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mostlycompetentwriter · 4 years ago

Note

Anything you write is so amazing so can I please request a marriage au and possibly mafia with Hyunjin. You can pick the plot!!

Hi! I’m not sure if you wanted smut, but I was inspired to write smut. Please enjoy.

Pairing: Fem! Reader x Hyunjin

Genre: Mafia AU; Marriage AU

Warnings: Language and Smut

Word Count: 1.7K

It was cold when you pulled up to your expensive estate, bundled up in a luxurious coat and an evening gown that cost more than the car your driver had brought you home in. But no amount of money could improve your current mood, silently loathing your husband’s insistence, yet again, that you return home early and miss out on all the fun at your best performing club.

“Fuck him,” you decided aloud, slamming the door closed behind you as you marched along the neat sidewalk leading to the front door.

For the past several weeks, you had done your best to run the club downtown where you entertained the wealthy patrons who enjoyed the rare alcohol selections from the bar. You were the reason why the club was so successful, but then everything seemingly changed overnight, and you would always blame the drunk, inconsiderate asshole who started a huge fight that had to be broken up by every security guard you had hired.

By the time Hyunjin arrived on the scene, your husband was incensed, and he enforced a very strict curfew that prevented you from staying in the club past nightfall. “Extra security measures my ass,” you growled. “Who else is gonna run that place while he drives around town making all sorts of deals?”

He hadn’t always been that protective. When Hyunjin found you after taking over your father’s pathetic excuse for an organization, merging the two together, and sealing the deal by asking for permission to marry you - the gorgeous daughter who could certainly handle herself in a fight - he promised that you would be involved in every aspect of his underground mafia dealings.

But then the fight happened, and you were stuck at home bored out of your mind while you resented Hyunjin’s decision to keep you locked up like some kind of animal. The anger and frustration continued to grow each night you found yourself gazing out the window in the living room and wondered what was happening to the rest of the world while huge, well-armed security guards walked the premises of your home and kept you inside. “I’m not doing this anymore,” you decided, and you didn’t even bother to change out of your club skirt before planting yourself at the mini-bar in the kitchen where you would wait for Hyunjin to drag his ass back home. “I won’t stand down!”

It was a worthy declaration, and you were in the process of rehearing everything you wanted to say to Hyunjin, ruminating over the past few weeks of isolation while glancing at the fancy clock ticking away in the background. The hour had entered the early AM when you heard the front door open, followed by the sound of Hyunjin’s voice as he spoke on the phone to one of his subordinates. “We’ll meet with him this Friday,” Hyunjin said, and you watched him walk into the kitchen, startling when he realized you were still awake. “Yeah, I’ll call you back tomorrow.”

You smirked, waiting until he hung up the phone before speaking. “It’s about time you get here.”

“I had some things to take care of,” Hyunjin replied, and he must’ve been ignorant to your foul mood as he walked over to spread your thighs, making himself comfortable between them. “You’re still all dressed up.”

“We need to talk,” you said, deciding that it was best to get straight to the point.

“Sweetheart, what’s your problem?” Hyunjin asked, and you frowned as he started messing with the knot on his tie.

“My problem is you, Hyunjin,” you snapped, furious that he was being so nonchalant.

“Me?” Hyunjin scoffed. “What the hell did I do wrong?”

“Really?” You rolled your eyes at how dense he was. “Can’t think of anything?”

“Is it because I’m home so late?” he asked. “You know I work late sometimes, baby.”

“Quit calling me that,” you growled. “I’m talking about the new club. You know I’m the best person to run it, but you keep sending me home like I’m a kid or something.”

Hyunjin smiled. “Is that all? You’re precious to me, baby,” Hyunjin whispered, kissing you like you were something delicate to be treasured.

“My father taught me how to use a knife when I was ten,” you hissed against the seam of his mouth, pulling back to glare at Hyunjin. “I’m not a flower.”

Hyunjin scowled, and you realized that you had said something to piss him off, swallowing hard when he grabbed your arm even while trying to keep on a mask of false bravado. “I just wanted to come home and make love to my wife,” he said, and you winced when the hold around your arm grew tighter. “No,” he continued, and all previous semblances of softness were gone. “You want to be fucked, isn’t that right?”

“I want to be treated with respect!” you protested, yelping in pain when he forced you up out of your chair only to spin you around and bend your entire upper half over the counter.

“Is that right?” he growled into your ear. “You want me to let you do whatever the hell you want?”

“I can protect myself,” you said. “I did it before I met you!”

“But you have me now, sweetheart,” Hyunjin cooed, and you shivered when he started sliding your skirt down your thighs.

“I don’t need you to boss me around,” you insisted, even though it was quite obvious that Hyunjin had had enough of your attitude.

“Speak like that to me again,” he snarled, landing a sharp slap to the flesh of your ass.

“What are you gonna do?” you challenged him. “Fuck the fight out of me? Act like the big bad mafia boss who orders everyone around?”

“Maybe I will,” he whispered, and your next words were wiped clean around a moan when two of his fingers immediately penetrated your tight cunt. “Not so mouthy now,” Hyunjin said, and you whimpered at his tone, legs shaking at the fast movements of his fingers against your delicate walls, grazing that sweet spot with every stroke.

“This isn’t fair!” you whined, but Hyunjin only laughed in response, wrapping his free arm around your waist as he brought you back against his chest, curling his fingers just right as he flexed his wrist with talented motions.

“You’ll cum once like this from my fingers,” he said. “And then once from my cock.”

“Is this your way of controlling me?” you asked, wincing when he abruptly removed his fingers and allowed you to tall back down against the counter.

“It’s my way of loving you,” Hyunjin said, and you could hear the raw emotion in his voice. “I just want you to be safe and happy, Y/N.”

“Hyunjin...” you tried, but there was no finishing a coherent sentence when his fingers were back on your clit, drawing harsh little circles with his thumb while three fingers stretched the walls of your still-tender pussy, pushing you closer to the edge while murmuring sweet nothings into the hair at the back of your neck.

“Feel good for me,” he said, and you choked around a stuttered exhale when your first orgasm of the night left you reeling from Hyunjin’s dramatic shift to something soft and decidedly un-mafia-like.

“Baby,” you sighed, allowing your forehead to touch the cool surface of the counter to alleviate the sweat building there, groaning when Hyunjin slid down your panties and started working apart his well-pressed suit pants.

“You can cum again for me, Y/N,” Hyunjin said, and despite the ache in your core, you spread your legs even wider for him when he started to push his cock between your gaping walls, replacing the spaces where his fingers had previously brought you to the edge. “So tight,” Hyunjin moaned, and his hands held firmly to your hips as he started pounding immediately, leaving you no time to adjust; although, you were already prepared for him because of the mess he had made from finger fucking you into oblivion.

“Shit your cock is amazing,” you cried, tossing back your head against the fresh waves of pleasure, closing your eyes as you took everything he was giving you.

It almost felt like a peace offering, especially when your husband was more than inclined to take you over any available surface of your lavish home.

“Yeah?” Hyunjin grunted, and you could practically feel his proud smirk as he gave you all his attention, working his cock at different angles and listening for your reactions: staccato moans and dramatic cries of his name. “Tell me when you’re close.”

“Soon,” you promised him, arching your back just a little more because it gave Hyunjin better leverage to hit your g-spot on every thrust.

He took the hint, grinding his hips against your ass and working you over as only someone who had spent years learning your body could. “Do you need me to touch you?” he asked and you nodded fiercely, unable to resist the tears that started to fall when one hand returned to your throbbing clitoris, giving it some much-needed attention as the rest of you started to fall apart.

“I’m coming!” you cried, looking back over at your husband and nearly losing it at the sight of his concentrated expression. Sweat falling down the sides of his hairline, eyes focused on the place where he was pumping his cock inside of you, expression shadowed by the same lust and desire curling at the place where he was working you with his cock and fingers. “Hyunjin!” you shouted, losing every single last reserve of your inhibitions as you came for a second time, panting and desperate for him as he gave two deep thrusts before his cum joined your own.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he growled, pulling his cock from your ruined cunt as you held on to the counter with whatever strength you had left since your legs almost felt numb from his prior ministrations. “I got you,” he said, reaching down to collect you into his arms, holding you close as he brought you both upstairs to your shared bedroom.

You sighed at the feeling of the satin sheets against your lower back, reminders of the extravagances that his mafia dealings could afford you both, reaching over to wrap an arm around Hyunjin’s waist to keep him close. “I know that you love me, baby,” you said, drawing his attention. “But I still want to work the club at night.”

“Y/N,” Hyunjin growled, and you savored the wild, animalistic look in his gaze that promised you both a very long night.

#hyunjin fanfic #hyunjin scenarios #stray kids fanfic #stray kids scenarios #hyunjin imagines #hyunjin drabbles #hyunjin oneshot #hyunjin smut #stray kids smut #mostlycompetent

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akillysheel · 4 years ago

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TENUOUS. ❜ ( 2 )

Summary: Kuro asks the important questions before he and Cthugha decide on a starting point for their investigation. Warnings: N/A. Notes: N/A

'I need to think about it.'

Kuro slouched in his armchair, the events of the morning playing on loop in his head. After Cthugha's untimely arrival, the Sheriff had taken it upon himself to take the rest of the afternoon off in an attempt to compartmentalise his thoughts. He seldom ever took breaks, but when he'd emerged from his office as white as a sheet, his colleagues had ultimately pulled the plug on his hopes of remaining at work, advising insistently that he should go home.

'Fine. But you just remember, every minute you sit around ruminating about your stupid little life, that's another minute that this girl is missing, and that means it's another minute closer to doomsday too.'

Could it be true? Doomsday? The end of the world? It sounded to him like the paranoid ravings of a conspiracy nut... yet he'd spoken with such calm authority, countered every one of the problems he'd had with a rebuttal of his own. Every one of his questions had an answer; everything he'd said about Raku ( at least as far as his limited understanding of Gods was concerned ) was true.

Mia Vanton's case sat on his lap. It was a thin file, one that spared details for there hadn't been many to uncover, but in that moment it felt heavy. Cumbersome. As if he'd been shackled to the floorboards.

This thing's been shut since 2001.

One calloused thumb traced over its front, teasing the corner away from the papers inside. He really didn't know whether he wanted to look at it or not. It felt oddly like picking at a scab wound, baring himself to old pain that needn't be revisited. Did he have it in him to feel as hopeless as he did twenty years ago?

He grunted as a headache set in. It had steadily been growing for the past two hours, fostered in his brain like a bad habit.

Is there any point in opening this up again? Surely if she was to be found, she'd have been found by now. This year marks the twentieth anniversary of her disappearance. In two weeks, in fact.

Was that relevant? He couldn't help but consider it. As much as he wanted to push Cthugha's prophecy aside as garbage, the fact was that he was impressed - and a little worried. He knew things that nobody could have known, and deep down he knew that his colleagues wouldn't sell some random kid information. Huron's task force was known for being small, humble and honest, and it's good service had been a near constant hallmark for the district's deep sense of peace. There had never been a recorded incidence of internal corruption-- not even with other, less composed Sheriffs in the front seat.

How else could he have known about Olivia? About Raku, even.

The Sheriff let out a deep sigh as he closed his eyes, knowing already what he had to do.

“I’ve decided t’help y’.”

“Thank. God.” The statement trembled with sarcastic frustration, Cthugha’s cobalt eyes all but grey on account of the storm that had entered them. He sat in Kuro’s chair, his feet propped up on his desk. The rubix cube-- the one that had previously been half-completed-- sat in his hands, its coloured faces now perfectly arranged. “While you were busy jerking off to the end of all life in this realm, I was busy compiling resources that might help us stop it.” He paused to reach inside of his jacket, retrieving a file of his own, before he dropped it unceremoniously on the desk. “You’re welcome.”

“Where were y’keepin’ that…?”

“Just look at it.”

Kuro hesitated briefly before dragging the file closer, opening it up to find himself staring at a myriad of newspaper clippings, interview transcripts and photographs. It was makeshift work, by no means tidy, but the sheer wealth of information was staggering to him. Even so, as he skimmed over them briefly, he realised that there was nothing there that he didn’t already know.

Of course there isn’t. Why would there be?

I don’t know. Maybe I assumed he was an agent of God or something.

“Aside from all that,” Cthugha started, rising from his commandeered seat. In what felt like a flash, he’d moved from the desk to the far corner of the room, grabbing a hold of a whiteboard on wheels before reappearing where he had been. Kuro blinked hard. “We can rule out all the places you already searched in your previous hunt for her.” Feverishly, the rifter began to fill the board with haphazard notes. “That means you don’t have to trawl through Whit’s a second time, nor do you need to bother checking their home or questioning her papa. He came up clean, remember?”

“Yeah… he was so dedicated t’findin’ his daughter that he all but singlehandedly led the search party campaign despite us tellin’ him that it was dangerous. Had t’bust him outta a few compromisin’ positions fer his efforts...”

“Exactly. Also means that the tunnels are a bust too, so you don’t have to waste time trawling through the underground like a family of sewer rats. Wherever she is, she’s somewhere ya didn’t think to comb through.” He paused when he found his whiteboard pen beginning to run dry. “Damn it--” Much like before, he flickered away, a brief rummaging sound filling the quiet office before he reappeared before the board. “Okay, so-- here’re all the places you don’t gotta worry about that I can think of off the top of my head. There’s… what? Why’re ya staring at me like that?”

“How’re y’doin’ that?”

“You can write too, Kuro.”

“I mean the… disappearin’-’n’-reappearin’ thing. Obviously.”

“Oh, that. Yeah, I guess that makes more sense…” It was the closest to sheepish that he’d seen Cthugha thus far; a break from his smug attitude was certainly refreshing. “It’s just a teleportation shtick. Think of it like… instead of macro-leaps, I’m performing micro-hops in time.”

"Huh," said Kuro, deciding not to question it.

In truth, the more they talked about the Vanton case, the more he began to recall. Kuro seldom ever forgot a victim - even though he'd been the Sheriff of Huron for over three centuries, and a police officer for even longer than that - but he wouldn't say that the details were as long-lasting. There were simply too many nuances in too many cases-- too much information for him to store everything tightly away. His brief read over the case file before he'd come back to the office that following morning hadn't helped much either, if only because there hadn't been much for him to garner in the first place.

"I do have a question though," Kuro spoke up as he handed Cthugha a cup of coffee. He wasn't sure whether he was trying to placate or subdue him. "... or a couple."

"Are they constructive?"

"Maybe. I mean-- y'mentioned parallel timelines 'n' shit. Couldn't y'just… hop into one where I found her 'n' tell me where she is?"

"Parallel timelines are born out of choices, dummy. Unless you're admitting that you purposefully didn't find her, that isn't gonna help at all." A swig of his drink was taken, the rich flavour seeming to soothe his annoyance somewhat. "Nah. You're thinking of alternate timelines."

"Then what about that?"

"We're not really supposed to dip into those if we can help it. Definitely a last resort sort of deal. It creates the possibility for people to run into themselves; fractures the separation between realities. Doppelganger action is a one-way ticket to hell for the Universe. Also the fact that, like parallel timelines, there are MULTITUDES of alternate timelines where everything's the same except one little thing, meaning it'd take a shit-ton of time to comb through 'em all-- most likely more time than we’ve got. There're several versions of you out there, Kuro, but you're this one. You should focus on that."

"This's all real confusin’…" the Sheriff mumbled, deflating a little. He was so sure he'd had a good idea under his belt, but hell, what did he really know about the way that reality worked?

"Mm. Anything else?" Cthugha asked tersely, eager to move on.

"Just one more thing," Kuro affirmed, shifting in his place for a moment before deciding that brevity was more favourable than kindness. "... how does this girl stayin' missin' end the world? People go missin' all the time. Some come home, some're found dead. Some’re never found, yet the world keeps on spinnin’. 's just a cruel fact’a life."

For the first time since their meeting, Cthugha fell silent. A harrowing emptiness entered his eyes as he thought about the bleak future that awaited them if they did nothing. A hazy field of fire, the once clean air ashen and thick. The destruction spread like cancer, first exploding in Huron before it gradually spread outward. What was perhaps even more frightening was that the one responsible for it seemed impervious to the herculean effort required to topple a district; by the time he was done with Huron, he was already looking for a bigger, more developed fish to fry.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen the Universe in ruins by far, and he doubted it’d be the last.

That didn’t mean he was accustomed to seeing it though.

“Well,” he said softly, whiteboard pen twirled absentmindedly in between his fingers. “... let’s just say, grief does things to people. Do you have any clue who Mia’s father is?”

Slowly, Kuro squinted. “Aside from knowin’ his name ‘n’ his daughter’s case? No. Should I?”

“No. That’s exactly why ya should be worried: he’s got nothing left to lose. Do you think he’s going to care about hurting anyone when he’s hurting this much himself? He’s got no children to provide for; no public image to protect. When he loses his mind, he does it for real, and damned’re the consequences, get it?”

“Got it…” Kuro muttered. He knew all too well about people like Mr.Vanton. While an anonymous existence was ultimately a peaceful one, when crime was brought into the mix, it became a dangerous shield. Who suspected the nobody? Nobody, that’s who. “Then we gotta get movin’.”

“I have to ask,” Cthugha started as he stepped towards the chair he’d been sprawled in, reaching for his jacket and shrugging it on. Now that he had a little time to look over him properly, Kuro noted its strange cyan decals and the symbol that he’d never seen before adorning the right side; two parallel lines with a small triangle beneath the centre point of the bottom one. It looked vaguely like a seesaw with two slats on top instead of one. "What made you change your mind?"

“Well, I guess I never got over the fact that I couldn’t solve it. D’y’have any idea how hard it is t’look a parent in the eye ‘n’ tell ‘em that the search fer their child is over? There was nothin’ else I could do, but I still felt guilty. I figure, even if yer full’a shit ‘n’ this really is some heartless stunt all fer yer own amusement, I can at least make sure that there really was nothin’ else I could’a done fer the Vantons.”

The rifter hummed softly as he adjusted his tie. “Heh. Ya really are a good person.”

“Y’had doubt?”

“Who doesn’t? Much easier to expose a bad person who’s pretending to be good than to find an actual good person these days. I guess it’s just an unfortunate byproduct of evolution.”

“Yer wrong,” Kuro said firmly, pulling his black coat closed. The gun at his hip was touched briefly before he pocketed his hand, satisfied that he had everything he needed. “There’re a lot more good people in the world than bad. ’s just that the bad leave behind their messes t’clean up.”

“Well, whatever the truth is, it’s clear we’re dealing with a bad person here, huh? So, got any bright ideas?”

Already were the gears in his head turning. With the compiled notes to aid him, he knew of the place that he wanted to start with. It may have been a dead end-- wishful thinking more than anything-- but he wouldn’t be able to progress until he knew he’d upturned every stone on this property. “We should head t’the Valerie Vineyard first.”

#writeblr #original story #fandomless oc story #writing #novel drafts #tenuous ;

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nosferatvpussy · 5 years ago

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distorted lullabies [chapter X]

Word count: 9,034 (big chapter again... I’m sorry?)

Warnings: vulgar language

Pairing: Dracula x female reader

AO3 link

___________________________________________________________

Friday. The day before the big day.

Evelyn would finally tie the knot and I would, hopefully, be still alive by the end of the night and be free of Count Dracula. If everything went according to plan, in a few years I would only remember him as that mysterious guy I once had a fling with and reminisce about him over wine on nights where I found myself lonely.

I should not remember Count Dracula as the guy I had a fling with nor should I ever think about him as I was lonely. It would be better if I didn’t think about him at all, for the rest of my life. The fact that my brain hadn’t immediately presented that as an option was worrisome enough to make me press the button for St Thomas Hospital’s ground floor again, like that would make the lift descend faster.

The faster I met with Zoe, the faster I would be reminded of the dangers of thinking about Dracula as any sort of romantic interest. That wasn’t an alternative – not when I was cornered into choosing eternal life or dying.

“This can’t go on, Zoe,” said a male voice.

I’d been in the process of entering the hospital’s lobby when I heard it and stopped dead in my tracks, dodging behind a flower bouquet display for sale. I grabbed one of the ‘get well’ cards and pretended to read it, pricking my ears up. The attendant circled the counter, offering to help me with the appropriate bouquet and telling me how I could buy one and send it up to my loved one’s room, but I quickly waved her away.

I wasn’t entirely sure why I decided to hide but my gut told me this wasn’t a conversation I was supposed to hear. Like the world’s worst spy, I peered up between leaves and colourful flowers to see Zoe, sitting down on one of the hospital’s ugly couches as a young man paced in front of her, hands on his waist like he was scolding her. Zoe was facing sideways but I wasn’t in her line of vision, leading me to shift closer so I could hear the man.

“... strong enough. You’re near death, for God’s sake! And you want to take him down with you?”

“Keep your voice down, Jack,” Zoe said.

She tried to grab his wrist but he stepped out of her reach, shaking his head to the sides. Jack, her student if memory served, was one of those people that could be anywhere between 16 and 30. His pale face didn’t bear a shadow of a beard, which made me wonder if he could grow one at all, but his huge eyes looked so frightened and troubled that he couldn’t be a teenager.

“Zoe, this is a stupid plan...” he said something else in a hushed voice, and I moved closer, straining my hearing. “...happened in Surrey wasn’t enough for you? The Foundation has to stop. Everything has to stop! This is wrong, and you know it.” Shock kept me from gasping but I couldn’t help when my mouth fell open. “Why do you care about this woman? I ask you for help with Lucy, my- my best friend, and you push me away but you run to help this woman you barely know! You’ve known me for years, Zoe. I trusted you every step of the way with the Foundation but you can’t do this for me?”

“You don’t understand. There is no way I can help you with Lucy because she does not want to be helped. Y/N does! She wants out and after reviewing her reputation in London’s courtrooms, she doesn’t mind if things get ugly, either. She’ll do anything to be free of Count Dracula, I’m sure of it, but I’m not sure you’re willing to go that far, Jack.”

“I am!” He protested, slamming his foot on the floor. “I… I love Lucy, Zoe. I’ll do anything for her!”

“Would you let other people risk their lives for her? I’ll have over fifty people risking their lives at this wedding, not to say about the other two hundred guests that will be in danger if we don’t manage to get Dracula. Y/N can handle it but do you want something like that on your conscience?”

“No! But it’s stupid, Zoe. Nobody needs to–” he whispered the word but ‘die’ was clear on his mouth. “Help me get Lucy out of London and let Dracula have Y/N! Lucy will be safe with me, I’ll take her to Ireland, yeah,” –he nodded, face brightening– “she’ll stay with me and my grandparents until she gets better and the Count will be too wrapped up with Y/N to take any notice. It’s a great plan.”

“It’s a naïve one, Jack. Lucy won’t go willingly, that’s called kidnapping by the way, and I need Count Dracula. Is that included in your plan?” Zoe paused and Jack simply stared at her in silence. “I know it’s not. Unlike yours, my plan has a high chance of working–”

“At what cost?”

“–and Lucy will be free by the end of it, same as yours,” Zoe continued like he hadn’t spoken. “It’s not up for discussion, Jack, I told you about this as a courtesy, now go wait for me in the car. I know you’re angry but do me a favour and don’t storm off, I’m really in no condition to drive.” She looked at the watch on her wrist. “Y/N will be here any minute, she usually finishes up with visiting Mr. Renfield about this hour. Go, Jack.”

Jack stood there in a staring contest with Zoe. Not a moment later, Jack lowered his eyes, granting her the win before making his way towards the exit. I raised the get well card, concealing my face behind it as he passed me. I had never seen him before but now that I knew he was driving Zoe around, I couldn't be sure that he didn’t know me.

If I could, I would find somewhere to sit and ruminate about their conversation but then Zoe would have enough time to grow suspicious about my delay.

As soon as Jack disappeared from my sight, I threw the card on the counter and strode over to where Zoe was sitting.

I hadn’t made up my mind about how I was going to deal with what I had just heard until I took one look at her face. She was paler than when I last saw her and now her skin had a greenish tint that solidified death’s hold over her body. Her eyes appeared sunken like she’d lost a lot of weight in the span of the past week, but that could be the dark circles around them playing a trick on my brain. Zoe gave me a shaky smile that made me sit down next to her as if I was made of stone.

“I know I look like shit,” she said, patting my knee. “Save the pity.”

“I don’t pity you but I am worried about you. Is the cancer getting worse?”

“A bit but you caught me on a bad day, that’s all. Are you ready?”

“Zoe–” I began but she threw me a cold look with a slight shake of her head. “Okay, you don’t want sympathy, fine, but is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes, now that we have these” –she pulled an orange pill bottle from her pocket and shook it– “you can trap Count Dracula. That’s what you can do for me.”

I plucked the tiny bottle from her fingers, analysing the two pills inside of it – one of them red and the other one blue – and then started to laugh. Zoe furrowed her brows but her lips tugged up, waiting for a cue to start laughing, too.

“Matrix pills,” I explained between laughs but Zoe didn’t join in, apparently clueless. “Keanu Reeves is offered two pills in the film, the blue one keeps him living in willful ignorance from the evil in the world and the red one is, well, freedom, if we put it simply.”

“Nevermind their colour, both of these are your red pill.” Her mouth quirked up. “Follow the white rabbit.”

“Hey, you know it!” I grinned.

“Yeah, I’m a cool kid.” Zoe chuckled but was interrupted by a cough that soon left her out of breath. She waved me off before I offered help, so I stood there, waiting for her to cough up a lung anytime. “I made two–” another series of coughs “–two pills–” she cleared her throat and took a deep breath “–just in case... but I can replicate them if this fails and we need more in the future. I ran out of blue cases which is why they’re different colours.”

Remembering the day I first met Zoe and how she mentioned that studying Count Dracula might help with finding a cure for her cancer, I was filled with a determination I didn’t feel often in my everyday life. This plan wasn’t all about me. I needed to do this for Zoe so she could have a chance, too, no matter what.

“I’ll take the red pill for good luck,” I told her. “Does it actually work?”

“Yes, it works. Before they ingested the medication, the subjects were asked to memorise sequences from a card deck and play a memory game with them while we monitored brain waves. We continued mapping their brain all throughout the test, including the moment of the pill’s ingestion–” Zoe stopped, taking several breaths and sounding like she’d just ran a marathon.

“Okay, no need to explain the science behind it. If it works, I’m fine with it. What about the side effects?”

“Still the same ones, unfortunately. Short term memory loss is still a possibility which is why the plan needs to move fast after you take the pill. Here, you’ll need this, too.” From another pocket, she pulled a mobile phone and gave it to me. There wasn’t a scratch on the screen so I assumed it was brand new. “There are a few numbers saved in the contact list, one of them is mine. In my condition, it’s best that I stay in London, and if I go anywhere near Berkeley I bet Dracula will be able to scent me. Anything feels weird to you, anything at all, you text me and we abort the plan. Remember, text this time. We’ll destroy the phone later anyway. If you call me from inside the Berkeley Castle, the Count might be able to overhear it. Raoul’s and Sylvia’s numbers are saved there, too. Who are them, again?”

“Zoe, we’ve been through this–”

“I know we have but I need to be sure you remember. Parrot it back to me.”

I took a deep breath.

“Raoul is the burly french guy you showed me a picture of last time we met. He’ll pose as a waiter at the reception; when I’m ready, I ask him for a Manhattan. Terrible drink, by the way, I’m absolutely not drinking that.” I made a face of disgust and Zoe snorted. “Raoul will leave to ‘get the drink’”–I made air quotes–“ but he’ll take too long, so I tell Dracula that I’ll go look for the waiter because I’m really thirsting for a Manhattan. Then I slip out to the ladies’ room and take one of the pills. I’ll return to Dracula, annoyed because I couldn’t find the waiter, and ask him to join me in the garden.” Now, for the scary part. “Away from everyone, I’ll let him bite me and pray that this bloody pill works and he doesn’t kill me.”

“It’ll work.” Zoe clasped my hand and squeezed it.

“Sylvia is the tiny girl with short red hair disguised as one of the wedding planners,” I continued. “She’ll be outside all night, controlling who can go in and come out of the castle and she’ll have a panoramic view of the gardens. When Dracula is, huh, distracted drinking my blood, Sylvia will turn on the UV lights in the garden. If I’m still alive, I’ll run as your team moves in on him.”

“Now, for the final blow,” announced Zoe as she rummaged through her purse. She showed me a pen, black and slim. It looked like one those fancy, expensive ones posh people usually had. “It’s not an actual pen,” she explained as if reading my thoughts. “Looks like one, yeah but it’s a modified insulin pen.” She opened it and my nose was attacked by a wave of lavender, rosemary, and cinnamon. Not a nice combination. I was still grimacing when I noticed the tiny needle at the tip. “Inside of it, there are essential oils to disguise the scent of our true weapon, my blood.”

My mouth dropped open. It was sick, and genius at the same time.

“You didn’t tell me about this part of the plan.”

“I didn’t think of it until three days ago.” Zoe closed the pen and handed it to me. I took it like it was made of crystal. “When Dracula bit me, my blood crippled him enough for the Foundation to take him into custody without any casualties. It was surprisingly easy once he was poisoned by it, I expect it’ll work perfectly this time, too. The pen is pressure activated. Jab him with it when you think he’s sufficiently distracted drinking you and he’ll go down like a ton of bricks.”

“Brilliant,” I said, turning the pen between my fingers. “Can we still keep the UV lights, though? Safety and all.”

“We’ll keep them. You’re all set now. Are you leaving tonight?”

“Yeah. I’ll take a train to Gloucester at 9pm. It’s twenty minutes away from Berkeley by car, so it should be fine.”

“Are you staying in Gloucester or Berkeley?”

“Gloucester. There weren’t vacancies in Berkeley anymore. It’ll be a full wedding, I guess. Will you need samples today? It’s all healed up now.” I pointed at the side of my neck where Dracula had bit me.

Apprehension made me hold my breath. What if Zoe collected my blood and somehow found out it was different because I drank the Count’s blood? I hadn’t told her about that, and I frankly had no plans to, whether it impacted her research or not. As much as I would like to deny it, that moment at the park was terrifying and sensuous at the same time, and entirely mine to remember. Zoe would only ruin it with her scolding and I wanted to keep at least a few good memories.

“No,” said Zoe, assuaging my worry. “Now that it’s healed there aren’t any antibodies and white blood cells being produced specifically to combat the wound. There’s no point in collecting samples.”

Zoe and I stared at each other as silence fell, our resolve making our gazes nearly clang in the air.

I trusted Zoe to make this work; trusted her because I knew she not only wanted this but needed this to survive. How far that trust reached was an entirely different matter. She was hiding something from me, and now, after overhearing Jack spouting at her, I knew it involved the Foundation and what happened to those poor students in Surrey. The fact that she had lied to me that day meant that I wouldn’t like the truth if I heard it, which is why I needed to know.

“Do I have to worry about what happened in Surrey?”

Zoe shut her eyes and threw her head back as she blew out a breath.

“You heard all of that?” Her voice was calm. Not such a bad liar, after all.

“Most of it. So. Anything you want to tell me?”

“Not really. Two of Jack’s friends from the Foundation got conscience heavy about some things and committed suicide.”

“The news are saying it was murder,” I countered.

“The news are making a spectacle,” Zoe said with a touch of finality. “It was suicide.”

I watched her carefully, shooting her one of my most piercing stares but she simply stared back without crumbling.

I wouldn’t be quick to trust Zoe’s word on that matter; she’d lied before about it. It confirmed my suspicion that the Jonathan Harker Foundation was shady but as long as it didn’t affect me under these extraneous circumstances, I didn’t care what had weighed enough on those boys’ minds to commit suicide, or murder each other if the news were right. I knew damn well I should care like any person would and I found myself wondering if my ability to be stone-cold was something that appealed to Count Dracula.

What did it matter what appealed to him? In the next 48 hours I would be free of him. I’d never hear his voice again or look upon his face. I’d never live in fear of him again.

But why wasn’t I dancing with joy at the prospect of going back to my normal life?

“Who’s Lucy?” I blurted.

From what Jack said, I had a pretty good idea of who she was to Count Dracula but I needed to hear Zoe say it. I needed to be reminded that I wasn’t special, and it was more than my life on the line.

“A friend of Jack’s,” Zoe breathed. “Dracula has been feeding from her ever since he got here. She’s a willing donor, it seems. Jack thinks she’s very fond of Count Dracula.” Zoe stared at me with raised eyebrows to let me know just what type of fondness she was talking about. “Protective of him, too. Jack said she threw a massive fit when he questioned her about the bites on her neck.”

Something tore inside me. I tried to push it aside but my nose started to burn like I was about to cry.

This was what I’d wanted when I asked Zoe about Lucy, wasn’t it? Another reason why my entire ‘relationship’, if one could call it that, with Count Dracula wasn’t real. He had been manipulating me from the very beginning, and I should’ve been smarter than to fall for it, yet here I was: feeling betrayed and rejected, wishing to be swallowed by the ground for ever having thought that I mattered to him when I was just a conquest to keep him entertained while he drained Lucy. I should feel glad that he wasn’t that infatuated by me because it would make things easier but I felt the furthest thing from victorious in that moment.

I blinked to clear the tears that had threatened to spill.

“I’m being ridiculous,” I murmured, looking down at my hands because I was too ashamed to look at Zoe. “Anyway. Why don’t we review plans B, C, D and all the rest of the alphabet in case things go south and I can’t stab Dracula with this?” I shook the pen.

“Y/N–” Zoe’s voice was gentle, and I gritted my teeth.

“Oh, please don’t be nice. You don’t want sympathy and neither do I. Come on, plan B. I think I’m still a little off on the details, so help me out.”

“It’s the bond, Y/N. Whatever you’re feeling, it’s not real.”

I nodded, meeting her eyes briefly before looking down at my hands again.

“Right. So, plan B…”

When we were done reviewing the other scenarios, I barely remembered what I’d been so sad about but my chest still felt constricted as I headed home.

_______________________________________________________________

I thought I had it all figured out as I closed my suitcase. The jealousy and rejection I’d felt earlier must have derived from the bond I shared with the Count; much like Renfield had gone into a fit upon finding out his ‘master’ had bitten me, I had felt a figment of that when Zoe told me about Lucy.

Simple as that.

But when my phone rang and I saw the name Count Dracula, I almost didn’t answer him out of spite.

“Stupid fucking bond,” I cursed, staring at the screen. “It’s not real, Y/N. Just answer him. He probably just wants to ask how to get to Berkeley.” I noticed my reflection on my window and frowned. “Talking to myself, excellent. I’ll be like Renfield in no time.” I grabbed the phone. “Hi.”

“What are you wearing?” Dracula asked, making my eyebrows shoot up.

“Usually there’s more foreplay before phone sex,” I blurted, and smacked my forehead as soon as I said it.

Silence. And then a hearty laugh.

“I meant the wedding. But, I’m delighted to know that’s been on your mind. Would you care to elaborate, darling?”

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“It was a joke,” I managed to say, throwing myself on my bed and placing a pillow over my face as if that could keep my cheeks from blushing.

“Of course it was,” he said, still laughing. “So, what colour is your dress? People tend to match for occasions like this, right?”

“Purple,” I replied, hoping my smile didn’t come through in the word. Was he worried about us looking good together? And why was this so endearing to me?

“Ah, perfect.”

“Is your tie purple, too?”

“No, but it’ll match. You can come down, now.”

“Come down to where?”

“I’m outside of your house,” he said. My doorbell rang as evidence, making me fling the pillow I had on my face across the room. “I’d only thought of the tie when I got here and I feared we would be late in case I needed to return home to–”

“No, I will be late.” I sat up. “I’ve got a train to catch for Gloucester in an hour. I can’t go on a date with you tonight.”

“It’s not a date and you’re not taking the train. I bought this car and I mean to use it, so I’m driving us there tonight.”

I didn’t know where to start; the fact that he had probably planned this and not warned me in advance – better yet, asked me! – or that he expected me to simply comply and come down because he said so.

Instead, what came out of my mouth was, “It’s a three hour drive!”

“We can make it in less than that. Are you all packed?”

“Yes but I’m not going with you. I already bought train tickets. I’m not wasting my money and I’d much rather go by train and arrive there earlier than travel with you.”

“I’ll pay you back, and I promise I’ll be fun company.”

I stood up from the bed and started stomping around my room.

“You can’t make demands and expect me to obey. I don’t know how women were during your time but I certainly won’t–”

“Yes, yes, you bow to no one. We’re very clear on that,” he said with plain impatience and mockery, which made me huff in affront. “Take this road trip” –he chuckled– “as part of your deal. Like I said before, you didn’t specify how I was to convince you to accept immortality, and this is one of my many ways. You’re bound by your contract conditions, Y/N. Unless you want to rescind your deal,” he drawled “in which case I’ll go up there and make you mine. Right now.”

I stopped walking in front of my bedroom’s door, staring down the flight of stairs to the front door like I could burn a hole through it with my gaze and strike Count Dracula.

I’d once won an entire case in court because I gave an expert at the stand a death stare so powerful that they suddenly changed their opinion on the crime scene’s blood splatter pattern. Sadly, I’d tried that death stare with Dracula already and it hadn’t worked. Knowing him, he had probably taken it as flirting. He couldn’t see me right now but I still hoped he felt the burn of my stare.

“In short, you’re giving me no choice,” I muttered, marching around my room again because I was too wired to stay put.

“Quite the contrary, my darling. Denying our deal is still a fair choice if you have a sudden change of heart. As much as I would be disappointed if you gave up so easily–” he sighed dramatically “–I wouldn’t pass the opportunity to savour you as you so deserve.” The silent threat of desire in his tone made my pace falter and my hair to rise in its ends. “I’m not a total beast.”

My belly coiled in unwarranted need and I bit the insides of my cheeks in an attempt to ground myself. All it did was make my mind run wild with ideas of Dracula kissing me and piercing my lips with his fangs, tasting me, and slowly willing my blood into his mouth in excruciating passion as he–

“Mmm,” he made and another stab of desire attacked my body as I wondered if that’s how he would sound if I knelt before him. “I can smell your lust from here.” A chuckle. “Say the word and I’ll go up there.”

It would be easy to say yes, and easy shouldn’t be a word concerning the Count. Besides, I wasn’t a quitter.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” I bit out.

Blowing out a breath, and with it some of my sanity, I ended the call. Next I grabbed my suitcase, backpack and threw the black garment bag containing my dress over my arm. Before I started descending the staircase, I took a moment to squash my sex drive. After much needed concentration, no intrusive thoughts remained but my body still felt like someone had set me ablaze.

Count Dracula was waiting by his car when I opened my door. I took in his appearance before I started mouthing off at him.

So far I’d only seen him in blazers and slacks but tonight he was sporting dark jeans and a leather jacket, and for a second I was so in shock that I forgot why I was mad at him. The jacket was one I was most used to seeing bikers wear – straight cut around his neck in a way that framed his chiseled jaw and simple details on the shoulders that faded before reaching his arms. And it fit him perfectly.

The man was sophistication incarnate in his manners and way of dressing but somehow the leather didn’t look out of place on him. In fact, he looked… cool, which wasn’t a word I would ever thought of attributing to him. Chic with a touch of menace? Yes, but cool while slightly less threatening? Not at all.

“I’ll take your blank expression as admiration,” he said, rolling his shoulders and making the jacket accentuate muscles on his arms that I hadn’t had the opportunity of noticing before.

“It is. Look at you… All modern-like.” I swept my gaze through him again, nodding.

“I’m modern,” he protested as he walked towards me.

“Modern-er, if that exists. I’m not complaining but why the sudden change in style?” I gave him my suitcase when he extended a hand for it.

“A road trip calls for comfortable clothing. At least that hasn’t changed in the last century.”

Since I was exchanging an hour and a half train trip for the double of that in a car with him, I was more than thankful for choosing to wear a large sweater over leggings and trainers. As for Count Dracula, there was no denying he looked good in a leather jacket but I wasn’t sure if it could be considered comfortable. What would he have worn to his travels centuries ago? Fur and armour? That’s a sight I would be curious to see.

I followed Dracula to the BMW’s trunk when he opened it and frowned at the earthy scents that drifted to my nose.

“Are you planning on gardening in Berkeley?”

He laughed as he pushed the wood box where the smell came from to the side and fit my suitcase next to his.

“No. Just a little something I need to travel with, in order to rest properly when I’m away from my own home. My former home, that is.”

Former home; another way to say Wallachia, I supposed. I sniffed the air and prayed that by the end of the trip my clothes wouldn’t smell like Diana’s garden after she decided to plant new seeds.

“What’s inside the box, dirt?” I joked with a smirk. When Dracula nodded, my smirk vanished. “Are you serious?” Another nod as he shut the boot. “What? Why? Is it a vampire thing?”

“It’s very much a vampire thing. One you’ll have to learn to live with when I make you my bride.”

Too stunned as I tried to mull that piece of information, the Count opened the door to the backseat and took my dress from me, carefully placing it on top of another garment bag. Next, he held the passenger’s door for me, gesturing for me to enter. Last time he opened a door for me, things got a little sidetracked, which reminded me of why I was mad at him.

His mouth opened in a large grin as I strode over and anger flared up again.

“Keep in mind that I’m only accepting to travel with you because the other option, well, isn’t an option,” I told him.

“Oh, yes, of course. How preposterous,” he leaned closer, smile growing sardonic “you consenting to relentless nights of pleasure for the next hundreds of years at my side. We can’t have that, can we?”

How in the hell he managed to make his voice feel like a caress and a whip at the same time was beyond me, and I had no intention to find out.

“No, we can’t have that,” I declared. “For the next hours, I expect you to keep your full attention on the road. Unlike you, I don’t have the luxury of surviving a car crash. So hands and legs to yourself at all times.” He chuckled at the emphasis, switching his weight on his feet so that his knee touched my thigh; I gritted my teeth and forced myself not to move. I’d rather die than let him know how much he got to me, then again, not dying was the entire point. “No funny business.”

“I don’t see it as business. It is incredibly fun watching you squirm, though.”

“Yeah, must be a riot.” I rolled my eyes. “Are we agreed? Oh, fangs, too.”

It was his turn to roll his eyes.

“Sadly, yes.” He stepped aside, unblocking the way so I could enter.

Once inside, I looked up at him.

“You owe me 30 quid for the train ride.”

“Consider your dinner paid,” he said and shut the door.

I was still smiling, wondering what 30 pounds could buy in rural England – a feast, presumably – when Dracula entered the car, turned it on and started accelerating down the street, all in 5 seconds. Understanding dawned on me when he said we could make the trip in less than 3 hours. Vampire speed combined with a BMW obviously resulted in him developing a leadfoot.

“Oh, are you staying in Gloucester, too?” I asked as I hurriedly pulled on my seatbelt.

He glanced at the navigation system on the car’s dashboard that indicated our trajectory towards Gloucester and then at me.

“Yes, in a hotel. I couldn’t find anything available in Berkeley.” He clicked the screen in the dashboard a few times and music started playing softly. Hungry Like The Wolf, of all things. “Whose wedding are we attending? I seem to recall from our last date that you don’t consider this person a friend.”

I blew out a breath.

“Evelyn Seymour. I work with her. She’s done some awful things to me when we were starting at the firm and I’ve said some pretty terrible things back at her. She would’ve found a way to get me fired if it wasn’t for Renfield intervening.”

“What did she do?”

“I thought you knew everything there was to know.”

“The important things, yes, they’re easy to make out from your blood. Her name rings a bell and I know that you hate her but that’s it.”

Even my blood didn’t consider Evelyn important? Sweet.

“Remember those girls you met the other day when you picked me up from my office?” I asked, and he nodded. “All of us interned together plus Evelyn. Oftentimes the interns were paired together to run errands for our bosses, such as running to the courts to file motions and request subpoenas, things like that. Renfield and Talbot, the partner who Evelyn responded to, felt that she and I had different enough profiles yet skilled in our own ways to learn from each other, so we did most of those things together. Quite the learning experience,” I scoffed. “Everything is a competition to Evelyn, so instead of helping each other, she saw this as an opportunity to get ahead and fuck me over in the process, especially because I was being regarded as one of the most promising attorneys in the firm’s future.”

“It didn’t work,” said Dracula. He looked at me. “Renfield told me that you’re in line for becoming a partner if he doesn’t get better, so whatever Evelyn did was worthless.”

Becoming a partner at a big firm was something that I’d dreamed of since I got my degree. Until not long ago it was something I thought about often and I expected to be happy if I ever received those news, however, to my surprise, I felt absolutely nothing when hearing those words come out of Count Dracula’s lips.

Maybe it wasn’t as important as I’d imagined.

“Yes, she tried her damndest to hurt my career, though, and me. She even went so far once to accuse me of having an affair with a judge from a case I was working with Renfield. Claimed to have ‘photographic’ evidence and everything. The partners insisted I be investigated and Renfield managed to prove that it was all pure slander before the other partners took any decisive action towards me. I think the only reason Evelyn didn’t get fired for this was because the firm practically belongs to her family, but she still got suspended for a week. She’s stopped trying to get in my way since then but she never loses an opportunity to take a jab at me, be it an outfit she deems unfashionable or a case I lost.”

“Which is where I come in,” Dracula remarked.

“Yes, as much as I try to be the bigger person when she’s involved, I’m not above a tiny bit of retribution,” I chuckled and he smiled at me before turning his eyes back to the road. “What’s with the box of dirt? I’m curious.”

“Because I’m not in Wallachia anymore, I need to rest in soil from my own land,” he explained like it was perfectly logical.

“What happens if you don’t?”

He shrugged.

“I’d rather not find out.”

I frowned.

“Fairly inconvenient, isn’t it? Sleeping on the earth?”

“I don’t sleep in it. Not anymore. I just need it near me when I sleep.”

“But why?”

“It’s one of the rules of the beast,” he said, chuckling.

I didn’t see how that was funny but he obviously knew something I didn’t.

When he wasn’t looking at me, it was easy to watch him without feeling like I was doing something improper, so I decided to keep up the conversation.

“Did you travel a lot? Back in Wallachia?”

I imitated how he said the word and he immediately opened a smile. I tried not to smile back at how delighted he seemed but he must’ve caught me trying to hide it because his smile grew into a full-fledged grin.

“Except when I was traveling to battle, I didn’t really travel as a ruler. It was dangerous to travel and leave my land unguarded. Afterwards, though, I traveled to most of Europe.”

“As a vampire?”

“Yes. But the world’s changed so much, now, I doubt I would recognise all the places I’ve been to.”

“Did you have a favourite?”

“Oh, yes. I spent an entire month in Moscow when I first went there in 1785, I think was the year. Unlike anything I’d ever seen... There was this cathedral there, just stunning. I had to force myself to go in there but I couldn’t leave without seeing what it looked like on the inside.”

“I think it’s pretty famous now. You’re talking about the one that’s all colourful and has crazy shapes, right?”

“That’s the one. We can go there once you're a vampire.”

“Stop saying it like that, it’s disconcerting.” I said, making him glance at me. “You still have to convince me and so far you’re not doing very well.”

He laughed and gooseflesh trailed my skin as if he had touched me.

“Somehow I doubt that but I’ll stop since you asked so nicely.”

I raised my eyebrows, unable to conceal my surprise.

“Well, if I had known it was that easy I would have asked you to leave me alone. But we both know that’s not happening.”

“Depends how nicely you ask me. I might be open to hear you pleading if you fall to your knees.” He gave me a grin that could only be described as naughty.

I prayed that he couldn’t see me blush under the high-tech lights coming from the BMW’s dashboard but I was deluding myself by entertaining the idea. Not less than 20 minutes ago, I had thought about doing exactly what he had just proposed. I wasn’t telling him that, though.

“Ha-ha. You got jokes.” I said without any humour, fussing with my backpack as if it suddenly felt uncomfortable on my lap. Something popped into my head that made me put my questions about Moscow aside. “How did you come to be a vampire?”

“Ah, that’s not a story for travels.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not a good one.”

“Not everything is made up of good stories.” I shrugged. “I think you’re avoiding the question and I’ll let you slip this time but I’ll ask again some other time. You never know, maybe it’s something that can convince me, Count.”

“Maybe.”

For a moment there I’d forgotten that tomorrow I would have to carry out my plan with Zoe. I’d spoken to him as if we would have all the time in the world. And I almost wished that we would have more time, at least time for him to tell me about Moscow or Romania. Share with me all his experiences that I was curious about. We would spend hours talking freely about what he’d seen and how people changed, how history passed before his eyes; and how could he learn things from a person’s blood, and didn’t he miss discovering secrets by himself? How was his life when he ruled as a prince? And how did it differ from now after centuries had passed?

With a jolt, I realised I felt a great need to know him down to the bone. Even the worst things about him, and the best, too. Perhaps that would cast a light into what made him so compelling to me or perhaps I just craved listening to him talk. Either way, exploring that was as dangerous as staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.

As silence fell, music hailing from the 70s, 80s and 90s filled the car with melodies I knew well enough to hum along. Dracula surprised me by tapping his fingers on the wheel to the rhythm of INXS’s Need You Tonight; he even had a little Queen thrown in there which made me nod in approval. If he was trying to catch up with all the classics he had missed, then he was doing a good job of it. For over an hour stuck in London traffic, we talked about music and he let me connect my phone to his car to show him songs that perhaps weren’t iconic but just as good.

We’d gone from Queen to Billy Idol to Heart to Garbage and finally Nirvana. When I started yawning, Count Dracula changed Heart-Shaped Box for a piano version of Smells Like Teen Spirit. Reminding myself to congratulate him later, I allowed myself to close my eyes for a nap.

I knew I was dreaming when the piano chords were replaced by the repetitive tone of a music box.

The miniature ballerina spun slowly inside the box, forever trapped in dancing to the same old song. A song I knew but couldn’t decipher it on account of sounding distant and off-tune. As I watched, I wondered if she was happy but then laughed at what a silly thought that was. Why would the ballerina be happy? She was just a pretty toy, made precisely for the purpose of dancing in circles whenever someone opened the box.

I closed the box but the song kept playing, now mixed with the cries of anguish of the ballerina, imprisoned in the haunting darkness of such a small space. My fingers struggled to open the box again, now afraid that I’d suffocated the ballerina but it wouldn’t open. In my battle, it fell to the ground and shattered as if it was made of glass instead of wood. The ballerina was nowhere to be found among the debris but blood pooled around the shards. More blood rose up from the floor as if I’d been standing in it the entire time and coated my bare feet, making me slip as I retreated from it. In my panic, I fell on my back and was quickly engulfed by a sea of blood.

I started gulping large quantities of blood, smiling at the pleasant taste as I tried to keep myself from drowning. Suddenly, the sea was gone but I wasn’t breathing anymore.

There was something hard in my mouth and I gnawed at it, trying to find out what it was. Movement beneath made me draw back and I realised, horrified, that I’d been biting Count Dracula’s neck. Mocking laughter drowned all my other senses and I spit his blood from my mouth, noticing that it tasted the same as the sea of blood. I tried to scramble away but he held onto me, his fingers digging hard into my flesh during the struggle.

“Shhh, shhh. Take me. Do it,” he urged.

“Take what?!” I swatted at his hands, still trying to get away.

“All of me,” he responded, snatching my wrists in his grip to stop by blows.

“That’s impossible.”

“Don’t you want me to be yours as you are mine?”

His taste was still in my tongue and I frowned, knowing that was the only part of him I would ever possess.

My lips moved in the dream but I didn’t hear my answer.

Whether it was yes or no, Dracula’s face transformed into a distorted version of his features. I watched in complacency, too fascinated by staring death in the face to get away. He buried his head in my neck and, as he started to drain me, I looked up at the reddened sky above us with the same ingenuous revere cherubs held in their gazes.

I’m not sure what woke me up; the lack of movement from the car, Tori Amos singing about being crucified or Count Dracula’s voice sounding distant as he talked to someone that wasn’t me. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the dream. If I hadn’t been disturbed, I was certain I would have remained in that dream forever. Nothing significant could have pulled me from the peace I felt when Dracula bit me in the dream, yet there I was, awake and trying to understand why I was sitting alone inside the car parked outside a gas station.

I quit fiddling with the car’s GPS to find out where we were when the Count’s words reached my ears.

“Because you’re not invited.” He laughed. “No, darling, I’m not neglecting you...” A pause. “Do that and I’ll bite you in a way you won’t enjoy. Stop being childish, Lucy, you know I don’t like it when you act this way.”

Trying to be as quiet as possible so he wouldn’t know I was awake, I slowly turned in the direction of his voice. Dracula had his back to me, a few metres away from the car, standing in the glow of blue neon lights coming from a convenience store. I hoped it was my fertile imagination playing tricks on me but I could swear I heard affection in his tone for a moment there.

“Who I’m with doesn’t concern you,” he said into the phone, and this time there was only irritation in his voice. “Lucy, Lucy,” he laughed grimly. “This isn’t a relationship, and it never will be.” Another pause. “Yes, I still want you. I’ve got to go now. Goodbye.”

As he turned around, I got out of the car and stretched as if I had just woken up.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” he said upon laying eyes on me. “I bought you dinner, as promised.” He showed me a brown paper bag in his hand that I hadn’t noticed.

“How did you know I was hungry?” As if on cue, my stomach growled. “Oh.” I blushed as I took the bag from him, peeking inside. “Oh! Pizza! Thanks.”

“I wanted to stop on the way so you could eat properly inside a restaurant but you slept more than I expected. If I’d waited for you to wake up, there wouldn’t be anything open so I stopped for fuel and went to get you food. I recognise it’s not the best–”

“No, I love pizza,” I cut him off. “Can I sit on top of your car to eat or are you becoming one of those guys who has a crush on his car?”

He answered me by sitting on the hood and patting the spot next to him. The car must have been off for a while because the metal was cold on my butt when I took a seat.

“Where are we?”

“Oxford,” he said. “An hour away from Gloucester, I think.”

I looked at the block we were in, searching for traces of the medieval architecture Oxford was so famous for but there was nothing special about it; we could just as well have been in London.

“What time is it?” I asked after finishing the first slice of pizza.

“Almost ten.”

“We made it all the way to Oxford in 40 minutes?” I raised my eyebrows and Dracula grinned, looking proud about that. “You can expect speeding fines in your mail during the next few weeks.”

He shrugged, apparently unbothered.

“Aren’t you going to ask me about her?”

I stopped reaching into the bag for another slice of pizza upon fully registering the implications of his question. He knew I’d been listening. Like he’d told Lucy, this wasn’t a relationship and he didn’t owe me an explanation any more than he owed her, but him bringing it up made it seem like I deserved one.

My dream from earlier flashed in mind. Freud only knew what the ballerina in the music box meant but I didn’t need a psychoanalyst to explain what it meant to bite Dracula in my subconscious.

My throat tightened as I thought about what I’d told Dracula in the dream, that it was impossible to have him. But I wanted to, I knew I did. I wanted this part of him, the part that knew I was bothered by him paying attention to someone else and cared enough to check on me, even if he wasn’t subtle about it. I wanted to believe it was the same part of him that had thought about taking me to V&A and broke into the Painted Hall because he’d seen how enthusiastic I was about it. The part of him that carried me to bed and laughed at me when I mumbled nonsensical phrases.

I wanted something that wasn’t real. Something that I would never have because at this time tomorrow I would be injecting him with Zoe’s blood. And because it wasn’t real, I could play along for a little while.

“What’s to ask? It’s pretty obvious that you’re feeding from her.”

“Don’t play coy, Y/N, just ask me.”

“Fine. Are you fucking her?”

“No.”

I’d braced for a confirmation but his reply made my courtroom face fall apart. I scrutinised his face but nothing came to the surface.

“Really? It sounded a hell lot like you are.”

“I have fucked her but I haven’t made a habit out of it. Lucy is awfully… needy.”

It occurred to me that this was the first time I’d heard him swear and I had to purse my lips not to laugh like a nervous teen. Maybe it was the f-bomb that made me want to burst into laughter, or the sudden joy I’d felt when he called Lucy needy with obvious exasperation.

“Will you make her a vampire?” I continued since he was granting me the freedom to ask.

“Yes.”

“Does she want to be one?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have to convince her like you’re trying to do with me?”

“No.”

“Then why–” I exhaled “–do you still want me if you can have her?”

“Lucy is fun and wild and she wants to die but she doesn’t understand. You do.”

I frowned.

“Understand what?”

“What it takes to live forever.” He grinned but there was no humour in his eyes; I found a sliver of heat in his gaze, though. “Your pizza is getting cold.”

Dracula slid off the hood, like that was the end of the subject and I stalked after him, ignoring my pizza. He started rounding the car towards the driver’s side and I grabbed the back of his jacket to make him stop.

“What does that mean?” I questioned as he turned to look at me. This time his smile was slow, deepening the wrinkles around his eyes.

“The fact that you don’t know what I’m talking about only solidifies my beliefs about you.”

“Being cryptic isn’t helpful,” I snapped.

“I’m not trying to be helpful.”

“Well, try!”

He took a step towards me and held my face in his hands. The shape of his lips distracted me and it took me a second to register his next words.

“From the start you’ve asked me for a reason to live forever. Don’t you think that means you value more than simply existing as you do now?”

“No. It’s just logical,” I countered, although I was suddenly frowning. “People don’t usually make big choices like this on impulse, you know? Of course I needed a reason.”

“Of course,” he repeated sarcastically.

“I don’t know what it takes to live forever!” I protested, flailing my arms.

I waited to see if he would contradict me but he just stared at me, eyes filled with mockery and confidence that served to further aggravate my mood.

“I barely know what it takes to live this life I’m living, how could I possibly fathom eternal life?” I continued, speaking so fast I could barely understand myself. I carried on when he didn’t reply, “Have I considered it since my deal with you? Of course I have, kinda hard not to but, but– I don’t know! I don’t know what I want! Or or or– how! How can I just give up everything and live forever? I’ve built things, things that I’m proud of, things that matter! And you want me to give them up! For you!”

Rambling wasn’t something I was used to and I forced myself to stop. Every word that came out of my mouth was usually carefully calculated to persuade a jury but this was my life and there was nobody to persuade, so why did it sound like I was trying to do just that?

“What matters in this life that could make me want to live forever?” My voice was so tiny that I scarcely heard my words.

Suddenly I was literally swept off my feet and before I knew it, Dracula’s lips were on mine and I forgot all the things I was so confused about.

My eyes shut into the kiss and my breath left me like my lungs had stopped working. Heart beating so fast I could feel it fluttering inside my chest, I wrapped my arms around him in senseless thought as our tongues met, sending sizzles all throughout my nerve endings. As soon as it had started, it was over, and I was standing with my feet on the ground again, body screaming in abandonment because Dracula’s hands weren’t touching me.

“What was that for?” I asked, trembling like I was cold.

“You were being emotional and looked like you were about to cry,” he said, stepping back from me and looking indifferent to what he’d just done as he ran his hands through his hair. “A kiss seemed like a good idea to stop that from happening.”

“That was a terrible idea.”

“But it cleared your head,” he assured.

It did but it didn’t solve anything.

Looking at him suddenly became a challenge because I knew that at any second I could throw myself headfirst at this, despite the danger, despite feeling like I shouldn’t… All I wanted in that second was to not think and to drown in his kiss again.

Instead, I turned my back on him and grabbed the brown bag from the car’s hood on my way to the passenger’s side.

“Let’s just go,” I told him, stealing one last glance at him. He was watching me with the same fascination he had when gazing at the Painted Hall but when I blinked, his face went back to that sarcastic mask he always wore. “We’re halfway to Gloucester.”

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houseofhurricane · 3 years ago

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ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (19/28) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

Summary: Elain lies about a vision and winds up as the Night Court’s emissary to the Spring Court, trying to prevent the Dread Trove from falling into the wrong hands and wrestling with the gifts the Cauldron imparted when she was Made. Lucien, asked to join her, must contend with secrets about his mating bond. Meanwhile, Tamlin struggles to lead the Spring Court in the aftermath of the war with Hybern. And Vassa, the human queen in their midst, wrestles with the enchantment that turns her into a firebird by day, robbing her of the power of speech and human thought. Looming over all of them is uniquet peace in Prythian and the threat of Koschei, the death-god with unimaginable power. With powers both magical and monstrous, the quartet at the Spring Court will have to wrestle with their own natures and the evil that surrounds them. Will the struggle save their world, or doom it?

A/N: Lucien attempts to return the Autumn Court to its rightful High Lord, while trying to figure out the worsening effects of the curse on Vassa. You can find all previous chapters here, or read Bloom & Bone on AO3. Thank you for reading! ❤️ If you'd like to get an early preview on the next chapter, follow me on Instagram at @house.of.hurricane.

The days after Vassa’s rescue are so filled with political deliberation between the High Lords and nobles of Prythian that even Lucien’s mind, so accustomed to strategy and scheming, is overwhelmed. He had planned for his reunion with Vassa to feature sleepless nights and tangled sheets, a variety of creative positions and a thousand different sounds of pleasure leaving Vassa’s lips. Instead, as soon as the meetings are over for the day, a member of the Night Court winnows her to the day’s meeting place so that she can join the long dinners, then ferries her to the Spring Court where she and Lucien fall into sleep. She reaches for him, insists despite the pain he can see in her eyes, the tears that fall as soon as their kisses reach a fevered pitch.

He always rises to find that in sleep, she has rolled to the farthest corner of the bed, where he cannot touch her even accidentally.

Still, when he tries to ask her what he can do, how he can help, she insists that he has other priorities. As if he cannot see the darkness around her eyes, the way that, in mere days, she’s grown almost frail. A shadow of herself.

When it’s decided there will be an attempt at diplomacy with the Autumn Court, Vassa rouses herself, invites Tamlin and Elain to join them for champagne to celebrate their emissaries, Lucien and Elain both having been selected.

“You’ll make sure she’s out of danger,” Tamlin says to Lucien as soon as they clink glasses, and Lucien, nodding, sees Vassa roll her eyes at Elain, who smothers her answering laugh behind her hands.

“You’re sure a firebird would not advance your cause?” Vassa asks, the joke turning plaintive. Elain reaches out her hand and then drops it, a thump against her skirts, before she can harm Vassa with a conciliatory touch. They’d agreed that the risk to Vassa did not merit the benefit of the clear alliance with the human realms. Not when the stories of Lucien and Vassa had begun to spread.

“I will keep him safe, Queen of Scythia,” Elain says after a moment, the smile in her voice, returning them to the moment, the kind of camaraderie she’d longed for in those weeks at the Night Court.

“Good,” Vassa says, and for a moment her face is alight as it ever was, her eyes sapphire-bright, “because I never worry about you anymore, Elain Archeron. You listen very well to me. Unlike certain High Fae males who love to hover over extremely capable women.”

She shoots a glance at Lucien, her lips pursed comically, and when he allows himself to laugh, he feels the brightness spread over his body, more intoxicating than the sparkling wine. He lets himself pretend, just for the space of an evening, that everything is fine, that this haven could be a lasting one, that he will hear these three laughing and teasing and happy all his life.

Before dawn, she kisses him and sets off for the lake alone.

“You can save this world with your words alone,” she says, her fingers on his face, gentle on the scars that surround his ruined eye. Watching her expression, he’d never know this gesture caused her pain. Still, knowing what he knows, Lucien cannot bring himself to take another kiss.

“I’ll save you next,” he tells her.

“Or you’ll watch as I save myself, Vanserra.” She smiles then, and swings herself from the bed to the door in a single fluid motion, as if they existed in a moment they have never known, when everything was all right.

Before the rest of the manor wakes, Lucien lights a candle, busies himself with the strategies, all the reminders he wants to give the rest of the diplomatic party, which will comprise Nesta, Elain and himself. It had been agreed that the High Lords would stay out of the initial stage of negotiations, and still Lucien worries that this group is too small, too tied to the Night Court, with two Archeron sisters with largely unknown powers who were all too recently human. And yet he has held his tongue. Because Elain has surprised him and Nesta has terrified him, and all three sisters seem to have a knack for prevailing when the rest of Prythian thinks they’re doomed.

For a moment, he wishes that he could consult Eris, but his brother has been staying in the Night Court, no doubt to Morrigan’s dismay. Still, given Rhysand’s relative strength, it makes sense to mark him as an ally. And for all that Lucien likes his brother in spite of himself, he much prefers the nights he spends in the Spring Court without the threat of his judgement and withering remarks.

Instead of ruminating over the past, he takes one more breath, reviews his notes, all the things that could unfold today, and decides that he is as ready as he can be.

By the time Lucien joins Elain and Tamlin for breakfast, he’s decided that the mission will prevail. Elain has even worn a dress in the tawny browns and deep greens of the Autumn Court, tied her hair back from her face with a red ribbon.

“Those colors don’t suit you,” Tamlin is saying, lifting a cherry turnover from the serving platter to her plate.

“What colors would you prefer me in, High Lord?” Elain’s cheeks are pink and while Lucien is sure that there are headier implications to her question, he decides he will not consider them.

Instead, he heaps his plate high and talks through the strategy with Elain, more for Tamlin’s benefit than hers.

“Do you think that Nesta will behave herself?” Tamlin asks, once the review is complete.

“Nesta likes Eris more than anybody,” Elain responds, in a tone that barely covers her amazement.

“Nesta’s job is to be terrifying,” Lucien adds.

“It’s what she’s best at, isn’t it?”

It is, of course, Nesta behind him, and Lucien shoots Elain a look, asking how will she kill me? Elain, standing to greet her sister, does not cover her commiserating smile, which seems to suggest his death is imminent.

“You’re ready for the Autumn Court?” Nesta asks Elain, who stand alongside the grand table, a study in contrasts. Nesta has come in her Illyrian, her hair braided in a crown on her head and her sword at her side. Her body is small but all of its angles are fierce, almost severe. Next to her, Elain looks impossibly soft, so gentle that Lucien is reminded why everyone always underestimates her.

But still Elain shoots back, “I’m the one taking us there. You’ll know when I’m ready for the Autumn Court. Would you like Lucien to remind you of the strategy?”

“Rhys and Feyre woke me up early to review. You’d think the dignity of the Night Court was at stake.”

“Only the peace in Prythian,” Lucien drawls, his eyes darting to Tamlin who, as expected, has his knife and fork clutched in an extremely tight grip.

“Feyre told me the same thing before she crawled inside my mind,” Nesta says, running her eyes over Lucien, redoubling her statement. “I know I’m only to speak when you want me to scare them.”

“And if Koschei is there, you do not fight him,” Elain adds, smoothing her fingers over her skirts. “Let Lucien winnow you.”

“You’ll let Lucien winnow you also,” Tamlin says, his voice strangled with restraint. Lucien can tell that he is trying very hard not to loom over Elain.

“I will let Lucien winnow me,” Elain echoes, meeting his eye as her cheeks go pink. Nesta lets out a sigh that sounds very like a snarl, and if it weren’t a sign of worry, Lucien would bury his head in his hands.

There are a thousand more important things at this moment than romantic tension. And still Lucien wishes this was his only problem.

So instead he meets Tamlin’s eye and promises to winnow Elain, does not look away from Nesta’s glare as he tells her that she is welcome to speak, he’s heard she has good diplomatic instincts, but he will welcome her sword if everything goes to shit.

Then, because for a moment he feels like his old self again, he meets Elain’s eyes and says, “Let’s see if you’re a real emissary now.”

When Elain sticks out her tongue at him, it’s impossible to hold back his laugh.

“Feyre is having too much fun watching you,” Nesta says, extending her hand towards her other sister. “Now can you please take us to the Autumn Court so I can stop hearing her cackle in my mind? I don’t think it’s good form to be late.”

Elain’s smile flickers out but she reaches for Lucien and Nesta, lets the tethering spell bind them, and the Spring Court rips away.

The wall of fire around the Autumn Court castle is new.

“I told you we should have arrived directly inside,” Nesta says, eyeing the unbroken flames.

“It would be an act of war to simply appear inside the court itself,” Lucien says as levelly as he can, reaching out to the wall of fire with his own magic, scanning it with his golden eye. There are protective and defensive spells interwoven with the fire itself, powerful enough that unraveling the magic isn’t a practical option. Anyway, an alarm has likely sounded.

Sure enough, the flames part just wide enough to let a person pass.

Lucien knows things are headed to shit when he doesn’t recognize the gangly squire who appears to greet them. He had hoped that his mother would be the one to welcome their group, even if his brothers would have been the more appropriate group, would-be High Lords welcoming the delegation sent by the other rulers of Prythian.

Instead they are welcomed like beggars, and the young male who greets them looks nervous.

He sees Nesta reach for her sword and doesn’t bother to try and restrain her. His brothers begin with disrespect and then quickly move to violence.

“We are the delegation sent by the High Lords of Prythian,” Elain says, her voice honeyed in a way that makes this nervous page blush and fidget. “Lady Cybele should be expecting us after our message.”

“Cybele d-doesn’t rule this court,” the page says, trying out a nasty tone that distorts his features.

Elain flexes her fingers and her skin takes on a golden glow that is distinct from the firelight. When he glances at Nesta, he sees silver flames flicker to life in her eyes. He wishes they would save this bravado for his brothers, but at any rate, the page grows pale.

“We’ve come to meet with whoever does rule this court.” Elain’s voice is now too pleasant. “And I’m sure you can agree that we should expect to find that a brother of its ruler welcome to enter without this kind of horrible scrutiny.”

“I was told that the b-bastard has to stay outside.”

Elain turns her glance to Lucien, her eyes gone wide. She can pull Nesta from the world, but if Koschei is inside, Lucien was always intended to be the quick exit.

Nesta interrupts, fingers wrapped around the sword at her hip.

“Who is inside the castle, boy?” Her impression of Amren is impeccable, and the page’s face grows pale.

He reaches for Elain but Lucien is too swift, and in half a breath the darkness has enveloped them and released them to the forests of the Autumn Court.

“He was going to take you to Koschei,” Lucien says before Elain can begin her protest. “Thank the Mother that my brothers are too stupid to train their henchmen.”

“Tell Feyre that we’ll need protection at the Spring Court,” Elain says to Nesta, squeezing Lucien’s fingers as she gives the order. “They could be coming for Vassa next.”

“The Valkyries are guarding her today,” Nesta says, “but we should get out of this court before we have to deal with any more Vanserras.”

“One is enough?” he asks, preparing the tethering spell, snipping its edges so that only the three of them can be carried by Elain’s magic.

“I’m fairly certain you and Eris are the only decent ones.”

“His mother is trapped in that castle,” Elain points out, grabbing tight to Lucien’s wrist, to Nesta’s. The forest becomes the passageways, becomes a winter forest scented with pine, a marketplace, an expanse of tall concrete buildings seemingly held to the clouds by magic, becomes, finally, the great hall of the Spring Court, where Tamlin waits, clad in his battle armor, two swords strapped across his back.

Behind him, still in his flawless court jacket and shining boots, Eris waits. And it is to that spotless figure that Elain runs, all the colors of autumn, her magic still aglow on her face.

Lucien launches himself after her but there’s a hand on his chest. Nesta. A warning in her eyes that he can’t decipher.

Elain stops inches from Eris, close enough that his features are cast in her golden light. Behind her, Tamlin looms, a sword drawn in his hand, ready to strike. But Elain does not hear or notice him. Her focus is only on Eris.

“Will you break the alliance with Koschei?” she asks, her hands on her hips.

“We’ve discussed this at length,” Eris says. Lucien can see in the tightness of his jaw that he’s trying to determine whether Elain can kill him, whether Tamlin will slice him to bits at her command. That he’s realizing the relative weakness of his own position, his rightful position as High Lord dependent on too many factors. That if Elain tried to destroy him, perhaps nobody would stop her.

“I am asking you as emissary of the Spring Court and friend to the Queen of Scythia. As the person who helped rescue you from Koschei, the death-lord who holds you under a curse. I am asking as the female who can harm you with a single brush of my fingers thanks to his spell on you.”

“I didn’t think you realized that it wasn’t only your human friend under his spell,” Eris says, and nobody can miss the way he leans back from Elain, an unmistakable confirmation.

“Koschei will try to tear apart Prythian until he claims both Vassa and me. He is likely searching for you as well.”

There’s a shift in Eris’ features, a pain he tries to hide, and suddenly the situation becomes deadly clear to Lucien.

“What did he promise you?” he calls to his brother, the only one he has a sliver of hope in. In a flash of movement, Tamlin’s sword is pointed at Eris, and Nesta surges toward him, coming alongside Elain with her own blade pointed at the would-be High Lord of Autumn.

“I haven’t allied with him,” Eris says, managing to smirk even at the steel pointed at him, all the allies he stands to lose. “But there are whispers that he can break this curse on me. A curse which a High Lord cannot bear. Not if he will truly rule his people.”

Elain steps toward him, her skirts sighing. She’s so close that Eris could grab her if he wanted, Eris who never shows his hand until it suits him.

“I know what it is to be a pawn,” she says. “And I am working to understand the complexity of Koschei’s magic. I don’t know, yet, how we could release you from this curse but I am working to find out. When I learn how, I will unbind you myself.”

“They should write legends about the overconfidence of your family,” Eris says, assessing her.

“If you ally with Koschei, Eris, they will never write legends about you at all,” Nesta points out, letting the tip of her sword snag on a button, which falls to the ground with a ping. “And you will lose the allegiance of the Night Court.”

Tamlin only tucks Elain against his side. He knows the allegiance of the Spring Court does not much matter, especially to a member of the Autumn Court, who so easily invaded.

When Lucien finally speaks, he’s surprised at how easily the words fall from his lips. As if he had been dreaming them.

“If you vow to fight against Koschei,” he says to his brother, “I vow that I will not rest until the High Lords of Prythian go united into battle for your throne. You should know that I have friends in every court who listen to my counsel. You will not reclaim the throne without allies. And together, perhaps those same allies could join together and rid you of Koschei’s curse.”

He’s thrown in this last without knowing if it’s possible, without knowing if the High Lords would ever agree, especially given what happened to Feyre, but Elain stiffens at Tamlin’s side, the gesture her body makes when she has a new idea.

“I haven’t forgotten that you killed my father,” Eris says, finally, and the words sound like a threat, but Lucien knows his brother well enough to see the relief in his voice, the tiniest hint of the smile he’s unable to hide from a practiced observer.

“Beron tried to harm my friends.” Lucien meets his brother’s eyes, lets his meaning become clear. He lets his magic, the light and fire, burn in the air around him.

Eris steps back, away from the swords and the tense and thickening magic.

“Promise you’ll free me from this curse and I vow I will never ally with the death-lord Koschei.”

“As soon as Vassa is free, we will free you,” Lucien says, watches as Elain nods, as Tamlin lowers his sword, and Nesta reluctantly follows. “But first, it seems we will need to go to war for your throne.”

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bloodhonnie · 4 years ago

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maybe tmi but do you think that only ever falling for people who i know for a fact won't reciprocate is a symptom? the last time i fell in love it was so intense i felt like i was put on this earth just to exist in his vicinity and the whole time he had a gf of 5 years and said he saw me like "one of the boys" LMAO. part of me's like if you show interest in me there must obviously be something very wrong with you otherwise you wouldn't be able to even stand me... i swear 2 years ago my friend told me he was gay and for a week later all i could think was have i actually been in love with him this whole time?😂 also like you said! if they won't be in a relationship with me i don't have to think about my complex and very contradictory intimacy issues lol

Hello! I’ll try my best to explain what I think it is for me and you can do with that information what you will. Also a huge disclaimer that I do not self diagnose more like self speculate but I don’t shit on anyone that does self diagnose. Getting a diagnosis is hard and sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. I haven’t been diagnosed with ADHD so take this with a grain of salt I just think this describes what I go through the best.

*disclaimer!! I’m not saying that rsd and bpd are the same thing or that ppl that only have bpd can have rsd. Rsd is specific to people that have adhd. I’m extremely aware but due to the similarities I thought it would be prudent to use it as a framework to explain what rejection and abandonment in relationships looks like for people with bpd.*

So into my answer! It’s extremely common for people who have ADHD (both children and adults) to have something called rejection sensitive dysphoria (which I will be referring to as RSD from here on out). RSD as described by webMD: “RSD can affect relationships with family, friends, or a romantic partner. The belief that you're being rejected can turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy. When you act differently toward the person you think has rejected you, they may begin to do so for real.” The webMD article notes that there are similarities between symptoms of RSD and BPD. This excerpt from this psychology today article section titled: Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria in Relationships, explains how RSD can interfere severely in your life affecting your quality of life.

“As you may expect, RSD can have a significant impact on having relationships—or even the seeking of them. Dating can be especially hard for someone with RSD, as they are hyperfocused on any perceived slight whatsoever (Why did it take so long for them to text back?), and they may assume they are being rejected when that is far from the case. They may ruminate on what they said or did "wrong," or isolate themselves to the point of self-sabotaging and actually driving the other person away due to seemingly not being interested themselves.”

The next paragraph explains this cluster of symptoms further. Being insecure in your relationships can be a deterrent to those seeking you out or those that are interested in you.

“Within relationships, people with RSD can have different ways of manifesting their underlying discomfort and fear, and sometimes, gender roles can make a difference. A person may continually second-guess their actions, wanting frequent reassurance from their partner that everything is "OK" within the relationship. They may grow timid and afraid of sharing their real feelings because of the fear that those feelings won't be deemed acceptable. They may escalate conflicts with anger that feels out of proportion to the situation.”

You can check out the full article for a full list of symptoms that comprise RSD. Onto my point now. As someone diagnosed with BPD you might be familiar with the fact that we tend to have unstable relationships in our lives. Wether these relationships are romantic or not usually isn’t much of a factor when it comes to our insecurities surrounding how others perceive us. So, not only do we have an unstable sense of self, but we also have an unstable sense of how others view us. This usually stems from childhood neglect and trauma. When a child forms an insecure attachment to their parents believing or actually witnessing their parents, guardians, or caretakers leave or move on can cause long lasting trauma. It’s a form of emotional stability teasing. By that I mean that usually the caretaker intentionally or unintentionally essentially teases the child with emotional and physical stability. Some examples might be a semi absentee parent or a parent that verbally abused their child by claiming that they will leave because of how the child is or simply because they want to. Both of these scenarios can cause a child to no longer trust those around them. Children learn how to behave in society by observing their peers but most importantly from observing their caretakers. What’s my point? My point is that there’s some evidence to suggest that people with BPD experience something similar to RSD due to trauma or other factors. The first step anyone with BPD can take that will change their life is becoming self aware of the way they are and what BPD looks like for them. It’s important to note that I by no means am an expert in this and this is what I remember from my psych classes.

Anyways moving on to my own personal experiences. The biggest and most harmful situation to me that I perpetuated was liking someone who told me not once but twice that they didn’t wanna be in a relationship with me. I’m not saying that I’m fully at fault but it’s literally so annoying that I definitely subconsciously knew they would never take me seriously and I decided to bet all my money on the same pot. The situation is a bit complicated but it boils down to the fact that I knew they weren’t truly attainable so I cut it off only to go back TWICE to see if it would work out. I knew they weren’t attainable, they had told me so and yet I still continued to pursue them. Not everything is black and white tho and sometimes you need to learn to trust yourself and your intuition. I wasn’t particularly wrong for believing that they might come around but I was wrong for entertaining it simply because I wouldn’t have to actually commit despite what I thought and felt at the time. My experience with BPD is very similar to RSD except that for me as someone with BPD and not RSD I experience this all the time with everyone in my life. I don’t feel secure about any attachment I have to anyone and believe that eventually all of them will leave me because I am actually as bad as I think. This isn’t true and it’s a hard thinking pattern to break.

I don’t know if this helped? It might just be me rambling into the night. Anyways thanks for the ask and thanks for sharing with me! Stuff like this can be hard to sift through!

#personal #bpd #borderline personality disorder #actuallyborderline #actually borderline #actually bpd #actuallybpd #vent #borderline #text

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kyoyasbirkenstocks · 5 years ago

Note

Hi! Weird request, but could you maybe write a scenario where Kyoya accidentally walks in on Haruhi masturbating and discovers she's masturbating to him? Like she's saying his name or something. Maybe he even helps her finish? 🤔🙃

Notes: Not weird at all in my opinion! This was fun to write and sorry it went from being dirty to rather filthy (real quick) and hella long. I have a headcanon that Kyoya has a penchant for dirty talk and being fairly straight-forward in bed, which I think matches well with Haruhi’s personality. Also, I was just real excited to write a scene for my fav, Kyoya. Thank you for your request and I hope it’s what you were looking for!

Warning: Lemons below! Smut! 18+!

It had truly been a miscalculation of time on Haruhi’s part. She knew Kyoya was visiting her new studio apartment to study for several of their respective university courses. However she casually forgot that he was coming at 2 pm not 3 pm like she had written down. Usually this would not have been an issue, aside from the fact Haruhi had opted to indulge herself a bit prior to his visit in hopes of quieting the explicit images of him that had plagued her dreams for weeks. She tried not to ruminate on how stupid she felt having sex dreams about Kyoya knowing that he probably didn’t see her that way at all, afterall he wanted someone who would benefit his family through and through.

Needless to say, neither party was prepared to see each other as Haruhi rocked against the vibrator buried deep within her arousal while crying out Kyoya’s name. She barely heard his faint gasp as she opened her eyes and quickly tried to cover herself with her blanket.

“Kyoya!! Oh my god, you’re early!!!” Haruhi yelled, tangling herself in the blanket. Kyoya had quickly whipped around as there was no other room for him to go to.

“You said 2pm!! You said 2pm, I am on time! The door was unlocked!! You weren’t answering!” His hands over his eyes. Haruhi felt a sting in her throat. Only a few times in her life had she been so embarrassed she wanted to cry. She sat up and pulled her shirt down, feeling that the blanket covered at this point what it needed to. On top of all of this, she didn’t want to cry in front of him as a tear slipped down her red cheeks. Kyoya cautiously turned around, blushing furiously and sat next to her on the bed. He gently wiped away the tear that had reached her jaw line.

“Haruhi, it’s okay. I’m sorry I barged in. It’s a normal thing.” He said quietly, rubbing her arm. She let out a short forced laugh.

“You just walked in on me clearly getting myself off thinking about you, but I appreciate the politeness.” She finished lamely. He shifted lightly and sighed.

“So? Like I haven’t done the same? Really Haruhi, I can see how Arai struggled.” He laughed, but Haruhi’s mind was frozen. He thought about her? Sexually?! She thought she might implode.

“....you didn’t get to finish though. Maybe I could help?” He offered. He didn’t seem to be offering out of pity judging by the bulge in his pants.

“Are you sure?” She asked, feeling her arousal slowly returning.

“Absolutely.” He smiled as he crawled to hover over her body, gently kissing her neck.

“So tell me Haruhi, what do you fantasize about me doing to you?” He asked while pushing up her shirt to play with her nipples.

“Ah-h, you were...fucking me against the counter.” Haruhi gasped. This felt so much better than all of her dreams combined and he hadn’t even gone below her waist.

“Oh? Is that what you want? To bend you over and bury my cock deep in you?”

“Oh please, yes, I-I want that a lot.” Kyoya groaned at her response and tore off his shirt. Haruhi removed hers before their lips crashed together. He threw off the blanket and lifted her into his lap. Haruhi moaned into his mouth at the contact of his clothed cock against her core. He reached down to rub her folds before inserting a finger.

“Mm seems like your toy did a wonderful job at getting you ready. You’re so fucking wet.” He smiled against her lips before capturing them again in a heated kiss. Haruhi wondered briefly if this was a dream, but didn’t care any further when Kyoya pushed her back onto the bed, inserting another finger. She rocked against his fingers, desperate for more. He pulled out and she looked up.

“Can I taste you?” He asked as he removed his pants, leaving his boxer briefs on. She vigorously nodded and he wasted no time in pulling her to the down to the edge of the bed. He plunged his tongue into her heat and thumbed her clit in the process. She grabbed his hair as an attempt to keep herself from floating away.

“Ah...Kyoya! Yes! I-I’m so close” She cried out, knowing her orgasm was just within reach. However he abruptly stopped. In a haze she gave him a questioning look. He gently crawled back over her to kiss her, tasting herself on his lips. In a less heightened state of mind she would be shocked to know how...forward he could be.

“Why did you stop?” She asked between kisses.

“If I have the choice of you cumming on my cock or face, I think I’d like to feel you on my cock. Besides, there’s time for me to eat you out in the future, maybe even later today.” He whispered slyly in her ear.

“You’re really out for my heart aren’t you?” Haruhi laughed.

“Maybe I am.” He chuckled while picking her up and positioning her against the counter.

“Haruhi, I don’t have a condom, do you?” He asked.

“Shit, no I ran out awhile back. Um, well I am on birth control, can I trust you to pull out?” She looked around in case one was laying out.

“Yes, I will. Does this mean you’re okay if I cum on your ass?” He asked while removing his final piece of clothing and leaning to kiss her neck.

“Ha, sure. Is that what YOU fantasize about?” She teased, feeling more playful.

“It might be one of the ways I’ve fantasized about you.” He grabbed his cock and gently rubbed it against her entrance, causing her to moan.

“Please Kyoya, fuck me.” He answered her by thrusting up and she realized he had more girth than she thought. He was starting gently, but she heard his shaky breathing loud and clear.

“You… you can go harder. You saw how I was with my vibrator.” She panted. He let out a small laugh before pulling her hips back. He pounded into her, moaning and swearing under his breath. Her apartment was filled with the sounds of their pleasure as their peaks built.

“Fuck Haru, you’re so tight. I’m not gunna last much longer. I want you to cum. Touch yourself for me?” She didn’t need to be asked twice as her hand darted to her clit. She gasped at the sensation of being completely filled and touching her already sensitized clit. She felt her walls closing around him.

“Kyo-I.I’m cumming!” She cried as her orgasm washed over her, squeezing his cock even tighter. She began to come down when Kyoya gasped and pulled out.

“Oh fuck Haruhi.” She felt the first spurt of warmth hit her back and she glanced over her shoulder to see him jerking the rest of his seed onto her back. A sight she wanted to catalog away forever. A few moments of silence passed.

“So….did….that live up to your expectations?” Kyoya asked between pants, his hands on the counter, supporting him from collapsing onto her.

“It definitely was better than that fantasy, I guess I’ll have to see how you do with the others.” She laughed and he playfully smacked her bottom.

After the clean up, they both found themselves resting naked in her small bed.

“Ah, looks like I might have broken those novelty salt and pepper shakers Tamaki gave me. I won’t hear the end of that.” She lamented, letting her head fall back onto her pillow. Kyoya attempted to peak over the bed to see but couldn’t as he was laying on his stomach.

“Just tell him the movers broke them.” He closed his eyes and laid his head back down.

“Oh I’m sure the truth would be a pleasant chat. Sorry Tamaki, I accidently pushed them off the counter while Kyoya fucked me within an inch of my life.” She snorted sarcastically. Kyoya just smiled before drifting off to sleep.

#Trigger: smut #Trigger: lemons #lemon #smut #Kyoya x Haruhi #kyoharu #kyoya ootori #Haruhi Fujioka #ouran #ouran high school host club #ohshc #let's enjoy

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absolutelynoct · 5 years ago

Note

If you're still doing hcs maybe Promptio doing some couples exercise maybe if it's ok

[Okay I kind of came up with how Prompto and Gladio get together?]

This happens while Prompto is in high school and right after Noctis introduces him to Gladio.

Gladio is shook the first time he sees Prompto working out at the gym. At first he thinks that it’s a fluke, but then Prompto is there again and again and again. He realizes that Prompto is a runner and then gives him some tips on weight training.

Meanwhile, Prompto is HERE for it. He’s like “finally someone who gets it! I’m trying to bulk up man!” Gladio lets him know that he’s never going to really bulk up like he does, but he’s happy to help him.

So Prompto and Gladio get into a natural rhythm of working out together. They run in the mornings and then three to four times a week they go to the gym and Gladio puts him through an intense workout routine.

At first, Prompto is so sore that he regrets ever asking for Gladio’s help. But then as time goes on he gets stronger and stronger, and he starts to develop muscle, and he is excited for his progress.

Gladio is happy to cheer him on until one day Prompto comes to him excitedly and says “Hey Gladio! Look! I have muscle now!” And then Gladio thinks “Oh no. I’ve got it bad.”

Gladio doesn’t know how to handle his crush on Prompto because every time he sees him he can only think about how cute he is. So he starts to distance himself from Prompto, making excuses why he can’t run with him or why he can’t weight train with him. He uses Noctis as an excuse several times until Prompto mentions how Gladio couldn’t work out cause he was with Noctis, and Noctis is like “wtf man???? No I wasn’t???”

So now Prompto is wondering what he did wrong to make Gladio hate him. But he’s too nervous to ask him why, so he wallows in his misery to the point that he stops showing up to the gym. Gladio is there periodically, wondering where Prompto is, but Prompto assumes that Gladio hates him so he’s doing everything he can to avoid him.

Noctis gets angry and tells Gladio he needs to sort his shit out because Prompto is super anxious and keeps ruminating on what he possibly did wrong to the point that he’s making himself sick with worry. So Gladio admits to Noctis that he feels something for Prompto, and Noctis is like “So just date him then????” And Gladio is like “Well now that you say it that way, I just feel stupid.”

So Gladio shows up for a morning run with Prompto, completely taking Prompto by surprise. Prompto is nervous and afraid that Gladio is going to be mean to him, but they start their run as normal. But then halfway through the run, Gladio stops and he’s like “I need to tell you something.” And Gladio confesses to Prompto, and Prompto is like “OMG SAME.”

They share their first (sweaty) kiss then and then continue on their run as normal. They spend more time together working out and hanging out, and they find a natural groove together that fits them perfectly (although showers afterwards look a bit different now).

#promptio #ffxv #Final Fantasy XV #headcanon #prompto argentum #prompto #gladiolus amicitia #gladio #gladiolus #amitiel writes

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dansedan · 4 years ago

Text

I threatened on the Disco Writer’s Nook server to share my notes from this latest fic, but since they’re wildly incomprehensible and kind of silly I thought maybe I’ll just... chuck ‘em on here instead, under a readmore where they can pass by easier so uhhh xX WeLcOmE To My TwIsTeD mInDXx !!!1!!

(warning for LONG LONG post- I write full sections and asides from the universe that aren’t even in the damn fic within the same notes document a lot... I’m also insufferably pretentious on notes I KNOW and I cull it on the final as much as I can, as well as mild possible spoilers for a fic I haven’t written in the same au-timeline-thing I suppose and NSFT stuff)

(also a lot of this gets discarded because it’s so stupid and I write it at terrible brain moments)

"Por la mañana me di a la estúpida tarea de esconder mis cigarros por los rincones de la casa. Los encuentro, claro, pero fumo poco, fumo menos, hago esfuerzos por mejorarme de una vez."

meditative cigarettes and quitting fic.

Harry smokes less than he drinks, because he smokes to keep sharp and he usually wants to be numb, down to zero, space-based. but after going tee-total and opening up on his quest to actual-human-persondom he finds himself chainsmoking constantly. A concern in his volition is raised, a thought project ruminated on, and strategems laid out.

Harry grasps at the first half at a low point in his attempts to get better without anyone knowing or helping. He wonders about Kim's life, Kim's control. The electrochemistry in him fantasizes about a free-wheeling party-boy sort of Kim, still cool, still quiet, but free and soft and in control of his lack of control- the aviator, the flying ace, at the mercy of the elements and gliding by by choice- lands on the question of the one-per day, the Kim he knows, who takes what he needs with trepidation and preparation.

The truth is that last one- Kim was a social smoker, an after-dinner-if-the-date-is-pleasant smoker, an after-sex smoker, a bumming-cigarettes-to-gague-his-interest smoker (it all started with a boyfriend) but police work and his neverending stint in Juvie drove him to once-per-day, a creature of obsession. He used to heavily resent it- until Harry came along and joined the ritual.

"bebiendo mate con el ademán gracioso de los novatos. Es lo que hago ahora cuando siento ganas de fumar, dijo, con una sonrisa."

Kim and Harry not so close together- the idea of Kim and Harry not knowing everything about each other, because that's just not how you survive, but somehow Kim aching to be up-to-date on Harry all the time.

Harry and his funny little excursions around town. Kim visits and finds cigarettes hidden around the house, smells them in fear of finding drugs, or Harry has to awkwardly shuffle around for one when Kim invites him to smoke. Harry tries to join a book club, starts cooking lofty meals for his yoga class, tries being vegan for a week, checks out a bunch of books on the history of the Coupris Corp (SUZERAINTY ERA MARK OF AUTHENTICITY BABEY) as a way to help him wean off substances but also off Kim. They want each other but they know they need to stand on their own </3

Harry starts going to this novelty/gourmet supermarket and buying one new thing every paycheck like furikake that says it has lead on it and mate and all that. He spends his ex-drinking, smoking money on it.

Harry makes Kim huevos rotos :'-)

You're barely holding it together- how the hell did you get to this newsstand? Is it a newsstand? This structure- round, metal, iron-wrought frame and squat stature- was once a newsstand. How do you know it isn't? What is it now? You feel yourself point someplace on a menu you can't see past the dew of heavy crying- the clerk does not react, he's seen you like this- slam your wallet on the counter. You receive a paper parcel slightly larger than your fist, long. It's warm through the paper, and you can feel the dryness of a light dusting of flour passing through it. Food.

Your legs and arms are moving on their own again, wallet shoved this way, steps stumbled past the other, clumsily bringing whatever it is to your mouth and feeling crumbs fall into your beard- like a shark. That's one of the first things you remember, the beautiful old ultraliberal woman, like a shark, on her boat. The joy of your first- no, second- idiom. The first was up on Marvel Hill where you can't live. Kim said that. Kim's gonna be there, when you do it like a shark and don't stop any of this on your way to work and you stop crying so nobody thinks you did what you're avoiding doing. Is there anyway you can forget the frittte? There's so many locations in your mind, what kind of man are you, remembering the placement of a store that's meant to vanish and appear out of convenience like it's a fucking pitstop (would a flask not be enough? A single habit to get rid of, easy- but you're never easy).

You feel dark-dark-light-darkness and then light again, and smoother flooring and your coat being too warm. You're at the precinct- fuck, you're at the precinct- and it's late, real late, but you are here and there's too many people to fuck up here and at least you aren't crying. Your red face and eyes blend perfectly into too many years and days of red and puffy eyes to call attention. Perfect, perfect- god bless the innocence (or is innocence god? You can't forget- Remember- something.)

"You're late, shitkid." At some point Jean appears beside you. He's walked the other way and stopped- he's grimacing- but more importantly you see his left arm raise and still and clench itself, like a restricted movement, natural instinct. "You smell like shit- is that fish?" You do not know if that is fish because your throat hurts so bad already that you cannot know if you've been swallowing bones for this past hour (minute? Minutes? The walk feels like forever and never enough. You're swearing like a pig now that you're standing, how adequate.)

You want to say it's agony, the end of days, the end of you- you want to say reprise, and sorry, and oh god I didn't want to see you please I don't deserve it Jean please leave and go away from me and also please oh god please hold me up I don't know what I'm doing but I'm trying to be better but I ate this thing that might as well be sawdust and I do not know what time it's been for several days.

Instead you say "it's my GOD-GIVEN RIGHT, VIC" and you move along like a fucking idiot.

"An image arises in your mind's eye-- a baby, dirty, hideous, its skin mottled and raw and red, peeling, stretching almost impossibly. The baby cries from pain- in it's brief stay on this earth it has already suffered more than some men do in their entire lives. He is built for it- thick skin, quite literally. He is being held by a slight, pale, ugly nurse- a nun in bloodied white rags with a terrible smell of herbs permanently attached to her. The scene is a caricature of mother and child- the hideous thing, held up to her chest, is drinking from an amber bottle, clouded over. In ten years, the contents of this bottle he will be legally too young for-- is this the reason you became the way you are? Are you just born-and-bred this way, surviving off of alcohol where most people had blood and human kindness?

-- It's not. The little pastiche you've thought up for yourself is half propaganda and half racist idiocy. Despite what the supposed "race-realists" may say, not everyone from the Insulindian is thrown on the bottle the moment they're weaned from the tit. In truth, you were barely even medicated, and those bitter, herbaceous spirits are not the cause of your current addiction. It's still on you harry, it's always still on you.

"Wake up- time to listen to the radio.

You love the radio. You really, really love the radio. You think the radio was the greatest purchase you have ever made- drunk you was horrible, and traumatizing, and entirely undebatably subhuman, but he did buy this radio, and by god fuck if that isn't his saving grace (a story comes to mind- a Dolorean allegory from your childhood- about a selfish rich woman and a lazy cheating bum both ferried up to heaven by a single onion that she'd given him during their lives as charity. You choose to ignore the part where they fight and fall back into hellfire). It's the thing that broke you off from your mazovian monk-like refusal to buy anything for yourself other than flour for a week after THE HANGED MAN, it's what got you into cycling and hanging out with the neon eyebleed catsuits crew, it's what reminded you that public libraries exist and nobody will ask you why you're in there reading about suzerainty-era motor carriage manufacturing and the homo-sexual underground. It's the greatest thing since communism, since disco, since-- since-- since cigarettes and kebabs and- and--

... And idolizing someone to the point of crucifixion. Which you aren't supposed to be doing.

Good thing the radio cranks up real loud!

"You've read everything in this section- theory, history, photography, even, notably, the single romance novel, comically bad, about a middle-aged Vespertine businessman travelling north to the harbour where he had experienced his first teenaged love-- and the young, strapping man he gets to know there. (There are boats involved- it's very biblical). All in all, you read it twice, meticulously rewrote its horrifyingly vague and unsafe sex scenes (in pen, inside. Not like the librarian's gonna check it) and masturbated at your efforts, winning you a very sore wrist and about 30 minutes of crying because you remembered being in a bookshop with Kim in Martinaise while you were remembering what books were, and then remembered Jean's apartment having a secret stack of equally terrible heterosexual novels bequeathed to him by an ex that you made fun of him for (rabidly, for years).

"Harry's apartment is no longer clean, but not as dirty as before, and its stalwart light-green walls seem, in the summer light, less queasy and foreboding than what they are now, almost dainty in the contrast of the sparse few frames and piles of knickknacks on the floor.

Believe it or not, this is good-- sometimes, life with Harry makes you feel like a zoologist, intricately analysing an animal's pile of leaves and refuse and knowing, despite all human standards, what these habits mean for the foreign species. And for Harry, mess like this is good. It means he's kept busy by any one of his million little projects, picked up and put down at a dizzying speed and constancy, each one increasingly out of left field in

Kim and harry talk about the radio, kim thinks about it "radio, what's new? Radio- some-one still loves you"

Harry talking abt agenda + library bc you can't smoke + planning for dinner with Kim :-)

Gotta go to the library so you don't chainsmoke

Gotta shower to go to the library

Don't wanna shower bc executive dysfunction

Grab a smoke before you shower

Oh wait you've been chain-smoking fuck (insert meditation on sharp vs smooth)

Hide all your cigarettes around the house feeling pathetic about it

You still don't feel like showering

But you just chainsmoked and you know you'll do it again because you JUST hid your smokes and the hiding spots are fresh in your mind

Birdbath (why are you so fucking dysfunctional that you can't shower like a normal adult)

Introspective rubber ducky selfhate momence

Rubber ducky encourages you through the power of nihilism and Kim

Thought project gain

Go to library and need comfort so you're going thru all your usual shelves (insert le funny homo shelf joke here)

What does he read about? Smoking? Idk

Kiiiiiim. Kimmy kim kim. Think about Kim

Maybe he reads recipe books to woo kim

INSERT EXISTENTIAL BROTH EPISODE HERE to talk about how you've never actually seen Kim cook (he told you it was good soup, clearly lying, you told him it was broth, and that you could teach him how to make soup out of it if he wanted...)

(broth episode was another note, inserted here:

ANOTHER harry coping fic. Miserable housebound weekend nights because he can't party but the house is horrible to be in and he keeps dunking his hands into more and more ice water and taking like half-body cold showers and he's like "maybe this is bad for my skin!!! I gotta get out holy shit" and he's like uhhhh fucking. Can't go to work. Let's go to the supermarket. And then he's almost there and he's like OH FUCK NO THERES ALCOHOL AT THE SUPERMARKET and he straight up bolts out of there and muscle memory gets him to a shady ass butcher shop in some random immigrant neighborhood and he buys so much fish because of a failed check and he goes home and basically he makes so much fish stock. He makes just so fucking much fish stock and Kim comes to pick him up the next day and panics because it genuinely smells like the dead in there but it's just harry making fucking. fish broth or something. Just harry coming up to the door in his work clothes with way too much cologne on and a thermos of fish soup like "uh... Do you want some Broth kim?" And Kim can't fucking cook but he takes some Broth anyway and he's trying to figure out why harry would do that but harry is being a little edgy about it and Kim is like oh god I need to help him a little and they have a sit down about it and he's like wanting to say "hey if you need somewhere to go I'm here for you" but it's hard and I don't even know if he ends up actually saying it. Okay bye)

Talking about the sexiness of supermarkets and how they make reptile brain go brrr

Think about alcohol vs smoking. Think about kimmy kim kim (insert european drinking joke here)

Have that get stuck in his head. Kim kimmy kim kimmy kimmy kim kim. Kimster. Kimbo. Kitsy. Kitty. Cutie. Oh god no fuck oh god I need to stop.

He goes home and still rlly wants to smonk

You hide the cigarettes around the house. It feels stupid, and you know you’ll be embarrassed having to pull the Jamrock Shuffle in your own apartment, that you’re a grown adult who could just *buy another box of cigarettes* whenever you wanted to, but you feel like it helps. Drag the killing thing away from the crappy little animal even for a couple moments more, let yourself get tired out like the old man you are below all the disco scaffolding. You can’t really bring yourself to shower, but you drag the radio into the bathroom with you and wash yourself in the sink. You try to be good about it- stay away from the mirror, really lather up and clear away the sweat that’s caked to you throughout the night and morning, feel the warm graze of the water on your skin. You brush shampoo through your hair and work it in in cycles, focus on the humming feeling of the bristles on your scalp, trying not to think of much of anything, just the smell of the cheap powdery soap and of what clothes you’ll wear today, try to settle into a better memory of this instead of picking at the shame you feel about how hard it is for you. ducking your head into the stream of the water in the sink and forgetting everything except the whishing, scratching sounds of cleaning.

Being clean feels good, and being dressed again feels maybe even better (knit sweaters are a revelation- who could’ve known polyester satin wasn’t made for seaside winters), so by the time you walk your way into the Jamrock public library the morning’s incidents are nigh-forgotten. The dry warmth of the old library is a reliable balm- the yellowed fluorescent lighting washing out the rows and rows of slate-grey plastic bookshelves lined up like soldiers over prerevolutionary tile, with its woven edges and dark, jeweled pinwheels of color, stretching out endlessly full of books, reels, and the rare intricate portrait hanging overhead. Before them, long wooden tables dotted with mismatched lamps, flickering in and out of use, occupied by antsy juveniles and sleeping hobos. It feels effortlessly like home, like a shared worldly past that welcomes everybody- and maybe that just means that it's generic and a little overdue for renovations, but you love it as it is.

Shuffling through the tall shelves of books, you weave through mindlessly to find your favorite sections- the history (both common and infra-cultural, with a surprisingly competent collection of industrial works and a predictably miserablly little shelf of homo-sexual underground interest), the art, and the meager offerings of political literature. You can hear your off-tune humming echo back to you somewhat feebly off the high, painted ceiling, done up in some lame facsimile of early Dolorian excess (therriers, noblewomen, forget-me-nots crowding the edges of each filligreed panel, dead-eyed faces in doleful expressions, pale and empty smiling). You've got all of daylight ahead of you, which is more than enough time to browse around as usual before you have to get yourself home and start cooking.

You turn the corner smoothly into the very back of the library, into a wider set of dusty and anachronistic wooden bookshelves-- history trends unpopular, considering the fact that all the books within are horrifyngly outdated due to a miserable municipal budget, maybe that's for the best. There are better places for students to get this information now, like the private library a couple blocks away at the Cycle Universitee, or from library dial-stations tuned in from the south, where the Bibliotheque Nacionelle Des Travailleures is run by Coalition-approved volunteers. The first thing to catch your eye is the pillar of works of infra-cultural expression and documentstion- essays and short stories from New authors, studies and zines on Disco, and of course, the particular political darling of the 20s, the homo-sexual underground.

You've read everything in this section- theory, history, photography- even, notably, the single commercial romance novel, comically bad, about a middle-aged Vespertine businessman travelling north to the harbour where he had experienced his first teenaged love-- and the young, strapping man he gets to know there. (There are boats involved- it's very biblical). All in all, you read it twice, meticulously rewrote its horrifyingly vague and unsafe sex scenes (in pen, inside. Not like the librarian's gonna check it) and masturbated at your efforts, winning you a very sore wrist and about 30 minutes of crying because you remembered being in a bookshop with Kim in Martinaise while you were remembering what the world was, and then remembered Jean's apartment having a secret stack of equally terrible heterosexual novels bequeathed to him by an ex that you made fun of him for (rabidly, for years). You shudder, now, at the sight of its cracked spine looking you from the middle sill. Its gaze feels hefty and judgemental, and you do not like it.

There are

KIM CHAPTAAAA

"you'd like him to take care of himself. You'd like to be there to do it for him when he can't"

"He opens the door, and immediately there are a million little things that test you (hell, with that thick-knit sweater he's wearing, any weakness in you would have him writhing on the floor in seconds). The half-up style of his now-so soft looking auburn hair, split across to reveal the pale white of his nape between the raised collar of his sweater, the kind wrinkling of his open smile upon seeing you walk in, the light, jazzy music of the radio backing his belly-deep laugh and the heady smell of incense in the room are all exhilaratingly Harry to you.

What to do with jean:Standalone fic for him?

Starts when he sees Harry with the eyebleed crew and he's the one who goes up to him like "WHAT IN THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING SHIT KID" and harry is like. Oh god oh fuck jean uh let's be... Cordial! Optimistic! (What jean sees is one of his signature pauses but like. Yeah it's the skills talking) and he's just like "oh it helps me stay sober and make friends, I found out about it on the radio🙂" and Jean is like holy fucking shit this is absolutely insane.

1) bc Harry used to be so repressed he was basically homophobic with his macho act

2)bc Jean originally didn't believe the amnesia thing but then when Harry genuinely did shit like this and never told him (which, if it was a cruel joke he would've tried to make it very public and obvious and drag jean into it to embarrass him)

3) because JEAN was his friend and why the fuck does he just. Run off with random people with a radio ad instead

4) because he's doing so well. He's like, fully at the sort of "this-side-of-pudgy" bear level that's hot enough to get him positive attention over the damage of the alcohol and he's wearing the sort of clothes that show it and he's got all these crew buddies where Jean is stuck with his hellish depression workouts where he sometimes works until he pukes and then feels like shit about self-harming like that. (what he doesn't know is that Harry is basically doing that same exact shit just he's using his swag alcoholic skills to lieeeeee about it. rip)

Maybe harry apologizes in their conversation about the romance novels. Like it blurts out.

eventually add in the previous consideration fic you were thinking of &quot

starting with bitter porno kimbo/viccy catfight bullshit

"no that's pathetic and he'd never go there." dynamic where kim cares quietly and jean is bitchy about Harry

then "no, he's dealt with harry so much already, I can't imagine." so it's all concern for him

and then that backslides into "how could I comfort him? how could he understand my need for comfort? "

we stan a mildly nonaccepted himself Jean so he's like "WAIT UH GAY THOUGHTS ABOUT THIS GUY TOO? FUCK FUCK FUCK"

gotta make it panic horny. it's a Dan Gat fic. how would kim look.... yknow......

since the only other guy who's been like that with him has been harry -> third wheel dynamic going to ->

horny ot3 dynamic. old men doting on him because it's his fantasy and he gets to be the pampered one goddamnit

end somehow

THIS IS THE EXACT DYNAMIC WE'RE GOING FOR Jean liked Harry premart and Harry was unbearably machismo repressed homophobic bullshitero man (I need to decide if he was stupid enough to be like AS LONG AS IM ON TOP IT ISNT GAYYYY or smth sex/intimacy related like that maybe he just kinda. ""comically"" hit on Jean or said suggestive shit to him but never fully acted on it) and then he comes back from Martinaise all loyal puppy dog or whatever for Kim and Jean is like "??? OKAY SO I GO THROUGH ALL THIS BULLSHIT AND HE TALKS SO BIG ABOUT LOVING MUSCLE DUDES AND NOW HES GONNA FUCK THIS GRANDPA?" but then he's like self-aware enough to know that's stupid.(Jean's problem is that he looks for wounds on Kim and not Harry, so he's all like "damn this bitch stole my mans when he's actually good...." meanwhile Harry is like Very Obviously Self Harming All The Time and not even really with Kim so often rip)

Harry wants to reach out and ask him about his thing with Kim because he has memories of Jean either being gay or being less homophobic or just having Gay Energy that he was an asshole about or whatever plus it just feels natural to work through shit with Jean but he stops himself because he's like "well DRINKING also felt natural that doesn't mean we should do it..."

maybe they get into it because Jean makes an offhand comment about "stop ogling kim" and harry is like (computer warmup noises) and jean just kinda forces him to spit it out RE: meme description

Harry's whole deal with avoiding Jean is "some things are unforgivable and I'm fairly sure I've done things bordering on that to you for so, so long, and now I don't even know what they were or who I was when I did them, to me that person is dead, and I know then that I can't apologize to you thoroughly, genuinely, and I don't want to insult you by presuming that I ever could, at this point. I don't want to insult you by assuming I can just go back to what we were before, to each other, without an apology or an actual understanding of what went wrong. I can't speak for certain about his mind-my mind- but at least in some part that guy killed himself because of what he did to you, and to everyone around him, sure, but mostly to you. And now I'm here, and it feels horrible to try and go against that and push myself into your life. It feels horrible to see I've done something to you worth killing myself over and then still insist on coming back to bother you beyond the grave"

And Jean's response is "you thought everything was bad enough to kill yourself over! And you're still alive, you're still him, and fuck, yes it'll take a long ass fucking time for me to ever really forgive you, but you were my best friend and you're still fucking alive- I see you every single day, Harry, do you know what that's like? To see your best fucking friend every single day and watch him flinch and try to act like he doesn't exist every single time he sees you? Fuck you and fuck what you wanted before, *I* never wanted you dead, and your little stunt here with pretending you're finally fine and then keeping everyone at an arm's distance is just another, slower grave you're digging" etc etc "if this is the upswing at last, I’d better be there for it.**”

Jean is a frat boy that you do not expect to be a frat boy. He unironically gets along with mack and chester. He's only just started to grow out of it through dealing with Harry's horrible downfall

sequel to geste drole des debutantes but it's just a 3 chapter PWP masturbation fic..... of Kim and Harry after the dinner and then SHOOKETH SURPRISE IT'S JEANGST YEARNING TIME!

Kim trans.... Good for him...

Stroker shit

He wants to fuck Harry basically

...slow tease? Or fast and desperate?

Dry kissing

Hair pulling...

Youre hard, and you're wet, and you can't help but think of that smile on his face as you left and you want him to taste it, to get on his knees for what he's done to you and swallow it all down, feels the soft brush of his beard on your thighs.

Harry also trans... Good for them good for them...

Handkink shit

Wants kim to absolutely wreck his shit

... He's new at this

Slow....

Jean

Jeangst

Want to wreck harry's shit... Mouthfuck stuff maybe

Power bottoming?? Idk

Whoops my hardcore dom revenge fantasy has slipped into a getting bossed around by the guy I thought I disliked for taking away my partner UHH.... LETS NOT UNPACK THAT....

Some idiot makes like a homophobic stupid "ah the fucking lieutants off scissoring or something" comment and then jean is like "oh god what if that but sexual instead"

Gym shower...

Jean has a big dick too bad bitch

When harry du bois ruined his life, thinks satelitte-officer Jean Vicquemare- he might at least have had the decency not to also curse his dick. This shit was weekly and only getting worse, now that the shitkid didn't constantly smell like despair and carrion had scored a threesome with a bartender's manual.

#my writing #in a way!#my fic #long post

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juniperwindsong · 5 years ago

Text

Necessary Monsters (10/16)

Summary: "What kind of gentleman would I be if I let your first day here be all misery?" "I thought you were a dragonologist now, not a gentleman." "They're not mutually exclusive."

His first week in Romania, Felix had been diligent about scourgifying himself after every shift. But magic, it seemed, had a harder time sluicing off dragon-related filth, and the spell never seemed to catch it all, leaving a distinct outdoors-y smell and a crusty stain about his clothes. More importantly, dirt and grime seemed to be a badge of honour here. Felix quickly discovered only newcomers and theoretical researchers, both regularly mocked by the resident dragonologists, bothered to clean themselves more than once a day. Desperate to fit in, Felix had learned to relax some of his more fastidious habits. Which is why it takes him nearly fifteen minutes of frantic searching to finally locate his long-disused bottle of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion at the bottom of an old trunk.

Grey pre-dawn light meanders across the dingy bathroom mirror as Felix applies liberal amounts of the potion to his hair, refusing to think too deeply about why. He pulls the nicer of his summer work shirts over his head, attempts to charm the worst of the wrinkles out of his trousers, and even spends a few minutes bent over his boots before he's forced to give them up as a lost cause. It would take days to remove all the layers of mud and muck.

Felix stares at his newly groomed reflection, nerves chewing a hole in the lining of his stomach. All he's done is dress himself up for disappointment, he thinks ruthlessly. His best has never been enough to impress Juniper, not for the results he wants, anyway. And he ought not to be attempting to impress her at all. She's coming here with Charlie Weasley, she's made her feelings about Felix clear, and that's all there is to it.

Anxiety wrings the last of Felix's confidence from him like a dishrag. Suddenly the prospect of seeing Juniper arrive with that ridiculous red-head is unbearable, and, in spite of the fact that he's woken at the crack of dawn on his day off specifically to greet Juniper as soon as she arrives, Felix flees the flat.

The sun is just beginning to warm the hard ground as Felix walks, quickly as dignity will allow, down the Reserve's main path toward the modest cul-de-sac of buildings. Better sense commands him not to glance across at the long-abandoned Hospital cottage. He looks anyway. The windows are as dark and disused as they've been all year, but the observation does nothing to settle his writhing nerves. Juniper might be in the main building, the same one he's headed for, receiving instructions from Guivré. The Romanian Reserve Director doesn't believe in staff meetings or long-winded introductions, but Juniper might take it upon herself to explore the building, make friends with the other dragonologists as soon as she can. That's the sort of thing she would do.

Felix's heart is pounding in his ears as he enters the building and nearly sprints through the mercifully-empty halls. He reaches his cramped office without meeting anyone, and sinks into the wobbly chair, panting slightly. There's sweat beading Felix's brow, and a lone strand of dark hair escapes his severe part. He tucks it back into place, and wonders how on Earth he's supposed to work under these conditions.

Perhaps Juniper won't stay at the Reserve long, Felix thinks as he starts on the paperwork mountain Rashbold has left piled on the desk; none of the other healers have. But the wish has no real will behind it. Juniper has never been one to shy away from a challenge. And the little pangs of terror the thought inspires reluctantly confirm to Felix that he still wants Juniper here, in spite of her unwelcome companion.

Taking a long, slow breath Felix forces composure through his limbs. Allowing himself to ruminate on the whole bloody mess is pointless, and sours his stomach. Forgoing enchantment, he fixes his eyes on the typewriter and uses his fingers to depress the keys manually. It's a slow, laborious process, but it keeps his feelings at bay and his mind from wandering. Felix turns the entirety of his attention to typing up Rashbold's report from yesterday, then the one from the day before. He works until his hand hits desk instead of parchment, and he's surprised to find he's already come to the end of the stack.

A low rumble of voices echoes from down the hall, and a quick glance at his pocket watch reveals the morning is almost over. When means, Felix realizes with a lurch, Juniper must be really, truly here. He's just wondering where she might be now when the light from the hall is suddenly blocked by a tall figure in a distinctive hat.

“Rosier? What are you doing here?” asks Grahame from the doorway. “Thought you were off today?”

"I was just catching up on paperwork," Felix says quickly, feeling oddly guilty, as though he were caught doing something forbidden. " We were about to lose the desk under it."

“Yeah, well, you might think about catching up on sleep. You’ve got circles like a coon.”

A year ago, the comparison would have meant nothing to Felix, but he’s spent enough time with the Reserve's resident American to become accustomed to his colourful turns of phrase. He manages a brittle smile.

"I'll think about it."

“How 'bout some coffee then?"

"Oh. Well, if you have some to spare." Felix tries to keep his voice from sounding to eager, though he stands so fast the chair legs rattle.

" 'Course." Grahame pushes off from the doorframe and saunters down the hall to his own slightly larger office, Felix just behind him. "I'm brewing way too much in the morning now, since you took off." He flashes an accusatory look over his shoulder. "Still can't believe you did that. I mean, I know McFusty had everyone riled up about your family for a while, but they'll get bored of it. You didn't have to run and hide."

Grahame nudges open the door of his office, and Felix follows him inside stiffly. This isn't the first time he's had to bite his tongue around Grahame's thoughtless comments. One of the outspoken American's favorite pastimes is voicing observations better kept to himself. Not the sort of person Felix would typically have any patience for, but Grahame has other qualities to make up for his tactlessness; namely, a never-ending supply of strong coffee and a generous nature.

Grahame sets his hat on the desk next to a large thermos, and rummages about in a drawer for a cup.

"I don't get all this bad blood between y'all anyway. I mean, it's not like you're one of those....what do you call 'em? Death speakers? It's-"

"Grahame," interrupts Felix tightly. He keeps his eyes fixed on the thermos of coffee, praying to it for patience. "Drop it. Please." In spite of his best effort, the words come out far too frosty to be considered polite. But rudeness runs off the American like rain from the rim of his hat. Grahame merely shakes his head and pours coffee from the thermos into the spare cup.

"I reckon you know best," Grahame concedes. He hands the cup to Felix who takes it with a nod of thanks and inhales the comfortingly scalding steam. "But I'm still sorry you're stuck in the shit shacks. Although..." Grahame's eyes suddenly light up slyly. "Guess this means you'll be seeing more of our new healer."

Felix's throat constricts tightly. His first sip of coffee is left swimming between his teeth as he tries to remember how to swallow. "Oh," he mumbles noncommittally when his mouth is free again. For once, he's grateful for Grahame's inability to pick up on social cues.

"Yep. Just got here this morning. Go by the med cottage when you have a chance and take a look. She's a peach."

Felix nearly drops his cup.

"Just out of school I think," continues Grahame, entirely oblivious to Felix's tightening jaw. "Can't be more than 18. We'll finally have something to look at besides McFusty. I know Sigeburt and Gil have already asked her to drinks, and there's money on who she says yes to first. I think Alexei's got the pot if you're interested. Personally, my bet's on - Hey! You're not going to finish your coffee?" Grahame calls after Felix's rapidly retreating back.

Felix speeds down the gravel walk toward the hospital cottage, all pretense of cool indifference gone. The blood pounding in his ears keeps time with his feet as his brain scolds him for being eleven kinds of moron. Why, oh why, did this never occur to him? He's been around the pub enough to know the lack of girls makes up a large proportion of the casual conversation among the predominately male dragonologists. Of the three female dragonologists present at the Reserve, two manage to keep themselves from intense scrutiny by their advanced age and the third -

Felix skids to a halt to avoid crashing into the stocky, muscular body and long red braid of the Reserve's youngest female dragonologist as she steps out of the hospital cottage's doorway. Instinct, recognising the impending danger, peddles his feet back just a step before dignity demands he stand his ground, matching the emerald eyes glare for glare.

"Rosier."

"McFusty."

The woman's eyes flicker into twin green flames as if Felix's cool pronunciation of her name were a grievous insult. "What do you want?" she asks fiercely, crossing her arms and planting herself in the doorway as if to block his entrance.

Felix smirks. The presence of his least favorite person at the Reserve gives his anxiety a purpose and a target. Enemies, he knows how to handle.

"To see our new healer, of course," he replies with perfect innocence. "But only if you're quite finished. I'm sure you need her assistance far more than I. Didn't your last attempt at anti-venom cause an outbreak of boils?"

McFusty's nostrils flare in such an accurate impression of the Hebridean Blacks she cares for that Felix wouldn't be surprised if actual sparks shot from them. She whips her head around to call over her shoulder into the cottage, "This'll be one of those unsavoury types I mentioned. Do let me know if he bothers you," McFusty meets Felix's eyes once more as she finishes, "I'll be happy to hex him a new hole."

Satisfied with the last word, McFusty steps out of the cottage, careful to bump hard into Felix's shoulder on her way down the walk. Felix contents himself with another superior smirk. He watches the angry red-head out of the corner of his eye as she marches away, years of experience reminding him just how possible a parting hex might be.

"What was that about?" calls a voice from inside the building that drives McFusty entirely from Felix's mind.

Excitement bubbling in his chest, Felix steps into the dimly lit cottage and jumps back hastily when the floor crunches under his feet. Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the change in light, Felix squints at the ground, then around the building's one large room. He wonders how it earned the generous title of "cottage" when "dilapidated shack" would be more accurate. Everything he can see appears to be dusty or broken or a combination of the two. What had appeared in the darkness to be piles of garbage carpeting the floor turn out, in fact, to actually be piles of garbage. There's hardly a wooden floorboard that isn't buried under cracked and broken jars and bottles, rotten bouquets of dried herbs and plants, or crushed, empty boxes. And sitting cross-legged in the middle of the rubble, like a queen surveying her unruly subjects, is Juniper.

For all his apprehension about this very moment, Felix can't stop elation surging through him as he takes in the sight. Juniper, in her trademark jeans and jumper (Slytherin green, he notes), here, in the same place as him, after all this time. Somehow, it's both soothing and exciting, and Felix wishes he could be allowed to just quietly enjoy her presence for a few minutes. But Juniper's watching him expectantly, head cocked to the side, the wand she's stuck through her loose bun wobbling slightly, and he realizes he hasn't answered her question.

"It's...nothing," replies Felix belatedly. He can hear the slight tremor of joy in his voice and struggles to keep his face impassive. Juniper doesn't appear to notice. She leans across a small pile of uncorked bottles to scribble something on a roll of parchment nearly two feet long.

"Well, if you're here for burn salve or anti-venom or...anything really it'll just have to wait," she says testily, without looking up. "Every single thing in here is either empty or unlabeled, it's going to take me at least a week to sort through it all. And all the ingredients are gone off as well, so there's no way to make anything till I've got more. I'm making up a list now, and I'll get it to Guivré just as soon as I can but I don't know how quickly the post runs here, so I really can't give you a time estimate." She runs a distracted hand through her hair, dust leaving a faint white streak.

Felix's lips twitch of their own accord. He clears his throat into his hand to hide them.

"You'd do better to send off for anything you need yourself and then file for reimbursement. You'll get it a good deal faster. Guivré's a hard person to track down and he doesn't consider paperwork a priority. Anything you leave in his office could very well sit there for months."

"Alright then," says Juniper, voice noticeably bereft of her characteristic cheer. She gets to her feet, neatly avoiding the toppling piles of rubbish propped against her, and rolls up her parchment. "I'll do it myself. I don't suppose you could point me to the post office? The bloke who showed me in took my owl from me. He said something about them not being allowed to fly here?"

"Yes, there's no loose owls allowed on the Reserve. They have to be kept at the Post Office and flown in designated areas. Apparently, they used to fly over the dragon habitats and get eaten. Cost the Reserve a fortune in recompense." Felix trails away when he realises Juniper hasn't heard a word. She’s turning round in a circle, eyes on the floor, kicking aside debris with increasingly frantic movements. "Have you lost something?"

"My wand," Juniper exclaims angrily, now patting the pockets of her dust-covered jeans. She lets out a groan of frustration when she finds nothing. Carefully circumventing a pile of jagged glass, Felix steps forward and plucks the wand from the back of Juniper's hair. He offers it to her, failing to keep the amusement from his eyes and mouth. Juniper snatches it away from him, face flushed with shame or anger, he isn't sure which.

"You seem...bothered," Felix comments, taking care not to smile.

"It's just... been a long morning." Juniper rubs the bridge of her nose and sighs deeply. "People've been in and out since I got in. Half of them want things I don't have and get pissed when I don't have it, like they thought I would show up with an endless supply of potions in tow? And then the other half don't even need anything, they just want to ask me questions about the Cursed Vaults or my brother or whether I'm currently seeing anyone!" She wrinkles her nose in disgust. "Like that's the first thing I'm thinking about! It's my first day at my first job, I've not had time to change or eat or use the bloody toilet, but yes, let me choose a dinner companion."

Felix's tightly coiled tension unwinds, and for the first time that morning he's able to relax. A distant part of him registers guilt that he wasn't there to help make Juniper's arrival more hospitable, but that can be easily improved, now he's confident none of the dragonologists will be winning the betting pool anytime soon.

"Has no one showed you around yet?"

Juniper shakes her head. "No. Guivré had some bloke take my things from me at the gate and then led me straight here."

"Well then," Felix relieves Juniper of her roll of parchment and gestures to the door. "Let me give you the grand tour."

"What?" Juniper meets his eyes, and Felix wonders if he's imagining wariness in them. "That's - really ok. I'm sure you've got loads to do, and I should probably stay and sort through this mess."

"It's been sitting like this for nearly a year, it'll wait another few hours," Felix assures her. When she continues to look uncertain, he adds wryly, "What kind of gentleman would I be if I let your first day here be all misery?" And with mock solemnity, Felix offers Juniper his arm.

Juniper blinks. The harassed expression fades, and her eyes twinkle with something more like her usual humour.

"I thought you were a dragonologist now, not a gentleman."

"They're not mutually exclusive."

Felix winks, and a familiar smile spreads slowly up the side of Juniper's face.

"Very well," she replies, taking his arm with excessive ceremony. "Lead on."

Their first stop is the Post Office, where Juniper confirms her owl is settled and is able to send off her list of necessary ingredients to Diagon Alley. Then a short perambulation around the cul-de-sac allows Felix to point out the shop, the pub, and the mess.

"There's three meals a day offered there. It's all free, but it tastes it. I recommend the pub whenever possible."

Juniper's head swivels about following Felix's finger as he names each building.

"Is this it then?" she asks as he leads her onto the path leading to the dragon habitats.

"Yes, apart from the flats. They're on the opposite side of the village."

"Five buildings constitutes a village?"

"You were expecting Hogsmeade?"

"No, not exactly. I guess I just thought...I don't know... that it'd be bigger. Isn't it the largest dragon sanctuary in the world?"

Felix chuckles. "Yes, it is. The largest dragon sanctuary not dragonologist sanctuary. Most of the land is dedicated to the dragon habitats. There's at least two of every known dragon species living here, and they each need several leagues of land to be comfortable and to safely kept from each other. Dragons don't play well together."

"I see," Juniper says, nodding absently. She's fallen a bit behind Felix, constantly turning side to side to take in the scenery.

"It's beautiful here," she observes and Felix feels as puffed with pride as though he had cultivated the landscape himself.

"Yes," he agrees. "There's a bit of everything here. Terrain to suit each dragon. Over that way's the mountain where they keep the Longhorns and the Shortsnouts. And the valley on the other side are for the Opaleyes. There's even an enormous lake for the Ridgeback."

"Where do the Peruvian Viperteeth live?" asks Juniper eagerly.

"Vipertooths is the appropriate plural," Felix corrects. "And our habitat's just up the path there. It's hills mostly, with a small wooded area. They tried to cultivate a miniature jungle there, but whoever was responsible for it had never actually seen a jungle before so it's really just an eclectic forest."

"Can I see them?" The bubbling excitement in Juniper's voice is too much for Felix to maintain his staid self-control, and he laughs. He can't remember the last time he laughed like this, warm and full and real.

"Where do you think I'm taking you?"

The prospect of seeing dragons lends speed to Juniper's feet until she's practically skipping next to a still-chuckling Felix. They turn off the path, and Felix leads the way to the hidden paddock.

Juniper's face is pressed nearly flat against the window, as she searches every direction for a sign of a bronze dragon.

"She's bound to come back this way soon," Felix reassures. "There's more tree cover over here and she prefers to stay in the shade once it's gets too warm in the afternoons."

They stand together quietly for a moment watching the tree line, so close their shoulders almost touch. Each time Juniper turns her head, the smell of lavender and that other scent Felix can never identify wafts toward him. Something hot kindles to life in his lower abdomen but before it can become too distracting Juniper's curiousity comes to the rescue.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course," says Felix in relief.

"What is it you actually do? I mean... in Peru you were running around chasing dragons, stopping them from eating people and everything, and I assume you're not doing that anymore. So, what do you do here?"

The question confuses Felix at first, until he remembers how little they've communicated in the last year. He adopts the old self-assured voice he always used when tutoring younger students.

"Well, there's two resident dragonologists to each dragon breed, and we're responsible for their upkeep: feeding them, keeping them healthy, preventing them from escaping. We get a team of assistants but that changes regularly, everything pretty much falls to us. We take notes about their behaviour and write down basically everything that happens with them each day and keep it on file so other dragonologists and magizoologists can use it for research. We've also nearly always got some sort of researcher that needs access to the dragons for a paper or experiment or whatnot and they want looking after and questions answered. It's quite a bit more paperwork than being a dragonologist in the field."

"Interesting," murmurs Juniper, now watching Felix instead of the window.

"Really?" he asks, cursing the hated blush that colours his cheeks.

"Of course. You never really think about that side of it, do you? That being a Dragonologist is more than just stunning spells and dodging flame. Most people think-"

A rush of whistling wind interrupts Juniper before she can explain what most people think, and she turns to the window eagerly.

"Look up," Felix tells her. Juniper's nose hits the glass as she cranes her neck to watch the copper-coloured dragon descend at a breathtaking pace onto the sloping hill in front of them. Felix spares a quick glance at the dragon to determine which it is before returning his gaze to Juniper, watching with satisfaction as her mouth falls slightly open.

"It's gorgeous," she breathes, hands now pressed against the window beside her face, as if she might feel the warm scales through the enchanted glass.

"She."

"She?"

Felix nods. "That's a female. You can tell by the small ridge of spikes around her eyes. I caught her terrorizing a little village near the Pacaya-Samiria reserve."

"You caught her?" Juniper asks in awed disbelief.

"Well, my team and I."

Outside the paddock, the sparkling dragon stretches her wings leisurely and wriggles her long snake-like body from snout to tail as if shaking off dust. She slithers regally toward the tangled trees near the paddock, and wraps herself around a large trunk.

"Can we go see her?' Juniper asks eagerly.

"Not unless you'd like to lose a limb. I'm afraid Gen's particularly bloodthirsty."

"Her name's Gen?"

"It's short for Genièvre.”

"Where does that come from?" asks Juniper curiously, but before Felix has to think up a suitable excuse, movement registers out of the corner of his eye.

He and Juniper both turn to inspect the small group of wizards now trotting down the hill from the direction the dragon had come. Felix recognizes Rashbold leading a team of assistants, each dragging bulky sacks behind them. He's about to explain the glamourous world of the Reserve's dragon dung trade when Juniper cries, "Charlie!" and waves frantically at one of the sack-laden assistants. All Felix's high spirits deflate as he recognises the flaming hair.

"He can't hear you," he tells her brusquely. "The glass is enchanted. We can see out but they can't see in."

"Oh, too bad. I hope his first day's better than mine."

Felix retreats to the back of the paddock and leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching Juniper watch Charlie cart his sack down the hill toward the habitat's entrance. From here it doesn't look like the Weasley boy has changed much in appearance. He's still quite short, Felix's notes with a savage pleasure, but there's no denying he's exceptionally well-built for his size. First Barnaby, now Weasley; Juniper clearly has a type.

"So," asks Felix unsure whether it's courage or weakness that prompts the question. "You and Charlie are..."

When he can't complete his sentence, Juniper turns curiously. "Are what?"

Felix can feel his face heat and looks down, feigning interest in the tops of his boots. "Together?"

"What, you mean like together together?" Juniper giggles, a gossiping school-girl sort of sound. "No, of course not."

The answer is entirely unexpected. Hope flickers to life inside Felix like a candle flame, but he refuses to let it warm him.

"Really?" he replies skeptically. "You just came here together by coincidence, then?"

"Well, no it's not exactly a coincidence.I mean, we're friends. Well, the sort of friends that when Charlie found out where I'd applied he threatened to jinx me if I didn't ask about a job for him as well."

"Sounds like he really wanted to work with you," presses Felix, and Juniper laughs again, a comfortable laugh as if he'd told an old favorite joke.

"You clearly don't know Charlie," she says between chuckles. Catching sight of Felix's flat expression, Juniper calms herself enough to explain. "Look, you know how some guys like girls and some guys like guys? Well, Charlie just likes dragons. That's all he ever thinks about, every day, all the time. That's why we got to be such good friends, actually. All our other friends got to be obsessed with dating and romance and for a while it was like you couldn't ever hang out with anyone without wondering if they really liked you or wanted to secretly date you or something. It was exhausting. But with Charlie I never had to worry about that and he never had to worry about that with me, so we could just study in peace."

It's as though the storm clouds over Felix's head have parted and the sun is shining on him fully for the first time in months. He feels lighter than air, and his breathing is full and easy. A weight has been lifted off his chest he didn't know he'd been carrying. Too late, he realises he's grinning and he can't switch it off. Juniper's notices as well.

"What's so funny?" she asks, mirroring his smile automatically.

Felix ignores her question. Instead, he grabs her hand, pulling her away from the window and toward the exit. Joy has gifted him a brilliant idea, and he can't wait even a second to put it into action.

"There's something I want you to see."

“Are we nearly there?”

“Nearly.”

“That's what you said twenty minutes ago,” Juniper grumbles, but Felix can hear the laughter in it.

“And it was true then, too.” Felix races down the winding path that leads to the deeper dragon habitats, Juniper in tow. When the trees disappear entirely and the hills grow higher and sharper, he speeds up.

“Felix, come on, my legs are killing me.”

“It's just up this hill, I promise." His grin feels like it might sprout wings and fly off his face and Juniper can’t help but laugh at it as she clambers up the hill behind him.

"Merlin's Beard, Felix, this had better be worth-"

Juniper stops abruptly as she reaches the hill top. She stares down at the other side, eyes very wide.

“Is that...“

“Yes,” says Felix softly. Juniper presses a hand tightly to her mouth.

Below them, a dragon trots gaily across the grass chasing what appears from the colour to be an enchanted quaffle. A wizard nearby directs the progress of the ball with his wand, and the large green dragon follows it closely. Every few paces, it leaps into the air, catching wind under it's right wing and gliding forward to snap long white fangs at the ball before landing back onto the ground gracefully. It tosses its emerald head and emits a musical snort like a trumpet call.

"Sparky..." Juniper's voice is thick and wet, and Felix realises with an ebb of his high-spirits that tears are streaming down her face.

"Are you crying?" The question tumbles from him as soon as he thinks it, before he can register how stupid it sounds. It's obvious she's crying, what isn't obvious is why. And though Felix casts around frantically for a reason, he can't come up with anything that makes sense.

"Yes," Juniper replies wiping roughly at her eyes with her sleeve. "Sorry. It happens a lot more now than it used to."

"But what...what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong...I promise. I'm just..." A choked sob prevents any more coherent explanation. Felix can only stand helplessly while Juniper sobs loudly into her hands, Sparky still prancing below them.

"I'm sorry," Felix offers, though the words feel wholly inadequate and he isn't even sure what he ought to be sorry for. "I thought you'd like to see him."

Juniper shakes her head quickly, trying to speak through her tears. "I would...I mean, I do. It's wonderful. It's just.." She sniffs loudly. "I don't know, I just can't believe...that I'm here. I'm really here."

"What do you mean?" asks Felix cautiously.

"I mean, here. At the Romanian Reserve. I always wanted to come here and...visit Sparky one day. But I never thought... I mean...I never really thought I'd get out of school alive, you know? I didn't think...I'd make it.." Juniper looks down at Sparky once more. "But I did...I'm here. It's over and...I can't believe it."

It's as though the last year has never occurred. The final vestiges of Felix's twisted anger and resentment and confusion shrink to nothing. All he can feel is the same familiar, overwhelming love for Juniper he remembers, and that primal desire to make anything hurting her disappear.

"Come here." Felix wraps his arms around Juniper's shaking shoulders and lets her bury her wet face against his chest. He holds her to him delicately, unable to keep from savouring the feeling of her body pressed against his once more. "You did make it. It's all over now." Felix strokes her windswept hair softly. "And things are going to be so much better from now on. I promise."

Missed the last bits? Here’s the link to the masterpost.

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dustedmagazine · 5 years ago

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Dust Volume 6, Number 6

Whatever happens, Bobby Conn will always be fabulous

Greetings from the never-ending sameness! It must be Friday since we’re doing a Dust, but we are not exactly sure which Friday and, indeed, which day of the week comes after that. We have not had a haircut in a while, and we’re wearing the most comfortable, least fashionable things we own, but we have not quite given up, because, you see, we’re still listening to music. Here are short missives from our respective quarantines, covering experimental psych, fey orchestral pop, slow rolling sine waves, disco-glittering satire, solitary black metal and assorted other musical manifestations. Contributors included Bill Meyer, Andrew Forell, Jennifer Kelly, Jonathan Shaw and Michael Rosenstein.

Eric Arn & Jasmine Pender — Hydromancy (Feeding Tube)

hydromancy by eric arn & jasmine pender

Hydromancy is the ancient practice of divining the gods’ intentions by staring for long periods into a pool of water. Eric Arn, an American guitarist who has been based in Austria for the last decade and a half, seems to have picked up at least one message from the cosmos, and he is acting upon it. Feeding Tube Records is his home. Hydromancy is his third release on the label, and like its two predecessors, it carves out a unique zone within a large and ever-spreading field of inquiry. Arn’s spent time playing psychedelic rock, free improvisation and solo acoustic explorations, and worked with players from Texas, New England and Vienna. This time he’s partnered with an English cellist, Jasmine Pender, on two side-long ponderances of resonance. The title is apt; the musicians seem to be regarding the surface of their sound, first letting ripples and reflections guide them, but ultimately peering beneath the surface into darker, persistent currents.

Bill Meyer

ARTHUR — Hair of the Dog (Honeymoon)

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On his sophomore album, Philadelphia songwriter ARTHUR disguises ruminations on addiction, anxiety, pain and paranoia in summery cloaks of experimental pop. The combination of whimsy and woe is nothing new, but it’s a fine balance. In Hair of the Dog, complex arrangements surround naïve-sounding melodies, hinting at inner turmoil.

The album incorporates whispers of disco in “No Tengo,” a low key Caleb Giles rap interlude on “Something Sweet,” swinging 1960s horns on “William Penn Island” and a choir of children on “You Are Mine.” The magpie eclecticism holds together beneath a voice that can err on the side of mannered. It is most effective when direct and unadorned as on “Simple Song” where a woozy waltz and detuned guitar bridge underline the poignancy of the lyrics: “In a couple of years/You lose a couple of friends/You lose yourself and you start over again/I don’t have patience/All that I know is addiction.” There is a lot to like here even if at times ARTHUR treads too hard on the path of whimsy.

Andrew Forell

Gaudenz Badrutt — Ganglions (Aussenraum)

Ganglions by Gaudenz Badrutt

“Connect” is the not the first words that 2020 is going to wear out, but it’s in the running. Veteran Swiss electronic musician Gudenz Badrutt could not have foreseen the present situation when he was making this LP, but it speaks to at least one aspect of it. Perhaps the barrages of commercials dropping the word “connect” by corporations interested in currying your subconscious good will has you pondering the networks by which that state is accomplished and sustained. Badrutt’s music is assembled from sine waves and feedback systems, which he layers and interrupts to make sound that flickers and surges like an audio rendering of your nervous system in various states of load-carrying and overload. Listen closely, and you can ponder your place within the system. But if you’re sick of thinking, feeling, and awareness, turn this shit up and it will blot out whatever offends you.

Bill Meyer

Nat Baldwin — Autonomia I: Body Without Organs (Shinkoyo)

AUTONOMIA I: Body Without Organs by Nat Baldwin

Nat Baldwin is a published novelist as well as a singer and double bassist with several solo records and a long-time stint is a member of the Dirty Projectors on his cv. His versatility does not come at the expense of focus; indeed, Autonomia I (so named because there’s a second, cassette-only volume) show that he knows how to get a lot out of a particular idea. This LP was inspired by a broken bow, which he employs (sometimes in concert with an intact one) on five of the LP’s seven tracks. When one of your tools is unreliable, you have to be ready to scramble, and there are moments when it sounds like he’s trying to recover from or get ahead of his implement’s waywardness. But those also sound like moments of opportunity; whether he’s exploring rattle of a loose part against his bass’s body or using that bow to obtain non-prescribed tensions from his strings, he organizes his instrument’s unusual sounds into quick-moving, provocatively shaped constellations of sound.

Bill Meyer

Bonifrate—Mundo Encoberto (Self-released)

Mundo Encoberto by Bonifrate

Pedro Bonifrate is one-half of the Brazilian psych outfit Guaxe, this solo album (according to Google translate “overcast world”) springs from the same trippy, laid-back but multi-instrumented roots. Lush like the rainforest that surrounds him, playful and full of bright colors, this eight-part composition unfolds in the manner of a particularly vivid dream. “Parte 1” mutates freely over its 11 minute duration, stirring to life in a rush of strings, slipping into beach-y mildly hallucinogenic balladry, trying on a bit of Syd Barret-ish whimsy, crescendoing in clangorous guitar overload. Hard to say if Bonifrate played all the instruments, but the album has an idiosyncratic euphoria, as if it were lifted in one piece from the vivid contours of one person’s mushroom trip.

Jennifer Kelly

Bobby Conn — Recovery (Tapete)

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“It’s a disaster, the one we’ve been waiting for for years, and now we get to see how this thing ends,” croons the one-and-only Bobby Conn in his glam-shuddering, disco-sleek tenor, and sure, 2020 in a nutshell, got it in one, congrats! Who’d have thought that Conn’s arch, satiric performance art could be a form of comfort here at the end of the world? Who’s have supposed his stylized excesses would seem not an iota too much? Conn, as ever, is sharp and topical, pondering all the oppressed sub-groups left out of the “Good Old Days,” (against a swaggering Phil Spector beat), mourning the xxx-rated theaters put out of business by Pornhub in “Bijou,” skewering big data’s intrusions in the synth-operatic glories of “Disposable Future.” But what’s always separated Conn from mere satirists is the elaborate, over-the-top quality of the music he makes. “Recovery” with its scatted bassline, its frenetic syncopation, its funk precision—it all works as music way before you start to chuckle at the lyrics. Conn is as much a character in the long-running graphic novel that plays in his head as a bandleader, but don’t underestimate the bandleader. There’s art underneath all that eyeliner.

Jennifer Kelly

Curanderos — Raven’s Head (Null Zøne)

Raven's Head by Curanderos

If you’re looking for something to cure what ails you in these uncertain times, Raven’s Head might be your balm. You won’t need a prescription, since the tradition of shamanistic healing precedes the AMA, and the particular configuration of healers here — John and Michael Gibbons of Bardo Pond + Scott Verrastro of Kohoutek — models a cooperative approach that more conventional leadership would do well to emulate. The combination of personalities also tips you off to what to expect. Verrastro is a colorist, using the metal parts of his drum kit to keep the listener aware of the dimensions surrounding the listening space, but he also provides just enough forward momentum to keep the music moving at a fogbank-rolling pace. The Gibbons match liquid lead and coarse riff with practiced ease; they’ve spent a lot of time in such cloudy spaces, and they breathe deeply of the inspirational atmosphere.

Bill Meyer

Discovery Zone — Remote Control (Mansions and Millions)

Remote Control by Discovery Zone

“Sophia Again” is a sci-fi mini-story, presenting the conversation between an AI creature and her creator, talking about the self, the meaning of life and the joy of connection, as bubbling arcs of synthesizer sounds jet off into the ether. It is, perhaps, the most literally futuristic of the cuts on this gleaming, synth-centric album, though the whole thing is polished to an other worldly, not quite natural glow. JJ Weihl, the artist behind Discovery Zone, also works in Fenster, a Berlin-based psychedelic pop band of a similarly polished, dance-referring (but not dance) aesthetic. Here, she works solo in luminous abstractions of crystal clear sound. The pleasure comes in the purity and beauty of voices, synths, drum beats, which sound like Sophia might have made them while learning to be human; they are a little too perfect to be wholly man-made.

Jennifer Kelly

Esoctrilihum — Eternity of Shaog (I, Voidhanger)

Eternity Of Shaog by ESOCTRILIHUM

An epic of esoteric demonology from Ashtâghul’s one-man black metal project Esoctrilihum, Eternity of Shaog presents as ten songs, most of which bear titles like “Exh-Enî Söph (First Passage: Exiled from Sanity)” and “Amenthlys (5th Passage: Through the Yth-Whtu Seal).” One gets the sense that there is a cosmology being built—but even Google has a tough time tracking the references to the many, many Eastern mythic systems in the repertoire. The provisionally good news is that Eternity of Shaog is a bit less musically spastic than its predecessor, The Telluric Ashes of the Ö Vrth Immemorial Gods, an even longer record released just last year. Say what you will, Ashtâghul is prolific. On this new record, you get his signature combination of black metal speed and snarl and an ambitiously (that’s the kind word) proggy compositional sense. The transitions this time around are less violent, the riffs are pretty good and plentiful synths build out to lush soundscapes. The musical textures are rich, but the bad vibes dominate. It’s hard to say what malign presences you’ll be summoning into your home if you play this stuff as loud as seems intended. Maybe keep some holy water handy.

Jonathan Shaw

Fire-Toolz — Rainbow Bridge (Hausu Mountain)

Rainbow Bridge by Fire-Toolz

As Fire-Toolz composer, producer and multi-instrumentalist, Angel Marcloid conjures mosaics from such disparate elements that one wonders how the music hangs together. Yet what at first seems like a chaotic, fractured farrago coalesces into a cohesive picture of her world that simultaneously bewilders and awes. Catholic in source and meticulous in construction Rainbow Bridge is an uncompromising and often stunning dash through Marcloid’s mind. Treated vocals that evoke death metal or JG Thirwell at his most outré, passages of twinkling synth and arena guitar, elements of 1980s Japanese ambient music, fusion jazz and Chiptune slot together like Jenga blocks that wobble but never quite collapse.

Marcloid’s project of musical excavation, reclamation and transformation perhaps mirrors her experience as a non-binary transgender person and the atomization of many tracks on Rainbow Bridge read as a meditation on the contingency of identity and the struggle for place within/outside social constructs that define acceptability and “taste”. On the other hand, sit back, push play and prepare to drift along with the ambient flow then be jolted from reverie by glitch and noise. Much like the world really.

Andrew Forell

Jacaszek — Music for Film (Ghostly)

Music for Film by Jacaszek

Music for Film collects the Polish composer Jacaszek’s scores for three movies — the 2019 documentary He Dreams of Giants, the 2008 project Golgota wrocławska and the 2017 film November. Haunted, evocative, disquieting and gorgeous, these ten soundscapes infuse the sounds of electronics, strings and samples with dread. “The Iron Bridge” turns sampled voices and slow throbs of cello into dance with death and memory, while “Liina” picks up eerie vibrations just out of focus, like a camera accidentally recording a ghost. “Dance” hurls electric bolts of tremulous sound—they sizzle with aftertones—then picks out a morose melody in plucked strings. All is dark, subdued, ominous but velvety, sensually smooth. Not having seen the films, I can’t guess the subject matter, but let’s assume there’s no laugh track.

Jennifer Kelly

Kontrabassduo Studer-Frey — Zeit (Leo)

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Double bassists Peter K Frey and Daniel Studer has spent the better part of the 21st century performing as a duo, but they don’t seem to have felt pressured to rush out a recording documenting their music. This CD includes selections from 2004, 2007, and 2018 that were made at home, in concert, and in the studio. But despite the variety of sources and occasions, this album feels quite cohesive, which is a testament to integrity of their partnership. They rarely play similarly at any given moment, but their contrasting techniques and frequency ranges evince a balance makes even the tracks with contributions by clarinetist Jürg Frey and cellist Alfred Zimmerlin feel like the work of one massive, multi-bodied bass.

Bill Meyer

Marlin’s Dreaming — Quotidian (Self-Released)

Quotidian by Marlin's Dreaming

The trick of putting soft, flickery voices in front of raging guitars is not a new one, but it’s still worth trying, especially as well as Marlin’s Dreaming does on “Outward Crying.” This sweeping, soaring, but fundamentally introspective tune blasts and blares in a sensitive way, the guitar noise parting like drapes for the singer’s disconsolate confession that he’s leaving this town. The town in question is Auckland, New Zealand, and you can certainly make connections to antipodal fuzz icons, especially the Verlaines. Yet there’s a bit of romantic swoon here in cuts like “Sink or Swim,” which links Marlin’s Dreaming’s diffident lo-fi pop with the baroque gestures of Roxy Music. This is the band’s second album and rather poised given their short history. Marlin’s Dreaming out loud in soft colors and blistering fuzz, and it’s a good one.

Jennifer Kelly

Christian Rønn & Aram Shelton—Multiring (Astral Spirits)

Multiring by Christian Rønn & Aram Shelton

Some musicians stake their claim within a particular locale, and others tour the world. Alto saxophonist Aram Shelton’s done a bit of both. You could say he’s a serial resident; over the past couple decades he’s been based in Chicago, Oakland, Copenhagen, and now, Budapest. But his recording history lags behind him. His latest release is a cassette recorded in April 2018, and it stands apart from anything he’s done to date. Credit for that lies partly with his choice of partner, Danish keyboardist Christian Rønn. Rønn’s instrument here is a Wurlitzer electric piano, augmented with effects that play up its reverberant qualities, but played without much reference to the way people used to play the thing when it was omnipresent in the 1960s and 1970s. Instead of nailing down a groove, Rønn posts reverberant signposts that Shelton can snake through or lays out undulating surfaces that the saxophonist can sail over. Either way, Shelton plays with a darker and softer tone than has been his wont in the past, casting a pall of eerie foreboding over this gradually evolving music.

Bill Meyer

Snekkestad / Guy / Fernandez — The Swiftest Traveller (Trost)

The Swiftest Traveler by Snekkestad / Guy / Fernandez

Englishman double bassist Barry Guy (b. 1947) has been shuttling between free and composed musical zones for over half a century, longer than the similarly versatile Scandinavian reeds and brass multi-threat Torben Snekkestad (b. 1973) has been alive. Catalan pianist Agusti Fernández (b. 1954) traverses similar terrain. And all three shift fluidly between conventional virtuosity and astutely applied extended techniques. The trio’s rapport is so strong that one supposes that however the album got its title, it wasn’t the result of some musical contest. They’re builders, not destroyers. Still, the rapidity with which these three musicians move from event to event is undeniable. Sparse stasis morphs into quick runs up and down the keyboard; a dense, high-velocity onslaught transforms into intricate, three-part counterpoint. The quickness with which the music changes and the completeness that it expresses from moment to moment make this a very satisfying performance.

Bill Meyer

Various Artists — Quilted Flowers: 1940s Albanian & Epirot Recordings from the Balkan Label (Canary Recordings)

Quilted Flowers: 1940s Albanian & Epirot Recordings from the Balkan Label by Canary Records

The word “Balkanized” has the dubious distinction of having acquired extra-regional meaning, to the point where it now signifies a whole divided into smaller, mutually hostile regions. But some of the Balkan musicians who moved to New York City pulled together to play on each other’s gigs and recordings. The Albanian multi-instrumentalist, Ajdan Asllan, who ran the Balkan record label, partnered with musicians from Greece and Bulgaria on both a musical and business level, and kept the company running into the LP age. This collection pulls 11 sides of instrumental and vocal music that originated on his home turf, but if your ears have previously pricked up in response to rural music from Greece or Anatolia, you will want to hear this stuff. A pair of clarinets or a violin usually carry the melodies, sometimes chased by sharp-pitched vocals that spread out in ragged but lusty unison, and always carried by unevenly accented rhythms articulated by vigorously strummed stringed instruments.

Bill Meyer

Otomo Yoshihide & Chris Pitsiokos — Live in Florence (Astral Spirits)

Live in Florence by Otomo Yoshihide & Chris Pitsiokos

Live in Florence documents a meeting between Otomo Yoshihide on guitar and turntables and Chris Pitsiokos on alto sax and electronics at the Tempo Reale Festival in Florence, Italy. This was the final date of a six-day European tour by the duo, and they’re primed from the first crackled sputters and blasts. The two thrive on these sorts of boundary-crushing forays and their seven short improvisations careen along with frenetic, brawny energy. The two deploy jump-cut pacing and shredded attacks from piercing overtones and feedback to frayed overblown sax and turntable crackle to manically angular reed lines and searing electronic bursts to chafed sax amplifications and thundering rumbles. Even on pieces where they start things out a bit more subdued, the two quickly ratchet up the intensity with torrid, barely-controlled vigor. There’s a slight respite on the sixth piece, with Otomo’s chiming guitar harmonics laying a resonant field for Pitsiokos’s breathy chirps and bent tones but even here, they arc to waves of feedback and skirling reed fusillades by the end. The final piece starts with shattered electronics and spitting reeds and mounts into bellowing din, exploding to the finish of the exhilarating 37-minute set.

Michael Rosenstein

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neganandblake · 6 years ago

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I think I liked you better when you didn't have a knife in your hand, Peaches... Chapter 197 - The Weak Link

When Blake finds herself sold out to the Saviours by her abusive fiancé, she realises that she’s certainly not on her own anymore and finds an unlikely friend in Negan. And Negan does NOT like men who beat their girlfriends, one tiny bit….

Chapter 196- The Weak Link

[Simon confronts Negan about the major change in leadership he wants for the Sanctuary...]

--------------------------------

Blake paled a little at the tone of Simon's voice.

For there was the mustachioed man, standing in amongst a small group of men, looking as cool and as collected as ever.

But there was something about his demeanour that was different today. Something that reminded her a little of David.

Simon stood there, arms folded, a smile on his face as he peered up at her and Negan.

Beside her, Blake heard the leader of the Saviours let out a harsh growl beneath his breath. But Negan was clever. And so kept a calm resolve as he pushed back from the railing a little, a wide and deadly grin flicking up onto his lips.

"So," hissed Negan easily, although his voice still echoed through the large expansive dining hall. "This some kind of welcome home party?"

He looked to Blake for a second.

"'Cause as flattered as I am, I would've thought some of my best men would have had better things to be fuckin' doin' at past-midnight on a Friday evenin'."

His tone was playful, but Blake knew that behind it, there was something else bubbling. Something furious and irritated.

There was silence for a short moment or two where nobody spoke.

But it was predictably Simon who finally did, raising his chin, and moving his hands to both his hips, keeping his shark-like eyes fixed on Negan all the while.

"You know, Boss," said Simon in an oily voice.. "We were actually all just waiting up to speak to you…."

Almost at once Blake felt Negan bristle beside her, his jaw tensing and his eyes becoming dark.

"Y'see there's been somethin' buggin' us for a while-" continued Negan's right hand man, pacing his way methodically across the concrete floor below.

But Negan didn't let him finish.

"When you say us, does that mean all of you, or jus' you, Si?" growled the dark-haired man, blackened eyes narrowed.

But Simon gave an easy laugh, pointing up at Negan. "I see what you're doing," he said nodding, before coming to stand still again, in the centre of the circle of men. "But we're all in agreement here, I can assure you."

At this Negan licked at his lips, blinking hard.

"About what?" he merely uttered in a dark voice, taking a step forward, his fingers tensing around the yellow railing in front of him, looking like he was trying to stave off his pure fury at being spoken to like this.

Blake didn't want to speak, feeling the thick and ugly tension that filled the room, as she held on, standing just a little behind Negan, watching Simon as he opened his mouth to speak again.

"Rick," said Simon coolly, the smile sliding from his lips as he spoke the name. "And how, yet again, we let him, his son, and those….people-"

For the briefest of seconds, Blake noticed Simon's eyes flick to her.

"-walk out of here alive and well."

Simon looked back to his men grimacing.

"Do you realise how weak that makes us all look?" he finished finally, with a shake of his head.

So that was what all this was about.

Negan letting Rick go?

Blake gave a gulp realising suddenly that all of this, it was because of her.

If she hadn't been here, none of this would be an issue. A cold sense of dread washing over her at the thought that this is what Simon and these men had been ruminating on.

But as ever, Negan remained calm and collected, lowering his eyes to the ground, pushing himself from the railing before him and giving a slow nod.

"Well, shit," said the dark-haired man making for the staircase beside them. "I am sorry that you all fuckin' think that…"

He paused, silence filling the room as Negan slowly paced down the metal staircase down towards Simon, taking the steps one-by-one on his long legs.

"So...what? You all decided you have a problem with the way I do things around here? With the way I rule?"

Everyone remained quiet at his words, a harsh silence falling across the room.

Blake could feel how tense the atmosphere was.

Everyone, including her, waiting with bated breath for Negan to yell, to lash out, to get angry.

But none of that came.

For here, right now, there was only Negan, as smirking and arrogant as ever, pacing across the concrete floor, into the circle of men, coming to stop six or so foot away from where Simon was stood.

But the mustachioed man kept his resolve, keeping his hands on his hips, fingers drumming away against the pockets of his jeans.

"We're all thinking the same thing, Negan," said Simon finally, lifting his chin defiantly. "That you've gotten soft. That you've forgotten how we do things around here. How we've always done things."

Blake moved a little closer to the railing, peering down at the men below, placing both her hands to the yellow bar, her fingers tensing around it.

"Have I?" replied Negan in a low and hard drawl, his eyes flashing dangerously in the shadowed room, betraying his easy smirk.

But Simon pressed on, looking around confidently at his men as he spoke.

"We've all seen it...things changing...and not for the better," said Simon in an icy voice.

But Negan narrowed his dark eyes, cutting across his right hand man.

"And, what? You think you could do a better job, huh?"

Silence fell across the space once more as Simon gave another cold laugh.

"Well...now you mention it…" he uttered clearly. "Maybe it's time things changed around here."

Blake's knuckles were now white as she clenched the railing, watching the scene before her unfold, her blood running, all of a sudden, cold in her veins.

She knew now that Negan shouldn't be down there. Surrounded. Goaded into being in this situation.

His 'loyal men' could so easily be the ones to end him here and now.

But Negan didn't seem perturbed by any of it, merely giving a chuckle of his own, eyes on the floor now as he paced around the inside of the circle of men, Lucille swinging easily from his hand as he walked.

Even now he certainly was an imposing figure.

Tall, broad shouldered, with that glint in his eyes that gave nothing away about what he was thinking.

"You really think it's that easy?" Negan chuckled, leaning back on his long legs and gesturing in the air with his free hand. "You strap on a pair of big boy balls an' think you can take care of this place? Take care of these people?"

Negan looked up now, stopping still, his eyes meeting with Simon's.

"'Cause I know a goddamn pussy when I see one, Si," he continued. "An', shit. You are one big motherfuckin' pussy."

Blake saw Simon blink a couple of times at the vulgarness of Negan's words.

But Negan didn't seem to be done, resuming in his pacing, circling around Simon like a prowling tiger, eyes never leaving him, not once.

"You really fuckin' think these men are on your side," he uttered, with a smirk. "You think when it comes down it, they'd be loyal to you?"

Simon visibly swallowed before answering.

"I do," he replied in a voice far quieter than the one he had used just a moment ago.

He sounded a little unsure of himself now, but carried on anyway in a tone full of spite.

"I'm definitely not the only one who think that this place has gone to shit since you shacked up with the Alexandrian" he uttered as Blake felt a hard lump appear in her throat. "An' judging by the way you let her strut around, letting Rick and his people into our gates and then back out again. I really dont think I'm the one that's the pussy here, Boss."

Blake's hands dropped from the railing in front of her taking a small step back.

Is that all she was to them?

Still an outsider? Still an Alexandrian?

All she had done was try and support these people, love them as a family. And yet people like Simon somehow still didn't see that.

To them she was a traitor.

But although Blake stood there silently, letting Simon's hurtful words settle into her head. Negan didn't.

His face, for the first time, twisting into a furious grimace.

"You know what, Simon," Negan hissed out, between bared teeth. "I am more than happy to stand here listening to you talkin'' shit about the way I do things...about the way I rule."

With that he took a sudden step forwards, eyes as black as the sky outside.

"But no one, an' I mean no one, fuckin' talks about her like she ain't one of us," he uttered in a deadly tone.

And in that moment, everyone in the room knew who he was talking about, several eyes flicking up towards Blake as she stood there, eyes wide and nervous.

"Cause you can all say what you like about me goin' soft, about me letting that shit with Grimes slide, but her…"

Negan glanced up at Blake for the briefest of seconds now.

"...you don't talk about her like she hasn't made this place ten times the place it once was. I mean, shit! Without her you'd still be rationin' off a can of beans for the week, rather than goin' to sleep with bellies full of fresh fuckin' food. An' you think I'd be lettin' half of you get away with the shit I know you're all gettin' away with?"

Negan turned to some of the men behind him.

"NOPE! An' that shit...well that shit is all down to her bein' here."

Negan gave a sniff, before turning back to Simon.

"An' you know what. If you dont like that, then lets see you step on up here an' tell me face to fuckin' face."

And with that, and with a hard grunt, Negan, with one swing, bashed the barbed end of Lucille against the concrete floor below him, causing everyone in the room to jump in fright at the sound as it reverberated along the walls surrounding them all.

Nobody moved, and Blake felt herself hold her breath in fear of what was about to happen, knowing full well what the outcome of ten or so men against Negan, even with Lucille in his hand, would be.

But to her surprise it was only an uneasy looking Simon who took a step towards the dark haired Saviour, scowling at the men around him as he did so.

The men who had so obviously ten minutes ago, been on his side.

But nevertheless Simon still looked as defiant as ever, lifting his chin arrogantly.

But, with her eyes shifting anxiously to Negan, Blake noticed that leader of the Saviours was now smiling that ominous wolf-like grin of his.

"Well, fuck, Si," Negan eased out, breaking the quiet finally. "Seems like you're on your own for this one."

Simon stood there still unmoving as he kept his eyes fixed to Negan.

"Me and Dwight-"

But the mustachioed man was suddenly cut across by another crack from Lucille bashing against the floor.

"NO, SIMON! YOU WANTED THIS. THIS SHIT HAS TO BE ON YOU!" shouted Negan loudly, causing Blake to finch back at the furious sound of his voice.

Blake could see Negan's shoulders tensed. Visibly seething, and not for the first time tonight.

Dwight seemed to be nowhere to be seen, and Blake wondered if this was all one big set up.

Negan spoke again, his voice very slightly quieter this time, but still with just as much impact as his last sentence.

"Shit, you know as fickle as these damn sons-of-bitches are," he said gesturing to the men around him with a wave of his gloved hand over his broad shoulder. "They have been fuckin' loyal when it counts. And most of all...they know who they are…"

Negan took a sudden looming step forwards, coming to stop just a foot away from Simon now.

"You know who you are, Si?"

There was silence now. With Simon not even opening his mouth to speak.

Negan raised a single dark eyebrow at this.

"No?" Negan uttered with contempt in his voice. "Well let's test this out shall we?"

Negan took a step backwards now, addressing the crowd of men around him.

"WHO ARE YOU?" he suddenly bellowed, only to get an immediate reply from the crowd in unison.

"NEGAN."

The sound of the reply seemed to fill the entire space, and Blake swallowed hard looking to Simon now, almost feeling pity for the man who had tried to stab Negan in the back…

….as he stood there looking very alone in the world right now.

Negan turned back to his right hand man.

"You might want to reconsider your earlier stance, Si," he murmured. "'Cause I know it feels like shit to take a fuckin' bow an' admit when you're wrong. But I've gonna say...its gonna be much fuckin' easier in the longrun if you do."

And with that, Negan, with a low growl stepped into Simon, coming to stand nose-to-nose with the tall man.

"Who are you?" the dark haired Saviour asked in a voice as deadly as an approaching predator.

And Simon, with his eyes fixed to Negan's answered.

"Simon."

Blake instantly closed her eyes with regret at the words... knowing full well what was about to happen now…

THWACK.

Blake's green eyes snapped open at the sound, to see Simon staggering backwards clutching his middle.

By the looks of it he had been hit with full force in the stomach with Lucille, and Blake found herself blinking rapidly, as a sudden flashback of David being dealt the same fate by her own hand, swam clear in her vision.

Simon let out a groan, doubling over, shifting hurriedly away from the dark haired Saviour.

But unfortunately for him, Negan was unrelenting, advancing on the mustachioed man.

"Who are you?" repeated Negan again, giving Simon a second to speak.

But when there came no answer, Negan grasped the back of his neck roughly with his Lucille-bearing hand, punching Simon square in the face with the other.

From the circle of men surrounding them, no one moved. The irony of those who had stood, so loyal with Simon, and yet here they were watching his fate unfold before their eyes.

Simon was knocked off balance, falling backwards, ass-first to the floor, nose now bloody, splatters of red covering his entire face.

He didn't fight back, merely spawled there, almost waiting for the next blow to come with the last shred of dignity he had in tact.

"Who are you?" repeated Negan again.

But still there came no answer from Simon's lips, as Negan, visibly seething, marched up to him once more, crouching over him and throwing another hard punch across his face.

Blake watched the scene unfold, unable to take her eyes away from the grotesque spectacle.

Simon, lying on his back and breathing hard, coughed with great difficulty, blood pouring from his mouth and nose as he did so. His eyes were already dark and puffy and his skin blossoming with bruises.

Resigning himself to hisfate now, knowing that he had been stabbed in the back by men who had turned on him like they had promised they would turn on Negan.

It was almost poetic.

But even so, Blake lifted a hand to her mouth, watching as Negan tossed down Lucille and punched at Simon's face...again and again…

...just as he had done with Rick…

And both, in Blake's eyes at least, were justified.

This was the reason he was a leader.

This was the reason he had climbed to the top, never looking back, using his ruthlessness and anger to his advantage...using it when he needed it the most...using it on those with no respect, no morals, no understanding of just what Negan had sacrificed to be here.

Even from her position up here on the balcony, the blonde woman could hear Simon desperately gasping for air as Negan pulled back furiously, after laying on blow after blow to his right hand man's face until he looked almost unrecognisable.

Negan was crouched there now, teeth bared, looking like an animal ready to tear the throat out of his prey.

And, lifting Simon up by his shirt collar, leant his face close to the man's bloody one and uttered three single words...

"Who are you?"

Everything was quiet now, time almost standing still, as Blake held her breath.

She wasn't sure now if she wanted Simon dead for what he had done. For trying to betray them both.

Would he have been as forgiving to Negan if this had been the other way around?

But both Blake and Negan had already been responsible for another man's death today.

And despite what she knew should be done, her heart seemed to be betraying her, pounding in her chest at a hundred miles an hour, her palms sweaty, her face white...knowing what Negan was about to do…

"...Negan…" came a sudden rasping voice.

Simon's.

Blake looked to the man, lying bloodied and beaten as he spoke again.

"Negan," he repeated in a hoarse voice,that was just about audible. "I-I'm Negan."

And with that, Negan let go of Simon's shirt collar, allowing is head to drop back down against the concrete floor behind him with a dull thud.

With a hard sniff, Negan got to his feet, picking up Lucille as he did so, as Simon continued to groan on the floor behind him, spluttering up more blood onto his chin. Defeated.

"You see that? Loyalty? That shit needs to be earned," Negan bellowed in a sudden loud voice. "By any fuckin' means nesccasary."

He bashed his baseball bat against the ground again, hard, causing the crack to echo throughout the room.

"This is why we do what we do. This is why we are the Saviours," he continued scowling and turning on the spot to look at all the men surrounding him. "Because we earn that shit. That loyalty."

He paused for a moment, his face twisting into a dark malevolent grimace.

"And you'all better be fuckin' thankful Peaches up here exists," he said in a sudden low and denagrous voice, spinning arond on his heel and ponting at the men around him with the end of his bat. "Because if she didn't, if she hadn't've come here an' made. me . soft, well...for that shit you all just pulled, you'd all be strung up on that fence out there."

Negan bared his teeth angrily.

"Every last one of you."

His words hung in the air for a long moment, filling the room with a harsh tension that was only broken when Negan finally spoke again.

"Now get this piece of shit outta my damn sight," he said pointing at the groaning Simon one last time before turning on his heel and moving back over to the staircase. "An' trust me when I say. That if any of you boys try this shit again, you'll be dead before you know what's happenin'. Now fuck off. All of you."

The men all around instantly did as they were told, lifting Simon up from under his arms and taking him from the room, as the rest of them dispersed by the time Blake had moved to the top of the stairs leading down to where Negan now stood.

She waited until the last men was gone, leaving them all alone, watching as they went before she turned back to Negan.

"You alright, Darlin'?" he asked in a voice far different from the one he had just used on his men, full of pure concern for her now.

And Blake didn't answer until she had reached the bottom step, coming to stand in front of the dark-haired Saviour, staring up into his eyes and tilting her head to the side.

"Are you alright?" she said lifting a hand to his cheek.

What had happened here tonight...it was all down to her being here. Her being a part of Negan's life.

Negan nodded, lifting his free hand and placing it on top of hers.

"Me? I'm fine, Darlin'. Ain't the first time these sorry shits have tried to overthrow this place, an' I guarantee you it won' be the last," he said, pressing his lips into straight line before letting out a huff of air.

"I'm sorry," said Blake after a moment, giving a sad shake of her head. "I feel like all this...its all my fault. Simon was right. I was the one who let Carl and Tara in here. I'm the one who's been trying to change this place. Change you."

But Negan frowned at her words, giving a shake of his own dark head now. "You don' need to listen to anythin' that asshole-"

"I'm the weak link, Negan," Blake said, cutting across him.

But at her words, Negan took a step back, causing Blake's hand to drop from his cheek as he stared at her, frowning.

"Blake, listen to me, Darlin', " he said using her name properly now. "You are anythin' but a damn weak link. I mean, shit. If it wasn' for you, this place would still be runnin' on empty. An' I meant what I said back there, you have made this damn shitty place ten times what it was."

Blake looked at him, worrying at her bottom lip a little but nodded, understanding that perhaps he was right.

She had learned from her mistakes. Learned that Tara and Rick and Carl and the others, they weren't heroes. Far from it. And the Saviours, well they weren't so different either. Everyone has flaws. Everyone does things they regret. And Blake knew now that if she wanted to survive in this world, she needed to fight to protect what she loved. She needed to be as strong as Negan had proved himself to be all this time.

"And I meant what I said last night," Blake uttered quietly now. "It's them and us now. And...you know what? Simon was wrong..."

And with that, Blake stared deep into Negan's eyes.

"I'm not an Alexandrian. I never was," she said firmly, "I'm a Saviour."

At her words Negan, blinked, a look of pure awe dancing across his tanned features as he stared down at her.

And before Blake could say anything more, Negan had reached down and grasped her hand in his, pulling it to his mouth and pressing single firm and meaningful kiss to her knuckles.

"Oh...you certainly fuckin' are, Peaches."

-----------------------------------

Gosh it’s been such a long time since I updated, hope you guys are still interested in reading more!

#negan #twd #negan twd #The Walking Dead #negan oc #Jeffrey Dean Morgan #jdm #negan thirst #negan story #negan fanfic #negan and blake #negan ofc #negan otp #negan imagine #negan prompt #negan fanfiction

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shadowphoenixrider · 5 years ago

Text

Continuation to this, as my mind chewed it over a couple of days ago.

Katla stared glumly into the steaming waters of Circhester’s hot springs. It had been a week since her argument with Kabu in Hammerlocke, and it was still weighing on her mind and heart.

She’d managed to push thoughts of the gym leader aside during her training for Gordie’s challenge, but Kabu always returned to her mind in the quiet moments, like now. She’d not left his company pleasantly - she’d not even said goodbye, with how bitter and angry she’d been at his words and assumptions.

The bitterness had boiled down into guilt as she’d considered his words, playing them over and over in her mind. Kabu had only been trying to help, trying not to let her potential slip through her fingers. That he admired and regarded her enough to tell her that was...a lot, honestly. Yet she’d pushed him away, and with little option for recourse. She wanted to apologise to him, but she wasn’t even sure he’d want to see her again - that, she had no other way to contact him. The thought that he might not even watch her upcoming match due to this hurt enough to prick tears in her eyes.

In truth, it was more than just that.

She was so absorbed in her internal dialogue that she didn’t notice the figure that came to stand beside her. It was only when they spoke did she snap back to reality:

“Katla?”

The trainer blinked widely, turning quickly to see Kabu, bundled up in a large black bench coat, with a strange segmented scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. Whilst his expression was a careful neutral, his silver eyes were not - they were anxious, strangely fragile, like glass.

“K...Kabu?” Katla croaked out, her voice thick from lack of use.

“I apologise for disturbing you.” Kabu spoke softly, yet quickly. “I’m aware you probably don’t wish to see me again, but please, at least do me one favour.”

He handed her an envelope, her name written in his scrawly handwriting. “Read this letter.” He paused for a moment, and forced a sad smile across his lips. “Best of luck for your upcoming Challenge, Katla.”

With that, he began to walk away. Katla opened her mouth to call for him to wait, but his name got caught in her throat, and she could only watch him melt into a crowd of people.

She glanced down at the envelope in her hands, turning it over in her hands before she decided there were better places to read it.

---

Sequestered in her much warmer hotel room, Katla broke the weak glue seal and pulled out the letter. It was neatly folded, and though Kabu’s handwriting reminded her of a doctor’s, it was much more legible. And pristine, without a crossing-out to be seen - she wondered how many drafts preceded this one.

Katla,

I do not know if you will read this letter after our disagreement in Hammerlocke, but I write in the hope you will.

I’m sorry for insinuating that the reason why you’d not attained Championship status in the other Leagues was because you were deliberately holding yourself back. It was incredibly thoughtless of me, especially since you had confessed that you had given up your title due to the stresses it had imposed upon you. I have never known these stresses, and though I can extrapolate from the duties Leon undertakes, I can never truly know. Thus to assume I know what you felt is at best foolish, and at worst, offensive. I ask for your forgiveness.

I do not know the challenges of other regional Leagues - any knowledge I had of Hoenn’s League is woefully out of date now - and thus to assume that you lost to them because you sabotaged your own match is not only an an insult to you, but an insult to your opponents too. I ask forgiveness for this transgression too.

Yet my views on your potential are unchanged. I truly believe you could defeat Leon. I am certain that you will make it to the Finals. I can see the spark in your eyes, the fire that burns when you’re in the midst of a battle. I was honoured to experience it first-hand. Your love for your Pokemon binds you together and makes you strong.

Katla, it is difficult for me to articulate my feelings regarding you, but I feel I must try. I was curious about you from the very moment you appeared on the roster. All the gym leaders were - it is rare indeed that Leon endorses anyone, especially two challengers at once. My curiosity deepened over the course of your Gym Challenge, and deepened into admiration after our own battle. Whilst I am thankful that they are all recorded for posterity, I will not forget the experience for a long, long time.

I have found myself caring for you. I want only for you to succeed, and for you to get up from the falls you will no doubt experience. I said my foolish words not out of a place of unkindness. That does not excuse their pain and hurtfulness, but I want to assure you that my deeper feelings are unchanged.

No matter what you may think of me now, and how justified you will be for thinking it, I will continue to support you. It will hurt to know that I have caused this rift between us through my own fault, but that is my burden to bear. I only hope it has not burdened you as well.

I wish you all the best in your future endeavours, and I look forward to seeing your future gym matches. I will leave my number at the bottom of this letter in case you need to contact me for any reason. No matter what has happened between us, I will help you in any way I can.

Kind regards,

Kabu

Katla read his letter several times, making sure she didn’t miss a single word. The guilt curled tighter around her heart - he’d made a good point with his hypothesis. She’d been ruminating on it for a while and wondering whether it was true. She’d only been eleven when the mantle of Champion had fallen heavy on her shoulders, and Katla couldn’t completely dismiss that the bad experience still cast a long shadow. But she was twenty six now; older, and hopefully wiser. Wasn’t it worth trying again? She cast her mind back to the Elite 4 challenges she’d failed at - she’d bailed out straight afterwards, and she wondered if she would have dug her heels in and kept going, if not afraid of the thought of actually succeeding.

Yet Kabu was apologising, thinking it was him who had caused the hurt, when it was her, lashing out in pain and guilt and shame as he exposed the festering wound to daylight. Just as effortlessly as he had done in the Wild Area, asking her when she was going to tell Hop her secret. And she’d prickled much the same way, only this time she’d driven off one of the kindest men she knew. And it hurt more seeing that he still cared for her, still wished the best for her, was still going to watch her matches and put himself at the end of the line in case she needed anything.

A part of her wished he’d just slammed the door in her face - that would have been kinder than this.

Tears burned at her eyes, but she held back her sob. She wanted to find Kabu and make it right, somehow. The numerals stood out starkly on the paper, an imposing invitation that Katla felt too nervous to use. In honesty, she felt so emotionally tied up, she had no idea what to do.

At that moment, her phone buzzed, and she took a look. It was Hop, asking how she was doing, as he was having to get used to the snowy conditions his Pokemon now found themselves in.

Katla: I've been better. Hey Hop, I dunno if this is the right time, but do you have time to talk?

It only took a couple of seconds passed after her message before a video call request came through. Hop's cheeks were reddened against the cold, his bright gold eyes full of concern.

“Katla, mate. What’s up?” He said, brows furrowing when he got sight of her.

Katla sighed, pulling a smile and not hiding the tears blurring her vision.

“A couple of things. You know me and Kabu had a fight in Hammerlocke, yeah?”

“What’s happened?” Hop asked, an edge to his voice that she’d never heard before.

“Nothing, nothing bad. He gave me a letter, a-and I just wondered if I could talk things through with you.”

“Nah, I’m gonna do better than that.” Hop shook his head. “What room are you staying in, 448? I’ll be right there, don’t go anywhere.”

She could barely take in a breath to protest before the call ended, and she sighed. Not what I had in mind, but I’ll take it.

It wasn’t long before he knocked on the door, and would have bounded in if he wasn’t holding two cups with steaming hot liquid.

“I got you a pick-me-up.” Hop grinned. “You might not be freezing, but I think you’d appreciate a cuppa.”

“Shit Hop, you didn’t need to.” Katla took the proffered cup carefully, cradling its heat in her hands. “How much do I owe you for this?”

“You owe me an explanation of what the hell’s going on with you, mate.” Hop replied, taking a chair and sitting on it backwards next to her. “Where’s that letter Kabu gave you?”

Katla took a deep breath, her heart beginning to pound. Here we go.

“It’s here, but I need to give you context for it to all make sense,” she began. “That means I’ve got to tell you some things...some things I probably should have told you earlier.”

And so Katla spilled the beans, revealing her past experiences as a Pokemon trainer, as well as the fact she’d become Hoenn’s Champion for a brief period of time, stepping down when the stress became too much for her. She elaborated on the argument she’d had with Kabu, the whats and whys and how they’d parted company unhappily.

She paused, letting Hop take this all in, and waited nervously for his response, trying to resist the urge to fiddle with the cup of boiling liquid in her hands.

“That...That makes so much more sense now.” Hop said, leaning back. “Why Lee endorsed you, why I just can’t seem to beat you. Why you always get so mad when I say I’m gonna be the next Champion.” He frowned. “Hey, wait a minute. I’ve never seen it mentioned anywhere that you were Hoenn’s Champion.”

“It’s not something I like to advertise.” Katla explained. “Also news of my ‘ascension’ was kinda pushed aside by the legendary Pokemon shit that was going on at the same time. Kyogre awakening and attempting to flood the entire world was a much bigger deal than an eleven year old becoming Champion. Even if I was involved in that too.”

“I dunno, it seems a pretty big deal to me.” He trained his eyes on her. “So you don’t tell anyone about it?”

“No-one. Put it this way, Hop; you and Kabu are the only people outside my family in Galar that know I was once Champion, and I wanna keep it that way.“

“Were you...ever gonna tell me?”

Katla cringed, hanging her head.

“If I could have helped it? No.” She admitted. “You’re a good kid, Hop. I didn’t want to crush your spirit - you want your rival to be on the same level, not to learn that they were a Champion once.” She sighed. “I was going to tell you after you came back that battle you had with Bede in the Wild Area...” She didn’t need to look at the younger trainer to know he was shifting uncomfortably. “But you looked and acted so broken I...I couldn’t.” She shook her head, and a snarl curled her lips. “I could have ripped that sucker a new one, treating you like that. He got his comeuppance in the end, but still...”

Katla risked a glance at Hop, and saw he was still looking at her, his face earnest and listening intently.

“I’m sorry for not telling you sooner, Hop. I’m sorry to have led you on. If you wanna stop being my friend and just walk out of here, then that’s perfectly fine. I wouldn’t blame you in the slightest.”

Hop folded his arms over the back of the chair, resting his chin on them.

“Whilst it’d been nice to know my rival was a Champ in another region, I don’t blame you for keeping it secret. The media would never leave you alone if they found out. Speaking of which,” he stuck out a hand, dropping it on Katla’s shoulder. “I’m not leaving you, mate. You asked me here for help, and I’m not gonna leave until I’ve helped you.”

Katla managed a smile, even as her heart swelled and eyes burned.

“Shit. Thanks, Hop. You’re a good friend, more than I deserve.”

“Aw, don’t say that.” He playfully punched her arm. “We’re buddies. That’s all that matters. Now, gimme that letter.”

He all but snatched it off her, yet he took his time reading it, brows furrowed in concentration.

“Kabu uses a lot of big words, doesn’t he?” Hop commented. “Bet he’s good at essays.”

Katla arched her eyebrow at him, but said nothing, giving the younger trainer time to formulate his opinion.

”Wow...” Hop finally said. “He’s got it bad for you, hasn’t he?”

The older trainer felt her face begin to burn up.

“You...you think so?”

Hop gave her a look that was halfway between disbelieving and annoyed.

“Seriously? You read this and didn’t pick up on the fact he might be into you?”

“Well, I can tell he cares about me, that’s clear enough!” Katla retorted. “But more than that?” She glanced away. “I...I didn’t think it’d be a thing. I mean, he’s a Gym leader, I’m just a Challenger. Not to mention he’s like...fifty odd.”

“Sure.” Hop nodded. “But you like him back, don’t you? I mean, you’ve been crushing on him since we saw him in in Galar Mine Two.”

“I do.” Katla stared pensively at her drink. “He looks so cold and closed off, but he’s not. He’s warm and gentle and kind, and...I feel awful that I hurt him with our fight. And he’s blaming himself for everything, when he’s got nothing to be sorry for!”

Hop glanced back to the letter and then back at her.

“Wait. When you say he’s got nothing to be sorry for, does that mean...” He spoke slowly. “Does that mean you were throwing those matches...?”

“No!” Katla snapped, then cringed, shaking her head. “No, I...I don’t know. Maybe. I didn’t deliberately sabotage myself, but never tried again after I lost; I just walked away and never came back. Maybe I was shying away from it. I dunno.” She sighed. “I can’t be certain I was at my peak in those fights, or that I was doing my all to win, if I’m honest. So, yeah, it was possible the thought of becoming Champion again was scaring me off. Kabu’s been the first person to really challenge me on it, and as you can tell,” she gestured to the letter, “I took it badly. It looks like he’s backpedalling, when he might actually be right about it.”

“Then I think you should tell him that.” Hop said. Katla’s heart forgot its next beat.

“W...What?”

“You should tell Kabu that he doesn’t need to apologise.” Hop said, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. “He sent you this letter as a way to smooth things over with you, right? Well, now you gotta smooth things over with him. And the only way to do that is to talk to him. It shouldn’t be too hard - you got his number!” He thrust the letter at her. “Text him or give him a call, and talk it out. You’ll both feel so much better afterwards.” He smiled brightly at her. “Then you can stop worrying about Kabu, and go back to focusing on beating Gordie!”

She couldn’t help but chuckle.

“You make it sound so simple when you put it that way, Hop.”

“It looks simple to me!” He replied, before he leaned over, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Kat, listen. From what I know about you, and what I’ve seen in that letter, I think you’ll be fine. I think you both feel the same towards each other, actually. If you go talk to him, I bet my badges only good things’ll come from it.”

“Bet your badges, eh?” Katla arched an eyebrow. “Those are some confident words, there.”

“‘Cos I am.” Hop grinned toothily. “Honestly, mate, you’ll be fine. You’ll feel tons better talking it through with him anyway.”

He pulled away, and his face then became serious.

“Kat...you’re gonna give your all in the Semifinals, right?” He asked. “It won’t be right if you’re not at your best. If I win, I want it to be because I was better, not ‘cos you don’t want to face Lee just in case you win.”

“Yes.” Katla made sure he could see the sincerity in her blue eyes. “I’m going to give you the match you deserve, Hop. I’ve never held back in any of my matches against you, and I won’t start to. I promise.”

“Good.” He nodded, looking content.

“You are assuming that I’ll actually get to the Semifinals, though. There’s three Gym Leaders to get through before then, and any of them could halt me in my tracks.” She pointed out.

“That’s what you said about Kabu, and look what happened there.” Hop grinned. “Speaking of which, you should clear the air with him before you go face Gordie, or you’re gonna be too distracted to beat him. And I don’t want my rival falling too far behind!”

“Oh come off it!” She swatted at him. “I’ll...I’ll think about it. About texting him, I mean. I just...”

“Hey,” Hop leaned over again, putting an arm around her this time. “He wouldn’t have given you his number if he didn’t want you to use it. Just...be you. You’ll be fine.”

“I guess.” Katla smiled. “Thanks, Hop. I really mean it - you’ve been...more than I deserve, honestly.”

“Aw come on, we’re friends!” He grinned, a slight blush on his cheeks. “It’s what friends do. I know you’d do the same for me. Right?”

“Yeah, of course.” She nodded. “But I might beat up the person who upset you too.”

Hop barked out a laugh.

“What, really?”

“I’m serious! The only thing that saved Bede from an ass-whooping was witnesses.” Katla grinned. “Still might punch him in the face when I see him again.”

Hop chuckled bashfully, his blush slightly brighter.

“Hehe, thanks Kat.”

“You’re welcome, Hop. Least I can do.”

---

Katla: Hey Kabu, it’s Katla. Do you have some time to talk?

Kabu: Yes. I have as much time as you need.

Katla: I was thinking maybe we could meet up to talk, if you’re still in Circhester?

Kabu: I am. There is cafe on the east side of the city, towards Route Nine, that is known for being discreet. We will be able to meet there in privacy.

Katla: That sounds perfect. What time? I have nothing going on so any time today is good for me.

Kabu: Fortunately I have that luxury too. If I send you the location, we could meet in a couple of minutes. Is this okay?

Katla: Yeah, that’s fine, thanks.

#SPR writes #pokemon sword/shield #pokemon trainer oc #kabu #hop #kabu pokemon #hop pokemon #self insert #kabu/oc #katla/kabu #angst #yes there will be another part #looks like that previous part did awaken something in me #*sigh*#also hop is adorable and I will die for that boy #sprs writing #pokemon oc: katla

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deviationdivine · 6 years ago

Text

Blue Blush (Connor!Prompt Request)

TLDR: Connor’s having one of those days at the DPD that just culminates in him winding up naked...

Word Count: 2,837

TW: Fluffy Boy Connor, Language, Suggestive Themes

A/N:Follower/Reader Appreciation Drabble | Prompt: “Nothing to see here.” “Um, you’re fucking naked!” - @sammyreh request! Here we go! My main man Connor’s back with more fluff to cure my chronic angst. Thanks for participating baby!

How lovely you look today. Any day will be beneficial to his visual component analyzing each detail for memory storage. Already he has seen you first entering DPD but that does not stop him wanting to be around you approximately twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, four weeks in a month and-

Calculations drop out of range the closer you come. Realizing that he fell into distraction reminds him of what Hank calls it. The lieutenant says he is ‘whipped’ but Connor is unsure if you would partake in the sexual gratification of S&M. Whips appear to be quite popular in the area.

A flood of information filters in his scanners. Oh. That is not what the lieutenant meant.

Wiping out a flood of sexual content he automatically steps forward with a cup of coffee brewed specifically to your preferences. “Good morning, Love.”

“Good morning, Detective.”

Your greeting is airy with a wisp of mischief. Catching him off guard is rare. After all he will hear a pin drop with that supersonic hearing. It isn’t so much surprise but confusion settling into his cute face. Then he plays off your formal address all too cleverly.

“We are much more than colleagues now, Y/N.” The android admonishes teasingly, offering the hot beverage to you. “In fact, I do believe we are dating.”

Is that so? You laugh at the little joke. Breezing past his lips husky and endearing; your body leans into his chest acting as a harmonious magnet. Tangling fingers around silky tie pulls him down just enough but directing him isn’t necessary.

Connor places a sweet kiss that quickly transforms in a sultry tango to your lips. Wanting to curve fingers with the shape of your face, cradling, claiming you as his, he does remind himself of current priority. This is work. He does not wish to cause an uncomfortable climate. Most have no opinion about this new relationship the two of you have begun.

Hank obviously rolled eyes when Connor first admitted. Actually, it was not in disgust. The lieutenant thought it was “about time they worked it the fuck out” in his usual unpleasant terms.

There is a nudge of doubt still weighing through his system. Even as you come to hold a place for him in your rapturous human heart; Connor imagines if he did not become deviant.

Never will he doubt you or these feelings. He doubts how good he truly is for someone like you. Someone who is a lively spark in this world, making him feel further human. If he may hold, protect you forever that will be enough. Even if you decide to move away from this connection for your sake as a human dating an android; Connor drops his gaze. Being free with thoughts and decisions empties his mind for only his internal voice to ruminate. At times being alone is not best for a deviant.

“Connor? Are you OK?”

Stroking his cheek draws him up in a snap. Indicator flickers in a call sign interrupting this pleasant sensation reserved only for him. He reserves for you as well. As long as you want to be with him perhaps that is enough. To hold a moment tenderly expecting an end or his days of struggle eclipse logic too severely.

He is more adaptable than this. Having something precious to lose makes the android surge with an entire new string of emotions.

Maybe he should ask Hank. On second thought, let’s not ask Hank.

Connor smiles now. Appeasing worry is part of his programming. He is meant to integrate in an amiable way. He still follows patterns of protocol but more so out of choice. An unmistakable need to make you happy fills him with purpose.

“I just received an emergency call,” Connor breathes against your hand. Tiny peck of the android’s bottom lip grazes palm where you continue to offer a soothing caress. Tasting the natural chemicals held within your body spiking for every touch and affectionate fondle of skin.

“It seems I will be out in the field earlier today. And – Hank is late.”

Anderson is late? Shocking! You smirk. “Well, that’s on him,” you chide. “But still… I’d like you having backup. Do you want me to-?”

“No, Y/N.” Connor is quick to shut down the suggestion. He knows of the astonishing capability you possess. There is more at stake.

Arguing won’t change his mind. He’s pretty good at making his own decisions. It makes you happy to see him not tied down to code or orders. He’s also pretty good at this coffee thing. Sipping it now creates a warm spread.

“Mmm,” purring approval gets him going.

Lusty clouds dot caramel cocoa, those same eclipses you notice each time kissing turns into heavy petting. Connor lets go of his pristine, intelligent personage while loving you. He takes breath away. Can only dream of how it will be when you two have sex. “Exact amount of cream. Connor, if you weren’t a detective you’d make a delectably hot barista.”

“Hey, hey, hey! Take your lovey dovey shit outside!”

Wrenching back from Connor’s warm, loving space is a good opportunity to roll eyes in disgust. You blatantly ignore the obnoxious entrance of Reed. “Be careful,” a little whisper floods your feelings. They always were like this for Connor but knowing he’s yours? It adds extra uneasiness.

He does not seem to be worried at all. That smile can light up the earth. He warms you like the sun.

“Androids are capable of avoiding unnecessary injury to biocomponents, Love. My model makes me quite effective.” Connor pulls at the threads holding your blissful laughter at bay. Poking gently, hoping to spill splendorous sound tinkling like china glass. Whenever you laugh the metal melts a bit more around his artificial heart.

You bless him with a diminutive giggle. All is right within his world then. It means everything he desires now. Deviancy opens gates, unleashing his true self. He-he wants to hold this forever along with your perfect form in his arms until the end of time.

“Gonna keep eye fucking or do your job tin can?!”

Connor’s smile snaps into a line. Drawing fingers against your waist as a silent disengagement and promise to remain safe, the prototype detective walks out of break room on a clear path to Gavin Reed.

The human detective yawns not worried. He snorts at the droid. “The fuck you looking at?”

“Opening your mouth to Detective Y/L/N will need proper adjustment,” Connor explains smoothly. “Would you like me to assist you, Detective Reed?”

Any jokes Gavin had on loop don’t make it past this plastic asshole’s balls. Getting in his face he must have a big pair of gonads! “Don’t think I haven’t forgotten your stunt in the evidence room motherfucker!”

“I’m sorry,” the prototype snipes sarcastically. “I suppose this concludes our bromance then.”

“You motherless piece of shit!”

Unfazed by the varying degrees of dirt that escapes Reed’s mouth, Connor takes a page out of Hank’s book as the lieutenant would say: “Do go fuck yourself, Detective Reed. I believe that will solve all of your problems.”

Gavin is too stunned to even harp back. That’s a first! Goddamn android saunters off like he’s some hot shot too. Anderson taught him this shit! He knows it! Well…he’ll get this prick back. Today.

“Uh, Connor?” Chris Miller’s eyebrows rise at the android. Coming in slopped up in mud and – that better be mud! “What happened to you?”

“I had a minor accident.” Explaining crisply, Connor’s perturbed affectation is due to his constant gathering of humanity. More simply put: he is pissed off. Holding up his arms did not lessen the entirety of this ruination. His jacket is completely soiled.

“Just minor?” the officer snorts, returning to computer. “Wait til Hank sees this.”

Ignoring Officer Miller’s amusement puts Connor on a path for locker room. A swift move that Gavin takes notice of. Removing feet off desk, Reed gets up casually before taking off in the same direction. Whistling on the way downstairs echoes in stairwell but Gavin shuts up by the time that prick could be in earshot.

Jacket, jeans completely caked in mud, dirty liquid already seeps through white shirt. Jumping a fence into several pedestrians did not end well despite calculations. The thief in question decided to use collateral damage to slow his pursuit. Connor fell face first in a giant puddle of soggy dirt from last night’s rain shower.

The android strips dirty clothing. Resting shoes atop bench they are remarkably unscathed. Obtaining a locker for himself is both beneficial and rewarding. He never imagined much need for it being an android. Hank was right this time.

Connor smirks. Stepping out of aisle to enter shower stall he needs to rinse splatters of dirt from synthetic skin.

Reed takes a peek now seeing the coast clear. “Let’s see you get out of here naked plastic prick.” Gavin proceeds to gather up the droids clothes intent on humiliating the bastard. This will stick it to him on a lesser note but he’ll sit back and laugh his ass off all the same.

“What the hell did he fall in?!” Gavin holds the muddy pile away from himself. If he gets anything on this jacket he’ll kill somebody.

Wet tousled hair smoothes in a comb beneath Connor’s fingers returning to locker. He freezes, running a searchable scan. Where are his clothes?

“Connor!?”

Jolting around at your frantic voice floods indicator scarlet. Priming himself to jump into action and protect he steels his fluid stance. You are alone. There is no sign of any distress besides your rising heart rate. Oh.

The android peers down assessing his current absence of clothing. “Nothing to see here.”

Nothing to see? How about broad shoulders ripe for finger digging, clavicles made for flush kisses and a muscle toned body stark naked in the DPD locker room? Connor is absolutely wow. No, really. This is…what???

“Um, you’re fucking naked!”

Raising eyebrows at your language does remind him of Hank. The android remains standing without sense to hide anything about his state of undress. Simply he gazes at you fondly and free of inhibitions. Obviously this is far too intimate. Even in a relationship your embarrassment is palpable. “Are you all right, Y/N?”

A breath escapes in poor answer. Frankly there is nothing to say without making a fool of yourself. It shouldn’t be this nerve wracking. After all you two have been together but not this far yet.

Connor cocks his head with a tiny smile. Obviously it does not bother him. However, he does not wish for you to feel uncomfortable. “I apologize. Would you like me-?”

“Connor.” Pressing a palm to his chest stills the entire world. Bare and chiseled just as his sharp cheekbones, sculpted jaw he is a beautiful statue. He’s an ancient work born out of Greece. Tall perfection making you weak in the knees fully clothed. Without you need to start fanning yourself before passing out.

Keeping eyes up is difficult. You swallow.

Your touch melts him into you, eyelids drifting in a flutter. His eyelashes are like snow kissing against yours when he leans in to overtake lips. Right now he quietly stands absorbing closeness. Somehow you think this vulnerability eases him and how can you complain?

Cyberlife be praised. They were good for something at least. You giggle. Reaching up to cup his face pulls his head to meet your level.

Connor’s lips mimic yours touching softly at first. Arms thread to the warm curves of your body. Pulling you flush produces a shared groan into your mouths. His LED is ablaze, frame shuddering pleasurably into your figure.

Ohhh. You can feel him pressing fully into your groin.

“Connor.” Bracing hands against the android’s bare chest establishes more. This type of intimacy is new. Wanting it is a personal truth but down in the locker room of the DPD?

“I realize we have not had this opportunity. Removing our clothes for one another.”

“No,” you agree quiet. “We-we haven’t.”

“Does it bother you?” Worry replaces lust in your android lover. “If so I will-”

“Connor, nothing in the world involving you would ever make me uncomfortable. Besides, I love what I see.”

The android grins crookedly. Sweeping you close to show you everything he will offer. His back collides with lockers allowing you power over him. It is a silent turn on for the android known for dominating in combat.

Tender kisses raining over your lips as stardust. Connor is a star. He’s your star. Glowing forever in your heart and this is the only thing.

“My Heart,” he whispers into the sweet crook of neck. His tongue traces skin tasting what he loves most in this world.

A dangerous shiver causes a soft moan to slip. Tracing fingertips down his perfect torso creates a light shade of blue. Shimmering in a blush to synthetic skin, you gasp, smiling up at him.

“What the fuck!” Reed nearly throws up finding you pressed up against that plastic shithead. Like he needs to see a human and android fucking!

Wrenching back from your boyfriend leaves a serious problem. It’s pretty obvious since there’s nothing in the locker. You sneer already suspecting! “Get the hell out, Gavin! Better yet. Get Connor’s clothes you asshole!”

The detective snorts. Crossing arms over his chest, he takes one good look at this fucking shit and doesn’t bother hiding disgust. Fucking androids. Now they’re over here stealing humans for themselves. What a joke.

“Didn’t take the plastic prick’s shit.” Reed denies but pulls off a cocky smile. Let’s see you prove it. “What? You gotta problem with your robo boy’s package? Ain’t got one?”

Connor sidesteps from behind you without care. He throws a hot glare onto the human.

“Ah, fuck!” Gavin turns his head. “You son of a bitch! I didn’t need to see your dick!”

“Certainly were interested enough to bring it up though.” You sneer at the idiot. Can somebody fire this scumbag? “Does that answer your question? Oh, that’s right. You’re embarrassed. Because my boyfriend is obviously way bigger than your teeny pencil dick.”

Honestly, you know this boy is nice. You saw with your own eyes. Accidentally but knowing what’s in store for later is nice. Better than nice.

“What the fuck did you…?”

Connor moves in front of you purposely aware of Detective Reed’s disgust. That is why the android smiles.

Gavin throws in the towel. “Jesus Christ! Go ahead and fuck him down here if you want. I’m out!”

Saying there isn’t satisfaction in Reed squirming like the scummy worm he is would be lying. You did enjoy watching him lose it. The filthy comment out of his mouth is so expected at this point nothing phases. Not even Connor still naked as the day he was created. This vantage gives you a direct view of his toned ass. Talk about sculpted perfection.

“Connor.” Calling for him to turn around, averting eyes to save your life, you reach to snag onto his forearm. Bringing the nude android towards lockers the idea is simple. “Um, wait here. And I’ll find where that jackass took your clothes.”

“Y/N, wait.”

Catching onto your waist stills everything. His voice is uneven. Checking his LED it’s not crimson but amber. What is he thinking?

“Then you do not mind seeing all of me.” Hesitation poisons his statement. Part of him does not want the truth. If you do not believe he is worth you- “As this. As my true self?”

A gentle smile answers in place of words. What can be said that is good enough? He is everything in your world. Can that be enough? Of course it is. Love is whatever you want it to be. This is what you want it to be.

“I know your true self. This.” You rub fingers across his chest. Beneath synthetic skin it’s easy to know what he is but that is what you love. All of him no matter what others see.

You indulge firm hands resting on hips. Thankfully deviancy means being bolder. He’s still a cinnamon roll though. Cinnamon roll that can kill you but still fits. “I only see you, Connor. Skin, no skin why should that mean anything? When I love you?”

The android is flooded with readings. Listening, analyzing each hastened beat of heart radiating out of you. Those beats are erratically for – him.

Connor’s smile transcends beyond that cheap grimace that used to twist his mouth. This is bright. Vibrant in humanity, dimples and pride knowing he can have what he wants.

“My Heart,” he pledges an oath. “I love you too.”

That pet name is going to make you drop. Who knew androids could be this romantic? You clear your throat, pointing down but keeping eyes on his. “Want to put that away now?”

“Oh. Obviously.”

Tag List: @elydith @your-taxidermy @tropfenlady @connorswink @tommy-10-k

#connor rk800 x reader #connor x reader #dbh connor rk800 x reader #rk800 x reader #dbh rk800 x reader #dbh #detroit become human #spicy fluff #follower/reader appreciation request #get lost gavin #wanna talk shit #get hit #sammyreh request #part of the blue series

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