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arrivisting · 3 years

Note

I’d love author commentary on basically the whole scene at Ekkaia in all my war is done (or any individual part of that scene, if your prefer). Taken together, it’s one of the most beautiful and emotionally complex and heartrending things you’ve written, from the description of the sea itself, to the difficulties of Fingon and Alqualondë, to Gil and the ocean and his ‘mother’, to Fingon and Gil beginning to tackle the thorny subect of Maedhros.

I should admit something about all my war is done: it's the most fugue-like my writing has ever been. I jotted down a few notes on my commute into work - I was deeply underwater with my PhD at the time, three months away from submitting - and then the idea of writing a sequel to scion seized me so profoundly that I sat down in the Starbucks where my bus stops, took out my laptop, and wrote instead of just collecting my coffee and walking down to my office. I wrote 15k. In one day. In about five or six hours. I've never achieved anything like that before or since - I do have good days where I can knock 2-4k out easily, but not 15k. (You might note that the posted part of all my war is done is only 12k, but I wrote all the way up into the next bit with Fingon in Tirion that you've read, up until Turgon at the dinner table). I didn't sit down or plan events; I didn't actually know much about what would happen: but I knew they were going to Ekkaia and they'd have some kind of resolution there. These are my phone-notes, from that morning:

You can see, I think, something of the way an idea hits me. I note down a few snatches of plot, not necessarily in any order, some lines I think people should say at some point, although I might not use them, sketch out some things (Formenos's ruins were going to feature more heavily, but they're waiting for a later story).

(It makes me laugh, the words my phone doesn't accept - Gil-galad, for one - and the ones it automatically capitalises from where I've yelled enthusiastically about elf things at people. I never stop long enough to correct spelling etc when I'm trying to get something down).

I clearly knew from inception that I wanted Fingon's place to be called the hill of waiting, and had tried out the name in Sindarin; because my verbs are not good, I came up with Amon Dartha. It was when I was redrafting that I realised Amon Darthir had existed actually in Dor-lomin(!!!) and the name was even more perfect symbolically than I'd meant it to be! Did I know that, unconsciously? I don't know.

You can see, too, that the Sea of Ekkaia was almost the very first point to hit me, and that I knew it and the scene there would be important, and that I knew that the story was about Fingon finding a way to tell Gil-galad that he had been loved, and wanted, and that meant talking about Maedhros; and that at the end I wanted Gil-galad to be gently, impersonally, firmly clear that he would not, could not, be staying to wait with Fingon.

Okay, DVD commentary proper - I'm sorry, I remember awfully little about writing this, given the fugue state and my thesis and everything, so I'm not sure how useful this will be!

“Oh,” said Gil-galad when they broke out of the woods and began to ride down over the dune-lands to the rocky shore. “Oh!”

The Sea of Ekkaia was beautiful, in its own way, but that way that was like no other place in Arda, in either Aman or Middle Earth.

It was a dark-blue that was almost black, even in the late afternoon, and the shore was less sand than gravel, a strange inconsistent rubble of rock and broken sea-shells that had been dashed to pieces by the constant fury of the waves. Staring out to sea, one did not see the far-away horizon the way one did on the gentler coast of Belegaer: there was no gentle faraway blue haze through which one might, perhaps, on a clear day, imagine that Middle Earth could be glimpsed, or at least the Straight Path.

No: instead along the horizon there was a seam of silver light, and then a great blackness, where the Sea of Ekkaia met the Uttermost West that was not quite the Doors of Night, but was certainly the end of Aman itself. If you stood on the shore watching, the seam would ripple with a pulse of light, sometimes green and sometimes white.

It was so far from anywhere the Eldar of Valinor lived. While they clustered around the Belegaer like moths to flame, this shore seemed instead to repel them. Was it the sight of the world’s end itself? It might be; yet Fingon thought there was more to why this wilderness was so little visited, this howling black sea lashing itself against a grey shore. It was beautiful, but not in the way Elves liked things to be beautiful: it was too raw, too unfinished, too savage.

It was too close to where Mandos kept his Halls, which were not only a thing of spirit but also matter, at least in the way that things in Aman were both. Too close to where Nienna’s tower looked out into the Void and where she wept, and wept, and wept. It was too close to death and to rebirth, to judgment and to pity.

There's a little Dawn Treader, I think, in this idea of the uttermost West. I don't know why I thought the seam of the world should pulse with strange light, but it's an uncanny kind of geography, so near Mandos and Nienna, and I like the sense that this is the end of the world, but not the end of the universe.

A lot of this came together serendipitously. I knew some kind of memorialisation of the river that bore Gil-galad needed to be part of his story; that meant going to the sea; and it's clear from the notes that I had already decided that couldn't mean Alqualonde because of kinslaying reasons and memories. (And that that too would need to be confronted). Therefore: roadtrip to Ekkaia. Therefore, the question: what would Ekkaia be like? We don't really know anything about it - only the good qualities of Belegaer. This was really written by a process of inversion, a way of pulling what we know about Belegaer inside-out, and imagining a place at the world's edge, a place that was empty, a place that was uncannily close to difficult things, to Mandos and Nienna; a place that seemed to repel the Eldar as surely as Belegaer drew them like iron filings.

I was thinking visually about New Zealand, too. I spent my childhood summers on the beaches up north, mostly around Tūtūkākā, which are bright and lovely, with golden or white or tawny sand, with gnarled pohutukawa and blue-green water. Like this:

That's what beach and sea meant to me, and it was a shock the first time I went to one of the black sand beaches where the wind howled and the colours weren't blue, green, gold, but iron, grey, navy, black. I loved it, but it felt so other, so passionate, so strange. That shock and that wild beauty and desolation were things I wanted to get at, though Ekkaia would be far more wild and desolate still.

They left the horses in the thin sea-grass, and their shoes, too, and walked down to the water. “I missed it,” Gil-galad said, and closed his eyes, breathing in the brine. “I missed it badly, all the long years besieging Mordor before I died.”

I think Gil-galad would be very marked by his upbringing first in the Falas and then on Balar; you don't lose that, if you grew up by the sea.

The wind took up his long dark hair and made a banner of it as they walked along the rough crescent of rocky ground where the waves met the shore, and around their bare ankles small stones tumbled back and forth in the lace-edge of the water.

When I was young I used to stand in the water and let the waves bury me up to my ankles, watching the water move in, out, spreading skirts of lace overlapping as new waves came in. I could do it for hours. There's something very liminal about the water's edge, between the solid land and the sea, which is why I put this conversation in it, I think. They're in a liminal space and at a liminal moment. It's the scene the whole story has been inexorably building toward, the point where all Fingon's painful scraping-away of his barriers finally reaches his skin.

“Sometimes in Middle Earth it became very difficult to believe in the Valar,” Gil-galad said, his eyes still closed, “in the blood, and the mud, and the filth. There were so many great and small unfairnesses, day upon day, year upon year.” He opened his eyes and looked towards the Uttermost West where the world ended. “And here it is impossible not to. Look at it!"

This is a little more hopeful than the original version, which I don't have anymore, but went pretty much:

"Sometimes in Middle Earth it was very difficult to believe in the Valar,” Gil-galad said. "In the blood, and the mud, and the filth. There were so many great and small unfairnesses, day upon day, year upon year.”

It was a comment more about Gil-galad's rueful scepticism than wonder - because he fought the Dagorlad before he died, because he spent the last ten years of his life in mud and blood and filth and horror. I work on the First World War - its literary legacy and traces in the decades after, more than its immediate experience or actuality, because there was a ten-year period after 1918 where it was more latent than overt, a traumatic lacuna of silence, a Nachträglichkeit- and I thought in the blood, and the mud, and the filth was a little too on the nose.

I kept it, though, because Tolkien was drawing on his own memories of the trenches with the Dagorlad and the Dead Marshes, with those blurred lines of solid land and mud/bog, the living mixed up with the remains of with the dead, all the themes you see again and again in the war poetry and the officer war-books. (Santanu Das is very good on this, as is Eric Leed). Paul Fussell is a bit old-hat now, but his argument that WWI altered the sensibility of its survivors because of their close, consanguinous co-existence with the dead is something I still find valuable. I think there's a lot of WWI survivor in the way I think of Gil-galad, actually, I'm just realising - not that he survived the Last Alliance. He's detached in a different way from Fingon. Fingon's built himself a thick layer of repression/denial, a kind of callous to protect himself from confronting or thinking about what Maedhros did, and what that means for him and to him; Gil-galad is entirely present, but somewhat detached in some ways, the way people who came back from war could be. Not that Fingon and Finrod aren't also separated from the Amanyar by their time in Beleriand and experience of war and death, but Gil-galad lived there for millennia, and he fought a longer, harder, more total kind of war than they did.

But he's at the Sea of Ekkaia, as west as you can get. So much of Tolkien is about that endless longing glance west, that movement: why is this very westernmost edge so under-explored?

I wanted Gil-galad to be softened by this encounter with the sea, so I went back and let his wonder be as much at the spectacle itself as the sea, like the greater hand at work he had sometimes doubted being visible was something wonderful rather than something to be bitter about. I wanted to position him to be potentially open to, perhaps, the Valar; perhaps, to Fingon. I hope he doesn't come off as closed-minded: I think of him as having a fair mind, and good judgment, but - despite placing him here between the sea and the shore - very clear personal lines between what he thinks is just, and what is not. Certainly, it helps a lot, never having known the Feanorians when they had not fallen.

The seam of the universe pulsed with light, and beyond it was – what?

Unutterable nothingness, something worse than death.

Perhaps Maedhros.

This is an important line for Fingon. He hasn't though the name of his own accord for much of the story, flinching away from it; it's only come in when Finrod and then Gil-galad speak the name. This is the first time he's thought it clearly of his own free will, and this is I think the first signal that he's brought Gil-galad here to be as honest and earnest with him as he can be, however much it hurts, or however much it might drive him away. Because if he isn't, and doesn't, Gil-galad will be driven away anyway, and Fingon wants to be connected with him, the first time he's wanted that kind of bond with anyone since he returned.

(I think of Finrod as someone who just kept turning up, regularly, and forcing Fingon to associate with him; and then bringing Amarie; and then his children; and not taking no for an answer. It bothers Turgon rather terribly that they seem to be friends now, when they were never that close Before: that Fingon pushes him away, but allows Finrod to keep pushing; that Finrod does push. He doesn't know about Gil-galad, of course).

He's brought Gil-galad here to show him if possible that he was wanted, to conjure up lost Ringwil where she might be felt if not found; and to do the same for Maedhros. This is a signal that this journey to the sea is as much about Gil-galad's missing father as his missing mother.

The almost-forgotten tang of salt in the air always mingled with the smell of blood in Fingon’s worst memories, and he was not the only one who remembered. The waves were gentle around Gil-galad’s feet, but they boiled furiously around Fingon’s, delivering small spiteful slaps at his calves.

Spiteful was probably the wrong word here. I don't necessarily mean a dramatic boiling or bubbling; but the water is harsh where it touches him, the kind of slapping roughness you get when the tide is coming in rough.

It took Gil-galad longer to mark the difference, engrossed in the joy of the sea and spectacle as he was, and when he did, his face changed. There was something terribly sad in his eyes when he lifted them from the water to look at Fingon.

It wasn’t why he had brought Gil-galad here; but Fingon didn’t want to imagine the look he would receive if he brushed aside the silent question. “No,” he said. “I am not forgiven.”

“So I see.”

They could probably leave it there.

But Fingon won't, because he's trying. He's really trying to connect after all the time flinching away from it, and he's remembering what Gil-galad said about talking, and what Finrod said about mistakes and silences in their first life.

He said, “You said you loathed the thought of being the son of – a murderer. But my own hands have not been clean since Alqualondë, and death didn’t unstain them. All the time you thought I might be your father, you must have known I was a Kinslayer, too.”

I tried to signal this in their earlier tower conversation with Finrod, and Gil-galad's changing of the topic, but I feel like it's a little abrupt here.

“Yes,” Gil-galad said, and his expression didn’t change. “And when the knights that had served you came to me, they told me that you killed that day in ignorance, that you came upon a battle already being fought; that you took up your sword to save those you loved and didn’t question whether it was just. I heard that from others, too, those who had less reason to bend facts to a flattering pattern; survivors of Gondolin and of Nargothrond. I did ask."

“Ignorance wasn’t an excuse. I died ashamed of it, and I live again with the shame.”

"Good!” said Gil-galad, and there was no forgiveness in his voice, even when Fingon jerked his head up in shock. Instead there was the stern ring of a king used to weighing the ideals of justice against the world as it was, the king who had walked arm in arm with Eonwë the Maia, led his people through many full-fledged wars, and held court and meted justice to them for an Age. “That gives me a far better opinion of you than any of the stories did! I’m glad.”

I remember talking to you about this in the comments, about what it meant that Gil-galad wasn't forgiving him. I think I really meant condone, but I also don't think it's Gil-galad's place to absolve Fingon - he wasn't the one wronged! - and that it's important to me that, because Fingon does truly regret it, he doesn't wish to be absolved, to slide away from it. I don't mean he ought to wallow in it or flog himself with it daily, but I think it would be important to him to shoulder and own that guilt rather than ever allowing himself to put it behind him or have someone else tell him it’s quite all right.

I think this is a moment where I show that they're quite similar, too, because even if Fingon wasn't aware that a bracing, clear assessment was just what he wanted, it was what he needed, rather than people being kind (which he's had a lot of, since he returned; and which hasn't touched that central guilt he's hidden from them, that he loved Maedhros, who had done such terrible things. It's prevented him from accepting kindness made him block people reaching out to him. Gil-galad is not being kind, but just, and still reaching out).

It felt like Fingon had been struggling to take a full lungful of air for a long time, and now something constricting in his chest had loosened, as it hadn’t even after the Valar themselves had judged him. It was only now that he realised that he hadn’t wanted Gil-galad to forgive or absolve him. He had wanted – needed – Gil-galad to be better than him, to withhold forgiveness when it was unmerited; and Gil-galad had. He had become the shining legacy they had all hoped he would be, the thing they had all somehow done right.

The water slapped at his ankles again, in impatient reminder.

This is too brief a transition. I should have fleshed the join out more.

“I think Ulmo would come to you here, if you called. You were a king by the sea in Middle Earth, and you may not remember it, but it was a river who gave you life.”

Gil-galad looked at him as if he’d grown an extra head. “What?”

“I brought you here for a reason,” Fingon said. “Where did they go, the drowned and poisoned rivers of Beleriand? I don’t know; but Ulmo might.”

I've really personified the rivers, but I think it's a clear and easy extrapolation from the Withywindle and the River-daughter in The Fellowship of the Ring that I don't need to justify in order to argue that every river might have had its own attendant Maia-spirit. It does make what happened to the Rivers of Beleriand much worse, though, and I wanted to look at the way a character that was a throwaway mechanism in scion ended up being sickened and dying as horribly as Beleriand did; this story was really about following all those lighter bits in scion home, to the end of the line, and looking at the long-term impacts of something that began more lightly. In this verse, Ringwil was a river, but also a person; and I think of her and Finrod as sharing a strange human-river friendship and overlapping enthusiasms.

He clapped Gil-galad on the shoulder, hoping it said all the things he meant it to say. Affection had been so easy for him once, in the life that had been taken from him by the fiery flails of the Balrogs, but now it came hard, and the sea-smell was in his nose, the terrible memories too close to the surface.

He had surely outstayed Ulmo’s tolerance by now. Fingon left Gil-galad there in the water, and didn’t dare glance back until there was thin sandy soil under his feet again.

Only then did he look once more towards the sea.

Gil-galad was standing in the shallows. His broad shoulders were bunched tight, as if he was readying himself for something very difficult, a confrontation with one of the Valar he had long doubted.

Then he spread his arms out, empty-handed, and tipped his head back, and the light on the horizon grew unbearably bright, whiter than white, more silver than silver; and a face began to move upon the water.

I really like this, honestly. Which I can't/don't say often! The temptation to overwrite this was strong, to show this encounter, to describe the Vala: but I think it's often stronger not to show something numinous, to pull away, to let the mind fill it in.

Again, this is Gil-galad as I imagine him: still somewhat distanced from the Valar by the Dagorlad and the things that happened there (and I think perhaps doubly unhappy in that he lived through the end of an Age once before, and that time, at least, the Valar came: they did not come in the Second, nor send so much as a messenger, and such obscenities as the fall of Ost-in-Edhil and the drowning of Numenor had been allowed to happen, and Men and Elves were left alone to come together and break Sauron's grip). Doubting, but not angry; doubting, but still curious. Open to listening.

a face began to move upon the water is of course a deliberate sideways reference to

And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.

It took a very long time. Fingon could not watch; his eyes dazzled.

Can you tell I was teaching The Duchess of Malfi at this time? Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle; she died young. That sense of a light too bright and white to look upon; that sense of guilt; that faint reference to life lost untimely. This wasn't meant to be a direct intertextual reference, but that net of meaning was there, lightly. Again, I wanted to under-write rather than over-write. I know I have a tendency to over-write.

And of course - there's a sense here that Fingon is refusing the kind of close enoucnter with Ulmo he could/might have. There's water in his eyes. From the wind?

“Thank you,” Gil-galad said when he rejoined him at last. His eyes were glowing, and he whistled Ceredir to him from where he was tearing ropey roots of sea-grass from the dunes with great relish. “Thank you for bringing me here;” and he didn’t say it the way he’d thanked Fingon for the horse, or the armour, or the sword, or even the lance.

Because this is a real gift, something that means something to both of them, something more honest/painful. Fingon's been trying to connect through gifts but not serious conversation or sharing, like some estranged parents do, throwing money at the problem rather than giving of their time or their selves, and however well-meant, it hasn't worked.

“I didn’t truly do anything."

“You brought me to the Sea. I know – I could see – how difficult it was for you."

"Well,” Fingon said lamely. He cleared his throat. “What did Lord Ulmo say about – oh, I can’t call her your dam! – the Maia who bore you? Did she – was she there?”

The dam pun is Finrod's. Don't blame me.

A little of the light dimmed, but it didn’t quite fade away. “No, she’s gone. Back to the Timeless Halls, he says; but one with him again, Ulmo, at the same time.” Gil-galad made a noise. “I don’t pretend to understand any of it, all the metaphysical nonsense of the Ainur! But he was kind to me, and he told me something of her – that she delighted in the making of me.” The corner of his mouth turned up. “I left the flowers we gathered earlier in the waves for her and the sea didn’t dash them back onto the shore. I’m sure Ulmo broke a few laws of Arda there.”

I like this image of the flowers suspended in the water. I had it clearly in mind from before I began to write.

"You were wanted.”

“I’m beginning to believe it,” Gil-galad said.

“You should,” Fingon said. He took a breath. Talking is how you sort things out; and a long time ago, Fingon had been known for his valour. Gil-galad deserved to know how much he had been wanted, who had called himself a political compromise given birth. The truth of that had stung.

And it was less than the truth. Fingon could still remember the first time he had opened his mind to Maedhros over the leagues between them and let him see Gil’s small face through his own eyes, holding nothing back. He had shown Maedhros the dark long lashes and the squashed baby nose, the milk-blister on the bow of Gil’s upper lip, the way his whole head turned an alarming red when he wailed; shared with Maedhros Gil’s fondness for being tossed in the air, his splashing joy in his bath.

This is is me trying to describe a baby without being too sentimental about it, because Fingon wasn't all, oh look at the toesie-woesies, or my son, my son: his eye was more detached, and you see him in scion thinking of Gil-galad as it.

I've been thinking about why Fingon in no way allowed himself to consciously dote on the baby, why that streak of denial that's so strong in his second life was there in his first light, and really: it would have been dangerous to let himself love him, to see Gil as his son and Maedhros's. He was born at a time of terrible loss, after the Flame, when they all expected they could die themselves. He was moved around Beleriand like a game-piece. Fingon was always going to lose him: he wasn't going to get to raise him, after all, until and unless Morgoth was defeated. Maedhros wasn't going to meet him, until and unless &c. It was easier not to let oneself get attached than it was to confront those hard facts and let oneself be hurt by them. Easier to think of him as a baby Finwean prince, and that only: a political pawn, not a son.

Conversely, Maedhros maintains a physical distance, but not an emotional one. Here's a bit from Maedhros's perspective:

Finrod had told him that. They had written, back and forth, in the long months as Ringwil’s belly swelled, as the child formed, as it began to move and stretch and turn frog-like inside her. They had corresponded constantly during the first months of the child’s life in Nargothrond, and during the first months of his life, Finrod had sent long scrolls detailing every change in Artanaro’s weight, his length, his hair colour, his eye colour, how much milk he’d consumed each day: screeds winging forth to Himring until the child was old enough to survive the secret trip north.

Fingon’s letters had been infuriatingly spare of useful information while the child was fostered at Barad Eithel. Beloved, ineloquent Fingon: Fingon, who had nevertheless shown him the child as no reams of paper could.

Fingon had given him forever the rounded bloom of his full cheeks, and the pursed mouth, sullen in sleep: the feathery, rather cross-looking eyebrows, and the small hands with their deep dimples and smaller fingernails, curled into the edge of Fingon’s furred mantle.

Maedhros had felt the way Fingon hovered between wonder and confusion at what they’d wrought: the way he couldn’t quite manage to think of the child as his own, this thing spun out of air and calculation and freshwater into heavy, solid life. He could have loved him so desperately, Maedhros knew that. He was halfway there, hovering in terror on the edge, afraid of falling. If the baby had stayed in Barad Eithel longer; if Fingon had watched him begin to creep around on fat little knees, to pull himself up on the furniture and to take his first steps – to hear the baby babble turn into words and speech – his heart would have opened to him like a flower, and the child would have become the centre of his universe, the sun in his sky.

Fingon had never known what to do with Idril as an infant, either, but he’d easily become an adored uncle as she grew up. If they’d had more time – if the child had been permitted to stay with Fingon even a month longer before being sent for safety to Cirdan –

Well, they’d never had enough time.

There had been few walls between them then, so he had felt Maedhros’s bright joy, the painful love, in its moment of birth: swelling and swelling like a cloud with rain, as though his heart was growing and his blood was leaking out of him at the same time, transmuting into pure tenderness and iron purpose.

I like this because I think of the Ekkaia scene as a cloudburst, full of emotion that has been swelling and swelling and now released. This is one bit of the breaking-through.

He had never needed to ask whether Maedhros considered Gil-galad a son.

“I don’t want to talk about – him,” Fingon said with difficulty, and the salt breeze stung his face, his eyes. “I know you loathe him, and rightly; and I do, too. I do hate him; or I hate what he did. I do! But you should know – you deserve to – that he wanted you, badly, although he never met you; he never wanted the shadow on him to touch you or to taint you.

And this. You can see here where I spun off into cliffs of fall, which isn't a scion story, but sprung out of this speech. It was already there in those sketchy notes, too, a lot of what Fingon's saying here: this important line about hating Maedhros, or what he did (that movement from clear certainty to trying to separate the deeds from the loved one; to urgent reptition - I do! I mean it, I really do! - which means he doesn't, can't: this is the heart of Fingon's guilt, because he wants to hate Maedhros utterly, but he can't, and he is profoundly in denial about that).

“He always wanted children; I took that from him even before the Oath did, but I gave it back to him with you. I loved you first of all for that, but he loved you for yourself. Because you existed, against all hope and possibility and fate and chance; and because you were ours.”

Gil-galad said nothing. There was still a wildflower tucked behind his ear, but the brilliance had quite left his eyes.

“Well,” Fingon said at last. “I needed to tell you that. You should know that you were never – not only – you were wanted very much."

Beloved ineloquent Fingon, &c.

They were some miles from the beach when Gil-galad said, “‘Ours’?”

“Yes."

I was trying to let the gaps and breaks talk for me in the text. Under-writing.

The beginning was full of these little breaks, too, because they didn't yet know how to talk to each other; now at the end, that connection, and their conversations, are breaking down again. It's echoing that ride together at the beginning very strongly, but now it's not Gil-galad trying to become acquainted and Fingon giving light, unsatisfying answers. These are the real questions/answers at last, and the whole story has really been about getting to the point of Fingon and Gil-galad in Aman where they actually could have the kind of conversation Gil-galad was trying to have at the start.

Some miles further, Fingon said, “Did you ever meet him in Beleriand? After I died. I always wondered.”

“No,” Gil-galad said.

It didn’t seem like he was going to speak again, and Fingon had begun to assimilate that knowledge, that pain – that Maedhros had never seen him, had only ever known him through Fingon’s own eyes – when he added,

“But I saw what he did. Have you ever seen a whole city ruined, and known the ruiners to be Elves? It wasn’t even a city, poor Sirion! It was a refuge, a place for the desperate, as far to the West as they could get, as close to the safety of the Sea. They had so very little. No great stone palaces, no towers, no spires. Little enough fresh food. They were able to grow so little, and they lived on fish, and sea-weed, and what brave hunting parties would bring back; and hope. They lived on hope, and they thought Elwing wore it around her throat, but the Valar didn’t come for them: Maedhros Fëanorion and his brothers did instead, and they burned and killed and ravaged. I’d say they salted the earth, but it was salt already. To fall on any innocent Elven city would be a horror: on poor Sirion it was the greatest cruelty I ever saw, and entirely pointless."

They said nothing more.

I like this, too, actually. You see a little here of why Gil-galad might be healthily sceptical of the Valar - they didn't come for them: Maedhros Feanorion and his brothers did instead - and that very post-war experience of seeing a descrated, destroyed town. Worse when you had seen it when it was whole, when you knew the dead and fled.

Sirion is, I think, the worst thing the Feanorions did. I find it worse than even Doriath or Alqualonde (though they're all awful!). These were desperate survivors, huddled together at the edge of the sea for protection. So many of their leaders had been killed or lost. Idril and Tuor had disappeared; Earendil was away; Maedhros and the others struck while only Elwing was there, and she was so young, and so alone, and so damaged already by what they'd done in Doriath. And now they’d come again. There's something about the revictimisation that gets me. It's awful.

I wanted it to be weight and counter-weight - that soft, painful, remembered moment of Maedhros seeing baby Gil-galad through Fingon's eyes, something Fingon has clearly not deliberately thought about since he was reborn, but dredges up now for Gil-galad, because he should know: and which is echoed in the beginning by Fingon's question to Finrod. But Maedhros is still the person who did the things he did, and I wanted to set that soft moment of truth against his deeds at Sirion, another truth, to point out clearly why Gil-galad would recoil so hard from this offering, this honesty Fingon wants to be able to give him. This is the dichotomy at the heart of the story: reconciling Maedhros and how one felt for him with what he did, and how one feels about that. It is irresolvable, at least for Fingon, at least at the moment I've ended it at for now.

I don't know if this is quite what you wanted, @warrioreowynofrohan, especially because like I said, I wrote this story in a frantic fog, but I hope this in some way suffices!

#not!fic

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stxnekxng · 1 year

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"I can and will take your damn kneecaps."

#words of gold | dash commentary #EVERYONES CALLING HIM SMALL AND HES GONNA GO RABID #he's like a yorkie

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wherevermyway · 4 years

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why can’t we drink forever? (1/2) // minsung // 18+

one: i will only complicate you series navigation: [desktop] [mobile]

⚠ POTENTIAL TW: READ WITH CAUTION! ⚠ pairing: lee minho x han jisung rating: explicit! 18+ warnings/tags: creator chose not to use archive warnings, explicit sexual content past character death, alcohol abuse/alcoholism, depression, edgy cynical depressed jisung, ambiguous/open ending. word count: 5,883 also on AO3

originally posted: 20 january 2021

After being arrested for driving under the influence, Jisung learns that money can buy his way out of jail time, but it can’t buy his way out of his feelings.

disclaimer: this is a work of fiction! any reference to persons in this work of fiction are purely coincidental. the characters referenced from Stray Kids are interpretations loosely based on their personalities in the group and do not represent the real people behind the personas. if this, or any of the content included in the warnings above make you uncomfortable, please stop reading now.

“I don’t know how things got this way, Sungie, baby. I’m worried about you.”

A sarcastic huff leaves the lips of the young man seated in the passenger seat of a sleek, new all-white Audi. He kicks his feet up on the dash, earning a frown from the middle-aged woman driving the vehicle. The young blonde stares out the window as he fumbles around his hoodie pocket. Out comes a white pack of Marlboro Gold cigarettes and an engraved silver lighter.

“You and me both, ma,” he tuts as he pops a white cigarette up from the pack into his mouth, flicking the dial of his lighter as he takes in a deep breath. He jams a finger down on the window button, the crisp winter air blowing the grey cloud around, the acrid scent of burnt tobacco filling the car. “Guess if we knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t be in the car now, huh?”

“Maybe you’d have gotten into a better university,” his mother sighs as she shakes her head.

A devious smirk curls up on the young man’s mouth as he brings the cigarette up to his lips again, taking a long drag. He knows better than to verbally respond with a cynical quip.

Maybe I’d be fuckin’ dead.

Alcoholics Anonymous sounded like a cult following: a twelve-step programme where all of its members had to follow a strict code, be mentored by a sponsor, and thank some bullshit deity to be given a new chance every day. “Every day is a new chance,” the cult leader would say at the beginning of every meeting. “May God grant us the serenity…”

“I’m Jisung, and the courts told me I’m an alcoholic, so I guess I’m an alcoholic,” the artificial blonde shrugged his shoulders, the ghost of burnt coffee still dancing on his tongue as he spoke.

The mindless cult drones spouted off a casual “hi, Jisung,” in monotonous, unenthusiastic unity as the young man sat down.

“How did you get here?” The meeting’s leader was relentless in prodding the young man. “You’re not obligated to tell us, of course,” which was a boldfaced lie, “but acknowledging your problems might help your recovery.”

Jisung brought the styrofoam cup full of lukewarm, acrid coffee to his lips and took a long sip. He winced at the taste and pursed his lips as he made eye contact with the leader. “I was abducted by aliens, man, now I’m here. Shit was crazy.”

The leader frowned, ready to interrupt Jisung.

“Nah,” the young man kicked his feet out from under the metal fold-up chair, flipping his hood over his head with his free hand. “I got drunk, went out to get more booze, then hit a tree on the way back and the cops pulled me over since my headlight was out. The internet wasn’t lying when they said all cops are fuckin’ bastards.” His quip earned a laugh from a few younger members, whereas several of the older people shook their heads in frustration.

“Please,” the leader sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “let’s refrain from political commentary. Thank you for your,” there’s a pause as the leader clears his throat, “for your candor, Jisung. Now that we’ve introduced all of our new attendees, why don’t we move along with the next step in the meeting?”

The meeting was pointless, all of the same shit that Jisung had read about in the fliers that were handed to him with his sentencing. He had to endure twelve months of this, but it wasn’t like he was doing much else with his life, anyways. Jisung poured the last of the disgusting coffee from the cardboard takeaway box into his cup, then tossed the box into the large rubbish bin at the end of the table. One last cup of free shitty coffee before he left; it would pair nicely with the cigarette he so desperately craved.

“Hey!” A bright voice came up behind him and Jisung rolled his eyes at the way optimism dripped from the trill. He slowly turned around, taking a sip of the cold coffee in his cup. A young man with neon pink hair, probably the same age as Jisung, smiled widely as he stuck his hand out. “I’m Felix, nice to see someone here that’s about my age.”

Jisung gingerly accepted the hand and shook it twice before quickly sticking his hand back into his pocket. “Charmed. How long are you stuck here for?”

“Oh!” Felix shook his head, smile still wide on his face as he pensively looked down to his shoes. “I’m not here for… well, I’m a psychology major.”

Of course he was.

Felix tucked his hands into his jacket pockets and tapped his foot twice as he continued to smile at Jisung. “I’m also new here and was hoping I could make friends.”

Jisung shook his head, reaching into his hoodie pocket for his pack of cigarettes and familiar silver lighter. “I’m not a good influence. Don’t think I’d make good friends with someone so… nice.” He meandered a white cigarette out of the packet with a single hand, then tucked it behind his ear, lighter still tucked into his palm. “No offence, dude.”

The smile finally fell from the pink-haired man, who quickly pulled his hands from his pockets, “wait, wait!”

Jisung cocked an eyebrow at the man, biting his tongue as he felt the clawing at the back of his head, his synapses screaming a plea for him to get a hit of more nicotine.

“I don’t wanna sound desperate,” Felix ran his bottom lip under his teeth as he looked around nervously, “I just really wanna talk with someone that’s so different than me. I’ll even buy you dinner or something from the diner down the street.”

As insulting as the words ‘so different than me’ came off to Jisung, desperation was a bad look for anyone. “You got a car?” Felix nodded twice, biting his lip as he stared at Jisung. “Lead the way, psycho student Felix.”

Felix’s eyes went wide and his bright smile came back, beaming brighter than before. “It’s psychology, not psycho.”

The blonde rolled his eyes as he plucked the cigarette from behind his ear and tucked it in between his teeth. “I know what I said.”

The food at the diner was mediocre at best: rubbery scrambled eggs and burgers made from frozen patties that were likely a concoction of rejected organ meat slurry and textured vegetable protein. It was cheap, but it was always good. Rich in comfort, lacking in quality: the antithesis to Jisung’s life.

Jisung hadn’t been here in two years, not since his friend turned on-again, off-again boyfriend Changbin left for university, halfway across the country. This was the place they’d come to at three in the morning after hitting up a house party, where they would drunkenly curl up with each other and swap kisses that tasted like stale beer and watery coffee.

This was the place where Changbin broke up with Jisung for the final time, Changbin citing that they wouldn’t be able to stay in contact much anymore. However, he hadn’t told Jisung that he was sleeping with someone that graduated a couple years prior and was conveniently attending the same university as him.

That night tasted like vodka and strawberry soda, the latter of which Jisung never let grace his tastebuds again.

The blonde scowled down at his orange juice, watching the ring light above their table shimmer and ripple in the liquid. He hadn’t heard from Changbin in two years, and he was as bitter about it as the black, burnt edges of the hashbrowns that stuck to his plate.

“You okay?” Felix poked his fries with a fork, bringing one to his lips as he scanned Jisung’s expression.

“Are any of us okay, psycho student?”

Felix furrowed his brows and set his fork down against his plate, chewing on the crinkled french fry a bit before he swallowed. He folded his hands together and rested his chin against the interlaced fingers. “No, like,” he shrugged, eyes shifting around a bit, “I mean it. You seem kinda distant.”

Jisung rolled his eyes up to meet Felix’s and he cocked his eyebrow. He was starting to regret tagging along with this kid he barely knew, feeling like this was less of a potential friendship and more like a therapy session. “You don’t know me, man.”

“No, but I know people.”

“You’re a sophomore psychology student, dude. You don’t know shit.”

The pink-haired man sighed, back thudding against the plasticky booth. “I guess you’re right about that. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to know, though.”

“Your funeral, then.” Jisung followed suit, leaning up against the booth with a bit more tact, swinging his arm around the wood frame. “I had my first sip of alcohol when I was thirteen. Got bored when my parents fucked off to Italy on some shitty trip without me.”

Felix tilted his head up like a dog, suddenly alive with renewed interest.

“They’re only parents in blood and title.” Jisung looked down at the table, scratching inanely at a chip in the pale green linoleum. “I was raised by nannies and tutors until I was fifteen. Most parents would probably panic when they leave the house, coming back to an empty liquor cabinet. My parents? Nah, they just restocked it and told me not to drink too much at once.”

“That’s,” Felix’s voice trailed off as he looked away, milling over the new information.

“It’s fucked,” Jisung finished the sentence, then brought the plastic cup of orange juice to his mouth and took a long sip. He set the cup back down and pulled up the sleeve covering his left arm, presenting the flesh over the table. Felix visibly recoiled as he eyed dozens of scarred lines littered across the skin, some marks still relatively fresh. “Their response to this? ‘We’ll get you into therapy and you won’t do this again.’ It was always the best money could buy, but their money didn’t do shit to my brain.” He shuffled the cloth over his arm again, ignoring the look of pity Felix offered him.

“If money could buy them a better son, they would’ve traded me out, like upgrading a car on a lease.”

Felix stumbled over his words a bit as Jisung rifled through his pockets, pulling out his phone and his wallet. “You still wanna make friends with someone like me?”

It took a moment, but Felix tentatively nodded his head. “Doesn’t sound like you have many friends to begin with,” he nervously sputtered out.

Jisung cocked his head to the side and licked his teeth as he smiled. “I don’t do friends. But life’s full of surprises. Anyway, gimme your phone so we can swap contact info.”

They exchanged phone numbers and Jisung dropped a couple of bills on the table. “Don’t worry about it,” he said as soon as Felix opened his mouth to protest, “you’re a university student and I’ve got my shitty parents’ cash to burn.”

“I’ll see you next week?” Felix questioned as Jisung stepped out of his shoddy 2003 Toyota Camry.

Jisung nodded once, tipping his index and middle fingers off of his forehead. “You got it. Thanks for the ride, mate.” He slammed the door with a fake smile that faded as soon as he turned around. Sure, Felix was the antithesis of everything Jisung was, but he could prove to be a source of entertainment over the next year.

Despite being cynical and vehemently anti-religion, Jisung always said a quiet prayer to himself as he opened the door, hoping his parents weren’t home when he arrived. Today, it seemed like luck was on his side: his mother’s keys weren’t on the key rack, and his father had yet to return from some bullshit ‘business trip’ off in China. Perhaps it was Morocco or Norway; they all blurred together in a haze of indifference. All Jisung was sure of was the fact that his father had probably taken one of his mistresses away to some foreign country he was pretending to secure a business deal in.

“Everyone’s favourite fuck-up is home!” Jisung shouted in the empty vestibule, his voice echoing against the cold walls. He didn’t expect a response, so when he was greeted with a comfortable silence, he smiled to himself. He kicked his shoes off and unceremoniously tossed them into the corner by the key rack.

His heavy, heel-first footsteps echoed as he made his way towards the kitchen, pulling a bottle of wine out of a glass display cooler as he padded towards the main refrigerator. He pulled out a box of takeaway Indian curry from the night prior, setting both the box and the bottle on the marble kitchen island, shuffling his feet towards a drawer. He retrieved a fork and a wine key, tossing them onto the countertop as he pulled out his phone, pack of cigarettes, and his lighter.

Jisung opened the bottle of wine as he sat down on a stool next to the counter, tossing the cork towards the rubbish bin, shrugging as he missed. That was a problem for later, and he didn’t feel like dealing with it now. Completely ignoring the takeaway carton, Jisung grabbed the wine bottle, then took a long guzzle directly from it. He winced a bit as the flavour of fermented floral grapes perfumed his mouth with a sharp, sickly rotten scent. The bottle clattered loudly against the marble, the echoing reminding Jisung of just how alone he was in such a large house.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, bringing his phone up in front of his face, scrolling through one of his playlists until he found the right song. With a few taps, some Drake came through the kitchen speakers. Jisung turned up the volume to near max, his head subconsciously moving to the beat of “In My Feelings”. He took a cigarette from the pack on the table and lit it, the tip turning from paper and plant to a red, ashy ember as he inhaled.

Was he allowed to smoke in the house? Of course not.

Did Jisung give a shit? Absolutely not.

A text message popped up as Jisung aimlessly scrolled through his various notifications. He opened it, barely scanning through the entire message from his mother until his eyes stopped on a blue phone number. His eyes narrowed, poring over the entire message. “A coworker of mine offered to be a sponsor for you: Lee Minho. He’s a few years older than you, but he’s nice. Here’s his number, please reach out to him.”

Jisung sarcastically scoffed, locking his phone as he placed it back on the countertop, swapping it for the bottle of wine. He took a drag off of his cigarette, then took another long swig from the bottle. “We admit we’re powerless to alcohol,” he mutters the first step under his breath as he slams the bottle down on the counter.

“Maybe I don’t fucking care.”

Jisung woke up on the couch to the sound of heels clacking against the hardwood floor just before eight in the morning, his fingers jostling an empty bottle of scotch on the floor as he brought his hands to his face.

“Get cleaned up, please.” His mother’s voice was accompanied by bright spotlights suddenly shining directly on his face. “I’ve invited Minho over to meet with you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.” Jisung’s voice was low and gravelly, groaning as he sat upright. The world spun, his body carried by the false inertia his mind had created.

His mother trotted off to the kitchen, shouting over her shoulder. “I know you didn’t. I did it because I care about you, Sungie.”

The blonde rubbed his clammy hands against his face again, attempting to wipe the sleepiness from his eyes. He grabbed his phone off of the floor, then wobbled his way upright, the living room spinning around him in a familiar sense of uneasiness.

“You don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself,” he muttered under his breath.

Somehow, Jisung managed to make his way upstairs to his room, stripping an article of clothing off with each lazy step from his bedroom door towards his personal washroom. By the time he got to the glass enclosure of the shower, he was totally stripped bare. Jisung distantly stared at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, a gaunt and ashy doppelganger staring back at him with a pained, empty look on his face.

Instead of stepping into the shower, Jisung approached the mirror, subconsciously bringing his hands to touch his flushed face. His cheekbones were more prominent now than they were earlier in the year, dark circles painted in broad strokes under his eyes. His gaze trailed down the scars he had inflicted on his arms and on his thighs, reminders of the failed attempts to take his own life that he was now forced to carry with him, wearing each line and mark as a badge of shame.

A warm tear rolled down his face as it contorted into an expression of terror and hurt, before he took his fist and crashed it into the mirror in front of him, a spiderweb of the impact left behind in the cracked glass as he pulled his bloodied knuckles away. Some glass shattered to the floor, some still wedged in the gaps between his fingers, and Jisung stared at the crack that split his reflection into several fragments.

How he was still alive was beyond him.

“Mrs. Han, please,” a lilted, unfamiliar laugh travelled up the staircase as Jisung slowly made his way down towards the first floor. He squinted at the noise that caused his head to throb, realizing that someone unknown speaking to his mother, likely the Minho she had mentioned earlier. With each step he took towards the drawing room, the voice got louder, each staccatoed laugh more pronounced.

“Jisung, come sit,” his mother said, replacing the genuine smile on her face with a fake, ‘Vaseline-on-the-teeth’ smile. She motioned towards the empty space on the couch, opposite from the young brunette that turned around.

Jisung met his eyes and it suddenly felt like his surroundings cracked and shattered around him, like the mirror upstairs. Rich brown eyes glistened behind the black and gold browline glasses that rested against the bridge of his nose. Rose-tinted lips curled upwards in a shy smile, revealing large, rabbit-like front teeth that rested softly against his bottom lip.

“Hi,” the stranger said with a gentle wave, “I’m Minho. Resident biochemist at the pharmaceutical company your mother works for.”

As Jisung made his way over to the open spot on the couch, he squinted, refusing to break eye contact with the strange invader. It felt like he was a wild animal on display, about to be poked and prodded by zookeeper staff or by scientists in some sort of underground, off-the-books laboratory. It would fit, after all, since the man was some sort of scientist.

“I’ll let you be,” Jisung’s mother says, rising to her feet. “Maybe you should tell Minho about your little misstep last night, hmm?”

Jisung rolled his tongue over his bottom lip and shook his head sarcastically. “Go enjoy your overfilled glass of wine at nine-fucking-thirty, ma. I’ll be here spilling my guts to a stranger that gives more of a shit about me than you.” Minho winced and his expression fell from cheerful to shocked.

The men stared at each other, Jisung’s gaze layered with arrogance, and Minho’s heavy with awkward discomfort. “So,” the younger man kicked his feet up onto the coffee table, pulling a pack of cigarettes and his trusted lighter from his sweatshirt pocket, hoping to wrap up the conversation as soon as possible. “I know you work with my mother, you’re an alcoholic, and your name’s Minho.” As quickly as Jisung could take in a breath, the cigarette between his teeth was lit, and he was glaring at the intruder through the grey haze that came between them. Their eyes met again, Jisung growing more and more wary by the second. “Why should I pick you as my sponsor, when I feel like you’re just gonna snitch to my mother?”

Minho’s jaw looked like it was clenched too tight, his bottom eyelids squinted upwards as he studied the younger man in front of him. They watched each other, eyeing each micromovement the other’s face made. About halfway through Jisung’s cigarette, Minho finally broke the uncomfortable eye contact, and took a deep breath. “I’m not asking for you to trust me, or to spill your life story,” he shifted, sitting upright, “but for you to see me as a mentor when things get hard and you want to dampen your feelings with alcohol. I’ve been there, Jisung.”

Indignation washed over the younger man’s face, quickly replaced by a familiar wave of arrogance. Jisung shook his head, ashing his cigarette directly onto the floor. “Doubt it,” he tutted, licking his teeth as he nodded his head, staring at the ring on Minho’s finger. He smirked to himself, then turned his head away and up towards the ceiling. “Looks like you’ve got someone that loves you. I don’t know what that feels like; never have, never will.”

The elder chewed on his bottom lip, clenching his fist as his eyes subconsciously scanned the ring on his finger. “Had.”

“What?” Jisung turned his head back towards Minho with a look of disgust on his face, ashes falling from his cigarette.

The brunette sighed, leaning further into the couch, nervously running his thumb over his balled up fingers. “He’s the reason I turned to drinking, to fill the void he left in my heart when he died.”

Shit.

For the first time in ages, Jisung felt a slight pang of regret twinge in his abdomen.

Minho swallowed hard, almost as if he were holding back his emotions. “We were married for five years, together since high school. You’d think I would’ve known the signs, but Chan was so good at hiding things, hiding his pain from everyone.”

The ember in Jisung’s cigarette died out as he found himself enraptured in Minho’s story.

Chan was Minho’s high school sweetheart. They started dating their sophomore year of high school, both attended the same university, and they got married when they were twenty. To Minho, Chan was everything. They supported each other, making the other man stronger and gave them a reason to go on.

Minho had no idea that Chan was severely depressed, holding his true feelings to his heart. Not long after Minho’s twenty-fifth birthday, Chan disappeared, only leaving a journal behind. It had started off with an apology, that if Minho found his journal, that it was too late to save him and that Chan had simply given up. On nearly every page, Chan reiterated that it wasn’t Minho’s fault, that Chan was just too far gone beyond repair, that Minho had given him a new lease on life, but it wasn’t enough.

Exactly three weeks after Chan had gone missing, police were on the doorstep of their shared home.

“Dental records,” Minho whispered, his eyes distant and glazed over as he lost himself in the memory. “That’s how they knew it was Chan. I don’t remember much after that, but I thought that I could find the answer to why Chan took his own life at the bottom of a bottle.”

Jisung’s grip on the arm of the couch was so tight, his knuckles had turned white and they were starting to ache.

“Several bottles,” Minho continued, “several bottles and several near-death experiences waking up in the hospital later, and I still hadn’t figured out the answer. I figured that maybe I’d see him again if I drank enough. Now,” he folded his arms, tucking his chin into his chest, “I’ve accepted that I’ll never know the answer to that question, that I need to live on for him. If there’s an afterlife, maybe I’ll get to ask him myself. Until then, though,” Minho rolled his teary eyes up to meet Jisung’s uncomfortable gaze, “I just want to atone for not doing enough before. I want to help others that are hurting, you know?”

They continued to stare at each other for what felt like hours, until Jisung finally shook his head. His voice cracked as he tried to speak. “Sorry,” his apology was shockingly sincere, “I guess I spoke before I thought.”

Minho awkwardly smirked, dismissively waving his hand in between them. “Don’t worry about it. I just wanted you to know that I’ve been at rock bottom and that there’s a way up and out, as long as you’re willing to put in the effort.”

Maybe Jisung was willing to give Minho a try.

At first, Jisung agreed to meet with Minho once a week after the mandatory AA meeting he attended. It took seven visits spanning seven weeks before Jisung eventually opened up about the neglect he faced from both of his parents, the emptiness he felt from being raised by nannies, feeling like money was more important than his own life.

Ten weeks in, they started hanging out on the weekends. Their relationship shifted from mentorship to friendship, and it was somewhat a relief that Jisung finally had someone he could trust enough to call his friend.

Week fourteen was when things started to shift further. Jisung hadn’t consumed alcohol in eight weeks, and things were clearing up, slowly but surely. He had been meeting with Felix more and more, too — maybe they weren’t quite friends yet, but Jisung was at least trying.

Things were looking up for the first time in Jisung’s life.

At week sixteen, Jisung stayed over at Minho’s apartment, convincing him that he needed to watch Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood. The blonde had vehemently pressed that it was, quite possibly, one of the best series of all time, animated or otherwise. After some gentle pressure, Minho finally caved, and they sat on his couch, diving into the show and into some mediocre takeaways.

They had gotten through the first three episodes and Minho finally relented that, yes, it was a good show and that, yes, Jisung was right.

“I knew you’d like it, dude,” Jisung snickered, playfully poking at Minho’s chest. The corner of his lips tugged upward into a crooked smile, and he wore Minho’s seal of approval as some sort of badge of honour.

The brunette turned away, softly smiling into his shoulder as a rush of crimson started to tint his face. “You’ve got me trying all sorts of new things, Ji,” Minho rubbed the back of his neck for a moment before he flashed his teeth at the younger man. “So much for me being the mentor here, huh?”

Jisung sucked his bottom lip in between his teeth at the nickname, trying to ignore the warmth blossoming up his face. He tried to stumble out some sort of response, but he caught himself getting lost in the way that the overhead lights shimmered in Minho’s eyes, highlighting the soft amber and warm bursts of hazelnut that erupted around his pupils. His expression started to falter, and he felt a familiar rush of excitement bloom in his chest, causing his nerves to come to life all around his body.

He remembered that this was how it felt right before he shared his first drunken kiss with Changbin, but something about this felt different. Perhaps it was the fact that Jisung was completely sober, but he desperately wanted Minho to kiss him, to want him back. However, Jisung wasn’t sure if it would have been a good idea, pondering over if Minho was really ready to start a new relationship, especially with someone he was supposed to be mentoring.

“Something on your mind?” Minho’s voice was soft as it gently guided Jisung back to the moment. “You’re kinda spacing out on me.”

“No, no,” Jisung stumbled around the words he wasn’t sure he could say, suddenly distracted by the television in the background. “I guess I was just thinking about the show.”

Minho’s head tilted to the side, concurrently lifting his brow in confusion. “You guess?”

Jisung waved his hand in between them and readjusted his posture so he was further away from Minho. “Yeah, I mean, I’ve seen it so many times, but it’s one of those shows that you watch and you see something new each time and—”

Warm fingers were suddenly on the side of Jisung’s face, pulling him back into Minho’s space. “You’re a terrible liar.” The voice was soft, yet assertive; low, but so loud. Jisung’s eyes went wide as Minho’s apartment blurred around him, his vision suddenly taken over by the sight of the brunette’s face right up next to his. In front of him.

Before Jisung could process what was happening, he was subconsciously pressing his lips into Minho’s, trying to remember exactly how kissing worked. It was years since the last time he had any practice, but it all came back to him as Minho helped guide Jisung’s face with his hands.

Minho’s tongue was soft, warm, and damp as it gently pressed up against Jisung’s lips, wordlessly pleading for entrance. Without letting his mind mill over the fine details and concerns he possibly had, Jisung parted his lips. Timidly, he rolled his tongue around Minho’s, his hands quivering as his fingers scrambled for purchase in Minho’s hair.

Unlike anyone Jisung had kissed before, this felt right, even if there were some uncomfortable grinding of teeth and awkward nose bumping. Within a reasonable amount of time, they slowly became experts at training the way the other wanted to be kissed. As if Minho could read Jisung’s mind, he would interrupt his soft kisses with gentle nips and grazes at Jisung’s bottom lip.

“Please,” Jisung’s voice cracked as Minho pulled his teeth down his bottom lip, “my neck, I…”

Minho swiftly moved his lips from Jisung’s, peppering tiny pecks against his jawline to his ear, stopping to take the blonde’s earlobe into his mouth with his tongue, grazing the tender flesh between his teeth. Jisung’s back involuntarily arched as the grooves of Minho’s teeth pulled at his sensitive skin, the sensation causing his nerves to come to life with an electrical jolt from head to toe.

The brunette chuckled, his warm breath brushing up against the tiny hairs on Jisung’s ear. He said nothing, simply moving down to press a few soft kisses to the skin just below the younger man’s earlobe. Minho’s lips were soft, gentle, only to be quickly replaced by a sudden, harsh bite into the tender flesh.

A yelp, accompanied by uncontrollable twitching, came from Jisung, who was simultaneously melting into Minho, but also pulling away. The elder’s fingers dug into the blonde’s waist, keeping him in the same position, not allowing him to escape. Jisung’s yelp had faded into a whimper, which evolved into a moan as Minho sucked the flesh between his teeth, quickly repeating the process several times in various spots along Jisung’s neck.

The moans were increasing in volume and breathiness, Jisung subconsciously, frantically rutting his pelvis into the couch. Minho must have caught on to this, letting go of Jisung’s waist to ease him down onto the couch. He pressed his lips to Jisung’s again, dancing his fingertips down to the waistband of the younger man, who was completely blissed out.

“Can I help you with this?” Minho’s voice was somehow both soft yet assertive as his palm pressed against Jisung's clothed erection.

Words eluded Jisung, verbal language suddenly turning into complex algebraic equations that didn’t translate from his head to his tongue. Instead, he groaned in affirmation as he hopelessly rolled his hips upward, finding himself pitiful that he was so desperately craving for Minho to just keep fucking touching him.

Things started to blur in a haze of wanton desire. Minho’s hand gently stroked Jisung’s cock, paying special attention to the way that his fingers and palm brushed against the head. Involuntary twitches took over Jisung as he whimpered and mewled, his shoulder blades grinding into the couch. Minho continued to nibble and bite at Jisung’s neck, occasionally whispering words of assurance and praise into his ear.

“You’re doing so well,” as he slowly dragged his hand from the base of Jisung’s cock up to his head.

“I can’t imagine how incredible you would feel around me,” as he gently thumbed the slit, rubbing precum around the sensitive head and causing Jisung to bite the back of his hand as he failed to stifle a cracked moan.

Jisung’s breaths turned erratic and he was nearly convulsing as his body started to twitch. Minho shifted his weight to his knees, slowing his strokes just enough so that he could awkwardly shift one leg off of the couch to position his head in a way he could take Jisung into his mouth.

“What are you—” Jisung started to question, until he found himself losing control of his body as Minho rolled his tongue around his cock. “Fuck, Minho!” He clamped his eyes shut, arching his back upward, hitting the back of Minho’s throat as he convulsed, his orgasm suddenly completely taking over him. “Minho,” he whined and unclenched his fists; “Minho,” he panted and opened his eyes; “Minho.” With one last breath, he was back to reality.

This had to have been the closest thing to heaven that Jisung thought he would ever experience.

Jisung had stayed over at Minho’s that night, too tired to function like a normal human. They slept on the couch together, necks crooned in uncomfortable positions all night long, bodies stiff from the unnatural firmness that Minho’s couch held. The next morning, they chose not to discuss the night prior, but they did exchange some soft kisses, until Jisung protested, mentioning that their morning breath was distracting him from actually enjoying the kiss.

Their weekends continued on like this: spending time watching a couple of episodes of their chosen programme until they got distracted and lost within each other. Nothing progressed further than handjobs, the occasional blowjob, and the one time that they rolled around naked, making out for so long and so intensely that the way they pressed their bodies together caused Jisung to come without any additional stimulation — and, hey, they liked it.

The budding relationship between them was confusing. During the week, Minho acted like the appropriate, wise mentor, with Jisung as his eager pupil. When the weekend came around, however, all bets were off. In everything but title, they were boyfriends for all intents and purposes. Every time Jisung tried to bring it up, Minho would shut down, saying that he wasn’t ready to really think seriously about it yet.

So, Jisung didn’t press. He was sure that their intimate interactions were causing conflicting emotions to arise within Minho, emotions he probably had been ignoring since Chan’s death, trying to shove them down as time went on. Even though he wanted to navigate the full spectrum of sexual experiences with Minho, Jisung remained silent until Minho was ready.

#why can't we drink forever?#skz fics #skz smut #minsung #lee minho x han jisung #han jisung x lee minho #minho x jisung #jisung x minho #wherevermyway

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little-red-beret · 3 years

Text

Hey gang I made a Promare fic if anyone has seen that! It’s my obsession atm so here ya go:

Galo Thymos woke up to the smell of bacon and eggs drifting through the loft and smiled. Today was a special day, and he was already being surprised. He wandered into the kitchen to find Lio in a loose shirt and boxers holding a frypan over a hand omitting a small blossom of pink flames. Lio glanced up from his cooking and a small smile spread across his face.

“Is our stove broken?” Galo asked.

“I haven’t been using my flames enough, they’re getting restless.” Lio explained.

They sat together at the dining table, eating at a leisurely pace with no job to be at all weekend. The only place they had to be was at an island resort much later in the day for a long awaited holiday.

“Have you finished packing?” Lio checked.

“Are you kidding, I finished that last night!” Galo answered as he passionately devoured Lio’s cooking.

“No, you haven’t, your swimsuit was still in the draw this morning.” Lio pointed out.

“Right!” Galo noted. “This is going to be so fun! We’ll go swimming! In the sea! And we’ll play volleyball on the beach! And we’ll eat so much food! There’s a couples’ dance class at the resort, too!”

“Can you even dance?”

“Wanna see?”

“No, you’ll hurt my eyes.”

Galo grabbed a pillow off a couch close behind him and threw it at Lio’s head.

They finished packing and set off after breakfast, Galo in a straw hat and colourful button up shirt, Lio in his usual all-black getup. The bus trip to the ferry terminal was sunny and Galo was buzzing with excitement. He and Lio rested their heads on each other’s shoulders, staring contently out the window. The ferry terminal was like another world. Lio squinted against the wind that blew his hair in his face. The waves were capped with foam, and clouds lined the horizon.

“Did you check the weather before you planned this trip?” Lio asked, staring apprehensively at the port.

“No, why would I?” Galo shrugged. Lio took out his phone and opened the weather app. Whatever he saw caused him to literally burst into flames. Travellers around them screamed and hurried to put space between them. Somewhere in the terminal a child started crying.

“It says there are storms all weekend, you idiot!” Lio cried, showing Galo the neat row of lightning symbols on his phone.

“Cool it, firebug!” Galo whispered, glancing around nervously. “It’s just a little surprise! Besides, weather reports are never accurate, anyway!”

“You really don’t think ahead, huh.” Lio muttered bitterly, taking a deep breath and vanishing the fire.

“It’ll be fun, I promise! You know I’ll always find a way to make things fun!”

Lio glared at his lover, but the longer he glared, the harder it got to suppress the smile breaking out across his face.

“Let’s get going, then.” He took Galo’s hand and they continued towards the ferry.

The ferry ride was terribly rough. Galo marvelled at the view from the railing the entire time, eyes glued to the sea.

“Look at that wave!” He exclaimed, just as he had for every other wave. “Ooh, that one is like ‘whoosh’!” He wiggled his hands about in imitation. Lio was resting his head on the railing beside him instead of actually looking. “Are you good, Lio?”

Lio uttered a tiny moan as a response.

“Are you getting seasick?” Galo fretted, lightly placing a hand on his back. Lio nodded against the railing.

“Honestly, I don’t do well with motion....” he muttered weakly.

“It’s okay, we’ll be there soon!” Galo assured him, watching the overcast island in the distance.

Lio didn’t speak a single word after Galo’s reassurances, nor did he move. The clouds only got darker and the waves taller as they neared the island. Galo put a hand over Lio’s and felt how tightly it gripped the railing. He kept his hand there to ground him and continued his ongoing ocean commentary on the view Lio was missing.

When the boat docked, Lio finally straightened, looking incredibly pale and delicate.

“You really don’t look like you’re hanging in there...” Galo worried, squeezing his lover’s hand tightly.

“I’ll be fine, I just need to lie down for a bit when we get to the hotel.” Lio insisted bravely.

The second they stepped off the ferry, it began to pour rain. Galo burst into laughter at their misfortune.

“Now you look stupid in your beach outfit.” Lio remarked wryly, and Galo laughed even harder. Lio smiled weakly and snuggled into Galo’s arm. They walked quickly to a taxi queue, eager to escape the rain as soon as possible.

Much to Galo’s horror, the taxi took them swerving through a windy mountain range where they could barely see through the heavy rain. He helplessly watched Lio’s complexion begin to match his hair as their journey progressed. Every few minutes he offered hushed reassurances that they were almost there, stroking Lio’s hand with his thumb. Lio’s hand began to tremble beneath his as they were pulling into the grand driveway of the resort.

They were dropped off and elegantly suited doormen took their suitcases for them. Galo stared at the luxurious decor in awe. The staircase leading into the hotel was marble topped with a red carpet. Gold accents lined the doors and windows. Then Lio tore away to the nearby gardens, collapsing next to a rose bush in the rain.

“Oh, no...” Galo muttered. Lio sat there rigidly with a hand pressed to his mouth. “I’ll get us checked in!” He called, figuring it would make Lio’s life easier and that he would still be there when he got back.

Sure enough, Lio was still kneeling by the rose bush every time Galo glanced out the panoramic reception window while he waited in the queue. Even after they were checked in and Galo had been handed the key card, Lio still hadn’t moved. Galo stood by the window and watched in concern as Lio sat there getting drenched by the rain. He noticed a woman in a white sundress a metre from him staring wistfully at the miserable weather. Evidently, he wasn’t the only one who didn’t believe in reading weather reports.

“Great beach weather, huh!” Galo joked, always eager to lighten the mood.

“I have a boyfriend.” The woman responded flatly.

“Me too!” Galo beamed, pointing to the small man kneeling in the garden. “He’s about to throw up.” Right on cue, Lio’s back arched and he produced a vile torrent of sick. “Oop, that’s my cue to leave!”

Galo joined Lio in the rain, dashing over to make sure he was okay.

“Poor sweetie!” He cried, crouching in the wet grass beside his lover. Lio was shaking violently on all fours. Galo patted his back as he brought up another stream of sick, retching loudly. They were fortunate that the rain softened the awful process a bit, muffling the sounds and washing away the mess as it was made. “That’s the way, get it all up, Lio!”

Lio belched and heaved up the last of his breakfast. He convulsed and gagged helplessly as his stomach continued trying to rid itself of its perceived poison.

“Good job!” Galo encouraged. After endlessly gagging for a few more minutes, Lio finally sat back on his heels, letting the rain pour down his face for a moment. Then he slumped against Galo and buried his face in his shoulder. Galo took him into his arms. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re good.” Lio trembled in his arms. Whether it was from the vomiting or if he was crying, he wasn’t sure, but he held him all the same. “Poor baby!” he cooed.

Eventually, Galo convinced Lio to come inside. They dripped trails of water all the way to their hotel room, shivering and worn out from the cold in each other’s arms. They changed into dry clothes, and then Lio ignited pink flames in his palms.

“Lio, not here, you’ll set off the smoke alarms!” Galo scolded.

“It’s warm.” Lio defended.

Galo sat against the headboard of the queen sized bed and opened his arms. “You know what else is warm?” he prompted. Lio let the flames flare up for a moment, but ultimately chose to climb into Galo’s arms and snuggle against him.

“How are you feeling?” Galo asked, resting his chin on top of Lio’s damp hair.

“A lot better, but I need a nap.” he mumbled into Galo’s chest.

“We can take a nap together!” Galo declared.

“Sounds fun...”

Galo stroked his hair tenderly.

“Of all the people to be stuck indoors with, I’m glad it’s you... idiot...” Lio murmured, setting his heart ablaze once again. On second thought, everything Lio did made him glow inside several times per day.

“Me too.” Galo said, enjoying the rare moment of profoundness from his normally shy lover. They spent that afternoon nestled together and fell asleep to the sound of the rain.

#promare #sickfic #nausea #vomiting #seasick #lio fotia #galo thymos #galolio #lio x galo

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gallivantingheart · 4 years

Text

good luck charm

who?: gryffindor!chan x ravenclaw!reader

word count: 735

genre/s: hp!au, fluff

warnings: none

synopsis: chan, seeker and maknae of the gryffindor team wins the game again thanks to his good luck charm, you.

You jump about in the stands, frantically waving your red and gold flag. You don't look so out of place in the Gryffindor stands, wearing your black cloak and your boyfriends' house scarf that hides your own cool-toned tie. You watch as he zips across the open field, seemingly going nowhere. But, you know better.

"C'mon Chan! You got this babe! Go Go Gryffindor!" You yell, stamping your feet in a known rhythm to start a chant.

The roaring of the Gryffindor house swallows the rest of your cheers, but you still watch on as a chaser goes soaring past and Chan swerves suddenly, swinging round sharply to fly directly at you. He and the Ravenclaw seeker - a fellow housemate a year above you - tuck in close toward their broomsticks, eyes trained somewhere behind you. They drop dangerously low and the crowd screams in fright, ducking for cover. You feel the back draft whip your clothes. The commentary by Seungkwan has faded away as you watch the pair stick close. As they drop to a steep descent, Chan makes a break for it, hand outstretched. Pulling his fist to his chest he veers off, spinning as he whoops and yells. Once high enough, he thrusts it high, the golden glint of the snitch's softly fluttering wings catches your eye.

"And that's game over! Chan has caught the snitch in a win for Gryffindor! The maknae of the team has done it again!" Seungkwan announces.

You shake Sana, cheering in her ear as Chan makes a victory lap of the field. As the team gathers on the ground, you split from the crowd, already running down the stairs to the doors. You stand in the shadows, open enough to be seen but still out the way. You're heaving breaths, feeling your lack of athleticism scream in your lungs. Returning the equipment, the two teams shake hands and head in. Jihoon gives you a side glare at your attire and despite being a bad ravenclaw, you were being a good girlfriend. Chan had asked you specifically this time for you to cheer for him.

He had swung your hands between you. "Baby, I know your house is playing us this week, but it would really mean a lot to me if you would cheer me on this round."

You tilted your head. "But I always do anyway."

He smiled and shook his head, coming in closer. "I know, but...on my side - my colours, y’know? I really need you there. You're like, my good luck charm. Please?"

Of course you melted at that. Between his soft voice and pleading eyes, not to mention that little phrase you were hooked. You sighed and nodded. He beamed and wrapped you in a tight hug, swinging you side to side.

"Thank you." He leaned back to pull his scarf off, wrapping it lazily round your neck. "There, now you look just like a brave Gryffindor."

You smirk, discreetly inhaling the scent of his masculine floral. "If you don't look at my socks."

He'd laughed then, tucking you under his arm as he walked you to your advanced arithmancy class.

But back to the present, Chan catches your eye from under cover. With a blinding grin he breaks free of his teammates, broom in hand to meet you. It hits the grass when he meets you in favour of scooping you up for a tight hug, your toes dragging over the ground as you giggle in his ear.

“Congrats, Channie.” You say on a squeezed breath.

He pulls back to look at you, bright eyes glittering. “Thanks. But like I said, you’re my good luck charm - I couldn’t have done it without you.”

You roll your eyes at his gushing, but take the compliment anyway. When he finally puts you down, both teams have ditched you and you can see the rippling trail of black cloaks weave back up to the castle.

“Hey, lemme just change out of my gear and then we’ll see about sneaking you into the after party, okay?” Chan says, bending to scoop his broom back up.

You nod, ducking to peck his wind-whipped lips. “Sure. See you soon.”

He waves excitedly as he dashes off and you perch yourself against the wood wall of the stand, watching your superstar boyfriend dash off. As lovely as he looks, you hope you don’t see that image too often.

#caratwritersclub #chan #dino #seventeen chan #seventeen dino #seventeen fluff #seventeen au #seventeen fic #seventeen imagine #seventeen scenario #dino fic #dino imagines #dino scenarios #written

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goldenhemmings · 5 years

Text

For The Win | Basketball!Shawn

Me? Posting two pieces in one night?? Shawnblr’s resident sports whore is back with 1.6k words of shitty impulse writing because she loses her fucking mind when Shawn does anything remotely close to sporty. Enjoy.

Raptors have the firepower to reach NBA Finals. Raptors build momentum one defining moment at a time. Raptors become Eastern Conference Champions, will play in first-ever NBA Finals. And, most recently, Warriors defeat Raptors in Game 5 of the NBA Finals. They were all articles she was proud of publishing, but none of them carried the headline Y/N so desperately wished to write: Toronto Raptors become NBA champions.

She was fresh out of college and just finishing her second year as a sports reporter for the Toronto Star, exclusively covering the Raptors. Going to basketball games and interviewing some of the greatest players in the NBA was a part of her official job description; every aspiring sports journalist’s dream. Additionally, she felt luckier than could be explained for the opportunity to cover a championship roster, especially one that was up 3-2 on Golden State, of all teams. It was a feat not many people had expected the Raptors to be able to accomplish, and Y/N was right there alongside it all, reporting on arguably the biggest Cinderella story of the 2018-19 season.

Today was her last chance to get commentary from the players before Game 6, as they traveled to Oakland first thing the next morning. Her editor expected an article to be on his desk by eight p.m. that night to be blasted to the entire city of Toronto the next morning, and time was of the essence.

Y/N rounded the corner towards the front entrance of the OVO Athletic Centre, the Raptors’ primary training facility. She flashed her press badge to the security guard standing outside the doors of the building; team protocol anytime there were members of the squad using the gym. The guard, whom she recognized from her many ventures to this particular practice facility, gave a curt nod before scanning the doors open for her.

She stepped inside, the cool air conditioning of the building overwhelming her and causing goosebumps to rise on her skin. She locked eyes with the receptionist, Jim, who sat in his usual spot at the front desk just on the other side of the doors. Dutifully wearing a red We The North t-shirt, he smiled at her and brushed a hand back over his graying hair as he stood to greet her.

“How’re you doing today, Miss Y/L/N?”

“I’m covering a first-time Eastern Conference champion,” she grinned, not missing a beat, and Jim let out a hearty laugh. “So I’d say I’m doing pretty well.”

“I’d say so, too,” he answered. “Who’re you here for today?”

She smiled. She never knew the players’ individual schedules; all she could do was hope that she could catch them at the right moment. Jim, however, had always been on her side, doing all he could to help her track down the athletes she needed when she needed them. “Ideally Leonard. I’m looking to get a statement for the feature I’m writing.”

“Believe he’s still in the main gym practicing. You might need to wait until he’s done.”

She checked the delicate rose-gold watch that adorned her wrist. “I’ve got time,” she replied, already fishing inside her purse for the tape recorder she’d brought to document the interview. “Just glad he’s actually here. Thanks, Jim.”

She stepped past the desk and followed the path to Gymnasium One; a trail that she knew like the back of her hand. She could hear the echo of a basketball bouncing on the lacquered wooden court before she could see the entrance to the gym, which she took as a good sign; at least someone was in there.

She stepped through the entryway and was met with an empty gymnasium save for the tall, familiar man shooting layups on the far-left hoop, his curly brown hair pushed off of his face with a thin black headband. She took note of the Mendes 98 stitched onto the back of his black practice jersey; he wasn’t who she was looking for, but hopefully he could get her one step closer to finding the player she needed. As soon as he spotted Y/N he began making his way over to her, the basketball now tucked between his arm and the side of his torso.

“Here to interview me?” he asked, flashing his trademark, brilliant smile. His deep voice had a slight echo in the nearly-vacant gymnasium. Shawn Mendes was a first-year player for the Toronto Raptors after the team acquired him from the Phoenix Suns, where he’d been drafted and previously spent two seasons. He wasn’t quite ready to be a main-rotation player, but he did see a few minutes of playing time most games. He was young and he was talented, and the Raptors were doing a great job at developing his skills. In a few years, he’d undeniably be of starting-five calibre.

“I’m looking for Leonard, actually,” Y/N answered matter-of-factly. She ran into Shawn quite frequently due to the fact that he wasn’t a hard-to-reach, top player in the same category as Kawhi Leonard or Kyle Lowry, and she’d had plenty of time to get to know Shawn with all the time she’d spent diligently waiting around the Raptors’ clubhouse to catch one of the team’s stars for a quick statement she could write into an article. In fact, she was the one who’d written the story that broke the news of his trade from Phoenix to Toronto; she had the article, her first-ever breaking news story, in a frame sitting on her desk at work. Shawn, on the other hand, had quickly taken a liking to the young reporter and began to look forward to seeing her before and after games, but it had never surpassed his innocent--but very obvious--attempts at flirting.

“Well when do I get an interview?” he pressed, his eyes sparkling under the bright, fluorescent lights of the gym.

“Singlehandedly put up 36 points in a championship game and then we’ll talk.”

He laughed, looking down at his basketball shoes. “So never, then.”

“I wouldn’t say never,” she teased. “You’d just better get practicing.”

“Fair,” he replied with a smirk. He was slightly sweaty from what Y/N assumed to be an intense practice session, but she’d be lying if she didn’t admit to herself how endearing she found the fact that his cheeks always flushed when he played. “36 points for an interview, but how many do I have to score to get you to go to dinner with me?”

Y/N raised a brow at him, suddenly amused; he’d never been this forward before. “Equally as many,” she fired back, challenging him, and relishing in the way his lips pulled into a smile. “Plus the championship.”

His eyes widened. “You do know who we’re playing, right?”

“Are you saying you don’t believe in your team? That’d make a great headline.”

“Am I on or off the record here?” he laughed, and just as Y/N was ready to bite back with a witty remark she noticed a door on the opposite side of the gym open, and in walked Kawhi Leonard in his typical practice uniform. Y/N gasped and turned to dash towards him, already turning her tape recorder on, hoping to grab him before he left for the day.

She could feel Shawn watching her as she spoke to the Raptors’ star forward, occasionally turning away to take a few shots from behind the arc. Show off. Once satisfied with the questions she’d had Leonard answer, she said a polite thank you and good luck before turning to tuck her tape recorder back into her purse. Shawn was approaching her in an instant, the basketball bouncing off in the opposite direction, disregarded after the last shot he’d taken.

“You never answered my question, you know,” he began, still smiling, though his tone was less joking than it was before she’d gone to do her interview. “About what it’ll take for you to go to dinner with me.”

“Yes, I did,” she retorted, a sly smile crossing her mouth. “You put up 36 points in a game and the Raptors win the championship. That’s your answer.”

“That’s a lot to ask, Y/N,” he replied, laughing lightly. “I don’t exactly have a large influence over whether or not we win the championship.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, enjoying their banter more than she’d ever admit. “You’d better make the most of your three minutes of playing time, then.”

He sucked a breath of air in through his teeth, feigning offense. “Ouch.”

She giggled, but was interrupted by her phone sounding its familiar ringtone that signified a text message. She pulled it out of her bag to reveal a text from her boss: How’s the article coming?

She sighed, which Shawn picked up on right away. “Everything alright?”

“Duty calls,” she shrugged, tucking the phone away and readjusting how the strap of her purse rested on her shoulder. “I’ve gotta get back to the office and put this story together.”

Shawn nodded in understanding, his soft eyes fixated on hers. “I guess I’ll see you, then. Hopefully we can get the win in Oakland, but if we do come back to Toronto for a Game 7 I look forward to seeing you there.”

Her cheeks got hot. Why was he looking at her like that all of a sudden? “Tell your teammates I’m rooting for them,” she replied, beginning to move back towards the door.

He laughed, reaching to grab another basketball and not fully understanding what she was getting at. “Half of North America is rooting for them.”

“Then half of North America wants you to take me to dinner,” she called back with a smug grin, turning around to leave the gym before she could see his expression, but she didn’t miss the perfect swoosh sound that accompanied a basketball falling perfectly through the net.

#i literally don't even know what this is other than me acting on impulse because im crazy #shawn mendes one shot #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes writing #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes one shots #shawn mendes imagines #shawn mendes blurbs #shawn mendes #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes au #shawn mendes fluff #shawn mendes aus #basketball!shawn

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juniperwindsong · 5 years

Text

Necessary Monsters (1/16)

Summary: His first instinct is to pull her flush against him, and his second is to push her away to disguise his desire for the first. Neither seem appropriate for the setting and Felix settles for reaching a single arm around her to pat her back carefully.

No one at Hogwarts, staff or student, can remember a more heated build-up to the Quidditch Cup. The final match may be between Slytherin and Gryffindor, but the tension has set the entire school on edge. Even the professors have been caught playing sides. McGonagall has neglected to assign homework to Gryffindor the week leading up to the match, and there's a rumour Snape has excused the Slytherin team from Potions classes to fit in extra, secret trainings.

When the long-anticipated day finally arrives, students begin filing into the stands before breakfast to ensure they have decent seats, and by mid-morning there isn't an empty space anywhere. The stadium itself seems to vibrate with the collective anticipation.

It does not escape the notice of the more observant older students that the spectators appear to be evenly divided into crowds of red and green. Some people sport both colours simultaneously. A match like this would usually show the rest of the school united against Slytherin, the seats filled with red and gold and roaring lions. But enthusiasm for Slytherin is at an all-time high. Its Quidditch team is enjoying a popularity the house has not seen since before the first Wizarding War. For once, the palpable tension has little to do with which houses are playing and more to do with the players themselves.

Because it isn't just Gryffindor versus Slytherin, it's Weasley versus Windsong.

Both sixth years and captains of their respective teams. The former commonly believed to be the best Seeker ever trained at Hogwarts and the latter famous for her aerial acrobatics and ability to play any position with ease. Efforts by the opposite houses to knock each out of the running has forced both to travel with an entourage for the last month. An entourage that more often than not includes each other as it's a well-known fact that Charlie Weasley and Juniper Windsong are not only Quidditch rivals, but close friends.

The teams walk onto the pitch to tumultuous applause, the two captains coming to face each other on either side of Madam Hooch. They're surprisingly close in height, and the grins they flash at each other, hidden from most of the spectators, are genuine, if competitive. They shake hands, the teams mount their brooms, and the sound of Madam Hooch's whistle is drowned by the roar of the crowd as the players soar into the air.

The game begins, and Felix Rosier isn't sure he's ever been so nervous in his life. Which is ridiculous, he tells himself. He's faced down furious, fire-breathing dragons; why on earth should something as silly as a school Quidditch game have his heart thumping violently in his chest?

He grips his knees tightly as he watches the Slytherin Chaser identified as Skye Parkin by commentator Murphy McNully tear off down the field with the Quaffle. She performs a complicated little flying manouevre that confuses the Gryffindor Keeper and earns the first goal of the game. The stands erupt. Felix realizes he's dizzy from holding his breath. He exhales forcefully and reminds himself that he's not invested in the outcome of this match.

"Relax, friend, what will happen will happen. What can we add to the match by worrying?"

Felix cuts his eyes across to the young man next to him. It's been a few years, but he recognizes the disheveled hair and unshaven chin of recently graduated Slytherin Quidditch Captain, Orion Amari.

"I'm not worried," Felix insists.

Orion nods. "A healthy perspective."

The crowd roars again as Skye Parkin approaches the Gryffindor goal posts at break-neck speed. Murphy McNully's magically amplified voice carries smoothly across the noise.

And will we see a second Slytherin goal in as many minutes? Parkin shoots and - No! Blocked by brand new Gryffindor Keeper, Oliver Wood!

"The new Gryffindor Keeper is well balanced, is he not? Skye will have to alter her tactics to get past him," comments Orion sagely.

Felix merely grunts in response. His focus is on the pitch, though his eyes aren’t following the progress of the Quaffle.

"You are Felix Rosier, aren't you? Slytherin's prefect from a few years ago?" Orion asks.

Felix gives a short nod.

"I heard you were in China studying dragons now?"

"Peru," corrects Felix tersely.

"Ah." Curiousity peeks through Orion’s unflappable veneer. "You know, I cannot remember ever seeing you at a Quidditch match before. Even when you were at school."

Of course, Felix thinks, it would be just his luck to be stuck beside the one person in the entire stadium more interested in conversation than the game.

"I never cared much for Quidditch. Waste of time, really," he says brusquely, hoping the former Captain will be offended enough to stop talking to him. But Orion merely nods again, face impassive.

"Everyone is entitled to their opinion. Although, yours makes it all the more unusual for you to be here."

Felix sighs. "It's an important match for... Slytherin," he says, before turning on Orion abruptly. "You've graduated as well, Amari. What are you doing here?"

"Showing support to my Quidditch family, of course," Orion replies. "We may graduate from school but we never graduate from our friends." He turns to inspect the progress of the game. "And, as you said, it is an important match. Especially for the new Slytherin captain."

Felix's heart stutters, but before he can respond the people around them are on their feet. McNully's commentary can just be heard above the renewed screams of excitement.

And Weasley dives! Is that the Snitch there on the ground? Could this match be over before it truly begins?

Everyone in the stadium, Orion included, is watching Charlie Weasley dive toward the grass below. Everyone except Felix, who closes his eyes, too nervous to look. One shaky breath, then two. The spectators burst into a mix of delighted cheers and disappointed cries.

Foiled! By the brilliant beating of Windsong and Lee!

At the sound of her name, Felix's eyes automatically. Just in time to catch a glimpse of Juniper Windsong swooping by the stands where Felix sits, as she takes a victory lap around the stadium. Felix’s stomach does a pleasant flip, and he has to fight to keep his face straight.

Everything from Juniper's wide grin to her perfect posture is exceptionally confident as she controls her Comet 260 with only her knees, both hands wielding her Beater's club. Squinting, Felix can just see Barnaby Lee opposite her across the pitch. Together, the two of them keep possession of a Bludger, hitting it back and forth to each other rapidly. Then, with a casual-looking flick of her wrist, Juniper sends it hurtling toward an unlucky Gryffindor Chaser. The Chaser dives out of the way of the Bludger, leaving the path to the goal posts wide open for Skye Parkin to score again.

"They make quite the team, do they not?"

Felix can just hear Orion's voice under the cheers and applause. He purses his lips tightly, but Orion continues as though he hasn't noticed.

"Such an easy rapport. It is indicative of true harmony both on and off the pitch. Perhaps more teams should consider choosing Beaters who are romantically involved."

"They're not romantically involved,” corrects Felix hotly. "Not anymore. They broke up last summer. They haven't been together all year."

"Interesting," Amari murmurs. Felix feels the younger man's eyes on him, but he keeps his gaze steadfastly forward.

The Slytherin Chasers make their way up the pitch in possession of the Quaffle. Felix recognises Skye Parkin's attempt to set up some sort of Quidditch play. He isn't sure of its name or its purpose, but he feels certain it does not involve a second Slytherin Chaser snatching the Quaffle away from Skye at the last minute causing a scuffle in mid-air. A Gryffindor Chaser nearby takes advantage of the confusion and swoops down on them from above. The Chaser nicks the Quaffle and tanks off down the pitch before Skye can gather herself. The red and gold waves in the stands stamp their approval.

Orion shakes his head. "That Chaser is not working in harmony with his fellow players."

Felix's eyes narrow at the offending player. "That's Marcus Flint. He's been driving Windsong mad all year. Doesn't want to take orders from a girl, apparently."

Madam Hooch's whistle rings through the Stadium calling for time out. Juniper Windsong and Skye Parkin land hard near the Slytherin goal posts, Skye ranting at the captain before her feet are even on the ground. Felix is too far away to hear any words, but it's obvious from Skye's wild gesticulations toward Marcus Flint, who has landed nearby, what the conversation concerns. Felix's jaw begins to ache, and he realizes he's been gritting his teeth.

"You know quite a bit about the inner workings of the team for someone who does not care for Quidditch," observes Orion, watching Felix instead of the players on the ground.

Distracted by the sight of Juniper now berating the sullen-looking Flint, Felix answers, "Juniper mentioned him," without thinking.

"I see," Orion says. "I did not know you were so close with our resident cursebreaker."

"We...write.” Felix’s cheeks redden in spite of himself.

"Peru is a long way to come to support a pen friend." Orion's tone is unassuming, but the heat continues to spread down Felix's collar.

"I happened to be in the country," says Felix defensively. "And, as she mentioned being nervous about the game and I had some time on my hands, I thought I'd stop by. That's all."

Orion makes no further comment as the Slytherin players return to the air. Felix steals a quick glance at his pocket watch, fervently hoping the match will not last much longer.

His hopes are dashed as another hour passes, Slytherin in possession of the Quaffle nearly the entire time. Felix is grudgingly impressed by Skye Parkin's performance. She whips between the Gryffindor players as easily as if they were training dummies, although Flint continues to be a thorn in her side. Juniper is forced to fly between them more than once to stop their in-fighting.

Usually Felix would be bored to tears by now, but he can't keep his eyes off Juniper as she flies expertly about the pitch. The way she manages to keep track of the entire game at once, occasionally calling out plays or advice to her team, all while flicking Bludgers at the Gryffindor seeker is fascinating to him. Felix knows admittedly little about Quidditch strategy, but even he can see Juniper's goal is to prevent the Weasley boy from catching the Snitch at all costs. She and Barnaby Lee shadow the fiery red-head about the pitch. No matter how fast he flies, the Gryffindor Seeker cannot seem to shake the Slytherin Beaters.

The fourth time Charlie Weasley spots the Snitch, the little gold ball is fluttering near the same stands in which Felix and Orion sit. Felix has a perfect view of Juniper as she bats a Bludger directly at Charlie's outstretched hand. In the split second he withdraws to avoid breaking any fingers, the Snitch disappears. Juniper grins cheekily at the furious Seeker, and Felix's stomach somersaults again.

Well folks, we're an hour in, and the score stands at 160 points to 40 for Slytherin! Seems like Gryffindor's usual strategy of relying on a quick win by Weasley just isn't working for them this time! Felix can detect a note of glee in McNully's commentary.

Tensions in the air have reached a fever pitch, and Felix has to stop himself from wringing his hands visibly in his lap. Marcus Flint seems to have elected himself Slytherin's enforcer. He abandons any attempts to score in favor of knocking into Gryffindor players who fly too close to Skye Parkin. The third time he does this, the unfortunate Gryffindor Chaser nearly falls from her broom, and Madam Hooch calls a foul. Felix watches Juniper fly right up next to Flint, grabbing his Quidditch robes by the collar and speaking fiercely into his face. Felix wishes he were close enough to hear what she's saying. He can guess, from the way Flint yanks his robes from her grasp and flies off angrily, it isn't encouragement. Felix runs his fingers through his hair nervously.

Play resumes as the Gryffindor Chaser shoots a penalty shot and scores. The cheers from the crowd have only just begun when a collective gasp ripples through them. Charlie Weasley rockets upward, lying flat against his broom for extra speed. At the far end of the pitch, Juniper hits one Bludger and then the other frantically at the Seeker who manages to dodge both.

"It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter," Felix mumbles under his breath as Weasley stretches his arm above his head, fumbling for the tiny gold ball.

Out of nowhere, Marcus Flint smashes into the Gryffindor Seeker's side, knocking him from his broom entirely. Weasley doesn't fall far before his arm is caught by a teammate, but the Gryffindor fans in the audience howl in outrage.

Foul by Slytherin Chaser Flint! There's Madam Hooch's whistle and it's a penalty shot for Gryffindor - but wait! Looks like Slytherin Captain Windsong has called for time-out.

The green-clad players swoop toward the ground. Felix watches Juniper stalk over to Flint, anger in her every movement. In spite of the distance between them, Felix fancies he can hear Juniper shouting at the rogue Chaser, who bellows right back. Flint is a good head taller than his Captain, broader as well, but Juniper squares up against him undaunted. She points a furious finger across the pitch to the changing rooms. Flint shakes his head, lips moving rapidly. Their argument lasts one tense minute before Flint, snarling, shoves Juniper away from him, hard.

Felix is on his feet without realising, blood pounding in his ears. He's not alone. The stadium around him appears to have exploded. Down on the grass, Barnaby Lee and another Slytherin player drag Flint away from Juniper, herself now restraining a shrieking Skye Parkin. Some primal instinct orders Felix to get to the pitch to assist, the fact that there's nothing he can do having no bearing whatsoever. It takes all the self-control he possesses to force himself to return to his seat.

Madam Hooch lands in the middle of the fight, blowing madly on her whistle. Felix's eyes widen as he recognises Snape crossing the pitch toward the scuffling team, as well. There's a few minutes heated discourse between the Slytherin Head of House and his Quidditch Captain before Juniper breaks away, breathing hard. She holds a swift, secret conversation with Skye, their heads bent close together, then she hands her Beater's bat to Madam Hooch and signals her team to remount their brooms. All except Flint. Felix watches, mouth hanging slightly open, as Snape escorts the furiously railing Slytherin boy back across the pitch and into the changing rooms.

And it looks like Windsong has booted Marcus Flint from the Slytherin team and is taking his place as Chaser! Slytherin will now be one player short for the most critical match of the entire year! A bold move for the new captain.

"Can she do that?" Felix asks, stunned, as the team waits for Madam Hooch's whistle to resume play.

"If she has done it, then it can be done," answers Orion mystically.

Felix brings a hand up to trace the long scar running down the side of his neck. He feels ridiculously helpless. He wishes vainly that he had never come to the match. If he'd had any idea how stressful Quidditch could be, he would simply have caught up with Juniper afterwards, and spared himself this torment.

The game begins again in earnest, and if Slytherin had a monopoly on the Quaffle before, it's nothing compared to now. Between Skye and Juniper, the Gryffindor Chasers barely have a glimpse of the ball. Slytherin gains another 30 points in less than ten minutes.

And Slytherin is now up by enough to win the match even with a Gryffindor Snitch capture! One has to wonder how this will affect Weasley's strategy...

It's obvious even to Felix that the Gryffindor Seeker has slowed his incessant circling of the pitch. Presumably, he’s waiting until the Chasers score more points, but it seems unlikely Gryffindor will ever catch up. While Oliver Wood manages to save about one in three shots at the goal posts, the Gryffindor Chasers cannot manage to wrest the Quaffle from Skye and Juniper. Although, Felix thinks he can detect a slight lag in the Slytherin Chasers' movements. He wonders if the lengthy game hasn't begun to tire them.

At 300 points up for Slytherin, the spectators begin to be restless. The buzz of scattered conversations can be heard amid the regular cheers.

"Is this a typical length for a Quidditch game?" Felix directs the question at Orion, and the young man gives his enigmatic smile.

"There is nothing typical about a Quidditch match. Each is unique," he replies knowingly, before adding: "This one is rather long, though."

Sudden shouts in the crowd around him cause Felix to look up. He’s in time to see Weasley dive once more, just in front of his stand. As Felix watches, Barnaby Lee zooms forward, Beater's bat poised to aim a passing Bludger at the Seeker, but a shrill whistle distracts him before he can execute the attack. Half the players on the pitch, and Felix in the stands, follow the source of the noise to the Slytherin Captain. Juniper hovers near a goal post, shaking her head frantically at Barnaby.

Felix furrows his brow, confused. "What, does she want Weasley to catch it?" he asks incredulously.

Orion's smile blossoms into something less mysterious and more genuine. "Charlie Weasley is a good friend of Juniper's. Perhaps, she wants his team to lose with dignity."

Felix's face twists in distaste. "Or perhaps she just wants the game to be over," he argues, as Charlie snatches the golden blur hovering just above the ground.

"That too," Orion agrees, and the stadium around them erupts.

Supporters of both sides are screaming and crying. Felix finds himself on his feet with everyone else, caught up in the wave of adoring Quidditch fans applauding uproariously. He watches the Slytherin team hit the ground, brooms forgotten as they reach for each other in a giant, scrum-like embrace. Felix realizes the back of his robes are soaked through with sweat as though he too has been flying nonstop for hours.

Students swarm from the stands like locusts to surround the new Hogwarts Quidditch champions. Felix is just considering whether or not to attempt pushing through them when he catches sight of one lone, green-clad figure moving against the crowd. Juniper forces her way through the ecstatic Slytherins to the end of the pitch where the Gryffindor team has landed, slightly more subdued. Charlie Weasley's bright red hair is visible even from high in the stands. Felix can make out the Gryffindor's reluctant grin as he extends a hand toward the approaching Slytherin. Juniper ignores it. She pulls the short, stocky boy into a tight hug, and Felix's stomach, writhing nearly non-stop for the entire match, suddenly turns to lead.

Beside him, Orion says into his ear, "So, what do you think of Quidditch now?"

Felix scowls, unable to rip his eyes away from the spectacle below him.

"Absolutely pointless," he grumbles.

In spite of her scene on the pitch and its obvious implications, Felix decides it would be a phenomenal waste of time to have endured such a painfully long match without seeing Juniper after all, so he joins the throng traipsing from the Quidditch Pitch to the Hogwarts' dungeons. Although it has been a few years, Felix is sure he's never seen the Slytherin common room so crowded. It's impossible to see to the wall opposite, the room is so tightly packed with cheering, jumping bodies. He's certain there aren't this many people in the whole of Slytherin house. Sure enough, Felix catches a glimpse of Penny Haywood and another Hufflepuff girl with spiky pink hair passing out Butterbeers and talking animatedly.

"What in Merlin's name are Hufflepuffs doing here?" Felix mutters to no one in particular.

"Quidditch has a way of bringing people together." Felix rolls his eyes hugely as he recognizes Orion's mellow voice from beside his shoulder. "As does Juniper Windsong."

Felix bristles but says nothing. It's true, Juniper's friend group has always been diverse. It's a trait he usually admires in her, but Felix isn't well-disposed to her inter-house friendships just at present. He has only a moment to brood over this, however, before enormous arms grab him from behind and lift him off his feet.

"Felix!"

He recognises the enthusiastic voice of Barnaby Lee. The muscular boy gives Felix another hard squeeze before lowering him back to the floor.

"Nice to see you too, Barnaby," Felix gasps, winded by the rib-crushing hug. He straightens his robes and glances around self-consciously. Quidditch team members are filing in behind Barnaby, and Felix's heart skips a beat as the crowd around them gives an enormous cheer. But it's only Skye Parkin entering the common room with the Quidditch Cup held above her head.

"What are you doing here?" asks Barnaby excitedly. "I didn't know you were back from China!"

"Peru," Felix corrects, attempting to scan the players behind Barnaby as casually as possible. "And yes, I arrived today."

"Just to see us play?"

Felix fixes his gaze on the extremely tall, well-built young man in front of him. Barnaby has grown-up significantly since the last time Felix saw him, but he hasn't lost any of his boyish good-looks. Felix recalls Orion's comments about Barnaby and Juniper from the Quidditch match, and his already bad mood continues to sour.

"No, of course not," he replies curtly. "I've applied for a transfer to the Romanian Reserve. My interview is next week."

"Wow! That's amazing!" Barnaby's face is full of awe, which soothes Felix's temper very slightly. "But... how did you know we had a match today?"

Felix repeats his now practiced excuse. "Juniper mentioned it in her last letter, and, as I was in the country in time, I thought I'd drop by."

"So, she doesn't know you're here? C'mon, she'll be so excited to see you!" Barnaby grabs Felix by the wrist before he can reply and wades into the sea of bodies, pulling the former prefect in his wake. Felix is careful to stand as close to Barnaby as possible to keep himself from being swallowed by the crowd. He isn't usually bothered by cramped spaces. He's spent the last three years in a variety of tight quarters. But something about the heat and noise and sweat from the excited bodies around him makes him feel dizzy. He closes his eyes, allowing Barnaby to drag him forward, and so he hears Juniper before he sees her.

"Look, I warned him all year. If he wasn't going to be a team player then he wasn't going to play on the team."

Felix’s eyes snap open automatically. A cluster of people in festive green face-paint block his view, many of them busy loudly protesting Juniper's words.

"Weasley would have caught that snitch without Marcus! He saved the game!" says one petulant voice.

"That's how Slytherin plays! It's about doing anything to win!" insists another.

All pretense of nonchalance abandoned, Felix cranes his neck over Barnaby's shoulder. He’s just able to glimpse the back of Juniper's head. Her hair falls in waves, much longer and more kempt than he remembers.

"Look, no one wants to win more than I do!" she argues, and Felix swears he can actually hear her smile. "Well, except maybe Skye."

There's an outburst of appreciative laughter from her audience.

"But cheating is a cop-out," Juniper continues. "It means someone else is really better than me and I couldn't beat them on my own. I told Flint, I wanted us to win because we were the best or die trying, but cheating to make that happen is just the same as losing."

"Yeah, and it's nothing to do with the fact that it's Weasley he knocked about," says a sly voice from somewhere in the crowd.

The outcry around her is divided into loud cheers and raucous laughter, but Barnaby's voice cuts through them.

"Juniper! Juniper, look who's here!"

Barnaby steps aside just as Juniper's head whips around. Her eyes widen in recognition as they fall upon Felix. He has a split second to worry whether he should keep his face neutral or attempt a smile, before she flings her arms around his neck, dragging him into an eager embrace. Felix's first instinct is to pull her flush against him, and his second is to push her away to disguise his desire for the first. Neither seem appropriate for the setting. He settles for reaching a single arm around her to pat her back carefully.

Juniper pulls away, leaving her hands resting on his shoulders. She's grown quite a bit if she can look him in the eye while doing that.

"You're here! I can't believe you're here!" she babbles excitedly, her face transported by her wide smile. She laughs giddily and hugs him again, and as Felix inhales that familiar aroma of lavender and something else he can't identify, all his ill-feeling evaporates.

However entangled she may be with anyone else, Barnaby Lee or Charlie Weasley, it's suddenly as meaningless to him as Quidditch. Her scent, her arms around him, her body pressed up against his, all confirm for Felix what he's suspected for the past year: he's in love with Juniper Windsong. And he's come back to Hogwarts with the express purpose of telling her so.

Read Chapter 2 | View all stories on the Masterpost

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stxnekxng · 2 years

Text

How Attractive Are You

Dawn, your attractiveness is 2

"Fair enough. Someone had to see it eventually."

#Dash Games #words of gold | dash commentary #AHFJFH DAWN WE KNOW YOUR SELF CONFIDENCE WENT DOWN THE DRAIN BUT HINEY NOO

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gem-quest · 4 years

Text

[ QUEST 02. — I N F E R N A ]

taglist: @bebemoon @now-on-elissastillstands @armadasneon @mysteriousdeathofpoe

[ M E R M A I D . C O V E . L E V E L . 3 0 ]

They managed to beat Aydina and the pirates, thank God, because otherwise, Aydina’s commentary would have been insufferable. Tourmaline, an annoying Obsidian player whose “bubblegum” ability was nevertheless rather impressive, discreetly attached some of the sticky hot pink substance as she hurled the turtle-shell-turned-dodgeball back at the pirate queen. The dodgeball connected with Aydina’s arm and stuck, the momentum from the throw pushing her out of bounds and securing the victory for the rest of them.

As soon as the annoying sappy NPC lady finished her dialogue on the shore of the beach, she disappeared in a puff of sky blue smoke, transforming into the Angel’s Breath. The SS-rank potion looked like a wispy blue semi-gaseous substance, encased in a crystalline bottle with a mini halo floating around the cork and tiny white wings attached to the back, “flapping” to keep the potion bottle afloat.

The Angel’s Breath was directly in front of Neddy - they’d activated the event under her account, which had completely slipped Inferna’s mind...until now. The potion hovered cheerfully in front of her, a stark contrast against the tension that filled the air as their teammates eyed the grand prize. Out of the corner of her eye, she could make out other players closing in on them.

Inferna rolled her eyes. She was hungry as fuck, and she didn’t care about the Angel’s Breath. Turning to Neddy, she said, “Look, I hear they’re serving free sushi back in Yue City, so if we-” her words were cut off as Tourmaline, the player who’d won the game for them, sent a stream of sticky pink magical “bubblegum” towards the potion, evidently intending to take it for herself.

“Hey now, what the hell?” Inferna shouted, just as one of their other teammates stomped on a pile of Black Pearls, releasing a thick cloud of smoke.

Inferna had one of her flaming daggers out in an instant. Using it as a light source to see through the smoke, she grabbed Neddy’s hand - not bothering to check where the Angel’s Breath was - and began running in a random direction.

As she pushed through the smoke, Inferna caught a glimpse of Morningstar’s scary-looking scythe swinging through the air (she’d have to thank the other Obsidian player for the ‘vodka potions’ at some other time), a flash of Tourmaline’s deceptively innocent bubblegum. And Balestra was ahead of them, some distance away.

“Hurry up and cast an ictuium!” she yelled over her shoulder, dragging Neddy along with her.

“Okay, okay!” Neddy replied, evidently winded by their mad dash through the smoke.

[ Y U E . C I T Y . L E V E L . 01 ]

A blink of darkness, and then the two of them were back in Yue City, in an alleyway. Inferna came to a screeching halt, and they fell against the wall of the building next to them. Inferna was breathing hard - as was Neddy, who was clutching at the stitch in her side.

Inferna squinted, letting her eyes adjust to the bright sunlight. She glanced over at the Moonstone player. “You good?” she asked, picking herself up and holding a hand out for Neddy.

Neddy blew out a breath, puffing her cheeks before beginning to laugh. “That was...awesome!” She exclaimed, slapping her hand into Inferna’s.

Inferna grinned. “You think so?” She asked, and pulled Neddy to her feet. “Isn’t Aydina such an asshole? You see what I mean now, right?”

Inferna took a moment to scan their surroundings, trying to figure out how far they were from the free sushi event she’d heard about. “Let’s go get food?” She proposed. “I’m fucking starving.”

“Right behind you.”

Inferna grinned, upon hearing Neddy’s agreement, and she trotted out of the alleyway, pulling out her player-plexus to consult the Obsidian free food group chat she’d started not long after she first joined the game. Other players were sharing pics of their meals, and Inferna zoomed in on a picture of a small “rice bear”, evidently relaxing in a bowl of some kind of curry or broth.

“Oh my gosh! Look at this,” she said excitedly, thrusting her player-plexus into Neddy’s hands.

Neddy raised both of her eyebrows, and Inferna stifled a giggle when the other player’s stomach made an audible noise. “Let’s go,” she agreed.

Inferna grinned again. She started down the street in the direction of the town square, where there were supposed to be market stalls and outdoor picnic tables set up for the players.

A thought occurred to her. “Oh! Do you know what happened to the Angel’s Breath?” She asked, pausing and turning to face Neddy.

Neddy blinked. “Oh,” she said. She reached around to her rucksack and rummaged for a moment. Finally, she drew the potion out, the vial enveloped by a faint blue glow as the miniature angel wings attached to it flapped cheerfully. “Right. I have it.”

Neddy seemed troubled, as she stared at the potion. “So much fuss over this stupid thing, and I don’t even have anyone to resurrect.”

Inferna grinned and punched Neddy in the arm, playfully. “Holy shit!” She exclaimed, admiring the potion. “Well, fuss or not, I bet you could sell it for a ton of gold,” Inferna said. “If you don’t want to actually resurrect someone.”

“Yeah…” Neddy said thoughtfully, turning the bottle over in her fingers. “Maybe.”

Inferna punched Neddy in the arm again. “Well, put that away for now, and let’s go get food!” And with that, Inferna spun on her heel, tugging Neddy along behind her as she determinedly headed down the street. It wasn’t long afterwards that they reached the sunny open square, filled with the hustle and bustle of all sorts of players who wanted to get their hands on some free food. After briefly consulting the map, Inferna dragged Neddy towards the rice bear stall. She quickly grabbed two bowls from the wooden table, and then plopped down at a picnic table, taking out a standard-sized bottle of Inferna Sauce.

She spread some sauce liberally over her own rice bear, swirling the bright red condiment into fun little curlicues to “decorate” her own bear, before she plunked the bottle down in the middle of the table. “You can have as much as you want,” she said, beaming at Neddy as she pulled out her player-plexus and tapped open the ‘camera’ function. “Say cheese?”

Neddy took the sauce bottle and beamed for Inferna. “Formaggio!” said the other girl, as Inferna snapped a picture and quickly forwarded it to her.

Neddy then sauced her rice bear just as liberally. Inferna took a picture of her own bear and then tasted a spoonful of the curry. “Oh, this is so good,” she said, and took another bite.

She was halfway into her third bite when Inferna remembered the potions from Morningstar. Inferna put her spoon down and rummaged through her things until she found the bottle - it looked like a standard potion bottle, cork and all, filled with a clear liquid.

“Morningstar made me a vodka potion. Or was it tequila? Something like that,” she said, by way of explanation. “I’m still waiting for something in this game to smoke like weed, but so far, no luck.”

She grinned, and put the potion down on the table, going back to rummaging through her inventory for something to use as a shot glass - as well as something to chase it with. “You want some?”

Neddy wrinkled her nose. “No, thanks,” she said. “I’ve never been much of a drinker.”

Inferna laughed. “Suit yourself,” she said, finding a teacup that she’d (probably) stolen from the Tearoom to substitute for a shot glass. There was no soda in-game, as far as Inferna knew, so she also took out a bottle of pomegranate juice that she’d somehow gotten her hands on, a while back.

She uncorked the potion, sniffed at it, then poured herself a shot. She then passed a teacup to Neddy and poured her some of the pomegranate juice.

“Cheers?” Inferna said, holding up her own teacup.

“Cheers,” Neddy grinned. They clinked their cups together. “To us, the victorious...victors. Eh, whatever. We kicked ass today.”

Inferna grinned, too. “We did,” she agreed, downing her drink and then immediately chugging some of the pomegranate juice, straight from the bottle. She let out a satisfied ahhhh, then took a bite of her food.

“Tell me how the sauce tastes?”

Neddy, mouth full of juice, hummed with a thumbs up. Then, rubbing her hands together, she said, “Right, let’s try this.”

Inferna watched as Neddy took a bite, sat for a moment, and then her eyes started to water. She started to flap her hand and suck air to cool the inside of her mouth. There was no way to help herself and look demure at the same time.

Inferna chuckled, and handed Neddy the open bottle of pomegranate juice. “Good, then?” She asked, taking another bite of her own rice bear.

Neddy coughed into the crook of her arm, her face turning pink. She accepted the juice gratefully and took a swig. “De-delicious,” she wheezed. “I...love it. What’s that made from-m? Garlic and hellfire?”

Inferna giggled, and drizzled a bit more of the sauce over her food. “Too spicy?” she asked, pouring herself another shot. “It’s my own recipe. I had to sort of make it up on the go inside the game, but once I found the right ingredients it was easy,” she said, and downed the second shot, wincing slightly at the taste and taking a swig of the juice to wash it down.

She grinned again. “Though maybe we should just stick to giving Jack the sauce.”

“Still,” Neddy said, looking down at her lap. “You’ve gotten pretty far on your own skill. It’s nice to have someone around again who knows what they’re doing. God knows I don’t.”

Inferna shrugged. “Nah, not really, I was on Reddit 24/7 before. And there was a Discord server with other players that I regularly consulted. I didn’t figure out most of this game by myself.” She shrugged, again, and grinned. “I’m just here to fuck around before I have to graduate and get a boring desk job, you know?”

“What about you? Why’d you join Gem Quest?”

Neddy looked...uncomfortable? “Mm,” she began hesitantly. “A boy…. I joined to spend time with him.”

Inferna cocked her head to the side, curious. “Oh? Was it Jack? I’d definitely join this game to spend time with Jack.”

At that, Neddy smirked a little. “No,” she said on an exhale, her shoulders lifting and falling. “I wish…. So, it’s no wonder you’re so savvy in this game- you’re a tech-head. Me and computers, not friends. I’m pretty sure Siri is out to get me, and every digital watch I’ve ever worn has died within twenty-four hours. And I still have a flip phone. So...”

Inferna snorted out a laugh. “I mean, I prefer the term video game aficionado, but I guess you could say that. My parents made me major in computer science too, so…” she trailed off, thoughtfully. “In all honesty, I only joined Gem Quest because League has this thing where you have to pay $10 for each skin, and I’m not fucking made of money. And GQ has better clothes in general, I think.”

“How the fuck do you survive with a flip phone, though?!”

Neddy shrugged and sipped her juice. “Smartphones intimidate me. I like simplicity…. You can’t even imagine how long it took me to figure out the Plexus. I think I was diving everyone crazy asking questions…. If we both make it out of here, maybe you can help me figure out Smartphones so I can finally enter the twenty-first century. Maybe start up an Instagram like all the other kids.”

“Oh, yeah,” Inferna said, confidently. “I mean, the good thing about flip phones is that you can literally throw them at the wall and they’ll be fine. I dropped my old slide phone from 3 stories up once, and it worked perfectly.”

Inferna was starting to feel the effects of the first shot - it wouldn’t be long before she was tipsy. Inferna was...kinda a lightweight, in all honesty, and taking two shots in a row, on a fairly empty stomach, wasn’t exactly her brightest idea ever.

She’d practically demolished the rice bear, though. After slurping up the last bit of the curry, she asked Neddy, “Are you in school, right now? I’m a junior, and like I said, a CS major.”

“Actually, before all of this I was waiting to be accepted to a school,” Neddy replied. Then, a little bashfully, she added, “For dance.”

Inferna’s eyes lit up. “Really?” she said, whistling. “That’s badass. I’ve never been able to dance a day in my life. When were you supposed to hear back?”

Neddy hugged her elbows and sat forward, her lilac hair swinging forward. “A couple weeks ago,” she answereed. “But I’m here, so...it’s unlikely, even if I did get accepted, that I’ll be going.”

Inferna frowned slightly. “Well, did you want to leave the game to check then?”

The other girl seemed slightly downcast, and before Inferna could press the issue further, a shadow passed overhead. Everyone nearby looked up, including Inferna.

Neddy said, “Oh. Jack’s looking for us.”

Inferna squeed, and clapped her hands. “Let’s go meet up with him?” she asked, polishing off what remained of her food and taking one last shot. She took another swig of the juice and began putting her things back into her player-plexus, dragging out a box of sugar cubes as she did so.

Neddy did the same, downing the rest of her juice. She then stood and shouldered her rucksack. “Ready,” she announced. “Onward.”

So, with a bottle of sauce and the box of sugar cubes tucked in her bag, Inferna grabbed Neddy’s hand and began making her way out of the square and towards the Wildflower Meadow, following the shadow across the sky.

They were going to find Jack!!!!

#q2 #writing #inferna story #inferna #vicky #obsidian #by alicia!#HUGE shout out to fanfan for collabing with me <333 #neddy #SORRY IT GOT SO LONG EEEEK #also inferna 100% does something drunk and stupid later #like she rides jack but almost falls off cuz dumb af #or something #lmaooo

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