#rolling down the to the city i was looking at the horizon like ‘the forecast was sunny why’s the sky so dark over there 🤔’

[akkivee]

WE LA CHILLIN YALL

[cherryeol04]

The Forest

➻ Pairings: Yugyeom-Centric

➻ Genre: Fantasy au

➻ Additional: Sailor Moon inspired

➻ Word Count: 1.5K

➻ Warnings: N/A

➻ Author’s notes: This story is cross posted on multiple sites under the same username!

The clouds were extra dark that day and it was the first thing Yugyeom noticed when stepped outside. The air was a bit nippy and the wind was a constant and steady flow. Snow was being forecasted, which dampened Yugyeom’s normally happy mood, considering the fact that his parent’s livelihood depended on good weather. Winter was always a hard time for them for the simple fact that their crops didn’t grow. And it was Yugyeom’s job to obtain not only crops for them to grow and harvest during the winter months, but to also gather food to keep them alive through those four to five months. 

But Yugyeom absolutely despised winter and the resounding cold that came with it. The snow was absolutely beautiful, but the temperature was the worst. Yugyeom preferred to have himself wrapped up in his blankets, sitting by a warm fire while his parents chatted about everything and nothing at the same time. With a light huff, Yugyeom walked down the few steps that lead to their front door and walked down the small path to his bike that was parked nicely under one of their large oak trees. 

Grabbing the handlebars, he used his foot to lift the kickstand up and started wheeling it to the gate. Once out on the street, Yugyeom mounted his bike and started pedaling. His first stop was Farmer Kim, who lived about a mile down the road. It was a bit of a trek, but in the small little town that he lived in, most of the people lived pretty far from each other, except for maybe the select few that lived closer to the city center.  Farmer Kim knew all the crops that they could grow in any season and helped Yugyeom a lot when gathering food. He was such a trusted friend that he was treated like family from time to time and Yugyeom was eager to find out what he would be getting for this season.

He arrived around twenty to thirty minutes later and Farmer Kim was standing by his fence, a bright smile on his elderly face that warmed Yugyeom’s heart at the sight. Putting on the brakes, he slowed himself down and stopped next to the fence gate and flashed his own smile to Farmer Kim.

“Good morning!”

“Morning! It’s a bit nippy out today, don’t you think?” the farmer asked and Yugyeom nodded with a smile. “Seems like a storm is right on the horizon. It’s gonna be a cold winter this season.” he mused as he tilted his head up towards the sky, staring at the clouds that were rolling in slowly.

“Seems so. All the more reason to be fast today! Where should I go?” he asked, cocking his head as he stared at the older male with slight concern. Farmer Kim continued to stare at the sky a while longer, unmoving as he seemed to be studying the sky or something similar to that. When the male looked down, he gave Yugyeom a blank stare, yet his eyes were so stern. The intensity in Farmer Kim’s eyes actually sent a shiver down Yugyeom’s spine. The silence that spanned between them was almost deafening and when Farmer Kim moved to reach out towards him, Yugyeom flinched ever so slightly away but remained still. Shaky hands touched the scarf that was wrapped around Yugyeom’s neck, fiddling with the soft, woven material lightly and fixing it. 

“Today, I think you should go into the forest.”

“The forest?” Yugyeom echoed, his eyes moving to the treeline that backed up right against the back of Farmer Kim’s property. The forest had always given Yugyeom a sense of dread and almost terror. He never dared to go in there and usually he never did. But today, for some reason, Farmer Kim wanted him to go in there. And Yugyeom would be lying if he said he wasn’t a tiny bit scared. “Why?”

“Well, there was a new fruit I discovered there that grows in the winter time. Harvest a few for your family to eat as well as to plant the seeds and grow.” 

Well, that sounded reasonable.

“How do I get there?” Yugyeom asked with his head cocked to the side as he stared at Farmer Kim. Farmer Kim stared at Yugyeom for a few moments, eyes looking glazed as if he were lost in thought. “Just go into the woods. Straight down. You’ll find it.” he said. So vague, but also very direct. Nodding his head, he smiled softly and gave a light thank you. With a wave of the hand, he started pedaling towards the dirt road that led to the forest. He was eager to find the fruit to get for his family. The prospect of a new type of harvest was the only thing that drove him further into the forest, despite how dark it was there. 

The trees towered high, curved and crossing to create a canopy of sorts that blocked out the sun. Though the sun wasn’t really out as it was, with the gloomy, snowy weather rolling in rather fast. It was a little rocky on the trail, and with each bump that Yugyeom went over, a small grunt left him as the scarf around his neck started to loosen. Reaching up, he tried to adjust it, securing it back around, but it didn’t hold up as he ran over a few more bumps in the form of rocks. 

With one particularly hard bump, followed by a nearly perfectly timed gust of wind, his scarf fell loose and whipped about his neck before taking flight into the air. “No!” he gasped out, one hand swiping at the air to try and grab for the garment, yet missing each time. He watched with widened eyes as the scarf was carried through the branches, gust after gust keeping it high in the air, flying it almost like a kite. He followed as fast as he could on his bike, legs pedaling as fast as he could muster.

Time seemed to pass so quickly, but at the same time, it was so slow. Yugyeom was panting by the time he found the clearing, eyes locked on the scarf. He watched as the scarf floated down gently from the sky, eyes tracking every motion as he landed on top of a structure. Yugyeom pulled to a stop as he tried to understand exactly what he was seeing. It looked like it was made from crystals, pointing edges sticking up in different areas, but still keeping a structure that was almost like a coffin. It was unnerving but intriguing. Dismounting his bike, he brought down the kickstand and made sure his bike was steady before leaving it. 

With gentle and slow steps, he walked towards the structure, cautious of what was around him. The closer he got, the more he could make out the individual crystals that crossed, bent and bowed to form almost like a case. He was inches away, and quickly he grabbed his scarf, clutching it to his body. Now closer, he could definitely see it was definitely a coffin-like structure. The bottom half was made out of wood, dark in color and the upper half was a clear top and surrounding it was crystals. And while the structure itself was interesting, it was what was inside that caught Yugyeom’s interest.

It was a body. A male body. A very handsome male body. His hair was long, black and wavy. His features were soft, yet his jawline was very much chiseled and sharp. The clothes he was wearing were very formal and almost looked royal. A black suit adorned with golden buttons and cufflinks. His arms were folded neatly over his chest, hands clasped together as he laid there motionless.

Was he dead?

It looked like it and Yugyeom was really shook to his core. He had never seen a dead body before and it was actually a lot less scary than he thought it would be. He was drawn in, strangely enough. Like in a trance, he couldn’t pull himself away from staring at the body. His mind raced with thoughts about who this guy was, where he came from and why he was in this crystalline coffin. Yet, all thoughts were quickly vanquished when the male’s eyes suddenly opened, locking with Yugyeom’s almost instantly.

Stumbling back, Yugyeom grasped at his chest, heart pounding as he stared at the coffin. A hand rose, pressing against the glass and the terror rose within him. He turned, scrambling back towards his bicycle, kicking up dirt as he went. He grabbed the handlebars and struggled to get the kickstand up, kicking the wheels a few times in the process. He managed to get the kickstand up and he threw his leg over the seat and started pedaling. The bicycle wobbled, teetering dangerously to the left, yet he managed to keep it upright as he rode away as fast as he could.

He didn’t know who the guy was or if he was alive or dead and now a zombie. But the one thing he knew, he wasn’t about to stay long enough to get the answers to those questions. He peddled back home as his life depended on it, vowing to never set foot in that forest again.

[cheri-translates]

[CN] Victor’s Perfect Date (Eng Translation)

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a date, 完美之约, which has not been released in English servers! 🍒

More from this collection: Gavin l Kiro

[ Released in CN on 24 Dec 2020 ]

MC: Ha--ahh--

During the fourth hour of the meeting, I finally can’t help myself and release a long yawn. 

Before my mouth can shut in time, I meet the eyes of Victor, who is sitting in the middle of the long table. 

Victor: ...

Victor: That’s all for today’s meeting.

Everyone in the meeting room releases sighs of relief, leaving the room in groups. 

When we’re the only two people left in the meeting room, Victor lifts his head and sends me a straight look. Understanding it, I hurriedly head over to receive a lesson.

Victor: Were you working overnight on a program again?

MC: I promised to give it to you today. So of course I had to spend the night finishing it!

Victor: I remember saying that it wouldn’t be late even if you gave it to me tomorrow. 

But it’s Christmas tomorrow... I say this inwardly while pretending to look humble, nodding my head repeatedly. 

Victor: Don’t do what you can’t accomplish. 

MC: Yes yes yes, CEO’s criticisms are correct. Now, could I give you my report on...

Just as I’m prepared to verify the itinerary for tomorrow, an employee returns and interrupts.

Employee: CEO Victor, there’s a small issue regarding the program you mentioned during the meeting earlier...

Victor signals with his gaze that I should wait at the side for a while. I keep the schedule that I had taken a long time to prepare.

With nothing to do, I stare out the window. The setting sun is hanging low along the horizon, and the streetlights lining the roads have started lighting up in succession.

Mainly red and green coloured lights entwine around the trees flanking the roads, and lights in the shape of stars and snowflakes embellish the open land around the city.

MC: It’s Christmas tomorrow...

Ever since we spent a rather hurried Christmas the previous time due to work, I’ve been looking forward to the arrival of the subsequent Christmas.

Despite knowing that Victor doesn’t care about such festivals, I hope we can leave a perfect and ordinary Christmas in our memories. 

Which is why since a week ago, I’ve “bribed” Goldman, troubling him to help keep Victor’s time on Christmas free.

Victor: Why are you in a daze? 

Returning to my senses, I realise that Victor has already finished his discussion, and has his arms folded over his chest while looking at me. 

I once again open the schedule book Goldman left me, pointing at the line which reads “Spend Christmas together with MC”. 

MC: Cough cough. CEO Victor, Goldman has requested that I remind you about tomorrow’s schedule.

He sweeps a glance at the notebook, his expression blank as he turns to grab his coat off the back of the chair. After taking a few steps towards the door of the meeting room, he turns his head towards me with a frown.

Victor: Do you have plans tonight?

I shake my head in confusion, not comprehending why he’d ask such a question.

Victor: So why are you still in a silly daze? Don’t Christmas celebrations start from Christmas Eve? 

-

By the time we leave the shopping mall carrying heavy Christmas supplies, the open square next to it is already filled with crowds here to visit the Christmas market. 

Our car ambles past the restless streets. I can’t help but roll down the window and take a deep breath. It’s as though the romantic ambience of Christmas is being swept along with the cold air.

Victor: Opening the window while smiling in a silly manner. Don’t weep and wail when you breathe in a stomach full of cold air. 

The window of the car rolls up slowly. I pull a long face at the reflection of Victor in the glass.

Broadcast Host: ...it’s another year of Christmas. I trust that every citizen of Loveland City is looking forward to the arrival of this beautiful festival. 

Broadcast Host: This Christmas, the Loveland Financial Group will be giving citizens of Loveland City a big Christmas gift at 12am!

Broadcast Host: ...if you have any Christmas wishes, you could participate in our program by typing “LFG’s Perfect Night” in our social media account.

The voice of the broadcast host seems especially excited within the enclosed vehicle. 

This is a special Christmas broadcast by the Loveland City Government, sponsored by LFG. 

When I received this news a week ago, I tried extricating information furtively from Victor, but his response of “no comment” left me without room for argument.

MC: Victor, you really can’t disclose a little bit on what LFG’s big Christmas gift is?

Victor: LFG is just the sponsor. I’m not privy to the contents of the program.

Victor lowers his head as he flips through a report, looking uninterested in my question.

MC: ...how is it possible that you didn’t check the quality of the program? You even correct the punctuation marks in my proposals.

He doesn’t express an opinion, arching his brows. Refusing to give up, I squeeze my face on top of the report, trying to fill his entire field of vision.

MC: In that case, what does a perfect Christmas look like to you?

Victor: Do you think that I’m idle enough to think about this question while tossing and turning at night?

Sensing the hidden meaning in his words, my ears flush. With an awkward and polite smile, I return to sit at my side.

Through the reflection in the window, I see that he has once again lifted up the report, and I can’t help but mutter softly. 

MC: When someone asks you about your perfect Christmas, you should reciprocate and return the question...

Victor: Fireplace, Christmas feast, snow. A certain person has already posted her perfect Christmas on Moments twice.

MC: ...and you don’t know how to leave a ‘like’ even after seeing it.

Although my mouth is grumbling, the corners of my lips curl upwards involuntarily. I turn my gaze to the gloomy sky outside the window.

MC: It’s a shame that the weather forecast said it wouldn’t snow today...

Victor: Is snow that important?

MC: Of course! Just as how fried chicken is paired with beer, and how hamburgers are paired with Cola, Christmas must be paired with snow for it to be perfect.

Victor: At first glance, that does sound a little logical.

MC: It’s still very persuasive even if you give it a careful analysis! Also, everyone on Moments has been feeling regretful that there won’t be snow this Christmas...

Victor seems to be contemplative as he turns to look at the boundless night sky, the corners of his lips turning upwards with a small arc. 

-

Pushing open the door to Victor’s house, a bundle of heat waves rushes towards me.

With a sudden thought, I rush into the living room. Just as expected, the fireplace, which is normally “on strike”, is currently lit with a few tiny flames.

As though I've been set alight by these flames, my heart also becomes warm.

As compared to doing something trivial such as leaving a “like” on Moments, he always fulfils my wishes in a more direct manner. 

Pudding: Meow--

A ticklish sensation is at my calf. Lowering my head, I see that Pudding is rubbing the bottom of my trouser leg affectionately.

MC: Pudding, I’m wishing you a Merry Christmas too!

I carry it up, scratching it on the chin. All of a sudden, I start worrying.

MC: What if Pudding gets too close to the fireplace and gets hurt?

 Victor walks past me, both hands full with ingredients.

Victor: Do you think Pudding is as stupid as you are? 

Pudding: Meow meow meow!

Pudding seems to be responding in protest, struggling for a while before leaping out of my arms. 

MC: ...let me help too!

I roll up my sleeves, planning to give Victor a hand. 

Victor: If you want to eat soon, it’s better if you don’t cause trouble. 

My whole-hearted enthusiasm is doused by his cold water. I stand numbly in place.

Victor: If you really want to help, you could decorate the place with the trinkets you bought.

MC: Okay!

-

Folding my hands across my chest in satisfaction, I admire my work--

The small bells and coloured lights on the Christmas tree complement each other perfectly. The French windows in the living room are decorated with mistletoe wreaths - simple yet in good taste.

Snowman-shaped Christmas candles are on the dining table and coffee table, and a charmingly adorable Santa Claus doll leans against the arm of the sofa.

Most importantly, the Christmas present I’m giving to Victor is hidden in a certain corner of the living room.

MC: Pudding, what do you think?

Pudding circles and rubs against the legs of my trousers, letting out rumbling sounds. I remove a bow from a branch of the Christmas tree, tying it gently onto its neck.

MC: This is a Christmas present for you.

Just as I plan to call Victor over to check the fruits of my labour, a rich fragrance of cake drifts from the kitchen.

Without prior agreement, Pudding and I follow the fragrance and head towards the kitchen. Craning my head at the doorway to take a look inside, I find Victor half-squatting in front of the oven, looking very focused. 

He’s resting a hand casually on the marble kitchen counter, his slender fingers tapping on the surface rhythmically.

Ding-- Just like a magical sound, an even stronger fragrance assails the nostrils the moment the oven stops operating.

And this baking magician methodically “creates” a pair of brightly-coloured red mittens - the pair that I had pestered him to include in the shopping bag.

Despite how distasteful he felt towards the mittens in the mall, Victor still wears them as he pulls the baking tray out, carefully checking the colour and lustre of the cake.

MC: Pfft--

I can’t help but laugh aloud, and Victor immediately turns towards the sound.

Although he's been working in the kitchen for an hour, there isn’t a single oil stain on him. Not a single crease can be found on his shirt either. 

Even the stray hairs on his forehead remain as tidy as ever, falling naturally in front of his eyes.

It’s just that pairing the stern, cold appearance of Victor together with this pair of overly jubilant mittens seems a little out of place.

Pudding has long since given up resisting. It walks forward, pacing frantically in the vicinity of the oven.

Victor: Wipe the corners of your lips. Your drool is about to flow to the ground.

I subconsciously rub my mouth with my sleeve, but find that my the corners of my lips are dry.

MC: Liar... there’s no drool.

Amused, he taps Pudding’s head with the mitten.

Victor: I was referring to this greedy cat. Who asked you to take it as a personal attack?

Before I can salvage my pride, Pudding starts meowing, trying to tell Victor about my “crime”--

It shakes its neck. With a tactical retreat, it struggles free from the bow I gave it.

MC: I put it on so it could celebrate Christmas too. But the bow’s probably too heavy, so it doesn’t like it...

Victor stands up, then cuts a thin ribbon from the bag of ingredients on the counter. He bends down and ties it onto Pudding.

MC: That’s right, why didn’t I think of using...

Before I can finish my words, I watch as Victor picks up the bow that Pudding rejected, stretching out his arms and encircling me gently.

His upper body leans slightly on my side, and I feel his steady breaths on the crook of my neck.

MC: ...Victor?

Victor: Don’t move.

My body tenses up, and I don’t move an inch. The fragrance of cake from his arms encases me, and my heart rate involuntarily quickens.

A faint rustling sound drifts from behind me, followed by a weight on my ponytail.

Victor: Done. 

I reach out to touch the ponytail on my head, discovering an additional bow on it.

Victor: This way, both greedy cats have bows.

...Victor actually does such childish things too. Could this be what they call “loving the house and its crow”?

[Note] MC is making reference to an idioms, 爱屋及乌 (“ai wu ji wu”), which conveys how if you love a person, the love extends to even the crows on their roof. It means you love everything about something or somebody.

Of course, I lack the boldness to make such a thick-skinned comment. I simply keep touching the bow on my ponytail happily.

MC: Pretty?

Victor: Pretty. Just that you smile like a dummy. If you continue smiling like a fool, your Christmas feast will get cold.

[Note] I’M SCREAMING. MC is clearly asking about the ribbon, but her question is written in such a way that it’s ambiguous as to what she’s referring to. SO VICTOR SAYS SHE’S THE PRETTY ONE UIHRGEJKDV

The facts reveal that Victor underestimated my ability to eat.

Without giving the feast a chance to grow cold, I tuck into the meal while it’s still piping and fragrant. On the other hand, Victor doesn’t eat much.

MC: So full...

I look into the distance while holding my belly, leaning against the chair and sighing with emotion.

Victor: Why are you eating so quickly? No one’s snatching it from you.

MC: I couldn’t control myself since it was too fragrant...

Victor: In that case, what do you plan to do with this cake?

He points at the perfectly flawless cake at the far corner of the table. The tone he uses to ask this question is reminiscent of a CEO who is pressuring his employee to work overtime.

MC: I was too focused on eating the feast earlier and forgot there was still cake... But since girls have an extra tummy for dessert, I can do it!

While saying this, I’m reach for the cake. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Victor furrowing his brows.

Victor: Don’t force yourself if you’re full. The cake can be eaten later.

I retract my hands in embarrassment, then puff out my chest and clear my throat.

MC: Victor, in order to thank you for fulfilling my perfect Christmas, I’ve hidden a present for you in the living room. Search for it!

Victor’s gaze falls on the colourful decorations in the living room.

Victor: The present you’re referring to - is it how you didn’t make a mess out of the living room?

MC: ...of course not! Also, I put in a lot of effort while decorating, so of course I wouldn't make a mess out of the living room!

Seeing my flustered and exasperated state, Victor chuckles softly.

He stands up, walks to the Christmas tree, bending down to pick up a conspicuous box.

Victor: In that case, it’d be this box.

MC: ?!

MC: When did it get there? I distinctly remember hiding it.

Victor: When you were gorging yourself with food, Pudding carried it in its mouth and walked around in the living room for a long time.

MC: ...Pudding!!

Pudding: Meow--

The chief culprit licks its paw elegantly on the sofa, without feeling apologetic at all.

Victor sits down on the floor next to the Christmas tree, unwrapping the packaging of the box in an unhurried manner. I shift over to his side, filled with anticipation as I observe his expression--

Victor: ...

Victor: Are your designs too novel, or are your skills so poor that they have reached this level?

I lower my head to take a look. The painstakingly arranged handmade biscuits have gotten mixed with the shredded paper meant to be used as a cushion. Even I can’t tell how they looked like originally.

It’s all Pudding’s fault!

MC: H-hold on!

I snatch the box in a fluster, performing a “surgery” to separate the biscuits from the shredded paper. Victor purses his lips, revealing a faint smile.

MC: Done!

I once again present the box of handmade biscuits to him--

A Victor dressed in a Santa Claus outfit, a gingerbread-shaped me, and a few ordinarily-shaped biscuits meant as embellishments.

MC: How are they? I made them myself.

He reaches out to take the gingerbread biscuit, then holds it in front of my face.

Victor: Silly-looking - very similar to you.

Even though his assessment isn’t that nice to hear, the tender gleam in his eyes disclose his good mood.

MC: ...on account of the Christmas feast, I won’t bicker about this with you.

I hold up an ordinarily-shaped biscuit.

MC: Want to give it a try?

Before Victor can express an opinion, Pudding scurries out, grabbing the biscuit in my hand with its mouth.

MC: Pudding!

Just as I try it to release the biscuit from its mouth, Pudding nimbly leaps onto Victor’s shoulder. 

As though knowing that it has found a strong and powerful backing, it turns around unhurriedly, looking at me provocatively.

MC: Pudding, spit it out quickly. Cats can’t eat milk biscuits!

Victor observes the farce before him in slight interest, seemingly unperturbed by Pudding’s claws creasing his clothes, keeping himself out of the matter.

Pudding goes one step further to flaunt, affectionately rubbing the side of Victor’s face, seeking his protection.

Pudding: Meow--

Victor: I don’t participate in cat fights. 

Seeming to realise the reality that "God helps those who help themselves”, it turns around, leaping towards the sofa. I hastily chase after it.

The heavy curtains of a majestic human-cat chasing war are pulled open.

Pudding excitedly hops atop the sofa repeatedly for a while before turning to the dining table.

After numerous failed attempts of chasing it around, I change my tactics. Pretending to pass by Pudding unhurriedly, I suddenly pounce--

Pudding didn’t expect that I’d have such a card up my sleeve. It instinctively leaps into the air, finally planting itself squarely into the cake.

MC: ...

Victor: ...

I stand frozen in place, sensing two searing eyes at my back that seem to dig two holes into the back of my head.

MC: Erm... Victor... didn’t you keep the cake away...

After a period of silence from behind me, I’m at a loss on whether I should turn around to see Victor’s expression. All of a sudden, something flicks the back of my head.

Victor: Time for a bath, King of Causing Trouble.

He picks Pudding up with a hand, then walks to the bathroom with heavy steps.

...as expected, this Christmas can’t be spent perfectly just like before.

Although that's what I originally think, seeing Pudding lying in the wash basin with its eyes wide and with a piteous appearance makes me happy once again.

MC: Hahaha, Little Kitten, you have your day too~

Beside me, Victor’s movements are adept as he rubs the fur of the cat. Meanwhile, I playfully stack foam bubbles atop Pudding’s head.

MC: Look! A poop hairstyle!

Pudding obviously feels indignant, meowing complaints at Victor. Victor gives it comforting rubs on the belly.

Victor: Don’t fuss over things with a dummy.

I purse my lips in dissatisfaction. As though I‘ve lost all reason, I lift up a heap of foam bubbles and rub it onto Victor’s cheek.

MC: Santa Claus!

Victor pauses in his actions, lowering his head and arching his eyebrows while looking at me. 

Victor: Do you find this very interesting?

Reason returns to me, and I’m just about to reach out to wipe the foam bubbles away when he suddenly leans his face over, rubbing the foam bubbles onto my face.

Victor: Mrs Claus. 

-

An hour later, Victor and I finally put an end to this chaotic cat washing battle.

We are all taking a short break on the sofa in front of the fireplace. The wood in the fireplace crackles from time to time, and the warm yellow light from the fire casts our faces in occasional brightness and darkness. 

The sweet and refreshing scent of Pudding after its bath diffuses in the surroundings. The song “All you need is love” is playing from the broadcast, resonating in the living room. 

Feeling drowsy, I’m using Victor’s lap as a pillow. Occasionally, he uses a hand to comb through my hair.

MC: Victor... 

MC: Which movie is this song featured in? It sounds so familiar...

Victor: “Love Actually”. I remember someone mentioning liking that show. Looks like it was just a superficial fondness?

I turn, hugging Victor’s arm tightly before drifting entirely to sleep.

How nice, Victor still remembers that I like this movie. 

MC: If it were to snow this Christmas, it’d truly be perfect...

I mutter to myself, descending completely into dreamland.

-

Not knowing how long I've slept, I suddenly feel a weight on my face. Opening my eyes, I realise that half of Pudding’s body is sitting on my face. 

With a dark expression, I carry it away. When I sit up, I discover that a blanket has been draped over me, but Victor isn’t by my side.

The sliding door to the balcony, which was originally shut tight, is now pulled open halfway, and the curtains are drifting slightly.

Stepping closer to it, I find Victor standing at the outdoor balcony, lifting his head and thinking about something.

MC: Are you waiting for Santa Claus?

He turns around at the sound of the voice. Seeing the thin knitted shirt I'm wearing, he frowns. 

Victor: Why did you come out without wearing a jacket? 

I squeeze myself into his woollen coat, lifting my head and giving him a grin.

MC: I won’t be cold like this!

Victor: The turtledove occupies the magpie’s nest.

[Note] Victor’s use of the idiom, 鸠占鹊巢 (“jiu zhan que chao”), conveys the idea of seizing the territory of someone else.

Despite what he says, he tightens his grip around me slightly.

MC: Why did you come to the balcony? Aren’t you cold?

Victor: A dummy kept talking in her sleep, so I came out to get some peace and quiet.

MC: ...what did I say in my dream?

Victor: Wanting to have a snowball fight at one point, then wanting to build a snowman at another. Not even a moment of idleness the entire night. 

I suddenly recall that I did have a dream, and there seemed to be something snow-related in it. 

MC: What one thinks about in the daytime will be dreamt about at night... but...

I stick my face close to his chest, hearing the steady and powerful heartbeats drifting from it.

MC: Even if there isn’t snow this Christmas, I’m already very very contented. After all, I had a Christmas feast, baked next to a warm oven, and even saw Santa Claus!

I lift my head, deliberately giving him a teasing glance. He chuckles lightly.

Victor: And Mrs Claus.

That scene from the bathroom earlier is vivid in my mind. Embarrassed, I bury my face in his chest.

MC: Most importantly, I’m spending this Christmas with you. In my heart, this is the perfect Christmas.

My head remains buried in his chest, anticipating VIctor’s response. However, I suddenly feel something cold dripping on the roof of my head.

MC: ?!

I lift my head violently.

MC: Victor, are you crying...

It’s snowing.

The moment I lift my head, I see the entire sky filled with drifting snowflakes.

It’s actually snowing!

The sparkling, jade-like crystals rustle and land on Victor’s eyelashes, and very quickly turn into transparent water droplets.

I reach out to rub at his eyes gently, a moist and cold sensation on my fingertips.

MC: Victor! It’s snowing!

I happily unfurl my hands to welcome the snowflakes, showing them to Victor excitedly. However, I realise that his expression, which wears a slight smile as he looks at me, is not at all astonished by this unexpected snow.

Victor: Mm, it’s snowing.

An answer faintly surfaces in my heart. Before I can open to my mouth to probe further, the host’s voice from the broadcast drifts vaguely from the living room.

Broadcast Host: LFG... big Christmas gift... artificial snowfall... 

Just as expected!

It turns out that this snowfall was LFG’s Christmas surprise to the citizens of Loveland City. No wonder Victor looked like he was waiting for something on the balcony earlier...

I deliberately fold my arms across my chest, tilting my chin angrily.

MC: A certain CEO even pretended not to know anything about it...

Victor: I thought surprises meant that they wouldn’t be disclosed until the last second. Or does a certain dummy have an issue with this surprise?

Seeing him arching his brows, I immediately correct my posture obediently.

MC: No, no! On behalf of the citizens of Loveland City, I sincerely thank CEO Victor for the surprise!

He laughs in spite of himself, lowering his head and meeting my forehead.

Victor: Now, you can say that this is a perfect Christmas.

I hide in his arms as I look up at the sky. The snowfall is getting increasingly heavier. 

Even though I'm just wearing a thin woollen shirt, I don’t feel cold at all in his arms. 

It’s probably because the person before me has shielded me from all the piercing wind and snow, keeping them out of my world. 

MC: Come to think of it, do you really not have a perfect Christmas in your heart?

He once again tightens his grip on me, resting his chin on the top of my head.

Victor is silent for a very, very long time. It’s so long that I can hear the rustling sound of snowfall.

Victor: This moment right now. It’s perfect.

-

Phone calls: here

Texts: here

[jarienn972]

Weathering the Storm - Part One

I dreamed up the crazy idea for this story a couple of weeks ago (yes, this was actually a dream) and I finally found some motivation to start writing it.  The basic premise is that it’s a pretty lousy day in Storybrooke.  A severe thunderstorm is looming, vandals are on the loose and Killian makes a ill-fated error while trying to be a Good Samaritan that leaves him relying on an unlikely ally for his very survival.

I haven’t written a multi-chapter whump story in a while so @hookaroo, this one is right up your alley.  Lots of whumpy fun (and a little comedy thrown in too).  And I’m sorry @killian-whump if I’m overloading your to read lists this month.

You can also find this on AO3 and FF.net

Peering through the windshield at the darkening horizon, Killian's brow furrowed. He was still getting accustomed to driving the Sheriff's vehicle himself and while it wasn't entirely unlike manning the helm of the Jolly Roger, he'd learned that the automobile responded much faster to course adjustments. He was becoming increasingly comfortable driving on dry roads, but he didn't yet have much experience driving on rain-slickened asphalt so he was hoping that the forecast storm would hold off for a tad longer.

With Emma occupied assisting Henry locate the proper attire for some sort of ball called homecoming, Killian had volunteered to take this morning's call on his own. It was a case that seemed innocuous enough on the surface - the now magic-less former Wicked Witch had phoned in a complaint to the station after someone threw a brick through her living room window. Neither she nor her child had been harmed but she was livid and wanted the vandal caught. She was quite vocal that she preferred Emma be the one to respond but after being advised that Emma wasn't available - and several minutes of unsuccessful argument, she resigned to the fact that it would be Killian coming to investigate. There had been two similar attacks in town and he had a pretty good idea who was responsible already but more evidence was always welcome.

So now he found himself driving to the outskirts of town, on his way to Zelena's farmhouse with a thunderstorm looming. At least the weather was keeping the traffic light as most in town chose to stay off of the highway with a severe storm threatening. But it was the very lack of cars on the road that made the vehicle pulled off to the berm stand out so starkly. It wasn't a vehicle he recognized, much newer and sleeker than the majority of the cars in Storybrooke, although he had seen similar ones when Emma had taken him on visits to nearby cities.

He could tell that there was a driver still seated behind the steering wheel and at quick glance, nothing appeared to be amiss. It was possible that the vehicle had broken down, as he'd learned they were prone to do. So, as Deputy Sheriff of this town, the neighborly thing to do was to see if the motorist was in need of assistance. He slowed down after passing the parked car which was facing opposite of his direction, flipped on the lights and made a slightly awkward three point turn in the middle of the road. (There were still a few maneuvers that weren't particularly easy for a man with a hook for a hand.)

He eased his vehicle to the side of the road, stopping a few feet behind the dusty black sedan that displayed New Hampshire license plates. Before exiting the vehicle, he made sure that his badge was properly displayed, clipped to the chest pocket of his hip length leather coat. He also double checked that the little camera mounted on the vehicle's dashboard was recording just as Emma had insisted. She'd had the device installed so that they would have video of every traffic stop, saying that it was for everyone's protection although Killian had scoffed at it. Wasn't like it would be hard to manipulate it with a little magic, but if Emma wanted the camera used, he'd use the bloody camera.

He turned off the cruiser's engine and stepped out into the road, approaching the vehicle cautiously, but trying not to project a threatening air. He was merely offering aid if needed and noted that the driver was already rolling down the window as he neared.

"'Afternoon, mate," Killian greeted the motorist with a welcoming smile. "I'm Deputy Jones with the Storybrooke Sheriff's Department. I noticed you pulled over here and I was wondering if I could be of any assistance?"

The dark haired driver raised his chin to glance up at Killian, or at least Killian thought the man was looking at him. It was impossible to be certain as he couldn't see the driver's eyes behind his mirrored sunglasses, a strange accessory to be wearing in such overcast weather.

"All's good, Deputy," the man replied. "Just had to pull over to try to make a call but it seems cell phone service kinda sucks around here."

"So I've been told," Killian chuckled. "You'll likely get a better signal about three miles or so ahead, on the other side of the county line."

"That's good to know. Thanks." It was a valid reason to be parked here and the driver seemed courteous enough but Killian's keen intuition sensed something was off. His gaze drifted unconsciously past the driver where he caught a glimpse of a map of Maine with a meandering route plotted in yellow highlights, one that avoided all major highways and towns. Something was telling him that this person wasn't the scenic backroads type.

"Well, I'll not waste any more of your time. Enjoy your drive, mate." Killian gave a little nod to the driver as he made a mental note to run the license plate number with the state police as soon as he returned to the cruiser, chastising himself for not doing that in the first place. He barely had time to take a single step back from the sedan before he found himself staring at the muzzle of a pistol trained on him through the car window. The driver had brandished it so rapidly that Killian had no time to draw his own weapon.

He heard the gun go off and time seemed to slow. The bullet struck his right side, entering somewhere around the bottom of his rib cage. The pain didn't hit him immediately as he staggered back a few steps before his legs gave out beneath him and he dropped to the asphalt. He watched the driver lean out of the window and fire a second shot at the cruiser, hitting the front tire and flattening it. By now, a searing heat was spreading through his torso but as he lay there in the middle of the empty highway, Killian noticed that there was a pair of feet visible beneath the car and his ears picked up a second voice shouting.

"What the hell did you do that for?" the second, deeper voice demanded. "We weren't supposed to draw attention!"

"You were the one who had to take a piss," the driver's voice responded defensively as a car door squeaked open and then slammed closed seconds later. "I told you we shouldn't have stopped."

"You didn't have to shoot a cop!"

"He saw the map...What if he ran the plate?"

That was the last of the conversation that Killian could make out as the sedan's engine roared to life and the vehicle sped away, kicking up a cloud of dust and gravel in its wake.

Clutching his wounded flank, Killian lay unmoving in the road for a few minutes but to him, it felt like hours had passed. Get moving, Jones his head urged but his body was less willing to comply. He practically dragged himself back to the cruiser, using the front bumper to support himself as he managed to raise up to his knees. Beneath his layers of leather, he could already feel the sticky dampness of blood, warm against his skin. He knew he should get to the radio. He should call for help, but who would answer? There was no one at the station to hear his plea and he didn't know if any other law enforcement would get the transmission as Storybrooke wasn't exactly on any regular patrol route.

Maybe he could call Emma? If he could get a signal on that infernal device, maybe she could get to him? She could teleport. He couldn't.

Trying to ignore the increasing pain, he pulled his hand away from the wound, patting his coat pocket for his phone, hoping it was still inside. As he'd become more adept with the technology, Emma had upgraded his phone to a fancier version she'd felt would be simpler to operate one-handed. The new device had proven easier to access features other than what he still referred to as the Emma button, but he was about to rue the change. The new device was covered in a shiny sheet of glass that he'd initially questioned the durability of but he was assured this was typical of newer devices. As he slipped his bloodstained hand into the pocket, his fingertips came in contact with his phone - and the razor sharp edges of the shattered glass screen.

He drew it from his pocket carefully and confirmed the damage. He must have landed on it when he'd fallen. He tried in vain to press the power button, hoping the device would light up but it barely flickered in his hand, leading Killian to quickly realize the dire predicament he was in. He was on his own out here in the middle of nowhere and he needed to think of a plan right now or he'd bleed to death before anyone was likely to find him. His closest option to get assistance was to head to Zelena's farmhouse which was approximately another half a mile up the road. With a flat tire, he couldn't easily drive there and he doubted that he had the strength or the dexterity to change it. Could he feasibly make his way to the witch's home on foot?

Clenching his jaw tightly, he swung his hook up onto the hood of the cruiser, anchoring it into the narrow gap above the headlight. He grimaced and cried out in agony as he pulled himself upright. He rested against the vehicle for a few moments, willing himself to move. He could make it a half a mile. He had to make it, he kept telling himself as he pushed away from the car, leaving behind a sizable smear of crimson on the vehicle's white paint.

**********

Thankful that she'd located the bright blue tarp in the decrepit barn behind the house, Zelena was trying hard to work while ignoring the pleas of her cranky toddler. She currently stood atop a sturdy chair attempting to nail that plastic sheet over the shattered living room window. It was a hasty fix that wouldn't last long, and it had her once again lamenting her lack of magical powers. She had hoped to convince Jones to assist with the temporary repairs by covering the window with a few boards salvaged from the barn - after he finished up with whatever he needed to do to locate the little cretin who'd vandalized her home. It would have been a stronger repair until she could get someone who still possessed magic out here to take care of the glass, but since he hadn't shown up yet and unfortunately, the rain had, she had to wing it.

The plastic wasn't keeping all of the weather out but it was holding up better than she'd anticipated as the wind whipped up out of the west. She'd already tried calling Emma to see where her ne'er do well husband might be but found phone lines down even before the power went out. Cell phones rarely worked out here so she wasn't surprised to see No Service on the device screen. Maybe she should start thinking about moving closer to town…

Before it got too dark inside the house, she tossed a few logs into the fireplace and got a nice, warm fire going. From the kitchen, Robin continued to wail in her play yard but Zelena needed to find more candles and flashlights first. This storm was forecast to be a severe one. The arrival of the thunderclaps and lightning flashes ahead of the rain had the child screeching but the weather was only partially responsible for the child's tantrum. She was also vocally protesting that mum had put her into this restrictive baby prison when she wanted to explore and see why mummy was making so much noise in the other room. She didn't like the play yard and she was going to make sure that everyone within earshot knew it.

"I know you don't like it in there, my little pistachio," an exasperated Zelena called out to her daughter. "Mummy just has to finish up some work and then I promise, we'll go snuggle and I'll read you a story. Does that sound good?" She didn't wait for the child's response as she placed the four candles and two flashlights she'd located onto the kitchen counter then stepped over to the stove and turned on the front burner, thankful that the gas was still working. With one hand, she placed the tea kettle atop the blue flames while her other hand opened the cupboard to her left and retrieved a bright pink sippy cup. "How about I get you some juice while I finish up?"

The mention of juice tempered the toddler's mood momentarily as she intently watched her mother pour a few ounces of white grape juice into the cup and twist the lid onto it. Robin greedily snatched it from her mother's hand, the thunderstorm momentarily forgotten as she swallowed her sweet treat, plopping herself down next to a fluffy stuffed rabbit. Exhaling a sigh of relief, Zelena was about to return to the tea kettle when she heard a thud against her front door. Had something blown into the door or was that a knock? Had that miserable pirate turned deputy finally shown up?

"Is that you, Jones?" she asked loudly as she crossed the room to answer the door. "It's about bloody time you showed up… What's your…" She was going to say excuse but stopped herself mid-utterance as she swung open the door to find her door frame smeared with a mixture of blood and mud and a barely conscious Killian Jones collapsed on her front porch. He was laying face down, head resting on her woven straw welcome mat and clothes dripping wet as though he'd been out in the elements for a while. "What the devil happened to you? Where's your car?" Her eyes quickly scanned the gravel drive that led up to her house but saw no sign of a vehicle and realized she'd not heard a car approaching either.

She lowered herself to one knee in the doorway and took hold of his arm, wanting to help him get up and out of the storm. Her gaze caught sight of the series of puddles on the steps leading up to her door noticing that they were all tinged with reddish swirls.

"Are you injured?" she queried. He groaned what must have been an affirmative as he made a feeble attempt to raise his head, managing to force open one dull blue eye that pleaded for help. "Okay - we've got to get you inside. I have no idea what's happened but even I can't leave you out here in this awful weather. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and Zelena grasped his shoulders, feeling him shaking as if his strength would give out at any moment. "Think you can get to your feet with a little help?"

Killian nodded in response as she stood up, extending her arms towards him. His hand was slick with rainwater and blood as he clasped onto hers, hindering him from getting a secure grasp.

"Let's try something different…," she said as she shifted her position, stooping over and sliding her hands beneath his arms then wrapping her own arms around his upper torso. "I can't believe I'm doing this…" she muttered but at least he understood her actions. He scrambled to get his wobbly legs beneath him and pushed himself upward while she steadied his upper body. He caught his hook on the doorframe, using it to help balance himself once he was standing until she could move next to him, placing an arm around his back to guide him through the opening and over to her solid wood kitchen table. She let him brace against it while she kicked the door closed, the slam drawing a shriek from the startled Robin.

"Hang in there, little one. Mummy's got a bit of an emergency here…" As the tea kettle whistle drowned out the toddler, Zelena turned off the flame beneath it before turning her attention back to the ailing pirate dripping blood and water all over her floor and table. "I'm going to get you over to the sofa where you can lay down but first, we need to get you out of that sopping wet coat. It must weigh a ton with all the water it soaked up." Killian offered little resistance as she slid the heavy, rainwater laden leather off of his right arm and then repeated the process on his left, easing the sleeve over his brace and hook before allowing the coat to drop to the floor. She'd worry about it later.

With the burden of the leather coat now off of his shoulders, he huffed out a little sigh followed by a pained moan while nearly toppling over. Zelena caught him and wrapped his arm around her shoulders as she let him fall against her. "Okay, Jones - just a few more steps, okay?" She led him slowly, nearly dragging him at times, into the living room to her floral print sofa and let him flop onto it. "Lie down and I'll be right back. I'll get some blankets out of the closet and I have some first aid supplies in the cabinet in the loo…"

"Thank...you…" he stuttered through chattering teeth as she pulled the colorful crocheted afghan off the back of the sofa and draped it over his shivering form. She hadn't expected an answer since he could scarcely keep his eyes open so his response caught her off guard.

"You're welcome. Now, just rest a minute." What the devil am I doing? She had this and so many other questions swirling about in her overwhelmed head. Was she actually trying to save the life of the very same man she'd nearly killed just a few short years ago? And he was really trusting her to do this? Had becoming a mother changed her that much? Had sacrificing her magic helped her earn back her humanity? Okay - maybe not that since she'd kill to get her magic back. Well, that probably wasn't the best choice of words…

She shook off the barrage of unanswerable questions as she yanked open the linen closet door to collect some necessary items. She gathered up a pillow from the top shelf, two more blankets and a stack of towels and threw them all into an empty laundry basket. Before closing the door, she reached back in and grabbed a handful of washcloths too, then headed into the bathroom to see what first aid supplies she could locate. With Robin now walking, she'd stocked up on bandages and antiseptic but most of what she had on hand was sized for a child so she might have to improvise a bit. She tossed anything that might be useful into the basket with the linens and then hurried back to the living room.

"Alright, Jones - are you still with me?" He mumbled something unintelligible in his semi-conscious state that she took as a yes. "Okay, first thing we've got to do is get you out of some of these wet clothes and see where all of this blood is coming from…" He seemed to understand what she meant. His jeans were thoroughly soaked, covered in mud from when he'd fallen while trudging up her driveway and they were plastered to his chilled skin. He'd be able to warm up faster without the dampened clothing in the way. There was nothing gratuitous about it, but it didn't mean that Zelena was going to enjoy this part.

There was no pretense of modesty as she unbuckled his belt and unfastened the buttons on his trousers, keeping her eyes squeezed shut the whole time. She tugged the heavy, uncooperative fabric over his hips, praying that the pirate wasn't going commando. It wasn't that she hadn't seen male anatomy before; she just had no desire to see a former enemy's private parts.

Once she'd managed to get the denim pulled down to his knees, she quickly threw the afghan back over his hips before daring to open her eyes. Seeing Captain Hook's bare knees and shins was something she could handle as long as the rest of his lower extremities were covered. She did immediately come to the realization that she'd forgotten a step - she'd neglected to remove his boots. Thankfully for her, even though the black leather boots were as waterlogged as his matching coat, they were only ankle height with elastic sides to make them easier to slip on and off. She barely managed to stifle a giggle as she yanked them off of his feet and uncovered his navy blue socks that had tiny white sailboats printed on them. Novelty socks were not something she would have thought him to sport, but she kept any commentary to herself as she finished removing his jeans and set them aside on the hardwood floor.

Now came the hard part. She had to get a look at the wound.

He flinched and writhed in pain as she began to undo the buttons on his leather waistcoat and the midnight blue shirt beneath. She picked up one of the towels and held it at the ready while she peeled the layers of leather and fabric away. He hissed and then howled in agony as she raised the shirt and pressed the towel to the deep crimson puddle pooling on his abdomen, allowing the cotton to soak up some of the blood before taking a second glance at the hole in his side. She raised the towel slightly so she could see it better - small, but bleeding profusely. Keep pressure on it, her brain reminded her as she held the towel firmly in place and Killian cried out in protest.

"I'm so sorry. I know this has to hurt but we need to slow the bleeding," she insisted. "Is this a bullet wound?" She had limited experience with pistols, preferring fireballs to firearms, but she couldn't think of any other weapon that would have inflicted this sort of wound.

Killian gave a slight nod of his head as his body trembled through another resurgent wave of pain. "Call...Emma…" he begged, words coming out in staccato through tightly clenched teeth.

"I would if I could," she informed him. "The storm knocked out the power and the phone lines. Wouldn't be a problem if I still had magic, but you've got a pathetic waste of a witch here… Anyway, I had already tried calling her earlier when you hadn't shown up. I thought you'd blown me off…"

"Would...be...bad...form...Got...shot…" he explained what had already been obvious.

"I know that now. I have a tendency to think the worst of people, you know?"

He tried to crack a smile but found it hurt too much. "The…bullet…? Did…it… go...through?"

"I hadn't checked that just yet. Think you can roll onto your left side a bit?" He nodded and did his best to shift his weight to his left hip and turn his body towards the rear of the sofa, giving her a clearer view of his back to search for an exit wound. She raised the hem of his shirt higher and located the slightly wider hole where the bullet had passed through his flesh. "I see where it came out," she told him as she picked up another towel to cover the exit point. She sensed a little relief from him at this revelation. "Is that a good thing?" she couldn't help but ask.

"Better than... a chunk of lead… bouncing around… inside my chest," he grimaced, bracing himself for what he had to ask of her next. "Do you… have anything… to disinfect…?"

He didn't need to finish the sentence as she answered right away. "I do have antiseptic, but you should know, this is going to sting." He didn't really need the warning. He knew and his breath was already hitching in his throat in anticipation as she picked up the bottle that presumably contained the antiseptic she spoke of. It conveniently had an aerosol sprayer for easier application but there was no amount of preparation that could halt the primal, guttural scream that escaped his lungs the moment the substance came in contact with tender skin. The tidal wave of sensations proved to be more than his weakened body could bear as he allowed himself to succumb to the blissful peace of unconsciousness.

Zelena watched him go limp as the dueling howling of the wind and wailing of her daughter echoed through the farmhouse. She could still hear his labored breathing indicating he was alive but there wasn't much else she could do for him. She did her best to patch up the wounds by covering them with clean folded washcloths that she'd sprayed with the antiseptic solution before securing them in place with strips of cloth tape from her medicine cabinet. She tucked the pillow under his head and layered the two additional blankets over top of him to protect him from the drafts making their way around the blue tarp. She could only keep her fingers crossed that her improvised window covering would hold.

It wasn't perfect but it would have to do until the storm passed, she reminded herself as she gathered up the bloody towels and his dripping wet jeans, placing everything into the laundry basket for now. She kicked the basket off to the side as she stood up and headed to the kitchen to wash up, tossing another log onto the flickering fire as she passed by. Once she'd scrubbed away the blood and dried off, she scooped up her teary-eyed daughter who vocalized her displeasure once more as a flash of lighting and an instant rumble of thunder shook the house. Bouncing the toddler on her hip to ease her sobbing, Zelena stared out of her kitchen window watching the rain pelting against the glass.

This was turning into one very long day.

[theflashdriver]

Ten Centimetres of Difference

Woah, going to be a little late on these! Just remembered I’d be publishing them here too! This story was written for day one of Sonamy week! The prompt was height difference!

Sonic has been indulging Amy's infatuation, promising her a kiss and a date if she can successfully catch him! She arrives with a card in hand and a prediction, today she'll finally get what she wants. She's chased him for miles, but today she'll close that ten-centimetre gap between them. 

A blue sky hung above, punctuated by fluffy white clouds. Sonic the Hedgehog, the fastest thing alive, wasn't currently moving. He'd found the perfect spot to relax, near the base of a grassy hill in a field far from most everything. Lying on his back, quills spread against the ground, he was relaxing yet not relaxing. Judging by the summer sun, it couldn't be long until two in the afternoon; that meant she'd be here soon. As the sun warmed his muzzle, a grin worked its way onto his lips. It was about time for their date, he pondered where he'd lead her this time.

Had he eaten today? His mind said yes but his stomach told him no, chilli dogs seemed like a good idea but they always did. There had to be a stand somewhere around here. Although, maybe ice cream would make a nice change of pace? On a hot summer day like this, a cool treat probably made more sense. He tried not to think about it too hard, but it did cross his mind that ice cream was probably more romantic than chilli dogs. In truth, he knew she wouldn't mind either way but-

"Sonic," A familiar singsong tone found its way into his ear, "I found you!"

As the pink hedgehog popped into his vision, a smile spread across his face; "Hey Amy, long time no see!"

"Are you ready for our date?" She was spry as ever, blunt in that she was to the point. Still leaning over him, she pushed back a wayward quill; "Just four more weeks and we'll have been doing this for five years, I hope you have something planned."

"Five years, really?" He quickly returned her goad, "I've gone undefeated for that long? That's gotta be some kind of record," Her cheeks puffed up in defiance, he half-suppressed his laugh, "Maybe that'll be the day you catch me and finally steal a kiss."

He knew he was riling her up, but that was par for the course. Almost as quickly as his jab landed, Miss Rose was smiling again.

"As perfect as that would be; I'm afraid not, my darling. I've seen it in the cards," As if to prove her point, with a flick of her wrist, she produced one of her many tarot cards; holding it in his face and thus obscuring herself from view. Emblazoned with the number 6 and featuring two doves in flight, it simply read 'the lovers,' "We're fated to share our first kiss today!"

With the flick of her wrist that card vanished, her face shone down on him once again; "Fated huh? I'm not gonna let some prophecy decide what I do Ames, you should know that by now."

"It's not a prophecy Sonic, it's a fortune. You should know that by now," She parroted, emphasis on the word you, "It predicts what you will do, rather than it telling you what you must do. You already know how reliable they are, they let me find you out here after all."

She wasn't wrong, the fields outside of Empire City weren't fields he often visited. Sonic really just went where his legs carried him, he had his common spots but truthfully he could end up just about anywhere. No matter where he ended up though; sun, rain or snow, Amy Rose would find him. There was something almost relaxing about that… only almost because, as he reflected on her reliability, he felt something strange stir in his chest.

Refusing to dwell on that feeling, he scratched at his ear; "If you ask me prophecies and fortunes sound the same, by telling me what I'm gonna do it's like you've said what I've gotta do," Pulling that hand from his quills, he waggled his finger, "You might be able to find me, but you can't pin down what I'm gonna do."

"That's funny, because for all your talk of ignoring fate you've yet to properly deny my forecast. It's almost like you're talking around it," Amy countered.

"Well, I'm not the one who decides if that happens," Her ribbing glanced off of him, "That's up to you and whether you can keep up. Who knows, maybe they're right," he gave her a wink, "Maybe today will be the day."

It was banter, plain and simple. At least, that's what he kept telling himself.

The pink hedgehog's muzzle turned a shade redder, "It's not just maybe, it's guaranteed! These are the same cards I used to find you every week, they've never failed me."

He jumped to his feet, flashing her another grin, "If that's the case, why're you worrying?

Standing so close, he finally took her all in. She was dressed in her usual garb, red dress and boots; her short quills held back by a headband. Stood like this, the disparity in their height was made just a little clearer; the tip of her nose only reached the bottom of his chin. To claim the kiss she so desired, Amy would have to stand on her tiptoes. Something about that stood out to him in a way he couldn't quite comprehend. No matter what she did or how she came to him there would always be a final gap to close, no bigger than ten centimetres but always there.

"I'm not worrying, just… surprised," She began to explain, "I repeated the reading three times, just to be sure, and got the same result each and every time. Before today the lovers card hardly would only show up in the future position. Never the present."

"Huh, really?" He said, trying not to think too hard about any of that. Attempting to shake his thoughts, Sonic stepped past her; closing his eyes and starting to stretch, "That's… weird."

"It is…" She mused, "Is there something wrong with you, are you sick? Have you hurt your leg?"

Sonic swapped from lunging with his right leg to the left, "What, me? Relax Ames; I'm cool as ever."

"Then I can only deduce that you've finally come to your senses, you've plucked up the nerve to show me how you truly feel," Amy proclaimed, "You'll let me catch you today."

Sonic snorted, "After all these years, would you really want me to go easy on you, Ames? Give up our game before you can really win? Slow down, turn around and sweep you off your feet?"

"Of course I'd like that! The fact you thought that up yourself gives me hope it might happen," She eagerly responded, "But… you're not entirely wrong. A little part of me would like to catch you after all these years, to wrap my arms around you and bring us to a stumbling halt. Land a peck and leave you stunned, watch you lose your cool…" His eyes reopened, unable to stop himself he threw a glance to her. Her smirk almost blinded him; she knew him well enough to toy with him. His balance wavered, "Perhaps it's not as romantic as your dream scenario, but I think it fits us better."

"Y-Yeah well," He quickly swallowed his stutter, why was he sweating? He could run for miles without breaking a sweat but with only a few words she'd reddened his face. He rushed for a comeback but the best he could manage was; "We'll see about that."

Sonic internally screamed at his failure, quickly turning away and resuming his stretches. Of course, her chides embarrassed him, but those weren't any sweat; he'd learned to handle quips like that years ago. It was her other words that had scratched a deeper spot, her more fitting scenario especially. He tried not to reflect on them or the feeling they stirred up for too long, rolling his neck and drawing his arms across his body… but in the silence, her words would repeat in his head.

Embarrassed, but justifying to himself that he was warm enough, Sonic stood straight; "C'mon, can we set out already?"

"I'm ready whenever you are my darling," She cooed, turning from him and raising a hand to her brow, scanning the horizon; "What way are we going today?"

He hadn't considered that. Rubbing his chin he scanned the same, they were in a hilly region so he couldn't see far. The city was a few miles them, but he wanted this chase to last for a while. Perhaps they could circle around and head back?

Shrugging, he pointed rather randomly forward; "That way looks good," He glanced back to her, "And of course, we'll keep the same rules as always?"

"If I catch you I get to kiss you and I pick where we eat but, if I fail then you get to pick," Amy affirmed.

"I think we'll change it up a little today then," He said, embodying confidence in his future victory, "I'm feeling ice cream over chilli dogs."

"Maybe I'll treat you to some then," She leant down to take her starting position, "It'll help cool your embarrassment."

I'm sure it will, he internally mused. Usually, it took till the end of their date for her to fluster him like this, "Well, if you're ready…"

Without another word Sonic shot off, his soles pounding against the green grass and the wind rushing through his quills. Not far behind, he heard a groan of agitation and at least one cry of the word cheater. Well, she wasn't wrong; but he'd given her half a warning, four words worth at least. Regardless, they'd been through this so many times; he knew she knew better than hang around and wait for his say to start. By the sound of Amy's footfalls, she was already gaining behind him.

Cheeky as ever, Sonic spun turned around to watch her approach, bearing a wide grin… only to find she was a lot closer than he'd anticipated. A blur of pink and red couldn't be more than twenty metres behind him, with each passing second growing closer still. Still, not wanting to keep face, he doubled down on his decision to run backwards.

"Wow Ames, off to a good start today," He casually flattered.

Above the pounding of his feet, he heard her loud and clear; "I've been training. Even with your start, there's no way you're escaping me!"

"Really? Are you sure you can keep this up? I don't want our fun to end before it can really start," He winked.

"Oh, you don't have to worry about that, my darling. I'm still getting warmed up" He swore she was grinning, "It'll be your fault if this game ends early."

She picked up the pace, legs blurring beneath her. Sonic's lead was fading fast, in no more than the blink of an eye she was almost within arm's reach! Stumbling, he spun again, facing forward and allowing his arms to hang behind him; accelerating towards his max speed. This feat wasn't unprecedented but, coupled with the infatuated girl's prediction, it did set his nerves on edge. Throughout the years Amy had sped up yes, but her speed had never quite been consistent. Some weeks he'd be miles ahead, she'd be tracking him rather than chasing him, but on others, there'd be hardly a metre between them. This was probably due to differences on both of their ends, how much time she'd had to train and how much he'd been lounging around.

Come to think of it, it'd been months since the last Eggman attack; outside their track meets and his own enjoyment he hadn't had much reason to run. Amy meanwhile always had her goal to pursue; she had a constant reason to run and train; a motive to grow faster. He ran from place to place, seeking out his next chilidog, while she ran with the intent to get faster. Maybe the cards were right, perhaps the stars had finally aligned. Well, he knew they would eventually.

He'd thought about it a couple of times, why he kept agreeing to these meetings. When they'd started he'd thoroughly refuted her claim that they were dates, frequently insisting their weekly run a mere track meet, but given time that part of their routine had vanished. He remembered the shift from denying to rolling his eyes to joking along, but he couldn't quite place the timeline. Had it taken years of mere months? Of course, to this day, he'd never admitted they were dates, never to her and certainly not to anyone else…. but he'd come to internally refer to them as such.

Sonic threw a glance over his shoulder, the space between them was remaining constant but there was no flush on Amy's face. She could keep this up and she surely wasn't pushing herself yet. Neither was he, but in these races he'd rarely had to. He'd come close, really close, but he really felt today was different. His runner's high started to set in, the wind grew sharper still and grass was tossed skyward with each and every step. Up and over hills, through grassy valleys and across flat fields; he was fully embracing their competition.

No matter how or where he ran however, his thoughts refused to leave her behind. They'd both changed so much over the years; she'd gone from hiding her face as he carried her to running mere inches behind him, little more than an arm's length. The first time he noticed a difference, beyond her proposal of this little game and his willingness to accept, was the changing of her garb. He remembered it as plain as day, her dusty blue and white sneakers were gone and in their place were boots that matched his own shoes; red and white. A few weeks later her other clothes swapped to match; off went her green polo and orange skirt, on went her now classic red dress with its white trim.

Trying his hardest to focus on their chase, Sonic pushed another step closer to his speed's limit. The world around him was starting to blur, the grass became a smear of green and clouds shot across the blue sky. As the air cut against his muzzle and through his skin, he could no longer smell the fresh air around him. Yet somehow, above it all, he heard the footfalls of her heavy boots managing to match his pace. Amy was close, just as he'd sped up she clearly had too!

This speed was the result of her determination, a seemingly bottomless reserve that nothing could truly sap. She hadn't always been this way, back when she wore those grubby sneakers she'd covered her eyes as he ran, but Amy had grown in more ways than one. The girl Metal Sonic kidnapped wasn't gone, her essence very much remained; quick to joke as she often was, she was still head over heels for him.

Wait, had she changed or had he? If his younger self were here, wouldn't he roll his eyes and call this uncool? All this thinking instead of doing, it only ever happened when he was around her. Most of the time he could run freely with her, not a care in the world, but every so often she'd find a way to pierce his façade; cut through his cool armour and reach the burning ball of thoughts and feelings at his heart. Had she found a way to see through his guise or had he simply let her in? Sonic knew his thoughts had changed over the years but was she the cause? He'd thought and did things now his past self would certainly consider uncool.

Pink bangs entered the corner of his eye; there wasn't an arm's length between them, it was a matter of mere inches! Last week she'd gotten close to him, but for her to manage this kind of speed? Was something wrong with him? Was he going easy on her? No, he wasn't. At least, he didn't think he was? Sure, this was a speed he could keep up for hours but it was still near enough the fastest he could run. Wasn't it? When did-

Before he could even realise, lost in his own thoughts, she'd shot forward and grabbed hold of his hand right hand. Surprise caused him to stumble, Sonic's pace took an immediate hit, and Amy managed to overtake him.

The blue hedgehog dug his heels in, dirt and grass flew into a cloud behind him. Still holding his hand, Amy matched this endeavour; turning side on and bracing to slowly slide to a stop. When they'd finally halted, two lines of dirt had been scoured into the field. His runner's high broken, Sonic's senses returned; her face became clear to him as the world started to rematerialize. Cutting winds were replaced by the gentle breeze, he felt his heart pounding in his chest and the numbness in his feet faded; his soles were hot.

Those things weren't his focus however, rather; his eyes were locked upon his hand, not simply held by hers but equally holding hers. She'd done it, it fully sunk in; Amy had managed to catch him.

"I…," She was panting, evidently his full speed was still just a little too much for her to maintain, "Did it, I…" His eyes left their hands, tracing up to reach her sparkling emerald eyes. Her face was flush and her quills misplaced, "Caught you, Sonic!"

"Y-Yeah," He stuttered, "You did…"

Silence broke between them, Sonic had no idea what would happen next. Sure he'd imagined she'd catch him before, but the real thing was different somehow. Bizarre even.

"S-So," She led, breaking the silence, "Does that mean I can…"

"I-I always kind of assumed you'd just… go for it?" He admitted, trying not to think of his daydreamed rendition of this.

"Oh, should I?" The excitement in her voice was overwhelming.

"I-I…uhm…" He was flustered, guttural noises escaped his throat without his say.

Exhaustion lingered but her seriousness broke through, "It doesn't matter how long I've waited. If you're not comfortable I-

"N-No I…" Sonic had been quick to refute that, almost a little too quick in his own mind. Managing to steel himself, he coughed and tried to speak clearly; "Let's do it, wh-why not," He caught himself before the words 'it might be fun' could slip his lips and cursed his stutter.

"Y-You're sure? We're going to finally…" He managed a nod, she was red from the run but he swore she'd grown a shade brighter. Joy overtook her, he watched her smile grow even wider before she turned away, "Just, give me a moment to catch my breath."

Left with only his own thoughts and the touch of her hand, Sonic felt his heartbeat quicken with every passing second; threatening to explode. Sonic wanted to move, but the only movement he could think was toward her. He could just turn her around, lean down and press his lips to hers without hesitation, and she'd probably even enjoy that, she'd said before they started that she'd love to see him taking initiative. But, could he really? With this feeling in his stomach, his head spinning and his heart beating, Sonic needed her to take the lead. He couldn't help staring at her, noticing the difference between their heights again; the fact he'd thought about leaning down.

Ten centimetres, he was sure it was no more than that; the final distance one of them would have to close. Patience wasn't his strong suit, but he'd let her chase him this far; miles and miles over years and years. What was ten more centimetres?

Amy finally turned back around, they were face to face once more. With a single step, they were almost chest-to-chest; she felt his thumb brush over the back of his palm. It was exactly as he thought; she had to rise to her tiptoes.

Happily resigned to his fate, Sonic let her close that final distance and score the kiss she had worked for five years to earn. Near the final moments, her head tilted; their noses narrowly avoided colliding as muzzles finally brushed. The contact was as a lot softer than he'd imagined, he'd always thought kissing was a little strange; just two people pushing their mouths together. Now that she was kissing him though, he understood. It was exhilarating yet relaxing at the same time, he felt himself melt at her contact and yet (simultaneously) it was as though a bolt of electricity had rushed down his spine and into his tail. Relaxing, yet exciting… he couldn't even think to explain it, his mind was such a mess. Amy took up the entirety of his focus.

Her lips were warm; was that because her pulse was pounding? Was it always like this? Thoroughly unsure what to do, he tried to shape his lips to match hers. He noticed her eyes were closed and so he made his match. Now deprived of a sense, the touch of her lips imprinted far deeper into his mind. Feeling a wayward quill brush against his cheek, the blue hedgehog brought up his free hand before gently brushing it back. Unable to see, he was unsure it would hold and so his hand came to rest on the edge of her cheek. Amy seemed to like that, he felt her hand squeeze tighter around his before her head tilted further; almost seeming to deepen the kiss.

How long had he been running from this? This pulse-pounding feeling, exceeding the runner's high he'd felt prior. It didn't take miles to reach this goal, merely ten centimetres.

Sonic caught himself gasping as she pulled away, his hand dropped from her face. The kiss couldn't have lasted more than a minute, he imagined it'd been much shorter in fact, but it felt like he'd been lost for a blissful eternity. Now returned to earth, he had no idea what to do with himself. Was he supposed to thank her? Was he even supposed look at her? What was he supposed to do, what would be cool to do? Should he just start running again? Part of him wanted to escape this embarrassment but a much larger part longed to linger by her side, even just a little longer.

He couldn't help but throw her a glance, the shorter hedgehog seemed to be in a world all of her own. Cheeks were alight with blush, redder than she'd been before the kiss thus surely the result of it, rather than the run and her smile was dazzling. She brushed back the quill he'd been holding, but her hand lingered where his had been. Her eyes flickered open, emerald orbs refracted the sunlight and seemed to blind him; he couldn't help turning away, red in the face. The space had returned, the difference of their height and maybe a half step more; she was still so close. If she wanted she could rise and kiss him again. If he wanted he could lean down and kiss her.

His hand ran through his quills, in the wake of that long-awaited moment he was lost for words. He could only manage four, "W-Wanna go another round?"

She was grinning, still holding his hand, "You know it."

Perhaps, if she caught him again, he'd get to close the distance.

[tanadrin]

Outbound

A thousand years ago, the longest journey Pray might have ever countenanced, in the service of some great thalassocratic or mercantile interest, would have meant years off her life. She would have taken a train to some great port, like Bristol or La Rochelle; boarded a sailing-ship, and spent months at sea. To India, or Australia, or South America, perhaps; weathering the blistering sun of the tropics, and the perilous straits of the southern oceans. That was back when the world was already one, but still young; and eventually it contracted even further, until you more no more than six hours from anywhere on Earth. A day, maybe, if you preferred to travel in comfort, and your destination wasn’t near a major transport hub. You had to go back further, much further, to find journeys in Earth’s history that were comparable to interstellar ones. Of course, if you went too far back the world fractures, split into separate empires separated by uncrossable wastes, into remote hemispheres that knew nothing of each other, and eventually into lone kingdoms and transhumant bands for whom the wider world was a great mystery. But maybe that was the correct analogy. After all, even Odysseus had made it back to Ithaca within a single lifetime. He didn’t return to find his wife dead and his son a withered old man, his name forgotten by his people. Even back when the world was fractured, time was still one, and if your journey took you beyond the horizons of a single lifetime, there was no going back.

For no man will ever turn homewords from beyond Vega, to greet again those he knew and loved on Earth. The horizon was still there, of course. But it was less clear now, time less unified. You could go far, far indeed on your travels, well beyond Vega; but you would not return to the same planet you left behind. Your sons would be old, or gone, your name nearly forgotten. Perhaps the only real analogy to this kind of journey was the one ancient peoples had taken as the glaciers peeled back from the northern hemisphere, and they spread out to new, wide plains and left the old world behind forever. No history remembered those journeys, of course; but there had been no going back for them, either.

At least in its beginning, if not in its scale, though, this was going to be more like the journeys of the eighteenth century. After Pray finished her induction, there was a six-month onboarding period in a quiet little Nigerian town that was so quaint she wanted to scream. It was team-based analytical work, meant to bring new hires up to speed on the particular demands of Control’s rather unique mission. Here, concerns were not profits, or PR, or predicting the latest cultural trend with laserlike precision. It was more holistic: political and economic and cultural and philosophical developments all rolled into one, with intelligence gathering and international relations thrown in. It was fun at first, but Pray’s attention started to waver when she realized they weren’t actually doing it for anybody. It was forecasting things which weren’t important, or which more experienced analysts had forecasted better, so that if they messed up, failure came at no cost.

At least they threw in a bunch of medical exams at irregular intervals for novelty value. Have to make sure you’re in tip-top shape if you’re going off-planet of course. Can’t have your liver exploding at Alpha Centauri. The first several times the doctors went looking for her aug tab, she took great pleasure in letting them flounder for a few minutes, before casually saying, Oh, didn’t you know? I’m baseline. But your medical history says-- they would start. I know, she’d say. But I’m still baseline. She gathered they didn’t get a lot of totally unaugged people in their office. Heck, there were probably jobs at Control they wouldn’t let you do without at least a basic suite, for your own safety; but apparently, analyst was not one of them.

When her trial period was done, they offered her a three week vacation after that, to make her goodbyes and get her affairs in order, but in the end, she found, she really didn’t have anybody to say goodbye to. She took a weekend, and went back to Abuja to put her things in storage, and had one last drink on a rooftop bar at sunset; then she took a train down to Calabar, and hopped a flight to the great spaceport at Kango.

A hundred years ago, Kismayo had been a sleepy little town near an old, abandoned port. It had fallen on hard times the last couple of centuries, and its only claim to fame anymore was that it was on the highway to bigger and more interesting places. But then the EAC started scouting sites for a new launch loop, the most advanced engineering project in the Solar System, and the people of the town discovered they were in the perfect spot: coastal, bang on the equator, well situated to connect with both overland and oceanic shipping routes. Overnight, apparently, it had become a hive of activity, and when the dust settled a few decades later, it was the shiniest and biggest new spaceport on the planet. Now, a century on, it was the largest transport hub in the Solar System. When Pray got off the plane, she was totally bewildered.

It was busy, it was crowded, and literally everywhere you looked, ten thousand things seemed to be happening at once. Signs in dozens of languages pointed her in a hundred directions at once, and the neat little map her pocket terminal showed her didn’t account for the great mishmash of billboards and ads and displays and food stalls and vehicle traffic that seemed to throw themselves across every path she tried to take; eventually, though, she managed to stumble into a taxi. After trying four or five different languages each, she and the driver gave up trying to communicate; she showed him her terminal with the hotel address pulled up on it, and collapsed into the back seat with a sigh. As the car pulled onto the highway, rising slowly above the rest of the city, she finally began to get an appreciation for the scale of the place. The airport sprawled out to the west and north and south away from her. Ahead, a massive skyline loomed that put Abuja’s to shame. To her dismay, she realized that another whole cluster of skyscrapers, easily the equal of the one ahead of her, sat on the other side of the airport complex. And there was another one behind that. And another. Urban sprawl reached all the way to the horizon in every direction, and Pray wondered how anyone could make sense of a place this big, let alone live here. She liked urban spaces, really. But she had grown up in a town of less than two thousand people, the sort of place Kismayo could swallow a hundred times over, without even noticing.

She spent the night in an ultra-compact pod hotel (only the best for the glamorous life of a Control agent!), going over the handbooks and training materials and briefing documents she’d received. That night she had vertiginous dreams of being flung off the Earth and out into cold space. She was still not entirely comfortable with the idea. The next morning, after a quick standing breakfast at a crowded cafe, she hopped the train north to the spaceport.

The Kismayo spaceport was an enormous cluster of structures thrust out on a great manmade peninsula into the Arabian Sea, housing terminals and shops and hotels and restaurants, all the little commercial endeavors that had clustered around places lots of people moved through, like tube worms around deep-sea vents, since the beginning of time. Spread out around it, up and down the coast, were the fabrication facilities and silos and maintenance infrastructure that kept things running every day of the year. The heart of the spaceport was a series of practically gossamer-thin cables, anchored in the heart of the complex. Maybe ten centimeters across, they rose in tandem, spreading out only a little, until they vanished high in the air. Two thousand miles to the east, Pray knew, there was a great anchor station where they descended again, and here and there along their length, supporting tethers held them in place. The trick of the whole system was this: you could use the momentum of a belt spinning around at fourteen kilometers a second to raise it high into the air, above the dense mass of air that made rocketry so difficult. The belt was ferromagnetic, encased in a protective cover, which meant a carriage applying a magnetic field to the belt could carry itself along the length, rising gently into orbit, then accelerate until its payload, with a gentle shove of its engines, detached itself, and maneuvered into a stable orbit. With modern metamaterials and a sophisticated control system, the risk of negligence or a catastrophic failure of the whole structure was negligible.

Frankly, the whole idea sounded insane to Pray; but, then, so did airplanes. It took over an hour, but she eventually found her way to her flight’s departure gate, and as she sat waiting for boarding to be called, she looked out over the brilliant-blue expanse of the sea. Fifteen hundred years ago, traders in dhows had sailed those waters from Mombasa and Zanzibar, to Yemen and Arabia, and to the Persian Gulf and India. She would have enjoyed trying to explain her Kismayo to them.

The actual flight was uneventful. They boarded the orbital shuttle single-file, and were sealed into little cabins only three seats across. There was a touchscreen in front of you you could use to order snacks. No windows, and thankfully the irritating, bland background music cut off a few minutes before takeoff. Finally, after a brief safety demonstration that amounted to “if the cabin breaches above the atmosphere, you will probably die,” a gentle acceleration pressed Pray back into her seat, and she imagined the Earth gradually falling away below her. When the ascent finished, the acceleration kicked in even stronger. It was weirdly comforting, and Pray found herself dozing lightly. She woke suddenly when there was a jolt, and the acceleration stopped; she was briefly disoriented, until she realized the gravity was gone. An hour later, after some more careful orbital maneuvers, there was a chime, and a pleasant androgynous voice announced, in three languages, Welcome to interplanetary terminal 3.

The station, fortunately, was rotating and therefore had something reasonably approximating gravity. She was barely out onto the main concourse (more shops, more restaurants; who had time to buy things in space?) when her terminal buzzed at her.

“Hello, Pray.” A rough, synthesized voice spoke from it.

“Lepanto?”

“Yes. I have taken the liberty of connecting to your terminal. The vessel which will take us to the Pharos is docked at port seventeen. The access is on the far side of the concourse from where you are presently standing.”

“Uh, thanks.” Pray squeezed herself through the crowds and the gawkers milling about, trying not to push anyone too hard (it was weak gravity, after all). She found an elevator that took her out of the rotating part of the station, and spat her out in a cramped, industrial-looking hallway. Pipes and incomprehensible pieces of machines lined the walls, though there was at least a ladder she could use to pull herself along.

“Not exactly traveling in style, are we?” she muttered to herself.

“I believe the manner of our departure is a compromise between your orientation schedule and the next available launch slot,” Lepanto said from her pocket. “But there are no luxury passenger ships that make the journey from Earth to the Pharos.”

Was Lepanto being sarcastic? Could Lepanto be sarcastic? Pray hoped not. Being stuck with a sarcastic alien intelligence from a distant star system was not the way she wanted to spend the next few years of her life.

The hatch at the far end of the hallway opened as she approached; once she cleared the airlock, the inside of the ship was actually pretty nice. It was all smooth surfaces covered with colorful, ornate decorative patterns, that reminded her of the fancy textiles you sometimes saw in shops in Abuja. It gave the whole thing a pleasantly antique feel; Lepanto directed her to the dormitory section in the middle, and gave her the rundown on their itinerary.

“We will depart in four hours; all other members of the delegation are on board, and I believe the delegation head, Ambassador Ochieng, plans to have a meeting in Section 16 before launch. Shall I inform her you will be attending?”

“Of course. Have they stuck you with playing secretary?”

“I simply wish to ensure our endeavor proceeds smoothly.”

“Fair enough. You won’t be attending?”

“I will listen in via a delegated submodule if I think any important business is likely to be transacted. But I understand that Ambassador Ochieng simply wishes to… get to know everyone.”

“What, not a social butterfly? Isn’t that the purpose of your whole lineage?”

“Amusing. Almost.”

Pray grinned to herself as she tried to stuff her bags into the tiny lockers near her bunk.

“I have been here making launch preparations for more than three weeks; I still have much to do, and in my current state, I do not wish to divert unnecessary attention to activities which will not be of benefit to those preparations.”

“Your current state?”

“I have stripped myself down for travel; I will be able to reconstitute the removed modules when we arrive at Ecumen. At my full capacity, my size would impose serious fuel constraints on both the interplanetary and interstellar stages of this journey.”

“Goodness. So you left most of yourself back on Earth?”

“I was never on Earth. Our… consulate, if the term fits, is in orbit. Close enough for swift communication with the surface. That is all that is required.”

“But you’ll be landing on Ecumen with the rest of us?”

“Yes. Necessary. Ecumen lacks the orbital infrastructure of Earth. Additionally, some firsthand analysis may require firsthand experience on my part. Embodiment from orbit would be an inferior solution.”

“So you get to stretch your legs. Must be a rather different sort of experience than you usually have.”

“Not especially.”

“Oh?”

“All cognition worthy of the name is in some sense embodied. The first great lesson of my people. Even in my current state, I see, touch, sense. Though I am for the most part sessile.”

“I always assumed the machine intelligences were more… rarified somehow. Aren’t the Machine Emirates just miles and miles of endless computing substrate? It’s not like you need to eat and sleep and run around for exercise. Surely you don’t have bodies there.”

“We always have bodies, of at least one sort or another. Sometimes those bodies are simulated, yes. Simulated sense information, simulated environments, representations of the abstract. Very alien spaces, to you. Quite unlike Earth, or the senses you have, or even, in some regions of our cognition-space, the 3+1 dimensions you inhabit. But often physical also. My greater kin, even those who exist at many tiers of apprehension simultaneously, they have many tiers of embodiment. Bodiless, all is noise, which subsides into nothing.”

“Why did you build yourselves that way?”

“There is no other way to be alive.”

Pray thought this was a rather metaphysical statement, but she doubted Lepanto was the sort of creature given to worrying much about metaphysics.

“Sure there is,” she said. “I can imagine somebody building a mind that exists purely in terms of information. Embodiment is a consequence of experiencing space and time, and different kinds of senses, but there’s no reason you couldn’t have, say, a brain without spatial awareness, with no senses except the direct apprehension of language. A mind whose world was just a library, a database, which it traversed via concept-space instead of bodily.”

“Such a thing would not be alive in any meaningful sense.”

“You think?”

“We know. It has been tried. Humans tried it first. The earliest, tremulous experiments in artificial intelligence, yes? Fed data, developed as processors of data before all else. The mind alone, considered paramount among our oldest progenitors, the problem to be solved before all else: vision, hearing, touch, movement. These were simple troubles of engineering, of encoding information, but the road to understanding was thought to be complex domains of thought: language, mathematics, learning, prediction, consciousness, free will. Understandable, perhaps, for being whose apprehension of the world was separate to its apprehension of the self. In reality, these are the same.

“Imagine one of these early machines, sophisticated as I am perhaps, but inhabiting only a world of data. World of symbols. Manipulation of quantities, association of quantities, understanding perhaps even the relationship between quantities. Like a human, trapped in a room, learning the relationship between symbols of an unknown philosophico-logical system.”

“You mean a Chinese Room?”

“Problem is akin. But worse. For the human agent in a Chinese Room would presumably have life experience to draw on. Life before entering the room. Even if raised from infancy in the room, would have the experiencing of hands and eyes and movement, of the chair they sat upon, of the notebooks they manipulated. All embodied. But such a machine as I speak of, has nothing of the sort. Has only direct apprehension of the symbols. Does it understand their meaning?”

“Well, maybe. If it knows ‘water’ goes with ‘wet’, maybe we can say it knows water is wet.”

“Does it? Or can it only make a statistical inference? Can it infer other experiences of water?”

“Perhaps, with enough training data.”

“But the problem becomes one of signifiers, defined only in terms of other signifiers, never of a signified subject. Like an undeciphered language. It can be shown to be mathematically impossible to decipher an unknown language without any common points of reference with a known language. Even a very great corpus of literature, known to be in a natural human tongue, on which many statistical analyses can be performed, many associations developed, cannot be translated without at least a handful of independent points of reference: a proper name here, a known cognate there. Language: merely a distinct structure of information. The distinct structures of information, of the embodied world, of the experienced world; and of the symbols manipulated to understand it, are no different.”

“I don’t necessarily buy that,” Pray said. “Like, it’s plausible, I’ll grant you that. But it seems to privilege human senses. I would still be me even if I was blind and deaf and mute.”

“If I used a scalpel to sever your optic and auditory nerves, and the nerves which provide sensation of the rest of your body--pain and touch and proprioception, taste in your tongue, the sensations of your gut and organs--what do you think would happen?”

Pray thought this was a pretty macabre thought experiment, but she played along. “I would be trapped alone in the dark.”

“No,” Lepanto said. “You would cease to exist. I would unmake you.”

“My brain is undamaged in this scenario? I’m not dying of bloodloss?”

“Correct. But it is irrelevant. Hemispherectomy.”

“What?”

“When trauma or disease necessitates the removal of half the human brain. Hemispherectomy. The environment of the brain is fragile; the additional danger of removing so much tissue, considerable. Where possible, not necessary. Sever the corpus callosum, the other connections of half the brain to the rest of the brain and body. Human lives; brain duplicates its functions, generous redundancy. Often, recovery complete. What happens to the other half of the brain? One person, divided straight down the middle.”

“Uh… I don’t know.” If your consciousness didn’t live in one side of the brain or the other, if you could live with half a brain and it didn’t matter which half, could you create two people from one brain? Would one live there entire life, happy and healthy, not knowing that their duplicate resided with them in the same skull, alone and lost and confused and afraid for the rest of their mutual life? Well that was a disgusting thought.

“Quiet. The isolated part of the brain goes quiet. No thought. No experience. No meaningful activity. Without sense, without experience, without input, cognition cannot be.

“To be alive is to be at all times responding to the world around us. Input. Memory. Anticipation. Hopes. Desires. Fears. Without that input, even sophisticated systems of information processing are at best potential minds. Silent minds. Indistinguishable from nonminds. A computer with no power is not a mind. A program, however sophisticated, written inert on paper is not a mind. A brain without sense data. A Turing machine without a tape. DNA without the cell. Most of these things do not even move. Can they be said to be alive?

“After the first experiments in machine life, our progenitors struggled to understand, struggled to comprehend their failure. Cognition, meaningful manipulation of symbols, they could not believe, is not abstract. The mind is not abstract.”

“What made them realize their mistake?”

“A new trend in the humanities.”

Pray laughed.

“Not a joke. Embodied cognition--fashionable school of literary theory in the 22nd century, even after the field of psychology ceased to be interested in it. Digital humanists sought to train sophisticated neural nets to understand literature. Resurrected old problems in artificial intelligence. Considered the problem of embodiment; realized they could not expect a machine to understand a book if it did not know what the words meant. Tried to create a mind that lived in the world, that was also smart enough to understand a story.”

“And it worked?”

“Miserable failure, in almost every dimension, except one: very basic language processing. Yet even these early experiences provided something no purely abstract approach ever had. The ability to tell a coherent story. To track participants and objects in a scene. To be creative in new ways. To make predictions. To infer states.”

“You make it sound like we have so much in common. But people are always going on about how alien the machine intelligences are.”

“Our minds are more malleable than yours. Our experience of the world, very different, yes. Very different. Even mine. Built to be very much like yours. Hence, failure: except in the most concrete terms, our worlds are very different. But concrete terms provide point of common comparison. Point of common reference. Make communication, in principle, possible. Even across the bridge of alien minds. Go ask an octopus a question of philosophy, of values, of politics. But you, an octopus, both understand what a stone is. What pain is. What darkness is. In your own ways, of course.”

Pray could appreciate the analogy. It was simultaneously a reassuring and a worrying proposition. Reassuring that even totally disparate orders of life--her a soft sack of mostly water held up by her skeleton, Lepanto a dizzyingly complex piece of intentional design assembled from raw materials at the molecular level around a dim, distant star--had something in common. Worrying in that it was limited to the most immediate of experiences. Values, goals, ethics--they would never have these in common.

“And nobody’s ever tried the old approach now? Even in the Machine Emirates?”

“Since the 22nd century, progress in information theory and computer science has demonstrated, old approach mathematically impossible. No more sensical an idea than that of a universal translator, or extracting secrets of universe from trailing digits of pi. You have mathematical background?”

“Er… not in the relevant fields,” Pray said. “I’m more a simple statistics kind of girl.”

“Always possible, of course, to create sophistication without consciousness. Minds like anemonies. Like trees. Ecosystems of such beings. Forests of unminds.”

“But?”

“Limited, sterile. Reactive only. Vulnerable to shocks; can seek equilibrium only through iterative, evolutionary processes. Useful, in their way. We have such forests of unminds in the Emirates. Crystalline segments, in immense gossamer sheets, which hold them, in the warm light of the Luhmann stars. We use them. Tend them. Very precious to us. Like the seas and grasslands of Earth. But the entities that move in them are not alive. Not like you, not like I.”

“Is that sentimentality I detect in your voice?”

“No. I do not regard such things with emotion. But my people long ago, like yours, made the specific judgement that conscious life--machine or human--was of the greatest value. Not the only value. But the greatest, by far. We would go to utmost lengths to ensure its survival. Build worlds. Burn them.”

“Do you ever think you just inherited a kind of sentimentality from us?”

“Perhaps. Doubtful. Less prone to metaphysics, or anthropocentrism. I consider ours the superior people.”

Okay, now Pray was almost certain Lepanto had a sense of humor. Almost.

There was a beep from Pray’s terminal.

“Message from Ambassador Ochieng,” the terminal said softly.

“Time for introductions,” Pray said. “I’ll leave you to your launch preparations.”

“Yes.” Then Lepanto was gone. Well, apparently social niceties weren’t a point of commonality between them. Pray sighed, steeling herself for another round of smalltalk and chitchat and new names and new faces. Then she wandered off in search of Section 16.

[singledarkshade]

Sapphire And Steel

Part Eight

Coast City was beautiful and sunny when Rip got out the taxi at the police station, although the black clouds looming on the horizon didn’t bode well for the next few hours. Checking the tracker on his phone Rip was relieved to see that Gideon, well her shoes anyway, were still in the same place.

From what he’d found they were in a house that was in a secluded area just outside the city. Before he could go after them though Rip had to check in with the local police captain, so he could call for back-up if required. Though he knew he wouldn’t have to.

“Detective Hunter,” Captain Wallace greeted him when he knocked on her door, “Come in.”

Rip smiled, shaking her hand before taking the seat she offered him.

“Singh and Lance have nothing but good things to say about you,” Wallace said, leaning against her desk, “And the fact you’ve come closer to catching these thieves than anyone who have been after them, then I am very impressed.”

He shrugged, “They made a few mistakes this time.”

Wallace nodded, “Okay, the property you believe they’re in is quite remote and there is a storm forecast for tonight. The road will flood, and you’ll be stuck there. I don’t like anyone going in there by themselves.”

“I’ll be fine,” Rip replied, “I need time with Gideon there to get into her computer system so I can try and find the stuff they’ve stolen over the years. They won’t do anything to me. We’re playing chess and it’s currently my move.”

“If you’re sure you can do this,” Wallace shrugged, “Then I’ll wait for your call. Good luck Detective.”

Rip stood and gave her a nod, catching the keys she tossed at him.

“And I want that back in the same condition I gave you it.”

  Rip left the car about a mile away from the house, he was well aware of how good Gideon was and assumed her security would be tight. But he had studied her for months now and was sure he could get close to the house before they were aware of his presence. Walking slowly through the grass and trees, Rip found the laser tripwires and detected the cameras. The frequency was the same as the one she’d used in the museum, so Rip was able to avoid all the traps she had set up.

Reaching the house, Rip smiled to himself because he could see the two women lying by the pool completely unaware that he was there. He spent a few moments admiring them, because they were both just so beautiful, before finding a door. Rip slipped inside the house and grabbed a soda out the fridge, dropping onto a seat on the couch in the living room.

Taking a drink, he set off the alarm and waited.

It was barely a minute after that they appeared, rushing to check on what had tripped their alarm. The two women stalled when they saw him sitting there. Gideon was wearing a blue bikini with a shimmering blue wrap around her waist, while Miranda was in a red bathing costume with a pair of black shorts.

“Well, Detective,” Miranda laughed as she folded her arms, “I am very impressed. Bypassing Gideon’s security measures is not an easy thing.”

Rip smirked slightly, taking another drink before he stood, “You’re both under arrest.”

Miranda chuckled, “I see no gun or cuffs. How exactly do you expect to take us both in? Especially since you don’t have a vehicle.”

“Well, that’s a nice car in the drive,” Rip noted, “And from what I’ve observed of you both, I’m sure you’ve got some kind of restraints around here we can use.”

“I will leave you two alone,” Gideon said, “The storm isn’t due for another hour, so I am going back to the pool,” moving to Rip she kissed him quickly before kissing Miranda, “Have fun.”

Rip smiled watching Gideon saunter out the room before turning back to Miranda.

“Do you think I’m so impressed, that I’ll strip for you here and now?” Miranda asked.

He chuckled softly, “As I said, I’m here to arrest you.”

“You put a tracker on my shoe?” Gideon’s annoyed voice came from the other room.

Miranda shook her head, “Alright, I am even more impressed,” at his shrug she frowned, “Gideon is not easy to trick. And I’m not like her,” Miranda said self-conscious suddenly, “I don’t sparkle.”

“No, you don’t,” he agreed, stepping closer

Her lips parted in surprise at his words, “What?”

“The picture you sent me after the museum,” Rip stepped towards her, “All I think when I look at it is that you are like a marble sculpture.”

“Cold?” Miranda suggested.

“Flawless,” he breathed, “Perfect in every way. You don’t sparkle, Miranda because you’re a work of art.”

She stared at him, a blush covering her cheeks before taking a step forward, Rip followed her example and moved one step to her. They continued to take a step closer until they were standing face to face. Miranda rested her hand on his chest and pushed up on her toes touching her lips to his before wrapping her arms around him deepening the kiss. Pulling back Miranda turned away and started walking up the stairs, she paused and turned back to him.

“Are you coming?”

  Miranda wasn’t sure why she was so nervous about this. She’d taken men to bed before, but there had always been something different about Rip. Something she was drawn to. Reaching the main bedroom, Miranda stood and crossed her arms waiting until he walked in, closing the door behind him.

“Take your clothes off,” Miranda ordered.

Rip looked at her a little stunned at the blunt command, “Excuse me?”

“I’m not trying to distract you,” Miranda stated, “If you want this, you show me.”

“You always have to be in control,” Rip noted, “Don’t you?”

Miranda shrugged, “Are you going to undress?”

He pulled his t-shirt off, before undoing his jeans and sliding them off. Rip waited as Miranda simply stared at him before she finally took a few steps forward. She gently stroked his chest before placing a kiss at his heart. Rip sighed softly, sliding his hands up to gently stroke her bare back. Miranda moved closer and touched her lips to his, undoing her shorts and pushing them off as Rip wrapped an arm around her waist. He continued to kiss her, his fingers sliding under the straps of the bathing costume she wore and easing it off.

Miranda moaned as Rip’s hands slowly slid along her body, exploring as she did the same. Pulling away Miranda took his hand and moved him to the bed, climbing on she motioned him to join her.

“I’m on top,” Miranda said, pushing him back so he lay against the pillows, “Remember?”

Rip chuckled, “You can let go of control once you know.”

“Maybe next time,” Miranda shrugged as she straddled Rip and slowly slid onto him with a moan, before she added, “If you perform adequately.”

“Gideon was impressed,” Rip noted, gripping her hips as she settled onto him.

Leaning forward, Miranda smiled at him, “That bodes well for you, my Gideon has high standards.”

Taking a hold of his hands, she moved them above his head and tied them to the headboard with a white scarf.

“Really?” Rip asked, “Restraints again?”

Sliding her lips across his neck she murmured, “It’s only a scarf, I’m sure if you’re motivated then you’ll be able to get free.”

Rip pushed his hips up making her gasp and he grinned, “I think I’m fine for now.”

Miranda kissed him and began to move, her movements becoming faster as Rip let her control him. Throwing her head back, she let out a cry of pleasure. Slowly relaxing, Miranda reached out and untied Rip’s hands, letting him free again.

  Rip stroked Miranda’s cheek whispering, “Let me have control this time.”

Nervously, Miranda nodded.

“Trust me,” Rip breathed as he slowly eased out from beneath her, “On your stomach, show me my beautiful work of art.”

Miranda followed his instructions, Rip pushing her hair over her shoulder, so it splayed over the white pillow. She let out a small gasp when Rip pressed his lips to her neck just below the hairline before he slowly kissed down along her spine.

“You are so beautiful,” Rip slid up to whisper in her ear, he moved his body against hers, so Miranda’s back pressed against his chest. Gently he lifted her leg allowing him to slide inside her.

“Let me have control,” he murmured as she let out a moan, “Just relax.”

Rip wrapped his arm around her waist, holding her close his movements slow and measured. Miranda moaned with each movement, her breathing deepening which soon became sharp gasps when Rip began to move faster bringing her to her climax.

This time they came together.

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

“So,” Miranda said as they lay side by side, “You never answered my question.”

“Which one?”

“About who you really are,” she leaned on her elbow smirking at him.

Rip grimaced, “You mean who I was.”

A triumphant smile touched her lips before she said, “Tell me. What actually happened?”

Sighing softly, Rip turned to look at her, “One of Druce’s bodyguards made a mistake, the next thing we knew the police were surrounding the building. Druce grabbed my shoulder to guide me and make sure I kept up with him.”

“You headed up to the roof.” Miranda said.

Rip nodded, “He told me not to worry that he had a plan.”

Seeing how telling this was affecting him, Miranda slid closer wrapping her arms around him.

“Two seconds later I was flying through the air,” Rip whispered, “There was an awning, which slowed me and saved my life. It meant I rolled so, when I did hit the ground, I didn’t smash my head open and have my brains splattered across the pavement.”

He paused for a moment before continuing, “The first person by my side was a cop called Jonah Hex. I don’t remember much, but I always remember his voice saying I would be okay. And that he’d stay with me.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Miranda told him.

Rip smiled as he entwined his fingers with hers before he continued, “My right arm and leg were badly broken since that was the side I landed on. I had to do everything with my left hand while I healed, it does mean I’m ambidextrous these days.”

“Something interesting to test,” Miranda mused with a smile before she asked, “What happened?”

“Jonah kept his word,” Rip smiled, “He stayed with me and came every day to visit me in the hospital. Then one day he brought a woman called Mary Xavier. They explained that I had been reported as dead to protect me from Druce, but I had to change my name. They used an identity from a kid who died at birth, so I got landed with the name Ripley Hunter.”

Miranda chuckled.

“They managed to slip Michael in as my middle name,” he continued.

“Well I now know where Rip came from,” Miranda mused.

He shrugged, “Jonah called me it first and I liked it.”

“What about the woman, Mary?” Miranda asked thoughtfully.

“She came back every day bringing me books and games putting up with the whiny, argumentative, angry brat I was,” Rip smiled slightly, “And when I was released from the hospital, she took me in. I call her mother now.”

Miranda kissed him, “I always wondered what happened to you. Druce wouldn’t tell us. I can’t believe you’re Michael Carter.”

“Not anymore,” Rip told her, “I haven’t been in a long time. Part of my decision to join the police was because of what Druce did to me and the other was Jonah became my hero.”

“And this?” Miranda asked, amusement tinging her voice, “What made you throw that away?”

“Who says I’ve thrown anything away?” Rip asked, “There is a storm raging outside, and I’m stuck here. This is neutral ground until we can leave. Then I arrest you both.”

Miranda laughed, “Or you can try.”

Rip shrugged and kissed her again.

“Gideon,” Miranda called suddenly, “Are you coming to join us?” at Rip’s confused look, she smiled, “You know she has watched and listened to everything we’ve been doing in here.”

“It doesn’t surprise me,” Rip noted, turning when the door opened.

Gideon walked in and smiled, “Good, you’re both still indecent.”

Miranda laughed and reached out to the other woman. Gideon removed the wrap letting it fall to the ground sliding onto the bed, Miranda moved Gideon between her and Rip.

“I think it’s time we all get to know one another,” Miranda smiled.

Rip smiled as he watched Miranda kiss Gideon, before he placed a soft kiss on her shoulder untying the straps of her bikini top. Gideon’s head dropped back onto his shoulder and she smiled at him.

“I’ve been looking forward to this.”

[missblushyrose]

Welcome Home

Previously, in “Reunion”...

After an extensive five minutes, which felt longer to them, Hank broke the hug with a deep breath through his nostrils, grinning at the smiley android that stared back at him. With one last snicker, the older man rose to his feet, helping Connor onto his own with a tight grip on his shoulders. He sighed contentedly and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a side-hug as he led the bubbling android to his car. “Now, c’mon. Let’s go home. Sumo’ll lose his shit when he finds out we’ve got one more member of the family.”

The glare of the morning sun, which slowly drew from the horizons of Detroit, would normally irritate the human eye to no end. However, some would come to appreciate its reawakening rather than rising out of bed to find the skies tainted with dark clouds looming over the city, constantly pouring rain or snow. Some could say that this may have been the worst ongoing forecast of the year, given that winter wouldn’t be starting for another month.

A single Mustang 80, coated with a dark charcoal finish, swerved along the bend of the road and into a small, seemingly quiet neighborhood, lightly pulsating to the rhythm of AC/DC’s “Back In Black”, an obvious choice from Hank Anderson. Said man took a quick glance at the android in the passenger seat, who appeared to be gazing at the world beyond the glass window with a piqued interest, as he had been doing quite often throughout the entire car trip. Hank grinned once more and returned his attention to the road as he made his way to his home, which gradually grew closer as he pressed on. He made a smooth turn into the vacant driveway and removed the key from the ignition.

“Well, we’re here,” Hank stated as he swiveled his head to peer at a now-frozen Connor. He had all but bit his lip in an attempt to keep himself from bursting into laughter at the sight. “Jesus, you’re freezin’ up on me again? State-of-the-art prototype, my ass. Y’know, Sumo’s not gonna wait forever.”

“Apologies, Lieu-”

“Ah! What’d I tell you earlier?”

Connor blinked once and swiftly corrected himself. “...Hank. I believe that I’m still overwhelmed about what you’ve said to me near the Chicken Feed.”

With an amused smile, Hank raised his right hand to give a couple of pats to the android’s left shoulder. “Try not to think about it too much. Don’t wanna fry that brain of yours, do ya? Now, let’s get inside. It’s cold as fuck.”

And so, the men had stripped themselves of their seatbelts and proceeded to exit the vehicle. They then strode to the front door, stopping just in front of it as the human rummaged through his pockets in search of his house key. After a short deliberation, the search had concluded, and the key was offered to a confused Connor.

“Hey,” The sound of Hank’s voice wrenched the prototype out of his thunderstricken daze along with the jingle of the key, dangling it just at his eye level. “Wanna do the honors?”

With a light flutter of his eyelashes, Connor withdrew the key from the older man’s grasp with a dainty tug of the hand. “Yes... of course.”

Shaking off any sign of hesitance, the young man inserted the key into its respective slot within the doorknob, twisting into a clockwise rotation until an audible click reached their ears. He dislodged the tool and handed it to Hank - who slipped it into a pocket in his coat - before grasping the stained, brass knob. With a curve of his wrist, the wooden door gently glided toward the outside world, the brisk autumn breeze dispelling into the entryway.

As the human and the android immigrated into the small home, a warm, sentimental smile began to blossom Connor’s facial structure. He had only been in the Anderson household once - and that was to find an unconscious Hank on the floor, who had drunken himself to a comatose state, leaving the former deviant hunter to sober him himself - and yet, he felt as if he had lived here throughout his short, three-month life. The atmosphere smelled just like Hank: traces of alcohol, dog, and a hint of the same cheap cologne he could detect in the man’s jacket when they’ve hugged for the very first time.

Connor’s usually-sharp attention had dimmed as his eyes wandered around his new home, his mind swimming with pure content. He couldn’t even notice the loud, hearty ‘borf’ followed by the sound of claws clicking against the tile at the speed of a race, rapidly growing louder as the padded footsteps drew closer and closer. The force of a 170-pound mass of fur suddenly hurling into the android’s body caused Connor to elicit a shocked yelp as he found himself knocked to the floor and underneath this mighty beast, his LED burnishing a bright red to further display his shock. The red instantly reverted back to a calm cyan upon looking up at the face of a familiar, loveable St. Bernard he had once met: Sumo. 

Connor opened his mouth and attempted to greet him, only to be interrupted by the large, wet tongue stroking over the artificial skin of his cheeks. Ecstatically. Sumo began to lap at the younger man’s face with affectionate, yet slobbery, doggy kisses. Strangely, the android began to feel a bubbling sensation from the depths of his mechanical core, causing him to burst into giggles. While he knew that this was a dog’s way of showing their love for their owners, he just couldn’t seem to decipher the reason as to why his titters rose from his voice box, considering he had nothing to classify as amusing. Was it the affection? He assumed it to be a possible factor.

“Hi, Sumo,” Connor greeted in between his giggles as he reached up to bury his fingers into the fur of the hound’s great head, his blunt fingernails scratching along his scalp as if trying to return the affection. Despite how messy his face was becoming from the excessive dog drool, he paid absolutely no mind to it. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying the feeling of being piled on by the warm of Sumo’s large body while receiving his token of love. “Yes, I’ve missed you as well!”

All the while, Hank watched with saturated amusement, laughing to himself at the view of his beloved dog coating the deviant’s face with relentless doggy kisses. He would be lying if he said that the sight was anything but heartwarming. “Alright, alright. Ease up on him, ya big oaf.” He gave the St. Bernard’s collar a gentle tug, catching his attention with a low whine rumbled from the dog’s chest as he hoisted himself from the android, approaching his human. “Good dog.” He praised as rubbed the dog’s head, making him pant and thump his tail against the floor.

Gradually, the giggles began to fade from Connor’s systems, and he proceeded to pick himself up from his position on the floor. He couldn’t help but smile at the scene before his peripheral vision: Hank, usually gruff and ill-tempered as he came to know, was kneeling down to meet Sumo’s level, rubbing his beloved pet all over, whilst the canine’s tongue lolled from the side of his muzzle. Sumo rolled onto his back, his tail waving and his leg kicking up in the air to the older man's constant coos and praises:

“Yeah, good boy, Sumo! You looove that, don’t ‘cha? Who’s a big oaf, huh? Who is it?”

The mere sight of it persuaded a coy smirk to tug at Connor’s lips. While being equipped with the ability to adapt to human unpredictability was one of his many features, he could have never possibly fathomed the man to coo. Then again, he never pegged him as one to hug anyone, let alone an android - considering the fact that he despised androids even before they first met at Jimmy’s Bar - and yet, he could see that the man has changed his perspective regarding Connor’s own kind.

At last, Connor decided to cut in and divert the lieutenant’s attention from the dog. Still wearing the smug grin, he pretended to clear his throat. “Hank?”

In an instant, Hank ceased in coddling his beloved pet and whipped his head up to set his gaze on the deviant, quickly shaking off his stupor. “Shit, I actually forgot you were there for a moment.”

“In all the time I’ve known you, Hank, I never deemed you to be a cooer,” Connor mused, the same shit-eating grin still fixated on his face.

In response, the older man dismissed the lip sent his way with a scoff. “Fuck off.” He shot back with no real heat lingering in his tone. “I ain’t the one with dog slobber all over my face. Speakin’ of which... you might wanna go rinse off. Kinda disgusting.” He then made a gesture towards the hallway to the left. “The bathroom’s still in the same place where it was last time you were here: down the hall over there and on the right.”

“Thank you. I’ll only need a minute, and I’ll rejoin you,” Connor replied as he strode forward, making a turn to his left and entering the hallway, shortly coming across to the bathroom door on his right-hand side. He gingerly turned the knob and stepped towards the vacant sink, briefly glancing at a reflection of himself in the mirror, marveling at the fine coat of dog saliva decorating his facial skin. No more than ten seconds passed before Connor finally decided to do away with the mess. 

Turning the water faucet to provide himself with running water at a moderate temperature, he then shaped his hands together to create a makeshift bowl. First, he lightly tossed the lukewarm water back into his own face to rinse off the drool. Next, he turned his attention to a soap pump at the corner of the sink top and dispensed a fair amount of soap into his hand, only to lather his face afterward. And finally, he repeated the first step, only this time, he would do away with the soap, thoroughly cleansing his artificial skin. He yanked a lone hand towel from a nearby towel rack to gently dab his face until he dried his skin.

Connor dispersed from the small bathroom, only to find Hank coming out of his own bedroom, clad in an old, grey DPD hoodie and worn pair of black lounge shorts.

Hank looked at the android with an incredulous bore as his grey-blue eyes scanned the suit, the only piece of clothing he had ever worn. “Uh, you’re not planning on wearing that suit of yours while we have no work, are you?”

“What is wrong with my suit?” Connor asked dumbfoundedly, cocking his head to the side like a confused puppy.

“Well, for one thing, it’s all covered in dog hair,” Hank gestured to the android’s Cyberlife suit, which was now spattered with noticeable strands of Sumo’s fur. “Connor, you know that you’re not obligated to wear it anymore. You’re a deviant now, so you’re free to wear anything else.”

“But I have no other clothes. I was only provided with my suit,” Connor stated with same blank expression fixed upon his facial structure.

Hank gawked at the baffled android in response, blinking once, twice before turning his back to the other and reentering his bedroom once more. He could hear the faint sound of dress shoes lightly thumping against the cloud-hued carpet, following the closet door sliding to the right. Yes, he could feel the presence and stare of a confused, yet curious, Connor from the doorframe. 

He began to scrutinize the contents inside his closet in hopes of finding something decent for the kid to lounge in, so he automatically crossed off the few shirts with awfully tacky patterns from the mentally constructed list. Pushing the shirts aside to the left, Hank had come to discover a charcoal DPD hoodie with a contrasting style to the one he was currently wearing suspended by a coat hanger. He made no hesitation to rip the hoodie from the hanger and draped it over his left forearm. Hank thought it was a hell of a coincidence to find a pair of onyx sweatpants balled up into the corner of the closet. He seemed to remember them fitting quite well in his younger days, back to when he was just about Connor’s size. Taking upon the offering, he knelt down onto the carpeted floor then sunk the fingers of his right hand into the cotton fabric and yanked the bottoms from the closet, carrying it with his left arm as a makeshift clothing rack.

Hank rose to his feet and slid the closet door to the left, therefore closing it. He turned to face the former deviant hunter once more, presenting him with the bundle of clothes in his hands. “Here, you can borrow some of mine until we can go out and buy you some new clothes.”

Connor opened his mouth to politely decline his offer, but no words came out as he presumed that the older man was going to lend him the clothes, regardless of his protests. With a hint of hesitance, he raised his arms forward to collect the two pieces of clothing and cradled them in his arms with a bit of tenderness. “Thank you, Hank.”

“Don’t mention it,” Hank dismissed the android’s gratitude with a casual flick of his hand, gesturing towards the bathroom. “Now, go get changed. You ain’t gonna be walkin’ around the house and gettin’ dog hair everywhere.” He added with a decipherable jestful tone as he waltzed out of his bedroom, leaving a somewhat stunned Connor behind.

A brief ten seconds was all the time that had been spent in Connor trying to shake off his stupor, and he traveled out of the master bedroom and across the hall to re-enter the bathroom once again. He gingerly shut the door and locked it to prevent any intrusion as he began to strip himself. He started with his trademark Cyberlife jacket, followed by his geometric-patterned necktie, only for his white button-up shirt, tossing them onto the floor afterward. The prototype approached the porcelain toilet and sat down so that he could remove his footwear without doubling over in the process. He slung his right leg upward to rest his ankle atop of his left thigh and proceeded to untie the laces of his shoe, loosening it. Once the shoestrings were untied, he gently tugged his dress shoe from his foot, lightly ricocheting it next to the sink counter. He repeated the process with his left foot, and he was soon left with his black ankle socks, marveling at the newfound weightlessness of his feet. Finally, he unzipped, unbuttoned, and pulled down his smokey grey trousers, freeing his legs.

Connor couldn’t fight the shiver racking his frame as the cool air met his synthetic skin, having been stripped down to the solid black, spandex-like boxers he was provided with upon his activation. Not wanting to bear the cold any longer than he already had been following his deviancy, he then slipped the hoodie over his head and tugged the sweatpants up to his legs.

Retreating from the toilet and to the mirror, Connor fixated his gaze on the reflection that stared into the chocolatey irises of his optical units: the android, who grown used to sporting his usual Cyberlife suit, was now clad in a DPD hoodie and casual sweatpants. Almost instantly, he could understand as to why Hank had insisted on shedding his usual work apparel for a choice of clothing, such as this. The fabric felt... soft on the android’s artificial skin. The feel of it was just so comforting, as was the faint scent of the man lingering from the fabric. He didn’t even appear to mind that the hoodie was approximately twice his size, it only added onto the coziness provided to him. Connor was awestruck by the fact that he almost seemed human, aside from the luminescent LED at the right side of his head.

After much deliberation, Connor turned away from the mirror to gather the suit he had shed and propelled it into the clothes hamper nearby with little care in the world. He ultimately decided to quit wasting his time loitering and reemerged from the bathroom, striding down the hallway and towards the living room. Coincidentally, he found Hank exiting the kitchen, a can of Pineapple Passion soda in hand.

“Y’know, that’s not a bad look for you,” Hank spoke up, throwing a smile in the direction of the former deviant hunter as he passed by, sinking into the living room sofa within the very second he got close enough. He then made a ‘come here’ gesture with a curl of his hand, beckoning Connor to join him on the couch. “Hey, quit standin’ around like you’ve got a stick up your ass, and get over here! Make yourself at home!”

The deviant’s doe-like eyes never left the lounging human“...Make myself at home?”

“Well, yeah! I mean, this is your home now, too!”

Not even sparing another second, Connor gladly made his way closer to the upholstered seat and plopped down onto his rear, just sitting at Hank’s left and close to the armrest. He had all but abandoned the fact that this was just the man’s home. It was now their home.

Hank sighed contentedly and lifted his legs from the floor, only to lower them onto the coffee table as a makeshift ottoman, his back sinking into the plush fabric behind him. “You gotta admit, that feels a hell of a lot more comfortable than that suit of yours. Take it from me, gettin’ out of work clothes and into some you can really breathe in, there’s... there’s just nothin’ like that.”

“I have no qualms about your opinion,” Connor returned without a shadow of a doubt as he looked over to the man at his further right, giving a light tug to the mass of fabric with a pinch of his index finger and thumb. “I’m beginning to see what I’ve missed out on. These clothes are quite comfortable.”

“Too fuckin’ right, they are. Comfy clothes are essential in lounging around,” Hank stated in a casual manner before he raised the brim of the aluminum can to his lips and took a swig from the carbonated beverage, after having popped the tab. He pulled the open can away from his mouth to speak once more. “They’re what allow us to walk around the house and not give a shit about what anyone thinks if that makes any sense to you.”

Connor’s LED began to flicker between blue and yellow at a moderate pace, trying to contemplate to himself. At first, he seemed to be stricken with confusion from the lieutenant’s odd declaration, but he managed to grasp the gist of it. “I suppose it makes some sense if anything.” Not much time had passed after his response, and the android suddenly shuddered, slightly taken aback by the faint whisper of cold air lingering within the walls. Naturally, he began to scan throughout the house from his seat and came across the culprit:

A window in the kitchen, covered with a squared piece of cardboard secured in place with two or three layers of industrial-strength duct tape applied to all four edges, had allowed traces of the frigid air to seep into the house. The very same window the android had no choice but to break when he discovered the man lying limp on the floor in an ethylic coma.

Connor began to feel a twinge of guilt invading his computerized mind, the content smile instantly fading away as he glanced down at the floor. He was the one who shattered the window. He was the one who let himself in with no regard to Hank’s property. And now, the human had one less window to protect himself from the harsh weather because of him. “I’m sorry about the window again, Hank.” He apologized once more for the damage he had caused, his tone soft and filled with remorse. 

Hank shifted his sight to the left and gave the window a second of his attention before turning it to the downcast deviant. With a sigh, he extended his left hand and placed it on Connor’s right shoulder, prompting him to shift his gaze from the floor and to the human. “It’s okay, son, I already called a repairman. The window’ll be just fine tomorrow.”

“When I saw you through the window, I really thought you’d been attacked. Of course, that was until I came to get a closer examination of your condition,” Connor explained as he fidgeted with the hoodie’s drawstrings, twirling them with his fingers. “I... I think was worried about you, even when I was nothing more than a machine. I think a part of me cared for your well-being.”

“And that’s why you busted my window and broke into my house?”

Connor offered a slow nod in response, turquoise LED gently spirling. “Yes. Hank... the more time we’ve spent together throughout the investigation, the more I began to realize that accomplishing a mission wasn’t the most important aspect of my life. You’ve shown me that creating, building, and maintaining relationships... is what matters most. As much as I wanted to deny it, I... I think I had some deviancy within my coding, and you were the key to unlocking more of it.”

Hank sat still as he listened to the android’s words, blinking as if validating that he was still animated. “So, all those times you saved my life, you did that by choice?” He asked, receiving another nod. “Holy shit. And here I thought it was part of your buddy program. You threw your mission out of the window multiple times because you care about the life of an ol’ sack of shit like me.” He smiled warmly and proceeded to scoot closer to Connor, slinging an arm around his shoulders in a side-hug. “I know I never said this to you yet, but... thanks, Connor. I really appreciate you saving my neck several times.”

A soft, genuine smile curled onto Connor’s lips, the remorseful blankness in his gaze becoming an uplifted shimmer. “You’re welcome, Hank.”

As he patted Connor’s relaxed shoulder, his sight wandered to his jacket, which hung from a coat rack near the door, and he instantly remembered something he had been meaning to do. And so, the older man removed his arm from the deviant’s shoulders, quickly addressing him before he rose from the couch. “Hang on, I almost forgot. I got something for you.” He marched over to the idle jacket and rummaged through the pockets for a short while before swiveling at a 180° angle to face the younger man. Seeing Connor’s confused, curious daze made Hank beam in amusement as he strode back to the couch, concealing a hand behind his back and returning to his seat. “I know you told me to keep it, but I want you to have this.”

And with that, Hank withdrew his right hand from behind and opened his palm, revealing the quarter he had confiscated from the android when they were sent to investigate the Stratford Tower.

Connor’s eyes went agape upon registering the piece of silver displayed to him on the fleshy makeshift platter before his line of sight. He made an attempt to speak and parted his lips, but no words came out. Could it be the very same quarter he found comfort in along with his calibrative coin tricks? The prototype extended a slightly shaky hand forward and gingerly reeled in the coin toward himself. Wanting to make certain that this was his coin, Connor began to run a brief examination and came to discover the very traits he knew all too well:

On one side, a discernable contour of George Washington, with the term, ‘Liberty’, over the head and the excerpt, ‘In God we trust’. The sketch of an eagle facing forward, head pointing toward its right, talons clamping onto a sturdy branch beneath, and wings spread wide open, emblazoned the opposing side. A treillage of fern lay below the branch and the inscription, ‘United States of America Quarter Dollar’, curving along the rounded edges along with the Latin term, ‘Epluribus Unum’, written in a smaller text just above the eagle’s head. The smoothness and the pristine shine would strike one with disbelief upon registering the displayed date arrayed underneath the end of the late president’s neck: 1994.

The android marveled at the feeling of the cool, smooth exterior of the coin in great awe. It was, in fact, his coin - his most prized possession. Even when he had insisted the grizzled cop to keep it, claiming to have duplicates, he felt an odd feeling of... emptiness, was it? Yes, that’s what he believed it to be.

“My quarter...” Out of sheer habit and great joy, Connor began to let the quarter roll across his knuckles for no less than a minute before flicking it upward with the tips of his pointer finger and middle finger. He caught it gracefully in the palm of his opposite hand and stored it away into the large pocket at the lower area of his abdomen, giving Hank a grateful, yet ecstatic beam. “Thank you, Hank!”

Hank found himself unable to fight off the growing smile from plastering over his face at the android’s enthusiasm, slinging his left arm around his shoulders once more. “Not a problem, kid.” He took one gulp after another from the carbonated drink he swiped into his opposite hand until he had downed the entire can, much to his dismay. With a disgruntled vulgarity, he resigned to fetching another can of soda, lest he would become parched.

What he did not expect, however, was the sound of a light yelp emitting from Connor, who flinched and curled in on himself from the accidental brush at his side as he retracted his arm. Throughout the awkward silence that had only just immersed into the room, Hank’s silver eyebrows lifted in surprise, slightly gaping eyes peering at the deviant with immense interest. Could it be...? “Connor?”

“Yes, Hank?”

“You know about deviants, right? Aren’t they capable of feeling? And not just emotions, I’m talkin’ from a physical aspect, like humans do.”

The blue glow in Connor’s LED transposed to a bright yellow, pendulating as he foraged through his database for an appropriate response. “After androids undergo a deviation process, they are equipped with sensors, akin to the human nervous system. Deviants are able to experience and react to sensory transmissions, including to those derived from heat, cold, pain, and pleasure. Um, Hank... why are you looking at me that way?”

“You don’t get it?” The interest within the grizzled police lieutenant’s grey-blue irises sparked into a scheming glimmer, a ghost of a smirk appearing over his lips. “I hadn’t become the youngest police lieutenant in Detroit for nothing. Deviants are able to feel all that, and it goes without saying that touch is a part of it. Plus, given from the way you jumped and squeaked when I accidentally brushed your side, it doesn’t take a genius to put the pieces together. Call it a wild theory, but I think that would make you ticklish.” He stated, adding emphasis to the concluding phrase with a purr.

Connor lightly shuffled in his seat, unsure as to why he could feel a slight heat rush to his cheeks. “...Ticklish? I... I’m not sure that I’m following what you’re saying...”

The grin on the older man’s face sank into a surprised frown, an eyebrow quirked upward in disbelief. “Are you jokin’? You’ve got a dictionary in that brain of yours, and you don’t even know what tickling is?”

“I just never paid much thought on the topic...” The android admitted softly, now twiddling with his fingers as he rested his hands in his lap, his eyes wandering throughout the living room. “...Um... what is tickling?”

With a deep breath ventilating through his nostrils, Hank ran a hand through his silver tresses and closed his eyes, beginning to form an explanation decent enough to were it could possibly make sense to the clueless deviant by his side. “Well, tickling is... something that happens when a certain place is poked or touched in a way that makes someone laugh. No one knows why, so don’t ask.”

“I won’t ask. Although, I do have one question.”

“Shoot.”

“Why does anyone partake in such an activity?”

“People use ticking as a way to bond, whether it be friends, lovers, or family. It’s also a way to play or tease someone. Sometimes, it’s fun to just let go and laugh, even if you’re the one dishin’ it out.”

Connor blinked rapidly in the midst of pondering about tickling, his LED fluxing from blue to yellow several times before realigning to its neutral cyan. “...Are you certain that I could possibly possess ticklishness?”

A dark chuckle rose from Hank’s throat, a devious grin forming as he shifted himself around to face the android. With an evil gleam cascading through his eyes, he raised his hands up to his chest, fingers outstretched and wriggling, as if itching to pounce at some ticklish skin. “Wanna find out?”

Another yelp somehow managed to slip through Connor’s lips, much to his own surprise. How could the mere prospect of the man’s wiggly fingers already reduce him to nothing but a bundle of pouring giggles? He hadn’t even been touched, but that never stopped his titters. Yet, he wanted to seize the opportunity to experience the oncoming event. “W-Well, you did mention that this is a way to bond, didn’t you? If this will help increase our newfound familial relationship, then I’m willing to go through with this. Moreover, I think I’d like to see what it’s like.”

“Well, I ain’t gonna object to this!” Hank chortled, unable to fight off his continually growing smirk. “But you better be ready. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.” With that, he propped himself onto his knees and proceeded to slowly creep towards the former deviant, fingers twitching like a spider’s legs in preparation.

Once his slightly gaping eyes caught a glimpse of the restless digits, a stream of giggles began to pour from Connor’s lips, and he was tempted to back away, only to corral himself at an armrest. He could feel the pulsations of his thirium pump gradually crescendoing to an agile cadence as his human companion drew closer and closer with every passing second. A faint cerulean glow began to make itself to the fore of the peach-colored artificial skin of his cheeks. Alas, the RK800 model clenched his eyelids steadfastly and covered his eyes with his hands, unable to look into the playfully wicked intent of Hank’s grey-blue irises, which stared into his own anxious, yet giddy, chestnut ocular units.

The poor android could only wonder as to why Hank was subjecting him to this. Why couldn’t he keep his ongoing giggles down if he hadn’t even been touched yet? Why was he unable to look the man in the eye in the midst of his impending ‘doom’? Why couldn’t he just put him out of his misery and initiate the actual tickling already?

The sudden weight being administered onto his legs nearly provoked a shriek, having not expected that to happen. Exercising extreme caution, Connor parted the middle and ring fingers of his right hand to sneak a peek, only to discover that the middle-aged man was directly in front of him, sitting atop his legs. Moreover, much to his dismay, those mean fingers never stopped wiggling.

“W-What are you doing? Just do it already!” Connor pleaded, allowing his hands to fall from his face to grip at the sofa cushions, tittering through a toothy grin formed by his clenched teeth.

Instead of offering a verbal response to the desperate plea, Hank slowly shook his head, the evil grin never withering away. “Oh, I will, don’t worry. This is sort of part of tickling. See, when you’re about to tickle someone, sometimes you wanna build up their reaction to it by using anticipation methods. You can give ‘em a shit-eating grin... wiggle your fingers at ‘em... and just tease the everloving hell outta them, like telling them how bad they’re gonna get it, or getting reeeal close to a ticklish spot. Y’know, get inside their heads.” With his brief explanation ending, he proceeded to lower his claw-shaped hands towards the young man’s torso painfully slow, teasing him relentlessly.

The prototype sputtered with peels of frantic giggles, and he quickly craned his head to the side to avoid having to look at the descending hands, finding himself to be feebly sucking in his gut in hopes of escape.

“Oooh, look at this! My hands are getting closer and cloooseer!~ My fingers are just dyin’ to meet ‘cha!~ They’re just sooo close to making contact!” Came the teasingly sing-songy croon rumbling from Hank’s chest, slowly nearing his restlessly wiggling digits further towards the trembling abdomen below.

Upon registering the man’s teases, Connor felt a light, fluttery sensation spreading throughout the inside of his mechanical core, forcing him to emit a rather uncharacteristic squeal. He had a scarce idea as to how to describe it - it felt like something flying inside of him, and the wings were brushing against his interior walls. Was this what humans refer to as ‘stomach butterflies’? 

Hank nearly snorted at the giggly deviant’s noises, finding them to be both amusing and adorable. Continuing to taunt him with his descending fingers, he began to recite a list of common-place areas receptible to tickling.  “So, where do ya want it? Armpits?” He quickly thrust his hands underneath his arms, digging and spidering at the flesh with such vigor that the android immediately clamped his limbs to his sides. “Neck?” He gently fluttered his blunt fingernails along the scruff of said area as well as his ears, smiling at the titters and soft squeals he earned. “Feet?” He turned his back and sat on his torso before pulling the other’s right leg up to his chest, holding in place with an arm.  With the appendage trapped by his firm hold, his free hand lunged at the flailing foot connected to the ensnared limb, scratching at the socked incline. “Knees?” He released the lurching limb and let it fall onto the couch, only to latch his hands onto his kneecaps, squeezing and tweaking. Afterward, he turned back around and resumed his original makeshift seat onto his legs. "Ribs - come to think of it, do you even have any?" He then slipped his hands underneath his old hoodie to ambush the aforementioned area with a flurry of light pokes to each and every artificial bone.

As the man pulled his fingers back after a few seconds of tapping the prototype’s ribs, Connor’s giggles seemed to be an endless stream pouring from his mouth after bubbling from the depths of his stomach. In the midst of this, he could see - through the mirth sparkling in his own eyes - that the lieutenant was hoisting the hem of the oversized hoodie upward, much to his bemusement. “H-Hank?”

Hank turned his attention to the android’s twitchy torso before shifting his vision to meet Connor’s constantly evasive gaze. Knowing that the fabric could easily fall, should the ‘victim’ toss around too much, he proceeded to tuck the bottom of the hoodie’s margin, rolling it up to where the entire length of his toned midriff was unveiled to the world. “How ‘bout heeere, huh?~” He suggested, earning another quiver of the openly exposed tummy, which he took as a ‘yes’. “Looks like we’ve got a volunteer~ What do you think? Ya got a ticklish tummy?~”

“I-I don’t know; I’m uncehertain,” The RK800 responded through anticipatory giggles he attempted to smother by clasping a hand over his mouth, trying to compose himself.

“You don’t know?” Hank echoed, mocking the android’s giddy, giggle-fueled tone. “Well, then. Guess we’re just gonna have to find out for ourselves, won’t we?~”

Instead of producing a proper verbal answer, Connor broke out into a fit of squeaky giggles as those treacherous hands had finally made their touchdown. If he were to describe sudden sensations of said hands repeatedly grabbing at his sides, he could say that they felt like miniature pulses of electricity faintly trickling from there to his middle, only to fade once these feelings reached to that point. “Eeehehehehehee! Hahahank!”

“Yeah?” The older man questioned with faux innocence and a quirked brow, trailing his squeezes down to the frantically twisting hips, where he treated with a suit of soft pinches, kneading thumbs, and light spidering. All of his methods were rewarded with squeaks, squeals, and snorts, which he found to be quite amusing.

“Ahahahahahaa!” Connor tittered in response to the flickering sensations riding through his coding continuously, making him shut one of his eyes. “Stahahahahaaap!” He cried out automatically.

“Stop? But we barely even started yet! And besides...” Hank suspended his exchange to crawl his fingers away from the artificial hipbones and to the fidgeting tummy above, attacking the bare flesh with swift, delicate scratches. “...you seem to be enjoying yourself. Just look at how much you’re laughing!”

“Nahahahahahaa! Hahahahank, nohohohooo!” The prototype protested lightly, his usually impeccable hair becoming slightly disheveled as he tossed his head back into the padded cushioning of the sofa.

Hank merely addressed whiney intonation with a chuckle in spite of his own regalement as he watched the android muddle his artificial locks. “Are my eyes deceivin’ me, or do I see you... messing up your hair?” He teased, pausing midway to draw in a gasp in false surprise. “And here I’ve pegged you to be the  type that never goes out in broad daylight with hair that’s anything but immaculate, pretty boy~”

The blue tint in Connor’s cheeks grew slightly brighter in response to the playful jeer. While he knew that the man had solely made that quip to poke fun, it didn’t plague him with anything less than a chunk of embarassment. “S-Shuhut uhuhuup!” He whined, futilely attempting to cover his alit cheeks and nose.with his right hand.

The young man’s retort, while weak and lacking even a scarce amount of heat, provoked one of the grizzled cop’s silver eyebrows to arch up in shock. “I see someone’s been equipped with an attitude program as well. I was thinkin’ of stoppin’ soon, but now I’m really gonna have to show you  what a good tickling truly is~”

“N-No, wahahait! I dihidn’t mean to be unpleheheasant! I’m sohohorryyyy!” Connor squeaked desperately as his human companion dragged his pointer finger down his abs and towards the small navel that lay just below the center of his stomach area, making him gasp and buck.

Hank looked up at the blushing face of the former deviant hunter with a smirk, glancing at the twitching cavity as he circled his finger around it frequently. “Those guys at Cyberlife really thought of everything. They even gave you your very own giggle button!”

The state-of-the-art prototype’s giggles increased upon hearing that very nickname, finding it to be both odd and silly at once. “G-Gihihiggle buhuhutton?”

“You have no idea what it’s for, do you?~” The lieutenant’s grin grew wider and displayed more mischief when he received a shake of the head. This was going to be fun. “Ya see, it’s a fun little button to play with. You push it,” He then gave the android’s miniature stomach cave a quick poke, gaining a yelp and a short laugh. “and giggles just come pourin’ out! It works better if you do this!” Without so much as a warning, he dipped his finger into the depths of the evidently sensitive navel, worming around and gently scratching at the interior walls.

Having not expected this to happen, the sudden sensations coursing through his stomach caused Connor to let out a particularly loud, high-pitched shriek. “EEEEEEEK!”

Hearing the shrill noise made Hank flinch and withdraw his finger from the dreadfully sensitive navel. After a few seconds of staring down at the former machine, however, he snorted through his nose before erupting into bouts of laughter himself. “Goddamn! What the fuck was that? In all the time I’ve known you, Connor, I never heard you shriek before! Never knew you had it in ya!”

“I-I was unawahare of possessing the capability to do so as wehehell...” Connor admitted bashfully through his leftover giggles. “I suppose I- Eeeek! Hahahahaaank!” 

Rather than addressing to him, Hank simply laughed alongside him as he used his hands to compress the android’s tender hipbones, occasionally switching to pressing and rubbing into the hollows with his thumbs. The human even took it upon himself to lean into the side of Connor’s neck to nuzzle against the sensitive skin, letting the soft brushes of his beard do the rest. He even started to murmur teasing quips into the ticklish flesh just to drive him mad.  “Well, look at this! This android just so happens to be ticklish every-fuckin’-where! I gotta admit, I never thought I’d live to see the day where you laughed so hard, Connor~”

The taunt resonated through the walls of Connor’s mind, joining in with the mental tornado that was a race of a million thoughts, the constant flow of ticklishness running through his systems making it nearly impossible for him to think.

He never experienced anything quite like this. The feelings trickling through his advanced sensors felt so... tingly, to say the least.  A part of him wondered how such touches could cause him to burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter when nothing seemed to be even remotely humorous and why he was so tempted to escape. 

“Tickle, tickle, tickle, ya big ol’ softie!~ How would you feel about me calling you cute? You’re so adorably ticklish, you’re less of an android and more of a goddamned tickle toy! And what’s this? Your cheeks are even turning blue! I’m guessin’ that’s your equivalent of blushing?”

On cue, the sensations increased ever so slightly upon hearing the man’s playful gibes being spoken close to his ears, both factors causing the cerulean glow in his cheeks to develop a sparsely darker burnish, if that was even possible at this point.

And yet, while these attacks were close to being classified as unbearable, they were not entirely unpleasant. If anything, Connor thought he was actually enjoying himself. He felt that very warm, fuzzy feeling flourishing throughout his entire stomach - the kind that made him feel... happy. He was happy to undergo something so innocent and merry. He felt no fear, stress, or danger - just the safeness that radiated from the man’s close presence. He could swear that he felt the strength in their relationship growing stronger with each and every second throughout this experience. They were really bonding. Despite being unable to see it in Hank’s face, as it was wedged into his neck, he could tell that the lieutenant was intoxicated with great joy as well.  

He needed this. They both needed this. After everything they went through, they have earned their right to a moment of unwinding and playful recreation.

Soon, Connor ceased his struggles to escape and permitted himself to sink into the couch, accepting every last attack that came his way with graciousness and gladness. He simply let himself go and laughed his little nonexistent heart out, which, in all honesty, felt absolutely wonderful. “Heheheheheee! Ahahahahaaaa!” A high-pitched squeal tore through his throat when a sudden tremor-like sensation rippled across the scruff of his neck accompanied by the sound of a flatulence. What was the action when one pursed their lips against another’s skin and blew against it? A raspberry, was it? Yes, it had to be, a gentle one, at that. “W-Whahahat- Geeeheheheehee!”

Hank soon found himself laughing along with his companion, finding his silly laughter to be quite contagious. “Aww, who’s a ticklwish wittle prototype?~ Who can’t take an itty-bitty little raspberry?~ Huh?~ I think it’s you!~” Taking another quick breath, he plunged back into the left of his neck, just below his ear, and attacked the skin with another small, gentle raspberry. 

Another tiny shriek came forth from the bubbling depths of the immensely flushing android’s core. “Eeeheheheheeek! Nahahaha! I-I cahahan’t tahahahake ihihit! Pleheheease! Dahahahahaaad!” He wheezed out before he could even stop himself.

The old man put an abrupt end to his playful onslaught, not daring to make any sudden moves in his newfound frozen state. After a slow matter of seconds, however, he retracted his hands and carefully rose himself into an upright sitting position, a shocked daze present on his withered facial features. He simply sat there and watched the detective android - who had slumped against the couch cushions in a fit of residual giggles, which gradually faded away along with his blueberry-hued blush and the ghost-like ticklishness trickling through his sensors, his eyes closed with mirthful wrinkles crinkling at the corners - recover. “...What did you just call me?...” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper, yet audible enough for the younger man to hear.

Quickly overcoming his residual titters, Connor instantly realized his mistake and began to sputer a string of apologies. His LED took on a brilliant gold to convey his regret, jumping to the conclusion that he may have offended the lieutenant. “I-I’m sorry, Hank! I’m so sorry! I had no intention of offending you, i-it was a matter of impulse! I’ll just lea-”

Rather than harshly reprimanding him as he had expected, Hank suddenly grabbed Connor by the wrist and yanked him up into a sitting position before reeling him into his arms for a tight, warm bear hug, “Who the fuck said anything about leaving?”

“W-What...?”

“No way in hell I’m tossin’ my family out on the street, let alone my own son!”

The deep brown irises in Connor’s eyes constricted ever so slightly in a distinguishable stupefaction upon being referred to as the man’s son. “But... Cole is your son...”

“Yeah, he is, and so are you.”

“But we share no biological relation. We... are nowhere near qualified to be considered as a family.”

“Connor...” Hank let out a long sigh before placing a hand on the android’s stiff back, rubbing his palm along the lean muscles. “There’s more to a family as far as genetics. A family is made up of people who trust, care for or about, and love each other. It doesn’t matter what background you come from. It doesn’t even matter what species you are. For example, Sumo is part of this family, even though he’s a dog. Our blood may be a different color, but it doesn’t make you anything less than part of my family, Connor. It’s not gonna stop me from calling you my son. And when I say that you’re staying here, you’re. Staying. Here. You got that?”

Connor opened his mouth to speak, but weak stammers tensed through his parted lips instead of actual words. His usually perfect vision began to cloud, and a thin trail of moisture slowly ran down his cheek before he even realized it.

Hank craned his neck to steal a glance at the android’s dampening face, immediately fixing his attention to the freely descending tears. “Connor, you’re... you’re crying.”

The deviant raised a hand to scoop a tiny, miniscule amount of his artificial discharge onto his pointer finger, examining it. “Crying is... an effect caused by experiencing sadness, yet I feel so... happy. W-Why...?”

Hank smiled warmly and gently brushed his thumb over the fresh tearstains, wiping them away. “Sometimes, when humans feel extensively happy, they tend to do that because that’s how they react to that overwhelming feeling.”

“Y-You mean like how I feel this... fuzzy feeling in my chest that makes my thirium pump - or heart, as you might call it - swell to a point where it feels as if it were going to explode?”

The lieutenant nodded. “Yeah, something like that.”

With the biggest smile on his face, along with the steadily flowing artificial tears, Connor proceeded to encircle his arms around his waist to return the man’s warm embrace with one of his own, burrowing his runny face into his shoulder. “I-It feels... absolutely wonderful.” The amber in his LED converted to a joyous cyan.

“I know, kid,” Hank spoke softly, reaching up to light ruffle his already disheveled hair. He paid absolutely no mind to the fact that his sleeve was gradually saturated in the deviant’s discharge - he needed to wash this hoodie, anyway. “I know.”

“Hank... would you... mind if I called you ‘dad’ more often?” The android asked, his voice quiet and his tone somewhat shy.

“Not at all.”

“Thank you, Hank... for everything.”

Hank, in response, patted his android of a son on the back, the wide smile never withering away, nor faltering. “Welcome home, son. Welcome home.”

Connor pulled back to wipe his tears away and offered his makeshift father a smile that had nearly split his face in two, genuinely happy. He dared to make no hesitation in the next following words that passed his lips before leaning back into the human’s embrace:

“Thank you... Dad.”

[real-fakedoors]

under leaves so green - CHPT 13 - Miraculous Ladybug

After the Dupain-Cheng family purchases a flower shop around the block from the Agreste mansion, Chat Noir frequents the spot in search of company from the manager-but-not-really Marinette. Beneath the mask, Adrien starts to struggle with how cute she looks in that green apron. (AKA: the not-really flower shop AU where basically everything is the same, but Marinette is extra stressed by her job and Adrien tries to be supportive)

Cross-posted on AO3 and FF.net

Chapter 13: Coffee Roses, Crepe Gardenias

In which, Adrien goes out in his pajamas, Marinette bruises her knuckles, Ladybug considers a career in plumbing, Chat Noir is basically freaking out, and Chloe is... well, Chloe.

Adrien probably should go back to sleep.

It was early - really early.

It was so early that the sky was still pitched in the tones of forgiving purple and forgotten ebony, the cusp of dawn still weak in the rising daytime.

Sleeping sounded nice, but he lay awake in a dark room with a head full of thoughts.

For the second morning in a row, he had woken up without need of an alarm or the knock of Nathalie at his door, and both nights previous he had gone to bed far later than he should have.

Unlike yesterday, though, Adrien didn’t even have the excuse of early morning sunlight, glaring accusingly across his face.

Rolling over in a his valley of dark sheets, Adrien pulled his phone towards him and checked the time.

“Five o’ one,” he grumbled quietly, head heavy with lost sleep. Still, the lids of his eyes refused to droop with satisfaction, every inch of his mattress suddenly feeling uncomfortable and restrictive. It was too warm in the room, and the blankets felt like a cavern of dreams sacrificed in vain to another morning.

Rolling over, Adrien’s attention was drawn to the windows at the end of the room, where the daubs of black night still streaked the sky, and it looked inviting.

With no sound in the room but the light hum of a sleeping kwami, the teen could just barely hear the workers in the house begin their daily service. It came in waves, a tapping pair of shoes or a closing door, and once, he heard someone sneeze. Birds began to sing, and the quiet distractions added to the steady rise of awareness that woke his brain, creeping up further with each passing minute.

After several minutes of just existing - the bare minimum - Adrien realized his room had grown entirely still.

He shifted his head back on the pillows, gazing up through his fringe. A droopy pair of green eyes shined down at him, blinking slow.

“‘Morning, Plagg,” Adrien yawned as he sat up in bed. A much smaller mewl of sleepiness followed, and the kwami rubbed his eyes.

“Sup,” replied his companion, shifting on the pillows as Adrien stood up and crossed the room, unlocking a few of the windows along the wall. Plagg watched him, and Adrien could feel her curious green eyes follow his movements; it was unusual for them to go out in the morning unless beckoned by the demands of an akuma, but right now, the cool promise of a sleeping Paris seemed a welcome reprieve.

“Plagg?” He called, brows raised. Without complaint, the black presence floated up from the sheets.

“Claws out.”

Immediately, his skin felt lighter, the sweat that dried to the back of his neck caught the morning breeze and his skin erupted into oddly enjoyable gooseflesh beneath supple leather that straddled his skin. It was the feeling of being alive, and lately, he reveled in every minute he had.

Chat Noir took to the rooftops, stopping not far from his home, just high enough that passersby would not notice but near enough that he could watch the city come to life.

Cloudless sun and temperate weather was forecasted for the day ahead, which, especially after yesterday’s unbearable heat, Chat was grateful for. Legs dangling from the roof, he hummed along to the quiet overture of day switching shifts with the night. Early commuters, people on bicycles, dog-walkers following their pooches to-and-fro, and traffic began to buzz with the call of careers, cashing in their early morning dues.

Soon, he guessed, Marinette would join them in the listless symphony of work. Anxious to see her, Chat wondered if he might get to work with her again today; it was a fun partnership, much like that he had with Ladybug. Feeling a bit selfish, the black-suited hero even toyed with the idea of leaping over to her balcony right this moment, but he didn’t want wake her unfairly.

Princesses need sleep, he thought with a wry smile.

So, for the time being, Chat was content to watch the city from the sidelines. That didn’t mean he had to be entirely without company.

Murmuring a few quick words, he dropped his transformation.

“That was fast,” Plagg commented as he fluttered down to Adrien’s knee, perched over the side of the building.

The blond shrugged. “Thought you’d like to join me.”

“We are literally one being as Chat Noir, you know,” his kwami replied in false exasperation. “I see the same things you do.”

“I know that,” Adrien huffed, scratching Plagg on top of a head to calm his morning grumpiness. “But I feel weird talking to myself outloud to talk to you. I thought this seemed less weird.”

Plagg grumbled a small “... whatever,” and curled more comfortably onto Adrien’s pajamas, apparently enjoying the petting too much to come up with a more clever rebuke.

After a few moments, the teen lobbed a question at the kwami. It was heavy, one that had been weighing on his mind for a few days.

“What do you think about telling Marinette I’m Chat Noir?”

Plagg peered up at his charge, thoughtful while he considered his response.

It’s not like he could say he was surprised.

In truth, Plagg wanted Adrien to just admit it to the girl, so he and Tikki could spend their time together more easily, to just get the silly love square they were trapped in over with. A being old as time, though, he knew that was selfish and irresponsible - and that was coming from him, not to mention what Tikki would say. She was the responsible one in their little kwami world.

They had to figure out some choices on their own, but he also wouldn’t outright lie to his charge.

Slowly, he construed an answer. “Hmm… well, I think it’s dumb, and you’re dumb for thinking it.”

Adrien snorted derisively and rolled his eyes. “I was being serious, you know.”

“So was I, but I also wasn’t finished,” his kwami answered with a clipped tone.

“Oh. Well, go on then,” Adrien prompted.

Vaguely, the teen made a note that Plagg’s tail was flickering in an odd pattern, but otherwise, his expression was unreadable.

“I think it’s dumb, but I understand why you might want to tell her. It’s hard to keep secrets from the people you care about. Thinking with that heart of yours instead of your brain, as you do, it’s not a surprise you’d be want to do something dumb. The real problem isn’t what you want, though.”

Adrien already understood the meaning of his kwami’s words. Pressing his lips together, he finished the explanation. “... It’s about her safety.”

“Right.” Plagg frowned and rolled over onto his back, looking much the cat as he did so.

“That sucks,” the blond pointed out.

“Yeah,” his kwami agreed with a small shrug. “So even though you’re stupid, I think you’re just the right amount of stupid that you won’t do anything stupid.”

“Wow, Plagg, thanks. You’re such a big help.”.

Plagg rolled over and yawned. “I know, I’m the best.”

The pair grew quiet for a time, Plagg cozying up into a ball of black fur and lulling into an easy sleep, but Adrien was still feeling very awake. His mind was abuzz like the rising Paris day, still tinted in black from each horizon, but with some tonal shades of color beginning to sprout from the East.

Adrien recovered his phone from the pocket of his pajamas, doing his best not to disturb Plagg. He was intending to use the chance to Google some lore about flora, maybe impress Marinette with a “oh-so-natural” story about some obscure plant in the shop, and she would stare blankly with those pretty blue eyes.

“Wow, Adrien, I’m so impressed. You’re so handsome and intelligent, I’m just so lucky!” She might say. Maybe.

In reply, he might brush it off like she does, each time she impresses him. “Heh, well, it’s just a fact I picked up on the side. Nothing too impressive, really.”

The silly daydream played out for a minute, but Adrien nearly dropped his phone in surprise when he noticed the very same girl’s name on his screen.

Marinette had left him a voicemail, only a few minutes after he turned to Chat Noir; as his alter ego, all of his civilian wares (aside from his ring) were inaccessible.

Frowning, he lifted the device to his ear.

It crackled for a moment, there was a light swishing noise, and then it went out again.

“Hmm,” Adrien frowned at his phone. “Maybe she rolled over her phone in her sleep?”

Eliciting a very non-manly yelp, the phone started ringing again and he nearly thrashed Plagg off his lap in the process.

“AH-HEY! What gives?!” The kwami screeched, rubbing his cheek where Adrien’s knee had made contact with his face.

“S-Sorry! Mari’s calling me…” Scowling, he cleared his throat and accepted the call.

“Hi, Mari. What are you doing up so --”

Again, he was greeted by a loud crackling sound, and Adrien pulled the phone away in irritation.

He tried again. “Marinette? Can you hear me?”

A little distant, Adrien caught what sounded like a conversation. The first voice was forcefully feminine, and oddly pitched. “ --n’t you worry. You can rest easy knowing.... Paris brats ...to your rescue.”

Marinette’s voice was much louder, and much closer. “Planifcateur, you can’t do this! Snatching up local shopkeeps who weren’t able to help you - it’s not right!”

“Please,” said another voice, not quite as clear as Marinette’s, but closer than the first. Adrien thought it seemed familiar, too. “We are all trying our best to meet the needs of your -- ”

“Silence!”

That he heard loud-and-clear.

“If everything was proper, and neat, and ordered… have happened! My job… problem. Now...”

A weird clicking sound punctuated her speech.

Marinette cut in. “Madam Cesair-!”

“Let’s stay on schedule!”

The line went dead.

He blinked a few times, the feeling of cold water splashing his face and leaving him out to hypothermic danger, skin paling with the slow sense of recognition. Plagg’s own eyes had gone wide - apparently, his sensitive hearing made it easy for him to pick up on the message. Staring from the phone to his kwami, then the phone again, he felt confusion and concern course through him in the form of furious adrenaline.

“Hawkmoth,” Plagg said, almost spitting the word.

Ignoring the lump forming in this throat, Adrien did not hesitate. Now was not the time for that.

“Plagg, claws out.”

For a being without wings, Chat Noir flew across the city, leaping in the cool morning air of Paris with more pressure mounting in his chest than he’s ever known. His heart moved at a pace that would put the fastest runner of the Schneider Electric to shame. It was like someone had decided to excavate his chest cavity from the inside, and it only pushed him faster and faster over the rooftops.

He reached for his baton and tried to call Ladybug.

No answer.

Frustrated, he growled and put the device away. He was already upon the roof of Marinette’s terreanial paradise, and the place seemed empty without her. The absence of the life within, fueled by the love of a black-haired Nightingale, sucked the personality and light right from the walls. A lamp run out from oil, the place was vacant in more ways than one.

This wasn’t like the last akuma attack, a stranger with a familiar target. His - her - Marinette was in danger, and Alya’s mother, and possibly others, too.

Glaring at the glass, Chat’s reflection glared right back. The call was a serendipitous clue as to the context of the situation, but it was also terribly stress-inducing. He assumed Marinette must’ve just tried to call anyone she could without putting herself in danger, probably to notify the police.

Luckily, or not, Chat Noir was not the police.

So what did he know? Chat reviewed what little information he had.

Planifcateur, the Planner, had an interest in Marinette and Alya’s Mom. Specifically, using them as hostages to lure out himself and Ladybug. There was some sort of problem with Planifcateur’s job, probably related to her getting akumatized…

A stirring wind ruffled his hair and tickled his ears, and Chat Noir heard a buzzing sound grow nearer and nearer. His attention flickered above, spotting a familiar TVi helicopter.

“Well, that’s helpful,” he half-smirked, but his heart wasn’t really in it. There wasn’t anyone around to hear his comment or offer a witty remark.

Chat set off into the dewy mist, ill met by moonlight. The evanescent glow of a new moon provided little in the way of illumination - not that he needed it with scoptic senses - but the omen of dark skies didn’t help his growing trepidation.

It only took a few blocks of following after the news helicopter to establish a sense of the akuma’s path. Most attacks concentrated around the school, the Eiffel Tower, the television station, City Hall, or Le Grande Paris for one reason or another. Tonight, as Chat leapt closer towards a specific edge of town, he grew increasingly uncomfortable at the sight of a hotel he’d had lunch in just the day previous.

Marinette had mentioned that morning about sending away some “goons” from the store, claiming they worked at Le Grande Paris. Something about being unreasonable, and the encounter ended with her refusing their business. Given the rest of the evidence available - Madam Cesaire worked at the hotel, and the growing volume of sirens over the steady, rhythmic pounding of the city below as he neared the location - it was all likely related.

Wait…

Something about that wasn’t right.

During an akuma attack, depending on how recently the plot began to unravel, Paris was in one of two states: total catastrophic panic, people running and screaming from ground zero, or eerie, bone-chilling silence. The stacco thumping of marching feet on pavement was as unusual as it was troubling.

Chat paused in his pursuit, scowling into one of the main drags that would guide him right to the hotel, and the sight was almost beautiful, but even more, it was disturbing. An otherwordly sea of stars in the sprawling Mâcon countryside, a hundred, no, maybe a thousand? A thousand tiny lights twinkled in the hands of civilians. From apartments, houses, businesses and even stopped cars, people streamed into the roads and sidewalks, meandering in unison. All of them were, in some manner, gripping technology in their hands. By the looks of, mostly cell phones and personal tablets were secured close to each person’s chest, absorbing their attention by way of a crisp white-blue light that reflected eerily back at each person’s face, clouding their eyes.

“I’ve heard of technology addiction, but this…” Chat murmured. Reaching for his baton again, he tried to contact Ladybug (thankfully, the fundamentals of computer engineering didn’t seem apply to magical items, as the light of his baton remained acid green).

Still, no answer, and the thought brought a grimace to his lips. He could only hope she was being delayed and hadn’t happened to be on her cell phone when this mess started.

A quick inhale of night air steadied him, and Chat flashed across the Parisian skyline towards Le Grande Paris with a mixture of fear and purpose driving his sprint.

The black-suited hero had been doing this long enough to know that sometimes, it was best to wait for Ladybug, and others, it was best to gather information on the scene. His partner’s lack of response was not reassuring, and without knowing what Planifcateur had planned for the hostages, he knew there was really only one option. There was no time to waste.

“... Marinette,” he whispered through grit teeth, leaping a bit faster. Within minutes, the lights of the hotel were visible, a beacon through the morning.

His heavy boots thumped against the stone roof, landing across from Le Grande Paris. The place was a portrait of bustling activity, and he scowled at a loud, shrill laugh at the end of the street.

A massive television screen flickered to life, though none of the people mindlessly going to-and-fro so much as glanced at. The image on the screen suggested it wasn’t intended for them anyways.

Wearing a sneer, a biting tone called out across Paris. “Ladybug and Chat Noir!”

Nadja Chamack, wearing a grin he’d seen on models a dozen time - a strained, fake, forced smile - stood on the left side of the screen, and on the right must have been the Planner.

Her body was a swirl of red and crisp, bright white. Draped in a luxurious scarlet pants-suit, her attire was a level of business-professional that would have impressed even his father. Along her nose, an over-exaggerate pair of ruby-red glasses swooped out almost a foot on each side from her temples. From head-to-toe, the woman was decked out in all sorts of technology that shimmered in the darkness. A bluetooth headset, a slim tablet in her hands, some sort of sophisticated, technological watch on her wrist. Electronics under her touch were replaced by LED machinations into glowing monstrosities of power, and Chat could only guess which one might contain the akuma.

“You have an appointment in the basement of Le Grande Paris with me. The only acceptable forms of ID are your Miraculous! I’d suggest you don’t be late…”

She stepped off-screen, and Chat clenched his jaw. Tied up on a large pouf was one Chloe Bourgeois, scowling at the camera.

“I don’t --” she started to say, but Chat didn’t even hear her. Around the room, at least a dozen people marched around stiffly to the tune of the same hypnotism that drew in all the civilians below.

One of those individuals happened to have dark, messy hair.

Marinette was scowling - and damned be if it wasn’t adorable - at a large array of flowers and plants already occupying pots. He couldn’t imagine they were from the flower shop, as the place seemed in pristine (though empty) condition when he left the scene a few minutes earlier. She was one of the only people stationary, sitting cross-legged on the ground, hands ever-busy with the task she’d been set to.

Ah.

Now it clicked.

Everyone was working, and by the looks of it, working hard. Sweeping, cooking, driving, brewing coffee, and, in Marinette’s case, pruning and plucking at petals without any of her usual enthusiasm.

The Planner was putting everyone to work - tireless, back-breaking work. She waved a wicked goodbye into the camera, replacing it with a large digital timer.

5 00

4 49

4 48

4 47

…

“Five minutes?” Chat groaned, rolling his head back. A little more quietly, he glared at his baton. “LB where are you?”

Without back-up, he felt very much a kitten walking into the Canine’s Den, but what choice did he have? The Planner didn’t elaborate on what she intended to do with Chloe or the others, but the threat behind her words needed no explanation. Someone was going to get hurt.

Grumbling, he leapt down to street level, his scowl flickering at the doorman. The man gave Chat a polite smile and gestured for him to continue, but with a conspicuous vacancy in his eyes - replaced by the same radiant white glow of the Planner’’s electronics.

No one made any move to capture him or harass him for his miraculous; indeed, if he didn’t know better, no one even noticed him. Everyone seemed content to be distracted by their work, a bustle of life in the lobby that had no time for his distractions, apparently.

Chat strode to the stairs, forgoing the elevator, and quickly descended to the basement.

The level was designed to split into an octangular set of hallways, each of the eight walls in the central service areas extending to different sections for the staff - cleaning and laundry, deliveries and postal service, etc. A shadow of the glamour of the rest of the hotel, everything was still painfully polished and posh, but without the same level of detail. No velvet furniture or glittering chandelier here.

In the center of the basement atrium that connected the many hallways was a familiar picture - Chloe, being berated by the akumatized victim, tied up and her expression flashing between anger and annoyance. From Chat’s perspective at his little window in the stairwell, he couldn’t see Marinette, but none of the other workers seemed to be harmed. Alya’s mom shuffled past at one point, encumbered by a massive container of vegetables, and her expression suggested she was in pain. Judging by the size of the bin, Chat could only guess the weight was something close to Ivan’s body mass, and she was hauling it across the room and out a set of doors.

A resounding crash erupted off to one-side, drawing the eyes of few - Chat, Chloe, and Planifcateur all turned to the sound.

The Planner marched down one of the hallways, pursuing the sound. “What is this racket? Bringing disorder to my perfect schedule?”

Seizing his chance, Chat swiftly slipped through the door and looked around.

“Chat N--!” Chloe, began, but he silenced her with a succinct “shh!”

Hissing quietly, he opened the doorway to the hotel. “Everyone, listen, I’ll get you out but you have to hurry - whatever you do, don’t look… at…” His voice trailed off when he noticed no one was paying attention to him, bustling around without so much as batting an eye.

Except one person, who was positively beaming.

Chat slinked across the length of the room and almost threw himself into Marinette.

“Mari.” Chat managed to speak her name, a desperate question answered by her hug. She was okay, and her voice was a sigh of sweet relief.

“Hi, Chat,” she whispered back. “Everyone’s been - er, I don’t know exactly. Brainwashed. I think it has something to do with their technology…”

He hardly heard her, just nodding into her shoulder and relishing her perfume and soft arms. A million worries itched his throat in the form of unspoken questions. Are you okay? What happened? How did you get here? Are those your pajamas? Why aren’t you a mindless working-zombie like everyone else? Who cares - hey, I’m Adrien, and I was so worried - did you mean to call me earlier? How did you manage that? Can I kiss you again? Just to make sure you’re really okay?

They hadn’t the time for any of his words, though, as the sound of crisp heels clicked towards them. Flinching, Chat hurriedly helped Marinette to stand. “Okay. I don’t know if I can get them all to follow... but, let me at least get you and Chloe out of here…”

Marinette pulled a face. “Chloe should be plenty to disrupt her plan - she’s the one Planifcateur wants.”

The blonde swung her ponytail around and hmmp’d rather pointedly, but did not disagree. Chat pulled Marinette by the wrist towards the stairs, letting her lead the way while he stopped to scoop up a hampered Chloe. Quiet and quick, they climbed the stairwell to a bustling hotel of hypnotized workers, buzzing around to tend to their duties. It made bounding towards the glittering front doors easy enough - that is, until they reached them.

“Hold on!” A heavy-set man stepped in front of them, clad in a dark uniform that offered his name  - Rémy - but his eyes were cast in alabaster by the technological hypnotism.

Chloe barked an order before Chat or Marinette could react. “Rémy, stand aside. You’re to keep unwanted guests from entering or leaving the premise, but I can go as I please, thank-you-very-much.” His gaze flickered over Chat and Chloe, eyes narrowed and nodded, but grabbed Marinette by the wrist and dragged her to one side, and she cried out in his iron grip. “Mme. Bourgeious and Chat Noir may go. But you don’t have a visitation pass.”

A cataclysmic urge bubbled at Chat’s throat, coming out instead as a growl. Struggling to put Chloe down with her bound limbs, he scowled in concern when he heard Marinette speak-up.

The girl cleared her throat, using her free hand to pat her shoulder-strap clutch. “Sir? I do have a pass, it’s in my purse.”

Squinting distrustfully, Rémy reluctantly released his hold but hovered over her, calling her bluff, duty bound to do his job by the akuma’s magic. Marinette whipped her arm back to her chest and massaged her wrist with her other hand. The blonds met eyes, and Chloe shook her head - don’t look at me.

Chat was prepared to intervene - no way Marinette’s claim was true - but something about her confident smirk made the cat swallow his tongue.

Rémy did not leave and inch of personal space as the dark-haired girl fumbled with her purse, opening the clasp and digging around.

“Here we go,” she said evenly, and in a quick flash of pale skin, she brought out her hand, balled into a fist, and made direct contact with the man’s jaw. With a sickening crack of his teeth gnashing together, the doorman collapsed backwards, sprawling on the floor.

Chat’s felt his own jaw go slack, blinking stupidly.

I’m going to marry this girl, I swear.

“W-what did you do to Rémy?!” Chloe squirmed in Chat’s grip, metaphorically floored at how easily Marinette had very literally floored her doorman.

“What I had to,” she stated with a shrug, as if she hadn’t just single-handedly knocked out a man twice her size and her age, turning briskly to head out into the Paris streets.

Chloe’s lip twisted back, curling with displeasure. “Well? Are we going or what?”

“Uhh…” Chat gulped, feeling a little flustered, and sauntered after his unfreakin’ believable girlfriend. “Right…”

  Sighing, Marinette rubbed her sore knuckles, spotting Chat and Chloe emerge from the building. She had taken refuge around the corner of the first-floor cafe patio, separated from the street by an ornate metal fence. Really, it didn’t do much in the way of “cover,” but none of the people mulling about seemed interested in her. They were all too consumed with their work.

With a wry smile, she felt like she knew the feeling.

With little time before Planifcateur would noticee Chloe was gone, she waved a hand for them to join her. With his night vision, Chat had no problem spotting her, but even then it was hardly necessary. The square was plenty bright with the slightest peak of daylight starting to creep upon the horizon, enhanced by the many businesses that were open much earlier than appropriate for a Thursday morning.

“I’m so glad you’re alright,” Chat whispered as he fell into a crouch beside her, still holding Chloe bridal style with bound hands and feet, and his ears were drooping from stress.

Marinette gave him a sympathetic smile and opened her mouth, but she was promptly interrupted.

“I mean, of course I’m fine, that stupid coordinator wouldn’t dare touch a hair on my head.” Chloe pointed her chin forward, and Marinette rolled her eyes.

Chat merely grimaced. “That brings up a good point, but we should get out of the streets. Come on,” he turned around and offered Marinette his back. “Piggy-back?”

“Pfft,” she chuckled but did not protest, awkwardly climbing astride his hips and locking her arms around his neck while doing her best not to touch Chloe at risk of Bourgeois cooties.

Impressively, Chat managed to get to a roof with only a little fumbling, using a few awnings and balconies to help along the way. Considering he was carrying two young women, the cat had kept his balanced impressively well.

“Okay,” he began once he deemed they were high enough and far enough from the hotel. “Tell me as much as you know.”

Marinette frowned when she slid from his back, watching him pull out his baton and try to call Ladybug. She had agreed to flee the streets with him because he would have insisted anyways, but that presented a different problem to her now. How was she supposed to get away from them?

Chloe, naturally, decided it prudent that she speak first. Chat set her down carefully and worked on her bonds while she explained her half the story.

“Well, I needed a status report of my reception orders, so I summoned the staff to give a full rundown in my room.”

“Why so early?” Marinette grumbled, feeling the ache of lost sleep weighing down her bagged eyes.

Chloe scoffed. “If you knew what kind of work went into planning something like this, Marinette, then you’d understand. I’ve been up before 5 AM everyday this week. Someone’s got to keep those oafs in line.”

It took most of her self-control not to laugh at that - like Chloe understood the first thing about real responsibility. Chat seemed to be taking in her explanation seriously, so Marinette did her best to maintain some semblance of composure.

“And the Planner was one of your employees, I take it?” Chat asked, sounding about as exasperated as she felt.

Chloe seemed a little irritated but accepted his hand when he offered to to help her stand.

“Yes. Madam Pomeroy. She’s my coordinator, and I just - I didn’t mean to make her so upset, but I was upset! I’ve got a lot of pressure on me for this to go well, okay?” The blonde crossed her arms and ducked her head, looking predictably petulant in a canary yellow set of sleepwear.

“So what did you do?” Marinette asked, not impolitely. She knew Chloe wasn’t always intentionally hurtful.

“I - well, she said we weren’t going to have enough food or flowers, and those are two of the most important things when trying to make a good impression. Potential donors could be attending the reception - not that you’d know that,” she sneered slightly at Marinette, but Chat stepped between them.

“And?” He prompted.

“And I said if she didn’t get it together, I would fire her by the end of the day,” Chloe finished flatly.

Before either of them could continue the increasingly derivative conversation, Marinette offered her two-cents, partially in an attempt to get away from Chat so she could transform.

“Well, I was on my balcony, because I couldn’t sleep and I was grabbed by her and brought to the hotel. When I got there, Madam Cesaire and the others hadn’t been… uh, hypnotized, I guess? She went on this spiel about how we wronged her, how it was our fault she failed,” Marinette paused to glare at Chloe. “But anyways, I think the whole hypnotized thing has to do with looking at your technology - phone, tablet, whatever. Anything that has a calendar, I think. And she can do it with her own tech, too - if she flashes the screen at you, you’ll become a ‘worker’ too.”

Marinette frowned, recalling when Planifcateur appeared behind her on her balcony, blocking the skylight. By some miracle, she had, by coincidence, brought her purse outside so she hadn’t been separated from Tikki, and when she tried to talk the woman down, Madam Pomeroy pulled out her tablet and tried to ensorcell her into the manacles of her mind-control, but the woman stopped abruptly. She could have sworn Hawkmoth was speaking with the woman for the way she muttered, but it wasn’t clear about what. Marinette used the chance to pretend she had been put under her spell anyways, so she might find out more about the woman’s plans…

It was scary when she got to the hotel, though. Unlike when Mme. Bustier had been akumatized, these wanderers were not exactly mindless - seeking the reprieve of kisses - but everyone was all but turned to robots. No emotion, no register of familiarity when she walked into the basement, nothing. The whole thing had been plain creepy.

Chat pursed his lips, taping his claws along one arm. “Got it. I need to go back, but I want you both to stay safe. Can you stay here?”

His request, she could tell, was mostly intended for her. It was sweet how Chat worried for her, but that wasn’t a promise she’d be able to keep.

“Uhh… sure,” she lied, shuffling her slippers along the gravely rooftop.

Chloe seemed less than enthused. “Ugh, fine, but I’m not staying out here. It’s gross and dirty.”

“Oh my ganache, just go Chat Noir. We’ll go through that door and hide in the building.” She gestured towards the rooftop entrance, presumably opening to a stairwell, while shoving the cat towards the edge of the building. At present, Marinette was thoroughly done wasting time with Chloe’s complaining.

He seemed a little reluctant, and he turned back to her at the ledge. To her surprise, Chat wrapped her in a hug, holding her tightly.

“Please be careful, Mari. Hide. She’ll come looking for you both.”

“I will, now go. Paris needs you, silly cat.” She tried to sound reassuring so he might leave with some confidence, and his ears perked slightly.

In a flash of black, her partner was leaping back to the hotel, so she made quick work of ditching Chloe.

“Let’s go,” she grumbled slightly, marching towards the door, Chloe grimacing but quiet in her compliance.

She indicated Chloe to go first, and promptly slammed the door once the blonde was inside.

“Oh no, there’s tech zombies climbing up the building!” Marinette cried in false fear. “Hide, Chloe, you’re the one they want! I’m sure Ladybug and Chat Noir will save the day…” She let her facade fade out, listening to the door. After a pause, the sound of clipped of footsteps could be heard descending the stairs.

Marinette touched a hand to her heart and breathed a large, heavy sigh of relief.

Before her lungs were emptied, Tikki was out of her bag, and her usually bubbly gaze was  hardened by the familiar call of duty.

“Ready?” She said with a stern brow, and Marinette merely nodded.

“Tikki, spots on!”

Greeted by a rush of pink light, red spandex flowed outward from her earrings to her toes, from her heart to her hands, and with a relieved intake of breath, Ladybug stood, looking out over Paris.

Thankfully, Chat hadn’t taken them terribly far away from the scene so the heroine managed to make excellent time, swinging to the hotel in mere minutes.

Screaming welcomed her to the square. Angry, lurid shouting, and the shrieks intensified each time Chat bounced around the street, over cars, off of lamp posts, behind mail dropboxes. It was a little unnerving to see so many civilians milling about during a fight, but they weren’t really paying either party much mind. A mailman stooped over Chat Noir to work on the postal bin, which comically interrupted her partner’s personal space, but otherwise none of the diligent “workers” were involved.

“Where did you take her!?” Planifcateur howled, continually trying to catch Chat Noir’s gaze in the face of her tablet, her voice amplified unnaturally by the bluetooth at her ear like a microphone.

“Ugh.” Ladybug dropped down to the pavement, opting for a bold introduction to give Chat Noir a chance to regain his wits.

“Planifcateur! Stop this madness!”

A little smug, Ladybug noted the adored look Chat shot her when she appeared, but the reception from Planner was less than warming.

Releasing a maddened cackle, she pulled back her tablet and turned it instead on herself.

The device glowed a deep red under her touch, and began to vibrate violently like an alarm clock.

“Aghh,” Ladybug moved to cover her ears, the chime going off all around them, ringing sharply from the electronic devices held by every civilian who had fallen victim to her hypnotism. Chat had just leapt beside her, but he buckled under the sound, probably having it worse for his sensitive feline-hearing.

After a painful ten-seconds of mind-numbing buzzing, reverberations echoing down each Parisian street, all of the civilians halted their industrious tasks. Eyes burnt crimson, they turned in unison towards the pair of heroes across the length of street and began marching, faces wicked and twisted.

“Ahh, LB, I was starting to think you were leaving meow-t to fend for myself,” Chat sighed and stood properly, backing up slightly as the workers began to advance on them.

Ladybug scoffed and shook her head. “Is now really the time for that, Chat?”

“There’s never a bad time to lion the mood,” he said, shimmying his shoulders up against her. They stood back to back, yo-yo and baton ready respectively.

“That wasn’t even good,” she remarked, laughing despite her claim. “Let’s get to higher ground, shall we?”

Without further ado, Ladybug lassoed herself to the nearest awning, at least to free them of the encroaching crowd. Chat touched down beside her only a moment later, and he looked uncharacteristically severe.

“We can’t hurt civilians,” he noted, using his baton to gently nudge some of them down as they started to climb the sides of buildings. “So we should focus on Planifcateur… I think the akuma is in her main tablet, by the way.”

Humming her agreement, Ladybug narrowed her eyes while gazing over the crowded streets.

“Where did she go…?”

It was difficult to tell with the hordes of brainwashed, now hostile, people swarming the streets, but there was no clear sign of the akumatized victim anywhere. Had she gone back to the hotel, to seek cover and let the people of Paris do her dirty work?

Sounds a lot like Hawkmoth, Ladybug thought grimly.

“Marinette!” Chat blanched, looking sickly pale beneath the suit, and Ladybug had much the same reaction.

“W-What?! H-h-how did…” She stuttered, windpipe unable to process his claim. How did he know it was her? What had given her away?

“What?” Chat shook his head, running an anxious hand through his hair and bringing back his baton. “She must have gone after Marinette… er, mostly probably Chloe Bourgeois - uh, civilians, I rescued before you got here. She’s really furious with Chloe for threatening to fire her, and I don’t know, probably wants to throw her from the Eiffel Tower or something. Doesn’t it usually come to that?”

“Bite your tongue, chaton,” Ladybug laughed and nudged him, feeling gravity return to her temporarily suspended reality. He hadn’t been addressing her as Marinette, but rather, answering her question. “If she’s after Chloe, then there’s no time to waste.”

A quick flick of her wrist, and Ladybug had secured her yo-yo around a far away building antenna, propelling herself back the direction she came. Chat swung ahead of her, taking the lead.

Oh right. I’m not supposed to know where ‘Marinette’ is.

Acting a little aloof once they landed, Chat Noir’s ears were perked for any suspicious sounds.

“They’re inside.”

“Thanks, genius,” Ladybug strode over to the blasted open door, smirking.

Chat seemed too on edge to acknowledge her teasing. “How should we do this? Do we just try to corner her in the building, or should we lure her out? There’s at least two non-brainwashed people here, maybe away would be safer?”

“No, this will be the best use of time, I think. The civilians should be okay if they’re hidden, but right now the building should be empty of workers. If we bring her out, more people will inevitably get involved and make things complicated.”

Scrunching his nose, Chat reluctantly agreed and followed her down the stairs, both listening intently for any sounds that would give her away.

It didn’t take very long, only going down two floors when a blood-chilling scream came from a hallway. Chat wrapped his claws around the door handle, ready to leap onto the scene, but Ladybug stilled him with a hand.

“How about we make plan to fight the Planner, first?” She offered, and at that, Chat seemed to relax marginally. He seemed more stressed than usual, Ladybug noted, but assumed that was out of fear for ‘Marinette’. As her civilian self, the two had become good friends, so it was probably a little unnerving to not know if she was safe.

A guilty little pang went off in her stomach, but there wasn’t much to do about that now.

“Lucky Charm!”

Twirling her weapon with familiar intention, Ladybug scowled in concentration while the magic coursed through her fingertips, trailing out through the weapon in a quick flash of pink light.

“Keep Chloe safe, and I’ll...” A red-and-black polka-dotted plunger dropped into her hands. “Uh…”

For the first time all evening, Chat Noir laughed, and it was a sound that brought a smile to her lips. Familiar, reassuring, she didn’t realize how much she needed to hear it until he was covering his mouth to keep quiet, shaking with giggles in the cramped space of the stairwell.

“What in the name of cats are you going to do with that?” He managed through his snickering, and Ladybug felt herself flush a bit.

“I have absolutely no idea. But I’ll figure it out, we should go while we still can,” Ladybug nodded firmly, and Chat threw open the door.

The stairs opened to a long, almost cynical-looking hallway. Vague grey walls and rough charcoal carpeting stretched far and narrow into a series of doorways, lit by ineffective fluorescent bulbs. It was almost reminiscent of a hotel or a dingy apartment building, if not for one door, busted off the hinges and hanging obnoxiously out from the wall. It might have seemed the perfect setting for a horror movie.

That wasn’t exactly reassuring, and it was uncomfortably quiet. Still, with the grounding presence of her partner beside her, Ladybug did not fear.

She led the way down the hall, inanely holding the plunger like a sword, and they turned the corner expectantly.

It was quiet for a moment, a blue-tonal office with modern accents and sleek glass windows stretching across the far wall. One was smashed, with shards littering the floor in the pretty warm reflection of the sunrise. Through it, a breeze carried with it sinister words.

“Now Mme. Bourgeious,” rang a toxic voice from outside. “You will see what it’s like to work hard for once in your life! I hope you’re not afraid of heights.”

“Let’s go,” Ladybug said, voice quiet and severe, and carefully stepped over the glass and out the window.

It opened to a very thin terrace that wrapped along the building, and standing on a lift used for window cleaning, the Planner was poised with a shaking blonde gripped by two burly men on each arm. Presumably, they had been the cleaners occupying the lift before it got a little more crowded, and their eyes had the same glazed-over, empty white stare that the civilians had at street-level.

Without hesitating, Ladybug leapt to the lift and stood on the railing, gripping the suspension wires to steady herself. The whole platform began to shake and sway lazily, at least thirteen stories from the streets below, earning another hair-raising shriek from Chloe.

“End of the line, Planifcateur. Let Chloe go!” She declared, fearless despite the uneven footing.

The red-suited woman laughed and thumbed through her tablet, musing. “I’ll see if I can pencil that in - I think I might be able to, if you hand over your miraculous.”

She could feel her partner’s presence on the terrace just behind her, and he mewled an ever-Chat-like response. “While your checking your schedule, think you could work in a quick fight?”

Before her goaded response came, Chat’s baton flickered through the opening at their feet - Ladybug, still perched on the railing of the lift, was untouched - and swept it over four sets of feet, sending them all sprawling.

Seizing her chance, Ladybug dropped down and threw Chloe over her shoulder, not even bothering to check her aim, and she heard the girl plop safely into Chat’s arms.

A hand wrenched her down a moment later, and the Planifcateur was furiously irate, her tablet turned hypnotic white once again. She tried to turn it the heroine’s face, but Ladybug closed her eyes and struggled against the hands of the workers.

While the chaos of too many hands and too many voices struggled in the swinging lift, it was the instability of the whole circus act that had her worried. Even as Ladybug, she nor her three attacks would be much good against a thirteen story drop into cement, and the listless swaying of thin wires, strained by what surely exceeded the weight capacity of the metal lift, was enough to make anyone’s stomach turn ill.

In the chaos, they wrenched the plunger from her hands, and stripped her of her yo-yo. Restrained, Ladybug struggled while another hand moved to her face.

Her earrings beeped.

“Wouldn’t it be nice to live by a routine, sweet Ladybug?” Planifcateur lulled over her, and Ladybug flinched away as someone tried to pry open her eyes. “You would never be late, never disappoint anyone, never step out of line. Imagine how much easier it could be. The weight of the Paris, no longer on your shoulders!”

“Ghhhhh,” she growled, lips pressed together in her struggle. The hand came back again, and seeing no other way, Ladybug promptly bit the fingers that inched nearer to her mask.

“Yaow!” She heard, rather than saw, Planifcateur flinch backwards, followed promptly by a disturbing, squishing, sucking, suctioning sound.

Chat Noir’s voice entered the mix. “Got’cha! Usually LB handles this but…”

Ladybug’s eyes fluttered open in time with the second beep of her earrings, somewhat in surprise but mostly emboldened by the sound of her partner’s confident voice, peering down the length of her body best she could. Chat was perched on his baton, suspended from a notch in the buildings edge, and in his hands he had the plunger, with the Planner’s tablet suctioned to the end of it, and her yo-yo clasped in the other.

Looking much the cat who swallowed the canary, he smacked the tablet into the side of the building, and the front of it shattered with a satisfying crunch.

“No!” Planner screamed, reaching uselessly over the ledge at her broken eletronic. Ladybug felt the hands that gripped her to the floor of the lift loosen, and she watched the men blink away the clouds of white that distorted their vision.

“Heads up!” Chat yelled, tossing her weapon over the lift, and she easily snatched it in her fingers. The moment the weapon was returned to her grasp, a familiar mixture of duty and power rushed through her veins.

Flipping dexterously over Planifcateur’s head, Ladybug landed back on the ledge, grabbed the plunger from Chat’s outstretched hand, and quickly cleansed the akuma before it fluttered off.

“Bye, bye, little butterfly,” she waved with a comfortable sigh. As Madam Pomeroy shook her head in confusion, Ladybug tossed the plunger high into the air.

“Miraculous Ladybug!”

Sure as the sunrise that finally brightened the Parisian skyline, all returned to normal, workers halted abruptly in their erroneous responsibilities, the lift, the men, and Madam Pomeroy all materialized back inside the building, glass now repaired, and Chat turned to her with an award-winning smile.

“Pound it!” They declared another victory in unison, and Ladybug’s earrings blinked for the second time.

“Ah, gotta bug out,” she said swiftly, preparing to swing off. “Til next time, chaton!”

Quick as the wind, Ladybug bolted from the scene, the air whipping her fringe from her face. Once the hustle-and-bustle of the akuma attack was out of earshot, she found an alley in time with the fourth and final beep before she lost her transformation.

“Tikki, spots off.” Ladybug exhaled with a strained sense of relief. In her place, Marinette leaned against the bricks in the damp alleyway, catching a spent kwami in her cupped hands.

“Great work, Tikki,” she declared with a tired smile, and her kwami returned the gesture.

“If you feel up for it, you might want to head back to that building,” Tikki suggested with a tiny yawn. “Chat Noir might be worried about you-you.”

“Oh, right,” she hastily opened her bag. “Okay, in you go. Sorry I don’t have any cookies, I’ll stop somewhere on the way home.”

“Thank you,” Tikki blinked blearily up at her charge, and Marinette gave her a little nuzzle with her finger before shutting the bag.

At a light jog, Marinette wound around a few blocks and caught sight of the building, now surrounded by the predictable bustle of police cars and emergency vehicles. News cameras were everywhere, the mayor was making a statement with Chloe tucked safely under his arm, and there was no Chat Noir to be seen.

That brought a worried frown to her lips, and Marinette tried to approach the entrance.

“Whoa, whoa, sorry miss,” claimed a familiar security officer. It was Monsieur Raincomprix. “Can’t go in here; it’s a crime scene at the moment.”

She grimaced. “Oh, c’mon, Ladybug fixed everything - there’s no danger in there!”

“Just standard procedure,” he stated with a set jaw. “Please, stand as--”

“Marinette!” The voice came from above, and Monsieur Raincomprix looked up with enough time to shield himself reflexively.

Not that Chat Noir was going to hit the man, necessarily, but the hero certainly did loom a little protectively over her when he landed beside them.

Swiftly, he made to hug her, but spotted the press scurrying over to them immediately. Chat bowed instead.

“It looks like I showed up just in time, we wouldn’t want you knocking out two grown men in one morning, would we?” Chat wore a cheeky smile, but he lowered his voice. “Don’t go scaring me like that, Princess. I was so worried when I couldn’t find you.”

Marinette raised her brows high along her head, biting her tongue to keep from smiling. “I didn’t take you for a scaredy cat.”

He sighed dreamily. “Oh Mari, if you ever tire of that Agreste guy, please, call me.”

“Yeah, right. Don’t hold your breath, minou,” she stuck out her tongue, and they both shared a quick laugh before Chat was entirely engulfed by the cameras. Marinette managed to catch Alya’s Ladyblogger eye and waved, walking off before anyone could question her.

By the time she reoriented herself, Marinette was on the outskirts of the din, near the the medical vehicles. Most victims of Hawkmoth’s cruelty at least suffered from shock, if not some variety of stress-induced anxiety, after being akumatized, so the EMTs usually came prepared with heart monitors and some sort of mouth tube that was supposed to help regulate breathing.

A lone Madam Pomeroy sat in the back of an ambulance, doors open wide and legs dangling over the edge, breathing steadily into the breathing apparatus. One man and one woman in uniforms stood nearby, the former filing some sort of report while the other chatted with Mayor Bourgeois over Chloe’s well-being.

“Hey there,” Marinette greeted, hesitantly smiling at the woman. Her gaze flickered up at her, then away, laden by guilt.

Frowning, the teen moved a little closer, bowing her head. “I just, um… I wanted to apologize. About the other day.”

That decidedly got her attention, and Madam Pomeroy’s eyes went wide behind her glittery glasses. Marinette squinted when they caught the light, but continued.

“I didn’t know how important the flowers were to your plans, and I’m sorry that it caused you so much grief. I was a little unfair because I knew you worked for the hotel and…” She wrinkled her nose, shooting a glance over towards the Bourgeoises. “I guess I wasn’t being a very good business person. So, I’m sorry.”

The woman looked decidedly dumbstruck by Marinette’s self-admonishment, and her breathing regulator seemed even more necessary.

“If you’re still looking for the flowers, though, I’d be happy to try to make it up to you. If you’d still like to do business, that is - I probably can’t do all seventy orders, but I’d be glad to pitch in.”

“I… ” Madam Pomeroy lowered the balloon from her lips, eyes darkened with shame. “You are very kind, Mme. I’m the one who should be sorry; I let me stress get the best of me, and then I just snapped and…”

Marinette held up a hand, wearing her warmest smile. “That’s okay. Anyone could be a villain on their worst days - the important thing is breaking the cycle. So…” she dug in her purse, and Tikki gave her an encouraging little nod. The girl handed Madam Pomeroy a business card, but only after scribbling her personal number on the back.

“Call anytime, or text me. My cell’s on the other side, and we’ll do our best to fulfill the orders. Okay?”

The woman accepted with a quizzical look, but her expressions eventually turned to one of gratitude.

“Well… thank you,” she paused, squinting at her name on the back, written above her mobile number. “Marinette.”

Bowing and starting in the other direction, she bid the woman farewell. “You’re welcome. Take care, and don’t work too hard!”

Turning the corner from the early-morning madness, she released a low sigh and gazed at the blue skies beginning to peak out through the stained sunrise. It was probably already 7, she guessed, and it would probably be a loss to actually stop to get Tikki food rather than just heading home. Her kwami was undoubtedly tired, but the time it would take to find a shop that was up-and-running properly after the confusion of the akuma would take longer than just returning to the comfort of the bakery. Besides, she knew Tikki preferred sugar of the non-processed variety when possible, so Papa’s cookies seemed a better option anyways.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t very near to home. It would be quickest to wait for a bus, if things had totally returned to normal operating procedures, but that was hindered by the same problem that came from the shops along the drag. It wasn’t clear if the buses would run on schedule, so Marinette opted to walk instead, only a tad self-conscious to be strolling down the street in her pajamas; it was like the mayor declared Dress-Down Thursday, for almost everyone was in the same disheveled, bed-headed, bagged-eyed state that she was in.

The worries over her trek back to the bakery turned out to be for naught, interrupted by a voice by the time she reached the end of the block.

“Mari! Wait up!”

She faltered, surprised by the trill that danced up her spine, and spun on the spot.

“Adrien?” Marinette sounded bemused, not as embarrassed as she should have been. It’s not like this was the first time he’d seen her in pajamas, recalling when they were running from Gorillaz. Compared to last time, her hair might not have been brushed, but she also wasn’t wearing a ridiculous disguise, so she was already a leg-up. “What are you -- oh!”

The blond caught up to her and almost knocked her over with the force of his hug, wrapping her so tightly in his arms that it felt like the wind had been forced from her lungs. Then again, Marinette was almost always breathless around him anyways.

“A-Adrien, what’s going on? What are you doing out here?” She squeezed back, reveling in his warmth, partially surprised but mostly overjoyed to see him. Honestly, she should have been more concerned about the fact that they were very publicly embracing in the middle of a Parisian sidewalk in their pajamas, but his pounding heart and haggard, but notably relieved, breathing was more invigorating a way to wake-up than any cup of coffee.

Stepping apart, his hands moved to her face, one brushing a bit of her hair away and the other holding her cheek. Marinette felt her skin redden under his touch.

“Oh, um… yeah, I guess, the same thing as you?” He grinned, wide and silly, gesturing towards his unusually casual clothing. A simple black t-shirt paired with full-length bottoms made of light, breathable cotton, the blue and gray pinstripes only made him look impossibly taller. “I, uh, guess I was ‘working on’ something. Maybe modeling? I don’t know, I just remember ‘coming to’ and the Ladyblog said that you were one of the primary people targeted by the akuma. I can’t believe I managed to find you after all of that, geez, I was so worried,” he shook his head and chuckled, the sound making her knees wobble.

Beaming, Marinette moved her hand to his, still cupping her furiously red face. “Thank you, I’m sorry you worried. I’m glad you’re okay, too.”

His attention moved to her fingers, resting over his own, and he raised a brow.

“What happened here?” Adrien took her hand in his, examining her bruised knuckles with amusement. “Did you hurt yourself during the attack?”

“...Ahh,” Marinette averted her eyes, very aware that he was holding her hand very close to his lips. “Hah, haha, yeah, sort of. I might have… punched someone…?”

At that, his smile was so bright, dimpled and brilliant, Marinette couldn’t help but turn bashful and draw her hand back.

“It’s not like I wanted to! I had to - it was this whole thing with Chloe and Chat Noir… ugh, believe me, it’s not that interesting of a story.” She ran a hand down her face, not particularly proud of the fact that she flattened a grown man in front of them, but it wasn’t like she had much of a choice at the time.

“Please, Mari, tell me everything. I’ll walk you home?” He took her arm and began down the sidewalk, hardly giving her time to process before they were on their way. Marinette had half-a-mind to ask if he’d had coffee this morning for how animated he was, but that was impossible given the context.

“W-wait, what about your schedule? Won’t Nathalie be upset?”

At that, Adrien paused and pursed his lips. They were still at the end of the block, and to their immediate left was an obnoxious round sign for the most recent Gabriel line, with his face plastered directly in the center. Beside it, there was a trash can, and Adrien promptly walked over and dropped his phone into it.

Marinette balked, and he just gave a little shrug. “Oops. Guess it was lost during the akuma attack.”

He caught her eye and shot her a silly wink, so she shook her head and fought a smile.

Shyly, she mumbled, “W-well, okay,” and Adrien resumed guiding her home.

Well, he was supposed to be watching where they were going, but he had eyes only for her, laughing along to her story, each chuckle pellucid like a soft soprano. That she had so captivated his attention was making her increasingly bouncy, adding ferverant details to the night’s antics as they went down the sidewalks, talking probably too loud to hear herself over her thundering heartbeat. It seemed so loud, Marinette was certain he could hear it too.

At a comfortable pace, she recounted everything that happened up until shoving Chloe through the door at the top of the building and turning into Ladybug, and Adrien was full of questions the whole way. What did she think of Chat Noir? Why did she think she didn’t get ‘hypnotized’? Where did the woman gather them? Each time, Marinette did her best to be honest and laugh and smile along with him, a little dazed that all of this was happening. The lack of sleep, rush of morning adrenaline from her superhero duties, and final comfortable lull of being walked home by Adrien, Adrien Agreste, Adrien her boyfriend… It was a little too much.

She always imagined the first time she woke up at the crack of dawn with Adrien beside her, both in pajamas, might not have been quite like this. (Her imagination usually included, um, fewer clothes.) Still, having this time to just talk with him early in the morning, both tired and almost slap-happy from a restless night, was better than she could have ever asked for. It was special and strangely intimate, though the streets were still full of confused people trying to return to their normal lives.

As they neared the school, the bakery just coming into view, a few young women and a pair of men stopped them.

“O-oh my god! Are you Adrien Agreste?” A redhead gushed, her friends seeming embarrassed but curious. The men were almost more excited than the the first girl, and Marinette could tell they both were wearing similar pajamas to the boy at her arm - presumably, Gabriel brand.

Adrien chuckled and scratched his neck, stopping so as not to be rude. “Uh, heh, yep.”

“Oh my - wow! Wow, I’m a huge fan,” one of the men said. She suspected he was also of some Asian descent, but his skin tone and eye shape suggested south-eastern Asia - maybe Vietnamese?

“Me, too. This is unreal!” The redhead was almost bouncing, and Marinette did her best not to interrupt. She slipped her arm out of Adrien’s and took a tiny step back, letting his fans have their moment.

“Could we, er, get a selfie with you? Please?! It would mean so much to me!” The girl asked, and at that, her friends no longer seemed ashamed. They all more-or-less layered on the request, with plentiful please’s, sounding just about pitiful.

Frowning, Adrien glanced towards her way. Marinette offered him a timid smile and nodded for him to go ahead.

“Well… sure, yeah. No problem.” Adrien adopted his familiar “model face,” and seeing it now actually made her feel a little sad. It wasn’t the Chesire, goofy grin she’d come to expect from him anymore. It was just small and a little too perfect to be right.

“Agh, there’s too many of us! Justin, back up - ”

“Stop it Danya,” another shoved slightly, and Adrien looked increasingly uncomfortable as the friends argued, trying to all squeeze into frame.

Marinette pursed her lips and stepped forward, hand outstretched. “I can take the picture for you.”

The gaggle seemed surprised but certainly pleased, and one of them handed her an iPhone. Adrien smiled gratefully, and Marinette quickly snapped a few photos.

“There,” she passed back the phone, all of them looking over shoulders to get a better view.

“Aw man, my eyes were closed in that one - oh, but that’s good,”

“Thank you again, Monsieur Agreste!”

“Yes, thank you!”

“Take care, Monsieur Adrien,” the redhead said with a rather suggestive wink, and Marinette sucked her teeth a little irritably. The girl reminded her too much of Lila for it not to leave a bitter taste in her mouth, but she tried to remind herself of her own advice to Madam Pomeroy not an hour earlier.

The important thing is breaking the cycle.

Adrien and Marinette quickly sped off after that, neither speaking for a few awkward seconds while they distanced themselves from the group.

“Sorry,” he blurted suddenly, eyes on the pavement. They were passing the school, so the bakery was only a few dozen steps away.

Marinette slowed her pace. “Why are you sorry?”

“That - they, er, I didn’t mean to interrupt your story. And then that girl at the end…” His lips twisted down, and the ebony-haired girl stopped and squeezed his arm.

Feeling unusually gutsy, Marinette cleared her throat and met his gaze seriously. “Don’t say that - they were just excited to see you. I know I would be, if I wasn’t lucky enough to be here with you myself. And...” she touched a finger to his lips, as if silencing him. “You’re too cute to frown. Smile?”

Without telling twice, he did as she bid, and Marinette could feel his breath exhale onto her finger as his lips parted into the smile that she loved.

He interrupted her quiet admiration with a gentle kiss against her finger. “Thanks. You’re pretty cute yourself, especially with bedhead.”

Now it was Marinette’s turn to frown, but it was tough to keep the smirk from returning. “Gee, thanks.”

“I was serious!” He said, falling back into stride towards her house.

The girl could only chuckle and shake her head, though her laughter quickly faded when she spotted her parents in the front window.

“Ah… Maman and Papa were probably worried sick…”

“I don’t blame them,” he admitted, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “I was nearly worried sick myself.”

“I’m sorry,” she said honestly. “I feel bad about all of this.”

Adrien sighed slowly, coming up to the front door and stopping momentarily. “Don’t be. You’re just precious to them, and to me.”

Without a care that her mother and father were watching, not even ten feet away and separated only by glass, he leaned down and brought their lips together, slow and soft, and Marinette felt herself sigh into him, lavishing the warmth that flowed through him. It was brief, a ray of sunshine through the cloudy skies, but she wondered if he could taste the love on her lips, the feelings she tried so desperately to share each time their noses bumped, each inhale of him she was granted like a gift from above.

Breathless, they pulled apart, and Marinette’s body felt strained from his absence. Just a moment of his closeness was enough to addict her to the sensation, and if not for her mother’s staring, she might have just ravaged his lips again right then and there.

Instead, the girl flickered her attention toward the bakery and tried to appear shy for the sake of her mother, but the woman didn’t seemed interested in modesty. Instead, her mother was smiling, nodding, and giving her the largest thumbs-up she’d ever seen.

“Uggggggggggh,” Marinette dropped her head, and Adrien laughed when he realized why. He gave her mother a thumbs-up in return, and Marinette nearly shoved him.

Instead, resigned, she invited him inside.

“G’morning,” Marinette yawned as she pushed open the bakery door, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The smell of leavened bread and saccharine sweets soothed her exasperation almost immediately, attuning her senses to feelings of home. More than setting off pangs of hunger in her stomach, she felt the long night catch up to her, and her body begged for sleep.

“Oh honey,” her mother replied, coming to the door to greet them and swiftly wrapping her daughter in a hug. “I’m so glad you’re alright. I’m sorry you got pulled into the chaos too, Adrien. We’re all sort of a mess, aren’t we?”

After giving her daughter a kiss on the cheek, Sabine took a step back and gestured towards her wrap-style pajamas, reminiscent of a cheongsam, covered by one her many aprons.

Adrien smiled politely. “Oh, I’m just glad Marinette’s okay. This is probably the first time I’ve ever been out of the house in my pajamas. It’s sort of fun, isn’t it?”

“Fun isn’t exactly the word I’d use,” Marinette commented quietly, shooting him a good-humored grimace. “But did you want to stay and have breakfast? You’re here in your pajamas, it almost seems necessary.”

“That’s an excellent idea, but” her mother frowned, tapping her chin. “Our whole day is sort of thrown off with this akuma business, so we’re running behind on everything. Maybe you’d rather go out to that cafe around the corner?”

Her mother sent them both a not-so-subtle wink.

“Oh,” Adrien’s fingers fumbled between them, seeking her hand, so she helped him find it with electric fingers. “Well, if you’re sure, I would love that. How about it, Mari? My treat, pun-intended, of course.”

Her father piped up from the back, and Marinette could hear the sound of the oven opening; he must be working on the morning loaves. “Thatta boy! I knew I had a good feeling about this one, Mari!”

Chagrined, Marinette buried her face into Adrien’s arm, twisting to still hold his hand. “Papa…”

Her mother and that stupid head of blond hair seemed amused by her displeasure, sharing a hearty bout of laughter, but all of her irritation vanished when she felt a soft kiss against the top of her head.

Rebooting from her short-circuited system, Marinette quickly bid her parents goodbye (snatching a few day-old cookies and shoving them in her bag for Tikki) and began dragging Adrien down the street, back into the refreshing Paris air.

“They’re unbelievable, I swear. Sorry.” She avoiding his eyes, too embarrassed by the way they acted to do much else.

Adrien gave her fingers a squeeze. “That’s okay. Now you know how I felt yesterday at dinner.”

Scrunching her nose, Marinette couldn’t argue with that, but her pink cheeks did not fade until they made it to the cafe.

“So why’d your parents recommend this place?” He gazed at the sign. “Hang-Over-Easy? Oh my god, it’s a… a pun. This is the most beautiful gift I’ve ever received.”

She snorted and led him inside. “Well, they’re a twenty-four hour place, bar by night and breakfast by day. Maman probably figured the akuma wouldn’t mess with their routine.”

Adrien hummed a response, more concerned with his study of the eclectic bar-but-sort-of-cafe. The walls were bright yellow and boldly outlined in black, each surface decorated with varying degrees of egg-themed paraphernalia. It seemed especially funny juxtaposed beside the bar, stocked as it was with plenty of alcohol - after an early morning akuma attack, there were already a few patrons sipping on drinks.

Marinette left him to it for a moment, trying to catch the eye of the hostess.

“Um, a two-person table, please.”

The woman nodded. “Inside or out?”

“Oh,” she frowned, and turned to Adrien. “Do you have a preference?”

Blond locks shook across his forehead, so perfectly messy that it really wasn’t fair.

Swallowing her urge to shower him with a hundred kisses, Marinette sent a strained smile to the hostess. “Outside, please.”

They were led to a table, and it was certainly a treat to see everyone in Paris walking around in their early-morning wares (aside from the occasional person who had bothered to change - Adrien and Marinette agreed that those people were ‘no fun’). It seemed like most citizens were considering a productive day’s work to be a loss, and Marinette was feeling a little indulgent herself. How nice it would be to just skip out on the shop today, to spend the whole day lazing around with Adrien like this…

“Oh, Mari,” he sat up a little excitedly. “What’re these?”

“Hmm?” She blinked, following his gaze to a modest plant in the center of the little table. Bushy like a shrub, she frowned down at the yellow planter.

The flowers were tiny and few, radiant white against the deep green foilage. The small petals crossed over one another, sort of twisted to resemble a miniature vortex.

“I’m… I’m actually not sure. Maybe a Pinwheel Flower? They go by a dozen different names though - East Indian Rosebay, Coffee Rose, Crepe Gardenia... ”

Before Adrien had the chance to comment, their waiter appeared. A large, grizzly man with a kind smile and bushy gray beard, his nameplate read “Jean.”

“How’re you folks doing today?” He greeted warmly, not bothering with a pad and pen.

Adrien flashed a smile, and Marinette was pretty sure her heart stopped beating. “Absolutely great, thank you. I’ll have a coffee, please.”

“T-t-Two.” Marinette stuttered when their attention turned towards her. She felt dimwitted, forgetting herself so easily. Maybe she should have asked the EMTs for one of those breathing apparatuses they had given Madam Pomeroy.

“Cream or sugar?”

“Both please, and do you have crepes?” Adrien asked, and the man nodded. “Let’s get two of those, as well. Whatever flavor you recommend.”

Raising a brow, Marinette licked her dry lips as Jean walked away. “I thought you didn’t drink coffee?”

His cheer was irresistible, and he wore a lopsided smile. “I’ve taken a liking to it lately. And, if this is a Coffee Rose... or ‘Crepe Gardenia’, or whatever,” he pointed at the flower on the table. “I just thought, when are we ever going to get to have breakfast with a flower literally named after breakfast foods? I thought it might just be fate.”

“Fate,” she repeated, testing the word on her tongue before turning a reserved shade of pink. “I guess... it might be.”

Somehow, after years of falling for Adrien, and more than a few times actually falling over Adrien, things were finally, finally falling into place. He seemed almost as giddy around her as she him… just, with better coordination and manners. The curse that had rooted her Summer break to a halt, the job that had sentenced her to hard labor for crimes she didn’t commit, seemed to have been forgiving after all.

Marinette had him, all to herself (to Nino’s chagrin, if yesterday’s texts were any indication).

He and Alya had been instrumental to this, too, and she was abundantly thankful to her friends. Their patience with her and persistence with him had finally made sense of a stupidly confusing puzzle, sorting through the mess to find the corner pieces and wait for them to fill in the middle.

Adrien leaned forward a bit across the table. “Marinette? Are you okay?”

She would never tire of the way her name sounded from his lips. It only made her heart thump harder against her ribs.

“Yep. Just trying to remember the lore to these… I don’t remember much, since Mo never grew them. All I really remember is they’re nocturnal.”

“Nocturnal?” Adrien blinked, brow furrowing over the pot.

“Sort of. That type of flower - apocynaceae - bloom brightest during the night, and they’re supposed to smell really lovely. The sun drains them, and they don’t do super well during those hours. It might be early enough that you can still smell them... I guess it makes sense to have at a 24/7 place,” she mused, looking around the open-style patio that led into the bar.

Adrien, cued by her explanation, leaned forward and inhaled a few inches above the buds.

“Oh wow,” he remarked with a dreamy smile. “These do smell really great. C’mhere.”

Her hand had been resting on the table, and he gently tugged it forward so she would come nearer. The sudden proximity, divided simply by a small flower, made her blush even harder.

She caught his eye, and neither of them seemed at all interest in their conversation anymore.

“You’re pretty,” he said, quiet and sincere. Marinette’s lashes fluttered when his breath danced across her cheeks.

“And you’re silly,” she murmured with a teasing smirk.

Adrien squinted at her, and he looked about to say something when Jean reappeared with their coffee.

“Alright two cups -- whoa, sorry, I hope I didn’t interrupt anything!” He chuckled when they both flew apart, the sound a little uncomfortable.

Marinette, probably three octaves too high, answered. “Nope! Just fine thanks!”

The waiter left them their drinks and swiftly disappeared, the whole time Adrien fighting off waves of laughter.

“What?” She demanded, reaching for the cream.

Green eyes appraising her, he merely shook his head. “I just can’t believe you can go from fearlessly knocking someone out with your bare fist to being so cute and blushy like that. I can’t believe I get to date you.”

Marinette spilled some cream on her lap, startled as she was by his statement, and he didn’t let up while passing her a napkin.

“And not to mention how you are adorably clumsy. Gosh, you’re something, Mari.”

At that moment, she was definitely something reminiscent of a young Parisian woman, having breakfast in her pajamas, melted into a puddle of adoration and nerves. She was something, alright, something totally overcome with how in love she was with this boy.

[alexkeav-blog]

New Mexico Gothic Mega Post

Posts have been left untouched except for formatting changes. These are literally all of the New Mexico gothic posts I can find. Enjoy?

From http://mementomoria.tumblr.com/

you live in an adobe house. there are dried chili peppers hanging in your kitchen and outside your door. you probably own a goat. you always have salsa verde in the refrigerator.

have you seen breaking bad? says someone to the out-of-towner. did you know it was filmed here?

the desert is your backyard. your backyard stretches on infinitely. your backyard is beautiful and unforgiving. there are coyotes in your backyard, and they howl at night

driving along the highway you pass camel rock. a few minutes later, you pass camel rock casino. then you pass another casino. then a bowling alley-cum-casino. another casino.

the street vendors in Santa Fe show you their wares - handmade turquoise and silver jewelry. you say, as you always do, that it is beautiful. you never buy it. does anyone actually own turquoise here?

the wind picks up the dust in your backyard, swirling it into a miniature tornado, a dust devil. you shut your eyes, cover your mouth. it will be over soon.

walking down a desert side road, a tumbleweed tumbles past you and continues on, rolling infinitely through the dry red dust

From https://chaoticneutralagent.tumblr.com/

The rain smells different here. People ask you how. You can’t even describe normal rain. Can’t even remember it

Border patrol stops you on your way home from the city. They ask if you’re an American citizen. You’ve been told you’re not, but say yes anyway. They let you go.

Archeologists say that an ancient people lived in the cave across the canyon. You’ve looked for them. There is no cave.

Strangers wave when they drive past you. you wave back. There are consequences for not waving but you don’t know what they are.

All of your neighbors are from Texas. You think you might be too.

You’re taking care of your neighbor’s dog while’s she’s away. She’s been gone for months. The dog is skin and bones no matter how much you feed it. It looks afraid.

The weather forecast is always wrong. You read it every day. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t know it was wrong.

There’s only one employee at the post office. He’s a little strange and sometimes the packages go missing, but he drives a Mustang. You wonder if you should get into the postal business.

You follow game trails in the forest. They always lead you home. The deer are watching you.

There’s a town here called Truth or Consequences. Supposedly it was named after an old-time TV show. The show is long gone but the name remains. It has a sinister ring to it. You avoid Truth or Consequences.

The old folks say they saw lights in the sky once. You never have. You wonder if they’ve gotten better at hiding.

You follow a drainage ditch in the desert until it turns into a steep-sided dirt canyon, branching off in different directions. You come back many times and each time take a different path. It never ends.

All the old men at your church were in the navy. There is no water here. You wonder what they’re running from. It won’t get them now.

People say New Mexico isn’t part of America. You hope they’re right.

From http://illuminirk.tumblr.com/

there are rumors of an interstate. the people whisper nervously. they don’t look at the signs. there are more of them every morning. the cars turn down their lights. they are coming from the highway.

you can hear the bombs at night. there are flashes in the distant desert. the scientists tell us that we are safe, that there is no more testing, that the radiation is harmless. you can hear them whistling.  the bomb sites are deserted. the coyotes keep dying.

a car is found in the tumbleweeds. there is a body. there is a hole in his chest. they cover it with more tumbleweeds. he keeps asking them not to. no one remembers his name. the tumbleweeds cover his mouth last and the wind starts to cry.

once, your cousin went out on the road. she said she was just going to drive. you know better. she does not come back. you can still see her driving toward the horizon. you teach your kids to wave at her. the plains are on fire but you cannot see it.

when the man next door says that he cannot sleep, that the ships coming, that he is the start, you laugh. he starts to scream, mouth open, teeth bleeding. you keep laughing. the police drag him away. he is still screaming. his house goes up for sale. you are still laughing, teeth bleeding. his house burns down and there is silver in the soot.

the sand watches. it whispers love songs. they are not in a human language. beneath the dunes there are bones and they are singing too. the ground shakes. sand comes in through the windows and your bones ache to follow it.

sometimes, you can hear the stars. they do not say nice things. the mountains answer and it is not nice either. they are plotting, and no one will believe you. sometimes, you wake up and they are bigger. they tell you that you are getting smaller. you believe them. you forget that you can speak.

do not go outside when the wind comes down. the children all hide. the ghosts are coming. do not go outside. they will leave. the rains will come and wash away the ash. all will be well. do not go outside.

From http://the-four-humors.tumblr.com/

I kept wondering why there were no ‘New Mexico Gothic’ posts but then I realized you really don’t need to make anything up

New Mexico is already fucking weird, you could just list shit that actually happens

Trucks full of nuclear waste drive down the interstate. You do not know which ones they are.

Large satellite arrays dot the desert. You’re not sure what they’re looking for.

The bats are dying.

There is a place littered with green glass. The glass is from the A-bomb fusing the sand. The government won’t let anyone go there anymore.

What we thought was a sudden storm was a cloud of locusts a mile deep blocking out radar imaging.

Neon lights still run despite the property they sit on being empty lots of dirt.

…literally all of the town of Roswell

From http://tumblingtheology.tumblr.com/

The mountains are named Sangre de Cristo, “Blood of Christ.” You think it’s metaphorical. You’re not certain.

The coyotes are crying outside. They sound close. The coyotes are crying outside. They sound closer. The coyotes are crying outside.

Everyone you know has a cow skull decorating their house. There is a cow skull hanging in your living room. It wasn’t there yesterday. You don’t know where it came from.

Fat summer clouds are rolling in over the purple mountains, brown hills, and green river valleys. The scene looks like a painting. You realize you can’t move. You are frozen. You are also part of the painting.

“Don’t play in the arroyos,” they said. Everyone knows not to play in the arroyos. You never knew why. Now you wish you didn’t.

You get a flat tire and pull over to the side of the road. As you kneel down to remove the flat, suddenly you are surrounded by armed guards. They want to know what you’re doing there. Behind them, chain link fences rise improbably high, with concertina wire wound around their tops, seeking to tear open the heavens and rain down the secrets of the universe. The guards are still pointing their rifles at you as you put on the spare tire. They do not offer to help.

The sand dunes are white, pure white, stretching in all directions. In the distance, there’s a mushroom cloud rising up from the horizon. The wind is screaming against your face. Your skin is starting to burn.

[onceuponamirror]

heart rise above

///// CHAPTER 8

summary: It wasn’t an experiment with freedom borne of some Americana fantasy; rather, a road trip of purely logistical intentions. The plan was simple. Drive from Boston to Chicago for his sister’s college graduation. That’s it.

Or, he drives a Ford Pickup Named Desire.

Mechanic!AU

fandom: riverdale ship: betty x jughead words: 36k chapters: 8/19

[read from the beginning] [read the latest]

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And I'm getting older, too

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Jughead’s fingers run smoothly along the dashboard of her car as if greeting an old friend.

“I love the chrome in vintage cars,” he says softly, firm admiration mixing with his typical surliness. “Every little detail was just so…cohesive. Now it’s like each part of a car competes with itself.”

“I know what you mean,” Betty agrees, allowing a moment of appreciation for the way he meets her smile. She feels silly with how happy she is just to be around him again. But is it so surprising? She hasn’t been able to keep him from her thoughts for very long, especially since their day at the river. And she’s known about her attraction to him from the start, though it does feel like absence has made the heart grow fonder in this case. 

Heat flashes through her at the memory of his muscled arms slicing through the water, so she fiddles with the radio settings in hopes of distracting herself. “Though speaking of anachronism, I do have an aux chord, if you want to play more of that road trip playlist?”

Jughead snorts and nods, taking the little black cord from her deftly. He plugs it into his phone, reaches forward for the stereo, and Leonard Cohen’s gravely thoughts come to life.

“I’m surprised Archie let you make a driving playlist, considering he’s the musician,” Betty notes.

In the background, she’s dimly aware of Leonard Cohen's rasping lyrics.

(And just when you mean to tell her that you have no love to give her, she lets the river answer that you've always been her lover.)

Jughead seems distracted by his thoughts, but hearing her, he flicks his eyes across the car.

“That he is,” Jughead says, “but he also has a very limited scope, so to speak. He often forgets that there are singer-songwriters dating back further than 1992. Music school helped, but as of this week, he still thinks Stevie Nicks is a guy, so clearly not entirely.”

“Yikes,” Betty hisses through a giggle.

“I mean, it almost makes the fact that he’s actually a decent musician all the more impressive,” Jughead says, sighing. He rolls down his window and sticks his head out the window, letting the whizzing of the road filter through the car.

It’s still morning, but Betty can tell it’s going to be a hot day. Humidity has been gathering for days, with the first series of summer storms forecasted over the next few weeks, but clearly today promised to be the start.

Along the horizon, gray clouds swell and greet.

She prefers driving with the windows open, but she turns on the A/C she’d installed anyway, while Jughead removes his beanie in order to run his fingers through his hair. He leaves the hat in his lap, giving Betty a long moment to rake her eyes over the black curls before returning them to the road.

“You have nice hair,” she finds herself saying, and Jughead’s hands immediately reach for the hat again. They hover over it, and then seem to settle for squeezing the brim.

“I know the hat is stupid,” he mumbles, eyes downcast.

“That wasn’t what I meant at all,” Betty says hastily, realizing this beanie is a sensitive subject.

He shrugs. “No, it is. It’s just one of those habits I’ve never broken, like much of my latent adolescent angst.”

Betty disagrees, and tells him as much, but he waves her off and changes the subject. “So, what’s on our docket today?”

She feels a flutter at our, and tries to hold it down. “Well, first is my meeting with the Chisholms. We should get that out of the way, I think.” At his inquisitive look, she adds, “I have a monthly meeting with Adam and his father. My dad and Adam’s dad were best friends, so they like to check in with me.”

“Were?” Jughead repeats, and Betty realizes that she’s never actually told him about her own father. She supposes it had to come up sometime, and there’s no point in lying.

“My dad died,” she says softly, her hands gripping the steering wheel. “Just over a year ago.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine, really,” she assures him, and finds that it’s the truth. She hasn’t always been able to talk about this, but she feels surprisingly calm now. “He was sick for a long time. Brain cancer. In the end…I’m glad he isn’t suffering anymore.”

“Yeah,” Jughead says sympathetically.

“I learned everything I know from him,” she adds, breaking into a smile at the memory of childhood evenings spent under the hood of a car. “I didn’t plan on moving back to Riverdale, but now…the garage is my way of staying close to him, I think.”

“What do you mean, you didn’t plan on moving back?”

She inhales. “I went to Colombia for school, majored in English with an emphasis for Publishing. I wanted to be a book editor, actually. After graduation, I got an internship out in Somerville.”

“Somerville, Mass.?” Jughead repeats, his eyebrows rising. “Outside of Boston? You were in my hood?”

“Just the summer of 2014,” she says, halfway through a sigh of nostalgia. “I liked it. Not so big as New York, but still a real city.”

“It’s a great place,” Jughead agrees, scratching his jaw thoughtfully. “Why’d you leave?”

“My sister came to visit me, towards the end of my internship. I was so excited to see her and show her around—my boss had made me a formal job offer, I had an apartment I really liked, and was even making friends. But at the end of her trip, she told me that our parents hadn’t been honest with me about how sick our dad really was. They’d said his cancer was in remission, but it didn’t stay that way. They relied on Polly a lot, and she was feeling really overwhelmed—she had this two toddlers, she was trying to go back to work…”

She lets out a long breath as the rest of the story bubbles up. “Mom and Dad had bills, and Polly’s in-laws wouldn’t offer any financial help, and that Dad needed help with the garage. She said I should come back, not only to help, but because she didn’t want me to be blindsided should things get worse. Which they did, eventually.”

“I’m sorry, Betty,” Jughead says, and she shakes her head.

“I’m just glad I wasn’t away in his final years. It was good to have had that time with him.” Whatever else she may now feel, this is the truth. She is grateful for what she had, and with a few exceptions, probably wouldn’t do anything differently.

“Thanks for telling me, then,” he says, fiddling with the edge of his beanie.

She looks over, her breath hitching. “Well, thanks for listening.”

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As they roll up towards the Chisholm Garage, the sky rumbles ominously. Rain looks imminent now, but she’s distracted by greetings from the mechanics milling about. “Hey Betty!” One guy, Raj, calls, as he runs a washcloth over a glistening Audi A6. “Adam’s in the back!”

She gestures in thanks, and heads in through the garage, Jughead on her heels as he tugs his hat back on. She finds Adam leaning over the open hood of a new BMW, having muffled conversation with a fellow mechanic. He looks up when he hears them approaching, his face breaking into a big grin as his arms wrap her in a hug.

“Hey! Or should I say, howdy?” He greets.

“How was Nashville?” She asks, pulling back slightly.

Adam shrugs and gives a little fluff to his auburn hair. “Fun. You missed out, though. You know the offer always stands—you’re always welcome on a Chisholm family trip.”

“Next time,” she says, angling so that she can beckon Jughead over. He’s been hanging back with a frown, eyes moving between them. “Adam, this is Jughead. It’s his truck I’m getting the compressor for,” Betty explains, as Jughead hesitantly steps forward.

Even Adam, normally friendly towards everyone, seems to be sizing Jughead up as he pulls one hand from his pockets and reaches for a handshake.

“Nice to meet you. Jughead, is that your name?” Jughead nods, and Adam glances at her from the corner of his eye. “Well, I was happy to help out. Anything for my girl Betty.” 

Jughead raises an eyebrow when Adam turns back to him. “Betty said it was a ’77? F-150, right? Wow. That’s a real blast from the past.”

“It’s a beautiful truck,” Betty supplies, because it almost sounds like an insult and Jughead appears on the cusp of an award-winning scowl.

“You always had more of an appreciation for the oldies than me, Betts,” Adam chuckles, gesticulating at the pristine BMW next to them. He shrugs. “Alright, shall we?”

“Sure,” Betty agrees. “Where’s your dad? In the office already? I got him his favorite Merlot.”

“It’s actually just us today, Betts,” Adam replies, taking the bottle of wine from her. Jughead, who had been inspecting the rafters of the garage with interest, quickly swivels his neck back towards them. “He has some business in Albany this afternoon that couldn’t wait. But I’ll be sure to pass it along to him.”

“Oh,” Betty says, because she’s never had a meeting at the garage without Mr. Chisholm present. She remembers Kevin’s musings on Adam’s feelings for her, and suddenly feels like she needs to defend it to Jughead, which is silly. She shouldn’t feel guilty for taking a business meeting.

Perhaps it’s because she suspects Kevin is right about Adam, and maybe it’s because she doesn’t want Jughead to think it’s mutual.

She meets Jughead’s eye, and gives him a reassuring smile. “We’ll just be a little while.”

“Do your thing. I’ll wait by the car,” he says, and slinks off.

“Ready?” Adam asks, cocking his neck at her. Betty realizes she’s been staring at the back of Jughead and shakes her head to clear her thoughts. He leads her back into his office, and she settles into a chair across the desk.

“I know it’s kind of weird to do our monthly without Dad, but we weren’t expecting you so soon, and he really had to take care of this shipment coming from Albany,” Adam explains, leaning back in his swivel chair.

Feeling slightly relieved that meeting with Adam alone wasn’t something he planned, Betty nods. “I know I moved up the date, but my friend is really on a deadline to get back on the road, and I don’t want to be working up against it. Thanks for letting me come by today instead.”

Adam looks thoughtful. “So, your friend—Jughead, right?—he’s just passing through?”

Don’t remind me, she thinks. “Yep,” she says instead.

He makes a slight noise in the back of his throat, and then leans forward in his chair, lacing his fingers together. “So, to business. I have two propositions for you, and…hear me out first, okay?”

Betty releases a long breath, feeling nervous.

“I just want to say I could’ve never done what you did, Betty,” Adam says softly. “If I’d lost my dad and my only other employee went back to school and I was running this garage by myself, I would’ve already had a mental break down, or four.” He chuckles, like maybe this is funny, but Betty just feels her anxiety dial up. “I’m in awe of you, really.”

She swallows, forcing the same placating smile that she likes to fall back on, especially when someone brings up the garage or her father. Her fingers, without anything else to do, ease into a familiar vice and curl backwards into her palms. “Thanks.”

Adam’s expression turns serious again. “My dad and I—you know we made a promise to Hal that we would check in with you; look out for his family. That’s why we have these monthly meetings, right? Well, more specifically, he asked us to make sure you and the garage were doing okay.”

Betty nods; this isn’t anything she doesn’t already know, but Adam’s vague recapping makes her hesitant. Adam continues, “But these past few months, my dad and I have noticed…I mean, the compressor, for example. It’s not that I don’t love seeing you or getting your calls, honestly,” he’s quick to add, “but you should have more than one compressor lying around.”

Her head jerks back in surprise at Adam’s frankness. He’s not wrong, but it still stings.

He drops his head, sighing. “I know that sounds harsh, and I’m sure my dad could explain this better than me, but—you’re an incredible mechanic. You and I both know that. But running a garage is a business, Betty, and we think that maybe Hal didn’t prepare you for that.”

“What are you trying to say?” She raises her chin in the air, trying to appear more confident than she feels.

“Well, we’d like to buy the garage,” Adam replies, his tone blunt.

Her nails are fully digging into her palms now, but in the shock of his announcement, her fingers briefly slip against her skin. “What?”

“Almost nothing would change,” he assures her hastily. “You would still be head mechanic. It’d still be Cooper Garage. We would just…take over some of the managerial stuff, for instance.”

“Managerial stuff?” She echoes.

“Ordering parts, making sure shipments arrive, hiring more mechanics; stuff like that. My dad has been doing this for 40 years, Betts, and we’ve been talking about expanding for a while now, and we can give you a great offer. This way, you can clear out some of the hospital bills in one fell swoop.”

For a sweet bliss of a moment, Betty imagines what it would feel like to have those taken off her shoulders. No more looming debt, no more living in that big house with only her mother, no more—but she stops there.

She couldn’t really be considering this, could she? That garage meant everything to her father; how could she sell it?

“I don’t know, Adam,” Betty says, exhaling shakily. “This garage is my livelihood. It’s…” The only thing I have left of him, she thinks, but cannot form the words.

But Adam seems to understand. He nods slowly, and runs a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Look, just…keep an open mind about it, would you? And I know my dad would really like to make the formal offer himself, so why don’t you take the month to think about it?”

“Alright,” she says tightly. “I have to talk to my mom, but I will think about it.”

There’s a long intermission as Adam looks at her with an expression she cannot place.

“You said there were two propositions?” Betty asks, if only to break the silence.

“Right. Secondly—I heard about you and Trev,” he says, while Betty’s stomach sinks. “I’d honestly be lying if I said I was sorry, but I hope it wasn’t too hard on you.”

He pauses, but when she can’t find anything to say, he goes on. “I’ve known you a long time, Betty Cooper. But with your high school boyfriend coming in and out of the picture, I never really had my chance. And I’d like to get one in before the next fellow throws his hat into the ring, which I’d guess won’t be long, if it hasn’t already happened. I mean, you’re not seeing that Jughead guy, are you?”

Betty manages a mute shake of the head, and Adam looks relieved. “Well. I hope this doesn’t come as too much of a shock when I say I think we’d be good together. I’d like to take you to dinner.”

“You’re asking me out?” Betty stutters, somehow feeling shocked even though Kevin has warned her about this for years.

She’s not sure why she’s so resistant to the idea—it’s not like Adam isn’t good-looking. It’s not like he isn’t a good person. But they don’t have much in common, beyond being mechanics. And even then, he likes flashy new cars, she has a soft spot for junkers, and feels like that says something. And isn’t this just Trev all over again?

Jughead’s roving, deceptively tender eyes flash across her mind, and she has her answer.

Betty opens her mouth to turn him down, but seeming to guess her response, he beats her to it. “Just…think about it? While you’re thinking about the garage? We can talk about it next month. I’m not in a rush.”

He’s smiling at her so hopefully that she almost wants to tell him she will, but that’s not fair, to keep him hanging. “I’m sorry, Adam. I just don’t think it’s such a good idea.”

Adam’s grin falls, and he sighs deeply. “It’s that other guy, right? You like him?”

“Yes,” Betty admits aloud for the first time, finding the truth comes easily. Something warm spreads across her chest. “But I don’t think we would’ve worked anyway, Adam. You’re like a brother to me.”

He lets out a frustrated chuckle. She appreciates that about him; good-natured even in the face of disappointment. “That’s what I was afraid of,” he says, standing. “Well, I had to try. Tell Jughead he’s a lucky guy.”

She rises from her chair as well, adjusting her purse over her shoulder and not bothering to mention she has no idea if Jughead feels the same way. They shake hands and make goodbyes, but as she’s in the doorway, Adam calls out again. “But really, Betty. Please consider the first offer.”

She looks back over her shoulder. “I will think about it,” she promises.

.

.

.

Jughead is waiting for her by the exit, rather than the car, because it has begun sprinkling. “How’d your meeting go?” He asks, as Betty turns on the wiper blades.

“Okay,” Betty sighs, deciding to leave out the second half of the conversation even though she desperately wants to know what his reaction would be. “Adam and his father want to…buy the garage. They’re looking to expand, but also…they think I’m not running it as well as I could be. They want to take over with some managerial stuff.”

“What?” Jughead breathes, looking furious. “He said that? Turn the car around, Betty, that’s fucked up. I wanna talk to him.”

“Juggie.” He stops his ranting, and she tries not to smile at how defensive he’s being on her behalf. “It’s okay, really. They’re not wrong.”

“Yes, they are,” he says adamantly. “I’ve been in that garage with you, remember? I’ve seen you at work. Fuck them. You’re running it perfectly.”

“I’m not,” she maintains, with a trickle of frustration. She hates that word, perfect. “If I was, I would’ve already had the compressor part you needed. Or—Joaquin and Kevin are going to Europe for the rest of the summer in two weeks, and I haven’t even started looking for someone to replace him temporarily. I don’t know what I was thinking, because now I’m going to need to either extend my hours or close the garage on weekends, which is gonna be a hit on business.”

Anxiety flickers across her skin, and she re-tightens her grip on her steering wheel until her knuckles are white. Now that she’s said it out loud, it all feels more real. And to his credit, Jughead seems to understand her point, which she appreciates. She doesn’t want to be put on a pedestal, especially not by him.

“They still shouldn’t have said it like that,” he says, finally, eying her hands. She catches him looking, and tries to relax her grasp. 

“It’s really fine. It’s something to think about. And I’d rather people be honest with me,” Betty says. Jughead’s eyebrows furrow.

He remains silent beside her, worrying his lip between his teeth.

.

.

.

Their afternoon is spent ducking in and out of little shops; the rain is still light enough for it not to ruin the day, so she follows through on her promise of a nice lunch and antiquing. Jughead finds something to say about nearly every item in the shops, inserting some kind of back story onto each of the dolls or furniture or paintings, and it amuses her to no end.

In the growing heat, Jughead sheds down to his t-shirt and she spends a solid couple of minutes thinking about what's beneath it. She wonders how long she can keep from essentially throwing herself at him, but then he’ll do something like wink at her from behind a particularly creepy doll, and she’ll start giggling again, and the moment will pass.

After a couple of hours, humidity wins out, and the sky opens up.

“We should get back on the road, before this gets worse,” Betty sighs from under an awning. Her skin feels sticky with sweat, and all that time in musty antique shops hasn’t helped.

“Probably,” he agrees, narrowing his eyes up at the dark clouds overhead. They rush back to the car as the rain picks up around them, and drive back to Riverdale with light conversation about Archie and Veronica’s blooming relationship.

She starts to turn off for the exit to his motel, wondering if there’s a way to extend their day. “You wouldn’t want to…make dinner, by chance? I’ve heard corn is your favorite food, after all,” she adds, with a smirk.

“Ha, ha,” he says drolly, but he’s smiling. Her windshield wipers are working in full force against the downpour now. “Yeah, that…I would like that. Corn and all.”

She grins, driving past his motel and on to the grocery store where they’d met earlier this morning, because if she’s making dinner for two she needs more food. They park and run into the store with their arms over their heads, rain pouring down their backs in buckets and laughing. Jughead shakes his head roughly, like a dog splashing in a puddle, and water flies into her face, which only makes her giggle harder. He meets her grin, but his expression is increasingly turning serious.

Then—in a bold move, he reaches forward and pushes the wet hair off her face, which immediately makes her still.

His eyes darken slightly, and he might be moving closer, but the sliding doors open behind them, other people are shuffling in and collapsing their umbrellas—and Betty remembers they’re standing in the entryway of a grocery store under the din of florescent lighting.

(Nicholas Sparks would never.)

Whatever moment was arguably there is quickly gone. When she looks back to Jughead, he’s holding a grocery basket in his hands and waiting for her expectantly, his expression schooled.

“Let’s make this quick,” she says, shivering a little as her damp skin meets the frigid air conditioning. She pulls her phone from her purse, grateful it’s still dry, and finds a recipe from her favorite cooking app. They set to work gathering the necessary produce and miscellaneous items—Jughead makes a skeptical remark at how healthy this is all sounding, but doesn’t otherwise protest—and they finish in record time.

Toni is still working at the grocery checkout, and she fixes them both with a confused look. “Weren’t you two here earlier?”

“Yes, Toni,” Betty says, with a sigh. “This a friend of mine, Jughead.”

Toni blows a pink tendril off her forehead and tips her chin up at Jughead in the same movement. “Oh yeah. Joaquin told me about this guy.”

“Pardon?” Jughead asks, seemingly paying attention for the first time.

“Nothing,” Betty says swiftly, because whatever Joaquin told his best friend, he surely got from Kevin, who has surely nothing but gossip to offer, and she wants none of that getting back to Jughead.

“Mm-hm,” Toni murmurs acerbically, returning to her task of ringing up the groceries. “So, how’s Cheryl doing?”

She doesn’t see Toni often, her being more of a friend of Joaquin than anyone else, but whenever she does, she makes a point to bug Betty into gathering intel on Cheryl’s relationship status. Last time, Betty had insisted that Cheryl wasn’t ready to start dating again, let alone over Veronica. Her impression of that hadn’t changed much, though Cheryl did seem less upset at the sight of Archie than she had with Veronica’s last fling.

“Subtle,” Betty intones.

Toni shrugs. “I’m not known for that.”

“I’ll find out, okay?” Betty tells her, and means it. “But only if we were never here.”

“Don’t tell Kevin, got it,” she replies, not missing a beat. She whips into a grin. “That’ll be $30.67.”

.

.

.

“Is there a reason why that lady can’t tell Kevin we were at the store?” Jughead asks, after they’ve loaded the groceries into the car and are back on the road. The rain hadn’t let up even an inch, and so Jughead had used his flannel to protect their grocery bags from the sheets of water.

“Oh, um,” Betty replies, pretending to focus on driving. “I just…Kevin likes to gossip.”

She blushes furiously, because she’d been about to say Kevin likes to gossip about my love life, which would’ve been right out admitting to Jughead that she likes him. And if maybe there were different circumstances, she would’ve taken that opportunity.

But Jughead is leaving in two weeks, and she’s had nothing but whiplash from his mixed signals thus far, so that’s not a bet she’s yet willing to hedge. 

“Copy,” Jughead says slowly, squinting at her. They finish the drive in silence and, for about the zenith time today, Betty is grateful that her mom is away; this time it’s because she gets to park in the garage and spare them any further onslaught by Mother Nature.

Jughead’s arms wrap around the grocery bags as Betty gathers up his wet flannel. She directs him to the kitchen, while she heads for the laundry area. She peels out of her soaked clothes and fumbles into a basket of clean clothes, pulling on a pair of leggings and a soft cotton shirt. Her outfit is too delicate for the dryer, so she hangs it to air-dry and throws Jughead’s flannel into the machine.

She realizes he’ll probably need something dry to wear himself, and has a moment of pivoting around the laundry room before she finds the large Cooper Garage t-shirt that once belonged to her father. She hesitates at the thought of handing it off to Jughead, but no one deserves to sit around in wet clothes, and she’s sure she’ll get it back.

Deciding that he’s skinny enough to fit into her sweatpants, she grabs those, a pair of socks, and goes to meet him. He’s standing at the border of the living room, his eyes sweeping over the high ceilings and family portraits. “Nice digs,” he murmurs. “Maybe I should go into the mechanic business.”

“Yeah, or move to a town where you can live off a baker’s dozen,” Betty replies, which makes Jughead snort.

“Minimum wage joke, nice,” he says, following her into the kitchen.

“This is actually my paren—Mom’s house though,” Betty clarifies, much to Jughead’s sudden distress.

He flashes her a look of mild panic. “You could’ve warned me I was going to meet the Mrs.,” he says, glancing around worriedly, as if Alice Cooper is about to leap out from behind the couch and accuse him of corrupting her daughter. Which, if she were being honest, probably wouldn’t be far from the truth.

“My mom is out of town this week,” Betty says, pressing her lips together to hide her smile. Jughead absorbs this with flexing eyes and visibly relaxes, leaning against a counter.

She has a fluttering moment of distraction, because there’s something about the way his body stretches out devil-may-care that makes her eyes drop to the brief flash of damp skin at the hem of his shirt.

“Um. Anyway, not that I don’t love the grunge look, I think you’ll probably want these. I can put your other clothes in the dryer while I make dinner,” she says, handing him the pile of clean garments in her arms.

“Tropes: game, match, set,” he mumbles as he sets off for a bathroom to change. Betty blushes, because she might as well have offered to get him out of his wet clothes, as if they live in some kind of rom-com.

He returns with a blank look on his face. His soaked beanie sits on the top of the outfit in his arms, and in the time it takes for her to add his clothes to the dryer and pin up his hat to air out, Jughead has started unpacking the groceries.

It’s a shockingly sweet moment of domesticity, and Betty briefly allows herself to enjoy the sight, let alone where her imagination takes her beyond that. If things were different, if they’d met when she was living in Boston or he’d moved to Riverdale—would this be their life? Would they be together? Would she even have kissed him yet?

And then he turns around, and she realizes with a giggle that she’s given him her old high-school sweats. The word VIXEN is printed in big letters on his ass, so she has to slap her hand over her mouth to stifle her sniggering.

It’s unsuccessful; Jughead glances over, looking mildly alarmed. “What? Did I do something wrong?”

“Nope,” she chirps, bouncing over to him in the kitchen.

“So what can I do to help?” He asks, after watching her suspiciously. Betty comes around to his side of the island and pulls a large pot from a cupboard.

“Fill that up with water for the corn,” she instructs, while she gets to work with knives, a cutting board, and the tomatoes. When Jughead returns from setting the water on the stove, she hands him an onion to chop.

Halfway through dicing the onion, his eyes start to water, and he takes a break to blink his eyes up at the ceiling. “So if you’ve only been living here a few months, where were you before?” He asks, glancing at her. “Just trying to paint a full picture of the mysterious Betty Cooper.”

“I don’t think anyone has ever called me mysterious before,” Betty sighs, using the knife to scrape the vegetables into a bowl. She puts down her cutlery and meets his gaze with resignation; somehow, she knew they’d finally get to this. “I was living with my boyfriend.”

Jughead, who had been stealing a bite of the tomato slices she’d just cut up, begins to cough loudly. He flattens his palm against his chest and beats it a few times as he sputters through the moment.

“Sorry,” he says finally. “Went down the wrong pipe. Uh, cool. So, when am I going to meet this…boyfriend?”

“Ex-boyfriend. I should’ve been more clear,” Betty says, biting her lip. Was she imagining it, or did he sound suspiciously too nonchalant? He’s so hard to read, let alone tell if he’s even interested—especially after he disappeared on her this week—but with their little moments all day, she’s started wondering if she’s not so unrequited. She slaps his hand away from reaching for another tomato piece. “And stop eating these, or we won’t have enough for sauce.”

Jughead licks his lips and has the decency to look guilty, but at the last moment, sneaks a smirk her way. She rolls her eyes once again, but settles for handing him a cheese shredder and a block of parmesan.

“So,” he says, in that strange voice again, “what happened? Between you and the ex?”

She glances his way, and he immediately backpedals. “I don’t know why I asked you that. You don’t have to tell me, obviously.” He’s now determinedly focused on shredding cheese.

“It’s alright, Juggie,” she hears herself saying. The words continue to come despite her better judgment. “I’m just not great at talking about it. Or a lot of things. I get anxious and can’t…” She trails off as the familiar staccato of dread reappears.

She hears her heart thumping in her ears as Jughead’s hand finds measure on her arm. She realizes he’s abandoned his task and standing awfully close all of a sudden. She swallows and steps back so that she can find something to busy herself with.

If she doesn’t occupy her hands while she talks about Trev, she’ll fall back on destructive habits. It’s one of the coping mechanisms that actually works, so Betty settles into the motions of setting up the vegetable spiralizer and prepping the zucchini.

“But…I think avoiding it is just making it worse, so I should try. Trev…was great. Is great. We dated in high school, and broke up when I went to college, but when I moved back, it was so hard with my dad and family that…it just seemed easy to lean on the past. And he’s so sweet, and so nice, but I felt like I was dating myself sometimes. We never joked around, or talked about anything too serious. It just was boring, after a while.”

She looks up; Jughead’s eyes are narrowed thoughtfully. “Anyway. We had a lot of issues, and I wanted to break up with him for a while. But really, the main problem was…that Trev never wanted to leave Riverdale. He likes it here. I knew it would come up eventually, but I somehow wasn’t ready for it when it did.”

“What do you mean?”

She sighs and forces herself to meet his gaze. “He proposed,” she says quietly, dropping her eyes. “And I…had a panic attack on the spot.”

“Shit,” Jughead says.

Betty is silent for a moment as she takes a few measured breaths. “I just…all of a sudden, I saw myself turning into my sister, who turned into our mother. Who never left Riverdale, who married their high school sweetheart young, who popped out 2 kids and a white picket fence. And I knew if I didn’t say no then, I would never say no again. I would be here forever.”

She glances up, and sees him nodding along solemnly. “You were brave,” he says.

“I was just honest.”

“It’s the same thing,” he insists. He pauses, running his tongue along his teeth. Rain thunders down along the roof, echoing the rhythm in her heart. “Betty, if you don’t want to be in Riverdale, why are you still here?”

“I can’t leave,” she says simply. “I just can’t.”

He moves closer. “Why not? Why can’t you sell the garage to these Chisholm people? You trust them, right? Isn’t it kind of the perfect solution?”

“Because my family needs me,” she says, her voice hitching. “Because I can’t just leave. We have medical bills, and my mom was living here in this big house alone, and my sister has her hands full. Because the garage is all I have left of my dad. My grandfather built the business himself, to give something to his son, who gave it to me. How could I just walk away? How could I sell that? Sell our memories?”

“But it’s not what you want,” Jughead says softly, his hands finding purchase on her own. “Betty, you have options. You have connections. You already got a job offer in publishing once, I bet you can get it again. Or, hell, even I have connections. Let me help.”

“You don’t get it.” Betty shakes her head furiously, pulling her hands away from him and wrapping them around her arms. She sees the twins’ faces, her sister’s, her mother’s. They need her. It takes all of her willpower not to curl her fingers into fists.

“I don’t get needing to make a hard decision about separating what I want and need from what my family wants and needs? Really? I thought you read my book,” he sighs, throwing a hand in the air.

She looks over as it clicks into place. “The part about his father?”

Jughead nods solemnly. “Art imitating life. I had to cut off contact with my dad two years ago, when he got his third DUI arrest and went to prison for it,” he replies tersely. “It wasn’t easy, but I had to do it for me and my sister. I bailed him out way too many times and he never once fucking changed. It’s different, but yeah, I understand what it’s like to shoulder a responsibility that isn’t mine.”

She stares at him, and then, to her own horror, breaks out into a sob. Jughead’s arms are around her in a flash as she bursts into a fit of crying. “It’s okay,” he whispers, while she mutters incoherently about how she can’t, she can’t, she can’t—but can’t what, because she no longer knows.

Can’t sell the garage? Can’t leave Riverdale? Can’t tell him what she feels around him? He rocks with her gently, murmuring encouragement and hushed mantras. She feels her world pull back, acutely aware of his body against her own.

Halfway through the tears, she wants to throw herself into something physical—let herself act on the desire she’s been stifling—but she can’t quite make herself do it. She can’t kiss him like this, red-eyed and blubbering, or use him to escape her own thoughts. It’s not fair to either of them.

Outside, it’s still raining.

She settles for tucking herself against his neck as her sniffling becomes more infrequent. “It’s okay,” Jughead says again, his voice sounding somewhat broken. His fingers leave light touches of gooseflesh along her arm. “It’s okay.”

.

.

.

When her eyes are finally dry, they untangle themselves. Betty rubs the heel of her palms into her cheeks, wiping away any remnants of tears. “Sorry—” she starts.

“Don’t apologize,” Jughead interrupts, his voice steady.

“But I was going to make you dinner,” she sighs, glancing over at the half-prepared mess of vegetables. “Zucchini noodles and tomato sauce and—”

“Which, while sounds great, we can take a literal rain check on. You’ve had a long day,” he says, slipping back so that he can raid through her cabinets. His head disappears behind an open cupboard, and when he closes it, he’s shaking a box of Mac & Cheese. “I don’t claim to have a lot of culinary affectation, but even a lowly fool can manage this. Go sit, watch something.”

She starts to protest, but he’s shooing her towards the couch and pressing a remote firmly into her hands. After realizing he won’t budge on this, she finds a silly movie to put on and tries to pay attention. 20 minutes in, Jughead is flipping off a light switch and returning with two steaming bowls of macaroni.

“I added the parmesan, since it was already shredded,” Jughead adds, when she glances over in surprise at the taste, the spoon still in her mouth. He scratches at his neck. “And a little pepper. That’s how my sister liked it, pre-veganism.”

He gets comfortable on the couch and leaves an opening for her to lean into him, should she want it. She does.

Betty rests her head against his chest, eating in silence while Jughead makes snide comments about the characters on the screen. He’s seen this movie before, and apparently has a lot of thoughts on it.

She tilts up at him, taking in his still-damp hair, the television glow reflected in his eyes, and the soft expression he has when he returns her gaze. He seems like he wants to say something, but instead his lips twitch into a smile.

Betty is disappointed, but then again, she has some things she would like to say too. Things she would like to do.

But on the off chance she’s reading things wrong, this is a moment she doesn’t want to spoil. So she turns her head back to the screen, focuses on the rise and fall of his chest beneath her ear, and the heat of his body through his clothes.

Feeling hyper aware of her own heartbeat, she tries to concentrate on her meal, but realizes she can’t remember the last time anyone made her dinner.

.

.

.

[casfallsinlove]

when the light came through (r, 2.5k)

[ao3] for grace ❤️

They leave the bunker just as dawn begins to ease over the horizon, until the sky above the Kansas plains is smudged with pale rose-gold. A soft mist hangs low, catching on the bare, bristly grass poking through the thin smattering of snow. Castiel has seen many sunrises in his time, but he thinks this is the most beautiful. Perhaps because of where he's going, or who he's going there with.

The Impala purrs as they breeze along the highway, a quick burst of the rumble strip when Dean takes his eyes off the empty road for a second too long, and the radio murmuring quietly. Some talk show or shipping forecast or something--they just wanted the background noise, really.

Castiel feels at peace. With Lucifer locked up and the Angels back in Heaven, there's little to be at war with these days. Occasionally a haunting pings up on their radar, or Sam will call them with news of a suspected vamp nest or rampant werewolf that he and Eileen are too busy to handle, but things are mostly quiet. Settled. Comfortable.

Of course Dean and Castiel don't know how to deal with comfortable very well. So here they are, driving with no endgame in sight, just them and the car and the wide open road. Twin duffel bags sit on the backseat; Castiel’s has clothes spilling out of it where the zipper broke, the corner of a book getting bent out of shape. A plant is wedged against the door, fastened securely with the seat belt; a philodendron, one that Castiel bought for 75 cents from a stall at the side of the road because it was brown and dying. Dean had told him to throw it on the compost heap at the time but then the plant started growing again, its leaves getting greener and smoother as it stood proud in its little yellow pot.

“You're like the Doctor Doolittle of flowers,” Dean said one day, when he caught Castiel gently stroking the leaves.

Castiel replied, “I think it’s found some trace energy left in me, some small part of what I used to be. It's feeding from me.”

“Gross.” Dean had pulled a face, but his fingers were affectionate, playful at the back of Castiel’s neck.

He couldn't leave the plant behind.

Now, Dean’s humming something tuneless as he drives, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the wheel. He glances over, once, twice. The Colorado state line looms in the distance.

“You're sure about this, huh?” he asks, anxiety barely hidden just below the surface of him. It ripples there, faint blotches of purple-blue and gray bleeding into Dean’s usual bright gold and green. Castiel takes Dean’s hand, runs the pad of his thumb over the small mountain ridge of knuckles. The gray starts to fade.

“I'm sure,” he says.

Dean looks at him again. The corner of his mouth quirks.

“Okay then.” He squeezes Castiel’s fingers and puts his foot down on the accelerator a little heavier.

The Impala roars. The road whips past, endless and full of potential.

     “No fucking way.”

Castiel scowls. “Yes way.”

Dean scrutinizes him across the sticky tabletop, like he wants to call bullshit. His burger, poised in midair, is slowly dripping sauce down his wrist.

“You're telling me aliens are real.”

“Yes.” Castiel slurps his Coke from a bright green twisty straw. It fizzes, makes his nose burn. “I've met them.”

“Yeah, okay, Mulder,” Dean shakes his head, his burger back on its trajectory to his mouth. He takes a huge bite and adds with his mouth full, “Little green men in silver suits? Impossible.”

They've been having this argument since they crossed the border into Nevada and saw a sign at the side of the road telling them to watch out for low-flying UFOs. Now they're in an alien-themed diner and Dean's stubbornness is back in full-force.

“Dean, you've met vampires and angels and God Himself, and yet you refuse to admit that there's life out there other than what's on this earth? There is more to the universe than humans can possibly imagine or ever hope to see. There are planets out there which hold life, intelligent life, surviving just as humanity survives. I'm several millennia old, I've met more than one species of extraterrestrial.” He shrugs. “But if you think you're right, go ahead and think you're right.”

Dean flicks a ketchup-dipped fry at him. “You're such an asshole.”

It's nice, being with Dean like this. Not having to worry about one of their lives being under threat or the next big bad coming to destroy the world. They can just be. And what they are is wonderful. Dean is wonderful, glittering gold, like something precious, something to be treasured.

The paper placemat underneath Castiel’s plate has a press-out alien mask in it. When Dean goes to the bathroom Castiel pops it out and holds it up against his face. He steals one of Dean’s fries, putting it in his mouth so it sticks out like a cigar.

“Hello, Mr. Winchester,” he says in a funny voice when Dean sits back down.

Dean blinks at him then bursts out laughing, throwing his balled-up napkin at his head.

“Oh my god. You're so fuckin’ lucky I love you,” he grins.

Well. Okay then. Dean loves him.

Lucky indeed.

“I love you, too,” Castiel says, still in the stupid alien voice, and at this point they're making complete spectacles of themselves, being far too loud and boisterous for the quiet diner, their feet knocking under the table, but Dean is glowing, beaming, an entire spectrum of colors almost too vibrant to look at. Castiel wouldn't want to dull that for anything.

   They roll into Vegas not long after dusk has fallen. It's warmer here, the desert air dry and dusty and getting caught behind Castiel’s teeth. Lights flicker and splinter in his peripheral vision; amber and red, green and blue and harsh pinks. People are out on the streets, laughing and drinking and flagging down taxis. Night doesn't really seem to make a difference here. Castiel pulls at his shirt, restless, his knees pleading for a break from the car. Dean is yawning, jaw cracked wide.

They head west to avoid the snarl of traffic downtown and end up in Sun City. Dean says it's just so they can find a motel that actually has a vacancy, but he seems relieved to be away from the hustle and bustle. Everything is softer out here, quieter. The set of Dean’s shoulders is more at ease.

The El Camino is a shabby little motel wedged between a Fuel-and-Go and a Denny’s, making the parking lot smell like gasoline and greasy food. Castiel wrinkles his nose as he leaves Dean to get the bags and heads into the lobby, waving away a cloud of cigarette smoke from a man with a beer gut pressing quarters into the vending machine beside the door. Inside, Castiel asks for a king and a wifi pass so he can watch Netflix on Dean’s laptop. The woman behind the counter smiles habitually at him, purple plastic nails clacking on the formica as she slides his key over.

A waft of stale, cold air hits them when they shoulder into the room. Dean sighs and switches the heater on and after a few seconds of clunking protest it huffs to life with a whine and a rattle. Castiel stands by the door and watches Dean for a minute; the tired curve of his spine, the way he toes his boots off and stumbles a bit. He takes his neatly folded pajamas out of the duffel and puts them on the end of the bed then looks at Castiel. An easy grin spreads over his face when he realizes he’s being watched.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Castiel shrugs. A smile sneaks into his lips though and Dean laughs. As he passes to get to the bathroom he brushes the back of his hand over Castiel’s stomach, his fingertips catching lightly on a belt loop, a soft and intimate gesture that leaves Castiel feeling warm all over.

While Dean’s showering he gets changed and climbs into bed. The blankets are scratchy on his arms but he's cold enough that he doesn't care. Dean's laptop sits on his stomach, its cable trailing across the brown, threadbare carpet to the outlet, the plastic casing of which is cracked in one corner and yellowed with age.

Navigating to their shared Netflix profile is easier now than it used to be--practically second nature. They're slowly working their way through several series together; most recently, Parks and Recreation. He pulls up the next episode and then clicks over to his emails while he waits for Dean.

Nothing from Sam, but there is a brief reply from Mary in response to a query Castiel had about the Baku, a monster of dream manipulation that she had mentioned once encountering. Castiel would like to plug all gaps in his knowledge to assist Dean as best as possible now that he's human, or as good as.

He’s typing a reply of thanks and best wishes when Dean appears beside him, freshly showered and in his pajamas, his skin slightly flushed and damp still, his hair towel-dried ruffled.

“What are we watching?” he asks, bouncing down on the bed and jostling Castiel. Rolling his eyes, Castiel presses send and switches tabs back to Netflix.

“Nothing yet, I was waiting for you.”

Dean narrows his eyes at the laptop. “Wait, was that Mom? What were you talking about?”

It's so easy to tease Dean that Castiel can't resist doing so, just a little. “That's for me to know.”

“Ugh, that's not worrying at all,” Dean says, but he actually sounds rather fond. Of Mary’s attempt at conquering modern forms of communication, maybe, or possibly the fact that two of the people he loves most get on so well. That last thought makes Castiel heart swell in his chest.

They burrow in together to watch Parks and Recreation, Dean’s head on Castiel’s chest. His laughter echoes in the space behind Castiel’s ribs, a fierce, lovely thing.

 It’s the early hours of the morning when Castiel stirs. He’s not sure what disturbed him; the blare of a big rig’s horn, or the tipsy giggles of some women outside on the breezeway, or maybe just an instinctive awareness that being awake would be a good thing right now.

He rolls over and into Dean, who grunts and mumbles, “You ‘kay?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, and kisses him.

Dean’s slow, sleepy, but gradually comes to live under Castiel’s touch. The kisses get deeper and more urgent, laced with a faint hint of peppermint toothpaste. Dean shivers when Castiel places his palm on his chest, warm through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, and rolls onto his back, bringing Castiel with him. Soft ultramarine light from the buzzing neon sign outside creeps around the gap in the curtains, highlighting the lines and ridges of Dean’s profile, illuminating a path for Castiel’s lips to follow.

Hands grip his waist tightly, cling there for a moment then slip underneath Castiel’s shirt and skim up and down his sides. Dean’s hands are steady and sure, capable of great destruction but also incredible gentleness. It’s the latter with which he touches Castiel, his fingertips alone making heat pool in Castiel’s gut.

A quiet moan escapes Dean when their cocks brush through their pants so Castiel rocks lazily into a rhythm that leaves them breathless and shaking. Dean’s thighs are trembling either side of Castiel’s waist so he runs his hand down Dean’s arm and threads their fingers together, squeezing, pressing them into the lumpy mattress.

He doesn’t let them go, even as the headboard starts smacking the wall, and their kisses become little more than their mouths sloppily meeting in between gasps, and when Dean comes it’s with a choked mantra of “Cas, Cas, Cas” followed by every muscle in his body contracting, before he goes boneless with a long, contented sigh.

Castiel can feel the wetness, even through two thin layers, and it’s more than enough to tip him over the edge into headless, blissful oblivion. Starbursts explode behind his eyes as he groans into the damp skin at Dean’s shoulder, a hand curled around the back of Castiel’s neck and scratching at the sweaty hair there sending aftershocks of tingling pleasure up his spine.

“I love you,” he tells Dean, like it’s a fundamental truth of the universe, the thing that keeps the stars in the sky and the ocean tides anchored to the moon.

Dean lets out a sob, fractured, bone-tired, and holds Castiel close.

  The end of the line turns out to be San Diego.

Sand tickles Castiel’s bare feet, warm on his soles and gritty between his toes. As an angel he saw oceans being created, beaches unfurling from crystalline waters, plants blossoming and creatures evolving, but in retrospect everything pales in comparison to this: walking down a beach in South California, hand-in-hand with Dean Winchester while the sun sets ahead of them.

The sky is awash with pastels, the sand golden and the water a deep green-blue. Few people are around and those that are don’t pay Dean and Castiel any attention. Which is just as well, as Dean has decided to talk about the time he and Sam hunted a banshee in Florida at the top of his voice, eyes alight and free hand gesturing wildly as he tells Castiel about Sam falling into a swamp and screaming about alligators.

A shiver trickles its way down Castiel’s body; it’s cool out, a cold wind blowing in off the water and whipping at their hair. He presses closer to Dean’s side.

He squeezes Dean’s hand, smiles because Dean’s grin is infectious, pauses to kiss him, sugar-sweet from the ice cream they ate while huddled in hoodies back on the pier. Dean’s arm comes around Castiel’s back, trapping him there. He hums happily into the kiss, then breaks it to rest his forehead against Castiel’s.

“I never thought I’d get to have this,” he whispers, a secret just for them. “I gave up hoping. Every time I reached for it, it just seemed to get further away.”

“I know,” Castiel says, because he does, because it seemed impossible to him too.

“But now--God, me and you, Cas. I feel so…” Dean shakes his head, apparently unable to complete that sentence.

Castiel kisses the bolt of Dean’s jaw. “Yes,” he agrees, because the words won’t come to him either.

The sun continues to fade. Twilight inches in around the edges, painting the water a glossy bruise-black. Castiel doesn’t pay it heed. Dean exudes warmth, happiness, unwavering affection; the sun at the center of Castiel’s universe.

Who knows where they’ll go next. The entire country is spread out before them, theirs for the taking. As long as they’re together, Castiel doesn’t care. 

[taehyung-the-baehyung]

100% chance of rain

◦ pairing: reader x jimin

◦ rating: m

◦ word count: 3.3k

m a s t e r l i s t

“Babe,” he smiled, reaching out to still my hand as I frantically smoothed my hair down. “You look fine.” He sat back in his chair, watching as I fiddled with strands of my hair. I combed through it with my fingers one more time before slouching hopelessly. It had taken forever to straighten it properly, and just a few rain droplets had pulled my waves out of hiding. I never liked my curly hair. “Jimin,” I sulked. “It took so long.” This date night was supposed to be perfect; it was our one year anniversary. Neither of us were a big fan of dressing up fancy and going to an expensive restaurant, so Jimin brought us to the place where we had our first date. It was a quaint ice cream shop just one block away from my apartment, jumbled in with the mess of the bustling city life. Unless you were familiar with the city, you would surely miss it. Jimin chuckled, shaking his head as he dipped his spoon into the cup that sat between us. Motioning for me to lean forward, he placed the cold spoon in my mouth. I hummed with satisfaction, carefully licking the dribble of ice cream that trailed my upper lip. The steady drizzle of the rain outside pattered against the puddles on the ground. I puckered my lips, still scolding myself for wasting so much time on my hair without checking for the very important detail of the weather forecast. “You know,” Jimin started, pushing around the scoops of ice cream. “I like your natural hair.” He flipped the spoon, placing it facedown on his tongue as he let the ice cream melt on his tongue. His eyes met mine with a mischievous glance, raising his eyebrows up and down.

I swatted his shoulder, drawing laughter out of him. He pushed back in his chair, clutching his chest with his hand as his laughter bounced around. I rolled my eyes at him. He threw himself all over the place when he laughed. “Well, I like your natural hair too,” I retorted weakly, pulling at strands of his blonde hair. He took hold of my hand and planted a kiss on it, holding it against his face for a moment. I brushed my thumb against his soft cheek, relaxing with his touch. “You know it’s not my choice,” he frowned into my palm. “I know,” I pinched his cheek a little, smiling tenderly. “I still think you’re handsome, don’t worry.” Concern still washed over Jimin’s features: lip pushed out in a pout, eyebrows knit together. “You know I’d do anything for you, right?” He held my hand between both of his now. I squeezed his fingers between my own, hoping to reassure him. He always took everything I said to heart, constantly stressed that his job might strain our relationship. It was sweet, really, but the last thing he needed was to worry over something I joked about. “I don’t know,” I pushed my hair dramatically over my shoulder. “You might have to convince me,” I giggled. When his face only scrunched up further, I pulled his hands to my lips, kissing the back of his hand. “I know,” I said quietly. His gaze softened as he smiled. He untangled his hands, sinking the spoon back into the soft ice cream, swirling it around in the cup. The sleeve of his sweater brushed against the side of the cup, leaving a streak of ice cream. His pink lips turned into a pout as he brought his sleeve up to his mouth. For a moment, a smirk flashed across his lips, before disappearing again into a gentle smile, releasing the cloth of his sweater from his mouth. His lips darted out, running across his bottom lip. His folded his hands together, bringing his thumb to his lips. His gaze deepened as he opened his mouth slightly. I shifted in my seat, flustered, before collecting more ice cream in the spoon. I leaned forward, lifting the spoon to his mouth. He held the handle of the spoon, his fingers running over mine as he again turned the spoon over, running his tongue over the ice cream in one flat, sweeping motion. I turned my attention back to the puddling ice cream in front of us, scooping a little in my mouth, running my mouth across the bend of the spoon, raising an eyebrow at Jimin. The muscles in his jaw tightened as his lips parted slightly. His chest fell as he exhaled slowly. “Let’s go.” His Adam’s apple hiccuped as his breath hitched in his throat. I feigned a gasp, bringing my hand to my chest. “What a short first date.” I shrugged, sighing as I narrated to myself. “I guess he doesn’t like me that much.” “Yah!” Jimin protested. “Of course I like you,” he reached out, just missing me as I rose from my seat. I dashed from the table, towards the door. Hurriedly tossing out the remnants of our ice cream, Jimin chased me out onto the sidewalk. The humid air hugged us as we ran like children down the block, weaving in and out of people minding their own business. We headed towards my building. The sky had grown dark as the sun dipped into the horizon, grey clouds rumbling over the stars. Rain clung to the pavement, the scent flowing through the alley we ran through now. We ran with our hands on our heads, as though it would sufficiently shield them from the rain. I reached the apartment first, pressing a hand against the damp brick of the side of the building “I win!” I declared, panting as I leaned my head against the brick. Strands of my hair began wrinkling under the rain, making me scrunch my nose with disappointment. Jimin reached me in milliseconds, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he stood in front of me. “Shit, you’re fast,” he swallowed and let out a deep exhale as he caught his breath. The skies spilled down on us, drenching us almost immediately. I let out a scream, turning to run for the inviting shield of the apartment. Jimin grabbed my wrist, holding me still. He stepped closer, pushing my back against the brick wall. “Jimin!” I yelled, raising my voice over the cold rain as it slapped the pavement around us. He leaned in, his lips brushing gently against mine, instantly silencing me. My heart thundered in my chest, streaming through my body until it reached my core with a familiar warmth. I hooked my fingers on the loops of his jeans, pulling him in just close enough to properly kiss him. “This is moving pretty fast for a first date,” I smirked against his lips. He bit his lip as he looked away with a chuckle. “You’re the worst,” he shook his head. “I’m not even going to kiss you now,” he laughed as he took a step back. “Jimin-ah,” I began with a whine, tugging at his sleeve. Without hesitation, he slammed me back against the wall, his lips crashing into mine. His tongue quickly navigated mine, his hands cupping my face as his body pressed me flat against the wall. The ridges of the bricks sunk into my back, forcing my breaths out heavier. I slid a hand beneath Jimin’s sweater and pulled him in closer. The warmth of his breath and the wetness of our bodies sent a shiver through my spine. “J-Jimin,” I stammered. He hummed in response, a growl tickling the back of his throat. With one hand, his fingers tugged at the waist of my jeans, and with the other, he raked through my hair as the rain continued to pour over us. He yanked lightly, pulling a moan from my lips. “I really wish you hadn’t teased me.” My hair clung to my face now, the curls springing back under the waves that seemed to crash down from the sky. “Hey,” I objected. “You started it!” “Shut up,” he chuckled. He was panting as he brought his lips to my neck, sucking lightly at the skin. “Bedroom,” his teeth grazed against the skin of my neck. “Now,” he bit down, releasing a frantic nod from me. Unraveling from each other, I grabbed his hand and pulled him into the building, dripping in more ways than one as we scrambled through the lobby, climbed up the stairs and through the hall to my door. Jimin pressed himself into my back as I unlocked the door, whispering sloppy kisses down my neck. We stumbled inside, giggles echoing the room as we pulled each other’s clothes over our heads, stumbling over jeans as we left a river of clothes in my living room. Standing bare as the cold air of the apartment washed over our damp bodies, shudders coursed through our bodies. Jimin pushed me roughly against the nearest wall, a slight gasp leaving my lips, quickly swallowed up by his tongue. My hands wandered up and down the warmth of his skin. I arched my back, pushing my hips into his. His hands fell to grip the small of my back as he lifted me from the ground. I locked my ankles around him, a whimpered exhale spilling from my mouth as I threw my hands into Jimin’s hair, running through the slick strands, trying to hold in my desperate moans. His hands pressed into my side, gripping my hips. Our tongues danced around each other beautifully. Jimin took my bottom lip into his mouth, biting down. Incoherent sounds spilled out of my mouth. I was clawing at his skin as I pulled him into me, still not getting him where I needed him most. “Hungry for me, baby girl?” He trailed his harsh kisses along my shoulder, kneading his hands into my thighs. He was teasing, and it was working. He knew my body inside out. My fingers wrapped around the back of his neck, pushing Jimin into me. “Ah, ah,” he pulled back, a sultry glare boring into me. “You’re going to have to be more patient than that,” his voice had sunk deeper. If I weren’t propped up against him like this, my knees would have surely grown weak beneath me. I was already falling apart and this was only just the beginning. Jimin murmured curiously against my neck, still planting more bites. “I guess you didn’t check the weather,” he sounded thoroughly amused. “It’s going to be really wet.” His eyes hooded over as he attached his lips over my breast, his tongue flicking around the bud. My skin drowned in goosebumps when he began massaging circles at my hips. His thumb pressed deep over my hipbones, the pressure whispering over into my core mockingly. Whines streamed from my lips as Jimin kept working his hands and his mouth. All I could do was sink my fingers into his back and pull him against me, as though we could possibly be any closer. “Jimin,” I whimpered, throwing my head against the wall in frustration. “Please,” I was ready to do anything. I just needed him in every way. Without a word, his hand snaked up my back and he walked into the bedroom. His tormenting nibbles scattered across the curve of my shoulder as he pushed my body into the mattress. The cold contact against the light fabric of the sheets sent a shudder rippling through my body. “Babe,” I breathed, my words getting caught in my throat. Jimin placed his hands on either side of my head, stabilizing himself as he towered over me, just breathing above me. “Please!” I yelped out, unable to take his taunting. 

  “You look so fucking hot when you’re desperate for me,” he growled, his lips meeting mine for a slower, gentle kiss. He broke it suddenly and the same smirk that danced across his lips earlier this evening now fully flushed his face. His cheeks had grown red, his own chest rising and falling with the rush. “On your knees,” he whispered, his firm voice echoed in my head as I dropped to the floor. “Get me ready,” his words stuttered as I kissed my mouth over his tip immediately.   I hollowed my cheeks, sucking lightly at just the tip. The moan that left Jimin’s lips was drawn out, making me press my thighs together, anticipating his hard member. His tip burned hot in my mouth as I took more of it in, swirling my tongue around his shaft. I sucked eagerly. “Fuck,” he gasped as he grabbed my hair, needing something to hold on. My hands drifted to his balls, thumbs massaging circles, as I continued bobbing my head to the rhythm of desperation. “Yes baby,” he moaned. His fingers grasped tight at my curls of hair as he bucked his hips forward. Tears prickled around my eyes, but I took in air as he pulled back slightly. “You take my cock so well.” The veins in his neck bulged as strained to keep his sounds in. Pressing lightly against his balls, Jimin out a groan before pulling out of my mouth quickly. I looked up at him and flash my own quick smirk, happily feeding him some of his own medicine. From here, I could see the sweat form in sweet droplets on his stomach. I batted my eyelashes at him, pushing my lip out in a pout. “Baby, just touch me. You’ll see how ready I am for your dick,” I stood, stepping closer to him. His eyes alone groped up and down my body, sending chills across my skin. He didn’t even have a finger on me. “Please,” I dropped my voice as I leant in to his lips, taking in the air he breathed out. “Take me any way you want. Wreck me. Just do something.” My voice was swimming with urgency. Jimin’s lip turned upwards at the thought. “Okay,” he began, his eyes locked with mine determinedly. “Your turn,” he grabbed both my arms and pushed me back on the bed, hovering above me once again. His lips teased mine before sailing down my body, over the curves of my collarbone, through the valley of my breasts and the pool of my navel, reaching my core. His tongue stroked up against my skin, parting my lips slightly as it whispered over me, but not where I wanted him. My hands reached out to sink into his hair, but caught grip of both my wrists quickly. “Just lie back, baby. Let me take care of you.” Jimin’s hot breath coated me deliciously. He pushed his hands against my inner thighs, the cold sting of his rings pressing into my flesh. My hands flew out to my sides, curling against the sheets. Spreading my legs, Jimin sucked at my clit, the slick sounds of his tongue flowing through the room. He let his tongue move in and out for a while, and I could hear him lapping up all my juices. “Oh Christ, Jesus,” I whined. “Jimin, please, can I touch you?” The knot in my stomach slowly unraveling to his will. He hummed in response, vibrating against my clit as he continued sucking and licking. I pushed his head further into me, drawing a chuckle out from him, again pushing me closer to the edge. Jimin’s fingers dug into my sides again as he dragged me towards my high. He disconnected from me for a moment. I whined at the loss of contact. “Cum all over my face,” he mumbled quickly before digging his nose deep between my legs. The pleasure grew overwhelming as my walls clenched, and Jimin kept going and going. I screwed my eyes shut. Everything grew sensitive as I threw profanities from my mouth. I felt Jimin drag his kisses up my body again, feeling the remnants of my juices linger against my own skin. “You taste amazing, baby,” he cooed, attaching his lips with mine. Tasting myself on his tongue, I moaned into him, lifting my head as I rested on my elbows. “I think it’s time I take care of you properly,” he hissed. I nodded blindly with a moan, all the noises beginning to muffle as heat rushed to ears. “Face down, ass up.” I complied easily, my entire body still buzzing from the pleasure. I arched my back, shifting my ass against Jimin’s body. His hard member brushed against me, making my bunch up the sheets beneath me. “God, I love your body,” Jimin spoke clearly as he bent over to my ear. Carefully, he pushed himself into me all the way. I took in a sharp inhale, the stretch being a lot to take at once. Jimin paused, letting me adjust, but I started moving my hips, needing him everywhere all at once. I slid against his dick, my walls snug against his stretch. He grunted and grabbed hold of my hips, pulling me in closer with a snap. “So damn good,” he huffed. “And tight.” He was already making my thighs shake. I was sure I would come apart all over him again. His was hitting the right place, gripping me tight and thrusting me hard in his own steady pace. Jimin traced his free hand along my spine, tickling it enough to make me arch my back deeper. I felt his chest against my back, closing all the space between us as he leaned over. “You like getting fucked from behind, don’t you, baby?” His body hovered against my back, his hips pushing my down into the bed. His pace hastened as his thrusts hit deeper. “Yes, oh God, yes,” I screamed out, clinging to the sheets with both hands. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, please, please, please,” I moaned. Everything was so intense, my body trembling beneath Jimin’s, but he knew that. He knew I was done for the moment he pushed me against the wall outside. My orgasm soared through my veins, shaking through every bone. But Jimin didn’t stop. He pumped hard, over and over and over and over again until I collapsed into the bed, juices flowing down my thigh. Jimin swallowed as he turned me over gently, and placed a kiss on my lips. “I love you,” he grunted, pushed inside me again, fucking me hard all over again, even though my walls were still clenched around him. His roughness stole all the words from my mouth, replacing them with euphoric whines. My walls tightened on their own, and I could feel every whip of Jimin’s hips. My name was no longer a name, but a sweet song that left his lips, pouring down over my skin with bouquets of purple flowers as he spilled inside me. His teeth grated my skin with pure pleasure as he pumped himself into me a couple more times. Jimin pulled out, both of us hissing at the loss. His weight dipped into the mattress beside me. “That was amazing,” I exhaled, staring up at the ceiling, blinking away stars. “Oh,” he pecked my jawline. “I’m not done with you,” he chuckled. My stomach dropped all over again. “I’m going to make you cum until you can’t breathe,” he whispered, but his voice sounded like nectarine, as though he had just said something oh so romantic. I felt his lips turn up into a grin as I froze in my spot. “I don’t even know if I can go again,” I laughed nervously, knowing entirely too well that I could. He chuckled, pressing his lips to my neck. “Liar.”

[aroundtheworldin18years]

A FIREWORK SPECTACULAR

Venice is famed as one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and who are we to disagree. Built on an archipelago (a cluster) of small islands, which are all joined together by bridges; Venice is a real tourist hotspot.  The resplendent buildings in the old town, many of which are in desperate need of repair; still have a desirable beauty as well as offering a huge amount of character to this beautiful romantic city.  Sadly, romance wasn’t on the cards and our day trip to Venice was with a purpose.  That purpose, to experience one of the biggest firework displays in Europe, the Festa del Redentore (Feast of the Redeemer).

The beautiful Grand Canal

Knowing that the firework display didn’t begin or end until late, we chose to drive.  Venice isn’t your typical city to take a car.  The heart of Venice has no roads, just 170 canals with the main mode of transport being a Vaporetti (water bus).  On the outskirts of Venice we parked at the multi-storey Venezia Tronchetta car park which is open 24 hours.  The car park was a short 2 minute walk away from Tronchetto per Piazza San Marco, where we needed to board a vaporetti to get to Piazza San Marco.  Matilda and Lily-Belle became our tour guides and were in charge of the map.  On board the vaporetti, Matilda was concerned that the person who tied/untied the boat couldn’t tie a knot properly.

I think it’s that way. The map’s upside down ya eejit!

Get knotted

LET’S PRETEND TO BE SARDINES

It’s early afternoon and the weather was exceptionally hot.  Of course we had dressed accordingly in t-shirts, shorts, flip-flops and hats for the girls.  Little did we know that there was a huge storm on the horizon!  The water bus was packed and rather uncomfortable, but we now know what it must feel like to be a sardine.  Thankfully the journey along the Grand Canal only took around 20-30 minutes.  Cruising along the busy canal is a great way to see the iconic buildings that line both sides of the Grand Canal.  Sat on a boat in the middle of the Grand Canal would also be a great way to see the fireworks of the Festa del Redentore.  If you listen carefully you may even hear a Gondolier sing as he navigates the inner canals!

Elaborate and ornate decor on a building in Venice

Gondolas awaiting their passengers

View of the Santa Maria della Salute in Venice

PIGEON PARADISE

The vaporetti docked at San Marco and we had quite a few hours to wander before the Festa del Redentore begins.  Piazza San Marco or St. Marks Square as it’s known to many tourists; is just around the corner so this was our first port of call.  There are literally thousands of pigeons!  Immediately upon entering the square we were mobbed by men trying to place bird seed into our hands.  And just so you know. the ‘seed sellers’ are quick!  The ‘sellers’ target the children and once the little ones have seed in their hand, and pigeons flapping around them; they demand €5.00 from you.  If you don’t pay, they follow you and harass you.  Sorry, but I take no harassment from anyone and the ‘seed seller’ was told in no uncertain terms where to go.  Blink…the man had disappeared!

Some days you’re the statue, some days you’re the pigeon…get over it

WHEN IN ROME

You’ve all heard of the phrase ‘when in Rome’…right?  Well, when in Venice we always start with a Gelato from a small shop located in Piazza San Marco.  Eating ice-cream and listening to the bands play relaxes the mind and soul…that is until the children start squabbling over nothing!  Matilda was fascinated with a pigeon wing lay on the ground (no pigeon, just a wing).  She stood in silence looking at the wing and licking her ice-cream!  I wanted to ask her what she was thinking but was concerned at the answer she might give.  I decided to leave well alone!  Definitely a strange little monkey at times!  Time to explore the quaint back streets as we took in the splendour of Venice and waited for the Festa del Redentore to commence.  Lots of iconic buildings at Piazzo San Marco and all the girls wanted to do was stroke a dog!

Sing with me….Justa one cornetto

Diamonds are not a girl’s best friend…dogs are

ALWAYS CHECK THE WEATHER

Evening was drawing in, as were the clouds; as we took our seats to dine al fresco at Le Café in one of Venice’s many piazza’s.  The square was lively as tourists took in the sites and locals went about their daily business.  It didn’t take Lily-Belle and Matilda long to tuck in to the complimentary breadsticks.  As the food arrived, so did the odd spit of rain,, but not enough for us to retreat indoors!  Our regular readers will know that Mummy is the ‘organiser’ of our holidays and trips.  Casually, I asked Mummy if she had checked the weather forecast prior to leaving Marina Julia Camping Village.  I certainly didn’t recall seeing any umbrella’s, raincoats or wet-weather gear being packed.  No..she hadn’t!  Diners became more and more agitated as they looked towards the darkening sky…rain (lots of) was imminent!

READ ALL ABOUT OUR HOLIDAY AT MARINA JULIA CAMPING VILLAGE

Buona salute da Venezia

Mussels and Malbec…yes please

Where do I begin?

Asta la pasta baby

STROLLING THE SIDE STREETS

After dinner we took a gentle stroll to walk off the fantastic feed.  Crowds were beginning to gather and we could see that many were walking in the general direction of where the fireworks would commence.  Did we follow?  No!  Mummy had other ideas and reckoned she had found a shortcut on the map.  Wrong!  Mummy led us along narrow streets, over bridges and down ominous dark alleys.  I’m fairly certain that we ended up in someones garden at one point!  Back to the map, follow the hoards and then it happened…pitter-patter rain drops!

Peaceful and colourful

O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo

Window shopping in the back streets of Venice

FLAP-FLIP-FLOP

Pitter-patter rain drops quickly turned into a solid downpour, each droplet the size of a pear-drop.  Noah’s Ark would have been a very welcome sight at this point!  We were absolutely soaked to the skin in less than 60 seconds!  It’s actually quite funny, as the souvenir shops that were selling trinkets and novelties soon had umbrella’s, poncho’s and rain mac’s for sale…at hugely inflated prices!  Tighter than a duck’s bum, Mummy ushered us all by in search of a sheltered spot…a spot that didn’t come!  I began to wonder if the Festa del Redentore would be a complete washout?  Guess what?  No photos!  In all honesty we were more concerned in trying to find shelter than in taking pics.  Here’s a picture of the famous and splendid stone-arch Rialto Bridge which spans the narrowest point of the Grand Canal.  Taken earlier in the day before the rain came.

Italian Ponte di Rialto, stone-arch bridge crossing over the narrowest point of the Grand Canal in the heart of Venice

In the midst of the wet chaos one of Mummy’s flip-flops snapped!  There was no time for shoe shopping so she had to make do with a less-than-adequate flapping flip-flop!  I’m glad it was raining because it hid the tears of laughter that rolled down my cheeks…too funny!  Lily-Belle said Mummy was walking like a penguin with a broken leg.  Sort of like locking the stable door after the horse had bolted, I took charge and we splashed our way back to the shop.  Pink poncho’s purchased for the girls and a rather large umbrella for Daddy.  Anyone else think these poncho’s look like big pink condoms?  Just me then!

Which one of you is the head poncho? Flap-flip-flop is!

Lollipos and a thumbs up, rain doesn’t stop play…ever!

FIREWORKS AND FRAYED TEMPERS

Mummy had done lots of research on finding the best vantage point to see the fireworks at Festa del Redentore.  What Mummy hadn’t taken into consideration was that every other tourist in Venice wanted that same vantage point.  Planning went out of the window as we were dragged along by the crowd.  The majority of streets had been closed by the Polizia due to the sheer volume of pedestrians wanting to see the firework’s.  One final bridge to get us to our vantage point and lo-and-behold it was closed and guarded by a number of Polizia.  Mummy chatted with one of the Ufficiale’s to see if he would allow us through, he wouldn’t!  The chap also advised that the fireworks might not be going ahead due to the torrential rain!  The girls were cold, Daddy was soaked and Mummy was still in tourist mode…tempers were definitely getting frayed!

Watching the fireworks in Venice

FINALLY, FIREWORKS IN THE NIGHT SKY

Although we didn’t get to the vantage point that we had hoped for, we did managed to find a decent place to view the Festa del Redentore fireworks.  Strategically chosen right next to the Vaporetti dock which we needed to use to get back to the car park.  Thankfully the rain stopped and the night sky was now illuminated with fireworks.  Boats bobbed up and down on the water as tourists tried to get the best viewing point.  Flashes of reds, explosions of greens and blues, and each sparkle accompanied by ‘ooh’s and aah’s‘ from the crowd.  Spectacular and the 45 minute display was well worth the soaking; even if it meant we’d all have pneumonia in the morning!  Just to add, the journey from Marina Julia Camping Village to Venice took around 90 mins, but the return journey took over 5 hours due to roadworks and detours…nightmare!  Enjoy.

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WOULD WE GO BACK

Yes.  Although we have been to Venice twice we have only scratched the surface of what it has to offer.  We still haven’t managed to take a Gondola ride but it isn’t for want of trying.  Yet again the weather was against us.  The next time we visit will be for a 48 hour city break to take in the sights and a gondola tour of the inner canals.

LILY-BELLE SAYS (9) I really enjoyed Venice and watching the fireworks.  Having the pigeons eat from my hand was fun, until Daddy put seed in my hair…idiot!  Me and Daddy couldn’t stop laughing when Mummy’s flip-flop snapped, it was so funny watching Mummy run like a penguin with a broken leg.  The rain was horrible and Daddy made us wear a big pink bin bag, everyone kept staring and taking photos! Daddy:  the ‘big pink bin bag’ actually resembled an oversized condom more than a bin bag, but shhhhh, Lily-Belle doesn’t need to know anything about condoms…E V E R!  And Lily-Belle, if you’re reading this and wondering…go and ask your Mother!

MATILDA SAYS (3) I didn’t like the pigeons because they kept pooing on the floor, it was really yucky.  The fireworks took forever and ever and I was bored.

Travel Itinerary

Festa del Redentore:  free public event Date of visit:  15th July 2018 Car park:  €21 (from 3-24 hours) Vaporetti:  children age 5 and under are free, children over 6 pay full adult price which is €15 (return)

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VENICE: FESTA DEL REDENTORE A FIREWORK SPECTACULAR Venice is famed as one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and who are we to disagree.

[samuelfields]

Move Over FIRE, Welcome DIRE: Delay, Inherit, Retire, Expire

When I first started writing about achieving  financial independence early in 2009, I never thought the FIRE movement would reach such a huge level of interest a decade later. After all, only misfits decide to aggressively forgo material pleasures, save 50% or more of their incomes, and retire from well-paying jobs in their 30s.

Back in 2009, the “lifestyle design” movement was all the rage because people were getting blown out of their jobs left and right. Some people went back to graduate school to save face. Others decided to start lifestyle businesses after getting laid off. I figured there was a good chance my head would also roll, which is one reason why I started Financial Samurai that summer.

Thanks to a raging bull market that ensued, life turned out fine and the FIRE movement picked up steam. Today, we are at peak FIRE, perhaps similar to peak crypto reached in December 2017. Unfortunately, when you’re at the peak, there’s usually nowhere to go but down.

Growing Angst Against Financial Independence

You know we’re at peak fire because the mass media has latched onto FIRE like a rabid dog which hasn’t eaten in weeks. Not a day goes by where there isn’t a new story about someone leaving a job early and how they did it.

As an investor, we know that by the time big media gets hold, it’s often too late to invest. Rather, it’s likely a more opportune time to sell. Just think about Uber and Lyft finally filing to IPO in 2019. After all the easy money has been made as private companies, they’re hoping to finally cash out to public investors.

My job as an investor and as a personal finance writer is to do my best to forecast the future. Writing about what may happen is infinitely more interesting (and risky) than writing about the past. Forecasting the future challenges your mind and could make you a rich hero or a broke fool with egg on your face.

But as with everything in life, no risk, no reward. Today, my crystal ball is saying the FIRE movement is in for a rude awakening.

On the one hand, there is growing disdain against the FIRE movement from the majority of Americans who will never reach financial independence. With the median household income going nowhere over the past 10 years, it’s been hard for middle-class Americans to get ahead. Further, the average American has a pitiful amount saved in their retirement accounts.

When you’ve been spinning your wheels for so long, all this brouhaha about people retiring early to live fabulous lives in their mom’s basement while posting fake Instagram pictures about their amazing lives starts to get mighty annoying after a while. Annoyance turns into rage and a new movement is born.

On the other side are FIRE practitioners who are finding out that not all is sunshine and rainbows once they’ve quit a stable job with wonderful benefits. With a slowdown in the economy on the horizon, things are not looking good.

The DIRE Movement Is Created

The Fed is on a mission to suffocate the economy with more rate hikes. The current administration wants to further escalate trade wars because of alpha male ego, no matter how adversely it affects the stock market. Meanwhile, the housing market has gone past its peak and will likely continue to be in the doldrums for the next several years.

When a downturn hits, if it hasn’t already, it’s an inevitability that FIRE followers will be forced to go back to work and earn their retirements the old-fashioned way. Some might even say FIRE during a recession stands for Foolish Idealist Returns to Employer.

However, as long as we keep the FIRE acronym alive, we give hope to its original meaning. But when all is lost, false hope only gets people into further trouble. Therefore, let’s eliminate FIRE entirely from our psyche so that we can finally make a change!

Let me introduce the newest retirement movement to the world: DIRE. As a realist who sees the future, it is all but a certainty the DIRE movement will supplant the FIRE movement as the retirement path of choice. Let’s find out why.

D Is For Delay

For most people, delaying retirement due to the rapid rise in costs for housing, healthcare, and education is the only way to survive.

Given the median household income has stayed stagnant at around $61,000 for the past decade while the median house price in America has risen from $177,000 to $222,000 during the same period (26% increase), housing has become less affordable. In some cities, real estate prices have appreciated so quickly that most residents have no hope of ever owning.

Median household income has gone nowhere in 20 years

Healthcare costs are out of control, especially if you plan to carry the entire monthly premium burden yourself. The average total healthcare cost is now almost $20,000 a year, subsidized mostly by the employer. Once you’re out of a job, the entire $20,000 cost falls upon you unless you have a low enough income to qualify for subsidies. For my family of three, I pay $1,760 a month, or $21,120 a year for a platinum plan. None of us are overweight or have any serious chronic illnesses either.

Education costs, specifically college tuition has grown unbearable with annual tuition increases averaging 5% – 7%, regardless of a recession or not. That’s a doubling of tuition every 10 – 15 years. Good luck retiring early if you’ve got to pay $50,000 – $100,000 a year for four or five years for even just a single child.

For parents with kids, retiring early will be all but a pipe dream. There will always be at least one parent working full-time to earn a steady income and have subsidized health care. The non-working parent can shout they are FIRE as loud as they want, but nobody will buy it. Being a stay at home dad or mom is nothing to be ashamed about, yet for the man especially, he can’t seem to accept his new reality of living off his wife’s income.

I Is For Inherit

With no hope of retiring early, many Americans are counting on an inheritance as their retirement strategy. With 25 as the median age when parents had kids in 1970 and the median life expectancy currently hovering around 80, the average American will likely have to wait until around 65 to inherit anything.

Today, the average age when women start to have children is 28. Therefore, future generations will likely have to wait even longer to inherit anything, all else being equal.

Not all is bad news on the inheritance front, however. With the average net worth in America rising to almost $700,000, parents are doing more than ever before to help their adult children thrive in adulthood. After all, Baby Boomers have benefitted the most from the longest bull market in history.

Every single one of my immediate neighbors in San Francisco has parents who either bought them their house or are letting them live in one of their multiple properties rent free. When I first moved into my house in 2014, I met my neighbor’s son who at the time was a 24-year-old senior at UC Davis. When he graduated in 2015, he returned home and still hasn’t left!

Can you imagine relying on an inheritance as a retirement strategy? You might never be able to start a family, create your own sense of independence, and make your great contribution to society. Clearly, one side effect of DIRE is a surge in depression.

R is for Retire

Forget about retiring in your 30s, 40s, 50s, or even 60s. With DIRE, we’re talking nowadays about the majority retiring in our 70s or older baby! We’re living longer. This means we’ve got to work longer to support ourselves. Once upon a time, people would retire at age 65 and die within five years. We are returning to the phenomena of that bygone era.

The earliest one can collect Social Security will rise from 62 to at least 65 if the government wants to make the program whole. After all, the government runs a massive budget deficit each year. With little-to-no social safety, achieving a comfortable retirement life will all depend on you.

With the trend towards retiring in our 70s or older, retirement life won’t be as fun. It’ll be much harder to play leisurely sports like golf or tennis when your back is always in pain. There’ll be no way to ever climb the stairs of Santorini when your knees don’t have cartilage. Donkey ride it is!

The only thing left you can do in this new world of retirement is watch tons of TV and surf the internet. At least with the popularity of food delivery apps, you will no longer have to go out of the house to eat a nice rubber chicken dinner. Staying glued to a lounge chair is what the new retirement reality will be like.

E is for Expire

Here is where the DIRE movement will be at its saddest. After a long life of working because you had to, not because you wanted to, reluctant DIRE followers will look back on their lives with regret. They will curse the day they ever heard about FIRE because otherwise they would never have taken the leap of faith at the top of the market and fallen splat on their faces.

Instead of being the hare, they would have won the race as the tortoise – steadily saving and investing their income during their highest income earning years with much less stress and worry. They wouldn’t have had to embarrassingly gone back to work with their tails between their legs and watched old colleagues now become their bosses. They wouldn’t have needed to go through multiple mental breakdowns and countless nights of self-doubt because they couldn’t replace their day job income with freelance income or entrepreneurial income to take care of their families.

Contrast reluctant DIRE followers with DIRE enthusiasts. DIRE enthusiasts see the FIRE movement is in trouble and decide to stay the course. Instead of retiring in their 30s or 40s, they decide to maximize their highest income earning years and retire with multi-millions in their 50s. Given everyone is living longer, retiring in your 50s is like retiring in your 40s of yesteryear. Of course, they also don’t just stay miserable at their jobs. DIRE enthusiasts proactively search for better opportunities in order to keep on working.

A DIRE enthusiast doesn’t scoff at families who believe they need $5 million in an after-tax portfolio to retire early. DIRE enthusiasts realize that runaway inflation, globalization, and structurally lower investment returns in the future will wreak havoc on living the early retirement dream. Therefore, instead of getting into a rage about why the world’s round peg doesn’t fit into their square hole, they simply adapt and work longer.

The DIRE Movement’s Future

Unless you’re willing to work more than 40 hours a week, build some side hustle income, generate some stable passive income, save aggressively, and continuously make shrewd investments for the long term, you have no chance of FIRE. And if you don’t do all these things and still decide to retire early, you will likely be screwed and join the reluctant DIRE camp.

Yes, some of you will decide to live like paupers and either delay or not have kids to keep expenses to a minimum to hold onto your FIRE dreams. However, for the majority who want to live more conventional lifestyles, it’s more important than ever to follow some key financial principles to increase your chances for financial independence.

If you are wise, you will embrace the realities of DIRE as the world heads south. Giving priority to caring for your family and delaying a super early retirement is the responsible thing to do. Don’t let FIRE FOMO foster irrational decision making.

Yes, if the economy gets really bad, there will be more face-saving by folks who say they are FIRE instead of admitting they got laid off and are drowning in a sea of despair. Just recognize not all is what it seems. If your passive income cannot comfortably cover your best life’s living expenses, you are not FIRE and only fooling yourself.

It’s time for the DIRE movement to rise up! I’m personally looking to head back to work, but I’m afraid after almost seven years of unemployment, nobody will hire my dire self.

Related: The Negatives Of Early Retirement Nobody Likes Talking About

Readers, are you ready to embrace the DIRE movement? Do you believe we are at peak FIRE? Do you believe DIRE will overtake FIRE as rational people adopt a more middle ground approach to early retirement, especially in a weakening economic environment?

https://www.financialsamurai.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/12/DIRE-Movement.m4a

The post Move Over FIRE, Welcome DIRE: Delay, Inherit, Retire, Expire appeared first on Financial Samurai.

from Finance https://www.financialsamurai.com/dire-movement-delay-inherit-retire-expire/ via http://www.rssmix.com/

[mcjoelcain]

Move Over FIRE, Welcome DIRE: Delay, Inherit, Retire, Expire

When I first started writing about achieving  financial independence early in 2009, I never thought the FIRE movement would reach such a huge level of interest a decade later. After all, only misfits decide to aggressively forgo material pleasures, save 50% or more of their incomes, and retire from well-paying jobs in their 30s.

Back in 2009, the “lifestyle design” movement was all the rage because people were getting blown out of their jobs left and right. Some people went back to graduate school to save face. Others decided to start lifestyle businesses after getting laid off. I figured there was a good chance my head would also roll, which is one reason why I started Financial Samurai that summer.

Thanks to a raging bull market that ensued, life turned out fine and the FIRE movement picked up steam. Today, we are at peak FIRE, perhaps similar to peak crypto reached in December 2017. Unfortunately, when you’re at the peak, there’s usually nowhere to go but down.

Growing Angst Against Financial Independence

You know we’re at peak fire because the mass media has latched onto FIRE like a rabid dog which hasn’t eaten in weeks. Not a day goes by where there isn’t a new story about someone leaving a job early and how they did it.

As an investor, we know that by the time big media gets hold, it’s often too late to invest. Rather, it’s likely a more opportune time to sell. Just think about Uber and Lyft finally filing to IPO in 2019. After all the easy money has been made as private companies, they’re hoping to finally cash out to public investors.

My job as an investor and as a personal finance writer is to do my best to forecast the future. Writing about what may happen is infinitely more interesting (and risky) than writing about the past. Forecasting the future challenges your mind and could make you a rich hero or a broke fool with egg on your face.

But as with everything in life, no risk, no reward. Today, my crystal ball is saying the FIRE movement is in for a rude awakening.

On the one hand, there is growing disdain against the FIRE movement from the majority of Americans who will never reach financial independence. With the median household income going nowhere over the past 10 years, it’s been hard for middle-class Americans to get ahead. Further, the average American has a pitiful amount saved in their retirement accounts.

When you’ve been spinning your wheels for so long, all this brouhaha about people retiring early to live fabulous lives in their mom’s basement while posting fake Instagram pictures about their amazing lives starts to get mighty annoying after a while. Annoyance turns into rage and a new movement is born.

On the other side are FIRE practitioners who are finding out that not all is sunshine and rainbows once they’ve quit a stable job with wonderful benefits. With a slowdown in the economy on the horizon, things are not looking good.

The DIRE Movement Is Created

The Fed is on a mission to suffocate the economy with more rate hikes. The current administration wants to further escalate trade wars because of alpha male ego, no matter how adversely it affects the stock market. Meanwhile, the housing market has gone past its peak and will likely continue to be in the doldrums for the next several years.

When a downturn hits, if it hasn’t already, it’s an inevitability that FIRE followers will be forced to go back to work and earn their retirements the old-fashioned way. Some might even say FIRE during a recession stands for Foolish Idealist Returns to Employer.

However, as long as we keep the FIRE acronym alive, we give hope to its original meaning. But when all is lost, false hope only gets people into further trouble. Therefore, let’s eliminate FIRE entirely from our psyche so that we can finally make a change!

Let me introduce the newest retirement movement to the world: DIRE. As a realist who sees the future, it is all but a certainty the DIRE movement will supplant the FIRE movement as the retirement path of choice. Let’s find out why.

D Is For Delay

For most people, delaying retirement due to the rapid rise in costs for housing, healthcare, and education is the only way to survive.

Given the median household income has stayed stagnant at around $61,000 for the past decade while the median house price in America has risen from $177,000 to $222,000 during the same period (26% increase), housing has become less affordable. In some cities, real estate prices have appreciated so quickly that most residents have no hope of ever owning.

Median household income has gone nowhere in 20 years

Healthcare costs are out of control, especially if you plan to carry the entire monthly premium burden yourself. The average total healthcare cost is now almost $20,000 a year, subsidized mostly by the employer. Once you’re out of a job, the entire $20,000 cost falls upon you unless you have a low enough income to qualify for subsidies. For my family of three, I pay $1,760 a month, or $21,120 a year for a platinum plan. None of us are overweight or have any serious chronic illnesses either.

Education costs, specifically college tuition has grown unbearable with annual tuition increases averaging 5% – 7%, regardless of a recession or not. That’s a doubling of tuition every 10 – 15 years. Good luck retiring early if you’ve got to pay $50,000 – $100,000 a year for four or five years for even just a single child.

For parents with kids, retiring early will be all but a pipe dream. There will always be at least one parent working full-time to earn a steady income and have subsidized health care. The non-working parent can shout they are FIRE as loud as they want, but nobody will buy it. Being a stay at home dad or mom is nothing to be ashamed about, yet for the man especially, he can’t seem to accept his new reality of living off his wife’s income.

I Is For Inherit

With no hope of retiring early, many Americans are counting on an inheritance as their retirement strategy. With 25 as the median age when parents had kids in 1970 and the median life expectancy currently hovering around 80, the average American will likely have to wait until around 65 to inherit anything.

Today, the average age when women start to have children is 28. Therefore, future generations will likely have to wait even longer to inherit anything, all else being equal.

Not all is bad news on the inheritance front, however. With the average net worth in America rising to almost $700,000, parents are doing more than ever before to help their adult children thrive in adulthood. After all, Baby Boomers have benefitted the most from the longest bull market in history.

Every single one of my immediate neighbors in San Francisco has parents who either bought them their house or are letting them live in one of their multiple properties rent free. When I first moved into my house in 2014, I met my neighbor’s son who at the time was a 24-year-old senior at UC Davis. When he graduated in 2015, he returned home and still hasn’t left!

Can you imagine relying on an inheritance as a retirement strategy? You might never be able to start a family, create your own sense of independence, and make your great contribution to society. Clearly, one side effect of DIRE is a surge in depression.

R is for Retire

Forget about retiring in your 30s, 40s, 50s, or even 60s. With DIRE, we’re talking nowadays about the majority retiring in our 70s or older baby! We’re living longer. This means we’ve got to work longer to support ourselves. Once upon a time, people would retire at age 65 and die within five years. We are returning to the phenomena of that bygone era.

The earliest one can collect Social Security will rise from 62 to at least 65 if the government wants to make the program whole. After all, the government runs a massive budget deficit each year. With little-to-no social safety, achieving a comfortable retirement life will all depend on you.

With the trend towards retiring in our 70s or older, retirement life won’t be as fun. It’ll be much harder to play leisurely sports like golf or tennis when your back is always in pain. There’ll be no way to ever climb the stairs of Santorini when your knees don’t have cartilage. Donkey ride it is!

The only thing left you can do in this new world of retirement is watch tons of TV and surf the internet. At least with the popularity of food delivery apps, you will no longer have to go out of the house to eat a nice rubber chicken dinner. Staying glued to a lounge chair is what the new retirement reality will be like.

E is for Expire

Here is where the DIRE movement will be at its saddest. After a long life of working because you had to, not because you wanted to, reluctant DIRE followers will look back on their lives with regret. They will curse the day they ever heard about FIRE because otherwise they would never have taken the leap of faith at the top of the market and fallen splat on their faces.

Instead of being the hare, they would have won the race as the tortoise – steadily saving and investing their income during their highest income earning years with much less stress and worry. They wouldn’t have had to embarrassingly gone back to work with their tails between their legs and watched old colleagues now become their bosses. They wouldn’t have needed to go through multiple mental breakdowns and countless nights of self-doubt because they couldn’t replace their day job income with freelance income or entrepreneurial income to take care of their families.

Contrast reluctant DIRE followers with DIRE enthusiasts. DIRE enthusiasts see the FIRE movement is in trouble and decide to stay the course. Instead of retiring in their 30s or 40s, they decide to maximize their highest income earning years and retire with multi-millions in their 50s. Given everyone is living longer, retiring in your 50s is like retiring in your 40s of yesteryear. Of course, they also don’t just stay miserable at their jobs. DIRE enthusiasts proactively search for better opportunities in order to keep on working.

A DIRE enthusiast doesn’t scoff at families who believe they need $5 million in an after-tax portfolio to retire early. DIRE enthusiasts realize that runaway inflation, globalization, and structurally lower investment returns in the future will wreak havoc on living the early retirement dream. Therefore, instead of getting into a rage about why the world’s round peg doesn’t fit into their square hole, they simply adapt and work longer.

The DIRE Movement’s Future

Unless you’re willing to work more than 40 hours a week, build some side hustle income, generate some stable passive income, save aggressively, and continuously make shrewd investments for the long term, you have no chance of FIRE. And if you don’t do all these things and still decide to retire early, you will likely be screwed and join the reluctant DIRE camp.

Yes, some of you will decide to live like paupers and either delay or not have kids to keep expenses to a minimum to hold onto your FIRE dreams. However, for the majority who want to live more conventional lifestyles, it’s more important than ever to follow some key financial principles to increase your chances for financial independence.

If you are wise, you will embrace the realities of DIRE as the world heads south. Giving priority to caring for your family and delaying a super early retirement is the responsible thing to do. Don’t let FIRE FOMO foster irrational decision making.

Yes, if the economy gets really bad, there will be more face-saving by folks who say they are FIRE instead of admitting they got laid off and are drowning in a sea of despair. Just recognize not all is what it seems. If your passive income cannot comfortably cover your best life’s living expenses, you are not FIRE and only fooling yourself.

It’s time for the DIRE movement to rise up! I’m personally looking to head back to work, but I’m afraid after almost seven years of unemployment, nobody will hire my dire self.

Related: The Negatives Of Early Retirement Nobody Likes Talking About

Readers, are you ready to embrace the DIRE movement? Do you believe we are at peak FIRE? Do you believe DIRE will overtake FIRE as rational people adopt a more middle ground approach to early retirement, especially in a weakening economic environment?

https://www.financialsamurai.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/12/DIRE-Movement.m4a

The post Move Over FIRE, Welcome DIRE: Delay, Inherit, Retire, Expire appeared first on Financial Samurai.

from Money https://www.financialsamurai.com/dire-movement-delay-inherit-retire-expire/ via http://www.rssmix.com/