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izabellq · 4 years ago

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DREAMS -> Akaashi Keiji

summary: a soulmate au where you see each other in your dreams.

pairing: akaashi keiji x gn!reader

word count: 3k

contains: angst, fluff, open-ended (also, if you guys spot instances where i specify gender, let me know and i’ll try to fix it asap! i edited this but sometimes, things just slip by)

akaashi keiji thinks the world is cruel.

he swipes the dust off the leather bound book before carefully sliding it back into it’s alphabetized slot. he carefully maneuvers himself around the oak wooden shelves, letting his feet track footprints into the burgundy rug below him. with a sigh, he realizes he is yet again desolated. a library reverie dedicated solely to himself and his predestined soulmate. yet, it seemed the universe had yet chosen one quintessential for him. akaashi didn’t need perfect, but on some days, he just wanted to have someone.

the macrocosm was seemingly convinced he was unfit to wield one. strung on the idea that he was intolerable and unmatchable. akaashi’s pessimistic attitude had betrayed his hopeful one, and soon, he was unable to shield himself from the knowledge that perhaps-- there was no one in the world meant for him.

(he still desires one, because he’d love nothing more than to connect with the person who he was bound to meet. he wants to depict their love in unrealistic fairytales.)

nights go by where he falls asleep and lounges in his fantastical library. he decides he could write a book with all the time he has to himself. but then again, he knows better than anyone that most of his projects remain unfinished. he’s lost inspiration, captured by the nasty talons of writer’s block. he thinks he’s at the end of his rope, and for a second he believes it’s about time he goes down a different career path. but he doesn’t do that. mostly because he’s unsure, and partially because he’s still filled with hope.

(but when his soulmate never shows, he comes to realize that hope is a fickle thing.)

it's one random day of the week where akaashi’s schedule isn’t as rigid as it habitually is. after a long afternoon of practice (which doesn’t stray from the norm) he’s desperate for sleep, and despite knowing that taking a nap would complicate his circadian rhythm, he was rather desperate.

drifting towards the soulmate reality became a feat he was more than used too. the vertigo he commonly experienced was quick to depart as he molded into his surroundings, the familiar scent of paper musk and printed ink leaves much to be desired.

though, if there was one thing that was slightly unsettling— it was the disruption of books laid despotic on the floor. akaashi, though only sometimes forgetful, had never once committed such a polluted act. he was always careful to restore books to their proper position once concluded, so he wondered what possible entity could have disrupted the neat nature of his lonesome library.

(it’s when you round the corner that all his presumptions were answered.)

oh dear, he thinks, you’re a winsome mess. books pulled into your chest, pajama pants folded past your ankle, a tank top only doing so much as to cover your chest and stomach. your mouth is shaped into an ‘o’ as if his presence was the most stupefying thing around— when really, it was you.

(a book slips from your grasp, a reverberation follows shortly. he tries not to wince as it lands on its pages, folding the corner of the paper.)

the moment of shock is lost and your look of astonishment is replaced with mild skepticism. “who are you?” you ask, almost defiantly.

“akaashi,” he replies honestly, though the look on your face seems to morph in some sort of revelation that he can’t understand.

“say it again,” the stern tone of your voice lets him know that it wasn’t a mere request but a demand. he isn’t quite sure why you’re so on edge but because he already seems like the most rational one between the two of you, he doesn’t argue.

“my name is akaashi keiji,” he repeats himself, his concern only multiplied by the sting of comprehension creased into the sight wrinkles of your face. a part of him truly understands the circumstance before him, though a portion of him doesn’t want to give into the naïveté— because for so long, he was cursed with the belief that he didn’t deserve a soulmate.

“your words keep getting… blurred,” you tried your best to explain, though no matter how detailed your explanation, the experience couldn’t be put into perfect words. “you know what that means… don’t you?”

of course he knows. on days where he thought his life was the one exception— he researched every story about soulmates as he possibly could. some were undoubtedly fake, others were heartwarming, but the one common piece of information he stumbled upon was that soulmates couldn’t hear personal information about the other whilst in their dream world. perhaps to prevent early encounters or just to make the process seemingly endless; either way, akaashi was well aware.

“i didn’t think i had a soulmate,” he lets his guard down decently low, though the flutter in his heart alerts him that it’s all going to come crashing down eventually.

“neither did i,” you admit, placing down the books wrapped in your arms onto the floor. he wants to question what you could possibly be doing, but there’s more alarming inquiries he needs answers too.

good thing you seem just as eager to figure out why today was any different. “did you do anything today that might’ve been different from your usual routine? i went to bed at eleven… which isn’t any different from any other day.”

that’s when it hit akaashi— the answer was so obvious. “we live in different time zones. that’s the only reason i can think of…”

he trailed off, having been caught in the most frustrating loop of incredulity. all this time… you were right there… so close yet so far. the only thing that had separated his years of getting to know you was a different sleep schedule. in due time, he may look back at this incident and laugh— but right now, he felt cheated out of the most basic human experience ever.

(like a story, this was only the rising action— or perhaps the exposition, because this was truly the start of something new.)

he wants to speak, to reach out and connect with you in all the ways he’s only wished to do, but your harmonious laugh distracts him from his thoughts. “i never understood why my soulmate reality was a library. i guess that’s because of you, right?”

he doesn’t understand your change in personality in the same way he can’t tell when bokuto’s in a bad mood until it’s happening right before his eyes (though others would beg to differ). he’s desperate to learn everything there was to know about you— most importantly, your name. It’s the only thing he wants to know.

instead, he settles on, “what are you doing with those books?”

it’s obvious you weren’t expecting that question, but then again, how was akaashi supposed to ignore the books you're defiling by simply letting them scatter on the floor?

with a shy giggle, you respond, “well… since i thought i was alone, i was going to make a huge fort with them… ya know, cause i'm not much of a reader.”

from the red tint of your cheeks to the way your head was slightly tilted to the left was surefire proof of your discombobulation. and to akaashi, it seemed to hold such a power over him that he was unable to keep check his usual deportments. screw etiquette! this wasn’t even reality!

“i’ll help you build one,” he offers, picking up a book from the ground. he runs his thumb over the edges, smoothly out the wrinkles that had surfaced.

your head perks up, an opulent grin painting the once grimace. “really?!”

(for a smile like yours, he’d do just about anything to safeguard it’s fluoresce.)

back in the real world, all day his thoughts are occupied with you. you exist, your real, somewhere out in the world, your waiting for him. it’s a condolement he’s not willing to gamble with. he finds himself wanting to take more naps, just for the chance to indulge in another conversation with you. of course, it meant the eye bags under his eyes had sunken into a deeper shade— not noticeable to anyone that wasn’t him, and considering the effect it had on his everyday appearance, he’s come to the conclusion that it’d be nearly impossible to visit you every day of the week. it wouldn’t stop him from trying though.

from the side of the volleyball court, kuroo nudges bokuto skeptically. “what’s with that look on akaashi’s face… it’s starting to freak me out.”

bokuto hums— in approval? in contempt? who knows, but he’s happy. “he told me he finally met his soulmate. he’s just excited!”

“ah,” kuroo clicks his tongue knowingly, “i thought he didn’t have one?”

“turns out, they just go to sleep and wake up at different times. konoha thought it was pretty funny,” bokuto relayed, a chuckle bubbling under his throat. for so long, he had witnessed akaashi’s self-doubt and insecurity, and while parts of them still existed, it seemed to be slowly resolving itself. he couldn’t be more happier for his best friend.

“well, tell him to start focusing, i want to beat you guys when you’re at your best,” kuroo smirked, narrowing his gaze onto bokuto.

“you’re so on!”

(for the rest of practice, they had to endure akaashi’s love-sick gaze. fukurōdani still won.)

a month had passed since your very first interaction together. getting to know each other was more laborious than first intended. some words remained blurred, preventing the other from learning anything that might accelerate the rate of introduction in the real world. akaashi just wanted to know your name. it’s how he came to learn that while the universe was giving, it was also relentless.

“hey! i've been waiting for you, you know! i want to show you something!” you call from under the makeshift book fort. having just arrived, he knows from this point on, he has around thirty minutes before he’s awoken for dinner.

thirty minutes, four times a week— the only times he’s ever been able to talk to you, due to the tight schedule you both live in. it’s too little, too small, and he feels selfish for wanting more.

crawling under the fort, he pushed himself up to the side, wanting to give you as much room as possible in the cramped spot. in your hands, you have a book— it’s thin, meant for children, pages that combine to tell a moral. when you hand it over, it takes him less than a second to deduce the story and it’s plot. not because he’s some genius who had read every book on the face of the earth but because this story was rather popular in other parts of the world.

“sleeping beauty,” he reads aloud. his fingers run over the cover, trying to mentally depict what could be so important about this story that had you desperately trying to show him.

“it’s one of my favorite stories,” you sigh, propping your elbow on top of your thigh, leaning the weight of your face on your dominant hand. “my grandma used to read it to me all the time.”

oh. oh. you’re not asking what he thinks you're asking? right?

“can you read it to me, please?”

you are asking. his heart beats against the tightness of his chest, his ribs feel a tad out of place. and he knows— soulmates or not, he was utterly and completely yours. his cheeks flame and he attempts to hide it under his shirt.

“are you blushing?” you ask, and he can practically feel the teasing grin on your lips.

“no,” he mutters.

you shuffle from your spot and coincidentally; tower over him. your hands and legs trap his body under your presence. you’d practically be touching him if the soulmate reality allowed you too. akaashi finds that to be the greatest travesty of them all. even though it’s practically impossible, he can feel your warmth radiate around him as if you were actually there.

“does that mean you’ll read to me?” you ask, the battering of your eyelashes ever so visible. he doesn’t understand how you came to that conclusion, but it only tells him you knew exactly how’d he’d answer before he did.

“i’ll read it to you… just don’t laugh, okay?” akaashi opened the book, flipping the white picture-pages until he had reached the first chapter. you giggle, obeying his request with much hypocritism. you moved to sit beside him, leaning just a bit aways over his shoulder to follow along.

(akaashi isn’t a prince, but he’s more than willing to be yours if you asked.)

“i’m moving… so who knows? maybe we might meet in person one of these days,” you declare. It’s been an entire year now since he’s met you and it’s safe to say he’s utterly whipped. now in his second year of high school, he thinks he’s gotten to know you well enough to the point where the only thing left to learn is your name.

(what’s your name??)

“you’re moving? above or below the equator?” he jokes.

luckily, you laugh-- knowing that there really isn’t much you can say without your words becoming a blurred mess. “i’m still above the equator, loser. actually, if we’re going to get really specific— i’d say the northern hemisphere.”

you guys laugh at your puny attempt of a joke. really, you know it meant no difference, and the fact that you can only rely on fate to carry you through is pitying to say the least.

“i can’t wait to meet you,” akaashi declares honestly, pulling on his fingers in habit. he wants to say more, anything that remotely rhymes with i love you, but he wants to save that special moment for the day he meets you. he knows more than anything that you’re waiting for the same.

“i can’t wait either— honestly, i think my mom might be more excited than i am. i talk about you all the time, you know?” you softly lean against your book fort, your eyes as happy looking as your smile.

(yeah, it’s safe to say he can’t wait.)

akaashi and writer’s block do not coexist peacefully.

struggling to find words to replace the repetition created on pages, desperately searching for a means of inspiration-- he’s awfully close to giving up.

with a huge essay due tomorrow and a huge game he can’t afford to lose on the same day, he stresses over the fact that he may not be able to put his one-hundred-percent effort into both. even in the middle of a library (he should note: in the real world), a place where solitude was absolute, it provided no peace of mind.

it’s only when a small child, no older than five, wobbles out of the kid’s section with a copy of sleeping beauty, that akaashi’s reminded of you. with a small smile, he calms himself down. after all, you are his greatest muse.

(you’d probably laugh in his face if he told you that.)

after moving away from your hometown, which wasn’t quite as jarring as you expected it to be, you were quick to make friends. you wouldn’t call yourself a social butterfly— but contrary to most teen dramas, new students weren’t ‘fresh meat’ ready for the picking. finding a comfortable group of people you could associate yourself with, you found that most of them were volleyball fanatics (not because they actually played the sport, but because there were a lot of cute boys on the teams around the area, or so they say). either way, going to one of the games was inevitable. like a sort of inauguration you had to go through if you truly wanted to be considered part of the group.

you wouldn’t have it any other way.

after all, akaashi plays volleyball— that much you knew. the team name couldn’t be said, but at least you knew the sport he associated himself with. although he wouldn’t admit it, he was good, his team was good; after all, they made it to nationals and that was more than enough substantial proof. and while you didn’t want to get your hopes up, you were going to watch the national matches. you wondered… could this be the day?

walking up to the main arena, there was a certain ponderosity in the air that you couldn’t describe. it was as if a crushing truth was about to fall on your shoulders, and not knowing where it was about to fall from— you felt a crawling chill.

at the same time, akaashi had just finished the first game of the nationals match, split between wanting to rest or attend to bokuto’s high spirits. he’s attempting to walk into the main arena to watch the karasuno vs inarizaki match, but with his team basically surrounding him in their own attempts to make their way through— he deems the effort fruitless.

just as he approaches the door, so do you.

but you're too busy keeping up with your friends.

and he’s too busy trying to squeeze past a ranting bokuto.

your hands graze each other’s, and simultaneously, you both receive a shock that runs down the basis of your spines. something prompted him to search for the cause of the odd feeling, and in that moment, he finds you. your back is faced towards him, your hair made no difference in the immediate recognition process-- but he’s sure that he’s met you before. he just knows it. the answer is on the tip of his tongue, a fraction of a second away from being revealed.

he watches as your friends wait up for you, before your social circle turns around the corner and disappears from his sight (he gets hit with a strong sense of nostalgia from that). his heart stings, for reasons he can’t quite place. he’s never been too good at distinguishing his feelings anyways. bokuto is ushering him towards the stadium seating area, and the answer once on akaashi’s mind had dissipated into the air.

once he turns the corner, the moment is forgotten.

it’s only when he falls asleep later that night, not having dreamed of you, that it dawns on him.

akaashi keiji thinks the world is cruel.

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asongeverlasting · 4 years ago

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Happy Holidays @adrienettes-hamster!! I was your backup gifter for @mlsecretsanta this year! I hope you enjoy this platonic Ladynoir bonding :)

Many thanks to @strangerahne for beta-reading!

Laughing in the Starlight

read on AO3

Marinete had known this was a bad idea the first time he suggested it, but that meant nothing. Even with all the luck in the world, she could never hold out against his kitty eyes and impassioned pleas for very long. One would think she'd have some sort of immunity, after babysitting Manon for so long, but no dice. It was almost as if his kitty eyes were magically augmented or something. No ordinary human should be able to expand their pupils that wide. It was just ridiculous. (Utterly ridiculous, her internal monologue supplied unhelpfully.)

And really, it was just a game of Truth or Dare. As Chat Noir helpfully pointed out the third time he tried persuading her to play, if she was really worried about secret identity things, nothing was stopping her from just choosing dare every time. Eventually, after two weeks straight of him bugging her during patrol, she gave in. Sort of.

Her acquiescence was accompanied by a number of ground rules designed to safeguard their identities and avoid injuries (practically a necessity when pitting two teenage superheroes against each other in a game designed to embarrass). She also added three vetoes apiece, just in case. Going into the game, Ladybug felt confident that she was prepared for anything, because her rules accounted for every possible awkward situation — and they would have, were her opponent anyone but Chat. Right now, sitting on an isolated rooftop three rounds into the game, she knew she'd made a mistake. Nothing could have prepared her for what he was throwing her way.

“Okay, so, imagine you were suddenly turned into a peach pit that was inside of a ripe peach and on a tree, and then the peach fell off the tree, sprouted, and you grew out of it back to the body you were before turning into the peach pit. Then imagine all this happened in the span of twenty minutes. What would be the first thing you did after all this happened?"

Her brain refused to compute. “Sorry, what?”

Chat just smiled earnestly at her, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Did- did someone turn me into the peach pit?” she stammered, totally taken aback.

“Take it however you want, I just want an answer to my question.” Chat seemed shockingly normal for someone who had just spouted the most ridiculously out-there question she'd ever heard. Did these sorts of thoughts just exist in his brain?

How did one even begin to handle such a situation? But then again, stranger akumas had happened. “I guess I’d… first try to figure out how I’d been turned into a peach in the first place—“

“Peach pit, you mean,” he prompted, leaning forward.

“Yeah, that.” She rolled her eyes. “I’d probably also grab another peach off the tree to use as a weapon if I needed it. Oh wait, are the other peaches also people?”

His grin grew even wider before he responded. “That’s for me to know and you to never find out”

She shot him a frosty glare and responded, deadpan, “Horrible.”

“So….. what would you do?” he asked, genuinely curious now.

“Hmm. Probably... pull a peach off the tree so I have something to throw, look for the culprit - which was probably an akuma, honestly - and if I find no one, then get to high ground and keep looking. Oh, and before I leave, toss the peach at you like so.” She picked up a small pebble from the rooftop beside her and threw it at Chat, who yelped and turned away.

“Hey, what was that for?" Chat pouted.

Ladybug winked. "That's for me to know and you to never find out."

"Ah-hah-hah I see what you did there," he said, shooting finger guns at her. "Very clever. Now, I believe it's your turn again, Milady. I hope you come up with something interesting." He quirked a brow in challenge.

"Alright Kitty-Cat, truth..." She paused dramatically. "Or dare?"

"Dare, if you please."

"Hmm…" she mused, glancing around for inspiration. An idea came when her eyes landed on a house with two chimneys, about eight feet apart from one another. "Oh! Okay, I got it. Stick your baton between those two chimneys over there, grab it, then swing and flip yourself onto it, landing on your feet. Dramatic dismount for bonus points."

The spark of excitement in Chat's eyes had grown with every word she spoke. As soon as she finished laying down the challenge, he leapt up gracefully and bounded over to the designated rooftop, Ladybug following close behind.

Unsurprisingly, he executed the sequence perfectly, swinging around his baton like a gymnast on the uneven bars before landing on it, striking a pose, and backflipping off, all with the grace of a jungle cat.

She applauded as he put his baton away and sauntered over to where she now sat.

He gave a courtly bow before sitting down opposite her. "Only the best for the lady! My turn now, so choose your poison."

"Umm… I think I'll mix it up a bit with a dare."

"Okay, I dare you to…" Chat began slowly, "pick up the pointiest rock you can find, show it to me for approval, and then hold it in one of your armpits for the next two questions. Oh, and if you drop it at any point, the question count resets."

Ladybug shot him a dirty look before searching around for an appropriate rock. She picked up two, showed them both to Chat for inspection, and then unceremoniously stuck the chosen one under her left arm, taking care not to press too tight. "My turn now. Pick."

"Sheesh, someone's prickly! Something jabbing at you?" Chat snickered at the growl she let loose when his pun registered. "Truth! I pick truth."

She thought for a minute before speaking. "You claim that you're just a human with weird cat traits instead of the cat I'm convinced you are. Now, if I were right and you were an actual cat, what weirdly human trait would you have?"

Chat furrowed his brow in contemplation. "There's so many options to choose from! If I had to pick one… I'd probably make human sounds, either so my meows would sound like a real person making them, or so I'd scare the real humans in the house by saying 'hewwo' or something"

"An agent of chaos! Now, that sounds just like you. And I know better than anyone how much you hate not making human sounds," she chuckled.

He tried to mock pout, but couldn't hide his smile. "Okay, okay, my turn again. Truth or dare?"

"Ugh, I don't want to move with this thing under my arm. Truth."

With a soft laugh, Chat responded, "Well, now I know how to get you to answer my questions! Okay, okay, don't hurt me!" he exclaimed, raising a placating hand when he saw her glare turn threatening. "My question for you is… what name would you want to have, if your name wasn't what it is? And don't say this is against the rules, you could even give me your real name and I'd have no idea, so there's no way I can use this to ferret out your secret identity."

"Uhh…" She tilted her head to one side as she considered her options. "I'm not sure… maybe Celeste, or Isabelle? Or… Oh! I've always been partial to the name Bridgette, so I'd probably pick that."

"Bridgette, huh? I bet you'd have gotten along with one of my good friends. She's incredibly sweet and caring, like you. And her name sort of rhymes with your fake one! And she—" he cut his speech short, noticing that he was heading off on a tangent. "Anyway, spoilers aside, she's pretty great."

"Seems like Kitty might have a crush, hmmm? I hope this girl is worth your affections," teased Ladybug. "Must be something special if she's caught the eye of the great Chat Noir."

"Oh no, no crush! I only have eyes for you! I mean really, for yonder Tour Eiffel is the east, and you are my sun. This girl is… just a very good friend." The look on her face made it seem like she was intent on pursuing this line of teasing, so he hurriedly went on. "Also, I pick dare, and your rock dare is finished. You can drop the pebble now."

"Very smooth, Kitty," she said sarcastically, releasing the stone, "but moving onto the next turn might not save you. I can still dare you to answer a truthful question, don't you forget."

Chat's eyes widened briefly in shock before his expression morphed into his patented kitty pout — peeking out from beneath his lashes, pupils blown wide and shining, lower lip stuck out and quivering, head tilted to the side just so. "You wouldn't do that to me, would you? That would be so mean!"

She narrowed her eyes and met his pleading gaze with a stony stare of her own for a few moments, but then broke away with an exasperated sigh. "Fine, I'll play nice. But one of these days I'm gonna figure out how to defeat your pout, and then you'll be in for some serious trouble," she warned, waggling a finger at him. "Okay, your dare is to… sing about a minute of a song, but replace every fifth word with the word croissant. And I have to approve your choice before you start singing! Also, if you start laughing, you have to start again. Think you can handle it?"

"I'm all over it! Just give me a minute to think up the perfect tune to serenade you with!" he proclaimed confidently.

"No problem, just as long as there's no cat-erwauling," she said with a smirk.

He froze. "Wait, was that a pun?"

She looked at him, a sly smile playing at the corners of her lips, but did not reply.

"Not gonna admit it, huh? That's fine. I think I have just the song for you. Go ahead and stop me if you don't approve." He stood and bowed like a maestro walking onstage for a piano recital. "Now, just sit back, relax, and enjoy the show, milady."

With that, he began humming and plucking at an imaginary… cello? Bass? Some sort of large string instrument. He opened his mouth, and sang (in a surprisingly smooth tenor), "I've got a gal croissant always late, any time croissant got a date. But I croissant her, I've gotta ask her, croissant you is or is croissant ain't my babyy?" His voice wavered with suppressed laughter by the third croissant, but he pressed on, counting out words on his fingers as he mimed plucking the strings. Ladybug had no such luck holding back her giggles and had to bite down on her own hand to smother some of the noise. "Maybe baby's croissant somebody new... or is my croissant still my baby truuuue?"

Chat finished the chorus with a flourish on his imaginary instrument before promptly dissolving into peals of laughter and plopping down in a heap next to his partner. They both just sat there chuckling for a while, trying very hard not to look at each other — for every time they calmed down slightly and their eyes met, they burst into laughter and had to start the process all over again. Eventually, they managed to regain control of themselves and quiet down. Tired now, they laid down on their backs, heads beside one another, feet stretched in opposite directions, and looked up at the few stars visible in Paris's night sky. For several minutes, neither of them made a sound.

"Wow," Ladybug breathed, breaking the silence, "what a view. I could just lay here all night."

Chat hummed in agreement. After a few moments, he shifted and turned his head slightly so he could see her profile. "Hey Ladybug," he said softly. She turned to look at him. "Truth or dare?"

She smiled. "Truth," she answered, just as softly.

"If you were playing Max's akuma game, but with Disney/Pixar characters, and the computer chose Hawkmoth, which character would you pit against him?" When she didn't speak for a few moments, he continued, "Take your time, it's a very important decision."

Ladybug pondered her options for a minute or two, weighing the pros and cons of various animated characters. All of a sudden, inspiration struck, and she let out a quiet giggle at her stroke of genius. "Oh, I have the perfect idea: the Pixar lamp." And she turned to him expectantly, amusement and pride evident in her expression.

Forehead wrinkled in confusion, he said, "I don't get it. Explain?"

She propped herself up on an elbow so she could see him better. "Okay, um… look at it this way. He calls himself Hawkmoth, which is a species of moth, right?"

He nodded.

She went on, "And moths are attracted to light and heat, to the point that they sometimes act drunk around things like lightbulbs and small flames."

Another nod.

"Plus, take into account the fact that you and I have some traits from our namesakes — you purr and I snack on flowers."

A rueful chuckle accompanied the next nod.

"So, it makes sense that Hawkmoth might be attracted to lamps. But then, the coup de graçe: do you remember what the Pixar lamp does?"

"It… hops?" Comprehension dawned. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "I get it." He started to laugh again, softly at first, then louder.

Ladybug laughed along with him, trying to speak through her mirth. "So... hahaha... I'm just imagining *snort* Hawkmoth... heeheehee... trying to chase the lamp around, while this… sentient lamp... *giggle*… just keeps trying to bonk him and jump on his head!" She pressed a hand to her stomach, laughing until it was difficult to breathe. "We wouldn't even be needed anymore!"

At this, Chat laughed so hard that his voice was no longer audible, and he just lay there, shaking and gasping for air. Finally, he caught his breath enough to gesture wildly and choke out, "Milady, you're a genius! Hawkmoth would totally just be running around like… *snicker*… 'LAMPY! Let me love you!' and the lamp would be like *BONK* and then… bahaha… they'd be together forever! *snort* Honestly, this is more of a ship than a fight!" His arms dropped back to his stomach as he fell into another fit of laughter.

The two of them laughed and laughed until their stomachs ached and tears streamed from their eyes, and the sounds of their voices echoed across the Parisian skyline. When they'd nearly laughed themselves hoarse, a sense of peace stole over them, and their minds and voices grew quiet and calm once more. They continued to lay there for several minutes, soaking in the comfortable silence, feeling — for once — completely in tune with the world around them.

"Hey, Chat?" Ladybug murmured.

"Hmm?"

"I'm glad you're my partner. There's no one I'd rather be here with than you."

He smiled and gently touched his head to hers. "You and me, Milady. Forever."

Hawkmoth and the rest of the world could wait.

Right here, right now?

This moment was theirs alone.

#mlsecretsanta #my writing #ml fic #ladynoir #lovesquare #platonic ladynoir #truth or dare #laughing in the starlight

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beyondthetower · 4 years ago

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Songs of Gronder Field (Annette x Felix)

Summary: Felix runs to Annette after the post time-skip battle at Gronder Field

Characters/Pairing: Annette x Felix

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: Spoilers for Azure Moon maybe?

A/N: Way more angst than I was intending oops. Inspired by this beautiful art piece by @meintaiko! I’m obsessed with this art piece and it got my Netteflix feelings raging.

Nobody had known about them. He liked it that way. In all honesty, even Felix wasn’t sure he knew what they were. There had been a few moments of weakness; moments when the soft, cheerful sounds of Annette singing would drift into his path and momentarily cause a crack in his carefully built walls. He had tried to poke fun with his dry, sarcastic remarks, but after years of being apart he found himself seeking her voice out when he walked around the monastery. Until he finally got found out, hiding outside of the greenhouse, listening to her sing and wanting nothing more than to sit with her while she did it.

Of course, he regretted her knowing it. Telling her had been another moment of softness that made him angry at himself. But when she noticed him standing outside, watching the sky as he listened to her soothing voice, he was too flustered to lie. She hadn’t laughed at him, really. And she continued to sing for him. But other than that, he hadn’t seen her too much. He avoided her most of the time. Unless she was alone where he would sit with her and listen to her work, occasionally answering her questions or chuckling at her clumsiness.

He liked what they were. He liked that she never questioned him, or pestered him, but rather just let him find her when he needed to. He liked that she would find too, when he locked himself away at the training grounds alone. She would curl up on the stone wall, studying, and wait patiently for him to come sit quietly with her. When he did, she hummed absent-mindedly to herself. She didn’t force conversation. It was easy. It was unattached. He liked easy and unattached.

War, it seemed, changed him. After the professor had disappeared all of the Blue Lions had parted ways. He had gone back to Fraldarius territory to help his father hold back the Empire troops. Annette had spent some time with Ingrid in Galatea territory before making her way back to Fhirdiad. The change that occurred in her absence wasn’t exactly obvious at first. It hadn’t hit him until he saw her again at Garreg Mach: he had missed her.

He noticed it first in his fighting. His technique had changed. Specifically, it had gotten worse. His footwork was sloppy, his mind was foggy, and he found himself anxious at the idea of going back into battle. This day was no exception. The one thing he had been training for all his life and here he was, standing in the middle of Gronder Field, on the verge of tears.

A post-battle hum had settled over the landscape. Patches of high grass simmered in smoke left over from the attacks between former classmates.

Classmates.

They had been his classmates. He had sparred with them, eaten lunch with them. He had watched them dance to stupid songs across the floor of the reception hall and listened to stupid gossip about the Goddess Tower.

Now his sword was stained with their blood.

Felix turned to face what was left of his own army. He had been used to a similar feeling in their Academy days: glancing around to make sure that bandits hadn’t gotten the best of Ingrid or Sylvain or even Dimitri. This time was different though. This time his eyes seemed to have an acute focus that he couldn’t pin down. That was, until he saw her.

Out in the distance, Annette stood up from behind a cluster of boulders, dusting off her arms and calling out to Mercedes who hurried over and hugged her fiercely. Felix’s breath caught in his chest, and a weird mixture of relief and unmanageable fear sprang through his veins. He hadn’t talked to her much since the reunion. But as he saw Annette standing there, apparently given a clean bill of health from Mercedes, he absentmindedly moved toward her. He hadn’t realized he had been running, not until he was close enough to see the surprise in Annette’s face as he got closer. The blue-green currents of her eyes flinching and startled.

Without thinking, Felix threw his arms around her.

She was so small, he realized. He himself wasn’t a large guy, but she fit so perfectly against his chest. His arms wrapped around her in the kind of bear hug that illustrated the fierce protection he often felt over her. Hee realized as he held her that her protection hadn’t been his motivation for crashing into her now; it was his own.

“Felix-” Annette said quickly.

He said something back, his words muffled by her hair. She looked around with wide eyes, realizing that people were staring. Mercedes had excused herself, turning her back to them and trying to distract Sylvain and Ingrid as they limped toward them in confusion. Ashe had made his way over, doing a double take but trying to make himself busy with his bow.

“What?” Annette said, realizing she hadn’t made out what he had said.

Felix pulled away, his hands still grasping her waist. “Sing something,” he said sharply. “Anything, that stupid swamp beastie song I don’t care just-” His voice cracked, and he squeezed his eyes shut while the shame of weakness washed over him. Shame that only began dissipating when he felt the soft touch of a hand on his cheek.

When he opened his eyes he was surprised to see that his vision was blurred. He blinked a few times, hoping it would clear the fog from his sight, but was horrified to see that it had only shaken free tears from his eyelashes that landed on Annette’s cheek.

“Hey,” she said. “It’s okay.”

Felix shook his head angrily, suddenly aware of the heat rising in his cheeks and the eyes of his classmates staring from a few yards away. Feet shuffled around him, making him horribly aware that people could see them. He was careless. He had let his guard down. In front of his classmates for that matter. Classmates that, yes, were allies, but could very easily be enemies. He had learned that quickly. Anyone could turn against you. Anyone could use those weaknesses against you. Should any of his so-called friends turn against him they would have that weakness. His weakness. Her.

Felix felt his knees buckled underneath him. He steadied himself on the boulder behind him and didn’t protest when Annette reached for him again. She hovered over him, cradling the back of his head with one hand and steadying him with the other.

For the first time, at least the first time in his recent memory, Felix let himself fall apart. His forehead fell against Annette’s shoulder, and through his shaking breaths he could feel the tears continue to fall, sinking into the fabric of her jacket. He hated the way it made him feel: small and fragile and weaker than he was supposed to be. His brother had died in battle for heaven’s sake. He knew the reality of war. He had trained his entire life for the kind of battle he had been through that day. So why did it feel so hard?

There had been a darkness, he realized, that had seeped its way into his world. It had always been there, he was sure, lurking around the corner and waiting for his breaking point. Waiting for Duscur.

When Glenn died it took root in his soul. It grew around his bones and built him that sturdy armor of emotional distance that made him the kind of warrior he strived to be. It had come full circle, it seemed. It had sniffed out this momentary lapse in sturdiness--the wavering fear he felt in killing those he used to call peers--and was ready to strike it down. He could feel himself blooming into something different. Something dark. Something he wasn’t sure he wanted.

But then there was a splinter of light. And Annette’s voice broke through the cracks of his armor again. “It’s okay,” she breathed. Her breath was warm on the back of his neck, bringing him back to that post-battle stillness. Bringing him back to something that felt more like himself.

Felix tried to bury himself deeper into her shoulder. Crawling further into this new, safe, space that felt like home. He didn’t want that darkness to take hold. He didn’t want those roots to grow. He had found a new safeguard that she had planted and tended with those stupid songs and her cheerful laugh and the soft way she touched him.

“Oh how I just love to clean, clean the Library room…”

Felix could feel the pounding in his chest dissipating. His breath, labored as it was, started to regulate again. Annette stroked his hair in slow steady movements and he tried to match his breaths with it. He could feel her cheek pressed against his temple, her He listened as she sang about blowing up the library and almost smiled.

“It’s a stupid song,” Felix said quietly. He felt a shift and an exhale that sounded like an attempt at a laugh.

“Would you rather something else?” she countered. “Maybe one of the Saint Hymns?”

“No,” he told her. And he meant it.

Felix could feel her smile against his skin. She pressed a small kiss to his hair and went on with her song. He traced his thumb in small circles on her back as his hands hung limp against her coat. Having her within arms reach, within earshot, was enough to bring him back toward himself.

The war wasn’t done. There were sure to be plenty of other battles like this one, scary enough to shake him to his core. But maybe...maybe if he could still be near her, still be close enough to hear her voice or to call out when he needed her, that would be enough to get him through it.

#annette fantine dominic #felix hugo fraldarius #netteflix #fe3h #fire emblem three houses #felix x annette #annette x felix #fe3h fanfic #blue lions #gronder field angst am i right?#fire emblem fanfiction

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prettywordsyouleft · 5 years ago

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I am wondering if you could kindly give me some advice? I created a tumblog for writing and I am now communicating with followers! I am so amazed but also worried. You see I thought a mutual was a friend. I think I was wrong. I am naturally shy and awkward. How do you safeguard yourself on here? Please I am open to all tips and advice you have learned here! I admire how honest you are and hope to be the same with my own account. Thank you! -shybunny

Okay, so worst person to ask this but I’ll try to answer in a way that doesn’t put you off entirely. First though, congrats on your blog and interactions! I bet you deserve every single one commending you for your efforts! I wish you a lot of luck with your account and if I’m not following already, please let me know if I can support you like you have me

Now for the tough part. I’m sure my experience is different from others and so rather than treating my word as gospel, please reach out to other writers in the community with the same question and take what you can from each response to create the picture you’re hoping works best for you.

The toughest lesson I had to learn was being mutuals does not equal friendship.

I cannot stress this enough! I wish I could tell you that the term does mean friendship each time. But it really doesn’t. And so it’s best that you remove that notion in the beginning as not to hurt yourself or hold that type of expectation with every kind interaction you have on here. I know, that sounds cold, heartless even. I definitely do have mutuals who have become genuine friends but I came into this scene pretty naive. I struggle with friendships and equality in levels of perceived friendship naturally as an insecure person and I am pretty isolated in my life outside of this place. I suddenly started interacting with all these people on a daily basis and I thought wow, I’m doing this friend thing right for once! And then their interest would shift, or maybe I did something to inadvertently annoy them that I wasn’t aware of, who knows. But that daily interaction slowed off and now those people I barely interact with - if at all. I’m not trying to say this is everyone’s experience, rather, don’t hope every connection will become a friendship. You just share a common goal/interest or they were inspired by something you shared, and not so much what you as a person offer.

And that is absolutely okay! Allowing yourself to respect the lines of communication with people and their own needs in life without feeling, a) it’s my fault, I’m so shy and awkward or b) thinking constantly about what you did wrong to end that connection, is important! People change and so do you. Sometimes people are only meant to be in your world for a short period of time too! And others will be there for their own gains from your efforts and it’s up to you on how you perceive and treat that. For me, I try to leave the door open. I won’t hold my breath, and if I feel I’ve done something to offend someone, I’ll ask. It’s better to feel foolish temporarily than be six months down the track still thinking about what you could have done better.

Some times it’s just how it is.

Focus on the goal for why you have your blog.

I definitely believe in being true to who you are regardless of what forum you’re on. But getting caught up on some factors here can be distracting and you can lose steam on why you chose to make your blog in the first place. My goal is to share my content and a little bit of myself so people know a little of the person behind the words. I’m not always good at this, further, I know I’m an over-sharer and having a platform like this can be a bit of a curse because I’m responsible for keeping to a reputation that I’m proud of. I want to ensure I stick to that, but I’m only human too! Sometimes I make dumb mistakes and I get quite upset with myself for doing that. I don’t want people to see me poorly... but equally, it’s important to not be aesthetically put together because that’s not who I am - I know just how flawed I am. I’m certain some of my actions here have caused some people following me to leave or change their opinion. And I’ve gravely worried over that. It’s not the focus of this blog though. As long as I’m not harming anyone - and if I do, I take the appropriate steps to rectify that immediately - then the only opinion I should be worried most about is my own.

This one is hypocritical and contradicts the previous point but - try not to answer anon hate.

I hope to God you don’t get any. I’m known for replying to anon hate and calling out people for being entitled or out of line. A lot of the messages I receive I don’t actually post but I still do reply to some and it that is defeating the point. I’m aware that replying to these messages has given some people the opinion I love the attention I receive when I’m backed up for posting my responses. It’s a fine line though, and even I sit there thinking about people’s opinions before replying to anon hate - can I let this one go or is it worth risking the old “attention seeker” card for. I honestly don’t want to attract attention for anything more than my writing. I appreciate being validated for what I do here and I work hard enough to receive that. Equally, I want that for every writer too. But answering anon hate has made me some enemies or left a sour taste in some people that I cannot remove or show them that I’m not genuinely out here wanting that kind of “fame” or attention. Like I said, I’m human, and I feel I am allowed the right to defend myself. There are consequences of doing that though and if I could go back to the point where I first started standing up for myself, I would just ignore, block and continue on. Constructive criticism is fine and I still do think everyone should do what suits them best, but if I could safeguard myself properly from the start, it would be to consistently avoid biting back at anon messages that offend me. I now mostly laugh and reply to make the point that I’m not offended because I’m no longer upset 9 times out of 10, but it’s definitely caused me some moments where I regret doing it.

Admittedly, recently I was sent a message saying that people I deem as close mutuals were talking poorly about me in a group chat. And that was probably just someone trying to stir drama and it’s not actually happened - further they weren’t considering how I would feel reading that. Had they thought about me, they wouldn’t have sent it. Because all it does is breeds insecurity and I’ve pulled away from trusting a lot of people on here, which is why I feel like asking me this question isn’t going to give you the best answer and I encourage you to reach out to others who are well established in their mutual groups for advice as well. A lot of people say don’t take tumblr so seriously... but when it’s a place where you’ve bared a lot of your soul through the written word, it’s a little hard to just wave it all off too. Anyway, I’ve written way too much but you said it, I like being honest with people who reach out to me. I hope you gain something - even what not to do - from this answer and I wish you the best of luck. May your writing tumblr journey be positive and exciting and thank you for your message

#sorry to all followers for how long this is and not being under a cut line #they don't work on asks

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monsterb0yf · 5 years ago

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Know a Piece of Peace

Pairing: N (Cha HakYeon) [VIXX] x Reader (male)

Word Count: 2.6 k

Genre: Fluff, fantasy, romance, mythology

Summary: He comes to you to steal, but instead he is gifted something much greater.

a/n: really the gender of the reader isn’t important except for two lines in the story, so feel free to consider this gender neutral! I didn’t originally intend on doing this but the opportunity was there and i felt inspired by the other xreaders within the collab.

Song: Shangri-La

VIXX PARALLEL Collaboration Masterlist

When he comes to the garden, it isn't a surprise. You see his ascension, you see the thread of a story slowly unfurl itself from its coil. You saw his family point him to the heavens. You heard the commands he received in order to prove himself. A lowly man, with nothing and no one. The only way for such a human to prove himself is to climb the roots towards the heavens and claim the fruit of your tree. It has been attempted before, and you will surely see it again. Even so, you watch in bemusement as this determined man scales the ever daunting roots of the great tree. His tenacity is endearing. You hope to bring forth a blossom from the hard pit he currently is.

You wait when he first arrives. It was a silly human tradition, to steal the fruit of gods in hopes of proving one's worth. You have no claim over what the humans culture is though. That was your sister's choice long ago. As the younger brother, you were kept to safeguard the Higher's blessings made physical. The petals fall about your grey robe. He's climbing up the stone steps.

"Welcome to my orchard, human. What do you seek?" He stops dead in his tracks at the sight of you at the top of the hill. Father's wind blows and your robe smacks your ankles, your hair flutters. The human blinks.

"Who. . .are you?" You step down the stairs. This man is barefoot and clearly scraped from his journey. On his back is a bag, assuredly not carrying much. On his face is unease. He seems too mystified to take his hands away when you hold them.

"I am the keeper of this garden. A spirit of the tree and its fruit and its blossoms themselves." He looks down at your hands, obviously perplexed.

"But-but the lady of the leaves-"

"My mother cares for your leaves. She cares for the Higher's leaves. She does not," you smile down at his innocent ignorance and confused face, "care for my trees." He stammers for response as you turn back and led him up the hill by one of the hands you took. They're strong and calloused. His life has been a hard days work. Never had a lover's caress, never a child who looks to him as a star gifted to earth, never a warm embrace of a parent. He is alone, and he is cold. You bring him to the warmth that is standing beneath your ever pink, ever blossoming tree.

"I- I expected a goddess or… or at least no body."

"You expected an easier time stealing my fruit."

The human looked affronted, opening his mouth and going to protest before realizing the truth.

"I don't steal," came his weak reply. You hum and reach up to grab a peach from the branches. Its flesh is soft, barely retaining its shape from the lightest of presses from your fingers. Its skin is pink and gold, divine in every manner of the term. The human goes wide eyed when you hold it before him.

"Then you expect to ask?" He is breathless staring at the fruit. He could take it and run. He could very easily snatch it from your loose grip and sprint back down the stone steps to the roots connecting you to earth, but he doesn't. He does lick his lips and gulp however.

"I will beg."

Very . . . intriguing.

You take the hand that never left yours and guide him to the cliff edge, where you sit and watch the humans. You have him sit beside you. The peach rests on your lap.

"First, sit. Take a moment's peace with me."

"What is your name?"

"Hakyeon."

You hum. With ease, you pull the peach apart into its halves. Juice drips onto your robe and hands. The air is tantalizing sweet.

"Why do you come to beg for my fruit, Hakyeon?" You turn to him, folding your legs. The human avoids your eyes, looking down to the earth below. He cannot see the other humans as you can.

"Everyone said this was the only way." You take a bite of one of the halves, letting its sweet juice coat your lips. You know the story, yet you chose to listen anyway.

"The only way to get what?" Hakyeon pauses. The gaze that meets your eyes is open and sincere. The words are more honeyed when they are spoken from the human's soul.

"Love."

"How do you gain love from my fruits?"

"Your fruit can make the finest drink in the world. A drink from it would have anyone fall in love. Nothing is as sweet and as warm and as gentle as love and your fruit. Your peaches are love manifest."

You mull on that. Love manifest. Could your fruits be a home-like as a lovers embrace? As warm as an early morning waking up in sunlight and a partner's arms? You wouldn't know. No human has made it this far. No one has eaten gods' fruit except for you.

"All I want is love. I have been shunned from everyone all my life. I want a place. I want, at the least, a friend."

You take half of the peach and bring it to Hakyeon's lips. He jerks back the first time, feeling himself unworthy of the gift. You insist, pushing again until his lips part and at least his tongue touches the sweet flesh. You can almost see the sparks he feels at the taste. The sweetest fruit to man or god. A flavor so pleasurable it as though death itself took delicious form. He takes a bite. Juice drips down his chin onto his dirty blouse and pants. You watch him chew, feel, in interest.

"How does love taste then, Hakyeon? Is this what you intended to feel?" He grabs your wrist and takes more. His eyes close and roll back in clear bliss.

"You don't need my fruit to sense love Hakyeon. We are all deserving. You are strong and beautiful. Your heart yearns for company, but you will not find it in shortcuts." You take the peach away, Hakyeon looking dazed. Your other hand reaches out, caressing his face. You wipe the juice from his chin, smear it across his lips and cheek. His face is soft, yet imperfect. His mortality give him beautiful imperfection. He has beauty marks, his eyes are dark, his skin is enticing. His voice is melodic as he asked for more. There is no mind in how close either of you are, you holding him close enough to mix breathes and count lashes. "There is love for you, but it is not my fruit."

"There is nothing down there for me. I will find no love there."

"What do you suggest then, Hakyeon?" Your conversation is in whispers at this point. The human leans forward. There is barely even a brush of lips to the touch, but it immobilizes you. A lover's caress. You have never had another being in such proximity. He pulls away just as easily as he had approached. There is a hair's width between you. His eyes don't ask like his voice does.

"Let me stay with you here?"

"This is no place meant for mortal." His hand is in your hair and it's easy to relax into.

"I have been here only moments, and yet I have never felt as loved and safe as I am now. Allow me to stay."

"Hakyeon…" You feel naturally inclined for another kiss. You're both grasping onto one another as Hakyeon slowly falls back. He tastes like peaches, but smells purely of human. Of mother's pine and soil, of father's dry wind, of uncle's hot sun. He is sweat and he is earth and he is mortal. He is excitement.

He is crackling embers on your skin and the laughter in your bellies as petals fall down upon your bodies. His smile is dazzling and is a nail in the coffin for the deal. The peaches and other humans never have this feeling. This pleasant tingle from your lips to the soles of your feet. Hakyeon had never tasted the fruit of the gods', and you had never tasted the emotions of men. He looks beautiful on the dirt, surrounded by the pink petals already since fallen. His skin was warm and welcoming, just as his smile, as his eyes, as his laugh. You take a petal and balance it on his nose, delighted by the simplest fact that it stays and looks ridiculous.

"You are a very special human, Hakyeon."

"You are a very charming spirit."

"Your humans ask of you at times," you mention offhand to the lover you lean against. Hakyeon's chest is not broad or stiff with muscle, but he is warm, and his hands are on you. That is all you can ask. The two of you are under the peach tree, as was often the case. You both leaned against the trunk and watched as the panther of night sky chase away the dog's day. A sky alight in colors from the shift of the time. It will get cold soon, yet you don't even bother to fix the robe of which barely covers your chest at this point. Hakyeon's hands were the cause. They liked to roam your chest, caress the perfect body of a god. He liked to lay on it too. Fall asleep under the stars and blossoms with his nose in your neck. For a human so alone, he is well versed in keeping good company.

"Do they?"

"Yes. They question if you succeeded. If you died finding me."

"The old me died. I found you and became anew." You smiled up at him.

"At times, you sound like the god of love has visited you in your dreams." Hakyeon laughed and shook his head.

"No. No, my god of love is right here." He pulls you closer, more flush against his side. "You are devotion taken God like form." He pulls you in for a kiss, but the question falls from your lips.

"Do you miss them?"

"Miss who?" You reach up and run a thumb over his lips, pensive.

"The humans, your people. All you have here is me and the fruit. Don't you miss other mortal company?" He doesn't answer at first. He's looking at you. You know he heard you. He's simply contemplating. You give him the kiss he wanted, albeit more of a peck.

"I miss my brothers and sisters. That is all." He fixes the robe that has fallen off your shoulder. "I am happiest here though. I don't want to be without you." You bite your nails in thought. You'd never gone to humans. You've never left your garden. You are, however, willing to do anything to make this miserable man smile.

"Let us go down then. I will accompany you to your family." Father's breeze picks up and blows petals onto you both. Hakyeon looks shocked.

"No! You've never met humans and they can be terribly cruel and-and… and my family probably doesn't miss me anyway." You pull away from Hakyeon, pouting. By now, the stars have nestled into their places in the sky and it's cold on your bare skin. Not the matter at hand though.

"Hakyeon, if you miss them they surely return the feeling. And I am a god, nothing humans can do will hurt more than my feelings."

"My love-"

"Let us go Hakyeon. Let us both see your family once more and be merry with them." Hakyeon sighs and pulls you back in. Your face is in his chest as he rests his head on yours.

"We shall see."

When your feet first reach the ground, you are amazed. The human realm is so large, so beautiful. There are giant rolling hills and beautiful golden fields of grain that stretch on into the horizon. Your breath catches in you throat and Hakyeon looks to you with a smile. Your appearance doesn’t fit in his human world. So clean and prim, such perfect appearance. He watches you carefully step, feeling the grass between your toes. How is this so different from your garden?! It takes a moment for Hakyeon to actually get you to focus on walking to his village with him and not looking at every bug and plant you see. You hug onto his arm and walk with him to the village.

Hakyeon chose today because of the festival. Harvest season. There would be a huge parade, humans in costumes, plentiful sweets and desserts. Easier to hide a god in a costume, Hakyeon claimed.

"No one even knows what I look like. You don't need such precautions." Hakyeon hushed you.

"Consider it part of the festivity, then. You'll just be celebrating as a human does." The village was busy, filled with music and people. You crushed Hakyeon's hand watching in excitement. He lead you away from the crowd though, to the vendors. A mask was lovingly put on your face for you, Hakyeon tying the string and then paying. The looking class showed your disguise to be a fox. It was darling. Black with yellow and red swirls and designs. It covered your whole face, only showing your eyes. You held onto Hakyeon's hand and he guided you through the crowd.

"May we dance?" He came to a halt, looking back to you.

"What?"

"I'd like to join! It seems delightful. Please, darling." Hakyeon looked between you and the path you both had been travelling before heaving a sigh.

"One dance," he relented. He squeaked and stumbled as you pulled him along to the edges of the square. He took your hand in his once he regained balance.

"I step in with my left, you step in with your right." His foot came between your legs and you did as instructed. It was a kind of rocking motion, both stepping in to one another and then stepping out. The humans were full of conversation and laughter, full of merriment. All of them, except Hakyeon. He seemed at an unease, always looking around the two of you at the crowd.

"What distresses you, Hakyeon?" You spoke softly on a step in.

"Nothing."

"Do you not enjoy dancing?" He sighed. He was looking resolutely at his feet.

"I do, deeply. I do not enjoy being seen though. Especially here." You looked about and saw not eyes on either of you. Everyone was about their own little world.

"No one is watching."

"And if they are? What if they see a mistake? Or question you as my partner? I am already a stranger to this village." His tone was tragic and expression forlorn. You stopped dancing, holding his face. He was such an anxious creature and he wore his fears on his wrist. You wanted to allay them.

"If you love to dance, do it. If you love me, savor me. Your mortal life is much too short to live fearlessly. Act as though you do when you are high off the sweetness of the peaches. Love, and love recklessly without fear of contrition." He blinked at you, softening as he always did. Your reassurances were the honey to soothe his aching heart.

"You are always so loving."

"As I said before, you are deserving of it." He stepped into you. The lanterns cast a familiar kind of glow on him. The kind during sunsets, where reds and blues and purples all take a shine to him and make him appear ethereal. His hands reach up and tilt your mask up, not all the way, just enough for your mouth to be exposed. It's a kiss, gentle but prolonged. All the sensations melt into one pleasant buzz and you are left with a permanently good impression of the humans. They are all fascinating and lovable, just one in particular captured your heart though.

#VIXX parallel collab #vixx #my writing #Cha Hakyeon #VPCollab #vixx fanfic #vixx N #N

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lady-divine-writes · 6 years ago

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Kurtbastian fic - “Dreamscape - Chapter 5″ (Rated NC17)

Summary:

Snarky, conceited Sebastian Smythe is "recruited" by the U. S. Government into a project that uses psychics like himself to enter people's dreams and cure them of their nightmares. The scientists running the study are Dr. Kurt Hummel, himself an empath, who's not at all impressed by Sebastian's abilities, and Dr. Jesse St. James, using this project more to further his own ambition than to actually help people. Kurt hopes his research will help soldiers suffering from PTSD overcome their nightmares so they can better readjust to civilian life, but someone else has an eye on Kurt's project, an interest in using 'dream therapy' for a far more nefarious purpose.

Inspired by the movie 'Dreamscape'

Read on AO3.

(6140 words this chapter)

“Subject: Parapsychology at Stanford Research Institute (SRI) 1. The intent of this memorandum is to briefly describe the OTS - SRI parapsychology project including a listing of the American citizens tested … fucking shit! This is what I hate about places like this,” Sebastian murmurs. “All the Goddammed homework!” He blinks at the white lines and black typeface bleeding into impressionist beetles before his eyes. “This is gonna put me in a coma. I guess that’s how they’re going to get me to succeed with all this dream link nonsense. By knocking me out permanently.”

He squeezes his eyes shut till bursts of color snap behind his lids. He takes a deep breath in, lets it out, counts to ten, and opens his eyes again. He adjusts the page in front of his face and tackles the paragraph again from the beginning - the same paragraph he’s read about fifteen times already. But none of it makes sense. He chuckles at the irony of that. “So much for my propensity for medicine, huh, Dr. Hummel? Kurt …” He gives the name a try, lets it roll off his tired tongue in his husky voice, a stone’s throw from his after sex voice.

It sounds good, he has to say that.

Scholastic papers on any topic have never been his cup of tea. Technical jargon and inflated science speak? Pompous and unnecessary. Or maybe he’s struggling with reading this encyclopedia of parapsychology because it’s … Sebastian checks his watch and groans. He thought it was creeping up on midnight, but it’s well past two in the morning.

“Great.” He closes the prospectus and tosses it to the foot of the bed. He wants to get some frickin’ sleep and have this disaster of a day be over already. A couple of hours, that’s all he asks. But he’s never had luck sleeping in places that weren’t his own home, his own bed. As a kid, his parents could take him on the best vacation to the funnest place in the universe, and he’d be miserable because he couldn’t fall asleep in a hotel bed.

Thinking about his apartment doesn’t help – his own spacious room and his nice, cozy bed now under surveillance by the federal government and three hired guns in black suits, probably all named Vinny. He can get as pissed as he wants for Jesse tipping them off (since he’s determined he’s the mastermind behind that set-up) but, truthfully, they were bound to catch up with him sooner or later. He can admit to himself that he was getting too cocky.

Lucky he ended up here instead of prison.

Or wearing cement shoes and sunk to the bottom of Lake Huron.

His mom used to say that people are where they’re meant to be at any given time. Maybe his ending up here has nothing to do with him or the choices he made. Maybe this is fate. This facility isn’t a bump in the road to somewhere else, it’s where he was supposed to end up.

…

Nope. Fuck that.

If he had been thinking with his head and not his dick, bypassed Satan-tana and headed for the car in his vision … he’d still be here. But he might have spent the night with Kurt instead. Would tapping Kurt be an even exchange for what he’s going through now? What he might potentially go through?

Again, one of many questions he might never get the answer to.

Before Kurt left Sebastian to his own devices, he gave him a stack of paperwork to peruse – a detailed breakdown of the project, the outreach programs it currently serves, the trials, and the supporting documentation that goes along with it.

It was Kurt’s first step at keeping his transparency promise.

Sebastian thanked him for it, but dumped it on his bedside table, determined to glean the CliffsNotes version from various unsuspecting brains around the facility. But the document, chock full of classified(ish) information that Kurt gave him willingly, mocked him. Kurt was making good on his part of the bargain.

Sebastian, on the other hand, was being a stubborn ass.

He glances out the door into the hallway. He’d left it open on the off chance Kurt ended up down his way during one of the walks Sebastian suspects he takes at the facility late at night. Sebastian discovered, entirely by accident, leaving the door open formed a rift in the barrier that keeps psychic powers contained. He can’t actively read anyone’s mind, but it allows Sebastian to get an impression of Kurt in the building. But with his walls up, Sebastian has no idea if he’s awake or asleep, out and about or in his office.

If he ever crosses Kurt’s mind.

He probably does now that he’s participating in Kurt’s study, even if it’s in a purely clinical way.

That’s better than nothing.

“Mason …”

A woman’s voice echoes through his ears from the inside, and Sebastian stops breathing. He sits up, looks around, eyes searching out the corners of his room for any place someone could hide, but there’s literally nowhere.

“Hello?” he calls, then waits for a response.

“Mason … be careful! Don’t do anything stupid …”

“Mason?” Sebastian swings his legs over the side of his bed. Isn’t that one of the incest twins?

Sebastian rises from his bed and walks to the door. He leans out into the hallway, looks left and right, but he sees no one. He half expected armed guards stationed outside his room or at the end of the hallway, but it seems deserted. The facility probably relies on cameras to keep their assets from running off.

Or on Kurt’s memory.

And whereas he wants to remain bitter about the whole ‘big brother watching him’ thing, the thought of his vitals, his brain wave patterns, and his heat signature locked inside Kurt’s brain makes that impossible.

“Mason!”

The urgency in that voice forces Sebastian to take a step back. He definitely hears it louder out in the hallway. But it’s not aimed at his brain. It sounds like it’s traveling through the walls. Sebastian presses his palm against the wall and closes his eyes, waiting until the next wave hits. There’s a chance he can pinpoint the voice’s location if he can absorb its impact.

“Mason? Mason, please, be careful. What’s going on? Why can’t you answer me!?”

Sebastian smiles.

Bingo.

With his hand on the wall, the path to her location lights up in his mind. He starts walking, getting as far as he can before the image fades, then stops to wait for another one. Luckily for him, this woman can’t seem to stop talking. Sebastian hurries along the corridor the way he and Kurt came, in the direction of one particular room. A room he saw earlier on his tour.

A room behind a metal door that technicians needed a keycard to enter.

As curious as he is, Sebastian isn’t cool with the idea of hanging out in this hallway, in the open, waiting for someone to come out. If he isn’t on anyone’s radar yet, he should be soon. But as luck would have it, help comes his way, rounding the corner at the far end of the hall. The technician doesn’t see Sebastian duck out of sight, too caught up in a message on his phone. Sebastian watches the man cautiously, waiting to see if he’s heading for the room. He could blow past it, round the end of the hall, and run straight into Sebastian.

No one told Sebastian if there’s a curfew, but he’s certain stalking the halls at two a.m. is frowned upon.

Five feet from the door, the technician stops. He looks up from his phone straight in Sebastian’s direction. Sebastian is sure the man sees him, but he goes back to his phone. He locks his screen and shoves it in his pocket. Then he approaches the door. Sebastian barely blinks as the man pulls his keycard out of his pocket and sticks it in the keypad. With a click, the door unlocks, swinging open by itself. He slips the keycard back into his pocket and walks through the door. Sebastian visualizes the keycard before it disappears from view. He reaches out for it with his mind, holds onto it, and locks it in place. The man walks through the door but his keycard stays behind. After the door swings shuts, Sebastian rushes forward and plucks the card out of the air. He lets go of the breath he’s holding, his heart racing with adrenaline. Buzzing from this victory, he has to consciously calm down before he goes any further.

With his heart pounding in his chest, even an empath with less honed skills than Kurt’s should be able to sense him from a mile away.

Sebastian presses an ear to the door, listens for the sound of footsteps to grow distant, counts to five when they stop entirely, then inserts the keycard again. Sebastian takes a gamble that a safeguard on the keycards could keep them from being used twice in a row, and trigger security to boot, but the door clicks and swings open. A lengthy hallway stretches out before him, lit a blinding white, making the end barely visible. Is there a corner at the end that leads to a different room? Another door? An elevator? With the absence of shadows, he can’t tell. He tiptoes inside, trying not to make his presence known, but the linoleum floor amplifies the sound of his footsteps no matter how softly he treads.

The hallway turns out to be part illusion, and not as long as it seems when he first enters it. It ends at a corner but not a door, funneling directly into a dimly lit control room, reminiscent of the one he saw with Kurt, when he met Sam - the young man who has fantasies of an intimate relationship with Kurt. A wash of jealously rushes over him, especially considering the way Kurt scolded him for not showing respect, and he realizes he doesn’t do a good job at masking his thoughts too well. It’s a wonder Kurt can’t sense that he’s out of his room at this point.

Sebastian sneaks in, sticking close to the wall until he finds an area beside a vertical console away from the available light. From this vantage point, he can see the whole control room in front of him, plus the hall he entered to his right, with no fear that someone will sneak up behind him. Flat screens cover the walls from floor to ceiling, each displaying a series of images from various angles of two people - a young man and a boy, asleep on padded tables. Wires from electrodes attached to their heads lead to a console between them. In this way, they’re connected.

That must be the conduit that links one dreamer to another, Sebastian deduces. He risks a step out in search of the man and boy and finds them at the far end, separated from the control room by a glass partition, the walls surrounding them covered in grey, sound dampening panels. Outside the partition, a row of technicians sit, eyes glued to screens displaying pulse readings, blood pressure, oxygen saturation, and other vitals of both boy and man.

Kurt’s voice cuts through Sebastian’s thoughts and pulls his focus.

How did he not know Kurt was in there? Probably a side-effect of the tech they use to inhibit psychic powers. He’d better not be slipping …

“Myron’s vital signs are increasing.”

“What else is new?” Jesse St. James mutters, twirling his pen between his fingers. “Is it serious?

“They’re escalating.”

“That’s normal. He always has a tough time. How’s Mason?”

“Showing signs of extreme agitation.”

“You should have let me go in with him!” a woman pacing behind them scolds, her fingertips pressed to her forehead so hard it creates a halo of white around them. That must be Madison, Sebastian notes. She looks almost exactly like the man lying on the table – the same lightly tanned skin, the same wavy dark hair, the same narrow, steep-sloping nose. Which would make the little boy Myron.

Sebastian looks at Myron’s sleeping face on the closest screen. He’s young, probably around eleven? Twelve? He looks frightened. There’s not an inch of peace on his face. His eyes shift behind his eyelids; his cheeks twitch; his lips, chapped and indented from being bitten, tighten in a grim line. His head jerks back and forth, beads of sweat gathering on his forehead.

He looks like he’s fighting for his life.

“The point of this exercise is to use the dream link machine and not your powers,” Jesse explains, monotone, as if he’s done it a dozen times already.

“That’s not the way we work! If you want to put someone under with your machine, pick a different guinea pig! We didn’t sign up for this!”

“Blood pressure?” Kurt asks one of the technicians, shifting the focus back to the two people who need it.

“200 over 174 and rising.”

“Pulse?”

“145. 147 now.”

“Brain waves?”

“Erratic.”

Kurt turns on Jesse, a storm brewing in his eyes. “I told you we should have tried a different vessel for his first time out! Myron’s dreams are dangerous! I need to get them out of there!”

“Give him a few more minutes,” Jesse says, waving Kurt’s concerns away. “How’s the boy?”

“Pulse rate extremely rapid and rising fast.”

“Something’s wrong,” Kurt says, half out of his chair. “I’m bringing them out.” He doesn’t wait for permission, launching himself from his seat and heading towards the sleep chamber with Madison on his heels. “Sam! Disconnect them! Quick!”

“Right away, Dr. Hummel!”

Kurt reaches Myron in three strides and shakes him. Curled into the fetal position and hugging his knees, Myron cries out in pain. “Myron? Sweetie? Wake up. I need you to wake up now.” He puts a hand to Myron’s forehead and shuts his eyes. This fascinates Sebastian out of hiding. What is he doing? Searching for Myron’s conscious mind trapped inside the dream? Can he communicate with him that way?

Myron’s eyes fly open. Sebastian can see them through the glass – wide and frantic. They lock on to Sebastian’s and, in an instant, he finds himself inside a dark, spiraling void; a whirlpool spinning so fast, Sebastian feels suspended, with no air left to breathe. He hears a growl to his right, to his left, above him and below him. It’s low and sustained but steadily it grows, vibrating his ribcage, threatening to separate his vertebrae. He doesn’t see the creature so much as get an impression of it - tremendously large; scaly flesh boiling, pulsing, peeling from its bones; long razor sharp claws with skin caught underneath; rows of ragged teeth stained in blood.

Mason’s blood.

Bright lights and sharp noises flash inside his skull and those drawings on Kurt’s desk make all the sense in the world.

His body goes cold, the primitive parts of his brain switching to high alert, overriding reason in their effort to keep him safe. Whatever that thing is, he feels it in his mind and in the room with him, prowling around the shadows; its sinister, toothy grin widening as it prepares to make Sebastian its next meal.

He’d bolt from the room if he wasn’t too scared to move.

Myron whimpers, scrabbling to grab hold of Kurt. He latches onto his arms, fingernails digging in as he squeezes tight.

“It’s alright, Myron,” Kurt whispers, rocking him in his arms. “Everything’s okay. You’re back. You’re going to be fine. I promise.”

“Mason!” Madison blows past Kurt and races to her brother’s side. “Are you alright? Mason, speak to me, please!”

But Mason doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t blink. Sebastian doesn’t know if he’s breathing. Sam runs his fingers through Mason’s hair, searching for the last of the electrodes, and shakes his head sympathetically.

“What’s going on in that kid’s head?” he asks, peeling the last of the electrodes from Mason’s scalp. “What’s he so scared of?”

Sebastian doesn’t see Madison glare at Sam in disgust because he can’t look away from Mason’s glazed eyes. Mason finally blinks and Sebastian gets another vision - one much crisper, less chaotic, the interpretation of this boy’s nightmare by an adult who is working to comprehend it but not quite there. But even this image, more fleshed out, simpler to conceive, more logical in form, less dictated by emotion, frightens the shit out of Sebastian.

Mason closes his eyes, and the image disappears.

Madison cradles her brother’s head, sniffling as she protectively pets his hair. “You have no idea.”

“Well, I’d say that was a bust,” Jesse groans, getting to his feet and heading for the white hallway. He passes within a foot of Sebastian but doesn’t see him standing there. “I trust you can follow up, Dr. Hummel. I’m tired. I’m heading to bed.”

“Absolutely, Dr. St. James,” Kurt says, but Sebastian hears Dr. St. Sucks! and he snickers in spite of himself. The expression on Kurt’s face changes. He becomes aware, lifting his head and peering into the room. He finds Sebastian in the shadows, stares straight at him. He looks anxious … and exhausted.

‘Go to your room. I’ll meet you there,’ Kurt projects into his mind. Sebastian nods. He heads for the hallway, leaving without question. But Kurt’s command reads like a compulsion, as if Sebastian didn’t have a choice.

And it was strong.

For the first time since meeting Kurt Hummel, Sebastian is wary of him.

***

Knock-knock-knock.

“Sebastian? Are you awake?”

Sebastian is definitely awake. He’s been staring down the door to his room since he returned, and now he’s debating whether he should answer or not. He doesn’t know why he shut his door in the first place. Didn’t he want Kurt to end up in his room? Why the freak out?

The further away from the sleep chamber he got, the clearer he began to think. Kurt didn’t compel him to do anything. What Sebastian read as a compulsion was more of a suggestion – one that Sebastian wasn’t in a frame of mind to reject. He was acting on instinct, frightened to his core. After getting a glimpse into Myron’s mind and the terrors that lurk there, Sebastian felt vulnerable. Kurt’s suggestion tapped into that.

Kurt was taking care of him. Sebastian should be grateful.

Sebastian has to admit, as often as he uses his skills, he abuses them more than he strengthens them. He’s taken for granted that he’s always been the big dog.

Kurt bruised his ego … but unintentionally so. In no way does he read like the kind of man who would take advantage of his abilities.

Kurt knocks again.

“Sebastian? Are you in there? Are you alright?”

“Yes.” Sebastian clears a lump from his throat. “I’m here. And I’m fine.”

“Can I talk to you?”

“Yeah. Sure. One minute.” Sebastian hops off the bed but he doesn’t hurry to the door. Unintentional or not, bruised ego or not, he may have underestimated Dr. Kurt Hummel, and that feeling of being wary refuses to go away.

“Man up,” he mumbles to himself. He takes a deep breath and opens the door. There stands Kurt – as fresh and glowing as if he just stepped out of the shower and not a child’s worse nightmare.

“Hey.” He smiles at Sebastian as if he’s picking him up for a first date. It’s a smile that disarms Sebastian, lowers his defenses without any of Kurt’s power applied. “Can I come in?”

“Sure,” Sebastian says, mildly concerned that tonight’s experience may have left him with only a four word vocabulary. If he says sure one more time, he’s going to punch himself in the throat. “I don’t have much in the way of furniture, but there’s a chair …”

Kurt walks in, bypasses the straight-backed wood chair Sebastian indicated and takes a seat at the end of the bed. “I’m certain you have some questions about what you saw tonight? Concerns?”

“No, not a lot of concerns,” Sebastian admits, closing the door behind him. “I guess I’m more confused. To tell you the truth, I’m excited by the work you do here. It’s intriguing.”

“But …?”

“But …” Sebastian joins Kurt, dropping on the head of the bed “… I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m the right guy for this job. What went on that room … it looked intense.”

“Our sessions with our clients don’t normally play out like that. Believe it or not, Myron is one of our most extreme cases right now.”

“Why? What’s wrong with him?”

Kurt leans one hand on the mattress, a few cracks beginning to show in his cheerful façade. “He’s a troubled little boy with a lot of anxiety. His father was in the military, on his final tour of duty in Afghanistan, terrified of coming home and re-assimilating to civilian life. A week before his discharge, he’d been part of a convoy that came under attack. He and his team defended themselves against an unseen assailant. In the process, he was injured – the kind of injury that gets you sent home even if you’re not already on your way out. During his hospital stay, he found out that their attackers were children. Five of them – the eldest thirteen, the youngest eight. And they’d killed them all.”

“Jesus.” Sebastian’s mind fills with his last memory of Myron – wild eyes searching for protection, clinging to Kurt with hands and nails for dear life, and that whimper of total defeat. How did Myron know? Who would lay that information on a kid? If that’s what Myron is going through, Sebastian can’t begin to imagine how his dad’s doing. “So, what happened to him? Is he in your program, too?”

Kurt’s eyes leave Sebastian’s face. They don’t focus on anything in particular – a space behind Sebastian’s left shoulder that’s as uninteresting as the rest of the room. But what’s left of Kurt’s veneer disappears. “No. The day after he got off the plane, after he was reunited with his wife and son, he put his service revolver in his mouth. Myron walked in on his father when he did it.”

Sebastian tries to swallow, but the weight of that reveal is too much to get down. “And … the monster? With the teeth and the claws and the …?”

Kurt’s smile returns, and with it, hope. “You saw that?”

“Yeah. What’s that all about?”

“Myron doesn’t know how to put into words what exactly that monster is to him, but I have a few theories.”

“And those theories are?”

Kurt surprises Sebastian by reaching out and putting a hand over his … the hand with the scars on the back. “I don’t want to keep you up any longer. I really need you bright eyed and bushy tailed when we start working together tomorrow.”

“I’m pretty much ‘0’ for one when it comes to sleep tonight, so if you want my eyes bright and my tail bushy, please answer my question. Because otherwise my imagination is going to go off on a bender, and I might not sleep again till January.”

Kurt sighs. It takes an unexpected amount of effort. “If I tell you, do you promise you’ll go to sleep?”

“The only real way to ensure that I’m going to get any sleep is to bed down with me, Doc. But yes. I promise.”

Kurt chews the corner of his lip, deliberating over what to tell, how much to tell. “I don’t think Myron believes his father shot himself. Even though he saw it with his own eyes, he can’t. His father was his best friend. His hero. How could this man who meant everything to him do something like that, especially if it meant leaving Myron and his mother alone? So, in order to cope with the pain, he created this monster. He lays his blame on it, believes it killed his father. Or has him trapped somewhere. It seems to switch from nightmare to nightmare. His brain wants to rectify the situation – let Myron come to terms with the truth and grieve. But it’s gone on for so long, this monster has become real to him. It terrorizes him every night in his dreams.”

“That’s … that’s just awful.”

“Yes. It is. Myron needs help. Specialized help. He’s suffered through this far longer than any kid his age should have to, as have hundreds of adults and kids like him.”

“What do I do, Doc?” Sebastian asks, the words slipping out of his mouth before he’s aware of them. “How do I help him?”

With his hand still on Sebastian’s, Kurt squeezes gently. “Get some rest. I want you in peak condition when we start working tomorrow.” Kurt moves his hand away, and when he does, Sebastian longs for it to return.

“There’re those words again, Doc,” Sebastian says, walking Kurt to the door when he makes to leave.

“What words?”

“You want me.”

Kurt stops outside the doorway. He shakes his head, that disarming smile making a comeback. Sebastian humors himself by thinking it’s because of him.

And that Kurt can’t bear to leave just yet.

“I’ll have someone come get you around noon,” Kurt says. “We’ll start with some exercises to sharpen your skills.”

“Ooo, what did you have in mind? Are you going to toss balls at me and make me stop them mid-air? Or do you want me to extinguish fires with my mind?”

“Not exactly. But I’m sure you’ll find them riveting.”

***

“Red,” Sebastian says, blowing a frustrated breath through pinched lips.

“Good.” Kurt nods in approval when Sebastian correctly predicts the color of the circle printed on the card he’s holding. Hidden behind a low partition, Kurt puts that card back inside the pile and chooses another.

Sebastian stares at the partition painted the same dull eggshell color as most everything in this place and does his best to keep from falling asleep.

“Green.”

“Good.”

“Blue.”

“Excellent.”

“Yellow.”

“Magnifique.”

Sebastian perks up. “Parlez-vous francais?”

“Oui. Concentre.”

Sebastian props his elbow on the table and rests his head in his hand. His mind begins to wander. So many questions, they keep piling up. So many thoughts clogged his brain while he slept.

So many nightmares that were and weren’t his.

“Green.”

“No.”

“Purple.”

“No.”

“Brown.”

“I don’t even have any cards that color. You’re not concentrating.”

“Why should I? I’ve done this a thousand times! It’s boring!”

“I know this seems mundane after having used your skills successfully all these years, but this is where we need to start. You need to hone what you’ve got and work up from there. Entering someone else’s dreams is a delicate process. When you enter the dream state, you’ll be interacting with different thought centers, sensitive thought centers. You’ll need to adapt, conform. We don’t want you lobotomizing anyone because you’re too full of yourself to take this seriously.” Kurt’s tone drifts, becomes somber. Without giving Sebastian space to ask what’s up, he lifts another card. When Sebastian doesn’t acknowledge its presence, Kurt clears his throat. Sebastian rolls his eyes. He stares at the wall intently. And then he grins.

“Yes.”

“Yes?” Kurt flips his card over, revealing the blue circle on the opposite side. “There are no words on these cards.”

“I mean yes, I think you’re hot. Isn’t that what you were thinking?”

“Not in the slightest.” Kurt puts the card on the bottom of the pile and puts up a new one. “You’re grasping at straws. Stop trying to read my mind.”

“Should I? I mean, the point of this is to link my brain with someone else’s. Isn’t that what I should be practicing? Wouldn’t that be the easiest way to read the cards? By looking through your eyes?”

Kurt looks past the partition, meeting Sebastian’s smirking eyes with his own steely glare. “No.”

***

Hot water covers Sebastian’s shoulders and races down his back, but it does nothing to relax his muscles. He hadn’t recovered from the morning’s right hook to his pride, but he got to spend over two hours getting it stomped again … and at the hands of Kurt Hummel. Sebastian was rusty. He used his skills daily, but mostly to cheat at card games and pick up ass. The things Kurt asked him to do, things that were easy for Sebastian as a teenager, weren’t quite so simple anymore.

He hadn’t wanted to be a part of this project to being with – not another psychic study, not again. But now he worried that Kurt would regret bringing him on board.

Sebastian dunks his head under the spray and lets the water fill his ears. Kurt. He just met the man 24 hours ago and he occupies Sebastian’s every waking thought.

That’s got to be unhealthy.

Sebastian doesn’t know which of his three motivations for staying are the strongest – preservation of life and limb, doing good for others, or getting underneath Kurt’s skin.

Nah, he knows. It’s definitely getting underneath Kurt’s skin. But that’s because Kurt has already gotten underneath his.

Hence the shower. After their training session, Kurt told Sebastian to go back to his room and prepare to give the dream link machine a try. Take a nap, he recommended. Grab a bite to eat. Meditate. He has five hours before Kurt hooks him up to the tech he’s devoted so much of his time to developing. He’ll be covered in electrodes, lying on a leather chair while Kurt watches over him – silently hovering at the outskirts of his mind, monitoring his emotions.

The thought has given him a tremendous hard on for the past thirty minutes.

Thwak!

Thwak-thwak!

Sebastian lifts his head out of the water. The off-kilter twang of a guitar playing outside his bathroom door jolts him to reality. Sebastian turns off the water, throws on a towel, and storms into his bedroom. The only person he can think of who would come into his room without an invitation is Jesse St. James, and Sebastian is in no mood to deal with that asshole’s crap.

“Hey! Douche canoe! How the fuck …?” Sebastian stops short when he sees the man sitting on the end of his bed, hunched over his guitar, picking out a tune.

“Oof!” The man grimaces when he plucks another sour string. “When’s the last time you got this thing tuned? You could shatter glass with some of these notes.”

Sebastian swears he’s too tired for this shit - for this intruder messing with his things, and for his eyes playing tricks on him. Because the man he’s seeing, sitting on his bed, is a ghost. He has to be. There’s no way he can be real. Sebastian rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes to erase him from his corneas, but he doesn’t go away.

Holy and shit! It’s actually him.

“Jesus Christ! Blaine Motherfucking Anderson!” Sebastian chuckles. “Well, I’ll be. How long’s it been?”

Blaine scoffs. He doesn’t look up from the instrument on his knee. “Not long enough. You still play?”

“Not really.” Sebastian edges forward as Blaine attempts to tune the guitar. He never expected to see Blaine Anderson in his room of all people, and even if he had, this isn’t the stiff and chilly reception he expected to receive. Suddenly, he has an overwhelming urge to get Blaine out of his room. “It’s more of a relic. The facility brought it over when they grabbed some stuff from my apartment. I guess they thought it was important to me or something.”

“Fascinating.” Blaine abandons his attempts at tuning, stands up and shelves the guitar.

“What are you doing here?” Sebastian asks, aware that he’s confronting this man wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. “I don’t remember you being a part of the psychic skills project back in high school.”

“They were pretty elitist back then - not just looking for talent, but for kids with parents that could fork over thousands in donations. At the time we were tested, I was marked at having half of your psychic ability, but my trust fund was only a third the size of yours. But things change.”

“I guess they do.” And in the case of Blaine Anderson, boy, do they ever! He looks every inch the same dapper young man Sebastian remembers from Dalton. Sebastian even had a minor crush on him at the time. But there’s something odd about him. Wrong. “Hey, why don’t I throw on some clothes and we can go grab a pizza? I hear there’s a fairly decent place here on campus. We could shoot the shit, reminisce about the old days back at Dalton.”

“Why?” Aside from that response, Blaine disregards him, taking a slow, unsolicited tour of Sebastian’s room that makes his hair stand on end. Admittedly, Sebastian doesn’t have much in the way of stuff. He has his clothes and shoes, his toiletries, and a handful of books. But he also has the pictures from his walls. And Blaine examining them makes Sebastian uncomfortable.

“Isn’t that what people usually do when they bump into an old friend?”

“Were we friends?”

“I don’t know. Were we?”

“As I remember it, the great Sebastian Smythe was pretty much out for himself at Dalton. I wasn’t. I tried to be the good guy – everyone’s best bud. But that didn’t get me where I wanted, where I deserve to be. So I took a page from your playbook and guess what? I’m a success. This might not be Carnegie Hall or Broadway, but I’m a rock star here, and I did it by looking out for the only three people in the world I care about - me, myself, and I.”

Are you sure it’s not your sparkling personality? “What do you mean rock star?”

“That dream link stuff? I’m the only one here who can do it. I’ve got it on lock. That’s why Dr. St. James gives me free reign of this place.”

“Oh yeah? What about The Wonder Twins?”

“They’re not around anymore.”

“Why? What happened?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“Obviously not if I’m asking you.”

Blaine smiles at Sebastian’s growing irritation with the warmth of a venomous snake. “They had to carry Mason away in a basket.” He pauses for dramatic effect, letting that one sink in. When Sebastian’s face drops in shock, he continues. “Yeah. Seems his ordeal in Myron’s dream fried his brain. He’s completely catatonic. And his sister … well, his sister is pretty much useless without him. She didn’t have any real skill anyway. Astral projection? I mean, what use is that?”

Sebastian grits his teeth, seething over Blaine’s remark about Madison. He can still feel her in his head, her constant begging and pleading with her brother a scar on his subconscious. But he plays it cool. Blaine is trying to rile him up. Sebastian refuses to give him the satisfaction. “Dr. Hummel seems to think I can do it.”

“I had a one-on-one training session with Kurt this morning …” Blaine drops Kurt’s name in a way that skewers Sebastian straight to the bone. “He tells me you want to help Myron. That’s sweet. I, for one, don’t give a shit about that kid and his daddy issues, but it’s nice that someone does.”

Daddy issues, huh? Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. “You’re a regular humanitarian, aren’t you, Blaine?”

“Absolutely. In fact, I’m going to do you a solid, for old time’s sake. Warbler to Warbler.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

“I’m going to go down to the lab right now and order up your basket.” Blaine backs away, heading towards Sebastian’s door, smile growing so wide it splits his face in two. Like the monster in Myron’s nightmare. “You should lock your door, you know,” he says, jiggling the knob. “You wouldn’t want just anyone walking in here. Never know who’s around, day and night. Oh, and about Dr. Hummel … you may wanna back off with the flirting and the inappropriate remarks. You’re only embarrassing yourself.”

“You think so?” Sebastian says, a searing hatred roiling in his stomach and shooting up his neck.

“You’re punching way above your pay grade. You know it … and he knows it.” Blaine winks and clicks his tongue – a habit from back in high school Sebastian found conceited … and obnoxious. Apparently some things don’t change. “See ya around, Smythe. It’s been a blast seeing you again.”

“Likewise,” Sebastian says as he watches Blaine Anderson slip out his door and disappear into the hallway.

#kurtbastian #sebkurt #sekurt #frankie writes

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pain-somnia · 6 years ago

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1k Followers Fic Request Title: Only You Prompt: Cop Sasuke Rating: T Disclaimer Day’s Notes: requested by anon I made this a “Cop Sasuke” in an Altered Carbon AU (so sci-fi everyone); turns out @saradacchi knows what’s good for me because I started watching last night and I love it and I was inspired to write this one-shot despite the fact that I was in the middle of part 2 to laundry fic and another prompt. Of course it’s Sasuke-centric Dedicated to @sun-summoning who always makes my day better when they post a fic

He missed touching her.

He missed the sound of her voice and the way she bit her lower lip before bursting into a peal of laughter. Sakura was always too loud and too big in every way but her body.

And Sasuke was realizing that her mother was the same.

Shit, Sasuke groaned inwardly. From his desk and through his holo-screen he could see the familiar blonde hair of his fiancée’s mother. The color had caught his attention from his peripheral and when he focused on the approaching woman he wanted to hide his face in his hands.

Mebuki Haruno had been coming every day since the accidental death of her daughter. She had been sympathetic at first when she found out that Sasuke was called in for the hit and run which resulted in organic damage. The sympathy flew out the window when she discovered that Sakura’s stack had been missing.

The Harunos were grounders which meant they were too poor to afford a clone or synthetic sleeve that was a replica of their daughter. The government was to provide a free sleeve because she had been involved in an accident with a government owned vehicle.

But Sasuke didn’t want a stranger’s face. He didn’t want to hear Sakura’s thoughts and words with a stranger’s voice.

“Officer Uchiha.”

Mebuki’s eyes were two shades too dark and she had wrinkles at the corners of her eyes but it wasn’t difficult to imagine Sakura giving him the cold, accusing look.

Sasuke and Sakura weren’t married. He had no right to her cortical stack, to her coding.

But he refused to have anyone but Sakura.

So another day of cold stares and shouting was on his agenda.

Kizashi, Sakura’s father, was never present when his wife came to demand their daughter’s stack. He was only there the first time when Mebuki went on a rampage when they were told her stack was missing from her sleeve.

His eyes were dull and tears clung to his pale lashes—Sakura’s lashes—as he followed behind his wife. He didn’t seem aware of where he was until his wife started accusing Sasuke of kidnapping their daughter.

Kizashi blinked back his tears but didn’t say a word. His reactions were abnormal. Even grounders had a lack of care for the original sleeve when a secondary one was an option.

Sasuke hoped it was because Kizashi felt the same way he did.

That Kizashi didn’t want anyone unless it was his daughter.

. .

Sasuke lived in Konoha and worked as a cop but it didn’t change the fact that home for him was Sora-ku, the city in the sky.

It was probably one of the reasons he hadn’t been fired for misconduct when he removed Sakura’s stack and refused to hand it over to her parents. Why no one bothered to do anything but write a short note in his file about misplaced data.

Meths, even if they lived as grounders, could still flex enough muscle to get what they wanted.

Sasuke never thought about the fact that he had multiple clones in a freezer. He was still too young to care about transferring to a new sleeve and he had been lucky so far that he hadn’t sustained organic damage even with his profession.

A profession his family humored as an eccentricity, merely a hobby.

The Uchiha were rich enough to never have to work a day in their long, long lives.

But no one really cared what the second son of the ancient Madara Uchiha’s twenty-fourth child’s did to pass the time.

They turned their noses up at his preference for the ground world, enjoying the comforts of their floating city away from the “thugs and brutes” that were jealous of their superior sleeves.

Sasuke wondered sometimes if the face Sakura loved so much was his own or genetic modifications, an altered appearance modeled after the beautiful features of his mother’s.

It was a question he never felt comfortable enough to ask. Or accuse his mother of.

Sakura was beautiful. She was beautiful in a way only a child of the ground world could be. Born in Konoha to immigrant cake shop owners, nothing about her looks was artificial.

Everything was hers and Sasuke loved her all the more for it.

. .

Suspension was all they could do to appease Mebuki Haruno. Madara Uchiha funded the department and lined the pockets of the mayor and governor. No one was going to terminate employment of his favorite grandchild.

In reality it wasn’t a punishment but more like a vacation. Sasuke needed the free time to supply the data gatherers information on the clone for Sakura.

“You can make her how you like her,” his grandfather had tossed out nonchalantly. “Get rid of any pesky traits she didn’t like herself.”

It was said in such a blasé manner and Sasuke was caught off guard. Madara didn’t mean any insult and none of his other relatives had even reacted to the comment.

It was typical of them to pick out mods for their new sleeves. They could enhance their clones as they pleased. Money was never an issue.

“My forehead is huge!” Sakura used to complain. It was only slightly larger than average, nothing Sasuke would have even noticed if it weren’t for the fact that she had pointed it out.

He was too caught up in pretty jade eyes to think of something as inconsequential as a slightly wide forehead.

. .

When Sakura’s sleeve had been freshly damaged, Sasuke had taken a trip down to the forensic pathologist and swiped DNA samples.

Using his access code he was able to secure swabs of saliva and blood and hair samples. He had been lucky that her body was secured by the police due to the nature of her death. It was an accident but an investigation was necessary.

Insurance companies were always trying to get out of securing free sleeves for those whose sleeves were going to die of natural causes or if the accident was preventable on the victim’s side.

His Sakura wasn’t a drunk or a junkie. She had just stepped off of the curb on her way to the bookstore and an asshole crossed the intersection when his light was red.

“You are able to alter anything,” the technician explained as he filled out Sakura’s entry into his holo-screen. “You can change her features to look more Terran. Or if you prefer the exotic features of a different Outerworld. We can alter her body fluids to produce Empathin or even get rid of her freckles. Increase her bust size maybe? It’s not often the original isn’t here to select their own mods.”

Sasuke’s neck heated up at the thought of Empathin. Sakura would probably push him over the railing of their apartment veranda if he gave her a perverted mod without her consent.

But the idea of feeling what she felt and her feeling what he felt when they made love was tempting.

Maybe for the next clone when he could talk to her face to face and they could discuss it. He refused to have her spun in a temporary body to have the conversation.

“Exactly the same.”

. .

It took a month for the sleeve to be complete.

The life cycle was accelerated when it came to making clones for those that had already reached adulthood. Technology was only so advanced. If Sasuke had it his way he would have had Sakura’s sleeve ready the same day he placed his order.

Sakura’s clone looked almost exactly like her. The sleeve lacked the scars that littered her body, given to her from life. Her forearm no longer had the burn mark from her accident in her family’s bakery. There was no nick at her left eyebrow.

But it was Sakura. Her same rose gold hair and jade eyes. Even all of her freckles were the same, trailing down her sternum and dusting her breasts.

“We need the cortical stack.”

The technician broke Sasuke’s focus away from examining Sakura’s clone.

“Once we upload Sakura Haruno’s Digital Human Freight she can be needlecasted to her new sleeves from here on out. A total safeguard from Real Death.”

Sasuke slipped off the necklace he was prone to wearing around when he knew he wasn’t working. Only where he knew he was safe.

He wanted Sakura’s stack with him at all times but he wasn’t always the safest option.

When he wasn’t wearing her stack around her neck he hid it in his mother’s private rooms.

Making her clones and needlecasting Sakura made his mother giddy.

“Now we’ll really be family,” Mikoto had gushed at the idea of Sakura’s clones residing in the Uchiha vault.

It was a tad morbid but not an unexpected reaction.

Sasuke handed the stack to the technician and within moments Sakura’s D.H.F. was uploaded.

“She’ll respawn in a few seconds.”

Sasuke watched as the sleeve’s eyes blinked into focus. It’s nose twitched and it smiled softly at him.

“Good morning, Sasuke.”

#sasusaku #ss fanfiction #day!fics #1k fics

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mrbobgove · 6 years ago

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Famous Women in Diving: Dr. Andrea Marshall

Dr. Andrea Marshall, also known as Queen of Mantas, is best known for her dedication to protecting manta rays and other marine megafauna. She is the co-founder of the Marine Megafauna Foundation (MMF), as well as one of the world’s leading authorities on manta rays. Here, we chat about how she became involved in conservation and the future of both MMF and conservation in general.

youtube

Let’s start at the beginning: when and where was your first dive, and how was it?

I was 12 years old when I became PADI certified and, even then, I was annoyed that I wasn’t allowed to qualify any earlier. I learned to dive in Monterey, California. It was a shore-entry dive and the water was freezing, but I still thought it was the most amazing place — diving under the kelp is like being in an underwater forest. I never regretted learning to dive in such an unforgiving place as it made me the strong, resilient diver I am today. Also, after diving in cold water my whole life, everywhere else feels tropical and I typically dive in a 1 mm everywhere I go.

Did you know right away that this was going to become a passion?

Put simply, yes! I’ve always been fascinated by the underwater world, even as a child. My mom tells me I used to talk about wanting to dive and study sharks since I was 5 and I’ve been passionate about marine life ever since.

What was the genesis for your research on and PhD in manta rays?

I was actually planning to study great white sharks for my PhD. But when I was in South Africa, I realized that I wanted to be in the water with my subjects and interact with them, which is impossible with great whites because you study them from the surface or the boat.

Subsequently, I had the opportunity to assess the conservation listing of manta rays for the IUCN Shark Specialist Group. Even though I loved mantas, I knew very little about them. As I tried to put together basic information on them, I realized there wasn’t much available, and the species was largely unstudied. This was so intriguing that I decided I would take on the challenge of researching them myself. Ultimately, I had to list manta rays as Data Deficient on the IUCN Red List, but this really inspired me to learn more about their basic biology and ecology, so we could properly protect them in the future.

Why mantas?

You can’t help but want to help these charismatic creatures. When you’re in the water with them, they’re very curious and will come and interact with you. When people ask me why I love them so much, the best way to answer would be to show you: you’d understand immediately if you saw them yourself in the ocean. They are truly one of our most iconic marine species.

Why did/do you focus on Mozambique?

I was involved in many exploratory diving expeditions in Mozambique when the country first opened up from its civil war. During this time, I realized what a special location it was for diving. There were so many animals, especially large, threatened ones like whale sharks, whales, sea turtles, dugong and manta rays. Mozambique offered the perfect opportunity to study species that no one really knew anything about, at least not in Africa. Knowing that your efforts can help contribute to the conservation and management of important marine species in an unstudied area gives real meaning to your work, so it was a great location to focus on. I have never regretted this decision and I still live and work along this coastline.

You’re the co-founder of the Marine Megafauna Foundation. How did it come about?

I co-founded the Marine Megafauna Foundation (MMF) with my good friend Dr. Simon J. Pierce. As conservation biologists, we were passionate about megafauna — particularly manta rays and whale sharks — and set up the charity to research these species and other threatened marine giants. It has grown and evolved over time, but it started because we both agreed we wanted to be in the field full-time. We knew that while safeguarding the animals was a priority, so was educating and uplifting local communities who, at the end of the day, need to be the ambassadors for change in their area.

Can you tell us a bit about the foundation’s work today? It looks like you’ve got programs all over the world.

MMF’s vision is a world in which marine life and humans thrive together. Ocean giants play a critical role in the keeping the ocean healthy. So, if we look after megafauna, we’re also protecting the wider ecosystem and other marine life.

Since we founded MMF, our scientists have used pioneering research to educate local and global communities and inspire lasting conservation solutions. Our head office is in Tofo Beach, Mozambique, but we also have projects in many parts of the world. We’ve spearheaded some and others are collaborations with other NGOs. To achieve our vision, we must inspire people far and wide to take action. We are so grateful for our global support and for our many partners. To do this work takes a village and we are always looking for additional support and collaborators.

Divers are often eager to help when it comes to conservation. Can you tell us about the citizen science program that allows them to contribute?

It’s actually really easy for citizen-scientists to make a genuine impact on current scientific research. In our line of work, it’s as simple as uploading photos from your dive. Whale sharks and manta rays both have unique markings, like a fingerprint. On each have a unique spot pattern on their undersides. Anyone who swims with one of these gentle giants can help researchers identify and track individual animals by taking a photo and submitting it to WhaleShark.org and Manta Matcher, the global databases for these animals, along with a few details from their dive.

These websites, and others like it, represent a new trend to collect citizen-fueled data and open-source sightings records for research groups around the world. In our case, we can count how many whale sharks and manta rays are seen in a region, find out where they travel and how long they live. All this information can be critical to protecting them.

Since you began your work, what progress have you seen?

When I started working with manta rays, there was almost no formal research on these animals and very little was understood about their lives. While there’s still a lot we don’t know, we have made tremendous progress. I am proud to have been a part of a lot of groundbreaking research that has allowed us to study mantas more effectively. These include the development of non-invasive technology to collect DNA samples or algorithms that we use in photo-recognition software to track populations. I was so proud that only eight years after I was forced to list manta rays as data deficient on the IUCN Red List, we were able to upgrade their status to vulnerable to extinction after amassing enough information to show they were a vulnerable species globally.

This meant that eventually, manta rays were listed on the Convention on Migratory Species (CMS) and the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species (CITES), two of the most important global-conservation treaties. Many countries have also begun to protect their manta populations and develop management plans. Don’t get me wrong, there’s much more to be done to safeguard mantas globally — but we are well on our way.

What are the biggest setbacks you’ve faced with MMF?

The last 15 years have been quite a rollercoaster ride. While helping pioneer manta research was a great opportunity, working with an understudied species comes with many challenges. Our projects are largely in the developing world, which can be frustrating when things don’t move ahead as quickly as we would like. Many large manta-ray populations we’ve found have been in very logistically challenging locations, making it difficult and sometimes dangerous to conduct fieldwork.

Funding can also be a major stumbling block, slowing down or impeding our progress. Even for a good cause, it’s harder than people imagine raising the funds we need to keep our projects running. Satellite tags, for example, can be very pricey, and they only last a few months before they fall off the animal.

Any final thoughts on the future of marine megafauna and ocean conservation in general?

My hope is that we can live in a world one day where both marine life and humans thrive together. I dream of our oceans being respected, restored and used responsibly, and I hope in some small way to help motivate this paradigm shift. I seek to inspire people to protect our ocean’s gentle giants before we lose them forever, as we have so many other species. I strive to protect and preserve keystone marine habitats from negative human impacts and safeguard our ocean heritage before it’s too late. We have the tools; we have the knowledge. If we can find the will, we can tackle this challenge head-on and win.

The post Famous Women in Diving: Dr. Andrea Marshall appeared first on Scuba Diver Life.

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wayneooverton · 6 years ago

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Famous Women in Diving: Dr. Andrea Marshall

youtube

Let’s start at the beginning: when and where was your first dive, and how was it?

Did you know right away that this was going to become a passion?

What was the genesis for your research on and PhD in manta rays?

Why mantas?

Why did/do you focus on Mozambique?

You’re the co-founder of the Marine Megafauna Foundation. How did it come about?

Can you tell us a bit about the foundation’s work today? It looks like you’ve got programs all over the world.

Divers are often eager to help when it comes to conservation. Can you tell us about the citizen science program that allows them to contribute?

Since you began your work, what progress have you seen?

What are the biggest setbacks you’ve faced with MMF?

Any final thoughts on the future of marine megafauna and ocean conservation in general?

The post Famous Women in Diving: Dr. Andrea Marshall appeared first on Scuba Diver Life.

from Scuba Diver Life https://ift.tt/2Lbimxv

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amneris-hermione-violet · 7 years ago

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Inspired by the awesome blog http://jennytrout.com/ to revisit the topic of plagiarism that I discovered in the late 90s. Hoping people will care about it more now, since I couldn’t get anyone to give a crap back then. Having to type this up myself, which is taking forever. Still a work in progress as I get more typed up. I would love for a real blogger to take this and run with it (no credit needed, just let me know your blog link, please). Under the cut because lots of plagiarism = long post.

The Three Edwards by Thomas Costain, published 1958, pp. 334-335

Each man in the ranks had his own booty—gold and silver flagons, crucifixes, silver candlesticks—which he suspended around his neck. Many of them had feather beds strapped on their backs. It was not strange that twenty-eight days were consumed from the landing until they came in sight of Poissy and knew that Paris lay only twelve miles ahead. Even though they knew that French forces were now gathering everywhere, there was an intense desire to push on. Reports were received that, behind the gates of Paris, Philip had fallen into a panic and was preparing the city to stand siege, tearing down all buildings which touched the walls. Later word reached them that Philip was also gathering a huge army on the plain of St. Denis, and this led to a wiser decision. A small force was sent on to threaten Paris while the main body set to work to build a pontoon bridge across the Seine. This was accomplished in three days and English leader sighed with relief to have this serious obstacle behind him.

Now the safety of the English army depended on the fleetness of their heels. Only desperate haste could undo the damage of that slow processional through Normandy and the isle-de-France, with everyone searching for loot. Edward was thoroughly sensitive to the danger and in four days he drove his heavily laden troops at top speed, covering nearly sixty miles through the Vexin of Normandy. All the roads behind them were black with French troops. Clouds of dust raised by cavalry seemed to fill the horizon. The most serious obstacle had still to be surmounted, the broad Somme which rolled sluggishly through peat bogs on both banks. Edward, in something approaching a panic, sent his two marshals, Warwick and Harcourt, to secure a crossing ahead. They found all the bridges down and the fords guarded by Picardy troops. Four attempts to seize fords were unsuccessful. To add to the jeopardy of the invaders, the French king now had a huge army in movement and was marching parallel to the English. French horsemen were already in Amiens, which meant that Edward was being shoved into a triangle formed by the seemingly impassable Somme, the waters of the Channel (where there would be no ships yet to take them off), and the French army. The French were so close on the English heels that at Airnes they found meat simmering on the spits. Edward’s men had left their dinner behind them in their haste.

The English king now found it necessary to change his plans. It was no longer possible to join forces with the allied troops from Flanders. Instead he must by some means get across the Somme into his own province of Ponthieu and maintain himself there until the fleet could arrive to get the army back to English soil. Edward summoned all his prisoners before him and offered liberty to anyone who would lead the way to a navigable spot, together with the release of twenty other prisoners. A peasant named Gobin Agace finally came forward and said he knew of a ford called the Blanche Taque close to the mouth of the Somme where it was possible to cross at low tide.

Darkness had fallen, but the order to march was given and by midnight the vanguard reached Blanche Taque. The tide was in and this necessitated a delay of several hours. The prospect seemed a grim one, for on the other side of the water was a body of two thousand Picards under the command of a resourceful knight named Godemar de Fay.

Desired by Virginia Henley, published 1995, pp. 240-247

When they reached Caen they were surprised to find a small army, led by the Constable of France. The fighting was fierce in the town, but they hacked their way to the stronghold of the castle, cleared the walls of arbalests, then put up wooden hoardings to mount the walls.

The sun was setting before the stronghold fell to them. King Edward went to the Constable of France’s war room and searched it top to bottom. When he discovered a plan to invade England that had been drawn up by the Normans, he was incensed. It showed in detail how England was to be divided among the victors. He handed it to the Black Prince, who had inherited his father’s lightning temper. The king’s eyes burned with blue fury. “Tomorrow you will put the entire population of Caen to the sword,” he ordered Warrick.

“We will exact revenge for this plan, never fear,” thundered an infuriated prince.

Warrick’s eyes rolled wildly in Hawksblood’s direction. He was familiar with the Plantagenet temper and, hardened warrior though he was, he did not relish putting women and children to the sword. The Constable of France and his army had already been defeated and many lay dead. It was unnecessary to spill more blood.

Hawksblood understood Warrick immediately, without words having to be spoken. “You persuade the king; I’ll talk to Prince Edward,” he told Warrick.

Hawksblood drew Edward out onto the ramparts. The townspeople were still putting out fires the English had set. Women wept and children wailed as Caen was systematically stripped and everything of value was piled onto the English wagons. “The success of this campaign depends upon speed, Your Highness. We must sweep across the whole of the northern coast before the French effectively organize against us. The chances for loot have been greater than we ever dreamed, but it has already slowed us considerably. Putting the entire population of Caen to the sword will take days. The men will rape the women before they kill them, then after the slaughter they will drink themselves into oblivion. We’ll lose another week. It has taken us a fortnight to get this far.”

Edward drew in a deep breath. The air smelled of wood-smoke, blood, and death.

“Bank the fires of your anger so you may draw upon it in battle.”

The Black Prince nodded slowly. He had been knighted such a short time. He would keep his vows awhile longer.

Warrick was having a much harder time controlling the king’s bloodlust. He refused again and again to give up this act of revenge. Warrick pointed out the need for speed, pointed out they should be closer to the French capital by now, but King Edward would not let go of his white-hot fury. It was only when a pair of Godfrey de Harcourt’s scouts arrived after dark, reporting that Philip had fallen into a panic and was preparing Paris to withstand a siege, that the king wavered.

The scouts reported that Philip was tearing down all the buildings that touched the city walls. King Edward’s laughter rolled out, to think he could put fear into the King of France. The other news was less amusing, however. Philip was gathering a huge army on the Plain of St. Denis, between Paris and Poise, which swelled in number every day. The scouts could not give exact numbers, but of one thing they were certain: the French army was much larger than the English army!

King Edward forgot his need for revenge and called a strategy meeting. They decided to press on at dawn, but instead of following the coast, they would take Lisieux and the towns that lay inland on their way to Paris.

Twenty-eight days melted away before the English reached Poise. They were a mere dozen miles from Paris, but the great river Seine still had to be crossed. Suddenly they received different numbers regarding the French army. Some scouts reported fifty thousand, but others swore the French were sixty or seventy thousand strong. One thing was clear: Philip must have withdrawn all his forces from the south.

Against such vast numbers, King Edward concluded a siege of Paris would be folly. It was decided that Sir Walter Manny would take a small force south, away from the Seine, and circle back up to Paris in a deceptive tactic while a pontoon bridge was built across the river Seine.

It took them three days, and the leader heaved great sighs of relief to have this obstacle behind them. Only lightning speed could safeguard the English army now, for they were rumored to be outnumbered at least three to one.

This was the price they had to pay for their slow progress through Normandy while they searched out loot. The king and Warrick were aware of the danger. All the roads behind them were black with French troops. They drove their heavily laden soldiers at top speed through the Vexin of Normandy and covered an unbelievable sixty mile in four days. But the most serious obstacle to their progress still lay ahead.

The broad river Somme with marshy peat bogs on both sides was enough to spark terror in the bravest heart. The king ordered his two marshals to go ahead and secure a crossing. Warrick took both his sons, but made it clear they must follow Harcourt’s orders because of the French knight’s familiarity with the treacherous terrain.

They found all the bridges destroyed and the fords guarded by Picardy troops. Harcourt’s men failed in two attempts to seize fords. Then Warrick sent his son, Robert, who led the Duke of Clarence’s men, but they too failed. Hawksblood was eager to try, but Warrick decided to lead the men himself. They suffered high casualties; their horses floundered in the bogs and the attempt failed. When King Edward arrived with his army, he was incensed that no way across the boggy Somme had been secured.

Hawksblood withdrew to his campaign tent with his squires. They knew he needed to achieve a trance-like state before he could experience one of his visions. Christian lay supine upon the floor while Ali lit a small incense burner. Hawksblood harnessed his mind’s great power, first clearing it of all unnecessary clutter. Then, one by one, he went through the barriers of fear, time, space, finally becoming one with the elements of air, earth, and water. What was secret became known, what was distant became close, what was impossible became attainable.

Hawksblood came out of his trance to find Prince Edward standing over him. “Where is the king?”

“He has called a strategy meeting. I came to fetch you.” The Black Prince’s eyes were filled with questions, but he and Hawksblood were close friends who did not question each other. Before they entered the tent they heard contention in the raised voices. Their dangerous position strained the leaders’ tempers to breaking point.

Hawksblood spoke. “Your Majesty, I have learned that the French cavalry has already reached Amiens and is on its way to Abbeville. Philip’s army marches parallel to us. It is no exaggeration that they outnumber us at least four to one.”

A babble of voices broke out. Fear could be detected in most of them. Pointing at the map, King Edward shouted, “God damn Philip! He shoves us into a triangle formed by his army, the impassable Somme, and the waters of the Channel.”

Robert de Beauchamp pointed out what he thought was obvious. “We must escape across the Channel.”

Prince Edward gave him such a look of contempt Robert wanted to run his sword through him.

Warrick said, “We arranged to have our fleet land in our own province of Ponthieu across the Somme. It will not have arrived yet.”

Harcourt stood by helplessly. He felt he had led the English army into this trap.

Robert de Beauchamp, standing with two of Lionel’s knights, gritted out, “Where does the Arabian get his information?” Immediately one of the knight shouted, “How do we know he isn’t in league with the French?”

It was a terrible accusation for one knight to hurl at another, but all eyes turned upon Hawksblood now that the seeds of suspicion had been sown. Hawksblood looked straight at his father. “The information came from an informant we captured,” he lied. “A little torture loosened his tongue enough to reveal a navigable ford close to the mouth of the Somme.”

The King and Warrick looked vastly relieved. Robert de Beauchamp fought rising panic. “What if it’s a trap? Did any other hear this Frenchman’s confession?”

“I did,” Prince Edward said calmly.

The king invited, “Show us on the map.”

Hawksblood stepped forward, tracing the line of the river Somme with his finger. “The place is called Blanche Taque. It is possible to ford it at low tide.”

“Blanche Taque means ‘white stone,’ ” Harcourt said thoughtfully. “Perhaps Blanche Taque is a landmark of some kind.”

King Edward held up his hands for silence. “You must realize it is no longer possible to join forces with our allies from Flanders. Our only hope is to get across the river Somme into our own province of Ponthieu.”

The earls of Northumberland and Lancaster added their voices. “We must maintain ourselves in Ponthieu until our ships arrive and get us back to English soil.”

King Edward’s eyes met those of the Black Prince; Warrick’s eyes met Hawksblood’s. They knew the king would not leave France before he had done battle with Philip. Prince Edward stepped to his father’s side. “Hawksblood and I will lead the vanguard across the Somme.”

The king looked upon his son with pride. Though darkness had already fallen, he gave orders to march. By midnight the vanguard reached Blanche Taque. The tide was high and it was impossible to cross the Somme. As Hawksblood waited for the tide to ebb, he spoke with the prince. “Thank you for your confidence, Your Highness.”

“You had a vision. It is a power given to only a few.” He looked out over the raging black water. “You’ve had them before.” It was not a question.

“Yes. My knowledge of the French fleet at Sluys came to me in a vision. I was never there,” he admitted.

“Did Warrick know this?”

Hawksblood replied, “I told no one. Who would believe me?”

“I believe you, friend.”

They knew they had formed a bond that would last them all their lives until the day they died.

Eventually all of King Edward’s army reached the banks of the Somme. Not only was it impossible wide and impossibly deep, two thousand Picards awaited them on the far side. The troops were tense, some had given up all hope. Many raised their voices in anger at being led to a place where they would drown or be sucked into the surrounding bogs. They were tired and footweary and after seeing Blanche Taque, they felt hopeless.

As dawn began to break, the tidal waters started to recede. Hope mingled with fear showed upon every face. It was like the parting of the biblical Red Sea, but the waters were still waist-deep and the weight of the horses and war wagons would surely cause them to be sucked beneath the water by the quicksand.

The king and Warrick watched in amazement as Hawksblood and the Prince of Wales rode without hesitation into the water. Their horses’ hooves struck the solid white stones of Blanche Taque.

The king immediately ordered his longbowmen into the water. They drove the men of Picardy back with a storm of arrows. Warrick ordered the rest of the army into the water and they tramped waist-deep over the solid white stones.

The French were close behind them, but just as it came to pass in the Bible tale, the tide flooded back in before they could cross. The only losses to the English were a few wagons that fell into French hands.

Every man present thought he had been part of a miracle. The king and his marshals marched their army to the village of Crecy, close by the coast. It was August 25, and knowing the French could not cross for another day, they welcome the respite gratefully.

Now King Edward did what he did best. He rallied his troops! The Plantagenet king was nothing if not ostentatious. He did everything splendidly. He ordered that his massive azure and gold silk pavilion be erected and he raised his leopard standard quartered with the lilies of France.

He had chosen the battle site well, on gently rolling downs, upon a low ridge that could be defended against attack from the plain below. The wagons and camp were located behind his pavilion. By midday the campfires were lit and pits dug for roasting meat.

Harcourt’s scouts spread out and Hawksblood’s Cornishmen, with their long knives, also went reconnoitering. The information they brought back was both good and bad. The French had crossed the Somme by the bridge at Abbeville. Between the two armies stretched the forest of Crecy, a thick and impenetrable barrier that would necessitate a march around it of eighteen miles for the French. Behind the English camp, a narrow path through the heart of the forest led to the sea. It was confirmed that the French army was one hundred thousand strong and King Philip had hoisted the bloodred oriflamme above his headquarters, indicating they would neither give nor accept quarter.

The French occupied St. Peter’s Monastery in Abbeville and Philip had all his allies with him, including the King of Bohemia with his German knights and mercenaries. Also he had Charles of Luxembourg, King Jayme of Majorca, the Duke of Lorraine, and the Count of Flanders. King Edward, surrounded by his noble leaders, listened to this information without any hint of fear.

Marshal Godfrey de Harcourt eyed the forest path leading to the sea. He spoke up, recommending the army retreat to the coast, where they could make a last stand. Most of the nobles concurred with this plan. Warrick and Hawksblood exchanged knowing glances.

King Edward, without a hint of uncertainty, motioned about him. “This is the land of my lady mother’s. We will wait for them here.”

Silence fell over those crowded about him. Incredulously, Edward was laughing. “Can you imagine the impossible task of providing food and beds for one hundred thousand? Can you envision the discord of so many proud and jealous leaders, all from different countries? Can you consider the altercations in French, German, Wendish, and Genoese when this rain that threatens comes pouring down and they have no way to keep the strings of their intricate crossbows from getting wet?”

King Edward diffused the strain of uncertainty and fear with humor. “I venture to guess Philip will spend a sleepless night in a monastery. He has too many violent sins on his conscience to face mortal conflict with equanimity!”

Warrick ordered a barricade of tree trunks be raised behind the wagons and the squires hurried off to sort out their masters’ armor. Privately, most men feared they were trapped like rats. When the relentless rain began to fall, they amended that to “drowned rats.”

#plagiarism

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