straight, manner regal. Hair all laid, glinting in the sunlight. Mantle swaying, in the gentle breeze.

The sight of him caused Trevelyan to smile. A comfort and warmth suffused her, one she was unaware that she had lacked.

She worried a little, of her looks. Two weeks on the road and she would be nothing so lovely as he. But there was no escaping his attention, nor any time to prepare—for he had seen them, she and Josephine, and already made his approach.

“Arcanist, Ambassador,” he said. “I, ah—welcome back, it’s good to see you. I hope you are well.”

He spoke with a soft smile permanently upon his lips, and an even softer gaze in his eyes. Trevelyan had been away long enough to think she might have imagined such... hints, of some small affection—but here, it seemed, was the empirical proof, painted across his face in the style of a lovelorn artist.

Josephine must have noticed it too, for she cleared her throat, and asked with volume: “Have you any news on the Inquisitor?”

“Ah, yes,” he sputtered, remembering himself. “The Inquisitor has returned, though we are waiting on further word. Seeker Pentaghast’s party arrived a few days ago.”

“Good. Then I should schedule a meeting.”

With an excuse to remove herself from the conversation provided, Josephine bade them both a brief farewell, and left in the direction of the keep—no doubt intending to set upon her work like a voracious hypocrite. Perhaps they ought to create a convoluted romantic web to entangle her within as an overdue method of temperance.

Of course, such scheming thoughts existed merely to distract Trevelyan from the fact that she was alone with the Commander, and it had been a while since that had been the case, and she was extremely out of practice in the matter.

“Were the roads… good?” he asked.

Perhaps he was out of practice, too. “What?”

“Your journey—was it all right?”

“Oh.” Trevelyan smiled. “Yes, thank you—especially thanks to the retinue you provided. They were of great reassurance, during our travels.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m glad to hear it. And are you all right?”

That ought to have been a difficult question to answer. Trevelyan had forsaken the guardianship of her parents—what had been, for good or for ill, her last bastion in a time of crisis. And true enough, the fear that without them, she would be cast adrift should her life crumble again, still lingered in some form.

Yet Trevelyan felt no sense of regret about her decision. As frightening as it might be, that was part of the bargain. One could not be brave, without fearing first.

Ultimately, though a difficult choice to make, it was the correct one. Because as she admired the land of Skyhold—its warmth; its beauty; its homeliness—she could think of no reality in which she should prefer her parents to this.

Her gaze returned to the Commander. (Or that.)

“It may take time to adjust,” she admitted, “but I believe I will be. Quite all right indeed.”

“I’m glad. I trust they won’t trouble you further?”

Trevelyan shook her head. “Even if I were worth the trouble, they have been made well aware of the consequences of defying my wishes. I think they are fools—but I do not think they are foolish.”

“Hm. From what I have heard of them,” he murmured, “they do not sound like great intelligences—so we shall remained prepared, regardless.”

Trevelyan chuckled. “Thank you, Commander.”

“Of course. But, forgive me—I am keeping you; I should allow you to settle in.”

“No, no!” said Trevelyan. She edged closer, to speak quieter. “I wished to ask… how are you? Physically? I haven’t asked since… before the banquet.”

It took him a moment to catch her meaning, and the generic answer he had prepared fizzled in his mouth. Instead, he confessed to her the truth:

“I’ve been well enough, thank you. Only a few headaches… though, I suppose they have been more from the work, than the lyrium.”

“Well, we can’t have that either way. Without the Ladies to distract you, I fear you might do a little too much of working, Commander.” A smile crept across her face. “We shall have to do something about it.”

“Yes, that would be—I would be grateful, thank you.” His fumbling pleased her greatly. “And you—you will need company, without the Ladies, as well, I should imagine.”

Trevelyan had not considered herself yet. How lonely her mornings might be, without the Ladies to take tea with. How quiet her nights might be, with no gossip to keep her awake.

“Oh, yes,” she muttered, “I suppose so.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to—” He cut himself off, a self-frustrated crumple forming in his brow.

Trevelyan offered a smile, the best she could muster. “We shall have to spend some time together, then. To account for the absence.”

“Whatever you require.”

Trevelyan thought of what the Baroness might say to that, and smiled proper.

“Thank you, Commander.”

“Yes, Arcanist”—he dipped to bow, but stopped short—“should I..?”

“No, no—save your back, Commander. I am no longer a Lady, therefore there is little use for such formality. We shall have to find another way of saying farewell.” She had some ideas, but none appropriate. “The word itself may have to do—and variations thereupon. So, with that, Commander, I suppose I shall simply have to bid you—”

“If we have no need for formality,” he interrupted, “then you needn’t refer to me by my title.”

A little arrow pierced straight through Trevelyan’s heart. She attempted not to show the shock of the strike upon her face.

“Ser, then? Ser Rutherford?” she wondered.

“Cullen,” he told her.

“Ser... Cullen?”

His lips curled into a smile. “If you prefer.”

“No, no—if you, your preference, Commander.”

“‘Cullen’ will do.”

“Yes”—she braced herself—“Cullen.”

She could not even look at him as she said it. It felt forbidden.

“Thank you.”

A discomfort squirming around inside her, Trevelyan felt the sudden urge to be anywhere else. The air here was tense, and thick, and had begun to tamper with her breathing.

“We shall speak later, then, Com—Cullen,” she blurted.

He smiled. “Yes, Arcanist.”

That was as good a farewell as they would have for now. The two separated, each bound for an opposing end of the castle. Trevelyan slipped beyond the bounds of his periphery, and stole back the breath that had abandoned her. Bravery filling her lungs, she dared a simple peek, over her shoulder, to catch one last glimpse before he truly left.

Her eyes met his. For there he stood, at a distance, peering out from behind his own shoulder. There was the barest hint of a smile upon his face. It reflected upon hers.

But—there was work to do. Trevelyan’s attention returned, best it could, to Skyhold. Cullen, Cullen, Cullen. The name rolled around in her mind.

No, no! There remained an afternoon to be had, and there was plenty to do within it. The siren song of the Undercroft called, and Trevelyan could hardly refuse to answer. She had news of her permanence to share, and people with whom she wished to share it!

Though she didn't have to search for long to find them.

“Hey!” came a yell, from above.

Trevelyan’s eyes trailed up the keep’s stepped approach, and saw upon its landing, staring back at her, the grinning faces of Dorian, Herzt, and—

“You staying!?” shouted Dagna.

Trevelyan laughed. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be!”

All cheered, even Herzt. Dorian beckoned her up the staircase. “Come on, come on!” he bellowed. “We’ve got something to show you, and I shan’t be made to wait!”

Trevelyan cackled, and took the stairs two-at-a-time. She reached their little congregation, and was swallowed immediately into its embrace.

“What am I to see?” she asked.

Dagna grabbed her hand. “Undercroft! C’mon!”

Trevelyan barely had time to acknowledge the Great Hall around her, as the giddy band dragged her toward the Undercroft door. Down the stairs she was hurried and pestered, stumbling out into the cavern proper.

The smell of forges and the thrum of magic filled her up and made her whole. Familiarity, she was certain, could cure her any ill.

“Here, here!” Dagna said, pulling her towards the laboratory. “Close your eyes.”

Trevelyan did as instructed, hearing shuffling and whispers in the dark around her. Footsteps. A few worrying clanks. Then the order, to open her eyes once more.

“Here you are!” Dagna announced, arms shooting out towards Herzt. Trevelyan followed their direction.

Within Herzt’s palms lay a beautiful, intricate mage’s staff of smooth, shining mahogany, with a focus of burning reddish glass. Striking—but no answer to the questions Trevelyan had.

“What is this?” she asked.

“It’s yours,” Dorian said.

“What?”

Dagna tempted her forward, and Trevelyan crept closer. Maker, it was no less impressive on more intimate inspection.

That fine wood—a sturdy shaft—had been engraved with elegant symbols which Trevelyan did not recognise as runes. The focus, cradled at the pinnacle, swirled and hummed with the latent glow of magical potential. A blade, sharp, glinted at the end, smelted and forged for finesse and strength.

An approving nod from Dagna, and Trevelyan dared take hold. The moment Herzt released it into her fingers, she felt its power connect. Heat. Raw, burning energy—coursing just beneath the surface. An enchantment of fire.

“Do you like it?” Dagna asked.

“It’s incredible,” Trevelyan breathed.

“I’m glad. I had a little help sourcing the materials, you see”—she pointed to the focus—“that was sent specially, by glassmakers in this little Fereldan town, called Coldon. You might have heard of it.”

Trevelyan smiled.

Dagna pointed to the wood. “This was brought back by the Inquisitor—a gift from Val Misrenne.”

“I heard their leader uses the same wood for her own canes,” the sly Dorian added.

“And these”—Dagna traced a few of the symbols engraved—“are Dalish. It’s a saying, ‘Home is where I find my strength’. Or—something like that. I think the literal translation is ‘home is strength’.”

The difference mattered little in that moment. Trevelyan closed her eyes, as the tears welled. She held the staff close. Little pieces of them, to be carried with her.

“And the enchantment was done by yours truly, of course,” Dagna said at last, indicating both herself and Herzt.

“I’m here for the glory,” Dorian quipped.

Trevelyan laughed, and sniffled. “It’s lovely,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

“Well, pretty embarrassing for the Undercroft if our new Arcanist doesn’t even have a staff,” Dagna teased. “Now you can show ‘em what we can do.”

“Speaking of which,” Dorian said, placing his hands upon Trevelyan’s shoulders and peeking around her side, “do you want to test it?”

There was a glint in his eye that reflected in hers. Trevelyan grinned.

“Yes, please!”

They raced out of the room, gathering a herd of excited tagalongs behind them as they went. It was they who’d seen this staff created—so they should want to see it working, too!

The denizens of the Undercroft therefore spilled out into the sunlight, stampeding to the courtyard, and swarming the sparring ring. Dorian hopped the fence, and waved away the duelling soldiers within.

“Urgent business, gentlemen!” he told them. “The Undercroft needs a stage!”

Perhaps too green to argue, the soldiers cleared as asked. Dorian presented the space with a flourish of his hand, and Trevelyan eagerly entered.

“It’s been a while!” she warned her spectators, striding for the centre. “You might want to take a step back!”

Dorian made haste; the rest heeded her warning. Trevelyan swept her eyes around, and smiled.

“Further!”

Her audience, together, retreated another step. All, at least, except for one smith, who missed the instruction, and had to be quickly hauled out of the way.

Trevelyan laughed. Satisfied, she held out the stave. Mind calming, body focusing, she recalled the old patterns they’d taught her in the Circle. Time to see if they still worked.

She swung the staff through the air, swirling it around her head. Fade, drawn to her magnetising force, was gathered up in the movement of her focus. It concentrated the energy; she pulled it taut. And once she felt it peak—

Trevelyan slammed the staff, blade-first, into the ground, turf kicking up. Glowing lines unfolded outward; they turned, interconnected, wove. A sigilic pattern of runes, thrumming with energy, widening out, to the edge of the ring. Primed and primal.

She released her staff. The runes erupted.

Gouts of flame, over twenty feet tall, shot upwards like geysers. So bright and burning, Trevelyan was not visible within them—but within them she stood, smiling, arms wide. In control.

And as soon as she bade it, the flames deceased.

Trevelyan laughed, and clutched her new staff to her chest. Dagna cheered to see its successs; Dorian glanced at a still-smoldering patch of grass.

“You missed a bit,” he teased, dispelling the last flickers with a simple wave.

“Mercy, please!” Trevelyan countered. “It’s a lot more power than I’m used to.”

“You bet your ancestors it is!” Dagna grinned, ear-to-ear. “How do you feel?”

Trevelyan thrust the staff into the ground. “Like a mage.”

No more hiding parts of herself away. She was whole now, complete—and proud to be.

Though she had forgotten something. A key factor of being a mage, in fact: the idea that mages were, and always would be, in some kind of trouble.

“Excuse me!” shouted a heavily-plated soldier (big pauldrons, at least a Captain), who marched up to their little celebration.

“What seems to be the matter?” asked Dagna.

“Mage training is in an hour,” he instructed, glaring down at them. “My soldiers need the ring.”

A group of said soldiers stood meekly off to the side; the same ones Dorian had shooed away earlier. Perhaps instead of teaching them combat, they ought to be taught conflict management, so they could ask the big scary mage for the ring back themselves.

Dorian shrugged. “It was just one spell.”

The Captain scoffed. “We’ll see how the Commander feels about ‘just one spell’.”

He turned as if to stomp away, to find the Commander and get him to tell off the big scary mage—but one of his soldiers interrupted:

“Um, Ser?”

She pointed to the battlements above, and a silhouetted figure stood atop them. Hands leant upon the parapet, a faint smile upon his face, the Commander seemed to be quite aware of the situation already.

The Captain gestured to him, indicating the Undercroft rabble, then throwing his hands up in exasperation. Cullen waved this away, with a shake of his head. The Captain rolled his eyes.

“Fine,” he muttered, returning to them. “Just one spell. Don’t let me catch you doing this again.”

“Of course not, Ser!” Dagna said, with a grin.

The Captain looked like he almost believed her, but—no. He simply shook his head, and went on his way.

“Well, I suppose we’d better come back in an hour and see what else you can do,” Dorian whispered. “Fancy a spar?”

Trevelyan giggled. “I’ll roast you alive, Pavus.”

“Ooh! Sounds exciting.”

“Just don’t break it,” Dagna warned, “I’m not etching all those runes again!”

“I promise I will care for it like an injured baby bird,” Trevelyan reassured her.

Dorian cocked an eyebrow. “And you roast people with baby birds as well?”

“Over a spit, until perfectly crisp.”

They laughed, mirthful and pleased with their success. But the fun had to be over sometime—and the dwellers of the Undercroft would need to return to work. Someone had probably left at least one phial bubbling over with a dangerous liquid.

So off they went, filing up the steps, back into the keep. Trevelyan glanced over her shoulder, to at least offer the Commander—or, Cullen, rather—a smile in thanks.

But he was already gone.

A thought stumbled into her mind. One she hadn’t considered for so long.

I wonder if he’ll mind a mage.

[mdhwrites]

how do you know a character is too far gone to be redeemed? I know it's partially based on the work itself and what rules it establishes, for one work blowing up planets is something you can work hard on redeeming yourself from and another will have small scale bullying be considered murder and how much we sympathize with the character committing the acts but I know it's more complicated than that. How far is too far?

So you essentially pointed out the problem with even asking this question. Whether a redemption works or not is entirely context dependent, even down to the person viewing it. Like if one person believes in excuses X, Y, and Z for redemptions but another only believes in A, B, and C then these two people are going to have vastly different opinions on what too far is. One might be that any murderer is irredeemable. One might make it that you cannot be redeemed if you kill innocents. Another might have it be that it's only once you do it with malice.

So... What does an author do about this? Well for me, I think the question is less "What line is crossed where they can't be redeemed?" and more "Where is the line where I'm writing someone who is nuanced to someone who is a caricature for this setting?" So long as evil is not all they are, redemption to someone is likely to be possible and you can breadcrumb the way to that redemption. Once you have someone who kicks a child over, takes their candy and lights them on fire while gleefully laughing, you have probably dropped any pretense. Even Unikitty, a show who's boundaries are almost non-existent, has Master Frown still do mostly things that are annoying instead of actively cruel so that he is still redeemable because genuine cruelty might be where that's starting to go too far, even as he laughs in glee at making people, well... Frown.

In a romantic story, it'd be the moment when a character fakes the fact that one of the love interests is cheating on the other because they are doing something anyone would know is wrong and would only be done by someone with zero human empathy. In a martial art's movie, it's the asshole who pulls a gun during what is supposed to be a fair fight. It's the mafia stooge who targets family. Stuff that any sane, normal human being would feel revulsion at even the act of doing it... They do it without caring. If they feel remorse, are pressured to do it, etc. like that, or even did it long ago but have changed since then, they can still be redeemed but when you have them, in the present, without a second thought, perform actions that anyone would tell them they're a monster for... Yeah, no one in your setting is going to let them be redeemed short of a heroic sacrifice.

Because that last line is the important one. What can a character get away with before the people in the setting themselves would consider them some sort of monster? Because your story is playing by its own setting, logic and ideals and so the irredeemable characters in that story have to actively go against those, not just our modern ideas of right and wrong because, you know... Fiction. It's not our world.

And as a writer, that's what you need to focus on. If you want to redeem a character, you have to make it so that whatever they did CAN be forgiven in story. The act they commit to try and make up for what they did before has to somehow be equal or even bigger than what they did previously. This is also why there is a point at which death is the only way for them to make up for what they did because they have been so horrendous by the rules of the story that only the ultimate sacrifice can even attempt to balance the scales.

So long story short: Don't worry about what your audience will find acceptable. Remember that for a redemption to work, it must be believable in universe and that will shift between stories, or even between chapters, and that that's what's important. Those are the people the character wronged after all, not the reader. See you next tale.

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I also have an Amazon page for all of my original works in various forms of character focused romances from cute, teenage romance to erotica series of my past. I have an Ao3 for my fanfiction projects as well if that catches your fancy instead. If you want to hang out with me, I stream from time to time and love to chat with chat.

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[tokiro07]

Undead Unluck ch.167 thoughts

[Feng's Backstory]

...Or Shen will win, as we all figured he would. Obviously I never really thought that Feng would win, I just thought it'd be fun if Tozuka could find a way for Feng to learn his lesson through victory rather than defeat

You won't hear a complaint from me about the real outcome, though, cus in terms of execution, I don't think we could possibly have gotten a more fitting conclusion for Shen and Feng's joint character arc, and for one simple reason: the contrast

Untruth's activation requirement is to feel fondness for the target, but Shen found that "fondness" could be achieved through appreciation of pretty small aspects or situational factors. For example, in the fight against Spoil, he was grateful that Spoil had pushed Andy far enough to become Victor, and thus was able to use Untruth against Spoil; he didn't like Spoil as a person, he just found something to like about Spoil at all. When fighting Feng in the previous loop, though, Shen couldn't even attempt to find something to like about him. He was too blinded by vengeance to try to remember any happy memories or be grateful that he'd given him a path in life; the death of Mei recontextualized every happy memory into just another part of the plot to raise up an enemy, which in turn negated Shen's Rule

But now, as if Untruth had been used on their very lives, the situation is reversed. Now, Feng openly raised Shen with the knowledge that he was the means to an end, that Shen's strength would serve Feng's goals and nothing more. Ironically, because Feng was more openly hostile toward Shen, Shen grew up to learn that Feng's hidden motive was to raise a student that's capable of standing on their own. If they'd met the same way they did before, Shen would have eventually gone from loving to hating Feng as usual, but in this world where Fuuko met Feng first and flipped his motives, Shen went from hating to loving Feng in the end

Being able to use Untruth on Feng isn't the only difference between this battle and their last, though. We were told in their last fight that Untruth would be difficult to use on Feng because of the complexity of Feng's decision-making in the heat of battle as a master martial artist, so even if Shen had been able to use it, finding a good opening to do so would have been extremely difficult. In this battle, though, Shen now knows Feng's habits from getting to know him better as a father, and was able to pinpoint the exact moment that using Untruth would have the greatest effect: when he would be solely focused on charging at Shen and returning to the ring, thus forcing him to stay still outside of it. Shen really did master Untruth immediately considering that he'd only managed to use it to stop Mui from fighting back and force Fuuko to deny his request a second ago. He even realized he could trick his opponent with an untruth just like he did to Victor 140 chapters ago

Feng's personal journey is also heavily affected by a reversal; in his case, the activation of Unfade completely changed the course of his tragedy. Originally, the tragedy of Unfade was simply its timing; Feng had already decided that pursuit of personal strength was more important than communal strength or the building of a legacy, and gained Unfade as he was lamenting that he was no longer in his prime. Unfade forced him to remain in his "accursed" state forevermore, knowing that no matter how hard he trained, his weakened body would only ever pale in comparison to his former glory. Unfade itself was merely a reminder of what he'd lost, not an ability that would make up for the deficit

This time, Feng gained Unfade at his peak (which is likely where Feng's name comes from by the way), which to both his current and previous self seemed like the ideal time for it to manifest, but in the end it only proved that his pursuit of personal greatness was flawed from the beginning. If we assume that Negator abilities are meant to teach their users some kind of lesson, Feng missed it last time, so this time it took a different approach to spell it out for him. Last time, his contemporaries died out while he stood alongside them, raising a student just like they did, but for the wrong reasons. While everyone else was planting trees for the future of their art, he was fattening chickens for himself

This time, Feng was running a very long race, watching everyone else pass him by as strangers came up behind him. He was the strongest as he always wanted, but everyone he knew was gone and replaced before he knew it. What he didn't realize, though, was that they weren't really gone: everything that they had learned had been refined and passed down to and refined by these "strangers," and if he'd taken the time to look at them, he would have seen the echoes of everyone he'd ever cared about, and maybe realized that his method was not cultivating the art at all, but stagnating it

A tree doesn't grow from a single plot of soil. Soil only holds so many nutrients, so in isolation, the tree will eventually choke itself out. A complete ecosystem is needed for even just one tree to thrive; the nutrients create leaves and fruit which attract animals, who bring with them nutrients from past meals or packed into their own bodies should they die around the tree. Everything they bring to the tree, they leave in its soil, which the tree uses to grow more branches and create more fruit to attract more animals, continuing the cycle

Feng thought he was the tree, and attempted to directly consume anyone who got close, but he was wrong. His art, Shin Hakkyoku, was the tree all along, a seed born of the previous Hakkyokuken tree, and whenever it grew a new branch, Feng made sure to cull it in the misguided assumption that this would allow the trunk to grow healthier

Perhaps that metaphor got away from me a bit, but this is all to illustrate that Feng's "man is an island" philosophy was never going to stand. Whether he's an old rotten tree or a runner standing alone on an endless track, Feng's story is about the isolation that comes from carelessness in the face of longevity

I talked about the imagery of aging in UU, but I didn't quite realize just how tragic Feng's current story really was. Feng's not just someone raging against the dying of the light, he's a bitter old man abandoned in a retirement home, watching as everyone else's grandchildren come to visit. He never even realized that he had a visitor that he was sending away this whole time because they weren't the one visitor he wanted

Now that Feng has realized that he had in fact raised a successor and not a sacrifice, it's not hard to guess that the loneliness should start to subside, and that he'll be able to start living with a focus on the future rather than a focus on himself

I said before that aging is a gift, and while that holds true, Feng's story reminds me of another adage. Building a legacy is planting a garden that you'll never get to see, but Feng is in the incredibly unique and fortunate position to potentially see his garden grow indefinitely, and that's a gift that I hope he's finally learned to cherish

[fangirls-fanfiction]

Chapter 14 is here :D

♦️𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚊𝚜♠️

Life was nearly the same as it had always been, when the sisters found they were bored, they'd make a game or find something to do. They'd been doing it for years, ever since they could remember, living in that old cottage.

Even if it was the same now, it was still... Different. No cottage. No Elder Kettle. Just the Casino. Even if the Casino was brightly-colored and bustling with people, they weren't allowed in it very much. The Devil's orders; and they knew better than to press her buttons.

It'd been weeks since the Cup sisters moved in with their new caretakers. Though starting out with rocky relationship with both Queen Dice and the Devil; it seemed like things were finally getting better for the four of them. Queen Dice, sure was as egotistical as they remembered, yet under all that ego was a surprisingly good person. And to be honest, neither of them were confident they'd be able to get used to living under the same roof as the Devil, but she herself wasn't as bad as they themselves thought she was initially.

Still, living in Hell was less than ideal, not just because of the fact that they were just a few floors away from souls being tortured by the literal Devil— It was also boring to the point of being ridiculous. What the sisters needed was something new, a game that neither of them could get bored of. The problem was, they didn't know what.

"We could..." Mugma'am started, Cuphead already answering her.

"Nope."

"You didn't even let me finish, milk for brains."

"Whatever you're gonna say, it won't be fun."

"You take that back!" Mugma'am sat up from leaning against the tree where they both were.

"Take what back?!"

"What you just said!" Mugma'am shoved her sister.

"You quit being so boring! You're as boring as the Devil!" Cuphead shoved her back.

"I actually like painting too, and it's not boring, it's just that you don't have good taste."

"Yes I do!"

"Nuh-uh."

"Yeah-huh!"

"Nuh-uh!"

"You know what? We're getting nowhere with us fighting."

Mugma'am had a comment to say, but decided to keep her mouth shut.

Cuphead looked around, trying too look for something to do, while Mugs sat with her arms crossed. Eyeing a log with a bunch of soda cans lined up on it, Cuphead blinked as an idea sprouted in her head.

"Mugsy! I got an idea!"

"What?" Her sister still seemed to be upset with her.

"We ask the Devil if we can use her trident— Asking her for it isn't finding it so I don't think it applies to the 'finders keepers' rule, and— " She stopped short, seeing the surly frown on Mugma'am's face. "Are you upset with me for some reason?"

"No. Why would I be?" Mugma'am spoke bitterly.

"Oh... Ok! Well... Why don't we go ask Devil about her trident?"

"Whatever..."

Mugs sighed as the two of them stood up from leaning on the tree, heading off back into town to the Casino.

♠️ ♠️ ♠️

Spreading chaos and destruction throughout the world was a hard job to do on your own. Even for a supernatural entity with ungodly powers; it was hard for Lucifer to create mayhem everywhere. That's what her demons were for. Among many kinds of demons are the Hellhounds; creatures of complete evil. Fear written by humanity, these creatures were some of Lucifer's greatest inventions. But the making of one wasn't easy, and the Devil wasn't the most patient being in existence.

Surely skipping a few steps in the making wouldn't make the Hellhound too much of a defect? Old Scratch didn't exactly believe in defects anyways. According to Gabriel, she's a defect, but she works fine— And she's happier in Hell than she ever was in Heaven anyway.

"In the name of all things dark and evil; I summon thee from the depths of Hell to cause destruction and mayhem by my side! Rise from the Hellfire you reside! Rise!"

There was a small spark of fire after Lucifer had finished the spell. She expected the twenty foot tall monster that every Hellhound was— Possibly taller— Though, upon opening her proud eyes, she found it was not taller than her... But shorter. Below her knee to be exact.

A tiny, red dog with black spots and small black horns looked up at her, its short, pointed tail wagging as it looked up at her.

"What the Hell?" She furrowed her eyebrows, her excitement fading as fast as it came.

"Arf! Arf!" The small Hellhound yipped as it jumped up at her, wanting to play.

"Ew! Get back!" She stepped away as if it were poison.

Seeing that as a game, the puppy bit at her long dress, tugging on it with all his might. It playfully growled, wagging its tail as the Devil watched in horror as it slowly tore her dress.

"HEY! Bad Hellhound! If that's what you are!" She tugged her dress back, getting it out of the grip of his jaw. "What even happened? Why are you just a small pup?"

The puppy barked in response, rolling over on its back and panting, wanting a belly rub.

"Absolutely not. I'll have the imps deal with you later." She snapped, heading back to the Hellevator. "What did I do wrong? Am I losing my touch...? Perhaps I just rushed the formula... That would be the cause of its smaller size but— YOUCH!!" She hollered in pain before she whipped around, finding the puppy chewing on her tail. "HEY! NO! BAD!!"

Picking the puppy up, she sat it down outside of the Hellevator before she recentered it. Quickly closing the door, she snickered to herself, finally outsmarting the pup;

"Checkmate, you microscopic mutt."

On her way up, however, she felt something scratching at her feet. Redirecting her attention, she made eye contact with the Hellhound's bright red puppy eyes.

"What?! How did you?— Ugh! Whatever, I'll have Henchwoman take care of you. Now quit that before you ruin my shoes!" She lifted the pup from the ground.

He yipped and barked playfully, licking her face nonstop.

"Hey! Quit it! You're going to mess up my makeup!"

She only got more yips in response, the puppy pawing at her face as it continued to lick.

The Hellevator doors opened a minute later, Lucifer marching off to find Henchwoman, what she wasn't expecting was to hear a shrill sound on the other side of the throne room.

"AWWWWWE! Oh my goodness, Boss! It's adorable!" Queen Dice hurried to her girlfriend, immediately taking the dog from her, receiving plenty of licks and kisses as she giggled.

"It's a Hellhound. Though it's not quite strong enough to be one; so I'm gonna have Henchwoman take care of it."

"Take care of it?!" Dice held the puppy away from her Boss. "Devil, you can't possibly mean what I think you mean! He's just a little guy!"

"Dice, he'll never work as a Hellhound. He'll be eaten by the others before I can even train him."

"He doesn't have to be a blood-thirsty Hellhound! He can be our little pet! Won't you baby?!" She cooed to the puppy as it licked her nose and mouth.

"Dice!"

"Ooo! Ooo! I even have a great name for him!" Queen Dice turned back to her girlfriend, pausing. "Well, aren't you going to ask what my great idea for a name is?"

The Devil groaned, but still answered;

"What?"

"Lucas! Luke for short!"

"... What?"

"Lucas! Oh, it's perfect!"

"Dice, don't— Don't name it; if you name it, you'll grow attatched to it."

"Too late."

The Devil growled, finding that there was no way she'd get through to Dice at this rate. She was too insistent for her own good. Losing her temper, she marched off to start her day of work.

"Fine, but you're taking care of the mutt."

"Ok."

"He's your responsibility."

"Alright."

Queen Dice was beyond excited to have a new little companion. Sure, she was more of a cat person, she could never say no to a puppy. And here she thought the Casino was getting to be boring and too repetitive. Having a dog around would be a nice change of pace. Especially one as cute as her little Lucas.

Coming from the elevator, on their way to speak with the Devil, the Cup sisters stopped in their tracks, finding a new interest;

"AWWWWE!!" Mugma'am squealed. "Who's this lil guy?!"

"He's our new pup! Isn't he just the cutest?!" Queen Dice smiled.

"He's the cutest lil Hellhound I've ever seen."

Getting excited with the newcomers, Lucas jumped from Queen Dice's arms, immediately running to the sisters, wanting to play.

"Arf! Arf!"

"Would you girls mind doing me a favor?" Dice asked. "I need a few things from the store for our little pup."

"That depends; are we spending the money we don't have or are we spending your money?" Cuphead crossed her arms.

Queen Dice was taken aback, frowning as her guilty gaze fell to the floor. After getting stared down by the sisters for a moment, she finally gave in.

"Fine! I'll give you a bit of money for it... But you'd better bring change back." Queen Dice spoke bitterly. "And if you go to Porkrind's, don't tell her I sent you— She's trying to get back at me for years now."

"Did you guys get into a fight?" Mugma'am gasped.

"Where do you think I got these earrings? They're priceless but I got em for free." Dice winked.

"Saw that comin." Cuphead's face went deadpan.

♣️ ♣️ ♣️

Wasting a good hour creating a Hellhound just to end up with no Hellhound whatsoever put the Devil in quite a sour mood. She just hoped Queen Dice, and presumably the sisters, would take their responsibility seriously and not leave the demon to have to take care of the puppy herself.

To keep mind off of the situation, the Devil worked on her piles on paperwork that never seemed to end. With that thought, she was put into an even worse mood.

What put her in an even worse mood was when someone decided to knock on her office door.

"Boss, ya have a... Visitor." Queen Dice opened the door wide enough to peek her head through.

"Tell Micheal he can fuck off." The Devil snapped back at her.

"Boss, I wouldn't... Wouldn't use that word in front of her..."

"Who the Hell are you talking about?"

The door slammed open the rest of the way, making the Devil nearly jump out of her seat. She recognized the woman who had stormed in as the lady who owned the orphanage in town. The Devil knew very well who she was after, but she showed no sign that she was hiding anything. She knew how to handle people like this, she wouldn't be any different.

"Mrs. Devil— "

"Miss; I'm not married." The demon nonchalantly went back to her paperwork.

"Whatever your name is; it has come to my attention that you have been caregiving for a few stray children who are supposed to be in my orphanage. They ran off about a month ago, and I was told they were seen running into your Casino." The woman explained impatiently.

"You say 'stray children' as if they're animals." The Devil rose an eyebrow but still did not look at the woman.

"Those two ought to be. They're little, bratty troublemakers is what they are." She snapped.

Queen Dice flinched as she saw the Devil's ember eyes look up at the woman. Only Dice knew how the demon looked when she was holding back her anger; her jaw would clench and she would stare a person down, piercing their very soul.

"I'd just like for you to return the girls. Or, if there's anything of a heart in there, adopt them." The woman went on.

'Like you'd know anything about having a heart.' The Devil scowled but kept the comment to herself.

"You know how my business works." She finished, appearing to not notice or not care about the Devil's tight grip on her pen, seconds to snapping it.

"Well, you should know how my business works, because I haven't seen any children enter my Casino. Rest assured, if I had seen those kids, I would've reported them to you." The Devil said, keeping her composure. "Perhaps you need glasses as much as you need to get fired for talking about children like they're animals."

"Well..." The woman huffed but obviously didn't want to cause any problems with the literal Devil. "If you do see those girls, please do them a favor and return them to the orphanage."

"You can count on it, dear."

The woman nodded to her and went on her way, Queen Dice closing the door behind her as Old Scratch continued on her paperwork. Waiting until the lady was a good distance away, Queen Dice approached her Boss' desk.

"You didn't tell her about the girls?" Dice asked, astonished.

"I'm a demon, I can lie."

"Yes, I know, but..." Dice's eyes raced around the room until they fell upon the demon once more, a smirk appearing on her face.

"Dice... Why are you smiling like that?"

"You really do care for them, don't you, dear."

"What?" The Devil sat up straight.

"You had nothing to gain by lying, and yet you still did."

"The— The girls could be useful to us... That's why..."

"Sure."

"Don't you have work to do?!" The Devil snapped. "Or a puppy to take care of?!"

"Yes, I do." Dice let out a light chuckle.

The Devil didn't find the situation very funny, as she growled, finally snapping the pen and getting ink everywhere.

"Oh DAMMIT!" She slammed her hands on the table, making Dice back up.

Though with a snap of her fingers, the mess was gone, the same couldn't be said for the Devil's boiling temper.

"Hey, hey... I’m— I'm sorry I was just pokin fun at you... I wasn't tryin to upset you."

"It's not just that." The Devil leaned her head on her desk. "It's just been a shit day..."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Queen Dice rounded the desk.

Starting by running her fingers gently through her hair, Dice soon began playing and braiding the other’s hair. The Devil only groaned in response as she seemed to almost immediately relax by the other's touch.

"You don't have to. Just a suggestion."

"Hmm... Well..."

[kohakhearts]

7, 9, 12, and 33 for the fic writers questions!

thank you!! <3

7: any worldbuilding you're particularly proud of?

i mean, the obvious answer is asld. i put blood sweat and tears in that world, lol. but since these questions are technically about fic, i've gotta shout out sinner's serenade. i don't think making mahiru a siren was really my idea, but god it worked so well and going back and reading this fic like...i did some really cool and fun things with the world. it's so obviously removed from canon in a lot of ways, but the nods to canon work really well, and tbh the whole dynamic between guren and shinya and mahiru like...that wouldn't have worked for any other characters, lmao. like the au is just such a love letter to all the things i loved about these characters And It Shows. 16 year old me made some points!!!!

my other answer is mors tua vita mea, because let's be real - hp is RIDDEN with plot holes, and i think i did a really good job of patching those up. will the fic ever see the light of day? idk. unfortunately i don't do a lot of writing for the fandom anymore, and i didn't want to post the first fic until the first three books were finished. but i've wanted to do my own full rewrite since i was like...14, so it'd be a shame if all my hard work on that never got out tbh :') (i think i did some pretty galaxy-brained stuff to explain soul magic and horcruxes...since the small amount of explanation in canon are bad and stupid<3)

9: how do you find new fic to read?

ok i admit, i...mostly don't. i go through periods where i read a LOT, and in those periods i'm usually looking for a very specific kind of content and i will use every ounce of researching knowledge i acquired at the stupid top 30 university i attended to find it. and then i don't read anything for like, six months. i try to keep up with my friends' fics when i can, but i am very busy and a very slow reader (and on top of that, very unaware of the passage of time lmao. so if i've ever promised to read anything...just know i wasn't lying. i just might take a year ot two to get to it. i WISH that were an exaggeration lol)

thinking about it though, when i was younger and not like. a full-time student with a job and groceries to buy and rent to pay and all that shit, i generally found fics via recommendations (if the fandom was big). if the fandom was small, i'd just sift through the entire relationship or character tag until i'd read everything. wish i could go back to that tbh. i was living the life when i wasn't too exhuasted to use more than 5% of my brain at a time for leisure activities like reading fanfiction :')

12: are there any tropes you used to dislike but have grown on you?

i don't know why but this is always such a hard question for me to answer??? i think it's largely because i have an awful memory but also like...i'm pretty much willing to give anything a try, idk. all i can really think of is that i used to categorically refuse to read a/b/o but now sometimes, if it's all there is...i can accept it. but it's still not really one i enjoy.

33: if you write chaptered fics, what’s your ideal chapter length to write? is it different from your ideal chapter length to read?

i am a very long-winded person in general and that definitely tracks into my writing. that being said, when i'm not like...actively trying to make them a certain length, my fic chapters tend to be around 6k-7k. which is not bad imo? that's pretty average i think? but i also firmly believe that things like chapter length are really relevant facets of style. i've written things with chapters all less than 1k words and things with chapters that are 25k words. it all depends on the story! so for that reason, i don't really have an ideal chapter length as a reader. as long as it feels well-paced for that specific story, i'm good with it.

questions for fic writers

[cherry-gemz]

The City by The Bay: Part II

Summary: Fates push you and a handsome and known stranger into each other's paths. His chilvary and good looks make you take a leap into his world and more.

Chapter Summary: You and Keanu get to know each other better.

Word Count: 2100 +/-

Pairing: Keanu Reeves x Y/N (F!Reader)

Rating: PG, fluff

A/N: First time taking a try on a Keanu fic, be nice, please! This little ficlet will have more chapters, hope you enjoy.

Who might be interested: @whiskeyslullabye​ @marissat1998 @aestheticallywinchester​ @fookingbitch​

Last chapter recap:

"Yeah...just around the corner. Did you...did you want to hang out for a bit? I mean, I didn't know if you were headed somewhere before I spilled your drink. What am I thinking? Of course you were off somewhere…"

"Are you always like this?" You giggle as you turn to head to the hall. 

"Like what?" 

"Nevermind, I'll be right back," you reply coyly. "And...I didn't have any plans today...I'd love to hang out."

"Really? Cool," Keanu responds and a grin appears on his face. 

"Yeah, I can't stay very long, however. I have a meeting with a client for lunch," you reply and he looks deflated. 

"Yeah, okay...well..hmmm," he says lost in thought. 

You feel stupid, you can't believe he wants to hang out with you and you're choosing work. You're really kicking yourself for even mentioning it. This opportunity will never happen again. 

"Well, I tell you what," he pipes. "I still owe you a cup of coffee. I happen to make the most amazing cappuccino. How about I start off with that?"

"Sure, that sounds lovely," you smile and his expression changes in a light-heartedness. 

"Great. Great, Y/N, head over to the kitchen after you change your shirt and we can get to know one another better."

You beam and head to the immaculate restroom. It’s very contemporary and the natural light from the ceiling windows are pretty to look at. As you unbutton your blouse you look at yourself in the mirror: you have a goofy grin and you can’t believe in you’re in Keanu’s house. Let alone, changing your shirt and going to hang out with him a bit. This is all surreal. 

You grasp his shirt and give it a sniff, clean. And you quickly put it over your head and leave the room with your blouse and book in your hand. As you turn the corner, you see him fiddling about and admire the open floor planned kitchen. You run your hand across the white, granite counters as he ushers you to have a seat at one of the barstools where you place your bag, the book he offered, and blouse down.

He claps his hands and rubs them as a cheshire cat grin appears on his face. 

"Okay, be ready to be blown away at these magic hands," he waggles his brows and holds out his large hands as you stifle a giggle. 

You'd watch interviews of him and he always seemed so genuine, and while he still does, there's a more childlike, goofiness that melts your heart a little more. You try not fall so quickly, but he really is quite loveable and easy to be around. Much different from the men you're accustomed to in the city. Their grittiness and quick paced talk tends to exhaust you. You're more in your element with one on one, in an intimate setting like today. It's ideal. 

Keanu grins and turns steadfast to the counter by the fridge and beelines to the espresso machine. He grabs a new bottle of water from the upper cabinets and places it in the boiler of the machine. You sit taller and try to peer over. You're never really that fancy with your coffee and it's usually due to the nature of your work and how quickly you need that caffeine fix, but you appreciate the art and look forward to his recipe. 

He continues his task at hand and opens a canister that's unmarked and pours two shots of ground espresso into the portafilter. He turns to you, to make sure you're watching as he plays along as if he's a magician and you're watching his act. 

"Secret recipe," he beams.

"What is it?" You ask inquisitively. 

He holds up his index finger and shakes it, "Na uh. If I gave that away, we could no longer be friends."

"Oh, we're friends are we?" You flirt and he blushes. You got him to blush!

He holds out the tamper he pulled out of the side drawer and presses the coffee three times to ensure it's packed tightly. 

He then places the portafilter into the espresso machine's group head and locks it in place by turning it to the right.

He continues his stride and places the tiny, white cup under the head for about 30 seconds. 

"Voilá!" He exclaims and you clap. He grabs a carton of cream from the fridge and you give him a puzzling look. Even as a chef, you're quite aware of the complexities of cream, so you're curious if this is part of the plan. He pours the cream into a small metal pitcher and inserts the steam wand. 

"Ah! Almost forgot…" he smacks his forehead with his free hand and goes to the cupboard and pulls out a jar. You notice it's sugar and he pinches a good handful in the metal pitcher and continues.

As the milk foams, he starts to pour it atop the cappuccino and walks over to give you the cup. 

"Mmmm, smells amazing. Thank you," you graciously accept the cup and take a sip. An explosion of the dark, roasted bean excited your taste buds. It's most likely hands down the best you've had. 

"Omigosh, Keanu. This is beyond good. I don't think I can ever go back to normal coffee again!" 

"Aw shucks, you'll give me a complex now," he teases. 

"Well if you ever decide to quit acting, I say you'd make a hell of a living doing that. Why, my bookstore would have lines out the door to see Keanu Reeves make them a cappuccino!"

He laughs heartily, "That would be a sight wouldn't it? Ah that's fantastic." 

You bring the cup to your nose as you try to make out the ingredients. You can tell there's a hint of spice and earth, and you take a guess of what he has mixed with the grounds. 

"Is there cocoa powder?" You look directly at him and he bites his lip.

"What are you doing?" He asks and shakes his index finger at you playfully and walks over to you. 

"Trying to figure out this recipe. You don't go tell a chef that it's a secret and expect them to not figure it out. I saw you toss in some sugar for the cream. And even noticed you use cream instead of milk. But I think it's cocoa...maybe even a hint of cinnamon?"

"What are you? Some super chef-dectective?" 

He dabs the frothy cream from your cup and places it on the tip of your nose, making you giggle. He licks his finger off and gives a sly smile.

"Maybe I have a profitable future ahead of me?" You lightly rub off the cream and gaze into his eyes.

"I think so Y/N, I think so." He shyly turns his eyes away and taps the side of the cup as if he's pondering a thought.

"So tell me," you gain confidence in speaking with him. "If you can make such a delicious cappuccino like this one, why were you at Saint Frank's?"

"Hah," he replies as he turns to start his own cup. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

You smile in-between another sip and notice he's flirting back.

"Well?" 

You prod and arch your brow as he leans his back against the counter. His black  shirt hugs his biceps as he crosses his arms, and the blue jeans he pairs it with fit him perfectly. His medium length hair seems to always get in his face, but it's endearing and he swipes away some strands. He's handsome without any effort and you slightly blush as your mind wanders about how his lips would feel against yours. 

"Honestly, I went out for a ride and needed to clear my head. I found myself just being pulled in that general direction and decided I needed a cup of joe," he says as he pours the cream for himself. 

"I guess it was you pulling me in or something,” he adds.

"So then what, it's like fate that we happened to be at the same place at that exact moment? And you happened to bump into me and make me spill my drink, therefore resulting in me jumping on your motorcycle with you. And then visit the home of a mega movie star and try the most fantastic cappuccino?" You laugh and he tilts his head earnestly. 

"What, you don't believe in fate, Y/N?"

"Not exactly," you reply. 

"Why not?" He walks over and sits next to you on the other barstool. 

"I mean, if it wasn't me, it'd be some other woman you'd be inviting over instead."

"No…" he replies as he takes a sip of his drink. "No, I don't think I would."

You both sit in silence for a minute, you sigh and then turn to look outside at the view. 

"I'm sorry, Y/N if I've seen to offend you. I can drive you back if you'd wish…" his voice softens and you can tell you hurt him a little. 

"What? No, Keanu. I'm...I'm sorry," you place your hand on his. His knuckles are worn and rough. He looks down at your hand and a small smile appears. 

"I...I want to be here, really I do. I guess I'm trying to make sense of it all. You're Keanu Reeves. And I'm just me. Why do you want to know me for?"

“Why wouldn’t I want to get to know you, Y/N? I am very glad we met. You're funny and kind... I'd like to get to know you further. Let alone, you're beautiful."

You blush and look away, he's not coming on strong, but could he be sending you signals that he's into you? Did you die and just find yourself in limbo with the angel before you?

"Do you want to go for a drive before I take you back?" He asks as you both notice you haven't lifted your hand on his. You quickly remove it and place it in your lap. 

"Sure, but this time please wear a helmet. I was worried sick thinking if something terrible might happen." 

He softly chuckles, "Of course, I have many in my garage to choose from. Curious though, is it because you care about me, Y/N?"

"Oh believe me, more than you know," you quickly cover your hands over your mouth as you realize what you've said. 

He kicks his lips and tries to brush it off. 

"I'm sorry," you apologize. "I really should use my filter from time to time."

"No need for apologies. Your truthfulness is refreshing."

"Well I have a lot of that. Probably more than I should. I bet you find in your line of work it's difficult to find people you can trust."

"Yeah, I definitely have a close knit of friends through the years. Do you have family here?"

"Yes, born and reared in the Bay," you say with confidence. "I went to culinary school in New York for a minute, however. But there's something about this city that's magical."

"So you believe in magic, but not fate?"

You laugh, "Okay, you got me there."

He finishes off his cappuccino and motions to ask if you're finished, which you nod and hand him your cup. He walks over to the sink and rinses out the cups. It's fascinating to watch him do mundane things like wash dishes. 

"I am beginning to enjoy the city. There is much richness to it and the landmarks are beautiful. I will be honest though, I haven't had much time to explore like I usually like to do when I'm on location." 

He places the cups back in the cupboard and dries his hands with a cream colored terry cloth. 

"You did mention you had a project up here. Mind if I ask what?"

His eyes light up as if he were a kid on Christmas Day expecting all the joys of the morning. 

"Oh well it's not for a movie. I'm not filming yet...least as far as I know. My agent, Meredith keeps me up on that."

"If not a movie, then…?"

"A book," he replies. 

"You're not giving me much here, buddy," you laugh as he joins you. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I...it's just something dear to me that I've been working on and haven't really announced anything yet."

"Look, I get it. Don't worry, no pressure, you reply as you start to get up.

"Well it's not that," he gestures a stopping signal with his hand. "I... I really don't know what it's about it. I'm collaborating with a friend of mine, a photographer. And we are in the early stages, that's all."

"Oh well it sounds great," you say enthusiastically. 

"Yeah...I feel good y'know? I feel like I'm doing something different and that I can connect to people on a different level."

"Keanu...the influencer," you say as you raise your hands up in the air as if an imaginary marquee is right before your eyes. 

"Haha, I wouldn't go that far. But, I'll have to keep you posted." 

"Yeah, that would be great," you cringe. Great. Everything is great. Why are you being such a spaz?

He doesn't notice, but he gets quiet again and you don't know what to do next. Silence sometimes makes you feel awkward and now throw in the ridiculously nice and dreamy man in front of you and you're a ball of nerves.

He seems relaxed, however. In tune with himself and surroundings. 

He smiles and holds out his hand, "C'mon. Let's get going on that ride. I'll take you to one of my favorite spots in the house besides the library...the garage. Oh, and don't forget your book."

You nod as you place it in your bag and accept his hand and hope to never let go.