#so you may notice I may draw the same scene twice to polish up my takes

[mewkwota]

Who, besides me, wants to see Maxim slowly breaking down again? There's a single shot from one scene, and then a whole comic for another because that's what I decided to do for this.

You already know what happens next, I drew it a long time ago.

[lazarettta]

I’m Not A Witch

Characters ( Cordelia Goode, Misty Day, and Reader)

Word Count 3k

Warnings (Minor drug use 💨)

You don’t have a bad background, in fact your life is pretty cushy but not without its problems namely...you being able to do things with your mind but you have no control. Thankfully, Cordelia and Misty scoop you up before you head down a path of self-destruction. Platonic af but there could be something if you squint I think 🤔

~~

New Orleans was a world different from New York. A world different. You were born and raised in New York—it was your whole life, and you never really thought about a life outside of the city that never slept. Why would you want to leave the city that everyone wanted to be apart of? Well that's what you thought for twenty-three years.

You lived a comfortable life your entire existence, you didn't have to struggle nor were you ever afraid of your future. Your parents always made sure that you were well taken care of, nothing but the best for you and you knew how fortunate you were especially being a foster kid. You were born to Mr and Mrs Hawthorne, a wealthy couple who couldn't have a baby of their own so they went with the next best thing that money could afford—surrogacy.

It had taken your parents months to find the perfect candidate as Mr. Hawthorne, your father, would use his own semen (yikes dad). But that was all that you knew, you had no idea the identity of the woman they hired to carry you for nine months other than she was the nicest young woman your mother has ever met.

It wasn't a topic that could've been avoided as you got older and noticed that your complexion was a few shades more than theirs. But thankfully your parents were always open and honest with you, even at a young age. Of course you had a nanny growing up, both of your parents were lawyers—their time was always stretched far too thin, but you weren't a neglected child nor were you ungrateful and they loved you so much for it.

Which was why you never told them about your newfound skill when you hit your sweet sixteen—everyone thought the candle that nearly melted your entire birthday cake was a fluke incident but you knew that it wasn't. You had felt the heat of the fire as you watched your father set the tip of the match against the wick of the candle. For a brief moment you wondered what would've happened to your cake if it was on fire, you thought it would look pretty badass. You hadn't exactly expected it to actually happen! But it did and thankfully no one was injured just thoroughly freaked out.

Your parents laughed it off, quite nervously, but you never said anything about it to them and they never really brought it up again anyway. Unbeknownst to them, of course they were always at work and the penthouse housekeeper wasn't required twenty-four seven, you were able to fool around with your newfound hobby with relative peace in your room. Well until you nearly set the place on fire twice in the same month, after that you just went to the roof and googled meditation practices on google.

You only ever couldn't control the fire unless you were an emotional wreck. For two years, you kept that secret to yourself and if you didn't have friends before you sure as shit didn't then. No one really liked you anyway, your parents were richer than most of everyone else's and your parents actually gave a damn about you and not just about how you were going to make them look in the future.

They tried to bully you about your height but you weren't a punk, so that was short lived. Students envied you but that was okay. They didn't have anything to offer you, that's what your mom always told you anyway. Besides there was nothing wrong with being short, it just meant you had more to offer. Of course.

When you turned eighteen, you discovered something else about yourself...and you weren't exactly sure what you wanted to call it but you could always tell if someone was lying to you if you listened hard enough.

You weren't sure how it worked but you never took any real notice to it until your ex girlfriend, and your only girlfriend, lied to you and you felt a bit of a...you wouldn't say it was a jolt but your insides felt the same type of tingle when your foot fell asleep or something.

That's how you figured out your first love (high school, right?) was cheating on you...you hadn't dated anyone after that. How could you when all people did was lie?

And the minute they learned that you were a Hawthorne...it was done. You saved yourself the heartache and just focused on the future. You managed to graduate college a year early and you didn't go to jail for arson, yet.

The older you got and the more you learned about how shitty people could be, meditation and yoga stopped working so well for you and you ended up joining a gym. No martial arts or anything like that, you didn't have the time for it, but you hired a trainer and five days a week that’s what kept you grounded.

Presently...

You weren't currently working, well not anymore. Less than a month ago you were a nurse at Mercy hospital as a CRNA. It was a late night already and an unruly patient was brought in for a gunshot wound. Somehow he managed to slip out of his bonds and before anyone could stop him, the bastard had his hands around your throat and you'd...you just fucking panicked and he ending up burning to death from the inside.

No one knew how it happened they couldn't even prove that you had even done anything, but you were fired on the spot anyway...and your parents had to shovel out a good amount of money and blackmail to keep your name from the papers.

You hadn't searched for a job after that, what was the point? Your name may not have been dragged through the papers but you sure as hell weren't gonna be working at any hospital anytime soon. At least...not in Manhattan.

But after what happened...what you did to that man, the cruelty of it? Why would you? You'd been high strung after that and you picked up a habit you ditched after you left college.

It just helped you regulate your emotions better and to think, plus you just liked the way it made you feel. It also helped with the nightmares that would plague you every night, and the scene was always the same. He was always on top of you screaming to a pain too gruesome for words.

Your parents tried therapy but you were stubborn besides your medicine was better than theirs anyway.

Your father didn't know about your newfound hobby but your mom did, and she wasn't going to tell him either. She was just thankful that it wasn't crack or cocaine—she could deal with her daughter turning into a weed connoisseur. But she would not support an unproductive one.

That was exactly why she was on her way back into the city to your penthouse with two guests in tow. Doing her best not to cry in front of these two women who have proven to her that they could not only help you but take care of you in a way that she couldn't.

But she knew when your birthday cake went up in flames...she had been watching you the entire time, and in that moment...every warning and tale that your birth mother told her came to light. But she made a promise to love you like you were her own, because you were, and she'd love every freaky little tic that came with you.

As a mother it was hard for your mom to accept that this wasn’t something that she could do for you. But she was woman enough not to stand in the way of her daughter's success...whatever it was that you chose to do.

~~

You were sitting out on your balcony wearing your black robe with nothing else on except a pair of panties and your Prince tank top that you should've gotten rid of years ago but it was still one of your favorite—holes and all. You'd been blissfully in your own little world for a few hours now with your iPad sitting in your lap with some Stevie Nicks playing in the background over the speakers coming from inside your penthouse.

It was just the right volume that it wasn't too loud but the city noises didn't drown it out either. You'd just polished off your fourth bowl, something grape...whatever, you were just enjoying your time. You went back to drawing, head bopping softly and you were so lost in your own little world you didn't realize that you were alone in your penthouse. There were three different sets of high heels that you missed though you just about jumped out of your skin when your mother came into view via your peripherals.

“Oh!” you smiled bright and wide, eyes a tad bit low, “Hey mom, what are you...um...who are they?” you sat up quickly, unaware that your robe fell open with the movement and your mom nearly facepalmed. You set your tablet aside, doing a double take at the blonde with the curly hair that was lowkey dancing to Fleetwood playing in the background. You looked at your mom, your smile morphing into a confused frown, “Mom?”

“Sweetheart,” your mom soothed back a long strand of dark hair and cleared her throat softly which worried you even more because your mom was never one to be nervous, ever, “This is Cordelia Goode and Misty Day.”

Subconsciously you reached into your robes pocket and pulled out a bright orange stress ball you got from the bodega for a whopping five bucks. (You had to have been high as fuck not to argue that price down but whatever.) You squeezed it softly, licking your dry lips, “Um...hi? Did I do something to you guys too? If I did I'm so sorry, I—”

“No, baby, no,” your mother sat next to you, quickly fixing your robe and your messy hair and Cordelia's brown eyes shot to Misty, who had immediately stopped dancing, “Just...are you hungry? Orange juice maybe?”

“Mrs. Hawthorne?” you looked up at the blonde woman came up behind your mother with a soft smile, “If I may, in my experience it is always better to just rip it off just like a band-aid.”

“Rip what off?” you pulled away from your mom, scooting away and hated seeing that hurt look on her face but there was something going on, you were not that paranoid.

“Honey, this is just a little intervention and—”

Laughing, you scooted away from your mom again, “What? Mom, it’s just pot—”

Your mom waved away your comment with a roll of her eyes, “Honey, I don’t care about the grass—”

“Then what…”

“Zip!”

You quickly shut your mouth when your mom said that and have you that look, it was one you knew quite well growing up. It baffled you how it was still working on you.

Your mom sighed, “It's just for a little while and I'll make sure that this place is well cared for.”

“Wait what?! You're sending me away??”

“(Y/n).” the blonde, Cordelia, pulled your attention from your mom who was crying, Cordelia sat on the edge of your coffee table carefully while Misty continued to hover in the background curiously, but prepared in case you got jumpy, “We just want to help you, okay? We're not here to kidnap you or harm you in any way.”

“I can't be helped,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes even as the tears spilled over, “I—I don't know what you think you know, Miss Goode but...”

“I know quite a bit, (Y/n),” Cordelia held out her hand and suddenly your stash box flew past your head making you flinch but Cordelia caught it just fine and you stared at her wide eyed, “You and I? We aren't so different and at Miss Robichaux's academy for exceptional young ladies...we teach young witches such as yourself how to survive in the modern world.”

“Witches? You think I'm a witch? No way, mom c'mon...the...the stash box trick was cool and all, but witches? Mom! Mom please, you're not buying this are you?” but even as you questioned it, you knew that they were telling the truth and that's what scared you the most. “How do you know they're not trying to use this for your money?”

“We're not, I promise! We don't need your family's money, (Y/n). All we want is to help you.”

“Listen to her, honey, this is for your benefit, okay? And...these women are very nice people, so don't give them trouble, not that you would, right?”

You looked over your mothers shoulder at Misty, the woman offering you a smile and a playful wink.

You exhaled heavily, your eyes sliding back to your mom, “...and you're not getting rid of me right? Because of...what I can do? Or what I've done?”

“No! Absolutely not, it was an accident! If anything it was the faulty bonds they put that monster in! Honestly,” your mother huffed, “your father and I still have half a mind about suing that hospital…”

“But not without having to drag my name through the mud.” You mumbled, sighing heavily.

“I love you, (Y/n), so damn much. Yes, we would’ve gotten millions but you’re worth much more to your father and I, don't you forget that,” Your mom reached over and grabbed your hand, squeezing gently before standing and quickly gathering her Prada bag, “and...don't worry about your father with all of this. I'll break this to him myself but baby...promise me that you will try?”

You bit your bottom lip, nodding slowly and holding her hand tighter almost painfully so before surging up and hugging your bother tight, and even though she was in high heels your slight frame made it easy for her to catch most of your weight. She hugged you back just as fiercely, kissing your forehead twice before letting you go.

“And here—for emergencies and whatever you might need, honey.” your mom pushed her black card into your trembling hands, the weight of it denser than you expected it to be and it made you laugh, of course your mom would shove money at you. It was her love language, you stopped questioning it a very long time ago but you never took advantage of it. “I love you so so much.”

Cordelia watched the entire exchange silently with an ever curious eye, even daring to risk raising an eyebrow when she saw your mom push that unmarked card into your hands before skirting off. Your mom reminded her a bit of her own mother...money was Fiona’s love language as well.

But your mom was much more pleasant, her love for you blossomed like a rose rather than a thorn bush.

You exhaled shakily, hands fidgeting in front of you, “I...what now?”

“Now we get down to business,” Misty smiled at you, stepping into the space your mom once occupied and took your hands in both of her own, “Your mama is resourceful, she tracked us down and everything, but it wasn't like it was all that hard since Delia and I were lookin' for you too.”

“You...you were?” you looked over your shoulder at Cordelia still sitting on your coffee table, “Why?”

“We heard about what happened to the man at the hospital and even though you weren't named, it wasn't that hard to track you down and we happened to cross paths with your mother.”

“Figures...” you nodded, sniffling again and you quickly pulled your hands from Misty when a breeze hit your skin—reminding you how indecent you were among two strangers.

You fixed your robe again and quickly sat down and Misty followed you down, bouncing slightly almost a little too close—your high was completely worn off at this point, “Earlier you said that you were helping wit...people like me live in the modern world? What?”

“Yes, we help witches such as yourself avoid situations like the one you currently experienced.”

You raised an eyebrow at her wording and she smiled at you when you met her eyes. You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest—appearing unbothered even if you were still sniffling, damn. Your mood swings were going to give you whiplash one of these days.

“You don’t really expect me to go around calling myself a witch do you?”

Cordelia’s eyes narrowed a fraction, “What I expect, (Y/n), is for you to actually make an attempt. There will be rules and the sooner you drop the attitude, the easier this will be for all of us—you especially.”

You opened your mouth to argue back but then you quickly shut your mouth, your mom's words bouncing around in your head to stop causing trouble. Along with the promise you made to her.

Misty was sitting still next to you, and though you couldn’t see it—her eyes were darting back and forth between you and Cordelia with a bit of a grin trying to break free.

“Right, and um where is this school of yours again? If I even agree to this at all?”

Cordelia gave you a look that you couldn't really decipher, “Miss Robichaux's academy is in California.”

Your eyes flew back to hers immediately, “I don't wanna go around calling you a liar Miss Goode, I only just met you...but you and I both know that's not true.”

“Ah, so it is true...you do have some form divination.”

She led you right into a trap and you couldn’t even be annoyed by that, Cordelia was proving to be a lot more than she appeared. “Divination? What is that? Is there anything my mom didn't tell you?”

“Well, she didn't tell us ya favorite food.” Misty supplied unhelpfully, attempting to break the building tension with poor humor. And you couldn't hold back your smile, deciding that you liked her a lot.

“You're a walking lie detector, dear. That's quite handy in today's world.”

Misty chuckled before one of her arms came around your shoulders, “Oh yes, and Madison is just gonna love you!”

“Don't worry, you’ll fit right in.” Cordelia chuckled, still sitting directly across from you and there was a bit of a twinkle in her brown eyes, she knew you were going to be trouble and that she would have to keep a close eye on you. But if there was one thing that Cordelia enjoyed, it was a challenge.

~~

I dunno what I’m doing for real lol it’s 1am and I’m in my garage on a tablet 😅😅I thought this was fun

[tenspontaneite]

Beyond the Moon Gardens - Extracts (1)

For lack of anything else to post today, I’m releasing some extracts from one of my non-public fanfictions – Beyond the Moon Gardens – as my participation in the @raayllum valentine’s event.

Information on and context of the story itself is below the cut. The 10k of snippets are also below the cut.

(General overview of the content of the snippets: established rayllum, fluff, domesticity, horn care, silliness, cuddling.)

-

Story information:

‘Beyond the Moon Gardens’ is a successor to ‘In the Moon Gardens’. The former was written in a month in late 2020, and has been worked on sporadically since. The latter was written in approximately three weeks between December 2019 and January 2020. Both are currently incomplete. I do not intend to publish either to the public in full, but may well post further extracts in time.

‘In the Moon Gardens’ is a story about Callum and Rayla getting married; however, the circumstances are deeply unpleasant and the experience is traumatic. ‘Beyond the Moon Gardens’ is considerably longer, and is focused on trauma recovery, hurt/comfort, relationship development, and fluff. The story is structured around a plotline involving rescue and disaster relief efforts in a Sunfire elf city called Lux Marea.

All snippets presented below take place on day 7 of the story’s timeline. They have been carefully curated for fluffiness for the purposes of Valentine’s day, and do not contain any of the hurt/comfort or post-traumatic scenes prevalent in the story at large. Some extracts have been edited to slot together and minimise empty space.

I may potentially post further snippets throughout the week if people are interested.

-

The extracts:

(Snippet 1: domesticity, fluff, city descriptions. Context: Callum and Rayla are staying in fancy diplomatic quarters in the city, where they arrived somewhat earlier in the day.)

Rayla turned away from her reflection and went for the door.

She glanced around, and found Callum in his own robe sat at the sofa in front of the window. Surprisingly, he wasn’t drawing. He was just staring out across the city, looking pensive.

“Not drawing?” She asked, and he startled, looking up at her in surprise.

He blinked. “Oh. I didn’t hear you.” He said sheepishly as she approached.

She snorted, and moved around the sofa’s edge to plant herself down beside him. “So I noticed.”

Callum smiled at her, looking for all the world like the best thing that had happened to him today was her sitting down next to him, eyes settling on her like he’d be perfectly happy to do nothing but look at her forever. She withstood that expression for only a single second before she had to lean in and kiss him. He made a pleased sound, reaching out to rest a hand on her back, fingers stroking reflexively over the thick wool of the robe. “You smell nice.” He said happily, turning his face sideways to tuck his nose behind her ear. He was undoubtedly getting a face full of wet hair that way, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Fruity, sort of.”

“They’ve got a lot of soaps in there.” She said, and her voice came out more soft than amused. Stars, but she loved him. “It’s nice. There’s all these soaps, and towels, and I think bath oils too.”

“You think?” He inquired, curious, still with his face in her neck. He pressed a kiss to her damp skin.

“Didn’t check them out properly or anything, but there was a drawer full of some fancy stuff. Bottles and the like. Looked like it might be bath oils.”

With a final kiss to the edge of her jaw, he pulled back to resume staring at her contentedly. “We’ll have to have a look later.” He said, and paused to give her an appreciative once-over. “That dressing gown looks nice on you.”

She rolled her eyes. “You say that about literally everything I wear.”

“That’s because you look good in everything.” He claimed staunchly, and honestly, he wasn’t looking half-bad in his dressing-gown either. The colour was familiar on him, but the casual comfortableness of it was weirdly pleasing to look at. Made him look cosy and cuddlable.

Rayla shook her head, then leaned in to kiss briefly along his jaw. It prickled a little. “You might want to see if they’ve got razors in there.” She said dryly. “You’re starting to prickle.”

He blinked, startled, and raised a hand to his jaw, feeling along it. Mercifully, he grew facial hair extremely slowly, making it less of an issue on the move, but it did still grow. He’d last made an attempt at shaving some two weeks ago, and that had sufficed up to now. “Elves don’t grow beards, though.” He said, after a moment. “I’d probably better just stick with mine.”

Once or twice, they’d made an attempt at shaving his bristles with Rayla’s swords, which had been kind of nerve-wracking, and plenty memorable. For lack of proper razors to be found in Xadia, they’d eventually ended up getting him a small knife that he claimed was alike enough to a ‘straight razor’ to work, though it periodically needed to be sharpened to an absurd degree. It was all very strange to her, even after a good half year of living with him. “Maybe.” She agreed at last, and gave him a sniff. Fresh from bathing, his state of uncleanliness was far more obvious to her nose than it had been before. “You should be getting washed up first though. You’ll make your dressing gown stink.”

He snickered. “Bet I reek to you now that you’re clean.”

“Just a tad.” She prodded him in the side until he started moving. “Off with you. Wash up.”

Evading her hands, he leaned in and planted a final kiss on her forehead before leaving, disappearing into the bathroom while she shook her head at him. She heard the water start up quite soon after, and eventually ended up staring out of the window like he had.

The city was still bright, both with sunlight and with the ongoing glory of the temple’s radiance. Settling into a sort of quiet lassitude, she watched it with eyes half-lidded, following the patterns of steaming light as though the smoke from a fire.

It was a striking city. Unlike Lux Aurea, which was so much gold it hurt to look at, Lux Marea was a thing of contrasts. The buildings were all built from the same dark stone as the bathroom had been done in, a grey that cast deep black shadows behind the gaze of the sun. And yet – every building was lined with gold. Accents on the corners, or moulding between the bricks, or running in thick channels up the walls…it gleamed, rich and distinct against the stone. Some of the largest, richest buildings had elaborate golden murals on their sides, luridly metallic and shining in the sun. All of that gold was glowing with magic now.

Rayla wasn’t much for aesthetics. But even she could appreciate the beauty in that view. She watched it for a while longer, lulled a little by the twisting patterns of glowing haze rising from the buildings, then stood and went to find something to do.

 -

 (Snippet 2: Calum and Rayla investigate the supplies their fancy bathroom is stocked with, discover bath bombs and are confused, Rayla points out various horn-care items, and Callum makes her very flustered by offering to use said items)

  After that, they went through and classified each of the mysterious drawer goodies a little faster. They found more varieties of lotion, some weird nearly liquid soaps, and a pot of some mysterious mini chalky spheres whose purpose neither of them managed to guess until Callum’s hair dripped on one and it sizzled. “Is it supposed to go in water?” Rayla wondered, befuddled.

“No idea. Try it.” He suggested, and they took the rinsing pot, filled it with water, and dropped the thing in. It fizzed and foamed magnificently, releasing pleasant odours and bits of dried flower as it dissolved, and both of them stared at it with fascinated consternation.

“Is that for baths?” She asked him, befuddled. “What’s the point?”

“…Fun, maybe?” He offered, reaching out to swirl a finger in the foam. “It looked pretty cool, after all. Maybe you’re supposed to throw them in the bath for the fun of it?”

“Fun foam and nice smells?” With a huff, she put that pot aside as something to maybe experiment with if she felt like it. “Well, maybe.” She snorted, and in the last unexplored corner, found something highly important. “Oh thank god.” She said, in that way she’d absolutely picked up from Callum, and he looked over with interest.

“What did you find?”

She brandished it triumphantly. “Toothbrushes.”

“Oh thank god.” He echoed instantly, peering over. “My teeth feel disgusting.”

“You’re not the only one.” She withdrew both toothbrushes from the drawer and set them aside. “Well, at least we know what everything in there is now. Mystery solved.” She went to close it, but was stopped with a hand on her wrist.

“Wait, but what about those?” he asked, indicating the small collection of things she’d already set to one side of the drawer with the horn-scrub.

“Oh.” She’d forgotten he wouldn’t know those on sight. “Right. Well, this thing here-“ She plucked up a narrow, vaguely curved implement with a soft-smooth coating. “-is a horn buffer. For making horns smoother once you’ve already scrubbed all the rough bits out with a proper scrub.” She planted it in his hands, since he seemed fascinated by it, and withdrew a sort of soft spongey thing with a texture like felt. “Horn polisher. Same thing, kind of.” He took that as well, and she pulled out a pot of thick paste that turned out to be exactly what she thought it was when she uncapped it. This one had obviously attempted to smell as pleasant as possible, but it still had a very strong and distinctive edge to it. She wrinkled her nose. “Horn polish.” She said, closing it up again. “To be applied and used with the polisher. And lastly-“ She picked up one of the remaining bottles, “horn oil.”

He looked weirdly interested. “What’s the oil for?” He asked, leaning in. “I mean, I guess the rest of it’s to make your horns smooth and shiny, right? So what about this?”

“It’s kind of fancy and unnecessary, and expensive, so not everyone uses it, but usually you put it on after scrubbing or polishing.” She explained, withdrawing the bottles one at a time. “They smell nice, which is good after the polish, and letting it sink into the horns is supposed to make them healthier and glossier-looking. You can technically put it on multiple times a day if you’re really into your horn presentation, but pretty much no one bothers.”

“Because it’s expensive?” Callum guessed, and she made a so-so noise.

“Well, there’s that.” She said dryly. “But it’s just kind of a lot of hassle, you know? If you’re already washing and doing your hair and keeping your horns not-gross, it’s just extra fuss you don’t really need.” She shook her head. “It’s less effort than full on polishing, I suppose, but I’ve never been bothered about polishing my horns except on special occasions anyway. It’s a lot of work.”

“Huh.” He said, in a sort of weird tone of voice. Rayla turned to him, and found his expression similarly strange. Thoughtful, interested, and a little bit furtive.

She eyed him suspiciously, picked up an armful of the supplies they’d set aside, and stood up with them. “What’s that look for?” She asked archly, setting things onto the broad side of the bath. He followed her lead, picking up the rest of it and standing, looking a little shifty.

“What’s what look for?” he asked innocently, putting it all out in neat rows.

“I know that face.” She told him, unimpressed. “I’ve told you so many times I know that face. That’s your dumb idea face. So out with it.”

For a moment, Callum looked sheepish. Then he cleared his throat, and looked at her, and she reflexively fell silent. “I…was wondering if you’d let me do your horns.” He said at last, and she made a strangled noise in the back of her throat.

“What?”

  -

 (Snippet 3: tail end of the horn-care discussion, domesticity, Rayla bemused by the concept of room service, Callum pestering Rayla for details on how horn care works, and discussion of one of Rayla’s newer hobbies)

 “That’ll be nice, then.” He said, sounding very at peace with the idea. “I can wash and comb out your hair, maybe. Give you some hornrubs.”

Her cheeks heated. “Callum.” She complained. “That’s so sappy.”

He pressed his face close alongside hers, and she could feel his smile against her cheek. “Treat you real good.” He said, very contentedly. “I’m gonna spoil you rotten.”

Rayla managed a strangled, deeply embarrassed sound in the back of her throat. A little indignant, she protested “You can’t just say things like that.”

“I can, and I did.” Callum grinned against her skin, and leaned in further to kiss her near the corner of her lips. “Love you.” He lifted a hand from around her waist, fingers settling at her jaw with a gentle suggestion of movement. Feeling near to bursting with mortification and adoration, she grumbled wordlessly but followed his hand, allowing him to lead her face around so he could kiss her on the mouth.

“You,” she muttered, into his lips, “need to get dressed.”

He paused, then huffed a surprised breath over her skin. “That’s right, I’m still just wearing a towel.” He remembered, ruefully. “At least I’m drier now.”

“It’s been ages, of course you’re drier.” Rayla shook her head at him, then nudged at his arms until he let her go, extricating herself from his embrace. She had difficulty looking him in the eye when she turned, after all of that. “…Get dressed.” She repeated, softer, and shoved the dressing gown he’d hung nearby into his arms. She leaned in, kissed him once on the lips, and then turned away to leave the bathroom.

She settled on the sofa, ensconcing herself beneath the soft blanket she’d found, and stared out at the city while her heart recovered. Sometimes, she loved Callum enough that it was a little hard to cope with, like she was afraid that the emotion in her would rupture if it built too far. He was used to her retreating a little at times like that, just long enough to breathe and feel slightly less overwhelmed.

He took long enough in the bathroom that, eventually, she guessed that he was shaving. That disappointed her, a little. She liked to watch him when he shaved. It was always so strange to her, something quintessentially human; a bizarre banal grooming ritual that reminded her again and again that he wasn’t an elf, he really was a whole different kind of being to her, and his humanity was made of so many little things. He never failed to chuckle at her for how she watched him shaving, but had grown very used to her keeping him company for it.

She sighed, and looked out on the city under the sun, and regained her emotional footing. By the time he emerged, clad once again in the dark red dressing gown, she had her equilibrium back and looked up gladly at his return.

“Where’d this blanket come from?” He asked, bemused, coming over to join her. She held one end up so he could sit down under it with her.

“One of the drawers. There’s a bunch of stuff in here.” She informed, and once he was seated she didn’t waste any time in reaching out to run her fingers along his still-damp jaw. It was so smooth. She murmured, pleased, cupping his face between both hands.

He coloured a little, looking across at her with soft eyes. “You’re so weird.” He told her, sounding utterly besotted, and she leaned in to kiss him lightly along that jawline.

“Love you.” Rayla said contentedly, and drew back just enough to nestle firmly against his side. He wove an arm around her back and turned his head to kiss her at the brow.

“Love you too.”

After a good bit of cuddling and watching the city together, Callum admitted to wanting a drink and Rayla to not knowing whether their waterskins were still filled. They were, as it happened, but-

“You know, if you wanted fresher water, or moonberry juice, we could just ask for it.” He pointed out. “All we’d have to do is open the door and ring a bell and someone would come up, and we’d ask for a drink, and they’d have it up for us just like that.”

She shook her head, utterly exasperated at the idea. “That’s so weird.” She said, and then actually considered it. “…Let’s do it.”

He laughed, and obligingly got up and went to the receiving room to fetch the bell. He mostly-closed the intervening door for her sake, so that when a servant responded to the ring she didn’t feel particularly on edge about it. They couldn’t see her. It was fine.

After a short conversation with the servant, they were off, and Callum shut the outer door before returning. “Five minutes.” He said, and true to his words, there was a knock at the door not too much later. He went to answer it and brought back an actual platter, balancing an entire jug of moonberry juice, an entire jug of water, and two glasses.

“Did you ask for a whole jug?” She asked, disbelievingly, as he set it down on the low table ahead of the sofa. “Or the water?”

“Nope. Actually, they passed along their apologies for not leaving a jug of water in here in the first place. Apparently that’s their usual thing to do, but since they were hurrying for us it got forgot.” He poured her a glass of juice, and then some for himself, and sat back.

She snorted. “What a terrible standard of service.” She said, mockingly. “I mean really, forgetting to leave us wee little glasses and chilled water, what is this place coming to?”

He snickered at an inopportune moment, very nearly making a mess with the glass he’d been in the process of drinking from. “Don’t say that around Vervain, I think she’d actually explode.”

“Right there on the spot.” Rayla agreed. “It’d make a terrible mess.”

They traded a few light-hearted quips on the subject of the accommodations while they had a drink, then they set it all aside for later. Callum, who was clearly angling for it, managed to get her onto the topic of how exactly a proper horn care-and-polish was supposed to go, and she spent pretty much the entirety of that torn between being increasingly embarrassed and increasingly amused. He was so interested, like she was sharing arcane magical knowledge instead of stupid basic grooming tips.

“I mean, I’ve seen you using your horn-scrub on the road sometimes, to file away rough or flaky bits, right?” He was saying, while she leaned over to lay against his chest. He reflexively put an arm around her even while gesturing with the other one. “You kind of go…with the sort of curvy lines in your horns? Like one at a time?”

“They’re called ridges, Callum.” She informed him, incredibly amused. “And yes. You need to file along them all one by one, and be careful to keep the shape too. If you do it badly you’ll flatten out the tops of the ridges and it looks really stupid.”

He stared down at her horns with fascination, and lowered his gesturing hand to trace the shape of – she presumed – one of her horn-ridges in detail. She made a flustered sort of murmur at him, but he seemed too busy to notice. “Right, so, hm.” He almost seemed to be speaking to himself. “Yeah, if you just file it from the top it’d all flatten out. So you have to sort of work around each one? Following the curve?”

“That’s why Moonshadow horn-scrubs are so much more complicated.” She informed him. “We need the wee fiddly parts to get between all the ridges and file it right without losing the shapes. Takes forever. Our horns are more of a pain than almost any other kind of elf’s.” She grinned up at him. “Unlucky for you.”

“Are you kidding?” He asked, incredulously. “This is great. Means I get so much longer to spend on you. You never let me spoil you enough.”

She processed that, and groaned, burrowing her face into the wool gown over his chest. “You’ll change your tune soon enough.” She muttered, but wasn’t entirely convinced. Callum really was an incredible sap when it came to doing things for her. “It takes so stupidly long.”

“I’m counting on it.” He declared happily, and she huffed.

“You’re ridiculous.” She informed him, and after nearly ten more minutes of him trying to wrangle intricately detailed horn-polishing knowledge out of her, just rolled her eyes and said with exasperation “It’s like polishing armour, Callum. Or boots. You just buff it up, then go at it with polish on the polisher for ages. There’s not much of a trick to it.” She paused, but did add “Gets kind of messy though. The filing stage puts horn dust and bits everywhere, and once you start polishing you get like…murky polish liquid all over your hands. Better put a towel down.”

Eventually, after enough sitting around that the cuddling alone wasn’t engrossing enough anymore, Callum did go and get his sketchbook and immediately sat down to begin producing what Rayla was certain would be the first of many, many drawings of the city. He drew it as seen from above first, and Rayla settled in to watch with half-lidded eyes.

She’d grown very used to spending time watching Callum draw. In large part, this was because he tended to spend a lot of his free time doing it, and she was often around when that happened. It was quite satisfying, to sit there and observe as the shapes on the page took form. But even so…

There was only so much of watching him draw that she could do before she started getting bored. Throughout their journeying, it had rarely got to that point. What with the time constraints of camp-craft and travelling, there’d been little enough spare time that Rayla hadn’t felt compelled to find anything else to do. Now, though, she found with surprise that her fingers were itching for her knives.

“Huh.” She said to herself, with interest, and Callum turned his head to peer at her.

“Hm?”

“My knives.” She said, and then realised this wasn’t especially helpful. “My carving knives. Just realised I’m hankering for them a bit. That’s never really happened before.”

“Oh.” He thought, then looked pleased. “Looks like you’re starting to make a habit of it after all. That’s really nice.”

“Less nice when I don’t actually have the knives.” She snorted, and considered her empty hands.

Rayla, on the whole, tended towards active ways of passing the time. She liked to train, and she liked to exercise, and if Callum was free she always liked to go flying with him. But inevitably, after half a year spent together, there had been plenty of afternoons and evenings in their off-time when she was too tired to go out for training, or Callum was spending time drawing and she wanted to be around him, and she ended up with nothing to do.

He’d been the one to gently pester her into taking up some sort of hobby. At first she’d just grumpily sharpened her weapons over and over again, but with enough work he’d got her to try other things. He’d suggested either knitting or whittling, on the basis that both involved the use of stabby implements, and she was a fan of those. Knitting she hadn’t taken to. But whittling…

At first, she’d just done it because he’d prodded her into it, and she didn’t hate it, and there was nothing better to do, so she might as well. But now, considering her empty hands with consternation, Rayla realised for the first time that she actually kind of wanted to be doing it. When had that happened?

He leaned over and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Pick up some things in the city tomorrow, maybe.” He suggested, and turned back to his drawing.

“Bit of a waste, when I’ve got a plenty good enough set of knives at home.”

“You don’t need to get a full set. But it could be nice to have a couple of the main ones around, for travelling with.” He shrugged. “You can practice on any random bits of wood, right? So it’s mainly the knives you need.”

She snorted. She’d learned enough to know that the type of wood one chose was, in fact, very important. But…yeah, for messing around like she did, random wood was usually fine. If splintery. “Maybe.” She said in the end, already thinking of the knife she used most. “It’s not a bad idea. Clothes and supplies are the priority, though. So maybe if there’s anything left after that.”

“We’ll need cold-weather gear, if we’re going through the Shiverthorns in winter.” He remarked, and huddled into the blanket like the mere thought was making him cold. “Thick cloaks and stuff.”

“Which are expensive.” She reminded. “And also heavy. It’ll slow you down.”

He shrugged. “I figure that’s okay. We won’t be in a huge hurry to get back, after all.”

  -

 (Snippet 4: Callum and Rayla discuss dinner options, watch the sunset, and investigate the light fixtures. Context: in this story, I worldbuild Sunfire elves as some weird blend of French and Roman.)

  He hummed by way of agreement, and pulled her tighter in to his side. “For now, let’s try not to worry about that.” He said, determinedly. “Today our job is to relax and rest up, and that’s it.”

Rayla sighed, and shifted around to lay part-way across his front, face half into the red wool at his chest. “I can probably do that.”

They cuddled for what actually didn’t end up being that long, because there was a knock at the door. It echoed sharply through the polished wood, even with the intervening door closed. Rayla, who’d heard no footsteps of any kind due to the ostensible soundproofing, stiffened immediately.

Callum blinked, then carefully extricated himself from her. “I’ll go get it.” He said, and she didn’t object. She didn’t relish the thought of being seen by strangers when she was in her bathrobe. That was private.

He unlocked and opened the receiving room door, closed it behind him, and then unlocked and opened the outer door. There was actually a decent degree of sound loss between there and Rayla’s current spot, so she couldn’t hear what was being said beyond stray words. After a while, Callum said something in a distinctly goodbye-ish sort of voice and the encounter ended. He considerately locked both doors for her on his way in.

Over his arm, he was holding a neat stack of clothing and armour. “Already?” She asked, startled, and watched as he set it all down on the bed.

“Already.” He agreed, seemingly pleased. “I guess their drying spells really are useful. Look, they’ve cleaned your armour. And our boots.”

Rayla lifted herself from beneath the blanket to go over and look. All of their things looked fresh and new, bereft of the dull beige hues imbued by travel and sleeping in dust and dirt. It half looked like they’d re-dyed some of it, honestly, to get the clean colours back. She lifted Callum’s scarf from the pile, sniffed it, and hummed at it.

“Laundry smell?” He asked, amused, and she shrugged.

“Unsurprisingly.” She considered putting it on him, but in the end decided she was enjoying the look of him in the bathrobe, all cosy and comfy-looking. “What else were you talking about?”

“Hm?”

“With the servant.”

“Oh.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “Dinner stuff. He wanted to tell me the options they’ve got, so we can order ahead of time.”

Rayla made a thoughtful noise, and drew him by the wrist back over to the sofa again. “And?”

“You want me to list it all off?” She nodded, and obligingly he went off listing the various items on the menu, many of which were evidently examples of bizarre Sunfire ideas about cooking. Snails, really? Frog legs? Her nose wrinkled at that one, and Callum’s lips quirked. “They serve glow toad too.” He admitted ruefully. “I mean, I guess I heard they were delicious, but it’s one thing to hear it and another thing to have it on the menu, you know?”

She made a face. “Ez would never forgive us.”

“Bait would never forgive us.” He agreed, snickering.

“And besides – ew.” Rayla shook her head, and waved her hand. “What else?”

He went through all of the selections, drinks and desserts included, and then finished up by saying “He left a sort of booklet thing behind with it all written down, if you want to look over it.”

She stared at him with exasperation. “Callum. You really just stood there and said it all when you could have just handed me the bloody menu?”

“Well, you did ask.” He said, like this was reasonable, and she sighed fondly at him.

“You dumb prince.” She told him, affectionate, and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek before going to look for the menu.

By this point, it was around four in the afternoon, and the sun seemed to be making a very definite bid for descent. She retrieved the Booklet of Food Options and retreated to the sofa with it, where Callum had already planted himself to watch the city. There was a hint of yellow-green in the bright clear sky, and the angle of light from the sinking sun was casting some particularly dramatic shadows. The temple was still gleaming with light off to the side, and the golden circuitry through the city still exhaling. She stared at it for a moment, certain that tonight’s sunset really was going to be spectacular, and then opened the menu to start looking.

It had been long enough since lunch that the sight of so many food options was plenty enough to make her start considering the idea of an early dinner. In an hour or two, maybe. Some of it was too weird or too exotic to consider, but there was a lot that wasn’t.

She passed the booklet over when she was done making selections, but Callum seemed too occupied with the burgeoning sunset to want to look at it. She snorted, leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, and then leaned comfortably into his side to watch the city.

The sun fell over a period of around half an hour, sinking lower and lower, until the sky filled with such intense yellows and deep reds that it seemed almost to have caught fire. The grey slate of the city turned bloody red in the light, every golden trace lit up and shining in the growing dark. The few wispy clouds left in the sky were shining too, until the sun began to pass beneath the lip of the sea on the horizon, and the blue-green edges of the dusk glittered with stars.

“That,” He said, very softly, when dusk was ebbing into twilight, “was a really incredible view.”

Rayla had little artistry in her heart, but she’d appreciated that sunset. She knew that by contrast it must have touched Callum deeply. She looked at him, taking in his expression, finding it every bit as amazed and awed and happy as she could have hoped for. Her heart fluttered, happy for that he was happy, and in the warmth of that contentment she reached over to cup his cheek with her hand.

He looked at her, leaning into the hand, and offered her a small and very soft smile. Her thumb smoothed over his cheek as he lifted his hand to settle atop hers. Wordless, she leaned in to kiss him, warm and brief, and lingered there close by his face for a long while after their lips parted. He sighed very quietly, entirely happy and entirely at ease. It was peaceful in a way she’d dearly missed.

Feeling utterly suffused with warmth, Rayla nestled in beside him, fingers hooking lightly in the soft red wool of his robe. His arm came around her, and both of them sighed, and both of them settled, and it was quiet.

Neither of them felt the inclination to move or speak for quite a while. The sky was dark and full of stars by the time she shifted, and the city’s golden circuitry shining boldly through the shadow. The Moon, ascendant in the sky, was very nearly full.

“Might not be so bad after all, staying here a while.” She said, finally, and pressed her lips to his neck. “Comfy, nice bathroom, nice views…and the food options look kind of incredible, honestly.”

He chuckled, soft and fond. “Bit of a weird honeymoon.” He murmured into her hair. “But I’ll take it.”

She huffed. “Honeymoon.” She repeated, shaking her head.

Well. She supposed if they’d had to go through that whole forced marriage ordeal, they did at least deserve to get a nice holiday out of it. Even if most of that holiday was going to be spent working, the not-working parts of the day looked to be a lot fancier and more luxurious than they were back home.

“Yeah, I guess so.” Was her conclusion, in the end. “Did you decide what you’ll be eating?”

“Pretty much.” He kissed her brow. “You ready to order? It’s still kind of early.”

“Eh. It’ll do.” She shrugged, and listed off her selections. He kissed her again, then gently untangled himself from her limbs to go off and summon a servant.

The room had gone darker while the sun set, and the soft yellow glow of the fireless light fixtures along the walls had grown more prominent. Now a little curious, Rayla took the opportunity to investigate one, and on closer inspection found it to be some sort of…weird bioluminescent plant. Or maybe animal? It had long rigid tube-like structures that had plainly been cultivated into ornamental shapes, that looked almost like some sort of stone, though it had obviously been painted or dyed the usual deep red. It exuded a number of softly glowing yellow-orange tendrils from the openings at the end of the tubes, short and blunt but weirdly pretty.

She reached out cautiously to touch one, and at once the tendrils retracted inside the tube, the light dimming. Startled, she drew back to watch it, but the tendrils didn’t start to tentatively reappear again for another minute, during which she heard the light murmurs of Callum conversing with whatever servant he’d summoned.

When Moonshadow elves wanted light after dark, they just used enchantments, or glowstone, like normal people. Fancy Sunfire elves, however, apparently favoured plants. Or animals. She honestly wasn’t sure which this one was. Some sort of land-coral?

“I ordered the food.” Callum said, when he returned. “They said it’ll be about half an hour. And they’ll bring it all up at the same time so we don’t get disturbed twice.”

“Perfect.” She pronounced, with satisfaction, and then dragged him over to meet the light fixtures. Predictably, he spent a good ten fascinated minutes investigating the weird glowing polyps, and then a while longer sketching one out, and was half-way through that when the food arrived.

 -

(Snippet 5: after dinner, Callum and Rayla engage in some silliness, then cuddle. Domesticity.)

 “I’m so full I’m not going to move for a week.” Rayla announced, after staggering her way back through to their sofa, followed by an amused Callum. “It’s going to take at least that long to digest all of that.”

“That might make it tricky to get supplies.” He said, pretend-thoughtful. “But I’m sure we can work something out.”

She snorted, patted him on the shoulder, and then promptly pulled him into her side when he started looking at her in the imminent-cuddles sort of way. He hummed contentedly, turning his face into her shoulder, breath warming the wool over her collarbone.

“This bathrobe is so comfy.” He said happily, words muffled by wool. “It’s so nice.”

Having had very similar sentiments about his bathrobe earlier, she quite agreed. “Shame they didn’t include wool pyjamas, really.”

He didn’t offer any response for that, just snuggled, putting an arm around her waist. It was almost a little uncomfortable, really, what with how full she was, but she didn’t protest. She just held him close, smoothed her free hand over his hair, and looked out over the city. In the dark, watching the vaporous light rise felt very much like watching fire. It was very entrancing.

Some time later, Callum started to show signs of beginning to fall asleep on her. She looked down at him, snorted, and then nudged him until he stirred. “If you fall asleep now you’ll be up too late.” She informed him as he made plaintive noises at her. “I’m not having you exhausted and useless for your magic channelling nonsense tomorrow.”

“But you’re too comfy.” He complained, and she smirked.

“That sounds like an invitation to be less comfy.”

He opened an eye to peer at her suspiciously. “What do you mean, ‘that sounds’ – hrk!” His words cut off as, unceremoniously, she swept him up with an arm under his back and another under his knees, on her feet with a quick shift of her weight and his. She grinned down at him, finding him instantly and distinctly awake. “….Honestly this is still pretty comfy.” He said, weakly, when he’d spent enough time staring wide-eyed at her to recover his words.

Rayla pretended at thoughtfulness. “That sounds like a challenge.” She said, and he looked alarmed.

“It wasn’t! It wasn’t!” He protested, to no avail; she stepped around the sofa, judged her angle, and tossed Callum at the bed.

He wasn’t particularly aerodynamic, but her aim had been good enough anyway; he sailed neatly between the posts at the corners and impacted decadent Sunfire quilting with a muffled oof. She was laughing at him outright when he turned, staring at her with a sort of red-faced stupefaction that told her exactly what he thought of the whole experience. “Your face right now,” she managed, doubling over to snicker in his direction. Hilarious.

“You know, there’s a saying,” he began, a little dazed. “About trusting someone as far as you could throw them.” He pushed himself up on his elbows. “You could probably trust someone a lot, is what I’m getting at.”

“…I actually do sort of know how far I could throw you, now that I think about it.” Rayla said, thinking back. “It comes up in assassin training sometimes. Throwing teammates at walls and the like, to give them a leg up. I lobbed someone about your size around six, seven metres once.” She paused, and added “Lengthways, I mean. Throwing someone upwards is a lot harder.”

This did not make him any less wide-eyed. “That’s like, over twenty feet,” he marvelled, looking at her with plain admiration. “You’re amazing.”

She huffed, reflexively bashful at the praise, and shook her head. “Amazing at throwing people, at least.” She said dryly, and went over to stare down at him from the foot of the bed. “How’s the bed?”

“…Very nice, actually.” He said, after a pause for consideration. “You’re pretty bad at making things less comfy.”

“You’re definitely awake now though.” She pointed out smugly. “So my work here is done.”

He snorted, sitting up fully to beckon to her. Obligingly, she bent forwards to meet him with a brief kiss. “Hard not to wake up when someone throws you half-way across the room.”

She rolled her eyes. “It was not that far.” She said, and after a moment made the executive decision to fall forwards onto the bed, face impacting the plush duvet and sinking in. Her feet hung from the edge, and Callum giggled.

“Hehehe toes.” He said, and reached out to poke one. He found her four-toed feet amusingly charming every time he was reminded of them, which would have been funnier, except her feet were pretty ticklish and she twitched every time he prodded like this.

“I will kick you.” She warned, and he subsided with another snicker. Instead of messing with her any further, he shuffled over and started playing with her hair. “Mm. Better.” With a sigh, she closed her eyes and tipped her head forwards, face smooshing deeper into the bed. His fingers carded through her hair, nails trailing lightly at her scalp.

“You didn’t brush it.” He noted, carefully working out a couple of tangles, and she shrugged.

“Couldn’t be bothered. ‘Sides, it only tangles again when we cuddle, anyway.”

He hummed, and went through it again more purposefully, parting it carefully around her horns as he looked for and eliminated a few knots. He brushed around her hornbeds and she shivered. Apparently noticing the reaction, he did it again, more deliberately, chuckling at the way she murmured and pushed her head into his hand. “You look like a shadowpaw when you do that.” He said, affectionately, scritching gently around her horns. “Headbutting people’s hands when they pet you.”

“Anyone else and I’d be cutting off their hands, trust me.” She mumbled at him, already a little indistinct and fuzzy around the edges of her thoughts. Hornbed-scritches did that. “…Suppose the shadowpaw’d do that too. Except they’d bite the hand off instead, if they didn’t like you.”

“What I’m hearing is that if you were an animal you’d probably be a shadowpaw.” He sounded very fond.

“Mm. Guess so.” What would he be? Something doggish, probably. Friendly and playful and loyal, and then all teeth and fierceness when threatened. That sounded about right…

She drifted, a little. It was hard not to, when collapsed onto a comfy surface with one’s hornbeds being rubbed. He stopped after a while though, evidently noticing her drowsiness, and stroked a hand over her head between the horns as he chuckled. “Now who’s falling asleep?” He teased, and she made a half-hearted rude noise at him.

“’s your fault.” She muttered at him, indistinct around the duvet in her face.

“Uhuh.” He sounded amused, and stroked the back of her head again.

 -

(Snippet 6: very detailed depiction of horn care, which in-setting is considered intimate)

 She was suddenly very glad he’d interrogated her so persistently on the procedure earlier, because she wasn’t at all certain she’d have been able to tell him anything more sophisticated than ‘um’ when he was literally about to do her horns for her.

“You’re so cute.” He told her affectionately, obviously very aware of her current emotional state, and then finally set soapy hands onto her horns.

“Oh my god.” She muttered, cheeks flaming, feeling the weight of his hands, the subtle pull at the rest of her skull. She had never been quite so aware of her horns as when he started soaping them up and washing them, and it didn’t take long at all for the warmth of his skin to soak far enough through the keratin so that she could feel it in the living horn. A little while later, he applied the coarse-bristled-brush-side of the horn-scrub to her left horn, and she made a tiny embarrassed sound at the ceiling. “You should scrub them harder than that.” She managed after a moment, since he really was being too gentle about it. “Horns are tough, you know.”

He hummed with interest, and obliged, scrubbing hard enough that it pulled at her head a little. The towel-pillow had been a very good idea of his, really. “How much horn care do you normally do?” He asked, curious, getting the washcloth to rinse her horn before scrubbing again. “I’ve seen you file them, but…”

“…Usually just this. A good scrub to make sure they’re clean, and then filing down the rough bits.” Rayla offered a mortified noise. “But it’s been weeks and I’ve not even done that. They’re probably so dirty…”

“Shush, they’re fine.” He huffed at her, and kept on at her left horn until he was satisfied with it, moving over to the other one. Rayla regarded the ceiling with a persistently red face the whole while, cheeks feeling nearly as warm as the half of her body that was still in bathwater. “I wonder if your face is going to be this red the whole time.” He remarked, when he’d apparently finished with the washing.

“Probably.” She muttered, self-consciously, and felt her gut squirm when she felt the first experimental scrape of the fine filing parts on her horn.

Callum laughed softly, and started setting to work with the file. “If you say so.”

For all that he’d never done this before, the muted sensory feedback Rayla gleaned from her inner-horns and her ears suggested that he seemed to be doing fine with it. He readjusted the file enough that she could be relatively sure he was respecting the curve of the ridges, and worked slowly along the shape of each one, from the hornbed to the pointed tip, over and over again.

As she’d told him, it was a long process. It took a long time. Long enough that, contrary to her words, her embarrassment did start to burn out a bit, the red of her cheeks easing until she only felt a little flushed, a little flustered.

“I see why you thought the cloak would be a good idea.” Callum said ruefully, a while in. She could only imagine how much horn-dust and flaky bits of keratin must be littering it. “This does get kind of messy.”

“Told you.”

“For now this is just making your horns go sort of…pale, and scratched-looking.” He commented, working the file around one of the ridges on the underside. “I guess it goes dark again once you start buffing it?”

She made a small despairing noise, but agreed “Yeah, basically. Honestly all you really need to do is wipe it over with a wet cloth and it’ll stop looking like that. But…”

“But I’m not stopping there.” He said, with evident satisfaction, and a little more heat rose in her cheeks.

He was slow and meticulous about the filing, but got through it a lot more quickly than she could have if she’d done it herself. It was hard to work on your own horns – the angle was bad, you couldn’t see what you were doing, and adjusting to get the undersides was a huge pain in the arms. By contrast, doing it for someone else was just…a lot easier.

Finally, he set the scrub down and went for the washcloth again, soaping up and rubbing her horns clear of dust, poring over them for any spots he’d missed. When he was finally satisfied, he said “and now I buff them?”

“Mmhm.” She confirmed, bringing her hands up to hide her face for a moment. So, at her confirmation, he started on that part next. He evidently hadn’t expected how vigorous the buffing and polishing stages of horns were, because she kept telling him to press the buffer harder, and he kept making worried noises about it, and she had to keep assuring him that no that’s how it’s supposed to be, and eventually she start started laughing helplessly at him.

“I feel like I’m going to hurt your neck,” he complained at her, when the strength of the requisite motions pulled at her head. “Or like, hurt your hornbeds, or something.”

“I’ll be fine, Callum.” She assured him, still laughing, mirth and embarrassment squirming in her chest. “This is just how it goes, you know.”

“At least I brought you a pillow.” He sighed, and obligingly kept on. A fair while later, when he was done with the buffing and had washed her horns again, he leaned back a bit to admire his work. “That really is looking a lot smoother and shinier.”

“And you’ve not even done the polishing yet.” Rayla felt very weird then, laying back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. She’d been through embarrassment, and then amusement, and now…now, there was something else. She felt almost calm. Almost settled, like she’d finally started to grow used to this. Like the novelty of his hands on her horns had worn through.

Now, she felt kind of comfortable. At ease, in a way. Her mind was drifting in the way it did when Ethari or Runaan had helped her with her horns before, like this was just a normal thing. A normal thing that took ages, and that one had to daydream through to pass the time.

“I’m actually really looking forward to seeing what they look like when I’m done.” He was saying, as he put the buffing things down and went to get the bottle of polish and the polishing tool. “I’ve never seen your horns all done up before.”

“Maybe now you’ll finally understand what I mean when I say my horns have gone gross.” She pondered, and he laughed. “Finally you’ll know what well-kept horns are supposed to look like.”

“I have seen other Moonshadow elves’ horns, you know.” He informed her, obviously amused, and she heard the cap of the polish opening. A moment later, she smelled it, because there was really no mistaking that smell. “Yours still look nice no matter how long it’s been since you scrubbed them.”

Rayla made a disagreeable noise at him, and he snickered back, and then finally set about the polishing.

She’d told him, earlier, that horn-polish was pretty potent stuff, and that’s why you applied it to a sort of spongy cloth attached to a handle, rather than scrubbing with it by hand. At full strength, it actually melted the outer surface of the horn – just a little, just enough to meld it all down into a smooth, gleaming, perfect surface. Diluted polish was fine if you did it regularly, but with how long it had been for her…she’d told him to keep it undiluted. And it stank.

Her nose wrinkled, even with all the pleasant soap smells competing, and held her neck lax as Callum worked on her horns vigorously enough to pull her head back with every other movement. That was just how it went, so she wasn’t bothered. The towel was enough padding that it didn’t hurt, so she just laid there and let him work.

“Think I might actually nearly be done.” He pronounced at last, sounding genuinely a little out of breath. She’d told him it was hard work, and evidently he’d found that out for himself. He sounded very pleased, though. Like he’d done a good job and knew it, and was plenty proud about it. “Just got to wash all this polish muck off, right? Soap your horns up again.”

“That is the last stage.” She agreed, trying to glance up at him, but all she could really see was the top of his head. “Aside from oiling, I suppose.”

 -

 (Snippet 7: aftermath of horn care, domesticity)

 It was then, by the sink, that Rayla finally removed the towel from her head, and Callum made a loud noise of pure joy at her. She stared at him, alarmed, and then noticed where he was actually looking. Oh.

“Shiny!” He exclaimed, gleeful, and reached out to stroke her horns. “Oh my god.”

“Callum!” She complained, but she was already laughing, because honestly she should have predicted this reaction. He practically groped at her horns, bright-faced and beaming, and she flushed all the while she stood still and let him. “Are you going to let me see them any time soon?” She asked him, dry. “Or are you just going to stand there groping them?” He subsided at that with a very high-pitched giggle.

“Hehehe,” he offered, and then “yes, go look! You need to tell me how well I did.” He took her by the shoulders and turned her to the mirror, his face lingering by her shoulder in her reflection with the enormous grin still very much in residence there. He was such a dork, honestly.

Finally, Rayla tipped her head forwards and inspected her horns. They were…shiny. Very shiny. Every ridge had been filed and buffed and polished to a gleam, and when she turned her head, the light glimmered off of them like they’d been waxed. Her eyebrows went up, and she lifted her own hand to feel along one. It was smooth. Entirely dry, but as she ran her finger along one ridge, it felt so smooth. Their dark colour was actually glossy. “…Wow.” She said, a little admiringly, and tilted her head to watch the light move. “That is shiny.”

He looked absolutely delighted by that response, as if he’d needed her go-ahead to be certain that, yes, that was definitely impressively shiny. She smiled, helpless to stop it, and turned her head to kiss him on the cheek; her reflection mirrored her.

“You did a great job, Callum.” She told him fondly, her cheeks pink at having seen exactly how great a job he’d done. Stars, but the second anyone saw her they’d know exactly who was responsible for those horns. “My horns haven’t been this shiny in years.”

Callum looked at her like she’d hung the Moon, like this praise was enough to render him utterly overjoyed. He tugged her around enough to kiss her, deep and excited and full of energy, so much so that she made a muffled noise of surprise into his lips. It caught her off-guard, and she was feeling a little breathless and a little dazed when he drew away a few moments later. “You have to let me do this again.” He told her, beaming. “I’m going to keep your horns this shiny, just you wait.”

Her cheeks flamed, and she ducked her head, suddenly flustered. “You can’t just say things like that.” She complained at him, and of course he looked utterly unrepentant. He leaned in and kissed her, then moved and kissed her on one cheek, and then on the other cheek, and his hands were already up and stroking along the wide bases of her horns again.

“Smooth,” he commented, gleefully, fingers warm around her horns. His face was very, very close to hers. “They’re so nice.”

The heat in her face decidedly didn’t abate. “Oh my god, Callum.” She mumbled, shaking her head, and he just kissed her again. Feeling increasingly dazed, she said into his lips “you know, it’s a lot faster if you’re doing it regularly. You can skip the filing and just buff and polish instead.”

He considered this excellent news, if the way he kissed her was any indication.

Finally, she summoned the force of will to reach up and peel his hands from her horns, stepping away. It was not easy, because – because when he looked like that, so elated and alive and full of delight, when he kissed her so enthusiastically, it was hard to think of pretty much anything. She looked across at him, incredibly flustered, and couldn’t see anything except how beautiful he was. “You, calm down.” She ordered him, gruffly, and led him by the shoulder to the basin. “We came in here to brush our teeth, you numpty. Not fondle Rayla’s horns.”

“But Rayla’s horns are really really pretty.” Callum pointed out cheerfully, and she made an involuntary noise half-way between embarrassment and pleasure.

“Be that as it may, Rayla and her horns want you to brush your teeth now so we can go to bed.” She said, and she shuffled over to the basin to make good on her words.

 -

 (Snippet 8: Callum and Rayla go to bed finally. Cuddling, fluff.)

 It proved as magnificently soft and comfy as she might have expected, when she peeled back the covers and climbed in. Callum meanwhile was perusing the canopy with consideration.

“Curtains or no curtains?” He asked her, and she considered it.

“Curtains.” She decided, and watched with satisfaction as he reached out and unhooked the bed’s attendant drapery. She reached to the one closest to her, and he got the rest; it all fell into place, a rich dark red that blocked out the light from the room around them and cast their bed into soothing shadow. Something settled in her then, that hadn’t quite been at ease in the unfamiliar surroundings, or the openness of the room. She sighed, and burrowed down under the duvet, laying her head back on the pillows.

He joined her, lifting the covers and slipping in, closing his eyes for a second in obvious profound enjoyment. “This is so much better than hard cold floor.” He murmured happily, and she smiled, tugging him to her with a hand at his shoulder. He went gladly, and within moments they were pressed close, legs tangling, the warmth of his skin comforting against her own.

“Been a long few weeks.” She sighed, resting her forehead against his, and he lifted a hand to stroke her cheek.

“Kind of an understatement.” He murmured back. “I’m glad we’ve got a chance to rest now.” A pause. “Sort of, anyway. Aside from the work.”

She understood his meaning, though. There was something strangely safe about the idea of the time they’d spend here, whether it would be a week or longer than that. This wasn’t home, where there’d be people to explain things to, or where they’d have to adapt their old life to fit around what had happened. This was a new place – unfamiliar, but easier to cope with for that unfamiliarity, in its own way.

Here, she thought, they’d be able to find their footing a little. Settle a little more into their new normal, before the vagaries of travel and normal life needed intrude again.

“Me too.” She agreed, at last, and reached a hand across to press lightly around the back of his neck. He made a soft, pleased sound, then shuffled to give her better access, face smooshed into the pillow. She kissed him on the cheek, and he peered at her with one green eye, a smile fluttering on his lips.

“…Thanks for letting me do your horns.” He mumbled back, eventually. “I liked it.”

Her heart fluttered. “I’ll repay you sometime.” She promised, and moved her hand to smooth down along his upper back, enjoying the warmth of his skin. “Tomorrow, maybe. Give you a nice backrub or something.”

“Sounds great.” He shifted closer, tucking his face against her shoulder with a sigh. She kissed him at the top of his forehead, stroking him gently from the nape of his neck to his shoulders and back. He made quiet contented noises at her, drowsier and drowsier, and steadily began to drift off.

She lingered there, holding him, trailing fingertips over his neck as he settled into sleep. It really had been a long day for him, for all that they’d spent the latter half of it indoors and resting. Now, finally, he’d be able to sleep properly, in a bed comfortable enough to ease the ache of his overworn muscles. Now, finally, without the city’s doom hanging over them, they could rest a little.

Rayla smiled into his hair, nestled against him, and closed her eyes. She wasn’t aware of falling asleep, but it took her anyway; almost between one moment and the next, she was gone.

[ficsnroses]

Friends With Benefits Chapter 9 - Keanu Reeves x Reader

Chapter IX ~ Full Circle.

Part 1  Part 2 Part 3 Part 4  Part 5  Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

❧ Word Count : 3.7K

❧ Warnings : Angst, light nsfw/smut,  (I apologize in advance..)

❧ Series Summary :  What happens when two, lonely friends start seeing each other for sex? A tricky friends with benefits love story, when feelings get in the way.

Notes : Just a couple more chapters after this, series is scheduled to end this month! Thanks for sticking around since I started this in November. I love it with my entire heart, and I hope you do too. Please do leave feedback and comments if ya get a sec. There’s tons of parallels in here from previous chapters, kudos if you can spot em!

Chapter 8 Recap : After leaving Keanu’s house in tears at midnight, Y/N’s car breaks down, and she’s left with no one to call but Keanu. After much persuasion, Keanu convinces her to come back to his house and spend the night; where they end up having sex yet again, only making things worse. In the morning, Keanu reveals to Y/N that he plans on purchasing a new car for her, which offends her significantly, considering their relationship. Y/N ends things with Keanu for good, leaving them both distraught and heartbroken in their own ways.

It all comes down to the last person you think of at night.

That’s, where your heart is.

.

Day after day; week after week, abiding to dreary half executed routines and less than productive projects. It’s been 3 weeks since you’d weary boned, walked out of Keanu’s house,

and perhaps his life

once and for all demolishing the sole, fraying thread of your damaged relationship. As you roam your seemingly emptier apartment, the air around secludes, chilling wavelengths and brisky cold temperate in the atmosphere. On an oak coat hanger, draped in a corner of the living room entrance, a knitted black coat hangs, the same one Keanu had forced you to wear on impromptu evening adventures downtown the LA scene. Neither of you were much for the crowds, yet social affairs seemed…alright. When in the company of the other.

A lot seemed alright when in the company of one another.

Gray ash clouds outside, the LA afternoon falls dark, the dewy gold gleam of a black pine candle illuminating a halo around its part on the coffee table.

It was his favourite scent.

To the hallway wall, a small chip in the crisp white walls taunts you, his elbow bellowed in a charge too fierce when you’d pushed him to it; satin lips on yours in a feverish kiss.

    His baseball cap, long forgotten on the loveseat by the skyline window.

    Two wine glasses stowed away in the glass kitchen cabinets.

    The lighter you kept on hand for him when he’d need a smoke after sex.

    Quiet laughs shared in the moonlit dark within these very walls.

All around, there was him.

You don’t realize just how much someone is a part of you, until they’re gone.

For him, it may have just been sex. For you, you were making love. You were making love the entire time, to him. And now, as you sit alone in your outcast LA apartment, that same love mocks you. Suffocates you. Kills you, because it never really goes away. Just because he’s gone, it

hasn’t

gone

away.

He’d yet to call, and you distrust he will. Lover or not, you know him as the back of your hand. He won’t call, he cares too much. Respects you too much to force himself on you. Loud and clear, you’d made rich, undoubted clarity of the end that dreadful morning. The death of you and him.

And nothing comes back from the dead. All that leaves mark is haunting, cold memories.

Cold comfort. Burning memories of what was. He’s a man of measured words, speaks only when there was reason to. Yet, they’d left you haunted. His words that spoke far too much, far too deep, forced you to fall far too profound when you’d promised each other, it wasn’t ever the end goal.

You’d blinked once; then twice, thrice, until the first tear fell.

Warm, stinging, burning. You’d gotten used to those first couple tears lately; the ones that would come uninvited, without notice.

Even after him, all there was,

was burn.

Out.

You needed to go out, do something, find anything to distract, to quench that burning long inside you. The studio sounded nice, nothing a half finish project to get your brain juices flowing couldn’t fix.

Work had been an outlet; designs, sculptures, drawings, late night sessions locked away in your studio had been rather therapeutic when you’d first moved out.

Therapeutic-before you began finding comfort in Keanu’s king bed, silken sheets and cotton pillows scattered around almost every night.

The lock to the apartment door clinks, keys bustling with a toss into your bag before you start toward the elevator.

This is good. This is okay. The morning is rather low-spirited and desolate, not a soul in the halls or lobby. Perhaps you preferred it that way for now.

Alone. Something so familiar, but revitalising. Or maybe truth be told, right now, for you, if it wasn’t him,

it couldn’t be anyone at all.

His rich chuckle,

His smoky laugh,

That inquisitive, immersed stare with the tip of his lips slightly agape while he listens, breathes in the world around him,

Stop.

With a half executed, drained sigh, you trudge to the brassy elevator doors, sounds of trudging cables and gaudy belts before the doors glide open, the elevator scent of a freshener far too strong, mimicking fresh linen and Californian citrus. The ride down is short, a derisory accomplishment of actually stepping foot out into the world outside your sheltered apartment corridors. With a stop to the third floor below yours, the elevator dings, heavy footsteps and the scent of spiced cologne wafted through the trivial space.

Spiced cologne; a dire contrast to the woodier, pine-ier one of Keanus.

Voice intruding, you pick up deep soundwaves and flashy baritone, a greeting of curious surprise your way. “Y/N?” They speak, snapped out your dreary daydream, thoughts somehow continually reverted back to broken eyes, deadbeat silence from that shattered morning endured three weeks ago.

Curious orbs raised, you perceive him; an old colleague residing in the same complex. He’d been the first neighbour you encountered in the midst of your move here, a heavy box of dishes and cutlery saved by his robust arms carrying them up to your front door that year ago. “Matt?”

“It’s been a while, haven’t seen you around.” He raises, hands shoved into his blue jean pockets, tall frame taking place a mere few inches apart from you.

“Just been busy.” You smile, stray strand of lock tucked behind your ear. Matt had been much help during your move, and you’d kept in touch thereafter. He’d come visit time to time for a piping cup of French coffee; discussions of work and projects mindlessly favoured together.

“Right.” He replies, amiable smile to his full lips. “I saw you’d been working on bigger films.” He starts, admirable sheen to his dark eyes. “Very commendable work.” He praises, a gentle chuckle when the following words flow. “Hey, I have to ask…” The elevator descends further down, main lobby in approach. Sounds of trudging still bellow above, yet the sound of his talk was…nice. It was nice to hear someone.

Apart from failed attempts of your girlfriends to take you out for drinks, you’d heard little rather from the voice that would seep your television; the Netflix catalogue had been getting much devotion lately.

With his brows scrunching, the baritone of his voice raises slight, wondering. “I’ve seen a guy visit you every now and then…was that Keanu freaking Reeves?” timidly chuckled, he takes in your gentle giggle, a nod to his query.

“Yeah, it was.”

“Ahhh.” He breathes, glance at the polished floor. “Boyfriend…?” His voice lingers, a dragged out tone in question, eyes focused to assess your features change.

“Business partner.” You lie.

A cold, dreadful lie that held so much history, so much regard. So much history, thrown away with those two, taciturn words.

“Right.” Matt rakes a heavy palm through his hair, moved to gesture out a peace offering in front of him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume.” He apologizes, nervous tone thick with unease, yet held to a certain confidence. Matt had charisma, poise, a pleasant presence.

Voice warm, you overtake, smiling in return. “Of course not.” Sincerely, you compliment. “You look well.” Commenting, the elevator rings open, the main lobby arrives. Matt allows you to go first, leading the way graciously.

“You do too, as always.” He praises, eyes glazing over your features in an admirable glow. Hand tucked back into his jean pocket, a timid silence stays put in the air around, your brows raising when at a loss of what to say next. Features contemplative, Matt’s voice gruffs in his throat, gently coughing a nervous pitch to the look of your welcoming gaze. “I’d actually love to catch up sometime, if you’re free.” He proposes. “Maybe a coffee sometime this week?”

Your thoughts halt in trek, gaze flickering to the pavement below in the distance for a moment. Company…someone to ease your mind off the storm brewing inside….

You think back,

Two wine glasses stowed away in the glass kitchen cabinets. A half drank bottle of Merlot sitting in solitude.

“Do you wanna come over tonight?” You blurt, uncertain of when the words had even fallen off your lonesome lips. Partly wonderstruck you’d extended an invitation so sudden, you marvel if it was too soon. You’d just met Matt again; only shared a meagre 3 minutes together thus far.

You’d only shut Keanu out so soon ago, yet you knew deep inside, he was still stuck in each part of you. But it couldn’t go on like that forever, this couldn’t go on forever. You need something new, potentially someone new.

Someone that doesn’t come with such baggage, someone who doesn’t come with so many complications.

Matt shifts, charming smile plastered to his lips with a quick glance down. His thoughts collect; gaze locked to yours in an admiration filled sincerity. “Yeah, for sure.” He speaks. “I’d really like that.” Controlled and certain, you nod, gesturing to the roads off sight. “I’ve just got a day of errands and work ahead. But I’ll see you at my place tonight?” You offer. “Is 7:00 alright?”

“Of course.” He smiles, giving you a gentle nod, and if you thought close enough, you’d swore his awed eyes sputtered to your rosy lips ever so briefly,

wondering….

3 weeks. 3 long, tiresome, drained week without her. Without her company, without her voice, without her floral scent; roses and lilies to brighten his days. It had felt as if she’d been wiped away, his motionless mind left with nothing but burning memories of their time together.

Laying in his king bed, Keanu wonders what she’s doing right now. Is she thinking of him, the way he thinks of her? Has she forgotten him, the way they were, the things they did? He prays. He pleads she hasn’t forgotten. Three weeks had passed, and time seemed to mock him at every second. A lifetime spent alone, the lonesome days and months, turned mindlessly to years. Her walking away had been perhaps the most gut wrenching, soul eating occurrence to ever break his mind. Her walking away was the sourest sting he’d ever had to swallow.

Because he knows he’ll never forget her. Not now, not today, not in another three weeks.

She was it for him, he’d known it for a while. If it was going to be anyone, if he had a chance to make it right with anyone, it was solely, unconditionally, her. He couldn’t forget.

Couldn’t forget the things they did.

She’d been a dire reflection of him, mirroring his tepid, half sheltered heart. The heart that longs, for so much more. It was only her. It could only be her.

It wasn’t toxicity.

time passed, the days turned to nights, the tick bestowing further, the time spending away, not making either of them younger, he knew. She was it. It all meant something, it was never just sex.

It could never just be sex. What he felt, she had to feel it too.

She had to. No longer was it feasible to suffer. He won’t suffer. This time, now, finally, he won’t suffer. He won’t let it be.

As he turns his side, an exasperated sigh flees his lips, hand bestowed to his feeble forehead in an aching protrude. He wonders what she’s doing right now, if she’s awake, wondering, thinking, missing him like he is her. Longing for him, as he is for her.

Suffering for him, as he is for her.

A glance toward the bedside table shows, dainty clock illuminating the time. He’d seek her in the early morning, and this time, he’d at least try to make things right. Lay his heart out on the line, hoping, pleading she’d accept it. Enough had been enough, dreary thoughts and lonesome nights, burning away, wondering of what could be would perverse no more.

He wonders what she’s doing right now.

11:38pm.

     She couldn’t forget him. He wouldn’t let her.

     Couldn’t forget the things they did.

Words not spoken,

Things not said,

     Regrets; enveloping you.

A finished bottle of Merlot, a shot or two as well. Something crisp…something that,

     burned.

You don’t remember who did it first, who wanted it first, who let it happen first.

His scent lasted longer than you’d liked on your skin, that murky dusk of spiced cologne, his polite, appealing presence. He arrived with a bottle of White, a variety you’d almost never kept on hand in the last couple of months.

Red used to be his favourite; so it was yours.

Perhaps you were vulnerable, perhaps he was too kind. Too charming, too present. But you asked for it, you did it, you wanted it. Or so you think you did.

     It always comes full circle.

You needed someone that night, needed to feel someone that night. You don’t remember who made the first move, seemed as if both of you wanted that mutuality, that connection just as much.

     Back where you’d started.

His skin grazed yours, gentle thumb soothed to your own; wine glass held in a wavering grip, frail to your boney fingers.  You didn’t stop him, didn’t pull away. He moved closer, and maybe you did too. Closer to him, nearer to him.

The gray bedroom walls heard the scene; they saw it all, unadulterated, held the secrets of what you’d done. His lips on yours, his hands on you, your fingers clawing to his back. You let him in, and he took each inch of you. Raw, exposed, desperately attempting to chase that high, that cloud nine feel that came with months gone. You could lay with this man while you thought of him, drawing sorrow deep inside his skin. Scratch his back to forget his face, bite his neck with his name on your tongue, touch his face while you think of him.

It’s an awful feeling, knowing you did nothing wrong.

But did everything wrong, all in the same.

“Y/N…” You cut Matt off by kissing his lips, gracefully on the bed underneath him, hands in his hair with his heavy palms to your hips. Moving diligently, he sulks into your neck, moaning, soft and quiet grunts between bites and nips to your neck. “Faster,” You spill, nerve endings tantalized as he thrusts, your lips stippled to his piercing jawline.

Is it easier for him? you wonder, you ponder,

you guess.

“You’re irresistible…” He whispers, lips browsed to your chest in a warm enhold, skin on skin within the softness of release. Back arching, you lean into his touch, hips bucking along with his when your mind jumbles, an awful realization, the bitter realism. He’s changing your breath with every thrust, working your body in a hot, humid intimacy so foreign, his manhood hastily working your body beneath. So foreign, so…empty.

That familiar stretch isn’t there, the sweet burn isn’t there, he isn’t there. This isn’t him. No matter how hard you try, how tight you clench your eyes hoping you’ll trick yourself into believing it, it isn’t him.

     He’s safe, he’s new, he’s different,

But he’s not him. The façade you show melts away.

He’ll never be him. No one will ever be him.

As he slips out in the midnight light, the bed sinks beside you, and you turn with the comforter held to your exposed chest. The only light in the bedroom filters from the cracked window, the illuminated alarm clock on your dainty nightstand enlightening the while,

11:38pm.

The misty LA morning brought new found hope; new found anticipation. The weather had predicted a storm brewing out soon, yet that wouldn’t be enough to stop Keanu.

Not today. Not when he needs her to know. Not when he loves her, and he knows so deep, so profound that he does.

Sunny California had grayed a dark to its golden rays lately, a frigid mist clings to the air. Heavier rains had been the norm recently, damper months in full fledge. A tug of war impends his mind, should he wait until evening? Should he call? Was this an intrusion of her space? Her choices?

Was she really, truly content leaving things the way she did?

He looks in the mirror; beard longer than it had been since he’d seen her; hair shaggier than she’d left him. He hadn’t had anyone to look good for since she’d gone away. Hadn’t had motivation to present himself to anyone since she’d left.  Some of Y/N’s things still lingered the empty walls of his home; a lacy bra left in his wardrobe, a crewneck sweater mindlessly thrown under his bed; her copy of a Hemingway novel abandoned in his office, a toothbrush for when she’d spend the night.

It had been there the entire time.

Just sex isn’t this involved.

Friends with benefits aren’t this involved.

She’d been there the entire time.

After a quick shower and groom of his rather untamed features, Keanu snatches his keys and wallet, fear filled drive to her apartment drained on his mind. Y/N had to see this through, had to trust him, understand him.

Y/N and Keanu had never really got it right, never quite found the balance. But it could be found, could be learnt, could be when they’d finally accept it.

The balance was always them. Them together, as whole. Half executed attempts at being anything less would suffice no more. What was, what is, was always more.

     It was never just sex.

     It was so much more.

The apartment complex is rather fuller than normal, piercing cold and dewy morning air enveloped around. Crowds had stayed in, and the first murky dewdrops of fresh rain speckled his worn out leather jacket on arrival.

This worn out leather jacket….

He’d placed it on her shoulders when the bitter cold threatened her skin. She’d peeled it off him when they did what lovers do.

     It was never just sex.

     It was companionship.

The wearing pockets had held her special birthstone ring, forgotten in his possession solely for him to have a reason to come to her, sooner than they’d planned.

     It was never just sex.

     It was the feeling of needing someone; having someone.

The fraying insides and ravelling threads felt the weight of her body holding him, chest pressed to his back along the scenic LA mountains, breezy winds and violet sunsets known all too well on destination less rides.

     It was never just sex.

     It was connection; intimacy.

This old, worn out leather jacket, a possession of his he’d held for so long, something that had been through it all, held so much of her. Knew so much of her.

     It was never just sex.

     It was their love. And it was so much more, so much more than just physical.

The ride up and trek to her door seemed endless, racing pace and quick strides in desperate attempt to get to her as soon as he could. Everything had finally fallen into place, he’d finally understood. And he knew so well, that she would too. Takes one to know one; they’d been lonely far too long.

Within moments, Keanu stood firm at her door, abundance of confidence, anticipation, yet a timid nervousness all in one piping cocktail of eagerness flowing through his veins. He hadn’t seen her in weeks; his favourite, the most prized possession in his life, he hadn’t seen in weeks. More than anything, he hopes she had been alright. Taken care of herself, stayed healthy and safe.

A ring at the door bell, and a loud knock.

Seconds, moments, small increments of time passing seem as if an eternity slowly moving by.

Another knock, for good measure.

Hands shaking so slightly, skin crawling, fists clenched with a stare to the floor.

She should be home, it’s only morning.

Trudging elevator belts moving in the distance, footsteps in and around the complex halls, leg bouncing, lip bitten in dreary wait, a nervous sigh when more moments pass until…

Click. The door wavers open, she stands behind, half dressed, features borderline stoic, yet with a gentle hold of sorrowed blues. She looks beautiful as always, and his heart hitches at the sight of her. The woman he loves, so dearly, so much. Hair stowed in a messy bun, fatigue seeps under her eyelids, tired features soft under the artificial hallway lights.

“Y/N…” Keanu speaks above a smooth, buttery whisper; the sound of her name slipping off so naturally, so effortlessly. “I wanted to see you…”

She swallows tight, eyes never leaving his chocolaty, sincere gaze, so love drunk as he stares. He’d engulf her in his arm right now if he could. Hold her for an eternity if time allowed. Kiss her so passionately, so lovingly that it’d take her breath away. Yet he waits; waits to do things right. Do it the right way, for the first time in their tumbling relationship. “Can I come in?” He asks, voice almost choking in his gruffed throat.

She’d hardly moved before he’d caught glimpse; a deep baritone behind her, the sound an intruding shock to his already racing heart. Calm yet collected, Keanu stands, eyes tracing behind as the voice firms in closer,

a man, jacket hung over his left shoulder blade, morning hair just woken ruffled a mess, palm placed to her back with a gentle squeeze as he bids goodbye. “I need to head out, but I’ll call you.” He smiles at her, before locking gaze with Keanu.

“Morning.” He greets Keanu, before giving Y/N’s arm a reassuring, goodbye squeeze, slipping beside Keanu and out the door, disappearing down the hall. Y/N stands in front of him, eyes locked to his still, as if pleading, begging for something…something neither of them could quite understand.

Keanu stills, fists clenched, heart stinging with piercing defeat.

She’d been with another man.

     The love he so desperately longed for, the women he knew he needed,

     had been in the arms,

     of another.

>>Chapter 10>>

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s/o to ma bish @fanficsrusz​ for looking over this cluster fuck for me lol. ily

My taglists will be posted in reblogs from now on. Let me know if you want to be added or removed from either this series, or the permanent! 

[lechevaliermalfet]

Rise, and Escape – A Long Look at Breath of Fire: Dragon Quarter

Quick note: This deep dive write-up was originally posted elsewhere in May of 2015.  I’m polishing it for reposting here.  In addition, for those interested, a while back I recorded a podcast-type thing for a project called Pause Menu Monologues, which was being done by an acquaintance of mine.  Said monologue was derived from a cut-down version of this effortpost.  For those interested, you can listen to that here. Now, on to the main event.

As I prepare to leave my current job for another with far better opportunities, it feels tremendously appropriate to talk yet again about a game premised almost entirely on the idea of escape.

I’ve written about Breath of Fire: Dragon Quarter before, but it was requested that I write about it again.  It was @squeemcsquee making the request, so I listened more than usual.  I’m sure I’ll probably wind up saying a lot of the same things I said on the first go-‘round, but who knows?

Well, here’s something I didn’t say before this writing: When I first introduced her to Dragon Quarter, she got into it.  Really into it.  Given her relative inexperience with Japanese role-playing games, this was surprising to me; it’s so different from the usual run of JRPGs, especially as the genre stood in about 2003 or so when the game first came out.  Contrarian that I am (at times), that’s part of what endeared it to me.  But as she pointed out, the things that made it seem out of the ordinary to me meant very little to her.  She didn’t have much “ordinary” to compare it against.

Unfortunately, watching her play it made me want to play it also.  Part of this is the natural (and deeply unfortunate) backseat-driving instinct I have whenever I’m watching someone do something that I’m familiar with, but feel they could be doing better, and in fact, if they’d just let me have the controller for a few minutes, I could show them exactly how… But part of it was also just that seeing the game played really made me want to be playing it myself.  This presented a problem, what with us having only the one copy.  It led to arguments.  Not, like, real arguments, but not exactly cutesy fun arguments, either.  We did, at the time, have both a working PlayStation 2 and a backward-compatible PlaySation 3, so it was only owning just the one copy of the game that was really a problem.  So the solution was pretty simple.

That’s how good it is. Dragon Quarter: The game so nice, we bought it twice.

Technically, we only bought the game once.  I bought it when it first came out, back in early 2003.  I played it for a while, and while it was pretty to look at, and it had good music, and the setting was interesting, it just didn’t come together for me.  Despite this, I had no desire to trade it in.  I had the feeling I was onto something good, though I couldn’t quite grasp it at the time.

I hadn’t had much experience with the Breath of Fire series then. I owned a copy of Breath of Fire IV, which was really the first game in the series that I even tried to tackle seriously.  Having unwillingly skipped over the 16-bit generation (owning a TurboGrafx-16 and five games hardly counts), my impression of the series at that time could basically be described as “like Final Fantasy, only not quite as inventive”.  It perhaps wasn’t a fair assessment, but I was basing this on the opinions of friends and acquaintances; I was unable to draw my own conclusions.  Still, I liked Breath of Fire IV well enough, even outside of some positive personal associations, so I hung on to Dragon Quarter, feeling relatively certain that one day, I would get the itch to try it again.

As it happened, I did, a couple years down the line.  The story and the characters were calling to me, and this time, everything finally clicked.

It probably helped that, around that time, I was beginning to become aware that JRPGs as a genre were becoming (or more likely, always had been) deeply conservative in terms of design, as well as character and story archetypes.  Realistically, this has probably been the case since the days of the original Dragon Quest, Final Fantasy, and Phantasy Star.  But I got into these types of games in late 1998 with Final Fantasy VII; I was new to the genre in those days, so even things that were rote and by-the-numbers were fresh and new to me then. And in fairness, I’ve enjoyed a number of these types of games.  But by this time, I found myself wanting games in the genre to branch out and do something new.  So many of the mechanical mainstays of the genre, the “traditions” of JRPG design, began life as frankly clunky workarounds for technology that wasn’t really up to giving us a less abstract simulation of the expected features of a fantasy adventure: travel, exploration, fighting monsters, finding treasure, getting new and more powerful gear, and saving the world and any number of princesses.  If you wanted to simulate all of these things on older hardware, you had to have a certain amount of abstraction.  So you had your turn-based battles, your random encounters, and so on, and so forth.

By the PS2 era, the technology was rapidly growing beyond the need to adhere to these ancient abstractions for any reason other than nostalgia’s sake.  It had been doing this for some time – Chrono Trigger jettisoned random encounters back in the mid-90s, but despite the universal acclaim that game received, no one seemed terribly interested in implementing any of its innovations elsewhere.  Developers were, by and large, unwilling to grow out of those old ways.  In part this might be down to the reluctance of their audience (or at least a very vocal portion of it) to part ways with those same traditions.  But whatever the reason, the result was the same: stagnation. Or so it felt to me.

I wanted something that was different from the JRPGs I’d played before.  Something that still offered the thought and planning that went into playing an RPG of any kind, something with a good story and interesting characters, but which went off the beaten path and did something different.

And so, in late 2004 or maybe early 2005, two years after I originally bought it, tried it, and hung it up for the foreseeable future, I started playing Breath of Fire: Dragon Quarter again.

It’s an odd beast, this game, even when you look at it in the context of its own series.  All the more so, really.  The earliest Breath of Fire games got compared to the 8- and 16-bit Final Fantasy games, at least by most of the people I knew back then.  Really, a more apt comparison would be to Dragon Quest, but I hadn’t played any of those games, and I was part of a group of friends who oddly lacked much experience with that series, so maybe nobody was in a position to make that particular comparison.  With most of my friends, Dragon Quest (then known as Dragon Warrior due to trademark issues; I feel so old sometimes) was always “That game where you grind for hours and hours and then you finally say ‘fuck this!’ and go do something else, maybe play Final Fantasy or go outside or something, I dunno”.

Anyway, the whole series up to this point had been pretty standard high-fantasy fare, with the unique selling point being the main character’s ability to transform into a dragon. Most of the game mechanics beyond this were pretty straightforward.  My experience with the series at large was pretty much limited to some time spent on the fourth game, and some time spent goofing off with ROMs of the first two out of idle and quickly satisfied curiosity.

One other consistent feature of the series is that the main character, the aforementioned dragon-transforming person, is always a young blue-haired swordsman named Ryu, and there is always a blonde, winged young lady named Nina who typically focuses on magic. Additional characters tend to be of all shapes, sizes, and species.

Dragon Quarter, by contrast, occurs in a future dystopia where humankind, having pretty much destroyed the environment through the use of biologically engineered weapons called dragons, has retreated to a single subterranean dwelling called Sheldar.  There, they survive as best they can.

In this society, everyone is given a rank, called a D-ratio.  On the surface of things, this ratio is a measure of one’s current ability and future potential, and places limits on their social standing, the kinds of jobs they can hold, places they can live, and overall determining just exactly how high they can rise in the world, figuratively and literally.

“Low-Ds”, that is, people with low D-ratios, live further down in this habitat.  The air is worse, people’s lifespans are shorter, and there are occasionally monsters called genics that roam around down there.  The people with high D-ratios live closer to the surface where the air is better and things are generally less dangerous. A nice touch is that, especially in cut scenes, the game is literally more hazy and grimy, visually, the further down you are.  As you go up, the environments gradually become clearer and brighter.  It happens bit by bit, so you may not notice it the first time through, but if you finish the game and start over again, the difference stands out.

One of the few story beats to be preserved is our hero: Ryu.  Here, he’s a low-D ranger, whose job mainly seems to involve security and hunting down genics.  His D-ratio is abysmally low: 1/8,192.  His current job is the very highest he can hope to achieve.  He’s partnered with another young man named Bosch, D-ratio 1/64. While Ryu is effectively at the very limit of how far he can rise in the world, Bosch is only at the beginning.  A D-ratio as high as his means he can potentially qualify to become a Regent, one of the four rulers of this underground world. Bosch is basically just paying his dues here.  He’s friendly enough to Ryu, in a condescending sort of way, which Ryu mostly just shrugs off.  What else is he going to do?

While reporting for an assignment with Bosch, Ryu succumbs to a brief fugue, in which he has a vision. He sees the decaying remains of a giant dragon spiked to a wall.  Despite clearly being dead, the dragon seems to talk to Ryu, mind-to-mind, though what it says to him makes virtually no sense at the time.  Not long after, Ryu comes across the real thing, though it is very visibly dead and inanimate.

A terrorist attack splits up Ryu and Bosch, and shortly thereafter, Ryu runs into this game’s version of Nina, as well as a member of the resistance movement Trinity, named Lin. She seeks Nina for her own – or rather Trinity’s – purposes.  The three form an unlikely but highly effective team.  But allying himself with these two has its consequences, and by the time Ryu and Bosch reunite, circumstances have made them into enemies. Bosch is a good fighter, and he has plenty of allies with him, but Ryu refuses to betray his new comrades. Thankfully, his encounter with the dragon was no mere dream or hallucination.  Unbeknownst to him, it has bestowed him with awesome power… and a deadline.

With every passing moment, the monstrous dragon power lurking within Ryu grows more prominent, threatening to overcome him.  While Ryu is in control, he can transform into a bestial form capable of slaughtering even bosses within just a couple of rounds of combat.  But drawing on that power accelerates its progress in overtaking him.

And so, with all hands turned against him, Ryu, Lin, and Nina have ultimately just a single option: Escape.

One of the things that I like about Dragon Quarter – one of many, many things – is the way that the game’s more prominent mechanics and its story are so closely intertwined.

The dragon power bestowed upon Ryu early into the game isn’t just a narrative device or story element, coming out only when dramatically convenient.  It’s also a game mechanic, in the form of what the game calls a D-counter. This is a number, a percentage, that appears in the corner of the screen.   As you play, it slowly ticks up toward 100 in intervals of a hundredth of a percent.  Everything you do in the game causes it to increase.  Everything.  Every 24 or 25 steps will cause it to increase by one interval.  Later in the game, this happens every dozen steps or so.  Ryu’s special D-dash ability, which allows him to avoid enemy combat, causes it to tick up faster.  Transforming, all by itself, raises the counter, and any actions taken while transformed increase it by whole-number percentages.  It is literally overpowered.  What I mentioned about crushing bosses in just a couple of turns was not hyperbole.  I’ve done it.  It’s basically my end-game strategy.

There is no way to drop the counter.  Ever. There are no items, no spells, no techniques which will allow you to reset it or undo any of its progress.  It just sits up there in the corner, slowly increasing and glowing ever more furiously as the number grows.  The tension between the temptation to use it whenever you’re in a bind and the punishing consequences of that use can be exquisite.

When I first heard Dragon Quarter described as a survival-horror RPG, it didn’t make sense to me.  But that’s mainly because I associated the mechanical elements of most of the survival-horror games I’d played with the more thematic elements of horror.  And there are horrific moments and images in Dragon Quarter; the world of the game is not a happy place, and its maintenance is not easily or cleanly done.  But that horror is mainly a consequence of the world-building; it’s not the point of the game.

The key here, I think, is the word “survival”.  You might more accurately call Dragon Quarter a survival-RPG, except it’s basically the only one of its kind that I know of.  It’s kind of hard to wrangle a whole genre out of that.

At their heart, survival-horror games generally “work” based on two principles.

The first is the fragility of the player character relative to other types of games, and relative to the enemies within the game.  You are not the hero of a more action-oriented game, who can take maybe a dozen sword strokes straight to the face and just keep going, or who can withstand a hail of gunfire and duck behind cover for a few seconds while your shields recharge.  Here, the player is reduced to a much more even footing with the enemies.  Every bit of damage taken is a significant setback that needs to be planned around, either to prevent it or to deal with it when it happens.  Every attack must be calculated.  This is because of the second principle, which is resource management.

The in-game resources, both those which you use to preserve yourself and those you use to eliminate your enemies, are finite.  So they must be spent wisely, frugally.  Because of this, you are constantly required to take a measured, careful approach to any situation.  You can never just blithely wander around; to do so invites disaster twice over.  In the short term, you risk serious harm, leaving yourself vulnerable to future threats.  In the long term, if you come out of the situation relatively unscathed, it’s generally at some expense of resources, leaving you ill-prepared for future encounters.  Carelessness becomes indistinguishable from suicide.

This puts pressure on the player to play extremely well at all times by punishing mistakes immediately and brutally.  As a result, some of the typical elements of JRPGs are missing.

There are no healing spells or techniques.  All healing – whether restoring health or curing negative status effects – is accomplished by way of expendable (and frequently pricey) items.  And you have to consider how often (if at all) you’ll be using some of these items, because inventory space is limited, and multiple items of a single type don’t “stack” very much before requiring another inventory slot.  And, naturally, the usual economics of JRPGs are in full effect.  Whatever you get for selling an item is a pitiful fraction of what it costs you to buy.

The game offers you the ability to use bait and traps to lure enemies into a position of compromise and get the drop on them, but even these need to be used sparingly.  There’s hardly enough for every encounter.

Interestingly, the game knows exactly how difficult it is, and gives you something of a way around the problem.

As with most RPGs of any kind, Japanese or otherwise, you earn experience points, new equipment, and new abilities as you go through the game.  In addition, Dragon Quarter also gives you what’s called Party XP.  Basically, this is experience you can dole out to party members as you like to boost their levels.

Should you find yourself in a situation where you can’t progress without either having your party wiped or running the D-counter up to 100% (which, if it hasn’t become obvious by now, is an instant Game Over), you have the option to do what’s called a SOL Restart.  This restarts the game from the beginning, but lets you keep all the equipment and skills you’ve learned, as well as any Party XP you still have.  This gives you get a fresh start while retaining your improved gear, and the Party XP lets you give yourself a boost in the early stretches.

There’s also an option to restore a previous hard save along these same lines.  Dragon Quarter allows “soft” saves anywhere, but these are temporary by design.  Once loaded, these saves disappear.  There are only a few “hard” save points, from which you can restore at will, and to which you will be returned with a SOL Restore.

If this sounds ridiculous for what is typically a long-form type of game, it may help to understand that Breath of Fire: Dragon Quarter is only about eight to ten hours long from start to finish on a single play through, once you know what you’re doing.  Even with a couple of full-blown restarts, you’ll be spending no more time on Dragon Quarter than any other game from the same time period.  Less, probably.

Writing this now, I just about want to say that Breath of Fire: Dragon Quarter was Dark Souls before Dark Souls really existed. There’s a certain similarity in that both games are more difficult than usual while still being relatively fair, and in the expectation that you will die, probably more than once, and that rather than being a tragedy, it’s simply an instructive part of the experience. Or in the case of Dragon Quarter, you’ll experience (probably more than once) a situation in which death is basically a given should you continue, and the smart thing would be to cut your losses and restart.

Dragon Quarter’s infliction of pressure extends even to the representation of the game’s characters and world.

Most characters have a skinny, almost emaciated appearance.  Part of this is simple stylization, of course, but it still contributes to the overall effect.  These people live a thin and narrow existence, it says, devoid of the expansive pleasures humankind was meant to enjoy.  There is a grimness and a quiet desperation underlying it all.

The world itself is a fucking hole.  Corridors in the lower areas are littered with random junk and debris; it’s best not to think what it might all actually be.  The air is hazy and grimy, and things have a sort of cobbled-together look that just makes the whole place look cramped and dingy and uncomfortable. In these lower areas, everything looks like it’s about one stern look away from falling right apart.  The upper areas are cleaner, more solid, but can seem so sterile and strictly designed as to be hostile.  Dragon Quarter does a wonderful job of creating a world you want to get the hell out of as soon as you can.

It’s ironic, really. Most games, I play to escape from the troubles and stresses in my life.  And most games oblige this desire.  Even the ones that take place in barren wastelands tend to take place in gorgeously rendered barren wastelands that encourage you to examine every carefully tailored nook and cranny.  They’re an invitation to exploration and adventure, and are “barren” or “waste” only as a matter of aesthetics.

But limitation and escape are the central themes in this game, and a world in which such themes are explored must be more than a background or a prop.  

The world is limited in its size; an RPG with little to no detectable exploration, comprised mainly of tunnels and rooms, and a single clear direction and objective at all times.  The player's inventory of supplies is likewise limited, in keeping with the surival horror influence.  The player is frequently required to prioritize, and ditch whatever they aren't likely to use based on their play style.  Care must be taken by the player to work within these limits.

Narratively speaking, the story also explores the idea of limitations.  Ryu himself embodies these limits.  His D-ratio is among the lowest of the low.  His place in society, the ways in which he can define and express himself, how he can live – all of these things have strict limits placed on them. And this dragon entity, Odjn…  As much as it much as it appears to be the key to his salvation, as much as it empowers him to break all barriers and overcome or destroy all opposition, it limits him as well.  It puts a countdown on his life, ticking down the hours he has left until... well, until whatever horrific thing might happen when Odjn gains total control and breaks free.  

And in the end, the characters decide to break free of these limits placed on them by the world by breaking free of the world itself, to smash through the ceiling of it and see once and for all what lies beyond its narrow, choking confines.

Dragon Quarter is a game about escape.

Ultimately, this is a large part of what interests me about the story of Dragon Quarter, what keeps me coming back.  Rather than a big, trampling save-the-world epic, it’s about a group of characters who just want out.  This is a smaller story, a “tiny tale of time”, as the game itself tells us in its opening narration. It’s huge in its implications for its world and its characters.  It’s great in the scope of the ideas it asks its characters to contemplate.  (It flirts with Gnosticism, which immediately grabs my interest).  It that sense, at least, it does involve the end of the world, in one way or another.  But the scale is smaller, and the characters strike me as being more real because of it.

Ryu, Lin, and Nina don’t want to fight anybody.  There’s at least one memorable occasion where Ryu, surrounded by enemies, asks why they can’t just let him and his friends go.  The character animations in Dragon Quarter aren’t spectacular, but they get the job done here.  There’s something about the way that Ryu asks his question that seems to have layers.  On one layer, he seems mentally, psychologically exhausted from the strain of all the fighting, and the toll all the deaths he’s dealt out has taken on him.  On yet a deeper layer, he seems equally exhausted from fighting the thing inside him that threatens to take over and destroy him.

They aren’t trying to harm anybody.  And it seems reasonable just to let them go, on the one hand.  But on the other, there is the major problem that letting Ryu and company out of this subterranean pit will completely upend the social order – will end this idea of the world – purely as a side-effect of his escape.  Because the underlying problem with Ryu’s world is a variant on the same problem that keeps people in dead-end jobs and abusive relationships long beyond the point when, logically, they should be getting out.

Fear.

The world of Dragon Quarter is, as previously stated, an absolute, utter shithole in purely objective terms.  Even the people in charge don’t seem to be enjoying themselves much.  And it’s because everyone seems to be in unspoken agreement that even if the current circumstances are awful, at least they’re familiar awful circumstances.  It’s possible that things are better on the surface, but it’s just as possible that they aren’t.  It’s just as possible that they’re far worse.  This, at least, is the devil we know.

Even one of the main villains, the ruler of this subterranean nightmare, is ruled by fear. A thousand years before the story proper, he was given the opportunity to open this world to the surface.  But he backed down.  In his fear that the world above might still be the barren wasteland people left ages ago, he turned back at the final moment, sentencing himself and everyone in the underground to remain in it indefinitely.

There’s an anime I like quite a bit – it’s probably my favorite, really – called Revolutionary Girl Utena, and in it there is a bit of dialogue that is recited so often it’s practically a ritual.  It goes like this:

“If it cannot break out of its shell, the chick will die without ever being born.  We are the chick.  The world is our egg.  If we don’t crack the world’s shell, we will die without ever truly being born.  Smash the shell, for the world revolution.”

This is actually a paraphrase from the Hermann Hesse novel Demian: The Story of Emil Sinclair’s Youth (usually just known as Demian), in which it’s put this way:

“The bird struggles out of the egg.  The egg is a world.  Who would be born must first destroy a world.  The bird then flies to God.  That god’s name is Abraxas.”

To go up, to go out, to rise, to escape: This is an act of tremendous faith.

[zerokilleroppel]

A Titanic family feud: The mother and child disowned by in-laws after death of ship's hero violinist

Tragedy: This scene from James Cameron's 1997 film Titanic shows the eponymous ship sinking in the seas off Nova Scotia

The moment eventually came when all eight members of the band knew they could no longer play on.

It wasn’t because of the bitter cold, even though they’d been on the deck of the RMS Titanic for almost an hour, overcoats and scarves thrown hastily over their bandsmen’s tunics to provide extra warmth.Jock Hume, aged 21, had only been able to find a light raincoat. But despite the lack of feeling in his hands, and the difficulty of playing a violin while wearing a cork lifejacket, he’d managed to complete all five verses of Nearer My God To Thee without missing a note.

Most of the audience had already left. The women and children had floated away in the lifeboats an hour before, and the remaining 1,500 passengers and crew were starting to abandon ship.Some delayed their leap in order to receive the last rites, kneeling before Father Thomas Byles on the sloping deck as he prepared them to meet their God. Only a mutinous few decided to retire to the first-class lounge to await death with a large brandy in their hands.Meanwhile, the bandsmen were having difficulty hearing their notes above the sound of the Titanic’s death throes.

First came the noise of breaking glass as the finest Waterford crystal goblets slid from polished mahogany shelves and smashed into a million pieces, covering the floors of the saloons with diamond-like shards.Seconds later came the crash of breaking china as 10,000 plates broke away from their moorings in the galleys: Royal Crown Derby in first class, plain white china in steerage.Now tables and chairs were on the move, some flying through the windows of the saloon, showering the band with broken glass.

Suddenly, Jock heard a rumble, followed by a deep groan, as the first of the Titanic’s 29 boilers burst. At about the same time, the steel wires holding the forward funnel snapped, snaking menacingly across the deck.Wallace Hartley, the bandmaster, nodded at his musicians — his usual signal that they should stop and put away their instruments. He followed this with his customary bow, though he was having difficulty keeping his balance.

‘Gentlemen, thank you all. A most commendable performance. Good night and good luck.’The bandsmen shook hands with each other, according to witnesses.Jock Hume placed his violin in its case, then wound the strap round his body until it was tight against his lifejacket. The extra buoyancy, he hoped, might increase his chances.

It was 2.11am, on April 15, 1912. The bow of the ship was completely under water now, the icy sea slapping the musicians’ thighs. They moved further back towards the stern.It would have been Jock’s style to leap first, joking that it would be like a dip in the Mediterranean compared to swimming in a Scottish burn.In fact, there was no chance of survival in the -2.2c water. Within 25 minutes of jumping, the bandsmen were all dead.

Starcrossed lovers: Jock Hume, right, in a portrait released by his family after the Titanic sank. Left, Mary Costin in 1915, after her court victory over Andrew Hume, Jock's fatherTwo thousand miles away in Dumfries, Scotland, two families waited anxiously for news of Jock. It was two days since the Titanic had hit an iceberg, and that morning’s newspaper reports were alternately fuelling hope and despair.

Although Jock’s fiancee, Mary Costin, hadn’t slept, she got ready as usual for her job at a glove factory. On the way, she called in on Jock’s father, Andrew Hume, to see if he’d heard anything.Mounting the six York-stone steps to the Humes’ front door, she grasped the heavy lion’s claw doorknob and knocked twice. Jock’s stepmother, Alice, opened the door.Looking Mary coldly up and down, she told her: ‘Please do not call here again, Miss Costin,’ — and shut the door in her face.

As Mary walked back down the steps, she wondered how the Humes would react when they learned she was expecting Jock’s baby. It might have been some comfort to both families if they could have shared their grief. But ever since my grandparents, Jock and Mary, had fallen in love, a state of war worthy of the Montagues and the Capulets had existed between the two sides.

The Titanic tragedy would escalate hostilities still further, casting a dark shadow over them all for decades. Jock and Mary had met at the town’s annual Rood Fair two years earlier. An even-tempered youth with curly blond hair, he wooed her with tunes on his fiddle. ‘And that was it,’ Mary’s mother Susan said later. ‘For both of them, it was a thunderbolt.’

It says a lot for Mary, a rather grave but good-looking girl, that she remained Jock’s prime focus over the last two years of his life.

Not only were there frequent separations as he travelled the world on luxury ships, but he was on a glamorous roll — meeting the rich and famous and enjoying a boisterous social life in crew quarters.He’d considered it the ultimate accolade to be chosen to play on the maiden voyage of the Titanic, then the world’s biggest liner. And when Mary told him, a week before his departure, that she was pregnant, he’d been overjoyed, making plans to marry her in Greyfriars Kirk upon his return.

He’d known that he wanted to marry her before that news, though. To that end, he’d spent very little time in Dumfries in the previous 16 months, working hard to save money for a place of their own.These absences may have made his father think that Jock was losing interest in his girlfriend. From the start, Andrew Hume had been disapproving of Mary, whose late father had been a mere van driver.

Next of kin: Jock's father, Andrew Hume, was a music teacher and considered himself upwardly mobile.

Part of the reason for this was misplaced snobbery: as a music teacher, Hume considered himself ‘a man of position’, despite the fact that he was himself the ninth child of a  farm labourer.He was also furious at the prospect of losing his son’s contribution to household expenses. So he’d not only forbidden Jock to let Mary cross his threshold, but he’d also marched round to her home and — in front of her mother — called her a whore.

This was the tipping point for Jock, whose relationship with his father had been disintegrating since his mother’s death from cancer and Andrew Hume’s re-marriage just 14 months later.

It was Mary’s widowed mother, Susan, a woman with enlightened views, who came up with the solution: Jock should come to live with them. Furthermore, he and Mary should consider themselves ‘handfasted’ — a Celtic form of trial marriage.Now, of course, neither family knew if Jock was dead or alive. But Hume, as next of kin, could at least travel to Liverpool to make enquiries.

The White Star Line, owners of the Titanic, did not yet have lists of the dead, so he also visited C. W. & F. N. Black, the firm of musical agents which employed all the ship’s musicians.They were better informed. Before returning home, Hume sent a telegram back. It said simply: ‘Orchestra sank playing Nearer My God To Thee.’

Two weeks later, Hume opened a letter from C. W. & F. N. Black, demanding 5s. 4d. (£40 today). Because Jock’s £4 monthly wage had been terminated on the day of the sinking, there were apparently insufficient funds to meet the cost of his sheet music and bandman’s tunic.Hume was incandescent. Was he really living in a world where people could send your son to his death, then invoice you for his buttons lying at the bottom of the ocean?

It was sheer bad luck that Mary Costin chose this moment to break the news to Hume that she was expecting Jock’s baby. Alice answered the door. Seeing Mary, she said: ‘I thought I told you . . .’

‘This is important,’ said Mary. ‘It’s about Jock.’

Alice showed her into the drawing-room, where Hume was standing with his back to the fireplace. ‘I came to tell you that I’m expecting his child. I thought you should know,’ said Mary. Hume took a menacing step towards her. For a moment, Mary thought he was going to strike her.But he just put his face close to hers and hissed: ‘Get out of here you little slut, peddling lies about your bastard child. I doubt you know who the father is, but it’s certainly not my son.’

Soon afterwards, Hume had a death notice put in the local paper, thanking friends for their sympathy ‘on the loss of John Law Hume, leader of the orchestra in the first-class cabin of the unfortunate Titanic.’

He knew full well his son was not the leader of the band and that he also played to passengers in second class. These were deliberate and easily exposed  lies, but he made the vicar repeat them at Jock’s memorial service in Dumfries, at which Mary and her mother sat inconspicuously at the back.

Mammoth achievement: the Titanic being built in a Belfast shipyard. Jock considered it the ultimate accolade to be chosen to play on the maiden voyage.

When Jock’s body was eventually identified, and the meagre contents of his pockets sent on, Hume threw most of them away and refused to give Mary a memento.Meanwhile, as public donations poured into a hardship fund for the dependants of Titanic victims, he capitalised on his loss. His claims quickly banked him more than £250 (nearly £12,000 today).

So he then decided to make a fraudulent claim for two valuable Italian-made violins. In fact, Jock had only ever owned one modest instrument, most likely made by Hume himself.But thanks to shady connections who could produce documentation for the two violins, Hume posted a claim to the White Star Line for £625. It was turned down flat — no one believed a 21-year-old violin player on modest wages could have taken two expensive instruments to sea.

Finally, Hume turned his attention back to Mary. He was damned if she was going to get a penny herself from the hardship fund, so he wrote another letter to it claiming he had ‘conclusive proof’ that his son was not the father of her child.

Mary had indeed made an appeal for funds. She had no idea how she’d otherwise be able to bring up her unborn child.Two weeks later, the reply from the Titanic Relief Fund made her burst into tears. It would be willing to regard her claim sympathetically, said the letter, but ‘not at the cost of casting a slur on the family of the deceased man’. She should re-apply after the birth of the child, providing ‘evidence of paternity’.

Johnann as a tribute to Jock (a diminutive of John), was born at 11am on October 18, 1912, at Mary’s family home. Susan decided to break the news to Hume — reasoning that the birth might lead to some kind of reconciliation.

Instead, she again had the door slammed in her face. Keeping her cool, she went straight to see her employer — a lawyer for whom she worked as a cleaner — and launched a case to have her grandchild recognised as Jock’s daughter.

The ensuing ‘Titanic fund case’, as the papers called it, became a cause celebre, with many feeling justice had been done when the ‘Titanic baby’ was finally recognised as Jock’s daughter.

For Mary, this meant she could be paid 2s 6d a week (£6 today) from the Titanic Fund, plus a cheque for £67 (£3,100). But by mistake this cheque was sent to Hume, who promptly cashed it — ignoring the accompanying letter that made it clear it was for Mary.

When the Fund became aware of this, he denied receiving the cheque. After four lawyers’ letters were ignored, Mary Costin issued a writ. The evidence was so overwhelmingly weighted against Hume — who continued to lie — that his own lawyer told the court he could no longer represent him.

Was Andrew Hume bad or just mad? The final act in this legal farce suggests that he was both.

Exactly a year to the day after the court had found that Jock was Johnann’s father, Hume began an action to have the paternity decision overturned. He lost in more ways than one: the resulting publicity prompted his music students to desert him in droves.

Broke and reviled, he left Dumfries, never to return. It would be fitting to report that he finally got his comeuppance, but life is not so neat.

Pretending to be the grandson of Alexander Hume, who composed the song, The Scottish Emigrants’ Farewell, he started selling inferior violins through extravagant ads in the music press and went on to run a shop and workshop in London for 14 years. He died a wealthy man aged 69.

Living legacy: Mary Costin with her daughter

As for Mary, she delighted in her daughter’s early years and made sure she was always beautifully dressed. But given the chance for love again after meeting a soldier when Johnann was just six, she promptly married him and moved away to start another family.

The ‘Titanic baby’ was left to be brought up by her grandmother Susan, and rarely saw her mother again. After Mary died of tuberculosis at 32, and Susan passed away 14 months later, the child was sent to live with an uncle on the Isle of Skye.

She ran away to London at the age of 15 and found work in a hat shop in Sloane Square. By 1935, she had changed her name to Jackie and married John Ward, a reporter on the London Evening News.

Sadly, he died of a brain tumour 10 years later, leaving her to bring up my sister Cherry and myself alone.

Determined to give us a good life, Jackie found work as a publicist in the film and tourist industries, working until well into her 70s and dying at the age of 83.

She had never remarried or spoken an ill word about Mary. And, in spite of her catastrophic start in life, she had herself been a wonderful mother. ‘What happened to me was nobody’s fault,’ she once said. ‘It was all determined by the Titanic.’

And Jock? He lies in a cemetery in Halifax, Canada, where the ship that found him eventually docked.

For ever 21, he’ll never know how his heroic death came to inspire so much bitterness and greed