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skzsauce01 · 4 years ago

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Matters of the Head and Heart

Synopsis: Mechanical hatmaker Mr. Felix Lee finds himself being charmed by your flirtatious antics towards him. However, you being an upper class young lady means nothing will come out of it. Right? Steampunk-ish AU set in 1850s Victorian London. Historical accuracy not guaranteed.

Warning: none

Word Count: 13.1k

Pairing: fem!reader x hatmaker!Felix

Mr. Felix Lee, having been an apprentice and a hatmaker for several years, is no stranger to the odd request or so, but the one he receives today is by far the most peculiar.

“A tea party?” he repeats. He eyes the cream colored envelope you delicately hold out before him, still trying to comprehend the unusualness of it all. “And I’ve been invited?”

“Yes, Mr. Lee,” you say with a smile. “It’s a short notice, I understand, but the hostess would be delighted if you attended.”

He elects to stall for time while he makes sense of it. Why is he invited? Surely, it is unheard of for a hatmaker to partake in a ladies’ tea party. “If I might ask, who is the hostess?”

“A good friend of mine, Miss Shin. She is quite the hat enthusiast and has been inquiring about the designer of my mechanical blooming rose one.”

“That would be me, I suppose,” he dumbly says. He remembers the challenge of your headdress. The flower petals were meticulously arranged and joined together so that they would furl and unfurl. It was quite the endeavor to craft, so he can hardly blame Miss Shin for wanting to learn more. He takes the envelope from you and sets it down on the counter, accepting the invite. “Who else has been invited?”

“She would not tell me about the others, but I think she’s planning her debut ball soon.”

Felix sagely nods. A young lady’s coming out into society is a grand affair, and Felix has heard the stories from fellow craftsmen about the intricacies demanded. If he’s fortunate, maybe Miss Shin, apparent hat enthusiast, will order something from him. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Nothing else, I’m afraid. Good day.” You curtsy and turn to leave, your wide skirts brushing against the sides of a display table.

Felix is feeling rather bold after all that, so he asks the back of your dress, “Will I see you there?”

You look back, lips curled upward in a small smile. It’s different from your typical ones, more playful and less guarded. The downward tilt of your chin is almost seductive, and Felix is doing his best not to turn scarlet. Some of his customers have flirted with him before, but you have never done so so blatantly. He wonders why you are acting coquettish now. Perhaps he merely hopes you are.

“Of course. Who else would introduce you to her?”

The front door of his shop swings shut, leaving him alone again. It is then that Felix realizes how inappropriate the entire situation was. You, an unmarried young lady, had no chaperone with you.

Felix swiftly returns to his latest piece of work to distract himself. He will not say a word about what occurred, but it does not mean that he is not flustered by it. It does not help that the cornflower blue fabric of the silk ribbon he holds matches your skirt perfectly.

The next morning, Felix arrives at a predicament: what does one wear to a tea party if one has never been to such an event before? After much deliberation and a chat with his elderly neighbor, he decides on his Sunday best despite the day being Saturday. He hangs up a sign in the window of his shop stating that he is closed and begins the walk to Miss Shin’s residence.

Unfortunately, the journey is more arduous than he expects as her home is well outside the city. The vast, open countryside is a stark contrast to the cramped buildings Felix is used to, so he spends most of his time admiring the greens and browns of around him. The scenery is the only pleasant part of his day thus far. His newly polished black boots are dusty from the dirt path he walks on, and there is a thin layer of perspiration on his face.

Sometime in the midmorning, a horse-pulled wagon passes by him, and the occupant facing the back calls out to him in a decidedly ungentlemanly fashion when he sees Felix.

“Sir in the blue coat! Mr. Lee, is that you?” he shouts as he stands up while the wagon is still being driven. “It is! Mr. Yang, stop the cart.”

The wagon slows to a stop, and the loud gentleman waves Felix over. “Mr. Lee! It’s Mr. Han Jisung! Would you like a lift?”

Felix graciously accepts his offer and sits at the back with him. He then greets both men with a nod. Jeongin, the poor driver who looks like he is still half asleep, urges the horse forward.

“Are you heading to Miss Shin’s as well?” Felix asks. Mr. Han is a renowned dressmaker known for his use of mechanical moving elements in his designs, which now that Felix thinks about, is similar to his own specialty. If Miss Shin desires a grandiose debut dress, Mr. Han is the one to order from.

Mr. Han nods and pulls an envelope from his coat. It is the same cream colored one Felix has tucked away in his own, the only difference being the name of the individual being addressed on the front. “I’ve made a few things for her before, but this is the first time she’s invited me to her home. And for a tea party of all things! Have you been to her home before?”

“No. She has never ordered from me either. A friend of hers gave me the invite.” Mr. Han ponders over this for some time, and Felix adds, “Her friend believes that Miss Shin is planning her debut ball soon.”

Mr. Han snaps his fingers at the news and nods. “That must be it! She does enjoy extravagant gowns, and your hats would go well with my designs. The singing bird one in your window is astounding! I ought to make something to go with it.”

Felix, thrilled at such a compliment from a man renowned for his mechanical prowess, smiles proudly. For the rest of the way, they talk about other inconsequential things like the weather and the traveling play troupe.

Soon, they arrive at their destination. The conversation quickly dies away once they take in the estate. Miss Shin has no title, yet her family’s home is fit for a duke or even a king. The exterior paint is a blinding white, not a trace of soot anywhere despite there being a carefully hidden coal burner at the side of the mansion. The front door boasts of a large brass knocker and stained glass cutouts, while the front gardens have a large fountain as a centerpiece.

Mr. Han speaks, or rather whispers, first. “This is certainly a sight.”

“I would say so.”

The driver parks his wagon, dilapidated and shabby compared to the gleaming carriage by the entrance, a short distance behind the carriage. Felix and Mr. Han hop off the wagon while Mr. Yang drives the horse to the stables, also magnificent in their own right. As they walk to the front door, the carriage door opens and out steps another familiar face. Felix and Mr. Han raise their top hats and bow to you, and you curtsy once your footman has helped you down. Your chaperone, who was absent yesterday, follows, and Felix and Mr. Han greet her as well. Felix averts his eyes in an attempt to rid himself of the memory.

“Mr. Lee,” you say. “And you are Mr. Han, I believe? Miss Shin talks at great length about your designs. I’ve been meaning to buy one myself.”

Mr. Han beams at this and holds his arm out for you as your small group approaches the stairs. When you take it, Felix feels a twinge of envy. Instead, he offers his arm out to your chaperone, who also takes it.

A butler, an automaton of the latest model, guides the guests to the garden out back where the party is occuring. Felix cannot help but admire the clever design of the large clock in the foyer and decides he ought to make a clockwork hat soon. The garden, lush with more greenery and sweet scented flowers, has a round table topped with empty plates and pots of tea. The young lady wearing a large brimmed hat with dangling gemstones must be Miss Shin. A hat enthusiast indeed.

You let go of Mr. Han’s arm and head to embrace her. “Ryujin! It’s so nice to see you again!” You turn back and gesture at the two men who accompanied you inside her home. “You know Mr. Han of course, but this is Mr. Lee, the hatmaker you have been inquiring about.”

Felix bows to Miss Shin. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Shin.”

“And you, Mr. Lee. Come, have a seat.”

After the guests take their places — Felix happily notes that you take the seat across from his — Miss Shin signals the automaton waitstaff to begin bringing out the food and pours tea for everyone. There are small tea cakes, finger sandwiches, and other morsels of food that seem too delicate to eat. You make light conversation about how lovely everything is, and Mr. Han agrees. For the next few minutes, there is idle small talk about the garden while the craftsmen impatiently wait for Miss Shin to address why she has invited them to her party. Mr. Han, however, asks before she says anything.

Miss Shin is not perturbed by this. In fact, she smiles broadly at the opportunity. “My debut into society will occur in the upcoming season, and I intend to have a spectacular one. You two gentlemen design the most exquisite clothes, and I need something unlike anything the world has ever seen.”

Felix glances over to see your reaction about being correct, but your face is hidden by a porcelain tea cup. When he checks to see his Mr. Han’s reaction, it is similar to his — expectant and excited for a challenge.

“You will all be paid handsomely, of course,” she offhandedly adds. “No expense will be spared.”

“Did you have something in mind?” Mr. Han asks.

“A theme of royal blue and brass,” she dramatically says, waving her lace gloved hands in the air. “I confess, Mr. Han, I was so enamored with the evening gown you made last season that I decided I wanted something like it for my debut ball.”

Felix has nary an idea what she is referring to, but he assumes it is a work of art. On the other hand, you’re nodding your head in agreement.

“Oh, yes. Everyone at the party thought it was divine!”

Miss Shin picks up her tea cup and primly holds it to her lips. “Mr. Han, Mr. Lee: are you interested?”

“Yes,” Felix immediately replies, of which Mr. Han echoes.

“Perfect. I trust that you both will create something magnificent. But enough business talk. For now, please enjoy yourselves.”

The conversation about her debut’s details lasted less than five minutes. However, they defer to Miss Shin’s request. Felix awkwardly sips his Darjeeling tea while Mr. Han selects a pistachio tea cake.

More compliments to the garden and food are made, and it becomes apparent that there is not much else appropriate to chat about. Felix and Mr. Han are both already uncomfortable, and the chaperones and mechanical waitstaff surrounding the table only exacerbate their unease. Despite Felix’s feelings though, attending the tea party is not all terrible. Not only does Felix receive a commission from who he finally realizes is the daughter of the illustrious Shin Industries, he is allowed to spend some time with you. You are jovial and are able to elicit a few laughs from everyone with your humor. Felix adds upon your jokes and turns a pleasant shade of pink when you chortle at his pun.

By midafternoon, the party closes to an end. Felix graciously thanks Miss Shin for the invite and tells her that he will do his utmost best to create a stunning headdress for her. When the butler arrives to escort them to the front entrance, Felix purposely walks slower to be near you.

“I must thank you for your interest in my designs,” he says. “This is quite the opportunity. Without you, I do not think I would have been here today.”

You shake your head. “She would have found out about you anyway. She’s always on the lookout for latest fashions and innovations, so I was surprised that she hadn’t discovered you before I did.”

You are fast approaching the door; Felix remembers the large clock in the front room. Mr. Han is walking quicklier than Felix prefers, so Felix only has a few seconds to come up with something else to say.

“Will you be needing a new headdress for the ball?” he asks.

“Possibly. Of course, I will come to your shop if I find that I do.”

Felix holds out his arm for you to hold as you head down the stairs. Your hand is gloved, and his coat is thick, but it feels as if your bare skin is touching his.

“I look forward to it,” he says.

Right before you step into the carriage, you flash him yet another coquettish smile that makes him flush. “As do I.”

Your chaperone, an austere lady with a high necked dress, arches an eyebrow at this exchange but says nothing. The last Felix sees of you is the long skirt of your cornflower blue gown disappearing into the carriage.

“Mr. Lee, would like a ride back to the city?” Mr. Han asks, jolting Felix out of his thoughts.

“That would be wonderful.”

The journey back is filled with discussion about Miss Shin’s requests. Mr. Han describes the mysterious evening gown: a vision of royal blue silk, lace trimmings, and brass and phosphorus star-like ornaments. Felix realizes that you and Miss Shin share similar tastes for themed clothes. He tells Mr. Han of this, and Mr. Han gives him a sly look.

“If I may be so forward, do you fancy Miss L/N?”

Felix grows hot and directs his gaze to the countryside. “She is merely a customer of mine.”

“Of course, my mistake," he replies, though his tone implies it is anything but.

Fortunately, Mr. Han does not push the topic any further and mercifully changes the subject to decreasing prices of velvet. Felix inwardly sighs in relief.

Several days later, Felix is in the midst of his work when his shop swings open. When he hears the noise, he pushes his tools to the side and replaces the intense scowl with a pleasant smile.

"Welcome! How may I be of service?"

"Good afternoon, Mr. Lee," the young lady greets. She pushes the brim of her gemstone hat back. "I've just had the most wonderful idea for my hat, and I need you to bring it to life!"

Miss Shin has quite the eccentric style, and her grand idea exemplifies it. After a trip to the newfangled aquarium exhibit at the conservatory, she has decided on an oceanic theme for her debut ball and wants an “octopus” upon her head. Felix has no idea what that is.

"It’s a fascinating thing with eight arms. I hear they also call it the devil fish, though it is more devil than fish.”

Miss Shin’s chaperone nods in agreement and shudders at the mention of it. On the other hand, Miss Shin herself seems enamored with such a creature.

“I will do my best. Are your chosen colors the same?”

“Yes. The royal blue will nicely lend itself to the theme.” She sighs dreamily, and Felix wonders how deeply she has thought about this.

“It sounds marvellous. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Not today, but perhaps another time.” She glances back at the door momentarily. “I must go to Mr. Han about this. I’ll be sure to come with payment for it next time. Goodbye, Mr. Lee.”

“Goodbye, Miss Shin.”

The store is quiet again. Instead of picking up his tools, Felix grabs his stovepipe hat from its hook and heads to the local conservatory to get a glimpse of the octopus Miss Shin spoke so earnestly about.

It is indeed as fascinating as she made it out to be. The gears in his head begin to turn.

The following day, Felix spends the late afternoon at Mr. Han’s shop to discuss Miss Shin’s requests. Mr. Han is also amused by the prospect.

“She asked for an octopus-like gown as well,” he remarks. “Have you seen one before?”

“Just yesterday I visited the aquarium. It’s like a balloon with many strings.”

Mr. Han snorts the comment. “How accurate. Are odd creatures the fashion nowadays?”

Before Felix can answer — “I’m not sure, but Miss Shin seems to dictate trends than follow them” — the bell on the shop door rings, indicating someone has come in. Felix stops leaning against the wall and straightens up to greet the person. Upon doing so, he recognizes that said person is you.

You look just as surprised as he is. “Oh, Mr. Lee! Hello. I didn’t expect you to be here.”

“Good afternoon, Miss L/N,” he says, bowing. He adjusts his hat to better hide his warming ears.

Mr. Han stands up from behind the counter and smiles broadly. “Miss L/N, Miss Wang,” he says, referring to your chaperone, who seems pleased to be acknowledged. “Are you here for a dress?”

“Yes. I’ve been waiting all week to come here. But just something simple though.”

Mr. Han’s “simple” designs are still far more extravagant than the gowns sold by typical dressmakers, but they seem to be your taste. Felix pretends to be preoccupied by the mechanical doves flying about the skirt of an unfinished dress while you select something from Mr. Han’s inventory. Your constant humming and deliberation make it difficult for him not to be distracted. He sneaks a glance at you, and you are browsing through the dress forms with interest. A delighted smile appears on your face each time you discover the hidden mechanical details embedded in the fabric.

“I think this one will do,” you say, stopping at a lilac walking dress with small turning gears in place of buttons.

While Mr. Han carefully wraps and packages the gown for you, Felix hovers by the counter, wishing that he had something clever to say. The weather is dull and unimaginative, the current traveling play troupe in town has been discussed to death, and the tea party from last week is old news.

“Have you seen an octopus before?” he blurts out, forgoing a transition. He regrets his decision when he realizes how impolite it is. He thinks he hears Mr. Han stifle a laugh at his eagerness.

To his relief, you don’t seem to care. “Oh, yes! I visited the exhibit at the conservatory a few days ago and saw one up close. A frightening but intriguing beast.”

“It is.” He’s running out of words now. Mr. Han seems to be spending a lengthy amount of time tying twine.

“What did you think of it?” you ask, oblivious to Felix’s increasing internal panic. “I assume you have seen one by your words.”

If he didn’t fancy you before, he does now. “Intriguing as well. And inspiring. It’s unlike anything I have ever seen.”

“Should I expect an octopus hat for sale soon?” you teasingly say. “I imagine you would be able to make something spectacular. You are quite the inventor.”

Your chaperone makes a noise of disapproval at your blatant flattery and possible flirting. “Miss L/N, I believe it is time for us to go. Now.”

You take your parcel from Mr. Han and thank him. To Felix, you grin and say, “I look forward to the hat.”

“Miss L/N, that is enough.”

You bid the two men goodbye and follow your chaperone out the door. Felix hears you grumble, “Fei, you are not very fun.”

When the door shuts, Mr. Han turns to Felix with a satisfied expression. “You’re welcome, by the way. What a shame Miss Wang interrupted.”

“I haven’t a clue what you’re referring to,” Felix says, a pleased blush spreading across his cheeks. There’s no denying that he enjoys being on the receiving end of your advances, no matter how much he pretends he doesn’t notice them. “I think it is best that I go now as well. To start on the drafting process.”

“Oh, you have an idea? What is it?”

Felix describes it to him, detailing the waving tentacles he has envisioned and the way they could be coiled into Miss Shin’s hair if she wished. Mr. Han looks impressed by his ingenuity and ponders over the design like he’s considering something similar.

“I’ll let you take your leave,” Mr. Han says. He unrolls some more length of butcher paper onto the counter and picks up his pencil. “You’re not going to chase after her, are you?”

“I wouldn’t do such a thing!”

Mr. Han nods, clearly not believing him. “Alright then. I hope your plan goes well. Good day, Mr. Lee.”

“Good day.”

True to his word, Felix heads back to his shop and does not run after you. He leaves the ‘CLOSED’ sign hanging in the window and heads to his work surface to begin the calculations for Miss Shin’s headdress. However, even with such an important task at hand, his mind still drifts to you.

He wonders why he is so easily tempted by your flirting. Yes, you are pretty, but beauty alone has never made his heart beat nearly as quickly as it does when he is around you. Your natural charm borders on brazenness sometimes, but he doesn’t detest it. To be honest, it’s refreshing in an era where everyone’s advances are supposed to be reserved and ambiguous.

He realizes he has answered his own question.

With a soft sigh, he returns to his sketches, each curve of his drawings reminding him of your carefree smile. He fancies you. He fancies you a lot.

As midwinter approaches and the beginning of the season begins, Felix’s shop is flooded with customers wanting new hats. Somehow, word has gotten out among the upper class about the new hatmaker with fine craftsmanship and one-of-a-kind designs. Most of his finished products are snatched up, and several people ask about placing future orders. He takes a select few; after all, he has another very important project that needs to be done.

He asks Mr. Han if he has experienced this wave of new business as well, to which Mr. Han says something similar happens to him every season.

“You’re a new face, so it’s natural,” he assures. “I imagine Miss Shin’s upcoming ball has much to do with it as well.”

Felix does not fully understand Mr. Han’s remark until Miss Shin stops by with her payment days later. She gives him a little more than necessary, but when Felix tries to hand the remainder back, she waves it off, citing it as a gesture of her appreciation.

With more cheer than before, Felix shows Miss Shin the progress he has made on her headdress so far: tentacles that trail down the back, moving pieces that make it appear the arms are waving, and glowing phosphorus eyes. Miss Shin marvells over each element and declares it spectacular. Then she pulls an envelope from her reticule and presents it to Felix, who stares at it not unlike he did weeks ago to a similar piece of stationery.

His name is clearly written on the front, but he hesitantly asks, “It is for me?”

“Yes. An invitation to my debut.”

You will certainly be there as a member of Miss Shin’s court, and if he goes, then…

Perhaps a dance? A chat? His mind spins with possibilities. However, he’s more concerned about why he’s being invited to such a high-class affair as a hatmaker.

“Pardon me, but why am I invited?”

“In case of mechanical errors. I can’t have the day spoiled because of something like that. Not that I expect it to,” she hastily adds after seeing Felix’s affronted expression. “Mr. Han has been invited for the same reason. It’s simply a precaution.”

“I see.”

“A few of my friends are asking about you as well. Besides,” she slyly adds, “you’re a young, eligible gentleman. I’m sure someone will be delighted with your presence.”

Felix nods slowly as if he is thinking it over. Is she talking about you? He certainly hopes so. “Thank you for the invite. Is there anything else I can assist you with?”

“Just sure to attend my debut. Anyway, I must be on my way now. Good day, Mr. Lee.”

“Good day.”

She and her chaperone head for the door. Once they are out of sight, Felix breaks the seal on the envelope and notes the date of the party: nearly a fortnight away. No matter his previous apprehensions about it, he is going to attend. He would be a fool not to.

The ball is in a week’s time, and Felix has spent the past few days and nights putting the finishing touches to the octopus headdress. It is done now, nary a mechanical error or physical blemish in sight. He even has Mr. Han look it over, and the mechanical genius himself deems it to be perfect.

Felix sighs in relief and sinks into his chair, the cushion worn thin from so many hours of him sitting on it. “This was the most challenging design I have ever done.”

“You did a splendid job,” Mr. Han reassures. “Would you like me to mail it to her along with her dress? I’m nearly done with it.”

“That would be wonderful.” He doubts Miss Shin will return since he has not heard a word from her since she last visited a week ago. The pieces of gossip he overhears from customers corroborate his assumptions; they whisper about Miss Shin overseeing the planning of her extravagant ball by herself and how exhausting it must be.

He delicately places the hat into a velvet-lined hatbox and covers the top with tissue paper. Then he pops on the lid.

“Are you attending her debut?” he asks. “Miss Shin said she invited you.”

“Of course!” he replies, and Felix is glad that he won’t be the lone craftsman there. “It’s far too good of a business opportunity to pass up. I take it you will be there as well?”

“Like you said, it’s far too good of a business opportunity to pass up.”

“And other kinds of opportunities as well.” He glances at the clock hanging above Felix’s head. “Ah, I ought to get going. This was supposed to be a quick break. Goodbye, Mr. Lee.”

Mr. Han holds the box close to his chest when he leaves. Felix watches closely and relaxes when Mr. Han does not run down the street like he expected him to. He trusts that the hat will arrive in perfect condition, but if it does not, well, that is why Miss Shin invited him to attend the ball in the first place.

Despite knowing that he will be going to an upscale affair, he has not prepared himself in the slightest. After deliberating for a few minutes, Felix takes up his stovepipe hat and heads down the street as well. If he wants to impress you — potential future customers, he means — he should at least buy a new coat and cravat.

On the day of the highly anticipated ball, Felix rises before the sun. It’s an evening party, so he needn’t be up so early, but he cannot sleep. His body is tired and demands to rest, but his mind is buzzing. As such, he brews himself a cup of tea and begins searching through old design sketches to fix.

Two redesigns and recalculations later, a gentle tap on the storefront’s window makes him look up. He has only had a half a cup of tea, so he is unsure if his eyes are truly working when he spots you standing outside. He isn’t even open for business yet. You cup the glass door and peer inside, presumably to see if he is awake yet. He blinks twice, and you are still there.

He walks over and unlocks the door, making you take a step back. When he sees you wearing in the purple walking dress you bought weeks ago, he feels disheveled in comparison. He pats down his uncombed hair. “Good morning, Miss L/N.”

“Good morning, Mr. Lee. I apologize for coming this hour, but it was urgent, and I wasn’t sure if there would be enough time if I came by later.”

Felix is wide awake now. “What is the matter?”

You hold out a bronze hatbox to him. “Do you remember the blooming rose headdress you made? Well, I was careless last night and accidentally dropped it. It’s broken, and I was planning to wear it tonight. Is there a chance it could be repaired by then?”

“May I…” He hovers his hand over the box, his fingers just a few centimeters above yours.

“Yes! Of course.”

Felix opens it, and to his relief, the damage is not as bad as he expects. There are a few petals askew, jamming the other flowers around it and causing the entire mechanical rose garden to stutter. The only other concern is the small grease stain on the silk ribbon, but that is a simple fix. He wonders where you dropped it. Certainly not on the ground since the damage seems to be minimal.

“I can repair it. Could you come back in a few hours? Around mid-morning?”

You sheepishly smile at him. “Would it be possible for you to give it to me at the party? I wasn’t actually given permission to leave the house today.”

It is then that Felix notices that, once again, you have no chaperone with you. Or does your carriage driver count as one, he flippantly thinks. It does not matter though. The sudden realization about the inappropriate situation makes him more shy.

He takes the box from you and steps back into the safety of his store. With the clear door threshold dividing the two of you, he feels much more at ease. You seem slightly saddened by this, but perhaps it is his wishful thinkings.

“Of course,” he says, trying to hide his reddening face by looking at the cobblestone pavement. “Where shall I wait for you?”

“By the fountain in the front gardens. I have to arrive at the Shin residence early, so it will likely be me waiting for you.”

Felix nods and takes one small step backwards. “I will see you tonight then, Miss L/N. Good day.”

“Good day, Mr. Lee. And thank you for your help.”

You walk back to your carriage and wave goodbye when you see that he is still standing by the door. He weakly waves back and scurries to his work table where he promptly sets the box down and whispers panicked mutterings to himself. He feels like he’s overheating.

He drinks the remainder of his tea to cool himself down before settling into his chair. He reaches for his tools and begins taking apart the mechanical flowers. It is a distraction from you but not a very good one.

When Mr. Han show up in an actual carriage in the evening, Felix’s nerves are not any better. He fumbled with the top buttons of his shirt while dressing, and it took him several attempts to tie his cravat correctly. Now, every bit of his body tremors as he steps inside the carriage.

“Well, don’t we look like dandies tonight?” Mr. Han remarks. He eyes the hatbox Felix has on his lap. “Did Miss Shin send it back?”

“Miss L/N needed an emergency repair,” Felix responds as he pretends to adjust his cravat, making it look worse than it did mere seconds ago. The evening air is warmer than he anticipated. “Are you excited?”

Mr. Han lets his poor attempt at steering the conversation away slide. “More or less. I would rather be at home, but parties can be fun.”

Felix is inclined to agree, though he is most excited and terrified at the prospect of seeing you again. The conversation devolves into silence as both gentlemen stare out the windows, observing the countryside at night. There is not a hint of light save for the moon and stars above. The wind blows in any direction uninterrupted, making the grass and wildflowers rustle.

It is a romantic picture.

Soon, the natural countryside begins to wane as they approach Shin residence, lit up in shades of blue with phosphorus lamps, comes into view. There is a line of carriages on the gravel path leading inside the estate. They are one of the last ones, and Felix is overwhelmed by guilt for being so late. How long did he make you wait? Mr. Han pokes his head out the window and mouths an exclamation at the sight.

“I don’t think I have seen or even heard of a debut ball of this size,” he says. “Well, she did that no expense would be spared.”

Felix, even more anxious about the party now, only nods in agreement. As their carriage nears the entrance, he scans the gardens for the designated meeting spot. There is a shadowy figure by the fountain, nearly hidden by the tall hedges. Although he cannot make out who it exactly is, it must be you.

When they finally reach the entrance, he opens the door and steps out with your hatbox tucked under your arm. He heads towards the fountain, the opposite from the main door of the house. The driver, the same one as last time, gives him a strange look but says nothing. Mr. Han seems to understand and says that he will see him inside.

Felix slows his pace, making sure that the few guests waiting to be let into the estate will be inside by the way he reaches you. There are curious glances in his direction, but they rapidly turn to the decorated main door as the line moves forward. Once there is no one left outside, he quickly strides over to the fountain. You are nowhere in sight, so he presumes that you are behind a hedge. Hopefully, you have not left.

“Miss L/N,” he softly calls, “are you here yet?”

Like he hopes, you walk out from behind a hedge, the hem of your dress showing up first. Felix has to suppress a gasp when you stop right in front of him. You are very close, and your evening gown and typical daywear are vastly different. Your bare shoulders, to put it mildly, are distracting.

“Hello, Mr. Lee. How are you tonight?”

“I am well, thank you.” It comes out a little strained, and to deflect from that, he holds out the hatbox. “Your headdress, as requested.”

“Thank you. The ball has started, so I should head back before they notice me missing.” You take it from him and hold it in your arms. “Shall we head in together?”

You really are brazen. As much as he would like to spend more time with you, he knows the social implications it has and the damage that will be done to your reputation. This very act of meeting you alone is illicit.

“I think I would like to wander the gardens some more,” he lies. He vaguely gestures at the plants. “They’re quite lovely.”

You give him a half smile. “They are. Ask me for a dance later, will you? I would very much like it. Until then. ”

Like nothing out of ordinary occurred, you merrily head back to the house, leaving Felix at a loss for words. He paces around the fountain and imagines the conversation over and over again. You were no doubt flirting with him. He is beyond delighted, but he has no idea what to do with this newfound development. He spent the last months admiring you from afar.

Ten minutes later, after he is certain that no one will connect your reappearance with his, he finds himself inside the bustling ballroom of the mansion. ‘No expense spared’ is correct.

There is a full orchestra playing on a raised section and a quadrille underway. He must have missed the first dance. The automaton waitstaff are conducting their own dance through the crowd as they distribute drinks and collect empty plates. The oceanic theme, so earnestly described by Miss Shin, has come to life with the blue tinted lighting and sea creature motifs decorating the walls. Felix notes that although there are many species of fish, the devil fish is not among them. Against the west wall leans the refreshment table, draped with scalloped tablecloth reminiscent of the waves. Just a few steps away, to Felix’s amazement, is an enormous aquarium filled with exotic fishes and elegant aquatic plants. He suspects that the conservatory might have loaned them for the night. However, he would not be surprised if the Shins had their own aquarium.

“There you are.” Mr. Han emerges from the crowd, relief clear on his face. “Miss Shin has been wondering where you were. I didn’t say anything about your… plans, but I may have given her the impression that you got lost on the grounds somehow.”

Mr. Han leads Felix to wherever Miss Shin is. In the meantime, Felix hopes that she just wants to introduce him to a few of her friends and not that her headdress needs to be fixed. Imagine how mortifying that would be.

“Mr. Lee! You’ve arrived!” she exclaims. The surrounding guests all immediately turn to get a look at him, and he feels embarrassment coloring his face. “Everyone, this is the gentleman who created this extraordinary octopus upon my head.”

Just like that, Felix is inundated with questions.

“How long did it take?”

“What excellent craftsmanship! Are you taking commissions now?”

“How much for a hat?”

Felix politely answers them all, half bewildered and half pleased by the attention. Mr. Han watches from the sidelines with a proud expression and gives Felix encouraging nods when no one is looking. Several minutes later, Felix has earned himself a slew of new potential customers, all who are more than willing to pay a visit to his shop the next time they are in town.

“It has been in perfect working order ever since I received it,” Miss Shin reports. She reaches up to adjust one of the metal tentacles coiled into her hair. “You won’t be disappointed.”

Felix relaxes when he hears the good news. “Thank you for compliments. Pardon my manners, but I do not think I have mentioned how wonderful the evening has been so far. Your ball is a true success.”

“Thank you,” she says, the ever gracious hostess. “Do enjoy the rest of the party.”

One of her court members adds, “And do be a gentleman and ask a certain Miss Y/N L/N for a dance.”

“Yuna! Don’t be so—”

Felix does not get to hear what Miss Shin says next since Mr. Han pulls him away to the refreshment table, far away from where they were. Thank goodness for his perceptiveness. Felix is only a few shades lighter than crimson.

He does intend to ask you to dance, but the question is when? You were not with the other court members by Miss Shin, and at a party this large, he is unsure if he will even be able to find you.

“Having fun so far?” Mr. Han asks as he plucks a cream and jam roll in the shape of a fish off a serving tray. “It seems like everyone knows about your fancies.”

Felix ignores the last sentence. “It’s a magnificent party. It really does feel like we are all in the depths of the ocean here. Are you enjoying yourself?”

“More or less. The food is divine.” He punctuates the remark by grabbing another roll. “If I were less refined, I might just filch the entire tray.”

By the way Mr. Han is marvelling over the selection, Felix does not put it past him. He is not in any place to judge though; he, too, is considering taking a few treats home to eat.

“Mr. Han! And Mr. Lee as well! Good evening.”

Felix does not have to turn around to know who it is. Mr. Han’s sly face gives it all away, and your voice has become all too familiar to him.

Mr. Han greets, “Miss L/N! How lovely you look tonight.”

In the darkness, Felix was not able to see you clearly. Under the phosphorus lights and gas lamps, you are radiant.

He first notices the gold roses, slowly blossoming and then slowly wilting, adorning your head. Then his eyes travel downward to the ribbon choker around your throat and to your shoulders. He quickly averts his eyes to the evening gown you wear — sage green with an understated floral pattern, which perfectly matches your headdress. The fan in your hand is closed shut, the golden handle appearing bronze under the lights. He cannot bring himself to look at your face; he can already imagine the pretty smile you have, and that alone is making him grow warm.

“I do believe that is Miss Choi!” Mr. Han interjects. “Pardon me, I must speak to her immediately.”

You and Felix bid him goodbye, leaving the two of you alone. You wait for him to greet you, speak, something, but nothing comes to mind. He steadily shifts his gaze upwards and tries to lessen his blush when he sees the corner of your mouth quirked up.

“Did they miss you?” he says, breaking the silence. “Miss Shin and the rest of the court, I mean.”

“I don’t think so, being a very busy night and all. I think they were more concerned about dancing.”

Which reminds him…

With as much confidence as he can muster, he holds out his right hand to you. “Would you like to dance, Miss L/N? I recall you requested one.”

You place your left hand in his and let him guide you to the middle of the dance floor. “I must confess, I only came to ask you if you were going to ask me to dance.”

“I would not have forgotten.”

“Are you certain?” you tease. “It seems like you only remembered when mentioned dancing.”

“Believe me, Miss L/N, I would never be able to forget such a bold request.”

He knows exactly where the surge of genuine confidence came from. The second he felt your fingers on his palm, something inside him lit up. Your touch made the moment so much more real, his wishings no longer daydreams.

The quadrille finishes, and the orchestra starts playing a waltz. Though he is stunned by the change — he had been anticipating walking and turning about you, not twirling you around — you are not. While you curtsy as a formal greeting before the dance, you deftly switch your fan to your left hand. Before he can bow in return, you hold his left hand and smile demurely at him.

“I have another confession to make Mr. Lee: I have been waiting to dance with you for the longest time now.”

He cautiously presses his hand to the small of your back, pulling you a bit closer than social customs allows. He can blame it on the crowded ballroom. He can feel your warmth through the fabric, and it occurs to him that you are in his arms just like in all those outdated fairy tales.

“If we are making confessions, then I suppose I have one as well,” he says.

He hears the expectant note in your voice. “And what is it?”

“I wanted to dance with you too.”

It’s a simple statement, but you grin from ear to ear, so bright the rest of the room seems dark in comparison. His heart flutters. When he twirls you around again, you lean your head back and sigh.

“You are marvellous dancer,” you remark as you sweep back your skirts to make more room for him. “Did you take lessons? Or do you just have a natural talent for it?”

“A bit of both. I took some about four years ago during my apprenticeship. I guess I still remember the basics.”

“No time for anymore now, I presume, with the amount of business you have been getting. Ever since I bought the butterfly headdress — do you remember that? It was ages ago, but it was the first one I bought from you.”

Felix remembers that day very well. He had opened his shop just half a year ago, and you and your chaperone stumbled in to wait out the rain. While you were captivated by the beating wings of a butterfly, he was awestruck by your gaiety on such a gloomy day. The silk flowers of your bonnet were drooping, your jacket damp from the incoming storm, and your face flushed from running, but your eyes held wonder and your lips a song.

You sang so much praise for the headdress that he went to bed that night hearing it in his sleep.

“Anyway,” you continue, “from the first time I came to your shop, I just knew you were talented. How long have you been working as a hatmaker? Your age and expertise don’t seem to match up. You are quite young compared to the other mechanical and automaton designers.”

“A year and a half now. I took over the business when my mentor retired. I do not think I am much older than you.”

You ponder over this for a while. “Forgive my forwardness and my lack of regard for etiquette — being friends with Ryujin for so long has its flaws — but are you courting anyone?”

Felix stops breathing for a few seconds. “I am not. Why?”

“Just check— just curious. Well, perhaps you will find someone that interests you here. You could ask someone to dance and talk to them to see if they catch your fancy.” Your expression is innocent, but your words are laced with whimsy.

“Who do you think would be a good match for me?” he asks, playing along. “Surely you know a few of the guests here.”

You pretend to think it over, pursing your lips together in concentration. Felix thickly swallows and glances at the space between your brows instead. His heartbeat is even more erratic than before.

“I don’t like to gossip, but I did hear a rumor that a young lady on the debutante’s court is interested in being courted soon. Her coming-out will be happening this season.”

“Ah, interesting,” he replies in an overly thoughtful manner. “If only I could receive an invite to the event. I am afraid that I am rather unfamiliar with most of the people here.”

“I think I can help with that,” you say. “I will speak to her about it. I’m sure she would love for you to attend.”

He tries to keep an air of nonchalance but fails when he spots your lips twitching into a smile. “Thank you, Miss L/N. I greatly appreciate it.”

Like the scene has been rehearsed before, the waltz ends then. Felix shallowly dips you like the dance dictates and helps right you back up. In doing so, you wind up far closer to him than you were before. You are pressed up against his chest, and he can hear your breaths. With the bubble of intimacy gone and the reality of the situation settling in, Felix hurries backwards, confidence dissipating.

He is not alone though. You snap your fan open, drawing it across your cheeks and concealing your face. He does not think he has seen you this flustered before.

“Thank you for the dance,” you tell him behind the painted screen. “You were a wonderful partner.”

“You were as well.”

The two of you walk to the sidelines together, an appropriate distance apart. He glances over to you occasionally and notes that your usual cool composure has not returned yet. Before Felix can continue the conversation, the excitable young lady — Miss Yuna Whatever-Her-Surname-Is — emerges from the crowd and rushes to you.

“Y/N! Do tell us about it!” she exclaims, forgetting that Felix is right there. She sidles up to you, holds your arm, and waits expectantly for the details.

You duck a little lower behind your fan and hiss, “Yuna!”

“Good night, Miss L/N,” Felix says. “It was a pleasure to dance with you.”

He makes himself scarce but not before he overhears you laugh and sigh, “Yuna Shin, don’t ever do that again. But yes, it was all very lovely.” He swells with joy.

The orchestra has started another waltz, one that is uplifting and bright. Felix hums along to it as he heads to the refreshment table. Almost unsurprisingly, Mr. Han is still there as well with a miniature trifle in hand. The dessert looks unappetizing to Felix with its blue layers, but Mr. Han is enjoying it.

“You don’t like dancing?” Felix says as he inspects the table for a drink.

“The contrary. This is just replenishment for the night.” He spoons another bite into his mouth. “And all the ladies seem to be on the dance floor anyway.”

Felix finds a cup of punch and drinks it heartily. He has never attended a debut ball before, so he is not sure of what there is to do other than dance and mill around. He spends some time observing the creatures in the aquarium nearby. There is unfortunately not an octopus in the glass tanks, leading him to believe that this is the Shins’ own aquarium.

He returns back to Mr. Han, and the two spy a few of their creations in the crowd. They all seem to be garnering attention from other guests, which bodes well for their financial future. Mr. Han, who is much more knowledgeable about who is who, updates him on the latest news regarding each of the guests. Felix nods along, only partially paying attention to his words as he watches couples dance at the same time.

As much fun as it is to be an observer though, it gets dull quickly when Felix realizes how much he would rather be home than here. He has no idea where you currently are, but it would be impolite for him to monopolize your time with another dance. Not to mention, it would stir rumors, and he wants no part in them.

“Would it be rude to leave now?” he rhetorically asks.

Mr. Han ponders over this. “Considering it has only been an hour, I think so, but let’s leave anyway.” He picks up a napkin and starts surreptitiously piling rolls and tarts inside. “Keep watch for me.”

Felix complies by standing right in front of the napkin and thus obstructing the view from the rest of the room. “You just said it would be rude.”

“I have to open early tomorrow, and so do you. New commissions to work on and all that.”

The people in his life, Felix notes, have a tendency to disregard social customs. However, he does not mind in this case or your case. Mr. Han filches a few more desserts at the behest of Felix, and the two wait for Miss Shin to finish her waltz to say goodbye.

“So early? The ball has just begun! And what if a problem arises?”

Felix gives this comment pause, but Mr. Han bats it away as if it were merely a pesky bug. “Miss Shin, I assure you that all of my — and Mr. Lee’s as well — are in perfect working order. When has anything I made for you been otherwise?”

While the two of them discuss this, Felix stands by and adds whatever he can. Both Mr. Han and Miss Shin are quick with their replies, and there is hardly a break in between. However, Miss Shin eventually concedes after learning of the new work they have to start.

“Very well. Thank you for attending” — she taps one of the brass tentacles on her skirt with her matching fan — “and for this beautiful evening gown. And thank you for the wonderful headdress, Mr. Lee.”

“It was our pleasure,” Felix answers. “Good night, Miss Shin.”

Felix and Mr. Han make their way to the exit, sidestepping the people lingering around the windows. Felix glances around to find you. He wants to give you a proper goodbye, but you are nowhere to be seen. There are no gold roses in the sea of people. He resigns to his predicament and hopes that you will not be too disappointed that he danced and left.

The area outside the mansion, swarming with exhilarated guests not too long ago, is empty. The blue lamps illuminating the cobblestone path seem forlorn instead of lively, and the silence only emphasizes the feeling.

“I’ll get the carriage,” Mr. Han offers, already heading in that direction. “Just wait here.”

Felix sits on the last step of the stairs and listens to the crickets in the bushes. The moon is higher in the sky now, and the wind from earlier has died down to a breeze. He sighs and loosens his cravat leans backwards on his forearms, enjoying the cool air on his face. It is a pleasant contrast to the party inside.

“You could have said goodbye at least.”

When he turns around, fumbling about and trying to make himself presentable again, you are standing a few steps above him. You said the words jokingly, but he hears the hurt underneath.

“I apologize,” he whispers. The darkness hides his guilt well. “I couldn’t find you.”

You tilt your head to the side. “Not one for parties, I take it?”

“I only came to talk and dance with you,” he admits, growing more embarrassed by the second. “If things were different, I would stay all night, but once I used my chance, I didn’t know what else to do.”

“We could have still chatted after.” You walk down to his step and sit beside him, the silk of your gown brushing against his leg. The only thing separating the two of you is your wide skirt. You place your hand only a few centimeters away from his on the steps. “I know I was acting a bit silly earlier, so I want to ask you outright. Forgive my forwardness, but do you intend to court me, or am I just seeing things that are not there?”

Felix goes still. He had not thought about his feelings that way. He certainly likes you, but a courtship never even crossed his mind because of how far up the social ladder you were. He wanted to catch your eye, but he never thought you would pay genuine attention back to him.

“Because if you do,” you continue after he says nothing, “I want to be courted seriously. If you are merely teasing me, then tell me now.”

“Miss L/N, are you teasing me now? I am no one important, yet you pursue me.”

“I am not teasing, I swear,” you solemnly say, looking directly into his eyes. “I will not play with your heart like that. And to me, you are important. Never mind the wonderful things you have made for me, I like you. You and how industrious you are, how assured you are in yourself, how you play along with my jokes for my sake. You are nothing like all the rakes and fops around me.”

He can hardly believe his ears. After a tense silence, he says, “If you will let me, I will court you seriously.”

“Mr. Lee, I have always allowed it. Every joke, every smile — it was an invitation for you.” He glances over at you in shock, and you halfheartedly smile at him. “Perhaps I was not clear enough about my advances.”

“No. I was simply too afraid to act upon them. I did not realize your intentions were pure.”

“I assure you, Mr. Lee, you were the only gentleman I flirted with.”

The nearby sound of a horse trotting interrupts the moment. Felix glances down to where the stables are and spies a silhouetted carriage approaching. Mr. Han was quick with his task, and Felix wishes he had been less so.

Having seen the same thing, you stand up and fluff out your skirt, preparing to go back inside. The silk ripples in waves, and Felix stares in fascination. You catch him in the act and flash him a knowing smile. “Good night. I hope to see you soon.”

Felix bashfully replies, “Good night.”

You give him one last look and hurry away before company arrives. Your head bobs up and down as you take the stairs two by two, and Felix watches you disappear into the mansion. He is still staring at the door when the carriage drives up.

“Mr. Lee!”

“Coming!”

The journey back to the city is mostly silent since Mr. Han seems worn out by the night’s events already. Felix does not try to engage him in conversation, choosing instead to sink into the velvet seat and to admire the sky. If he looks at it long enough, he thinks he can see your face among the constellations.

The following days, all Felix hears about in the sparse amount of time he interacts with customers — his shop has been mostly devoid of hats and headdresses ever since Miss Shin introduced him to all her friends — is Miss Shin’s debut. Every piece of gossip he overhears while out revolves around it and the other upcoming debut balls in the season. On one of his outings to the market, your name is mentioned, and he stops in his tracks. He pretends to check his pocket watch and turns it over and over in his hands as if he has found a new scuff mark on the brass.

“I heard she sent out the invites already,” says the young lady with a pink bonnet. “Did you get one?”

“Of course! But Tzuyu Chou’s ball is on the same night, so which one do I go to?”

“Both, silly! Just leave one of them early and—”

Once the topic changes, Felix quits his act and continues onward to the market. He has not received an invitation to your ball yet, and surely that was what you were alluding to during the waltz. Perhaps you are going to hand-deliver it yourself. That is all he can hope for because the other reason is that you have changed your mind about him.

When he returns to his shop with new bronze sheets and copper wiring, he is disappointed. You are not waiting outside nor is there an envelope tucked underneath his door. Felix brews himself a cup of tea and settles at his work table chair. He pulls out his sketches for a hat decorated with swimming fish and starts on its construction. All he can do now is wait.

After several days and far too much time spent agonizing over the issue, you finally grace Felix’s shop with your presence. When the bell on the door chimes and he sees you at the threshold, he nearly leaps out from behind the counter, shoving away his tools in a weak attempt to appear well put together. He wipes a spot of grease from his brow with the back of his hand and bows at you in greeting.

“Welcome. How may I be of service?”

“Are you accepting custom orders right now?” you ask, walking closer to him. Your chaperone follows closely behind to ensure that you are not about to blatantly flirt with him again, though Felix has a sneaking feeling that you will anyway. “I heard you might be busy. It seems like everyone wants a hat from you now.”

“What did you have in mind?”

You glance at the current project is working on. “Actually, that one seems interesting. Or is it someone else’s?”

The clockwork hat is indeed someone else’s, Miss Lia Choi, to be precise. “It is.”

“Ah, I see.” You do not look the slightest bit dejected at the news. “Well, I think something with butterflies would be lovely. I have lots of good memories involving them, so I want them to be part of my debut ball.”

Felix cannot get a single sound out, so he elects to duck back behind the counter. He picks up his pencil and rolls out another sheet of butcher paper. The blank canvas stares back at him, and he hastily sketches the form of the headdress like he wants to show you an idea he has in mind. He has nothing in his mind. He cannot think after a statement like that. He puts the pencil down.

“I can have a rough draft of the headdress done in a few days,” he says. “Or do you have a design planned out?”

“Perhaps something like this?” You take the pencil from the counter, your fingers brushing against his in a manner that is not accidental.

While Felix does his best to maintain his composure in front of your chaperone — she seems to not have noticed your gesture, thankfully — you draw a cluster of butterflies on the side of the headdress and small flowers to fill in the gaps. You mindlessly hum a melody as you sketch, and it sounds awfully similar to a waltz he danced to sometime ago.

You push the paper towards him. “Here.”

He glances over it, lightly touching the lines and curves with his finger. It is a pretty design and very extravagant. He will likely have to make some adjustments so you can actually wear it without injuring your neck, but it is possible to make it into a reality. “I will get to work on it soon. When do you need it by?”

“As soon as possible.” You open your reticule and set down a sheaf of banknotes so large, Felix cannot see your hand at all. “I know you have a long line of customers, so I will pay double the regular price for it to be finished in two weeks’ time.”

He would have done it without the monetary incentive anyway. Nonetheless, he nods and assures you that it will be done by then. You audibly sigh and thank him in advance for his timeliness.

“Is that all for today?” he asks. He wants you to say no, to make up an excuse to stay.

To his disappointment and seemingly to your own as well, you reply, “Yes. I’ve got a busy day ahead of myself. Well, good day. It is always a pleasure coming to your shop.”

“Good day.”

He watches you leave. You do not turn around to give him one last look like he anticipates. Your chaperone is keeping a careful eye on you and your antics, and she is following close behind as you out the door anyway. However, you do smile at him through the window. Even though you will not be able to see it, he returns it.

Once you are out of view, he collects the banknotes on the counter to put away. As he does so, he notices a corner of an envelope peeking out from the pile.

Mr. Felix Lee, it says across the front in black ink.

Could this be the invitation he has been waiting so long for? He does not know what else it could be, but he is still nervous. With trembling fingers, he breaks open the glossy red seal and takes out the stiff cardstock inside.

You have been cordially invited to Miss Y/N L/N’s debut.

He laughs, one mixed with relief and pure joy, and it echoes throughout the shop. The sound bounces off the empty walls like a never-ending symphony of happiness.

Once the euphoria has waned a bit, he sets his previous project and begins refining your sketch. He traces over your butterfly wings, adding more dimension and adjusting angles as he does so. He can already see it coming to life, the wings beating in harmony to the music, the delicate twitches of the antennae as you move your head.

To think that you will be wearing this at your coming-out and that he will be there to see it. Though it is an inside joke between the two of you, it might as well be a public declaration of courtship to him.

He works on your headdress almost feverishly, neglecting his other projects for as long as he can afford. When Mr. Han comes by for tea and a chat a few days later — they have become friends after Miss Shin’s ball — Felix is frantically soldering the minute hand onto one of the many tiny clocks on this hat.

“Do you want any help?” Mr. Han asks, popping the last bite of his biscuit into his mouth. “I do have experience with metalworking, you know.”

“I’m alright,” he mutters. The client is supposed to be arriving within the hour, and he cannot imagine how damaged his reputation will be if someone else other than himself is found working on the hat. He shudders as he pictures the suspicion on his customers’ faces. “Sorry for not being better company.”

“Don’t fret. I only came because I had news regarding Miss L/N.”

Felix nearly misplaces the minute hand in his surprise. He feigns nonchalance at Mr. Han’s statement. “Oh?”

“Do you know Lord Seungmin Kim? Apparently, he is interested in courting her. I overheard someone say that he is to be her partner for the first dance.”

Felix says nothing, just grips his tool tighter and intently stares at the tiny Roman numerals in front of him. He did not expect to be chosen for the honor of the first dance, but it does not mean his pride goes unhurt. Lord Kim, a nobleman with wealth and connections, is well above him in terms of social status.

“That’s… that’s impressive,” he says.

“Yes, and I also heard that she does not want him to be her partner. Something about another gentleman in mind.”

Mr. Han looks pointedly at Felix, who pointedly pretends not to notice it. He affixes the hand to the remaining clock and checks everything once more for any careless errors. His heart thumps in his chest, twice the speed of the soft tick-tocking of the miniature clocks. If he is the alleged gentleman you have in mind, then the first dance would truly be a public declaration.

“Have you been invited?” Mr. Han asks, though it seems as if he already knows the answer.

“Yes. What about you?”

“No.”

As far as he can tell, there are no flaws with the hat, so he puts his tools away. “You seem content with that,” he remarks as he rummages around in his cabinets for an empty hatbox.

“Of course! I will only miss the food, so do filch some for me. I did it at Miss Shin’s.”

Felix makes a noise in acknowledgment. The gears in his head are working overtime as he plots out what your debut will be like. You and him, in each other’s arms, in front of everyone. What will they say? What will he do afterwards?

The sound of a ringing bell interrupts his thoughts, and in flies Miss Choi, another member of Miss Shin’s court and a friend of yours.

“Is it ready? Please tell me it is! I have been waiting all day for it!” she says, breathless from her bursting in. She spies it sitting on the counter and immediately sets it on her head. “It’s lovely! And not heavy at all.”

“Good afternoon, Miss Choi,” the two men chorus.

“Oh, yes. Good afternoon. I didn’t know you two knew each other this well,” she distractedly says. She turns to Felix, her hand reaching for her reticule. “I paid for this already, right?”

He nods. “Last week.”

“Perfect. Oh, goodness” — she glances at the wall-mounted clock behind Felix — “Y/N will be cross with me for being late. I will see you at the ball then, Mr. Lee. Thank you again. Goodbye!”

She leaves in the same frenzied manner as she came, and her worn out chaperone hurries after her.

“That was a confirmation if I ever heard one. She must know the details.”

“That was nothing.” Yet he desperately hopes that it was something.

“You keep pretending that as if no one knows of you and Miss L/N’s relationship. Everyone knows she fancies you, and you her, so there is no need to keep putting up this act.” Mr. Han sighs and crumples up his paper napkin. “I ought to get back to work now. Thank you for the tea.”

“Thank you for the company. Good day, Mr. Han.”

Mr. Han stands up from his seat, throwing his coat back, and heads for the door. “Good day. Do not forget about the food.”

Felix rolls his eyes, but a small smile forces its way onto his face anyway. “I won’t.”

Possibly the most important day of Felix’s day has arrived. He adjusts his cuffs, his cravat, his shirt — everything really — mindlessly as he waits for the time to tick down. He is restless. His usually nimble fingers turn clumsy when he tries to work on a hat for a client, and he cannot focus on anything. He has not seen you since you dropped off the invitation all those days ago. Your chaperone came to pick up your headdress, and she gave him a cool onceover before advising that he come to the ball a tad earlier.

As such, he locks up his shop two hours before the starting time and makes the walk to the banquet hall where your debut is being held. He could have rented a carriage like Mr. Han did for that seemingly long ago ball, but the hall is not too far away. Being dressed in finery, he receives curious looks from passersby and more batting eyelashes from young girls than he likes.

By the time he arrives at the hall, dusk is darkening into night. The gas lamps on the streets have lit up. He is a little more than half an hour early, which is hopefully sufficient for whatever reason why he was suggested to do so. There are no signs of guests, and stricken by the fact that he has no idea what to do, Felix idles around the entrance. He cannot just barge in; that would be rude. He incessantly checks his pocket watch for the time, wishing that someone would come and save him for this predicament.

Fortunately, his wishes are soon answered. The main doors open, and out steps you in all of your radiance. Your eyes meet his, and all he can do is gaze at you.

Your dress is reminiscent of what you wore at Miss Shin’s debut: a green evening gown dotted with tiny pink blossoms, and gold trim around the shoulders that complements the gilded butterflies that swarm around your head. Green and gold appear to be your signature colors, and you wear them well. Even the lighting seems to be in your favor; warm light spills behind you, highlighting the wisps of your hair.

“Oh, Mr. Lee! I was just coming out to see if you were here yet. Fei said she told you to come early.”

He thickly swallows before greeting, “Good evening, Miss L/N. You look… stunning.”

“Thank you. You look very handsome yourself. Do come in. I have something to discuss with you.”

He follows you to the main hall where the ball is to be held. The entire room is decorated like a greenhouse with vines tumbling down the walls and perfumed flowers on every surface. It is bright inside, as if the banquet hall has been bathed in sunlight. Stationary butterflies hang down from the ceiling, while steel dragonflies are strung like lights across the room. Your court members and some chaperones linger around the refreshment table, no doubt taste testing the morsels you have decided upon. Felix spots a tray of small tea cakes in the shape of leaves and makes a mental note to take a few for Mr. Han.

Upon seeing the two of you walking nearby each other, Miss Wang, your usual chaperone, lets out a theatrical gasp. “Miss L/N! Why did you not ask me to accompany you? You should know better. And on this day as well!”

“Miss Wang, no one is fooled by you. Besides, if it were to be on any day, today is the best choice,” interjects Miss Ryujin Shin, who holds a cup of punch in her hand. “After all, this is the gentleman she desires to court anyway.”

The other chaperones do not seem shocked by this revelation, presumably because they all knew already. Miss Choi and Miss Yuna Shin even clink their glasses against Miss Ryujin Shin’s in a mock toast.

“Ryujin’s right,” you agree. You turn your attention to Felix, and the room goes quiet. “I thought it would be best to ask you in person, and I know I don’t give you much time to think about it, but will you be my partner for the first dance? I meant to ask you the last time I visited, but there were a few things that had to be sorted out before I could.”

The orchestra begins rehearsing then, and the triumphant music perfectly matches how he feels. “I would be honored.”

The ball begins precisely at the hour, but guests begin allowing themselves inside a few minutes before. While you flitter about, greeting guests of importance and smiling at compliments, Felix mills around the sidelines in anticipation of the dance. He recognizes some of his customers, a couple of which say hello and show off the hats and headdresses he has designed for them. He politely engages in conversation with them before looking back at you. He does not know when the dance will begin, and he wants to be prepared for the moment.

Once he is alone again, you approach him with a secretive smile. “Are you ready?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Of course. Let the ball begin.”

He holds out his hand for you, and you lead him to the center of the dance floor. The crowd takes note of this, and their chatter dies down to murmurs. Felix overhears some of the whispers, most of which are confused questions of who exactly he is, where Lord Kim is, and why you have selected him of all people. They take in his second-rate coat and the way you gaze at him in wonder. It has to be a jest, someone nearby mumbles.

However, you are unfazed by it all. You look over to the orchestra and give them a slight nod. They stop their light, airy opening number and begin a waltz piece. The butterfly wings of your headdress beat at the same tempo, and he suppresses a chuckle at the sight.

This time, Felix holds you at a respectable distance away, not wanting to exacerbate the growing rumors. More couples join in on the floor, but most of the attention is focused on the two of you.

“Everyone is watching,” he whispers as he twirls you around.

“I am the debutante,” you reply. “And it is only natural people stare at such a handsome gentleman.”

You flirt even more shamelessly than before, not even bothering to hide your flattery behind sly words. He has still not gotten used to it, which means his burning red ears are on display for everyone. Still, he smiles. “You will be alright with this when we court?”

“Of course. Will you?”

“Of course,” he repeats. “And will you be alright with your beau being more attractive than you?”

He has never teased you before, and you laugh at his overly serious demeanor as he says it. “Mr. Lee! Well, how could I be upset with having such a striking beau, especially one with charms like yours.”

He twirls you around again and pulls you a fraction closer. “I suppose this is as good as a time as any to ask: will you, Miss L/N, allow me to court you officially?”

You completely close the gap, earning several gasps from onlookers and Felix himself as your chest presses against his. With a wide grin on your face, you say, “Mr. Lee, I will.”

It is all anyone can talk about the following day: Miss Y/N L/N of a wealthy, upper class family is set to be courted by Mr. Felix Lee, the popular mechanical hatmaker. Through the shop window, Felix can see passersby trying to get a glimpse of him inside as he works. He has to close his store for the day because of the sheer amount of people visiting and treating him like an animal at an aquarium.

By the time the sun sets, less and less people pass by. By the time the gas lamps light up the street, your carriage drives up the street and stops in front of the store. You step out in a cornflower blue gown and knock on the door. Felix has been ready for you for hours now.

“Hello, Mr. Lee,” you greet. Your excitement is palpable as you say, “Shall we go on our first walk together?”

“Good evening, Miss L/N. And to you as well, Miss Wang.”

Your chaperone follows behind the two of you, ensuring that the two of you — well, mostly you — will be proper.

“Where shall we go? Around the block for tonight?” he suggests.

“My dear Mr. Lee, I will go anywhere you wish.”

Miss Wang halfheartedly reprimands you for the term of endearment, but Felix does not mind. You share a glance with him, and he already knows you will be calling him ‘dear’ until the end of time.

He could get used to that.

~ ad.gray

311 notes · View notes

e-milieeee · 4 years ago

Text

hey cutea

Summary: In which Marinette brings Adrien to a bubble tea shop only to witness him order the most unappetizing flavour on the menu.

All’s well until Chat Noir does the exact same, and Ladybug makes an unsuspecting connection.

Tikki is also very unamused. If only they’d stop dancing around each other.

Notes: a month of procrastinating, the boba reveal,,, is finally here for day 1: cafe of @auyeahaugust! also for @buggachat because kelly started this with a drawing of an adrienette boba date and i spiralled :’)

Word Count: 6.2k

AO3

The shop is called Thirstea, a pun which makes Adrien laugh for a whole thirty seconds as he stares at the storefront.

“Seriously,” Marinette is saying as he pushes the door open for her. “You’ve seriously never had boba? At all?”

Adrien shifts his backpack. He’s hit with the smell of something sweet—foreign, as well, but it’s pleasant enough—and the sight of a bustling interior. A small line has already formed, so Marinette tugs him aside and points at the large menu displayed on a colorful board behind the cashier.

“You can decide on which flavour you want,” she tells him.

Adrien peers up at the board. There’s so many to choose from—hundreds, even—from milk tea to fruit tea to mixed flavours and smoothies and…

His head is spinning when he turns back to Marinette. “Do you have any recommendations?” Because I have absolutely no clue. “What do you usually get?”

She tilts her head. “I have five go-tos. Roasted milk tea is a classic, but the honeydew milk tea is pretty good as well if I want something fruity. If I want something lighter, I’ll get a fruit tea—I like lychee black tea. Uh… there’s also the real fruit bobas, and I usually get taro. Oh! And the matcha latte is one of their best. And I usually get it with tapioca, but if you want to be healthier, grass jelly or aloe vera both taste pretty good. But I mean, it is your first time here and you should probably try getting tapioca just to see if you like it. And brown sugar milk tea, but they said they ran out today…”

The words go in one ear and out another, because Adrien is too busy staring at the way she talks: enthusiasm shining in her eyes, the way she waves her hands in the smallest, cutest gestures to make her point, and…

“Adrien?” Marinette tilts her head. “Um, have you decided? Or do you need more time? Because that’s completely alright too.”

In a panic, he nods and blurts, “I’ve decided!”

She nods sagely, and they enter the line. Adrien has not yet in fact decided.

He continues to stare at the menu from the corner of his eyes, going through all the categories until he settles on real fruit smoothie. Adrien goes through the list: watermelon, strawberry, mango, peach, blueberry, raspberry, winter melon—

“What would you like to order?”

Adrien snaps back into reality. He is not ready to order.

Oblivious to his conundrum, Marinette smiles at the cashier and fetches her wallet out of her backup. “I’m paying for us both!” she tells the girl cheerily. “I’ll have a peach green tea with half ice and thirty percent sugar. With tapioca.”

Adrien gawks at her order. She’d lost him after peach green tea—is he supposed to order like that too?

“Adrien?” Marinette prompts, now waiting for the order that he does not have.

He squints at the menu again, hoping his panic isn’t visible on his face. He scans them. Watermelon. Strawberry. Mango. Peach. Blueberry. Raspberry. Winter melon. Durian.

Durian.

“Durian,” he settles.

Marinette’s mouth quite literally drops open.

He’s not too certain what’s that surprising about his order—is it the wrong thing to order? Perhaps it doesn’t exist on the menu and he’d hallucinated it. A double-check later and the word is still clearly imprinted underneath winter melon. “Marinette?” Adrien asks carefully. “Um, I’m not too sure about the sugar and ice—which do you usually choose?”

She finally snaps her mouth shut. “Durian?” Marinette echoes at last, ignoring his question.“Ah, are you certain about that?”

Adrien nods. “I can still add the pearls—the tapioca in, right?”

“Yeah,” she agrees absentmindedly, “but—durian?”

Adrien takes another peek at the menu. “The real fruit smoothie, right?”

“Have you… tried durian?” “When I was younger, once. Have you?”

Marinette swallows, and Adrien waits for her verdict, concerned. He’s honestly baffled why she’s so confused about his choice, but a moment later, Marinette squares her shoulders and gives the cashier a smile, this time slightly shaky. “And a durian smoothie with tapioca for him. Um, sugar and ice levels?”

Adrien has no clue what to ask for, so he tries, “The standard one for both...?”

Apparently that’s an acceptable answer because the cashier nods and jots down his order on a small notepad. Marinette pays, and they wait at the side for their order.

Marinette has gone quiet. She sorts through her bag for a little while, and Adrien waits in apprehensive silence. There’s quiet jazz music playing in the background and it makes him feel like he’s in an elevator. It’s becoming unbearably awkward.

Finally, Marinette lifts her eyes to look at him. “Sorry about that,” she apologizes. “I just… didn’t know you liked durian.”

“Oh.” He sounds equally awkward. “I liked the fruit the last time I had it which was about two years ago. Do you not like it?”

Her nose wrinkles. It’s cute. Wait, what?

“My mom really likes durian,” Marinette is explaining, and she motions with her hands again. “Apparently her hometown back in China had a dessert store that sold durian pastries and she had this brilliant idea of making them for Chinese New Year a couple months ago and the whole bakery reeked of durian and I could smell it all the way up into my room—” She clamps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. I forgot you liked it.”

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry,” he replies, flustered. Marinette has a habit of saying a lot in very little time and it doesn’t help that he gets easily distracted by her movements. “I didn’t realize durian was so… controversial. I hope it won’t make you uncomfortable or something with the smell.”

“I guess it’s not that popular here,” she replies with a shrug. “But my mom did say that people either hate or love durian. And the smell’s fine. I don’t like it, but once you spend a week with it stinking up your room, you kind of develop immunity.”

Just then, the waitress behind the counter sets down their two drinks. “For Marinette?” she calls.

Marinette takes the bag with a quick thank you, grabs two straws, and then returns to Adrien. She holds up their drinks.

Adrien takes the cup from her extended hand. The durian smoothie is a creamy white, and the black tapioca bubbles sit at the very bottom. He follows her movements as she shakes her cup then stabs a straw into it.

He can see Marinette eying him in his periphery as he raises the straw to his lips and takes a sip. The drink is cold and sweet and has a rich taste that explodes on his tongue in a plethora of flavours, and Adrien decides he likes it. He really likes it.

“So?” Marinette asks. Adrien wonders if she knows how skeptical her expression is. “Do you… like it?”

He chews on one of the pieces of tapioca. “Yes. Yeah, this is really great.”

The skepticism doesn’t disappear from her face, but she raises her boba to his. “Cheers,” Marinette says weakly.

***

On a good day, a cup of boba has two hundred fifty calories when the tapioca is replaced by grass jelly and the sugar level is brought to less than half. On a bad day, if her sweet tooth demands regular sweetness and tapioca, it can be driven up to seven hundred calories.

It’s why Marinette has begrudgingly limited herself—for the sake of her wallet and health—to only drink boba once a week.

And it’s why she and Chat Noir, decked in hoodies and track pants in an attempt to look normal, are lined up underneath the blazing sun at Thirstea.

Their disguises don’t do much, because a crowd has formed around them. First there are whispers of is that Ladybug and Chat Noir, then a girl summons up her courage to ask for a selfie, and finally, the press starts driving in. By the time that happens, they have luckily made it inside the shop, where the air-conditioning blasts out on the highest setting.

Another snap of the camera. Chat Noir is staring pensively at the menu when a thought hits Ladybug. “Have you ever had boba before?” she asks him.

He nods absentmindedly, still looking. Everyone in line is whispering or peering at them, and Ladybug sees a phone held up in the back, most likely recording.

They make it to the counter when Nadja Chamack and her team, armed with cameras and microphones, invades the shop. The girl at the register looks slightly overwhelmed and a little alarmed, but she doesn’t tell the press to leave.

“Ladybug!” Nadja calls. “You’ve been photographed once or twice coming to this shop in the past month—is this your favourite bubble tea shop?”

“Yup!” she replies.

“What’s your go-to order?”

“Depends on the day.” Ladybug turns back to the cashier, leaving Chat to deal with the press. He has the uncanny ability to drag on a brief topic for an unsolicitedly long amount of time. “I’ll have an original milk tea with tapioca,” she tells the cashier. “Regular ice and seventy percent sugar.”

The girl looks a little starstruck, but she jots down the order. With a tug on Chat’s tail, he turns around from entertaining the press to place his own order.

“One durian smoothie, please!” he chirps, chipper as always.

Ladybug chokes on air.

The girl taking their order also seems taken aback, but her recovery time is much quicker than Ladybug’s. Instead, offering him a quick, slightly strained smile, she jots his order down. “Is that all, then?”

Chat takes the chance to pay for both of their orders while she’s caught in her confusion. By the time Ladybug snaps back to her senses, it’s too late—Chat is already pulling aside to wait for their bobas to finish. Nadja and her crew take the chance to start their questions again.

“Chat Noir,” Nadja addresses when it’s clear Ladybug’s still out of commission. “If I heard you right, you chose a durian smoothie?”

He gives a nod so proud that Ladybug swears she dies a little inside.

“Could you tell us why? From what I know, durian is a well-debated fruit. Many people love it, but many also cannot stand the smell.”

Chat ponders the question thoughtfully. “The smell is rather funny,” he finally replies. “But I like the flavour! It has a very rich texture as well, and tastes pretty different from the smell, so it doesn’t actually taste bad.”

“Ladybug?” Nadja gestures for the cameras to face her. “What are your thoughts on durian?”

She’s too busy thinking about Adrien Agreste raising his cup of boba to bump against hers—a durian smoothie—and his casual enthusiasm for the fruit that Nadja’s words don’t even click in her brain. Who would’ve expected Chat Noir to have the same (terrible) taste as her crush? The coincidence leaves her feeling disjointed.

“Uh… Ladybug?” Chat waves his hand in front of her. “Are you okay?”

She finally snaps out of her reverie long enough to scramble for a response. Ladybug manages a sheepish smile in Nadja’s direction. “I’m doing fine, thank you.”

Chat frowns. “Ladybug, that wasn’t her question—”

Before either of them can say anything more, the girl making the drinks pops her head out from the counter. “Your drinks!” she says, then beams at both of them. “Here’s a buy-one-get-one free coupon! Please come by often!”

Chat’s eyes glimmer when he accepts his durian smoothie. Ladybug takes her own with much less enthusiasm. Focus is hard enough with the snap of Nadja’s cameras and the chaos all around them—the fact that an even larger crowd has gathered outside Thirstea in order to catch a glimpse of their favourite superheroes makes it worse. It’s all too much to take in, and Ladybug’s brain is still stuck on Adrien Agreste and Chat Noir and durian smoothies.

“We’re going to take off,” Chat tells Nadja, then waves at the camera. “See you guys around! Come on, LB.”

She allows him to drag her out of the store, then with a flick of his baton and a snap of her yo-yo they’re swinging off, bobas in hand and the rest of Paris watching them go.

But Ladybug isn’t thinking about them at all.

When they finally settle down somewhere secluded, Chat immediately stabs his straw through the top of his drink and takes an obnoxiously loud slurp. Ladybug can smell the scent of durian from where she’s sitting, and instinctively, she wrinkles her nose and shifts away. She pokes her straw into her own drink, still staring off at the distance.

A coincidence, yeah. Her crush and her partner both have awful taste in bubble tea flavours. It’s nothing but a coincidence.

“Are you going to drink yours?” Chat is asking, still slurping obliviously. “I wanna try your flavour.”

He makes a grab for her drink, and Ladybug ducks away. “Your breath smells like durian. You can’t drink from my straw.”

“Hey! Let me try!”

For a little while Chat wrestles for her drink, nearly spilling his own in the process. In the end he snatches out from her fingers, laughing raucously. Ladybug is giggling as well, forgetting about her predicament for the moment. This is what she’s used to; their routine of banter and playfulness that’s easy—it’s straightforward. Not confusing.

That snaps her right back to the problem. Chat sips her drink, smacking his lips in a purposefully annoying way, and makes his verdict. “Not bad. I like mine better. Wanna try?”

Ladybug shakes her head and reclaims her drink. As casually as possible, she asks, “Do you get boba often?”

“Mm, no. This is actually the second time I’ve gotten the drink.” He swirls his straw around. “Honestly, with all the percentages you give for the sugar and the ice, I’m not too sure what to say. My friend took me to get boba a little while ago, so…durian is actually the only flavour I’ve ever tried.”

A casual dump of information, information that really wouldn’t have meant anything. It’s vague enough that any other person wouldn’t have made any sort of connection; it’s the information they often share between each other.

Except for the fact that she—Ladybug, Marinette—might be the friend in question. And Chat Noir—Chat Noir is…

She stares across the building, where an ad of Adrien, the Fragrance is displayed.

No way.

“Um,” Ladybug stammers. “Your friend took you out for boba because you’ve never had it before?”

He’s painfully oblivious to her panic. “Yeah, about a week ago. You know, it’s pretty funny because she had a similar reaction to you when I ordered the durian smoothie. Apparently she hates the smell too.”

“Your friend?” Ladybug echoes.

“Yeah, my friend. Are you okay, m’lady?”

Can’t really breathe properly, so I’m not really okay, but youcan’tknowandIdon’treallyknowwhat’sgoingonrightnow—

“I, um, just realized I have something to do,” Ladybug stammers out, because it’s the only thing she can think of saying. She flails, but somehow manages to get to her feet. “Uh—uh, do you want my milk tea? I can’t swing around very well if I’m holding it because it might get on my suit and my hair—oh my God, my hair! I got ice cream once and tried to eat it while going around Paris on my yo-yo and it went so badly and honestly I feel like the bubble tea will do the same so you can drink mine too since I can just get another one by myself soon but I really gotta run—”

She all but shoves the cup into his confused hands. It’s a whole miracle Chat doesn’t drop it then and there, just like it’s a miracle Ladybug hasn’t screamed or slipped up or promptly tripped over air and simply… lay there crying.

“Ladybug–” she hears him call, but it’s interrupted by the zing of her yo-yo.

She takes off as fast as possible.

Marinette has never been so hasty in detransforming, but as she slips through the rooftop back into her room, she’s already calling Tikki out before she touches down onto her bed. She slams onto pillows and the soft mattress in her regular clothing, buries her face into the nearest cushion, and screams.

She really doesn’t deserve Tikki’s patience, but her kwami stays beside her and pats her with tiny paws until Marinette’s throat is hoarse and she has more or less yelled the remaining cinders of her panic and confusion into her pillow.

When Marinette finally raises her head to look at Tikki, her kwami has her hands on her hips. “Well?” she asks. “I didn’t want to interrupt your breakdown, but now that you’re through, can you tell me what it’s about?”

Marinette thinks about the cup of boba and the boy she’d left back on the roof. Then the one that sits in front of her in class, with the same shade of blonde hair and emerald eyes, both ordering durian boba.

“I think Chat Noir is Adrien Agreste,” she tells Tikki weakly.

Tikki has a scarily-good poker face. “Have you now,” she replies with calmness Marinette is incapable of. “And why do you think so?”

“Because—because—because they both like durian!” It comes out as a distressed wail.

Tikki ponders the question. Then replies, “I see.”

It’s such an awfully vague response that Marinette is tempted to bury her face into her pillow to scream some more. But she doesn’t, instead pulling out her notebook from the stand and a pencil. “I’m going to draw a venn diagram,” she announces with newfound determination. “I might just be jumping to a conclusion too quickly. And—and there was that one time when Chat was there but Adrien was too, right? When Gorizilla attacked?”

“Right,” Tikki agrees. “But you also did a similar trick with Multimouse and the fox Miraculous, so…”

“Chat didn’t have the fox or mouse Miraculous. Anyway… they both have blonde hair and green eyes.”

She puts that in the similar column. She thinks about it for a couple seconds more, and writes “composed” in Adrien’s column and “a mess” in Chat’s.

“Oh, come on.” Tikki flits closer. “You know very well Adrien isn’t as composed as you make him out to be. The only reason you don’t recognize it is because you’re even worse around him.”

Marinette stubbornly keeps those two where they are, even if she knows deep down that Tikki is right. For a while, she goes on making her list, with Tikki criticizing almost every decision she makes. Adrien Agreste has neat hair, a polite smile, the best grades in class and manners that would woo anyone’s parents. Chat Noir’s hair is messy and untamed, his smile is almost always accompanied with a raucous laugh and shutting up isn’t in his vocabulary. He steals food and drinks and everything he can from her whenever she brings it.

She scribbles and erases and thinks and stresses, getting a week’s worth of confusion down and then some.

“Marinette,” Tikki finally advises when Marinette has run out of ink. “Why don’t you just ask Adrien tomorrow at school subtly about it? If he didn’t mind telling Ladybug he went out for boba with Marinette, he probably wouldn't have qualms telling Marinette about getting boba with Ladybug. It’s not as if your identities need to remain a secret anymore.”

Ask Adrien.

Sure, they’re on good terms now. They’re friends. Marinette’s crush has faded into a more manageable level, and she can talk to him without her voice rising an octave higher than its usual key. She hasn’t tripped and fallen on her face in front of him for at least two weeks.

But this—with the possibility that Adrien Agreste is Chat Noir? To think she’d waxed poetic about Chat Noir to Tikki every night for months? It’s unspeakably insane to think about, and she doesn’t have the courage and probably never will but Marinette thinks she’s genuinely going to die if she doesn’t get closure—

“Okay,” she agrees at last, because it’s the only logical answer.

***

Adrien is the one who comes to find Marinette before she can go find him.

“Hey!” he calls from behind her.

In a quite frankly astonishing display of improvement, Marinette doesn’t scream or fall on her face, even if she does freeze for a good couple seconds too long.

“Uh… Marinette?” Adrien taps her shoulder. “I wanted to return the physics notes to you. You gave me your notebook from last time because I missed the class. Here.”

She takes the notes from him, movements stiff. A million words to say come piling from her throat, but they stick to the top of her mouth drily and none make it past her lips.

Adrien Agreste. Chat Noir. They’re the same person? How can they be the same person? Is it just a huge coincidence? Who is Chat Noir? Who am I, even?

Before she can work herself into more of a panic, Marinette gives him a forced smile, hugging her notebook to her chest. “Thanks!” she shrieks. “I gotta—I gotta run. See you around!”

She trips over air on her way out, face beetroot.

***

“Listen,” Tikki whispers to her, munching on her cookie as Marinette locks herself in a stall of the girls’ washroom. “You gotta do it. Just… just don’t think that he’s Adrien Agreste. I heard imagining people as potatoes helps with stage fright?”

Marinette lets out a distressed noise. “Stage fright isn’t my problem, though!”

“Adrien fright? If you ask me, it’s pretty similar. Anyway, just ask him if he’s had bubble tea recently or something! You don’t know until you try. It won’t be that bad. What’s the worst case scenario?”

“That you-know-who turns out to be you-know-who!”

“We did not decide on these codenames.”

“Yeah, but what if someone hears—”

Tikki interrupts her by giving her a little pinch. “Calm down, Marinette! It’ll be fine. Besides, is it really that big of a problem if it’s true?”

No, it isn’t. Marinette has thought long and hard about it last night, lying awake on her bed, unable to sleep because of the heat and turbulent thoughts and theories all mixing together. Would it be a bad thing, if Chat turned out to be Adrien? No—she could think of a thousand more worse people for Chat to be, and if she were to be perfectly honest, no better person than Adrien. But at the same time, it’s overwhelming in the strangest way: the sort that sends her heartbeat spiking, thoughts scattering, stomach turning in a not-quite-unpleasant way.

Marinette really doesn’t know what to think about it, and that’s the scariest part.

“Okay.” Tikki interrupts her train of thought. “We should probably get going before you’re late for class. If you hurry, you can probably ask Adrien about it before the bell goes off.”

Marinette steels her back. “Okay,” she grinds out with wavering determination. “Okay, I’m gonna do it.”

Tikki lets out a squeak of Attagirl! before diving back into her purse. Marinette marches out of the stall, down the hallway, and into the classroom.

She really hates the way her throat still closes up when she scans the room and her eyes land on Adrien. All of a sudden, she’s reverted to herself months ago, when her crush on him had reached its peak; when she’d been a jumble of frayed nerves and blabbering and hand motions violent enough to whack any bystander that wandered too close.

No, Marinette tells herself firmly. No freaking out. No stuttering. I’m past that.

“Adrien,” she calls, and he turns away from his conversation with Nino.

“Hey!” his smile is a thousand watts too bright. “We were just talking about you. Nino said he’s never tried boba as well.”

The word boba nearly has her choking on spit. “Cool,” Marinette manages out. “That’s very… cool.”

Nino’s eyebrows furrow. “You okay?”

“Fine! Th-that’s great you want to introduce Nino to boba as well! I’m glad to hear you liked the drink.”

Marinette’s well aware that she sounds like a buffering tape-recorder right now. She marches to her desk, sits down just as stiffly, and pinches herself on the arm, out of Adrien and Nino’s sight. Alya has yet to arrive—it’s now or never, Marinette knows. The longer she waits, the more nervous she’ll make herself, and the harder it’ll be. So…

“Adrien!” she blurts out again, voice too loud. Even Rose and Juleka leave their conversation briefly to glance at her.

He’s good-natured as ever when he turns to her, and Marinette is struck with another wave of trepidation. It’s all too sudden. It’s all too much. She takes a deep breath, mind turning to absolute mush, and somehow stammers out, “Have you gotten boba since that one time?”

She really can’t blame him for looking so confused at her question, but to Adrien’s credit, he regains his composure rather quickly. The bewilderment on his face quickly shifts to mild curiosity.

“Yeah,” he replies. “I actually went yesterday with a friend. Thank you for introducing me! I’ll probably go more often now if I find the time.”

Marinette’s mouth is dry. Her hands are sweaty. Her head feels like it’s going to explode. Her heart has moved to her throat and she’s positive that it’s going to stop beating any moment now.

“Oh.” It’s the only noise Marinette feels mentally capable of forming. Sentences are hard. Speaking is impossible. “Um, yesterday?”

“Yeah, it was pretty hot yesterday. I went to Thirstea, actually!” He scratches the back of his neck. “I mean, it’s the only boba shop I know at the moment so it doesn’t really mean anything, but… my friend who I went with really liked it too, so I think I’ll stick to Thirstea for now. Until I try all the flavours I want.”

Amidst her own confusion, Marinette somehow manages to think, if you wanted to try all the flavours you wanted why did you get durian again yesterday? It’s second nature: if the boy in front of her is Chat Noir—a fact that, despite the inconclusive results given by her venn diagram, is becoming more and more clear—then Marinette can’t help but want to tease him back.

Except if Adrien Agreste is Chat Noir and Chat Noir is Adrien… God. She’s just going in circles and getting nowhere closer to the final destination.

It doesn’t even hit Marinette that she hasn’t responded to Adrien and that’s why he’s staring at her so apprehensively. The shrill ringing of the bell startles all the class back into their seats, Adrien included, who shoots her a small smile before turning back around.

The rest of the period finds Marinette unable to pay the slightest bit attention. Mme. Bustier’s words travel in one ear, out the other, all muted static compared to the main problem at hand.

And a problem it is. She looks at Adrien’s golden head in front of her, imagining the flicker of black ears. If she reached down and mussed his hair up, it would look like Chat’s. They’re the same height too, to think of it. All the differences she had listed on her venn diagram seem to melt away, until Marinette is faced with one terrible, wonderful, conclusion.

***

She doesn’t confront Adrien about anything after the first period ends, nor does she at lunch, nor after. It’s too overwhelming to think of, but it hardly seems fair to keep him in the dark. When she asks Tikki to confirm at lunch, the only thing her kwami does is shrug with an indecipherable expression on her face—Marinette takes it as a verification.

But it’s a different story after school. By then, Marinette has made up her mind.

Her first stop is Thirstea. It’s not as sweltering as it were the day before, even if she has to wipe the sweat from her forehead after waiting fifteen minutes outside. The store isn’t as bustling now that Ladybug and Chat Noir aren’t there, so Marinette takes advantage of the peace to calm her thoughts. They have patrol in thirty minutes; she has thirty minutes to gather her thoughts and figure out how she’s going to come through with this. But is thirty minutes really going to help? She’s had the whole day alone to her thoughts, and, like it or not, she’s barely gotten anywhere.

When she finally gets her order—a fruit tea for herself, a durian smoothie for Chat Noir—Adrien Agreste—there’s only twenty three minutes to go.

Marinette transforms into Ladybug, hidden in an alley, and goes to wait for her partner to show up on the rooftop they agreed to. Then, once she’s reached the rooftop, she calls off her transformation.

The boba is still cold in her bag, so she wraps her hand around them to fend off the blistering heat from the sun. It’s uncomfortable, waiting like this, but physical discomfort is still better than working up a storm in her own thoughts, which Marinette is trying to distance herself from. They come in waves of stress, anxiousness, uncertainty, and fear. But she has to do this.

Her mood must’ve been evident enough for Tikki to feel, even though her kwami has slipped inside her purse to give her thoughts some space. She pokes her head out.

“Marinette,” Tikki says, a hint of concern in her tone. “You don’t have to do this now if you’re not ready, you know. Chat Noir will understand.”

Marinette, having resorted to biting her nails—she must be really nervous, because that’s a habit she’d gotten rid of years ago—shakes her head. “I can’t keep pushing it back. It’s one thing not revealing each other’s identities, but now that I know… I can’t just… not tell him. It’s not possibly fair, not when he’s waited for so long.”

“...are you happy that it’s Adrien?” This question is more tentative, quieter.

Marinette props her chin in her hands and stares at the skyline. Is she happy that it’s Adrien?

“Yeah,” she replies. “Yeah, I am.”

***

Chat Noir vaults over onto the roof, and he’s six minutes early. Marinette sees him before he sees her; she watches him look around for a couple of seconds, slightly confused.

She takes a deep breath and steps out of the shade of the door. “Chat Noir!” she calls.

He jumps around. “M’lady, you—”

His voice trails off. “M-marinette? I—uh, hi! I wasn’t expecting to see you here. I was actually going to find Ladybug but I might’ve gotten the wrong building! What—what, uh, are you doing up here?”

After a day of planning out the words to say, it’s rather funny how she can’t even form a semblance of the sentences she’s thought up.

It’s also a miracle in and of itself that she doesn’t stutter, panic, or go absolutely speechless. Even if her script lays lost and forgotten in the back of her head, Marinette says in a surprisingly steady voice, “I was actually waiting for you.”

Chat Noir doesn’t move from where he’s standing, so she heads towards him. “Did… Ladybug tell you I was going to be here?”

“Uhmh,” is the noise that makes its way out of Marinette’s mouth. She clears her throat and tries again. “I brought you boba because it’s hot today,” she explains. “I also wanted to talk to you.”

She sees it behind his eyes; questions, confusion, but most importantly, the beginning notes of a realization.

“Wait.” He doesn’t budge from his spot, eying her cautiously. “What do you want to talk about?”

“About the fact that you’re probably Adrien Agreste?”

Even the air, laden with the heat of the day, seems to still between them. Marinette looks up at him, and his reaction is the only confirmation she needs that she is indeed right.

Chat Noir’s reaction is less loud than she had expected. It’s shock, probably, the stage that Marinette has been stuck in for the good part of the day, because he still remains frozen. Then, in a shaky uncertain voice, he asks, “Ladybug?”

Her next breath escapes her in the form of a huff, a half-choked laugh. “We’re idiots.”

His lips lift into a wavering smile. “What.”

And then Marinette is laughing, because it’s so stupid. All the pent-up emotions come tumbling out uncontrollably and she’s laughing and laughing, doubling over and clutching at her stomach and nearly dropping her bag of their boba drinks.

Through her own giggles, she hears Chat mumble, “Oh my God,” and the way he says it makes everything all the more hilarious.

When Marinette finally gathers herself enough to straighten, she’s wiping tears from her eyes. Chat Noir is watching her, although his expression has softened into something that looks suspiciously close to fondness.

“Is this why you asked me about boba this morning?” he questions. “If I’d gone to get it with a friend?”

Marinette gives her eyes one last wipe. “Yeah. I just—when you ordered durian boba yesterday and all that you said—it was too suspicious for me to ignore.”

“Oh.” He tugs his hands through his hair—messy golden hair, how hadn’t she noticed how similar Chat and Adrien always were?—and lets out another groan. “Oh. I’m dumb.”

“You could’ve been any other person if I hadn’t been, well, me,” Marinette points out. “Tikki told me it’s due time, anyway. But yes, you’re dumb. So am I.”

“My identity got exposed because I ordered a durian smoothie?”

“Basically, yeah.”

“Oh my God.”

She’s beginning to see why Tikki had found it endlessly amusing watching her panic. Instead of further antagonizing Chat, Marinette reaches into her bag to take out his durian smoothie. She stuffs it into his arms, and he’s too confused to do anything but accept the drink and the straw it comes with.

“Don’t worry,” she reassures him before she can stop herself. “I won’t tell anyone that number one model Adrien Agreste runs around Paris in a leather catsuit. My lips are sealed.”

The moment the words leave Marineette’s mouth, she feels her face heat up. It’s one thing to tease him before, now it feels like she’s treading on the edge of a cliff with a long, long drop. He’s still her partner, but there’s another aspect that they will figure out—with time, undoubtedly—and now is too soon to push it so much.

To her relief, Chat Noir’s face lights up, and a much wider smile slips across his face. “I’m still in shock, you know,” he tells her. If that’s his in-shock voice, then Marinette is thoroughly impressed. “But thank you. My father might have a bone to pick with this outfit if he ever found out.”

Relief is cool against the heat. “Your father won’t be the only one with the bone to pick with you,” she replies. “The bell is quite a… bold statement.”

He laughs once more. “I happen to like the bell the best, so I don’t know what your problem is.”

He has no business to smile so brightly like that, Marinette thinks to herself. In front of her is the boy she’s turned down countless times—the same one she would wax lyrical to Tikki every night before bed. God, what a coincidence. Or really, what a stroke of luck.

She’s jolted from her thoughts when Chat stabs his straw into his durian smoothie with a loud pop.

“Do you want to talk?” Marinette offers. “Somewhere shadier, that is? You probably have a lot of questions. I know I do.”

Chat nods. “Yeah. Yeah, that would work.”

She starts towards the small door on the rooftop, then stops when she realizes that Chat hasn’t been following her. Instead, his gaze is fixed thoughtfully on his drink, like he’s contemplating something important.

“Chat?” Marinette prompts. “Hey, are you okay?”

Then his face brightens. “I’m taro-bly sorry,” he says. “I just got distracted because you’re such a cu-tea.”

Marinette’s jaw drops open. It’s not that she’s particularly surprised by the pun, given his penchant for dropping them at the most terrible (taro-ble?) of moments, but she had half the mind to believe she’d permanently shocked the humour out of Chat Noir. Moreover, the fact that it’s Adrien Agreste saying these so casually is still new to her.

The grin he gives her is absolutely shit-eating, yet somehow, it works perfectly in her mind on Chat’s face as it does on Adrien’s. It also snaps her out of her reverie.

“Now my head is going to explode,” Marinette grumbles. “C’mon, cat-boy. We have a lot to discuss.”

He catches up with her with a quick jog, still slurping out of his boba. “I’m glad it’s you,” he tells her when they fall side-by-side. “In case you didn’t know.”

Marinette hides her grin behind her own drink, but she thinks Chat catches it nonetheless. “Me too,” she tells him. “Even if you have terrible taste in boba.”

“We wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have terrible taste,” he points out, and they both share a laugh.

Notes: Here’s my fics masterlist!

#miraculous ladybug #adrienette #ladynoir #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #ladybug #chat noir #this was ridiculously long holy crap #identity reveal #boba reveal #its been a while kids #mlb fic #my writing

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cherrynojutsu · 3 years ago

Text

Title: Like Gold

Summary: Sasuke grapples with love and intimacy regarding his developing relationship with Sakura after returning to the village from his journey of redemption. Kind of a character study on Sasuke handling an intimate relationship after dealing with PTSD and survivor’s guilt in solitude for so long. Blank period, canon-compliant, Sasuke-centric, lots of fluff and pining, slowly becomes a smut fest with feelings.

Disclaimer: I did not write Naruto. This is a fan-made piece solely created for entertainment purposes.

Rating: M (eventual nsfw-ness)

AO3 Link - FF.net Link - includes beginning/ending author's notes

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Chapter 4/?: Soothe

Sasuke arrives outside her building shortly before seven in the morning, an ubiquitous aubade sung by birds, polished and practiced for many years, lilting into his ears along the way. The village for the most part is still slowly awakening from its slumber; no merchants in the streets yet, and he only passes a few people here and there as light slowly seeps higher into the sky.

He carefully pushes open the glass door of the exterior portion of her complex, making sure to keep it quiet in case her neighbors are still asleep. As he goes up the stairs, he notices that all of the downstairs tenants’ lights are on, emanating from beneath the trio of entryways. Once he reaches the upper landing, he sees that Sakura’s light is on, too, though her other two neighbors' are not.

The doors of each unit are all painted different colors. Hers is sage green; he hadn’t been able to discern that previously, with the desaturation that night brings.

He's wondering if maybe he should knock to let her know he’s here, but then she emerges a few minutes early, beautiful and bright-eyed and full of life, pale yellow sunshine coating her from the large window with diamond patterning behind him.

She seems pretty awake already; she must be an early riser. She's carrying her tote bag again, and today she wears a dark skirt with a red top, along with a familiar pair of knee-high sandals. She's also wearing a smile, directed upwards at him.

"Good morning, Sasuke-kun," she acknowledges him softly, looking very happy to see him.

"...Morning." He keeps his voice low, because it is still a little hoarse. He tries to memorize her eyes again in the span of seconds before she turns to lock her door behind her.

It's 6:58 by the time they're out the glass door, her leading the way. They take the main road west a few blocks before turning to go north, this time. There are several more buildings that appear residential on her street. One of them has vines creeping up the sides, starting to bud after the warmer spring weather. He notes there is also a bakery on the corner, not open yet, but one that seems like the kind to also sell confections. He wonders if that factored into her apartment selection at all; he remembers she has a sweet tooth.

It is an easy silence they share on the walk there, bird calls lulling in as background noise again. There are more of them now, a more layered song than earlier, with a wider variety of voices filtering in and out.

Sakura leads them to a very small tea shop within five minutes of the hospital; it is quaint and simple, definitely not modern. It is also quite small, with only four or so small tables situated by windows, looking out towards the street. The entire establishment utilizes a spread of cinnamon-colored wood for its surfaces; floors, counters, and the shelving in the back, laden with neatly-labeled teas of several varieties in glass jars. He assumes the larger jars are store stock, with the smaller ones higher up on the shelves being available for purchase for use at home, if one decides they like a particular flavor enough.

He finds he likes the atmosphere. He figured he would. It's not a formal place, but rather one where you retrieve what you've ordered from the counter and can choose whether to stay or go. He supposes that makes sense; it’s closer to the busier part of the village. There appears to be a small area to the left of the counter where one can add cream, sugar, lemon, or honey, though he knows he won't. He vaguely remembers that she used to take lemon and sugar in her tea, and possibly cream, depending on the brew. Honey seems like something Sakura would like, too, now that he’s thinking about it.

He scans the menu briefly upon entering before deciding something hot with caffeine would probably be best. Sencha green tea is usually what he gravitates toward. He also enjoys black tea during cooler weather, and jasmine occasionally, though not often; it had been his mother’s favorite.

Once he orders, he says, "Hers, too," and glances back towards Sakura expectantly. She looks at him with a blush that rivals the color of her hair when she realizes he's offering to pay for hers.

"Oh! Um, lavender matcha. Hot, please."

His lips quirk upwards a little, because that is possibly the most Sakura thing she could have ordered.

It doesn’t take very long until it’s ready, as they’re not busy; they are the only ones there, thus far. He takes a sip while idling by the end of the counter as he watches her add honey and cream into hers, stirring carefully. It is one of the better blends of sencha he’s had, aside from a particular place nestled on the edge of the Land of Mountains, where he’s pretty sure the elderly woman who ran the place harvested the tea straight from her private garden. He had pilgrimaged there a total of five times on his journey, months scattered like the seasons in between.

It was an odd teahouse, more formal than this one and off the beaten path, not near any major landmarks, nor plotted on any map he’d seen before or after. The lady, who had wizened eyes of a crystal clear blue, slightly lighter in hue than Naruto’s, had served the brews in eclectic and sometimes chipped mugs and teacups, from which he had assumed after multiple visits must be a fairly vast collection. The china was different every time, but he had liked the tea itself so much he kept coming back, if he was anywhere near the area. Twice he had been the only customer there, the first two visits occurring during early morning hours, and there was something extremely cathartic about sitting at the table in the far corner, looking out the window as the sun rose higher in the sky until it no longer skimmed the horizon and the mountains in the distance.

The other three visits had occurred during the afternoon, so there had been at least one or two other people present, at those times. He had noticed that third time that other patrons were served out of much different teacups than he was; he had secretly suspected, after that, that the woman tried to match the stoneware from her collection to whatever she saw in her patrons.

There had been a father sitting with his daughter, who had looked to be around six or seven, on his third visit. The father’s teacup had been robust, solid with carved detail that appeared to have been created with something like a miniature chisel, and an earthenware glaze mix of green and russet, strangely looking similar to the color of seaweed. The daughter’s had been a smaller cup, dainty finery of opalescent sky blue, with a similar mother of pearl finish coating the inside. The girl had quickly drained her glass once she realized the inside was pretty, too; she had spent the rest of the time there in awe of its beauty, turning it in the light as her father watched with soft eyes, enjoying his own cup more slowly. Sasuke had thought it must have been an expensive teacup, not necessarily what you’d typically give a child that young, but the girl hadn’t chipped or broken it. Instead, she had been enamored by its beautiful finish, even more enthralled with the inside than she had been with the outside, and had handled it with great care.

He never saw the same cup twice, for him or any other customer there. He had hoped by the third and fourth time that this was a good sign, that it meant progress. Once he figured it out, he wished he’d examined the first two cups, near five months apart, with greater care; he had thought there might have been a lesson there he had missed. His first teacup, from what he remembered, had been rather plain: rounded, no handle, slightly hard to grip, a shiny black glaze with a burnt orange rim. The second time, he’d been served the sencha in another black piece of china, though this one must have been fired differently; there was no glaze at the very bottom of the outer portion of the vessel, bare toasted clay in an oatmeal color. Carved designs on the outer portion of the piece had nearly melted glaze off it, allowing for the viewer to see the true color of the clay body beneath, creating an effect of brushstrokes in the third dimension, rippling out of the darkness. That one had had a chip at the top, but it hadn’t compromised the structural integrity of the piece, and was easily avoided simply by sipping from the undamaged side.

The third cup had taken him off guard in its uniqueness, and is what had caused him to look to the girl and her father. He had analyzed theirs, and then his own cup closely for a long time that day, thinking. Still no handle, but it had been a bit more narrow, as well as taller, easier to grip. The glaze design was fascinating, a thick glossy black base coat overlaid with a strange dissolving mixture of sapphire and indigo. It had reminded him of a night sky in the middle of nowhere, tiny amounts of galaxy blues and violets barely visible to the naked eye in their sheer scope and complexity. The glaze itself also only covered around two thirds of the vessel, at an asymmetrical angle, with the remaining half left unglazed, as if it hadn’t dripped down to be fully covered yet because the artist had liked the way it looked as is.

When he went back for a fourth cup several months later, the lady had given him an entirely too knowing look, and served his tea in a somewhat misshapen mug, this time with a handle. The handle was awkward, too small, and slightly malformed; the mug’s overall shape seemed as though it may have been an artist’s first attempt, shoddily trimmed and uneven in many places. The glaze design itself was mesmerizing, though, something like a gradient this time, shifting from splattering black to sepia to a lighter color, akin to the inside of a water chestnut. It was almost as if the cup had been constructed by a beginner and then drenched in magisterial color by a master. The sencha had tasted just as good from that cup as it had from any of the others, despite the challenge of grasping it with any semblance of comfort.

The last cup had been only a few months ago: well-designed, with a near perfect handle, easy to hold. The foot and interior of the mug was a smoky gray, well-trimmed, but the exterior body of it was a white raku crackle, twisting patterns of scale-like ivory and black outlines, small dots sprinkled in between where the unevenness of the heat must have interfered in the firing process.

When he reached the very bottom of the vessel, having finished his tea, it had been gilded gold, metallic and astonishingly bright, catching the light of the sun coming through the farthest window, where he sat in the corner alone.

He had sat there staring at it for the better portion of an afternoon. It was a peculiar artistic choice.

This sencha is good, too, he thinks as he takes another sip, here with Sakura, also at a table in the farthest corner, looking out another window. Herbaceous, earthy, and light, and in a cup that matches hers. It feels cleansing on his sore throat, corrosion, not too hot but not lukewarm, either; a rather perfect medium between mellow and astringent. It is a nice way to greet the break of day.

“Thank you, Sasuke-kun," she murmurs, after they’ve been seated for a few seconds.

He nods; she’s still flushed as she says it. He can see it better now, in the bright light of the window. He takes another sip, and continues to enjoy looking at her.

“How is yours?” She asks.

“...I like it.” He considers his next words. “You didn’t add lemon.”

Her lips quirk upward, dimple appearing. “It doesn’t go the best with the lavender. They only have this kind on hand for the springtime.” She pauses, then adds, “I still put lemon in pretty much all my tea, otherwise.”

Sasuke inclines his head again, and she takes another sip.

They sit there for a while in a comfortable silence, watching more of the village wake up and people pass by from the window, on their way to work and other responsibilities. There are two small birds across the street, perched on the awning over an apartment building’s entrance. Finches, he deduces by their plumage and size. Perhaps they are looking for a mixture of materials with which to build a nest.

“It’s a good place to just sit and watch, in the morning,” Sakura mentions after a while, still looking out the window contentedly.

“...Is that your favorite thing about it?”

She meets his eyes, then, and smiles. “One of them.”

He looks at her expectantly, so she continues. “The tea itself is good. It’s close to the hospital, and I like... “ Her voice trails off, and she glances over at the station where she added cream and honey, lips still turned upwards. “I like that they don’t overfill the cup; it makes it easier to add what it needs.”

A ghost of a smile overtakes him. Practical, as always.

Sasuke finds himself contemplating what kind of teacup the elderly lady would give Sakura, if he took her there.

XXX

"You're a little on the skinny side for your height, now," Sakura notes as she writes down his information on the form he's given her, stepping off the scale; 163 pounds. "Not unhealthy, necessarily, but you should try to put on some weight."

They are at the hospital, in an exam room this time instead of her office. Her voice has shifted to something more professional, and Sasuke knows he is now with Sakura the clinician, though her affection is still an undercurrent in the way she's looking at him carefully with warm eyes. She’s already measured his height, and has his paperwork from his last physical to compare it to; apparently he’s grown another two inches since then.

He hopes he’s done growing, in that regard. It doesn’t seem likely that she’ll grow any taller; she’s twenty now, and they already have a considerable height difference. He doesn’t know how tall she is, exactly. He must hover over her by at least six or seven inches.

"Okay," He responds, because he trusts her judgment. Being away and mulling on his failures never gave him much of an appetite. Being back in Konoha hasn't much either, so far, but he can try. “How much?”

She looks somewhat surprised that he asked. “160 to 196 pounds is considered a normal range for six feet; I’d start with ten, and then evaluate from there.”

He nods. Her eyes linger on him, as if she’s contemplating saying something more. When she turns to set down her clipboard and grab the cuff typically used to measure blood pressure, he thinks she must have decided against it, whatever it was. He goes to sit in the patient’s chair, familiar with the routine at this point. He's gotten a physical near every year of his life that he’s spent in Konoha.

She sits on the wheeled chair that’s next to the desk, rolling it closer to him. He extends his right arm, and as she carefully adjusts the cuff, she tells him, tone casual, “You’ve got an inch on Naruto, now.”

There is a very stupid and juvenile part of him that takes immense satisfaction in this news, but she doesn’t look like she’s finished speaking yet. He waits for the rest.

She smiles apologetically. “He’s got about fifteen pounds on you, though. There’s some motivation for you.”

He pins her with a pointed stare, unimpressed but also a little amused. Motivation, indeed.

Her expression turns somewhat guilty, now. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. I did his about a month ago; he came back from a mission with a cracked rib, and it needed to be updated.”

She starts increasing the pressure, and he suddenly becomes aware that she is closer to him than before, by the nature of the operation of the equipment. He had become aware of her physical proximity at roughly this point in the exam the last time, too.

He’s thankful it doesn’t seem to affect his blood pressure. “105 over 70; good,” she concludes, before reaching to remove the cuff from his arm. Her fingertips make brief contact with his skin, this time, and he has to fight an urge to shiver, even though they’re warm.

She picks up her pen to input this information in the appropriate slot, then sets it aside and puts away the cuff. When she turns back to him, she says, “Heart rate is next. Hold out your wrist, please.”

He holds out his right arm again, letting his elbow rest on the surface of the desk this time. Both of her hands come to grip his single one, lightly and carefully feeling for his pulse. He tries to hold very still, and to not think about how soft her hands are. He distracts himself by preoccupying his gaze with the clock on the wall behind her. It feels like a very long thirty seconds, though he knows by watching the hand tick that it’s actually not.

She doesn’t vocalize what the number is, just removes her hands finally and reaches for the pen to fill it in on the paper. He wonders if it was elevated.

“Heart and lungs next.” She reaches for the stethoscope, positioning it in her ears before leaning in to listen to his heart first, over his shirt. He looks to the ceiling.

It doesn’t take very long. “Sounds good. Lungs, next.” She gets up and comes around the chair slightly behind him. He shifts to pull the back portion of his shirt up to his shoulder; he remembers this from the last exam, too.

“It’ll be cold; I’m sorry,” she warns gently, before pressing the instrument to his back. She is nothing but professional as she asks him to take a few deep breaths. Routine, and very careful not to touch his skin with anything but the diaphragm of the stethoscope, cool metal.

It feels… different than the last exam. He had been a little on edge during this part, then, too, even though she was nothing but professional then, as well.

He is just… very aware that she is behind him, and that his shirt is pulled up, and she’s listening to him breathe and can see the skin of his back. And that he's kissed her.

The coolness slips away after a short amount of time. “Lung function sounds good.” He pulls his shirt back into place, feeling a faint sense of relief as he does so. She goes back to document her findings on the paperwork.

She then lays the stethoscope back in its appropriate place. Scanning the page, she asks, “Any issues with your hearing?”

“Not that I’m aware,” Sasuke responds. She dips her head in acknowledgement, filling in that box with what he assumes is non-applicable.

“Sense of smell?”

He recalls raspberries and antiseptic. “No.” She fills another box.

“Sinus or lymph node issues?”

He shakes his head.

“I’m assuming you’ve used the Sharingan and Rinnegan since last time, so I’ll look at your eyes towards the end.”

He nods, and she reaches for a light instrument to use to look at his throat, as well as one of the wooden sticks from a glass jar in the corner. “Throat next,” she says, flicking the light on.

He tries not to furrow his brow. He wasn't looking forward to this part.

He opens his mouth for the wood, reedlike and firm against his tongue, and then she’s shining the light in and frowning.

“Say ah, please.”

He complies, feeling quite undignified, though he knows it’s necessary and just part of her job. She removes the stick after a second, setting the flashlight instrument aside, and he closes his mouth.

"Teeth and gums look good, and your tonsils look fine, but your throat looks a little raw. Have you been sick recently?"

"Yes." It is technically the truth, though not in a viral sense.

She looks thoughtful as she’s making a note on her clipboard. “Within the past week?”

He nods. She must see him from the corner of her eye, because then she asks, while still writing, “Any other symptoms? Cough? Does it feel sore?”

“No.” He pauses, then clarifies. “No cough. A little sore. Not bad.”

Verdant eyes flick up to him for a long moment. He feels somewhat guilty; even if he knows the truth, she might be thinking right now that he’s been irresponsible, that he may have given her an illness via kissing.

She breaks eye contact eventually, and sets the pen down, standing to open the uppermost cupboard door in the exam room. His brow furrows, until she’s pulling down a small box that he sees has cough drops in them.

“We only have mixed berry; they’ll be kind of sweet, but it should help. Take a few for later, and put one in now, please.”

Sasuke blinks, and then takes a handful. He puts all but one in his pocket, and then unwraps the one left in his hand, putting it in his mouth, as she asked.

She arches to put the box back in the cupboard, and he forces himself to look elsewhere.

It does feel good on his throat, soothing. “...Thank you,” he says after a few more seconds, as she makes another note on his form.

“You’re welcome,” she replies. Then, back to clinical Sakura. “Any other issues? Abdominal, neurological?”

“No.”

She flips the page. “Infectious disease screening questions are next. Obviously you’ve traveled outside the village in the past 21 days, but have you been outside of Fire Country in that time?”

He thinks. “Rain, about thirteen days ago. Wind, 19 days ago.”

Sakura inclines her head, and writes in the information. He notices she keeps her eyes trained on the questionnaire now. “Have you, to your knowledge, had close contact with a person with measles, mumps, or chickenpox in that time period?”

“No.” She checks the 'no' box.

“Have you, to your knowledge, had close contact with a person or source in that time period for any of the following: botulism, diphtheria, E. coli, encephalitis, hemorrhagic fever, hepatitis, influenza, listeriosis, malaria, meningitis, pneumonia, rabies, severe acute respiratory syndrome, smallpox, or yellow fever?”

“No.” He watches her check several 'no' boxes.

“Have you, to your knowledge, had close contact with a person in that time period who may have exposed you to any sexually transmitted infections?”

He’s glad she’s looking at the paper still, even if that answer is obvious. “No.” She checks several more 'no' boxes.

“And you didn’t have a fever earlier.” She checks another 'no' box. “And sore throat, but no shortness of breath at any point?”

“No.”

“Vomiting or diarrhea?”

“...Vomiting, yes,” he answers honestly. “No to the second.”

She nods, as if she knew that already from looking at his throat. She probably did. She’s good at what she does.

“Any kind of rash?”

“No.”

That’s the last question on the page, so she turns to the next one.

“Next is bloodwork. We’ll do a cholesterol screening, in regards to heart health, and then we’ll also do a general workup and run it for any infectious diseases. I don’t think we’ll find anything if it’s just the vomiting and resulting sore throat, but better safe than sorry.”

She then starts getting out the necessary supplies with which to get a blood sample. It doesn’t take very long; he holds out his right arm again, and Sakura finds the vein easily. “You’ll feel a pinch.” Within sixty seconds it’s over, and she’s pressing and holding the cotton to the dot of red before taping over it, a small pressure dressing.

“Leave that on for a few hours, please,” she advises, and he nods to indicate that he will. She makes quick work of labeling the blood sample, and sets it aside with the clipboard, he assumes for the end of the appointment.

She scribbles in a few more comments on the sheet, he assumes for whoever is running the tests. “Okay, just eyes and arm left. We’ll do eyes first. Any deterioration in vision that you’ve noticed?”

“No.”

“Good. I’ll shine the light to check your pupils quick before I use chakra to look at them.” She grabs a different light tool, a penlight, and turns it on, before looking at him expectantly.

He blinks, curious what she’s waiting for, and then she asks softly, “Could you move your hair out of the way, please?”

Oh. He complies, and she shines the light in one eye, moving it slightly and monitoring the progress. She then does the same to his Rinnegan.

“Reactivity is good; no signs of defect.” She sets the penlight back where it belongs, then makes a note in his paperwork indicating that. Then she’s shifting her chair a tiny bit closer, so she can reach his eyes with her hands.

“Do you have a preference, which one I start with?” She asks. He shakes his head. “Okay; I’ll check the right eye first.” She reaches out with her left hand, pressing her thumb above his eye over his eyebrow, and her other four fingers lightly to his temple, just next to his eye socket.

Sasuke tries not to dwell on how close she is again as green chakra drizzles into his ocular system; he keeps his vision trained forward, as he knows he’s supposed to as she examines. There is a freckle on her right ear that he remembers focusing on, the last time; he does this time, too.

Around thirty seconds passes, before she informs him, “I’m going to funnel some chakra into the retina and optic nerve here; there’s some damage.”

He had suspected there might be, though his vision has not suffered; mostly there was just a bit of pain, sometimes. He hasn’t overworked it by any means, but he hasn’t completely abstained from using it since he’d last been healed by her, either. “Okay.”

The flow of her chakra works its way deeper, more of it now. This part has always relaxed him; her chakra really is quite calming, careful and gentle, threading its way behind his eye and wrapping around the nerve.

She works for about five minutes before the chakra starts to let up.

“...There. That should be a little better,” she says before lifting her hand from his right. “Look up, down, please.”

He complies.

“Left to right, now.” He does. “Good. Does it feel okay?”

He nods, meeting her eyes again finally. It feels stronger, no pain. He decides to verbalize that, even though he’s already nodded. “It’s better. Thank you.”

She smiles at him. “Good.” Then she’s detailing whatever she’s supposed to detail in the paperwork, before setting the pen down again.

“Left eye now.”

She repeats the process, frowning again. “There’s some damage here, too. I’ll fix it.”

This time, it takes longer; not quite ten minutes, but fairly close. He tries to focus on the wall behind her.

He had asked her once, when she was healing him following the war, if it used a lot of chakra. She had said not necessarily, but it depended on the level of damage. She also told him that it was moreso a delicate process, requiring careful manipulation, so he has tried not to talk during any healing sessions since.

When her hand finally pulls away, he’s gotten so used to the contact that it feels like a loss.

“Look up, down, please,” she requests again. Then left to right.

“Function looks good. How does it feel?”

“Better. Thank you.”

She smiles at him gently, just Sakura again for a second, before turning back to the form to finish the optical section.

Then, she turns the page. “Arm is last. Could you please roll up your sleeve to your shoulder?” He grabs his empty left sleeve with his right arm and starts shifting it upwards, rolling it so that it stays put once it’s to the top.

She touches the end of what’s left of the limb with careful fingers, soft but steady on marred skin and scar tissue. “I’ll look with chakra in a second, but any redness that you’ve noticed?”

“No.” He shifts his gaze forward, because her fingertips really are softer than he remembers.

“Any areas that occasionally feel warmer than is typical?”

He shakes his head.

“Swelling of any kind?”

“No.”

“Have you been stretching it as instructed?”

He meets her eyes, then. “Yes.” He wants her to know he listens to her recommendations.

Soft jade, and she’s smiling again. She moves her hands away momentarily, and grabs the clipboard with the papers, checking several boxes as he has indicated. He looks back forward.

“Any phantom limb pain?”

“Sometimes.”

“Residual limb pain?”

“...Sometimes.”

Her gaze flicks upward. “If you had to rate it on a scale, one being hardly anything and ten being the worst?”

“...Usually two or three.” He pauses, and she waits. “...Sometimes four or five.”

“How often, for the worst of it?”

He thinks. “Maybe twice or three times a month.” It’s a bit more often than that, but not by a lot.

She notes it on the paper; that must be a normal range. “Alright. I’ll check with chakra, now.” Her fingers come back to his stump, touching more firmly now. Green chakra starts to thread its way in.

Sakura frowns, after a second. “Nerve endings are a little inflamed. I’ll fix it.” The flow of her chakra increases, and he feels almost instant relief; he supposes it still hurt, faintly. Maybe he just got used to it. “Has it hurt in the last day or so?”

“...Late last night.”

She nods, as if that makes sense. “It won’t take too long. Maybe five minutes.”

He inclines his head just barely, not wanting to move while she’s working.

“You should let me know if it hurts again,” she suggests quietly, after a moment. “It doesn’t take much to fix.”

“...Okay.”

There is a comfortable silence for a few minutes as she works. He feels the chakra start to dilute a little towards the end of it.

“I’m going to stop my chakra and manually massage the tissue, now. It should help prolong the effect.”

He feels her chakra dissipate. She has done this to him before, throughout the rehabilitation process following the war; it was more important then, she’d said, to develop tolerance to touch and pressure of the residual limb. It had hurt, the first few times, but later in the healing process, he had secretly enjoyed it; it made it hurt much less, and the process itself felt… nice.

He had privately wondered what it would feel like on his back.

It elicits the same response now, too, kneading fingertips gradually increasing pressure to access deeper tissue, helping to work away pain that has lived there for a while.

"You wear your hair differently now," she comments after an incredibly nice period of time, still pressing tenderly in little circles, though the pressure is starting to taper off now, since they’re getting towards the end of five minutes; that was roughly the time she would do back then. Since there’s no chakra anymore, it must require less of her concentration.

He realizes he hasn’t shifted his hair back into place yet, then. He takes a moment, then responds quietly, furtively, "Most people dislike looking at the Rinnegan."

She doesn’t respond right away; just finishes massaging the end of his stump, then removes her hands to pick up her pen.

"Not me," she murmurs softly as she makes her final notations.

His heart flips in his chest, and he feels his face grow warm. He's glad she's focusing on the forms, so she can't see the effect her words have had.

The lozenge has dissolved fully, and his throat isn't as sore.

XXX

Sasuke goes to the Hokage’s office, after, to see if the dobe is there. He has some time to kill before lunch, and he wants to take him up on his offer to spar at some point, given that his eyes are freshly healed. Now that he knows Sakura’s schedule for the next few days, he can fill the rest of his time with whatever else. He’ll see her tomorrow at four, at the hospital, and then at Ichiraku’s on Saturday, and then for a bit after, too; they still need to confirm an actual time for that with Naruto and Kakashi. He assumes Sunday and Monday must be her days off. If they’re not, she works too much. He’s going to ask her tomorrow, he thinks.

Oddly, he finds only Kakashi in his office.

“Ah, Sasuke. Good morning,” he greets as he walks through the doors.

“...Morning.”

The copy ninja sizes him up with a single eye for a long moment, as if considering what to ask him. Sasuke braces himself.

"You got your physical done."

Sakura had said after the bloodwork was complete, she’d drop off the paperwork for him. "...I did."

"It went well, I assume."

"...It did."

"Wonderful," he says quietly, sounding pensive.

There is a very long pause.

“And the date, with Sakura this morning, before that? That went well, also?”

Sasuke deliberates. There is no teasing lilt to his old sensei's voice this time, just genuine curiosity, so he answers honestly, even though his neck warms and he doesn’t quite appreciate being spied on. “...It did.”

Kakashi gives him one of the widest and most genuine smiles he has ever seen him wear, beneath the mask.

“Wonderful,” the copy ninja says again, this time teeming clearly with pride and meaning.

“...Yeah.” Sasuke agrees, looking anywhere but at him.

Kakashi shuffles a few papers around his desk, and starts talking again, as if Sasuke has not just admitted to something he’s sure their sensei had suspicions about for the better portion of eight years. “Well, Naruto’s not here; I’m assuming that’s who you were looking for. Hinata’s leaving for a mission later today, around one, so I gave him the day off. I kind of assumed he’d use the opportunity to seek you out for a spar in the afternoon, after she leaves. He was going on about it yesterday, along with a Team Seven dinner on Saturday night; sounds like that will be at six.”

Sasuke just blinks, gears turning still; the scroll from yesterday is still on the desk, so he's not sure why he'd grant Naruto another day off so easily.

Kakashi further clarifies, smile shifting into something more sly. “I wouldn’t go over there before a little after one, if I were you.”

His first thought is oh, and he feels rather stupid. His next thought is gross. His old sensei is grinning, as if his reaction amuses him; he must have made some kind of face that belayed his internal thought process.

“Ah, love requited and besotten newlyweds. What a time." Sasuke's neck burns again, because he realizes after a second that the ‘love requited' portion of that is referring to Sakura and himself. Kakashi's moving on, though. "Anyway, now that I’ve given you too much information…” His voice trails off, and he looks at the intricate scroll tucked away at the table beside his desk, where Naruto usually sits. “If you’re not busy and want something to do until lunch, you could take a look at this scroll for me, since Naruto won’t be getting to it today.” He appears to be thinking, then adds. “For all his progress, he can still be less than perceptive, in certain instances. Your assistance could be invaluable, since I’m occupied with other tasks at the moment.”

Sasuke ponders for a bit; he has already read a good portion of the way through his books, and it’ll be a few hours before he needs to eat. It's not lost on him that this involves a level of trust in him on Kakashi's part, as whatever is in the scroll is likely not public knowledge.

He decides it can’t hurt, though he hopes he doesn’t get asked any more questions about Sakura. He makes his way to take Naruto’s seat, opening up the scroll.

He stares at it long and hard, rolling it out on the table to examine it more closely. Kakashi wordlessly grabs the stapler on his desk and sets it on the top end of the parchment, to hold it in place as he further unravels it. It appears to be a cipher, and quite a complicated one.

“...You think Naruto’s going to be able to crack this?” Sasuke questions incredulously, glancing towards his old sensei with his brows furrowed in doubt. His eyes catch as he does so on the framed photograph sitting on his desk; from this angle, the side instead of the front, he can now see that it’s their original Team Seven photo. He hasn't seen it in a long time.

Kakashi chuckles, not looking up from his paperwork. “Not at all, which is why I was helping him with it yesterday. It’s good practice for him, though, and at the very least, it does keep him busy when I don't have anything else for him to do.”

XXX

Sasuke ambles back to his apartment around noon. He made some progress on the cipher, enough that Kakashi said Naruto might actually be able to take it from there. It feels good to be of use.

It also feels good to have something to give the idiot shit over, when he goes to visit him later.

He empties the cough drops from his pocket into one of the cups he bought yesterday, and pops another one into his mouth before he starts getting out ingredients to cook. It feels good on his throat, menthol pleasantly numbing despite the slightly sweet taste. He pours a hefty amount of rice into a pot to start boiling, and then begins slicing carrots and scallions and mushrooms for takikomi gohan. It takes a while to slice with one arm, as holding the vegetables in place with one hand is a challenge, but he manages by summoning a clone. Once he’s done, he slips them in a pan with some salt and dashi stock. He also adds frozen peas before covering it with the lid to simmer.

Once that’s going, he washes his hand, then folds the comforter he had washed and left out to dry this morning, ultimately storing it in the closet. He stirs the vegetable mixture occasionally, after, reading more of his book while he waits for the rice to finish. The one about kenjutsu is more interesting than he thought it would be. He might finish it by the time he sees Sakura tomorrow.

He really hopes he can walk her home again; he hadn’t gotten a chance to kiss her today. She might not want him to, if she thinks he's sick, but somehow he suspects she likely understood it wasn't actual illness. She's good at what she does, and smart.

It’s a simple but savory lunch, a larger portion than he’s accustomed to. He eats all of it, albeit slowly, as he reads.

Uncannily, an abrupt and earsplitting knocking erupts on his door as he puts the last bite in his mouth to chew.

“TEME! Open up!” More incessant knocking. “I’m fucking bored, and Kakashi-sensei gave me the day off! Let’s spar!”

Sasuke rolls his eyes and closes his book before standing to rinse his dish, setting it in the sink to wash later, along with the pot and pan already rinsed and stacked there.

“Alright, dobe. You don’t need to bust down my door.”

He grabs another cough drop and removes the tape and cotton from his arm before he goes. It’s a little tender, but the blood has clotted by now.

#naruto #sasusaku #ssfanfiction #cherry writes #like gold #fanfiction #this timely update brought to you by my pure unadulterated spite for studio pierrot

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hanoella · 3 years ago

Text

Affettuoso- With Feeling (Part 2)

Pairing: Bucky x Pianist!Reader

Set after the events of TFATWS: In an effort to start over and make a home in Louisiana, Bucky meets a friend of Sam’s who ends up being his landlord. With only a driveway to separate them, he finds that he’s not the only one looking for a fresh start.

Series tags/warnings: Slow Burn, Eventual Bucky x Reader, Mentions of Domestic Abuse, Canon Level Violence

Part 2 Word Count: 3.5k

Read Part 1; Read Part 3

Autumn

A few days passed and the temperature had started dropping to one appropriate to fall. Each morning, Bucky had gotten up to exercise. And each morning, he opened his curtains to see that the house across from him remained unchanged. Lights that never turned off. No noise whatsoever. If it weren’t for your car in the driveway, he would’ve thought that no one lived there.

On his runs, he was able to see various things that needed fixing, like a fallen tree that was slightly in the way of a path or a pothole in the driveway he could patch. This morning though, instead of his run, he decided he was going to look around the back of the house, which was fenced off into a yard. From the gate, Bucky could see an old in-ground fire pit in the middle of the yard, closer to the screened in patio of the house than the far end of the yard, where the grass was overgrown- he would have to get on that.

The sound of a vehicle crunching on the gravel driveway caught Bucky’s attention. He walked from the side gate to the front porch where a man in a postal worker’s uniform was straining to get a large box out of the truck. Jogging over, he helped the older man set it down on the ground.

“Phew, thank you kindly sir,” the older man huffed as he took his hat off and wiped the sweat off of his forehead.

After taking a few moments to catch his breath, he walked around the side of the mail truck to grab a tablet from the front seat.

“Can you sign for this package?” He asked as he handed the tablet over to Bucky.

“Uh, sure.”

As he was signing, you came out the front door with a bottle of water in your hand. Bounding down the steps, you handed the cold water to the postal worker.

“Sorry, I would’ve been out earlier but I saw that you were working so hard, so I went back to grab a water for you.”

Bucky handed the tablet back as the older man thanked you.

“I appreciate it, ma’am. Do ya'll need help getting this inside?”

You looked at Bucky who shook his head.

“I think we’ve got it from here.” He said.

“Okay folks. Have a nice day.”

The postal worker turned around and got back in his truck. As the car started to roll forward, he lowered the window and waved while saying,

“It’s nice to see a kind young couple move into this area!”

With the truck halfway down the driveway, there was no chance to correct him. You looked at Bucky, mouth slightly ajar before shrugging it off with a small laugh. He chuckled as he awkwardly scratched the back of his head.

“He seems like a sweet guy.” You said as you watched the truck disappear behind the trees.

“Yeah.”

You stood there for a moment in silence before you spoke.

“So…”

“I’ll help you bring this in.”

“Okay, great, because there was no chance I was going to get this in by myself.”

You watched as Bucky lifted the large box with ease. As he went up the porch steps, you quickly passed him to hold the door open for him.

“I’m pretty sure that’s my bed frame, so you can set it in the room at the end of the hall.”

He turned to head down the hall, being careful to not bump into any walls. Entering the open room, he saw a room with plain white walls and a light sand-colored hardwood floor. Delicate sage green curtains moved ever so slightly as the breeze brought fresh air into the room. There was a mirrored closet with clothes that was cracked open, a small white table close to the ground, some boxes stacked in the corner of the room, and in the middle of the floor was a mattress covered in sheets, blankets, pillows and a laptop paired to some over ear headphones. He set the box down leaning against the wall.

“Ah, sorry about the mess, I haven’t had a chance to really get anything set up.” You say as you pass him to open the curtains wider.

“It’s alright, I’m sorry you had to sleep on the floor.”

“Oh, that’s alright. I still had the mattress so it wasn’t bad.”

Another pause. Bucky cleared his throat.

“Do you want help putting it together?” He asked, gesturing towards the box.

You sighed in response.

“Yeah, actually, I could. I’m sorry to trouble you.”

“It’s no trouble.” He replied, seeing you smile tiredly from the corner of his eye.

You grabbed a pair of scissors sitting on the vanity and started opening the box. Once it was open, Bucky pulled out a large fabric cream colored headboard. You tried not to be too impressed at the fact that he pulled it out with one arm, flexing the muscles in ripples. It felt wrong to ogle so you shook your face slightly and dug into the box.

The material of the headboard was similar to canvas, reminiscent of the old cloth bags that flour used to come in when he was a child. As he set it down against the wall, he ran his right hand over the cloth one more time before letting his hand fall off.

The sound of you pulling out the metal parts to the actual bed frame snaps him out of his lull. Setting them down gently on the floor one by one, you attempt to make conversation.

“So, how’s the apartment? Is it okay? Do you need anything?” You asked, trying to hide how slightly out of breath that you were. Bucky walked over to grab the rest of the metal bars out of the box before you could try.

“Yeah, everything’s great. Thanks…”

There’s a lull as you fish the bag of screws and the instructions from the bottom of the box.

“Great. I couldn’t get down here soon enough to check everything myself. The real estate agent took pictures but it’s definitely not the same as laying your eyes on it in person.”

You open up the instructions and Bucky stands awkwardly before deciding to sit on the floor across from you. He leaned back onto his hands and enjoyed the fresh air circulating in the room. The slight chill was nothing compared to all the cold he had faced in his lifetime. That meant he could get by in a short-sleeved shirt and jeans. You, however, were bundled up slightly more. Bucky’s eyes trailed over you slowly as you focused on the instructions. Your hair was tucked back behind your ears in an attempt to keep it out of your eyes as you read, forest green shirt was layered with a cozy open cardigan. The black slim-cut joggers had fuzzy mid-calf socks layered over them to keep any warmth from escaping. Bucky wondered how much more you could possibly layer when the Winter comes and the true cold settles in the area. Before he could think about that, you flip back to the front page of instructions and tentatively spoke.

“Okay, so I think I get it…”

---

The next hour or so consisted of you telling him what parts went together and him screwing them together. It settled into a good flow, with scattered conversation sprinkled in between.

“So, how’re you enjoying Louisiana?” you asked casually as you skimmed over the next set of instructions.

“I haven’t been here long. It’s… different than New York,” he said as he twisted the screw in. At his prompting, you handed him another one. “Everyone’s friendly. It seems like a tight-knit community.”

“They definitely are,” you mused. “Brooklyn, right?”

He looked up at you, causing you to blink and then avert your gaze.

“Sorry,” you started to explain. “I saw the Smithsonian gallery during my last visit to New York… Do you ever have people recognize you?”

“Sometimes,” he said quietly, pausing for a moment before continuing on. “When I do get recognized, it’s not usually the kind of people I’d want to recognize me.”

Bucky thought back to shortly ago in Madripoor. Definitely not the kind of people that he wanted to recognize him. He shook the thought out of his head and continued.

“It’s strange to think that all those people who pass by the exhibit just know me now.”

You reflected on when you saw the exhibit. Right in the middle was a cutout of Bucky Barnes: Captain America’s Right Hand Man. The few paragraphs that were featured at the exhibit did not seem to fully encapsulate the man sitting in front of you, carefully screwing the metal pieces together.

“I think they know about you, but they don’t know you. There has to be more to James Buchanan Barnes than three paragraphs written by someone who’s never actually met you.” You say, meeting his eyes and raising your eyebrows comically.

For some reason, hearing his full name unnerved him. It made him antsy. He didn’t have any experience with being the center of any positive attention, and all of a sudden, your focus on him was scorching. He looked away and cleared his throat.

“Yeah, I suppose so.” He said gruffly.

You smiled gently before looking back down at the instructions to try to put him back at ease. It was funny, watching someone with such a hardened exterior be flustered so easily. There was definitely more to Bucky Barnes than meets the eye.

---

Bucky sat by himself, screwing the last piece in. You had left a few minutes ago to grab refreshments and hadn’t come back yet. He stood, dusting off his hands and pants before stretching his back and looking at the completed project. Picking up the mattress and all the blankets piled on it, he gently set it on the frame. Now it looked like you actually lived here. It was simple, but cozy.

The smell of butter and cheese wafted into the room, grabbing his attention. Looking up at the clock, Bucky realized it was almost noon. He followed the familiar smell to the kitchen where you were cooking, hair tied back and light-yellow apron. The delayed drinks were gathering condensation on the counter behind you. You looked over at him and slipped the apron over your head.

“Ah, sorry. I figured you could handle the last few screws so I started making lunch as well.” You said sheepishly.

“No, it’s fine. Thank you. It’s all done.”

He watched as you took the spatula and lifted a sandwich onto a plate, golden brown from toasting in the butter, matching the plate next to it. You had made the both of you lunch. Taking a knife, you cut the sandwiches in half and hand him the plate with the warm one that had just come out of the pan.

“It’s a grilled ham and cheese. I hope it’s okay.”

“You didn’t have to.” He responded, watching the melted cheese drip down the sides.

You shrugged. “I wanted to. Thanks for the help.”

“Thanks for the food. Do you need help assembling anything else?”

Your gaze flicked to the boxes leaning against the hallway. He looked behind at them and back, raising an eyebrow. Sighing in defeat, you spoke.

“… Yeah. But Sam is actually coming over later to help so you don’t have to do it now. If you do still want to help, you could come over then. I’ll be ordering dinner so you don’t have to worry about cooking. Though, please don’t feel like you have to. You’ve already done so much today.”

Bucky hesitated. He didn’t want to invade your life too much. After all, you were a woman living alone in a new area, the last thing you probably wanted was a strange man turning a contract into a forced friendship because you were polite. But then again, you had just moved down here. Of course, you needed a lot of help in the beginning. Soon, things will settle back to normal and then you’ll be back to just being neighbors who see each other outside occasionally.

“Sure. I’ll be back later when I hear Sam pull up. He doesn’t follow directions anyway so you probably need someone to supervise him.” He joked.

You smiled up at him.

“Great. You must be tired. You can take lunch to go and bring the plate back later.”

You didn’t want to keep him. He wouldn’t have minded staying. But he was still new to being an actual person again. His social battery was a little drained, and he appreciated the easy out.

“Okay, I’ll see you later.” He said, giving his classic low-key three finger salute.

“Bye,” you replied softly as you watched him open the screen door and walk down the porch steps. Lightly padding down the hallway, you peaked into your room, seeing the final product. It was sweet that he put the mattress down and you noticed he had also straightened out the blankets just a little. What a sweet gesture. He was a gentleman. Despite the gruff. You padded back down to the kitchen and sat at the counter to eat. It always felt wrong to make so much noise. You were just one person. One tiny insignificant useless person.

---

Bucky sat at his kitchen table, finishing the sandwich that he had started to eat on the way in. His attempt to eat it while it was still hot was so worth it, the bread still warm and comforting. As he took his last bite, he traced his finger on the little pattern of flowers and leaves on the border of the sage green ceramic plate. All of the little homey, slightly old-fashioned details were very reminiscent of home. Not his previous apartment in Brooklyn. But home back in the 1930’s when he was growing up. It was comforting. He sat back in the chair and closed his eyes, dreaming of a world that no longer existed.

---

Later, Sam knocked on the door way and shouted up the stairs through the screen door.

“Hey, anybody home?”

You bounded down the stairs and unlocked the screen door to let him in, giving him a hug in greeting.

“Woah, woah, don’t make me spill the goods,” he said with a laugh, holding the two cases of beer up.

“Good to see you too,” You joked.

Bucky saw the interaction from the garage window that faced your porch. He wondered if there was something between you two and quickly shook the thought from his head. He wasn’t jealous, just curious. It didn’t matter. After all, you were Sam’s friend first.

People can have friends, idiot. What does it matter to you? He thought to himself as he walked down the stairs to the garage.

Walking across the gravel to your front door, he knocked on the screen door as well.

“Come in!” You yelled from upstairs.

He opened the front door and walked up the stairs into the living room.

“Hey, Buck! How’re you settling in?” Sam said, giving him a hug as well.

“Good, it’s really nice out here.” He replied after they had separated.

“Good. I’m glad. You look like you finally got some rest.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, he was over early this morning, hauling around a bunch of heavy stuff and putting furniture together.” You interjected, bringing the bottle opener in from the kitchen.

“Let me guess, he completely messed it up? Turned your table into a chair or something like that?” Sam teased. Bucky slapped him upside his arm.

“Despite the picture you painted of him, he was extremely competent.” You said while trying not to laugh at Sam’s face of fake hurt. “Now come on, there’s a beer fee, you get one beer for every piece of furniture you put together.”

“I’m the one who brought the drinks though!” Sam protested, following you down the hall to the room where the boxes were.

Bucky smiled a bit as he listened to you both squabble. Friends or not, it was nice to have someone else to annoy Sam with.

---

“You sure you’re okay to go pick up the food?”

You looked up at Bucky from where you sitting on the floor, reading directions while Sam, who was ever so slightly tipsy, was trying to get a leg of a night stand to fit straight.

“Yeah, I’m good. He looks… busy. And it’s probably better for me to go out this late. You know, ‘cuz you’re a woman... lady.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Not to say that you’re not perfectly capable of handling yourself, I just mean… uh…”

“Pff-”

The laugh that Sam had been trying to hold back escaped from between his lips loudly as he covered his mouth. You rolled your eyes but regardless, a smile crept up on your face.

“Ignore him. I was just giving you a hard time. It’s very chivalrous.”

You paused thoughtfully.

“On a serious note, that’s very sweet of you. I appreciate it. You can just charge it to the card I gave you.”

He nodded and started walking down the stairs to the porch.

“Be safe!” He heard you call softly down the stairs.

“Will do.” Bucky instinctively responded.

The screen door shut behind him as he made his way across the driveway to where his own motorcycle was parked. A sleek modern black sports bike. Something he’d bought when he wasn’t ready to look at Steve’s old cruiser. He’d put the cruiser in the garage to work on and keep safe.

He mounted the bike and started it, the engine coming to life. He went to check what time it was on his phone when he realized he had left it inside. Swinging his leg over, he started to walk back up to the front door when he heard your conversation with Sam from the open living room window.

“Feeling at home?” Sam asked. There was a short silence before you answered hesitantly.

“Something like that.”

“How you holding up?”

“It’s been okay… lonely… I just can’t believe I let it go on for so long.”

Bucky hadn’t realized he had stopped in his tracks, eyebrows furrowed as he listened.

“The people who are trapped in the abusive relationship themselves always have a harder time seeing it than anyone else.”

Bucky blinked in surprise as Sam continued.

“It’s like that thing they say when you’re cooking with frogs. If the water’s boiling when you first put them in, they’ll hop right out the pot. But if you put the frog in cool water and slowly heat it up, they’ll stay, no matter how hot it gets. The more gradual the process is, the less likely they are to realize that they’re in trouble before it’s too late.”

“Yeah…” Your voice sounded heavy. Burdened.

“He was nice at first, wasn’t he?” You asked rhetorically.

“He was.”

“Fooled me…”

“Fooled me too. I never would’ve introduced him to you if I had known that’s what he was like. I should’ve known there was something off about him. I should’ve sensed it during the support group he came to at the VA.” Sam said regretfully.

“Hey, it’s not your fault, Sam.” You said, chastising him. “At some point, I knew that things were heading in the wrong direction. He got so angry. So spiteful. I knew I had stopped loving him and started being afraid of him. But then everyone was dusted, and I didn’t have anywhere else to be, anyone else to be with besides him. Being somewhere new by myself would bring struggles I couldn’t prepare for. At least with him, I knew what to be afraid of. Then everyone came back and he almost killed me. I guess I was just a poor little froggy.”

You tried to ease the heaviness of the conversation by being lighthearted with the last sentence. But there was still a sadness in your voice.

“Still. I wish I could’ve helped you when you broke your shoulder.”

“Don’t feel bad, Sammy. I ended up just fine. I’m here now. The only thing I regret is letting him trash my piano. It was old, but I grew up playing that thing.”

“I know how much it meant to you.”

“It’s okay, it's a new start. Besides, you were off fighting to be Captain America! Rightfully so. If this was the sacrifice I had to make for the right man to be able to take up the shield, I would’ve broken my other shoulder too!”

Sam must have given you a death glare because you laughed suddenly and your tone changed to defensive.

“Kidding! Kidding. Yeesh. But seriously, I’m proud of you. And thank you, for helping me start over.”

Bucky unclenched his hands. He hadn’t realized that he had gotten tense. Turning around, he headed back to the bike. He didn’t need his phone. He didn't want to let on that he overheard. Getting back on the bike, he waited until he heard laughter to sneak down the driveway, masking the fact that he was just now leaving.

Once he got out on the road, he sped up- letting the wind sting against his face and cool it down. The thought of a man using his own strength to hurt what was supposed to be his other half- it made him so mad. No wonder you were scrambling to get out here. He hoped that you never had to go through anything like that again.

Rest assured, if he can do anything to prevent that from happening, he will.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes #bucky imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x y/n

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tigerseye46 · 3 years ago

Note

tell us about ur new oc!

Thanks for giving me an excuse to talk about her! I have a lot.

I’ve actually mentioned her before but before I figured everything out. I rp her in a server with my friends.

Her name is Huáng Xiàróng (煌夏荣 Brilliant Summer Glory)! Her name used to be Yuán but I changed it. I’ve created one design for her, I don’t draw often so it’s not the best but I tried. I’ll post her demon form and picrew of her human form at the end.

Originally she was supposed to be a motherly figure. That… uhh did not exactly go as planned. I kinda made her feral instead- also she used to be a straight up villain.

She’s a rabbit/bunny demon. Specifically a Manchurian hare. She has a mix of black, brown and gray fur with three spots on the side of her face which are replaced by freckles in human form. She has a notch on her ear and some spots there too. She has slight wavy hair with braids in the back.

Her hair is black with green strands, kinda like Mei which was completely unintentional and I only realized that now. Her eyes are green but they change to red when angered and brown when annoyed. She has a frilly dress. She has a tattoo on her back, 戰士 meaning warrior. Her height is 6 feet and 2 inches. She’s around 3000, maybe a bit younger and physically looks 35 - 40.

Small tw here, she has scars from years of fighting.

Abilities:

She can shapeshift to various things including a normal bunny form and a bigger, more terrifying version of herself.

Like most rabbits, she’s extremely fast (super speed).

She has the ability to control and manipulate fire.

She can jump high.

Super strength

And friend suggested the ability to possibly summon and ride a cloud.

Backstory: (I’m just going to copy and paste her backstory that I used for smth)

Xiàróng was born in the Qin Dynasty to two rabbit demons. Her parents were fierce demon lords that loved to mess with humans with their army. Her parents trained her in the hopes that she would follow in their footsteps and she did. She became a fierce warrior with a strong love of fighting and battling.

She led her armies into villages, messing with humans and demanding offerings. She loved the absolute terror that popped up on their faces as her army swept in. She enjoyed the amusement she felt every time they thought they could defeat her along with the absolute adrenaline that came with fighting.

Her parents were extremely proud of her and at times, fought with her but they mostly stayed regulated to their hideout. One day, they passed away in the field of battle, she rose and took their place. Xiàróng became better known as a fierce rabbit demon lord and grew her armies, even allying at points with some other demons.

She became renowned as her parents always hoped she would be. She loved her army and always made sure their efforts were rewarded. She treated them as a second family to her and they shared a deep bond.

One of Xiàróng’s generals told her about a monk journeying west to get scriptures and if she eats him, she can become immortal. While initially excited at this prospect, she declined when she found out that the person guarding him was the Great Sage. She then made sure her army never crossed paths with Sun Wukong and the rest of the pilgrims.

She continued onward and she thought the whole thing could last forever.

But obviously, nothing lasts forever. Humans started advancing and her demon army started falling, either passing away in battle, getting tired of fighting or deciding that they wanted to move on and pass off as humans to live normal lives, sometimes a mixture of the last two.

Xiàróng never stopped fighting and refused to quit until she faced a fierce opponent in battle that caused her spirits to wane. She eventually realized that with humanity’s advancements she longer had the edge that she used to. She decided to sadly give up fighting about 500-1000 years prior to modern day. In her current identity, she works at a boring office job to survive all while longing for the good old days.

The group finds her when they need her to face an opponent she had previously faced, possibly the same one that caused her spirits to wane.

(She also had might or might not have had a kid at one point when she was still a warrior. Mildly debating on the kid thing but I’m probably going with it.)

Likes and Dislikes:

She absolutely loves fighting, she loves the thrill that comes with it. She values hard workers as she had to work hard to get to where is. She loves to reminisce about the good old days when she was feared and respected. She likes the summer season. Her favorite colors are red and green. She likes drinking tea. She adores the outdoors. She likes (also dislikes) being alone. She likes people who value their family. She is a big fan of action movies. She likes exercising. She likes organization and plans. She loves her motorcycle and weapons. She loves being the leader of projects as it gives her a sense of power. She loves fire and is often entranced by it. She likes using her jumping abilities. She likes exploring nature.

She dislikes the modern advancements humans have made as she believes it puts her as a disadvantage and is part of the reason she is no longer feared. She dislikes mundane office work as she believes it to be below her skill level but does it to survive. She dislikes people who desert others as some of her army left because they were tired of fighting and wanted to move on. She hates being called cute. She hates slackers. She hates people who underestimate her. She dislikes interacting unless she has to.

Strengths and Weaknesses:

Strengths:

Xiàróng is extremely proud of her abilities. She is extremely brave and will gladly take action when need be. She is rather confident. She is observant because of her years as a demon lord. She is a strategic individual since she spent so much time with her generals planning out attacks. She is also rather smart from her years of teaching from her parents about different subjects. She will give her honest opinion if someone asks her. She is hard working. She is tidy and always makes sure to keep both her workspace and house clean. She actually has a motherly side to her and is rather gentle when interacting with children and is capable of being gentle when others are having a bad day, although this depends on who they are. She is agile.

Weaknesses:

Her belief in her abilities cause her to have excessive pride in them. Her bravery leads her to take reckless actions. Her longing to reclaim the past and become once again known as a fierce demon blinds her to the possibilities that come with the future. She holds on too much to the past and practically clings to it. She has a short temper and can snap easily. Her honesty leads to bluntness and people not liking her because of her opinion. She can also be rather dishonest sometimes. She acts as if she knows better than others since she’s been alive a long time and has a wide array of knowledge.

General Personality:

Xiàróng is not a sociable person, although she used to be back in the old days when she had her demon army. She can be quite dramatic especially when she’s explaining her past to people. She has a loud personality that appears when she’s explaining her history. This is a subtle and desperate attempt to reclaim what she used to have. Although, other than that, she is rather quiet and prefers not to interact unless absolutely necessary.

She prefers to keep to herself a lot of the time despite rabbits being social creatures. She feels out of place and longs for a world where she can go back to fighting and a time where her army was all together, laughing and smiling. Fighting is all she’s known for the longest time and believes that’s what she’s mostly good at.

Since some of her army has either passed away or left to find better lives, she is not a big fan of letting people close especially in a world of humans since these were people she once used to attack and mess with. She does rarely encounter some of the demons that used to be her army. She’s short tempered and aggressive. She appears cold due to her isolation and circumstances. Under her cold personality, there is a loud, bright and caring personality waiting to get out if she lets someone get close, maybe if she did, she could go back to the way she used to be.

She doesn’t care about the group at first until they keep dragging her along. She is terrified of Sun Wukong because of his reputation and is kinda wary of his successor but helps him out. She purposefully annoys Pigsy and has debates with Tang. Also I kinda ship her with Sandy but we’ll see how that goes-

Trivia:

Talents: Foraging, cooking, singing, Can expertly play pipa (Chinese lute) and piano, gardening, great medical knowledge, wrestling, sword fighting and spear fighting, stealth, hand to hand combat, whittling, excellent leadership skills, making strategies.

She has a motorcycle that she takes good care of.-Romance movies are a guilty pleasure of hers.

She is ambidextrous.

She’s bi.

She has a tattoo with the characters 戰士 meaning warrior on her back.

She has a small house in the woods near a mountain range outside the city.

She was around when the Journey to the West was happening but avoided the pilgrims since she didn’t want to risk angering Sun Wukong if she tried something.

Hobbies: poetry, training with her qiang and jian, exercising, running, singing, gardening, cooking, playing the pipa and piano, foraging, whittling/wood carving, origami, watching television

Her surname Huáng meaning brilliant refers to the family’s cleverness along with wanting to shine. Xià means summer, summer represents something in China such as the direction south, the color red, the sound of laughter, the heart, fire and a creature called the red phoenix. Red, in turn, symbolizes happiness, vitality, good luck, good fortune, energy and passion. Róng meaning glory is because her parents were hoping she’d be renowned by people all over.

Picture:

Link to the picrew I used for human form: https://picrew.me/image_maker/332600

Human form:

#lego monkie kid #monkie kid #Huáng Xiàróng #monkie kid oc #lego monkie kid oc #my friends will be the first to tell you that I go crazy with ocs-#which is why I have 100+#I’m also going to make more Monkie kid ocs eventually #my oc #I have some stuff written for her #but not a lot

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tipsycad147 · 3 years ago

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Lilac in Magic and Medicine

Spring tends to be a favorite time of year for a lot of people. You walk out the front door and the birds are chirping, the weather is nice and there are flowers everywhere! As a Garden/Green Witch, I love plants and finding out ways to use them. One of my favorite plants, even though they are only around for a short amount of time, are the Lilacs. We have several Lilacs on our property that were planted by my great grandparents that still bloom every year. Lilacs are edible, have some medicinal uses and of course, contain magical properties as well. Keep reading to learn more!

Lilacs in the Garden

Lilacs, or Syringa Vulgaris, are a short term blooming shrub. It’s most commonly found in Planting Zones 3-9 here in the U.S. Most lilacs only bloom for about 2-3 weeks; but early and late blooming varieties can be staggered to increase your bloom time to a total of 6 weeks. Lilacs are available in 5 colors ranging from white, to magenta, to the traditional lilac purple.

Lilacs grow on old wood, so pruning after the spring is vital. A hardy specimen, lilacs can be transplanted by cuttings very easily to add more to your garden. Our lilacs draw bees, birds and butterflies with it’s tantalizing scent so we always try to keep them blooming.

Did you know Lilacs are actually part of the olive family? Native to the Balkan Peninsula in Southeastern Europe; people emigrating from Europe brought the shrub with them to grow and preserve a piece of home. Western pioneers brought lilacs with them during the 1800’s. Now you can find lilacs that grow nearly wild in abandoned lots or parks. Lilacs prefer full sun and a slightly alkaline soil to grow and bloom. The wood is a sturdy type that can be hollowed out to make a variety of tools.

These shrubs are a beautiful plant and even though they have a very short season; their vibrant green grey leaves(which are heart shaped) and the clusters of fragrant flowers make it worth having. But a commonly asked question every Spring is; “What can I do with my lilacs in that short amount of time?” Turns out there are a couple of medical, edible and magical uses for lilacs. I’m going to touch on the edible and medical real quick. Then give you some ideas of how to use lilacs in your magic as well!

Lilacs as Food and Medicine.

One thing I’ve started to learn as a witch, herbalist and homesteader is that there’s a use for practically every plant! We harvest at least a dozen or more plants from our yard every Spring and Summer; not counting what we add to the gardens, harvest from the forest or buy online!

Starting out, I was surprised how many other uses most flowers can have, besides just being pretty to look at. Given the short bloom time for Lilacs, I never really thought about using them until this year. But it turns out that 2 weeks is plenty of time to gather and dry flowers for all sorts of projects!

Lilacs in the Apothecary Cabinet

Lilacs are astringent, aromatic and a bit bitter. While most of the medicinal uses stem(see what I did there, ha) from the leaves and fruit, the flowers still have their own uses. Ingesting raw flowers leaves a dry feeling on the tongue but are bursting with flavor.

The most common use of Lilacs is as an astringent. Many common weeds and plants are astringent, including but not limited to: sunflowers, black walnut, black raspberry and stag-horn sumac. Many people are already familiar with the commercially produced astringent known as witch hazel.

Lilac flowers can infused with witch hazel or a carrier oil. That can then be used for acne, fine lines and wrinkles and other anti-aging properties

Using lilacs as an aromatic is completely different. An aromatic works by causing irritation to the place where it is applied. (Think about how sensitive the GI tract is.) Which in turn brings more blood flow and thus promotes faster healing! Gastric issues such as excessive flatulence or constipation are normally remedied very quickly by eating just a few small flowers.

Infuse lilacs in your favourite carrier oils to make salves, soaps and lotions. Lilacs are good for sunburn relief or soothing scratches, light burns and itches. As well as the previously mentioned astringent properties.

Other Uses for Lilacs

As beautiful and lovely as lilacs are, the fragrance is a fleeting memory once spring is over. Unfortunately, there’s no way to preserve the fragrance in an essential oil. Like many florals, it would take a lot of flowers and would be very expensive. There are some ways to preserve the flavor and aroma through absolutes, enfleurage and infused oils. The Experimental Homesteader has a great tutorial and more info about making your own lilac essences.Find that Here

Most commonly, lilacs are used for garnishes and flavoring for foods and drink. From sugared flowers on cake to lilac ice-cream and lemonade; there’s a number of sweet treats you can make with these cute purple flowers.

Some of my Favourite Uses for Lilac include:

Tea

Lemonade

Infused Honey

Wine

Jelly

Ice cream

Syrup

There’s a ton of tutorials for each of these on Pinterest!

If you would like to try the lilac jelly recipe its super easy! Head over to our Forsythia Jelly Recipe but switch out the flowers for lilacs instead!( Find that here)

Lilac honey is super easy, just add the flowers to honey and let sit for 2-6 weeks.

Make a simple lilac syrup by simmering the flowers in a sugar water mix on the stove. Use that syrup to flavor your lemonade or top your favorite dessert(or pancakes!) Plus it’s a gorgeous light purple color so it makes for a great gift.

Lilacs in Magic: Green Witchcraft

Using Lilacs in magic has a slew of myths and stories behind it; as well as a few ways to use it in your own personal spells.

What’s in a Name?

Lilacs have a few names depending on the area and connections. In Arabic, “Lilak” means purple. In Greece, Lebanon and Cyrus, lilacs are referred to as “paschalia” due to the fact that they bloom around Easter. (Or as they call it “Pascha”.)

Actually, the scientific name for Lilacs(syringas vulgaris) is thought to be derived from the Greek word “Syrinx” which means pipes. This is due to the wood’s hollow nature. Which brings me to the next section of Lilacs in magic: the Greek origin story.

The Legend of Syrinx

According to Greek Legend, Syrinx was a dryad (also known as tree nymph) who was a follower of Artemis, goddess of nature and chastity. Pan, as god of the forest and ruled by an bestial nature and lust, sought after her beauty. As a follower of Artemis, Syrinx was sworn to chastity and denied him. He chased her to the nearby river where Syrinx sought help from her cousins, the naiads, or river nymphs. With their help, she transformed into a Lilac bush, also commonly called a pipe tree or reed tree. Pan, frustrated that Syrinx had slipped from his grasp; cut 7 branches from the gorgeous lilac tree and tied them together into what we know as pan pipes today.

The Pipes, combined with Pan’s mournful music over his lost pursuit, holds merit in the language of flowers.These purple petaled flowers symbolize lust, love, and the fleetingness of life in general.

Lilacs Magical Properties

Blooming Lilacs show up for a short period during the Spring, typically between Beltane and Litha. (May-June). Much like honeysuckle, dandelions and forsythia, lilac contains spring energy and helps to jump start your life. Use it to give yourself a motivational boost, a mental or physical spring cleaning. Or use as an energy charge for your job or a new business venture.

Lilacs are commonly used for spells involving: exorcisms, banishing negative energy, love and lust spells. As well as protection spells and spells symbolizing the balance between life and death.

Lilac for Protection

Plant lilacs around your property to protect those inside its boundaries. Planting lilacs by your front door keeps negative energy from entering your home.

Bringing cuttings into your home is supposed to help banish negative energy and spirits. Except for some superstitions in certain parts of the UK. It was felt that white lilacs were too close to death and were very unlucky.(Unless it was a 5 petaled white flower which were considered extra lucky.) Lilacs were commonly placed inside coffins to cover the smell of death, much like gladiolas and other “funeral flowers”.

Hanging lilac branches over a newborn’s crib was said to encourage them in growth of knowledge and wisdom.(Especially in Russia)

Lilacs for Love and Beauty

When used in love and lust spells, lilacs are best for short fleeting summer romances or flings. Adding lilac oil to your wrists and behind the ears helps to draw love your way. You can also use lilacs for a spell to bring the fun and light back into a relationship.

To combine the medicinal uses mentioned earlier as well as the magical uses; Lilacs infused in witch hazel for a facial toner can be used to promote beauty, glamour and attracting love.

Celebrate Beltane by making a flower crown for yourself or your love.

Lilac Wood and Flowers

Wrap and dry lilac bundles to make your own incense smoke bundles. Combine with rose, lavender and sage for a love incense. Find out more info on wrapping and drying at Proflowers.

Use the wood from the Lilac to make wands, staves or runes. Lilac wands are good for banishing evil or negativity, raising psychic energy and vibrations, and attracting love.

Lilac Trivia

Lilacs are part of the Olive family. The Oleaceae or Olive family also includes olives(obviously), jasmine, forsythias and ash trees.

George Washington and Thomas Jefferson enjoyed the scent of Lilacs and planted them in their Gardens.

Vincent Van Gogh and Claude Monet were inspired by the colors and appearance of lilacs. They included the flowers in several paintings such as “Lilac Bush” (1889 Van Gogh), “Lilacs, Grey Weather”(1872 Monet) and “Lilacs in Sun”(1872 Monet).

In the Victorian Era, widows wore lilac blossoms on their lapel. This served as a reminder of their love and the shortness of life.

Lilac is considered the traditional flower for the 8th Anniversary. This means it is a suitable gift as well.

The Celtics regarded the lilac as “magical” due to their incredibly intoxicating fragrance.

In the United States, the lilac is the official state flower of New Hampshire. It represents the ‘hardy’ nature of its people

Lilac Magic Correspondences

Latin Name: Syringa Vulgaris Other Names: Pipe Tree, Reed Tree, Common Lilac Element: Water Planets: Venus Gender: Feminine Deities: Artemis, Pan, Gaea, Hades, Persephone, Hera* and Hestia* (*white flowers only) Powers: Expansion, Growth, Protection, Life and Death, Spirit World, Love, Psychic Ability Use for: Love spells, Protection Spells, Exorcisms, Aromatherapy, Beauty Magic, Body care(magical or not) Crafts/Recipes: Toner, Tea, Honey, Ice cream, Syrup, Wands, Runes, Staves, Garden/Home Boundary, Incense, Dessert Garnish

Are you in love with Lilac yet?

Even though Lilac only visits for a short amount of time; it leaves us impatient for it to come around again. Even if you missed this year’s harvest, save this info for next year so you can fill your home with yummy flowers and magic next spring. Feel free to save this info for your Book of Shadows or Grimoire pages. Also, make sure you visit our other Magical and Medicinal Plant Pages.

Will you add Lilac to your magic workings?

If you want the smell of lilacs even after the season is done; we offer a Lilac goat’s milk soap in the Store that smells exactly like this luscious plant! Made with nourishing oils and skin safe fragrance oils; its safe for sensitive skin and makes for a great Mother’s Day, Best Friend or Self Care Gift.

If you are new here make sure to check out all of our other blog posts over on the Blog Page. And don’t forget to follow us on Pinterest, Facebook and Instagram for farm photos, trivia, shop updates and more!

By Ariana

https://greenmanmeadows.com/using-lilac-for-magic-and-medicine/

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thatwitchyaunt · 4 years ago

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Makeup for Magick/Ritual: Imbolc

So, this is a post that got taken own off of reddit because, apparently, a post about makeup as a tool in witchcraft is not... about... witchcraft? Okay? Anyway, this is the copy/paste of the original first post and the rest of this series will be here, so I hope you enjoy. And to anyone coming here from r/witchcraft, welcome to the absolute hot mess that is The Whatever Book!

“Well, here we go! The first post in (hopefully) a series that some of you were surprisingly interested in! Not gonna lie, I thought it would get a bunch of downvotes and that'd be that, but here we are! Before I start, quick disclaimer: My current phone is a 3S, so the pictures aren't the... best quality. But it's what we're working with. Now let's get into it!

So, quick cheeky recap of what I said in my original post: My other passion besides witchcraft is makeup. It's how I express myself artistically and I often use themed makeup looks as a way to celebrate the sabbats, doubling as offerings on Imbolc and Lammas/Lughnasadh. Sometimes, I even incorporate themed looks into spellwork in the same way I would decorate an intention-specific altar. (I fully blame Ms. Frizzle for my love of themed/inspired-by makeup looks, btw.) Now let's get into the post! First sabbat: Imbolc.

Generally, my rituals focus on the more fiery aspect of Lady Brighid on Imbolc; so reds, oranges and yellows are what I reach for. Depending on what you focus on (cleansing/purification, healing, the returning warmth, prep for Spring, new growth, etc), what you choose may be way different. So lets take a peek at the palettes I have in my collection that I can see fitting this coming up sabbat, starting with Colourpop!

Here we have the "Uh Huh, Honey" palette, the "Orange You Glad?" palette and the "Main Squeeze" palette. I'd use these three together for my more fiery looks, but "Uh Huh, Honey" could be paired with a more icy look if your focus is on the returning warmth.

Speaking of! This is the "Going Coconuts" palette, "Blue Moon" palette, "Mint to Be" palette and "Just My Luck" palette.

"Going Coconuts" is definitely a good, affordable neutral palette for Imbolc. It's neutral, but can lean on the icier side thanks to the shade "Palm Reader". Add a pop of yellow from the "Uh Huh, Honey" palette and you're set for a "returning warmth" look.

Then there's the "Blue Moon" and "Mint to Be" palettes, which are both good for the more healing/cleansing aspects of Imbolc. "Blue Moon" can go icy (and be paired with "Uh Huh, Honey" for the returning warmth), or can be used to represent Brighid's healing/cleansing waters. The shades in "Mint to Be" are somewhere between wintery greens and spring greens, so perfect for Imbolc! These mints give me very "fresh and clean" vibes, and also would not be out of place on a set of nurse scrubs. More gentle healing than "Blue Moon".

"Just My Luck" is your girl if you're going for the green of "new growth". Try pairing with "Mint to Be" for a more interesting green look.

The last CP palette I'd look at is the "Yes, Please" palette. It's a descent dupe for the Give Me Glow "Extra Spicy" palette if it's sold out. This is Colourpop's original eyeshadow palette and has those fiery tones I reach for this time of year.

Then, onto the Give Me Glow palettes, there's the "Extra Spicy" palette. I would reach for this one over the "Yes, Please" palette, because it's a better formula and is multi-functional. "Mild", "Spicy Peach Martini" and "Habanero" make for really great blushes and "Ghost Pepper" is a really cool fiery-yellow highlighter. This is being discontinued, however, so If you want it you need to grab it while you can. 10/10, would absolutely recommend!

Next is "The Grunge" palette and the "Sweet & Sticky" palette. Both are descent neutral/nude palettes for this time of year (if you aren't like me and are down for to look like a "Happy Clown") "The Grunge" palette has some interesting matte pops and has two metallics that could lean either warm or cool depending on what you pair with it. It's currently out of stock, and I'm not sure if it's coming back? This past Black Friday, they had it labeled as "discontinued" but I'm not 100% sure.

"Sweet & Sticky" is a cinnamon bun themed palette, and the colors are spot on! I absolutely consider cinnamon buns to be an appropriate food for Imbolc, what with the white icing (melting snow) paired with the cinnamon filling (warmth) in the roll (earth). An excellent small palette for neutral lovers, and "Icing Drip" and "Sweet Cinnamon Latte" are good highlighters depending on your skin tone.

The last Give Me Glow palette is the "Summer Vibes" palette! Specifically for the shades "Orange Soda Pop", "Mango Margarita" and "Sunny". Again, for the fiery aspect of the Sabbat. All the shades in this palette are available in singles, but I'd say just get the palette if you're interested in it. This will definitely come up again in my post for Litha/Summer Solstice, no doubt about it.

Now onto BH Cosmetics! We'll start with the two bigger palettes I chose this time around: "The Zodiac" palette and the Holiday 2020 "Naughty" palette. "The Zodiac" is a that cool with a pop of warm that fots the Sabbat, and the formula is gorgeous! The middle shade is a baked highlighter as well, and looks great on fair/light skintones (don't ask me about deeper skin tones, since I'm out here looking like Casper the Friendly Ghost and have absolutely no clue).

The "Naughty" palette... I'd say it's the only holiday palette that I've seen in the past few years that a brand actually put any real thought and effort into. And the formula's 10/10, so well done, BH! If you want to do a warm tone or cool toned Imbolc look, it's got you. If you want to do a fiery look, it's got you. If you want to do an icy with a pop of fire look, it's got you. It can be used all year round, too, which is pretty great, and you can use it as a sort of anchor palette for different looks. The day I'm writing this (January 18-19, 2021) it's on sale for 60% off, so only $12, and I honestly think you should snatch it up. Definitely going to be showing up in my Yule/Winter Solstice post.

On to the smaller BH palettes! First batch are "Love in London", "Smitten in Switzerland" and "Chillin' in Chicago". These are the three more neutral/"wearable" (eff, I hate that word) palettes in the BH Travel Series. There are a couple more like this, but they'll pop up in later posts.

"Love in London" can go either warm or cool depending on the shades you use, but either way, the tones are deep enough to fit the winter season we're still in.

"Smitten in Switzerland" is more cool-toned, muted-colorful palette with a bright pop. My favorite sage green eyeshadow look is from this palette. Outside of any Sabbat uses, I genuinely cooked up an entire scenario based solely on the vibes of the palette. Like, this is the palette you'd wear if the world was no longer on fire, and you and your family decided to go to a ski lodge for a weekend. You're no winter sports kind of Witch, no skiing or snowboarding for you (you're not here to break all the bones in your body so, hard pass). Instead, you sit by the lodge's fireplace/hearth wearing a cute and cozy sweater, perhaps some cute boots. Maybe you're reading a book or on a laptop/phone/whatever with a mug filled with a hot beverage of your choice, possibly spiked. And there you stay, looking like a cute snow bunny while you wait for the rest of your family to be done nearly getting themselves killed on the slopes.

*Cough cough* Now back to the post... Eh-heh...

"Chillin' in Chicago" is the palette to grab for a muted fiery look. Still has some color to it, but nothing as intense as, lets say, the "Extra Spicy" palette. Great alternative.

Now for the two bright/colorful palettes from BH's Weekend Vibes series. "Avocado Toast" and "Blueberry Muffin". "Avocado Toast" has your greens/warm browns with a pink and yellow pop that'd work great for any "new growth" symbolism. Meanwhile, for my fellow New Englanders, "Blueberry Muffin" gives us those more icy tones for the foot of snow we usually get on, or around, Imbolc. Any other New England Witches just look at that whole "new growth" bit when they first got started and went "B!tch, how?!" ...No? Just me? Side note, "Decadent" is the exact shade of the stain from blueberry juice and that made me idiotically happy. Don't ask, cause I don't know either.

The Shroud Cosmetics "Creepy Cute" palette! Widely considered one of the best pastel palettes on the market (Use code BEAUTBEAN fo 10% off! Did I just plug one of my favorite beauty YouTubers Why yes, yes I did...), it's insanely pigmented! "Void", "Tombstone", "Creep It Real", and "Cold Shoulder" can help you with colder, more wintery looks. "Cold Shoulder" and "Creep It Real" could be used for healing/purification if that's your ritual focus, and "Third Eye" and "Strawberry Milk" could both be used as crease/blending shades for a more fore-based look.

These three are my mainstream "if color is not your jam" palettes. The Tarte "Tartelette Toasted" palette, and the Anastasia Beverly Hills "Soft Glam" palette and "Sultry" palette.

The "Tartelette Toasted" palette is your neutral fiery palette. It gives a nice orange-red "toasted" look that fits the Sabbat well. Not my first choice, but if you're looking for a "basic b!tch" warm palette, she's your girl.

"Soft Glam" and "Sultry" are more warm tone vs. cool tone. If you want a more "cold, thawing earth" vibe, "Sultry" is the way to go. If you want to get it, I think it's only available in bundles on Ulta and the ABH website (but it's like.. half off in Ulta sooooo....). And "Soft Glam", obviously, for the warmer aspects of the Sabbat.

Now, on to my single shadows!

The top five are from Shroud Cosmetics. The first four (left to right) would be good for a fiery look), while the last one would be good to use for a water look/pop.

"World Eater" (Drool-worthy metallic red), "Ignite" (coppery orange metallic), "Vigil" (yellow-gold metallic), "Oracle" (light gold "inner corner highlight" type of metallic), "Sea of Ghosts" (medium blue metallic with a gold shift).

The bottom one is from Colourpop in the shade "Glass Bull", which is the perfect inner corner highlight for icier blue/purple looks.

Last, but certainly not least, my Give Me Glow Singles!

The amount of times I had to curate these singles so they would fit into one large palette.. I just... That's why this took three years to figure out. Anyways, I have a few different color stories in this palette, so stick with me more a second.

*Row 1 (L-R)*

"Marshmallow" - White matte. Pretty basic.

"Halo" - White metallic with baby blue and gold shifts. Perfect inner corner pop of sun for icy looks.

"Satellite" - Straight up silver metallic. If the Tin Man is your fashion icon, this'll do ya.

"Bubbles" - Icy blue metallic.

"Sky High" - Bright sky blue matte. Not pictured because mine came broken, but it's legit the perfect Imbolc blue.

"Blue Jeans" - Muted grey-blue metallic.

*Row 2 (L-R)*

"Cream Please" - Basic cream shade.

"Spring Break" - Green-blue with gold shift.

"Kiwi" - Kiwi Green. What it says on the tin.

"Joker" - Olive green metallic with lime undertones.

"Patty"- Just a true green matte.

"Space Dust" - Deep Smokey true grey.

*Row 3 (L-R)*

"On Ice" - Pale champagne nude metallic.

"Highlight" - Pale champagne gold metallic.

"Lucky Charm" - Golden yellow metallic.

"Fierce" - Pale orangy peach matte.

"You're Cheesy" - Mac and cheese orange metallic.

"Low Battery" - True red orange matte, more on the red side.

*Row 4 (L-R)*

"Selfie" - Burnt golden orange metallic.

"Hashtag" - Grungy medium toned orange matte.

"Chili" - Deep blue based rusty red matte.

"Icy Frap" - Icy warm champagne metallic with taupe undertones.

"Iced Coffee" - Deep bronze gold metallic.

"Dark as My Soul" - Grungy deep warm brown matte.

Now on to the color stories:

*Color Story 1* Icy Blue with a sunny gold pop on the inner corner (returning warmth)

Marshmallow, Halo, Satellite, Bubbles, Sky High, Blue Jeans, Space Dust.

*Color Story 2* Greens (new growth)

Cream Please, Spring Break, Kiwi, Joker, Patty, Space Dust, On Ice.

*Color Story 3* Brighid's Fire

Highlight, Lucky Charm, Fierce, You're Cheesy, Low Battery

*Color Story 4* Warming earth (warm tone browns)

Selfie, Hashtag, Chili, Cream Please, Highlight.

*Color Story 5* Frozen earth (cool tone browns)

Icy Frap, Iced Coffee, Dark as My Soul, Marshmallow, Halo.

And that's that for Imbolc! Holy crap, that took ages! The pictured do not do these shadows justice. One day I'll have a phone with a properly functioning camera...

Well, Glamour Ghouls (you can boo me, it's fine), it's your turn to shop your stash and get those creative juices flowing! Is there anything in your collection that you'd grab for Imbolc? Sound off in the comments and let's inspire each other!”

#Makeup for Magick/Ritual #imbolc #are all mods power tripping assholes?#or just the one i had to deal with?#travel witchcraft #sabbats #broom closet #witchcraft #magick #rituals

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patchwork-panda · 4 years ago

Text

If A Moment Is All We Are (33/?)

“Good.”

Kunikida walked around me, his gray-green eyes sweeping over my body as he took in my form.

“That’s right, Kusunoki. Keep your shoulders squared. Just like that.”

He kept circling me, his eyes traveling from my shoulders to my arms as I moved to adjust my stance. When he came to my right elbow, he paused, the neutral line of his lips dropping into a thoughtful frown as his gaze settled on my right hand.

“Kusunoki...”

I swallowed nervously.

“Y-yes?”

I felt the heat of a faint blush rising to my cheeks as he came a little closer. One large hand settled warmly on mine.

“Make sure to keep your thumb tucked under your fingers when you’re making a fist,” Kunikida said, gently taking my hand and folding my thumb into the correct position.

“If you don’t, you’ll break your thumb when you land the punch.”

“Right...”

I swallowed thickly, my mouth suddenly too dry to form the words.

“Thank you, Kunikida-san.”

Kunikida smiled.

“Of course.”

He released my hand and took a step back.

“Now then.”

He pointed his finger at the mannequin in front of me, which was actually just a large inflatable roly-poly toy (okiagari-kobōshi) someone had scrawled an angry face on with a Sharpie.

“Punch him.”

I glanced from Kunikida to the doll, clenching and unclenching my fists in preparation as I stared down the doll with its beady black eyes.

Okay, here goes nothing...

Clenching my fists as tight as I could, I cocked my right arm back exactly the way Kunikida had shown me and released my punch. Wind whistled past my knuckles. A sharp, audible crack echoed throughout the room as my fist made contact with the doll. I looked to Kunikida as it reeled away from me with a loud squeal, my heart pounding in my throat and my fist stinging slightly from the hit.

“Not bad.”

Kunikida’s smile grew just a tiny bit wider and I instantly felt my heart beating faster at the acknowledgment. Nodding approvingly, the tall blonde gestured at the doll, which was slowly but surely uprighting itself on the tatami mat floor.

“Do that again. Other hand this time.”

I nodded back and drew my left fist back, preparing to strike it again.

Day Two: my second training session with Kunikida.

Hoping to spend a little more time with my handsome mentor before training officially began, I decided to arrive a little earlier than I had yesterday—so I could join him for a full meditation session rather than just the tail end of one. To my delight, I ended up arriving at the exact same time as Kunikida and I got to spend a full ten minutes sitting quietly by his side.

Just the two of us.

Alone.

Admittedly, I might’ve been just a little too excited to properly clear my mind and try to actually meditate, but it wasn’t for a lack of trying. And at least I was able to think about someone other than Dazai today...

In fact, I was actually kind of excited to continue where we left off yesterday. Sure, maybe Kunikida was wearing a T-shirt under his gi this time (probably for the better. I’d probably die of a thirst-induced nosebleed if things had kept going the way they had) but I’d mentally prepared myself for anything and everything. I was really looking forward to learning how to break away from a sudden grab attack...

Especially if it meant getting to hold or be held by strong, handsome Kunikida...

Unfortunately for me though, after the... incident... Kunikida decided to abandon the grab counters entirely in favor of teaching me how to punch and block instead.

I guess he was still feeling understandably awkward about it.

Darn.

“Good.”

Pulling out his notebook, Kunikida paused to write something down.

“Keep it up, Kusunoki. I want to see you do that a few more times before we move on to blocking.”

I nodded and kept going, alternating between left and right punches as Kunikida walked over to the corner where a group of training dummies stood waiting on standby. I watched as he paused to look them over, his hair gleaming like finespun gold in the early morning light, his pure-white gi stretching over his broad back, his sage-colored eyes soft and contemplative as he studied the mannequins.

If only I could tell him the truth... That I really was okay with what had happened yesterday, that maybe I even liked it.

That I liked him.

Just as the thought crossed my mind, Kunikida turned around to look at me and my fist glanced off the doll’s cheek without actually hitting it.

One corner of his lips quirked upwards in amusement and I was so distracted by the way he was looking at me that it took me a moment to realize that Kunikida Doppo was smirking.

I flushed.

“Concentrate,” Kunikida rumbled, with the barest hint of a laugh.

“S-sorry.”

But my concentration was definitely shot. As I resumed punching at the doll, I found my gaze constantly wandering over to Kunikida, who was now pushing aside a training dummy that looked like it had been clawed by a large cat (probably Atsushi’s doing. If I recalled correctly, his Ability allowed him to transform into a white tiger). I watched him select the least battered wing-chun dummy in the set before forcibly returning my attention to the roly-poly doll I was abusing.

Even though Kunikida was wearing a shirt under his gi today, I could still see the way his muscles tightened as he moved...

“Kusunoki-kun.”

I stopped punching the dummy, which let out one final pained squeak, as Kunikida finally arrived with the wing-chun dummy in tow.

“This,” he said, setting it down in front of me with a heavy thud, “will be our next opponent. I’m going to use this to show you a few different blocking techniques. For that, I’m going to need your help.”

He tapped one of the three wooden pegs on the top row.

“Stand behind the dummy and move the arms towards me. Try to go slow so that you can watch what I’m doing.”

I nodded and got into position, watching and listening carefully as Kunikida taught me the moves. Fortunately, it didn’t take me very long to figure them out and a short while later, we switched off so I could practice.

“Good,” Kunikida said, nodding approvingly as I raised my forearm to block. “Keep that up, Kusunoki-kun. Just remember to concentrate.”

“Yes, sir!” was all I managed to get out before another arm came sliding towards me.

“I think you’re ready for the next phase,” Kunikida decided, the beginnings of a broad grin making its way onto his face. “What do you think? Want to try it?”

“Next phase?” I parroted, throwing my arm up in time to block another hit.

Kunikida nodded.

“Combining what I’ve taught you so far,” he said, a tiny spark growing in his eye. “I think you’re ready.”

And before I knew what hit me, that gorgeous, devilish smirk reappeared on his face, so fast it was almost out of character. Almost.

He looks so proud...

My heart raced.

I bet this is the face he makes when he’s doing something he’s passionate about.

I could not say no to that face.

“Sure.”

“Great!” Kunikida exclaimed. “Here’s how we’re going to do this. When I move the top arms on this dummy, I want you to duck. When I move the ones in the middle, you block. And when you see an opening of any kind—any that you feel safe taking—I want you to throw a punch.”

He tapped a blank spot in the middle section of the dummy.

“Right here. And don’t worry, I’ll go slow. You ready?”

“Yes!”

And with that, lesson three began. True to his word, Kunikida started slow—slow enough that I was able to get used to the hits fairly quickly. After just a few rounds, I was able to recognize the patterns Kunikida was using and as the opportunities for hits, blocks and ducking began to fall into a steady rhythm, I found my thoughts drifting...

I had no plans to use my Ability on Kunikida for ulterior motives. But was it possible to use my Ability for combat situations? Or to suss out potential enemies?

Kunikida aimed an arm at my head and I ducked.

What if—just what if—I ran into an enemy I was able to touch? Would I be able to use my Ability to tell when attacks were incoming? Or from what direction? Could I use it to save my life or another’s in an actual fight?

“Oda-san took out an entire battalion of soldiers before his demise,” Akutagawa’s voice echoed.

Another wooden arm came at my head and I ducked again.

Oda-san...

As I threw out my next punch, I thought back to the lone grave under the tree in the cemetery.

S. Oda...

I had no proof this was the same person as the “Oda-san” Akutagawa had spoken of in the parking garage. The only things the two seemed to have in common were the fact that both were deceased and they shared a last name—a very common one.

I blocked just as an arm came swinging in from my right.

“When they told me an Ability User who could see the future had appeared once more, I was set on capturing them at all costs... I thought perhaps you were the second coming of Oda-san.”

The top arm swung towards me and I ducked once again.

An Ability User who could see the future, like me...

From what Akutagawa had said, it seemed my Ability was similar to his, this Oda’s. Similar but not the same, apparently. But still useful enough that the Port Mafia had taken an interest in him.

Who was he? And what connection did he have with the Port Mafia?

I heard a soft thwack as my fist made contact with the center of the dummy once again.

Kunikida’s eyebrows furrowed together.

“Kusunoki...”

“Oda-san... That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”

Dazai knew of him. And he seemed to know Akutagawa too. Did the rivalry between the Agency and the Port Mafia stretch that far back?

But the way he’d laughed...

“Kusunoki.”

Dazai had laughed almost as if we’d been talking about an old friend...

And his face...

I threw out my left arm just in time to block the incoming hit.

He looked just like Professor Matsuyama did when we stood there in the cemetery in front of Kei’s grave. Such a quiet, yet wistful smile...

Just looking at him made my heart ache...

“Kusunoki!”

I came to with a sharp gasp just as a wooden peg came rushing towards my head.

There wasn’t enough time to block or duck!! What should I—?!

I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for impact. But all that happened was the arm coming to an abrupt stop at my temple. I opened my eyes to see Kunikida, standing on the other side of the wing-chun dummy, his grin now completely gone and his gray-green eyes stern.

“Kusunoki...”

I felt a light tap as Kunikida softly nudged the arm against my head.

“You were distracted,” he said, his frown deepening. “You do realize that in an actual fight, your opponent won’t give you many chances to strike back or defend yourself?”

“I... I know,” I mumbled, a slow flush of shame coloring my ears.

Unable to face him, bowed my head and looked away.

“I’m sorry.”

“‘Sorry?’”

Kunikida’s voice was low, troubled.

“I don’t mean to be harsh with you, Kusunoki-kun, but it’s dangerous for you to lose concentration when you’re in the middle of something like this. You could’ve gotten hurt.”

But as I found myself staring at a tiny bit of tatami unraveling on the floor, I heard Kunikida breathe a very heavy sigh from the other side of the dummy.

“I’m not angry with you, Kusunoki-kun,” Kunikida said softly, stepping out from behind the dummy. “Nor am I looking for an apology.”

He grew quiet.

“I just want to know if there’s something going on.”

I looked up.

“Huh?”

“You’re still distracted,” Kunikida said, now sounding a touch concerned. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

I hesitated.

Kunikida-san...

He was worried. About me.

I studied the tall, blonde detective’s face, his handsome features tightening in a show of unease. My stomach twisted painfully as I realized I’d done this to him.

I was the reason Kunikida was making such a face right now.

Should I tell him about the grave? Or even the case?

I remembered the way he’d looked at me the night I’d held that glass shard to my neck in the infirmary—the look of absolute horror at what I was about to do.

My stomach tightened further.

Or might it trouble him if he knew what kind of memories this case was about to bring back...?

I looked away.

“I’m alright, Kunikida-san...” I murmured, feeling my bangs shifting slightly over my eyes.

I lifted my hand to tuck them away and smiled.

“It’s really nothing... I was just thinking about my new assignment.”

One of Kunikida’s eyebrows lifted up towards his bangs. He adjusted his glasses and studied me.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “It was a little difficult getting started without a case partner but there’s no need to worry.”

I can’t make Kunikida worry. Not when he’s already doing so much for me...

I dropped my hand.

“Dazai actually helped me yesterday and it’s going okay now.”

At this, Kunikida’s eyes widened.

“Dazai... did?”

“Y-yeah.” I laughed a little. “I know. Surprising, right?”

When Kunikida didn’t speak, I suddenly realized I’d made a mistake.

Oh no. I just insulted his partner...! Quick, Kyou! Think of something nice to say!! About Dazai, as much as it hurts to!

“I—I mean, I know he’s not usually that serious about his work,” I babbled, “but he can be a surprisingly good mentor when he’s trying to be! Don’t you think? If anything—!!”

I flushed, my face suddenly burning like the steadily rising sun.

“I think I’m really lucky! To have both Dazai-san and Kunikida-san as my mentors!”

Agh! I said it!

I couldn’t take it. I turned around to hide my face as Kunikida’s eyes widened even further.

That was embarrassing! SO embarrassing! If only I had the guts to tell Kunikida what I thought of him without having to bring Dazai into it—!!

But maybe one day...?

“Kusunoki-kun...”

Kunikida’s voice was quiet, hesitant. Almost uncharacteristically so.

I turned around to see him standing there with an unreadable look in his beautiful sage-colored eyes.

“Is that...” he started, his gray-green eyes searching mine for something I couldn’t name.

He swallowed.

“Is that what you really think?”

I felt my breath catch in my throat.

“It... it is.”

“I see...”

He dropped his gaze. He looked like he was thinking very hard about something.

“...Kunikida-san?”

I took a step towards him.

Why was he looking like that? Did I say the wrong thing?

Did I upset him?

But when Kunikida glanced back up, the unreadable look was no longer visible and I found myself once again looking into the calm eyes of a professional.

I stopped moving towards him.

“Should we... go back to training?” I asked hesitantly.

Kunikida’s brows drew together.

“Training?”

“Yeah,” I said slowly. “We were working with the dummy?”

“Right...”

He frowned.

“You’re not tired?”

“No, not at all!” I lied, ignoring the subtle ache in my arms. “Honestly, I could even go for another hour if you want!”

Kunikida raised an eyebrow.

“Really?” he asked.

Crossing his arms, he came towards me.

“You really want to spend another hour training with me?” Kunikida asked, taking his olive-green notebook back out of his gi.

I could feel myself sweating bullets as his gray-green eyes raked over me.

I was starting to regret my words.

“Uh... yes?”

He sighed.

“You’re pushing yourself again, aren’t you, Kusunoki?” he said, to which my only response was a violent twitch.

Busted.

“Don’t do that,” he said, his expression softening. “If you push yourself too hard too fast, you’re going to make things more difficult for yourself down the line. Not to mention you still have the rest of the work day to get through.”

“Right,” I mumbled, rubbing the top of my head self-consciously even though it didn’t hurt.

“And on that note...”

Kunikida looked to his phone as it began emitting a subtle beeping noise.

“I think that’s all the time we have for today,” he said, silencing the alarm and looking back up at me. “Why don’t we end here and pick back up tomorrow? We actually got a lot further than I was expecting today and you’ve already improved a lot in just a couple sessions.”

He studied me for a moment before speaking again.

“...You practiced at home last night, didn’t you?”

I was taken aback.

“You can tell?”

“I can.”

Kunikida nodded at me and for a moment, there was a flicker of that beautiful smile again, the one he’d worn earlier this morning.

If I didn’t know any better...

I swallowed dryly, my stomach doing a weird sort of flip as I looked at him.

I’d say Kunikida looks proud of me...!

“Keep up the good work, Kusunoki-kun,” Kunikida said, turning back around to drag the training dummy away. “I’ll see you same time tomorrow morning. Just remember not to overexert yourself in the meantime, okay?”

He shot me a stern look over his shoulder just as I was about to reach for the dummy, to help him put it away.

“Y-yes, sir.”

“And Kusunoki?”

I let out a surprised squeak as Kunikida lightly swatted his notebook on top of my head.

Kunikida smiled.

“Don’t forget to concentrate.”

***

“Keep up the good work, Kusunoki-kun...”

I couldn’t help wiggling around a little in a sort of happy dance as I picked up the tea pot and moved it towards the cups I’d been preparing nearby in the break room.

He really was proud of me! I’d done something to impress Kunikida-san!

I thought back to the way he’d looked this morning, that playful smirk, those quiet little grins, those beautiful, absolutely breathtakingly gorgeous smiles...!!

I brought my hand to my cheek and sighed.

These training sessions were great!!

Something hot brushed against my finger and I jerked the teapot away from the first cup just as it began to overflow.

“Oh, shit.”

Kunikida had been telling me to concentrate all morning and here I was zoning out again.

I put the teapot down and sighed.

If I really wanted to be the kind of mentee Kunikida could be proud of, then I really had to start focusing more.

I reached for a towel and began wiping up the spilled tea.

That’s right. Focus, work hard, and someday—maybe someday soon—I could finally confess my feelings to Kunikida. I wanted to see him smile more—wanted to be one of the reasons he smiled every single day!

“Kyou-chan...”

Yes, to hear him call me by my name so casually would be the height of bliss!

“Kyou-chan!!”

I actually jumped as a black-clad hand descended on my shoulder.

I whirled.

“Y-Yosano-sensei?!”

“Daydreaming, are we?” Yosano drawled, looking every bit as amused as she sounded.

She reached over the small puddle I was trying to sop up and picked up the only full teacup on the counter, blowing on it softly before bringing it to her glossy pink lips, which were stretched wide in a very knowing smirk.

“I take it the training session went well?”

“H-how could you tell?” I squeaked, going red yet again.

“Oh, I dunno,” she said, leaning on the counter next to me. Her grin widened. “Might have something to do with that little dance you were doing earlier.”

I flushed even darker.

“You saw that?”

“You were humming too,” she pointed out, taking another sip of her tea. “Oh, don’t be embarrassed! I thought it was cute. I bet Kunikida would find it cute too, if you ever decide to show him.”

“Yosano-sensei!”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” she laughed, her violet eyes sparkling as she regarded me. “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything to him, especially if you’re not ready to tell him. I’m just having a little fun with you, that’s all.”

“Thanks,” I breathed, lifting the teapot back up so I could fill the rest of the cups.

“But seriously,” Yosano said, holding out her cup for more tea. “Are you going to tell him any time soon? Because he’s really not good with this kind of thing and if you don’t...”

I put the teapot down as Yosano took her cup with her on her way out of the break room.

“If I don’t...?”

“Ah...”

Yosano paused by the door, her gaze dropping to the floor.

“Sorry, Kyou-chan. I shouldn’t have mentioned that,” she said quietly. “Not my place to. Just... keep in mind what I said, okay?”

“O-okay...”

And with that, she disappeared out into the hallway. Confused, I went out into the hallway with the tray of tea cups and began passing them out to my coworkers.

“He’s really not good with this kind of thing.”

What did she mean by that?

And what was she going to say before she stopped herself?

But as the tray emptied and I went back to my desk, I found my thoughts drifting from Yosano’s cryptic words back to Kunikida’s advice.

Stay focused and work hard. That was the way to the man’s heart.

Which meant it was time to get back to work. If I wanted to make it so that I wasn’t lying to Kunikida about making good headway in my case, I needed to verify the things Professor Matsuyama had said to me yesterday in the cemetery.

I opened my laptop, pulled up the search bar and started typing. A few moments later, I had what I was looking for: news articles from several years back.

The short one mentioning Kei’s suicide was easy enough to find but the information on Kei’s dead parents was a little harder to come by. After about a half hour of searching, I landed upon the obituary. Kei’s parents were indeed long since deceased and the remainder of his family had now moved out of Japan entirely and chosen to settle abroad in the US.

I leaned back in my chair and sighed, staring at the photo of Kei taken in high school, arm in arm with a boy I slowly began to recognize as a much younger Matsuyama Shin. It looked like they were celebrating their scholarships and entry into the university professor Matsuyama now taught at.

They looked like a couple of shounen manga heroes, blissfully unaware of what the future would bring...

I hit print and went to retrieve the documents.

With the police reports and these articles, I’d solved the first part of the case. I now knew exactly who Masaoka Kei was and what his relationship was to Professor Matsuyama.

As for the second part of the case...

“I want you to tell me if Sensei was responsible for Kei-san’s death.”

I placed the articles into the case folder and sighed.

At this point in the investigation, that answer was just about wrapped up as well. Most of the suspicious aspects of the case—the waiving away of the autopsy, the next-of-kin thing, even the professor sneaking off to mourn in private—all of that seemed to check out.

The only thing left unsolved was why the professor felt so guilty about Kei’s suicide.

I bit my lip.

I had promised to leave Natsuki out of any further investigations but I needed another lead if I wanted to close out this final part of the case.

Maybe I should call Nomura again, to give him an update and ask if there was anything else I might be able to look into.

I reached into my bag for my cell phone and immediately groaned when I pulled it back out.

Looks like I’d accidentally opened a video in my web browser while I was busy this morning and now my battery was completely drained. Grumbling to myself, I slid open the drawer that held my spare charger but the first thing I saw when I peeked inside wasn’t the slim white cable I was looking for.

It was the envelope the clerk at the police station had given me.

And Kei’s suicide note was still inside...

Heart pounding, I reached for it with trembling fingers.

Would this give me the answer I was searching for?

I pulled it out and began to read.

“To my dearest Shin-kun...”

My eyes widened.

It was addressed directly to the professor?

I placed the letter on the desk and smoothed it out on the polished wooden surface so I could see it better.

“To my dearest Shin-kun...

By the time you read this letter, I will have departed this world for the next. I apologize that you have to be the one to find me like this but I hope you won’t think too badly of me for it. It wasn’t my intention to leave you and Natsuki in this way. In fact, up until two days ago, I believed I would be parting ways with you at the airport in a few months’ time, with each of us heading for a future much brighter than the ones we’d imagined for ourselves in high school.

Shin-kun, I couldn’t be more proud of you.

I still remember when you had remedial lessons, when you’d come to me for help at the end of the day and I would jokingly offer my tutoring services in exchange for favors or snacks. I remember the day my parents died and how you’d been the one to comfort me when I was crying in the library. And I remember the day we’d arrived together at the university and how you’d fearlessly stepped through the archway while I faltered and watched you go on ahead.

And now, you’ve done it.

You, my best friend and brother, have been accepted into the program of your dreams. In several years time, you will be a history professor at your chosen university, lecturing starry-eyed students while your research papers make it into journals read all around the world. And not only that, but you’ll have Natsuki-chan, while I...”

Pausing for a moment, I squinted at the page and brought it closer to my face.

The ink looked like it was running here and the page was slightly stained...

“Are these...?”

“Natsuki-chan, huh?” said a voice in my ear. “She sounds cute. She single?”

I let out a surprised squeak.

Clapping my hand over my burning ear, I turned to my right to see Dazai perched at the edge of my desk, a thick bundle of electrical cables clutched in one hand.

“What the—?! Dazai-san,” I choked out, pushing my chair away from him as he looked at me.

I didn’t take my hand off of my ear.

“What are you doing at my desk?”

“I wanted to borrow this extension cord,” he said plainly, reaching over my mug of tea with one long, bandaged arm. “You’re not using it, right?”

“I am using it!” I snapped, pushing him away. “Can’t you see I’ve got my phone plugged in? And besides...”

I eyed the collection of electrical cables in his hand.

“Don’t you think you already have enough?”

“Hardly,” he snorted, trying to get around me as I kept pushing the cord away. “These are all way too short. I’m gonna need a bunch more if I want to make it work.”

“Make what work?” I asked, already dreading the answer.

“Oh, just a small project that may or may not grant me the painless death I’ve been longing for,” Dazai quipped.

Brightening up, he turned to me and smiled.

“In other words, I’m braiding these together to make a noose! Wanna help?”

Mortified, I pounced on my extension cord.

“Absolutely not!”

“Aww, c’mon, Kusunoki!” he whined, his eyes getting all big and puppy-like. “I’m not asking you to join me, I could just use a little help getting there! Please, pretty please?”

“I said no!” I exclaimed, my grip tightening on my extension cord.

“Hey, Kusunoki-kun...”

A shiver traveled through my arm and up my spine as Dazai dropped his voice low, his tone sultry and inviting as he spoke right into my ear again. I felt the heat in my face intensify as he began stroking my hand—the one that was still gripping the cable—with one long, thin finger.

“Come on, please?” he whispered, his eyes growing dark. “If this works, I won’t ask you for anything else ever again. I promise.”

His breath was so warm against my cheek. His brown eyes sparkled as they looked into mine.

“Be my accomplice?” he whispered.

Dazai smiled.

“Please...?”

“Please, please, keep what I’ve said to you today from my wife...”

I gasped.

Suddenly I was staring not into the eyes of the attractive, bandaged brunette but the eyes of Professor Matsuyama. I could practically feel the sea breeze on my face as it swept through the graveyard and as my mouth hung slack, I recalled the way the professor had gingerly touched his fingertips to the headstone before him and whispered the words aloud...

“I’ll be seeing you.”

Panic surging through me, I reached out and seized his arm.

“No, don’t!!”

CRASH.

All eyes in the room turned to me as I felt something warm and wet dripping down my arm and onto my skirt. I looked down to see that I’d knocked over the mug of jasmine tea that had been sitting on my desk and as I slowly took in the scene around me, I realized two things.

One, I was clutching Dazai’s bandaged forearm with both hands as if my life depended on it.

Two...

The tea had spilled all over my table and my copy of Kei’s letter was now completely illegible.

#bsd #kunikida x oc #dazai x oc #fanfiction

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wanderingalicewrites · 5 years ago

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So Much Discounted - Chapter 8

Genesis - I

(Also on AO3)

He landed hard in a puff of sand. Blinking in the suddenly bright light, Aziraphale sat up hoping very much that this landing-on-his-ass thing wasn’t about to become a habit. The creature squirmed around his arm, wriggling up from where it had landed at his side, half buried in the sand. It shut all but one eye tight against the light and tried to burrow into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“There now, it’s alright,” the angel said, drawing the creature up until it could curl itself around his neck, much like Crowley sometimes did when he took on the smallest version of his serpentine form. “We’re in one piece at least, though where we are is a bit of another question.” Before him, as far as his eyes could see, was a vast desert. Nothing but blue sky, the occasional cloud, and miles upon miles of sand. Next to him, the mirror glinted on the ground, reflecting the sun in the open sky. Oddly, when he picked it up it failed to show his own reflection. Instead he saw only the creature, and, behind him, a solid sandstone wall.

He turned then and stared. The shadow of the great wall fell just short of the toe of his shoes, expanding out until it reached the base of an enormous structure many thousands of feet high. Aziraphale looked up. And up. And higher still, until his eyes fell on a distant walkway high above. He knew that walkway. Just as he knew the elaborate structure a few meters down the wall. It was the Western Gate to Eden, directly opposite the place he had once been set to guard. This, somehow, was the Garden of Eden. Which meant that this desert was not just any desert. It was the sands of Creation itself.

The Western Gate stood firmly closed, locked as tight as it ever had been. There was no sign of its guardian, nor anyone else either. Aziraphale approached the wall, and found the outer stair right where he expected it. He had half assumed the whole thing would vanish like a mirage, but the stone was rough and warm under his hand and held firm when he cautiously leaned against it.

Around his neck the creature whined. When he glanced at it, he saw it reaching up towards the top of the wall.

“You want to go up?” he asked it, and got a whine in response.

“Alright then. Up is as good a direction as any, I suppose.” And if he reached the top, he might be able to get a better view of where they were. Carefully, he put one foot on the first step - still afraid the whole thing would vanish beneath him. It didn’t, so he took another. The creature hummed, vibrating, and staring ahead with several dozen eyes.

At the top, the stairs flattened out into the long familiar walkway that encircled Eden. It looked just as it had that day over six thousand years ago, when he and Crowley had stood upon this very stone and watched the first rain begin to fall. Remembering that day, Aziraphale felt his wings twitch in that place between worlds where he hid them away with the other, more frightful aspects of his appearance. It had been so long since he’d truly had a chance to stretch them, and that bit at the end of the world didn’t count. He’d been too preoccupied then to really pay much attention to them. He unfurled them now, calling them into being with a thought. The relief was immediate, in that marvelous and slightly uncomfortable way like standing up after having been seated for far too long a time.

“Oh, that does feel better,” he sighed to the creature, flapping his wings gently to dislodge stray feathers. The creature stretched out a tendril and plucked a floating feather from the air, bringing it close to one golden eye to examine.

Aziraphale himself turned to examine the view. On one side of the wall was the desert, just as he remembered it. Vast, endless, and empty. Occasional movement in the distance suggested the beasts that had been released by the war still roamed the sands. He shuddered, and hoped they did not find a way to climb the wall. He had no sword now to fend them off with, after all. Nothing with which to protect the creature, or the mirror that was all that remained of Crowley’s soul.

Putting that thought out of his mind, he turned again to the other side of the wall. And there was Eden, in all its glory. It was just as beautiful as it had once been, before God had removed it from the earth. Vibrant greens and deep earthy browns, broken by the occasional bright pop of color from every type of flower under the sun. Birds of every sort flitted within the branches, singing a counterpoint to the soft babbling of a waterfall Aziraphale could hear even from this great height. It was, as it had always been, magnificent. The loss of Eden had been the hardest blow for Heaven at the end of the war. It was ironic that he found it again now, here, in the last remains of Crowley’s shattered soul.

“What now?” he asked the creature, when he felt he had stared enough for now at the beauty spread out below him. It rippled in what might have been a shrug, blinking at him with several sets of eyes. It still held his feather in one tendril, waving it slowly in the air behind his left shoulder.

“The was your idea,” Aziraphale reminded it. “You wanted to come up here.”

The creature hummed, then pointed with the feather, further down the wall.

“You want to go that way?” he asked, and it hummed in response.

“Alright then.” Aziraphale resettled it securely across his shoulders, and set off down the wall. Eventually he passed the Northern Gate, and found it just as solidly shut as the West. The creature showed no interest in it, or descending down to either side, so he continued on. As he did so, he thought. This couldn’t possibly be the real world. For one, his connection to the universe felt… muted here. Like it was filtered through a barrier like sunlight through water. For another, Eden was gone. Not just moved, but gone, completely erased from all existence. Aziraphale and Crowley had both been there when it happened. They had watched as God struck down the walls and scattered the plants and animals across the world. To find it intact… well, he had fallen through the mirror. This, then, must be deep within Crowley��s soul. Some remote, hidden part that had survived the shattering. Or perhaps it was part of all he had just put back together. It would be impossible to tell. What worried him was that, aside from the plants and animals, it was empty. He half expected Crowley to show up like he had that first day, slithering up the wall as a gigantic snake. But no. What was left of Crowley was already here with him, a patch of darkness and cool flame riding across his shoulders.

“I don’t suppose you have any hints for what to do next?” he asked the creature, as they were nearing the Eastern Gate. “I can walk around this wall all day, I suppose, but I doubt that will get us anywhere.”

The creature just blinked at him with six sets of eyes, then turned them all to look forward.

“Yes, very helpful, thank you.”

It hummed happily.

“Right.” It occurred to him that he was talking to something barely more sentient than your average house-cat, but as far as conversation partners went, he had had far worse.

Closer to the Eastern Gate, Aziraphale saw movement on the wall for the first time. Someone was sitting there, just above the gate, staring out at the ocean of sand. Someone with very familiar jet-black wings and ember-red hair. Heart in his mouth, Aziraphale hurried towards the figure, hardly daring to breath. It had to be Crowley. There was no mistaking him. He was even wearing the same clothing he had been that last night in the bookshop - his customary black trousers and jacket, with a soft dark grey shirt underneath. Around Aziraphale’s neck, the creature began to vibrate so fast it produced an audible sound.

At the noise the figure looked up. And Aziraphale staggered back, flaring out his wings in alarm.

Staring at him from the familiar lines of Crowley’s face were eyes of a deep warm brown with a very human round pupil.

“Hello,” Crowley said cheerfully, making no move to stand from his place on the wall. “I don’t suppose you’re the new presence I felt here, are you?” Those strange, wrong eyes held no recognition and all Aziraphale could sense from him was an overwhelming sense of curiosity.

“I, ah, well,” he stammered, trying to find his words beneath his shock. Even when it had seemed vital, Crowley had never been able to change his eyes. Height, weight, sex, coloring, all were malleable to the demon and he changed them at the merest whim. But never once had Aziraphale seen him change his eyes. They were, he said, the mark of his Fall from Grace. ‘A ‘parting gift’ from a god who would no longer see him’ had been his exact words. Seeing them now so changed, it felt to Aziraphale as if the world had tilted off its axis. It was just a small thing, compared to everything else he had endured so far, but somehow it felt far worse.

“Cat got your tongue?” Crowley asked, watching him with those wide brown eyes.

“Ah, no, I just- I wasn’t expecting…” he gestured helplessly to the demon, unable to find the right thing to say. Crowley’s brow furrowed in puzzlement, but then his eyes fell on the creature, and his face took on an expression of curious delight.

“Hello, what are you?” he asked, jumping up and coming closer, circling Aziraphale and the creature. “You are remarkable,” he mused, leaning well into Aziraphale’s personal space to get a closer look at the creature’s flames. “Does it burn you?”

It took the angel a moment to realize what Crowley had asked, distracted by the nearness and the fact that the scent of him was different here - campfire and earth in place of his usual forge-fire and sage.

“Oh. Ah, no,” he said quickly. “That is, it doesn’t burn exactly. Its flames are actually quite cold.”

“Fascinating,” Crowley leaned to the side, trying to see the creature at another angle. “Is it yours? What is it?”

“No, it’s, um - wait, Crowley…” Aziraphale tried to turn to see him as he circled, now thrown off more by his odd behavior than his eyes. At the name, the demon stopped and frowned, peering up at the angel now instead of the creature.

“Crowley?” he asked, drawing out the syllables as if examining each one. “Is that his name them?”

“Whose?” Aziraphale frowned at him, putting a hand on the creature’s back and allowing the cool feeling of the darkness under his fingers to steady him.

Crowley shrugged, gesturing to the world around them. “His. Mine. Whoever all this is a part of.”

“You mean you don’t know?” Aziraphale blinked in surprise.

The demon shook his head, smiling a little helplessly. “Nah. I mean, ‘s not all me, is it? I’m just an aspect of him, from what I can work out. I tried to find out more, but the big guy in the center really doesn’t like it when you ask him questions.”

“An aspect?” Aziraphale echoed, ignoring the rest of that confusing sentence. The demon before him certainly looked like Crowley, except for the eyes. But now that he had a chance to catch his breath and really look at him, he could tell something more was wrong that just those eyes and his scent. This… ‘aspect’ certainly felt like Crowley, but he wasn’t acting like him at all. There was no restraint to his movements. He carried himself like he didn’t even really notice what his body was doing, letting every thought that passed into his mind play across his face, his expression ever shifting and changing, as mercurial as the sea. He lacked Crowley’s carefully crafted air of unconcern, the way he moved with such precision even as he put in extra effort to make it look effortless and almost lazy. The way he guarded his expression so carefully, at least until they were alone and he could relax for a time.

“Yup,” the aspect said, popping the p. “An aspect. A singular part of a greater whole.”

“And… do you know me?” Aziraphale feared the answer, but he could not keep the question from spilling out.

The aspect looked at him for a long time, scanning his face carefully with those unfamiliar brown eyes. At last, he sighed and shook his head.

“No. Though I feel as if I should. Why is that?”

“Oh.” He tried not to be disappointed. He’d known, going in, that this was going to be hard. But having a piece of Crowley - one that looked and felt so much like his demon - not recognize him… it hurt. Just as if Crowley himself had forgotten his name. It was a pain worse, even, than when he’d finally realized that Heaven did not care about him.

On his shoulder, the creature let out a sharp whistle and a series of hums.

“Huh.” The aspect’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “This one says your name is Aziraphale. And that I’m to stop upsetting you… am I upsetting you?”

“It- it knows me?” Aziraphale asked. He hadn’t thought the creature capable of remembering him at all. To know that it did soothed some of the ache from the aspect not recognizing him. “You can understand it?”

The aspect of Crowley shrugged, leaning in closer to the creature again. “Guess so. You can’t?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I can’t even sense feelings from it anymore.” The creature hummed under his ear.

“Interesting,” the aspect muttered, gently untangling one of the creature’s tendrils from the top button on Aziraphale’s waistcoat. “What are you doing with it, anyway?”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, remembering the cold cell filled with darkness and fire and eyes. “I was… I am trying to bring back my - my friend. This creature is all that was left of him.”

“So you are from the outside!” The aspect’s face lit with interest. “I had wondered. The sky was all broken before, sort of like the shards of a mirror. Then it sort of… fixed itself. I came up here to get a better look. I suppose that was you?”

“Maybe?” Aziraphale frowned, gazing into the reflectionless mirror in his hands. “I did put the shards of Crowley’s soul back together, at least. Or… I think I did anyway.”

“Can I see that?” the aspect asked, taking it from the angel and bringing it up so close to his face his breath left a fog on the metal. For him, it showed a reflection. Crowley, just as Aziraphale remembered him, with those wonderful serpentine eyes.

“Hmm… yeah,” the aspect tilted it to different angles, looking at the way it reflected Crowley’s face back at him. “It looks like a mirror, but it feels like something else.” He lifted it up and flipped it over, looking at the back of it before turning it on its side and examining the circles etched into the front. “Nine, hmm? One for each of us, and then the big guy…?” He held it up to the sun, watching the light bounce off of it. In the air, it reflected the stones of the wall and the forest down below.

“Tell me,” he asked then, not looking at Aziraphale. “What happened here? On this wall?”

“What?” the angel paused, thrown off by the seemingly incongruous question.

“What happened here?” the aspect repeated. “I can feel that it’s an important place. Somewhere I should know. Why?”

“It, well, it was where we met,” Aziraphale told him. “Crowley and I. Where we really spoke for the first time.” He turned to look out over the desert, the way he had that day so many centuries ago. “He stood under my wing when the very first rain began to fall.”

As he spoke, the mirror flashed, and an image of the two of them - Crowley sheltering under Aziraphale’s wing - formed within the glass. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

“He could have killed you then,” the aspect mused, staring at the now-empty reflection.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale frowned, confused.

“Yes. You were defenseless, without even a flaming sword to protect you. He could have destroyed you without a second thought. Why didn’t he?”

“He…” he stopped, really considering his answer. Why hadn’t Crowley killed him that day? They weren’t friends then; they had barely even known each other. It would have been very much within both of their supposed natures to attempt to destroy the other. And yet, Crowley hadn’t even seemed to consider the idea.

“He was…” he had asked Crowley that same question, that night in Rome after the oysters, when they’d both been pleasantly drunk on expensive wine. I was curious, Crowley had admitted. Who was this angel who would give away his sword? Why would he do that? Was it a trick? Were you trying to lull me into a false sense of security so you could strike when my guard was down? Or were you really that stupid, to give away a weapon of God to someone She had just banished? I had to know.

But if I really was trying to trick you, you put yourself in danger coming up to me like that, Aziraphale had pointed out. Crowley had just shrugged. And yet you didn’t kill me, was all he said. And here we are.

“He was curious,” Aziraphale said at last. “He wanted to understand why I had given away my sword.”

“And when that curiosity was sated?” the aspect wanted to know. “Why did he not just kill you then?”

The angel shook his head. He had no answer to that. “I don’t know.”

“Here.” The aspect dropped the mirror back into his hands. “Think about it,” he said. “It’s something to ponder, at least.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “I do suppose it is.”

The aspect nodded. “Good. Then I think you’ll do alright.”

Aziraphale looked at him, confused. “What?”

Those strange brown eyes met his own in a steady gaze, and he found himself unable to look away. “What am I?” the aspect asked.

“What?” Aziraphale repeated.

“Name me. I am a part of your Crowley. Tell me which part.”

“You… you want to know which aspect of Crowley you are?” the angel asked, still confused.

“Yes,” he agreed. On Aziraphale’s shoulder, the creature hummed. “I am one of eight. To be returned to where I belong, I must know which part I am. Only then will I be able to see where I fit with all the others.”

Aziraphale considered him. The way those wide brown eyes never seemed to stop taking in the world around him. He was bright, vibrant, full of questions. He reminded Aziraphale of the way Crowley could get sometimes, when he would be seized by a drive to find an answer to something. How he never just wanted to know the answer, but the whys and the hows of it as well. Aziraphale blinked, and realized suddenly that he didn’t even really need to think about it. He knew which part of Crowley this aspect was already. In fact, he was certain of it.

“Curiosity,” he said firmly. “You are Crowley’s curiosity.”

The aspect of Curiosity grinned at him. “That I am. Thank you.” He lifted the mirror in Aziraphale’s hands, allowing it to pick up his reflection once more. If flashed, bright enough that the angel was forced to cover his eyes and turn away. When the glow faded, he was alone with the creature once again.

“That was…” he shook his head, trying to clear the afterimage of that bright flash from his vision. Quickly he brought up the mirror, worried that something might have happened to it. It appeared the same as it had been before, with one addition. In the upper left-hand corner, one of the circles had been filled in with a symbol Aziraphale recognized. It read ‘Curiosity’ in Enochian, the language of angels.

#so much discounted #aziraphale/crowley #Ineffable Husbands

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celticfeather · 5 years ago

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Chapter 1: https://celticfeather.tumblr.com/post/188433697686/akatsuki-fic-campfires

Cannibals Chapter 3: The Lineage of Izanagi

-Uchiha Itachi-

Something particularly loveless prodded Itachi awake.

"You're the last watch till dawn," Kakuzu said. Itachi activated his sharingan as he woke, his dark eyes shifting to red. He could see Kakuzu's green ones were dilated near-sightlessly in the blackness.

Itachi rose and leapt up their chosen watchman's tree. The sharingan allowed him to see a wider spectrum of visible light than a normal human, and what should have been the black jungle night gained a strange ultraviolet tinge, a whitish-purple color somewhere between neon and dark that his language could not well describe. The stars and chakras shined different, coldly-bright, minty colors too. But he saw no glows of enemy shinobi in the night, just the gentle silver chakra silhouettes of sleeping birds and insects, and the three ninja below him. He let his sharingan fade. In an hour it had become bright enough for ordinary humans to see.

He alighted between the three ninja sleeping on the ground to no response. So much for Kisame's 'I only half sleep' claim.

Unsure of the best way to wake them, Itachi announced at normal volume, "It's dawn."

They rose quickly and quietly, professional in every mercenary sense of the word. For a troupe of cantankerous rogues, Itachi was surprised no one complained. He supposed that would resume once they decided they were no longer being hunted.

"No sign of the enemy since I've been awake," Itachi reported.

"Time to get the hell out of the land of Lightning. Anyone gotta take a piss, now's the time," Kakuzu said. After a short moment, the four ninja oriented themselves against the eastern dawn, and began leaping through the trees.

"Where's Zetsu when you need him?" Deidara muttered as they ran. "He'd say what Pain wants us to do about this."

"You don't need Pain or his pet mushroom. You have me," Kakuzu said.

"Yeah? And who made you second in command?"

"I'm the one who actually talks with our contractors. So naturally, I have our mission intel, and there's no reason to stop work."

"Hmpf," Deidara said.

"Since you fucked up the least, Kisame, I'll let you pick what you do." Kakuzu said. "You want to fix this Raikage incident, or make some money?"

Kisame looked at Itachi for his opinion. Itachi merely raised his eyebrows in reply.

"Make money," Kisame answered. Good. Itachi wanted to be away from this disaster.

"Great. You two go to this shithole village and kill their patriarch. When you're done with that, some pirates could use a lesson in not leaving witnesses." Kakuzu tossed a scroll to Kisame and one to Itachi, who each caught them deftly. Kakuzu then looked at Deidara.

"Deidara, you and Sasori will fix your fuck up. We don't want the Cloud or Mist investigating the Akatsuki. Blame it on different terrorists."

"How do we do that?"

"Doesn't matter," Kakuzu said.

Deidara frowned. But his calmness suggested he thought Sasori would know how to fix it.

They were soon over the border of the Land of Frost, where they said the brief goodbyes of stiff men. Itachi and Kisame continued west. Deidara went north. Kakuzu south. They stopped at a collection point on the way to get Kisame a new robe and gear, and began their ascent to the next mission's village in the afternoon.

They stopped along a river to prepare. The mint-colored alpine meltwater cooled the air in a low dense pocket from the beating sun. Itachi opened the scroll of mission intel and familiarized himself with the details. "Small town. Better we don't make a stir."

Kisame grunted in acknowledgement and stepped towards the river, swinging Samehada off his shoulder. He summoned a large deep-blue shark along the bank. It opened its mouth, and Kisame pressed the wrapped Samehada inside its white-fleshed throat. The two ninja being armed to the teeth was useful for intimidation, but a hindrance to infiltration. As if it was a loyal horse, Kisame patted the magical shark once on the muzzle once it closed its jaws around Samehada.

"You ever touch a shark before, Itachi? Try it."

Like he had been invited to partake in the most dangerous petting zoo, Itachi wet his feet at the bank where the shark, high as his hips, swayed half submerged. He thought the shark would look at him, or at least acknowledge him, but its circular black eyes didn't waver. With a slowness Itachi hoped the fish would interpret as respect, he brushed his palm against its exposed gray flank.

"It feels like sandpaper."

Kisame smiled. "Shark skin is actually made of dentin, the same material as teeth."

Because they need more of that, Itachi thought. He removed his hand, and deeming its duty done, the huge probably-sentient carnivore disappeared with a puff of mist to the realm Kisame had summoned it from.

"It's not easy to make a summoning contract with a shark, you know. Ninja tend to not come back," Kisame said.

"I thought you said sharks don't like how people taste."

"Oh, the sage sharks of Koraru Depths make exceptions for arrogant Mist chunin. You don't taste that bad."

He sent Kisame a reproachful look at his choice of pronouns, but Itachi's face was something of a resting scowl, so Kisame seemed not to notice.

To appear like a traveler of the civilian sort, Itachi untied his shuriken packs and the ninja headband. They kept their robes, no one yet recognized the red clouds as unique. He thought living in the forest on the run gave him enough of a convincingly rough appearance. Lifting his gaze from the water's reflection, he regarded his partner.

"Do I pass for a trader?"

"You look fine. It's your voice that's the problem."

"My voice?"

"I don't know how much you know about the Hidden Mist, but there we have a caste system, and the Hoshigaki belong to a certain caste. And people like me can tell by your dialect, Itachi, that you come from a noble family, and there's not a chance in hell you're a traveling merchant."

Itachi never thought of himself as in an upper class, and caste had been abolished in his land seventy years ago. Kisame's background in the Mist allowed him to perceive things that Itachi never intended to exude. "I see."

"Try gotcha, instead of I see."

"Gotcha."

Itachi pulled a piece of paper from the scroll and unfolded its careful nine-faceted square. A sketch of the man they were paid to kill stared back at them. Taika Hiroki. About sixty years old, leader of the local clan, someone had it out for him. Kisame nodded, having committed his face a last time to memory. Itachi burned the incriminating documents between his fingers.

The pair climbed ancient stairs carved from wood, stone, and roots, along a humid forested mountain crest. Traditional torii winged gates arched over their heads, and the small village soon appeared along a glacial lake between the mountains. A chunin posted at the doorless entrance looked the two travelers up and down. He pulled a root of wild licorice from his teeth before he spoke.

"What brings you to Honomura?"

"We're merchants," Kisame said.

"Here for the festival?"

"Of course."

The guard escorted them in. A minor official who clearly did not get enough visitors gave them each wooden travelers' passes. What a bothersome village.

Itachi felt more endangered in these hamlets. He paradoxically would be less noticed in a large ninja village. It was in these tribal redoubts, where most of the settlement consisted of a single clan, that he knew he was immediately recognized as an outsider. By the introductions they made with petty officials, the pair gleaned that three quarters of the settlement's two-hundred-odd population had the surname Taika, and it would not be easy to find theirs.

But the presence of the foreigners attracted mercifully little attention at the festival. Like moths drawn to the warm haze of paper lanterns, the outlaw pair wandered dazed to the center of the fairgrounds. After weeks in the forest they were transfixed by the live music, the vendors, and best, the greasy scent of real food -not whole animals- which glistened with salt and sauce. They looked at each other with testing eyes that betrayed the same poorly concealed thought.

"How much money do we have," Itachi said.

Kisame checked himself. "I've got eight hundred."

"I have one thousand."

Crap.

"I'll find some more money," Kisame said. Good. They were on the same line of the same page. In less than two minutes, Kisame had stolen a two centimeter wad of cash from a food stand.

Itachi's eyes darted from stand to stand. "What do you want to eat?"

"Do I look picky to you?"

Bristling with treasures —foods on sticks and cups of tea and sake between their knuckles— Itachi and Kisame seated themselves at one of many low tables near the town's stage and began to eat. Soon enough an announcer entered stage center, and introduced an act on the origin of deities.

"How's your knowledge of religion, Itachi?"

"Average."

The play began as they ate, and rusted to art forms, Itachi found himself paying rapt attention. Two actors dressed in white robes, a woman and a spear-wielding man, stepped onto the stage, where white lanterns cast the empty scene in an ethereal fog. Dipping his spear into the water, or rather tapping the stage floor, the man created land, and the white-clouded lanterns slid on the string to be replaced with ones tinted a jungle green.

"Izanami and Izanagi," Itachi whispered to Kisame. "Siblings, but also..." he waved his hand in esoteric explanation.

The creation gods Izanami and Izanagi had several deformed and normative children. First born was Hiruko, stricken with a hunched back, and cast into a river. They had many others, at last birthing Kagutsuchi the fire god. Izanami died giving birth to the flaming infant.

"And with Izanami's end, the world's first death occurred, and with it the age of creation. Intent to amend his wife's unjust fate, Izanagi plunged into the underworld, which then, was not separated from the realm of men," the narrator read.

Izanami wandered through a darkened stage, and stopped short. Behind a veil shined the unmistakable silhouette of his beloved wife.

The curtain lifted, but the woman it revealed was not fair Izanami. The actress's serene white face-paint had become putrefied in death. Children's gasps accented the moment. Fingers curled in shock at his rancid beloved, Izanagi turned away. His wife was enraged at his superficial rejection, and spurred demons after her former lover. Izanagi raced from the underworld, off the stage, where demons in fur-rimmed masks chased him through the audience until Izanagi circled, panting but safe, back onto the stage of the surface world. He pushed a prop-boulder over the cave, forever sealing life from death.

The narrator stepped onto the stage, and a spotlight centered on him, with Izanagi bathing himself in background.

"Izanagi cleansed himself from the underworld in a rushing river. The water that streamed off his face became three new gods:"

The spotlight jumped to greet the new characters in regal dress:

"From one eye sprung the proud moon god, Tsukuyomi."

"From the nose, the mischievous god of sea and storm, Susanoo."

"And from the other eye, artful and enlightened, patron of our village: Amaterasu the sun."

"Amaterasu was by far the most righteous and beautiful of the three new gods," the narrator crooned, and stooped low to leer at her backside. Amaterasu raised her fan to her face, whumphing the announcer without a lapse in grace, and the audience laughed.

The three new gods greeted the world of men -the audience- each with kabuki flourishes that reflected their personalities. He thought Amaterasu made eye contact with him from behind her fan.

"Hm." Kisame smiled slightly and his pupils slid to Itachi.

Itachi sipped his tea. "We might be the most interesting thing that blew into this town in a week."

"You should talk with her."

"I'm not good at flirting."

Kisame snorted. "Just like your knowledge of religion."

"I'm not being modest. I haven't spoken with a girl my age in years. In this town, I'm just a merchant."

"A kind, handsome one."

Itachi was struck that Kisame had called him 'kind.' He did not think Kisame would evaluate someone with that category. Not knowing how to take the compliment, Itachi stared back at the stage. Amaterasu and Susanoo competed over who was a stronger god. Amaterasu had just turned Susanoo's sword into five human beings, versus Susanoo's ability to spring only three from her necklace.

Their low table quaked. Kisame had plunged his cup down so hard and fast that his drink sloshed over the rim. His wide nose wrinkled and the stare Itachi met was battle-urgent.

"There's blood, buckets of it, enough to drain ten men."

Itachi forced his shoulders to relax. They must not act or show awareness of this yet. His eyes scanned the crowd as a cheering arose and the taiko drums beat an excited sinister trot into the space between his ribs. A column of fifteen men and boys carved a path like a wild river through the parade grounds, a coarse wooden platform undulating on the men's shoulders. Atop it glistened a bleeding heap of fresh red muscles and white fascia. It was a dead, skinned, horse.

Kisame squinted. "What the hell?"

"The crimes of Susanoo. Upset with his sister, he flayed the skin off Amaterasu's horse," Itachi explained. He also noted that in these conditions, Kisame could not differentiate human from animal blood.

Susanoo charmingly presented Amaterasu the horse carcass from the audience. Amaterasu strode off the stage in grief and anger, her silken white-red sleeves snapping, and the stage darkened with the egress of the dawn goddess, plunging the realm of men into darkness. Susanoo smirked and laughed, and the loping demons in fur-rimed masks began to howl. String instruments climaxed crescendo and fell, marking the end of the play's chapter. The audience gasped and clapped. The festival night was now without the Sun's guidance, and any kind of crookedness could occur before dawn returned.

The men heaped the horse onto a pyre, and a chunin lit it with a fire jutsu, enflaming a birchwood pile which was small enough that the meat might be cooked rather than carbonized. The village had a dark interpretation of their worship: Itachi thought that the goddess Amaterasu would not appreciate the flaying of another horse in her name. But the villagers seemed to like it.

"The Leaders of the Mist would consider this barbaric," Kisame said, his sly eyes smiling behind his cup.

Itachi matched Kisame's sentiment. No, the great ninja villages did not sacrifice simple horses to gods of sun, but sacrificed men and souls to gods of war. Gods they hailed each time they smithed a kunai, and who licked their lips at each newborn baby.

The next performance started, some students playing taiko drums. It was a banal sight compared to the play. Itachi ate his dango and drank his tea, listened to the music, and watched thick smoke rise from the pyre.

A gang of the village's teens stood by the pyre, the actress for Amaterasu among them. She had removed the headdress and white facepaint, but she still wore Amaterasu's red and white wake-sleeved furisode. One of the group looked at him and Kisame and giggled, as if discussing a dare. Then Amaterasu looked at the two travelers and grabbed a tray. He realized with a start that she was coming towards them. Kisame, who smelled caste like he smelled blood, tugged Itachi's robe, telling him that this is when merchants stood.

She dipped her head in greeting. "Excuse me sirs, my name is Taika Hato. I'm priestess at our temple and actress at the theater. We noticed you're not from around here. Would you like some horse flesh?"

Itachi blinked: the sun goddess Amaterasu had just offered him to eat her horse. He stumbled out a yes.

"And you, sir?"

"Please give me the shoulder, Miss Hato."

"Sure. May I ask your names?"

'Itachi' meant weasel. Weasels were small, ambitious, mean, and hungry. His parents' birth judgement had been imperfect: Itachi had become a man who was calm, sharp, and observant.

"I am Karasu. And this is my companion, Mekajiki. It's very good to meet you, and thank you for the food." Itachi bowed his head and gave himself a name meaning crow, and swordfish for Kisame.

"You're welcome! How was the show?"

"Your performance was stirring. I only hope your next act is soon: if I remember, demons terrorize everyone on earth until Amaterasu comes back," he said, trying his best to exude friendliness, but he had not spoken to anyone he considered a friend in years. He sat down, and with a gesture to the empty space, he invited Hato to join them if she wanted. He noticed Kisame's chin dip near-imperceptibly in approval of his manners.

"You know your religion," she said, taking a seat. "Stick around tomorrow at seven to see me kick Susanoo's butt. What brings you two here?"

"You mean, you can't tell by our dress?" Itachi asked.

"It is odd," she agreed.

Itachi smiled. "We're charcoal burners."

"So you...?"

"We fell trees, burn the logs in an earthen kiln using fire and water style, and then travel from village to village selling the charcoal. Smiths burn it to keep their forges at the correct temperature. It's also used in cooking, fertilizer, detergent, explosives, traditional medicine- even cosmetics. We've got a wagon full of it down the road."

Her look between the two men deduced Itachi was the fire user. "How good is your fire style?"

"Just the basics," he said modestly.

Hato's eyes changed from simply friendly to that of intrigue, and her expression became appraising and hopeful. "For the last act, the village guards cast fire jutsus as tributes to Amaterasu. You should join them."

"I couldn't possibly intrude on your ceremony as an outsider."

"When it comes to this ceremony, I am the authority. Plus, gifts from strangers mean more than gifts from friends, we say."

Itachi nodded. He would make an offering of flame to Amaterasu. And the girl, her representative, smiled with her eyes. "Thank you, Karasu! They'll love it."

Kisame stretched, looked at the two youths, and stood to leave. His gaze alerted Itachi not to expect his return. "I'm going to… get some more sake."

"You don't want to watch your friend perform?" Hato asked.

Kisame grinned and waved. "He's not so impressive."

Hato led Itachi backstage to meet the village's top military brass: a gaggle of four men spanning years fifteen to thirty who passed a ceramic bottle between them. The root-chewing gatekeeper was youngest among them. Hato was received warmly by the soldiers. She introduced Itachi as a pious charcoal merchant, and he was quickly ignored by the men.

For this dangerous and final act of the night, the stage had been stripped bare of its curtains and paper lanterns, and strapping men spilled buckets of water across the hardwood stage. A grinning bucket-spiller splashed the remaining water dregs onto the squealing children in the front row. From the backstage tent, Itachi watched the first four performers submit their offerings, each casting the biggest sun he could into the night sky in honor of Amaterasu. The crowd shrieked and laughed, fire reflecting on their wide scleras. Stepping forward for his turn, Itachi decided he would create a fireball that was the third largest- no need to upstage the locals.

Itachi mounted the stage as the penultimate performer left. His eye caught on Hato staring at him encouragingly, she flashed a thumbs-up, and he was bolstered with a better idea. Halting just one step onto the stage, Itachi faced profile, and his chest swelled like a bird. He blew, and his fire bloomed a deep ferrous red sparking with trace elements, and the chakra fireball sprinted across the stage in the shape of a stallion. Mane flaring, embers sparking from its light hooves, the fleet, shrieking horse appeared and faded in a vacuum roar. He returned backstage to raucous applause. When the soldiers' mouths gaped wide enough to catch frogs, a quiet grin cut Itachi's lips.

It hadn't been larger than yours, he thought.

Hato linked arms with him and led him through the festival crowds. She would introduce him to people and he would forget their names. Villagers welcomed him like a hero and plied him with sake. A kind old lady handed him a skewer with cubes of horseflesh. Any friend of Amaterasu was a friend of theirs. He was happy. Kisame was gone, the mission was something for tomorrow, Hato was a nice girl, and he could pretend to be normal for a night. Her attention made him feel pleasantly male, that he wasn't strange, isolated, murderous or evil.

She had showed him around the small town and they found themselves walking along the cold, white-graveled shores of the glacier lake. The gentle summer alpine night glowed cobalt blue, lightened by a huge low moon, whose coolness was relieving compared to the warm and dark frenzy of the blood festival.

"Actress and priestess," Itachi said as they strolled. "One's devout, and old people would say the other is sinful. I haven't met a person who's been both."

She smiled. "Each coin has two sides, and the same goes for you. Where'd a merchant learn ninjutsu like that?"

"The road is dangerous… and," he whispered like sharing a secret, "Sometimes really boring."

"Hah! Can't be less interesting than here."

"Did you know, that was a curse you'd tell your enemies in the old days? 'May you live in interesting times'?"

"Sounds menacing when you say it. Can you do other ninja tricks?"

In a heartbeat, he threw three kunai in a perfect line along a slender birch, each resonating a deep thunk that merged into one. A white and gold moth fluttered impaled on the center knife. She gasped.

But when he looked back at her, her face seemed uncomfortable. The throw was well above chunin level, above most jounin. Itachi knew he should not be careless in his desire to impress her by throwing beyond the abilities of a merchant. But somehow, the throw had not pleased her.

"Is something wrong, Hato?"

"What I liked about your fire jutsu wasn't its killing power; it wasn't a weapon, it was art."

"Art..."

"It's like how you and Mekajiki use fire and water style to make charcoal. Your fire style painted Amaterasu's horse, and it was beautiful. Performance is art, and it makes people happy."

Itachi regurgitated what he knew of art. "Do you think art is a single rapturous instant, or eternal?"

"Weird question. Art isn't a period of time, but a place. It transports you somewhere you've never been before, to some feeling you've never felt before"

"Hm," Itachi pondered. He thought that was a better philosophy than that of either Deidara or Sasori. He wondered how mad they would be if he answered like that, and decided he would next time they asked his opinion. Which would probably be never.

She smiled at him. "I've got a stupid dream. Wanna hear it?"

"I'd love to."

"I dream to lead a group someday that practices more peaceful uses to ninjutsu than war. Even if it was just a traveling circus of theater artists, and all we accomplished was making some villagers laugh."

"You've already got a talent for performance. The road is dangerous, but train and surround yourself with others like you, and only a fool would rob you."

She smiled sadly. "Dad wants me to marry a prince in the next village."

"Bring the prince along."

The actress said nothing and skipped a stone over the lake. It failed after two stops, and she made a noise of embarrassment. Itachi picked up a small flat stone and also skipped it badly. Ripples in the lake reflected the moonbeams like bobbing driftwood.

"It's late," Itachi said after a while.

"Do you have somewhere to stay?"

Itachi did not answer right away. She said, "Stay the night at my house."

Itachi bowed. "That's very generous of you. I would be happy to stay overnight in your stable, and my partner as well, if possible."

There was a sly shift of her eyes, lids heavy around her big, black pupils. "I think he'll have found an inn by now. But that shouldn't stop you."

Hato escorted him across flagstones that shone silver in the moonlight. Carrying their shoes, opening a sliding door with the utmost care, the two tiptoeing teens entered her sub-clan's complex and slipped into her bedroom.

Itachi set his shoes along the wall, wondering to what extent he should undress himself. When he turned around, Hato had knelt on her white futon. With her eyes trained at him, she slowly loosened the belt of her furisode to bare her chest. Itachi did the same. He reached to kiss her, she kissed him back. He shed the rest of his clothes, then did the same for her. He leaned into her. This is what people did.

He shuddered at the unfamiliarity when her weak hands touched his neck, they were warm and soft, hot as death-blood. He banished the rising memories, memories from the last time he did this, no, from the last time he thought he did this with Izumi that terrible night. Their bodies fit together like hot white ivory, and like smoke and steam, a very un-normal man tried his best to do this very normal thing.

Author's Note;

Heyo, thanks for supporting this fic. I plan to post Chapter 4 around Friday Nov 23. This will be a long dramatic fic with probably about 10-15 chapters this length, and I have a lot of progress made already.

Let me know your thoughts. And thanks of course to thanks again to beta myochiikurin!

Steadfast,

Kelto

Follow on FF or Ao3

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13409132/1/Campfires

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21019778/chapters/49992863

#split this one because it was too long #but chapter 3 yay!#this was delayed because i literally could not write the last paragraph how i wanted for two weeks #but its an important skill to just say yeah im 80 percent satisfied with this and publish it anyway #campfires #naruto #akatsuki #akatsuki fanfic #itachi #kisame #kisaita #celticfeather #keltodier #thanks for reading!

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theaggresivepacifist · 6 years ago

Text

and you, my oldest friend

For the lovely @thegoldensoundtwice, based on this amazing post.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Since I moved home from college in May, I’ve kind of lost contact with a lot of good friends and colleagues, and your amazing blog has been a little bit like having a friend to chat with – especially about the wonderful world of Redwall. Even though we don’t really know each other, your kindness, sense of humor, and incredible eloquence (I will NEVER be over the fic you wrote for me!!!) has been such a gift, and so instead of studying for the GRE I wanted to write you this tale as an early Christmas present and a heartfelt thank-you. Surprise!!!

It is un-beta’d, massive af (I think almost 7K words, so let me know if you’d like a .pdf!), and a tad bit angstier than I was going for at first, but hopefully still an entertaining yarn.

Cheers!!!

It was a glorious midsummer’s evening when she saw Redwall Abbey for the first time.

Her grandfather, a silver-furred old badger named Buckthorn, had told her stories about it, of course, promising to take her there the next time they held one of their fabled feastdays. He was a good storyteller, perhaps the best in Mossflower. But even he couldn’t do it justice.

The Abbey stood tall and proud and majestic at the border of the woodlands, battlements and belltower of ruddy sandstone soaring to the sky. The setting sun gilded the myriad ivy leaves that crept across the stone, turned the climbing roses to an incandescent shade of ruby red. The broad main gates stood open to all comers, and inside she could see colored lanterns glowing in the branches of the trees, reflecting in swirls of red and yellow on the surface of a tranquil pond.

Constance had never before seen anything quite so beautiful.

A motely group of squirrels, mice, hedgehogs, otters and moles welcomed them to table at once, as if they were old friends, and loaded their plates with the most delicious-looking foods a creature could imagine: breads and cheeses, salads and pasties, puddings and berries and flans. All of them were talking at the same time.

“Welcome, both of you! You look famished! Here, this plum cake goes perfect with clotted cream.”

“How about some of this hotroot soup?”

“Don’t be shy, take a few more of these nunnymolers.”

They were given places of honor at a table of Abbey Brothers and Sisters, pleasant mice in cowled brown robes. Being rather solitary by nature, Constance spoke with them only when spoken to, preferring to let her grandfather hold the conversation. She devoted the rest of her attention to eating serving after serving of the scrumptious food and watching the other jolly creatures with interest.

As supper was winding down, with everyone sipping their favorite drinks and nibbling at their favorite sweets, some of the woodland guests, the two badgers included, took it upon themselves to provide entertainment for their kindly hosts. A troupe of voles played reels and jigs on a battered bodhran and sweet-toned reed flutes; a family of harvest mice performed several comedic skits. But Constance and Buckthorn’s act was the most anticipated of the evening. Many Redwallers had never even seen a badger in the fur before, as old Mara, Redwall’s last badger mother, had gone to her rest many seasons ago. The pair of them performed feats of marksmanship with yew longbows, and Constance obligingly wrestled stout waterhogs and burly otter champions, shaking them off like raindrops as the Redwallers shouted words of advice and encouragement.

“That’s the stuff, missie!”

“Hohoho, ole Skip’ll be sore for a full season!”

“Hurr, moind the choild don’t toss ’im into yon pudden!”

She enjoyed the competition, the adrenaline, the feeling of her own strength. The attention was slightly overwhelming. Having humored her hosts, she left her grandfather deep in conversation with old Abbot Cedric and slunk off to the orchards with a pawful of mushroom and leek turnovers, throwing herself down on the cool grass to eat. The night air was velvety-soft, sweet with the perfume of rose and blackberry and late blossoms, and she snuffed appreciatively at it between bites of savory pastry.

“Peaceful, isn’t it?” said a quiet voice, surprisingly close at paw.

Constance bristled slightly, but then relaxed when she spotted the creature, resting against the trunk of a neighboring plum tree. He was just a young mouse, dusky brown, wearing the sandals and sage-green habit of a novice. His eyes were wise and kind.

“I always like to come here in the evenings,” he continued. “It’s nice to sit and watch the sun set over the Abbey. And it’s especially nice to be surrounded by all these good creatures, and hear them laughing and enjoying the feast.”

“I live with my grandfather in Mossflower. I’ve never seen so many creatures all at once,” Constance said. It was unlike her to admit something like that to a strangebeast, but the mouse’s gentle manner somehow put her at ease.

“Do you have many friends in Mossflower?”

“Not really.”

“Well, now you’ve got lots of them here.”

Constance had to smile at that. She extended a broad black paw and gave his a gingerly shake.

“I’m Constance. Pleased to make your acquaintance, friend.”

The mouse made a grave gesture in return, bowing his head over his own folded paws.

“My name is Mortimer,” he said.

By the end of the feast Mortimer and Constance were inseparable; the one’s serious nature perfectly complemented the other’s slight shyness. When she and her grandfather returned for the autumn harvest he showed her around the interior of the Abbey: the dizzying height of the belltower, the best places to sit in Great Hall, the labyrinthine aisles of the cellars where their resident Cellarhog kept special firkins of mulled wine and flowery mead.

Of course, they were both still young creatures, so these sights were soon followed by a tour of the spookiest corners of the attic, the hallways with the best curtains to shelter behind during games of hide-and-seek, and the kitchen larders that held the best snacks. They played in the crisp autumn leaves and dared each other to step paw in the icy pond. He also introduced her to Martin the Warrior, explaining the legend to her as she gazed, transfixed, at the richly embroidered tapestry.

“A mouse fighting a wildcat,” she marveled aloud. “I can’t wait to tell my granddad about this.”

“I thought you’d like to know about Martin,” said Mortimer. “He was brave and strong like you.”

“And then a mouse of peace, like you,” she replied thoughtfully.

Buckthorn was growing too old to make the journey to Redwall as often as Constance would have liked, and so in the springtide she argued and pleaded with him until, finally, he gave her permission to make the trip on her own. She woke well before dawn, packed a generous haversack of supplies, and set out through the woodlands at a steady pace, already full of excitement for the day she had planned. The miles passed swiftly. She arrived at the Abbey by midmorning, just as the Redwallers were finishing their breakfast, and stealthily motioned for Mortimer to leave Great Hall and join her in the orchard. He was thrilled by the surprise, but also full of questions.

“Why are you being so secretive? Where’s your grandfather? How in the name of seasons did you get here so early?”

“I’m here to take you on an adventure,” she told him in a stage whisper. “Think you can sneak out to Mossflower for the day?”

“I’m not sure I’m allowed,” said Mortimer. “I have to help with the washing for the dormitories and –”

“Come on! I’ve been to Redwall lots of times, now you should see where I live. Just tell them you can’t do it! Make something up!”

“I’ll try. Wait here.”

He disappeared for several minutes, leaving Constance to sample some of the early gooseberries. Finally he returned with a subdued expression and a heavy green travelling cloak draped over his Redwall habit.

“I told Brother Oswin I was gathering herbs for the infirmary,” he said, already self-reproachful.

“Don’t worry, it won’t be a fib. We can find some on the way back.”

He cheered up as soon as they set paw in the emerald forest, where new leaves were budding and a kaleidoscope of varicolored wildflowers were blooming. He had never been so far into Mossflower Wood before. Constance named the many birds for him by their plumage and their dulcet voices, and Mortimer paused often to admire fuzzy bumblebees and jewel-toned dragonflies, or flitting butterflies with wings like stained glass.

After a few hours’ march they sat down on the riverbank to rest, shaded by the boughs of an ancient willow. Mortimer said a simple grace over their midday meal. Constance watched the way his eyes closed, his shoulders relaxed, his paws steepled.

“What is it like, being in the Order?” she asked him, around a mouthful of strawberry preserves.

“Well, there’s a lot of book learning.” He brushed oatcake crumbs from his lap and cut a wedge of yellow cheese studded with hazelnuts, whiskers twitching thoughtfully. “Lots of history. We learn about the founders of Redwall and where they came from, and about the rules and vows that all Abbeymice live by. But our most important duty is to provide help and healing and charity to any creature in need of our assistance. Just a few days ago there was a poor weasel with a racking cough –”

“You mean you let vermin into the Abbey?” Constance interrupted.

“He was an honest creature. Sister Teazle and I made him a draught of strong herbs. He was as good as new by the next morning, and gave us some beautiful mussel shells in token of his thanks.”

“He probably came by those while he was off pirating at sea,” she replied dryly. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you can’t trust just anyone. There are a lot of dishonest creatures who would try to take advantage, even here in Mossflower. We’ve had quite a few brushes with robber foxes and ferrets.”

“Trust them or not, my duty is to help them if they require it,” Mortimer said patiently. “But I suppose it’s safer living at Redwall than out here in the forest.”

“I don’t know. It’s not so bad.”

“Oh dear, I didn’t mean it that way at all, truly. Mossflower is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. I think I could stay here by the riverside forever.”

“Well, I think Redwall’s got to be the best place I’ve ever seen,” said Constance, pleased by her friend’s compliment.

“Who knows! Maybe you could come and live there someday.”

After luncheon they crossed the stream, picking a careful path over the slippery stones, and made their way at last to at the badgers’ cottage. It was a snug little house of smooth clay, built back against a rock shelf so that the soft-mossed surface served as the fourth and largest wall. Trailing nasturtiums wove over the doorway and windowsills, their flowers like bright medallions of orange and sun gold. Inside were tables and chairs of Buckthorn’s making, carved out of honey-colored wood, and little trinkets from his many travels: pressed mountain flowers, many-colored stones, bits of seaglass worn smooth as silk.

“It reminds me of our Cavern Hole at Redwall,” said Mortimer, his eyes aglow.

“A neighbor helped me to build this place, a clever old beaver, when I first came to this part of the woods.” Buckthorn straightened from stoking up the hearthfire. “That were when young Constance here was but a tiny badgermaid. Her gran was still with us then.”

“She must have planted that wonderful herb garden of yours.”

“Aye, that’s right. She was a healer like you are, y’know. There’s some rare plants growing there that might interest you.”

The old badger and the young mouse were kindred spirits. Over the course of the afternoon Buckthorn swapped stories with Mortimer and shared with him some of the badger lore that Constance had known since she was a cub, the workings of the tide and the secret phases of the moon, the way to sense the first changings of the season – even old fireside tales, like that of the great snow badger who brought deep winter to Mossflower Wood. Constance was just about to remind them that they needed to get back to the Abbey before nightfall when a sudden spring rain began to lash through the trees, obscuring the woodlands with a heavy sheet of silver.

“Not travelin’ weather, I’m afraid, young ’un,” said Buckthorn, shaking his grizzled head. “You’ll have to stay here for the night.”

“Oh, no,” Mortimer groaned. “I’m going to be in a lot of trouble when I get home.”

“Don’t worry. We can leave as soon as the sun rises,” said Constance, secretly ecstatic that the elements had intervened. “Let’s have a cup of tea, and then I’ll show you how to make a seafaring dish my granddad taught me. Skilly and duff!”

In the morning, as promised, they set out at a run with the first rays of dawn, slipping and squelching on the muddy road. Though they made it to the Abbey in record time, Mortimer’s prediction was soon proved correct. Brother Oswin was waiting for them at the gate with a face like yesterday’s thunder. Without hesitation he took hold of Mortimer’s habit sleeve and began lecturing the young mouse severely.

“We were up all night worrying about you. Abbot Cedric was about to send out a search party! And where in the fur is the sanicle and valerian you were supposed to be gathering?”

Constance blushed at the Brother’s righteous fury, beginning to feel sorry for the part she had played in the whole affair. But Mortimer, recalling the sleepless night they had spent telling tales and playing games while the rain drummed on the cottage roof, could only smile.

For many happy seasons they visited back and forth in this way, growing up and growing ever closer, Constance trekking to the Abbey for feastdays and bringing Mortimer back to the cottage to enjoy languid spring and summer evenings by the riverside. She eventually taught him how to find his way through the woodlands unaccompanied by reading the signs of moss and leaves, and after much effort prevailed upon him to carry a stout ash staff with him on the road (“Someday I won’t be there, and you might have to defend yourself!”), though only because he decided he could use it as a walking stick.

Mortimer made his way to the den often in the winter days when Buckthorn’s health began to fail him, brewing soothing teas and medicines, keeping him company while Constance slept. When the old badger went to his final rest it was Mortimer who said the funeral service, tenderly placing a bundle of early quince on the grave Constance had hacked from frozen ground.

Several days had passed since then, and the two of them sat at table together, sharing a jug of blackcurrant wine to drive off the icy chill. Constance was red-eyed but composed.

“I was thinking of taking some time to myself. Travelling someplace new, like my granddad liked to do.”

“Outside of Mossflower?”

“Perhaps.” She drained the last dregs of her cup, set it carefully back down on the tabletop. “He told me a lot of stories about Salamandastron, the mountain of the fire lizard, where his father and brothers ruled. Maybe it’s time for me to pay a visit there.”

“But surely not until the springtide, friend.”

“No. No, I’ll wait until the snow melts.” Seeking to reassure him, she gave Mortimer a tired smile. He had taken his final vows and now wore the wide-sleeved brown robe of an Abbey Brother, which made him look, if possible, more solemn than ever. “But the sooner the better. I don’t think I’m meant to spend the rest of my life as a farmer. You’ve already found your path, you old fogey, and I’m glad for you. I don’t have that yet.”

For a moment silence fell. It was an end and a beginning. They always had known it might come to this, but hoped it never would.

“You’ll come back to us, won’t you?” Mortimer asked her.

“Of course I will.”

***

It had been a long struggle across shifting sands, chilled and buffeted by the wind. Her mouth was full of grit and her paws stinging from the many tiny cuts left by jagged rocks and sharp blades of spiky sea grass. She was hungry and thirsty and weary to the bone.

But at last, after weeks of travel, the great mountain was in her sights.

A military hare in a buff-colored coat was waiting her at its base; curiously, he seemed to have been expecting her for some time. He swept off his jaunty feathered hat and made a low bow, to which she responded in kind.

“Is this Salamandastron, the mountain of the fire lizard?”

“The very place! And surely you must be the charming Lady Constance, daughter of Iris and Birchstripe, grand-niece to Lord Oakpaw the Valiant, eh wot! By the left! My pater’s pater served under your great uncle!”

“Just Constance, thank you,” she replied firmly, shaking his paw with a grip that made him wince.

“Just Constance, what an odd moniker! Right-o, I’ll give you the full tour. Please to jolly well follow me, madam!”

He led her upwards through a warren of stone corridors, grey and bleak, but fresh with bracing sea air and the tangy smell of salt and seaweed. He was chattering all the way.

“This, dear gel, is the ancestral home of badgers such as your good self, although it’s a few seasons since our valiant Lord went off questing after some wicked corsairs to the south—vile creatures, nasty tatty rats, all of ’em, need a lesson in cold steel. And so but a few of us gallant and handsome hares, such as myself, the humble Corporal Merriwether, remain here, guardin’ his domicile while he’s away, keep the home fires lit, so to speak. I’ll show you the common areas, dormitories and kitchens of course, the forge room, the terrace gardens, perchance even the entrance to the sacred jolly hall of badgers itself…but here’s the ticket, just the place to start. The mess hall!”

As they approached Constance could hear a commotion – at first what she thought was the sound of several creatures shouting, but then recognized as one creature doing three or four different voices, as the mood suited him. Corporal Merriwether sighed.

“That’ll be one of our new recruits. My apologies for the disturbance, marm.”

They rounded the corner and found themselves abruptly in the Salamandastron dining hall: brightly lit by westward-facing windows, with a crackling fire along one wall and long wooden tables and benches arranged in the center of the room. A slightly bucktoothed grey hare in regimental red was leaping and bounding from table to table, his long ears flopping comically about as he berated his lunching comrades, each of whom ignored him steadfastly. Constance had never in her life seen a creature behaving in such an outrageous manner.

“Cowards! Bounders! Fiends! Yah boo, ya rotters, I can outscoff any three of you with my paws behind me back, so there!”

“Steady in the ranks there! What’s all this about, you young terror?” barked the Corporal. The mad hare came smartly to attention and threw him a swift salute.

“Sah! Was simply interested in a little pie-scoffin’ competition, sah! First beast to finish their pie jolly well wins, sah!”

“You ’orrible animal, what on earth for?”

“Simply a spirit-raisin’ game, sah, fun for the troops, good for the morale, eh wot!”

“I could eat,” said Constance mildly, to general surprise. Several of the Long Patrol hares instinctively stood upon seeing the badger in their midst, and the red-coated hare made an elegant leg.

“By Jove! Honored to have such a worthy opponent, I’m sure! May we commence with the challenge, sah?”

The Corporal looked doubtful, but turned on his heel to shout in the direction of the kitchens.

“Oh, dash it all, if the badger Lady wants to humor the lower orders…Cook! A mushroom ’n’ tater pie for the young badgermiss, wot!��

Constance took a seat on a comfortable bench across from her challenger, who sat poised with wooden fork and knife hovering over a massive golden-crusted pie. In a twinkling a stout hare came hurrying over to place before her a pie of similar size, tugging respectfully at one of his ears.

“With the compliments of me goodself, Cook an’ Colonel Puffscut, marm. Rules for a Long Patrol scoffin’ competition are simple: on the count of three, start eatin’. First beast to finish their plate’s the winnah. One…two…three!”

Without further ado the hare across the table began shoveling down forkfuls of pie, gravy dripping from the corners of his mouth. All eyes were on Constance, who in turn was watching her challenger with great amusement. She waited until he had almost finished his portion before locking eyes with him, opening her massive jaws, and wedging the entire pie into her mouth. After three leisurely chews and a draught of nettle beer she swallowed and shrugged at him, wiping her paws fastidiously on a napkin.

“What was that you were saying about outscoffing three creatures at once?”

There was a smattering of applause from the Long Patrol hares, most of whom were glad to see their eccentric comrade taken down a peg.

“Good show, marm!” the strange creature cried sportingly, still covered in mushroom gravy, as he extended a paw for her to shake. “The name’s Basil Stag Hare, doncha know. I think we two fellow faminechops would make awfully good pals!”

“I certainly ’ope not,” the Corporal remarked despairingly to the Colonel. Constance had to hide a sudden grin.

She soon fit in at the mountain fortress: she was a badger in her prime. The hares kitted her up with a runner’s pack and sling, and she took to galloping alongside the patrols in daylight, telling jokes and gulping nutbrown ale by firesides at night. She spent hours in the forge room, smashing metal into arrowheads and sword blades, although she still preferred a simple javelin or the strength of her own limbs above all else. Basil, the renowned, if ridiculous, fur ’n’ foot fighter, taught her to box, a pursuit in which she excelled. A single right cross from one of her massive paws was enough to lay low a ferret or stoat (or once, by accident, an unprepared Lieutenant Swiftscut) for half a season.

A few of her most impressive feats became the stuff of legends in later days, such as the time when Basil convinced her to skip kitchen duty for an unauthorized day of leisure on the shore. It was a baking-hot summer’s morn, and they had unbelted their weapons so that they could swim in the cool green sea. They then sat wolfing down purloined fruit salad and honeyed damson tartlets, using a massive chunk of driftwood – perhaps the wreckage of a lost corsair ship – as a table. It was the badger who heard the approaching pawsteps first, and turned to see two weasels and a fox trying to sneak towards them, toying with their bladehilts.

“I say, chaps,” Basil said, feigning indignance. “This is a private party, d’you mind?”

“Shaddup, rabbit!” snarled the fox. “Don’t try to go fer yer weapons, they’re too far. Wot kind of vittles have ye got there?”

“Oh, a smidgen of this, a smidgen of that. ’Fraid there’s not enough left to share.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Hand ’em over, or I’ll gut ye!”

With eye-blurring speed the fox drew his rusted cutlass and slashed at the air a hairsbreadth in front of Basil. The hare sidestepped and moved swiftly to stop him, but Constance was faster. With a mighty heave and a sky-shattering roar she levered their picnic table out of the sand, sending food flying and swinging the heavy spar in one fluid motion in the direction of their assailants.

“Blood ’n’ vinegarrrrr!”

CRACK!

All three vermin were knocked poleaxed to the ground, stricken completely senseless. Constance tossed the spar aside with a snort of satisfaction, only to see Basil dancing about on the sand about like a madbeast.

“What’s the matter? Are you wounded?” she demanded, but the hare was merely overcome with awe.

“Absoballylutely spiffin’, wot! Strewth, I’ve never seen anything like it!”

“Well, I thought I heard him ask you to pass the damson tartlet,” she said modestly.

Then there was another incident that aroused much mess-hall gossip later, not all of it friendly. Corporal Merriwether, driven half mad after several seasons’ of Basil and the badger’s endless capacity for trouble, had allowed the pair of them out on a weeklong patrol, accompanied by two companions. They were a few days’ journey from Salamandastron, in the last hours of their assigned mission, when a runner named Gurdee spotted a shabby lean-to built precariously against the cliffs. A mangy grey and white rat was crouched outside at a feeble fire. He did not appear to be armed, but Gurdee’s fellow runner, a hare named Bayberry, was taking no chances.

“Paws where we can see ’em, laddie buck! Just what d’ye think you’re doing on these shores?”

“Tryin’ to keep warm,” the rat said dully.

“Wouldn’t happen to be one of Zivka Bluesnout’s scummy corsairs, would you?”

“A deserter, probably,” Basil suggested, in a voice that seemed to propose moderation, but the rat made no reply, and Bayberry ground his teeth together at the slight. With a nod to Gurdee the pair of them drew their rapiers, perhaps seeking to intimidate him into an answer. Bayberry cut the ropes holding together the rat’s dilapidated tent, and Gurdee stirred up the seacoal with the point of his sword, extinguishing the last frail sparks of the fire.

“Stay mum if you wish, but we can’t have questionable characters campin’ out on our Badgerlord’s territory. You’ll need to clear out by nightfall.”

The rat had not made one move to stop this destruction, but instead sat watching listlessly from the sand, one grubby paw splayed protectively over a deep wound in his foreleg. When she saw it Constance barked out a sharp order, her voice echoing off of the cliff walls like a thunderclap.

“Hares, leave that creature alone!”

Obediently they froze, but there was surprise and perhaps even slight resentment in their eyes. Constance ignored them and turned her attention back to the rat.

“How did you injure your leg?”

“Slipped,” he said hollowly. “On the sea rocks, foragin’ the tide pools.”

“When?”

“Few days ago.”

Constance tugged her haversack from her shoulders and began rummaging through it, coming up with a clean strip of bandage and pawful of pungent leaves and mosses.

“Clean the wound in sea water, and then bind it with these herbs. It may sting, but it’ll heal. In the meantime, you’ll want to stay off it as much as you can. Do you have enough food here to last you a day or two?”

The rat shook his head. Constance dug through the haversack again and then set the last of her field rations, a strong wheat loaf and some good mountain cheese, atop the empty cask that served him as a table.

“Take these and move once when you’ve had time to rest. We’re sorry to have bothered you.”

Then without waiting for a word of thanks she turned on her heel and marched away from the scene, accompanied swiftly by Basil. Gurdee and Bayberry sheathed their blades with a last warning look at the rat before jogging to the badger’s side. They disapproved and did not try to disguise it.

“Not entirely sure I understand you, marm, givin’ away healing medsuns like that to a rat, of all creatures.”

“Rather, wot! An’ beggin’ your pardon, but it sticks in my gizzard to see proper gentlebeasts’ tucker wasted on a villain like that!”

Basil, seeing the strange look in her eyes, was the only one who remained silent. Constance continued to stride ahead at a purposeful double-march.

On the journey back to Salamandastron she seemed somehow a changed creature, moody and withdrawn. She no longer hungered after battle and danger the way the young hares did. Even the ballads and marching songs, rousing tales of glory and peril and heroism, had lost their charm. She trusted only Basil for counsel, sitting up to talk with him late into the night.

She missed the new green of oak leaves in the woodlands, the ruddy rose of sandstone in the setting sun, the stillness and sweet fragrance of the Abbey orchards. She missed a gentle, kindly mouse in the habit of his Order, cooling his footpaws with her on the banks of the River Moss.

One morning she left the mountain behind and went home to Mossflower Country.

***

She could hear the ringing of the Joseph Bell even from a distance, clear and strong and exultant, and almost in spite of herself began to run, paws churning up the pathsoil. Through the lacework of budding beech and elm leaves she soon saw flashes of pink stone, and then she found herself before the gate. She had to pause for a moment to catch her breath and calm her emotions. She had dreamed of this moment every evening of her journey back; perhaps she would wake up to find that this too had been nothing but her imagination.

Then she stepped forward and rapped at the door.

After a few moments a chubby little dormouse heaved the doors open, peeking cautiously around the corner. At the sight of her his mouth fell open, and he nearly dropped his bunch of gatekeys in surprise.

“May a weary traveler enter?”

“Heavens above!” the dormouse said breathlessly. “You must be that badger our Abbot talks about so much! Come inside, come inside and rest yourself. My name is Brother Abel. I think I remember you from a midsummer’s feast.”

No sooner had the gatekeeper let her into the Abbey grounds than another mouse materialized as if from thin air. Before she could say a word he flung his paws around her, laughing and weeping all at once.

“Constance! Constance!”

“Mortimer!”

“Constance, my dear, dear friend!”

Mortimer was a young mouse still, but his fur was already taking on a tinge of silvery grey. His face was alight with joy. He stepped back to get a better look at her, awed by her obvious strength and size.

“You’re as tall as an oak! Where have you been all these long seasons?”

“You’re the same height as you always were. I’ve been traveling, like I said I would.”

“You must tell me all about it! Let’s go for a walk in the cloister gardens. Thank you, Brother Abel, you can close the gate.”

Brother Abel made a respectful bow, a gesture which surprised Constance. But she soon forgot about it as she related to Mortimer the story of her travels. For what felt like hours she told him of the mountain and the great gray-green sea, the hares she had befriended and the dangers she had faced. With every step they took through the familiar gardens, every time Mortimer laughed at a funny story or gasped at a tale of a narrow victory over vicious foebeasts, her heart felt a little lighter.

“Well, that’s about it,” she finished at last, wanting to hear about what he’d been doing all this time. “I’ve had plenty of adventure, like I wanted to. And now I don’t know what to do.”

“So does this mean you’re here to stay?” he asked hopefully. Constance let out a sigh.

“Oh, I don’t know. Does Abbot Cedric have a use for a large, grouchy badger like me?”

“Good old Abbot Cedric. I’m sure he would have, but he went to his rest two seasons ago, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry, Mortimer. I know you were close to him.”

“He was a wise and compassionate soul. I hope I am serving well in his stead.”

“What do you mean?” asked Constance. Then, suddenly, she understood Brother Abel’s bow. Mortimer seemed to draw himself up a little, a creature fulfilled and fully at peace.

“Just before Abbot Cedric passed on, he told me that he’d decided to leave Redwall Abbey and all its creatures in my care. I am Abbot Mortimer now.”

Constance was still grappling with this news when she felt somebeast step on her footpaw. A mousebabe and a small squirrel, both clad in the linen smocks of Abbey young ones, had attached themselves to the hem of her tunic, tugging and pushing. They were addressing her in what they imagined was their best imitation of a badgers’ voice, trying to make themselves sound gruff and fearsome.

“I’mma bigga strong badger, make you falla down!”

“We’re not scareded of anybeast!”

Constance was not used to little ones, but she felt her heart soften. With a wink to Mortimer she scooped the pair of them up single-pawed, tumbling dramatically into a patch of clover and coming to rest with a bump.

“Phew, what fierce warriors! You’ve slain me, you little rogues!”

“Yee hee! Again! Again again again!”

“These little scallawags are Holly and Jessamine, two of our most ferocious Dibbuns,” Mortimer said, smiling. Constance looked aghast.

“Dibbuns? What in the world is that?”

“It’s what we call the young ones here at Redwall.”

“Nonsense. I’ve never heard something so ridiculous.”

“Again again again!” interrupted the squirrelbabe Jessamine, trying to clamber up onto Constance’s head. Constance struggled to her feet in mock exhaustion and bent to take each of them by the paw.

“How about you two ruffians show me and Mor – the Father Abbot to the kitchens first? I’m famished!”

“What does badgers likes to eat?” Holly demanded.

“Naughty little mice and squirrels!” Constance said, raising her eyebrows and showing off her shining canine teeth.

“No!” shrieked Holly in terrified delight, while Jessamine giggled. “They likes chesknutters an’ strawbee cordial!”

“Oh, that’s right! I forgot. I bet you like chestnuts and strawberry cordial too. Here, let’s wash our paws off in the pond first.”

“I think we may have a use for a large, grouchy badger after all,” said Mortimer, with proper Father Abbot-like sobriety.

She did not go back to the cottage where she had grown up. Mortimer had tended it for her while she was away, but she felt that with a new chapter of her life should come new lodgings, and had him find a family of poor fieldmice to live there instead. Nights she slept out on the soft grass of the Abbey lawn, waking up drenched in dew. In the early mornings, recalling her Salamandastron routine, she let herself out through the side gate and took long rambles through Mossflower Wood, running, swimming, testing her strength against heavy boulders, practicing with spears, javelins and her grandfather’s longbow, which she kept stored in a mossy log, away from Mortimer’s slightly rueful glances and the peaceful Redwallers’ fearful ones.

But she was always back at the Abbey before luncheon, helping with chores and, mostly, keeping a weather eye on the mischievous young ones, who soon began to call her “Muvver Constance,” just as the grown-ups respectfully referred to her as “the Badgermum.” She had an unexpected gift for caring for the Abbeybabes, and eventually she knew she wouldn’t dream of doing anything else. She traded her woodland homespun for an apron and stout gown, with deep pockets to hold clean handkerchiefs and found toys and coltsfoot pastilles. At mealtimes she could often be found sitting at the young ones’ table, spoon-feeding the smallest of the babes, convincing middle-aged ones to eat their turnips and rutabagas, cuddling and rocking fractious infants to sleep while their older siblings perched on her shoulders. At bedtime she tucked the little ones in, one by one, and hummed old badgerwives’ lullabies or related Martin-the-Warrior legends until the dormitories echoed with the sound of gentle snoring.

Mortimer’s heart gladdened the first time she spoke of Redwall as home.

***

Constance was several seasons his elder, but it was Mortimer who grew old and fragile first. His eyesight grew blurry, necessitating a pair of crystal spectacles. In the winters, when the orchard trees were brown and brittle, and the Abbey grounds sparkled white with snow, his joints sometimes grew stiff and painful. But untiringly he watched over his beloved Redwall, through many peaceful years, as any good Father should: patient, wise, just, kind, with the badger as his strong right paw.

Then came the seasons of Cluny the Scourge.

In the seconds before she picked up the Cavern Hall table and threatened to smash it over the warlord’s head, she chanced a glance at her friend and saw on his face an expression she’d never seen there before: rage.

In the days afterwards, as Martin was lost to the enemy, as creatures were wounded and killed, this was soon followed by another first, one that startled her even more: uncertainty.

Constance was bleeding freely from some half a dozen gashes along her flanks and on her paws, wounds earned during a vicious skirmish with several of Cluny’s scouts. Abbot Mortimer worked by candlelight to clean the deep cuts and treat them with herbs. He was unusually silent, not speaking until his work was finished.

“Please try to take better care of yourself, Constance,” he said at last, rather shortly. “You put yourself in danger far too often.”

“I only do what I must, Father Abbot.”

“But if something were to happen to you –”

“You have Matthias and Basil, Jess and Winifred. Redwall would survive.”

“I am asking you as a friend,” said Abbot Mortimer. “My dearest and wisest friend. If we win this war tomorrow it will already have been at too great a price. Do not ask me to suffer your loss on top of everything that has already come to pass.”

Constance was stunned by the emotion in his voice. After a moment she laid a heavy paw on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry to have upset you, Abbot. I’ll try my best.”

It would never have occurred to her to ask him the same. He was as ever the careful, noncombatant Mortimer, a healer and a stretcher-bearer, a creature of peace, and the battle would never breach the Abbey walls to reach him. She would see to it.

The Father Abbot was awakened by a sword-point at his throat.

The poison barb on Cluny’s tail had done its deadly work. The Father Abbot was dying.

***

There was much work to be done, after the war ended, but for a while she thought again of flight. Of sandy windswept shores and austere halls of mountain stone. Of the borderlands, of the northlands. Even of the sea. Anywhere but here, where the crimson laterose was still in fragrant bloom, and the big carved chair at the head of Great Hall sat empty, and the verdant gardens were full of mice in wide-sleeved brown robes gathering berries and talking with the Sparra, but none of them was Mortimer.

Yet every time she decided that the wound was just too deep, that she’d go mad with grief if she didn’t get away from here, something – or someone – changed her mind.

Matthias, still victory-stunned: “Constance, what should we do about the Joseph Bell?”

Mordalfus, solemn and deferential: “Constance, where do you think we should house the Guosim warriors who’d like to stay here till the springtide?”

The Redwallers at large, surprising her in Cavern Hole one day with a badger-sized marchpane cake: “Hurrah for Constance! We’d have been lost without you.”

And the young ones, clinging to her apron: “Muvver Constance, don’t be sad.”

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

Slowly summer gave way to autumn, autumn to winter, and winter to a spring whose beauty was beyond compare. John Churchmouse had suggested a season-name upon which they had all agreed.

It was the Springtide of the Warriors’ Wedding!

Constance had spent the preceding week tugging a hay cart far and wide through Mossflower Wood, ferrying creatures to the Abbey for the ceremony that would take place today. Now the Sisters of the order and all her woodland friends had spirited Cornflower away to the dormitories to dress her in cream-colored gown and veil, and Matthias was waiting anxiously in the gatehouse that would become their home, with Log-a-Log and Basil fussing over his tunic, to which he had tied a certain flowered headband that a certain maiden had bestowed upon him, what felt like years ago.

Therefore, Constance was enjoying a rare moment of rest out on the sunwarmed steps overlooking the orchards, as the blossoms danced and the pond rippled gently in a playful breeze. It reminded her of something Mortimer had said.

I have seen it all before, many times, and yet I never cease to wonder. Life is good, my friends. I leave it to you...

In the kitchens Friar Hugo was making a trifle as tall as two mice, heaping with raspberries, meadowcream, and honey-soaked sponge. Foremole and his crew were filling Great Hall and Cavern Hole with bunches of purple irises, butter-colored daffodils and, of course, cerulean-blue cornflower, while Winifred and her otters lined the cloisters and outside corridors with sweet alyssum and pale pink and white water lilies. Ambrose Spike was shepherding a herd of little ones as they rolled barrels of strawberry fizz, October ale and dandelion-burdock cup to the tables out under the shade. Jess Squirrel and Silent Sam were leaping bough to bough amongst the fruit trees, affixing colored lanterns to the branches.

The friends I know and love are all about me.

Constance remembered another feastday many seasons ago, and a wise young mouse marveling with her at the splendor of the Abbey and the goodness of its creatures, and she felt, for the first time in long memory, entirely at peace.

“Today is a good day, my old friend,” the badger said.

#Redwall #Constance #Abbot Mortimer #Redwall fic #Redwall fanfiction #the ending is kinda maximum cheese #BUT I REALLY HOPE YOU LIKE IT AAA #it was so hard trying to keep this a secret while writing it!#fluff #angst #whatever you would call this #with a title shamelessly stolen from Mr. Jacques himself

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kog0ruhn · 6 years ago

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Lair Review: Desmodium (302820)

This has been a long time coming because I’ve been having the hardest time concentrating, and for that, I am sorry. I have literally had the thumbnails for my choices sitting here in my review folder for twenty-one days.

That said, the fact that I’ve taken so long is all the more reason for me to forego the Top 5 request you sent and bulk that shit up to a top ten because goddamn son, your lair is smokin’. You have some of the most vivid, unique, varied dragons I’ve seen with some of the cleverest apparel combos, beautiful color combinations, and in-your-face personalities that I have ever seen. Diversity is the spice of life and your lair needs a menu warning because it’s up there with the Carolina Reaper.

Also, I’m doing this for free because I am an asshole.

Lyani was the first dragon in my lair that I selected, a nice and sleek astronomer with a mystical, ethereal vibe that just draws her to my attention. I’m typically not a huge fan of dragons who are too “flat” in terms of color, but in the case of Lyani, it pays off in spades. How her skin and her apparel match up is absolutely divine, and the lighter blues of her grasp match up majestically with her Lightning eyes. Everything about her is soft and “deep” looking, bringing to mind staring into deep water or blank twilight skies, and she’s simultaneously unnerving and relaxing to look at. I always feel like picking a dragon off the first row is cheating, but this lady is right in the spotlight where she needs to be.

Ripley is unique in a lot of ways, with touches here and there that immediately make him an attention grabber. Firstly, he rocks those flowing silks and that gown way better than I ever thought such a bulky dragon would, with a soft and elegant touch that just screams sophistication. His accent, being more bluish-green, helps tie together his bright Wind eyes with his more watery/shadowy colors, and I love his smoke gene (which I never thought I’d say about a dragon) and how it seems to glow and build from said accent. All and all, he’s probably my favorite, fullstop, and I hope he keeps being amazing in your lair.

Mesarthim is a walking dragon kaleidoscope, with beautiful natural colors and flowing genes that are complemented by his apparel and accent. Typically, I’d find such a dragon cluttered, but for whatever reason everything just seems so appropriately chaotic. The color coordination is on point, and the use of the more primastic touches help tie in colors on his apparel that just otherwise wouldn’t give, and help the purple of his shardhide and sage apparel clash less obviously with his darker blues. The layering is actually impressively done, and I like how you’ve managed to make it look like the shadhide and crystalhide are one and the same, extensions of his being that taper off and meld into his accent.

I was hesitant to pick Valeraine because she’s in your Hibernal Den, in a section marked “Guest Rooms.” I figured that meant that you were holding her for somebody or she was a traveling dragon (addendum after this was originally written: She’s still there 20 days later so I guess she’s a permanent fixture??), but I can’t not pick something so beautiful. First of all, you have managed to use ringlets in a way that isn’t obnoxious, and have utilized her apparel to cover up more problematic areas in a way that made me bewildered about how she was using Shining Peacock Feathers as an accent. Her colors are gorgeous, he genes are beautiful, her apparel is elegant, and she has a beautiful but cutting appearance that makes me think femme fatale.

SommerRegen is another Hibernal Den dragon I couldn’t pass up, with beautiful colors, genes, and a lot of personality in a tiny package. I’m usually no fan of just cramming festival apparel on a dragon and then calling it a day, but I have not seen it look so cohesive on a dragon before. This is helped entirely by the stained glass appearance of her Bee gene and her beautiful secondary and tertiary gene, with a nice, dark primary to help colors pop. I’m also a huge fan of the little corn snake peeking out just above her scarf, and the layering of her mask and lantern so that there seems to be more wisps that usual emanating from the lantern itself. It’s a nice way to detract from the normally weird way the smoke from the mask typically curls around the wing.

Azar is fuckin’ gorgeous. This is despite his troublesome tertiary color which, honestly, I’m surprised you made such good use of. He now has a bit of the same color scheme as the haunted flame candles, only subtle enough to not detract from the beautiful, night sky aesthetic that he has going on. The wisps of black from his hand/feet apparel add an air of etherealism to him, and I cannot think of a more fitting dragon to wear that accent than this beautiful boy with his perfectly matching midnight starmap.

I... don’t remember Elif from my first sweep through your lair, but when I was going through for five extra to add, she immediately stood out. That filigree with that accent and those cyan NoN apparel bits? That is absolutely spot-on. I love how her tert flows into the blues of her accent and, with the aquatic aesthetic she has going, the smoke from her feet just seems to be whorls of water floating up from beneath her toes. The gold chains of her jewelry add enough warmth to detract away from the reds in her filigree, and all in all she’s a beauty to look at.

Iseya is a simple dragon, but I got an appreciation for simple as much as I have an appreciation for snappers. First of all, I love the fact she’s simple; the single mantle keeps her from looking bare while, at the same time, not covering up her tertiary or her accent. The accent itself is adorable and matches surprisingly well with her noxtide, and gives her firefly gene a bit of life that firefly usually lacks. Essentially, it looks like those beautiful little bugs are interacting with the succulents themselves and that is just straight-up adorable. She’s just such a happy, cute, and calming dragon to look at, and well-thought-out to boot.

Rashad is a boy that I wanted to pick for my original Top 5, but he didn’t make the cut against SommerRegen. Now that I have the chance to include him, holy smokes is this guy a beaut. Everything about him is just so perfectly laid out, from the coordination of his colors to helping integrate his accent into the rest of him with the use of the amber NotN apparel, which shares the same vividness. The Crystalcourt apparel looks like it was made with this dragon in mind, and that ghost gene? Everyone loves a good ghost gene, and the blueish tint (rather than the more neutral colors folks lean toward) was a wonderful choice for him (I say like you picked the color, but you know what I mean... I hope).

And last and not least is Hades who I, well, I’m honestly surprised I like as much as I do. I’m usually not a fan of busy dragons and this guy keeps your eyes going constantly from nose to tail tip. I think what won me over is just how freakin’ fantastic that accent looks on him, how the colors and the patterning add to his lionfish gene and natural patterning/coloration instead of detracting. There’s no need to cover up problem areas because it all creates this wonderful pattern that brings to mind polished, striated stone. And considering his name is Hades, that’s very suiting. Ghostly colors like a king of the underworld should have, and a nice, mineral look to coincide with the fact the mythological figure governed precious stones and mineral wealth as well. He’s a great dragon!

#lair review #desmodium

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fanfoolishness · 6 years ago

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Leaving Home (Lavellan, Varric)

The rain blustered at the opening of the cave, forcing their small cookfire to sputter and flare. Namira sighed, casting another thin barrier over the cave’s entrance. It was enough to block most of the rain while still allowing a wisp of smoke to escape, but it made the cave’s air humid and still.

It didn’t help that they still were scarcely out of the rain. The cave was such a shallow area carved from the mountainside, and with the four of them packed into its small space, the moisture from the endless and inescapable damp built up fiercely. She sat against the stone wall, somehow both chilled and sweaty.

Namira stirred their dinner, humming tunelessly to herself. Strange how the weather of the Storm Coast could behave so differently from the northern Free Marches she and her clan had traversed the past few years. The Waking Sea had never seemed such a great divide on the map, but she keenly felt the distance now.

The Storm Coast was beautiful, yes, but it was a wilderness that would be best traversed with friends and family, and these men she journeyed with were nearly strangers still. She gazed out at the rain amidst lush green spires and salt-carved stone, as lonely as she had ever been, and the beauty of the trees and surging sea left her hollow.

Strange the way circumstance could change a thing. She’d have jumped at the chance to explore new locales just a few years ago; of course, she had never expected she would be the only Lavellan for leagues. She had never thought she would miss the arid heat and the ever-present scent of sage and juniper. But now, as a lone Dalish in the wet and cedar-scented air, she’d take a sunburn in a heartbeat.

At least the food smelled comforting. She and Varric had brought down a ram while Blackwall and the Iron Bull scouted ahead for camp. Namira was not an especially skilled hunter or butcher, but part of her First training required familiarity with all roles in the clan. Her butchery would have earned a tucked frown of mild disapproval from the venerable huntress Marellin. Still, it was more than adequate for their purposes.

The ram’s meat was gamey and pungent, but it mellowed with the addition of wild onion and garlic. Marjoram and spindleweed rounded the flavors further. Rough-chopped black lotus roots, starchy and thick, added body.

She stirred experimentally at the stew. Despite the herbs, so different from those found near Sundermount, the stew still somehow smelled of home. It would be ready soon, a welcome addition to the dried hardtack safe in their packs.

Gentle snores drew her attention. Blackwall and Bull had drawn second watch, and were trying to get some sleep at the very back of the little cave. Surprisingly, they were succeeding despite the less than ideal conditions. She found herself impressed by their versatility, and turned to Varric.

No hint of drowsiness played around Varric’s eyes. He slept as little as she did, most nights. Perhaps it was a dwarven thing. He sat a few feet away, his fountain pen scratching at the vellum he was never without. Luckily he’d been prepared and brought it wrapped in wax for this expedition. She peeked at his writing, noting neat, flowing script in shining black ink.

“What are you writing, Varric?” she asked, stretching and setting the tin ladle back down on a dry stone. “If you’re keeping a diary, I’m afraid today’s adventures were rather lacking. ‘Stumped around in the mud. Passed the same pine tree three times. Fought another damn bear.’”

Varric raised his head, hazel eyes crinkling in a smile. “Shit, you nailed it, Doodles. The Inquisition experience! Maybe after you seal the Breach they should keep you on as a master scribe.”

“Do you really think I can seal it, after all?” Namira asked, faltering. Her left hand clenched reflexively around the ever-present buzzing in her palm, a constant reminder of the strange magic that had marked her. “Assuming the mages will help us…”

“Trust me, no one wants a giant hole in the sky. If we can get an audience with them, they’ll join up, no questions asked,” said Varric. He capped his pen carefully, slipping it back into a pocket of his heavy leather jacket. “And if they don’t? Sister Nightingale’s not the only one with contacts. I’ve got some favors I can call if we need.” His brows rose suggestively. “The Seeker might not be so thrilled with some of them, but trust me, we’ve got options.”

“Is that who you write to?” asked Namira. She folded her arms, resting them on her knees. “I’m sorry. I’m prying, aren’t I?”

“Well, I can tell you’ve never trained under a bard,” Varric chuckled. “You’re not one for subtlety, are you?”

“That obvious?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Sorry. It’s just --” Namira bit her lip, gazing out at the gathering dark. She could still easily make out the towering shapes of the pines beyond the cave’s entrance, but she knew by now that the others saw only blackness. “Cassandra, Bull, Blackwall, Sera… you’re the only other one here who’s left home behind. So I wondered if you write to them. Hawke and the others.”

Varric was quiet for a moment. “Kirkwall hasn’t been the same since Blondie -- since the Chantry incident. Not as many people there as there used to be. I write to some of them, sure. But some of them aren’t so easy to find.”

“You mean Hawke.”

“More than just Hawke,” Varric protested. “Most of them left Kirkwall when she did. Merrill and Aveline are the only ones who stayed.”

“Hawke is special though, isn’t she?” said Namira. “I notice it’s Tale of the Champion, not Tale of the Champion and Friends.”

Varric looked at her appraisingly. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then shook his head, his cheeks slightly pink. Maybe it was the smoke from their fire. Namira eased up on the barrier at the cave’s mouth, opening it up a little to allow more smoke to dissipate.

Varric shrugged, his cheeks returning to their normal color. “You couldn’t call it that. Terrible title. My publisher would laugh me right out of my contract.” He waved one gloved hand. “But you’re right. Hawke’s special.” A short huff of breath: she nearly mistook it for a sigh. “Never knew anyone like her.”

“Do you know where she is? Truly, I wouldn’t tell Cassandra. It sounds like Hawke’s had enough to be going on with,” said Namira earnestly.

“For once, I don’t have to lie. I don’t know where she is. I know a few places she’s been, but right now? Nah. She moves around.”

“Are they still hunting her? It’s so clear in your book that what happened in Kirkwall wasn’t her fault,” said Namira. “Assuming the tale is accurate, of course.” She tried to keep her tone light, but couldn’t help the nagging, guilty feeling that she was prodding a sore spot.

“I wrote a lot of the real shit in my book. But I left out plenty. Things that were just too much to write down.” He looked uncomfortable.

“I know what you mean. Writing can be dangerous, can’t it? I don’t write much for others myself,” said Namira hastily, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. She’d gone too far, hadn’t she? “Or, I do, but it’s record-keeping; marriages, illnesses, births, deaths, the daily history of the clan. Things that are important to remember for the future.”

She picked up the ladle, stirred again. The stew bubbled. “I don’t put down feelings.” That wasn’t strictly true; her personal journal with its drawings and musings lay in her pack, wax-wrapped and magic-sealed. She hurried to amend the statement, unwilling to speak even the smallest half-truths. “At least, not where anyone else can read it.”

Varric’s mouth turned up at one edge like the start of a smile. It didn’t quite finish the motion. “Maybe that’s best. Less incriminating, anyway.”

Namira set the ladle down and rummaged in her pack for the waxcloth bundle containing the hardtack. The stew was nearly ready. “Maybe.”

She paused, looking down at the bundle of shem food. Everything about it was foreign: a beeswax wrapper instead of candelilla, the shape of the hardtack, the smell of it. “Sometimes writing helps, I think. Other times it makes things worse, reminding myself of what I lack. I miss my home. My people. Why did I ever leave them?”

Varric folded up his stack of vellum papers. “Well, if it’s any consolation, sometimes home leaves you first.” This time, the motion his mouth made was nothing like a smile.

Namira let out a long breath. “I didn’t mean to darken the mood,” she said softly. “Are you all right?”

“Herald, demons are falling out of the sky, mages and templars are killing each other all over the place, and we’re here in the ass end of nowhere chasing who knows what. I have to say the mood’s pretty dark already. No need for you to add worrying about the dwarf to your list of shit to deal with,” said Varric.

“If you insist,” said Namira. “But you’re certain? Because I would worry about you, if it would help.”

“I’m flattered, but fine. Honest.” He gestured to the stew. “That done? It smells a hundred times better than Hawke’s cooking, and a thousand times better than mine.”

“Yes, it’s ready. But oh, Varric,” said Namira sadly. “This isn’t even particularly good food by Dalish standards. It’s just make-do food. What did you eat in Kirkwall?”

“Sometimes it’s best not to know,” he said with a wink. He clambered to his feet and to the back of the cave, not even needing to bow his head beneath the low ceiling. He started nudging the others awake. She watched him joke with them, jovial as ever.

She knew she’d hit him somewhere delicate with her clumsy attempts at conversation. She’d been so eager to talk about what was bothering her she hadn’t stopped to consider if he wanted to talk about it. She ladled soup into thin tin bowls, staring pensively at the way it steamed, wishing she had been wiser. She supposed that was the difference between the Keeper, and the First.

Outside the rain blustered, and the winds squalled, and the waves crashed. Inside the little cave, their little group shared bowls of rich woodland stew, making their plans for tomorrow and looking to the future.

Varric caught her eye during a lull. She looked steadily at him. Really? You’re all right? she asked silently.

He grinned, dragging his bread through the stew before popping it into his mouth. “For make-do food, this is delicious, Doodles. Good stuff.”

She smiled back, warm in a way that had nothing to do with the nearby cookfire or the hearty food. She took a bite of her stew. It was good, better than she had thought it would be.

“Thanks, Varric.”

#varric tethras #lavellan #dragon age: inquisition #da:i #namira lavellan #with a little hint of #hawke x varric #the storm coast

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shalebridge-cradle · 7 years ago

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The Big Night

(Here’s a fun, happy story where one (1) bad thing happens and is quickly resolved. Enjoy.)

Warning: Reference to non-consensual touching.

Veronica leans the back of her head on the wall, sighing. Bored, bored, bored.

Chandler had told her not to start writing in her diary, that picking her outfit would only take a few minutes at most. Well, it’s been ten, and if Heather wasn’t going to uphold her end of the deal, why should she?

She takes out the book out of her backpack and clicks her pen, starting with the date, drawing a little circle next to it.

Dear Diary, it’s that time of the month again.

She doesn’t get much time to stew in her pun-induced self-loathing once she hears the handle turn. A hand, holding three filled coat hangers, shoots out from behind the door.

Dropping her diary in her haste to get up, Veronica takes the prepared outfits carefully, checking them over. Red, yellow, green. Everything seems in order.

“Go put them in the trunk while we get changed,” the arm’s owner says, and Veronica works out it’s Duke speaking, “carefully. Heather’s gonna tear you apart if any of us show up tomorrow all creased.”

“The big sunglasses and the Red Bull/Coffee combos won’t raise any eyebrows, I’m sure.”

“That’s different,” Duke growls. “That just means we’ve been partying. I’m trusting you with my baby, Veronica, don’t push your luck.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The door shuts, and that’s when Veronica remembers. She knocks.

“You didn’t give me your keys!”

The door opens again, and the keys to Duke’s Jeep hit Veronica square in the face.

She didn’t really mean to find out. Maybe. She isn’t sure, now that she thinks about it.

Even after Chandler inducted her into their little posse, it was more like the Heathers were work colleagues than friends. They weren’t cruel - not to her, at least - but there was an air of exclusion the Veronica just barely noticed.

Was it because of her love of books? Possible, but Duke read all the time. Because she was nice? Maybe, but McNamara at least pretended to be a decent human being. There was a reason she was treated as an outsider, and she couldn’t put her finger on what it was.

Veronica decided she’d make an unannounced visit to Chandler’s place, just one, before she would write it off as paranoia. Or maybe an inferiority complex. Both, she’d go with both.

So, in her curiosity, she went up the two flights of stairs (and had to reorient herself each time), she trudged down the hallway to Heather’s bedroom (regretting her decision with every step), pushed down the door handle (the only lever-styled handle in the house) and pushed the door open.

Three sets of orange eyes stared back at her.

Veronica closed the door, screamed at the floor for about five seconds, then opened it again.

“Okay, let me get my last words out before I become a pile of miscellaneous body parts. I know it’s you, your fur’s the same color as your hair. Yellow,” Veronica points to the wolf near the window, “black,” the wolf by the TV, “orange,” the wolf on the bed, “Heather, Heather, Heather. I get why you didn’t tell me, but here’s the thing, you were at no risk if you did. One, no-one will believe me if I say something, and two, you could kill me if I do. Instead, you acted all secretive, and look how that worked out. Now everyone’s embarrassed.”

Duke briefly tilted her head in the universal gesture of ‘fair enough’. No pack takedown came, so Veronica slowly started backing out again.

“I’m going home. You better believe that once you regain the power of speech, you have some explaining to do.”

Chandler went ‘boof’ and McNamara flattened her ears as Veronica shut the door for the final time that night.

She was called into an impromptu conference in the girls’ bathroom the Heathers had claimed as their own on Tuesday. Admittedly, the territorial bullshit these girls engaged in made a whole lot more sense now.

“Full disclosure,” Chandler began, “we took a vote on whether or not to kill you.”

Veronica nodded sagely. “The nays have it, I hope. 2-1?”

“3-0,” McNamara corrected with no small amount of concern.

“We have use for you. As I’m sure you can imagine, none of us can operate a vehicle when we’re… like that. As great as my bedroom is, it gets boring.”

“You want me to drive you places.” Veronica briefly entertained the thought of taking three wolves through the McDonald’s drive-through, and had to stifle a laugh at the image.

Duke shook her head. “Drive us one place, and you’re not touching my car until next month.”

“Is that why you own a Jeep?”

“…No.”

“Any questions?” Chandler interrupted.

“Oh yes, many.” Veronica opened a notebook. She hid it well, but Chandler balked. “Why are you like this? Did you get bit? Is it a Heather thing?”

“Got cursed by some goth kid for being a bitch to ‘em.” Duke answered. Veronica wasn’t surprised to find they had learned nothing from it.

McNamara nodded. “We didn’t find out it was for real until later. That was awkward.”

The bell rang, and the four of them jumped at the sound.

As expected, Chandler recovered the fastest. “You’ll get to ask another one if you carry my books to class.”

Veronica rolled her eyes, but they both knew she was going to. The promise of knowing, of being included at last, was too good for her to pass up.

It’s actually a nice night. A little chilly, sure, but the stars are out and Veronica’s far enough away from any street light for them to glitter like tiny diamonds.

The Heathers’ hand-chosen location is a field on the edge of town. No cows, No animals at all – just an open field next to a smattering of trees. Perfect for running around in.

As soon as Veronica opens the door, McNamara is off like a shot, gone from sight before Veronica can register what just happened. Duke gives a huff, and follows her.

Chandler waits, and Veronica thinks at first it’s simply out of practicality (she’s in the front seat, after all, and even she won’t get off easy if she breaks Duke’s window). But, no. The door opens, the Big Red Wolf hops out, and Heather stares at Veronica expectantly.

“…What?”

No response. Not like Chandler can really yell at her like this, but even a growl or something would give Veronica some sort of indication of what she’s thinking. Slowly, looking over her shoulder for some sign of reproach every few seconds, Veronica gets the Heathers’ prepared outfits, lays them in the back seat with almost ceremonial levels of care, and moves back around to sit on the edge of the opened trunk.

Chandler watches the whole time. Veronica doesn’t really want to call her out on it, not when she can literally rip Veronica’s throat out.

Well, Veronica hasn’t been eaten yet, and potentially messing with Chandler’s clothes was the most likely trigger for her untimely death. She’s probably in the clear. Veronica fishes around in her backpack for her appropriately-colored blanket and her diary.

Blanket, super easy to find and smooth down.

Diary…

“Ah, shit.”

Chandler’s ears prick up.

“No, no, it’s nothing,” Veronica sighs, “I left my diary at your house. I’ll just take a nap, if that’s okay.”

Chandler huffed, climbing into the trunk next to Veronica. Veronica is shaken both by the sudden movement of the car and that sleeping was what finally got a reaction out of the alpha bitch.

Another pun. God.

“Well, what do you want me to do? I figure you don’t want to play fetch-” Chandler growls a little - “and I’m not running after Heather and Heather if I can avoid it. Besides, I’m the driver, aren’t I? The getaway girl. I need sleep if you don’t want to die.”

Chandler is glaring at her again, the amber in her eyes making her gaze as firey as the pits of hell from whence she was spawned.

Then, with a groan, she lays her head in Veronica’s lap.

Veronica freezes for two reasons.

One, Heather is really warm. She doesn’t want to risk scratching Chandler behind the ears, no matter how soft she looks, but the weight is comforting in a way she’s sure Heather didn’t intend.

Two, she just won an argument with Heather Chandler. And yeah, she’s at a massive advantage with the ability to speak, but still. Victorious at last.

It’s these two things that help her drift off. Someone warm next to her, and a happy thought.

Veronica wakes to the sound of howling.

She opens her eyes, and yelps in surprise when she sees Heather McNamara barreling towards her. Chandler, evidently just waking up herself, growls at her, before directing her anger to the source of Veronica’s suffering.

McNamara cowers for just a moment, before taking off in the other direction.

Then she turns back, waiting.

Veronica’s brain takes another few seconds to kick into gear, then to register that McNamara is expecting her to follow. Groaning, she throws the blanket off of her knees (and onto Heather, who makes her displeasure known) and climbs to her feet.

“What’s wrong, girl? Did Little Timmy fall down the well?”

McNamara just stares at her, before resuming her run-two-steps-then-look-back dance.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming. Gimme a sec.”

By the time she reaches the edge of the field, she’s running.

The first thought that runs through her head is that one of them has found a dead body. Worse, one of them has found a living person and it became a dead body through their intervention.

Thankfully, it’s neither of those things. Veronica hears before she sees – a faint sniffling before she sees a girl sitting with Heather Duke. A brunette, bespectacled eyes red-rimmed, a watery smile on her face as she strokes Duke’s back.

Veronica knows this girl.

“Betty?” The girl’s head snaps up, and Veronica grins. “Betty Finn! It’s been too long!”

She hasn’t changed much from middle school – still a little dowdy in her dress sense, sure, but Veronica wasn’t much better until recently, and the fact she’s trying to smile through her tears means her personality’s probably much the same as well.

Veronica mood dips once she remembers something’s made Betty cry. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m…” Betty pauses, composing herself. “I won’t lie. I’d just gone on a date - my first real one - with Richie. He’s on the basketball team, and he’s been really handsy all night. When we got here, he started touching me all over, and I told him not to, but he…”

Veronica’s never heard of a basketball player named Richie, at Westerburg or otherwise, but she already hates him with every fiber of her being. She locks eyes with Duke – Veronica knows this is one of the things she just can’t stand. It explains her interference, at least.

“I hope you didn’t bite him,” she chides Duke, and the black wolf looks almost offended at the suggestion.

“Why? Is this your dog?” Betty asks. Veronica swallows.

“Oh, uh, sort of. I’ve been dogsitting for a little extra cash, and these guys needed a run outside.”

“Care to introduce me? I love dogs.” Betty smiles at Duke, and the black wolf practically radiates smugness, “Especially this one.”

Veronica’s mind races. Duke, what’s a female Duke – “That’s Duchess.” She points to McNamara, “The gold one is… Flash, and this one is -”

Her finger finds Heather Chandler. She knows she has to be careful with what she chooses, but if she spends too long picking a name, Betty will get suspicious. Lose-lose, really.

“…Foxy.” Veronica finishes.

She’s never heard a wolf laugh before, but Duke quickly disguises it as a yawn. Chandler tenses, but doesn’t move.

“Oh, I see. Because she’s kinda orangey-red?”

“YES. THAT IS THE ONLY REASON.”

“It’s a good name,” Betty agrees, bewildered. She pauses. “Um, I know it’s probably not the best time to ask, but can I go back with you? I got here in Richie’s car, and he’s probably gone by now. I’d rather not walk home alone, not out here.”

“Yeah, sure,” Veronica says without thinking, “I’m borrowing a friend’s car. I’ll drop you at your place before I take these guys home, does that work?”

McNamara whines.

“Oh, I know, but you’ll have another chance later. Betty needs to go home right now, okay?” McNamara flattens her ears again, but submits.

Betty smiles. “That’s good. Thanks, Ronnie.”

“Oh, no problem,” Veronica replies, but she knows it probably will be soon enough.

She drops Betty back at her place without further incident (Veronica sees her open her mouth to question the three perfectly pressed outfits, but Duke licks the back of Betty’s hand to distract her and saves the day once again), and the car ride back to Chandler’s place passes in a painful silence.

Veronica knows she’s dead, one way or another. For making McNamara upset, for reneging on her end of the deal, for calling Chandler foxy, but she also knows so long as she’s driving, she’s safe.

Her heart is beating out of her chest as she pulls up to the Chandler mansion. She puts the Jeep in park, she pulls the handbrake, and takes the key out of the ignition.

Nothing happens.

Oh, right, they can’t open doors. Veronica steps out and opens the back door, and waits for all three wolves to climb out before locking the car and heading up the driveway.

The Heathers head inside once Veronica unlocks the side door. Still no death. Maybe they’re just waiting for the right moment to strike, Veronica thinks.

“I’m gonna crash on the couch. Uh, the third floor one,” she announces, “if you’re gonna kill me, I’d rather be taken in my sleep, okay?”

She gets three very odd looks in response.

Veronica tries to put it out of her mind. A rational voice in her head tells her that they might not want to murder her at all, but this is hardly the night of rationality. She’s exhausted, her head hurts, and she’s been spending the night ferrying around three werewolves, for god’s sake.

She flops down on her bed for the night, not even bothering with her shoes, and she’s dead to the world.

If she wasn’t before, she might as well have signed the execution warrant herself for putting her dirty feet on Chandler’s couch.

Veronica wakes up the next morning.

Odd.

She’s relieved, of course – she was expecting to die, but that doesn’t mean she wanted to – but there’s a strange sensation she can’t quite place.

She needs to get up. Once she’s a little more awake, Veronica reasons, her brain will start working properly and she’ll figure it out. So, she stretches her legs (and quietly nurses the cramp that forms in her hamstring), tilts her neck from side to side, right to left–

And sees a very naked Heather Chandler resting her head on Veronica’s waist.

She tries to make her freak out as silent as possible, but clearly a whine or a squeak escapes her lips, because Chandler stirs. One eye opens to search for the source of the noise.

Then she sees it’s Veronica, and Heather grins a wolfish grin. When she speaks, her voice is low, husky, inviting.

“Foxy, huh?”

Veronica internally screams.

#the cradle will write #heathers #vaguely chansaw towards the end #the big night - work

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