#so this phrase came up in a book my flat mate was reading

[crowlixcx]

[bcdrawsandwrites]

Fandom: Psychonauts

Rating: T

Genre: Angst

Characters: Caligosto Loboto, Loboto’s parents

Warnings: Surgery, lobotomy, hallucinations, child abuse, EVERYTHING IS HORRIBLE AND NOTHING IS OKAY WITH THIS (but there’s nothing graphic)

Description: Just be still, and you'll be fine.

Beta Readers: @jaywings​ and Rocket (who I’m not sure is on Tumblr?)

Notes: who let me write Psychonauts fanfic. also some of the phrases in this fic were taken from this site.

---~~~---

“Scattering sparks of thought energy

Deliver me and carry me away”

“Here in my kingdom, I am your lord

I order you to cower and præy”

- The Mind Electric, by Tally Hall

 ---

Sometimes it was nice to just lay down in the park and watch the clouds float overhead.

He often had a lot of energy, both normal and... well... unnatural, but sometimes it was nice to relax, especially when he didn't feel like himself. His energy was ebbing, and there was something… something...

"Can you tell us another?"

He glanced up. Several of his usual playmates were standing around him, their faces lit up in interest. He grinned a wide, toothy grin.

"The boy babbled blatantly but was blessed with a brilliant brain!"

"Good!"

The compliment made his brow furrow. Normally they might cheer "cool!" or "awesome!" but he shrugged—he'd take it. It gave him a warm feeling inside, unlike the frequent chill of his own home. Plus, he couldn’t help but light up as he watched the smiles on his friends’ faces—some of them were still losing baby teeth, he noted, and the progression was fascinating. He knew what he could do to see more of those grins, too...

Without raising his head too much—it hurt a little, and he could see well enough from where he was—he glanced around to make sure his mother wasn't too close by. Luckily she was way off in the pavilion, talking to several other adults. Good; she wouldn't see, and neither would the other prying parents.

"How about this?" he asked, and with a tiny bit of concentration lifted a few rocks off the ground, spinning them in circles. Instead of cheering, however, the children backed away, their smiles fading.

"Look, he's trying to—!" one girl whispered frantically.

"Don't worry, he's fine for now."

He frowned, dropping the rocks. "O-oh, I'm sorry! I didn't think they would see..."

"That's okay. Can you tell us another?"

"Disappointed dogs don't do dangerous deeds." Wincing, he closed his eyes—there was a breeze that seemed to pass over his head only, running through his hair.

His scalp felt cold.

---

"Go on, Caligosto. Show the doctor how you can pick it up."

"Like this...?"

"No, the other way."

"But... mother doesn't like it when I do it that way."

"Do as you're told, Caligosto."

"...Okay..."

The fish swam all about the pond, but came closer to the surface when they realized he was watching from his usual spot on the shore. As they nearned him, he settled over the grass, staring down at his scaly friends. The fish seemed to like his company, and they wouldn't snitch to his parents if he did anything they wouldn't like.

On top of that, he felt a connection with them, almost like the sort of connection he could feel with people. They couldn't talk, and they didn't have facial expressions… but he could almost read them somehow, more and more as he continued visiting. Now he could sense what foods they wanted, or when they were scared of a nearby predator. It was nice to help them out.

It was also interesting to see the different kinds of teeth the fish had—some had sharp fangs, some had tiny flat teeth, and some had teeth in weird places, like their tongue or throat!

"Can you hear us?"

He would have jumped, but that would have scared the fish. As it was, he leaned forward, his eyes wide beneath their glasses. "Yes! I can hear you!" He could hardly contain his excitement. "I'd always thought I could hear you before, but never this clear! Do you think—"

"Good! Can you tell us another?"

He blinked. "Another what?"

"Another phrase."

Oh, right. In his excitement he'd nearly forgotten that he'd occasionally show off for the fish as well, though he'd never been sure if they could understand. "Friendly fish flip-flop fast when facing fearsome foes!"

"Very good!"

Giggling, he settled himself back down on the soft grass. "I'm glad you think so... my parents always tell me to be quiet."

Apparently, the fish had nothing to say to this, for they remained quiet, swimming just under the surface and watching him. So he kept watching them too, observing the light that reflected off their scales. But one creature caught his eye: a small turtle swimming in place. It was odd to see to begin with, but the paddling of its little feet seemed strangely frantic, its front legs moving in big sweeping arcs. It didn't speak, but he swore he could hear it—

Away, away—

---

"Is that... all he's capable of?"

"I'm afraid not."

"D—Father, are we done? I don't like it here..."

"Only speak when spoken to, Caligosto."

"Can we see anything else?"

"Yes."

"I-I don't want to—"

"Caligosto."

"Okay, okay! Let me—"

---

The seas were calm, and he had worked hard today as a navigator (or was he first mate? he couldn't quite remember, but that was okay), keeping a close eye on the compass and making sure they were staying on course. They were nearing the shore, but for now, he was taking a break, resting against a coil of rope with his eyes closed, enjoying the smell of the ocean air and the feeling of sunshine.

And also trying to forget his headache—he was pretty sure he bumped his head coming down from the crow's nest.

"You're doin' good today, mate! Squawk!"

He opened one eye, noting the parrot sitting just behind him. "Thanks, Crackers!"

Birds hadn’t been something that interested him too much at first; what kind of silly animal didn’t have teeth? That is, until he’d learned that birds have a weird organ that acted as their teeth. Fascinating!

The parrot cocked her head at him. "Do you know any more?"

Oh right, of course the parrot enjoyed those phrases. "The pretty parrot perched upon the putrid pirate's peacoat!"

Crackers gave a pleased chirp, ruffling her feathers.

Wincing, he found his headache was starting to get worse, like a bad toothache, and closed his eyes again. "Do you think we'll reach shore soon?"

We won't if you don't get out.

He opened his eyes. Crackers was gone.

---

"STOP! STOP! MAKE IT STOP!"

"What are you doing?!"

"I-I just did what you asked—"

"I didn't tell you to—!"

"I'm sorry!"

"Put him out, hurry—"

"We've seen enough, doctor. We'll schedule an appointment for your son next week."

"N-next week?!"

"Very well. He'll be there promptly."

---

The kids’ expressions had changed from bright smiles to tightly-drawn lips and wide eyes, and it made him shudder. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

"No, it's fine. Tell us another."

"The store..." He paused, concentrating. Strange, he didn't usually have trouble remembering these things, but it must have just been his headache. "The store clerk stood and... stared at me in stupor."

"I would too after what I've seen," one kid muttered, only to be shushed by another.

His heart gave a pained jolt. "Wh-what?"

"Nothing!"

He didn't like the way they were talking—it reminded him of... something else. Someone else. Another child stepped closer to him, looking down at him with a furrowed brow and frightened eyes. He felt the sudden urge to scoot away.

You're in danger.

---

"Wh...where am I supposed to go?"

"Just in through these doors."

"Okay... Why do I have to come back here to the doctor, though? I feel fine."

"Nevermind that. Do you remember what your father told you to do?"

"Yeah! The fun phrases. I know a million of those!"

"Good."

"Would you like to hear... w-wait, who are all these people watching? Wh... what are those?"

---

The fish were swimming in circles and starting to make him dizzy. He rested his head down in the cool grass, but it did little to help. "Oh... sorry. I'm not feeling so good. I should be going home..."

"You can go home soon. Tell us another first."

"Ugh... My mom... m-my... mother makes a... marvelous... meat... mincemeat pie." Recalling these phrases was starting to feel like what he imagined pulling teeth felt like, but a lot less fun. Was his mother missing him now? How long had he been gone? "I... really need to go home now."

"No you don't."

His eyes shot open, and he shivered as he stared down at the fish. "Wh... what did you... say?"

"Don't try to move. You'll be all right."

All of the fish watched him eagerly... but the turtle was still waving its front feet even more frantically.

---

"Don't worry about that."

"N-no! I know what those tools are—I've read my dad's books. You're gonna hurt me!"

"Nonsense. Just lay on the bed and you'll be fine."

"No, I don't want to! You can't make me!"

---

The ship heaved up and down with the swell of the waves. His insides rolled with it, and he remained lying on the coil of rope, waiting for his stomach to stop lurching and his head to stop aching.

"You stopped. Keep going."

"Ugh... The newt... nuzzled in a... n-narrow... nook."

"Good."

"No, it's not, Crackers! I don't feel good..."

"You're fine, squawk! Try to distract yourself."

"Okay..." Opening one eye, he raised a shaky hand, lifting the end of the rope and making it snake through the air, though it shuddered all the while. It was a lot more difficult than usual... Normally he could lift several objects at once, and delighted the crew by juggling them. He felt like he should be able to do other things too, but what?

---

"Oh mercy! He's going to kill someone!"

"Caligosto, if you don't stop this at once, I will call your father!"

"So call him! I want him here! Why didn't he come with me?!"

"Oh no, he's trying to light the chair on fire—"

"Go get the earmuffs, now."

"MOM! DAD! WHERE ARE YOU?!"

"GET THEM NOW!"

---

The sun was covered in clouds, and the humid air brought a promise of rain. Why were the other kids still here? Surely their parents would have called them home by now. He wished they would. Surely his mom would have called him, too, wouldn't she?

"Tell us another," one girl asked urgently, taking a hesitant step forward.

His head was swimming. "I-I don't wanna..."

"Tell us now."

Focusing, he managed to force his mind to concentrate. "She sniffed... and s-smelled... the stirring storm."

"Good, tell us another," one fish bubbled from the water.

A sharp pain like a broken tooth filled his skull, his insides felt sick, and the rain was beginning to fall. "I... I can't..."

"Tell us, Caligosto."

"B... Bernie read a book... b-by the... ba—babbling brook." He wanted to wipe the rain from his face, but he felt too exhausted to move his arms. "C-can I go... home..."

"Squawk! We're not to shore yet. Give me another."

He stared up at the blurred vision of the bird. "Why...?"

"Do as you're told."

"Th-the... hummingbirds... hovered... a-and hummed in... heavenly..." His voice broke off into a choked sob. "I wanna... no... I wanna... go home..."

"Caligosto?"

---

"I WANT TO GO HOME!"

"Get it on him, get it on—"

"GET AWAY FROM ME!"

"Where did he go?!"

"The monster's turned invisible!"

"I WANNA GO HOME!"

"There! Put it on right—there!"

"STOP, I WANNA—"

---

"...go home!"

He blinked.

"You are home, Cali," his mother said, beaming down at him with a wide, pearly-white grin.

"I am?" Blinking again, he looked around. Indeed, he was in front of his house, with his parents both standing on the front porch, as they had been when he'd left. On top of that, his head didn't hurt and he didn't feel sick. "I... I am!"

"You're all done with the doctors now," his father said, smiling. "We're so proud of you!"

"You... you are?" He stared open-mouthed; his father had never told him that before. "I'm all done?"

"Yes you are, dear." His mother knelt down, but he didn't come closer—something was making his hair stand on end. "Almost."

His stomach twisted.

"Just tell us another, son."

"N... no..."

The smile on his father's face faded. "Do as you're told, Caligosto."

"N-no... no, no..." He tried to shake his head, but couldn't. "I... I want to go home..."

The pain was coming back, spiking through his head, and he cried out.

"We're going to lose him—"

"No, just a little more."

"No," he sobbed. "No, no! Mom! Dad!"

The park was flooding. The fish were swirling around his head. Waves crashed over the boat.

He had to do something. Anything.

Focusing with everything he had left, he tried to think, tried to move something, tried to make something burn, tried to call for help—

Did—did you hear that?

Cali?

The agony peaked, and his vision turned orange.

---

"Ooooh... ugh..."

"Is this safe?"

"It's safe for us. The psilirium will keep him under control during the procedure."

"But can he still hear us?"

"Son, can you tell us one of your funny phrases?"

"Sure... grass grows greener in the graveyard."

"You see? He'll be fine."

---

There was no park.

There was no pond.

There was no ocean.

There were several doctors staring down at him, a great many more people seated in the theater behind them, and an empty feeling within him.

Something was gone. Something important.

"How do you feel, Caligosto?"

His brain was slow to work, and he could not form the words, but if he could have, he would have answered:

Like... a cavity.

[imaginejamesandsirius]

I always have this idea in my mind with soulmate tattoos and james having one like 'the brightest' or something and thinking its for lily as the brightest witch of her age, til sirius mentions one day that his star is the brightest star in the night sky?

James's soulmark was just under his right hipbone, written upside down so that he could read it. With that location, it meant nobody had seen it. Soulmarks could be talked about, but you weren't supposed to go around showing it to people. Everyone had to cover it up if it wasn't hidden under clothes. James had it easy; his were covered by his pants, and he didn't even have to bend around weird to see it. 

The Brightest 

There was never any telling what your soulmark would be. Most people had words, but some people had pictures. Merlin himself had had a soulmark that just said his soulmate's name, but that was incredibly rare. It was always something to identify your soulmate, but it could be cryptic. 'The Brightest' wasn't the most descriptive thing ever, so James knew that he'd have to keep a sharp eye out if he wanted to find his soulmate. 

And he was sure, for about three years, that he'd struck gold. One Lily Evans, of Gryffindor House with stunning red hair and a prefect badge now pinned to her robes, was often described as the 'brightest witch of her age'. If she wasn't the best in their year, she was definitely in the top five. Along with Sirius, of course, but no one called him the brightest in their year or summat-- even though he was. 

Lily Evans, The Brightest, and his soulmate. 

The problem was that she sort of hated him-- childhood exuberance, what could you do-- and her own soulmark must be vague enough that she didn't know it was him yet. 

"Which star is Sirius, anyways?" Marlene asked one day in the common room. Marlene was funny and horribly attractive. 

James didn't like her. He also didn't like that she was effortlessly charming. Anytime he tried to be charming, he just came off as awkward and trying too hard-- according to Remus; Sirius thought he was funny. Unfortunately, Sirius also thought Marlene was charming, so. James didn't really get a win there. 

"It's part of Canis Major, and the brightest star in the sky. Except for the sun, but most people don't count it as a star," Sirius said. 

"The brightest star?" James asked, looking over from his book. He hadn't been reading it, but he'd been trying to pretend like he was. Making it clear that he'd been listening wasn't what he’d been going for when Marlene had sat down across from Sirius, but he needed to know if he'd heard that wrong. 

"Yeah," Sirius said. "Kinda makes you wonder why my parents didn't change my name when it became clear they hated me." 

Marlene had a nice reply to that, and she paired it with flipping her hair over her shoulder. 

James didn't hear what she said though, not with his mind fuzzing out so the only details he knew were his soulmark and what Sirius had just said. The brightest star in the sky. The brightest. 

Fuck. 

*

"Sirius?" James asked, both of them sat on their own beds, books open as they read the next chapter for History of Magic. 

"Yeah?" 

"We're close, right?" 

"Sure bloody hope so," Sirius said. "We live together year round. It would get kind of awkward if you hated me." 

"I don't hate you, don't be stupid," James said, rolling his eyes. 

"Invigorated to hear it," Sirius said, shooting him an amused grin. "What's up?" 

"What's your soulmark?" James asked, getting the question out quickly like it would help protect him from the backlash. 

The reaction was immediate. Sirius froze, his whole body getting tense. Parents knew your soulmark. Other family members sometimes did, depending on how close you were. Medi-wizards did, for obvious reasons, but it's not like they cared who their patients' soulmates were. Some people weren't as protective about covering their soulmarks, so you might see it in passing the locker room or summat. As far as James knew though, Sirius had always been careful to keep his covered with a thick band around his ankle. Even for people that didn't bother to keep theirs completely hidden though, it was understood that you didn't ask. 

Once people knew they were soulmates, they showed their marks to each other. You didn't ask your best friend-- no matter how close you were-- what it looked like or if you could see it. 

And the thought had occurred to James more than once over the years. He'd actually spent a ridiculous amount of time thinking about Sirius over the years, but he'd sort of thought that everyone did that. Sirius was gorgeous, okay? James couldn't have been the only one that had the occasional fantasy about him, but after hearing that Sirius was the brightest star not only in its constellation, but in the entire sky, he'd had to think about it a little more. What he'd written off as pure aesthetic appreciation and teenage hormones was... well, probably not. 

Instead of Sirius telling him to bugger off or saying that he wasn't going to tell him that, he asked, "Why?" 

Aaaand that's why James was not the sole planner for the pranks. He could connect two points, but he forgot about the different offshoots the first point could have. Like with this. He'd connected that if he knew what Sirius's soulmark was, then he'd know for sure that they were soulmates. He hadn't considered that Sirius would ask him why he wanted to know before sharing anything. "Erm." 

"I'm not going to tell you if you're just being nosy, but you've never asked before, so it feels like you have a reason." 

"Of course I have a reason." 

A pause. "And that reason would be?" Sirius prodded. 

"I- so I was thinking about my mark the other day, and it's kind of ambiguous. I was so sure it was Lily because of the way everyone talked about her, but now I was thinking... maybe not." 

Sirius blinked at him. "You think I'm your soulmate now?" He sounded more than a little accusatory, and James winced. 

"I know how that sounds, but come on, Pads, think about it from my perspective from a minute. I'm pretty much convinced that this person is my soulmate because of a phrase that's open to interpretation, shutting out all other attraction and stopping to consider that I've never felt that way about her. And then, y'know," he waved a hand vaguely to show that something had happened, "I got to thinking about you, and it would make a lot more sense." 

"You're impossible." 

"So that's a no on telling me what your soulmark is. You could've sad that from the beginning, and we could've avoided all of this." 

Sirius groaned, letting his head thump forward on the textbook. 

"Okay, I really don't know what to do with that reaction." 

"How about this: we date for a little bit, and if you still think I'm your soulmate then, I'll tell you what my mark is." 

"Deal." 

*

They got three weeks in before it occurred to James that there was no reason for Sirius to have suggested them dating unless his soulmark was more straightforward. Straightforward enough that he knew it was James. And if he was that sure of it, then he'd just been waiting around for James to figure it out. A couple years ago, James might've teased him for it, but he could understand why Sirius had felt the need to be cautious; James had never really considered himself available. He'd gone straight from not caring about dating anyone, to being convinced that Lily was his soulmate. If James had been in Sirius's shoes, he wouldn't have done anything either. 

The part about it that he didn't really understand was where Sirius didn't tell him about his soulmark when he asked about it. If it was so obvious, then it would make perfect sense to tell James so that they could get together. 

And then he thought about it some more and realised that it had worked out, anyways. Sirius hadn't needed to tell him that they were soulmates. He'd said, "We date for a little bit," and left it to James to put the pieces together. Sirius really was brilliant, wasn't he? James didn't need to be told flat out that Sirius was his soulmate anymore, because he knew that it was true. Yes, he'd put the clues together until they made sense, but more than that, he'd dated Sirius, and it had felt right. Maybe a little awkward from time to time when one of them thought it was a date and the other thought the whole Marauders group was invited, but they were right where they needed to be. 

They were still mates even though they were dating too, and that meant everything to James. Maybe that's what it meant to be soulmates, for them. He's always wondered how he would know how to be with his soulmate, but now that he was there, it was the easiest thing in the world-- behind riding a broom, because, honestly. 

*

About a month and a half into dating, Sirius said, "You haven't asked me about my soulmark." 

"I know." 

"Why haven't you?" 

James smiled at him. "Because I don't need to see it to know what we are to each other." 

*

Over the summer, James showed his soulmark to Sirius. They hadn't shagged yet, and probably wouldn't for a while longer, so it was a bit awkward to pull his pants down enough to show him. Sirius was sitting next to him and not across from him, so all he had to do was look down to read it. 

"You see why I was confused?" James joked. 

Sirius snickered. "I still think it was obvious." 

"Everyone calls her the brightest witch in our year, and I didn't know that your star was the brightest in the sky, alright? And in my defense, as soon as I learned that, I figured it out." 

"You didn't already know that?" 

"Not all of us grow up learning about constellations." 

"Aww, poor baby," Sirius cooed, ruffling James's hair. 

James bat his hand away and pulled his clothes back to their usual positions. 

"Ugh, I guess that this is the part where I show you mine," Sirius groused, but he didn't look actually upset. He pulled his foot up close and unbuttoned the cuff he had covering his ankle. 

James tilted his head to get a better look at it. 

27 March 1960 

"You've got to be sodding kidding me. Really?" James asked, looking up at Sirius, who shrugged. "I get something completely cryptic, and you get my birthday. That's bollocks." 

"Hey, be happy for us. If it weren't for me knowing what was going on, you'd still be chasing after Lily's skirt." 

"I would not," James denied. "I would've caught on before that." 

Sirius snorted, putting the cuff back on. "Whatever gets you through the night, mate." 

"Be nice to me," James whined, leaning into him heavily. 

Sirius pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “I’m always nice to you.” 

[moonscarsandstars]

reference for welsh

here you go @sirrriusblack (it was way too long at this point, don’t ask me why), but I finished it! also idea credits go to her too.

~~~

"What the hell?!"

The heavy sound of rain that came from outside the door- where James was standing- almost muffled his voice. Sirius blinked, his expression blank, and his bright, beaming smile faltered in confusion.

"You heard me, didn't you? I'm going to learn Welsh," he said, as if it was the most normal thing.

"I'm really not sure if I heard you well," deadpanned James, brushing a hand through his soaking wet hair. He rubbed his shoes on the welcome mat of Sirius and Remus’s flat, and leaned a little closer as the thunderstorm outside raged heavily.

"Oh shut up," quipped Sirius, propping his elbow up onto the door frame next to him. "I'm going to do it."

"First of all, this was your midnight emergency?! I came all this way to help you learn Welsh?!"

“How was I supposed to learn it without you? I wouldn’t last five minutes, now, would I?”

James seemed to ponder that for a moment. Then shook his head in agreement. “Good point. Can I come in now?”

“Oh, right,” said Sirius bemusedly, moving out the way as James shuffled inside hastily. He flicked his wand, and his raincoat was off him in a second and on the hanger at the side. He shook his head quickly, letting water splatter all over Sirius, who yelped loudly.

“Shit- he’s upstairs,” whispered Sirius, almost dramatically. “He’s not allowed to know.”

“Why?”

“Whisper!”

“Why?” Whispered James, a small, familiar grin on his face. “A prank?”

“You wish,” quirked Sirius. “It’s going to be a surprise.”

“Moony’d be darn surprised that you managed to learn anything,” said James with a chuckle.

“Oh shut up,” retorted Sirius, a feign frown on his face as his voice returned to normal. “You and McGonagall both know that I am a star pupil.”

“The only thing star about you is your name, Pads, shut up.”

“How dare-”

But James cut him off before he could finish his sentence. ”Why are you learning Welsh? Really?”

Sirius gave a defensive look, before sighing. “Y’know how we’re meeting his parents tomorrow? Well, I wanted to impress them, ‘nd...”

“That’s adorable, Pads, gee, I didn’t think you had it in you,” cooed James, though a certain part of it was genuine. “You really have it bad for him, huh?”

“Oh, do I,” mumbled Sirius, his voice heavier than he wanted it to be.

~~~

An hour, four cups of hot chocolate, almost waking Remus up and lot of procrastination later, the two of them got to work at around three thirty in the morning.

“So I bought this book to help-”

“You can read?”

Sirius shot a glare at James before continuing. “It’s supposed to teach me the basic phrases and daily communes.”

“Daily whats?”

“Uh- um- that’s not the point! The point is, I should be able to frame at least one sentence to impress them.”

“Padfoot, mate, you can’t even phrase a proper sentence in English. How d’you suppose you’re going to do this?”

“Effort, Prongsie, not that you’d know.”

James opened his mouth, but Sirius continued with a smirk on his face.

“So the first phrase is- uh- um- Prongs, how d’you pronounce this?”

Lifting the book, Sirius pointed his finger at the words on the page.

SU’MAE

“Uh, you’re on your own there, Pads, I have no idea.”

“Soo- may? That- I- what?”

“Isn’t it soo-mye?”

“But-” started Sirius, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Actually- is it?”

“Ask Moony, he’d know.”

“The reason I called you at this ungodly hour is to make sure Moony doesn’t find out!”

James smirked. “You won’t last without him.”

Ignoring James, and trying to fight back James’s contagious smile, Sirius continued. “It means ’hello’.”

“Mkay, what’s next?”

“I- I think the next one is- uh-” Sirius pointed at the page again, and James tilted his head over to read it.  

SUT DACH CHI?

“It means ‘how are you’, and it’s the formal version. I use the formal version with his parents, right?

“Yeah,” responded James, looking back to the word. “How d’you pronounce it though?”

“Is it soot or sut?”

“Soot, I think. Right?”

“I don’t know...?”

“Let’s make it sut, how ‘bout that?”

“That works,” said Sirius, studying the paper hard. “S- sut duk chee?”

“That’s way too British. It has one of those-” he made a throaty, hoarse noise- “-for that part, don’t they?”

“What?”

Sirius blinked, his expression extremely confused. James laughed loudly, making the corners of Sirius’s lips twitch up.

“Oh come on, we have to be serious- no don’t you da-”

“YOU’RE ALWAYS SIRIUS!”

Cringing, as James burst into a fit of giggles, Sirius gently slammed his head against the book on the table. 

“Prongs, is that you?” 

The familiar voice from the other room scared Sirius. Hastily, he threw the book halfway across the room, and got it to rush under the sofa with a flick of his wand. He stuffed his wand into his hair, only to realise it was out, and threw it away from him.

Just in time, as Remus appeared tiredly in front of them.

“What’s happening?” Mumbled Remus, rubbing his eyes. 

The suspicious glint- the one he’d used as a prefect in Hogwarts- was still sharp in his voice.

“I- nothing- I- James came to drop this-” Sirius hastily picked up a pen “- this off, he- I left it at his,” stuttered out Sirius, trying to put on a smile. 

Remus didn’t look the least convinced. “I’m not thick. What’s he really doing here?”

“I- um-”

“I came to help Sirius-”

“He came to help me-”

“We- we were-”

“Practicing!”

“Yeah! Practicing- uh- practicing-”

“The salsa?”

“What the-”

Eyes wide and lips tight, Remus’s eyes darted between the two of them, before he burst out in laughter, louder than Sirius expected. But he couldn’t help the smile that came with watching Remus chortle, and before he knew it, he was laughing along too.

“Honestly, I don’t find that hard to believe,” he said, bemusedly with a grin on his face.

“Heh, yeah,” trailed off James with a smile and a chuckle that was oh-so-obviously fake. Sirius pursed his lips at him.

“I’m turning in. You two-” he waved his hand vaguely “-carry on whatever it was you were doing.”

~~~

Rubbing his eyes, Sirius tiredly propped himself up on his elbows, squinting as the light in the room blinded him. For a split second, last night was merely a haze, before it all came back to him.

As well as the inevitable meeting of Remus’s parents.

Fear and some form of dread hit Sirius like a brick. His chest seemed to tighten, and any knowledge of Welsh that’d been drilled into his head by a bemusedly irritated James seemed blurry. What if it didn’t go as planned? What if it was too much? What if-

“Hey Pads? You awake already?”

Meeting Remus’s gaze, Sirius’s nerves settled. It was going to be okay. That was, until they raised at Remus’s shirtless torso.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, smiling as he stretched his arms away from him, yawning slightly.

“You ready?”

That smile. The way the corners of Remus’s lips tugged up to the left, and wrinkled just a little. Sirius could spend years staring at it.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess,” replied Sirius sleepily.

“What were you doing with Prongs? Last night?” Remus slumped down onto the bed next to Sirius, pulling his jumper on.

“Nothing, Moons,” drawled Sirius lazily, pulling Remus into a long, deep kiss. His hands travelled up Remus’s jumped, and his hazy mind focused on Remus’s smooth skin.

“As much as I love this,” started Remus, breaking away. “And trust me I do,” he added hastily. “We need to get ready. My dad’s setting up the portkey for nine.”

“Nine?”

“Yeah. He was always an early bird,” said Remus with a small chuckle.

“Too early,” whined Sirius. “Even for me.”

“Don’t you want to impress him?” Asked Remus bemusedly, with a small, almost challenging smirk.

“Maybe I have some other tricks up my sleeve,” quipped Sirius, staring Remus in the eyes with an equally challenging smirk.

Remus raised an eyebrow, before getting up and heading towards the bathroom. “’M taking a quick shower, yeah?”

“M’kay,” mumbled Sirius, dozing back off into his pillow.

The next time Sirius woke up, it was to Remus frantically shouting at him. At first, the words made no sense, until they did.

“Are you seriously not awake yet? Oh come on! At least put something decent on if you aren’t going to- are you awake?! Oh come on, you’re supposed to be the early bird here, aren’t you?!”

“SHIT! ‘M awake! I’m awake, sorry Moons,” mumbled Sirius, eyes growing wide and trying to pull off his shirt. He attempted to grab something from the closet nearest. Pulling the shirt he’d planned to wear, Sirius rushed to the bathroom.

Ten messy minutes later, Sirius was sitting with a frown, as Remus smiled sadistically.

“You could’ve told me he’d postponed it.”

“Watching you panic was so much more fun,” said Remus with an infuriating grin, chuckles bubbling in his voice.

“Oh come on!”

“You forget who really planned the banana cups prank, don’t you?”

“Moons, we’ll forever be in your debt,” said Sirius solemnly, though the small grin tugged at his lips as his mind swept back to the memory. 

“Wait,” started Remus, his eyebrows creasing as he picked up the tattered cap from the seat next to them. “I think it’s now.”

Sirius felt his stomach clutch. It was really happening. Now.

“I- I-” started Sirius, unable to get words out. Some sort of nervousness travelled through his veins. But a giddy type of nervousness; the type people got before  roller coasters and quidditch matches. 

“It’s going to be okay,” said Remus with that smile of his. 

And before he knew it, a pull behind his bellybutton twisted through his body, giving him a sick feeling as he was being pulled through the air. With a large thud, he landed on the paved driveway of the Lupin residence.

This was it he thought with a small, less mischievous grin.

Intertwining his fingers between Remus’s, Sirius squeezed his hand softly, and nervously tapped his fingers against the other’s knuckles. 

They walked up the path, both nervous, even if in different ways.

A soft knock on the doors revealed Hope Lupin. Her brown hair fell in soft, straight bangs falling above her eyes, and fell down past her shoulders. A kind smile occupied her face, and soft, blushed skin wrinkled at the corners of her eyes.

“Welcome home, cariad! Collais i chi gymaint, sut wyt ti?” She turned to Sirius before continuing. “Sirius! You must be his boyfriend,” she said with a wink. “I’ve heard a lot about you!

“Ma!”

“Come in, come in,” she said, lovingly.

The two of them shuffled in, Remus red in the face and Sirius smiling shyly.

“Hello boys!” Came a gruff, warm voice. Lyall embraced Sirius in a small hug, and engulfed Remus in a bigger one, ruffling his curly hair. “You’re his- his partner, huh?”

Sirius could hear the way Lyall’s voice faltered just a little, but decided to stay calm. After all, they were all trying.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” said Remus, his voice calm.

“Neither would we, cyw, we love you,” said his mother, in a loving voice that seemed far from fake, settling Sirius’s nerves.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Exclaimed Sirius, almost forgetting last night. “Soo ’may! Sut dach chi?”

Hope’s confused expression melted into an endearing smile as she responded with a small chuckle. “Rwy'n gwneud yn dda iawn, diolch, beth amdanoch chi?”

“Uhh...” trailed off Sirius, meeting Remus’s amused gaze- though the love in his eyes was something Sirius would learn the entire language to see. “E-wawn, dioh-l-k yn fawr e-wan!”

Hope burst into warm-hearted chuckles, and trailed a finger over Sirius’s cheek lovingly. “You’ve really hit a jackpot, huh cariad?”

“Ma!”

But both their eyes looked at Sirius with the same love and affection Sirius had craved all these years. He couldn’t help his cheeks growing red, and the smile that grew on his lips.

“I didn’t actually know about this,” admitted Remus, sneaking a little kiss on his cheek. “He surprised the both of us, didn’t he?”

“I promise you, Prongs and I weren’t learning the salsa last night,” drawled Sirius, unable to keep the happiness out of his voice.

“You- I-” stuttered Remus, eyes growing wide. He kissed Sirius passionately for a second, and both of them forgot where they were, before hastily breaking apart and blushing profusely under Hope and Lyall’s gaze.

“Oh cariad...”

“He really loves you, son, doesn’t he?”

Lyall’s voice was thick, and something about him was less stiff.

“I love him too,” said Remus, snatching a quick look that lasted forever at Sirius, who was smiling, eyes glassy.

[cuculine-nelipot]

Wish We Could

Chapter Two: London

{ Pairing: Hermione Granger x Fred Weasley

Summary: After the Battle of Howgarts, Hermione and Ron start dating; their slow-burn friends to lovers arc complete. He’s nice, and she’s comfortable, and everyone is happy for them. Everyone but Fred, who can’t stop thinking that he loved her first, and Hermione, who begins to wonder if they really are as over as she thought they were. }

22nd August 1998, Night

“Well that was a colossally stupid thing to do,” George says from his old bed in The Burrow, spending the night at their mother’s insistence. Half laying down, he doesn’t look up from his magazine. Fred stands uncomfortably still, staring out the window, as though shell-shocked, even though Errol has long been out of sight.

“Yup.”

23rd August 1998, Morning

It was true that it didn’t take an awful lot to keep her up all night: a new book, a good essay, or better, a long one. Hermione had pulled her fair share of all-nighters, but none like this.

“Were you up all night reading again darling?” Her mother asks, taking stock of her daughter’s messier than usual hair, the shadows around her puffy eyes.

“Yes.” This wasn’t a lie exactly — she’d read that letter countless times.

“You look awful.” It sounds harsh, but her mother’s furrowed brow shows real concern.

“It was a sad story.”

1st July 1996

Summer had come to engender mixed emotions in Hermione. On the one hand she was of course excited to see her parents again, but on the other, she missed her friends terribly. She never had friends like Ron and Harry before; friends she saw day and night, friends she shared every meal with, friends she knew from experience would risk their lives for her as quickly as she would for them. She had no siblings, and had hardly kept in touch with the few friends from primary school. It was too difficult to keep fabricating stories about her Very Normal Boarding School Where Nothing Life-Threatening Ever Happened. So home for Hermione had become synonymous with the sort of deep-seated loneliness one only feels when one knows precisely what they are missing.

And now, to make matters worse, there was Fred. Fred who had kissed her in the hospital, and again by the lake, and again in several empty hallways while they waited for term to officially end. Fred who had, over the past year become more important to her than she ever would have expected. Fred, who didn’t look at her like he was lost and she was supposed to have the map, or make it. Fred, who so often grabbed her by the hand with a whiny come on Hermione, mischief dancing across his face, and dragged her along for some pure and honest thrill-seeking, who showed her the world as she had never seen it before.

The shrill ring of the telephone abruptly cut through her melancholia. Assuming it was only her parents phoning from work, she took her time making her way downstairs.

“Hello?”

“Hermione?”

“Fred?” She asked, her voice pitched with incredulity. “How are you calling? Why are you calling?”

“I believe it’s called a payphone and I am using one because I wanted to talk to you.” Even through the crackle and static, the teasing grin in his voice was obvious.

“Wanted?”

“Want.” He could hear the smile in her voice too.

24th August 1998, 10:17 a.m.

Perhaps George was right, and that her silence over the weekend means she isn’t coming. She is wiser than Fred after all. And George is usually right. Still, Fred waits, at an al fresco table at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, his right leg bouncing manically up and down, his eyes flitting to his watch every few seconds. He has been sitting there for forty-eight minutes.

Of course, Hermione knew at once that it was an undoubtedly bad idea, going to see Fred. Though really, it would only be a bad idea if she still has feelings for him, which she doesn’t, or if he still has feeling fore her, which she is sure isn’t true either. Then there is the fact that she had hardly made it to Florean’s all summer, and he has a lovely blackcurrant and gin ice-cream that he’s meant to stop making once Autumn rolls round. But then there is the question of why precisely Fred wants to meet her. And then there is Ron. Such thoughts chased each other in circles around her head, nipping at each other’s heals all Saturday night and most of Sunday, until another owl arrived. This one with a note from Flourish and Blotts asking her to please collect her order at her earliest convenience. Was Monday morning around 10 a.m. not her earliest convenience?

And so at eight-thirty on this almost chilly August morning, Hermione left her house for Belsize Park station, hopped on the Northern line, and alighted five stops later at Leister Square. She walked two minutes in the direction of The Leaky Cauldron, changed her mind, and instead went to Foyles, which reminded her that she did indeed need to go to Flourish and Blotts. After buying just three books and a new book bag, she again made her way to The Leaky Cauldron, then onward to Diagon Alley. This whole harrowing ordeal took over an a hour, and so apart from picking up Merlin’s Annotated Dante’s Inferno, she decided to splurge a little on some new quills, a well of peacock blue ink, and a couple of fancy leather bound notebooks.

It is perhaps this added weight that, on observing Fred Weasley’s anxious form outside Florean’s, impedes her attempted escape. Instead, before she can take two steps back the way she just came, she feels a hand pulling at her wrist.

“Hermione, wait.” She turns to see him looking imploringly at her with his bright green eyes, so wide and so close she can see flecks of gold in them, reflecting the morning sun. “It’s just ice-cream.”

Just ice-cream — who could argue with that? They order two scoops each and return to the table he had already occupied, Hermione dumping her bag on an empty chair emphatically in a show of annoyance. For a while they sit in silence; her refusing to speak first, and him not wanting to risk ruining their fragile peace. She scoops ice-cream into her mouth without looking up from her bowl, and he eats slowly, without looking away from her.

“I want the record to show that I think this is a colossally stupid thing to do,” she says suddenly, her eyes still fixed on her food.

“Well I suppose ice-cream’s never the healthiest thing in the world but Florean’s is pretty —“

“You know what I mean,” she cuts him off bitingly.

“The record will reflect that both you and George think that this is a colossally stupid thing to do. However, I would like to remind all relevant parties that it was my idea, and between the two of us I am the only Ravenclaw so therefore—“

“What do you want Fred.” She phrased it like a question, but her tone makes it abundantly clear that she would like nothing more than for him to just shut up.

“I just want to talk.” He looks abashed, or as abashed as he can look for Fred Weasley.

“I’m not sure we have anything to talk about.”

“Oh,” he says in a tone both needled and needling, “I think we have plenty to talk about.”

“Like what Frederick? You broke us up remember? Not me. You’re the one who walked away —”

“I walked away? You were the one who was leaving. You left —”

“I had to go. You’re the one who said you couldn’t —“

“And you’re the one who hung up the phone. And you’re the one who kissed —”

“I knew this was a mistake.” She grabs her bag, her chair scraping harshly on the flagstones in her haste to leave, desperate to not hear the end of that sentence.

“Hermione —“ He whines, but she doesn’t look at him. Can’t.

“Good bye Fred.”

17th July 1997

“Good bye Fred.”

“Hermione —“

A click as the phone disconnected. He stood alone in the red phone booth, in the flat above the store.

“You alright there mate?” George asked from the couch, turning from the Daily Prophet, his brows furrowed with concern.

The receiver still held to his ear. The singular, monotonous hang-up tone filled his head, his body, pervading the very fibre of his being.

2nd July 1996, Morning

“Buoyant” was the only word that came to mind as Hermione walked down Charing Cross.  She felt buoyant. She had resigned herself to spending the week or so before she and her parents went on vacation wandering around Hampstead with nothing but her books for entertainment, until Fred called and asked if they could meet the following day — today — at The Leaky Cauldron. So she made her way there, buoyantly, glad for some company and more so that it was his.

“Granger!” He hailed from the curb. Of course, her heart didn’t actually skip a beat, but it felt like it did.

“Why are you waiting out here?”

“Well the Cauldron’s a bit of a dive yeah? And Diagon Alley is just the one alley and we’ve been loads so I thought maybe you could show me your London?” He says, all in one breath. She wasn’t sure but she thought his face pinked a little.

“My London?”

“You know… Muggle London.”

“Why?”

“I dunno — if I’m going to live here I should know the area. And,” he added, looking down and rubbing the back of his neck. His speech became stilted. “I want to know what your world’s like.”

“Okay,” she smiled. Buoyantly.

The first place she thought to take him was of course Foyles bookstore, because it was close, and because, well, books. A whole monumental treasury of books.

“Bloody hell,” his eyes widened in child-like wonderment the second they walked through the door. The patchwork rainbow of spines and covers, the smell of new books, the sheer notion of being surrounded by so many stories, and so much knowledge. Even if it only lasted a moment, Hermione had never seen him so still or so quiet before, and she briefly wondered if she had broken him. “This place is massive,” he spun around as he spoke, taking it all in, “is everything in London this big?”

“Not everything. Just a lot of things.” She couldn’t look away from him, the spark in his eyes eliciting an adoring smile. “Did you bring any quid?”

“What’s that?” He asked, not really listening.

“Pounds, muggle money, did you bring any?”

His face blanched as he turned to look at her sheepishly. “Might have forgotten. But I have regular money.”

“‘Regular’ is a state of mind Frederick. And wizard currency far from regular. It’s ridiculous.”                                

“It’s not!”

“29 knuts to a sickle and 17 sickles to a galleon? It’s completely impractical.”

“Okay fine. Maybe you have a point.”

“Oh I definitely have a point.” Hermione retorted, grinning from ear to ear. She insisted that she had been meaning to change some money anyway, so they switched 10 galleonss for £50.

He moved further inside slowly, overwhelmed and unsure of where to start. At first he simply trailed behind her, but eventually wandered off on his own, winding through the stacks and pulling books off the shelves to peruse at length. She found him in a corner near the children’s section over an hour later, surrounded by piles of books ranging from classic literature to astrophysics. The only things he seemed sure of were a home improvement manual for Mr. Weasley, and the first two volumes of Asterix and Obelix.

“You alright there, Frederick?” She asked, crouching down beside him.

“There’s so many Hermione. How am I supposed to pick? I’ve never even heard of half these subjects before. Do I need a book about aerospace technology? Do I need seven? How should I know?”

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say you don’t need any.”

“Help me,” he whined, looking up at her with his big, doleful green eyes. He had never in his life felt quite so distressed. She sorted through the volumes surrounding him, eventually selecting The English Patient — one of her personal favourites — A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and a history of 20th century archaeological discoveries.

When they at last emerged, it was onto a London bustling with the lunch-time rush. Rather hungry themselves they went in search of sustenance and managed, with a little magical persuasion, to find a table in a small French bakery. At their window seat they split a quiche Lorraine and a croque monsieur, drank iced-chocolate, and tried to stave off the crash that inevitably follows a bookstore-high.

“You’re being awfully quiet today.”

“Hm?” He perked up. “Oh, sorry. It’s just a lot to take in, this.” He gestured vaguely to the sprawling city outside.

“But do you like it?”

He shrugged. “I love it.”

“Good.” She smiled, satisfied, settling further back in her seat.

“Do you like it?” He asked after a moment’s silence, studying her face carefully.

She picked at her food, considering. “I do but… I’m usually alone. I think I like it better with you.” She paused, then nodded as if affirming the truth of it to herself. “This quiche is pretty good.” She raised her fork but before she could take another bite, he was leaning across the table, one hand lightly holding her face, pressing his mouth to hers.

24th August 1998, Evening/Night

This time, Hermione is certain of it. She will not leave her room until the first of September. Her parents however are not on the same page.

“Hermione dear?” Her mother calls, hearing the jingle of keys in the front door. “Is that you? Come into the kitchen.” Hermione obliges, and finds her parents reading different newspapers at the kitchen table, with a steaming pot of earl grey and a plate of shortbread between them like they did everyday after work. The sight is enough to warm Hermione’s heart. She had missed this almost more than she could bear.

“How was your day darling?” Her father asks without looking up.

“Fine.”

“Did you buy any books?” Mrs. Granger does not look up either.

“I bought a few, yes.”

“That’s nice.” Her father offers, taking a sip of his tea.

Hermione lingers by the doorway, not saying anything. Eventually her mother looks at her, and observes a certain heaviness in her countenance. “Why do you look upset? Come sit down and have some tea.”

“Is this about Ron?” Mr Granger inquires, a particularly paternal brand of protectiveness evident in both his tone and in his eyes.

“Is it about the brother?” Her mother asks with hawklike instinct.

“Are you thinking about your… adventures?”

“You promised no more secrets darling.”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now,” Hermione interjects before they can pursue their line of questioning any further. They blink at her, equally taken aback. “If that’s okay with you,” she adds imploringly, unwaveringly meeting their eyes. They in turn consider their daughter carefully.

“Well alright then,” her mother says, turning back to her paper. “Dinner is in an hour. Go wash up.”

So she does, and she eats dinner with her parents, and after that she re-reads her new herbology textbook in the living room while her mother reads a le Carré and her father listens to a radio comedy. And she’s happy, honestly. She’s happy to be nestled in the warm glow of her childhood home, with her unchanging parents. She’s happy they are safe, and that for the first time in years there was nothing foreboding hovering on the horizon. She is happy, or at least, she is content.

Fred Weasley on the other hand is far from happy or content. After his rather disastrous morning he went straight back to the flat above the store, determined to spend the rest of his day off in bed. He didn’t move for hours. Rather impressively, he was still in bed when George came up after closing. His hair stuck out at odd angles as though he had been trying to pull it out, his sheets were fitfully dishevelled.

“Oh mate,” said George with an emphatically slow shake of his head, “you really need to get a grip.”

Fred looked up from Asterix and Cleopatra, shooting his brother a reproachful look.

“I’m going into London to get dinner. Do try to regain some level of composure before I get back yeah?”

That seemed like too much effort, so Fred fell asleep instead. He wakes up much later, at 1:38 a.m with London rolling round his head like a marble dipped in luminous dye, tracing webs of light. Quietly, he grabs his Nimbus 2001, climbs out the window onto the roof, and shoots off into the night. A certain frost sparks in the air, pinching at his skin. The wind whips through his hair, at his cheeks, stirs something inside his chest.

All the lights are off in the Grangers’ Hampstead home when he arrives, about 20 minutes later. All but the warm glow of a reading lamp emanating from what he knows is Hermione’s window. He hovers across the street, obscured by trees and shadow. He can see her silhouette on the sheer white curtains, sitting in bed, perfectly still, her head bowed slightly. Reading, most likely. His mind wanders to all the times he’d seen her in that exact posture, in a zen-state of complete focus; her small placid mouth, her smooth brow, the inward curve of her nose, mahogany brown ringlets framing her face. He remembers how he used to try and touch her cheek, her nose, her mouth, and how she would swat him away like she was shooing a fly.

She moves; her arms stretch above her head, her hands intertwined. She switches off the light, and Fred goes home.

2nd July 1996, Evening

“Had a good day darling?” Her mother called from the kitchen as Hermione closed the front door.

“It was alright, yes,” she said, leaning against the kitchen doorway. But the smile spread across her face suggested that it was a lot more than simply alright.

“What did you do?” Her father asked, his nose still in his paper.

“Oh you know, just went central. I met up with Fred. Went to Foyles. Had lunch. Walked around.”

“Who’s Fred?” Her father asked sharply, head snapping to face her.

“Ron’s brother,” she replied. Suddenly embarrassed, she shifted her weight nervously.  “One of the twins. You’ve met him before dad.”

“Why were you with Fred?” Her mother’s stare was as piercing as her father’s tone.

“Well he and George just moved to Diagon Alley and he asked me to show him around a bit,” she replied in one breath.

“Just Fred?”

“Yes.” Her face burned under her parents’ scrutiny, and she struggled to hold their gaze, not wanting to seem guilty, like she was hiding something.

“Why?”

Hermione only shrugged in response, pursed her lips, desperate for this to be over. “I’m going to shower now.” She turned abruptly and left the room.

“Dinner’s in an hour,” Mrs. Granger called after her daughter. A door slammed shut upstairs. She turned to her husband, and they shared a look of utter disbelief.

chapter one | chapter two

taglist: @thelasttime​ @bchnan​ @lovedyouthreesummers​ @keoghans​

[perhapsitmaybedragons]

A Congress of Newts and Serpents

Shoutout to cassieoh for the title, which I quite like and never would have thought of on my own.

I really wanted to write Newt getting romance advice from Crowley. It didn’t turn out the way I was expecting it, but I like how it went. It’s quite fluffy and has a very happy ending - one shot only.

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26944687

Or continue reading below:

“The point is,” Anathema continued, “That you had no right to say that!”

“I'm just saying, maybe we should go back home to discuss this?” Newt glanced at Aziraphale and Crowley. Aziraphale looked concerned. Crowley was smirking in that way that meant he thought he was about to get a lot of free entertainment.

“Home?” She was seething. She grabbed his keys off of the table in the entry way. “That sounds like a wonderful idea. I will absolutely see you at home. You can find your own way there.”

She slammed the door behind her and Newt stood there, watching her go. He had some inkling he was meant to chase after her, but another part of his brain was arguing that it was something that one only did in romantic comedies. She would calm down. Eventually. Right?

“What exactly did you do?” Crowley couldn't hide his delight. Sure, he was very kind for a demon, but he was still, at heart, a demon. “I don't think I've ever seen her so mad.”

“It's not like we've known them that long, Crowley,” Aziraphale poked him.

“I just said that I thought it was silly to go around lighting sage in the cottage. She said it would cleanse the air or something, and maybe get rid of demons?” he ran his hand through his already messy hair, somehow making it worse in the process. “I pointed out that might mean Crowley couldn't come around and she said something about well of course it makes exceptions for him he's one of the good guys. And it's just...I believe in science and I don't understand all of this new age stuff. I'm trying, I swear!” He spared a quick glare at the leftovers from tonight's dinner – sage encrusted  chicken. It had brought the fight from this morning right back, after he'd thought they'd already worked it out.

“Well, dear boy,” Aziraphale chuckled. “It may be 'new age' to you, but I can assure you it's existed for centuries. Nothing new under the sun, as they say.”

“Who says that? I don't say that,” Crowley shook his head and went to get himself a drink. They were all in his flat. Aziraphale had thought it would be a good idea to get the humans to come around every so often while they all waited to see if Heaven or Hell would make another move. So far, all that had happened was that they'd learned Newt was a lightweight and that Anathema got angry after just one drink (though she never seemed actually drunk ...just ...angry).

“You do have to meet in the middle,” Aziraphale continued as though Crowley hadn't interrupted him. “It's alright if you don't quite believe the same things, but it isn't kind to patronize.”

“I didn't think I was being patronizing...”

“But you may have come across that way, even without intending it. How long have you known Ms. Device?”

“I mean...we met the day we all had to stop Adam from blowing up the world.”

“So just a few weeks, then. It can be hard to build a relationship that quickly.”

Neither one of them could see Crowley rolling his eyes behind his shades. “It was quick,” Newt admitted. “Do you think it means we're wrong for each other?”

“I think, Newton, that you should go home, get some sleep and talk to Anathema in the morning. Perhaps you should sleep on the couch tonight, let her have the bed,” Aziraphale clapped him gently on the back. “Crowley will take you, since she took your car.”

“I'll take him? News to me. Why don't you take him, angel?”

“I couldn't – what would be the point? I don't have a car. He'd have to take the bus and at this hour those can be impossible to come by!”

“You could miracle one up for him-”

“I will not perform a frivolous miracle when you could just take him in your car,” Aziraphale insisted. “It would be much faster than the bus, anyway. The way you drive, so long as you don't get yourselves into an accident, you'll probably be there and back in half an hour.”

“I'm sorry, so long as we don't get into an accident?” Newt repeated.

He was ignored. “Fine!” Crowley threw his hands up. “I'll take him. Are you going home now, then or did you want a ride, too?”

“No, no, I thought I'd stay here until you get back. I have some thoughts I wanted to run by you.”

“Fine,” Crowley said again. “You, awkward human,” Newt frowned but didn't correct him. They both knew that Crowley knew his name. “Let's get going. The sooner we leave the sooner I can get back and take a nap.”

“Haven't you been drinking?”

“He's right, Crowley. Sober up, first.”

Crowley groaned and shook the alcohol from his system. “There? Happy? All back in the bottle for later. Can we please just go?” He flung the apartment door open and gestured for Newt to go out. Newt scurried along, out the door, through the hallway, down the stairs and finally to where the Bentley was parked in all its glory. He'd seen the car before, but he'd never been in it. He didn't know very much about cars, but he knew just enough to know this was expensive and old.

He climbed into the front seat and buckled in. Crowley got in on the driver's side and started the engine.

“Wait, don't you need to turn the headlights on?”

“Ugh...if it will make you feel better,” Crowley nodded and the lights came on. Then he reversed the car and headed off in the direction of Tadfield.

“It's just...” The words poured out of Newt before he could think better of it, “I don't see what the big deal is. I really wasn't trying to upset her or anything. I thought relationships were about sharing your opinions. But ...maybe it's not a great idea to form a relationship based on a book...”

“A book?”

“Yeah. Agnes Nutter. She predicted us together. Apparently marriage as well.”

“Ah.”

“So. Stupid reason, huh?”

“Well, yeah.”

Newt hadn't expected that. “But she got everything right! Agnes predicted every little thing we needed to survive. How can you say that it's stupid?”

“Because you said that it's stupid. I was just agreeing with you. Did you want me to say 'oh, no, you're wrong. Perfectly logical to let an ancient witch decide who you should be with and who you should marry. Most obvious thing in the world, that'?”

“Maybe not,” Newt shrunk into the passenger seat, vaguely aware that he was sulking. “I guess it's not as good as overcoming everything you and Aziraphale have, but you can't really compare us – we're just human. I mean, she's a witch but -”

“I'm sorry, what was that?” Crowley had brought the car to an abrupt stop. Newt's whole body jerked as they went from impossibly fast to standing still. He felt a little fuzzy, but fully aware that had Crowley not cushioned the blow that could have done some serious damage to him.

“She's a witch, literally. I'm not calling her names-”

“Not that, I know about her being a witch,” Crowley was acting funny. His tone of voice was bored, like he didn't want to have the conversation. But Newt knew enough about body language to gather that Crowley was very interested in what Newt had to say right now. “What's that about me and Aziraphale?”

“Well, you're together, aren't you? So I figure you had to fight all of Hell and maybe all of Heaven, too, just to be together.”

“We're not,” Crowley didn't finish his argument. “He and I are friends. I mean...really good friends.”

“Aren't you in love with each other?” And now Newt was absolutely baffled. He'd had best friends before. None of them looked at him the way Crowley looked at Aziraphale. Not that he'd ever seen, anyway. “I thought you were together. Anathema-” now he trailed off, suddenly reminded of the fight. “Look, no matter what you two are to each other, I know you've fought before. How did you deal with it?”

“Probably the same way you dealt with fights with your mates in the past,” Crowley started his car back up again but didn't start driving. They were sitting still, parked on the side of the road. He looked deep in thought.

Newt was many things. Awkward, bad with electronics, maybe a little on the odd side. But he wasn't dumb. “Look, if I fight with friends it's never about anything important. And they get loads of time away from me, so if they're mad at me I don't have to worry about going to bed alone.”

“Those aren't things I have to worry about. I mean, I don't worry about going to bed alone. I do go to bed alone... I just don't worry about it, I mean.” The car started moving, but it wasn't lost on Newt that Crowley was driving the speed limit. He wondered for a moment if it was the first time Crowley had ever obeyed traffic laws.

“Fine. Indulge me. Hypothetical. If you and Aziraphale were in love and you had a fight-”

“Why do you need to bring him into this hypothetical? Why not just say 'if you were in love with someone and had a fight with them'?”

“Fine! If you were in love with someone, anyone, doesn't matter who, and they were very angry at you, what do you do about it? Especially when you never put in the ground work to be together in the first place?”

To his credit, Crowley did seem to be pondering the question sincerely. “Complained to the wrong people, mostly.”

“Complained? Not ...would complain? You're talking like you have been in this situation.”

“Not the part about being fated to be together by someone, obviously. Um...you've heard of the,” Crowley snapped his fingers as he tried to remember the correct phrasing. “The friend zone!” he looked triumphant when the word came to him.

“Yes,” Newt said slowly. He'd used the phrase himself as a teen once, and had been quickly reprimanded by his mother. He had learned to be wary of the kind of people who used it.

“That was mine, but it was an accident, swear it. I was just in a bar complaining to someone, and obviously I'd had a bit too much ...I said to this guy, 'you know, an out and out rejection would be fine, but it's not like I haven't been obvious about the whole thing. I may not have said the words but all my actions were you know...implying, and this person is smart, they can do book analysis and tell you why the curtains were blue or some such so why can't they read between the lines for me?' And this ...this asshole comes up with a  story about some girl he was friends with and was being nice to all the time and how she only wanted to be friends and it was obviously the same as my thing, she'd lead him on by being nice to him. And, Newt?”

“Er-yeah?”

“I was just drunk enough and feeling just evil enough to goad him on with that. That was...I want to tell you the seventies – the nineteen seventies, but I can't remember for sure now. It was stupid.”

“So who was it then?”

“I already told you. Some asshole in a bar.”

“Not the friend zone guy! Who were you complaining about not realizing you're in love with them?”

“You know damn well,” Crowley grumbled. “Everyone knows except that idiot. Especially all the other people in bars I've complained to for the last several thousand years. He's so clever but he's so stupid-”

“Are you sure you sobered yourself up all the way?” Newt checked that his seat belt was fully secure.

Crowley ignored him. “The point is, Agnes got everything else right so she's probably right about you two. Do you like Anathema?”

“Of course I do!”

“Then take an interest in her interests. You ever seen something that makes her just,” Crowley clenched one fist for emphasis, the other remaining lazily on the wheel, “Just light up? Something that makes her so excited it's like the rest of the world drops away and maybe it does for you, too, because you're so focused on how happy she looks?”

“Once or twice...”

“And you don't want to do everything you can to make her look like that any chance possible?”

“Yes. ...Yes, I do. But I'm a little surprised you're willing to give advice on this. Or talk about it at all. You don't usually say much to me.”

“I talk when there's something worth saying. ...what do you know about glaciers?”

Newt stared at Crowley like he thought the demon had gone completely mad. “Uh- just that they're melting awfully fast, what with the greenhouse gases and-”

“Remarkably slow things. Used to be, at least. Then global warming and the polar bears dying and – not my point. My point is, the glaciers were here when we got here. Him and me, I mean. Him and I? Me and him? ...right, anyway, there's this big one that's been there the whole time and it's moving really slowly. Like ...snails are out pacing this bastard, right? That thing is going to somehow circumnavigate the globe multiple times before he's going to want to talk about us.”

“Us?”

“Not you and I us, me and him us!”

“Oh, right. Right. So are you admitting-”

“Yes, yes, we're past all that. I'm in love with Aziraphale, big whoop, you figured it out. Again, you're not the first one to say something to me about it.”

“And you've ...told him since then?”

“Not technically. We got kind of close to talking about it once... He says I go too fast for him. So if I go too fast and there's a glacier out pacing him, where do we meet in the middle?”

“Is that where the 'glacial pace' phrase comes from? I never thought about it before,” Newt admitted.

“Sorry. We're supposed to be talking about you and your witch, right? Look...I don't know what to tell you. Other than that she's an angry drinker so I would keep the stronger stuff out of the house. You can't be with a person just because a prophetess says you're meant to be. If you want to be with her, it should be because you want to be with her. But make that clear to her.”

“I was trying. That was part of the argument, really. I was trying to point out that my not believing in everything was a good sign for us, because it meant I wanted to be with her for her and not because of Agnes.”

Crowley frowned, “Well, I do actually see your point on that one. But sometimes it matters how it's said.”

Newt tried to look less astonished than he felt. Somewhere along the line, Crowley had decided to take the conversation seriously and actually offer help. Some part of the back of his brain tried to remind him that this was a demon, one who wasn't above still messing with people (though usually in mostly harmless ways). But he couldn't see if this was a trap or not. It seemed like friendly advice.

Judging by how Crowley sped the car back up to his normal speeds (the speedometer was not at an angle Newt could see, and even if it were, they were now going a lot faster than it could measure), Newt figured the conversation was over. Crowley turned the radio on, which went from classical to “Bohemian Rhapsody” without either of them changing the station.

They both pretended to be focused on the music until the car rolled up to Jasmine Cottage. “You'll be all right. I think you're kind of good for each other. Just make sure you're listening, but also make sure she listens to you. When you got together the world was ending so you had to do it quickly, but it's not ending anymore, all right?”

“Yeah, all right,” Newt got out but left the door to the car open. “Crowley? Um. Thank you. For the advice and for being honest with me about you and - ...about your stuff. I hope all that works out for you. For what it's worth,” He wasn't sure he should continue. Newt was very good at putting his foot in his mouth, and he hoped this wasn't another one of those situations. “I think if you spoke to Aziraphale... he might be ready now. You wouldn't be rushing him or anything, not if you just told him what you want to talk about and then let him decide if he wants to have that conversation. I'm pretty sure...look, you don't see the way he's looking at you some of the times, but everyone else has noticed.”

“Whatever you say,” Crowley had adopted that bored tone again. He flicked his wrist and the car door shut itself, making Newt jump back in surprise. But the window was still open. “You and Bicycle Girl have a good night. Hope things work out.”

“Thanks, I-” But Crowley was already driving away. “Thanks, anyway. Right.” Newt squared up his shoulders and headed into the cottage, ready to talk. But he heard a honking noise and realized Anathema was pulling up in Dick Turpin now.

“How did you beat me home?” she demanded as she got out. “I was just about to turn around and go back for you, but I got this feeling that I shouldn't and-” she shook her head.

“Crowley gave me a ride. Literal speed demon, that guy. Look, I wanted to talk to you..”

“I wanted to talk to you! I've done some reflecting and-”

“Anathema?” He interrupted. “I promise I'm going to listen this time, but can we please go inside first? We're literally in the middle of the road here.”

“Right...right.” She moved the car to its appropriate parking spot before they both went inside. And talked. And listened. And talked some more. They took turns talking and listening for the next several hours before they went outside to watch the sunrise the next day, neither of them having gotten any sleep.

“Think we'll be all right?” He asked, putting an arm around her shoulders and squeezing.

“Yeah, I think we will.”

Crowley had headed back immediately after dropping Newt off. Aziraphale, as he'd promised, was still in the flat where he'd been left. He'd brought a whole collection of books to keep himself occupied. He was curled up in a chair Crowley hadn't had before today (“Heaven's sake, more tartan?! Crowley thought to himself as he saw the plush chair Aziraphale had conjured up). He was reading an ancient looking book, a steaming cup of tea next to him.

“Crowley! How did it go?”

“S'Alright. I got him home in one piece, anyway.”

“Do you think they'll be alright? Human relationships can be so ...fickle.”

“Angel?”

“Hmm?”

“Am I still moving too fast for you?”

The question hung between them momentarily. Aziraphale sat up and put his book down on the floor. He seemed to be carefully considering his options. “I -what brought this on?”

“Does it matter? We've never talked about it. I am asking if you are ready to talk now – and telling you that if you aren't, it's ok.”

“No, I want to talk about it,” Aziraphale wiggled so that he was sitting up straight. “I'm sorry. You've done so much for me all these centuries and at first I thought – ah, well, this must be a trap. Then we had the Arrangement and I thought, well, fine, he just wants some time off from doing this work. But it was never about that, was it?”

“See, I thought I had been astoundingly obvious about it. Too obvious. Like one of those American John Grisham novels-”

“I don't like John Grishams-”

“I know, I know, cause they lack subtlety and all have the same plot. You've told me. But that's my point, isn't it? You were the Enemy, but you were the enemy who gives away a flaming sword God gave him because the humans might need it. I thought you were intriguing.”

“I'm not sure I'm ready yet. Not fully,” Aziraphale admitted. “I think my feelings are obvious enough at this point?” His eyes met Crowley's. “I hope so, at least. And if not...you can consider this a formal declaration.”

“A formal declaration?” Crowley repeated. He tried very hard not to smirk. The smirk won. “So this is your ...declaration of Intent to Begin Woo, then?”

“Ah, yes, exactly!” Aziraphale looked delighted by the idea. All these centuries and he still didn't always get sarcasm. Or he purposely chose to disregard it, in Crowley's case. Crowley could never be certain which one it was.

“And how would that look?”

“It would be slow, but I could start coming around and bringing you flowers and talking to you about your day-”

“Other than the flowers, how is that different from what we're currently doing?”

“Because my intent is stated, of course!” Aziraphale looked affronted. “And now you know I'm not doing it just to be your friend, though I do still quite value your friendship. I rather like this idea...”

“It does let you set the pace,” Crowley admitted. “I want you to be comfortable with this.”

“I am quite comfortable, thank you. Comfortable enough to suggest that I ...sleep over?” A blush crept to his cheeks, but before Crowley could start teasing, he corrected. “I just mean sleep in this chair. It's quite comfortable. Not the bed. You'd take the bed. But it would make it easier for me to begin my wooing of you.”

“All right, then, Angel. You're on. But I expect to be uh...thoroughly woo-ed starting tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow morning, then! It's a date.”

[vmheadquarters]

We’re still playing our game of written hot potato! Dozens of your favorite authors are taking turns to tell a Veronica Mars mystery story. Each writer crafts their chapter and then “tosses” the story to the next person to continue the tale. No one knows what will happen, so expect the unexpected!

Follow the “vmhq presents” and “murder we wrote” tags for all the installments, or read the story as it develops on AO3. --Chapter Twenty-One of MURDER, WE WROTE is written by @DRiver2u. And stayed tuned next week for Ch.22 from @amypc1​ - tag, you’re it!

—————————————————————————————————— CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE by @DRiver2u

The noise in the room was a low pulse of small groups talking among themselves. The conversations were not enthusiastic or lighthearted, but the former classmates were speaking just to have something to do. Whenever the din let up, someone new took over with a tale from the exploits of high school past. No one wanted to admit that, now they had eaten, there was time to start exploring the mansion for a murderer.

Hovering off to the side, as she so often did in social situations, Veronica's thoughts were exploding as quickly as she felt her ankle swelling. Her injury didn't hurt as much as she thought it should, and she wondered if she was in shock, rather than having an actual physical ailment. She plotted about how to move to another part of the house, so she could test the theories running through her brain. The crowded space in her mind needed an escape, and if she was being honest with herself, it wasn't the only part of her that needed a release.

She caught Logan's eye as he looked up from the drone of Casey's story, and she gave a quick tip of her head towards the direction of the kitchen. "Meet me there," she mouthed from across the room as she pointed with her pinky finger. She assessed her wonky situation and dropped her elevated foot, rolled to her stomach, and one-legged-downward-facing-dog walked herself to a standing position. For a moment, she steadied herself, using one flat foot and the tips of her toes on the other before trying her balance. She hobbled on her bad ankle and made a comment under her breath, just loud enough for the scrum of former classmates in the middle of the room to hear her complain.

"You rang," Logan quipped, as he turned to see her push through the kitchen door. "Or muttered, I guess would be more accurate." He watched as she moved from limping to balancing herself on the kitchen counter, and then doing a half-twisting boost onto the island. The gymnastics of the moves were worthy of more than a participation certificate. Logan studied her as she forced out a sigh and regained her composure. His mind filled with other uses for those skills. "Your powers never cease to amaze."

"I need some ice for my ankle, but I've been thinking, and I might want to reconsider something," Veronica cooed as her finger made its way between her teeth. Before Logan could head towards the freezer, she commanded, "Come closer."

Logan advanced and slid between her dangling legs. Veronica's citrus shampoo, the acid from the tomato ragu, and the yeast from a green bottle of Heineken left near the Belfast sink sent mixed signals to his brain. This wasn't the time or the place, what with the dead bodies, secret passages, and unknown assailants only a few feet from what he hoped would be their suction-cupped bodies, but he couldn't stop the fantasies entering his brain. Veronica stared into his eyes, hoping he would be able to read her mind. The drip of the faucet and the hiss of the radiator under the stained glass windows broke their silence.

As Logan leaned in to kiss the blonde in front of him, he felt the cool thickness of the marble countertop as it hit him just below his waistband. His mouth hovered near her lips, but he turned his head and teased her with the breeze that swept by her mouth. She grabbed the back of his neck demanding to be closer to him, to touch his sweetness. He was stronger than her, and pulled back, watching as her eyes slid shut. As his hands wrapped around her waist and his thumbs pushed into her hips, she let out a small whimper and her breathing quickened.

It was the panting and the moaning that made him pull her closer. He wanted this, she wanted this, but they had made a deal to slow things down this time. He could wait. Could he wait? Anticipation was a hell of an aphrodisiac.

When he finally kissed her, would she taste like roasted garlic, red wine, dried Parmesan cheese, or chocolate mousse? Whatever was left of their dinner would be lost as his mind cleared of all but the softness of her lips. Logan gazed into Veronica's eyes before kissing her wordlessly. Only seconds later, Veronica released her hands from his hair and scrambled to tug his thermal base layer from the waist of his trousers and ran her hands towards his brawny chest, feeling multiple indentations as her fingers spread.

"We need to reconsider that we may have only two days left to live, so three dates seems too long to wait to get naked," she said, at a much higher volume than Logan found desirable. He tilted his head as he tried to shake the noise and vibration out of his eardrum.

"I think you're out of practice on the whispering of sweet nothings," Logan grumbled. "The key to that phrase being 'whispering', sugarpuss."

Veronica reached up and took his face in her hands, then bent the side of his head towards her mouth. "We're being watched, right?" Logan nodded his head and wondered if this new taste for voyeurism would be part of their future escapades. He swallowed at the thought and caught himself breathing harder than only a few seconds ago. Veronica continued her train of thought in his ear. "Let's find out if this is really about us. They're watching, so if they see us, uh you know, all hot and heavy, they may try to break in and stop it."

Logan dropped his head, realizing this was nothing more than part of the game, part of her desire to solve this riddle. "I don't know if I feel like a mark, the bait, or a damsel in distress." He swallowed and took a deep breath.

Veronica kissed him softly and met his eyes. She didn't need words to explain to him that her brain was working overtime. It wasn't desire he had seen in her eyes when they started this rendezvous. But it was passion--just not the kind of passion he was hoping to experience.

"Enid Curtis," Veronica whispered again and gave him a mischievous smile before returning to his ear. "How many people do you know who are named Enid? Not one, I bet. Enid Curtis and Mason. Flip them letters around and what'd ya get? DIES UNROMANTICS." She gave him a quick kiss at his temple, but she wanted to give him a high five.

Logan chuckled before bending his head and raising his eyes to meet hers. "A bit of a grammar cock up, wouldn't you say?" He paused and tilted his head until his mouth met her ear, his hands continued to meander under her shirt. "If you're going to slip down the Enid path, it seems impossible not to bring up Tennyson. You should know to leave the English stuff to me."

Veronica inched away from him and stared at Logan. "So, you think there's a book on one of the shelves by Alfred, Lord Tennyson that'll help solve this riddle?" she asked in a low voice.

"Well, I'm more of a Keats guy myself, but it's tough not to respect a guy who came up with the lines, and I'm paraphrasing here, 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all' and 'Theirs is not to reason why. Theirs is but to do and die'." Logan turned the words over in his mind. Loss and death weren't nearly as appealing to him as Keats' haunting words about beauty, joy, love, and truth.

"Yeah, it's the 'do and die' part that makes me a bit worried," Veronica chided. "And what's that got to do with Enid?"

"I'm saying that Tennyson wrote Idylls of the King. In it is a poem about the perfect love Enid has for her husband." Veronica stared blankly at him before he continued. "He gets jealous, but she stays faithful. He thinks she cheated, but she stays faithful. He treats her like dirt, but she stays faithful. Seeing a pattern?"

"So Enid is perfect?" Veronica asked with a sly smile.

"It used to be a real compliment for a woman to be referred to as an 'Enid'," Logan remembered from a group project about Victorian poets. Who knew those trivialities might one day prove to be important?

Logan continued after a small pause, clearing his throat. "Oh, and Tennyson influenced the Pre-Raphaelite artists with his sumptuous verses. God, they painted some majestic stuff. Dead women, lots of flowing hair, unrequited love. Come to think of it, one was even of Enid, I think." He smiled at the idea of his mother and said, "First ones I saw were at Andrew Lloyd Webber's estate, because my mom dragged me there when she was desperate to get a part in a possible West End Cats revival."

"Keats, Tennyson, and Raffi," Veronica scrambled, only half listening to the other voice in the room. "I don't see the connection. Unless someone thinks I'm the perfect mate?" Veronica's mind danced with the knowledge that she may have an admirer rather than a stalker. She heard Logan snicker and watched as he shook his head.

"Raphaelites, bobcat, but who am I to doubt the perfect bit," he mocked with a chuckle. "Maybe Enid and Tennyson mean nothing. Maybe you were on the right track with the scrambled letters. Or maybe this mysterious host is telling you to ask others for help with this riddle. 'There's no I in team', 'It takes teamwork to make the dream work', 'Collaborate before we evaporate'. Etcetera, etcetera."

Veronica squinted at him, but only grunted out a, "Huh?"

"OK, maybe I made some of those up," Logan laughed. "But we're all here for a reason, and I don't think it's just to be dead bodies, cute faces, or red herrings." They both stayed quiet a moment and realized their musings had blown their cover. Their so-called tryst had turned into a book club.

"Ice," Veronica directed, and Logan grabbed the hand towel near the stove as he sauntered towards the industrial-sized refrigerator. "But now what?"

"Lead on, perfect Enid," he quipped. He took a deep breath as he felt Veronica going back into her brain. "OK. If you want to stick with rearranging letters, we can do that, but I prefer NUDES IS ROMANTIC."

[fatokifavour12-blog]

Godsfavour Fatoki

Robert Lunday

ENGL 1301

December 12,2019

Two Year Experience, Forever Trip

A trip to Nigeria does not sound bad, right? Here is the catch; you have to leave your friends and family behind and can only communicate with your family through the phone. Feel like backing out?  This is the story of my life, March 2016. Who knew I was set to hear news that would eventually lead to me staying in Nigeria for two years? Nigeria is a place of culture, one that I did not know much about until the end of the trip. One of the perks about knowing your roots, is just having some background knowledge about where you came from. Which I was naïve too, but slowly began to appreciate.

Given that you had the opportunity to go and learn more about your culture, and where you come from. Will it be easy for you to drop your friends, pack your bags and travel off to your fatherland? Sound Bittersweet? It is not that simple, especially when you are not familiar with the environment. I was given the opportunity but had no say in the decision making. Despite the idea of the trip being bittersweet, if you knew a trip like this would change the way you think and view the world, would you still go? How about if you could not come back and visit the states during the holidays? Even tougher decision. Maybe now you can have a sense of what I endured for two years straight. Two years straight. In addition, there would be limited phone calls because of the time zone difference, and sleepless nights.

I was born in Nigeria, but raised in America. That being said, I can be categorized under the Generation 1.5. This refers to students who are citizens or residents of the US but whose home language is not English. For some of these students English can function as their primary language. In Nigeria, the main tribes or languages are Yoruba, Igbo and Hausa. I was born into a Yoruba home. You can tell a persons tribe by either their first and last name. For example, the Yoruba tribe is known for the “Olu, Oluwa and ola.” Before the trip, since I could barely speak the language, I had trouble distinguishing tribes from one another. Usually, whenever my parents would speak to me in Yoruba, I would have trouble interpreting and I would ask my sister to translate for me.

Before I returned to Nigeria for two years, I went to Cinco Ranch High School. While attending the school, we would have some foreign students, or some other Generation 1.5 students who had a senses of background knowledge of where they came from. Other Generation 1.5 students would be asked what their home country was like, and from there they would be able to pour out information that would have you like intrigued. I was in search for my own story to tell not, someone else’s something to let others know that “I know where I’m coming from,” “ I know my country.” That kind of topic can also lead to good conversations.

With all the fun I was having in America, I then faced the music. I was finally going to Nigeria. Did I want to go? No! Not at all. So, I was going to Nigeria, there were no further questions to be asked, my parents’ decision was final. They insisted that it will be beneficial in the end. I would be going to Nigeria with my older sister and my dad, leaving my two younger sisters and my mom behind. My older sister would soon return to America after her first year.

The plane ticket was booked for the fourth of September, and by this time Hurricane Harvey had struck Houston. While I counted the days leading to my departure, I also prayed that Harvey would hit George Bush Intercontinental Airport so that my flight, and only my flight, for Delta Airlines would be cancelled. Unfortunately, this was not the case .Departure day arrived and all the roads had cleared up. Still refusing to believe this was happening, there I stood in front of Gate C, with a carry-on bag and a suitcase of clothes.

My sisters were in tears as they watched me leave, as was my mom, who tried fake a smile. This was pretty aggravating considering the fact that she wanted me to go. “Ill see them soon, after all its just two years it will be quick. Let’s just make the most of it” I say to myself as I passed the checkout area. At the moment, I felt no need to cry or whine about it, because complaining would only make my it longer. I just had to take it as it was, as much as I felt like running away. Who knew what good could come from this?

The plane landed successfully on the fifth of September; school started on the eleventh. I would be attending Grace International High School, a boarding school in Lagos, Nigeria.

  The following day my dad used it as a day for relaxation, considering that we were coming from America we had to adjust to the time zone. My dad took me around town the next day, showing me some great places and sights. He showed me the hospital where I was born and the flat we stayed in when my mother was in labor.

I was born in a small hospital in Victoria Island. Victoria Island is a big area in Lagos. Lagos is like the suburbs of Nigeria. Lagos is the heart of Nigeria, this is where the money and power is mainly located. All the powerful people in the country stay in Lagos. In a sense Lagos is like the New York of Nigeria. This is where the most attractions are, and Victoria island is at the center of it. Most businesses and churches are established here.

On the seventh of September, we went to the school. We came here this day so I could see the school I would be attending. As we approached the gates of the boarding school, I began to have mixed emotions about it. Excitement and suspense filled my head as we came closer after the long car ride we had. As I stepped down from the car, I was told I would be taking my entrance exam. An exam of which I was not ready for at all. At this point my heart was basically racing and I was not happy with my dad for making that call. There was not anything I could do about the situation, so I did not complain out loud. The thought of failing crossed my mind at the time. “What would happen if I fail,” “I don’t want to fail and waist his money.” My dad made no attempt to calm me down; the only thing he would say was “you ready?” Now that was a rhetorical question any answer other than “yes” would result in a hot slap.

I walked in giving myself motivation. The examiner walked in and handed me my papers. She told me I would be doing a Math and English exam. She asked me the one I would like to do first, and I chose to do Math. As she handed me the paper she told me that I have an hour and thirty minutes. The math test felt easy up and till I reached question 25. I flipped through the remaining pages and realized that I had 50 Multiple choice questions, the remaining questions where non multiple choice. This caused me to start sweating in fear. I skipped question 25 and moved on “Is their any other easy question I could do?” I asked myself as I was running out of time. The examiner then walks in and says “Thirty five minutes left” and this is where I panicked “screw it A B C D!” I went straight to the non-multiple choice questions and could barely answer three questions. My heart sank after submitting the paper, I fought back my tears as the examiner handed me the English exam. Knowing how bad I did on the Math, I was determined to breeze past the English paper. I felt the English paper was somewhat easy, but not bad enough for me to fail.

The examiner checked my work and gave my father back the result. They discussed in Yoruba for a while, I eavesdropped, and only picked out phrases in what they were talking about. The were saying something along the lines of “he needs improvement, but he has been accepted.” A wave of relief filled me inside, and it must have been contagious because it showed on my fathers’ face. My dad now paid the school fees that I had so I could get my school clothes and books.

They sent us downstairs so I could get my uniform for the boarding house and for school. The boarding house uniform we would wear for any activity other than sports that took place downstairs. The boarding house uniform was a checkered blue shirt and khaki pants for the boys and a checkered pink gown for the girls. The school uniform was strictly for school and school excursions such as debate club competitions. The school uniform was a green long-sleeved button-down shirt with a tie and colored whine pants with black shoes and socks. I was absolutely disgusted by the uniform. It was evident that who ever had the idea of such nasty looking uniforms had no fashion sense whatsoever. The two colors did not fit together in any sense, my dad told me to manage the clothes because there is nothing we can do but get it fitted.

  The first year was off to a rocky start, friends did not come easy, I was a little secluded because I was missing home. I was falling a little behind in some of my classes, because it was pretty difficult for me to balance 11 subjects. I was doing Calculus, Math, Physics, Chemistry, Biology, Computer, Catering, Civic studies, Yoruba, Geography and English. Some of these subjects I was being taught as a fresh subject. I had enrolled into the school as a year 11 student, and my mates have been taught these subjects since year 10. In order to make good grades I would stay back for tutorials, and I would read over night. It was not as easy as school in America, because I was used to taking only seven classes a school year.

In the school we had three terms a school year, I did not feel comfortable till the second term. I became friendlier but was not feeling true to myself. So I became a little more withdrawn and did not give anybody a chance to speak bad about me. Before I left I was a bit of a extrovert, me having the mindset of “I do not want to be here” really kept me from making friends. I still managed to figure it out because I could not help but talk. It was not until my second year that I began to feel more comfortable; though this was the year I felt more alone because my sister was not there with me, I became more independent. I started to branch out to more people than I did my first year. My dad would call me sometimes but it was not as frequent as it was my first year in the school. At this point I had not been missing home as much I was before and I felt more free with people.

The boarding house was pretty awkward at first primarily because of their restrooms; the place where we shower was not divided by any stalls or curtains. When we shower we could see each other’s private parts, which too me was very uncomfortable. It took me a couple days to get used to the showers. Inside the boarding house phones were not allowed, and this really prevented me from talking to all my former friends. Instead of phones, they allowed tablets sadly there was no free Wi-Fi. So some kids would hack the principal’s server and steal their Wi-Fi.

The boarding house was ran by the boarding house master, and the Boarding house prefect and the seniors. The school has elections that they do for every set of kids for every school year. The seniors were basically in charge whenever the boarding house master was not around. The seniors often abuse their power when it is given to them. The seniors bully their juniors. By junior I mean any student in the grade below. The boarding house had students from the 7th grade to the 12th. So the seniors had had wide range of students to pick on, I was in the 11th grade. The seniors gave the 11th graders some regard because they will soon be entering 12th grade so conflict between them was not much.

The prefects and students were allowed to belt other students, meaning that they could use a belt and deal with the students that were misbehaving. The boarding house master would use and object we called “cane,” which is basically like a tree branch. The cane could be used by a teacher, the principal and the vice principal. The boarding house master was known for his good arm. For an old aging man you would be surprised at how fast his hands move. The fear of being beaten by either one of those objects really got to me. So I was really cautious with how i acted in front of certain people and in different situations. I would often stop my juniors or mates from doing wrong to the juniors, but after a while I just got tired and lazy. Being mean to others people seemed to be the trend, which I nearly followed along to. The seniors do not like to be told what they were doing wrong, and when told it would result in a beat down to the students.

The experience shaped me to be who I was today; the nights I barely got any sleep really paid off in the end. It really opened up a part of me that I did not know I had. I had become more familiar with my culture and began to appreciate the side of me I did not know much about. I learned to appreciate what I had and I became more grateful for what I had. In Nigeria, not everybody has enough money to plan a trip to abroad, but I went there and came back. With all that I have seen in the country it had me thinking about how I could contribute to the society, a lot needs to be done to the country to speed up development. For that I thank God I went. Without the trip I do not think I would have sense of independence , I really went in to depth with my roots.

I have established a social network that will be useful to me in the future, the people I met will and can benefit me in the future. The friendships I have made with the people I met over seas I really enjoyed my time with will come in handy when I plan my return to the country soon.  You never know what you can do till you go through it alone.

[juniper-and-lamplight]

Podfic Favorites

7/8/2018

I promised a rebloggable podfic rec list, and here it is! I've recced most of these before, so this is more of round-up than a brand-new rec list; it's multifandom, as usual; it's organized alphabetically by podficcer's name; and it's restricted to no more than 5 pods per podficcer. All of these and more can be found in the podfic tag of my bookmarks. Recs under the cut!

A Symphony of Chemical Reactions - what_alchemy, read by @cellardoortumbles | Cellar_Door - 2k, 22min, T, John/Sherlock "Cooking’s just chemistry and time management." Vivid, quirky Sherlock POV in the text +  excellent use of music and sound in the pod = an extra-charming podfic. Use headphones to get the full audio experience!

More Things Than Are Dreamt Of series - 1electricpirate, read by @consultingsmartarse |  consulting_smartass - 38k, 1hr, M to E, John/Sherlock (Harry Potter fusion AU) “In which John is (reluctantly) a wizard, Mycroft is (apparently) omniscient, and Sherlock is (surprisingly) oblivious.” Hands-down my favorite Potterlock fic, and consulting_smartass' podfics are nuanced and immersive -- I've listened to them countless times now.

Sussex - SilentAuror, read by consulting_smartass - 26k, 3hrs, E, John/Sherlock “John can’t seem to stop touching Sherlock. He can push the anger away, but sometimes he just needs to take Sherlock’s pulse again. Slight angst, case-fic, post-Reichenbach.” Ah, nothing like realistic emotional constipation on the parts of our heroes. This was one of the first podfics I loved enough to download so that I'd always have access to it.

The Stars Move Still - BeautifulFiction, read by consulting_smartass and aranel_parmadil - 96k, 9hrs 48min, E, John/Sherlock, AU "What could I want so desperately that would make me sell my soul? What could possibly compel me to surrender the part of myself that makes me who I am: the source of my magic, my self-control, everything?" I avoided this fic for YEARS because I hate Faust, so I was extremely pleased to discover that the inspiration is VERY loose and thus, the fic, and the pod version, is lovely and incredibly immersive.

Carry On - Mazarin221b, read by consulting_smartass - 4k, 35min, M, John/Sherlock "Five times John didn't want to be carried, and one time he did." One of my favorite 5+1 fics, and a perfectly paced short pod.

Left - lifeonmars, read by consulting_smartass - 45k, 5hrs, E, John/Sherlock, magical realism AU "John Watson is left-handed. He’s tried not to let it affect his life, but as any Lefty knows, that’s almost impossible." Honestly, consulting_smartass' talent has broadened my fanfic horizons, because while I'm generally not keen on reading AUs (especially long ones), I'm amenable to listening to them -- and so I don't miss out on fantastic fics & performances like this one.

The Girlfriend Experience, rageprufrock, read by dodificus - 9k, 2hrs, E, Dean/Castiel “While it’s not like Dean hasn’t had a couple of truly regrettable hit-and-runs in his sexual history, this is probably the saddest fucking thing that has ever happened to him.” Sometimes, when a podficcer's accent is different than the accents in the source material, it just works in ways you wouldn't have expected-- this pod is one of those times.

The Company - Rulerofthefakeempire, read by @dr-fumbles-mcstupid | Dr_Fumbles_McStupid and RsCreighton - 2k, 11min, T, Dirk/Todd "He’s imagined this moment so often that it feels like he just doing it again, waking up with a hangover next to Dirk Gently. And Dirk’s naked." A quietly funny fic, and a quietly funny performance.

Interrogation - goingtoalaska, read by Dr_Fumbles_McStupid - 2k, 13 min, G, Dirk/Todd "Of course Dirk has some extremely important questions that can only be asked in the middle of the goddamn night, obviously." Almost entirely dialogue, and really captures the ridiculous-with-an-undercurrent-of-softness vibe of these two characters.

There's Only One Sure Thing That I Know - leah k (blinkiesays), read by exmanhater - 20k, 2hrs, E, Dean/Castiel "Dean doesn't even get halfway through explaining before Bobby starts laughing. When he lets himself think about it for more than five seconds, Dean can almost see Bobby's point: he's faced down demons, witches, vampires, werewolves, ghosts, angels, and Satan himself and now he's been defeated by the God damn Midwest." This podfic is a road-trip standby for me and my Destiel-shipping wife.

A Statue Strong Enough for Two - lady_ragnell, read by exmanhater - 39k, 3hrs 30min, E, Elena/Mithian, superhero AU "Elena is a street-level superhero. A visit from an old enemy forces her to step up and see what she might have to do with the Sidhe who invaded and were sent away twenty years ago. Luckily, she has fellow superheroes to back her up, and a new girlfriend in her regular life to make things feel more normal." In addition to encouraging me to try out AUs, podfic also encourages me to try out rarepairs--I wouldn't have thought to look for fic about these characters, but I'm so glad I stumbled across & listened to this one.

Lab Book - copperbadge, read by FayJay - 5k, 40min, E, John/Sherlock “'The likelihood of finding a cab on Christmas Eve is fast approaching nil.’ 'So was the likelihood of you kissing me in the middle of the pavement, and yet.’” An annual holiday read/listen!

Whatever Remains, However Improbable - ivyblossom and Loudest_Subtext_in_Television, read by @fffinnagain​ | finnagain - 13k, 90min, T, John/Sherlock “The evidence is all there: we know it’s bound to happen. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are going end up together, aren’t they? Obviously!” An experiment in fourth-person omnitemporal tense. Subtle sound effects add dimension to this podfic.

Diversionary Tactics - shinysherlock, read by finnagain - 2k, 16min, E, Molly/Irene, historical AU "Oh. This could be interesting. Irene’s fingers moved to the third button of the dress and paused. 'Shall I just . . . check the rest of you, then? Make sure you’re quite all right?'" A brief, hot, historical PWP, Mollrene style. UNF. Finnagain's performance is very...impassioned--maybe don't listen in public ;)

Seeing Draco Malfoy - khalulu, read by fire_juggler - 12k, 2hrs, E, Harry/Draco A beautifully done podfic, delivered with warmth and humor. Once I listened to it twice in one week and wound up with the phrase “Nubbumping Humdinger” stuck in my head, and it made me bust out smiling at random times :-)

Let Nothing You Dismay - montparnasse, read by Hananobira - 19k, 2hrs, M, Sirius/Remus "There are a few things Sirius really didn't count on for Christmas of 1979. The extreme sexual confusion is one of them; Remus Lupin is approximately seventy-eight of the rest." There’s a full-on, sensory vividness to the imagery and descriptions in montparnasse's writing, and LISTENING to those words makes the experience even more immersive.

Splendid Night - Katie Forsythe, read by heuristicdevice - 14k, 1hr 30min, M, Holmes/Watson "A Christmasy spin on MILV with a heart-warming dose of H/W." So much miscommunication! I love this fic so hard, and I ESPECIALLY love the podfic. Heuristic Device’s rendering of “now, please,” in a Certain Scene is both quiet and full of feeling, while other sections of the story are infused with audible humor, excitement, and heartbreak, each as they’re called for.

Stately Homes of Wiltshire - waspabi, read by @lazulus​ - 57k, 6hrs, E, Harry/Draco "Malfoy Manor has mould, dry rot and an infestation of unusually historical poltergeists. Harry Potter is on the case." Fair warning that listening to this podfic whilst walking my dog led to funny looks from strangers, because it caused me to laugh at loud for no apparent reason.

A Brand of Gold - aquabelacqua, read by @lockedinjohnlock-podfics​ | Lockedinjohnlock – 12k, 2hrs, M, John/Sherlock “What am I doing? he wondered. The answer came back at once: Flirting.” This fic is just plain beautiful, and the pod is one of my favorite performances by Lockedinjohnlock.

Points - lifeonmars, read by Lockedinjohnlock - 54k, 7 hrs, E, John/Sherlock "What if His Last Vow never happened? This fic picks up a few months after John and Mary's wedding, in an alternate universe where Magnussen doesn't exist, but Mary is still pregnant. Life continues -- just in a different direction. And slowly, Sherlock and John find their way to each other." Picture it: yours truly, driving alone and terrified through darkness, rain, and heavy traffic…and yet unwilling to turn off this podfic. THAT’S how deep lifeonmars and Lockedinjohnlock took me into this story.

Midnight Plowboy - weeesi, read by Lockedinjohnlock - 5k, 44min, E, John/Sherlock “'Does it feel like I’m sure?' John whispers into Sherlock's ear. Sherlock swallows again." In which John discovers Sherlock's collection of vintage gay erotica. *imagine several fire emojis here*

Half a Dozen Dances - CeruleanDarkangelis, read by Lockedinjohnlock - 19k, 2.4 hrs, E, John/Sherlock "'Seriously? You? You're going to be a stripper?' John tried to keep the amused incredulity off his face. Judging by the disgruntled look Sherlock gave him, he was not entirely successful in this endeavor.'" Typically, stripper fics are just Not My Thing, but the use of music in this podfic sold me.

(Never) Turn Your Back to the Sea - DiscordantWords, read by Lockedinjohnlock - 40k, 5hrs, M, John/Sherlock "Baker Street is very much the same. Only different. And Sherlock is just trying not to drown." The way the author & podficcer capture Sherlock's voice in this fic feels SO TRUE: his shattered hubris, his desperate resistance to vulnerability, and the believable way he and John finally get through it all.

Senza Catene - Mad_Lori, read by @oncomingtragedy​ - 6k, 1hr, T, John/Sherlock "Sherlock has a secret hobby. One night John follows him to find out what his flat mate is up to and gets the surprise of his life." The one where Sherlock sings opera--cracky but oh-so-enjoyable. The podfic performance includes several musical interludes.

All Life is Yours to Miss - Saras_Girl, read by originally reads - 114k, 11 hrs 20 min, M, Harry/Draco "Professor Malfoy's world is contained, controlled, and as solitary as he can make it, but when an act of petty revenge goes horribly awry, he and his trusty six-legged friend are thrown into Hogwarts life at the deep end and must learn to live, love and let go." Another one I might have missed (due to personal impatience) if not for the miracle of podfic!  The pod is well-performed, and the slower listening process makes the resolution feel even more satisfying.

The Price We Pay for Wings - Frayach, read by @raitala​ - 13k, 80min, M, Harry/Draco "Scorpius Draconis Eltanin Malfoy read the first book in the Alford Ocamy series over Christmas hols when he was eleven. Well, he didn’t so much “read” it as he devoured it." I've recced this a million times before, and I'll keep reccing it because I CRIED ACTUAL LITERAL TEARS LISTENING TO THIS. 10/10 would be devastated by again.

i don't wanna give you up (i don't wanna let you love somebody else but me) - notcaycepollard, read by @revolutionaryjo​ - 3k, 20min, E, Erin/Jillian "Erin Gilbert is not the second or even the fifth straight girl Jillian’s ever fallen for, and it’s kind of getting to be a problem, except when she sees Dr Erin Gilbert, she thinks, maybe, this woman might be a statistical outlier." Closely observed, funny, hot, and the narrative voice is p e r f e c t (both in the text and in the podfic performance).

The Temporal Tornado - novembersmith, read by RevolutionaryJo and Lunate8 - 3k, 37min, G, Carlos/Cecil "A temporal tornado reduced our most beloved scientist, Carlos, into a darling little toddler version of his already darling self, didn’t it? Yes it did, oh yes it did! Plus, a jellyfish migration is underway, a mysterious series of unexplained crevasses are appearing in the streets of Night Vale, and valuable advice is provided on the care and feeding of children." Audio is the only logical format for a Night Vale fic like this one :)

Common Woodbrown - imochan, read by RevolutionaryJo - 36k, 3hrs 40 min, M, Remus/Sirius "'Look well into thyself; there is a source of strength which will always spring up if thou wilt always look there.' In 1985, Remus Lupin realizes that Sirius Black is innocent. Now, he just has to prove it." Both author and podficcer create a sensitive rendering of the angst, fragility, and determination of Remus Lupin.

Sentiment to Paper - mistyzeo, read by RickyPulsifer - 7k, 57min, E, Holmes/Watson "No fewer than three times by the winter of 1883 had I heard Sherlock Holmes disparage the ways of lovers and their irrational tendencies toward writing letters. With this often and loudly-expressed opinion in mind, I was very surprised indeed to find a stack of unsent, unsealed letters in a drawer in his desk." RickyPulsifer’s podfic is a quiet wonder of smooth pacing, emotive delivery, and thoughtful production.

Splendid Creature - mistyzeo, read by RickyPulsifer and the_dragongirl - 2k, 20min, E, Holmes/Watson "Holmes has tired himself out on a case and wants to go straight to sleep. After an orgasm or two. Watson is more than happy to help." A sleepy, steamy PWP featuring a transmasculine Holmes, read by two podficcers whose voices work together beautifully.

Cold Snap - MirithGriffin, read by verityburns - 5k, 34min, E, John/Sherlock “The Mayo Clinic prescription for hypothermia is this: Tea. Blanket fort. Sex. All right, it doesn’t come right out and say that on the website. But Sherlock can read between the lines.” Verity Burns' delivery nails both the snark and the sweetness of this fic.

First Night Out - verityburns, read by the author - 3k, 22min, M, John/Sherlock “As John recovers from the effects of a brutal kidnapping, he and Sherlock attend the Yarders’ Christmas Party. There are… developments on the dance floor…” I loved this fic for YEARS before I listened to the podfic and realized that the audio version–read by the author herself–makes it exponentially more charming and more intimate.

Further fic recs | Fic bookmarks

[joyfullynervouscreator]

Bruises and Questions

Chapter 2 of Inshêt Zahrar

There was pain. Thorin wondered if dying was really supposed to hurt this much. In fact, seeing the blade-wielding orc coming to cut his head off had reassured him that he would feel little. He had had time only to spare a thought for his nephews and lament that they would watch him slain as he had watched Frerin – helpless to stop the coming death and screaming in denial. Dwalin’s face swam in front of his eye and he smiled at his fierce scowl. Dwalin would never forgive him for his reckless sacrifice, but he would understand the need for vengeance for the fallen. Orcs had killed Thrór, sparking the war that killed so many of their already diminished kin, orcs had been responsible for his brother’s death. Bright happy Frerin, who resembled Fíli so closely that it hurt to look at the nephew at times, remembering the one who should have been with them. A flash of red crossed his vision, but Thorin paid it no mind among the black spots that were already dancing there. He knew that his lungs were not working right, the lack of oxygen making him see things. That was the only explanation for the hallucination of their sweet little hobbit standing over him, snarling fit for an orc and waving his small shining blade. Distantly he heard the roar that could only be Dwalin in the grip of battle-rage, and he smiled. So often, that sound had been the sweetest music on the field, knowing that the one he called amrâlimê was near. Dwalin’s wild eyes, his fierce snarl, his loving smile, followed him into the darkness.

“Shosh, mahabbanûnith[1].” The words were soft as a whisper, and Thorin thought he could hear the voice of his amad. More words followed, gentle as ripples across a pond, but they meant nothing to Thorin. Warmth spread through his body, making the pain recede slightly. A hand was on his forehead, the other pressing softly against the side the warg had chewed. The darkness drew back, leaving brightness behind. The figure shone, chasing away the shadows.

Thorin blinked.

Around them, the Company drew a collective sigh of relief as their leader’s eyes focused on Gandalf, kneeling at his side. Bilbo’s strange elf girl removed her hand from the dwarf, moving across the flat plateau to speak lowly with the eagles. Her hands scratched into the neck-feathers of one of them, making the grand bird preen and nudge her happily.

“The…the Hobbit?” Thorin’s voice was halting, as if he expected his lungs to fail at pressing the words across his lips. He winced slightly. No longer suffering broken ribs and his lungs were in working order, but Thorin ached. There were definitely still cracked ribs beneath the heavy bruising that made itself known with each move he made.

“He’s fine, Bilbo is just fine.” Gandalf smiled, waving towards the little creature in his stained red dinner jacket. Thorin got to his feet gingerly.

“Zantulbasn mazannagûn.[2]” The growled Khuzdul reached Bilbo’s pointy ears at the same time as the injured King.

  Gandalf led them along the stream that ran alongside the Carrock until it widened into a shallow river, where they spent a few hours bathing and tending injuries before bedding down for the night. As the only one who had managed to keep hold of her supplies, Ilsamirë shared what lembas she had left with the dwarrow around her. Glóin and Ori looked at the leaf-wrapped breads suspiciously, but were eventually convinced by their rumbling stomachs to at least try a bite. The young princes ventured to share a slice, and then darted back to the company of their Uncle, swarming around him like worried chicks. Gandalf’s magic – plus whatever the strange peredhel had done – had helped some, but the dwarf was still in poor shape.

Thorin stalked along the riverbank until he reached Geira, washing her face and splashing cool water on her neck. He wanted answers.

“Who are you?” he asked harshly, reassured when he felt Dwalin’s solid bulk take up position at his back.

“A friend,” came the soft reply. “I have many names, Thorin Oakenshield, but for now, accept that I wish no harm to you or yours.” And once more, Thorin found himself gaping at the audacity of one of his travel-companions, watching her walk away from him, mithril braids swaying with each step. He growled, but Dwalin’s hand on his arm stayed the harsh words he would have shouted after her.

“I want to know who she is Dwalin and how she came to be here. Why is she following us?” Thorin ranted, something about her deeply unsettling to him.

“I don’t know, Thorin, but she does not seem to want to hinder our purpose. She fought the Orcs alongside us, and she saved Bilbo from Goblins. For now, I think she may be right to call herself our friend…” Dwalin trailed off. Thorin remained unconvinced. The Guard-Captain sighed. “I’ll get Nori to ferret out some answers for you, my King.” Thorin nodded, but he was not appeased, and he cast about for another source of the answers he sought. The safety of the entire Company was his responsibility, and allowing a complete stranger to travel with them for an unknown length of time did not seem wise.

When Thorin finally managed to corner Gandalf by the riverbank, his temper was roiling in his blood and all he could think about was demanding some answers about their newest travel companion

“Tharkûn! Who is this dam? I’d call her dwarrow except she’s clearly an elf! She’s got Elf ears.” He hissed in low tones, the accompanying gesture aborted with a wince of pain.

“Her story is not mine to tell,” the wizard said calmly, stuffing his pipe and looking pensively at the spectacle that was Kíli trying to dunk his brother under the water. “She is Lady Ilsamirë of Lothlórien. She would be your friend if you let her, but if you want to know more you will have to ask her. I will promise you that she bears you no ill will, however, and she could be of great aid to your quest. I had not thought to ask for her aid, for Lothlórien is far out of our way.”

“How does a dwarrowdam become a Lady of an accursed Elf forest?! For that matter, how did she end up looking like one?” Thorin felt a little woozy still, only sheer stubbornness had allowed him to get down from the Carrock without fainting from lack of air, and he could still only breathe shallowly. He did not have broken ribs, but a few were definitely cracked if he was any judge, and the bruises marking most of his torso did not make breathing any easier. He scowled at the wizard, whose face gave away no answers.

“As I said, Master Oakenshield, you will have to ask her for her story.” With that, Gandalf apparently felt the conversation had ended, for they grey-robed Maia got to his feet and left Thorin by the water’s edge to gape incredulously after him. Someone he didn’t know was moseying her way into his Quest, and the dratted wizard would not even tell him who she was? Thorin was not pleased, and his frown only grew when he caught sight of their newest member chatting lively with Bilbo.

The river had provided an opportunity to wash and take of their most pressing wounds, but the howl of a warg soon had them moving again. The Eagles had taken them far from the cliffs by the Misty Mountains, but wargs were fast and the Company had no desire to tarry over-long. Dwalin was never far from Thorin’s side, a mighty scowl pasted on his face. Thorin wisely focused all his conversation on the wizard. When the Guard-Captain had that expression on his face, everyone – from the newest guard recruit to the oldest noble – left him alone. Thorin hid the minor winces his painful wounds produced, trying to deflate Dwalin’s anger by playing down his injuries. When the haze of rage had left him and he’d caught sight of the grey pallor to his beloved’s face, Thorin could feel only shame for his actions. He had not even considered what his death, which had been a certainty if not for a certain Hobbit, would do to the Company, let alone the Dwarf who loved him. The thought of his nephews’ worried face and their present need for comfort only added to the shame.

The newcomer had spent most of her time in the company of Bilbo, discussing the merits of different Hobbit pipe weed and ale, something that could easily take up hours. Bilbo almost felt like he was back at home in the Green Dragon. The rest of the dwarrow seemed to take their cue from their leader and avoided her as much as possible. Bilbo was beginning to see how they had done the same to him, when the Quest had first started. She did not seem to care overmuch, however, content to walk in silence if no one spoke to her or sing softly to herself in words Bilbo did not understand. He thought his mother had managed to teach him passable Sindarin – and he had tried out a few phrases successfully in Rivendell – but this girl did not speak recognisable Elvish, Bilbo thought. It was obviously some form of Elvish, he could tell, but nothing more than that.

  As the group walked ever onwards, Ori lost his hesitant shy-ness and began asking questions of their newest travel-mate. She freely told stories of her home in Lothlórien and even a few tales of Mirkwood and her friends in both places. Ori soaked up the tales like a sponge; a few of them might make for nice reading in the official Book of Erebor’s Reclamation – which would need a catchier title, Ori realised – even if she only travelled with them until they reached a crossway where she could return to an Elven Realm. His fingers itched for his quill-pen and ink-bottle, but unfortunately those had been in his pack and were probably broken by the Goblins. He still had the sketches he had already made, as well as his notes, saved from wanton destruction only because he kept the pages tucked under his tunic, even while he slept. In return for her stories, Ori wove the tale of their Journey from the Shire and up to the point where they had killed the Goblin King. Ilsamirë was a good audience, gasping at the right places and chuckling at the parts he made seem far funnier than they had been to experience. The story of Bilbo’s role in the Troll Incident – definitely deserving of capitalisation in Ori’s mind, as a defining moment of the Quest – was taken over by the Hobbit himself, who proved to be a gifted storyteller. Ori wondered if Master Baggins might like to help edit the rough drafts of their story some day, though it would have to be the Westron version, as outsiders were not permitted to learn Khuzdul.

The day warmed slowly. The Dwarrow, who had to admit that the silly Elf-bread did stave off their hunger – after the night of Stone-Giants and a full day inside the warren of Goblin Town, hunger had more than set in by the time Azog’s band of Orcs caught up with them. It did not mean that they trusted the one who provided the odd food, but it meant that Nori did not interfere while Ori was asking questions, simply remaining in the background gathering observations and bits of insight into this Ilsamirë’s character.

Ilsamirë pointed out various plants to the attentive eyes of Ori and Bilbo, teaching them the uses of herbs that were unfamiliar as they walked. This led to a lively discussion with Óin about healing arts in general and Elven skills in particular. Their debate was made more entertaining – in Nori’s watchful but silent opinion – by the lack of Óin’s ear trumpet. Eventually, the healer resorted to a fairly rude sign in Iglishmêk, making Dori huff with disapproval. The elleth simply laughed and signed back an even ruder miner’s sign. At that point, Bofur intervened with a lecture to the interested Bilbo about miner’s sign language and the strange girl – by far the least injured – disappeared into the trees and bushes, returning with a selection of early summer berries and a few plants which Óin had particularly lamented the loss of. The old healer anticipated great need for pain- and fever-reducing teas once they finally got to a place safe enough to tend to their injuries properly. The treat was shared equally and the herbs were tied into bunches and stored in her pack. A few quick steps had her walking at the head of the group, next to the wizard and the Dwarf Prince.

“You’re bringing them to Beorn’s lands, Mithrandir?” She eyed the old wizard shrewdly, glancing with a slight frown at the dwarf beside him, who was – successfully with regards to Dwarven eyes, but not so to her Elven sight – trying to mask just how injured he truly was. Thorin bristled at her scrutiny, taking it as disdain. He was used to being disrespected by Men and the few Elves he had met in person had not improved his view of that race either, but it galled him that someone who claimed his kinship would hardly even acknowledge his existence.

“Yes. Radagast mentioned him to me once.” Gandalf replied lightly.

“And did Radagast tell you anything about the man?” Mirth was flashing in her eyes, but the old Maia shook his head. “You do know that Beorn has very little fondness for Dwarrow…perhaps it’s best if you let me talk to him. As much as he dislikes the Children of Mahal, he is usually happy to see me when I come by on my journeys. When he hears that you killed the Goblin King, he may be more sympathetic to your quest. Beorn has no love for orcs or goblin and hunts them ruthlessly when they trespass onto his lands. He will expect fair payment for his aid, if he chooses to give it.” Thorin scowled again, thinking of their rapidly diminishing coin purses. Most had lost their purses along with their packs in Goblin Town, and he would be surprised if any of the Company had more gold than that which they had sewn into their clothes as insurance.

“I did know that he doesn’t like Dwarrow, I was planning on only arriving with Bilbo at first. Lead up to the full Company, so to speak.” The wizard revealed, with a motion that Thorin would have called a negligent shrug on anyone else.

She laughed.

“You have always been wily, my friend, but I doubt Beorn would appreciate that.” Once again Thorin felt the eyes of the Elf-girl roam across his battered body. He did not appreciate the sensation. “He is not a man who accepts dishonesty in any form. It’s part of the reason he secluded himself here rather than join a settlement of Men somewhere. Beorn prefers the company of his animals.” Gandalf nodded, considering her advice.

“Perhaps you are right, dear one. I shall bow to your superior knowledge of the man.”

Ilsamirë smiled, “Thank you, Mithrandir. I would also recommend you cause no harm to any of Beorn’s animals. Even the bees are under his protection.” She shot Thorin a look and continued, “I know your Company are hungry for meat, but you will find none here, and I recommend you do not hunt any beasts who roam these lands, unless you wish for a swift and painful end. It is unwise to antagonise Beorn.”

Thorin’s deepening scowl convinced the flighty elleth to re-join the hobbit at the back of the group. Her reappearance sparked a whole new series of questions from Ori, who had had ample time to come up with new thoughts about the stories she’d told earlier as well as finding a few flowers that hadn’t been pointed out.

Thorin glowered all the way to Beorn’s house, where his annoyance was ramped up further by the skin changer happily greeting this Ilsamirë girl and practically adopting Bilbo, while the rest of the Company were barely tolerated until Beorn had verified their story about the Goblin King.

  “Mellon-nîn. I am afraid I must trespass upon your hospitality.” Ilsamirë stopped outside the gate and spoke softly to the giant man who was copping wood in front of his house. The giant turned slowly, grasping his axe firmly. His eyes roamed across the Company, who were standing behind the elleth.

“Pethril.” The giant Man spoke slowly, his deep voice oddly soothing, “You have brought dwarrow to my lands. And a bunny, it seems.” He looked to Bilbo, “That is not a Dwarf. The rest of your party are Dwarrow. I don’t like Dwarrow. They’re greedy creatures, and blind. Blind to the lives of those they deem lesser than their own. They care nothing for those weaker than themselves.”

“These dwarrow are good people.” Ilsamirë replied with equal calm, looking at the Company and gesturing broadly towards their exhausted and rather grimy appearances. “I give you my word they will cause no trouble in your lands, old friend. They slew the Goblin King. Orcs are hunting them. Will you grant them sanctuary so they may rest and heal before the next step of their journey?”

The man growled and took three swift steps until he was looming over the elleth. He reached out one massive hand and grabbed her arm. The dwarrow gripped their weapons in readiness, shaking off their fatigue and taking a step towards the two. The giant man growled again, but Ilsamirë just smiled and reached her hand towards his face. His free hand grasped hers, bringing her palm to his nose. He sniffed loudly. The Company gaped. The elleth laughed, obviously expecting such treatment. A few of the Company looked askance at each other; just what was this giant?

“You smell of fire and blood and Orcs,” he growled menacingly, “you bring dwarrow to my land who are hunted by orcs, yet you claim they will bring me no trouble? For you, Pethril, I will not kill them, but you will owe me a tale or three,” he rumbled loudly. She nodded. The man let go of her hand and picked her up in an easy hug that brought her over the low gate. “So be it. They may tell me their story, and I will decide if they can stay. If they truly killed the Goblin King, I will even feed them.” He set her down gently and opened the gate. The dwarrow slowly traipsed past the foreboding giant. Even Gandalf seemed nervous, a reaction that wasn’t helped when Beorn stopped him easily with a hand wrapped around the wizard’s arm. “Who is this.” The question was not directed at Gandalf, though the wizard replied, slightly shakily. Beorn’s grip was not crushing, but it had potential to be so, which was clearly felt.

“Gandalf. Gandalf the Grey.” The wizard chuckled nervously.

“Never heard of him.” Beorn scowled.

“I’m a wizard. Perhaps you’ve heard of my colleague, Radagast the Brown? He lives in the south of what was once the Great Greenwood.” Gandalf tried, but the mention of Radagast did nothing more than let Beorn release his arm without reply.

The bear of a Man looked at the Company. “And who are you all?”

Each dwarf introduced himself, but Beorn showed no reaction until Thorin said his name. Recognition sparked in the man’s eyes.

“My story, Pethril,” he said, while herding the Company closer to his house, “how did you get involved with the one they call Oakenshield? Him I have heard of.” The giant gestured towards the house, where his dogs had laid out a meal on the long table. Beorn took his seat at the head of the table, waving his large hand towards the seat beside him. Ilsamirë sat gracefully, accepting a heaping plate from the animals and began to spin her tale of meeting Bilbo under the Misty Mountains. The least injured dwarrow joined them for the meal, and Óin took himself off to look at those who needed tending. Nori’s tender ribs were rewrapped and Thorin’s bruised and battered torso was revealed.

“I have medicines in my pack that will help.” The elleth had moved silently behind Óin, staring over his shoulder. She flitted across the room and returned with a small earthenware pot. Handing the salve to the old healer, she bounded back to Beorn’s side, quickly taking up the thread of her story once more. Óin carefully sniffed the salve, before deciding to use it. After all, the girl had proven knowledgeable and he had lost his own kit in Goblin Town, so he didn’t have much choice. The old healer knew that his King would not complain of his pains, even if he should, but anything speeding up his recovery would be appreciated. He slathered a goodly amount across Thorin’s chest, making the dwarf hiss in pain. The company spent the night quietly mending whatever gear they had left, and snacking on the large spread Beorn’s sheep and dogs had provided. When Ilsamirë – or Pethril, as Beorn called her – had finished the tale of her meeting with the Company, Balin had taken the task of relaying the story of their journey since Bree, assisted by Ori’s many sketches, which the lad had somehow managed to keep hold of.

  “What were you thinking!” Dwalin began angrily. Thorin could only shrug, knowing better than to interrupt the irate Dwarf. “You would have been killed, Thorin! What did you think would happen to our family if you died?! Not to mention the Quest. Mahal’s beard, you know you’re needed for that if nothing else!” Dwalin’s temper was so frayed, he could hardly keep his thoughts organised, let alone the disjointed rant that came out of his mouth. “And the lads… Thorin, you have scared me that badly before, but think of what you would have done to Fíli and Kíli! And Dís! M’imnu Durin! She would have my beard, if not my head, sending me off to the Halls myself to scold you for such utter idiocy!” The bald Dwarf paced in the large bedroom Thorin had been allotted. The Dwarf-King could only sit on the tall bed and watch as his Kurdel’s temper found release. He idly wondered if it was wrong to think a Dwalin angry beyond words was as sexy as Thorin was currently thinking. His foggy thoughts – no doubt influenced by Óin’s medicine if not by the Elf’s salve – could just sing with admiration for his fierce lover. This had been building since the Carrock, where Dwalin had been too consumed by worry to brood on his anger. Thorin winced as Dwalin’s voice reached hitherto unknown levels of volume.

“Amrali astû, amrâlimê.” Thorin felt a little loopy. Dwalin simply stopped speaking to stare at him incredulously. “Afsâlul,” Thorin mumbled, “Dwalinimê.” He nodded.

Dwalin’s rant came to a sudden halt when Thorin began speaking. His words were slurred and Dwalin could see a line of drool making its way down his chin. Thorin just grinned loopily at him. “Óin!” Dwalin bellowed, panicking, proving that the Company had been listening at the door when Óin came stumbling through the door within seconds. Dwalin pointed at the lolling King, who was now talking to the ornately carved bedpost. The wooden bear did not answer.

“Halwmugrê…” Thorin mumbled, patting the bear carving. Óin’s long years of experience was all that let him keep his composure. Thorin had never acted like this on poppymilk nor on any of the other common pain medicines he could dispense.

“What’s wrong with him!” Dwalin pleaded with his eyes for Óin to tell him that their King’s mind was not permanently addled.

“Dwalin… c’m’ere.” Thorin slurred, reaching for a point slightly to the left of Dwalin. “Two of yes and no kisses for me,” The King’s mien was turning decidedly pouty. Dwalin gaped, but made the mistake of moving in range of Thorin’s grabby hand. “My Dwalin. My bear. Not that bear. That bear doesn’t kiss me. You should kiss me,” Thorin said solemnly…to the carving. He kept pulling on the speechless Dwalin, however, and the burly warrior followed. Óin finally lost the battle with his laughter, but managed to make it outside the door before he let loose with a barrage of great guffaws that almost scared the rest of the Company. Óin was laughing so much he began wheezing before he could manage to explain his amusement. From behind the door, the sound of Thorin’s increasingly childlike demands for kisses could be heard until Dwalin managed to shut him up. None of the other Dwarrow were brave enough to go find out how. Instead they all turned to stare at the elleth who was still sitting at the table talking to Beorn in a low voice.

“What was in that salve, Mistress Geira,” Óin asked. A grimace crossed her fair face, but she replied in a friendly tone.

“Please just call me Geira or Ilsamirë, Master Óin. The medicine is one of my own making, it renders the patient unable to feel pain almost completely. Far more effective than poppymilk, though harder to dose.” She explained. Óin paled slightly underneath his beard.

“And what happens if you… overdose the patient?” he asked in no more than a whisper. No one spoke, however, so his question was heard by all, as clearly as the happy voice of Thorin behind the closed door.

“Ah…” Ilsamirë flushed slightly. “In Elves it tends to produce a predilection for speaking in verse, as well as fixation on colours. In Dwarrow? I would hazard a guess at a spike in the amorous inclinations of the patient. This is the first time it’s been used on a Dwarf.” She kept a straight face, even when Thorin’s soft moan ended her sentence. Silence reigned in the main room.

“So…Who is hungry?” Beorn asked, breaking the spell. Each Dwarf was instantly busy with some task or other, speaking loudly enough to drown out any possible sounds from the King’s sickroom.

 [1] Hush, little avenger.

[2] Courageous Hobbit. (Zantulbasn is the common for hobbit(not rude) and mazannagûn means he who continues to show courage)

you can find the rest of the story here

[b0blegum]

At the Same Level.

Author: b0blegum

Pairing: Choi Youngjae x Reader

Rating: PG (but who wants their parents to read this with them tho, just read at your own risk lmao)

Genre: Smutty-Fluff

Status: COMPLETED

Part: One-Shot

a/n okay, so this is actually requested by @fannyfransiscaaa. I don’t know if she’d like this as much as i do, but let’s just hope this is also her cup of tea x

Saturday, 9pm.

Nothing much different than any other weekends. The apartment is quiet. You, reading a book you haven't got the chance to finish it since last month and Youngjae, your flat-mate, busy clicking mouse and torturing the keypad with eyes locked on bright computer screen.

You and him are not fond of going out on weekends, because both of you share the same thought; why would one go out on weekend when they were out everyday on weekdays? Were those 5 days not enough?

"Youngjae!" You shouted from your room. You always let your door open. Except when you are showering or sleeping, of course.

"Hm?" He hummed, without taking his eyes off the screen.

"I am hungry." He kept quiet, waiting for your next chain of words. "Want to order some chicken?"

"No, shit!"

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, sorry. It was the game. What did you say?" He shouted. Fingers still busy on both keyboard and mouse.

"I want to order some chicken. Fancy that?" You walked out to his game room. The only room that doesn't have windows and clock, where Youngjae could spend the whole day there without realising the moon had replaced the sun

"Yeah, yeah." He stole a quick glance at you before locking his eyes back on screen and began saying words you don't even understand.

You rushed to his room, took his wallet that he put carelessly on the bed and took two bills from it, but something stopped your action. You saw a photo of you and him, in his wallet, between the bills he has.

"He keeps this photo?" You slid out the photo carefully. "Jeez, i looked ugly." You commented, before sliding it back in and threw his wallet back.

"I'm paying with your money." You said, intentionally saying it with low voice, so that he can't really hear it, but if he asked you where his money is, you could easily say 'I've told you earlier but you didn't respond so i took that as a yes.' An old trick you always pulled and he still fall for it every time.

After around thirty minutes of waiting, you smell something nice, followed by a ring on the front door.

That is definitely the chicken. You marched to pick it and brought it inside. Putting it on the small coffee table in the living room along with two cans of beer you took from the fridge.

"Youngjae-ah, my boyfriend is here. Come eat him up!" You showed up at the door of the gameroom. He didn't say anything until the result of the game came on screen. He took off his headset and joined you.

"That sounds so wrong. Eat him. I don't eat men, (y/n)." He hissed and opened his can.

"Why is everything has to be related to sexual activity to you?" You rolled your eyes.

When you first met him, was the day he moved in to your flat. He seemed innocent, reserved and all that treats that a nerd would have, but all of your first impressions of him were completely wrong. He is goofy, loud (especially when he laughs) and his mind were filled with either games of girls– and dogs, okay, he loves dogs.

"Don't blame me. You chose that word and i happened to know a lot of phrases, so..." He chewed his chicken.

"Whatever." He chuckled at your reaction. He loves to annoy you. He loves you being angry (but not really) at him. He just love your reactions and not only that, he loves teasing you. He loves giving you a sudden back hug when you were cooking. You were blushing when he did that for the first time, but not until he whispered 'The bathroom smelled so bad, you must've pooped a lot.' Since then, you always brushed his hands immediately, when he was about to give you a back hug.

"Hey, i'm turning on Serendipity, alright?" You searched for the remote, then clicking the buttons, switching to the movie mode to found your favourite movie.

"God, i am a man and i've watched that movie zillion times. I feel weird." He stripped his last portion of chicken before downing the beer.

"You don't have to join me if you don't want to. I'm cool." You leaned on the lower part of the couch and fixing your eyes on the TV as soon as the movie played.

"You believe in serendipity?" He asked when Jonathan made an appearance.

"Well, i believe in omnia causa fiunt, there's not much different with serendipity, right?" He nodded. His eyes involuntarily sticked to the TV, following the korean subtitle provided.

He let you watched the movie in peace, because he knows you'd be mad at him if he disturbs you when you are watching a movie.

He stood up, tidying the mess from the chicken you both just ate and after he was done throwing all of them to the bin, he came back with a blanket. His.

"Get on." He tapped the empty space beside him. You stood up, but instead of getting on the couch, you walked to turn off the lamp first, giving it a movie night kind of feel.

"Why did you turn it off?" He asked as you slipped inside the blanket you both share.

"Why? You don't like it this way?" You asked back as you curled yourself, taking more blanket than him. "Want me to turn it on?"

"No, no. It's fine."

Your eyes grew heavy as the movie went by, but you still managed to smile at the elevator scene. Same went to Youngjae. He already had his head tilted, supported by his hand that rested on the inside arm. His head fell a couple of times from his arm until he finally gave up and lulled his head back and somehow your head fell to his shoulder. He didn't realised it anymore because he already fell into a deep sleep and you, too. You adjusted your position to the one you thought the most comfortable for you.

The glimpse of sun rays insisted to touch your lids. You rubbed your eyes gently and put your hand to where it was before. It's firm, but... Soft. Your forehead curled, thinking about what is it under your hand. Your bed doesn't feel like this and so does your pillow. You moved your hand a couple of times as you gently pressed it.

"That... Is my chest." A raspy, just-woke up voice shocked you that made your eyes immediately wide open.

You looked up to found your flat-mate, none other than Youngjae, laying really closely to you.

"We fell asleep on the couch together on accident." He pulled his hand from strands of (your hair color).

"How did we end up in this position? Were you brushing my hair?" You asked, somehow felt annoyed.

"Were you breathing on my neck?" He asked you back as he felt a warm air touching his crooked of neck. "Oh, yes you are. You are breathing on my neck." He said softly, almost a whisper. "But... Don't you think it feels really comfortable?"

You blinked your eyes rapidly. Slowly you felt your stomach tingling, it felt funny inside.

It is, it is comfortable. You thought. But...

"Uh, Youngjae..." You called him. You could feel his jaw moved slightly, brushing your head. He found you trying to get off from your position.

"(Y/n)," he called you. "I know we're not on that level to do this, but..." You stopped wiggling trying to get off from his arm. "Can we just stay in this position for a while? It's... Comfortable and it's monday." He added.

He was right. You wanted to stay in this position, as well. His body is surprisingly perfect to be leaned on plus he smells so good.

"You're saying nothing, so i take that as a.. Yes?"

"It really is... Comfortable." You wiped his clothed chest gently and adjusting your head back the crook of his neck.

Both of you stayed in that very position for a really long time that even you almost fell back to sleep. Until his voice snapped you.

"Why are you keep refusing my back hug?" He asked as his finger took a few strands of your hair and played with it. You didn't protest and just let him.

You let out another warm breath onto his neck. "That poop thingy, you idiot."

"Poop?" He repeated.

"You said the bathroom smelled so bad that i must've pooped a lot." You rolled your eyes.

He chuckled, "I really said that?"

"Oh, please, Youngjae."

"I'm sorry about that, but if i promised i'd never say something like that ever again, will you accept my back hugs?"

"Why is it plural?"

"Becaus–"

"Hold on, i just remembered something. Why did you still have that photo of us?"

"A photo?"

"The one on your wallet. The one between the bills."

"Oh," he stopped playing with your hairs. "That is our first photo together– wait, you go through my wallet?"

"Chicken, Youngjae. I used your money."

"You little bastard." He rolled his eyes and smiled.

"Youngjae..." You called him. He only hummed and waited for your next sentence. "Why is it so comfortable." You repeated his words he said minutes ago.

You started to feel that tingling sensation again everytime your skin brushed against him and when he moved his head slightly, making a contact with your head or when his fingers playing with your hair. You felt like your breath was caught up in your throat and without you even realised, your legs moved by itself, intertwining with his. He didn't seem to refused, instead he adjusted to it and made it even more comfortable.

Knowing that you received positive feedback from him, you moved your hand slightly upward, closer to his neck, stopped right on his collarbone.

You could feel he looked down to you and moved his free hand slowly. The butterflies on your stomach began to made chaos. The funny feeling stroke back, waiting– no, expecting for his action.

He put his hand on your cheek and brushed it softly with the back of his hand.

"(Y/n)," he said. "We've been living under the same roof for... Ages, but were you always this beautiful?" His comment made you blush. You could feel your face getting warmer.

He slowly slides his hand to your jawline then to your chin. Lifting your head slowly, probably being cautious, in case you don't like what he does. But you did not refuse.

You were staring into each other with soft gaze, like you were both talking, only without a sound. He then brings his face closer to you and closed his eyes. You did the same. You closed your eyes and waiting for something you know he'd do in just another second.

And you were right.

In no time his lips touched yours and it stayed like that for a couple seconds before you gave more pressure against his lips, not that much but enough to tell him that you're up to whatever he is currently doing.

Knowing that you were up to it, he moved his hand to your cheek, cupping it as he adjusted both of your lips between each other's. Then he slid his hand gently to your neck, while your hand was still on his chest, slowly making its way up to his nape.

The kiss were slow but intense. He didn't force you to let him in nor you both were battling for dominance, no. It was sweet and gentle and it was the kiss that made you feel like time slows down, like it was controlled by the two of you.

Slowly, he shifted himself, supporting his weight with his arm that was pressed beneath your body. You were instinctively shifted yourself, laying underneath him, being pressed lightly by the figure.

His hand moved down, trailing the curve of your body and stopped when it reached your hip. He fixed his hand there as he deepened the kiss.

You played along with his game, you bite his lips couple of times that made him smirked and bite yours back, more softly.

"I don't know you'd like this idea," he whispered in your ears as he pecked your jawline.

You said nothing but moaned as he kissed you down the neck, biting the flesh and leaving marks.

You involuntarily spread your legs, giving him a way to put himself between you and once he's there, you locked him with your legs.

"I don't know what this is, but i'm loving our time now." You grabbed the back of his head and invited him for a more intense kiss.

“I think, we’re already in the level to do this kind of things.” He smiled in between kisses.

Check out my other works >> MASTERLIST <<

[luciensfox]

Opinion on Az/Elain vs Elain/Lucien in ACOWAR? I'm the latter - I did a post about it on my wall you can check out. I just thought it was more brotherly affectionate for Az...

Oh boy. Here we go.

For starters, I’m a huge Elucien shipper.

I have been ever since the whole “you’re my mate” slip up by our dear fox prince. All of the HCs and meta I’ve seen about these two has created a massive Elucien monster out of me… so the fact that we were essentially teased with this little idea of the two of them together, only for it to be practically nonexistent in ACOWAR has me really annoyed. 

Love triangles suck in general. I really dislike them and find them to be reflective of poor writing and lack of plot. But in this instance, I didn’t really see it as a love triangle? Rather it was more complex, almost like a love quadrilateral. Or whatever the hell that shape is lol.

I wanted Lucien and Elain to happen almost as badly as I wanted to read the Feysand reunion, and both of those fell flat to me. (But I’ll talk about Feysand some other time.) When I started reading about how Elain was uncomfortable in her skin and near platonic, only going so far as to mumble incoherent phrases and barely eat anything for days, I knew my priorities shifted. Sure, Lucien could have been the one to help bring her out of the cationic stage she was in. But it went deeper than anything a person, even her mate, could fix. This was something she had to face on her own, and come to realize that she had the power to overcome something tragic that happened to her. I wanted Elain to face that on her own terms, and with the quick recovery she pulled during the end… I guess she did? Honestly, it really wasn’t touched upon as much as it should have been. 

I ship Elain with health and happiness before anything else, but the same could be said for Lucien.

Lucien was obviously more invested in their bond than she was, but with reasonable hope. He’d known about the bond for centuries and has mentioned before that every Fae wishes secretly to find their mate, the one person who can be their equal. Lucien has suffered so much that I think the prospect of finding someone to share his emotions with was so overwhelming that even though his initial response was self depreciating because he didn’t think he deserved her (or at least that’s what the fans came up with, because Maas was really off her character development game in this book and I can barely tell you what went down with each character) he also understood that Elain might not reciprocate the bond because she was newly turned and frazzle by it all. He didn’t want to frighten her or push her to do something, which only made my poor Elucien heart more heavy.

Grayson can choke. That’s all I have to say on his matter.

In regards to Azriel and Elain? Maas really knows how to screw with my emotions because even though I’m crazy for the other ship… I’ve secretly started to imagine the two of them together. And honestly it’s not as bad as I once thought it might be, and that’s not to do with the whole Moriel thing never going to happen. Mor aside, I just didn’t ship Azriel with anyone because he, like Lucien AND Elain, needed time to “be in a relationship with himself” first before he could give himself to someone else. All three of them are very similar, which is why the prospect of who to couple up who with seems so strenuous. You don’t want to see the odd one out hurt. Frankly, if Maas put Lucien and Azriel together and made Elain happy with her gardening and her new seer abilities, I’d be over the moon.

But alas, the cute scenes between Az and Elain did things to my heart that I didn’t think were possible. I ship them. But not as much as I ship Elucien. It’s like a 30 to 70 ratio for me. 

And while I’m crying my eyes out over the fact that Elucien is likely not going to happen, I also can’t wait for a Lucien centered novella and perhaps some Elain x Az fluff later on in their own stories. 

[davidastbury]

August 2018 Summer 1958

A hot afternoon. Unable to decide whether to stay or go. Russell looking at me - those eyes - as biologically close to Caroline’s as it was possible to be. And she was in the next room practicing at the piano. I could actually hear the thud of her thumbs and imagined her splayed fingers - stabbing through the octaves - wrists arched, skin stretched. And the noise - it couldn’t be called music - the noise made my head spin until I had no thoughts at all - just the start of a strange, painless ache that would never get any worse - and would never go away.

Then

She had been his girlfriend for a few weeks and the boy decided to introduce her to his parents. They liked her instantly and soon she was frequently calling at the family home. More than that, they got along so well with her that the girl visited when her boyfriend was away - working in other cities and sometimes overseas.

When he was home, he invited his dad to meet up with the two of them in a nearby bar. They spent the evening talking - talking about everything. And then, this became a fairly regular thing; the three of them at a little table, drinking and endlessly talking.

Once, he said to his dad that we’ll - ‘see you later as usual’ - and his dad replied - ‘No, you don’t want me around. Let it be the two of you’.

The son replied - ‘Of course we want you to be with us!’

And so the dad did as he was told.

Something Wrong

I once saw a rabbit hit by a speeding car - it was thrown up in the air; then rolled; then settled at the side of the road. A few seconds later I saw his/her mate - ears raised, looking back, confused, aware something was wrong.

And then the realisation that he could not get up, or move - and their was world broken, as broken as the sharp bones in that scrap of warm fur.

On The Train

Nice young couple. He makes comments and she smiles - doesn’t actually laugh because that might be too much encouragement. Probably an embryonic relationship; they look at each other with affectionate curiosity and open minded interest. All nice and pleasant - before the elephantine looming of practical matters ... money, families and the seething smorgasbord of desires.

City Block Story ... #22

I had a friend who lived on the 28th floor of a block in town. I used to call on him from time to time and particularly enjoyed the views from his floor to ceiling windows. One day I shared the lift with two female students and a maintenance engineer. The students were enjoying some sort of joke - I picked up the last line - which the dark-haired one, choking with laughter, had difficulty saying - ‘ ... and I won’t have any student debt!’

I tried to figure out the bit that had gone before - the bit I’d missed - but of course couldn’t figure it. The two students, still giggling got out of the 28th and followed me along the short corridor. The dark haired one fumbled with her keys and went into the flat next-door but one, to my friend.

So there I was, sitting on my friend’s sofa, looking out of his window at the clear blue sky as if in some sort of strange aircraft. I told him about the two students and he understood who I was talking about - ‘The dark haired one is the tenant; the other is her pal. I don’t know anything about her other than that she’s studying architecture. She needed to borrow my phone once. That was our only contact. But there is something about her - she goes out quite late in night.’

‘What do you mean, “goes out”’? I asked.

‘I don’t know. She goes out most nights. A car comes for her.’

‘A taxi?’ I asked.

‘No, it isn’t a marked taxi, but she gets in the back seat as if it’s a taxi.’

‘So, she’s going somewhere?’

My friend was amused. ‘Look - I don’t know! Stop asking me questions. You know where she lives - go and ask her!’

He knew he had to be careful with sadness - you have to keep it at arms length. Sadness isn’t ever sorted out and put on the shelf; instead it hangs around in the shallows, watches you, looks forward to new additions, new griefs, new disappointments. It will leap into flame just when you aren’t expect it - when you are low over something, something in itself a bit trivial - but it is enough let loose a build up of sadness - a flood of misery.

So he was careful with sadness - always on his guard - always watchful - and never, repeat never, alone.

Britain and Europe. #1

I used to attend the biannual Oil Industry jamborees in Aberdeen. It wasn’t just European, oilmen came from all over the world, it was international - Arabs, Persians, Texans, Venezuelans, Norwegians - the lot. They looked like oilmen too - men who could cap a blazing wellhead or drill miles out at sea. Men who survive in the toughest conditions - all wearing expensive ‘outdoor’ clothes and the ubiquitous Rolex watch.

I used to attended some of the workshops - one I particularly remember was given by the sales manager of a British component manufacturer. We knew each other from previous industry exhibitions and trade shows. After he’d done his stuff the two of us went to the bar. I asked how he was getting on in his firm - I’d read that it had been ‘acquired’ by a French conglomerate - and his reply, given with sincerity, really shook me. There he stood, on the foothills of senior management within a European giant; who mixed with the best of the best....

‘Listen David - between you and me - if I could get a job on the bins, I’d leave tomorrow.’

After living in the flat for a few years we decided to make some changes. We started by smashing down an interior wall and when the dust settled we were amazed to find a secret room! It was really weird - fully furnished and very neat.

Then we remembered that we lived in a duplex.

R.

We knew each other for a few short weeks - right up to the time she left out little town forever. London was the magnet and I understood her reasons for going - I didn’t question any of it - I let the day come round and carried her bags and cases to the station - and I watched the bus take her away.

That was a long time ago. I heard nothing from her in the first few weeks and months - and then the months became years - in fact, nearly sixty years. And now others will have filled her life and they will see her as she is - but for me it is entirely different - I hold a gleaming fragment - fixed forever at that moment; how she had panicked over a last-minute confusion with her ticket - how she was cheerful and tried not to look at me - how she was heartbreakingly soulful - how she tried to smile and how hard she tried not to cry.

The Immortal Story

Once upon a time sailors were great storytellers - it was probably a way of getting through the boredom of long voyages. The stories themselves were usually fantastic and subject to the imagination and personal embellishments of the teller. One story was so popular that it was given the title ‘The Immortal Story’. It goes something like this ...

There was once a young sailor, his ship was docked for a few days in harbour somewhere in the Far East. He was alone one sticky, sweltering night - alone and getting drunk on the strong local brew - outside, he could hear the night chorus of tree frogs and monkeys. He was near a rickety bamboo screen, behind which the establishment’s girls waited for customers. He then looked up and saw a beautiful woman standing in front of him - she put a finger to his mouth and taking him by the hand led him outside and into her carriage. A servant took them to the woman’s luxurious home.

She said to the young sailor - ‘You must not speak’ - and he simply nodded his head. She gave him a night of extraordinary pleasures - leaving him weak and heavy-eyed. In the morning a set of clean clothing is laid on the bed and the woman told him that her servant had the horses ready to take him back to his ship - and that he must not speak or try to see her again.

The person telling this story must pretend that this really happened to him. He can dress it all up in anyway he likes, as long as he is convincing.

But somewhere, there would have been a sailor telling the Immortal Story, and in his case it would true.

The school bag.

The hotel allocates a space where departing guests can leave items for which they have no further use. Four or five shelves brimming with things like deluxe swimming goggles, piles of books and magazines, inflatable alligators, straw hats, sun creams, flip flops etc. Anyone can take what they want.

I saw a girls school bag; lots of pockets, pink shoulder straps - a bit knocked about - ‘well used’ is the phrase. The interior was scuffed and marked by felt-tip pens, which the owner had not capped - and traces of stickers, unsuccessfully scratched away by her thumbnail. I held it upside down to shake out the sand and the flap swung open revealing a drawing on the underside - a childish image of a kitten in a bow tie, surrounded by bunches of marijuana leaves. I had to smile.

And then, under the picture of the unfeasibly cute kitten, she had neatly stencilled her name ... Lucie Wider.

I put it back on the shelf.

‘O Master of the Universe!

God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.

Unfurl the canopy of Your protection

And Bless the life of Lucie Wider.

Lucie Wider

Lucie Wider.’