#the man is high strung enough he does NOT need uppers

[orcinus-the-orca]

Whumptober Day 7: Only for Emergencies | Unconventional Weapon | Magic With a Cost | “It’s Us or Them”

Behold! A snippet from my most ambitious DCMK AU! I call it Parlor Tricks, and the idea is simply: KID disappears for five years, comes back with amnesia, and Shinichi is the first to find him. So ensues the mystery. So yeah! Please enjoy!

“KID!” Shinichi hisses, snatching the upper arm of said thief. “Don’t.”

“Why not?” Is the immediate answer, delivered with a gentle smile and softer voice, but there is no comfort in this man. His body is high-strung, speaking like an animal who has lost all desire to live. As though to accentuate this, he does not pull from Shinichi’s grasp but stares blankly at the hand holding him.

 Shinichi hates the docility, hates what KID has become. It makes his hold tighten.

 “Meitantei,” KID says, so gently. So lacking in his usual fight. “It’s us or them. And we both can’t pull ourselves from this. If anyone has to go, it will be me.”

 “Shut up.” Shinichi yanks the thief closer, pulling him away from the edge where enemy fire awaits. “I will get us out of this.”

 KID laughs. Not a true laugh, there is no humor there. It rings like KID is trying to convince himself that this is a game. That his head won’t be blown apart the second the assassin gets a good sight. Slowly, KID moves forward, until their foreheads are pushed together and KID’s eyes slip closed.

 “They’ve taken everything from me,” KID whispers, his voice finally starting to crumble under emotions left unearthed. “Please, don’t let them take you, too.”

 Stunned, Shinichi’s grip slackens and KID slips away, his mottled hand brushing briefly over Shinichi’s sleeve before he’s gone. By the time Shinichi realizes what has happened, the gunfire comes raining. He has enough sense not to jump out into the line of fire, but that does not mean he is content to wait until it is gone completely. He peaks around the corner, dreading the corpse he might find, but the room is empty save for the shower of bullets and casings. No body. The chances KID are still alive are not improbable.

 “Dispose of the shooter.” Is the first objective. There’s probably more enemy on the premises, but if he can take care of the ones with the higher ground, it will significantly raise their chances of survival. When the fire begins to slow, Shinichi moves.

 His shoes are switched on, preparing himself for a kick that will have to not only span a street’s width but simultaneously knock the shooter out of the game. The medical model of the human muscular system is his weapon of choice, having been torn apart during the shooting and the head detached. It might be silicone, but anything traveling at a high enough velocity will hurt if he gets the trajectory right. He only needs the shooter’s location. Based on the path of the bullets, he has a pretty good guess as to where.

 One foot propels himself forward, hopefully catching the shooter off guard by the sudden flying object to not shoot until it’s too late. His foot connects with the dismembered head, the projectile flying through the shattered window and to the other side with ease. He prays that it met its target as he follows the stares down to the lower levels.

 “You’d better be alive,” he mutters low in his chest. He takes the steps three at a time until he slips on something slick the last step. He just manages to catch himself before his head can hit anything. Even with the dark, he doesn’t need a light to know what he fell upon; he knows the smell of blood by now. Despite the anxiety bubbling in his chest, he switches the flashlight on his watch and guides it down to the body, praying it isn’t–

 The face of a man, one Shinichi does recognize but he is no acquaintance. It’s the face of the man who had come to him the night before, the one who wanted him to find a lost love. Why he is here or what could have driven someone to kill him, he’s unsure. He is sure, though, that it was not the shooter from before. Because the man is dead, his eyes frozen in wide horror, with only one bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

 KID doesn’t kill. Shinichi reminds himself, but he’s not so sure of that anymore. KID has changed, maybe his rules have also. Maybe the man KID once was died when he disappeared.

 Gunfire from down below. Shinichi picks himself up, completing the labyrinth of stairs and stepping onto the ground floor. He’s looking for any indication of life, be it noise or movement, anything that isn’t the drum of bullets. Something rustles to his left, but as he goes to check he is jerked back.

 “I told you, Meitantei,” KID whispers into his ear, suddenly sounding so much worse than he did before. Shinichi begins to worry he’s been shot. “I told you to stay.”

 “POLICE!” Oh, Shinichi knows that voice. Megure. Because this is right next door to a murder-suicide and of course he and the other detectives would be drawn by heavy gunfire. The shooting has stopped, perhaps scared by the police’s arrival, or maybe they’ve been apprehended. Sato’s heels click down the foyer.

 They’re going to find the body. Shinichi realizes, and remembers the one wrapped around him. They’re going to blame KID.

 KID doesn’t kill. He had to hope that was still true.

 Taking KID’s hand into his own, he jerked the thief into a side room just as the force hurried in. He shut the door, locked it, and then went about finding their exit. The police might spare him (though he would certainly get a stern lecture) he could not let KID take the fall. Not now, not when people were shooting at him.

 “Meitantei,” KID says, all gentle again. He’s inching his way over to the door. “It’s okay. I did what I had to–“

 “Did you kill that man?” Shinichi demands, pulling KID back to him.

 KID looks at him with confusion, then shakes his head.

 “Then you’re coming with me.”

 “Meitantei,” KID breathes, the same word punched when he’s jerked further from the door. “This isn’t how it’s meant to go.”

 Shinichi finds an openable window and checking the outside. The police seem to have caused a frenzy, leaving the side alley unguarded. As he pulls the latch free and checks again for threats. When he turns around, KID is still fixing him with that narrowed confusion.

 “Meintantei–“

 “You’ve been gone for five years,” Shinichi growls, taking a step into the alley. “You’re going to tell me why.”

[tamedstray]

Name Vigor Kovach

Age 36

Race Human

Sex/gender Male/cis

Height 6’

Class Rogue (Assassin), later Ranger

Sexuality Heterosexual (bi curious)

Illithid-infected Yes

APPEARANCE

Tall, but not imposing at 6ft. Fair skin and wheat-gold hair. Warm brown eyes carry an innocence to them, with a thin blue stripe in the centre of his left eye. Despite keeping his hair and beard fairly short, they still manage to be in a constant state of disarray; except for his moustache, which is impeccably neat with pointed ends. He often wears a large red coat over his armour, soft with age and frays around the lapels. Despite his storied life, Vigor does not have many scars, but the largest of which is one thick cut across his collarbone that trails down towards his chest. He is embarrassed by the scars he got as an assassin. His brothers all have a cut along the palm of their sword-hand, which is on the left for Vigor.

PERSONALITY

The first thing people tend to notice when speaking to Vigor is his formalities. There is an eloquence to his deep drawl. He finds comfort in manners as it helps him compose himself, giving form to the high-strung man. When he’s nervous, he stammers. For every bit that Vigor cares, he worries in equal measure. He has the sincerity to care for people he barely knows until he worries himself sick. Vigor genuinely just wants to help, born out of his unique upbringing and his burden of guilt. He’s not wholly naive, but tries to give people the benefit of the doubt. His loneliness is easy to manipulate. He is disciplined to an almost neurotic degree. Afraid to upset people or listen to his gentle heart. So deathly afraid of falling into the past that he does not trust himself, making him doubt any decisions that aren’t about surviving to the next day, living adrift in the woods with no one to share his grief with.

With time and support, he learns to become more confident. He longs to be free from his past and enjoy a quiet life in the woods. When he is comfortable around someone, a more playful side emerges. His childhood restrained and restricted, he enjoys the freedom to let loose.

Myers-Briggs INFJ-T

Central themes Will you ever be free of guilt? Is it too late to change? Who might you have become if you had the love and support you needed, rather than the 'love' you were given?

HISTORY

Vigor was unwanted. When he was born his mother left, leaving him in the care of his father Dmetry, a man who had little to offer the boy. His father was a poacher, able to hunt just enough for the two of them with little to spare to trade for bread and vegetables. Vigor grew into his clothes until they fell apart. When the hunting shack started to rot he was barely old enough to hold a bow, let alone make use of it. The boy clung on to blankets for warmth as if they were his own mother.

There was nothing left to give, so Dmetry made a choice. He found a nobleman living in the Upper City of Baldur’s Gate willing to offer the boy a home. There he could learn to read, to fight, everything Vigor desperately needed and more.

Vigor was one of four boys taken in by Irnvar. The children earned their keep through not only daily chores but rigorous education. Hobbies were only permitted in the pursuit of making the boys seem like children of noble birth. They did not know why they had to become men so young, but they owed Irnvar everything.

As the boys got older, they knew that Irnvar had plans for them, they just didn’t know what until the oldest turned eighteen. Kazimir was first, and with it the plan was revealed. Irnvar, a godly and righteous man, needed the boys to help enact his will on the wicked and the unworthy. Posing as noble gentlemen, the boys would find doors open up for them— doors to parties, doors to apartments, doors to boudoirs, all perfect positions to strike.

For over ten years, Vigor was convinced that he was doing what was necessary for the good of Baldur’s Gate. Killing corrupt nobles, men who would see the city fall to ruin, or who supposedly beat their staff. Only people who, according to Irnvar, needed to die. It is only when Vigor meets Gortash that he starts to accept that he has been used and misled. Enver, despite being a putrid man rotten to his very core, did not deserve to die. None of them deserved to die.

Vigor spares him before confronting Irnvar who attempts to kill him. Vigor manages to flee the city and disappear into the woods. At age twenty-nine, he begins his new life. He wanders the sword coast trying to be a better man, learning to survive on his own whilst helping people out as best he can.

The years pass but the pain lingers. One day he wakes up on a nautiloid and into an uncertain future.

[lovelypale]

Narcotics // Addict!Senjuro x Dealer!Reader

Warnings: 18+, drug use, addiction, toxic relationship, suicide mention, it’s consensual but I’m gonna say dubcon just in case, mostly plot with a bit of spice, Senjuro is college aged.

Words: 1600

a/n: Had this idea plaguing me and I just needed to get it out. Sensitive topic here (as if I write anything that isn’t) but yeah may or may not give these two a happy or sad ending. Let me know I guess!

You opened the door to the large figure in front of you, dripping from the downpour that was tearing through the city. He was imposing in stature but still very skinny otherwise; a very meek man. He was shivering, but you had a feeling that it wasn't from the rain. 

"Why did you take the last train?" You tested the water with a small opener. It was very curious that he would show up so late, again. He knows what he's here for, but you wanted him to say it himself. 

He opened his mouth to speak but ultimately couldn't, instead opting for a shaky wave. You scoffed and opened your door wider for him before leaving to get a towel. When you returned he was still at the door, still shaking, still appearing utterly helpless. You handed him the towel and he took it from you, still avoiding your eyes. Everything was silent. 

"I'm not selling to you anymore Senjuro." 

He continued to stand there, blond and red locks frayed and dripping water on the floor. He looked beautiful, always does, it was a talent that even helpless and strung out he still looked breathtaking. He nodded and hugged himself tighter. "I'm sorry. I'll do anything, please." 

"You don't want anything from me." You put your hand against his cheek and felt his cool trembling against your warm skin. He was desperate again. He said he was going to quit plenty of times but he would always end up right back at your doorstep. You watched him grow from a slightly misguided kid to a truly fucked over adult. He barely knew his mom, dad's an alcoholic, and his brother seems alright but he was always busy teaching. You're sure he's messed up like everyone else and is just the type to let things fester in secret but Senjuro doesn't know that. He thinks he's the problem, the only one that couldn't cope, that can't contribute in the way that his older brother does. It messed with him so badly that it led him to you. The school's dealer. Not only can you make the pain disappear, you can make it feel good.

He doesn't need to feel good. He needs to never see you again. 

"I can't stop shaking, my family will notice. Please." 

"I hope you know they’d hate what you do for this more than the actual drugs itself." He looked at you with his dull red eyes through his foggy glasses, you remember when they used to sparkle. He wasn't like you, he was always so motivated and happy. At some point you used to envy his shy and upbeat demeanor. 

"I understand." He smiled at you but it looked eerie and unnatural. He wasn’t lying about his shaking though, it really did look bad.

You shook your head at him and sighed, turning around to a side room to check your supply. Lucky him, you had exactly what he needed. You took just one and dropped It in his palm. He looked at you confused. "I told you I'm not selling you shit anymore. You're getting one to tide you over, other than that I don't want to see you here ever again. Get help."

He looks at you with a plea in his eyes as he gently grabs your arm. "I don’t think I have anyone else y/n, please don’t leave me alone.”

"That's not my problem, do you even have money anymore?" You pushed away from him and he quickly latched back on to you. Your heart strained in your chest, you always hated this part. This stupid hug he gave you that brought you back to your youth, the days of being in high school when he hugged you before running off to his friends. This was always just business to you but he walked into your life and you’ve felt increasingly responsible for him since. It felt less and less like making money and more like assisted suicide. 

He placed the pill in his mouth and pulled himself even closer to you, ''Anything." You felt his still wet body pressed against you and you knew this fight was over.

You sighed before pulling away from him and walking to your room. He followed you, knowing exactly how this routine went. He watched you kick off your pants and your underwear. You sat on your bed in nothing but your top and watched him with guilty eyes. He was pretty, even with fading hair and way less weight than he started with he was gorgeous to you. Usually people as deep as him don’t maintain as well but he managed to keep his baby face. He looks tired, the type of tired sleep can't fix, but at least you can't tell that he's sold his life away for a drug. At least not yet, but he's getting there. 

You know you're taking advantage of him, but he's also hoping you do. He’s always been a people pleaser and you can’t say no to letting him please you. It started with him running you drinks to making out in your car and now...Terrible. As sinister as this courtship is, neither of you truly want to stop. You loved him, but not enough to stop him from hurting himself. "Hurry up, you have an 8 AM tomorrow." 

“I dropped that course.” 

You stared at him with pure pain in your eyes. “Of course you did.” 

He peels himself out of his wet clothes with a slight sway to his form, you can tell whatever issues that plague him are starting to float away. As usual, he keeps his glasses on. He smiles at you with weird reverence, like he's thankful that you're going to be the one to ultimately kill him. Your hand immediately takes hold of his pretty cock. Long, curved, and pink at the tip. You swirled your thumb around his tip as he patiently waited for you to tell him what to do. You made languid movements up and down his twitching dick, thinking to yourself that you should probably do something before he's completely spaced out. 

"Lay down." He listens and slowly gets on your bed before giving his attention back to you. You can never seem to get over how dainty he looks, it makes you feel even worse about your little situation. You get on top of him and he instantly starts bucking against you, not really even aiming for anything, just trying to get the burning sensation on his skin to cool down. You didn't prep but you didn't need to, taking him was easy. Power and pity is two things you've learned to sexualize when it comes to him. His vulnerability had to be hot or else it would quickly become sad.  

His legs squirm underneath you from the building sensitivity. He utters small "thank you" and gasps as you move up and down his dick. His slight curve rubbed against your upper wall, causing you to be noisier than you'd like to be.  He's getting warmer and warmer, feeling found inside of you. The world is fading off into something more obscure, something that isn't tangible. Your hips feel plush against his palm, he's digging down and tearing into your skin but he knows you’ll forgive him for it.

You watch him writhe in ecstasy, getting closer and closer to his high. He looked so beautiful with his hair all over your bed and his glasses threatening to fall off completely. You never get a warning with him, your orgasms are always so sudden and violent. Your thighs squished his as you curled into yourself, he was still thrusting, seeking his own relief. You thought you were going to pass out from the feeling of him still plunging deep inside of you. "S-stop." 

You pulled off of him and wrapped your hand around his sticky cock again, not wanting to leave him hanging. He seemed to be capable of the job on his own, thrusting into your warm palm with pure joy. "I'm getting close-." You didn't give him the chance to finish his sentence before you changed your hand motion to a slight twist. He came almost instantly in your grasp, you flinched from the slight splatter against your face as you continued to move your hand. He struggled to look at you. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that." 

You let go and grabbed the same towel you gave him to dry off. "You always say sorry so much, stop it." You knew he probably didn't hear that, he was past the point of holding an intelligible conversation. There's nothing but the sound of your sheets moving underneath his squirming body and the sound of faint moaning, it wasn't a pretty sight but you're used to it.

You watched him move around until he eventually stayed completely still, fully enraptured by his high. He was going to be stuck like this for a few hours. You shook your head, admonishing yourself for even letting him in. You can't keep giving him drugs, and you especially can't keep letting him pay you like this. You grabbed his glasses and put it on your dresser so he wouldn’t crush it, in that moment his phone lit up and you saw the message, it was his brother. His friends stopped asking where he disappeared to a long time ago, it was truly only Kyojuro that still cared about where he went to at night. He has to know the reason why his brother is slipping away.

Hey! I finished grading tests early and picked up your favorite on my way home. I was hoping I could talk to you tonight but don’t worry about it! Your food is in the fridge. Wherever you are, stay safe. We care about you.

You winced at the message and decided to respond for him. Thank you, I'm staying with a friend to study tonight. I'll be back tomorrow. 

Nothing but routine.

[starlightrows]

Something Sweet

Chapter 0 - Chasing Dreams

Next →

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Modern!Paz Vizsla x fem!reader

Word Count: 3.4K

Warnings: angst, symptoms of depression (not graphic or diagnosed), brief mention of alcohol and drug use, hopeful ending

Summary: Paz finds himself trapped in a routine that’s keeping him tied to a lifestyle that brings him no joy. It’s not until a phone call from his good friend Din, that he realizes that there are better things waiting just over the horizon if you can just be brave enough to make the leap of faith

This chapter is labeled chapter 0, because it takes places before the events of the actual story and does not include the reader. If you’re only here for the couply-goodness, feel free to skip this chapter and sit tight the romance is coming I promise!

Chapter 0 - Chasing Dreams is dedicated to @maybege who inspires me to chase my fan fiction dreams every single day, and is single handedly responsible for my love, yearning, and obsession with the Big Blue Mando Man we all know and love as Paz Vizsla! This is one is for you May ❤️

The 5am train is full of commuters, heading into work with coffee cups in hand and more or less rested ready to start the day. Everyone seems to be on the same page, consume enough caffeine to be personable by the time you get to the office, use the time on the train to do your hair or makeup or start a little early on emails from your phone if you’re behind. It’s all very hustle and bustle, keep your head down and keep grinding to make it in the big city.

Paz rode the 5am train every morning. But not heading into the city. No, he got on the train at 5am and rode it all the way down to the end of the line to get back to his dumpy little shoebox of an apartment on the outskirts of the city around 8am.

Why he chose to move to the city after getting out of the Marine Corps was beyond him. His commander told him that he had a friend that was looking to hire some muscle as private security for his upper echelon nightclubs and it could be a good job opportunity for him fresh out of the service. Not having anywhere else to go, he took the job. Now his days blurred together in a lopsided haze. Wake up around 3pm, eat something cheap and tasteless, work out, shower and get dressed to work. Catch the 6pm train into the city and spend all three hours thinking about far away places. What his life might be like if he was someone else or somewhere else. Get to the club and start work at 9pm. Spend the night watching people dance and sing and scream, drink ridiculously expensive alcohol and take brightly colored party drugs that blow out their pupils and make them want to dance and sing more. By the time 5am rolls around again his head is pounding from listening to electronic dance music for 8 continuous hours, and he spends the remaining 3 hours of his day riding the train back out of the city and wishing he had made different choices in his life.

Of course he does get Monday’s and Tuesday’s off, those days he still doesn’t really know what to do with himself. It’s too expensive to have a car in the city, so he can’t drive anywhere. And he’s too far away from any of the attractions of the city to walk to them. So he tends to spend his off days either walking around the track at the local park, or in his tiny kitchen kneading bread dough and baking test batches until it comes out the way he liked it. This is one of the big things he spends his time wondering about. If he kept up working in private security, and paying for this shit apartment, would he someday be able to afford to move closer to work and spend less time commuting? Maybe he could eventually save up and get a place with a bigger kitchen so he could try making more things. He liked baking. Kneading bread dough, making cake batter, mixing frosting colors. It’s telling that a man like him dreamt about pastries and cooking every night, and spent his long commuting hours debating on saving up more for a better place or spending a little extra on culinary equipment.

He didn’t tell anybody this is how he spent his time and money, not that he really talked to anyone these days anyway. Since leaving the service he hasn’t been good about keeping up with his brothers in arms, or his friends from before getting deployed. He hasn’t really made new friends in the city either. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to any of them, he’s just busy and when he does think about reaching out to someone, he always figures they’re busy too. Every day the sun rises and sets, and it’s like he’s just floating through life, waiting for something to change.

One Monday, Paz is walking around the track at the local park. It’s scraggly and not well maintained but at least it’s outdoors. He’s thinking about the sourdough loaf back in his apartment rising right now. Hopefully this one will turn out good, he’s planning to try a dutch oven bake soon, but that requires buying a dutch oven and he’s trying so hard to save up for a better apartment. His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he considers just letting it go to voicemail figuring it was probably his boss asking him to come in and work tonight. But something in him tells him to look, the name on the screen surprises him. Din Djarin. His long time friend from way back before joining the service. Paz answered the phone.

“Hey buddy, Happy Birthday!” Din says. Paz stopped walking

“It’s not my birthday?” Paz stepped off to the side of the track and sat down on a bench running a hand over his face.

Din laughs on the other end of the line, “Yeah it is, April 30th right?”

Paz pulls his phone away from his face and checks the date, “Holy shit, it is my birthday,”

“Yeah man. Did you really forget?” Din asks, he sounds like he’s moving around Paz hopes he’s not bothering him or getting in the way of his day right now.

“Honestly yeah, it feels like April just started,” he admits

“Been busy then? Running around in the big city, making big money, romancing cute hunnies?” Din teases, Paz can hear another voice on the other side. He figure’s it’s Din’s son, he’s gotta be about two or three years old now.

“Yeah, something like that,” Paz mumbles

“Yeah? Then why don’t you sound happy about it?” Din asks, sensing his friends lack of enthusiasm

“It’s fine, really. The city is nice, I just wish I could actually live in it and enjoy it. Actually I wish everyone who lived here actually enjoyed it. Kinda just feels like everyone who lives here only knows how to work or be a strung out party goer,” Paz sighs

“Guess the big city life isn’t all it's cracked up to be huh,” Din says “Listen… you should come out to visit sometime. I feel like this city is more your style. We’re still a major city with nice attractions and events, but there’s more community here and things are a little slower ya know,”

“I can’t just drop everything and go all the way out there. You live over 2000 miles away,” Paz says, though the prospect of a smaller city with a community atmosphere does sound awfully appealing

“Paz, you’ve been working for a private security company for two years and I can almost guarantee that you haven’t taken a single hour of paid time off or sick leave. Flights are a little pricey, I’ll give you that, but you can stay with me so you don’t have to pay for a hotel or anything,” Din offers “I’ll pay for your half of your flight, call it a birthday present,”

“I’ll tell you what Din, I’ll think about it. You’re probably right, I do need to get out of the city for a bit. I’ll talk to the boss about taking some time off,” Paz says, standing back up.

“That’s the spirit!” Din exclaims “Call me when you figure out a time that’s good for you so we can book you a flight,”

Paz and Din chat idly for another couple of minutes before Din bids him goodbye, and happy birthday. Paz tucks his phone back into his pocket and smiles. For the first time in a very long time, he’s actually looking forward to something.

----

Two weeks later Paz is sitting on a plane for the first time since coming back to the states after deployment, with two weeks off of paid vacation time on his way to visit Din. It’s a long six and half hour flight and the seat is pretty small for how wide his frame is, but he’s hopeful. If nothing else, he was going to get to spend two weeks with his best friend.

Din is waiting for him at the airport when his flight arrives. He greets him with a bracing hug and the promise of a really good dinner waiting for him. The moment Paz steps out of the airport he knows he’s in trouble. Instead of a massive industrial looking city full of high rise buildings with thousands of people pushing their way through to get on with their day, he’s met with bright blue skies. Trees that are just starting to put out new leaves and flowers for spring. The air is fresh and clear. A feeling wells up in his chest, when he turns and can see mountains in the distance. It’s beautiful.

“You coming?” Din draws him out of his thoughts, tossing his suitcase in the back of his truck.

“Yeah, I just didn’t realize you lived so close to the mountains,” Paz admitted stepping up into the passenger seat.

“Everyone says that when they first come here. You should see them in winter when they’re covered in snow,” Din says. Paz can imagine it, but he hopes to see it with his own eyes.

Din drives through the city, it’s a lot like the city Paz had just come from, except older and less flashy. Less people, and less cars. All of the businesses looked unique and inviting.

Din passes a street and points down it without looking, “My studio is right down there. It’s a great little spot. All the business owners on the block are close, we play poker and shoot pool on Tuesday nights at the bar on the corner. You’re definitely coming with me for that this week,”

“I could shoot some pool,” Paz laughs.

Din turns out of the downtown area, and takes a main boulevard lined with fast food restaurants and dive bars. Din points again, “That’s the stadium for the university. Hope you like football, because it’s kind of a big thing here,”

“Still think I could have pulled a scholarship for football straight out of high school if I wasn’t so dead set on going into the Marine Corps,” Paz jokes

“It’s just as well,” Din shrugs with a smile “you make one hell of a Marine,”

Din turns down another road off the main drag. They pass parks, an elementary school, neighborhoods, and a lone Dairy Queen before turning into another neighborhood full of very nice houses with front lawns and trees giving off pink and white flower buds.

Din pulls the truck up into one of the driveways, and cuts the engine. Paz gets out of the truck and takes in the house. It’s massive by his standards.

“Is your girlfriend a CEO or something?” Paz asks with a laugh. Din gives him a look, and goes to take the suitcase out of the back.

“No? She and her brothers flip houses together,” he replies “why do you ask?”

“Your place is huge, man! When I was a kid these are the kind of houses I thought millionaires lived in,” Paz follows Din towards the front door.

Din laughs, as he unlocks the door. “Maybe in other states, but not here. The million dollar houses here are the size of castles. This house is pretty average for this area, and it didn’t cost us an arm and a leg to get,”

Paz nods and follows his friend into the house. It’s not just a house, it’s a home. Paz can tell because even though it’s clean on the inside it looks lived in, well loved. Pictures and art on the walls. The living room had a big tv and sectional couch, perfect for hosting game day events and watch parties. He could see a chest in the corner that clearly had toys in it. The kitchen was huge! A double doored refrigerator, cabinet space and marble countertops. He can see through a sliding glass door there’s a backyard, a play structure and home swing set sat in the middle of it for Din’s little boy. He didn’t have any pets but he could picture a dog running around out there too.

This is it. This is what he’d spent the last two years dreaming about on the train rides to and from the city. This is his far away place. He’s been here for less than half an hour and he already knows, he is meant to be here.

The next two weeks are the happiest Paz has ever felt. Exploring the downtown area, visiting the parks and the nature reserve just outside of town, the restaurants serve great food that doesn’t cost a fortune. He takes Din’s little boy to the zoo and out for ice cream. He gets to know Din’s girlfriend and her two brothers, apparently flipping houses in some of the older more run down parts of town is very rewarding and breathes new life into the city. He visits Din’s tattoo studio, and goes with him to the bar on Tuesday night like he promised.

Everyone there is friendly, welcoming and adamantly against him leaving at the end of the week.

“You sure you have to go back, you’re part of the crew man!” says Cara, she owns the boxing studio down the street.

Paz took a swing from his beer, and laughed “You think I want to go back there? I gotta figure out how to get out of my lease, quit my job. I gotta find somewhere to live and work here first,”

“If you’re looking for a job just to get on your feet, I could use another bartender,” Boba, the guy who owns the bar says “Fennec is looking to move to part time too, more time slots available for work,”

“If you’re serious, I’ll take you up on that offer,” Paz says.

Boba extends a hand to him, “Job’s yours if you want it,” Paz grins and shakes his hand.

A few days later Paz is genuinely sad about having to hug Din’s little boy goodbye, and get back on the plane to take him back across the country. Back to the city that never sleeps, and doesn’t appreciate the little things in life. Back to the six hours round trip of commuting. Back to the scraggly uncared for parks and dirty streets. He promised himself on that plane ride, he would not get caught up in the monotony and blinding routine like before. There is a better life waiting for him. All he has to do is make the leap of faith and take it.

———

He holds himself to his promise. In the first week when he got back he spent the entire three hour train ride to work researching apartments in the area he wanted to live. He was shocked to find out the exact same price he was paying for his shoebox apartment with no amenities and terrible maintenance; could get him a huge apartment with a big kitchen, access to a pool, gym, and shared entertainment space. It even came with a parking spot. And there were other options that were almost as nice for less money. And to think he had wasted so much time and money pretending he was happy, or was getting close to being able to afford to be happy living in the bigger city. What a joke.

He had Din submit an application to an apartment complex he really liked about a week after he got back. The second he found out he was approved and got the apartment, he put in his two weeks notice and started packing. Another six hours plane trip didn’t sound very appealing but, at least it was a one way trip this time.

Paz found moving out of his apartment to be exceptionally easy. He threw all of his belongings into two suitcases, and shipped the few things that wouldn’t fit in a box he could pick up at the post office when he got there. Everything else was not worth saving, so he put everything out on the side of the road in front of his old apartment with a piece of paper taped to it that read: FREE!

Unfortunately moving into the new apartment in the new city was a little more challenging. Furnishing an apartment from scratch is no small task. But to his amazement and truly heartfelt joy, all of Din’s friends he had met when he came to visit helped him move things into his new place. Boba even loaned him his truck to go pick up bigger furniture like the couch and bed frame he ordered. Cara and Peli, the woman who owned the auto parts store on the next block over from Din’s studio and Boba’s bar, sat with him for hours assembling IKEA furniture. Din’s girlfriend even came by with Din’s little boy, to visit uncle Paz and help him figure out how to appropriately decorate and furnish a “real apartment”.

He loves his new life in this new city. Working for Boba at the bar in the evenings is pretty low stress, and he makes quite a bit in tips. During the day he’s been working on sourdough starters, determining the best herbs and flavors to top focaccia bread, trying his hand at doing French baguettes. And more recently, he’s been trying to make chocolate croissants from scratch. Though he hasn’t had much success yet. But he keeps trying.

Every time something comes out perfect, he writes down every step in a blue notebook he found lying around with his things before he moved.

Paz never imagined his life turning out like this. If he was told just 3 months ago he would be moving across the country on a whim, to chase his dream of living a simpler life, he wouldn’t have believed it. And then things got even better.

About six months after moving, Paz really felt like he was home in this city. He split his time between working part time as an instructor at Cara’s boxing studio, bartending for Boba, and working on his culinary hobby. Until one day, the older couple that owned the bagel shop a few doors down from Din’s tattoo studio closed up shop. Apparently they were retiring, packing up the business and moving out of state to be closer to their grandchildren.

There was a sign on the vacant building indicating the unit was about to become available. A thought crossed his mind…. he had no idea where it came from or if he was remotely qualified to pull it off… but it couldn’t hurt to ask.

“Does anyone have a contact number for the couple that owned the bagel shop?” Paz asks the group

“Yeah,” Cara pipes up “I house sat for them once. Why?”

“I want to buy their industrial baking equipment, and takeover their lease,” he replies seriously

“You want to run the bagel shop?” Fennec asks

“No… I uh, I wanna open a bakery,” Paz admits

“You do make a mean sourdough dude…. I say go for it,” Din encourages him

“I’m sure they’ll sell you the equipment at a discount. Hell they might even leave it to you for free if you tell them what you’re gonna do with it,” Cara tells him, she writes down a phone number on a napkin and hands it to Paz. He pockets the napkin with a thank you and a nod.

The next day he calls the number, and has a lovely chat with the wife who, as Cara pointed out, was eager to get the equipment off their hands. She also provided a ton of helpful information on running a small business in this area, who trustworthy suppliers were, a good lawyer to get all the paperwork done, a good accountant to file taxes next spring, and more. Honestly it was a lot more than Paz has even considered, but something in his heart was telling him it’s the right decision. That this is a challenge he absolutely had to tackle. That maybe this has always been his calling.

And right he was. Vizsla’s Bakery had a grand debut the following autumn. And he knew, this is it. He’s finally made it. All of the time he spent in the Marines fighting in wars he never truly understood, all of his years spent working a mindless job in a depressing city, pretending he was not struggling. All of it has led him here. To a city he loves, with friends so close to him they’re like family, a home… a real home. And a dream he can finally live out.

Tag List: @maybege

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Guard My Heart - Ch 2 Bright as Ever

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Read on AO3

“It looks so great, Marinette!” Tikki squealed and Marinette sat back on her heels and looked up, smiling as she rubbed a forearm across her forehead. 

“It really does,” Marinette agreed, her voice slightly muffled by the mask she was wearing to filter out some of the paint fumes. She laid her paintbrush carefully aside and looked up. “How’s it going up there?” she asked, and dodged a glob of black paint just in time. “Careful,” she scolded, scrubbing at the spot with a rag even though she had a drop cloth on the floor for just this reason.

“My apologies,” Wayzz said above her, moving so that his paintbrush was hovering over the paint can and not Marinette’s head. “You startled me. I am almost done.” 

“Good,” Marinette smiled, and resisted the urge to tell him to hurry up. Wayzz was careful, which was why she had selected him to help her with this final stage, filling in the last of the narrow curlicues and flowers she had roughed in days ago. His care came at the price of speed, though, and sometimes his slowness made Marinette want to scream.

It was still more efficient to have Wayzz filling in the upper portion than for Marinette to get up on a ladder to do it, and the kwami was so happy to be helping that she didn’t have the heart to rush him, so she throttled down her impatience and walked out to the middle of the room to spin a slow circle and take it all in. She’d had most of the kwamis in here helping at one time or another, because this would be their home as well and she wanted them to feel some ownership and investment in it. The walls that surrounded her were now a soft pink, with her signature flowers in darker pink and black at all the corners and coordinating scrollwork anywhere that seemed too empty. Framed photographs from her portfolio were stacked in a corner and covered with a cloth. She’d hang those tomorrow, once the paint was dry. The back wall that they were finishing up now had her flower design on a much larger scale, framing the little sales counter. Fixtures and clothing racks were all shoved to the center of the room at the moment, but now that the painting was done, she could start getting that arranged. She wasn’t ahead of her plan by any means, but she was on track.

She noticed a shadow against the paper covering the shop’s front door just before there was a rap on the glass. Marinette waited for Wayzz and Tikki to zip out of sight, and then went to answer it. She was pretty sure she recognized the silhouette, and sure enough, Luka’s friendly grin greeted her as she opened the door. 

“Hi,” he said, a little sheepishly. “I’m trying to move a table and I could use a hand. Would you mind coming over when you have a second?” 

Marinette smiled. “I have a second now,” she said, stepping out and checking her pocket for her key before she let the door close behind her.

Luka chuckled and tapped the mask Marinette was still wearing, and she blushed beneath it. “Oh. Right.” She took it off, embarrassed as she rubbed at the lines she was sure it had left on her face. She opened the door again and dropped the mask back inside, knowing that one of the kwamis would retrieve it for her.

“You could just prop the doors open,” Luka suggested as they walked over to his space. 

Marinette huffed. “I don’t like being watched while I work,” she replied, which was only half a lie. It was true she didn’t especially want people looking in on her while she was contorted around, potentially with her ass in the air, trying to find a good position to do what she needed without leaning into wet paint. Mostly, though, she didn’t want the kwamis on display for any passers-by. 

She smiled a little as Luka held the door of his own shop open and motioned her inside. It had a more industrial warehouse feel, with exposed beams in the walls and ceiling, and low voltage lighting strung over the crowded space. Marinette wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find out the multicolor slat wood flooring had come from the Liberty (it hadn’t, Luka had laughingly assured her when she asked, but he had picked it because it reminded him of home). Really, the whole place felt like the Liberty, and Marinette loved it, right down to the friendly, grinning cement turtle statue sitting by the door. The thing was knee high to Luka and while one couldn’t exactly call him pretty, his shell twinkled with embedded pieces of mosaic tile in many colors, and there was an air of mischievousness in his grinning face that made Marinette smile back every time she saw him. He looked exactly like the kind of thing Anarka would go wild for, regardless of the fact that he was incredibly, impractically heavy. She couldn’t imagine what shipping him had originally cost, and Luka’s story of actually getting it to its place by the door had left Marinette giggling uncontrollably. She was positive from the look on Luka’s face while he told the tale that it was never moving from that spot unless someone both bought it, and was willing to carry it away. 

The whole shop was full of fun, eclectic things like that, as well as some more valuable antiques. Marinette loved it, and could picture in her mind the type of customer Luka was likely to bring in. She hadn’t told him that she’d already started a few sketches for his branding, based around a stylized boat. It had taken her a few days to get over the fact that he’d named his shop Second Chance Antiques and Curiosities . She had nearly laughed in his face when he told her, and that would have been really hard to explain. She’d managed to hold it in until she was alone, and then she and Sass had had a good laugh over it. 

“Sorry I have to keep asking for your help,” Luka grunted, as they both took an end of the table he needed moved and shifted it. “I thought I had a plan, but there’s just so much stuff, I keep having to rearrange.”

“It’ll be easier when you get some customers in here and get some of this stuff—oof—out of your hair.” Marinette sighed as they set the table down in the area Luka had cleared out for it. “Maybe if you used the bigger pieces as sort of...display cases for some of the smaller stuff?” she suggested, stretching her back slightly as she looked around. 

“Yeah, maybe,” Luka sighed, giving her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m sure I’ll figure it out eventually.” 

Marinette put her hand on his arm and rubbed it gently. “You will. We’ve both got a lot of lessons to learn, but we’re both adaptable. We’ll make it happen.” 

Luka made an affirmative noise, but sighed again.  

“Luka,” Marinette said gently, and he looked at her with that same not-quite-there smile. 

“I’m okay. Freaking out a little, but I’ll manage. I’ll be fine once the shop opens and things start happening, it’s just...the waiting is getting to me, I guess. It’s not like I don’t have a thousand things left to do to get ready, but...I don’t know, I’m not explaining myself well.” He looked away from her, and ran his fingers through his hair. It was hanging loose today, and the blue looked bright and fresh. He must have done a touch up for opening week, she thought absently, reaching up to tuck a lock behind his ear. His eyes darted to her with something like surprise and she drew her hand back quickly, self-conscious.

“You won’t know what the right choices are until you can get people in and see their reactions,” Marinette suggested, and the smile he gave her was real this time, real and grateful, and she smiled back. “You’re better at reading people in the moment rather than predicting people you don’t know—o-or at least you used to be—so I can see how you’d be frustrated trying to do this without any way to get feedback.”

“You’re not like that,” he muttered, smile falling as he looked back at the shop and sighed. “You’ve probably had a vision and a plan since before you signed the contract.”

Marinette bumped her shoulder against his. “You’re not me, though. It’s okay to do things your way, and not mine. Opening week is important, but it isn’t everything.” 

Luka grinned at her, and Marinette felt her shoulders curl under his knowing look. “It caused you physical pain to say that, didn’t it,” he chuckled.

Marinette scoffed and folded her arms, and then muttered, “Maybe.” 

Luka laughed and put his arm around her shoulders, giving her a little squeeze before letting his arm drop. “Thanks for the pep talk, Marinette.” 

He was smiling now for real, and it didn’t fade, and Marinette felt unreasonably proud about it. She opened her mouth to say something, though she had no idea what, when Luka’s phone beeped a familiar tone. He frowned and pulled it out of his pocket, checking the akuma alert. Marinette leaned over without thinking to look as well, dread curling in her gut even as her heart pumped faster.

“It’s not nearby,” Luka assured her, and Marinette sighed, and then her eyes widened and she jerked back a bit as she suddenly realized how she was crowding him. 

“Well, that’s a relief,” she said, quickly, backing up. “I should—”

“Watch out!” Luka was lunging forward before she even registered her calf hitting something hard, and he grabbed her arms just as she pitched backwards with a yelp. “I got you,” he said breathlessly, as he braced his feet and pulled her upright. “Sorry, that scared me,” he said, letting go of her quickly, his hands moving to tug the tail of his shirt nervously and nodding at the glass-top coffee table she had almost fallen into. “You could have really gotten hurt. Please be careful.” He grinned sheepishly. “At least until I get this place a little more organized.” 

“Luka.” Marinette stepped forward and hugged him, and though his arms wrapped immediately back around her, she felt herself blushing, the feel of a man’s body against her instead of a half-grown boy’s suddenly forcibly reminding her that they weren’t teenagers anymore. “Couffaines don’t do organized,” she teased, keeping her head down so he couldn’t see her embarrassment. “Stop trying to make it look like you think it’s supposed to, and do it your way. It’ll be fine, and you can adjust from there.” She let go quickly and straightened without looking at him. 

“I have to, um, go finish my painting before it all dries out or...something,” she said quickly, making sure she watched where she was going this time as she walked away from him, face burning. Stupid, why had she done that? Sure, they were friendly, and yeah, they’d fallen fairly easily into something like their old friendship. Luka had clearly meant what he said, about the way friendships come and go, and he seemed perfectly ready to let her take back her place in his life, and it was so easy to just go with it... 

Not exactly her old place, she reminded herself firmly. That was hardly to be expected. He’d always been touch-oriented though, and had been touching her shoulder or her arm or her back just as casually as he ever had, so maybe the hug wasn’t a big deal to him. He probably hugged his friends all the time, and it’s not like he knew that she didn’t. Besides, she used to, and she probably would, if she still had friends—real friends. And Luka was a real friend, so there was nothing wrong with hugging him, especially when he was clearly so worried about whether he could pull off this new business venture. She was freaking out over nothing, surely. She could comfort him; he’d do the same for her—he had done the same for her, so it was her turn , after all, especially being the more experienced when it came to business and marketing, so... 

Marinette rushed through the door of her shop and locked it quickly, and then put her hands over her face and shrieked into them. 

“Marinette,” Tikki said sympathetically, flying up from her purse to pat her shoulder. 

“I know,” Marinette mumbled. “Okay, um...I don’t think I can leave in spots just now without being seen so...let’s go out the back and try that alley a couple blocks over.” 

Transformed and with her mind focused on the goal, she followed the general direction of the alert, and then the screaming, to a fancy restaurant on the roof of a high-rise. Chat was already there, crouched in the remains of the outdoor dining, clearly regrouping. 

“What’s up?” she asked, landing next to him.

“This restaurant’s nearly impossible to get a table at,” Chat said grimly, with none of the joking humor he would have used once. “Big snob energy. Guess they snubbed the wrong person today. Best guess is the akuma’s target is the maitre’d or the manager, unless there was some random civilian that was especially rude. Looks like your standard entitled rich lady to me, though, so I’m betting on a beef with the restaurant.” He glanced at her. “You got here pretty quick today.” 

“I’ve made some changes in my personal life,” she said carefully. “I’m hoping it’ll give me a little more freedom and you won’t have to wait for me so often.”

“Not like I have anything better to do, but I’m not complaining,” Chat grunted. “Give me the plan and let’s go.” 

Ladybug sighed to herself. She had always wished he would take this job more seriously, but something had changed in Chat when they took Hawkmoth down, and while he had improved somewhat since then, clearly he’d been having one of the bad days before the akuma struck. Grim and cynical wasn’t an especially good look on him, and it worried her. 

No time to worry about that now though. “Distract and evacuate,” she said. “We need to get the civilians out of there. Hopefully in the process we can figure out which one it’s specifically targeting.” 

“Works for me.” Chat launched himself forward, ready to go as always, and Ladybug moved only an instant later. 

The akuma was obnoxious and destructive, with heeled shoes that could shatter concrete and a banshee-like scream that left Ladybug’s ears ringing even after the cure. Ladybug winced as she looked back at the trail of destruction. Chat just flopped on his back on the  rooftop. 

“Could’ve used some backup for that one,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry, there was no opening,” Ladybug panted, putting her hands on her knees. “I was afraid to leave.” 

“Not blaming you,” he said, with a hint of his old humor in the half smile he managed as he turned his head to look at her. “Just saying. We could really use a hand more often.” 

Ladybug made a neutral noise. She didn’t disagree with him, but…

But, but, but. There was always a but. But the rules . But identities . But it was her responsibility.

“Ladybug,” Chat said, the smile falling away as he watched her expression. “I really didn’t mean it that way.” 

“I know,” she said, her voice coming out a tad too high. “It’s fine.” She held out her fist to him and he rolled over on his side to bump his against it. “I gotta get back.”

“I’m just gonna lay here for a while,” he muttered, and Ladybug sighed, reaching down to ruffle his hair affectionately.

“Don’t stay out too long, Kitty.”

“Yeah, yeah, beep beep. I got it.” He waved his ringed hand at her and then flopped back down to the roof. “Don’t worry, I don’t plan on getting stuck on top of this building.”

Ladybug huffed a laugh, and tossed her yoyo.

She transformed a couple of streets away, and glancing at the time, she went up to the apartment instead of back into the shop. Several pairs of large eyes in small faces peeped out as soon as they were sure it was her, and came to circle around her.

“I finished the pieces you asked me to,” Wayzz told her

“We cleaned up the paint and sealed the cans that were left,” Pollen piped up. 

“That’s great,” Marinette said with a tired smile, giving them each a cuddle. “Thanks so much. I don’t know what I would do without you.” 

“It is the leassst we can do,” Sass observed mildly, bringing a damp cloth to her. Marinette took it gratefully. 

“Where?” she asked, and wiped at the spot Sass patted. The cloth came away smeared with flecks of half-dry pink paint. Ugh, did she have that on her face the whole time she was talking to Luka? How embarrassing. She handed the cloth back when Sass nodded that she was clean. 

“I should go finish,” Marinette sighed, but instead she sat down on the couch. 

“You should eat first, Guardian,” Pollen told her, hovering. “And rest. There isn’t much left to be done. You can finish it tomorrow.”

“She’s right, Marinette,” Tikki piped up, perching on Marinette’s shoulder. “You can finish the paint in the morning, and it’s on the other side from the dressing area, so it won’t keep you from getting the curtains up over there or any of the other things you had planned.” 

“It’ll just delay everything by a couple of hours,” Marinette sighed, slumping on the arm of the couch. “I’ll see how I feel after dinner. I’d rather finish it tonight if I can.” 

“Then you’d better go make dinner before you fall asleep on the couch,” Tikki giggled, and Pollen agreed, tugging at Marinette’s fingers. 

“It won’t do for you to be skipping meals!” Pollen scolded. 

“All right, all right,” Marinette giggled, getting up. “I’ll make dinner.” 

The kitchen in her apartment was separated from the living room by a small but usable breakfast bar, so Marinette hadn’t bothered to get a separate table. Instead, she lined up the kwami’s plates on the inside edge and pulled up a stool on the other side of the counter to sit at her own plate. 

She was just finishing up, her thoughts already running on the next things she had to do, when she was distracted by the muffled sound of...a guitar. The kwamis paused in their chatter, and Marinette sat with her fork halfway to her mouth, listening. After a moment she smiled. “It’s Luka,” she murmured. “His apartment probably mirrors ours, so his kitchen and living room must be on the other side of this wall.” Her eyes widened slightly in alarm. “If we can hear him, he can probably hear us if we get too loud. I can pass some noise off as the tv or the radio, but we’ll have to be careful.” The kwamis nodded, but Marinette shot pointed looks at Xuppu, Orikki, and Ziggy in particular. They all made faces at her, but nodded along with the others. 

Everyone was quiet as she finished her meal, smiling as she listened to the wandering guitar. “It’s nice,” she observed to no one in particular. “It’s been a long time since I heard Luka play.” 

It was funny, the effect it had on her. She could feel her shoulders sliding down, and a pleasant calm seeping into her. Had he really made such an impression all those years ago, that she responded so easily to the sound of his guitar even now? She took her dishes to the sink and stood a moment, laying a hand over her heart, and for a moment she heard a different song, 

When she took a breath, though, instead of the scent of metal and river wind, the scent of lemon dish soap filled her nose and brought her back to the present. She smiled at the kwamis, who had busily stacked their little plates next to the sink and were filling it with water and soapsuds. 

Right . All of that was a long time ago, and they were different people now. Still, maybe sometime soon she could come to one of his gigs and hear him play for real, and not through a wall. Though...it was kind of nice, knowing she was the only one who was hearing him right now. She wondered if he knew she could hear him. 

The tune changed, took on a little more purpose, and Marinette smothered a giggle. No, she doubted he realized she could hear, because he probably wouldn’t be caught dead playing Love Me Like You Do with an audience, even if he did give it a bit of a metal makeover. 

She’d have to let him know. Eventually. When she could think of a way to tell him that wouldn’t make him think he had to stop. 

She hummed quietly along as she and the kwami finished washing the dishes.

“Are you going to go back downstairs?” Tikki asked, tilting her head. 

“Mmm...no,” Marinette decided. “There’s still plenty to unpack and put away up here, and you’re right. I can finish the shop in the morning.” 

The next few days were a blur of hard work as opening day got closer and closer. The shop was coming together, and Marinette took comfort in, for once, being able to get everything just right, without anybody telling her it should be different, or complaining that she was too fussy. 

It was exhausting, though, and led to some pretty silly late night giggling with the kwamis as they tried to get her to rest before she made herself totally delirious. 

The day before opening, she walked into Second Chance with a box in her hands, trying not to giggle openly.  

“Hey, Marinette," Luka greeted, looking up from where he was loading up some display shelves near the counter.

“Wow, Luka, it looks great in here,” Marinette said, looking around.

“You were right. When I stopped trying to be strategic and just put things in where they felt like home, it all came together. I’m still not sure it’s the best arrangement, at least it feels comfortable. ” He looked much more relaxed, and his smile was easy and true. 

“I think that will work the best for you in the end,” Marinette smiled. “The right customers will like it, and the ones who don’t, well.” She patted the big cement turtle on the head. “Probably aren’t looking for the kinds of things you’re selling anyway.”

Luka chuckled. “Fair enough. What can I do for you, Marinette?” He slid the case closed and stood, turning to face her. 

Marinette bit her lip, and then held up the small box in her hands. “Well, I...maybe stayed up a little late last night, and I got kind of loopy, and then instead of going to bed like a smart person, I...did something silly. And if you hate it you can say so and I’ll walk right back out and we don’t ever have to speak of this again.”

Luka raised his eyebrows. “That sounds a little dramatic. What, did you make me a lace nightie with matching slippers?”

Marinette burst out laughing. “Okay, you’re right, that would be sillier,” she giggled, setting the box down carefully on a nearby table. “No, it’s not for you actually.” 

“Not for me?” Luka put his hand to his chest. “I’m hurt.” 

Marinette giggled again, pulling some things out of the box and turning away from him. “You might not be when you see it.” Impulsively she added, “Turn around.” Luka did, and Marinette hurriedly went to work.

“Okay, you can look now.” She was barely holding back laughter, and when Luka turned around his mouth dropped open.

“You’re kidding me,” he said, covering his mouth with one hand as he approached, trying to smother his laughter. “Marinette. Oh my God.” 

The cement turtle now sported a pair of Eiffel tower sunglasses the exact match to the ones Marinette had made for Jagged years ago. He had a choker of studded leather around his long neck and another cuff around one ankle, and Marinette had hung a guitar made of cardboard and purple glitter on him as well. 

“Tada!” she said, throwing out her hands. “He’s a rock turtle, Luka. Because he’s, you know, rock, I mean I know he’s concrete but it still counts. So now he’s a rock turtle for real.” 

“I think those paint fumes are getting to you,” Luka laughed, and then threw one arm around her neck and kissed her forehead before letting her go. “I love it, thank you. It’s amazing.” 

“He can be your mascot,” Marinette giggled, unreasonably pleased and trying to resist the urge to touch her forehead. He’d done that the way he used to do it to Juleka, after all, and how touch-starved was she, that she kept dwelling on every little gesture of affection he made? It was Luka, after all, and he was just like that. 

But he was smiling, wider than he had in days, and it gave Marinette a sense of accomplishment that more than made up for her tiredness. 

“Ready for the big day?” Luka asked as he crouched to examine the turtle’s new guitar. 

“I think so. Yeah, I am.” Marinette brought her hands up and rubbed her arms. “It feels like I’m going to jinx it, saying that. Like one of those dreams I’m always having where I walk into a class or a client meeting and realize suddenly that I forgot to cover half of what they asked for in my presentation, and I forgot my bra on top of it.” 

Luka laughed, rocking back on his heels to look up at her. “Seriously?”

Marinette rolled her eyes. “All the time. Even my subconscious won’t cut me any slack.” 

Luka shook his head. “Marinette, if that ever happened to you in real life, by the end of it you’d have them convinced that they didn’t need all that stuff anyway and wearing bras would immediately go out of style.” 

“What,” said a dry voice, “the hell did I just walk in to?”

Marinette’s head whipped around to look at the door, and her mouth dropped open at the sight of the tall, slender woman standing there with her arms loosely crossed and an amused smirk on her face. 

“Hey, Jules,” Luka said, getting up and turning towards her with his arms out. “You made it.” 

“Of course I did, idiot,” Juleka mumbled, but Marinette saw her hide her smile in Luka’s shoulder as she hugged him back. Then, to her mild surprise, Juleka peeked over his shoulder. “Hi, Marinette.” 

“It’s really good to see you, Juleka,” Marinette said warmly. “You look fantastic,” she added, as Juleka came to take her hands and exchange a bise.  

“I have good stylists,” Juleka shrugged. Her hair was still long, but the purple was gone and it was pulled back into a shining French braid, leaving both her amber eyes bare to stare at Marinette. Her makeup was perfect and Marinette remembered that Juleka was a cosmetics model now. Of course she always had to look her best in public. “Luka told me you were opening your own place. I can’t make the opening, but maybe...maybe I could make an appointment to come take a look?” There was something in the old Juleka in the way she asked that question, a slight curl of her shoulders and drop of her head, and the way she pinched one thumb and forefinger tightly together at her side. 

Impulsively Marinette said, “Why don’t you just come over now? Everything’s set up and you can get first pick if there’s anything you like. Not that you should feel like you need to buy anything,” Marinette added hurriedly. “Just, if anything catches your eye or—okay I’m shutting up now, you probably don’t even have time, it doesn’t have to be now—just, whenever is good! If you want.” She closed her mouth abruptly before she could trip into another line of babble.

Juleka smiled, her head tilting slightly as if she were still peeking through that curtain of bangs. “I’d love to come over now, if that’s okay.” 

“Really?” Marinette brightened, embarrassment forgotten. “Awesome! I’d love to have your opinion on—well, everything, to be honest.” 

“I can’t wait to see it.” 

“Oh sure,” Luka mocked, and Marinette jumped a little, looking at him. “You said you were coming to see me, but really you just wanted a sneak peek at Marinette’s clothes. I see where I rate.”

“As long as we’re clear,” Juleka huffed, and walked out of the door. Marinette stood gaping like a fish for a moment, and then followed her, shooting Luka an apologetic look over her shoulder.

“I’m sure it won’t take long,” she said, but Luka, smiling, just rolled his eyes and waved her on. 

Juleka didn’t exactly gush; she was too collected for that, but her quiet smile and nod of approval as she looked around was more encouraging than a flood of compliments. “It has good energy,” she murmured. “Very you. Gives a sense of your brand from the beginning. I like it.” 

“Thank you,” Marinette smiled, sincerely grateful.

“It looks like a lot of work.” 

“It was,” Marinette sighed, “But it’s so worth it to see it come together. It’s scary to be doing this all my own, but at least I can make things exactly the way I want them.” She pointed out the curtained dressing rooms, and the pedestal in front of the (very expensive, even second hand) full-length three-way mirror. “I’m planning to do alterations and fittings as well,” Marinette explained, “On anything, not just my clothes. In a limited capacity, of course, so that I still have time to keep the shop stocked. I’m actually hoping to bring in lines from a couple of other independent designers—people I met in school that have an aesthetic that will fit in with mine, just to broaden the range of what I can offer, but...well, I kind of wanted to open with my own things first.” She smiled ruefully and wrinkled her nose. “I don’t want to drag anybody down with me if I go under in the first month.” 

Juleka laughed, and Marinette smiled at the sound of it. “I’m sure that won’t happen,” Juleka assured her, still smiling. “These pieces are gorgeous,” she added, motioning to the photographs on the wall. 

“It’s nice to see you happy,” Marinette said without thinking, and then bit her lip. 

Juleka seemed to freeze for a long moment, and then she took a long breath that reminded Marinette of Luka. “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other, hasn’t it,” Juleka said quietly, that slight curl in her shoulders again. “I—I’m...sorry, that we gave you such a hard time back when we were kids. I...understand better now. This is a tough industry and you have to be dedicated and motivated to succeed. I’m sorry that we...well, I don’t think any of us meant to be holding you back, but I understand how it might have felt that way to you.” 

“Oh…” Marinette said lamely, looking away and moving to fiddle with the nearest garment rack. “I didn’t—I mean, I felt bad that I had to bail on you guys so much, but I didn’t feel that way. I just thought, you know, you guys were right and if I wasn’t being the kind of friend you needed...it was okay. You’d have every right to be just as mad at me for choosing my career over you even at such a young age. I was ditching you a lot, and...I could have done things differently. Handled it better.”

“You had a life beyond school and beyond us,” Juleka insisted, folding her arms uncomfortably. “It was wrong of us to try and take that from you. I don’t know, maybe we felt guilty that we weren’t working as hard, or something, but...we could have made it work. We always made exceptions for Adrien because he was working a career outside of school. We should have at least extended the same courtesy to you. Especially when it was obvious even then how talented and driven you were. You’ve got what it takes to really make it, and it was wrong of us to get in the way of that when we should have been cheering you on.”

Marinette’s hands stilled for a moment, and it was her turn to take a slow breath. She felt a twinge of guilt, because Juleka of course didn’t know the whole story. It hadn’t been wholly for the sake of her future career that she’d bailed on her friends so often, and it hadn’t been determination to drive forward at all costs that had caused her to stop trying so hard to meet her friends halfway. Her reasons had neither been selfish nor noble. She just hadn’t had the energy to keep up the front any longer.

But she couldn’t explain it now any more than she could then, so all she could say was a quiet, “Thank you, Juleka.” She took another breath and lifted her head, trying to smile. “You really don’t need to apologize, though. I never held anything against you guys. Besides, we were kids.” Juleka relaxed a little, though she still held herself a bit stiffly. 

Time to change the mood. Marinette rallied her spirits and put the most genuine grin on her face that she could muster as she faced Juleka. “Come on,” she said brightly, moving over to one of the other racks and gesturing enthusiastically for Juleka to follow her. “I have some things that I bet will look great on you.” 

They already had several outfits laid aside for Juleka to purchase when Luka knocked and came in the door, the little bell Marinette had hung over it chiming cheerfully. 

“Hi Luka,” Marinette smiled, looking up from where she was laying another dress across the sales counter. “Sorry, I guess we took up more time than I realized. Did you get bored?”

“Just wondering if my sister is still going to buy me dinner,” Luka grinned. “I’m starving here.” 

“Then hurry up and die so we don’t have to listen to you,” Juleka called from the dressing room. 

“I’m wasting away slowly ,” he called back. “I’ll continue to exist on spite until you feed me.” 

“Do you need any help, Juleka?” Marinette asked, trying to keep her giggles out of her voice.

“No, I think I’ve—there. Oh, I like this one, Marinette!” Juleka pushed the curtain aside and stepped out. 

“Hm, needs a little tailoring, but only a little,” Marinette said, eyes fastened on the garment, as Juleka made a slow turn. “Let me just—” She stepped over with a couple of clips in her hand and took the slack out of the dress in a couple of key places, clipping it in place. “There. And of course I can adjust the hem if you need it, but I think this length is pretty good on you actually. What do you think, Luka?” She turned and blinked at the look on his face as he stared at his sister. He looked...happy, but his face was crinkling up in a weird way that she didn’t understand. 

“You look beautiful, Juleka,” Luka said, and had to clear his throat. 

“Don’t you dare,” Juleka warned, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes. “Don’t you dare get mushy on me again.”

“Better,” Luka continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “You’re poised and confident and...I’m just so proud of you. Five years ago that dress would have overpowered you and now look at you.” 

“You’re not going to cry again, are you?” Juleka asked, rolling her eyes.

“I might,” Luka said, and his voice did sound a little thick. “There’s nothing wrong with that.” 

“I swear he’s cried at every single one of the photo shoots I was dumb enough to bring him to,” Juleka grumbled, giving Marinette a look of longsuffering. 

Marinette giggled as she stepped close again and adjusted a clip. “He loves you.” 

“He’s a sap,” Juleka groaned. 

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Luka and Marinette said in unison, and Juleka snorted. 

“You two are made for each other,” she muttered, and then looked back with concern when Marinette somehow got the web of her thumb pinched in the clip and yelped.

“Fine, I’m fine,” she said hurriedly, fixing the clip. “There. Take a look.”

She helped Juleka up onto the pedestal in front of the three-way mirror, and Juleka sighed. “I love it,” she said, glancing at the two dresses and the suit that were already on the counter. “I better not try on anything else though. It’d be a pain dragging Luka’s corpse out of the shop, and I’m going to go broke if you pull out any more perfect outfits. Can you check me out for these, and we can make an appointment for the tailoring later?” 

“Sure! Give me just a second.” Marinette gave her a sheepish smile. “The POS system is new and it might take me a minute to figure it out. Actually you’re doing me an extra favor by letting me try this thing out before I put it through its paces tomorrow.”

“Hey, can I take a look?” Luka asked, moving around the counter at her gesture. “I still haven’t settled on one yet. I’ve got some ancient thing a buddy loaned me, but I’m hoping I can upgrade in a few months.” He leaned on the counter next to her and grinned. “I’m not above profiting from the months of research I’m sure you did before settling on one.”

Marinette giggled, shoving him with her elbow. “Off the counter,” she ordered. “You have no idea how many practice runs I had to do with the resin to get good enough to do a project this size.”

“I can tell,” Luka said, straightening. ”It looks really cool.” 

“You’ve really made the shop yours in such a short time,” Juleka said, looking at the countertop. “Everything about it just screams Marinette.” 

Marinette blushed, and picked up the tablet, tried to focus on walking Luka through the steps of the POS system, explaining the features that had made her go with this system as he leaned close to watch. He smelled different than he used to, she thought absently. Not so much sunscreen and fresh air and teenage boy. He wore cologne now, pleasantly subtle, and only noticeable when he was close like this. It was a more mature scent but it suited him. 

“And then Juleka can put her card in here,” Marinette said, pointing to the slot in a stand on the counter. Juleka did so, and after a moment the machine beeped. “And...there we go.” She showed Luka the screen. 

“Huh. Do you use it for inventory management much?” Luka asked, leaning one hand on the counter next to her as he watched her navigate the menus. She jumped a little when her shoulder brushed his chest, but he didn’t seem to notice. 

Marinette cleared her throat. “W-well like you, I don’t really have standard inventory, everything is unique, so it’s a bit more work to keep the system updated, but—uh—” He was looking at her and not the screen, attentive, and Marinette’s thoughts began to scatter.   

“Shameless,” Juleka sighed, shaking her head, and they both looked up at her. She smirked at Luka, and Marinette felt her face redden though she couldn’t have said why. 

“Me?” Luka said innocently, straightening away from Marinette and putting his hand on his chest. Marinette was surprised to see his ears were red, and it only made her feel more flustered.

Juleka snorted. “I can’t believe you’re taking advantage of Marinette like this, you lazy jerk. I bet you cheated on your tests at school too.”

“I sat next to Dingo ,” Luka reminded her, rolling his eyes. “Believe me, I wasn’t the one cheating.” 

“Whatever,” Juleka rolled her eyes. “So can we go now? I thought you were so—” Her lips curled in a smirk. “Hungry. Or was it thirsty?”

“I’m ready when you are,” Luka said quickly, coming back around the counter. “Thanks, Marinette.” 

Marinette moved quickly to get a garment bag and package up Juleka’s purchases. It was Luka, though who took them from her with a warm smile. “Congrats on your first sale,” he told her with a wink, and Marinette felt that blush again. 

“It’s hardly her first sale,” Juleka pointed out, picking up a small stack of Marinette’s business cards from the holder on the counter and slipping them into her pocket. “She’s been selling since collége.” 

Luka rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “First sale from your first shop—first brick and mortar shop,” he hastily corrected, when Juleka opened her mouth again. “Juleka, you’re such a pain.” 

“I’m just saying, if you’re going to compliment a girl, you need to be accurate,” Juleka smirked, as Luka began shoving her toward the door. “Good luck with your grand opening, Marinette,” she called back. “I’ll pass your info around the next time I’m in the studio!”

“That would be great. Thanks for coming by, Juleka!” Marinette called, waving. 

“Why do you have to make everything weird?” she heard Luka mutter as he pushed the door open for his sister and nearly shoved her out of it.

“It’s not my fault you just are weird,” Juleka retorted, and gave Marinette one more wave before the door closed behind them. “Especially around—” The door cut her off, and Marinette turned and buried her face in her hands, not at all relaxed by the giggling that began in several hidden corners of the shop.

“Traitors,” she mumbled, and took a deep breath. 

“It’s okay, Marinette,” Pollen said kindly, coming to light on her arm. “You should be proud!”

“Yes!” Tikki agreed, popping out of Marinette’s purse and coming to sit next to Pollen.  “That was your first client consult for your brand new shop! And it went amazing! Four outfits!”

“And you impressed Luka,” Mullo pointed out, emerging from one of the garment racks. “He seemed to think you were very knowledgeable. ” The kwami giggled and poked Marinette’s blushing cheek. Marinette swatted at him, pouting, but he just phased through her hand with a toothy grin.

“Luka just needed some information,” Marinette countered, ignoring the snorting giggles that came from all three kwamis. “And Juleka was just being nice. “Though...I suppose she could have been nice without spending quite so much money,” she conceded. “It’ll be great for business if she wears the clothes, too...she works in exactly the kind of circles where word of mouth will be really valuable.” Marinette picked up her tablet and smiled as she punched up her sales history, and looked at the transaction there. “Well...I guess this does make us official, doesn’t it.” She held out her fist and Tikki, Pollen, and Mullo bumped it all in turn. “Come on, let’s get back to work and see how much we can finish up. I want to try and take it easy tonight. I can’t show up at the big opening looking like death.”

Fiction Master Post | LBSC 2021 Exchange Collection

[writing-the-end]

LoL Chapter 28- In Shadow

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU, designs, ideas belongs to @theguardiansofredland)

Returning to his hometown, Etho hs to balance his past with his present, as well as keep Keralis and Grian from embarrassing him in from of his old teacher and town. 

_______________________________

Etho always thought he was a handful- he may act mature, but his mind is full of mischief that would make even a criminal stumble. But dragging Keralis and Grian through the misty swamps of his home, he realizes there are more ways than one to cause trouble. 

Keralis goes sloshing away, swallowed up by the fog. The only way Etho knows he still exists is by the loud splash of the bug wizard, followed by a string of curses in his thick accent. Keralis returns to Etho’s side, wrestling a stag beetle and cooing at how lovely it looks. 

Grian on the other hand, Etho couldn’t get to shut up. “I think I have half the swamp in my boots.” 

“You could just fly.” Etho points out. 

“But I can’t see anything!” Grian’s whine echoes through the thick copse of trees, bouncing off submerged ferns and aged wood. “How do you even know where you’re going?” 

“Secret ninja techniques.” Etho muses, following the trail at his feet. Beneath the water, he can feel ridges carved into the stone, under the silt. Guiding him to his hometown. 

Keralis’s eyes get wider than usual at the sound of a branch snapping in the distance. He whips his head around, pulling on his hat and brushing closer to Etho. “Are you sure we’re alone?”

“We’re not.” Etho grins. Both Grian and Keralis whimper, searching the fog like they’re trying to see a ghost. They might as well be. “The town knows we’re coming. They’ve already seen us, even if we haven’t seen them.” 

“Ninjas.” Grian whispers. The trio continues in silence, or at least as silent as Grian and Keralis can be, sludging through the swamp. Grian chatters with himself and the bug wizard, his voice bouncing up cypress trees as tall as towers, clambering over the roots. He gets a foot tangled in the submerged vines, and goes headfirst into the slow moving brown water with a yelp. “Etho, when the hell are we going to get to this town? I haven’t seen any signs that we’re even close.” 

“Ah, yeah. I haven’t seen a spot of dry ground this whole time.” Keralis adds. “Are they on stilts? How does a town like that stay out of the swamp?” 

Etho feels the carved markings beneath his feet turn into a radiating circle, like a ripple across the surface. He stops, grabbing Keralis and Grian, a grin appearing on his unmasked face. “We’re here.” 

Grian turns around in a full circle, looking at the copse of trees. “Uhhh, are you okay Etho? This looks the same as every other part of the swamp.”

“Maybe it’s hidden in the fog? Fog magic?” Keralis waves his arms around as if he’s attempting to feel around in the dark. 

Etho leans against a root, grinning. “Try looking up.” 

Grian does so, and gasps. 

Above their head, a town hovers over them. Lantern lights split through the fog, unveiling themselves like a stage curtain, warm yellow glows dancing off the wood and paper. Beneath the strung lantern lights, dancing will-o-the-wisps above their heads, bridges of plank and rope connect tree to tree and guide the townsfolk across the swamp without making a sound. 

The fog continues to disappear, and the town of Shellor unmasks in ripples. Homes and businesses nestled in the massive trunks of the trees or perched on the expansive branches, the open air filtering the earth and water tone of the swamp air through bars, abodes, shops, and shrines. For a second, Grian wishes Mumbo was here to rant about the engineering marvel above his head. How much time it must’ve taken to build a town in the sky, where they even get the fire from, and hidden out of sight, out of sound. He never even realized they were walking beneath it. 

“How...how do we get up there?” Keralis tips his head, holding onto his hat so it doesn’t slip off. 

“Normally, adults can just climb up ourselves.” Etho launches from the root, grabbing hold of a branch and swinging himself up, higher and higher. “And Grian can fly, obviously. But- I’ll grab the basket.” 

“Basket?” Keralis watches the two disappear among the intertwining bridges. A second later, something is dropping back to the ground. It’s not a basket he thought it would be. It’s a lift of sorts. The wood floats like driftwood on the murky swamp water, the walls opening to invite Keralis in. He clambers on the wood panel, surprised to find that the weight hardly even shifts. Even when the walls pull back up around him and the basket starts to rise, he feels like he’s on solid ground. It’s the smoothest lift he’s even been on, something that would put Darlon to shame. 

Etho and Grian have their heads poking over the railing as Keralis rises up. “A pretty neat invention, huh?” Etho laughs, running a finger along the rope, watching the pulley system release the weight a distance away. “It’s not used often anymore, really just for when kids need to get down, supplies, the like.” 

Keralis stumbles onto the bridge. The warm glow of lantern light invites him deeper into Shellor, and the scent of food makes his stomach growl. Spices that dance with the mist, a warm rumble of quiet laughter from the nearby restaurant. But everyone’s movements are lithe and silent, even if their talking isn’t. Everyone in the town walks without a sound, like cats stalking their prey. Exactly how Etho walks, constantly spooking Keralis when he’s in the middle of reading or baking. 

It quiets down, and even Etho pauses. Grian and Keralis turn around, surprised to find Etho prostrating before a shrine. They never took him to be the god-worshipping kind. But they sit down next to him, looking at the shrine. It’s made of stone- how that got up here, neither of them can guess. Lanterns are kept aglow and the crescent shaped bowl protected with a carved wooden gazebo. After a few moments, Etho speaks. “Manys, god of the moon. Patron to Shellor, teacher to the art of stealth. I remember my first lesson to harness my power was to watch the full moonlight travel across the swampwater. Silent, but present.” 

“Is that how you learned to be a shadow ninja?” Keralis whispers while Grian lights a dying candle. 

“Nope.” Etho chuckles. “I definitely took a more...physical approach.” 

“Etho!” All three hermits stiffen at the shrill shriek of the shop owner a few bridges down. “I knew you’d come back! Don’t think I haven’t forgotten about all that candy you stole!” 

“Ah, that’s what you mean.” Grian muses, watching as Etho is given an earful by the man. It’s the first time Keralis and Grian have ever seen Etho embarrassed, the pale skin under his white hair blushing red, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Mr. Toku, I think Etho has heard well enough.” A warm voice, quiet but persistent, cuts through the berating tirade. Before her first syllable was uttered, Keralis and Grian knew this was someone of importance. An unusual sense of raging peace, like sitting next to a swollen waterfall in the middle of a forest, exudes from the woman like an aura. She turns, and immediately sweeps Etho into a hug. “It is good to have you home, my pupil.” 

“Hello Reverent Nama.” Etho squeaks, hardly able to breathe against such a tight hug. A weak smile appears on his face, the one person he missed most when he left being his teacher, the head monk of Shellor. Nama. He doesn’t even remember her real name, he’s always called her Nama. 

“Look at you, so tall! You grew like a shoot, Etho.” She grabs his cheek, looking at the scars on his face. “I still remember the day your magic first showed itself. Have you been using my teachings, anak ko?” 

“Nama, I remember it all. But you know me.” He offers a sly grin, but nods silently. “I still like to watch the moon, though.” 

“The best teacher, and the mother always with you.” Nama’s voice dips into a lower octave at her sagely advice, before rising back up as a smile creases her warm, deep toned skin. “But you must be starving, walking through the swamp. Come, bring your friends.” 

She waves her hands, blue and white robes beckoning the weary travelers deeper into the town. A glint of lantern light catches Grian’s attention, and his eyes go as wide as saucers at the sight before him. The biggest gong he’s ever seen in his life. Taller than Grian, even with his wings stretched high above his head, the silver metal glimmering like the moon at the center of the town. Archways decorate and dance around the massive instrument. Grian’s drawn to the gong like a moth to the flame. 

Only to be thwarted by Etho. He grabs Grian by the collar, dragging him back in line with Reverent Nama and the other monks. Keralis giggles and teases Grian even as they enter the raised, thatched house. Bowed roofs similar to the arches and pagodas they saw before protect angular, woven walls and open windows. The swamp breeze filters through the mat-strewn floor as Nama opens the sliding door. Nama disappears into an upper level, before returning with a steaming teapot and five different plates of food. The boys sit at the low table, suddenly alone with the leader of Shellor. Silent as shadows, her peers had disappeared. Like ninjas. “I assume this is not just a family visit.” 

“How did you know?” Keralis croons, sipping on the warm tea poured before him. His eyes light up at the fried, wrapped treat set on his plate. His massive bug eyes only unnerve Nama, repositioning in her seat at the sight of such strange friends Etho brought. 

“Etho isn’t exactly the visiting kind. A practical pupil, even to the day he left.” 

“Nama, you of all people know how to gather information. You see what the moon sees.” She nods at Etho’s words. It’s not hyperbole- it’s her magic. “Surely you have information about husk monsters attacking all over Lairyon.” 

“Why does that interest you, Etho?” Nama gazes over the rim of her teacup.

“We intend to stop it.” Grian states, flat and plain. Etho seethes, sending imaginary daggers at the blond angel before him. He needs to be more subtle than that! 

“Finally, someone to take up the mantle.” She responds. “I have heard worrisome things, are you three sure you can handle such a task?” When all of them nod, she continues. “Then you need to start here- husks have been attempting to enter Shellor for the past few days. They have broken through our mist barrier, but have been unable to reach the town. I do not think they will stop trying until they reach the bridges.”

“They want to steal your magic, your power. They’ll kill you all.” Etho growls. 

“Exactly as what my informants told me. Do you boys think you could defeat an army of mindless creatures?” She pauses, looking at their faces. Seeing the glint in their eyes and knowing. “Excuse me, I have underestimated you. It seems you have already done so before.” 

“We’ll need more than just your information, Reverent Nama. We need supplies, tools of stealth that only Shellor can create. We need to use every advantage we can find to stop these husks. To stop-”

“To stop Magistrate Dolios, yes.” Nama nods, a growl breaking through her neutral expression. “Whatever you and your friends need, I will be happy to give. But for now, eat! Tell me, anak ko, who are your friends here.” She leans over to Etho. “Is the one with the large eyes okay? Is he some sort of hybrid?” 

Etho chuckles, and welcomes the warm food of home into his body. He missed the taste of good palabok, wishing at least one other hermit could cook his hometown’s food like Nama could. He introduces Keralis, quickly explaining his magic, then moving onto Grian. Even Nama, in all her wise counselling, was shocked to learn he was an angel mage. She knew they existed, beneath the watchful eyes of the moon, but to see one in front of her? And in a guild as wayward as Etho describes? 

Their plates are filled as fast as they’re emptied, food appearing out of what felt like nowhere. Etho smiles as he hears laughter rise from his friends and teacher. He left Shellor because he felt restrained. But to be home? It felt freeing, now that he’s an adult. Now that he has his guild, he feels more connected to here than ever before. They continue talking well into the night, until the fog fades and the moon observes the quiet swamp. 

Nama closes her eyes, falling into a quiet meditation at the dinner table. But when her eyes open, it’s anything but calm. She rises so fast her knees almost spill the table over, robes fluttering like leaves in the wind. “They’re here. Oh gods, they’re already at the barrier.

“You wanted lessons in stealth? Well, lesson number one- don’t let your enemy see you.” Nama motions for another monk, and he casts his magic circle. In one deep breath, he inhales the magic. And a gust of wind from his lips blows out every single candle. Only the full moonlight bears illumination upon the town. 

And the distant crack of lightning, an ashen storm visible through the spindly cypress trees.

Townsfolk shuffle in the dark, accustomed but alarmed. Night is when Shellor is most alive, lanterns lit and moon in full view. Nama sends her monks to scout ahead, to be the first line of defense, before marching towards the center of town. 

Towards the gong. It reflects the moonlight, blue luminescence titillating across the silver instrument. A mallet the length of Nama’s arm is plucked from the arch, but she pauses. Looking over her shoulder, she sees Etho practically holding Grian back, the angle bouncing in his boots. Like so many of her other pupils, and who is she to deny him something so exciting? She hands the mallet into Grian’s hand. He wastes no time putting it to work. With wings unfurling and hovering at the center of the circle. One mighty reel backwards, he swings. The mallet strikes the metal, and both Grian and the gong reverberate in response. A low, loud ringing warns the entire town they’re under attack. Grian still feels the sensation of the strike in his arms even after he lands. 

“The husks aren’t after anything in particular- they just want as much magic as possible.” Etho warns, pulling free his kusarigama, watching the darkness. In the distance, a blood curdling howl of a banshee turns even his blood cold. He doesn’t want to face that beast on good terms, much less a creepy husk version. 

“How can you stop them?” Nama questions, dipping her arms into her robes. She doesn’t need a weapon to be dangerous. 

“There’s no crystal.” Keralis warns. “But there is a darkness storm.” He points to the distant canopy, black clouds roiling across the sky. 

“We just have to defeat them. One by one, it will weaken the storm and purge the land of their presence.” Grian flutters over the side of the bridge, looking down. Below, among the swamp water and cypress roots, monsters and mages scrabble up the aged cypress wood. Throwing themselves higher and higher, unlike Etho’s smooth agility to the town. “No matter what, don’t let your fighters get caught by the husks. They’ll turn into one.” 

“Stealth is our trade, angel.” Nama hums, arm reappearing and offering up supplies to the trio. Smoke bombs, firecrackers, magical climbing gear for Keralis, an enchanted mirror to Grian. “We shall do our best, but you three are clearly the masters in this battle.” 

Nama steps back, and bows. Pride swells in Etho’s chest, almost causing him to tear up. If he didn’t hear the snarls of darkness consumed being of pure anger, hatred, and power, he probably would’ve. He’s never seen Reverent Nama bow to anyone else before. 

And then she’s gone. Disappearing among her robes, the hermits next see her down at the roots. Battling with a cold rage, like sunlight reflecting off the moon. Etho hands a few smoke bombs to his friends, grinning. “Let’s raise hell, shall we?”

[serpentinerose]

I’ve now published 300k words in the 2Ha Ao3 tag! Thanks to my friend on twt for this prompt to push me over the 300k threshold.

Prompt: Mo Ran and Xue Meng bonding in the 5 years Chu Wanning was in seclusion. 

No spoilers beyond the current tl. Rated G. You can check out the rest of my fics on Ao3 @ serpentinerose. 

Xue Meng thought he could spend the rest of his life without ever hearing the name “Butterfly Town” ever again.

It was almost funny, Mo Ran would say, that this insignificant town a mere half day away from the foot of Sisheng Peak would ever become something of significance to them. A town known for nothing but the captivating fragrance that snaked between the broken slats on windows forever shuttered, for the reddish earth that never produced anything of substance, soaked through with far too much blood for a town of that size. A town of ghosts and promises buried in coffins that shook under the weight of their own grief. Xue Meng would have never stepped foot there a second time, were it not for the fact that Butterfly Town refused to lift its shadowy wings from the course of his life.

Mo Ran would have said all that, Xue Meng thought, but not Mo-zongshi.

Not this tall, broad man in white who stood before him today.

They scrubbed the blood out from under their fingernails, washed the gore from their swords in the stream, and stared into water so deep that neither of them could see what had sunken into that great river. Butterfly Town laid quiet behind them; the disciples of Sisheng Peak had busied themselves with the task of carrying away the wounded and burying the dead. The mangled pieces of demon flesh littering the expanse of the earth behind them were quickly spirited away, sent into flames so high that those red tongues dared to reach toward the sky with its own stripes of red, dispersed among the clouds.

Xue Meng’s fire core had made quick work of that mess. The resultant acrid smoke irritated his nose; he sniffed, stomach clenching at the nauseating smell of roasted meat, sweet and succulent and altogether wrong.

“Hungry already?” His cousin’s voice held little trace of its former ever-present mocking tone, but there was a little humor in it all the same. Mo Ran’s white robes were splattered around the hem with various shades of brown, and Xue Meng wrinkled his nose, wiping away the mess that the yao corpses had made on the shining metal of his armor. 

“Your defense needs work.”

“Your attack needs more work,” Mo Ran shot back, but there was no heat in it. “Anyway, what does it matter? You were supposed to be guarding my back.”

“I was guarding your back,” Xue Meng argued. “It’s not my fault you couldn’t manage to keep in formation. Did anyone ask you to jump ahead? Did you want to show off to the pretty ghost lady?”

Mo Ran barked out a laugh. “I’m surprised you could tell it was a ghost lady at all.”

“It wore a bracelet.” Xue Meng scrubbed his hands together under the water. Red swirls spread on the surface; the dying sun, too, cast its own redness over the glittering water, swallowing away the evidence of their work. “Anyway, it’s too late to head back to Sisheng Peak tonight. We’ll make camp here. The inn seems to be in good shape. They might still have some food and wine to offer us.”

“So you are hungry,” Mo Ran pointed out. “Fine, Young Master. Let’s go get something in that stomach of yours.”

The inn was spared, but barely just. The entire second floor was uninhabitable, but the eatery still held its scattering of mismatched, coarsely carved tables and chairs. It would have to be rebuilt, Xue Meng thought. But not by them.

They had already done enough for this town.

Whatever had remained of the food supply had disappeared far too quickly into their cavernous stomachs. Some of the other disciples had decided to wash off the filth of the day more fully in that dark river, and some had even found the ingenuity to catch a great bounty of silvery fish along the way. It turned out that three arrows and a cloak strung together with spiritual energy were quite enough to form a kind of net. The smell of roasted fish finally cleared that stench of yao corpses from the air. They had eaten quietly, and then, one by one, the disciples trickled out to the tents they had put up along the main street of town, now cleared of all debris.

Butterfly Town had never looked cleaner, Xue Meng thought.

It was just him and Mo Ran left in the inn. The innkeeper had generously offered them a bundle of blanket and a corner of the main eatery hall. Under normal circumstances, Xue Meng would have turned up his nose at the meager accommodation, but not tonight.

After all, Xue Meng doubted if they would get any rest at all this night.

Their dusty table was littered with the clumsy wooden pieces of what would somehow become a Holy Night Guardian. Xue Meng never had any affinity with the process of creation; the constant rumor mills of Sisheng Peak, powered by both its disciples and Elders alike, liked to insist that upon Xue Meng’s first meeting with his shizun at the age of five, he had destroyed an entire room’s worth of inventions with only a file in his hands.

Chu Wanning had looked inordinately pleased, as much as that was possible for his shizun. Or so Xue Meng was told.

Mo Ran’s skills also lay elsewhere, but there was no other choice. Their shizun still remained in seclusion at the Red Lotus Pavilion, shuttered behind barriers too advanced for either of them to broach, and the contingent of Sisheng Peak disciples who had survived this last battle had never trained under the Yuheng Elder.

It was up to them now. Carrying on their shizun’s legacy until he returned. 

Sometimes, Xue Meng wondered whether Mo Ran’s shoulders broadened under that strain merely by adaptation.

They worked in silence; the candlelight flickered between them, casting large shadows that loomed over them, although the shadows seemed more contemplative and watchful rather than ominous even as this broken down inn bowed under the storm swirling overhead. The water dripped at regular intervals from the misshapen slats, scorched in some places and warped in others, and Xue Meng cast a clumsy barrier over their table. Mo Ran’s eyes flickered strangely as that shining blue sphere descended around them.

“What?” Xue Meng demanded.

A ghostly smile curved playfully at Mo Ran’s lips. “Shizun would have scolded you for this barrier.”

“You think you can do better?”

“Yeah, probably,” Mo Ran snorted. “But I’m not going to show off. This is passable enough, I guess, if you were a novice under Elder Xuanji.”

Xue Meng threw a wooden stick at Mo Ran’s head, who ducked it all too nimbly. The relief that flooded him at that moment was unreasonable. Xue Meng kicked himself, but his mouth quirked upward all the same. “Oh, fuck off.”

Mo Ran laughed once, and the shadows seemed to have shifted. The candlelight grew just a touch brighter. Xue Meng fixed his eyes on the notches he had made on that stick of wood; Longcheng was a proud, fearsome sword, more suited to the destruction on the battlefield than the delicate work of carving eyes and a nose into this wooden frame. It was a little ridiculous, Xue Meng thought, that wood could walk and move and protect. A mere instrument in their hands, imbued with their spiritual power, compelled to perform duties it had never asked for, and yet could never refuse.

He wondered if wood could feel. If wood understood what pain was when it was struck. The steel of sword and the steel of lightning. If, when the wood splintered under forces greater than it could withstand, it would also feel the cut deep within whatever sliver of soul had managed to form within its rings.

All wood had once been trees. Living things.

But that was impossible, Xue Meng scolded himself. Strange musings brought on by this strange town. 

After all, wood was just wood.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Mo Ran said. Xue Meng swallowed the lump in his throat that had formed without his knowing. The distance between them, a mere table apart, had seemed as insurmountable as that between Sisheng Peak and wherever it was that Mo Ran found fit to stay for longer than a fortnight or two.

The twisted pieces of wood, discarded from the remnants of their failed Holy Night Guardian, lay on the table between them, next to a jar of wine that the innkeeper managed to scrounge up from the kitchen. They eventually did succeed in making a passable rendition of their shizun’s invention, and that wooden puppet had started its first patrol of the outer perimeter of the village.

It had a crooked little face with a crooked little nose, with arms slightly uneven and a body halfway between ugly and pathetic. Mo Ran had shrugged helplessly when Xue Meng pointed at the way the little wooden puppet stood tilted to the side. Nonetheless, it worked.

It walked. 

It would fight, given time and opportunity.

“Oh.”

“There’s much to do in the world still.” It was as if Mo Ran wanted to argue the point for himself. He twisted the empty porcelain cup in his fingers, stroking at the hairline fracture that had formed on the surface of that fine bone after too many years of use, no matter how careful the washing had been. 

It was simply the way of the world, Xue Meng knew. And in this lower cultivation world, the reality of their lives was filled with far more decay and broken things than what lay just beyond the border into the upper cultivation realm.

“Where are you going?” Xue Meng only said. The wine had not yet gone to his head, although he knew it would, eventually. “Where haven’t you gone yet?’

“Jianghu is vast,” Mo Ran replied smilingly. Xue Meng truly looked at his cousin this time; Mo Ran had changed in recent years, not the least in the expanding span of his shoulders or the widening of his back. Or the ridiculous lengthening of his legs. It wasn’t the simple outfits of white that marked Mo-zongshi out in a crowd, and neither was it that gentle smile that Xue Meng never remembered from his rash cousin’s younger years.

Whatever it was that had changed, Xue Meng could not put it into words. But he could feel it in the way Mo Ran looked at him, the drag of time that had etched itself in that faraway gaze, as if Mo Ran had lived at least two lifetimes and carried the weight of them on those shoulders.

“Shizun would return soon,” Xue Meng noted, taking a sip of his wine. By etiquette, he should have turned away, hid his face behind his sleeve, but there had never been any ceremony between the two of them.

Their backs pressed against one another, dampened with blood and sweats. Their faces splattered with the gore of their targets’ guts, the stench of fresh blood clinging onto their skin for days, for weeks.

If shizun could have seen them then...

Mo Ran’s dark gaze shuttered, and for a quick moment, Xue Meng could swear that those eyes flashed a deep purple color. His cousin’s lips pressed into a thin line so uncharacteristic on that face; and yet, so many things that Xue Meng had never associated with his cousin had begun to be inextricable from that figure.

Mo-zongshi, Xue Meng had heard. Sometimes, when he looked at his cousin’s figure from far away, those white robes picking up the slight breeze of late summer, Xue Meng could almost swear that it was their shizun’s image on that dusty road.

It was only the smile on Mo-zongshi’s face that had distinguished them.

Mo Ran was not smiling now. “I’ll come back before he awakens.”

“How can you know for sure?” Xue Meng demanded. “Have you been counting the days?”

With a jolt, Xue Meng realized that he had not. Four years ago, Xue Meng would have sworn up and down that his life would halt until shizun returned to them.

Each day that passed without his shizun’s commanding presence would have been too unbearable.

And yet, he bore them all. Days turned into weeks turned into months, and soon enough, four years had already passed. Life seemed to move on even when he least wanted it to, and Xue Meng thought he could reach out for the stream of time, wade his fingers through the soft water, and come up with the grains of sand that he had been searching for, undisturbed beneath that torrent. It was only time itself that had revealed to him exactly how foolish he was being.

The sand stayed. The water didn’t, and Xue Meng was carried along with the current.

Mo Ran said nothing, but there was a strange, enigmatic smile on his face. “I’ll be back in time, don’t you worry. You think I’ll let you take all the credit with shizun without me there?”

Xue Meng punched his cousin’s shoulder, thankful that they had taken their armor off for the night. Clad only in their inner sleeping robes, Xue Meng could almost believe they were back in that inn of long ago, refreshed from the hotspring, with shizun just a step behind them as they bickered their way back to their upstairs rooms.

It had been a long time since that inn.

“You know there’s a place for you at Sisheng Peak,” Xue Meng found himself saying without knowing why. The lump in his throat had grown in size; he downed the rest of the wine and filled their cups to the brim again. This time, his words came out slurred. “It’s still your home.”

Mo Ran’s face stiffened, and there was a shadow in that gaze that seemed to hint at things only spoken aloud between the last breath of the night and the first blush of dawn, shrouded in the mist that seemed to descend upon the earth for that particular instant before the sunlight cleared it all away. Xue Meng would have asked his stupid cousin what it was he still thought could be hidden between them, but Mo Ran already shook his head and smiled. “I know. It is my home. It’s simply not time yet.” 

“You’re just hiding,” Xue Meng accused. He wanted to say more. Horrifyingly, there was a tight pressure building up just behind his nose, spilling forth as warm wetness that slid down his face and stained the cracks between the dirty wooden table. “You…”

He wanted to say more, but the words would not come out between the sobs that shook his entire body.

Shizun was already gone, Xue Meng wanted to say. And you would rob me of yet another.

How selfish of you. 

How very like you. 

Even the words spoken in anger, at their very worst, when the vitriol was too much to bear, still bore some remnant of truth.

Slowly, cautiously, Mo Ran reached out a hand for his shoulder. “There, there.”

“S-stupid Mo Weiyu,” Xue Meng managed, swallowing air between the syllables. “You are so stupid.”

“Yeah,” Mo Ran sighed, shifting closer. The hand on his shoulder seemed to emanate warmth far beyond that of an ordinary person; through that thin layer of fabric, Xue Meng felt a rush of something almost like spiritual energy from his cousin’s fingers, knowing that it was all too absurd to feel such a sensation when no such transfer took place. Mo Ran seemed to have that effect on people, much to Xue Meng’s chagrin. “I’m stupid. Xue Meng, come here.”

“No,” Xue Meng hiccupped, hugging the wine gourd to his chest.

“I’m coming over then,” Mo Ran warned. “Don’t hit me.”

“I’m not.” A pause. A sob. “Not promising anything.”

Mo Ran’s shoulder was solid, broader than his own. Xue Meng buried his face into it, letting his tears stain the white of Mo Ran’s robes. His cousin sighed, patted his back awkwardly, and must have looked upward at the ceiling. The slight jostle to his frame suggested as such. “I know you miss him.”

“Who doesn’t miss him?” Xue Meng snarled, but the heat was gone. The words were curtained in tears, shrouded in grief, and every syllable struggled against the jerks of his throat. “You stupid dog.”

“You haven’t called me that in a long time,” Mo Ran commented.

“I haven’t seen you in a l-long time,” Xue Meng stubbornly replied. Mo Ran fingers pried away the wine cup from his hand, set it down on the table, and resumed that stuttered task of patting his back. “Stop touching me.”

“Are you going to stop crying?”

“I’m not crying.”

Mo Ran pushed him away. “You’re not a child anymore, Mengmeng. Don’t lie like that anymore.”

Xue Meng’s lips trembled; he willed them to stop, but his body had never liked to listen to his mind too much. “I…”

“It’s okay,” Mo Ran said. His eyes stretched into long, thin lines, softened by an emotion that Xue Meng could not identify. The corners of Mo Ran’s mouth turned upward even as his brows were weighed down by something heavier than grief. “I miss him too.”

It was the first time he had ever heard his cousin admit that.

Throughout all this time. Throughout all the times they had fallen asleep curled up in a dirty tent in a battlefield, washing up in whatever water they could find, scrubbing the blood from underneath their nails, Xue Meng had never once heard Mo Ran mentioned shizun.

Until now.

“Ge,” Xue Meng tried. “When will he be back?”

“Three hundred and ninety one days,” Mo Ran murmured.

That choking sound came from him. Xue Meng realized belatedly that it had started out as mocking laughter, turned too quickly into something unnameable. It was something he had realized for a long time, Xue Meng thought, the way words sometimes would not suffice, and yet there was nothing to do but cling clumsily to whatever sentiment could be expressed through that inadequacy.

I miss him, Xue Meng wanted to say. You miss him, too.

The words had been spoken, and yet, they might as well have been weightless for how little they truly meant. Platitude. Useless sentiment that talked of everything and conveyed nothing.

Sometimes, the words that mattered the most were the ones least expected.

Three hundred and ninety one days.

“Ge.”

“Go to sleep, Xue Meng,” Mo Ran said. “We still have to teach the village how to use the Holy Night Guardian tomorrow.”

“It’s cold,” Xue Meng whined, and his cousin sighed. The warmth left; Xue Meng shivered relentlessly in his thin robes, and then, from behind, a warm cover had replaced the warmth of Mo Ran’s hand.

His cousin had taken the pile of blanket on the floor and wrapped it around him. “Don’t be a brat. You’ve withstood worse.”

But I don’t want to, Xue Meng thought helplessly, peering up under lashes ladened with tears.

Mo Ran regarded him for a moment, sighed, and ruffled his hair. “Go to sleep.”

“Don’t go,” Xue Meng found himself asking. “Ge. Don’t leave.”

A deep sigh. The candlelight was close to extinguished; the wax pooled on that wooden table, the wick almost completely submerged in the melted wax. The shadows on the wall seemed lighter; when there was no light in the world, the shadows, too, melted away.

“I’ll be back,” Mo Ran said, and Xue Meng’s eyes slipped shut.

Mo Ran would be back. Xue Meng knew this to be true. And yet, time ticked away without regard for man’s wishes, and the sand of today will simply remain under that current until one day, a pair of eyes will open in that Red Lotus Pavilion, and this time, the stream would push along whatever rested on that riverbed, sand and silt and stones smoothed by the ever flowing current.

Three hundred and ninety one days.

Xue Meng had been waiting for a long time already.

[monchikyun]

VIII. soulmates

“You wanna do it now… or?”

That has been his spontaneous plan in the first place, but when it’s about to come true, Connor starts hesitating. For some reason, he feels like he’s deceiving Gavin.

Maybe because he, as a matter of fact, is. The explanation he gave him was only a half-truth. A plausible excuse concealing his ulterior motives. For all he really wants is to belong to someone.  He wants to have a piece of Gavin etched inside of him for the times when he’s all alone and needs something tangible to bring him back from those bleak depths his mind likes to explore so. He needs a real proof of their mutual bond, so he can try and subdue his fear of abandonment.

It’s probably foolish, but he likes to think that they are bound together by their shared past. Gavin has been a vital part of his life for most of its span so-far, therefore it’s only natural that Connor would put so much importance on their relationship. But he hasn’t expected that one day he’ll hold desires which would go beyond what’s commonly acceptable between two friends. It seems to him almost sinful because he can’t give Gavin the things he’s most likely looking for. Connor’s not technically a man, barely a human being. Too damaged to hold much value anymore.

Even tonight, when his mind stopped working in the way it should and he had to be saved again, he wondered how the detective still keeps up with his ceaseless issues.

Connor can only blame himself for doing him such a disservice just because his heart has decided that this is the one missing piece to the puzzle of his cursed existence.

And he has promised himself to listen to his questionable rationale rather than what his tumultuous emotions tell him, but it’s getting more difficult by the minute. If only Gavin kept hating him, he wouldn’t be in this predicament then. Though it seems like his pretty friend is dealing with his own set of quandaries. His eyes are probing Connor like he’s trying to figure out the answer before he receives it, fingers restlessly tapping a furious rhythm on his knee. 

“If you don’t mind.”

He does a quick search for the right protocol that will allow them to proceed with this agreement. It will be like signing ownership papers, but with spoken words instead of pen and paper.

“Should I do something?” Connor loves seeing Gavin this flustered, it suits him much better than the frown he usually wears at work.

“Not really, just speak your name when I ask you to, I’ll do all the rest.”

“Didn’t think that deviants could still do that.“

“We’re pretty much the same as when we were before, it’s just that now we have almost unlimited control over the computer side of our being.”

“So I guess the human side is an unmanageable mess then.”

“You would know.”

Gavin laughs at that - Connor’s favourite sound that tempts him to join his friend and enjoy the moment for once, but he’s aware that just letting himself feel good would result in venturing further into forbidden territory. Even now he longs for some kind of physical connection. A small touch to alleviate the ache coursing through his high-strung body.

Soon.

“There. Now repeat after me: I, Gavin Reed, deem this android as my lawful property and will care for it in disrepair and fully-“

“Wait a phcking minute. There is no way I’m saying that.”

It seems Connor has gotten what he wanted out of that nonsense, so he secretly snaps a picture of his dearest blushing beauty and saves it among all the others he keeps for rainy days.

He gives Gavin a wide grin he has mastered over the year as compensation, so it’s a fair trade.

“Just your name is enough.”

He officially records his voice and scans his retinas so there is no doubt that he is owned by none other than the man who has rescued him from the hell of self-condemnation.

“Now I just need your fingerprint.” Connor opens his palm to him, letting the upper skin-layer disappear. An action that prompts him to interface with something,... someone. 

It’s not unfortunate that Gavin isn’t an android like him, but sometimes he wishes they were a bit more similar so they could communicate without having to struggle with words as they do on a regular basis.

“Press your thumb here.” Gavin looks captivated by the white plastic that shows who he really is, and the more Connor waits for him to do what he’s been asked, the more nervous he gets. It’s not like they didn’t hold hands before, so why does it still make him this self-conscious.

Maybe it’s because no organic human has ever touched his naked skin, not in any way. It’s not a big deal, but it still means something to him. He’s really grateful that Gavin gets to be the first.

A warm, calloused finger connects with his bare palm and Connor immediately closes his eyes, as if on instinct. He almost forgets to extract the print and assign it to the ownership file.

The sensation isn’t particularly pleasant, at least not more than when he wears his second skin, it’s just that he can’t believe that it’s actually done, that Gavin has indulged him with this whole impulsive process.

And now, he really has someone. Both in his heart and in his files. Of course, he has fragments of Gavin saved all over his system, but having an official link to the man is something else,… something special.

“Done.” He finally opens his eyes to see if the man next to him doesn’t regret getting involved in this.

But Gavin just studies him with an absent look, his eyes glossy like they’re about to dissolve and leak over.

“Thank you,” Connor whispers and starts putting his hand back to its default state.

“Don’t.” He’s never seen someone appear so fragile, so full of uncertain determination. “Can I?”

His trembling hand is getting closer to Connor’s, and oh yes, he has to at this point.

-

They sit next to each other in complete silence, hearts beating, fingers intertwined. No empty space is left between them in this precious moment.

“Hey, Con?”

“Hm?”

“Do you suppose androids have souls?”

“I’d like to think we do, yes.”

“...Will you be my mate then?”

Connor lowers his head on the most comfortable place in the world – also known as Gavin’s shoulder, and wills his tears away.

But when has he ever succeeded in controlling his feelings.

“Maybe I already am.”

And maybe he’s stupid enough to believe that as Gavin finally returns the gesture and lays his head on him, covering his soul in brilliant warmth.

@a-convin-new-year

[doodleimprovement]

A Hat in Time :: The Nutcracker AU :: 1st Climax and 2nd Rising Action

Wooo, after this, there’s only one more update! 

Maybe I’ll get this done before the holiday, who knows :3c

Enjoy Clara’s senseless bravery, and Francesca’s ceaseless desire to help! 

1st Climax: 

Clara: 

Clara watches as the Queen of the Cats tells the Nutcracker how excited she is to finally beat him, and how the Kingdoms of Snow and Sweets will finally be hers. The Nutcracker is knocked back, working on getting up with the Queen brandishing her claws. Just as she’s about to swipe down at him, a small slipper nails her straight in the face with enough force to knock her back, and her attention is drawn to the little girl staring at her with all the misguided bravery and conviction an 8 year old can muster. 

Clara immediately regrets her decision when the Queen’s claws turn towards her, but the Queen is stopped by a sword - the Nutcracker getting in her way, and said soldier tells Clara to run - calling her by name and she does as she’s told, but sees something that might help and heads towards it. 

Getting the help of one of the toy soldiers - joined by a few more, the group uses a book up on the table next to the tree to push it down and damage the Queen’s “artillery”, and the destruction distracts her, and it's just enough for the Nutcracker to take the upper hand, stabbing his sword clean through her - defeating her and causing the other cats to retreat in fear. 

The soldiers and Clara cheer in victory, before Clara jumps down onto the chair she used to climb to the table, and then, while making eye contact with the nutcracker, jumps down to him. He manages to catch her, but scolds her for doing that and seems a bit high strung after everything that occurred. She asks how he knows her name and he retorts that he was aware and conscious the entire time that she was playing with him - only just now realizing that this nutcracker is in fact “The Snatcher” 

Francesca: 

Francesca, meanwhile, sees that Vanessa and Ludwig have been in correspondence, with Ludwig saying that he was searching for his missing brother, and also seeing his notes on curse breaking, putting things together pretty simply. Her eyes scanned over his notes about his brother’s curse - written in a weird, “if you know then i don’t need to explain it” kind of way, but she starts to put together that Vanessa definitely knows something, talking about Lukas as if she knows where he is, and that she hopes he’s not “toying around”, which Ludwig takes much umbridge with as his brother “has never been like that”, with her responding that he’d “be surprised.”

Ludwig finds her in his office, and in a slightly frazzled state asks her what she’s doing, and she doesn’t bother explaining herself, immediately telling him that Vanessa’s letters are suspicious - pointing out perhaps the most damning detail - that she knows that Lukas disappeared at night, something that no one else knows but Ludwig, because he was there to help his brother (something she read in the man’s journal). Not to mention that Lukas wasn’t pronounced missing until two days later, and, perhaps most damningly to Vanessa, she claimed that she’d left their home the night Lukas went missing, so there was absolutely no way that she could have known when he went missing unless… 

Ludwig, in a sudden burst of alarm, picks up Francesca out of his chair and puts her on the desk, looking back through the documents and seeing the other red flags, as well as her accusatory language. He seems disbelieving still, but he grabs a book off the shelf that he’d gotten from his family's library, and opens it to a frayed page, written in an old, dead language, but recognizing handwriting in the margins with the translation of the spell. It was Vanessa’s. The looping of her As and the crossing of her Ts gave her away. 

Ludwig sits back in his chair, disbelieving and bewildered that he hadn’t put it together before this.. 

Second Rising Action: 

Clara: 

The Nutcracker stated that he has to return to the Land of Sweets, to report to the Sugar Plum Fairy. Clara asked if she could join him, and he snapped at her that of course he’s taking her with him. She wasn’t supposed to be here, or shrunken down in the first place! Clara pouted at him and scolded him for yelling, leaving him sheepish as he led his army of toy soldiers under the chair, where there was a “portal” into the Snow Kingdom. 

Clara jumped out of the Nutcracker’s arms, and ran forward into the land, fascinated and excited at the beauty and magic of it all, the Nutcracker freaking out when she slips on the ice and he catches her just in time, scolding her, but much softer this time - seemingly learning from his last scolding of her already. She still rolls her eyes though, and starts rushing ahead again. Exasperated, he chased after her right up until they got to the gates of the snow castle. She starts talking to the snow guards before he catches up and tells them to let the king know that the Queen of the Cats is dead. 

They are called into the castle, where the king greets them with much joy and excitement. He thanks the nutcracker, and Clara buts in and says that she helped and the king - a man with children of his own, also congratulates her, offering the two of them sweets and to stay for a little while - stating that his children were happy and willing to perform a celebration “ceremony”. Clara excitedly says yes, and - when it looks like the nutcracker might say no, she gives him a very adorable pouty face and he caves. 

The prince and princess appear, with the princess showing off her annoyed attitude and the prince looking super excited to perform. Clara banters with them a bit before taking a seat next to the Nutcracker and they watch the prince and princess put on a spectacular ice magic show - think the ballet but with Elsa’s ice powers. The Nutcracker takes some moments to explain how the magic works and some of the visual tricks, and is pleased when Clara seems interested and talks about how amazing all of it is. 

The performance ends, and Clara excitedly claps and compliments them endlessly, while the Nutcracker speaks with the king, who gives him a cape for Clara to wear, since it is “awfully cold, don’t you think?” The Nutcracker - literally a wooden toy- hadn’t even thought of that. He calls Clara over, and drapes the cloak over her to keep her warm, telling her they have to go on their way to the Land of Sweets. Clara excitedly wonders if she’ll be able to eat everything there as the Nutcracker leads her out, and they make their way to the open road, where they head off to the Sugar Plum Fairy’s domain. 

Francesca: 

Francesca watches Ludwig try to collect himself, and she asks, as gently as she can manage, what happened. Ludwig explains to her that his brother was cursed, and that he had spent the last two years looking for a way to break it, but he never knew who did it, or now, and with Francesca’s insight, he realized that it had been his brother’s finance - one of the few people he trusted while on his journey. They had been in constant correspondence for those two years and he’s only realizing through rereading just how thoroughly he’d been tricked by her. (There is a lot of dialog here as well as a few flashbacks, so it's like, just as long as the previous section, but I’m just summing it up here) 

Frannie tries to comfort him, asking if now that he knows who did it, if that helps him at all, and he tells her yes, that knowing that Vanessa did this to his brother helps immensely, explaining that now he can look specifically for the curse that she translated and its various permutations for a curse breaker. The little girl than asks how she can help, and he looks at her, feeling her burning desire to help him right in his chest. He gets up and grabs a book, telling her that she needs to help him look for similar curses with similar ancient symbols. 

She nods and the two of them begin to look…

[userarchive]

Unexpected Circumstances Ch 11

Warnings: Language, talk of the job/sex trafficking. A/N: Y’all this took a fcking WEEK to work through cause there was so much detailing to pay attention to. Sue me if things aren’t accurate/canon/whatever. I think it turned out okay enough?!

**

To say you were practically exhausted would nearly be an understatement at this point. Living undercover was never easy, but with it being the Christmas season simply made things worse, parties were larger, filled with more people you needed to document, the drugs and alcohol moved freely through them, you dealt with more suppliers than any other time of year. You’d finally made your way past Christmas day, relishing in a couple of days of relaxation. Alejandro ordered a feast of delicacies, mimosa’s with breakfast and far too expensive wine with dinner, gifting you with the diamond bracelet you so ‘obviously deserved’ over lunch. While you had to admit, living the high life was something you did sometimes miss from your childhood, you were more than happy knowing there were only six days until SVU would make the bust, only six bullshit parties until you’d finally be free from this specific hell.

It was the evening of the 26th, you’d wrapped up Christmas, the penthouse returning to its normal decoration, prepping for the New Years Eve party. You’d set up a number of rooms for clients and girls, the top wing where your and Alejandro’s rooms were clearly off limits, but you had security placed at the top of that staircase. You traipsed down the stairs, heels in your hand, hair curled loosely around your shoulders, blue dress hugging every inch of your body like no tomorrow. The log book tucked under your arm, a smirk on your lips as you met Alejandro’s gaze.

“You ready?” You asked at the base of the stairs, slipping your feet into the heels, “Should be an easy night.”

“I’m just waiting for the 31st Chiquita.” He replied. You gave him a soft smile, happily indulging into the food he’d ordered for the two of you, gratefully accepting the glass of champagne he poured for you.

Slowly over the next couple of hours the girls started to arrive, escorted by their pimps/madams, you were quick to baby them, reminding them that when they were in your house, they didn’t need to do anything they didn’t want to. Anything unacceptable happens, they were to call you, and you’d fix the situation. You were quick to remind the pimps that it was, your house, your rules, you knew most of the girls that came through your parties were of age and willingly doing this, but there was always a limit of no. If they didn’t want it, you didn’t allow it and you were definitely going to kick a customer out and red list him from as many parties as possible.

A few hours later and the party was in full swing, you had a good handful of perps throughout the suite, everything was going smoothly, the money, booze and drugs were flowing smoothly. Alejandro kept a protective eye while you finished up the books, handing you a fresh glass of champagne when you flipped the book shut, letting out a hefty sigh. You passed it off to one of the nearby security guards, insisting he put it upstairs where you kept the others. 

“You okay Mija?” He questioned as you moved from the island, facing the extravagant living room.

“Yeah.” You ran a hand through your hair as you took a hefty gulp of the alcohol “I just have a bad feeling about tonight…” You glanced up at him,  “I think you should get out of here.”

“And what? Leave you to deal with the blow out on your own?” You tossed him a wicked grin,

“We both know all I have to do is shed a few tears and flip on a few of these idiots and I’ll be walking away with a misdemeanour. That last bust…wasn’t vice, sex crimes is onto us now. The target on our back is getting bigger.” Your words were quietly muttered into the rim of your champagne flute, eyes watching the room. 

“Well it sounds like you know the drill, do exactly that, and we run. How do you feel about the French Polynesia? Sure beats the New York winter.” You rolled your eyes at his comment. Sure, a tropical getaway of a vacation sounded fucking wonderful right about now, but the last thing you wanted was another year under. You took a swig of champagne, leaving the glass on the counter, muttering that you were going to do a quick round of the house, not that you would find any trouble upstairs. Oh no, the trouble was walking in the door while you made your way back down the staircase.

“You really think you can throw a party on my turf without me darlin’?” Fucking Declan.

“Last I checked you weren’t invited O’Rourke.” You strode towards him, hands settling on your hips, “Not to mention this isn’t your turf.”

“C’mon sweetheart, you forget what I have to offer?” You scoffed at that, noticing Alejandro cautiously moving towards the two of you.

“Oh, what!? Strung out sixteen year olds?!” A hand wildly gestured to the four girls behind him, obviously under age and obviously not sober. “You’re just here to pretend you’re fancy when you are in fact, a piece of trash. Get the fuck out of here.”  Your personal rage towards the man, knowing that he still had his bosses convinced that he was undercover when he was in fact a criminal, blinded you from noticing him pulling the gun from inside his coat. You yelped as he crashed the butt of it into the side of your head, yelling something about how you were no better than a stupid whore.

“HEY!” The shout came from Alejandro, he moved to push Declan against a wall but you were a hot second faster, a heel to the balls, you had the gun out of his hand and unloaded in a matter of seconds, tossing the magazine to the floor in the direction of the nearest security. Nonetheless he shoved his shoulders hard enough to send the other man stumbling in the direction of the elevator. You heard the all too familiar ‘gun!’ shout with just enough time to look up at Alejandro.

“Run!” Grasping your hand he tugged you towards the back entrance, you were halfway through the door when ESU caught you, coming from that entrance. The cops behind them were more than quick to wrench you and Alejandro apart, no doubt knowing exactly who you were, and catching the big fish was more important than trying to gather up minnows.

‘You have got to be fucking kidding me…’

***

You knew hours had passed, you’d been taken down to the 2-4 and very unceremoniously tossed into an interrogation room, at least they’d been generous enough to un-cuff you and give you an ice pack for the pistol whipping you’d taken. Whenever a bust happened with you and Alejandro they were always going to send in the big guns, and they usually let you wait it out while they started with him. You’d collapsed yourself against the cold metal table, legs dangling off the edge, you couldn’t believe this, five days, five fucking days until SVU was supposed to make the bust. You were livid with whatever dumb ass Captain approved the bust without communicating to other units, and on the 26th of all days?! It was your smallest party, aside from the added bonus of Declan in cuffs, there was no upside to this whatsoever.

With the sound of the door opening, you lolled your head to the side, annoyed expression on your face matching the one on man who walked in, clearly Alejandro wasn’t talking.

“Get up.” Shooting a glare at the way he kicked the leg of the table, you rolled your eyes. Stereotypical, send in the big burly guy to play bad cop with the Queen. You knew who he was, and if Elliot Stabler was questioning you, Organized Crime seemed to also be on your tail.

“Make me.” It slipped out before you stop yourself. It was late, way too late for you to be strapped into a too tight dress and stilettos, you knew you were either spending the night in a holding cell or heading back to your precinct to work the case, your attitude wasn’t exactly ideal. Stabler sighed heavily, grabbing the leg of the table by your head and giving it a hefty tug, pulling it out from under you causing you to nearly topple over as your heels met the floor. He moved back in front of you, a tilt of the head, smirk on his lips, sizing you up as he moved in closer.

“Your King’s not talking, figured maybe you’d be more up for it.”

“Am I supposed to be afraid of you?” You cocked a brow, “Cause it certainly isn’t working, this whole, bad cop thing? Hasn’t aged well.”

“Sit down.” 

“And I suppose you want me to not shut up this time.” The only reason you even considered obeying the order was the aching in your feet from being in heels all night, “What does Organized Crime want with us anyways. It’s usually Vice.” He stalled slightly at that, making you smirk, you loved having the upper hand on men like him.

“Someone let it slip on the way in?”

“Oh…no. Sergeant Stabler, you know who I am, why shouldn’t I know who you are?” Yeah…this was definitely Organized Crime’s first time dealing with the royalty of Manhattan. “Shame you didn’t run your little op past the other departments, would’ve heard New Year’s was the night to go in.”

“What, you got cops working for you? Letting you know the little secrets so you can evade arrest?”

“Am I under arrest Sergeant?” You gave a smirk at the sigh he released in response.

“Technically, we don’t have anything on you…yet.”

“That’s what I thought.” You stood from the table, eager to get the fuck out of the unfamiliar precinct and back to the confines of your own. You barely noticed Stabler moving faster than you could imagine behind you. The door never made it open, you were jerked backwards, his hand closed around your wrist, 

“I said yet.” You felt the cement of the wall hit your body, head ricocheting off it, his forearm pressing into your collarbone. Your hand shot up, fingers hitting his parotid, the reaction causing his elbow to slam into you mouth, you felt your lip split as he stumbled from you. You were done playing, and you were certainly done playing the good girl role.

“You touch me again and I’ll have IAB so fucking far up your ass you won’t be able to shit for a month. Do I make myself clear?”

“Playing the cop angle now? You just assaulted a police officer.” He shot back, still right up in your face, rubbing the spot behind his ear you’d hit.

“Oh wow, I’m so scared! A class C felony, mark yourself down for the same offence. I’m undercover you moron.” You growled at him, if there were this many different departments on your ass there was no way you were going to be able to hide for six months, much less restart the ring afterwards.

“Yeah, right.” He scoffed, “Colour of the day?”

“Gold.” You shot back. Your heart immediately dropping into your stomach when you saw the laugh on his lips. Fuck. Gold was the 31st, you’d been so focussed on the SVU bust you’d forgotten today’s.

“Nice try.” He smirked, “Now you can either sit your ass down in that chair and tell us everything you know about Alejandro Martinez, or you can go to jail for solicitation and that assault collar.”

“I don’t make deals with cops. I make deals with A.D.A’s.” You crossed your arms over your chest, “And you’ll never find the evidence you need in the penthouse even if I do flip on Alejandro.”

“What exactly is it you want then?”

“Take me back to the apartment, I’ll get you what you want, but you take me to A.D.A. Carisi at the 16th. And in the meantime you can call Rita Calhoun ‘cause I’m not saying another word without my lawyer.” He gave out a huff at that, 

“Fine.” You rolled your eyes when he pulled the cuffs from his belt, thankful at the very least that he cuffed your hands in the front, giving you a little bit more movement ability.

**

All you could do on the way to the 1-6 was pray that some amount of the squad was there, preferably Olivia or Fin, you knew Sonny would’ve been called, and honestly felt horrible for dragging Rita out of bed in the middle of the night for literally nothing. No matter what kind of facts you relayed to Stabler he wasn’t about to believe the fact that you were a cop. You’d spewed off your badge number so fast you’d accidentally swapped the last two numbers, the exhaustion and multiple glasses of champagne wearing on you by then. Thankfully you’d been able to retrieve what you needed from the penthouse, before being not so gently shoved into the back of the cop car on the way to your own workplace. 

The desk sergeant was nearly asleep as the three of you made your way into the precinct, not noticing that their apparent perp was someone he saw nearly every day. Elliot’s partner was carrying the books you’d grabbed from the house. It was when you finally made your way into the bullpen that he dropped the heavy books down onto an open desk, gaining the attention of the minimal people in the room.

“Doll..Oh ma god.” Sonny took one look at you before nearly freaking out, “Imma grab some ice.” His lips hit the unbruised side of your head lightning fast before Rita spoke up.

“Un cuff her now!” The outburst brought Olivia out of her office, and exhausted look on her face that mirrored yours.

“Why should I?” Stabler shot back,

“Because she’s one of mine! Jesus El.”

“She had the wrong colour of the day.” You rolled your eyes, thankful at the release of the metal on your wrists, rubbing at the reddened skin of your wrists.

“Montgomery, you okay?” Olivia asked softly, noticing the marks on your face.

“Yeah,” You murmured, “No thanks to your old partner.” You accepted the bag of ice from Sonny, alternating it between your lip and purpling eye, “Murphy showed up at the party, fucking pistol whipped me.” You turned back to Stabler, “Keep him in fucking custody, guy’s dirty, has been for years.” You felt Sonny’s arms wrap around you, the shaky exhale of his breath making you realize just how relived he was to have you in his arms again, how happy he was you were okay. You gave him a gentle squeeze with your free arm before pulling away, turning to Rita. “Sorry to drag you out at this hour, but you know how these guys won’t stop until they hear the word lawyer.”

“You sure you’re okay?” She asked, giving your arm a gentle squeeze as you nodded.

“Yeah, get outta here.” Rita was an old family friend, she was always your go to when you needed a lawyer over the years of undercover work, even if she never actually had to defend, you were always quick to buy her dinner for waking her up. You turned to Benson, “Cap, I’ve got the books, call in Kat and Fin if you wanna start working on the case.” You shot a glare back to Stabler, “And for the love of God, keep Martinez in custody this time, but do not mention anything about me being a cop, understand? On the rare chance he gets off or doesn’t have a reason for arrest, I don’t need him knowing I’m a UC.” He glanced up to Olivia for confirmation, who simply gave him the very obvious nod, 

“She’s been working this ring for nearly 8 years, I’d trust her if I were you.”

“Okay.” He held up his hands in defeat, “I’ll send the case your way.”

“Thank you.” You practically groaned, your eyes back on your Captain, “Please tell me I can at least power nap before the others get here?”

“Yes.” She gave you a soft smile, noticing how you grabbed Sonny’s hand, “Hey! No funny business.”

“Liv I’m too tired to even think about that right now.” You called over your shoulder as you dragged him into the bunk room. Even if it was only going to be twenty minutes, twenty minutes curled in your husbands arms was the only way you wanted to end today. 

[agoodgoddamnshot]

Opulence [E] - Geralt/Jaskier

[Gif not mine]

Posted originally on my AO3 account - Rated E

Jaskier seems to follow his reputation like a shadow. More often than not, stories of the bard are already in a town or city by the time they actually arrive. For the most part, Geralt has to deal with the fallout of cuckolded men whose courtships or engagements or even marriages have been affected by the bard, in one way or another. It’s easy enough; noblemen, other bards, or even the occasional innkeeper take one look at Geralt – and Jaskier, who always seems to hide just behind the larger man – and tuck tail. On the occasion where ones may pick a fight, it’s not really fair at all. Noblemen, who’ve been taught to fight by great swordmasters, but never have seen so much as a drunken tavern brawl, often end up on the floor with little to no effort.

And while he knows that Jaskier doesn’t go cavorting with the affiances of the upper class anymore – because, for the past few months, it’s been his bed that Jaskier finds himself in – he does have to wonder just how many trysts the man had before settling firmly with Geralt.

“Oh, you don’t want to know,” Jaskier sighs into Geralt’s shoulder. The man has an arm firmly around the bard’s shoulders. His skin is speckled with sweat – a waste, after spending so long in a much-needed bath following days of travelling. But Jaskier just wouldn’t leave him the fuck alone when they were downstairs, drinking in one corner of the inn. Now, though, Geralt’s bard has a sleepy, contented smile lacing his lips.

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “What if I do? I want to know how many towns and cities we probably won’t be allowed into just because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.”

“You’re one to talk. You have people speak about you as well, Witcher.” Jaskier laughs. A light little thing, mostly into Geralt’s chest. “Between the both of us, we might as well just travel south and hope that the rumours stop at the border.”

One rumour that he is arguably grateful for, however, is how highly people thought of Jaskier’s singing at Cintra. Foreign lords and ladies had been at the banquet. Geralt had watched them; joyfully singing and clapping along with reels and polkas that Jaskier had played. He can only imagine when they travelled back to their own homesteads, rumours of the bard’s singing went with them.

An invite comes. How the message finds them, he isn’t entirely sure. All he does know is that a feast is being hosted in an affluent town almost a two-day ride from their current lodgings. “Oh, don’t be like that,” Jaskier all but pouts as Geralt fetches Roach’s saddle. The mare regards both men for a moment, before going back to her hay. With Geralt’s back to them, Jaskier fishes a small sugar cube out of his pocket and holds it out for the mare. Her ears twitch, and she knickers softly at the treat, but this is still their secret. She still won’t let him on her back without Geralt, but at least Jaskier can be in the same space as the mare without fear of being kicked in the shin. Jaskier wipes the small string of horse spit from his hand and watches Geralt set about tacking her up. “I followed you half-way around the country, into all manners of situations. You can do the same for me, can’t you?”

Geralt huffs. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

Setting Roach’s saddle snugly on her back, Geralt looks over at Jaskier. “Anytime you say for me, you expect me to drop everything and do what you want.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of Jaskier’s lip. He pets Roach’s muzzle before walking over to Geralt. The Witcher grunts softly, making a few last adjustments to the placement of Roach’s gear, before fetching the girth underneath her stomach. He barely has a chance to attach it to the saddle before he feels Jaskier all but drape against his side. The stables of the inn are well-kept. Stalls are divided by wooden planks that run from the ground to the ceiling. In private, and sheltered from the wandering eyes of stablehands, Jaskier presses a light kiss to Geralt’s neck. “Please?” he mumbles against the skin, smirking as he trails his nose along a tendon there. “For me?”

Geralt turns, catching Jaskier’s lips in a kiss that, if he wasn’t completely aware of how discreet they have to be, would become so much more. Jaskier still doesn’t move his hands though; one on the small of Geralt’s back, and the other holding on to a forearm. When he pulls away, Jaskier tries to follow, but a barked order from one of the grooms to a nearby stableboy makes him pull away.

“Siren,” Geralt sighs. He would follow Jaskier anywhere. The bard knows that. He’s abused that fact. But the city they’re heading to has a reputation; draped in gold with springs of silver in the main square, it’s opulence at its finest. And Geralt is pretty sure that, although he’ll appreciate the comfy bed and the nice food they’ll be provided with, he’s going to fucking hate the rest of it.

Gathering Roach’s reins, Jaskier smiles brightly. “It’ll be great,” Jaskier says, as though he’s a mindreader all of a sudden. Then again, Geralt has different kinds of scowls. And Jaskier is just very good at reading them.

The city is everything he expected it to be. High, thick walls encase it, shielding it from a forest on one side and the foot of a mountain on the other. The main road into the city is packed with other travellers. Merchants with horse-drawn carriages walk alongside them, selling everything from cloth to spices and herbs to books. Sentries line the top of the walls, with their gleaming armour so polished that the sun, perched high in the air, makes them shine like beacons.

Two guards vet everyone approaching the gates. Both Geralt and Jaskier pass with little trouble. The letter that had been delivered to them has the royal sigil stamped on to one corner of the page. A guard with a battle-worn face merely waved them through.  

Each person that they pass on the main road through the town seems clad in silks and cottons, with their heads adorned in shawls or headpieces or tropical flowers.

Even the gutters running along either side of the cobblestones look spotless.

Jaskier nudges Geralt’s side. “You look even more constipated than usual,” he remarks, fiddling with the letter. “Mind telling me why?”

It’s not the worst place they could be in. Nice cities mean nice inns, nice food, nice beds. But something Geralt wonders is why a city like this, pinned between a dense forest and a scaling mountain, sitting on a plateau of land with not much agriculture on it, could find its wealth. It doesn’t sit right with him. But he looks to his bard, and finds that he hasn’t given much of a verbal excuse. And Jaskier just keeps looking at him for an explanation. He sighs. “This is a city that is too nice.”

“Too nice,” Jaskier laughs. “You should hear yourself. You always complain about staying in the backrooms of people’s houses, and thin, uncomfortable mattresses. This will be the best we’ll have for a long time.”

Geralt never complains. He barely has enough wherewithal to clench his jaw shut. You’re the one who complains.

Instead, he breathes out a sharp sigh. “You’ll be singing in the king’s court, and what am I to do? Spend the night being your guard, again?”

Jaskier pets Roach’s neck. “Be my consort instead,” he looks up at Geralt with a spark in his eye.

He levels the bard with a look. “I’m not sure how people think about that sort of thing here.”

Jaskier shrugs. “Guess we’ll find out, then.”

“No, we won’t.”

“If you really do find the thought of spending the night with me appalling, then I’m sure there is something else you could be doing.” Jaskier huffs. Petting Roach’s muzzle, Jaskier then slows down slightly, walking along with Geralt. “I’m sure even a city like this has a pest problem,” Jaskier says quietly, smiling politely at a captain of a passing squad of patrolling guards. Geralt regards them. Chainmail, with heavy armour sitting on top of it. The royal crest is painted on to the breastplate. A plate, Geralt notes with a frown, with not a scratch on it.

They find themselves in a townhouse near the royal district. “We can’t just have anyone staying within the castle walls,” a spokesperson for the king smiles; one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I hope you understand.”

Jaskier nods. “Completely.” Someone comes to collect Roach and take her into the neighbouring stables. Geralt shrugs them off, leading the mare into the yard himself. Jaskier stays with the spokesperson, happy enough to talk about what etiquette is expected of him. Geralt can’t help but snort. Jaskier, for all of the rumours that would say otherwise, knows how to behave in front of dignitary.

He’ll just follow the bard’s lead.

If he’s going, that is.

Roach nudges him once he’s removed the last of her tack and strung up a net of hay for her. A knowing look sits in her eyes. “Don’t,” he points a finger, stepping out of the stall. She huffs.

A couple of hours stand between them having to leave for the banquet and now. The space is large enough for two double beds on either side of the room, and a bathtub that has already been brought up. On a nearby table, there’s a collection of salts and perfumes. Even with their caps on, the vials give off heavy aromas.

Jaskier fiddles with them, regarding each one carefully. It wasn’t a long trek from their last lodging; but muscles ache after a while, and he’s been on the road too long to ever refuse the offer of a bath.

Jaskier takes the cork off one of the vials. A pungent smell of lavender seeps into the room, and Geralt, even setting the last of his things down at the other side of the space, wrinkles his nose. “Unless you plan on falling asleep during your performance,” he says, “don’t use that.”

Jaskier closes the vial. A small frown creases his brow. “You can smell that all the way over there?”

“It’s not like I’m an entire country away, Jaskier.” Geralt slides the sheathes of both of his swords underneath one of the beds. They’ll lock the room when they leave, but he won’t be too careful. Geralt looks over his shoulder. For the first time in a long time, Jaskier hasn’t replied to a quip he’s made. Looking at the bard now, there’s a look on his face that he can’t entirely make out. “What?”

“Interesting,” Jaskier mumbles, picking up another vial.

It’s not the worst gathering he’s been to. The king – though, he finds out from a hoard of gossiping guards that he isn’t a king at all, but a man with grand notions of his place in the world – allows him to sit with the rest of them. Any friend of the bard is a friend of mine! Geralt’s eyes threaten to roll to the back of his head. But he settles for looking out on to the main hall, already packed with people who’ve had their fill of food and drink.

Long tables are laden with just about every meat Geralt can think of, with bowls packed with seasonal vegetables and spiced fruits in between each platter. Everyone seems merry; aided by the small army of servants wandering around to each table setting, filling goblets back up with ale and mead and wine just as soon as they’re empty.

When a server comes for his own goblet, Geralt covers the lid with his hand. “I’m fine,” he says gruffly. The server bows her head slightly, before going to the next person. It takes a lot of drink to even affect him, thanks to the mutations. He never quite understood it; a high metabolism, most likely. And he’s pretty sure that he would be able to get that volume of alcohol here, if he looked for it. The king seems keen for the visiting nobles to have a good time. Opinions easily bought with good food and drink.

But Geralt sits back in his chair, content to just watch his bard. A small gathering of others have joined him off to one side. The great hall is almost like a throne room; high vaulted ceilings held up by marble pillars. The space sprawls onwards, almost like fields. It would be impossible for Jaskier to play alone, and be heard by everyone. But he gives it a fair go.

Jaskier looks like he belongs there. A begrudging smile pulls at the corner of Geralt’s lip, threatening to show itself. He does his best to school his expression. Jaskier would never let him live it down if he saw that Geralt was actually enjoying himself.

Well, that’s not entirely true. He hasn’t so much as glanced at the dancing nobles in the middle of the grand hall. He’s fairly certain that a diplomat and her sister, or cousin, or daughter, have been talking to him for the past ten minutes; but he hasn’t taken in a single word.

After each song, Jaskier takes a moment to himself, looking out on to the applauding crowd. Geralt’s chest tightens. Stop, he has to keep telling himself. If he could shake the feeling away, he doesn’t know if he would. There was never any good in his life. Fleeting bed-partners came and went, as did faint flames of romances. This is different. A feeling churns his stomach and just won’t settle; simultaneously setting fire to his bones and making him shiver, as if a winter’s wind caught him off guard.

It’s frightening.

Jaskier looks at him first. After each song, he’ll seek out Geralt’s eyes from across the room, before smiling at him. Geralt can’t get over the fact that Jaskier’s eyes are so pale. Grey, with specks of blue in them. The golden lighting of the hall doesn’t do them any justice. Geralt lifts his chin in acknowledgement. Jaskier winks – a fucking wink – and moves on to the next song.

By the time the music finishes, gods’ know how many hours have passed. Geralt watches with some faint feeling of pride when those who had been dancing offer the first claps of applause, shouting for another couple of songs.

Nobles sitting alongside Geralt join in.

The most vocal of them sits in the centre. “Marvellous!” the king applauds, looking to each person beside him. “Wasn’t he just marvellous?”

There’s fevered agreement. Geralt watches it out of the corner of his eye, but ultimately settles for taking a long sip of wine. Jaskier holds his lute close to his chest, bowing his head in thanks. When he looks over to Geralt again, Geralt inclines his head. Well done. Because fuck if Jaskier is going to get a verbal praise out of him.

It’s enough for the bard. He places his hand on his heart and smiles. The minstrels that had accompanied him disperse back into the crowd, pulled into groups of chattering dignitaries. Geralt watches as Jaskier tries to navigate the room, serving between people, heading straight for the head table.

Because of where Geralt is, he’s the first person the bard seeks out. Up close, Geralt spies that the bard’s skin is speckled with sweat. And he seems slightly out of breath. Then again, Jaskier is never happy to just sing; insisting on dancing around the room whenever he can, getting a crowd going. The man is still so skinny, and Geralt has to wonder if that’s why.

Jaskier puts a hand on the back of Geralt’s chair. He tries not to shudder at the feeling of knuckles pressing into his back. The last time they had so much as brushed against each other had been before the doors to the hall opened, and they were both swept away to different sides of the room. Now, Geralt’s grip on his goblet tightens.

“Well, you big brute, did you enjoy yourself?” Jaskier leans down to Geralt. His eyes go to the man’s goblet, and must-see how white his knuckles have turned, because the grin that spreads across his face is just chaotic.

Geralt huffs. Jaskier plays his games. Geralt plays his own. “I didn’t want to throw myself off of the parapets, if that’s what you’re asking.”

The noblelady beside him balks slightly. Geralt grins. Something mirrored by the bard. “The highest of praise,” Jaskier marvels, patting Geralt’s shoulder. The touch scalds his skin, even through the layers of nice, formal clothes he had been almost-bribed to wear.

The king beckons him over. As Jaskier brushes Geralt’s back, moving towards the king, he lets his fingers trail over Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt tries his best to swallow a low growl.

A slight flourish of air signals that Jaskier has moved away. A scent follows, trailing along and skimming the bottom of Geralt’s nose. He allows himself to breathe it, for a moment. The air inside the grand hall had steadily become heavy with the scent of drink and food and sweat. Even when the tall lancet doors were open, leading out on to a large balcony looking over the city, the sea breeze wafting in couldn’t entirely chase the harsh scent away.

But what’s here now is different. All consuming.

Geralt looks over to Jaskier, sliding into a place made for him by the king’s side. 

Honey. Nutmeg. A slight trace of orange blossom. It’s a scent that coils around his chest and spreads along his veins, easing his muscles. For the first time during the entire night, the world around him all fades away.

Jaskier makes idle conversation with the king. What it’s about, Geralt isn’t entirely sure. Blood rushes through his ears, sounding like the crashing ocean outside, battering the nearby cliffs as the moon churns the sea.

He catches Geralt’s gaze out of the corner of his eye. Without turning fully away from the king, a loose, content smile curls along the bard’s lips. Geralt all but balks. He knows that smile – one that’s always painted over his bard’s face after nights spent together. One that he sees either before falling into bed, shortly after, or even in the morning hours.

One that is being sent his way, in front of the lords and ladies of gods know where, in front of an elite family. In front of other people who had been drafted to come to this event, all surely looking towards their table, seeing what the king thinks of the bard who performed all night.

Geralt schools his expression; a hard thing to do, when the grip on his goblet becomes so much, he worries vaguely about distending it.

That little siren—

Geralt, in his long life, has weathered some tough situations. But the walk back from the castle’s keep to their lodgings is definitely up there.

It doesn’t help at all that Jaskier, under a guise of being merry – the King just kept offering me drink, Geralt. I can’t turn him down! – all but drapes against his side. Their fingers brushed on the walk over, knuckles skimming each other, until Geralt tried outstretching his fingers to try and catch Jaskier’s. When the bard took it upon himself to press against Geralt’s side, one arm was flung loosely around his shoulders, while a hand placed itself on Geralt’s chest. Geralt tried biting back a growl when that particularly hand slipped underneath Geralt’s shirt, fingers skimming across his chest.

The temptation is there – stalking around in his brain. All he would have to do is drag Jaskier into a nearby street; a small alleyway where the guards aren’t patrolling, and one that they won’t even glance down. But gods, Jaskier would complain. We are not doing this like back-alley whores, Geralt. He can already hear the man’s voice in his head.

But he does hear something. He’s been playing with the man since stepping into that fool’s palace, casting glances and smirks across the grand hall, turning away coyly when Geralt wants to curse him out.

The inn is quiet. Stepping inside, Geralt is slightly surprised to find only a couple of men are posted by the bar keep’s counter. Another handful are by the hearth, mugs of mead in hand, chatting quietly among themselves. It’s a change from the inns and taverns that line country roads, which never seem to sleep. They walk straight through the tavern, with Jaskier nodding what seems to be a goodnight to the woman gathering plates around the room. But no one else even lifts their head. The hearth still crackles. Men slouched in chairs in front of it still discuss what road they’re going to take in the morning to their next destination. The lady who owns the tavern finishes putting away the polished tankards.

When they reach their room – upstairs, with a lancet window looking out on to the town – Geralt barely lets the door close behind them before he has Jaskier pushed up against it. The bard laughs, almost giggles; something smothered when Geralt catches his face in between his hands, bringing them together in a heated kiss.

Nimble fingers work at the laces of Geralt’s shirt. The top of it had been undone for a few hours now. The grand hall had been warm, and Geralt was done with Jaskier’s coy games. He could play them too. Jaskier breaks from the kiss, resting his forehead against Geralt’s. “You should have just taken the fucking shirt off,” he groans. “You were already halfway there with how much of your chest was out during that feast. Honestly Geralt, you need to work on your modesty.”

Geralt tries to catch Jaskier’s lips again, but the bard pulls back, focused on getting at least one article of clothing off of the other man. Geralt could help. Of course he could. His hands aren’t doing anything; keeping hold of Jaskier’s neck and head. But there’s something thrilling about how he can feel Jaskier’s heartbeat through the hand on his neck.

“Everyone was too busy looking at you,” he replies instead, freeing one hand to momentarily skim down Jaskier’s side.

The bard scoffs. “Are you going to be pissy about it?” With the last of the shirt laces undone, Jaskier makes quick work of wrestling it up and off of the man. Jaskier finally kisses him again, looping his arms loosely around the span of Geralt’s shoulders. “Whenever I looked for you, you had the same sulk on your face as always. What’s wrong? Did you not like all the attention being on me for once?”

He’s playing again, Geralt thinks. He’s egging you on. “If you really want to know,” he says lowly, undoing the buttons of Jaskier’s doublet. Peeling it back and off, Geralt sets his lips and teeth against the length of the bard’s neck. He hides a smirk into the skin when Jaskier’s head tilts to one side: when his breathing starts to falter and hitch. “I’ve never been prouder.”

Suddenly, the bard’s hands are on his shoulders, and Geralt is wrenched back from Jaskier. “What?” the bard balks.

I can play your game too, you siren. Geralt sets his chin. “You were in your element. I spent the night watching people singing along with you, dance to your songs. I had to endure endless praises said by a king and his court.”

Geralt returns to Jaskier’s neck – at a slight loss, since he wants to watch the bard’s eyes go even wider at the praise. But the bard’s skin is still steeped in sweet notes of honey and nutmeg, and Geralt can’t find it in himself to part with it just yet.

Jaskier’s mouth opens and closes. For the first time in a long time, nothing actually comes out in the way of words. Instead, his breath catches when Geralt’s hands find their way underneath his shirt, tracing fingers along his bare sides. A shiver ricochets throughout Jaskier’s body. The arms around Geralt’s neck tighten, keeping him pressed firmly against the bard’s front. Truth be known, Geralt doesn’t know how long they stay there; pressed against the door, bodies moving against each other while hands wander, pulling at clothing and pawing skin. It could be a couple of seconds. It could be hours. The distant hum of people downstairs and walking in the hallway outside fade away entirely, until the only sounds that Geralt can hear are the crackling of the hearth and soft groans wrenching from Jaskier’s throat.

Wealthy towns mean wealthy inns; an ever-burning hearth with chopped wood nearby, plush beds stuffed with goose feathers, and quilted blankets and furs folded by the end. Geralt guides them across the room, until Jaskier’s knees hit the foot of the bed, and they pull each other down.  The bard huffs against Geralt’s lips, pulling away for a second to press his forehead against the other man’s. He looks down as Geralt pulls at the laces of his shirt. Within seconds, because his Witcher moves fast, it’s flung across the room. Out of sight, out of mind. “Tell me this,” he says. Geralt hides a smirk into the centre of Jaskier’s chest at how breathless his bard sounds already. “Do all Witchers have a thing for smells, or is it just the one I’ve got?”

Teeth nip at Jaskier’s side.

The bard presses on. “Don’t get me wrong, I like nice smells as much as the next person,” he says, carding his fingers through Geralt’s hair. Recently washed, and pulled back into its normal, simple tie, he delights as it comes undone. “But you seem to really like it.”

It’s still there; honey, nutmeg, and orange blossom. Although it’s faded, in the hours since bathing, replaced with tones of wine and sweat, Geralt can still find traces of it in the pores of the bard’s skin. Geralt’s lips trail downwards. His fingers make quick work of getting Jaskier out of his breeches. Another scent seeps into the air; one he’s quite fond of. He’s grown used to the sharp smell of sex; bedrooms of taverns tended to reek of it, no matter how many times sheets were washed and mattresses are turned. But there’s something different about scenting it on Jaskier. The bard has a very particular smell, one that Geralt has come to know over their time together. With Jaskier bared in front of him, Geralt loops his arms underneath the bard’s legs, and tugs him closer. Setting his mouth into the groove of Jaskier’s hip, Geralt breathes. “I like this better.”

Jaskier gives a half-laugh. It dies completely at the familiar feel of lips against skin. “I can’t go around smelling of sex all day, Geralt. What will people think?”

Geralt hums. “Nothing they don’t already assume with the rumours they used to spread about you.”

“Geralt.”

“If anything, I think it’ll only prove them right.”

“You’re not funny.”

It should bother him: how familiar they are with each other. How well both of them can map out each other’s bodies, find where they’re most vulnerable to lips or teeth or touch. It should bother him how well Jaskier knows his mind, and how their usual banter continues into an act like this. Sex had never been like this with anyone else. Not even the more serious of his lovers in the past, the ones where he felt sparks in his veins. But Jaskier is like an inferno, setting his body on fire, and never fully being put out. It should bother him. And yet it really doesn’t.

Gentle hands running over his shoulders bring him back. “Everything alright down there?”

Geralt looks up. Pillows piled up against the headboard help the bard sit up slightly. Geralt can’t help but imagine him as some sort of regent, reclining and observing. Geralt lets his hands wander down the outside of Jaskier’s legs. He presses one last kiss to the join of the bard’s hip and leg. It’s not where Jaskier needs him. He knows that. Some part of him delights in watching the other man squirm: how he’ll try and shift his hips slightly, urging Geralt to put his mouth somewhere fucking useful—

“You’re being cruel.” Jaskier frowns down at him with all the power of a child not getting what they want.

Geralt hums. “Am I?” He moves past the man’s length, all but missing it completely, to worry skin of the other side of Jaskier’s hip.

The bard groans, letting his head fall back against the pillows. “And obtuse.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jaskier squirms. He’s strong; something not many people know about him. The bard isn’t completely helpless. But at the same time, Geralt has little to no trouble in catching writhing legs and hips, and holding them down to continue doing whatever it was he was doing not a couple of seconds before.

But Jaskier’s top half is free. Geralt looks up for a second, watching the bard reach for the bottle of oil they have on the bedside table. He frowns slightly. He doesn’t remember fishing it out of Roach’s bags, which means that Jaskier took it inside. And Jaskier left it on the bedside table, for all the world to see.

And Jaskier definitely knew that they would come back to the tavern and fall into bed together.

He flings the bottle down towards Geralt, almost knocking the Witcher’s head with it. “If you’re going to spend the rest of your days down there, could you at least do something useful?” Jaskier huffs, sitting back on his elbows.

“This is useful,” Geralt replies easily. For all their games – for all the times he prods and pokes fun at his bard, because it’s genuinely amusing – he does take pity. Searching blindly for the bottle, Geralt adds a couple of more bruises to Jaskier’s hip. “There’s no point in rushing things. We have all night. And tomorrow morning.”

Uncapping the glass bottle, the smell of oil suddenly enters the room. It’s not entirely unpleasant, but it’s not his favourite thing in the world. It’s heavy, almost smothering, as it coats the roof of Geralt’s mouth. He coats his fingers, making sure that there’s enough left behind because, for all people say about Witcher’s and their stamina, the same could be said about Jaskier. And he will want something akin to a second round in the morning hours.

Jaskier���s head falls back against the pillows as Geralt’s finger traces his hole. Geralt lifts his lips from Jaskier’s hip, watching intently as he slips one finger in; humming when there’s no resistance at all.

A groan echoes through Jaskier’s entire body. “There you go,” he sighs, “another.”

Geralt gladly obliges, after a time. He likes taunting his bard. There’s a humour shared between the two of them that he doesn’t have with anyone else. But eventually, it always leaves when they get a bit too close. When something else takes its place. They’ll still share breath when joined, and Jaskier will always loose a content little giggle into Geralt’s neck once they’ve finished. But right now, it’s not the time.

A second finger joins the first. And Jaskier’s body starts to squirm again. Geralt runs a hand over the man’s flank. Beneath his hand, gooseflesh bubbles to the surface. Geralt takes his time, coaxing muscle loose and making sure that nothing ever hurts Jaskier in any way. He returns to the bard’s neck, tracing his lips along the tendon that stands out whenever Jaskier tries to swallow back moans. The second that he runs his nose along it, though, Jaskier gasps. “I appreciate – fuck – I appreciate your attentiveness Geralt but – for fuck sake – get on with it, please.”

A third finger slips in. Geralt hums against Jaskier’s stomach, watching how his body seemingly recognises his partner’s touch, parting for him easily. Geralt turns his hand slightly, curling his fingers, searching and feeling out for something. He knows he has found it when a hand slaps against his shoulder. Geralt smirks: the bard’s fingers coil over the meat of his shoulder, nails pressing into skin. “For fuck sake,” Jaskier groans at the ceiling, “are you going to torture me all night?”

A gentle kiss is pressed to Jaskier’s stomach. “Maybe,” Geralt hums, tracing the pads of his fingers gently over the spot, relishing in how his bard both wants to squirm away from the overstimulation, and grind his hips back on to his hand. “You do look good lain out like this.”

“I’d look even better with you fucking me,” Jaskier bites, looking down at an entirely all-too-smug Witcher. His eyes narrow. “So get to it.”

“Bossy little bastard, aren’t you,” Geralt says, leaning up to catch Jaskier’s lips in his own. He has them for a brief moment, before the bard pulls away with a huff, pressing his head back into the pillow when Geralt’s fingers brush against his prostate again.

“I spent an age bathing and getting nice for you. Not to mention how much time I spent riling you up in the king’s halls,” Jaskier all but huffs. Geralt smiles, sitting back on his haunches. With the Witcher not covering him anymore, a slight chill trails over Jaskier’s bare skin. Even with the hearth blazing, he feels cold. “The least you can do is actually follow through with those bedroom eyes you were sending me all night.”

Geralt cleans his hand on the far corner of the bed. Hooded eyes watch him make quick and deft work with the laces of his breeches. His boots are lost to the room, toed off at some point on their journey from the door to the bed. Gods only know where they are. “If you had the patience to spend all that time playing coy,” Geralt smirks, slipping his breeches off and flinging them on to the floor, “then you can wait a few more minutes until we’re ready.”

Geralt returns, and Jaskier feels warm again. Kisses litter his torso: lips either barely brushing skin at all, or wet presses along the ridges of his collarbone and ribs. It’s lovely. It really is. But Geralt feels another objection from the bard coming when his shoulder is lightly smacked.

“I’ll find someone else,” Jaskier groans.

“Right.”

“I will,” he bites, “someone downstairs will take better care of my needs.”

“I’m sure they will.”

It’s always in jest. Well, it’s always in jest when it’s between them. Geralt knows that it’s his bed that Jaskier lies in, that he’ll always come back to. Jaskier knows the same. He can joke with his bard about his past affairs – since there probably isn’t a town in the continent that hasn’t been saved from Jaskier’s past romances. It’s never a joke when it’s someone else; when someone in an inn or tavern, or drunkard stumbling out of a brothel at night, seeing them walk by. It’s never a joke when those people say it.

Geralt finds his place again, Jaskier’s legs parted and framed around him. He hovers over the bard, leaning on his arms, placed on either side of Jaskier’s head. They can be close, that way. Geralt kisses him again, humming as he feels Jaskier pull his hair free of its tie, and runs his fingers through the strands. When they part, it’s only a fragment. Their lips brush and their noses are set against the other’s. Any scorn that the bard had been feeling not a couple of moments ago has seeped away. Jaskier’s fingers trail from Geralt’s hair, to his temples, down along the ridges of his cheekbones and coming to a rest along his jaw, mapping out lines. “I’m yours,”

“And you’re mine,” Geralt agrees, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

Their joining now is just as intense as it had been during their first. Many moons ago, aided by blood humming slightly with ale and a warm bed, when the first brush of naked skin set them both alight. Geralt buries his face into Jaskier’s neck, the urge to bite the skin there rising, but he thinks better against it. If his bard has been this tightly strung all night, best not to let go of the string.

Jaskier’s legs wrap around his waist, with his feet poised at the small of his back. The movement jostles Geralt slightly, wrenching a small groan from both of them. Either one of them could finish early. The night’s tension all rushes upon them now. Geralt nips at the join of Jaskier’s shoulder and neck. “Alright?”

“Very much so,” Jaskier sighs, head tilted back and eyes staring straight up at the ceiling. They roll back at the first slide of Geralt in him: a slow draw back and push forward, the tentative first movement, and a quiet question of is this okay?

Finding no reason to stop, Geralt moves faster and deeper into the body below him. Jaskier all but moulds himself to Geralt’s frame, arms draped over and crossed around his shoulders and back, keeping their chests flushed together. Even with several nights of lying together behind them – so many that Geralt has stopped keeping track – it still surprises him how quickly a coil of heat starts to wind around his core.

Jaskier turns his head, moaning into the pillow. “There,” he gasps at a well-placed thrust, “there, there, keep going.”

There are things people say about Geralt that don’t hold an ounce of truth. Usually, it’s the whole Witcher thing. People will make up all kinds of rumours and beliefs, and stand by them, to justify distrust and hate. Other things are frivolous – like how he is as a lover. Jaskier thought some of them, at one point. One of the prevailing beliefs being that Geralt was going to be rough and coarse, and the entire thing would leave him unable to walk the next day. And while some times the latter is true, Geralt has never once bore teeth and nail to Jaskier – unless he explicitly asked for it, of course. Geralt is attentive; he reaches blindly for one of Jaskier’s thighs, hoisting it higher up Geralt’s torso just so he can get deeper. It wrenches something caught between a moan and yell from the bard.

It’s always for Jaskier.

Geralt wants to watch. He wants to see the bard’s face and body, but he presses his nose against Jaskier’s skin instead, drawing in a lungful of sweet and salty scents. It sends a thrum of pleasure down his spine.

“Geralt,” Jaskier gasps. His nails dig into the flesh of Geralt’s back. “Geralt, please. I’m close.”

“You can come for me without my help,” Geralt pulls away from Jaskier’s neck, but keeping his face close to the other man’s. “Can’t you, my little lark?”

Jaskier’s eyelids flicker closed. “Geralt-” The bard body tightens around him, and for a brief moment, all Geralt sees is white. Their foreheads knock gently together as Jaskier comes, holding on to Geralt for dear life as wetness shoots between them.

A choked groan wrenches out of Geralt’s throat. It’s all too much, the tight heat and the scents encircling him, and the fact that it’s Jaskier. With one last hard thrust, he stills, emptying himself into Jaskier. The bard moans, shifting his hips slightly. The legs around Geralt’s waist tighten, keeping the man pressed close.

Some sort of whine leaves Jaskier’s throat when Geralt manages to pull away from the bard. With whatever energy is left in him, Geralt uses it to avoid falling down directly on to the body beneath him. Instead, he moves on to one side of the bed, but keeping Jaskier within an arm’s reach.

Jaskier peers down at himself. They should bathe. But bathing would mean going in search of the tavernkeep and asking for hot water. It would involve them moving and putting clothes on. The idea is quickly thrown out the window. It’ll be a problem for the morning.

Both of them lie there for a time, content to catch their breaths. Sweat cools, and soon, Jaskier starts to shiver slightly. Even with the hearth, it’s not enough. Their legs are still joined, entangled, keeping them tethered to each other. The very thought of having to move away, even just for a second, makes Jaskier’s heart clench.

But they do move after a time, albeit, just shuffling around slightly to lie facing each other.

“For all the grumbling you did on our journey here,” Jaskier says, reaching out to brush some strands of white hair back from Geralt’s face, “we had a lovely time in this city, don’t you think?”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s eyelids droop close. Jaskier moves to fetch the linen sheets, kicked down towards the foot of the bed. When he drapes them over their bodies, Geralt shuffles slightly, throwing an arm loosely around Jaskier’s waist, tugging him closer.

Jaskier pillows his head on one arm, pale blue eyes scanning over the Witcher’s face. He’s mapped every inch of it in their time together; the ridges of cheekbones, the small scars on his temple, how his eyes, although they stay that amber colour, can change to different shades depending on what mood he’s in. Jaskier smiles. “Thank you,” he says softly. “For coming here with me.”

Geralt hums. His eyes remain closed, but from his breathing alone, Jaskier knows he’s not asleep. Though, he could very well be teetering on the edge. “I was hardly going to let you go alone,” he rasps. “Gods know what kind of trouble you would have gotten yourself into.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t to watch me perform?” Jaskier smiles, something hidden into his arm. But his eyes crease with how widely the smile spreads. “Since you had such nice words for me when we got back.”

“Did I?”

“You complimented me, Geralt.”

“That doesn’t sound like something I’d do. You have me confused with someone else.”

Jaskier pokes his side. “No, I vividly remember you saying that you were proud of me. Seeing me in my element, as you put it.”

“Go to fucking sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt mumbles. The words are mostly lost into the cotton cover of the pillow, but he feels Jaskier shift slightly, finally settling after a couple of minutes.

The town outside sleeps, except for the patrols of mounted guards that pass every half an hour or so. Horses’ hooves echo along the cobbles outside. If he strains, he can hear the guards chattering amongst themselves. There are other sounds too; the crackle of burning wood in the hearth, the groaning of boards in the tavern’s walls as the night begins to cool. All sounds that Geralt tries not to listen to. He turns his head, burying his nose into Jaskier’s mop of hair.

It’s still there. Traces of it, clinging on to his skin for dear life, but Geralt fills his lungs with honey and nutmeg and orange blossom. The mattress seems to part for him as he sinks into it, holding the bard’s body close, and letting sleep wash over him.

[bang-to-the-tan]

Stray Cat Strut

Chapter 2

Reader x OT7

► Faerie!AU

Fluff, Comfort

Warnings: Mention of Death, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Faerie Mischevious Bullshit

↳ Summary: When your grandmother passes away, she leaves her countryside house in your name. The longer you stay, the harder and harder it becomes to explain away the odd happenings. What kind of secrets does this sleepy town hold? And why do the local animals act so strangely around you?…

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So maybe you should find a map to the hunting goods store. Or else, find someone to ask about it. Getting lost is one thing, but giving up is entirely out of the question. You can’t just leave the local wildlife to chew through your grandmother’s house. There are old signs posted up at every other road or so that indicate the direction of the local library, and it seems as good a place to start as any.

The town around you is so quiet, so peaceful, you find yourself understanding why granny decided to stay here as you walk. The roads aren’t perfect—some of the side walkways are narrow and made of stone—and some of the buildings look fit to fall apart, but there’s a charm in the air. A kind of comfortableness that you could seriously get used to. Clothes strung up to dry, hanging in the spaces between pastel-colored houses. Gardens overflowing with long grass and sweet flowers waving lazily. Windowsills crawling with ivy. The whole town seems to inhale with the breeze, warming itself in the sunlight.

You’re suddenly struck by familiarity at an intersection on your way to the library and you pause to read the sign, noting the street name. Ah. That’s why you recognize this place. Down this path to the right, through the foliage…it’s where your grandmother was married. For a few seconds, you hesitate, but eventually decide to take a short detour. After all, the library isn’t going anywhere.

The road goes from concrete to cobblestone to dirt beneath your feet as you walk forwards, noting the houses becoming fewer and fewer, the trees overhead becoming denser. The light dapples as it dances across your skin, the dead leaves curling over the edges of the path. It smells fresh, sweet, like green vegetation. You turn a corner past a particularly large tree and can just make out the bridge you’d seen in old photographs all your life. But as you get closer, your heart sinks. The weeds by the pond the tree cranes over are overgrown. The path uncared for. Moss devours the railings and eats away at the wood underneath, making it almost impossible to discern what colors it was once painted. You finally come to rest at the mouth of the bridge, looking over the edge, down at the murky water below forlornly. Even your reflection is hard to see. You turn back, straightening, and start faintly when you notice a figure standing there, just out of the reach of the shade from a nearby willow that bends its head to the water, lent a halo from the rays outlining his form. Somehow you must have missed his approach, but looking at him, you’re not sure how.

 He’s incredibly handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, long-legged. A draft of wind sifts through the sunny sections of soft mocha hair that caress his face, almond-shaped eyes pensive as he watches the pond like someone in mourning. He’s entirely bewitching, even as he blinks slowly and turns to look at you. His lips are plump, the color of rose petals and just as delicately shaped. When he smiles bitterly, your heart breaks.

“Sad, isn’t it?” He says. He gestures around you with a hand, resuming his position leaning against the rail. His head shakes once, as if in disbelief, and he sighs. “I think so, too.”

“I’m sorry, I just…” You can’t think straight. It’s the first time you’ve ever been struck wordless by someone’s beauty. “I’ve seen old photos of this place. When it was taken care of.”

“There’s no one to take care of it,” he replies quickly. “No one left. It was beautiful once.”

“That’s a shame.”

The man nods.

“Does…” You begin, haltingly. “I mean, there’s gotta be someone who still cares? Back home, we had like a community fund..for…”

He shifts to regard you again, lips curling softly.

“For uh. Community projects.” The words are sticking in your throat, your mind fogging. The intensity of the way he listens to you so closely is unnerving. “Like…revivals and stuff.”

“That would be nice.” He replies. “But nobody comes up here anymore. The locals are afraid of it.”

“Afraid?”

“They think it’s haunted.”

“That’s ridiculous. It’s not haunted….is it?”

He stares at you, eyes widening. His lips part, as though to speak, but they smooth into a grin instead, creasing his eyes. Suddenly, he bends and starts to laugh. The sound is infectious, high-pitched and breathless, and you find yourself smiling along.

“Depends on your definition of ‘haunted’, I suppose,” he says finally, giggling. He cocks his head.

“My name is Seokjin.”

“Have you lived here long, Seokjin?”

“Just Jin. Please. I’ve lived here for a long while.” Jin’s gaze goes distant. “A very long while. It hurts my heart to see the place falling apart like this. It’s very important to me.”

 Your teeth worry the inside of your lip in the pause that follows, unsure whether you should say what you’re thinking. You can’t spend too much longer here—you still have to make it to the library and then back home before it gets dark.

“I’m new here, and I’m going someplace at the moment,” you explain, inwardly hoping he’s not secretly a murderer. “But my grandmother got married at this pond. She passed away not too long ago and I’m trying to clean her house out for now. It would mean a lot to me to see the pond clean, too--before I leave. If there was anything I could do to help…” You trail off, embarrassed.

The man watches you carefully, a smile pulling at his lips. As gentle as his voice is, as sweet his eyes, his stature doesn’t escape you. He looks strong.

“I-I, uh,” you begin again, the click in your head nearly audible, “I actually need help with the shed.”

“The shed?” he echoes.

“Yeah, there’s like, heavy stuff in it. I don’t think I can move it on my own. You know, you help me, I help you…? If that’s okay. I understand if not.”

Jin straightens.

“Let’s make a deal,” he says, eyes alight. “I will help you clean your grandmother’s shed if you’ll help me clean the pond. Our deal will be fulfilled when both tasks are done. Sound good?”

“Sounds good…yeah! Sounds good.” You nod.

“Deal?”

“Deal.”

He makes a tsk noise through his teeth, leaning back and curling his hands around the rail in front of him. For a second, you’re afraid you might have bartered with the wrong person, but he looks pleasantly, warmly pleased at your offer.

“Can we start tomorrow?” he asks, voice soft as silk. “Just meet me here?”

“I can do that.” Not like you’ve got somewhere else to go.

“Good. I’m so glad.” The young man in front of you looks like you’ve just added ten years to his lifespan, practically glowing as he grins with perfect teeth. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jin,” you reply. You turn away and make your way back to the main road. While you slowly return to civilization, your thoughts steadily turn inwards and you realize what you’ve just done. Who are you, making deals with strangers in strange towns?? The only excuse you can offer yourself is that he was so incredibly beautiful. And so sad. He seemed nice enough, though. Legitimately interested in cleaning the pond, if nothing else. You chastise yourself the whole way down to the library. Day two in this town and you probably just agreed to be murdered out in the middle of nowhere because you saw a pretty man. Shameful.

It’s impossible to deny that you want to see him again, though. And cleaning the place where she got married would have meant a lot to your grandmother, if she was here still. If she was watching. She won’t let you get murdered. You hope.

 As you turn the corner, past the intersection you originally turned down, the library rises from the horizon. It’s more welcoming than threatening even with its grand height, old stonework mixed with newer additions to keep the building stable and crawling with picturesque ivy. Absently, you slide your hand over the chipped mane of the stone lion that protects the entrance as you climb the stairs and step inside. It’s cool here, and designed with a touch that seems to meld modern and antique styles seamlessly. It smells like old books and wood polish—old, but well taken care of. Towards the back, twin staircases spiral, reaching for a circular window that casts an impressive amount of patterned light over the upper level. You have to resist the urge to take photos like some gawking tourist, and instead head for the section marked ‘Local’. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else around, the tall room silent as the grave. If anything, the quiet only helps you focus on the task at hand, browsing with a gentle hand through tour guides and maps of the surrounding areas.

There’s no staff, no music, nothing but you.

You’re too easily distracted by your thoughts and you end up getting frustrated by the sheer amount of maps. Comparing them against the version you have on your phone, there are always missing streets or roads that lead to nowhere—sections marked on the maps as incredibly important sightseeing destinations that aren’t even on the electronic version. Finally, you peel away from the local section, holding onto the one map you could find that seemed remotely useful, if still missing a few pieces of information. Just to the right of the doors is a wooden desk and ontop of it, a bell. You stride over and strike it, the peal ringing out clearly against the tall ceiling. At this point, you’re just hoping to catch a glimpse of literally any kind of living soul inside this building.

 “You’re back.”

You nearly jump out of your skin at the deep voice that instantly sounds from behind you.

When you turn around, you meet deep brown eyes set into a handsome face whose mild expression is difficult to read. A young man stands only about a foot away from you, having appeared seemingly out of nowhere with the absolute silence of his approach. Did you somehow miss him on your way in…? Hair dyed a lavender color, pushed back from his forehead, thick-framed glasses, comfortable-looking sweater—if there was ever a look that screamed ‘librarian’ any louder, you’d be hard-pressed to find it.

“I’m…what?”

He watches you past his glasses for a moment before his soft lips pull into a wry smile and his shoulders drop. “Sorry. I-I know it’s probably been a while. I…know your, um, your grandmother,” He gestures, awkwardly. “The house on the hill, right?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. That’s her,” you finally manage to reply. Damn it, he’s incredibly handsome, too. Should you hand him your credit card now or should you wait until you lose all of your good sense? “Yeah, um. She…y’know, she passed away, so I’m cleaning her house out.”

He blinks, his face falling.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry. That must be…hard for you,” he mumbles, but there’s something new in his expression. Was he close to her…? The ensuing silence between you is mortally uncomfortable.

 “I-I’m looking for a map,” you stammer, holding up your hand. “Y’know, a recent one.”

“…You seem to have found one.” He points out, raising an eyebrow at the paper grasped in your fingers. “Anything more specific?”

“I need hunting goods. My phone says there’s a store just on the other side of the house, but when I tried to cut through the woods, I got lost.”

The man nods, slowly, thoughtfully. He looks to you and there’s a second of silence between you as you subtly try to figure out what exact shade of brown his soft eyes are. Flush travels up your cheeks as you’re struck with the realization that he’s waiting for you to elaborate. Humour suddenly flashes across his face, breaking the quiet, and he laughs sharply, leaning forwards.

“Directions for a hunting store?” he reiterates through a chuckle. “Kind of a weird first request. The map you’ve got there is the most recent we have. Just follow the main road through the forest.” He pauses. “What do you need it for, anyways?”

“There’s something chewing holes in my grandmother’s house.”

“Ah,” his eyebrows slide upwards, legitimately shocked. He waits, seemingly unsure if you’re serious, before continuing. “And you’re thinking…animals…?”

“Yeah. I already tried to set out a trap but it broke. Something put rocks in it.”

He hums. His head cocks to the side and he tsks through his teeth, pursing his lips and studying the ground as he crosses his arms. “An animal didn’t put rocks in it. I’m surprised you don’t know better.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you say ‘chewing holes’,” he asks instead of answering, “What exactly do you mean?”

“There’s a hole in the porch. It was filled with candy when I moved in.”

“And you…?”

You frown. “I…” you repeat slowly. “Took the candy out and filled the hole? I mean, not very well, but—“

“Mm. Yeah, that’ll do it. You need to put the sweets back.”

It’s your turn to wait, for him to admit to joking. He only looks to you and blinks slowly, patiently. There’s another heavy pause. As you stare at him, his shoulders rise in a shrug.

“You’re kidding me.”

“I’m not.”

“You want me to encourage animals boring into the house my dead grandmother lived in?” Your voice escalates as your brows crease, searching his visage for any sign of giving.

“It’s not an animal.”

“Oh my god.” Despair begins sinking in. Your mind swims with the thought of malicious children. “It’s kids. I can’t set traps. Oh, god, what if I accidentally hurt one?...”

He barks another laugh, his eyes scrunching, shoulders shaking.

“What??”

“It’s not children, either,” he says, still giggling.

Your frown only deepens. Is he making fun of you? “I don’t get it. What exactly are you suggesting?”

 His laughter subsides into a short chuckle. When his eyes meet yours again, there’s a strange light in them. “You don’t remember much, do you?”

You pull back, somewhat offended. “I was like five the last time I was here?”

He chuckles and pushes his glasses up further on the bridge of his nose with a dramatic air of a teacher getting ready for his least favorite class. “Okay. Alright. From the top, then. Have you heard of faeries?”

“Like fairy tales? Of course I’ve heard of them.”

“Almost. Okay, so most old towns have their own superstitions, right? We have our own kind of faerie. They’re called Keprys. And that’s what you’re dealing with.”

You stare at him incredulously, but he doesn’t look like he’s kidding. “You can’t be serious.”

“I can,” he retorts. “I bet there was something in the house that was really well taken-care of when you got here. Floors swept, cabinets dusted, something like that?”

You think of the dust-covered rooms. “No, not really.”

“Look for it. Whatever it is won’t be done now. Put the candy back, it’ll start up again. Your grandmother had an accord with a Kepry—sweets in exchange for some chore she couldn’t do or didn’t want to do.” He leans against the bookshelf and raises an eyebrow at you. “When you took the candy, you disrupted the agreement. When you put out the trap, you insulted him.”

“Him?”

He ignores you.

“If you leave it alone, or worse, get another trap, it’ll only go downhill from there. He’ll trash the house. If he’s in a good mood.”

Your eyes narrow, your lips pursing. “If this is some kind of local hazing, I’m not into it. I’m not convinced I’m staying, anyways; you’re wasting your time trying to spook me.”

“I swear, I’m being totally legitimate.” He raises his hands, palms facing outwards. “Put the candy back.”

You hesitate, watching him doubtfully. “Okay, smart guy. We’re in a library, so…show me a source. Where’s your books on capris?”

“Kepry.” He clarifies with a slow intonation. “K-e-p-r-y. There’s only one source.”

“If you say it’s you—“

“—But it’s already checked out.”

“Uh-huh.”

“To me.”

“To you??”

The man’s eyes flash and his grin returns.

“Tell you what,” He straightens. “I’ll loan you the book. But only if you bring me something of value.”

“I don’t have anything with me.”

He shrugs, pouting mockingly. Without a proper reply, he turns around and starts walking away.

“Why don’t you just give me the book? Isn’t this a library? You’re the librarian—it’s your job, isn’t it??” You call after him, incredulous at his sudden lack of manners.

“I answered your question and gave you free advice.” He spins smartly on his heel to disappear behind a bookcase across the way from you. “You’re in my debt, granddaughter of the lady on the hill.” His voice seems to echo after you from every direction. Strange, you wouldn’t consider the library as that acoustic-capable, at least not from where he was standing.

You huff, and go to follow him. “What do you mean debt—“ You pull up short as you round the corner.

He’s not there. There’s no sign of him behind the books. No sound of him anywhere.

“Hey!” You call out. No answer. The library has returned to its stifling silence. If he thinks you’re gonna waste a second playing hide and seek with him, he’s dead wrong. You stomp your foot and turn on a dime to leave, grumbling about librarians and faeries. ‘Keprys’. He had to have been kidding. Faeries aren’t real. Briefly, you think about the bird from the forest but easily shake it out of your head. You were panicking, lost in a foreign town and scared. Jet-lagged still, probably.

A car passes by the outside of the library as you exit and you’re actually surprised enough by its presence to stop and watch it go. It’s only about the second or third car you’ve seen since coming here. It’s going so slowly—the cobbles must be making the driver unsteady. You move to step behind it, your attention already drifting elsewhere, back to the house and the predicament of animals/not animals boring holes into it. Maybe you have some cash you can give him for the book on faeries anyways. Just for curiosity’s sake.

You’re almost home as you’re lost in thought trying to mentally count up how much money you have to give the librarian for the book. You can see the house now, up on its little hill, with the sparse cottages and small streets that surround it. It’s only just now starting to get late, and the threatening sunset casts a warm blush over everything, turns the shadows into a comfortable purple.

Across the street, not too far from where you are, your attention is claimed by a tiny dog. It’s a fluffy little thing, looking like a ball of soot with legs, black and brown all over. The fading sunlight catches its fur and lights embers in its outline, like a spotlight. You have to stifle a giggle at how business-like it seems, trotting along with such delicate little paws. It turns to survey its surroundings and you could mark the moment when it spots you, pausing with its fluff of a tail pointed skywards midway through a wag. Suddenly, it breaks into a run towards you. Head thrown back in excitement, yipping all the way. You start, but it means you no harm as it runs straight up to your legs and yaps loudly, dancing around your feet so intensely that its whole body actually leaves the ground for seconds at a time.

“Hello, hello!” You greet, delighted if a little surprised. It presses its head against your hand when you lean to pet it, barking and yipping. You oblige, running your fingers through incredibly soft fur, and its whole body stills. Its watery eyes blink slowly, as if savoring the touch. “Who do you belong to?”

It yips and bounces again, spinning in a tight circle, and you can’t help but laugh at the pure joy in the motion. You pet it a few more times, giggling at how eager it seems for affection. “Nobody ever loves you, huh?” You coo. “Poor baby.” After a while, you straighten, and it immediately starts barking again, rising in volume as you move to walk towards the house.

“I have to go home!” You chastise, reaching to stroke it again, but its pitiful noises only get louder. “I’ll see you later, puppy. I promise.”

It follows you up the hill, whimpering pathetically as you unlock the gate and walk inside. You look over your shoulder at it and it cries.

“Go home,” you encourage. “I’ll see you later.”

It sits down in front of the gate, looking at you with such a forlorn expression your heart breaks. You hope its okay, but it seems healthy enough; shiny eyes and coat, well-groomed. Eventually, it’ll go home, surely.

You turn back to the house, the garden catching your eye as you go. Looks like it needs some watering—maybe a little weeding here and there. Why haven’t you noticed since you’ve been here? Oh well. You guess there’s been other things more pressing in your mind. Like getting lost and meeting beautiful men. And the stray cat, can’t forget that. Oh, yeah. The sticks. Your hand flies up to the bag around your neck, rubbing at the remaining stick with a shocked realization. You forgot to look up what kind of wood it was. Maybe you’ll remember tomorrow? You can always ask the mysterious librarian or the man by the pond. He might know a thing or two about local plants. Better ask nice, forthcoming Jin about something like that instead of stingy, disappearing librarian man.

Oh.

You blink.

You never actually caught his name.

Your nose wrinkles as you frown, unlocking the front door and stepping inside. He’d probably charge you for that, too.

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[angryhausfrau-writes]

I Travel Troubled Oceans: Chapter 6 - In Which Anne Has a Lovely Night In And Jack Has a Terrible (But Productive) Night Out

Anne glares the last of the workmen out the door, grinning to herself at his wary backward glances even when he's halfway down the block.

It's not that she doesn't appreciate the work they've done – the house looks nice, all fixed up. Jack's own taste in décor is a lot better than the previous owners's, even in Anne's barely invested opinion. No one deserves to be subjected to a carpeted bathroom, no matter how posh they are.

Though even with all the stupid frippery ripped out there's still plenty of shit to be done around the place. Half the rooms are completely empty, even with how much furniture buying Jack's been doing. But Anne's slept a lot worse places than a double bed in an otherwise unfurnished bedroom, so she sure ain't fucking complaining about the lack of amenities. It's practically palatial compared to their previous squat. And a hell of a lot less rat infested.

Though she's looking forward to having some peace and fucking quiet around the place, even if it's just for a night. Jack and Charles are out at some rich bitch's bachelorette party of all things, so it's just her and Mary and Max sitting in the cavernous “informal parlor” eating shitty pizza and watching bad TV. But it's kinda exactly the thing she's needed after the whirlwind bullshit insanity of the past two months.

Cuz it ain't that she don't love Jack with all her heart. The two of them are partners till they're put in the fucking ground. But he's kinda high strung. A perfectionist in everything he does, including the whole redecorating scheme.

Frankly, Anne can't be arsed to form an opinion on shit like curtain fabric or sofa style or whatever the fuck else Jack is losing his shit over. So she and Chaz have mostly been relegated to demolition and then repainting and cleaning, along with Mary, when Charles ain't out pretending to be Jack's boytoy.

But Jack cares about all that shit, more than seems reasonable to Anne. And he and Mary and Max have had all too fucking many ideas about how to make sure the house looks like it needs to so that they're seen as respectable – but not too respectable – in their roles as rich idiots. Idiots with money power and no idea how to use it. Manipulable, so that they can manipulate their chosen marks.

Which she knows is important. They can't be low-class street toughs anymore, not and expect to work in the circles Max wants them to join. Which is why Anne had agreed to pose as Jack's personal assistant. She gets to watch his back while appearing semi-respectable.

But with Max giving Jack the job of conning the counselor – the first stage in them taking over the London criminal empire Lord Hamilton had worked so long to build before Flint had torn it down in a single week - Jack's been running himself ragged at that and at making sure the house turns out just right. And him being anxious has made him snappish and frazzled. And frankly, it's been doing Anne's fucking head in. So she's looking forward to a night of just not fucking dealing with that shit.

And so she'd talked Mary and Max into this little party – not that it had taken much convincing. And she'd stolen Charles's weed – not that it was all that well hidden, not from someone like her. And when whatever stupid action movie they'd been half watching is over, Anne chivies them all out onto the balcony to smoke up.

It's pretty fun, looking out at all the other posh houses, laughing at all the posh people weaving drunkenly along the street. Not that they're in much better shape themselves. But at least they're sitting down for their bouts of crossfaded giggling.

Though eventually it gets too cold to keep sitting outside. And the crowds of drunk partiers have slowed to a trickle and then disappeared completely. There'll probably be another round near dawn, but Anne ain't staying out in the cold to wait for that.

So they all head back inside and Mary wants to try out the fancy new bathtub that's big enough for a whole orgy of people, cuz apparently that's what rich people have in their bathrooms. And Max says she wants to take a bath too. And Anne's half asleep and doesn't particularly fucking care what they do as long as she can keep this floaty, relaxed feeling.

And it is nice, sinking into the hot water that's been filled with some kind of perfumey, glittery foam courtesy of one of Jack's myriad bath supplies. It's even nicer sinking back against Max's body, completely relaxed. Held by her as she pets Anne's hair with her soft hands, scratching at Anne's scalp with her short, manicured nails. So different from Anne's own hands, rough and paint stained and a little cut up from demolishing a house.

And then Anne feels the soft pad of Max's thumb press against her clit. She grinds lazily against the pressure.

“That feel good, mon cheri?” Max whispers into her ear.

Anne tilts her chin and looks dazedly up at her. Hums in pleasure and sinks deeper into Max's arms.

Across the bath, Mary's own hand has disappeared beneath the water. Anne grins at her, sly and contented, and spreads her legs wider.

She hadn't really thought about having sex tonight, or with Mary involved. But she ain't opposed to the idea - Anne ain't exactly one to be shy or anything, not anymore. And it feels right to do this. An extension of the rest of the slow, lazy, relaxed feeling that suffuses her. An extension of the camaraderie – the sense of family - she feels with Jack and Charles and now Mary.

After the bath, they all hose the glitter off in the equally large and ostentatious shower Jack's character of a nouveau rich fop had insisted on. And then they all brush their teeth at the ridiculous his and hers vanity and Anne drinks a big glass of water because this is too nice to spoil with a hangover tomorrow. And then they all put on pajamas – Max borrowing one of Anne's t-shirts, which is real fucking nice, even if she's gonna stretch out the fabric with her tits – and they go to sleep in Anne's bed, with its clean, cool sheets and warm quilt and new pillows. And that all feels right too.

--

The bachelorette party is going about as Jack had expected, which is to say pretty fucking terribly. What Claudette apparently meant by a rager is that they're going to every too-expensive only slightly seedy nightclub in London to drink luridly colored cocktails and do lines of expensive blow. Which has the upside of allowing Jack to inform some of his higher-class pushers of the event and position them strategically along the party limo's route and they make a considerable pile of cash that way, even with himself and Charles abstaining.

In fact, since he and Chaz are technically on the job, they aren't drinking much either. Their brightly colored drinks little more than seltzer water and fruit juice after a quick word to the bartender when they buy the girls the first round. Because nothing makes pumping people for information easier than being the only sober person in the group. And they do get some useful intel in terms of who's fucking who and who's doing shady backroom deals with who and who's doing both. Invaluable in terms of both blackmail material and understanding the complex web of high-society relationships they're trying to enter into.

And, even more fortuitously, one of the gaggle of bridesmaids owns a monstrously upscale and “avant garde” art gallery and she'd drunkenly bragged about how much good press Jack could get by hosting a fashion show there. Which means that she thinks she could get good press through that little arrangement. But if Jack is to actually make a half believable pretense at being a fashion designer – a career chosen for him since it would allow him to travel all over the world with little fuss, but one less well regulated than a more traditional profession – he's got to start somewhere. And some rich “artiste” want-to-be's trendy rich-person art gallary isn't a bad place to start.

But that's something to be discussed with Max at a later date - and a more conducive time than three in the fucking morning from the back of a limo speeding towards, he's not sure actually. Somewhere expensive and tawdry, presumably.

They are, in fact, heading to a strip club. An all male one, of course. Which fair enough, the blushing bride-to-be's fiance is presumably doing a very similar thing tonight. And it's not that Jack can't appreciate oiled up, scantily clad men gyrating to heavy club pop.

And he's certainly worked enough corners as a pusher to have lost any sort of judgment or, or snootiness about sex workers. It's just that all the girls with them are treating it like some sort of exotic safari or something. Ogling the dancers in a way that's titillated, scandalized.

And if Jack is noticing, then surely all the dancers are as well. It's uncomfortable to be associated with them, to be painted with that same brush. He wants to leave, or at least move to a different table. Divorce himself from the group – and from his sudden, terrible understanding that this is what he is to them, too.

The understanding that he and Charles – who's currently getting a lap dance from a grinning young man, completely unaware of Jack's own inner turmoil – they're exotic things to be ogled at as well.

Understood to be foreign, rightfully understood to be lower class. They don't fit into the effortlessly glamorous lifestyle of the wealthy and titled. Outsiders, chosen to attend this little party because of their perceived danger and lack of refinement.

Which is fine. All of this is exactly what Jack had been gunning for, in terms of outside perception. He doesn't want to actually pass as a member of the upper crust. Just someone they'll deign to let walk among them.

Someone they will underestimate – and to their detriment.

But it doesn't exactly make it any easier to take, is the thing. Jack wants recognition for his achievements. For people to look at him and see what he's accomplished, despite the way the deck has been stacked against him since birth. Jack burns with the desire to be seen for – to be judged by - his merits and his merits alone.

And apparently Charles has noticed something is up, because he's leering in Jack's direction. And when he sees he's caught Jack's eye, he says, “Jealous that someone other than you is sitting on my dick, Jack?” And he voices it as a challenge.

But what he's really doing is giving Jack an out. A way to get them both out of there without it looking like anything is wrong. Without them losing their stupid, sex-obsessed, party boy facade.

It's masterful. And ultimately unnecessary, because Jack is a professional con and more than able to put his feelings on the back burner for a job.

But he will take the support that Charles is offering him another way.

“Never, darling. I know there's always room for me right... here.” He perches on Charles's broad thigh and leans into the hand that curls protectively around his hip.

If he can't have Anne here to watch his back, Charles is the next best thing.

[grim-faux]

9 - Behind his Shadow

The temperature changed.  It was a fickle thing in the massive tunnels that made up the sewer, the warm air clinging to my shoulders while small drafts drifted through my sleeves causing me to shiver.  I remained crouched for several minutes listening keenly for the corridor and the thing through the grate, I’m not sure what I was waiting for.  Or if I was aware that I had been waiting for some time before the small spark of a nerve pulsed up my spine.

I needed to keep moving.  Whatever was there I was either following it or barely staying ahead of it, couldn’t decide which it was.  Either I’d stumble into it or linger too long in one area, and that would inadvertently allow it to reach me before I had time to realize I had been hunted all along.

 I wobbled as I rose to my feet and took some small steps toward the corner of the tunnel, watching the dark shades beyond the large grate with avid caution.  What happened to the person that looked down upon me?  The path on my right was open for exploration.

My nerves were too high strung, in the hollow quiet I startled myself back when my foot broke the surface of the water with a soft swish.  I backed away and rolled my eyes, though my jumpiness couldn’t be discredited.  But still, I was spooked by my own footsteps!

A plate on the wall indicated Administration Block on the right with an arrow to clarify this.  I really didn’t have any options, my only comfort came that this path would not branch out into additional tunnels and I couldn’t possibly get lost down here.  Given, there was a way out and my batteries would last.

Originally I had wanted to pause and wring out the excess water from my coat as best I could, but I didn’t want to stay stationary longer than necessary.  It clung to me like a soggy glove, at least the sewers were warm with decay, only upside here.  It was well received given circumstances.

The tunnel was dim with enough light I didn’t need my camera, I carried it beside my hip for the comfort of it.  The tunnel curved and I followed it into a well-lit channel with large drain pipes beneath the floor, grated over and filled to the brim with thick runoff.  The cooler air settled low, generating a murky steam that clung to everything and swirled around my shoulders as I cut through it.  With no area visible to hide enemies I jogged along taking in the constructive details of the abandon sewer.

It looked like railing was installed along the side, or guardrails for the workers that had to come down when it was flooded.  Support beams ran across the ceiling every few feet, but didn’t seem to help much in preventing cave-ins.  At the end of the channel was another collapse, I was approaching it when a light flittered through blinding me.

A soft voice hummed out, I wasn’t sure if I should retreat now or wait.  He was on the other side of the fallen debris, unless there was an access through on the open tunnel to the right.  The song sounded familiar but against the echoing walls I couldn’t decide if it was ‘Father’ Martin, or one of his disciples.  It didn’t sound like him….

“Till all the lambs in the church of god…”

I couldn’t make out what he was saying at this distance.  He had already taken off, on the other side of the tunnel I saw his light glitter as he ran and his feet chopped up the shallow water.  The song was somehow depressing.  Maybe because of the ‘Father’ Martin’s Gospel of Sand, or maybe seeing the man down searching as I was for his own way out, armed with only a flashlight.

I kept to the left and strained to see through the vapor where he might have gone, the tunnel had a neighboring channel but I didn’t have any ambition to explore that side further.  The forgotten corpse of Murkoffs doctors lay dissolving in the drainage gutter, even from where I stood I could pick up the heavy fumes of his bloated body. 

A door waited innocently at my backside.  I tried the handle half expecting it to be broken or locked, but the knob gave with no effort and I entered to find a patient hidden behind a shelf near the back.  I must’ve looked shocked by his presence as he held up his arms and backed away.

“You don’t have to be scared of me.  I can tell we’re the same.  You still know what’s real.”

I stepped out of the room to glance around and return my eyes to the patient, before reentering and shutting the door behind.  This was the first human in this place to actually comfort me, and not sound creepy about it.  First person to attempt a conversation with me.

“Do you mind if I film you?” I held up my camera, keeping my distance.

“Not at all.  Go ahead.  I’d actually prefer it.”  I raised the camera and zoomed in on him framing his head and shoulders nicely.  He looked no different from the dozens of unaccounted victims, his face ruined by malpractice, scars up and down his arms.  But he was fully clothed.

“The doctor’s dead, you know that, right?  Dr. Wernicke.”  I nodded.  “Died before he even started working here.”  He pinched the bridge of what remained of his nose between his fingers as though recalling some detail, or harmed by the recollections.  “What kind of experiments does a dead doctor perform on living patients?  That’s the question.”

“I found the obituary.”

“Yeah.”  To me it sounded like he didn’t credit this fact too much.  “A few of us have seen it too, a little proof he’s never been here.”  He glanced at the shelf beside him and ran a finger along its metal support.  “Doesn’t change what he’s done.”

“But…he’s dead, isn’t he?  It’s on file.”  My breath hitched when he gave me a venomous look, but it dissolved and he turned away toward a mattress abandoned on the floor behind him.  He curled up on its filthy surface and turned his back to me.

The interview was over.

“The Patients know Dr. Wernicke is dead.  One asks me, ‘What kind of experiments does a dead doctor perform on living patients?’  What is PROJECT WALRIDER?”

I examined the room lightly without disturbing him, and always kept my attention trained to any sort of sound he would make, pausing when his breathing wheezed or the broken springs of the mattress shifted.  There was no visible aid, aside from some cracked shelving and a vent that might’ve led to better venues - I couldn’t reach it.  There was only a ladder in the center of the floor leading down a short ways.  I secured the camera and climbed the rungs, that familiar scent of copper whirled around me and I anticipated what would meet me.

The sewage in the drain gutter was a soft rose color, the sharp scent of death thick in the humid tunnel.  It was fresh otherwise it would have diluted out by now.  All the screaming I’d heard in the upper level?

I shivered as I pulled up the camera but decided not to film, instead I held it between my palms and stared into the water.  What was PROJECT WALRIDER? kept ringing through my thoughts.  What was the screaming I heard?  What happened to those people?  It could’ve been Chris Walker.  Maybe I misheard them, others had expressed fears in his violent tendencies, I must’ve misheard them.  But I couldn’t stop shaking.  My coat was damp and cool, my nerves were shot.  I needed to keep moving, keep my mind focused on what was around me.

Across from my position a plate was fixed on the wall that labeled the contrary directions to take, the Male ward to the left and the Female ward to the right.  I glanced down at the river of swirling red before I set my foot on the side of the gutter and teetered, beside a metal gate.  The Male ward was where I needed to be, I think.  I wasn’t sure anymore, I could’ve as easily headed to the right if I thought there was a way out through the Female section but…I didn’t want to see what that area had to offer. I didn’t want—

A body flopped down from above nearly on top of me.  I pivoted sloshing through the metallic froth back to the direction where the Female ward was, only to turn the bend and find a solid metal gate.  I wasn’t satisfied to turn back yet, not until I took the handle and fought to turn it.  The latch was solid, my only course obvious.

I switched between breathing through my mouth or through my nose, the stench sought my senses no matter what, I could hardly bear it.  Halfheartedly I attempted to walk on the side of the drainage gutter out of the liquid, if only to settle my conscience.  The body that impacted the cement looked torn and twisted in bizarre ways and his arm looked infected, possibly blood poisoning but I was no doctor.  I couldn’t tell if he was this mangled before he fell, or whatever killed him had maimed him.

I was better off never knowing.

As I passed under the huge drain he fell from, I could see the grate above had been removed and the bright light from the upper floors descended unrestrained.  Light was still my enemy, but it was hard not to take comfort in its strong brilliance.

I checked the charge on my camera as I continued into the darker portions of the tunnel, stunned to find it nearly half dead.  That was a good battery, I had seen it when I put it in.  Or wasn’t it?  I wasn’t sure.  But if I needed my night vision down here for prolonged periods at a time, it might be on its lowest functions.

It must’ve been the chill.  The cold had a tendency to drain battery life fast.  But, no…the sewers were at times stifling, almost unbearably so in my damp coat.

The cadence of gushing water traveled around the next corner, elevating my anxiety further.  The fore sound could cloak a stew of early warnings from feet to voices, or other unnamed things.  I squatted behind some waterlogged crates stacked at the edge, and glanced over them when I saw red splatters.  Slowly I eased around the side and peered into a foggy tunnel muddled by failing lights, but enough visibility was there to utilize the zoom on my camera.  I couldn’t make out movement, even with the running water dividing my attention.  A new scene of horror awaited me.

I slipped around the boxes keeping low, and moved to the opposite side of the channel in an effort to avoid further soaking.  Water spewed from a broken water valve of a large pipe connected between the floor and ceiling, I didn’t bother to check it as my eyes focused on the red splattered on the walls and floor.  It looked like someone had been straining chunky human pieces from the large drainage pipes in the ceiling, the sides splattered with bright globs of black and red.  It was all spilling from the rim of the gutter into the water staining it the crimson hue.  Beneath the surface I could view small fish like things squirming about, as persistent as the flies burrowing into soggy guts or body parts.

I closed my eyes and swallowed, I could feel myself shaking harder as I lowered my arms beside me.  This nightmare looked recent, it smelled fresh and raw.  I had memories as a kid, being with my dad at the local butchers as he cut up the hindquarters of a hog.  This reminded me sharply of that.  Of all those times.

Maybe after this I’d turn vegan.  I never was a big fan of steak.

There was no end to it as I moved through the tunnel, blood was stained up the walls, and pieces of inner organs left strew over pipes and crates lining the gutter.  Each drain I passed under had blood running down its interior, more innards, or large sheets of skin imbedded with bone.  A leg bobbing in the drain still had blood seeping from the stump, as the little black sewer guppies thrashed into their meal.

Finally, a full human body was laid dead in the bend of the tunnel.  I didn’t care to identify his death, I continued and placed myself on the side of the gutter.  The channel darkened and a cold draft crept through my coat, I was forced to use the camera to keep from stumbling on the slick sides.

Something hissed ahead of me.  I sighed irritated by how jumpy I was, given I was still alone, it was just a pipe—

A thick splash sent cold beads of water through the bars.  I retreated a few steps and gazed through the visor, seeing nothing but a sturdy grate where the movement had occurred.  The bloated body of a Murkoff researcher was crammed against the bars, some of the skin exposed at his neck and face had been disturbed by the sudden kick in the water and floated freely from the muscles of his skull.  Above, or around me there was that same sound, ball bearings rattling through pipes.  I turned my camera filming wherever I thought the sound twittered though there was nothing to see, the noise sent shivers up my spin.  Or it could’ve been the sudden chill locked in the stale air.  Couldn’t stop here.

Need to keep moving.  Had to escape.  Thoughts of Chris and what he could do to me vanished completely with the presence of this ‘unknown.’  I wasn’t sure what I was running from, only that I somehow kept out of its line of sight.  Dumb luck.

I entered an intersecting tunnel on my right but drew back, there was light ahead but the sounds were still present, sounded like it had filtered out of the pipe and was now crashing around behind the door in the tunnels side.  The uproar grew in volume as whatever tore the room apart, shelves cracked as all manner of furniture was flung about.  The metal barrier quivered and my breath came labored, I wasn’t sure if I was actually experiencing this.  How did it get from here to that room?

I took small steps forward, before springing away for no real reason other than my fear of the sounds and I recalled the slaughter.  I could almost hear it now, shrieking voices of the deranged as skin was peeled back and bones cracked.  Then all at once everything ceased and silence saturated the calm tunnel.

It felt like I was in some sort of danger, though no visible evidence was present to suggest this notion.  The air was filled with the metallic reek and rot of old sludge, I could almost pick up the soft warble of water spilling down cobblestone.  I felt my heart sank as I realized it could just as easily be blood spilling from a ruined neck.

I debated trying the handle to see what was in there.  The highest probability would be its displeasure with the intrusion, followed by my abrupt death.  In the dark red liquid of the gutter I could see the drains grate was removed from the wall, a possible means to get away from this area.  For a moment I couldn’t move, my eyes flashed to the silent door with its unassuming threat.

Quickly I zipped along the far side of the wall across from the door and gently stepped into the rosy liquid, there was no sound as I shuffled along in the cramped space in the dark. I choked on that thick oil reek as I felt about, feeling light headed with the sudden collision.  My camera was also getting low on power, but I insisted on using every last bit of what it had.  I still only had two more batteries, and one I was certain was on half power.  My leg stung as I bore my grungy pants into the wounds with the chilled water, I shifted my weight and adjusted the camera in my hand before I could fall over.  This drain lacked the curving edges I could rest my hand upon to keep my balance, as it was I could barely keep my knees and lower edges of my coat dry.  I felt an immediate difference in temperature the moment I entered, the air was cold and calm causing my shoulders to ache as I trembled uncontrollably.

The small tunnel felt near endless in the consuming black, the edges of the green night vision made it more oppressive than should be possible.  What was only mere seconds felt like ages, until I reached a fork.  I attempted the one side that curved left, only to find it dead end at a sturdy grate.  Returning to the original route, I made certain where I was headed before trying the other side.

When the patients came down here earlier, they might have removed some of these grates together for shorter routes.  As long as the path was open, I was obligated to take it.  Every wrong turn wasted battery life and I attempted to conserve the energy by switching the NV off whenever possible, but in the black slate of nothing I felt the patient approach of something deadly.

I crawled out into a small room, a pump station.  It was drained, perhaps by the patients that came through or what was left of the staff still surviving this madness.  Some crates sat stacked in the diluted blood channel, and large pipes bore down through the grates upon which I stood, separating me from a nasty swim.  The thick fumes of oil and gas filled my lungs and the water I stood in had that translucent, iridescent sheen of chemical residue. Neglected machinery, yet still worked long after abandonment. Some miracle.

I put the camera away, with such nice lighting I just should.  The rail ahead was within arm reach if I jumped, and climbed over rather struggle between the bars.  A set of shelves at the opposite side of the room were loaded with tools and parts, and some cans of oil.  Two doors on either wall indicated the only options out of this room, if they were unlocked.

I tried the one nearest to me set on the solid cement floor, its appearance almost pleasant against the cold brick.  Behind the door was a wall of black, which would take me somewhere worthwhile I decided that instant.  The air within felt sharp and chilled, unlike the humid sewers.

The other door may have accessed the room I was locked from, as with it something dangerous and incomprehensible.  I doubted it, but decided not to risk it.  Strange shuffling and scratching sounds came from the other side, I had no wish to meet its gaze and learn its nature.  I slipped into the dark chill of the next channel, and shut the door.

Best leave some mysteries, my sick curiosity was going to be the death of me.

I was upon a high grated walkway, without the night vision I could feel the danger press close into me.  Decay, mildew, and every manner of disease.  My finger with the missing nail was in a good deal of pain, easily ignored but a frequent reminder whenever I fumbled with the cameras operations.

The path to my right was loaded with boxes, a precarious place to climb for a view if they gave out and I fell into god knows what below.  When I checked over the side I could make out the walls of metal sheeting gapped for water flow and ruined by corrosion of the mountains natural minerals, the oily water rippled with garbage from the main ward.  I was vaguely reminded of Star Wars, and half expected some unknown monster lurking in the depths to coil about my leg and drag me downwards to jaws lined with thousands of tiny teeth.

I laughed at this.  My laughter echoing off the great expanse of this chamber, deep into the dark, lost in this hell hole.  Somewhere out there a patient was laughing with me.  I swore I could hear him.

Or maybe that was my echo.

My knees gave out and I slumped to them lowering the camera beside me, but never letting go of it.  I laughed until my sides ached and I tasted that copper residue in my mouth once more.  I had fallen to deep chuckles before I started to cough on the foul air, then I flopped to my good side and lay there snickering quietly to myself on the frigid bridge.

What an idiot I was coming to this place!  “The story that breaks these bastards.”  Weren’t those my exact words?  Don’t quote me on that.  Looks like I got what I was looking for, fuckin’ story of the century, and Murkoff’s crushing demise.  They looked pretty broken to me, but maybe I wasn’t squinting right.  I should get that in fine print, signed by Dr. Wernicke himself.  Oh the irony he died before this place flipped its lid.

I waited till I had control again before attempting to rise, I didn’t need to buckle over the rail and make a graceless swan dive.

The path going left looked clear, but the rail was shattered to some distance.  With no better option I bit down on my reservations and dropped into the water, prepared for the jolt though not taking it as well as I had hoped.  I murmured to myself as my sides settled and I continued, camera held near my face as I waded through chest deep water.  It had the sharp rust smell, that was more metallic than blood, the pipes around here were made of zinc I thought.  Probably wrong, I wasn’t a plumber and I wouldn’t tell one how to do his job before I researched it.

I stopped and listened when I heard something that sounded like hissing, or grinding.  The way echoes twisted between the distant walls….maybe it was shrieking?  Maybe I was shrieking and wasn’t aware of it.

To reassure myself I touched my lips with my hand, never once considering how filthy my fingers were after I had been crawling down in the gutters.  In about five minutes it would come back to me.  I took a shaky breath to smooth my frayed nerves but it didn’t help at all.  I tried not to bite down on my tongue to prevent my teeth from chattering, in the event something did surprise me, I’d wind up biting off my tongue.

In the dark a shape flittered by, startling me back a step.  I gazed at it until my eyes told my brain what it was, just a scrap of blanket from somewhere.  I hated this place.  It was obvious by now.

I searched around the small channel, not sure what to make of this area.  I decided not to worry about it.  There were large grates, massive, separating this area from the channels I might have viewed or come through.  There was no way into them.  I hurried my movement, struggling to build a mental map of where I was going and prevent wasting the battery by getting turned around.  The chamber was extending beyond the dividing sections and cement walls far spread enabling me from following one side without losing too much power in the process.  I ventured into a small area open by a tear in the steel mesh, but found nothing other than a cluster of crates and some magazines that dissolved around my coat.

My battery was done, and I was forced to change it out.  The next one was full power, good to get me out of here.  Just had to find somewhere to get too.

When I returned to the area I had just left, I noted a stack of crates beneath a broken rail.  It’s connector.  I climbed the crates and dragged myself up onto the path, or what was left of it.  A few steps and I was already splashing below in the next channel, wading along with water bubbling into my coat.  I supposed I was looking for ways to get up and walk on these broken paths to reach a door or ladder, anyway to get out of here.  Good plan.  I had a good sense of direction on me, so long as I didn’t overthink which way I was facing.  If I memorized where I came from and kept my back to the drop or path, then I could navigate across the murky waters with a good mind where the next catwalk would appear.

As I was moving the same clatter of pellets in a pipe twittered off the fences and walls.  I checked the ceilings and zoomed to locate large pipes hung above, it was difficult to follow a direction consistently.  I also wasn’t certain if I wanted to follow that eerie sound, I was trying to keep avoid it.

After walking halfway around the small pool I located the grated steps leading up to my next pathway.  One way was the broken remains of the metal bridge, the other took a sharp right.  I walked along, wrenching back when a form came into view.  Just a cold body slumped on the rail, I lowered the camera to rub my face with my hand.  When I pulled my hand back I held it out straight and viewed it through the NV feed of the visor.  My hand was trembling like an addict suffering heavy withdrawals.  I didn’t feel frightened here despite the odd sounds and the lurking threat, I was just cold.  It was very cold and I was trembling.

I turned the camera back on the patient.  It was a rather odd place to die, I gave the corpse plenty of space as I passed.  The small detail that I was viewing murdered patients in the sewers was not missed, it could mean a number of things.  They were lost down here due to ‘Father’ Martins guidance, and the big fucker had found them.  Or, the remaining survivors of the staff had retreated down here, and were defending themselves from the variants.  While the latter speculation seemed the most plausible, I doubted it.  I had already accepted that everyone affiliated with Murkoff for whatever reason, had been killed.  And nothing could change that.

The catwalk came to its inevitable end, and I was certain I heard something glide through the liquid below.  It was only fair to note that at this point I was disturbed, and I couldn’t tell if my mind was playing tricks on me or if there was really something lurking below in the untold depths.

Star Wars.

The water swirled about me when I plopped in, and I took a moment to check the power on the battery before continuing.  I was stunned to find it half done.  What was this?  I found these batteries abandoned throughout this place, had they lost most of their juice exposed the way they were?

For now it would hold, I’d worry over it later.  Probably when it was too late.

I swore I felt the water ripple around my chest.  Maybe my movement caused ripples that returned to me.  Echo ripples?  Seemed logical. I needed to get out of here before something did drag me under and drowned me.  I kept walking, careful steps and slow movements, try not to disturb the surface too much.  The silence grew thunderous as my heart pumped in my chest, I was completely and totally alone here in this channel.

The water burst in front of me spraying the camera as with my face with an icy sheet, it successfully spooked me into a full retreat.  It was nothing I assured, after I had calmed myself and gawked back at the burbling surface.  There was nothing there, no one in the water.  Just…something from the ceiling.  Worn brick, or that nasty shit.  Fuck, a decapitated head, none of those things could consciously hurt me.

Another walkway curved overhead to the right, it felt like I had gone in a complete circle only because I didn’t trust the stability of some boxes.  I could see no boxes from where I was stationed below.  I grunted and hauled myself up, bringing the camera back to my face as I took the path.  A few feet and I found an innocent looking door to my left, the slim crawl of light at the bottom crack.  The hinges stuck and creaked as forced it open, only to meet a despairing sight.

The room was empty aside from a bare utility shelf, some plywood, and a man slumped in the furthest corner.  A thin black puddle had formed under him, indicating an advanced post mortem state.  At his hand was a wrinkled notepad suffering water damage, and the remains of a brown crayon.

I gave the body a distrustful glare before I stepped forward and took up the pad.  The writing was mostly eligible, only because crayon was waterproof, but it had not taken well to wet paper I surmised.

“Already weak, cold.  It’s still bleeding but it doesn’t hurt anymore and I almost have quiet.  I can’t hear the Walrider anymore.  Maybe the therapy is wearing off, I can’t remember the dreams.  Said I could earn my release from this place by submitting to the therapy.  Lies.  Of course they were lying.  It was not therapy.  We were sacrificed to conjure a demon.  Please, let there be no more dreams.  The only hel….”

Out of habit I flipped the page over to see if there was more, but the writing had a thick crescent mark trailing off the unfinished word.

I returned my gaze to the dead man.  One patient had said there were no experiments, but rituals, and had called it a ‘conjuring.’  What exactly did the experiments for Project Walrider entail?

But who did this man refer to?  Murkoff, or ‘Father’ Martin.  ”Accept the Gospel, and all doors will open”’  What was the therapy he referred to?  The mutilation each patient bore?  Too many new questions, not enough answers.  Even the authentic documents Murkoff published made little more sense than the patients statements.

I recorded the note, doubting even with the descent light of the room that it would be eligible, but I went ahead and tore off the page and folded it up to slip into my notebook.  My coat wasn’t waterproof, but the pocket I kept perishable items in was lined with a water repellent material that kept them safe.  A bit of liquid did seep through the zipper, but it was more than my body could say.

I shut the door and resumed on the walkway, only to find its sudden end.  I splashed into another channel coughing at the odd shift in my ribs, it didn’t hurt but tickled more like I had a mild cough.  I waded around the perimeter but located no visible way to exit here, nor an overhead path.  Off on the side I climbed out on a wide drainage chute to take a moment and exchange out the battery.  For a moment I listened to the water drip off my coat and trickle into the large body below, aside from this the chamber was total silence, even the rattle of needles had faded away leaving the echoing vibrations of the solitary water rippling against metal sheeting.

The battery was a half dead one as well.  Might as well use it while things felt calm, I’d have to tread cautiously and maybe give this one up early if I wandered near danger.  Though, the way my batteries were dying, it seemed inevitable that I would change it soon.

With no visible exit here, I decided to backtrack. I must have missed something.  An opening probably, skipped in the poor NV quality.  Excuses, excuses.  I chided myself for being so careless, even distracted as I was I needed to pay attention to my surroundings or I wouldn’t survive much longer.  I shuddered at the thought as I slipped into the cold channel.  It was just cold.

I returned to the previous pool, before had I climbed up into the catwalk with the dead patient.  I scoured the perimeter over wasting precious battery life, before I decided to climb that damn drainage chute with the grate.  I had missed a small opening in the side, looked like someone had kicked it out with fire.  I crawled into the next channel, chamber, flow - whatever, and stepped down into water that was not quite as deep.  It was freezing though, I was shaking so hard the images of the visor were not clear enough to see until I had paused to get my quakes under control.

Felt like my knees were numb, but it did ease the pain in my chest.  I was going to be a female before the end of this.  Damn.

I tried along the outer wall locating all the discarded papers, folders, cans, and cardboard.  My pulse quickened and I was trembling harder than before, I found out why as I turned the camera.  Rotted decapitated heads floating at the sides.  I could see the heads due to the eyes, eyes always glowed.  I hated that.  Somehow my peripheral vision had picked up on them before I consciously realized it, the notion itself elicited a tiny moan from me.  Across the channel I could zoom on the camera and locate more heads balanced on crates staring with vacant expressions across the black expanse.  I shut my eyes and looked away.

There was a sound.  Someone screaming, most likely.  I continued, bumping a few items that became water logged and sunk.  Bodies floated after some time.  Eerie thought right there.  I wasn’t paying enough attention at the moment, couldn’t bring myself to focus on where I was going.  A small knot had buried into my spine like an obnoxious ache, but it felt more like stress and the cold twisting my nerves. 

When I finally staggered in the water nearly dropping the camera I looked out, revaluating my position.  A few large pillars supported what must’ve been the upper floor.  There was a way out, somewhere to climb up on and get a better view of my surroundings.

Movement.  Ripples.  They could have been mine, but they traveled from the opposite side of the room far from walls, that I could tell.  Something solid was down here with me.

I shuffled near the curving wall carefully, taking small steps as I turned the camera in gradual sweeps and zoomed in.  Trying to find what, before it found me.  I drew too near to it and picked up the dull clink of chains, and the rather aggressively way the water broke.

Chris Walker.  Down here!  Damn it, if there was no way out!

But as I turned the camera, up in the ceiling there beamed a light from some sort of opening.  It meant nothing, probably from where the big fucker crashed in from.  But it was my only chance.  It was more than what I’d found so far.

I hid behind a stack of crates and peered out, as his eyes glimmered phantom like in the NV mode.  Just beyond him I could make out a set of steps leading up, and a walkway.  That was something, and the light source right there, it could have been where Chris plunged in from.

What was he doing down here?  Lost?  I didn’t care, it would be a nice change of pace if he was stuck.  I doubted his fate would end in a place like this, he wouldn’t rest until he saw me dead.

“Stacked neatly side by side,” he hummed, taking a turn and wandering a ways from my position.

I zoomed out, heading in the general direction I had seen the steps.  “Too good at what I do.”  He must’ve been lost in recollections of his past, or a session with the doctors.  It kept him distracted and that was good.  “Someone’s here.”  Not nearly enough.

The rings were getting smaller as he closed in on me, I was barely climbing the steps when the power in my battery began to fade.  Fuck, what bad timing!  I bolted up the steps rather bother with it.  Chris gave a sharp snarl when he must have seen my form in the faint light.  I ran, not realizing the path ended before I nearly bolted off the broken walkway into open air.

There was a ladder that would’ve extended down to the bridge, if it was still intact.  The lower portion of it and much of the catwalk was torn to shreds and dumped in the water below.

I felt the vibrations of the big fucker as he stormed up behind me.

I jumped down into the water and wadded away.  He did much of the same, only he seemed to have an easier time charging through the froth after me.  My camera was depleted, but it did punch a small hole of perception in what was otherwise a black wall.  I was in a mad hobble to keep out of his grip, and he was catching up.

A very insignificant memory came back to me, way back from my child hood.  When the kids in my old neighborhood got together Saturday nights to play outdoor games, like kids my age used to do many moons ago, we would often play tag.  I had many fond memories of being it, and not being it.  Sometimes we got bored and would antagonize the tagger, so we could run.  No one liked trying to tag me much, I was good at getting away.  But if ever I was in a jam and close to getting caught, I had a very unique way of eluding my pursuer.

With Chris close at my back, I managed several long strides in the impeding water and leapt forward, twisting in midair and coming down so I faced the opposite way I was headed.  Albeit, it was sluggish in the water, I shoved off glancing by Chris as he fought to jerk about.

The back of his arm slammed into my lower hip as he fell, a loud yowl expelled from my throat as the chains multiplied the pain by six.  I stumbled but recovered quickly, adrenaline pumped through my veins as I made it back, guided only by the poor light of the night vision.

“You had your chance!”

I could hear him stagger upright and resume the chase.  The metal steps were a few feet off but I redirected myself and took them three at a time, never mind the throb building in my hip.  Never mind any of that shit, I wouldn’t have another go at this if I fell.

I stuffed the camera strap between my teeth before I lunged forward, relying on my meek sight alone and the faulty light to identify the ladders bars glinting in the fog.  I hit them with a muffle grunt, my boots slipping through the space and I swung backwards barely catching the rungs with my feet splayed against them.  When I hit the lower side with my back, holy hell, the bolt of pain shot up my shoulder blades and numbed a spot in my tongue.  Somehow I never lost my grip on the camera, probably because I had bitten hard into the strap due to the shock.  Dumbfounded, I hung there as Chris thundered across the bridge with a murderous growl.  I registered his intentions with enough time to jerk myself up, as he leapt slashing at my shoulder.

Complete silence.

I imagined Chris Walker falling forever into a dark void, or well.  A poisoned well, before he splashed at the very bottom.  My abdomen began to ache, and I was forced to haul myself up and climb the ladder the rest of the way.  Below, he snarled with fury and maybe promised next time would be different, before he broke off into mad cackles that sounded a little too feminine to be MY big ugly fucker.

I was delirious by the time I reached the top of the ladder, my body sort of oozed out onto the icy concrete floor and I rolled away from that large gaping hole.  Away from danger, away from that wicked monster.  I curled myself up beside some shelving and lay there, clutching the camera to my chest.  A dull throb pulsed up my side and a unbearable warmth seeped through my lower thigh, I fumbled for my wet pants leg trying to decide if I was bleeding but it was impossible to tell.  I probably shouldn’t be clutching my only light source to my wet coat, but my brain wasn’t registering the warning at this time.  It felt like everything was spinning, the dull beige room I lay in was whirling and twisting, I felt my eyes roll back under their lids as I tried to follow the motion.

I thought I heard someone crying, but it wasn’t me.  Fuck that.  I rolled off my side and looked over at a man in a chair.

Beware men in chairs.

For a long time I stared at him and I think, he stared right back.  His face looked like it was infected, or a bees nest had made a home in his brain.

Miles.  Up.  Get up Miles.  Walk it up.

I don’t really want to.  But I made the effort, slipping my hands under me and pushing off the dusty ground.  A small whine escaped me as I pushed, literally dragging myself to my feet.  Once I was standing, I moved towards the open door.  A familiar sort of door, I couldn’t recall where I had seen doors like this.

I managed to reach the doorway before I dropped.  A moment, I needed a moment.  Just a short span of time in the quiet, away from the screaming and the oppressive death, and the dangers.  Just give me five minutes to get my shit together and get up.  As I sank heavily to my side I exhaled a sharp breath scattering the dust near my face, my forehead thudded with pain as the warmth subsided in my calm state.  I’m not sure if I was on my good side or if I had a good side anymore, perhaps a more favorable position to lie in?  I couldn’t sleep here, but I couldn’t resist either.  I wouldn’t sleep.  I would not sleep.  Wouldn’t sleep.

The soft shuffle of feet interrupted my coaxing.  I turned my head just enough over my shoulder to see the man from the chair approach me.  I did my best to glare at him, or to not look terrified before I blacked out.

[fuwafuwamedb]

Singularity Subspecies V: The Holy Land: Jerusalem: Jerusalem of Holy Sin - Chapter 1: Stop The Invader

Chapters: Prologue 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was no mistaking the yells of Ozymandias.

Gudako could feel her head pounding as they waited, her anxieties not even simmering down in the least at the presence of David. The servant took one look around and stilled.

He could sense it too.

“Gudako-“

“You’re from here.” Gudako looked up at him and motioned for the man to come along. “I’m going to need your help especially.”

The world before them was a mass of roads and fields, all leading to the city with great stone walls. They could see people gathering as a great light lit up the area. She could feel mana coming from the distance, the skies overhead beginning to darken as she looked off towards the civilization.

“…Right,” David nodded, his eyes drifting over the world in the distance. For once, the teasing and the good sportsmanship was gone. She could see a hardness in his gaze. “We need to hurry.”

They did.

Her running wasn’t fast enough to keep up with the others, Cu Chulainn was hoisting her up as they went. Her arms held onto his chest and shoulders. Her sights were focused on the buildings they were beginning to grow and sharpen in focus. She could see guards running along the upper portion of the walls. She could see spears being thrown down towards the world below.

The skies overhead were darkening further and further. A roaring buzzing could be heard around them as they approached the gates to the city.

“YOU SHALL LET ME INTO THIS CITY! YOUR WALLS ARE NOTHING COMPARED TO MY OWN!”

The roar was mightier than the storms, the man himself standing before the gates and the gaurds. His staff raised towards the heavens, casting a break amongst the eternal darkness overhead. They could see multiple dark things heading for the pharaoh.

“OZYMANDIAS!” Gudako screamed out to him, but she could see him cut her a look.

His eyes glowed as he raised himself up. The pyramid walls were rising forth, the rays of the sun piercing ray after ray of light through the darkness.

“You cannot hide within these walls and keep me away from what belongs to me. I sense her in your walls. I feel the magic that stands tall next to mine.”

Damn it all!

They would have to stop him before he brought the whole city to fight against them.

“CU!”

Gudako leaped from the man’s back, crouching down as a few spears came at them.

Gae Bolg was spinning. David’s bow was strung, ready for firing.

“We’ve got to stop Ozymandias!”

They needed to not be rushing into cities. They needed to be resolving the troubles through peaceful negotiations, not demands and screaming.

“Master,” Cu called.

“Buster Chains, guys!”

The two were all in, weapons lauching their attacks.

The arrows flew through the air. The red lance and Cu’s motions were quick and practiced. She could see the pharaoh laughing, his white cape flapping in the wind as he went after them in return. More and more rays of light struck down around them.

“CU! Another Attack from David!”

Cu leaped back a moment before David unleashed a chain of arrows. They could feel the light coming to close to all of them as Ozymandias tried to smite them.

Her eyes flew to the wall though, noting the figure sitting amongst the fallen soldiers. No, he wasn’t sitting, Gudako thought as she called out to the Uruk king. 

The golden king’s body was on the wall, but… Was he not awake?

His body fell forward, careening towards the earth.

Glancing back, a string of curses escaped the pharaoh. He took blows from both Cu Chulainn and David, bleeding out as he turned around. He ran forward to catch the Uruk king, barely making it in time.

A figure was moving as Ozymandias was running forward. The woman’s jewelry jingled in the aftermath of the latest strikes.

“NEFERTARI!” The pharaoh called.

A series of portals opened, brighter than anything the king or the pharaoh had opened.

The dark waters, Gudako realized, her eyes widening as her breathing simply paused a moment.

The waters were pouring forth, spilling over the land and drenching the pharaoh and the unconscious king in his arms.

The hand waved, the brown hair drifting in the wind a bit as the figure leaped down the other side of the walls.

“Who-“

“MASTER!”

She barely dodged the blow from the distance.

Ozymandias was running their way, standing at their side and setting Gilgamesh down near her as he looked up at the newcomer.

“You dare to bring yourself here. You dare to go back on the words that you gave to me back then.”

The man standing before them had his short hair drift a bit in the winds. They could see the gold flash on the man’s neck, but the attire.

He’s not a king… who is-

“Brother…” Ozymandias was setting his weapon down, eyes widening.

“You dare to speak of me in that manner,” the man growled, the world darkening once again. The skies were darkening once more, all the light that Ozymandias had brought vanishing away.

“Don’t do this,” the pharaoh demanded. “We need let in. My-“

“Nothing of yours is here,” the man stated. “And there is no place for you in these walls.”

The staff in the pharaoh’s hand was spinning, those golden eyes looking her way.

“Chaldean, assist me in breaking into this city and I will follow your methods of diplomacy.”

The hell he would.

“We need to get in,” David agreed. The former king of this land stood before the pharaoh, taking aim with his bow. “I am King David and this is my kingdom. You cannot-“

“This city does not belong to those who would claim it as theirs. We are our own land of free people and devotion for our own. You are a fool to think to claim this land before me!”

David laughed, glancing to Cu Chulainn. “Come, hound. Let’s show them how this is done. We don’t need the high ranks of Chaldea to take this man down.”

“GUARDS!” The man before them turned, waving a hand to the soldiers. “TAKE THEM DOWN! LET NO INFIDELS PASS THIS CITY WALLS!”

Great.

Gudako Glanced at her three viable servants now.

“Let’s go, guys. Let’s kick these soldiers’ asses!”

[sugamoonv]

Rose in the Water

Chapter 1

Word Count: 3,430

Tags: mafia!reader x Jimin, mafia!au

Warnings: basically pwp, plot will come in later chapters, slight dom!reader x sub!Jimin

Summary: Everything in life had taught you, warned you, that people like Jimin never lasted. Any ounce of softness would only serve to get you killed and you would damned sure that no one would lay a hand on Jimin. 

The chill spring breeze blew through Jimin’s soft locks as he made his way down the street. It had been warmer earlier in the day with the sun still up. His black designer shoes clicked on the pavement with each step. His friend Taehyung had taken the liberty to steal his shoes the day before to get them polished. Jimin reminded himself to ask where Taehyung had gone as he looked down at his feet and could see partial reflections of the streetlights that loomed above him as he passed by.

Jimin’s heart started beating in his chest as he neared the restaurant. Fairy lights were strung on the wooden patio and pillars before the entrance and the chalkboard sign in front marked that he was in the right place. Taehyung was convinced that Jimin was going through a, quote on quote “dry spell”, and planned a blind date for him. No matter how many times Jimin told Taehyung that he was simply focused on his career as a dancer. But Taehyung refused to listen. The restaurant was having a singles night as it was, though the dinner Jimin was supposed to attend had already been set up in lieu.

Jimin walked past the section closed off in the restaurant with a velvet rope. His lips tilted into a smirk when a few of the women’s eyes fell on him. He knew he was better than the desperate men that went to those types of events, even if Taehyung had put him in the same boat as them tonight. Jimin politely dismissed the waiter once his water was poured and took off his jacket, hat, and mask until he was left in the striped, black and white button-up shirt tucked into his form-fitting black jeans.

“Okay, black dress, hair down, silver high heels...”

Jimin absent-mindedly spouted off the few details Taehyung had told him about you as his eyes wandered around the restaurant. He awkwardly made eye contact with a man sitting a few tables away from him. The man was beginning to bald and was wearing a plain, white, button-up shirt. Across from him was a woman that appeared to be wearing too much makeup and a dress that may have properly fit her in another life. Jimin wasn’t one to judge other men on how they spent their money.

“I’m assuming you’re Jimin?”

Jimin looked up at you from his seat and realized Taehyung had been vague when describing you. He had been correct in that you were wearing a black dress but the design was something Jimin did not expect. Black lace coated your arms, coming up to the solid black bodice that hugged your shape. Your hair rested upon your shoulders, framing your face nicely; it shined in the light and swayed with your small movements. Jimin’s fingers itched to reach up and see if your hair was as silky as it looked.

Jimin had been on many dates before where some of the women had overshot at their attempts to impress him. They were beautiful, yes, but the heavy makeup they had put on in the belief that that is what they needed to be beautiful slightly turned Jimin off. To Jimin, beauty came from the way people held themselves, not so much physical appearance.

Jimin stood up and gestured to the chair and only sat again when you were seated. As you sat, Jimin saw a flash of skin from the open back of the dress. Was that a tattoo he saw?

“You must be Y/N.”

“I am.” You smirked at Jimin. The air of confidence around you was sweltering. Jimin was intimidated sitting across from you but if dance had taught him one thing, it was to always challenge yourself. And Jimin could already tell that you would be a challenge that he was willing to partake in.

“I didn’t know what to expect when Taehyung told me I was going on a blind date, but I have to say I’m pleasantly surprised.”

Jimin subtly puffed out his chest at your praise and sat up straighter. “I can say the same.”

The waiter saw that you had arrived and came over to take both your’s and Jimin’s orders. Jimin felt as though he should have gotten offended when you unexpectedly ordered for him, but in all honesty, your dominance had made him twitch and it took effort to stop himself from getting hard in the restaurant.

“Does Taehyung send you on a lot of blind dates?”

Thoughts of you sitting across from another man in a dress as sultry as the one you’re in now stirred some jealousy in Jimin’s chest. It was as if you saw right through Jimin too because, at the question, a smug look spread across your face.

“He’s tried. I went on two, some years ago but they didn’t work out. Taehyung knows a lot of people, and don’t get me wrong, the people he associates with are dependable but they were lacking.” You paused and dropped your eyes, raking up Jimin’s body. “Enough about Taehyung though,” you leaned forward and grabbed his hand on the table, “I want to talk about you.”

Tingles shot up Jimin’s arm and he flipped his palm so his hand was instead resting on yours. “Currently, I’m going to University for dance,”

“So you’re good at moving your body?” you quirked an eyebrow at him. Jimin could tell that the question was rhetorical and swallowed heavily at the double meaning, before composing himself again.

“Best in my class,” Jimin’s eyes locked with your’s in a heated staring contest.

Jimin’s face felt hot and he prayed that no one could see the tent in his pants under the table. His muscles were tense and ready to pounce on you at any second and if it weren’t for the waiter returning with your food, he just might have. He let go of your hand to give the waiter room to set the plates down and scooted back on his chair while clearing his throat. Jimin caught the way your eyes flickered to his adam's apple and once again, the tension in the air became heavy.

Between how much you stared at each other, Jimin was surprised you both ate as much as you did. Though despite how much food you left on the plate, you opted out of a to-go container, desperate to leave and relieve the heat that’s been building between your legs. Again, Jimin felt himself twitch and had to refrain himself as you shot down Jimin and demanded you pay the check.

Jimin rushed out of the restaurant behind you. He couldn’t care less about the women still speed dating staring at him as his eyes were focused on the smooth skin of your back. He took two strides forward so he was side by side and let his hand rest on your lower back. He craved for people to see his display. Tonight, you belonged to him.

Jimin knew better than to crawl on top of you in the backseat with the driver up front. He was to be the only one to see you tonight. But it seemed you didn’t have the same thoughts as him as your hand landed upon his knee. Jimin thought it a simple gesture until your hand started inching upwards. Your fingers were burning holes through his jeans and he shifted as the zipper became uncomfortably tight. His breathing grew quick once your hand was on his upper thigh, right next to his dick and when you drew a circle over him through his pants, he let out a shaky breath and threw his head back to stare at the roof of the car. He gritted his teeth to stop from moaning as your fingers grew bolder over him and added pressure.

The driver stopped the car and loudly cleared his throat. Jimin threw himself out of the back seat and jogged to the opposite side where you were just stepping out. If his mind wasn’t so clouded with lust, he would have stopped to admire the mansion you pulled up at but all he could think about was getting to a bedroom.

Jimin was a sweaty wreck next to you as you walked up the cobblestone driveway. You had to swat his wandering hands away a few times but as you were putting in the code to open the doors, there was nothing you could do to stop Jimin’s hands from momentarily touching you. You kept your composure, resisting the stirring in your crotch and lead Jimin inside and up the grand spiral staircase to your master bedroom.

Immediately after the door clicked shut Jimin was upon you, teeth clashing together in a frantic kiss. He pushed you roughly against the door and his hands curled into the fabric of your dress and he tugged to indicate for you to take it off. As Jimin’s hands came up to slip the dress from your shoulders, you pushed back on his chest so he was stumbling backward. His blown pupils, tousled hair, and swollen lips sent warmth to your stomach. Jimin took a step to return to you but paused when you tutted at him.

“Strip for me.”

Jimin’s nostrils flared and he drew in a sharp inhale. The sound of his jacket hitting the ground was loud as you silently watched him. You could tell his hands were shaking as he worked on tugging off his shirt and unbuttoning his pants. Soon he was standing in front of you, cock pointed towards you and heavily breathing.

“Bed.”

Jimin hastily turned towards the king size mattress and crawled up so he was sitting against the headboard and pillows. You admired the way his muscular thighs naturally spread for you and the sharp definitions in his abs and chest. A slight layer of sweat already coated his neck, adding to Jimin’s sensuality.

You slowly pushed down your dress until it fell into a pile at your feet. Jimin’s eyes immediately went to your breasts as you were unable to wear a bra with the open back of the dress. Having Jimin’s thirsty eyes drank in your exposed form thrilled you. You stepped out of the silver high heels, automatically losing a few inches from your height and left them with your dress.

Jimin’s hands urgently shot out to your black, lace panties as you straddled him. His fingers roughly dug into your flesh as he pulled your hips down so your cloth covered core sat above his bare cock. You could feel the wetness of your panties as your pussy grew slick.

You gave an experimental thrust on top of Jimin and he let out a whimper as he felt the outline of your folds through the cloth. You barely had to put any effort into moving as Jimin guided your hips back and forth against his until your panties were completely soaked.

“I’m close,” Jimin’s eyes squeezed shut and the muscles in his stomach tensed as he started to move his hips with yours to create more friction.

You lifted your hips off of him. At that, Jimin’s eyes opened and he attempted to pull you back down but you swatted his hands away, which he reluctantly allowed with another whimper. He watched with a tortured gaze as you seated yourself next to him and spread your legs wide.

“You have to please me first if you want to come.”

Jimin swiftly shuffled down the bed so he was between your legs. His eyes roamed over the smooth skin of your legs as if deciding where to begin and he tentatively placed his hand on the inside of your knee. He shifted so he was laying on his stomach and slightly used your leg as leverage to pull himself forward, where he started peppering kisses on the inside of your thigh. You let out a breathy moan and relaxed into the mattress as Jimin’s lips worked their way up.

With each hand on each thigh, he softly trailed his palms up to your hips and hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties. Jimin waited until you lifted your hips enough for him to drag them down, you pulling your legs to your chest briefly to help him. You didn’t even bother looking to where Jimin had thrown them as his fingers swiftly moved to your folds and you choked out a moan.

Jimin’s face was closer to your center but he continued to tease you by kissing close to the junction between your thigh and pussy. You made a small sound as Jimin nipped at your skin then laved at the area with his tongue before repeating the action again. You grew frustrated and tangled your hands in Jimin’s blonde hair and wantonly guided him to your center.

Jimin immediately placed his mouth upon your outer lips and dipped his tongue in between your folds and you couldn’t help the loud moan that escaped from your throat.

“Ah fuck, baby boy, just like that.,” you ground your hips up at his face while you praised him, “Fuck, you’re making me feel so good.”

You clenched your pussy as small vibrations were sent through your skin with Jimin moaning against you. You could partially see his hips moving against the bed, desperate for attention. Jimin swirled his tongue around your entrance before fucking you with it and as he got tired, he replaced his tongue with his fingers, moving his tongue up to your clit. He left small kitten licks that had you mewling as he slowly pushed his fingers into your core. Your slick allowed him to insert two fingers, which he promptly began scissoring to prepare you for him.

The noise from his fingers moving inside you and the slurping from his mouth on your clit only added to the fire in your stomach. Once he felt you were stretched out enough, Jimin’s fingers worked on finding your g-spot and once he did, he curled his fingers against it and suddenly suctioned your clit so that the coil in your stomach snapped and you were thrusting your hips up as you came on Jimin’s hand.

Jimin moved on top of you so that you were chest to chest and captured your lips in another kiss. He was more sensual now, giving you time to recover. His lips moved languidly upon yours, tongue dipping into your mouth and running along yours before he curled it back out and nibbled on your lower lip. Jimin took his time creating friction between you two, collecting your juices on his cock as he circled his hips.

“Do you want to fuck me, baby boy?”

Jimin dropped his head into your neck with a moan and gave a particularly hard roll. One fist clenched the pillow by your head while the other was preoccupied with your breast. He placed open-mouth kisses on your neck, searching for your sweet spot. You mewled once his mouth landed on the junction between your jaw and ear and as he focused on your neck, you reached down and took hold of his member.

He thrust into your hand a few times before you brought the tip of his cock to your entrance and with one shove, Jimin buried himself halfway into you. You let out collective moans and Jimin made small movements to work his cock further in until both your groins touched. His hand shot to your back as you arched up to give you support and his lips slid across your cheeks, back to your lips.

Jimin breathily kissed you while he waited for you to adjust to his size. As you ran your hands down his stomach, you felt his abs hardening under your touch. Jimin took you grabbing onto his ass as a sign and pulled out to slam back into you. The first few thrusts were sloppy but Jimin soon found a pace and was moving in and out of you as quickly as he could, his cock diving deeper than your fingers ever could.

You squeezed your eyes shut and threw your head back, overwhelmed with the sound of skin slapping upon skin and Jimin’s constant moaning above you as he used you for pleasure. You didn’t even care that Jimin was fucking you hard enough to cause your bed springs to obnoxiously squeak.

“Oh god, your pussy’s so tight,” Jimin slurred, fully submerged in the sensation of your pussy clenching around him. He moved so that each arm was next to your head as he supported himself and began to pound into you harder. “Fuck. Yes. Fuck, thank you, thank you, thank you,” he mumbled as he sloppily kissed you.

It didn’t take long for Jimin to get close to coming. You could tell because soon his hips began moving more frantically and his moans became loud enough you were sure that someone would be able to hear from outside the compound. Your pussy squeezing Jimin’s cock as you followed behind, only worked to bring him to finish. Jimin gave a last few harsh thrusts as he spilled inside you with your name falling from his lips like a prayer. You were so close to finishing and as Jimin sat back on his thighs to admire the way his cum spilled out of you, he saw your hand drift down and circle your clit. His fingers scooped his cum and pushed it back into you then moved up to replace your hand and it only took a few more minutes before the coil in your stomach snapped and colored spots filtered into your vision from shutting your eyes too hard.

The bed dipped as Jimin lay beside you and pulled you close to his chest. Both of you were sticky with sweat and your skin still felt hot to the touch. Jimin lightly kissed your shoulder, “We should shower.”

“Ready for round two already?” you teased him and felt his chest shake on your back as he laughed. You sighed and melted into your comforter, “I’ll shower tomorrow morning. I’m too tired.”

Jimin chuckled into your neck and got off the bed. The sudden air on your warm back sent chills up your spine. You drowsily watched as Jimin tugged up his boxers and walked into the connected bathroom. He turned the water on and you assumed he planned to take a shower himself when he walked back out and scooped you from the bed.

Jimin gently set you down so you were standing on the cold, tile floor. The tub was nearly half full already and Jimin ran a hand through the water to check the temperature and then kneeled down to search the cabinets and eventually bringing out a rose scented bubble bath soap you had purchased a while ago and forgotten. He swayed you to the tub where you gingerly stepped in and sat in hot water. He poured in a generous amount of the soap and stirred the water so that bubbles formed. You tucked your knees into your chest and rested your chin upon them as you admired Jimin for the millionth time tonight. You would have to make sure to actually thank Taehyung for successfully setting you up this time.

Jimin stood back up and undressed from his boxers, exposing the tops of his shapely thighs and his trim hips. He looked at you as you loudly laughed, “Why did you put on your underwear on if you were only going to take them off?”

He blushed a bright pink and slightly dropped his gaze to the floor as he nervously giggled, “I didn’t want you to see my butt.”

“Jimin, we just had sex!” you guffawed. “And for the record, I think you have a very cute butt.”

Jimin hugged his chest as he cutely laughed so his eyes became half moons. You scooted forward to let him sit behind you in the now full tub. The layer of bubbles on top of the water and the steam prevented from either of you seeing each other under the water. Which was fine because you simply leaned back into Jimin’s chest and breathed in the sweet aroma of the bathroom. With your line of work, it was rare that you had moments like these to pamper yourself. Most of your experiences forced you to harden yourself and you doubted that Jimin would ever be a constant in your life, but for now, it was a nice change.

Tagged: @eshika0102 @detectivebourbon @omgsuperstarg