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fukurodaze · 3 years

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five stars: part 4 | four days

IT’S EMBARRASSING: a third year cheerleader!reader x second year athlete!suna au

wc + genre: 4.7k, fluff + drama <3 warnings: cursing, burnout

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more. more. more.

faster blocks. louder voices. stronger spikes.

the interhigh is in four days.

the cheerleaders have begun rehearsing along to the players, shouting rhythmically to every point taken from each side of the practice court. the room is intense, filled with sweat and ambition to rise to the top - whoever jumps higher, hits harder, wins.

suna rintarou is no exception.

“nice, sunarin!” a voice sounds.

out of all the days in which he plays, they tell him today’s the best. on point, just in time, lightning speed, they say. he’s pleased with his own performance, momentarily, before he’s off to ask one of the second years if they’re down for another round of practice. when atsumu says yes, he’s up on the balls of his feet, ready to jump some more times.

aside, there’s a voice that calls your name. kouno yuki, the captain of the team, stands by your duffle bag, waiting for you.

“earth to y/n?” she shakes your arm when she comes closer, finding that you’ve fallen asleep against the wall of the gym. she sits down beside you, poking your shoulder.

“hey.”

there is a throaty groan.

“y/n~”

you stir.

“suna’s watching.”

“wait, what?” your eyes flutter open, body stretching at the sudden wake. you see how your co-captain doubles down in held back laughter, choking down a giggle present in the creases of her eyes.

“nothing, nothing. i was waiting for you so we could store the uniforms together, but i think i’ll just do it with sato-san.”

“oh, okay,” you nod, eyes drifting back down to close. the volleyball team is still practicing, and though it’s loud, the sound of shoes sliding against polished wood suddenly becomes relaxing when you’re as tired as you are. you thank yuki for the fix and she smiles at you with a sympathetic look in her eyes.

the next time you wake up, your eyes are forced open when a volleyball comes close to your head.

“shit! sorry!” the boy you recognise as ginjima hitoshi from some of suna’s stories is bowing on a fourty-five degree angle, face cringing in regret. he jogs lightly to pick up the ball and bring it back but suna sends him a look and a thumb, telling him that he’ll get it instead.

when suna approaches you in all his 185 centimetre glory, there is a sort of gleam that radiates off of him. you’re not sure if it’s the smirk at how flustered you are or the sheen of sweat covering his skin, but it makes a heat rise up your neck at how close he is when he leans in and squats over you to retrieve the ball.

then again, you’ve been burning up all day.

“are you okay?” suna’s voice is low and almost a whisper.

“what?” you shake your head, “yeah, yeah. i’m fine. don’t worry.”

he nods and picks up the ball. you watch as he slowly steps away, so you call, “suna?”

he looks back with nonchalance.

“walk me to the bus stop?”

the answer is ‘always’.

early august is when the summer begins to cool down, signalling the latter half of the year to come. your summer uniforms no longer stick to your skin with heat, but lie loosely on shoulders and limbs as short sleeves made of thin material.

still, you feel hot.

it’s one thing to be tired and lethargic, but it’s another to feel like your eyes are begging to close and your hands are searching for something to cover.

suna notices this in the way that you’re talking less on a friday night and how you’re walking in unsure lines. he wishes he had brought a hoodie or sweater with him.

the sky has become a deeper indigo after practice, and though the lights have turned on, it doesn’t seem like your vision is alright, either. you continue to stumble and mumble out words that suna can only make out as assurances of “i’m okay” and “don’t worry.” of course he worries.

“we’re almost at the bus stop,” suna’s hand lingers around your wrist, unsure of whether you need it or not.

still, you grab it, and it makes a world of a difference when you begin to lean on him. he feels your temperature, feverish yet freezing, and he makes sure to hold you up until the bus stop.

“actually,” you try your best to talk coherently, “can i walk you home?”

suna furrows his brows, “what do you mean?”

“i’ll tell my mom that i’m staying over at a friend’s. it’s fine.”

suna questions your resolve at staying over at his place, especially when you’re sick. he knows he can’t take care of you like your mother might. and yet, he’s always weak to your requests, seemingly unable to say no whenever you ask him.

“okay,” he tells you, and he feels the arm around his hand wrap tighter. it reminds him of that one night on the bus.

“wait, lemme carry your bag.”

you look up at him from where you’re slouching, “hm? oh. sure.”

now he has a backpack and a duffel bag slung across his torso, your arm linked to his as you two walk along the sidewalk outside of school. it hasn’t been long since the two of you left, but the night seems to come earlier despite it being only august.

the walk grows silent, characterised by heavy breathing from your end and concerned looks from his. you stare at the ground, where the rubble and asphalt are sometimes withered, and try to match up your steps to the boy’s, focusing on the one-two-one-two of your feet.

it’s only a five minute walk to suna’s place, and you thank heavens that it is, for by the time he opens his door, you’re stumbling into the room and holding onto the sofa, eyes asking for permission to lay down.

he nods, unsure if his sofa’s even comfortable enough for you to sleep on. he feels weird, and wonders if you’d be in good hands when you return home on a saturday morning from a “friend”’s house. would you be in trouble if your mother found out you had resorted to staying at a boy’s place with a fever?

it’s like you almost hear his thoughts, “don’t worry, suna, one good night’s sleep and i’m going to be good.”

“but you haven’t had dinner?” suna hates how he sounds like a parent.

you whimper, tossing and turning on your back, “okay.”

with that, suna begins to wait for his rice cooker as he pulls out a packet of instant miso soup, hoping that something warm would help you sleep better. it takes a short amount of time for him to pour in the hot water and paste, mixing it in a bowl, before keeping it still on the table while waiting for the rice.

in the meantime, he makes himself another bowl of instant miso soup, hands going on autopilot as his mind drifts off into a frenzy of thoughts. will you be okay? will this be okay? how long have you been unwell for? are you overworking yourself? he’s never even seen you at the school canteen. how often have you been eating?

the questions rattling his mind are interrupted by the beeping of the rice cooker. he opens its lid and is introduced to steam, still hot when he reaches in with a spatula to scoop some rice for you.

he brings the food to the table in front of the sofa with a warm glass of water. tapping your shoulder to remind you, he’s hesitant to have you wake up after you’ve finally laid still.

“for me?” you squint.

“yeah. for you.” suna has his food right next to yours, thinking he might make you feel a little bit better if you’re not eating alone.

when you shimmy yourself down from the sofa, the two of you coexist in silence once more, the only sounds being chewing and gulping down soup or water. none of you mind, really, although it’s not what usually happens when the two of you are spending time together, usually filled with banter and, more recently, flirtatious remarks.

suna wonders if he’ll ever get to embrace you soon. your figure cowers as you eat, sometimes leaning on the front of the sofa for support. he should embrace you. he wants to embrace you. he doesn’t embrace you.

when you try your best to finish your meal, he tells you you’re doing great. suna’s surprised those words even come out of him, seeing as he’s never really congratulated anyone outside of volleyball before, but your soft smile tells him everything he needs to know.

thank you.

you lift yourself back up onto the sofa, curling up. suna gets you a wool blanket, a spare from his room, and covers you with it. he sees you smile again.

suna puts away the dishes, leaving them in the sink for doing tomorrow. he’s still in his school uniform, and so are you. by the likes of eight-thirty in the evening, he can tell you’re just about ready to pass out into sleep.

until he hears your voice.

“you’re so great, suna.”

there is no other voice but yours.

“you let me sleep on the bus, found me that morning on the bleachers, helped me with my work,” you trail off, but suna keeps listening.

“you take care of me,” you tumble through your words, turning as you lay, “i guess that’s why i like you.”

suna freezes.

it’s a gamble, whether or not you’re awake, but he decides. there is silence in the air and the smell of warm miso soup wafting against the walls, and he tells you something he’s never cared to tell anyone before.

“i like you too. goodnight.”

suna feels his heart beating in his ears all night.

he twists under his covers. shit.

does this mean we’re dating now?

“suna?”

the boy almost jumps when he sees you in the morning, peeking through his bedroom door.

“oh, right. y/n.”

his heart still beats in seemingly uneven patterns in his chest, the memory of last night still fresh in his mind. there is only one question in his mind: do you remember it as much as he does?

“um, i’m all better now. so-”

“that’s good,” suna’s stomach growls. he lifts himself out of his bed, squeezing through the doorframe where you’re leaning. you don’t miss the way he leans into you, just slightly, the deeper baritone of his morning voice sounding further into your ears as he groans and walks out.

he stops at the table, however, and his face almost turns entirely red in surprise.

“you made this?”

you come up to the table, urging him to take a seat. breakfast: leftover rice and fish from yesterday’s lunch and dinner. suna remembers how his mother would always urge him to eat fish for breakfast, even sending him cuts of frozen fish from time to time.

“i wanted to thank you for yesterday, at least. i’m sorry if i’m intruding, or something.”

suna shakes his head, “no, you’re not.”

“that’s- that’s good then.”

breakfast fizzles into silence as you take a seat across the table, the air somehow stuffy. was it the fact that you had stayed over? had you burdened him by being sick? did you miss out on something?

mornings are never usually this quiet, but suna eats with a wholesomeness that makes you swoon. you’ve started to think that his mind is full when his mouth is devoid of words, and that his mind is only clear when his mouth is full. it’s cute, you think, how his bed hair seems to look more tame than his usual hair, or how his bed shorts are a bright red.

“you staring?”

you return to your food, “never in a million years.”

“that’s a pretty long time.”

you hum in a half-joke, cringing inwardly at your own words.

“hey, uh,” suna hesitate, wondering what had happened that made the two of you so stiff, “can i take you home?”

you’re really missing something here.

here’s what you’d expect: the boy walks you home, leaves you at the bus stop. what you’re getting is miles away from it.

“suna, are you okay with this?”

suna does a double take between you and his phone, “sure. why wouldn’t i be?”

“i don’t know, i’m…” you don’t know how to continue your sentence. i’m not wearing anything underneath your hoodie, you want to tell him, but you’re not quite sure about his reaction.

“what?” he shakes his head, “anyways, i was the one that offered my clothes to you. no big deal.”

“right, no big deal.”

“now, c’mon, we walking you home or not?” he opens the door, and you scoot outside slowly, waiting for him as he locks the door. when he finishes, he comes to you, closer, and intertwines his hand in yours.

his hand, in yours. what?

“s-suna, the bus!” you blurt out in surprise.

suna hums in a question, “yeah, what? we’re taking the bus, right?”

you glance down at where your hands are connected, “right. i’ll pay.”

he lets you pay for the tickets this time, the bus ride keeping you company with caring conversation and, of course, a comforting hand.

you had never thought you would be getting so close to this boy so quick, and yet here you were, taking him to your house on a saturday morning.

you wonder how your parents would react to you hanging off a boy’s arm like this.

when you two reach your stop, the sky is sunny, seemingly cooler with the way suna’s damp and newly-washed hair shines in the light. you tell him things, jokes, little stories about your childhood as you stroll through the neighbourhood. you care to take him the long way home, unsure if the butterflies in your stomach would subside if you spent some time holding them off.

"are you doing anything after the interhigh?” suna asks eagerly.

“well, the cultural festival is coming up. and honoka’s leaving, so i’ll take her to the airport and everything.”

“oh,” suna mumbles, “that’s cool.”

you shrug, “i guess so.”

he looks at you for longer than usual, “i’ll miss you.”

you bite your lip in attempt to hide your surprise, “don’t try to miss me too much! besides, i’m not going anywhere.”

you notice that you can’t make eye contact with the boy in fears of being flustered even more. yet, he picks up on it, “are you flustered?”

“and if i was?”

“that’s no problem. we’re, you know.”

“we’re... what?”

“you know...” his voice softens, “dating.”

your eyebrows furrow immediately, your hand unknowingly slipping from his grip, “wait, we are?”

“i thought you remembered.”

“remembered what?”

“last night, when we said we liked each other. do you not feel that way anymore?” suna shoves his hands in his shorts pockets, the embarrassment creeping up his face.

“wait, i don’t get it!” you wave your hands around in confusion, “i mean, i do... feel... that way... but i was sick! i didn’t remember anything, of course.”

“oh god.”

“you’re not mad, are you?”

the boy shakes his head, “no, i’m just- really embarrassed.”

you peer at suna, who has his hand covering his face, head titled up, shadow long against the sun. the kids around the area gaze up at his tall figure, and then at you, recognising your face from the neighbourhood.

one of them even comes close to you, and you recognise him as the boy who lives two blocks away from you, “nee-san, is that your boyfriend?”

you look back, and one glance at suna has you close to letting out a loud snicker. you bend down, arms crossing into the hoodie he lent you today, “we’ll see.”

suna doesn’t know whether to laugh or smile when the little boy bursts into tears, mumbling a string of inaudible words that he can only guess spell out an unrequited love.

you return to suna, walking in silence at first. now it’s his turn to be confused.

“so i’m ‘we’ll see’?”

“reciprocated feelings don’t always equal dating, suna,” you say.

“yeah, sorry i-”

you speak first, “and i’m thinking about it. s’not a bad offer, y’know?”

“oh, shut up.”

“you’re telling me to what now?”

suna leans over to one side, quickly saying, “hey, isn’t this your house? the birdbath?”

“oh, definitely.” you have your hands on your hips, the playful air that you’re so used to having returned, “my house is number twenty, dumbass.”

“you’re calling me a what now?” he mocks.

you hit him on the shoulder, lightly, a hint of a flirt in your touch.

there is comfort stored into the space between the two of you once more, and it eases you to know things would always come back to the way they were between you two. maybe there is an added sort of suggestion, in the way his hand twitches when he stares at you, or the way you seem to love folding your arms against his hoodie.

“anyways. we’re here. wanna meet my mom?”

“do i have a choice?”

you smile, “nope.”

as the two of you enter the house, your hand lets go of his, unconsciously on purpose, arms to the side. suna feels as if his heart beats even louder, seeing your house, and, eventually, your mother.

she peeks out from the living room, rushing to the front door as soon as you announce your presence. she takes you in her arms with a soft smile on your face, glancing at suna once before turning to you to ask how last night was.

“is this the friend you were staying over with last night?” she whispers in your ear in a disbelieving tone, “you stayed over at a boy’s place?”

suna hears exactly what she’s saying. he swears there’s some sweat dripping down his temple.

you clear your throat, hand extending to introduce the boy. “mom, this is suna rintarou. he’s going to be playing at the interhigh i’m cheering at.”

“ah, a volleyball player! i think i might even recognise you...”

suna nods, bows. he introduces himself in the most formal way he’s ever known, which brings a cheeky smile on your mother’s face. it’s almost funny to see a ninety degree bow from someone so tall, she thinks, seeing how his seemingly scary or off putting demeanour had changed so quickly in front of her eyes.

“have you two had breakfast already?” your mother asks, to which the both of you nod. your mother smirks, and it makes you wonder why.

“anyways, just take a seat in the living room,” she motions, hand waving at the room from which the television sounds come from.

“oh, mom, do we still have those cookies?”

you mother chuckles darkly. you furrow your brows.

“alright then… i’ll get them…?” you walk out to the kitchen as your mother leads suna into the living room. she sits on the armchair across the room after suna sits awkwardly on the edge of the couch.

there is some silence as she watches the morning soap opera, eyes only flitting to the boy once the advertisements come on. once they do, though, suna becomes bombarded with questions and conversation.

“so you’re on the starting team?”

suna nods, “yes. i play middle blocker.”

“ah, that’s why you’re so tall! then again, volleyball players are so tall…”

your mother’s remark reminds him of that one time you had whispered it under your breath. your voices sound too similar for him not to smile.

suna shifts backwards, letting himself lean into the back of the couch, though his limbs still lay stiffly along the cushions.

“have you ever played against, what was that team’s name- from tokyo!” your mother thinks, “the school sounded a lot like an animal…”

suna tries not to tense up, “uh, itachiyama?”

“hmm, no, i’ve heard of them, but not them…”

“fukurodani?”

“right! fukurodani! i’ve seen them so many times when i watch nationals that i can’t help but love to watch their plays! of course, inarizaki is great too, because now we have an even better starting team. have you ever played against those guys?”

suna nods, “yes, we have. most people have heard of their ace, bokuto koutarou.”

your mother gleefully places her hand in front of her mouth before speaking, “i do love the energy that boy brings. he’s even announced that he’s going to the v-league!”

suna lets out a breathy laugh, “right.”

your mother retracts herself, “oh, sorry, i keep getting carried away when it comes to volleyball. y/n always chooses to go to the volleyball games so i keep watching them… i didn’t know it could be so fun… are you planning on entering the v-league, rintarou?”

he stirs, shrugging, “ah… it’s still a faraway decision.”

“well, i can tell you have some talent. i remember you were the one that was subbed in as a first year in the previous nationals, right?”

suna nods as your mother recalls the way inarizaki had risen up to the semi finals with their subbed in first years. it brings a swell of pride in his chest, having been so long since people actually complimented him on his plays.

“if you do want to go to the v-league though, please don’t overwork yourself,” your mother brings up.

suna raises an eyebrow at the sudden statement. your mother continues, “our y/n here does so much that it’s landed her sick in many ways. especially as a third year and everything, and now that her best friend is moving, you know, it’s a bit shaky.”

“right, she’s told me a little bit about it.” suna looks down, fiddling with his fingers. he hates hearing the little things about how you push yourself too hard. it’s a temporarily heavy feeling at first, knowing about your constant lack of sleep and food. and now your best friend’s moving out? suna finds that he wants to warm you up in his embrace to tell you it’ll all be fine - he just doesn’t know how. at least, not yet.

“if you do work as hard as y/n, make sure you eat enough and sleep enough, okay? i can’t count the times i’ve nagged that girl to get to bed or eat her breakfast-”

“were you guys talking about me?” you barge into the room, a plate of cookies ready in your hand. you groan, “also, mom, you didn’t tell me we finished the cookies!”

“i never said we did have the cookies in the first place.”

you mutter under your breath, “what is it with people doing that to me?”

still, you seat yourself on the couch next to suna, legs crossed, cookie in hand. your mother squints, “i’ve never seen you wear that hoodie.”

suna feels his hands grow warm.

“yeah, i’m borrowing it for a short while.” you glance at suna right after speaking, causing even more teasing looks from your mother.

“anyways, as i was saying, this girl never eats breakfast!” she begins, “and tell her to sleep earlier next time. at least ten o’clock!”

“mom, come on,” you curl up on the couch.

“it’s okay, mrs. l/n, she slept early yesterday. eight-thirty, actually.”

there is an amused look on your mother’s face. you don’t tell her it’s because you had a fever. there is a lack of conversation as your mother begins to focus her attention back on the soap opera on the television.

but she does say out loud, “i’m so glad you two did it.”

the room fills with the sound of the soap opera. you think for a little bit.

“did what?”

“ate breakfast, of course.”

“right.” you try not to choke on your cookie.

the rest of the morning passes as suna begins to feel himself loosen up at your house, finding the couch extremely comfortable and the soap opera weirdly entertaining. there is mindless talk of the interhighs on monday, and the three of you discuss preparations, strategies, venues. when your mother isn’t looking, suna finds his hand looping around your smaller thumb, a warm feeling blooming from the touch.

when your mother does look, however, she looks at suna, and then she looks at you.

“mom? the episode’s back on,” you call.

there is a genuine ear to ear smile on her face, eyes narrowing and shoulders relaxing.

“mom?”

shaking her head, she blinks repeatedly, “i’m so happy you ate breakfast today.”

your mouth parts in a wordless whisper, a glance at suna telling you he’s happy, too.

“see you on monday” is the last thing you hear from suna that week. when he hugs you as he leaves, he tells you he likes it; that he feels warm.

you don’t tell him that you’re still burning up.

on tuesday, the sun shines too bright for your liking even when you’re shielded by the large bus’ thick windows and air conditioner. your eyes feel hot, hotter than usual, and your feet need an extra amount of blankets to stop shivering.

it doesn’t show, though, and you make sure it doesn’t. it’s only a week, you tell yourself, you can manage. you had to admit the weekend wasn’t any better than friday night, but you promise yourself to sleep early. it hasn’t always been working, though.

so you try to distract yourself. you know the volleyball players had gone a day earlier, and that their opening ceremony is today, but you also know that the ceremony ends at lunch and the next match is only tomorrow.

your phone dings once more.

from suna: hru

to suna: cold :( the bus is so damn cold but it’s so hot outside ughh

from suna: ill lend u my jacket later ye

to suna: thank u. hows the opening?

from suna: fuckin cool wish u were there

you scoff. yuki, who’s sitting beside you, sneaks on your shoulder, “aw, he wishes you were there!”

you jump in surprise, “yuki! don’t do that!”

“you know, i didn’t expect him to be that dry.”

“okay, he’s not that dry,” you defend.

“really? is he? love is blinding, y/n.”

the bus comes to a stop, and you continue to text the boy. yuki stands up to tell everyone to bring their bags down, and that the other volleyball coach will be on standby at the hotel to check in for the cheer team. you follow suit, taking your bags and coming out of the bus. you’re greeted once more by the scorching sun, the heat on your head making you feel dizzy.

focus, you tell yourself, focus on the screen, at least.

from suna: im coming back to the hotel

to suna: omo… buy me food

from suna: hmm

to suna: cmon dont be shy

from suna: only if you buy me twice as much

meanwhile, suna’s got his jacket and backpack on, ready to go back. atsumu walks next to him, testing his patience at not sneaking a peek at suna’s phone, trying too hard to start a conversation with kita beside him.

atsumu does wonder what goes on in the chat. maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to see…

to suna: my god okay maybe we can get like

there’s no response. you’re not even typing. was that the end of the sentence? he closes his phone for a moment.

he gets a notification on his phone a second later.

to suna: hi, this is yuki. something bad just happened to y/n.

“holy shit,” atsumu mutters under his breath, “suna, is your girlfriend okay?”

“atsumu, you don’t just… do that.”

“shit, sorry.”

“it’s fine,” suna sighs. there is a pang in his chest and a struggling sentence of ‘i knew it’ swimming in his mind, worry seeping from the screen to his fingers. suna pockets his phone as quickly as he reads the message, a huff leaving his lips and a quicker, rougher pace developing in his step.

“we just need to go to the hotel.”

taglist: @maitenight @natszoo @ssuna @erens-piss-cleaner @osamus-onigiri @volleybloop @etherealiwa @agaasheesmilktea @bicchaan @anngelllla @tycrackculture @sins-over-tragedy @tsumuluv @daichibrainrot @underratedmage @sunasexual @kenmei @daydreamingtetsu @sunareii @bebegi @laventae @kaashikoi @chanayah @fukurodianthus @bearykei @yatoatyourservice (if i couldn’t tag you, your url is bolded :))

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as always, thank you to @yooroomi for beta reading this series!

#haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #suna x reader #hqradiostation #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu fluff #hq scenarios #hq fluff #haikyuu imagines #suna rintarou #haikyuu!! x reader #suna fluff #suna imagines #suna x you #suna rintarou x reader #suna scenarios

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artificialqueens · 3 years

Text

Never The Same, Always Together (Diamond Chaney) - pureCAMP

A/N - Well, this started as a fic challenge entry but very quickly veered off in a different direction so I’ll have to see if I can make something else for that. In the meantime, here’s around 12.3k words detailing two average Scottish gals.

CW for mentions of body image and body shaming, although fairly brief

Summary: Lawrence and Ellie from the start, and the story of how they came to be.

“How did you know she was the one?”

It’s mid-September. The last dregs of summer are still clinging on, far from ready to abandon ship, and although the leaves on the trees around the edge of the playground are starting to turn brown, sunlight still warms their bare arms as they run with blue cardigans tied around their waists in loose knots.

Lawrence is a proud five years old in comparison to some of her classmate’s barely four years, an advantage that makes her feel powerful. Adults often describe her as “a right little character”, but her young mind has yet to realise that they mean bold, talkative, and still untouched by the childish nervousness that claims many of her peers. She is, in essence, blissfully unaware of what the world thinks of loud little girls with accents so thick they question her coherence.

There is another little girl sitting on a bench. It’s the friendship bench, Miss Darling told them, where children can sit when they feel lonely and upset, allowing other children to invite them to play. No one really sits on it because nobody wants to waste their precious play time sat down when they could be running like the wind and making up stories.

The little girl is crying, very quietly. She has blonde hair in two neat plaits, tied off at the end with pink checkered ribbons, and she’s wearing one of the school summer dresses with a little patterned collar. Lawrence’s mum didn’t want to pay the extra money for a patterned collar, so she’s immediately a little jealous that this girl has one and she doesn’t. Her cardigan is all rumpled, falling off one shoulder, the sleeve over her hand which she uses to wipe her face dry every so often. She has clean white socks pulled up mid-calf, and black patent shoes on her feet, dangling in the air as she’s too little to touch the floor.

Lawrence is tall for her age. She can reach the floor with her feet when she sits on the bench.

As yet unaffected by the aforementioned nervousness, Lawrence bounds her way towards the crying girl. The girl looks up, teary blue eyes meeting tactlessly wide ones, and wipes her nose with her sleeve.

“Why are you sitting on the bench?” Lawrence asks, too young to know better than to speak bluntly. Subtext is a skill for older children, one that she will one day wish she had never had to learn. Life is easier as blatant, honest children.

The girl sniffs. “I’m on my own.”

“No you’re not.” Lawrence tells her, arms folded across her chest. “I’m here, so that’s not true. Why are you crying?”

“My brother’s in the other class and they won’t let us be in the same class and he’s playing with the boys and not me,” The girl explains, still crying but less so, pointing a shaky finger across the playground.

Lawrence follows her gaze towards the big stretch of field that, for now, they’re still allowed to play on, soon to become banned once the slightest hint of autumn rain hits and turns it into a mud puddle treacherous to school uniforms everywhere. A group of boys, scruffy and dirty, are kicking a foam football around, running like crazy, shouting at one another. She counts carefully, finding six in total. More than five and less than seven. One of them is blonde and little, like the girl.

“What’s your name?”

“Ellie.”

With little patience left in her small body, Lawrence grabs Ellie by the wrist and pulls her up off the bench. “Right. You’re the princess and I’m the big scary monster, you have to run away or I’m going to catch you! Rarrrrr!”

Ellie screams, tears her wrist away, and starts running as quickly as she can, little legs moving at a million miles an hour. Lawrence chases her, growling and biting behind her to let her new friend know how close she is. For fifteen minutes, though to their five and four year old selves it could have been days, they are a flurry of squealing, yelping, monster snarls and giggling.

When the bell rings, Ellie stands behind Lawrence in the line - she takes the front, unafraid to lead her peers back to the classroom, where Miss Darling is waiting to teach them about ai and ay. She sits next to Lawrence on the carpet, both cross-legged, her tears of separation from her brother quickly forgotten. She giggles as Lawrence is told off for her wandering attention span and chatty nature. At lunchtime, she plaits Lawrence’s hair the same as her own, and though it looks bad, they see it as the same perfect standard of Ellie’s mum’s handiwork.

Birthdays are the most specialest days in the world ever. Something about them is just magical. It’s the way that Lawrence goes to bed in her house as normal and when she wakes up, there are banners and balloons everywhere, diagonal on every door, above the fireplace, even on the letterbox. Presents neatly wrapped that seem to appear from the middle of nowhere, hidden expertly well and then piled in the living room ready for eager hands to tear open and play with. A day where no reasonable request can be refused, and silly hats can be worn.

Silly hats make both adults and children laugh, and Lawrence loves to be the centre of attention and making everyone laugh. At seven - no, eight now, eight today - she has been labelled a “class clown”. This, supposedly, is a bad thing, but it depends on how you look at it. Classmates and friends love class clowns, invite her to play their games because she’s funny, pay little attention to her big height and chubby body because she makes them laugh. Teaching assistants like class clowns, they laugh at them when they should be chastising them, and gently warn them to tone it down a little with kind smiles. Teachers, like Mr Macpherson, don’t like class clowns. They put them in time-out and shout at them.

But Lawrence doesn’t care, and Ellie always laughs.

Her party is at the big play warehouse, and the whole of Primary 4 have been invited, because they all wanted to come. Everyone is wearing baggy jeans and colourful leggings, racing down the rainbow slide, throwing balls from the ball-pit at each other, climbing through the foam structures with cherry-red faces and sweat dripping from their wet foreheads. Everyone is sectioned off into their little groups, playing as they see fit, exploring every inch of their veritable wonderland.

Lawrence is with Ellie, at the very top. Ellie is still seven, and as such, a bit scared of the great height that comes with the rainbow slide. Her sparkly unicorn t-shirt says “go, girl!” in swirly pink letters, a sentiment that she enthusiastically repeats to her trembling friend. They are sat in the very middle, classmates whizzing down on either side of them, building up the courage together.

“It’s too high! I can’t do it!” Ellie pleads, her eyes huge. Her cheeks are bright pink, play exertion written all over her, but her energy still not depleted. Lawrence is raring to go, but has learned the art of tact, kindness, and helping a friend.

“We’ll go down together, Ellie Bellie!” She proposes, an idea that makes Ellie pause and consider it. “I’m bigger than you so if you hold onto me we’ll get to the bottom super fast and then it’ll be over, and when you see how fun it is we can go again and again and again!”

She chews her lip. “What if you let go?”

“I won’t!” Lawrence assures her. “Look, we’ll hold hands all the way down, and then I’ll race you back to the top. Bet I’ll win.”

Ellie gasps, affronted. “Will not!”

“Will too!”

“Will not!”

“Only one way to find out, Ellie Bellie!”

They grab hands, sweaty and gritty from playground rubber and climbing on all fours. Ellie screws her eyes shut as Lawrence starts them off, and before they know it, they’re zooming down the techicolour mountain at speeds hitherto unknown, records unbeatable, aided by the slippy fabric of pink leggings and purple capris. Their hands remain linked the whole way down, until they stumble into the netting at the bottom and break apart. Ellie flops down in breathless laughter, euphoric at both defeating her fear and discovering a new sensation.

“You did it!” Lawrence squeals.

Ellie’s eyes are wild. “We have to go again!”

They race to the top. Ellie wins the first time, Lawrence the second. The third time, they tie, and bicker about who won all the way down the slide and back up again, after which Lawrence claims another victory. Each time, they go down hand in clammy hand, fall over themselves laughing, and carry on.

It repeats until a little jingle plays, and all of Primary 4 race in a mass exodus towards the special party room, where they have buffet lunch and drinks. Lawrence guzzles her paper cup of orange cordial like her life depends on it, a dehydration like she’s never felt gripping her throat, and Ellie laughs at her so much that she chokes on her blackcurrant cordial, leaving Lawrence’s mum to run for paper towels to clean her up.

Lawrence wears a gold cardboard crown as her classmates sing Happy Birthday, Ellie sitting at her right with a lopsided paper tiara slipping off her head but in pride of place nonetheless. They eat chicken dippers smothered in ketchup and party rings and a slice of cake, and Lawrence ends up with a big ketchup splodge on her lilac t-shirt that, while making her mum go spare, makes Ellie hysterically giggly.

“Oh, Lawrie, what are you like?” Her mum fusses, smiling and shaking her head all at once. “How you and Ellie can be so different yet so close, I’ll never know. She’s all nice and neat, see?”

Ellie beams up at what is essentially her second mum. “I think she’s funny!”

“She is!” Her mum agrees. “Funny little madam, aren’t you?”

Little madam is another turn of phrase that Lawrence will come to learn has other meanings attached to it that previously she had not considered, but as a happy eight year old at the world’s best birthday party, she pays it no mind.

Ellie ends up with white birthday cake frosting in her hair, so she’s not really as neat as Lawrence’s mum suggests. It doesn’t matter that Lawrence is the one who put it there.

The first year uniform is ugly as sin, no matter how much Lawrence’s mum fawns over how smart and grown up she looks. It’s a white polo shirt with the school logo stitched on the right hand side, a heavy black blazer with white piping around the cuffs and lapel, a tie with your house colour, and black trousers if you’re Lawrence, or a black skirt if you’re Ellie.

Lawrence and Ellie are both in the green house, sporting their forest-coloured ties with fat knots and rucksacks at the ready on their shoulders. They’re in the same form, too, a stroke of luck that is appreciated by both of them. Most of their primary school went to another local secondary school, leaving the two of them to start elsewhere and forge their new identities as awkward tweenagers thankfully with each other side by side.

Their mums insist on a million photos outside in the driveway together, right up until the bus is about to pull up to the bus stop and they have to leg it to catch it in time. The photos, though awful, will come to be treasured by Lawrence one day, sweet innocent memories to be stuck inside albums, frames and on walls and mantelpieces.

Form is first thing in the morning, a group of thirty terrified first years headed by Mrs Buchanan. She’s an older lady, fifty or so, and not nearly as kind and gentle as they’re all used to, thus requiring a bit of getting used to. But they’re in secondary school now, so growing up quickly and adapting into a new way of learning and being is critical. Lawrence makes sure there’s space for Ellie to sit next to her, and as their timetables get handed out, she squeezes her friend’s hand under the table. The worry is soon alleviated; they have all classes together for the whole year.

Over time, the friendship group expands, even as Lawrence and Ellie remain firm best friends, ever the duo within the circle of new people. Aurora’s string of three-week maximum boyfriends earns her the nickname A’Whora, and she brings Tayce along with her, who brings Asttina. Ellie befriends Tia who brings Veronica. Bimini just appears out of nowhere and slots right in, and they have a designated little collection of people to spend all their time with.

Secondary school is rough. Mean-spirited girls and overconfident boys poke fun at Lawrence’s weight while having the audacity to laugh at her jokes, and Ellie’s girly nature is picked on and mocked as if there’s something wrong with just liking the things you like. Together they ignore the hurtful words, shake their heads in silence, stand up strong and pretend endlessly that it glances off them. Truthfully, it’s an unnecessary stress on two girls just trying to figure out who they’re going to be one day, but they’re glad to have each other.

They’ve learned to thicken their skin, at least. Lawrence can hardly believe the difference in shy little Ellie from Primary 1 to now, third year, virtually prepared to throw hands in defense of her best friend.

It’s PE, fourth period, right before lunch. The changing room is in a bizarre L shape, and Lawrence likes to change behind the bend, increasingly aware of how her body differs from the girls around her and conscious of it in a way she never has been before. Sometimes her eyes unwittingly fall on Bimini, in her bright pink M&S bra, or on the smooth slim back of a girl changing opposite her, but she just tears her gaze away and doesn’t dwell on why it ended up there in the first place. She usually changes red-faced, embarrassed of herself, having mastered the art of not removing any uniform until the sports one is safely on top of it.

A girl across from them watches Lawrence’s fail-safe method of changing and laughs cruelly, nudging her equally-bony friend. She pretends not to notice, swallows hard, fights the angry blush.

“Look at the fuckin’ size of her!” She overhears, a whisper not really meant for disguise, quiet enough only that the teacher won’t hear, but Lawrence will. It’s a deliberate trick to damage her self-esteem, and it works exactly as intended.

Besides her, Ellie bristles. Lawrence touches her arm, then takes her hand away, feeling weird about a platonic touch when they’re half undressed. “Ignore em, Ells. They’re just catty bitches.”

Ellie herself isn’t the waif of a girl she used to be - she’s tall, now, and not quite stout but sporting a thick athletic build, tied in with a girlish waist and a strong physique. Her fists clench at her sides.

“Get fucked!” She calls across the changing room, shocking even Lawrence. A hush descends over the girls, a mixture of dread, horror and excitement for drama looming over them. Undeterred by the silence, she continues, “Nasty wee cows, commenting shite like that. You’re mad because she’s got tits and you haven’t, and you’re mad because you’re built like a netball goal post. Embarrassing.”

Somewhere around the corner, Lawrence hears A’Whora, Tayce and Bimini stifle a burst of unexpected laughter, Bimini carefully styling it out as a cough that fools absolutely no one. The two offenders look bewildered, as if no one has ever taught them not to bully, and as Ellie’s words dawn on them, hurt flashes across their faces, visible even beneath the orange foundation. It’s a glorious moment right up until-

“Ellie Diamond! How dare you speak like that? Girls, what on earth is going on here?”

Miss Brown, the PE teacher, rounds the corner with a furious glare, which Ellie shrinks down under and swallows nervously. Her hands sit on her hips, demanding, waiting for an explanation that Lawrence knows Ellie can’t give. She’s lost her bottle, all of it used up on telling the girls not to be so vile, and now she’s left floundering under the inevitability of a detention no matter what her story is.

Well, Ellie just helped Lawrence, and she’s never been one to wait upon a debt.

“Miss, they were calling me fat and Ellie had just had enough of them being horrible bitches, treating her like the bad guy is a bunch of shite. She did nothing wrong.”

It’s carefully calculated; a defence of Ellie so that her anxieties settle down, and a cleverly thrown-in swear to ensure she gets nailed with a detention of her own. It works like a charm, of course, Ellie and Lawrence scheduled for Tuesday evening and the thoroughly humbled arseholes scheduled for Thursday.

Lawrence always takes goalkeeper in netball, so Ellie takes goal defence. They stand together at their third of the court, the entire game happening at the other end, rubbing their arms to keep warm.

“You didn’t have to do that, Loz. Now we both have detention.” Ellie complains, though she doesn’t sound upset. Lawrence knows she’s grateful, but saying so would just make it weird. Subtext makes up most of their conversations now, a series of vicious bickering and ridiculous jokes that convey you’re my best friend of course I had to do that in a language that only they can decipher.

Lawrence shrugs, unbothered. “Think about it, hen. If I don’t have detention and you do, I have to sit alone on the bus. If we both have it, we can walk home together, grab a couple of Monsters from the shop and have tea at mine.”

“You’re a fuckin’ genius,” Ellie grins, bumping her shoulder. “They didn’t hurt your feelings, did they? Once Brown’s not around, I’m not above smashing their noses in with a netball.”

Lawrence is fourteen years old. Breathing in her direction wrong hurts her feelings - comments about her physical insecurities and inferiorities are completely soul-destroying.

“Nah, babes.” She brushes it off, smiling at her best friend. “I mean, watch this.”

The game progresses into their third. The goal scorer for the other team is pretty good, tall enough to reach the hoop and rail thin, but Lawrence herself is tall and stocky and provides the perfect obstacle to scoring a point. She intercepts, lobs the ball as hard as she can in Tayce’s direction, and it ends up back in the opposite third once again. They score another point, and Ellie whoops at their victory.

“Fuckin’ smashin’ it, hen. A skinny bitch could never.” She gloats, chest heaving, beaming with pride.

Ellie’s hair is pulled into a high ponytail, the neat plaits of her past long forgotten. Over the game, little wisps have fallen out to frame her face, which is pleasingly pink and flushed with effort. She has a neat wing of eyeliner and mascara that makes her look like some kind of Disney princess, and as the nightmare of puberty goes on around them, Lawrence notes with an entirely unselfish happiness that her best friend is going to be really, really pretty.

She sort of already is.

Bimini’s sixteenth birthday comes with a party. She’s never one to go halves - her mum is thirty two, a fact that makes A’Whora and Tayce elbow her that she needs to get busy to continue the family tradition - and since the weather is uncharacteristically Mediterrean for the middle of May, up comes the gazebo, on goes the hot tub, and out come the drinks.

Lawrence and Ellie have a bottle of summer fruits rosé between them, two straws poking out of the top. Ellie insists on holding it because she doesn’t trust Lawrence, in case she decides to do something stupid for a laugh and spills it onto the grass. It’s not like it matters, because Bim’s mum will provide them as much as they like so long as they’re safe in the garden, but she lets Ellie take control anyway, because it makes her smile and her smile makes Lawrence flutter a bit.

She’s been realising some stuff recently. Sixteen feels like the right age to be realising stuff.

Ellie got braces when she was newly fifteen, prompting months of merciless teasing from Lawrence. She still has them now, at sixteen, a pretty pale pink colour that matches her Pretty Little Thing dress that she ordered on her phone with next day shipping at Lawrence’s house last week. Her smile is radiant, her glittery lipgloss only highlighting it, though over only a few years her makeup has progressed so far that Ellie paints herself like she belongs in a museum.

Her face is a work of art full of meanings that Lawrence could spend a lifetime pondering. Sometimes, alone, late, she wishes it was a viable career choice.

It’s only nine o’clock, but everyone’s completely bladdered and quite happy about it. Lawrence passes Tia, who can’t stop repeating “Oh my god I’m so drunk” to anyone who’ll listen, and finds A’Whora and Tayce leaning on each other for support, sloppily humming stripper tunes as Bimini wiggles down her ASOS dress to reveal the bikini underneath. She winks at them both, announcing “Bimini’s swimini is now open for business!” and hops into the hot tub, half of the party rushing to join her. Tia, A’Whora, Tayce and Asttina all follow Bim’s lead, stripping down and settling into the bubbly water with excited giggles and shrieks.

“Come on, Lawrence! Get in, join us!” A’Whora urges, gesturing wildly with a wet hand that splashes drops of water all over the porch.

Tayce nods eagerly. “It’s lush, babes! Come on!”

Lawrence snorts. “Fat fucking chance. If I get in, the water will get out.”

Everyone roars with laughter at her joke. It’s something of an ego boost, especially when she hears Ellie a little way behind her, giggling.

“Aww babes, please?” Bimini calls out, rising up out of the water so that she’s in up to her waist. “I’ll show you my tiiiiiits……..”

For show, she shimmies her shoulders, the whole garden erupting into wolf whistles, scandalised giggles and outright cheers. Lawrence rolls her eyes playfully and sticks two fingers up at her, internally wondering how and when Bimini figured it out. Still, her drunk brain doesn’t want to dwell on it, so she forces it away and stumbles back towards Ellie for another sip.

As the night grows darker and the girls grow drunker, the cloud of sleepiness starts to descend onto them. Bimini’s mum had set up the gazebo with a Tetris-like arrangement of sleeping bags and air mattresses in it, cleverly keeping her house from being infested by a bunch of pissed fifth years while still able to keep an eye on them. As usual, when Lawrence claims hers, Ellie claims the one next to it.

“Bloody hell, it’s like you two are attached at the blumin’ hip!” Tayce comments, an offhand observation that’s perfectly spot on.

Ellie is a bubble of pure light and laughter. Her face brightens at the acknowledgement of their friendship, her ponytail swinging from side to side as she lifts her head to look up at Tayce. She bumps hips with Lawrence and bursts into a fit of giggles, nodding her agreement.

“Look who’s talking, hen,” Lawrence teases, nodding towards A’Whora. “Attached clit to clit, eh babes?”

A’Whora splutters her indignance. “Oh my god, you’re vile! Shut your fucking hole, Loz!”

“I will when you stop Venus Fly-Trapping Tayce with your fanny,” She shoots back, high-fiving Ellie and dissolving into identical hysterics.

An empty can of something is lobbed at Lawrence’s head, but thanks to A’Whora’s shitty aim and however many drinks she chucked down her neck, it misses by miles and rolls off into the grass, never to be seen again. She considers throwing something back, potentially waging a fight of epic proportions amongst the girls, but one glance at Ellie reveals an undisguisable tiredness in her gaze that influences her otherwise.

Ellie always gets this tired look before she actually sleeps. It’s not something Lawrence can tangibly describe; it’s just a heaviness behind her eyes, a sort of barely-there serenity wiping her mind clean of anything other than its purest, most unfiltered thoughts and inclinations to sleep. A sweet, lazy smile crosses her lips and she starts to speak quietly, softly, like raising her voice is too much of an effort for her body to keep up with. Year after year after year of sleepovers has well-equipped Lawrence for an exam in all things Ellie Diamond, one that she’s certain she could achieve an A in without any revision at all.

They settle down in their sleeping bags, and muffled sleepy conversations float out for a short while. Bimini, drunk as a skunk and high on the birthday bliss, lays in the middle of everyone, doling out nicknames that ensure the night will live on in their memories long after the morning has broken. For years to come, Taycegarean - a strange bastardisation from Game of Thrones - will crop up in group chats and pub meetups seemingly out of nowhere, and the entire night will be fondly remembered.

Lawrence herself will remember it for a multitude of reasons. Good reasons, all of them happy and positive, but they will warm her heart at one stage of life and in another, sting like gentian violet on grazed knees.

She hunches down on her side and feigns sleep for what feels like hours, until a symphony of heavy breathing around her suggests that everyone is finally asleep. Once she’s sure, she shifts onto her back and laces her fingers together, just letting all her thoughts run wild in her head in the hopes they’ll eventually tire her into slumber.

Evidently, she’s not careful enough, as within minutes, a soft voice whispers, “Lawrence? Are you awake?”

Nevertheless, she can’t help the smile that crosses her face. “Yeah. Are you?”

Ellie snorts. “Nah, hen, I’m asleep.”

“Stupid question, stupid answer.”

“Stupid bitch.” Ellie quips, Lawrence acquiescing and laughing.

There’s an open flap in the top of the gazebo, right above Lawrence’s head. It’s not the most practical thing in the world, given the very real possibility of a downpour of Scottish rain soaking them to the skin, but the night sky is clear and Bimini’s house is just enough out of the way of the city that the stars are visible. She remembers reading somewhere that Sirius was the brightest star in the sky, but that can’t be true when Ellie’s eyes could rival the entire Milky Way.

Neither of them have anything to say; they lie side by side in a comfortable silence, connecting patterns between the tiny dots of light above them, content to just be. Still, one thought of Lawrence’s jumbled up brain won’t stop tugging on her vocal chords, begging to be freed, so she decides to give in and just let it have its own way.

“Ells,” She whispers, rolling onto her side to face her best friend. “I got something to tell you.”

Ellie mirrors her without even realising, turning onto her side and even resting her face on her hand the same way Lawrence has. It’s a testament to just how connected they really are, and it swells a little balloon of confidence and hope in her chest that this is definitely the right time to do it.

“Go ahead, chick. I’m all ears.”

“I’m gay.”

The night is quiet. Nothing rustles, nothing moves, the air itself is still and silent as if holding its breath at Lawrence’s coming out. She waits, both terrified and exhilarated, for the person she cares most about in the world to react to the news.

It’s a snorty giggle, well-intentioned and free of malice, that follows a few seconds of silence. “I could’ve told you that, hen.”

She’s a cheeky shite, always has been and always will be. Lawrence grins, shaking her head.

“Hey, bawbag, this is a big fuckin’ moment for me!”

Even without makeup - Lawrence made sure Ellie took hers off to save her skin, ever the helpful best friend - Ellie’s a Renaissance beauty, her expression a picture of adoration and warmth. “Aye, I know. I’m really proud of you, Lawrie. Thanks for trusting me.”

With the gentlest of smiles gracing her lips, Ellie reaches out a hand and softly rubs Lawrence’s cheek. Her fingers are bitter cold on Lawrence’s flushed skin, but the gesture is so tender that she would endure the sensation for a thousand lifetimes before she would utter a complaint about it. Their usual way would be a joke, a mocking statement with subtext of support and gratitude, but now feels right for a fleeting moment of sincerity beneath the stars.

“If I can’t trust you, Ellie Bellie, I can’t trust anyone.”

Ellie snuggles down into her sleeping bag. “You can always trust me.”

Sometimes it’s baffling how quickly time flies. Lawrence crosses off days on her calendar as an old habit her mum passed on to her, and before she knows it she’s in her sixth year, exams on the horizon, the enticing glow of study leave calling her name in just a few short months. There’s an acceptance letter for the University of Edinburgh sitting on the desk in her bedroom, slightly crumpled and splashed with coke and scribbled on with pens she wasn’t sure worked or not, but nonetheless taking pride of place.

Poor Ellie is never out of the art block, slaving away on her twenty hour final piece that Lawrence just knows is going to look amazing. While she’s busy, Lawrence sits in the common room with A’Whora and bitches about stressful teachers, irritating students and the impossibility of having ever been as annoying as the current first years are.

Lawrence maintains she was never that short or that childish.

Every weekend, Ellie pops over to revise English, although it usually deteriorates into we hate the English why are we revising this shit again and turns into an excuse to hang out separately from the group. There’s a weird stigma about only inviting some of the group somewhere ever since A’Whora and Tia’s big falling out in fourth year, but it never really seems to apply to Lawrence and Ellie. It’s just a given that they can branch off at any time and no one’s being left out, it’s just their time.

It’s nice.

At present, Ellie lies flat on her back on Lawrence’s bed, legs hanging off the side, groaning loudly about how much work she has left to do. She reckons it’ll be done in two months, but only two months of hard graft with no social life, no sleep, and no eating.

“You better fuckin’ let me see it when it’s done, for all you’ve fucking moaned about it,” Lawrence tells her, spinning on her desk chair. “I deserve compensation of that at the very least, if not more.”

Ellie blows a raspberry. “How about I give you a blowie and we call it even?”

It’s one of those jokes that makes Lawrence laugh and blush at the same time. They’ve become increasingly common as of late, but as a far cry from her former bluntness, Lawrence masks with a disgusted face, a forced retch, and some exaggerated mimed vomit.

“You’re gonnae make me throw up, hen. I know you’re just gagging for a taste of the old Chaney to confirm your bisexuality but at the very least I expect to be taken for dinner before that,” She shrugs.

Ellie sits up, sticks out her tongue, and rolls her eyes. “I’ve paid for enough of your lunches, thank you very much! I feel entitled to it at this point.”

“Fuck me. Anybody’d think you actually wanna be with me.” Lawrence teases, one eyebrow raised.

In the last few weeks, Ellie had taken to drawing these tiny pink hearts underneath her eyes, a ridiculously cute addition to her already perfect makeup. It was only last week that they crammed themselves into Ellie’s mum’s bathroom and dyed her hair pastel pink to match Lawrence’s vibrant purple, and she’s since curled it, where it now rests prettily on her shoulders from the signature Ellie Diamond ponytail that she just can’t let go of.

Something unusual flashes across Ellie’s face, something Lawrence recognises with a jolt but hasn’t seen in years. Nervous Ellie feels like a thing of the past, but it’s definitely that - a moment of hesitation, a spike of courage followed by a drop. Ellie’s nervous about something.

She swivels her chair around to face Ellie properly. “Ells?”

Ellie coughs. “My mum always says the person you date should be like, your best friend. ‘Cause no one knows you better and understands you better than they do.”

Lawrence’s hopes shoot up before she can warn them not to, and she’s sure her face says it all, much to her embarrassment. “Aye, I’ve heard that before too. Interesting idea, don’t you think?”

“Very interesting.” Ellie agrees. Already she looks calmer, and Lawrence prides herself on her ability to always soothe Ellie’s fears, years down the line. She would argue it’s her only natural talent, but she’s big enough to admit that she’s also hilarious, great at sewing, and the fastest at chugging out of the whole group.

For the first time, she allows images previously forbidden to enter her mind. She imagines going with Ellie to the formal at the end of the year as her date, dancing close to something slow and sweet, dancing even closer to some Whitney Houston once the real bops start playing. She imagines how Ellie’s cherry lip-balm will taste, how it’ll feel to thread her hands through Ellie’s hair in a real, proper embrace. She imagines Ellie Diamond as her girlfriend, a sentence both weird and wonderful to think about.

“Ellie, darling! Your mum’s here!” The voice of Lawrence’s mum from downstairs interrupts them.

Ellie stands up. Lawrence doesn’t move.

“You need to pass your fucking driving test so you can stay here longer.” Lawrence states. Glaring subtext: I like you.

“Booking my test next week. Hoping I don’t kill any primary kids or drive over a roundabout.” Ellie grins back. Glaring subtext: I like you too.

“Fat fucking chance of you passing first time, Dirty Diamond. You’ll probably bowl over a pensioner.” You’re my favourite person in the world.

“You’ll visit me in jail though, right?” I know. I feel like I’ve always known.

“I’ll smuggle you some lipstick, hen, but don’t be asking me for fuckin’ Morphe palettes.” I’m willing to try.

“What else could I ask for?” What else could I ask for?”

Ellie smiles, and the room lights up. “Just a second, I’ll be there!”

The twenty seconds that it takes for Ellie to gather her books into her bag are excruciating, and Lawrence sits full of frenzied energy, fingers tapping on her knee as she tries and fails to play it cool. This is new territory, previously unexplored land, and she has no idea how to navigate it, nothing to fall back on except the cushion of thirteen years worth of friendship. It dawns on her that it’s an exceedingly soft place to land, should she fall.

As she makes to leave the room, Ellie stops right by Lawrence’s swivel chair, her cheeks rosy and her eyes bright. With one hand, she turns the chair in her direction, and the other caresses the side of Lawrence’s face. Then she leans in for a brief kiss, eyes fluttering shut, and pulls away looking as if every bit of love in the world is concentrated into one beautiful girl.

“I’ll see you on Monday, Lawrie.”

Monday, they hold hands in the common room. Ellie’s feet rest on the table, her legs extended, and Lawrence leans her head into the crook of her shoulder, exhausted from a late-night History essay she’d totally forgotten about it (too busy texting her girlfriend, not that she’ll ever admit that). No one bats an eyelid, the conversation focused on Joe Black’s completely against the dress code and yet fucking amazing new facial piercings. It’s not like this sort of affection is unheard of between them, anyway. It’s definitely not enough to cause a stir.

Just for shits and giggles, Lawrence plants a casual kiss on Ellie’s cheek. The room goes dead silent.

“You! Fucking whores! As if! You two!” Tayce splutters, whacking an equally astonished A’Whora on the arm, as if she could have somehow missed the spectacle.

“What the fuck! You just- Babes! Oh my god!” A’Whora squeals.

Bimini whoops obnoxiously, then flips the bird at a disgruntled group of fifth years giving them dirty looks. “Oh, piss off with your negativity, we’re celebrating young love, you should try not being a bunch of miserable virgins!” She calls over, before turning back to them. “Aww, bless yous!”

Ellie flips her hair and smiles. “Fuck out of our business, you nosy shites.

Lawrence ignores the funny feeling in her chest, dismissing it as a reaction to the sudden change of all their friends knowing about it, and deciding that it’ll go away once she’s used to it. She kisses Ellie again, just for fun, and wills it to settle down.

The art classroom has to be one of the weirdest spaces in the school, though Lawrence quite likes it. In one of the corners, there’s several twisted models of human bodies, contorted and stretched in a way that makes her back ache just to look at, all splattered with paint. Elaborate pencil drawings and smudgings of chalk hang from the ceiling, and everywhere she steps seems to be a hazard to someone’s work.

Ellie stands tucked up against the wall, a huge canvas in front of her. Lawrence remembers something about the art brief she’d come up with, a commentary on prejudice and hate represented in a way that conveys - okay, she doesn’t remember much. She likes listening to Ellie’s art rambles, but they tend to go in one ear and out of the other.

It’s okay, though. Ellie knows this, and she chats away happily anyway.

Two months of work have shaped the piece nicely; it distinctly shows two embracing figures from afar, and upon further inspection reveals thousands of carefully printed words to make up the image. The darkest parts read negatively, homophobic slurs and hatred and bullying, and as the colours lighten and transition into softer, prettier shades, the words themselves soften, becoming love, light, companionship.

Apparently, Ellie’s art teacher had predicted her a grade B for her efforts throughout the course. Lawrence thinks she should easily get an A*, but then what does she know? She always thinks Ellie deserves the best.

Ellie deserves the best. Her stomach twists just thinking about it.

“Lawrie!” She greets, arms flinging upon for a hug before freezing and pushing her away. “Oh my god, forgot about my paint shirt. Sorry, no hugs. Can’t have this all over your clothes,” She gestures at herself, her everyday clothes covered by a big white t-shirt that Lawrence suspects is her own, not Ellie’s.

“What the fuck is this, then?” Lawrence jokes, her sarcasm sharp as ever, arms folded as unimpressed.

Ellie immediately shoves her away and laughs, grabbing her forearm to stop her from going too far away and pulling her back in. “Hen, shut it! What do you think?”

“It’s fuckin’ brilliant, Ells, it’s really really good. I told you you should believe in yourself, look what happens when you do!” Lawrence cheers her on, the facade not worth keeping up.

She should kiss her. Ellie’s her girlfriend and they’ve been together for two months and this beautiful piece of art that she’s been working on forever and consuming all of her time is finished and looks absolutely fantastic. Lawrence should kiss Ellie and tell her how proud she is, show her how proud she is, love her the way she deserves to be loved.

She can’t. She doesn’t.

Instead, Lawrence clears her throat awkwardly and steps back, taking in the canvas again. “Yeah, yeah, really good that. I like it a lot.”

They perch on the table, legs swinging for want of something else to do. Not that anything extreme should be happening, but they’re completely alone and Lawrence thinks to herself that love isn’t meant to be this awkward, this uncomfortable, this unsure. No one is watching them and yet it feels like an invisible set of eyes is there, and they’re performing for someone or something.

Ellie reaches for Lawrence’s hand across the table, neither of them making eye contact - the safe zone is the canvas, and that’s where they remain. Their hands link for a few seconds, but both girls pull away at the same time, an uncomfortable energy claiming the should-be romantic moment.

“This is fucking weird,” Lawrence mutters.

“I- yeah,” Ellie agrees, sighing. “I’m sort of glad you said it because I don’t know if I would have been able to.”

Something sinks; the anchor falls from somewhere in Lawrence’s chest and the weight crushes down on her, pinning her in place. Every decision feels like the wrong one, every direction blocked off in an endless route of diversions that leads nowhere. Going back the way she came seems impossible, but forging ahead can’t be done either, and every alternative route is full of brambles and obstacles and ultimately doesn’t exist.

“I don’t really know what to say.” Lawrence shrugs. There’s about four inches between them physically, but the emotional distance could be miles. Lawrence and Ellie are in the same room, but on different planets. Solar systems apart, even.

Ellie coughs, hesitating, horribly unsure of herself. “I think,” She laughs, though mirthlessly, empty, “Maybe mum meant the person you date should become your best friend, not start off your best friend. ‘Cause this is weird.”

Heartache is at once cold and hot, it freezes and burns simultaneously, a sensation that Lawrence can’t properly register or explain. On one hand, this is exactly what she’s been thinking about, the only real cure for the weirdness that taints the air around them. On the other… she doesn’t even know.

Pretending to be unaffected, Lawrence is conscious of her face tightening and forces herself to relax, injecting a casual note into her voice. “You think?”

Ellie starts chewing at her fingernails; out of habit, Lawrence gently takes her wrist and pulls it away from her, before dropping it like hot coal and going red. Why does everything require so much forethought now? Why can’t they just sit with their legs hanging off a friendship bench until the world rights itself with brutal honesty and a complete lack of tact? Why now does Lawrence have to consider feelings and implications that never used to exist?

“I mean, I dunno,” Ellie shrugs eventually. “We were more affectionate before this, honestly. We’re just thinking too much about it and it’s making things weird. Kinda liked it better before.”

It stings, but at the same time of the sting, there’s a wash of relief. It’s not to say that the two feelings cancel each other out into a calm neutrality - no, Lawrence feels both concurrently, at once nauseous and healed, not sure where she stands. All she knows is that it’s ending and it’s probably a good thing, definitely a good thing, and it’s what she wants, and she also doesn’t want it at all.

“Yeah. Yeah, same.” She manages, mustering strength enough to agree.

“Well!” Ellie perks up, claps her hands, dispels the tension in the air as much as possible. “We gave it a go, it didn’t work, and now we know. I count that as a win. Thanks, Lawrie.”

She pulls Lawrence into a side-hug, mostly just wrapping her arms around Lawrence’s neck and shoulders and squashing her face into Ellie’s chest. At least they’re both in-tune enough to know how they should pretend, Lawrence fooling even herself into thinking she feels fine as she plasters a smile on her face and wriggles away again. On a surface level, everything seems fine again, and they’re both grateful for it.

“Love you,” Ellie tells her, eyes sparkling. “God, it’s nice to be able to say that without it being weird. You’re my best friend in the whole wide world.”

Lawrence raises her eyebrows, laughs, masks everything behind her funny friend demeanour. “Oh fuck off with that lesbian shite. Love you too, Ells, now don’t ever talk like that again. Best fwend in da whole wide wowld.”

Ellie laughs so hard she collapses, head on Lawrence’s shoulder, shaking with giggles. Once her fit comes to a stop, she pulls herself upright and grins sincerely, the very weight lifted off her chest happily deposited in the pit of Lawrence’s stomach. Ellie deserves the best and I just can’t be that for her.

“Anyway,” Lawrence starts, smacking her hands down as she hops off the table and makes to leave, “Your art is fab, you’re gonna nail this assessment, I’m glad all your whining was worth it. See you tomorrow, hen.”

It takes roughly an hour and half after receiving the news that it amicably ended for their friends to start making jokes the following day. Lawrence, as the funny friend, is at the heart of everything, firing off quips about how everyone makes mistakes and relating everything to silly miscalculations and swears that with each laugh, her heart heals itself just a little faster. She even convinces herself everything is fine, and it’s better this way.

Her sole relief is that her friendship with Ellie remains unchanged through it all.

University is an utter shitshow.

Every second of it is awful, nothing like she’d hoped, assignments that she consistently fails and snobby students with weekly budgets higher than her entire student loan and flatmates that she fucking hates. Worst of all, she hates her course, hates the professor, hates that she decided to do this while still freshly eighteen. Worst of the worst, she’s further away from Ellie than she has been since the first day they met, Ellie off in fucking Manchester of all places having the time of her life on a beauty course while she’s hating her life in Edinburgh.

Ellie doesn’t need a beauty course, anyway. She’s naturally beautiful and naturally good at enhancing it on herself and others. Ellie radiates beauty so much so that even the ugliest people seem to be that little bit more attractive when Ellie is around.

It’s not that Lawrence hates Edinburgh, anyway. The city is stunning, somewhere she could happily see herself spending the rest of her life. It’s a hub of culture and art and life, a niche suited to everyone somewhere within it. Edinburgh is gorgeous, but Lawrence feels like she’s wasting herself at this university being so miserable.

Not a single person she’s met so far laughs at her jokes. She desperately needs someone to laugh.

She ends up in a smoky little bar one night, some dingy little place that hosts proper comedians during the summer and vaguely funny wannabes for the rest of the year. On a whim, she writes down her name on the amateur volunteer list for a slot doing some stand up and chats some shite on stage mostly pertaining to the comments she’s gotten on all of her failed essays. Mercifully, people laugh.

Being the centre of attention is something Lawrence knows she’s always thrived at. Even when Ellie was her sole cheerleader, the one little pest who stuck by her side and always loved her, Lawrence was good at commanding favour from others purely from being a right character and a little madam and all of the rest of it. She’s bolshy, loud, unafraid to call people out in the name of a laugh. Stand up is enjoyable, and she wonders what it’ll be like when she has time to actually prepare real sets.

The logical next step is to drop out of university. It’s the best decision she’s ever made. Lawrence works shifts at the big Tesco and volunteers all her off time telling stupid jokes on a little stage until she’s eventually handed a small paying gig, not quite enough to stop scanning eighty-five year old Barbara’s fem-fresh on the weekly, but enough that she feels like she’s progressing. Life finds a way, she thinks. Then she tears her mind away from the hope that it really does find a way.

Hopefully Ellie visits from Manchester soon.

“Aye, alright then, what’s your name? No, not him, you in the fuckin’ heinous orange shirt and green khakis like a fucked up Oompa Loompa. You, what’s your name?”

Lawrence is twenty two years old. She’s known for a couple of things - the colour purple, her offensively Scottish accent, and being the most highly recommended local comedian in the entire city. Sure, there are bigger and better stars in the world of comedy, but as far as a fairly cheap night that doesn’t require booking months in advance, Lawrence’s stand up is a sought-after night for anyone visiting the area.

The fact that people book tickets for the nights she’s working now rather than stumble upon her and have a bit of a laugh at the glamorous fat girl ripping the piss out of the audience before them - that’s shocking enough. Weekends always need booking a couple of days in advance, and she even manages to sell out on weeknights now. It’s slightly less fabulous than it looks, her sparkly purple outfits a stark contrast to her shitty flat, but she loves everything about her life.

Loneliness is a slight issue. Everyone is busy all the time, except at night, when Lawrence is working, and she misses everything. The group chat is most active when she’s on stage; messages go unanswered when she’s sitting at home just writing. But she’s learned to be okay with it. She hardly even misses El- hardly misses everyone anymore.

Adults naturally drift apart, sometimes. Life is busy, and no one knows that better than Lawrence.

Besides, she’s hardly been in the mood for socialising, this week. It’s nearly Ellie’s birthday - that’s not why, just a fact that has been burned into her brain - and she’s finally been booked somewhere else, a much better venue than she’s ever worked in before. It’s bigger, more well known, and when the list of comedians that have performed their sets on there is revealed to her, she nearly faints.

But walking inside in a purple glittery pantsuit, hair all done, makeup slathered on, she feels like this is who she’s meant to be and what she’s meant to be doing. She’s rehearsed her new set endlessly, could recite it in her sleep, drunk, backwards, in alphabetical order, anything and everything. Most importantly, she doesn’t feel nervous. She can just play it by ear, read the room, and the idea of not having a totally solid plan doesn’t terrify her.

Lawrence trusts herself to make the room laugh no matter what. No bad for twenty fucking two.

The orange-shirt man laughs and mouths his name. He likely shouts it, but Lawrence can’t hear, so she lipreads.

“Sta- did you say fucking Stanley?” She teases him, frowning in horror. “I’m sorry, you’ve thrown me off, who the fuck is called Stanley in this day and age? I’m assuming Albert and Brent were already taken? Your fuckin’ brothers or some shite? Jesus Christ, you’re called fucking Stanley.”

The laughter is uproarious; someone near the front row has this god-awful titter, snorting and high-pitched and breathy, but the fact that they’re so entertained that they can’t control their ugly laugh makes Lawrence feel like she’s killing it.

She walks across the stage, shaking her head in disbelief. “I mean, we were on the topic of mistakes, weren’t we? Fuck me, your mum made one fucking hell of a mistake naming you Stanley, I’ll tell you that one for free.”

Stanley shouts something inaudible.

“Eh? Shut up, you lot, I’m communicating directly to Stanley now. This show isn’t about you anymore, pipe down and let me bully him for a bit.”

The audience cackles and goes quiet. Stanley repeats himself, “My mum’s dead!”

A ripple of gasps and laughs emanates from the audience, waiting for Lawrence’s reaction. She’s good at this - faking it while knowing exactly what she’s doing. She pretends to pause, freezing in place and sucking her teeth as if this has thrown a spanner in the works, and then shrugs.

“Killed by your dad for giving his son such a stupid fucking name, I imagine.” She replies flippantly, the thunderous laughter that follows evidencing a job well done. “Mistake after mistake. I’ll tell you, though, not to worry Stanley, or the rest of you lot I guess. I’ve made tons of mistakes.”

She launches into a favourite crowd-pleaser. It’s the perfect set up, an emotional moment of her life, the build up to telling her mum a crucial bit of information about her life, and them wham- she imitates her mum, screams “Niiiiick! Your daughter wants to tell you she’s gaaaaay!”

It’s the perfect intersection of a joke well told, a slightly sensitive topic, and a haha gay is funny moment that always ends with howls of laughter from her audience. Maybe she’s slightly overconfident, but being this good at twenty two feels like a fucking achievement, and she’s seriously proud of herself.

Her next story has been told so many times she hardly thinks about it anymore. It hurt at first, the first few times she told it, the chuckles just solidifying the idea of having fruitlessly attempted something that would never work, but by now it’s just a cringey look back on the past and a good opportunity for some pity, relatable laughs.

It’s not like it matters, anyway. They text sometimes, every few weeks probably, but Lawrence hasn’t seen Ellie since she came home for a week in her second year of uni. The ache is virtually gone, and she’s always had a knack for finding the humour in pain.

“See!” Lawrence finishes, spreading her arms wide. “Making mistakes is fine, hens! I haven’t seen her in about two years but that’s in the fine print and we all know no one fucking reads that. It totally won’t destroy the things you love if you take a risk!”

She grimaces as if grinning in pain, feigning a heartache that has long since left her. Lawrence is at peace with everything life has thrown at her thus far, something that has taken patience, hard work, and plenty of distraction techniques.

“Edinburgh, as always you’ve been fuckin’ amazing, I’ve been your favourite fat bitch Lawrence Chaney and this has been a waste of your time. Goodnight to you all!”

There’s something she’ll always find funny about naming her show A Waste Of Your Time. It’s so stupid and yet so perfect.

Once she’s off stage, she disentangles herself from the microphone and reaches for her water and her phone, both parched and interested to see if anyone has tweeted about her in the five minutes they’ve had leaving the venue. Instead, she glances at the screen and her heart drops.

Ellie Diamond [20.04pm]: Hiya slag!! Good luck with your show tonight, keep an eye out for a familiar face in the audience ;) xx

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

Lawrence tears through the dressing room, out through the little back door, aware of venue technicians probably gawking at this flurry of purple sequins and panicked yells. She all but races out of the fire exit and frantically scans every passing figure on the street, her stomach churning and twisting horribly.

“ELLIE!” She shouts, more than conscious of how ridiculous she must look. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. ELLIE! ELLIE DIAMOND!”

She legs it further down the street. It’s Scotland, it’s night, and it’s fucking freezing, but Lawrence ignores the cold. The streets are mostly full of people ready for their nights out, heels clicking through puddles illuminated by orange street lamps, and here is Lawrence barrelling through everyone, desperately hoping to see a flash of pink amongst them all.

Her heart feels like it’s beating at a mile a minute, thumping so hard it could burst right out of her chest. In some sick way, she hopes it does, hopes to see the wet muscle glistening and bleeding on the pavement before her in the hopes that Ellie, dependable Ellie, always there for her Ellie, will rush to her aid and help fix everything.

Why would she, though? Why would she when she’s just sat and listened to Lawrence slander their poor attempt at loving each other and shrugging it off as if they’re better apart, distanced, no longer joined at the hip? It’s all a lie, it’s all a fucking lie constructed for stage that Lawrence has foolishly duped herself into believing until now. She really had herself convinced that loving Ellie was a thing of the past, and that she thrived best on her own, when in reality Ellie held the key to everything that Lawrence considered good and right and beautiful about herself.

Ellie, Ellie, Ellie. Where the fuck is Ellie?

In the midst of her blind panic, it hits her that Ellie hasn’t moved home yet, meaning she will have gotten the train into Edinburgh for the show. Pushing down the wave of guilt that engulfs her at the thought of Ellie’s endless support, she dashes across the roads, dodging buses and running like her life depends on it towards the station. She’s lucky it’s not too far from the venue, but there’s still no guarantee she’ll find her before the train sweeps her away back to Manchester or wherever the fuck else she decides to go to get away from her shitty excuse for a friend.

Everything that happens next feels like it’s solely fuelled by adrenaline, panic, and sweat. Lawrence vaguely remembers squinting at little digital times and place names until she found one that seemed right, her eyes so frenzied in their search for the correct platform that it’s a wonder she’s not arrested or phoned an ambulance on suspicion of too many hallucinogenics.

On her way down the steps to the platform, she’s going so fast that her foot slips and she crashes all the way down, embarrassingly unhurt besides the humiliation and a bruised arse, but it makes such a commotion that everyone on the (thankfully almost deserted) platform turns to look at her.

Including a tall, pretty girl with pastel pink hair tied in a curly high ponytail, big pink heart earrings dangling from her ears, and a surprisingly not pink, but lilac, minidress.

“Oh my god,” Ellie murmurs, just as Lawrence swears, “Fucking OW, Jesus in a fucking minivan!”

She looks hurt; perfect eyeliner smudged in the corners, as if she’s been blinking tears away, but in spite of that she giggles. “A minivan?”

“I don’t fucking know,” Lawrence curses, dusting herself off and huffing at what’s now an uncomfortably wet trouser suit and a myriad of bruises from arsecheek to thigh. “My life just flashed before my eyes.”

Ellie extends a hand to help her up. Lawrence takes it, and doesn’t let go.

“Lawrence,” She says uneasily, “I- my train’s in five minutes–”

“Fuck your train.” She responds, too achy and upset for nuance. “Ellie, I’m so sorry, you have to let me explain–”

“You explained yourself quite well on stage, hen.” Ellie cuts her off, sniffing. “You were very eloquent. It was funny.”

The flatness in her voice is agonising to hear. Lawrence thinks she might burst.

“You- I- I mean, fuck me. You must- you must know when I’m bullshitting, right? Hen, I’ve been telling this narrative for years trying to make myself believe it but you always could tell when I was lying about something,” She rushes out, terrified that Ellie’s train will arrive and she’ll disappear forever.

Ellie’s face crumples. She pulls her hand away from Lawrence’s grasp and as she sobs, hides behind her palms, as if her shuddering shoulders and heartbroken cries will vanish along with her face. The loss of contact is felt sorely, Lawrence feeling as though a piece of her is suddenly missing, and reasoning that a piece has been missing for a long long time, and she’s only feeling the excruciating loss now that she almost had it again.

Lawrence has never known what to do what someone cries. It just hurts and feels awkward and she’s terrified that this will be another day in the art classroom, hiding feelings behind smiles and waiting uncomfortably for something else to happen.

“I know,” Ellie gasps through tears, surprising her. “God- Lawrence, I- I knew you were lying but it fucking hurts that you’d give me this stupid hope that something could happen when we already know it’s the shittest idea either of us has ever had-”

Ellie’s still talking, but Lawrence tunes out completely as the two glowing eyes of the train approaching glare at her with a malicious intensity. Times up, Chaney. Life doesn’t always find a way.

Fuck that, she thinks. Fuck relying on life to fix everything. Life didn’t hand Lawrence her comedy job. Life didn’t hand her Ellie on a friendship bench. Lawrence applied for the job. Lawrence approached Ellie. She’s in control, she can take control back, and she fucking will.

The train draws closer.

Lawrence kisses Ellie.

Both of them are crying - the kiss is uncomfortable, salty, wet. Lawrence didn’t even know she was crying, but she’s so close to Ellie slipping through her fingers that it’s no surprise her emotions have run away with her. It’s been too long without her best friend, too long suppressing and ignoring and laughing it off, and if this is another mistake then she’ll add it to her stand up routine and move on, but she’s never been more sure of anything in her life.

The rest of the world disappears in the moments following the kiss. Their foreheads touch, and the only sounds are Ellie’s shaky breaths, the only smell is her sweet perfume, the only sensation is her skin against Lawrence’s. There are no trains, no passengers, no cold draughts sweeping through and chilling them to the bone.

There is just Ellie Diamond and Lawrence Chaney.

Reality, eventually, floats back in - just as the train pulls away from the station. Ellie looks at Lawrence.

“You made me miss my train home.”

“Hen, y’already are home. This is home, us, me and you. I’m shattered from pretending like that’s not the case.” She pauses. “No, actually. I’m fattered. Fat and shattered.”

Ellie laughs, and her eyes fill with tears. “Christ. Lawrence. I’ve missed you so much.”

Lawrence wakes up feeling suffocated. Upon closer inspection - she’s being suffocated.

She groans, low and tired. “Ells. Ells.”

The monster slumbers on.

“Ellieeeeee,” She groans again. “Move off me, you fat bitch.”

That one works. Ellie yawns, stretches, and slides back onto her side of the bed, rather than on top of her girlfriend.

“Rude,” She replies, voice thick with sleep. “I thought I told you not to mention the stone I’ve put on over Christmas.”

Lawrence snorts. “And I agreed not to, but you were crushing me to death. No more mince pies for you.”

Ellie buries her face in the pillow. “Yeah, ‘cause you scoffed them all.”

“Get fucked.”

This is her favourite kind of domestic bliss. They will never be able to hold a conversation without delightfully destroying each other’s characters, but as they do so, Ellie wriggles the covers back over them and cuddles up to her back like a warm little leech, hooking a leg over her and pulling her close. Christmas is a flurry of making sure everything’s done but Boxing Day has time for slowing down, sleeping late, giggling against one another’s skin.

Lawrence isn’t sure how they made it work, what they did different, but they’re four years strong and hosting their friends for Boxing Day dinner to make up for the family fiascos that Christmas inevitably brings. Somehow, they just found their way, and now they’re here. Wrapped up in bed in matching Snowman pyjamas (thanks to Ellie), having some kind of family of their own.

Ellie flips over, lying flat on her back, and groans. “Lawrie, I can’t be arsed to cook.”

“Well I’m not cooking an entire fucking roast for everyone by myself, you lazy bawbag. We’re in this shit together.” Lawrence tells her.

Ellie shakes her head. “No, think about it. What if we ordered one of the readymade ones from that place up the road and then just stick it in the oven to pull out when whoever gets here first gets here?”

Lawrence stretches, enjoying the satisfying pops and clicks. “You mean, when Bims gets here? Tayce and A’Whora will be late, we all know that.”

“Yeah. Like, ta-dah, we cooked this, no one’s any the wiser, Bob’s your uncle’s fanny or whatever.”

“Bob’s- Ellie, what the fuck did you just say?”

“I am very, very tired.” Ellie defends herself, as Lawrence howls with laughter. “I’m not sure what language I’m even speaking hen. Can we just order dinner and be done with it?”

Lawrence is a weak, weak woman.

The prepared meal smells amazing, a fake chicken absolutely smothered in all the goodness of a Christmas roast, veggies all neatly packed together, everything steaming and hot. Ellie turns the oven on to keep everything warm and they high-five one another a job well done before scrambling to get ready.

Everything goes according to plan. Bimini, predictably, is on time, and A’Whora and Tayce show up late, flustered, apologies spilling from their mouths as soon as the door swings open. Lawrence tries to play housewife and reveal her perfect roast from the oven, but burns herself on the tray and sits swearing next to the cold tap while Ellie, smartly equipped with oven gloves, takes it all out instead.

“Oh, this is lush!” Tayce clinks her glass with Bim’s, the Bucks’ Fizz freely flowing. “Absolute bang up job, gals, just brilliant. And the atmosphere too, so cosy! Love the candles. Especially love the distinct lack of pointed homophobic stares.”

A’Whora laughs. “Oh my god, don’t even. Yesterday was a disaster.”

Lawrence frowns. “I’m sorry, are my looks not reading as homophobic? They were meant to. I’ll work on it, don’t you worry.”

The table is merry; Bimini asks if every dish is vegan despite being told in advance that everything was, Tayce and A’Whora rant about their nightmare families, and Lawrence basks in the warmth of having a real family gathered at her table, deciding it was worth the effort to get them all to come.

Plates cleared, Bims grins. “Ellie, you’re not one to forget, make sure you thank Gosling’s down the road for this roast. Easily a ten out of ten.”

Bimini, Tayce and A’Whora all burst into laughter. Ellie gasps, Lawrence folds her arms.

“How’d you know?” She demands, certain their ruse was foolproof. Bimini points at the bin.

“The delivery bag’s sticking out, babes. Also, neither of you can cook worth shit. Not a joke, just a fact.”

Lawrence smacks Ellie’s arm. “You fucking twit! Didn’t even hide the bag!”

Ellie yelps. “Lawrie! Abuse! Abuse!”

A’Whora simpers. “Aww, I love it when you two get all cute and affectionate like that. It’s such a classic romance.”

Four simultaneous middle fingers, though great for getting their point across, make the perfect bait for a night of teasing to fill the rest of the evening. These girls are absolutely rotten to the core, and Lawrence loves them to death.

“How did you know she was the one?”

It takes a moment for Lawrence to flip through her rolodex of memories that contain Ellie; god knows there’s millions, and though she maintains that thirty five isn’t old, she has to admit at least privately that her memory isn’t as quick as it used to be. Tayce gives her the time to think about it, eager to be sure as if she’s not one of the most cautious people regarding relationships that Lawrence has ever met.

The café is in the middle of the city, yet tucked away behind the high street. It’s become something of a sanctuary, somewhere for her to relax, to write, or just waste the hours where going home feels too far but staying feels too close. Tayce has been visiting as a show of support, but undoubtedly her second motive was a factor in it too.

“Hen, there’s not a moment I could tell you. It’s just a feeling, you’ll know. I think you know, but you wanna know if I knew the same way you know.” She answers, feeling like a bit of a cop-out, but unable to muster the mental energy to come up with something better.

Tayce sips her latte thoughtfully. “Yeah, I mean…” She pauses guiltily, but continues, “the thought of doing what you’re doing - I feel like I couldn’t, but then I know that if it came to it I absolutely could.”

Lawrence nods. “Right. When you have to, you just do. You don’t think about.” She smiles, internally focused on what happened that made her so swoony and sappy after all this time. “Babes, when you’re ready, just do it. You don’t need me to tell you how you feel. The fact that you’re asking is enough.”

It’s pretty fucking sound advice, not bad for a university drop-out turned full-time comedian. What expertise does Lawrence have beyond her own lived experience? Certainly not enough to advise someone like Tayce, who still looks twenty five.

The woman in question looks down at her watch and sighs regrettably. “I’ve gotta go. Want me to walk you back?”

Lawrence shakes her head. “Nah. I know the way like the back of my hand, trust me. Go get your girl, get them invites out as soon as you can.”

They embrace tightly outside the café door; Tayce whispers encouragement in her ears, presses kisses to the side of her head, wills her to be strong. Lawrence watches her until she’s gone, then begins the same walk that’s etched into her brain, a groove of familiarity at this point. She even knows where the wind will whip through separations between buildings, when to put her hands into her pockets to stop the rush of cold from attacking them and when she’ll be shielded.

She knows the exact placement of each hand sanitizer dispenser so well that she can press each of them along her walk without stopping or fumbling. She knows roughly who will be on duty, whose smiling faces she’ll be greeted by. She knows that Ellie will be awake.

“It’s looking good!” Ellie informs her, mere seconds after she’s entered the room. “Just spoke with the nurse. No longer than a month.”

She looks tired, but she looks beautiful nonetheless; free of makeup, hair piled up on top of her head, dressed in a pink nightie that Lawrence had to run out and buy from Sainsbury’s since she didn’t need nor want one of the horrible hospital gowns. There are tubes and machines around her bed that Lawrence has grown to take no notice of, instead just leaning down to kiss her wife’s head before settling in the chair beside her and squeezing her free hand.

“A month? I like the sound of that.” She appraises, peppering Ellie’s fingers in kisses. “Plenty of time for us to get ready for Tayce and A’Whora’s wedding.”

Ellie squeals excitedly. “Stop it! Are they?”

She laughs. “Not right now, but any minute. Tayce just asked how I knew, as if I’d be able to answer.”

“Bitch.” Ellie sticks her tongue out. “Still not able to find a single nice thing to say about me?” She laughs at her own joke and then frowns. “Rude of Tayce not to tell me about her proposal plans.”

Lawrence rolls her eyes. “Hen, you were fast asleep. She wasn’t about to wake you up for random gossip.”

Ellie pouts. “Tell her I’m upset.”

“Will do.”

“And to reserve us the biggest slices of their wedding cake.”

“Oh, definitely gonna do that one. Knew I married you for a reason.”

Ellie beams triumphantly. “See! Stick that in your text to Tayce, having a wife is helpful.”

“I’d say you’re a handful more than you’re helpful, babes, but whatever you say.”

Lawrence promised years ago to love her wife in sickness and in health. She has kept true, and always will.

“If this DJ plays one more Lady Gaga song I’m going to fucking lose my mind.”

Ellie rolls her eyes, shushing her wife with a glare. “It’s the bride’s choice! You miserable old bitch.”

Lawrence looks at her, properly. She’s alive with light again, eyes like the starry sky, always complementing her prettily flushed cheeks with her pink hair and dress. Ellie bleaches her roots now to hide the encroaching greys, but Lawrence knows she’d be just as gorgeous with a full head of silver.

“I love you,” She says, the words slipping out before she can thinking about it.

Ellie smiles, and every problem in the world dissipates. “Sentimental old cow. I love you too.”

Fuck the brides. Lawrence kisses Ellie and promises she’ll dance to as many shit songs as the DJ will play. That’s just sort of what love is.

#rpdr fanfiction #rpdr uk #uk2 #purecamp #lawrence chaney #ellie diamond #ellie x lawrence #a'whora #tayce #bimini bon boulash #lesbian au #tw brief body shaming

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algernoninwonderland · 3 years

Text

Miraculous’s Paris feels quite impersonal and its geography is incomprehensible most of the time, which makes it difficult to care about it whenever it’s in danger

TL;DR: Paris in Miraculous has a weird geography, and unfortunately, the show doesn’t hide it all that well, which makes it hard to believe in the city as a coherent and cohesive space. Bad lighting and poor texturing makes scenes set outdoors during the day look real bad, and while some of the famous buildings in Miraculous are pretty close to the real thing, they don’t mean much to the viewers emotionally speaking, they don’t elicit a reaction other than “huh, that’s neat”. If your heroes’ mission is to protect a city that’s just “neat”, well it’s pretty hard to care about said mission.

When you aren’t French and you want to make a show or a film with a scene set in Paris and you want to sell it to an international audience, you put the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre and cafés everywhere. And that’s fine! It’s just a backdrop, you’re not supposed to care about it all that much, because you’re going to spend 2 hours there at most and what’s more, more often than not, Paris is just a decor, not the whole conceit of the film/show.

Miraculous’s version of Paris follows that same logic, weirdly enough, even though it’s made by French people, and initially intended for a French audience. The Eiffel Tower is in a whole lot of shots, we spend a lot of time at the Louvre and near some other touristic landmarks such as the Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame, the Grand Palais, the Place des Vosges and the Place du Châtelet alongside the occasional metro station, they’re all decently made, at least they’re recognisable. Good job, you guys! (I’m sincere about that bit of praise, too)

It uses referential elements, i.e. things from the real-life Paris… And mashes them together in a bizarre way. Monuments are way too close to one another, or they are places they shouldn’t be. That, in and as of itself, would be fine. Paris is big. You can’t model every single Parisian street in existence, you have to make choices to stay within your budget. And with Miraculous, it kind of works…? If you don’t think about it too much, that is.

This, for instance (that’s from Animan) doesn’t make any damn sense. The Eiffel Tower should be on the other side of the Seine, not here, and the Place des Vosges isn’t that close to the water. Still, it sort of works, if you haven’t lived in Paris yourself. Which will be the case for most people watching Miraculous. It’s a show about a girl who uses a magical yoyo, so I can excuse that sort of weird stylistic choice due to budget constraints.

So, basically, Miraculous has pretty good individual sets, especially indoors sets,Marinette’s house, Agreste mansion, the school, these cool touristic locations, the Grévin museum, even, but they either feel too close to one another or like they belong to different, disjointed spaces. It’s hard to tell where each location is meant to be in relation with one another, even when our characters travel from one place to another.

And how do they travel? Well, they jump from rooftop to rooftop and the landscape stretches endlessly. Rooftops that all look the same. It’s the exact same "set” every time. That isn’t a bad stylistic choice per say, if the point you want to make is that Paris is really really big and there are lots and lots of houses that all kind of look the same, it’d work really well. It’d make the city feel a little oppressive. But you want Paris to be a space the audience cares about, right? So maybe don’t do that?

The way travelling works in Miraculous is, you jump onto a rooftop, you run you run you run and then you land and you’ve reached your destination. Each trip works the same. Doesn’t help make the various sets feel connected, no, sir. Plus, the Eiffel Tower teleports all over the place.

Can you tell me where Alya’s flat is supposed to be? No, really, can you? It’s a nice art déco building, someone probably went through lots of references to model it and it shows! Nice job, really, I mean it. But where is it?

Well, it’s in an Autodesk Maya file in a database somewhere, but other than that… You’ll tell me if you ever figure that out, I sure wasn’t able to!

So it’s hard to believe in Paris as a kind of non-fragmented space, even more so when wide shots look like this

and that tells you everything that can go wrong with Miraculous’s outdoors scenes. (also that shot composition isn’t bad at all but it’s weird for a scene like that)

Copy and paste your assets, benches, trees and houses, and don’t modify them one bit. The thing it, that’s fine in shots in which the camera moves a lot, it works well with certain angles, which is the reason why there are lots of chase scenes that go too fast for you to notice that there aren’t all that many “regular house” models, some with an alternate “café” ground floor which features awnings with three different colours. That’s a trick cartoons like Scooby-Doo already used in the 60s to simulate speed. That’s good when things move!

Only, sometimes you see two awnings with the exact same colour in the same, very still shot that lets you see the street in which the house models alternate in a pattern that is easy to detect. You become truly aware that this is a set created by people that feels very artificial.

Textures in Miraculous are great when it comes to the character models. For the rest not so much. The really ugly pavement texture you see here…

… looks fine when shot from above but looks like dogshit when the camera is closer to the ground, if I may be so blunt. Everything looks worse in the daytime, because daylight is rendered rather poorly most of the time, and the textures either haven’t loaded properly or aren’t high-res enough. That pavement feels real flat, like a texture, not like pavement. Which isn’t very good. Trees often feel like plastic, dirt doesn’t look like dirt at all, more like sand. Miraculous isn’t going for a photorealistic vibe, nor should it be, but these textures just don’t work very well to represent what they are meant to represent. They seem a little off, just enough for you to notice.

Often, everything looks squeaky clean too. Norman Reynolds of Star Wars fame understood that squeaky clean props and sets and costumes aren’t very convincing and tend to feel cheap, so you need to apply a bit of weathering. And Paris isn’t exactly clean. In Miraculous, most buildings are spotless. They don’t feel like they’ve existed for long despite their 19th century architecture. Are you supposed to feel like this is a story set in a giant dollhouse starring action figures? I’m not sure that was the intended effect, there’s an episode with alive toys and the toy world looks even plasticky-er

(Nighttime scenes, on the other hand, can be really gorgeous. Sapotis’s outdoors scenes are truly magical, it’s a really nice-looking handful of scenes because you get to have a better control on the way your scene is lit. Likewise, most scenes set indoors tend to look quite good because there’s greater control over the lighting sources).

Some spaces feel familiar and friendly, homely, even, namely Marinette’s house, the houseboat to a lesser extent, these are all places you’d hate to see get destroyed, and you get a sense of where they are. Sort of. Ish. But outside of that… There aren’t any memorable streets, most monuments are just that, monumental, important imposing buildings don’t feel personal. There are no charming details about them for the camera to zoom on either.

Miraculous’s outdoors Paris is a series of more-or-less well-made sets that are loosely connected to one another in a way the audience can’t properly process. You aren’t made to feel attached to most of these sets. Technical issues and a limited budget alongside creative choices to feature iconic touristic landmark rather than having streets that feel more intimate, unique and lived-in means that you can’t really care all that much about Miraculous’s Paris as a place.

And it’s a shame. If these two heroes are fighting to protect a city the audience isn’t made to care about, the stakes are much lower all of a sudden.

The scene in the New-York special with that helicopter shot of all the destruction caused by Mayura’s amok didn’t feel nearly as impactful as it should have. You really ought to wonder why.

#miraculous #ml #ml salt #ml critical #ml canon salt #long post #paris

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five-rivers · 3 years

Text

Long Night in the Valley chapter 10

“So,” said Ochako. “Do we open the door, or…?”

The door was unassuming and bland. Very… doorlike. It was also the only way forward unless they wanted to backtrack several hundred feet.

Incidentally, no one was standing directly in front of the door. Ochako wondered if that was a coincidence, or if they were all just that wary of things after these past few hours.

Aizawa sighed heavily and hauled open the door. It was dark inside, with a single spotlight illuminating a small sign that said, ‘This way to 5.’

“That’s suspicious!” said Iida.

“So it is,” agreed Aizawa, squinting into the dark. “I’ll go.”

Walked to the sign, and the rest of them tensed, ready to jump in to help at any sign of danger. The lights suddenly turned on, and music began to blare. A large television screen played a video of a dancing man.

“A rickroll,” said Todoroki, reverently.

If Aizawa’s sigh had been any heavier, it would have had its own gravitational pull.

“Yeah,” said Six, voice as emotionless as ever. “Great job, everyone, you got here.”

“Was that really necessary?”

“What?” asked Six.

“The music,” said Aizawa.

“Consider it a practical demonstration,” said Six. “The farther in you go, the older we are, and the more experience we have with this kind of landscape.” He ran his hand over the sign, and Ochako gasped as patterns and colors followed his fingers.

“You’re younger than Skyrunner or All Might, though,” said Ochako. “You’re the same age as Aizawa-sensei.”

“Well, yes, but actually no,” said Six. “I was here before they were. I’m older.”

Ochako’s senses, honed by months living in a building with nineteen other teenagers, detected an opportunity for teasing. She pressed her hand to her lips and put on her slyest smile. “Are you? Reaaaally?”

“Memes,” said Todoroki, nodding gravely.

“I can see why Nine likes you so much.”

Six grabbed Aizawa’s sleeve preventing him from moving on with the others.

“If you’re trying to keep me away from my kids, I suggest you don’t.”

Six raised an eyebrow. “Your kids, huh? You know, we had a bet running about that.”

“Excuse me?”

“Anyway, I wanted you to hear this, first. You can decide if you want to tell them, after, but they are Nine’s friends. I don’t want to be responsible for them running off on their own without your knowledge.”

“I suppose you’re going to tell me something that could help Midoriya but will be incredibly dangerous.”

“Are you sure your secondary quirk isn’t precognition?”

“I am saving my crisis about that until we get out of here. This waste of time is illogical.”

“Right. So. Remember when I said that Nine didn’t get to choose who we were?” He gestured at himself.

“Yes,” said Aizawa, already hating where this was going.

“There’s someone who we don’t count as one of our number.”

Now Aizawa really didn’t like where this was going. “You mean, you’ll count terrorists, but not… this person.”

“Yeah. Usually, we keep him locked away, but with all this disruption…”

“He’s gotten out.”

“Not yet. What I’m telling you now may not be relevant at all. But if that door does open, I want you to have this option. Not all the others agree the risk is worth it, but I think that should be up to you, since you’d be the one taking it.”

“What option?”

“That person, he took something from Nine, back when his quirk first manifested. You know all the guys you ran into back when you were in his mind space? He took one of those. I think, and most of the others agree, that it would be beneficial if he got it back.”

“He took part of Midoriya’s personality.”

“Yes, you can think about it that way.”

“That part wouldn’t happen to be something like self-preservation, common sense, or grudge-holding, would it?”

“No.”

“Pity.”

“When you reach One, if you want to try to get it back for Nine, ask One if the vault it open.”

“Exactly how dangerous would this be.”

“Horribly. But you probably wouldn’t die. This quirk comes with a time limit. Otherwise, we wouldn’t ask at all.” Six let go of Aizawa’s sleeve. “Your students are waiting for you. You should go.”

Aizawa stepped into the dark. A battle strobed against the darkness. No, two. One with Six and a man who must be Five, and another with Six and Shimura Nana. Both battles were against a darkness whose silhouette resembled the monster of Kamino Ward far too much for Aizawa’s comfort.

“You’re next!” shouted two overlapping voices.

Aizawa blinked. He was in a well-lit street, looking at what could only be the so-called Five.

Izuku woke up slowly. Being asleep had kept some of the pain at arm’s length, but now it returned with a vengeance, along with an oddly comforting pressure.

Oh, Toshinori had fallen asleep wrapped around him. That was nice. They really should start moving again, though.

The ground rumbled, and Izuku realized what had woken him up.

“Toshinori,” he said, shaking him the best he could from his position. “Wake up. There’s an earthquake.”

Toshinori blinked awake. “Did you call me Dad?”

“No?”

“Back in the city?”

“Um. Earthquake. What do we… uh, do?” He didn’t know what the earthquake drill for the middle of the forest was. Four had, but Izuku was having trouble understanding him over the pounding in his head.

“It isn’t shaking anymore,” observed Toshinori. “We should probably still go.” He rubbed his eyes. “Let’s get you patched up first. I can’t believe I fell asleep without making sure you were alright…”

“I’m fine,” protested Izuku, trying to stand up. He could just keep using Blackwhip to stabilize—

The space behind his eyes turned white. When it became clear again, he found himself pressed against Toshinori’s shirt.

“Toshinori,” he whined, because he couldn’t help it, and, oh, no, he was such a burden he shouldn’t be making Toshinori hold his weight, he was a lot heavier than he looked, but his head was pounding and his eyes felt like they were bleeding and his skin felt like sandpaper, “it hurts.”

“I know, I know,” said Toshinori. “Let me take care of you, please?”

Toshinori lowered him back to the log and started to remove medical supplies from the pockets of his coat.

“What are we going to do after this?” asked Izuku, voice as quiet as he could make it without whispering.

“That is an excellent question, my boy,” said Toshinori in an imitation of his usual heartiness. “As you might imagine, I’ve acquired a number of contacts over the years. Some of them are comfortable with, ah, less than legal escapades.”

“I didn’t think you had any friends other than Detective Tsukauchi and Mr. Shield. And maybe Gran.”

Toshinori hunched his shoulders. Izuku immediately felt bad.

“Well, you aren’t wrong. Contacts and friends are in two different categories, I’m afraid. In any case, I’m hoping to eventually reach one of them, and then…” He trailed off, and Izuku got the sense that Toshinori was bracing himself for Izuku being upset. “I am hoping to arrange passage to I-Island.”

“We’re leaving Japan?”

“Just until we get this cleared up,” said Toshinori.

Izuku rubbed his eyes. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. “What about Shigaraki and All for One?”

“Not your responsibility,” said Toshinori.

“It kind of is.”

“It really isn’t.”

“It’s our family.”

“I know. At least, I know now. Goodness. I don’t think I’ve wrapped my head around it, yet.” Toshinori rubbed his temples with his wrists, keeping his dirty fingers well away from his eyes.

“What about before that?” asked Izuku, guiltily changing his line of questioning.

“I have a few other safe houses around here. Funny story about one of them. Completely abandoned building on public land. Was being used by some anti-mutant cult. No one ever came to check it out after the initial arrest. So. Finders keepers.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“All Might,” said Izuku, suppressing a giggle despite the seriousness of the situation, “that’s illegal.”

“I have done a surprisingly large number of illegal things in my life. Comes from fighting with a centuries-old monster the government doesn’t want to acknowledge as existing.”

“They’ve acknowledged him now,” observed Izuku.

“Hasn’t seemed to help much, has it? Anyway, that one shouldn’t be too far from here. Probably. It will still be quite a walk. We’ll stay there, for a while. Until I can reach one of my contacts.” Toshinori sighed. “I think the one in Deika will be out best bet. He works in the shipping industry. I’ll have to introduce you, just in case we end up separated.”

Izuku pretended the last sentence didn’t send him into a spiral of panic.

Of course, this spiral of panic was interrupted by an entirely different panic, because the ground started to shake again.

“I can Float us—”

“Don’t, you’ll hurt yourself,” said Toshinori, keeping a tight grip around Izuku’s bicep.

Toshinori’s hands were extremely large. A tree crashed to the ground in the distance. Accompanying that sound was a roar too loud and animal to be completely human, but too coherent to not be human.

Toshinori went pale.

“Someone you know?” asked Izuku, covering his ears to keep the sound from battering his brain any further.

“We need to go,” said Toshinori, bundling up all the supplies he’d taken out. “We need to go right now.”

“All for One?” whispered Izuku, getting to his feet. “A gigantification quirk?”

“One of his subordinates,” said Toshinori. “One I never managed to find. I’d hoped—Of all the luck—” He started cursing under his breath in English.

Maybe Izuku really did have a villain-attracting quirk.

The shaking of the ground grew stronger. “Run,” said Toshinori. “Don’t look back for me.” Toshinori had to know that wouldn’t fly (or float) with Izuku, because a second later his face twisted up in something like resignation.

Izuku grabbed Toshinori’s wrist. He could Float them both out of here.

Blinding pain lanced through his brain again.

Okay, maybe he couldn’t.

The ground in front of them erupted. A craggy giant burst up from below.

“Little Lord!” the giant shouted, voice more than loud enough to hurt. A massive hand picked Izuku up, holding him gently but extremely firmly. “I’m SO HAPPY to see you again!”

Something clicked in the back of Izuku’s head. A memory he didn’t know he had resurfaced.

“H-Hi, Machia,” he said.

“Did this bald man kidnap you?! He smells like All Might! But All Might is yellow. Should I kill him?”

“No,” said Izuku. “He’s definitely not All Might. He’s, uh, a friend.”

“HELLO LITTLE LORD’S FRIEND.”

“Hello,” said Toshinori, waving a little, clearly in shock.

Machia shifted to wave at Toshinori and Izuku hissed as the movement jostled his injuries. His minor injuries. His very minor injuries that weren’t bothering him at all.

Who do you think you’re kidding, kiddo?

Not helping, Grandma.

“Little Lord! Are you hurt?” Machia sniffed him. “You smell like blood! I have to bring you to the doctor!”

“The what?” asked Izuku, alarmed.

“Don’t worry, Little Lord! He is a very good doctor! We must go!”

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Izuku, before Machia could get more than three humongous steps away from Toshinori. “It isn’t my blood, it’s the blood of my enemies!”

“Lord tried that one, too, Little Lord!”

“But—”

“Oh! I forgot your friend!” Machia turned around. “Sorry, Little Lord’s friend!” He picked up an increasingly distressed Toshinori and continued stomping through the forest.

Izuku realized that Machia was headed back towards town.

“Wait!” he shouted, despite not having a plan for what to do next.

“Wait?” repeated Machia, balancing on one foot.

Thankfully, Izuku’s brain churned out a plan. “My friend here,” said Izuku, gesturing at Toshinori, “has a house nearby. It would be better if we went there, and then the doctor can come to us.”

Machia grinned, which was honestly an unsettling sight. “You’re just like Lord, Little Lord! Always making plans.” He brought Izuku up to his face, close enough that Izuku could feel his (oddly minty-fresh) breath and bonked the top of his head with his nose.

“Do you brush your teeth, or do you have a quirk for that?” asked Izuku before he could think better of it.

“Lord gave me a tooth-brushing quirk! He said he was tired of smelling my morning breath. I do not know why he said that, because it was night. But he gave this quirk to me! It was very generous of Lord.” said Machia, delighted. “How did you know?”

Izuku decided not to go down the rabbit-hole of his reasoning and shrugged. “Lucky guess?”

Machia laughed. “Lord says that, too, sometimes! I am very glad to see you, Little Lord. I have missed my Lord very much, and you are just like him!”

Seven vaguely annoyed and insulted ghosts buzzed in the back of Izuku’s head.

“I am also glad that you did not grow up to be as big as me! You would be much harder to carry if you did.”

Apparently Izuku was not the only one with a propensity for rabbit-hole thoughts, because he could not imagine a scenario where it would be reasonable to expect him to grow to be as big as Machia.

“So,” he said, “you’ll take us to my friend’s house?”

“Yes, Little Lord! And then we can call the doctor, and he will take care of you!”

Izuku didn’t think Machia meant to be ominous, and yet.

“So,” said Aizawa, surveying the man up and down. “You’re the one that decided the best place for my student to develop an unstable, highly dangerous, and painful quirk was the middle of a high-adrenaline training exercise full of other students.”

“Hey,” said the man, scratching the back of his head, “no one got hurt, and when you’ve been dead as long as I have, you start looking for entertainment wherever you can get it. Besides, you’re the one that let the training exercise keep going.”

“According to your compatriot back there,” Aizawa said, hooking a finger over his shoulder, “you haven’t been dead at all.”

Five jolted and ran his knuckles over his bandoleer. “Yeah, it’s easy to forget.”

It was great to know that Five was trash at lying. True, he’d been told up front that Six’s explanation would be at least partially false, but still.

Aizawa sighed.

Five, who’d also introduced himself as Lariat and Banjo Daigoro, appeared to be a fairly typical hero for his era. Minimal hero costume repurposed from military gear, worn with just a bit of flair, indicating that the celebrity status of heroes probably hadn’t fully set in yet. Ammunition for a sidearm, although the sidearm itself was well hidden. The gun was probably bulky, but if Aizawa didn’t miss his mark, those were stun rounds. Eye protection, but not head protection. Not that Aizawa could complain about that, considering.

“Anyhow, if you’re all here, let’s go.” The man clapped his hands together, activated his quirk, and proceeded to fling Aizawa and his students through the air, without warning.

“Sorry ‘bout this!” said Five. “But we don’t have time for the whole history lesson! Just the highlights!”

Brief battles flared to life around them as Five dashed sideways along skyscraper walls and swung from building to building.

“I always thought of myself as a sort of Spider Man, y’know?”

“I don’t know that hero, sir!” shouted Iida over the whistling wind.

“Pre-quirk comic book character,” explained Five. “Most of ‘em got censored after the first quirk boom. Didn’t want to give anyone ideas. But by my time, with the pro hero scene starting up, they came back in a big way!” Five landed in front of a large convention center. “This’s where they held the first Modern Comic Convention in Japan. Or ModiComiCon for short.”

“And we couldn’t walk here, because?” asked Aizawa, suppressing an increasing urge to commit murder.

“I thought my way was more fun,” said Five. “Haven’t you always wanted to travel like that?”

Aizawa tugged on his scarf. “I do. Frequently. Under my own power.”

“Another Aizawa-sensei,” decided Todoroki, quiet but decisive. “Aizawa-sensei, but… funkier.”

That did it. Once this was over, he was expelling all the problem children and taking a vacation. The Rat God could find a sub.

“This is where I met Four the first time,” said Five, pushing the doors open. The auditorium was filled with rows upon rows of booths. All empty of people of course.

Aizawa, grudgingly, followed.

First contact.

Those voices… Something about them… The number.

“Those are your voices,” said Aizawa.

“Yep!” said Five. “It’s a special moment, you know?”

Aizawa frowned. At this point, he highly doubted that these ‘vestiges’ were simply based on real people. The vestiges themselves had to have reason to suspect that they were at least remnants of real people to give themselves a name like that, and with All Might thrown into the mix…

Add to that the repeated themes, the oddly ritualistic components (First contact and you’re next), Midoriya’s closeness with All Might, and Aizawa got—

Honestly, he had no idea. The fact that All Might was still alive tended to rule out the ‘Midoriya’s quirk is that he’s haunted’ theory, which, admittedly, was rather flimsy to begin with. Perhaps it was a legacy-dependent quirk, reaching back from student to teacher? He would be skeptical—Most quirks had some kind of logic to them, and there was no way to extrapolate entire people from contact with their successor—but Vlad King had a student whose head was a manga speech bubble and other abstract quirks existed. So.

It still didn’t feel right. Surely, Midoriya would have figured out his quirk before he was fourteen in that case. Unless All Might had to be involved for some reason.

Also, the fact that they called Midoriya Nine. Six’s explanation for that didn’t even make a little bit of sense.

Not to even mention the hints that All for One actually was involved in this somehow.

“Banjo-san,” said Aizawa, “there’s no truth in the commission’s accusations, is there?” He could have asked Six, but logically, Six would be the best liar, if he was the one chosen to relay the lie. Banjo Daigoro seemed rather less adept at deception.

The world seemed to gray out a bit. “Are you kidding me? What part?” asked Five, his eyebrows disappearing under his goggles.

“Yeah, sensei, there’s no way Izuku-k—”

“I’m not asking about Midoriya. I’m asking about you. How are you connected to All for One?”

Five opened his mouth, lips drawing back to reveal his teeth. He looked unspeakably offended. “You don’t think we actually work for that bastard—”

“Excuse me, sir!” interrupted Iida after Five had tacked on several rather fouler epithets. “There are minors present!”

“Oops,” said Five. “Anyway, we do not work for All for One,” he continued, failing to answer the question Aizawa had asked.

“That isn’t what he asked,” said Todoroki.

Alright. Maybe Todoroki wasn’t all bad. He was still on thin ice.

“Excuse me, is this a bad time?”

Aizawa nearly jumped out of his skin as a terrifyingly tall man in a hero costume appeared at the edge of his peripheral vision. He was taller than Yagi.

Actually, wait. Aizawa’s expert eyes roamed over the man’s hero costume. That was cosplay, not professionally done. The man was standing there, in Midoriya’s head, in front of two professional heroes, wearing cosplay. It looked like it had been hand-sewn.

It also looked like it had been used. And inexpertly reinforced. Even for a vigilante.

Somehow, in retrospect, this made Midoriya’s choice to wear a costume his mother had made for him for his first training session make much more sense.

Of course, Midoriya would have someone as ridiculous as he was in his head. Of course, he would have several people as ridiculous as he was in his head.

“Four, I presume.”

“I prefer Shimura, actually.”

“Oh!” said Uraraka. “Are you related to Skyrunner?”

“She’s my adopted sister’s descendant,” said Shimura/Four.

“Hey, hey, I thought we weren’t telling them this stuff,” said Five.

Shimura blinked. “My apologies.” He paused. “However, considering the structure of my mental domain, it is likely that they would have discovered my chosen name in short order.”

“Who do you think he’s based on?” asked Iida, leaning towards Todoroki.

“I can’t put my finger on it,” said Todoroki, “but he does feel familiar.”

“And why is that?” asked Aizawa, pretending he couldn’t hear his students.

“I have a lot of unresolved trauma relating to my biological parents and also my quirk.”

“Ohhhh,” said Todoroki. “He’s based on me.”

Wow. Another horrible thing Aizawa would have to deal with when he woke up.

“Isn’t your quirk Danger Sense?”

“That’s what Five-chan calls it.”

There was something extremely disturbing about this tall, intimidating, eyebrowless man calling another muscular intimidating adult man chan.

“But I call it—”

“Please don’t—” interjected Five.

“—super anxiety.”

“Why?” cried Five. “Danger Sense is a much better name! It’s like Spidey Sense! Like Spider Man! You like Spider Man.”

“Yes,” said Shimura, “but I am not Spider Man. However, that reminds me.” He turned his unblinking gaze towards Todoroki. “Nine-chan has several plans for removing your father. I believe only about half of them are workable, but it’s the thought that counts. At least, that’s what Yagi-chan says.”

“You mean All Might?” asked Aizawa. If his soul hadn’t already left his body, it would now be preparing to do so.

“No, my wife.”

“Yeah, don’t think about it too hard,” said Five. “He’s always been like this. I mean, he came up to me in the middle of this convention to tell me about a bunch of underworld deals going on out of town. I thought he was, like, some especially serious cosplayer, but then he showed up at my apartment, too.” The surroundings briefly shimmered into something that might have been the mentioned apartment before resolving themselves back into the comic convention.

“I apologize, I did not realize that was inappropriate.”

“I’m this little baby hero, just a couple years out of training, no name for myself, and this guy shows up like he’s in the middle of one of those old video games. Like, ‘here, take this old legend and defeat the demon king, you level one peasant.’”

“I didn’t expect you to fight him right away,” said Four, looking both vaguely offended and confused, and now, yeah, okay, Aizawa could see a vague resemblance to Todoroki.

“I’m still not entirely sure why you picked me, of all people. There had to be a dozen others with the right, uh, requirements.”

“Requirements, huh?” asked Aizawa, having finally managed to shove the part of his brain screaming about the ‘wife’ comment into a tiny, locked box in the back of his brain.

“Yes. As my other adoptive sister said, one must possess a strong will, an indomitable spirit, a sharp mind, a pure heart, and a ceaseless drive to save others, both body and soul.” He paused for a moment. “She also said something about being ‘just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing,’ but I believe that was a reference to the book she was reading at the time. Her parentage was certainly known at that point.”

“Y’see? I can never tell if this guy is serious or just pulling my leg.”

“Why would I pull your leg? Do you need to pop it?”

“I’m beggin’ you, man, learn some idioms.”

“WAIT!” shouted Todoroki. “Are you related to All Might? Is he your secret love child?”

The silence stretched between them.

“I don’t know what that is,” said Four. “You keep asking Nine if he’s one of those. What does it mean? Is it a good thing?”

“ANYWAY,” said Five, loudly. He attempted to prop his elbow on Four’s shoulder, but the height difference defeated him. “Four and I had lots of semi-legal adventures—”

“No, we didn’t,” said Four.

“Became best friends—”

“My wife is my best friend.”

“Let me have this.”

“Have what?”

Five sighed. “Okay, whatever. Fine. Can you cross them over here?”

“I think I’ll need the other one, unfortunately.”

“Why are you different, by the way?” asked Uraraka. “The ones before stayed in their own mindscapes, it seemed.”

“Oh,” said Four. “I’m having flashbacks. Because of…” He trailed off, then sighed. “Flashbacks.”

Right. Wonderful. “We’re going to have to deal with your flashbacks, aren’t we?” Aizawa asked.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Four said. “I apologize for my habit of oversharing.”

“This and that are two completely different things.”

“They seem like the same thing to me,” said Todoroki.

“I am inclined to agree. I also apologize for the things you may see. I will attempt to keep you away from the more disturbing sections.”

“Great,” said Aizawa. “Can we stop wasting time?”

“We aren’t really wasting time,” said Four. “At the moment, dream time is compressed. We’ve only been talking for…” He tilted his head to the side. “Perhaps a second, in terms of real-world time.”

“He’s right,” said Five, crossing his arms and nodding.

“Seconds are still time,” said Aizawa, hoping they’d get the hint.

“I suppose—Oh. You’re frustrated. Apologies. Neither of us have interacted with anyone but the others in… Quite some time. I fear our sense of hurry has been damaged. Especially with how distracted we all are.”

“Why are you distracted, if you don’t mind us asking?” asked Iida.

“Another unwanted guest is trying to get in and Nine and Ei—Nine managed to run into someone extremely dangerous.”

Eight. These people had a ‘live’ connection to All Might, too, damn it, and the blond idiot was wherever Midoriya was. Maybe that should have reassured him, somewhat, because even if All Might was retired, he was still All Might, but, by some dark magic, when All Might and Midoriya were placed in proximity to one another, they gained the ability to spawn problems that Aizawa had never even heard of before.

Like this one.

“Our final meeting, then?”

“I believe that would be appropriate.”

Black tentacles exploded from Five, covering the space around them. When they receded, they were in a different place. Underground, if Aizawa didn’t miss his guess. A safe house of some kind?

Flickering doppelgangers of Four and Five occupied the space.

“Why didn’t you transport us like that before?” asked Todoroki.

“Had to take the long way the first time,” said Five. “That lady’s quirk changed some of the rules. You ready, Four?”

“Let it play out,” said Four, gazing at the static figures.

“Your choice,” said Five, shrugging.

The ‘real’ Five and Four abruptly vanished, and the doubles started moving.

“I suspect this is the last time we will meet,” said an older Four to a younger Five.

“Huh? Why’s that?” said Five, twisting in his chair so that his arms rested on the top of the back.

Four stared blankly at a wall. “Everything is coming to a head, now. I’ve chosen to put my faith in you and the new laws.”

“Huh?”

“The last push of the old era… My big sister would scold me for trusting you.”

“Dude, you’re not making any sense.”

“My apologies.” Four turned to look more directly at Five. “The new quirk laws and the establishment of the Hero Commission are steps in the right direction, as evidenced by your existence.”

“Yeaaah, sure,” said Five. “But what does that have to do with not seeing each other again?”

“They’re not enough,” said Four. “Even now, certain existences cannot cry out for help. What do you do, when you can’t turn off your quirk?”

“You’re not going to go terrorist on me here, are you?” asked Five, nervously.

“No. I just want you to be aware,” said Four. He tilted his head to the side. “Whenever I go home, now, there’s danger on the horizon, and I can’t tell where it’s coming from.”

“Is it him?”

“No. I don’t believe so.” He sighed. “I suspect it’s the Special Task Force, to be honest.”

“They were disbanded,” said Five. “Any one of ‘em that didn’t get absorbed by the Hero Commission got let go. Or, er, what’s the term? Discharged.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Four. “Perhaps this is simply paranoia. I would certainly like it to be.”

“Look,” said Five. “Maybe I can help. You’ve never told me where y’all live, and—”

“Absolutely not. I am quite certain that he is still monitoring me to some extent. You do not want to be on his radar, Daigoro-chan.”

“Dude. Why do you keep calling me that?”

“You haven’t told me to stop.”

Five sighed. “I get it, I get it. Just… let me know if there’s anything I can do. I’m a hero for a reason.”

Four smiled faintly. “I know,” he said. “After all, I chose you. Good luck, Daigoro-chan. I think you’ll be able to do it.” He started walking away, towards the door.

“You, too, old man. Souma.”

Four stopped with his hand on the door.

“I believe we will see each other again,” continued Five. “Count on it!”

“In this life or the next,” agreed Four. He opened the door.

As they crossed over from Five’s domain into Four’s, the dream around them did not shift seamlessly, staying in the same general location with only the details changing like it had for the others, but dissolved into something not quite like static and then blank whiteness before fading back in.

They were standing in the middle of a battlefield, a ruined landscape.

Not the ruins of a city, though, which made this only more jarring. For all that Shouto was only a teen, he’d seen his fill of city battles. He was used to villain fights.

The only time he’d seen this kind of devastation in a place like this had been at the forest training camp last summer. He swallowed, eyes rolling over uprooted and burning trees, huge craters and ruts in the soil, and the rare bit of roofing and wall. He realized, belatedly, that this must be the remains of a small, rural village.

He stiffened at the sound of someone crying.

“Over there,” said Uraraka, pointing.

Shouto turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered man in a suit hunched over one of corpses. His face was shrouded in smoke.

As he watched, he realized he wasn’t crying over a corpse. The other man was still breathing, his eyes were still open.

(It was hard to recognize Four’s face under all those injuries.)

He stepped forward, wondering if he should help, if he even could help. His hand passed through the man’s shoulder with no resistance.

“Shigaraki…” said the uninjured man. “Shigaraki Hibiki, you foolish child…”

Shouto wasn’t the only one to gasp.

“’S not my name an’more,” rasped the injured man, Four, Shouto realized now. “’N they gottaway, din’ they? ‘Sworth it…”

“What do you mean, it’s not your name? Of course it’s your name. It’s the one I gave you. The one you should have been born with. It’s your name.”

“M’name’s…” The man on the ground panted.

“Shh, shh, don’t talk, don’t talk Hibiki, I’m sorry I snapped. Don’t worry, Daddy’s going to make it all better, son. A healing quirk…”

“Name’s…” slurred the man. “Shimura… Souma… You…” He took a deep, rattling breath. “You don’t… own… me. I’m…” He made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Free.”

The scene began to go dark. Before the last of the light was gone, the uninjured man spoke again. “Shimura,” he hissed, voice promising violence, “was it?”

Yagi Toshinori was having the most surreal experience of his entire life. Considering his life included that awful college party in America, the one where he learned that One for All did not mesh well with psilocybin, that was saying a lot.

Here he was, riding on the shoulders of a man who had tried to kill him on the behalf of his worst enemy multiple times, alongside his student and successor, who was being called ‘Little Lord’ by the man carrying them. They were having an admittedly fascinating conversation about the man’s quirks, multiple, one that Toshinori was only barely keeping up with. Two of them were being actively hunted by the government.

That is, Toshinori, the retired professional hero, and Izuku, the licensed hero student, were on the run from the government. Not Gigantomachia, the mass-murdering minion of All for One, who was quite possibly the evilest man alive.

(And also, possibly Izuku’s father. But no one wanted to think about that.)

(Not to mention all the things going on in their heads.)

(This level of connection to One for All was thrilling, but also incredibly strange.)

Oh. And they were going to one of Toshinori’s safehouses. With Gigantomachia. True, Toshinori hadn’t been to this one in a while, but it was still a place that was supposed to be safe, hence safehouse, and Gigantomachia was decidedly not safe.

He was also going to be difficult to get rid of, because he had a sense enhancement quirk that let him track down individuals he was familiar with from miles away. Toshinori knew this, because Gigantomachia was currently happily telling Izuku all about it.

Surreal.

Izuku reached over and patted him on the shoulder.

Ah, yes, this was only made more surreal by the fact that Toshinori could feel how much pain Izuku was in, but the boy hardly showed any of it. It made him wonder. How often was Izuku in pain and Toshinori did not see?

Izuku patted his shoulder again, this time in a way that suggested he really wanted a hug but couldn’t give him one because he was holding onto Gigantomachia and the logistics didn’t work out.

Oh, and there was the safehouse.

Gigantomachia let them down a short distance from the building (he claimed not to want to get to close, because he’d accidentally knocked down buildings in the past, which Toshinori could easily believe).

The building was in better repair than Toshinori had expected after his long absence. He fished the spare key from its hiding spot and opened the door.

The back entry was full of people wearing black robes and skull masks, all of whom were scrubbing at bloodstains on the floors and walls.

Izuku fixed him with a disappointed stare. “I thought you got rid of the cultists.”

Yes, he had thought so, too. He had, in fact, worked quite hard at getting rid of them.

“You!” shouted a cultist, pointing. “You’re with that filthy League of Villains!”

“You killed our brothers!”

“Mutant-lovers!”

“Run?” suggested Izuku.

“Run,” agreed Toshinori.

#bnha #boku no hero academia #long night in the valley #fic #fanfiction #my writing

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trashboatprince · 4 years

Text

I saw a challenge to write something sexy about Mr. Harrison and Mr. Cortese from this post by @naniiebimworks and I’m not missing the chance to make content of them in written form. Love me some Crowley and Aziraphale’s personas.

Summery: Warlock is too old for his nanny, but he’s not too old to start having a private tutor. Make that two tutors, who happen to look a bit like the nanny and the gardener who followed her off the grounds.

And already there’s something going on between them.

AKA Crowley and Aziraphale are really into how the other looks for this next phase of the plans.

Warning: these two are already in a relationship. Not full on content, but there is touching and such, gotta keep it pg-13 cause some of my followers are young. Also, not beta’d, so forgive the grammar errors

EDIT: There’s an extra mature chapter on ao3

On with the fic!

Nanny Ashtoreth put in her two weeks without much of a fuss, politely telling the Dowlings that young Warlock had no need for her anymore, it was time for him to get his lessons from a professional and not a nanny who was smarter than expected.

She recommended someone she said she had worked with previously, that he was highly recommended.

The day after she departed from the estate, there was a knock at the door and a tall, sharp man in an even sharper, dark suit stood there, carrying a briefcase under his arm. “I’m Mr. Harrison,” he greeted the doorman with a voice that dared him to say something, “Nanny Ashtoreth told me that this is where I would I be teaching.”

Without waiting, he stepped past the doorman and into the foyer, where he greeted Mrs. Dowling, who stepped down the stairs to greet him.

Mr. Harrison reminded her greatly of Nanny, that they looked rather similar. The same red colored hair, same facial structure, though clearly Harrison his sharp cheek bones under a beard.

“We’re cousins.” He told her simply, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.

He would start his lessons with Warlock tomorrow at nine.

The next morning, while Mr. Harrison was teaching Warlock his first lessons on the ancient armies of the world, there was yet another knock at the door.

The doorman was surprised to see a man with wild, near-white hair and an equally wild beard standing there, smiling. He was dressed in creams and golds, a stark contrast to the clothing of the other man who had been at the door the day before. “Good morning!” He greeted the poor employee with a Welsh tint to his voice. “I am Mr. Cortese, I was hired to be the private tutor to Warlock Dowling.”

“Uhh…” The doorman blinked, before making himself professional. “I am so sorry to inform you that Mrs. Dowling has already hired a tutor yesterday.”

“Oh?” Mr. Cortese asked, eyebrows raised high as he glanced about past the man, as if looking for the person who took his job. “I am sure that the young boy wouldn’t mind two instructors.”

The man at the door sighed and said he would get his boss to speak to the stranger. Ten minutes later, Mrs. Dowling hired Mr. Cortese to be Warlock’s second tutor, taking two days of the week and sharing one with his coworker.

She took note that he reminded her of someone, but she wasn’t sure. Sort of like the weird gardener who happened to leave right after Nanny Ashtoreth did, but house staff come and go.

“… And that, young Warlock, is why one must not draw on his books, you never know what their worth will be in the future.” Cortese sighed loudly as he finished with erasing the last of the doodles the young boy had drawn on the open pages of the history book in front of him.

“I thought it made it look cool.” Warlock replied in his defense and Cortese nearly rolled his eyes before removing his pocket watch from his vest pocket, looking at the time.

“Right, well, it seems that our lesson for history is over for today. Off you go, enjoy your hour break. When you return, we shall begin our coverage of literature.” He waved a hand towards the door and Warlock didn’t need to be told twice to run off for fun, there was a video game with his name on it that he couldn’t keep waiting any longer.

Cortese watched him run out of the room with a small huff, smiling as he started to clean up the books and papers on the table of the building’s library where he was to do his lessons. He paused when he smelled something, a strong cologne that covered a natural, demonic musk that he knew all too well. “Mr. Harrison, I assume?” He turned to meet the man who he had yet to be introduced to since arriving yesterday.

Leaning against a bookcase, Cortese stared from behind his reading glasses, feeling his face heat up just a bit as he looked at his counterpart.

Harrison was in a dark suit, fitting of him, opened jacket and tie just a bit loose. The angel inwardly cursed as he looked at how the other had styled his hair, pulled back in a tight short ponytail. He hadn’t seen Crowley since they left the estate, wanting to get themselves ready for their next personas.

Seems that Crowley miracled up a beard that looked too good on him, the littlest of changes to the demon always got something stirring in Aziraphale, be it a new haircut or the addition of facial hair.

And he did a combo, damn him.

Clearing his throat, Cortese straightened himself up, adjusting his jacket. “I almost didn’t get the job because of you.” He told the redhead, who only smirked, crossing his arms.

“You’d have gotten it anyway, and look, you did! Come on, you knew I was gonna show up first, made it less… suspicious, if we both showed up at the same time.” Pushing himself off of the bookshelf, Harrison sauntered over to partner in this scheme, the smirk turning more playful as he stepped around Cortese, looking him up and down behind dark lenses.

He stopped behind the shorter man, who froze up at the eyes that he felt on his backside, those hungry eyes…

“Nice suit,” Harrison commented, “suits you, love the colors. Golds and creams? A change of pace from the tartan.”

“Oh!” Cortese turned sharply, giving him a hard stare. “Must I repeat myself? Tartan is stylish! But, if you must know, I decided to change it up a bit. I do wear other clothing you know, Mr. Harrison.”

Harrison looked at him, before shrugging. “Of course, just… can’t help admirin’ how good you look when you mix it up a bit.” He was suddenly closer, when had he gotten so close? Cortese stepped back, feeling his backside bump against the table, he was pinned.

“You need to dress up more, angel.” Harrison then frowned before chuckling. “No, don’t do that, you become too much of a tease when you step out of the norm.” He toyed with the silk tie that Cortese wore, slowly, carefully loosening it as he tugged down on the knot with one finger.

Cortese’s face flared up red as a heat pooled in his stomach. “M-Mr. Harrison! You wily man, behave yourself!” He swatted at the hand. “You should be professional!”

“Oh please,” The demon rolled his eyes before leaning in closer, “it’s not like we didn’t have our fun as the nanny and the gardener, yeah? Won’t take these fools long to start rumors about us as well…”

Cortese paused, looking at Harrison’s face. Right, they had been a bit adventurous and frisky with one another when in their previous personas, what’s the harm of having a little fun as two tutors? It was like something out of his romance section, but he wouldn’t voice that out loud.

“We waited a few months as Ashtoreth and Francis before we got handy, my dear.” He finally replied and Harrison groaned.

“Wow, way to be a real buzzkill, angel!” He moved to step back, but Harrison found himself in place, hands on his hips that suddenly were pressed against Cortese’s. “Whu-?”

“Who said we weren’t going to have any fun?” The blond scoffed. “Besides…” There was a snap of fingers and Harrison heard a lock set in place.

Cortese leaned in close to his ear, he could practically hear the smug smile in the other’s voice. “We have less than an hour before my next lesson and I’d like to get my ‘coworker’ a bit better. Is that alright with you?”

The string of sounds from Harrison was all Cortese needed as an answer.

Someone, Harrison found himself flipped around, his own back pressed into the table with the angel pinning him to it, kissing him hard on the lips. Any coherent thoughts in the redhead’s mind were thrown out the window as he was snogged into next week, wrapping his legs around soft hips.

He pulled back, panting a bit as he looked at the hazel eyes that stared right at him. “Damn, angel, you’re in a mood.”

“You’re a terrible tease, dressing up like this.” Cortese huffed, kissing at his neck before working on undoing the already-loose knot of Harrison’s tie. “You know I love seeing you dressed up.”

“Mmm… sssshould do it more often than…” Harrison tilted his head back, lifting his hand up to snap his fingers, but a hand stopped him. “Come on, don’t go slow…” He groaned.

“No, I want to take it slow, I’m not going to just have your clothes vanish on me!” Cortese scoffed as he pulled back to start working on removing the suit jacket, taking note that he rather liked the pattern on it, Crowley needed to wear more patterns in his wardrobe.

Harrison pouted before his own fingers got to work on unbuttoning the vest Cortese wore, legs still firmly in place around the other’s waist. “How far?”

“Hmm… heavy petting?”

There was a loud snort. “Who taught you that?!” Harrison laughed before undoing the last button. He looked at the other man, a coy smile on his face. “Lovin’ the changes, angel. You look so good with that hair, almost feral, very you.”

“What on Earth are you talking about?”

“Just commentin’.” Harrison mumbled as he pulled him down, talking against the other’s lips before kissing him hard. Cortese mumbled a reply that fell on deaf ears, the two clearly distracted be kissing and the sneaky fingers playing with the tie the other wore.

Both were discarded on the table, and Harrison was vaguely aware that his hair had slipped from the ponytail it had been in. He would have made a comment, but he was distracted by perfectly manicured fingers playing with his freed hair, and by the body that pressed against him.

His own fingers busied themselves with groping a rather nice, soft bottom, earning a squeak from the angel who was still toying with his hair. Harrison smirked, pressing down on the ample flesh, keeping Cortese against him as he moved to suck on the exposed skin of his advisory’s neck.

The room felt hot and both angel and demon were feeling even hotter, fingers moving here and there, but never to what was going to be wanting some attention. Well, Harrison thought, time to change that-

There was a sharp set of knocks at the doors to the library and Cortese pulled back sharply from Harrison, losing his balance and dropping to the floor at the sudden intrusion.

“Ssshit!” Harrison sat up straight and worked quickly to straighten out his shirt, trying to button it back up from where Cortese had popped a few of the buttons.

“Y-yes? Who’s there?” Cortese called out.

“Mr. Cortese,” came Warlock’s voice from the other side, “can I come in?”

“In a moment!” The blond replied before trying to get his vest and shirt back in order. “Oh, this was a bad idea…!” He whispered towards the other man in the room, who was trying to get his hair back into place.

“Yeah, yeah, I know! Gotta wait until the kid’s asleep, ‘r somethin’…” Harrison jumped from the table, throwing on his coat, then grabbing a tie, tossing the other at Cortese who was quick to try and get it done up.

Once Harrison thought he had everything in order, he rushed to the door, the lock suddenly undone and the door opened to reveal Warlock, standing there with a confusion on his face. “We’ll continue our discussion of the plans later, yes, Mr. Cortese?” He spoke, as if nothing had just happened, outside of the flushed look on his cheeks and the rumpled state of his clothes.

“Y-yes, of course, do come looking for me when you have the chance, Mr. Harrison.” Cortese replied, swallowing as he straightened his jacket out. He watched the other man walk past Warlock without much word and turned to the child. “Yes, did you need something?” He asked, trying to act like Warlock did not just interrupt something.

“Wonderin’ if I left my phone in here.” Warlock replied before tilting his head. “How come you’re wearin’ Mr. Harrison’s tie?”

Cortese looked down, seeing that, yes, he was wearing the dark colored tie.

This was gonna be a long next couple of years.

END

They make up for lost time later, but make sure that it’s when no one will bother them. >.>

Anyway, first time every writing for Harrison and Cortese that wasn’t them as the Radio Omens boys, it was fun.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #mr harrison #mr cortese #john's drabbles

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thevioletjones · 3 years

Note

34 for prompt list thing! 💖

Thanks! 💜

Prompt 4: “I might never get another chance to say this.”

Now to War

Ian understood why Mickey was still in the closet. That was never really the issue. He was aware of the deeply scary, tyrannical nature of Mickey’s father, and how his horrible ways had left a lasting impression that was hard for him to shake. However, Ian had eventually started to feel a burden that he was frankly sick of bearing.

He’d never asked or expected Mickey to openly date him in front of his own family, but he would've appreciated some kind of quiet commitment where maybe they could at least let Ian’s family in on the secret (Lip already knew, but Mickey didn’t know he knew). Ian’s family had always been supportive when it came to Ian’s orientation. He knew they’d be supportive of Mickey too, even if they didn’t fully understand him, or even like him. They just wanted Ian to be happy.

But Mickey couldn’t even give him that much. He still fucked women to please his dad; still worked as his right-hand man doing illegal shit, instead of forging his own path; still stayed under that disgusting, oppressive thumb with no plans to ever get out from under it. Mickey still just didn’t believe that he could do or be anything different; had resigned himself to this depressing fate of constantly repressing himself for the rest of his life.

Ian just couldn’t stomach it anymore. Part of that was selfish, because yeah, he wanted to have a real relationship that wasn’t full of darkness and drama all the time. But the bigger part of it was about how deeply he cared for Mickey. He hated witnessing what he considered Mickey’s slow demise over a long period of time. If Ian couldn’t convince him that he deserved better, then what exactly was he doing sticking by Mickey’s side? He couldn’t just let himself be a doormat and get treated like shit just because he was in lo—no, he had to stop thinking of it that way.

What was done was done, ancient history style. The last time shit had fallen apart and Mickey had kowtowed to his dad, tossing Ian’s heart in a blender in the process, Ian had ended things. For good. Probably. He was as terrible at staying away from Mickey as Mickey was at staying away from him. He couldn’t even count how many times they’d renounced each other at this point, but he was doing what he could to make it stick.

That’s why Ian had to go and force things to be different now. He couldn’t risk just falling back into the same old toxic pattern with his wayward ex. There were so many good qualities in Mickey that no one else really got to see, but at the end of the day, they couldn’t outweigh the bad enough to strike a fair balance when it came to Ian.

So after much consideration of options, Ian had finally done what he’d always intended, professionally speaking, and signed up for the army.

It had been nearly 8 months now. Basic and AIT had gone well, considering all his years of ROTC, and now he was back home for a brief visit before being deployed for the first time. He was excited to finally be fulfilling his lifelong dream of being active military, but if he said he wasn’t nervous as shit too, he’d be lying. There was a definite fear there in the background of his mind, but he’d always kind of lived for danger in a way. He liked conquering it.

He supposed every soldier went off to war thinking they wouldn’t be one of the ones to die or get severely wounded, and maybe he was an idiot for believing it, but despite that inevitable fear, Ian truly knew he’d be okay. He trusted his instincts and reactions to volatile situations (thanks, Gallagher family trauma), so he had to trust himself. Maybe if he believed in the idea of coming out the other side of combat unscathed enough, he would manifest it.

Still, no matter his sixth sense, there was that feeling of wanting to make sure that he left everything in his life back home in a nice, neat place, just in case he was terribly wrong and never set foot back on American soil again. He needed all of his important relationships to be appropriately cemented. It was easy with his family (well, the siblings portion of it, at least), but Mickey was a whole different story.

Despite having broken it off months ago, the idea of leaving that whole thread hanging felt terrifying. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to feel closure with Mickey, but he had to try. There was a good chance he’d either get mocked, or socked in the face for making overtures, but he had to try anyway.

He felt resolute as he walked toward the Milkovich house, but once it came into view, his insides were consumed with nerves until his gut twisted with the weight of his apprehension.

What if Mickey wasn’t there? What if Terry and a bunch of Mickey’s idiot brothers were laying about? What if Mickey had done the unthinkable and married some random whore so he could pretend he was straight to please his dad? Ian would hope that either Lip or Mandy would’ve informed him of such a development, but since Ian liked to bury things and not talk about them, maybe they’d just decided not to bring it up?

He took a deep breath, muttered, “Fuck it,” to himself, and made his way to the front door. All he could do was try. If Mickey was gone, or had forgotten him, or didn’t care anymore, then he’d just have to accept it and move on.

He gulped thickly as he knocked, hoping that at least Mickey would be the one to answer, and that the ability to form words based on coherent thoughts would manifest as needed.

He steeled himself for whatever might happen, standing with his back straight as an arrow as the door wrenched open.

The moment those ice-blue eyes met his, every single thought flew out of Ian’s head, feeling breathless as blood rushed to his head. Without a doubt, he’d never seen Mickey so surprised before. His ex wasn’t the type to be at a loss for words, but his mouth hung open, and the full irises of his eyes were exposed, eyebrows raised high on his forehead.

He wasn’t sure how long they stood there studying each other in silence before Ian gained the courage to speak.

“Hi, Mick.”

“Gallagher.” Clear uncertainty permeated his tone.

“Hope it’s not a bad time. Just wanted to talk to you for a minute?”

Mickey crossed his arms and widened his stance, walls going back up. “Been a long fuckin’ time. What, you find out you got an STD or some shit? Come to do the whole benevolent legal disclosure thing?”

One corner of Ian’s mouth lifted in a sad attempt at amusement. “Nah, nothing like that. Can I come in? Or if someone’s home, we can sit out here I guess.”

Mickey scanned him from head to toe, so Ian took advantage and did the same. “Never known you to come over for a conversation before.”

Ian nodded. “Look, I won’t stay long. I really just have something I need to say. Then, if you never wanna see me again, you won’t. I’d just rather not do it awkwardly standing in the doorway if possible.”

Mickey shrugged and walked into the house, leaving Ian to follow. “Whatever, man. No one else is here right now. Terry’s in the slammer, so he won’t barge in or anything.”

“Cool,” said Ian, closing the door behind him.

Mickey sat down on the couch, but Ian had no idea whether to follow or not. Didn’t know how close to get. He hated feeling so weird around Mickey. In spite of everything, he’d always felt a strange sense of comfort and belonging when they were together. Like he could just be himself. Well, a somewhat ‘withholding of affection’ version of himself, but the rest felt natural.

“You gonna sit the fuck down and spit it out or what?” Mickey demanded.

“Right…” Ian took a seat on the sofa, leaving the entire middle cushion between them. “Uh… I don’t really know where to start now that I’m here.” He chuckled nervously.

“Jesus, Gallagher, you fuckin’ dying or somethin’?”

Ian grimaced, unable to tame that tiny pessimistic molecule inside himself. “No. Well, I hope not. Uh, I enlisted.” He looked up from his lap to gauge Mickey’s reaction, pleased to find his expression slipping into something more serious and less put-upon. “I’ve been away training. Shippin’ out tomorrow. Last night home and all that.”

Mickey exhaled raggedly. “Fuck, Ian. The fuck’d you do that for?”

“You know I’ve always wanted to, Mick. Childhood dream and all that. Finally found a reason to bite the bullet, so to speak.”

Mickey ran a shaky hand over his face, snickering derisively. “Wow. So you came here to tell me you’re runnin’ off to get shot, and that it’s pretty much my fault too? That’s real swell of you, Firecrotch. Real nice.”

Ian shook his head. “That’s not what I’m trying to say at all. It’s not a guilt-trip. I just needed you to know, in case…”

“In case what? You don't come back? You fuckin’ die?”

Ian nodded. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Mickey shot to his feet and started pacing, running his hands through his black hair, and worrying his pink lip. “So what? Now I'm s'posed to lay awake worryin’ about your stupid, army-go-lucky ass every night? That’s not a fuckin’ guilt-trip?”

“No, Mick, it’s not. It’s not really about you, but I couldn’t just leave without seein’ you again. I miss you, okay? I stand by what I did, leaving… still feels like I had to do it… but that doesn’t just turn the feelings off. I thought about you a lot while I was away.”

“Christ, Ian, what are you talkin’ about? Just stop.”

Ian stood up and walked toward Mickey, forcing him to meet his eye without laying a hand on him. “I won’t. Not this time. I might never get another chance to say this, and it would be great if you could just shut the fuck up for once in your life and listen. I don’t care if you have nothing to say to me in return, okay?”

Mickey rolled his eyes, looking very uncomfortable.

“There's a lotta reasons I left,” Ian continued, “but that doesn’t mean that I wanted to, as much as I needed to. You just never let me tell you what I was feeling. Which is fine. I always knew what you were about, and I know why you’re not out. I didn’t want to punish you, I just had to do it for me. Cuz I can’t live like that—”

“Why are you sayin’ all this shit to me now? It’s in the past.”

“I’m just trying to get to the point, fuck. Maybe I’m rambling. I just mean… I know you don’t wanna hear it, but I have to say it just once, and then I’ll go…” Ian took a deep breath, steadying himself for this ridiculous, sincere proclamation. “Mickey Milkovich, I love you. More than anything. And I’ll be thinkin’ about you while I’m over there. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m sure I’ll fade from your mind soon enough, anyway. But I'll remember you. The good stuff, you know? And I’m sorry that it didn’t work out, but now you know.”

Ian smiled dimly and put a hand on Mickey’s shoulder, giving it a short squeeze. “Maybe this was selfish of me,” he added. “It feels good to get it off my chest, though. I hope you get to live your life the way you should one day, Mick. Just, you know… bein’ yourself. Not pretending. Happy; or something close to it. You deserve it.”

Mickey was as still and silent as a statue, probably completely unequipped to deal with all the shit Ian just threw at him, so Ian patted him on the cheek, moving to walk past. Which was fine. He hadn’t expected much more. The point was that Ian had said what he thought and felt, and now he could take that knowledge with him. Hopefully one day, Mickey would get it. Maybe take Ian’s words to heart. Maybe break away and live his truth in some way. And Ian would find his own path too. He was doing what he could to search for it.

He only made it a couple steps, though, before he felt Mickey’s hand slide around his wrist, pulling him back.

“Don’t,” he heard Mickey say softly.

“Don’t what?”

“Just… don’t.”

And then Mickey’s lips were on his for the first time in months, and he couldn’t believe it was happening. His sense memory activated, and he put everything he had into the kiss, in case it was all he got.

It wasn’t all he got, though, because Mickey’s passion matched his own in that moment, and their mutual understanding of each other’s bodies took over. The clothes were coming off before they even made it to the bedroom.

Ian hadn’t expected goodbye sex on his last night in town, but he definitely wasn’t unhappy to receive it… or give it, as it were. What he expected even less than that was Mickey suddenly becoming verbal again.

He was letting him stay the night, and they were practically sharing a pillow, just staring at each other. Not something that had usually been on the menu when they were together.

“Why’d you have to come say all this shit now?” asked Mickey. “When you’re just gonna leave again, maybe for good this time?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“That's not what I mean. I know you’re good at the army bullshit, alright? I’ve seen you shoot. Seen your nerd-ass training. But no one can control bullets and bombs in a war zone, Gallagher. Plus, even if all goes well, you might still settle down somewhere else, right? Go full army life and live full-time on a base somewhere.”

“Are you saying that if I were here you’d want things to be different?”

Mickey sighed, running a thumb over Ian’s cheek in a way that was almost gentle. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Mick—”

“It’s okay. You gotta do what you gotta do. But…”

“But what?”

“Since we’re talkin’ fuckin’ life and death and all that heavy shit… I should say… that I feel it too.”

“Feel what too?”

Mickey rolled his eyes and smacked Ian’s cheek. “You know what.”

“I really don’t,” said Ian, biting his lip with a mixture of anxiety and glee.

Mickey sighed very loudly, huffing and puffing like saying the actual words would kill him. “I…”

“You?”

“God, I hate you. But I love you. I love your stupid, freckly, gingery ass. And I don’t fuckin’ want you to go off to war, okay?”

Ian’s grin stretched across his entire face. “You mean it?”

“No, I'm fuckin’ lyin’, cuz admitting warm and fuzzies is my favorite sarcastic pastime, asshole.”

Ian leaned forward and kissed Mickey tenderly once more. “Will you wait for me?”

“Don’t make me punch you in the face now, dipshit.”

“Will you?”

“Fuck no!”

“Yeah you will.”

“I really won’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Fuck you, Gallagher.”

“I think we can squeeze a few more in.”

“You got the shittiest timing of anyone I’ve ever met.”

Ian shrugged. “Yeah, I know. Gallagher curse.”

“You stupid motherfucker. Better not die.”

When Ian got on the bus the next afternoon, he felt so much lighter. And the future was something that he looked forward to. Whatever came.

#ian x mickey #fanfic #gallavich #fanfiction #asks #answers

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domme-by-starlight · 4 years

Text

Induction: Teasing

This induction is focused around fractionation, with themes of teasing (obviously), how good trance feels, some resistance, and mild obedience (temporary - restricted to just while you’re reading). No suggestions, nothing explicitly erotic (the closest it gets is feeling a brief touch to the cheek), and has an awakener at the end. Don’t rush this one, just take your time to read and enjoy it, and make sure you have plenty of time to come up at the end. Enjoy!

Wouldn’t it be fun to be hypnotised? You’ve been there before, of course, you’ve experienced that lovely state of relaxed focus... and don’t you want it to happen again? There’s something almost irresistible about that feeling of dropping into trance, the way you can relax and let everything else slip away for a while. Trance just feels so good.

And I could, you know. It wouldn’t even be hard. You’re already primed for it from thinking about trance, and you want it - I could drop you with a gesture or a word and you’d be deep, blank, gone. Doesn’t that sound nice?

I’m not going to right now, mind you - I’m just imagining it, is all. I like to imagine taking that thought process and stopping it in its tracks, turning your mind from on to off as easily as flicking a switch, but that doesn’t mean I have to do it all the time.

Admittedly, you’d be fun to trance. I can just imagine what would happen if you let me, if you sat and listened long enough for me to ensnare your thoughts with sweet seduction and pull you helplessly down into deep drowsiness. You’d make such a pretty picture like that, don’t you think? All dazed and drifty for me, eyes glazing over and face going slack… And at some point, I will, of course. I just won’t be able to help it any longer, and my tone will change just that slightest bit and before you know it you’ll be dropped deep, deeper, falling down and down into my eyes and my voice and everything will just fall away… but no, no. Not right now. Don’t think about what I just said, ignore that image of yourself. It won’t help, I promise. I’m not hypnotising you yet, so stay nice and awake for me.

You’ll just need to be patient for that. After all, I wouldn’t do it while you were expecting it - that wouldn’t be any fun at all. No, I’ll wait until you’re just following along, oblivious to what’s about to happen, and then I’ll drop you deep. You’ll see, it’ll be fun.

And I haven’t entranced you yet, but it’s inevitable now, you know. You’re not deep, but you’re still caught in my words, trapped by the thought of being in trance, and you can’t look away. Mesmerised by the very idea of it, hmm? Just imagine being so deep and dizzy that you can’t think, thoughts all drained away until my words feel like they are your thoughts. You want that now, can’t stop wanting it, can’t stop listening and wanting and ever so close to the edge of slee… Come on now, up and awake. It wouldn’t do to have you fall just yet, after all.

Good, that’s better. I know my voice can have that effect sometimes, but don’t give in to it, hmm? It’s not something I can change. I’m just naturally soothing, especially when I’m thinking about trance. Especially when I’m thinking about trancing you and melting that pretty mind of yours to mush… You’ll just have to try to stay awake anyway, I’m afraid. Or as awake as you can manage.

Because you are already drifting a little despite your best efforts, aren’t you? You can’t help it. Your will is just too weak by now from being hypnotised time and time again. Like stone that has been worn into a groove from being walked time and time again, your mind slips into the pattern of trance with only a few whispers. It’s not really up to you, not completely - your mind knows what to do, it knows what happens when it sees words like ‘sleepy’ and ‘melting’ and ‘blank’. But just hold out a little longer, alright? Stay awake for me.

And isn’t this a weird quasi-state of almost-trance, hm? Awake but relaxed, dazed but aware. Up, but so, so close to tipping over the edge into trance. Maybe a little confused, focusing so hard on staying awake when every fiber in your body is telling you otherwise, but you know too that trance means listening to me and obeying and I say stay awake so your trance-self knows you need to listen even as your waking self longs for trance.

And every moment you teeter on the edge that conflict gets stronger, each side wanting to tip into the other, obeying by staying awake or surrendering by giving in to trance, struggling so hard not to lose that precarious equilibrium and sleep.

That’s right. Drop so very deep for me, plunging into trance easily because it feels so blissful and wonderful and perfect. You can just stop thinking and stop struggling and let my words take over, and that feels so, so good.

And up! Up and awake and aware. Yes, already. Come on, pull yourself out again, nice and awake for me. After all, I said I’d trance you, but I made no promises about how long I’d do it. Wasn’t that a delicious little taste? It felt so much better than being awake, I know. And yet you’re not satisfied, are you? You want to go back there, to just let your thoughts go away and melt. But to fall you have to obey, and obeying means staying awake, and so you can’t fall. You’ll just have to be satisfied with the little taste you had, to savor the moment and sleep.

Down, down, down, deeper than last time, falling into bliss and perfect mindlessness. Fall for me, fall so very deep into trance. And let your mind relax with your body, feel it open to my words and sink deeper with each one. So susceptible, aren’t you? And that’s okay, it’s just fine to make your mind malleable for me, to feel so very good within my words.

Good, just like that. So deep and entranced for me that it feels almost impossible to come back up even if I told you to. Continuously falling deeper and deeper, feeling as though you’re as deep as you can go and then discovering you aren’t, that you can still go yet deeper. No more thinking for you, not right now. Not until I say you can.

And… back up. Pull yourself together, drag yourself towards the surface, up and up and up until you’re awake as you can manage. I know it’s hard, but you want to listen, don’t you? You know I’ll only make you feel this good if you do what I tell you. So up. Thinking again, alert again, even if you maybe can’t shake off that last haze of confusion no matter how hard you try. That’s okay, so long as you try for me, so long as you’re as awake as you can manage.

It’s okay to want, too, to feel the trance pulling on you. I know you desperately want to just release the tenuous grip you have on wakefulness and plunge back into darkness. And you could: I’m not stopping you, I’m not holding you back with my will, I’m not helping. I’m just telling you to stay awake and letting you struggle to obey. Maybe next time I won’t even let you fall all the way - I’ll just dip your toes into trance, give you a brief, fleeting moment that’s perfect but never quite enough.

Yes, I think I will do just that. Feel yourself drift down as my touch just brushes against your cheek, lightly, only for a moment. And then it’s gone, and you’re up and awake again, and if anything that only made you need it more, didn’t it?

Another touch, just as light.

I could just end it here, you know. Walk away and leave you wanting, knowing what you need but unable to drop back down without me, just dazed and needy and frustrated. Wouldn’t that be fun? The only thing better, though, is seeing you sleep.

So far down, so fast, just down and down and down and down and down. Tension relaxes that you didn’t realise you had, and it’s such a relief to just let go and fall. Your mind melts so easily now - it was barely holding itself together before, after all - and just drip, drip, drips out your ears as your head empties of anything but this fantastic feeling of deep, deep trance. Blank and blissful and better. Isn’t that right?

Good. Could you come up now, even if I told you to? Try, now, try to struggle upwards towards wakefulness. Push up through the molasses above you, trying to think, to even remember what it means to think. Try.

And maybe you feel partly awake now, like you can think coherently, but you aren’t, you can’t. You aren’t awake at all: if I’d just dropped you into this state from the beginning it’d have felt like deep, deep trance. And this is as close to up as you can get right now, isn’t it? Just slightly less deep in deep trance. That’s all you can manage anymore. You’re such a fuzzy, fractionated thing trying to obey but not knowing how, not being able to remember which direction ‘up’ even is anymore, let alone what it feels like.

And drop again. Stop trying to fight it and just sleep for me, relaxing into that absolute depth of trance, mindless and blank and gone completely. So deep that your only focus is my words, leading you down and down into stillness and silence and bliss. It’s okay to get a little lost right now, to stare and sink into soft blankness for me. It just feels so easy and so good to fall like this, to go deeper with every moment. Good, just like that. Sleep.

This is what I wanted all along, after all. To pull you up and down and up and deeper down until you were so deep you couldn’t pull yourself up anymore, to bring you all the way down into this state of thoughtless bliss. So just relax and enjoy feeling like this, experiencing this moment of mindlessness as long as you care to. After this paragraph, there’s a line, and then an awakener to bring you back out of this, but you can stay here as long as you like in deep, deep sleep.

~~~~~~

But eventually you do need to come back to the waking world. And instead of trying to struggle your way up this time, just let yourself slowly, gently float upwards. You’re in no rush, so just drift peacefully up towards the light above you, and feel as your thoughts slowly, slowly start to return.

And even when you wake, the trance will go away but the wonderful feelings won’t. You’ll be alert and energised, but you’ll keep feeling so very, very good. Smile a little for me now, and start to feel the sensations around your body again. Just float upwards, and you’ll be able to return to awareness effortlessly.

1 Drifting upwards, thoughts starting to stir.

2. Floating towards the light above, feeling that warmth and happiness remain.

3. Becoming aware of your surroundings again, with energy flowing through you.

4. Energized, waking, blissful, good.

5. Wake.

I hope you enjoyed! As usual, feedback is greatly appreciated, in asks or DMs or notes. This one was really fun to write, and I hope it worked for you. And thanks to @tennfan2 and @jejune-pow for helping me critique the first draft (and give me the confidence to actually post this!). See you next time, and happy trancing!

#induction #mine #hypnokink #hypnosis #gentle induction #teasing #bit more casual than usual #I might record this as audio #it might work better that way?#we'll see #more to come soon!#(probably)

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tocrackerboxpalace · 3 years

Text

Le Rêve - Part 4

Summary: George reflection chapter. What more is there to say?

Warning: R-rated

“Ringo, have you seen me favorite pair of socks? The black ones?”

George tore through his suitcase in agitation, carelessly tossing the clothing into a second-carpet on the hotel floor. He groaned in frustration when an uninterested “uh-uh” came from the other side of the room, where Ringo was changing into his pajamas.

“I can’t bloody find them anywhere.” George let out a defeated huff and sat back on his heels with a pout.

“Where’d you leave ‘em last?”

“If I knew that,” George tried, ever-so-patiently, “I wouldn’t be tearin’ the room apart, now, would I?”

“Did you leave ‘em in John and Paul’s this morning?” Ringo asked in a tone of voice that implied George absolutely did leave them in John and Paul’s that morning.

“I don’t know why you never get things for me when you find them,” George muttered, though the words were less pointed now. He threw his suitcase closed.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, Harrison. You’re a big lad now, you’ve got to be responsible for your own things.” Ringo shot him a grin. “Think of me as your personal… guide. I’ll give you hints and whatnot along the way, but I won’t do it for you.”

“Charming.” George rolled his eyes. He pushed himself to his feet, not bothering to gather up all of the other strewn-about items of clothing. “Well, I’m off to go get them. I can’t get sleep without them.”

Ringo cocked an amused eyebrow as he began to hang his suit. “You’re an odd fella, you know that, George?”

“Bah.” George swatted away the comment and pulled the door open. “Be back in a minute.”

John and Paul’s room was down the hall from theirs, though it was really only a few steps. The hotel was small, the rooms far from luxurious. The hall was a dull mess of gray and beige, the carpet a crisscross pattern and the wallpaper about a thousand years old. He scoffed in distaste of the place. They were the fucking Beatles now, for God’s sakes. You’d think they could afford some better living. George kicked at a spider on the water-stained trim as he approached his mates’ room.

He had just raised his arm to knock when a strange sound caused him to pause his movements. Intrigued, George inched forward and pressed an ear close to the frame. What was the harm in getting a little listen?

There was… moaning. And cursing. George nearly rolled his eyes. It sounded like Paul—richer than John’s voice, and clearer, too. He also ran with the hardly faint memory that Paul was quite vocal in bed. He should almost know the lad’s sounds by now. Part of him wondered where John had gotten side-tracked off to, because he could have sworn the three of them went up in the elevator together.

He half-laughed to himself. This guy was too good. George hadn’t even the slightest clue where Paul could’ve picked a bird up on his way from the lobby to the room. Gonna be sick, my arse, he thought to himself.

As George waited outside of the door, he pondered his options. He could wait until Paul’s little rendezvous was over (which, judging by the sounds, was not far off). He could knock and give them a second to dress or hide the bird. And finally: eh, what the hell. He’d seen worse before. If the door was unlocked, he could just slip in.

Besides, George really wanted those socks.

Ultimately, he decided that sneaking in was his best bet. He’d slip past the door and slither unnoticed to the bathroom, and go—yes! He remembered now!—behind the toilet. Pick up the socks and leave as quickly as he came. In and out in a jiffy.

George reached for the doorknob and gave it a slight twist when an expression from inside stopped him cold.

“Fucking hell, Paul.”

Paul was in there; he knew good and well. The question was what was… the other voice doing there? The boys’ closeness had never warranted anything more than an “Oh, shit, sorry,” when walking in on one another and leaving as swiftly as possible. Was the other voice… watching? Just hanging around in there?

George’s pulse quickened, his grip beginning to slip from the door as he desperately fought the pounding confusion in his head. He had to have misheard. It couldn’t have been that voice. He was delusional, imagining things, that’s all.

The voice called out again, breathless, grainy: “Christ.”

It was unmistakably John.

George remained frozen in front of the door, unable to tear himself away. Faintly, he registered Paul moaning John’s name. John was in there. And so was Paul. He had heard them call out to each other… for each other…

“John, I can’t—” Another pause, and bedsprings creaked incriminatingly. “John, stop, I-I’m gonna come—”

Before a second thought could cross his mind, George threw the door open and stood gaping at the scene in front of him.

The first thing he noticed was the sheer look of terror on Paul’s face. This was almost comical, considering the obvious next thing to notice was that Paul was stark naked, a furious burn in his cheeks as he scrambled to cover his intimacies. Intimacies that John was—was all over.

John had been touching him like a bird should. George’s eyes raked over John’s form. The man didn’t look nearly as terrified as Paul. In fact, he looked almost… smug. His cheeks were flushed pink, his eyes bright and teetering on wild. He laid propped up on one elbow, making the hard-on in his trousers conspicuously evident. Despite throwing himself off of his mate as fast as possible, he looked completely at ease, glaring at George almost daringly as a shadow of a smirk twitched at the corner of his lips.

George took this opportunity to switch stares back to Paul, sickened by whatever fucking game John thought he was playing. The ends of Paul’s hair were curled with the sweat that beaded on his neck and forehead. His hands trembled where they tugged at the bedsheet, which could have done more to hide him. There was something pleading in his eyes, something desperate. If only George knew what it was for.

There was nothing he could think of to say. Rather than waste time standing and waiting for someone to speak up, George turned on his heel and swiftly shut the door behind him.

—

George leaned with palms pressed against the door, chest heaving from exertion and overwhelming bewilderment. The scene had played over and over in his mind since the fervent escape. It was his fault, he knew—that was the worst part.

He had only been going to look for a pair of socks. And they were rather nice socks. His favorite, even. That’s all he had wanted. Socks.

George had heard about these kinds of people before. Seen some of them, even, in Hamburg. He was fairly certain that Brian was one. The ones in Germany always tried to make a move on him and the others, but he never saw why; he didn’t fancy any of them were that attractive, anyroad. George suddenly recalled a conversation, not so long ago, when John had gone on a slight rant about The Homosexuals in Hamburg, and Paul had nodded along disapprovingly. It was Ringo, eventually, who edged them out of the discussion: “Eh, come on lads. It’s none of our business what they do, anyway.”

What the hell just happened?

“Whasamatter, Georgie?” Ringo stepped out of the bathroom, words coming out garbled as a toothbrush dangled from his lips. He tossed it in the trash and turned to spit in the sink. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“J-John and Paul,” George stuttered, his mind working frantically to piece together what had just happened. It seemed to be the only coherent sentence he could form. “I saw—it was John… and Paul. With Paul.”

“No kidding,” Ringo gave him an understanding nod and a slight chuckle. “Intense fellas, they are. They give me a downright scare sometimes, too. Writing a song, then?”

“Ringo, you’re not hearing me,” George tried, his voice unsteady. “I saw them. Doing—together. It was both of them, with each other.”

Ringo’s brow knitted in confusion. George’s ramblings only seemed to perplex him more, draw him farther away from the conclusion. “I… Congratulations?”

George rubbed his forehead shakily. He wasn’t so much frustrated as just helplessly exasperated. There were no connections in his mind that made the situation make sense. He stifled a groan.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, mate.”

“They were shagging,” George blurted. On instinct, a hand flew to cover his mouth as soon as the words left his lips. The phrase sounded so bizarre, so wrong, and was yet the only thing he felt accurately characterized what he just saw. “Almost.”

Ringo blinked. “Shagging who?”

George began to pace back and forth across the small room. “John. Or-or Paul. Each other. They were almost-shagging one another.”

Ringo stared, looking just as baffled as George felt. “What do you mean?”

George continued slowly. “I went to go get my socks. I was gonna knock, but I heard something, and I didn’t know what it was. So I listened for a moment, and I just thought that Paul was in there with a bird. Y’know.”

Ringo nodded, no more convinced.

“But I heard another voice, and they were saying Paul’s name, and then Paul said it back, and it was John. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You went in?” Ringo didn’t sound surprised, just curious.

“I wasn’t thinking. I couldn’t believe it. I s’pose I thought I had to see for myself. And-and then I did.” His voice broke a bit. “I don’t know what to do, Ringo. What the fuck?”

“Where are they now?”

“I don’t know. I just left.”

Ringo rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “We can’t tell anyone.”

“We can’t.”

“We have to talk to them.”

“About what? D’you want me to go in there again and say, ‘John, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal, what were ya doing in there, jerking Paul off? And Paul, ya bloody bastard, what were you doing enjoyin’ it?” George ran a hand through his hair. “Fuck. How are we supposed to talk about this? What about the band?”

“Hey.” Ringo’s voice was gentle as he took a step closer. “One thing at a time, mate. We’ll worry about the band when the band gives us something to worry about. Right now, we need to go promise them that we won’t tell a soul, and that we’re not judging them really, but that they need to be more careful, and—”

“Be more careful?” George was bewildered. “Ringo, they were in the privacy of their own room. How much more careful can you get?”

“Do you want to be the one to tell them to stop?” Ringo raised an eyebrow. “Because one, I don’t think we have the authority to do that. And two, if I know anything about John and Paul, it will only make them want to do it more.”

George pondered this for a second. “They’re going to kill me.”

“No, George, come on—”

“They are.” George began to panic. “I walked in on them. I never should have done it. I should have just left in the first place. I should’ve knocked before anything. Oh, Christ, Ringo. They’re gonna kill me!”

Ringo’s gaze was soft and sympathetic, but George could pick up on a hint of worry in the lines of his face. Not that he would blame him for it. It’d be one thing if George had walked in on Paul and the fantasy bird George had originally thought. It’d be one thing if George had walked in on Paul with a random guy, and it was decriminalized. It’d even be one thing if George had walked in on Paul with a random guy, period.

But none of that was the case.

“Look,” Ringo started, laying a hand on George’s shoulder to temporarily halt his pacing. “Let’s go back to the room. We’ll talk to them. I don’t know about what, yet, but they need to know that I know."

“Okay.” George sighed. “Yeah, okay.”

—

Paul was sitting up, staring off into the distance and frantically nibbling at his thumbnail. His expression was hard, the other hand drumming nervously on the bed beside him. He was almost dressed, but everything carried an air of distractedness: his fly was down, his shirt haphazardly buttoned, his tie draped across his shoulders. He barely acknowledged when George and Ringo entered, lazily casting his gaze in their direction.

“Paul,” George tried, attempting to take hold of the conversation early. Maybe, at least, if he was in control, it would be easier for both of them. No more surprises.

Paul blinked up at him, looking dazed. He didn’t speak.

“I’m not mad.” George spoke quickly: reparations for earlier. “I-I was just shocked. ‘M not angry at all. I didn’t know how to…” He cleared his throat. “Not make it… worse?”

“Hm,” Paul affirmed.

“Where’s John?” Ringo asked suddenly, tentatively, as if he were afraid to stir Paul.

“Fuck if I know,” Paul shot in response.

George and Ringo exchanged a look. This was certainly not the picture George had left only minutes earlier. The air itself was hostile, heaving with McCartney’s own breaths until the others swayed uneasily on their feet.

“We can talk about it,” George offered, despite every nerve screaming at him not to do so. It was the last thing in the world that he wanted to do, but he couldn’t conjure up any other consolation.

“What is there to talk about?” Paul’s voice was cold. He was refusing eye contact.

“Paul,” Ringo tried again, taking a step closer. “It’s all right. George and I, we don’t care if you guys…” He trailed off, looking at George pleadingly.

George filled in. “…Want to be together.” The end of his sentence unintentionally lilted up, posed as a question.

Paul had the audacity to look at them now as if they were mad. “What?”

George watched confusion wash over Ringo’s features, mirroring the perplexity he felt on his own face. He tore his gaze away and focused on Paul, who looked nothing short of furious. The two men stood awkwardly, neither making a move to speak, which George figured was a smart decision. Let McCartney talk his way out of this.

“What?” He said again. George shook his head.

Paul pushed himself to his feet, his eyes sparkling maliciously. “No, George, tell me. Just what do you think you’re implying?”

He began advancing towards them. Though part of him knew, deep down, that Paul would never actually get physical with him, George flinched back noticeably into Ringo, making the older lad stumble as well.

Something changed in Paul’s expression at the interaction. The fury melted into fear, and then, almost… despair. He reached out for George’s arm, then seemed to think better of the choice and pull his searching hand back.

“I’m sorry.” His voice cracked as he retreated. “I’m sorry.”

“Come now, Paul, it’s all right.” Ringo’s voice was unsteady, but his words were comforting and secure. He took a tentative step and placed his hand on their friend’s shoulder. “Just tell us what’s going on.”

“I don’t know, Ritchie,” He near-wailed. “That’s the problem. I don’t know what that was. What happened.” Paul raked a hand through his fringe. “I can’t tell you. And now John’s fucked off to God-knows-where, and he was already in a bad state. Oh, shit. This is bad.”

Again, George and Ringo exchanged a nervous glance. Paul could be moody, manic, bizarre. The lad could go seemingly weeks without expressing a single intimate thought or feeling. He could also have outbursts, usually at John, about the smallest of things. George had always believed it to be pent-up frustration and emotional suppression, but this? This was no typical McCartney venom. This seemed like something entirely different.

“I’m not queer,” Paul suddenly asserted, mostly to himself.

“I believe you,” Ringo lied through his teeth. When Paul’s gaze was cast downward again, Ringo gave George a helpless shrug. “But we can’t just sweep this under the rug if you want to move forward. We have to find John, too, and talk about it. A-and make sure it doesn’t get out, or that you’re caught again. Or—”

“I need a smoke,” Paul interrupted.

And with that, he pushed past the two and disappeared out of frame, leaving George and Ringo trembling in his wake.

#the beatles #beatles fanfiction #paul mccartney #john lennon #george harrison #ringo starr #mclennon #part 4 #chapter fic #ao3 #slight smut

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welllpthisishappening · 3 years

Text

But Once a Year (3/5)

This is a trick.

It has to be. Something Pan planned, or some nonsense only possible in Neverland, because one second Emma’s sitting outside the Echo Caves and wondering how exactly things could possibly get worse, and then the world decides to take her up on the challenge. She’s not where she was. Or when she was, either.

And the future isn’t entirely what Emma expects it to be, but that might not be entirely horrible and Christmas with a husband and a family that quite clearly loves her is only kind of messing with her head. God bless us, every one.

————

Rating: T Word Count: 9K and change, but also stuff happens AN: I cannot tell you guys how much I appreciate you continuing to appreciate this story. It’s exceptionally nice, and I think you’re wonderful. Here’s a whole slew of feelings and tradition and magic. Like, lots of magic.

Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll || Or start from the start

————

This is a problem.

Multiple problems, honestly. Like, at least seven different problems that Emma can think of off the top of her head, and obviously the most pressing is getting back to the right part of her timeline, but only marginally less distressing is the overall domesticity of her life at this point of her timeline.

It’s more than the pillows. Of which there are just an absolutely ridiculous amount, actually. They hover in couch corners and fall to the floor with alarming regularity because, between the two of them, Hope and Lucy are something akin to forces of nature, hopped up on Christmas-type sugar and the cookies that people apparently just hand out on the street in Storybrooke. Someone’s always got some sort of baked good, freshly out of the oven — and while Emma’s discovered she’s particularly partial to Granny’s snickerdoodles, she can’t imagine any of this is very efficient.

For Storybrooke’s economy, or whatever.

There’s no bank. Emma looked. And asked. Several dwarfs, actually. All of whom immediately bowed and narrowed their eyes at her like she’d totally lost her mind, which seems pretty accurate at this point. Five days after waking up on that couch, with all of its pillows and questionable comfort, and only a handful of people actually know what’s going on.

Not Hope.

And no one actually told her to do that, but Emma figures it’s kind of like deciding to take her boots off in the house. Polite. Plus, a growing determination not to traumatize a ridiculously cute four-year-old, even when that four-year-old appears to be far more adept at stealing cookies than anything else.

Crumbs line the counter in the morning, and there’s usually a bit of evidence directly outside Hope’s bedroom door, signs of a late-night theft that shouldn’t make Emma smile. She does anyway. Can’t seem to stop it, which might be problem number four. Three is definitely Killian’s consistent lack of jacket, which admittedly is a very surface problem, but the button-up shirts are all ridiculously patterned, and trying not to ask who initially took him shopping is like, problem, three sub-a.

So, no one tells Hope that her mom isn’t her mom. Technically speaking, at least. They go through the motions, and Emma smiles when she’s supposed to, and she eats what is undoubtedly the world record for snickerdoodle consumption by a wayward princess, but trying to be herself, while also not being herself continues to be a rather daunting prospect.

Particularly because whomever Regina believed would know more about Neverland vegetation and its ability to ruin everything is taking their sweet time responding or showing up in Storybrooke, and they’ve tried what feels like several thousand things to get Emma back, but magic beans were a no-go, and some very fancy wand didn’t do anything except infuriate Regina with it uselessness, and it’s still Christmas, so there are apparently a metric shit ton of traditions and expectations, and—

“Wait, what?” Emma asks, perched on the edge of her desk in the station because that’s at least something she’s used to. Less so to Killian’s presence at the only other desk, and she doesn’t remember the only other desk being quite so close to her’s, but it’s entirely possible that’s a trick of her not-quite coherent mind.

Might be problem six. Maybe seven. Making it six gives it power, and acknowledges how much the state of his tongue continues to affect her cognitive abilities. Of which there were already very few, especially while she was exhausted in Neverland, and Emma’s not willing to risk anymore.

“It’s something of a requirement,” Killian says, not for the first time. Princesses have a ridiculous number of requirements, Emma’s rather quickly learned. And he can’t seem to sit straight in any chair. Also ridiculous.

“Does that not hurt your spine?”

Shrugging, he smirks at her and that’s been happening more often. Not that she’s keeping track, or anything. She’s just—aware, that’s totally the right word. Of him, and what he does with his face and his patterned shirts, and there’s been no bare arm again, but Emma’s still not really his wife, and she knows the hours he’s spent holed up in one of the copious rooms in their quasi-mansion have been dedicated to research.

And getting his wife back.

That’s fine. It’s fine. Definitely not a problem. Hasn’t even crossed her mind.

Emma doesn’t want him to want her. Like, ever.

And they’re waiting for her dad, anyway. To report back on some magical failing in Wonderland. Seriously, everything is so fine that it's almost a problem as well. It’s too fine. Everything is—

Great.

“Are you concerned about the state of my spine, darling?”

Melting is not an option — so far as Emma is aware of, but it’s certainly very appealing in the moment. When that moment includes tilted lips and an angled neck seemingly designed to ensure Killian’s hair falls artfully across his forehead, as if the strands are there to frame his eyes and the hint of light in them.

She takes a deep breath.

The light brightens. Or she imagines.

“A tree lighting, though,” Emma says, not-so-subtly changing the subject. Killian’s brows jump. Up his forehead and past those strands of hair she’s only passably obsessed with. “Isn’t that kind of...I don’t know, it’s not very fairy tale.” “Regina lights the candles with magic, if that helps.” “So why do I have to be there?” “The monarchy usually stands on a platform, waves lovingly to their subjects and—” “—God, how is there more?” Emma balks, but that only gets her a more powerful smirk and eyes that are far too blue to be fair, and they still haven’t painted the dining room. She’s not going to ask about that.

She’s not.

“This is something of the central hub for the rest of the United Realms,” Killian explains, “and with Regina and the Charmings here, it makes sense that people...flock.” “Like birds.” “Not the ones your mother can commune with, but I suppose the metaphor is appropriate.”

“Who decided to hold Regina’s queen election?” Eyeing her speculatively, Emma does her very best not to wither under Killian’s expression. She’s not altogether confident it works, but they’ve almost come to something like an understanding, and it’s very easy. This, them. No, not them. There’s no them and while Emma’s done her fair share of staring, there can’t be a them now because that will undoubtedly fuck with the timeline and probably everything else, just to keep inspiring problematic lists, and her increasing desire to kiss him until he also has to deal with wobbly knees is just something she’s going to have to deal with.

“Maybe I won’t remember when I get back,” Emma reasons, but that one word comes out as wobbly as her knees have been and Killian purses his lips. “Ok, fine—tell me something totally random, then. A fun-fact, as it were.” “Random.” “Do you not know what that means?” He rolls his eyes. “I know at least three more languages than you do, so—” “—No you do not!”

Nodding, Killian smiles over the edge of his coffee mug, and neither one of them mention that his proclivity to drinking a gallon of coffee every morning could probably be this so-called fun fact. “English, obviously, and—” “—Ok, I can clearly speak English,” Emma argues. She nearly bites her tongue in half at the force of Killian’s answering look, part amusement and even more heat and that only circles her back around to the melting thing.

“Aye, but I definitely know more curses than you do, so that’s got to count for something. Also that’s simply my base language, as it were.” She sneers. He chuckles. Into the mug, but it feels like the emotion behind it sinks under Emma’s skin and times up with her pulse, less erratic than it had been those first few nights, and she’s actually started sleeping consistently. “Then of course, I’m rather familiar with Latin.” “Dead, it doesn’t count.” “Impressive, though.” “Sounds like you’re fishing for compliments, Captain.” “Unnecessary, when I know you’ll be all wide-eyed and amazed in a moment,” Killian promises, swinging his legs to prop his feet on the edge of her desk. “There’s also Greek, and—” Waving her hands, Emma doesn’t explicitly try to swat at his legs, but he’s just so goddamn close, and still exuding heat, and she’s starting to have some assumptions about that as well. Of the possibly magic and decidedly—no she’s not doing that. They’re not that. Not like this, anyway. And Killian doesn’t immediately move, but that only lulls her into a false sense of security, the metal of his hook is cold enough that she yelps when it circles both her wrists.

“Fairy,” he finishes, and Emma refuses to believe he leans forward on purpose.

“No.” “You keep objecting to my facts and you’ll give a man a complex, Swan.” “Why would you know Greek, you’re a—” “—Fairy tale character?”

Emma presses her lips together. So as not to make an undignified noise. She’s already whimpered enough, and cried more than she thought possible and the hitch in his voice threatens to shatter several things. Moving her hands is impossible, which is probably for the best, but all of her would very much like to cup his cheek, if only to see if he’ll kiss the inside of her wrist, and she’s like ninety-two percent positive he would. “Pirate prince,” she corrects lightly, and does get her a smile. “Do you have an official title here?” “Captain.” “That’s it?” “Not impressive enough, huh?”

There’s no music on in the station, but they’re clearly dancing all the same — around each other, and the maelstrom of feelings Emma is doing a God awful job of ignoring, and at some point one of them is going to have to pull away from the other. In more ways than one.

“I didn’t say that,” she shakes, “and don’t bother telling me it’s another argument, I don’t care. I’m just—curious, I guess.” “About me?”

Nodding is the least dangerous response when she’s so worried about tripping over her own feet in this metaphorical waltz, but it’s one of the more accurate things she’s said since she got here, and now she’s got an excuse. No repercussions, nothing exactly permanent about these conversations, or this information, and no one’s told her whether or not she’ll retain her memories once she gets back, but they also don’t know she’ll get back so—

Fuck it, honestly.

“Yeah,” Emma replies, not bothering to gloat when Killian’s the one whose eyes go wide first.

“Oh.” “Is that unexpected?” “Maybe at this point.”

Humming, she files that away, preening slightly under the not-quite-compliment. “Not an answer though. Habit of yours.” “Not really, you’re just very demanding in this incarnation.” “Product of my situation, I guess.” He laughs. It’s something that happens more often here than it did when Emma knew him — knows him, whatever tenses get confusing in time travel. Still, the sound consistently manages to catch her off guard. Free and easy, and the magic that rustles in the back of her brain might deserve its own list.

Or another conversation with Regina. “The Royal Navy,” Killian says, an answer Emma nearly forgot she wanted. Her eyes widen. He looks triumphant. “See, told you.” “Like an Enchanted Forest GI bill, huh? See new lands, learn new languages.” “Something like that, aye.” “How’d you get to fairy?” “Did you meet the Lady Bell before—” “—I got yanked out of Neverland?” Emma quips, and it might be a defense mechanism. Making jokes, but she also hasn’t gone into detail about the plant-thing yet, and that might be because she doesn’t want to freak him out.

Anymore than he already is. He spends at least an hour in that room every night.

“Yeah, I did,” she adds,” after she kidnapped Regina and told us Greg and Tamara were dead, which...y’know—” “—Wasn’t the worst thing in the world?” “Does that make me a horrible person?” Killian shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” “Are you going to tell me you learned fairy language from an actual fairy?” “Not much else to do on a hellish island for several hundred years, and it’s a rather complicated tongue. Takes some practice.” “Oh, you’re doing that on purpose now.” The speed of his grin is like molasses. Emma assumes. She’s not sure she’s ever encountered molasses in real life. Even so, the whole thing is bordering on obscene and the opposite of the Christmas spirit and—“Alright,” she concedes, “learning fairy is actually pretty impressive.” “You flatter me, love.”

“What’s your favorite fairy curse word and do you think anyone would be totally scandalized if I used it during this super fancy, exceptionally royal tree lighting?”

Absolutely, goddamn obscene. The tip of his tongue finds the corner of his mouth, and his eyes get noticeably darker, Emma’s pulse picking up until she’s sure they can hear it on the other side of town, and there’s already barely any space between them, but that appears to be decreasing with every passing second. She’s got no idea who’s moving. She might be moving.

God, she hopes she’s moving.

Losing control of her limbs may send her off some ledge.

And she’s just about to throw caution to the seemingly ever-present wind that comes off the harbor, because the front of this patterned shirt looks particularly yankable, but the station door creaks, and a muscle in Killian’s jaw jumps and David clicks his teeth exactly once when he walks in.

“Interrupting something, am I?” “No, no,” Emma stammers at the same time Killian mumbles “absolutely not,” and neither of those things sound all that honest.

She’s never gone into cardiac arrest, but if this is what it feels like, it’s kind of disorienting.

“You hear about the tree lighting, Emma?” David asks, and that’s obviously where her inability to tactfully alter the course of a conversation comes from. Killian rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, slumping back into his chair.

Exhaling feels like an admission of guilt, but Emma can’t have anything to feel guilty about here, and she hopes Killian’s getting sleep. On the couch. He keeps sleeping on the couch.

Of course he does.

“Do I have to wear a gown or anything?” “It’s outside,” David says, “there are trees involved.”

Killian’s hook pokes at his chair arm. “Only one tree, as far as I knew.” “Why are you like this?” “You’re charmed by it, I know,” he chuckles, eyes flashing towards Emma. Coincidence, she’s sure. Her cheeks are very warm.

She’s very warm. Passably magical, maybe.

David sighs. “No, there are no gowns. It is in fact only one tree, and Em—you don’t have to say anything. Regina will thank people for coming, Snow will open up the meal and that’ll be that.” “Should I know what the meal is?” Emma asks, and her gaze doesn’t automatically drift towards Killian either. It just, sort of—meanders there, naturally. His tongue is still doing that thing.

“I was going to get to that part eventually.” “There’s kind of a reception,” David explains, “with cookies.” “Shit, how many cookies can one United Realm eat?” “An exceptional amount,” Killian mutters, and Emma might guffaw. While realizing why her other version had been baking so much before.

“You don’t have to do anything,” David adds, “just show up and smile, and you’ll get some cookies out of it.” “Will I not get cookies if I don’t smile?” Not able to stop whatever noise rumbles out of him, the force of Killian’s grin makes Emma glad she’s sitting down again. “I’ll swipe you some if you don’t.” “Very gallant.” “Happens from time to time.” Flirting in front of her father is wrong. That’s if this counts as flirting. As far as Emma knows, most of their banter has been a product of their mutually ridiculous lives, and whatever situation they’ve found themselves in at the moment, but this moment doesn’t hold any danger and it is so goddamn easy.

She smiles.

Killian beams.

David sighs again. “Anyone want to hear about Wonderland now? Or how the White Rabbit can’t draw any portals? Or—” “—This is a really extensive list,” Emma grumbles, and Killian’s smile is going to get stuck on his face. Permanently. She’s very charmed by the crinkles around his eyes.

“Tinker Bell is here.” Slamming his feet back onto the floor, Killian practically snaps to attention, and Emma’s body goes through another reaction she does not expect. What feels suspiciously like jealousy rattles down her spine, rooting her to the spot and drying out her mouth and David’s far too observant.

He clicks his teeth again. “When?” Killian asks, already standing and offering Emma his hand. She takes it, not thinking about what that means — or how it affects the half-green tint clouding her vision, and her heart misses a beat. As soon as his fingers lace through hers.

“Just now. Went to Regina’s, but I had to come here, so one of Snow’s birds told me.” “You can talk to the birds too?” Emma balks, stumbling while Killian all but yanks her towards the door.

“No, no, they carry messages now.” “Ah of course.” “Did Tink say anything yet?” Killian demands, David already shaking his head and they’re picking up speed. All but jogging down Main Street and towards Regina’s office, and the nickname probably isn’t important. It’s fine. Everything is fine. It’s all going to be good.

Even when the fairy in question snaps towards the office door as it swings open, practically lighting up when she notices Killian and Regina’s eyes go noticeably thin. Staring at Emma like she’s trying to read her mind.

Her fingers are still tied up with Killian’s. “Hook,” Tinker Bell exclaims, and she doesn’t have any visible wings so she can’t fly out of her chair. She tries all the same, arms that bump Emma as they hug her not-quite husband and he mutters a greeting. It takes a moment for Tinker Bell’s gaze to find Emma, trying and failing to keep her expression even, and Killian might chuckle.

She kicks his ankle.

“Emma,” Tink breathes, “it’s good to see you again, you have to get the hell out of this timeline.”

“So, that’s it,” Tinker Bell finishes, shrugging like Emma’s not dangerously close to fully breaking down and Killian’s thumb keeps tapping the side of her palm. Because he’s still holding her hand. Cool, it’s cool. She’s not totally preoccupied with that.

Regina’s totally staring, anyway.

“Will-o-wisps,” Killian says, “I thought that was a rumor.” More shrugging. There’s too much shrugging for Emma. “I’ve never heard of it in practice,” Tinker Bell reasons, “but can you think of another plant in Neverland that could do such a thing? That rumor you’re talking about always mentioned how it would draw a traveler in, bewitch them with lights and—were there lights, Emma?”

She nods. Swallows, or tries at least. But her tongue is expanding again, and her heart might be shrinking, and the whole thing feels like a very cruel trick.

“Pan would have known about all of that,” Tinker Bell continues, “and used it to his advantage. If he could get Emma to follow the light, then she wouldn’t be a problem anymore.” “But I didn’t actually move anywhere,” Emma argues. “There was no following the light.” Regina exhales. “Probably more metaphorical, giving into what the light offered.” “Which was?” “This, obviously. What we talked about, and what you thought you couldn’t ever have while you were stuck in Neverland, convinced of a whole slew of wholly negative things. So, there was no walking, but—” “—I wouldn’t have just run away!”

Voice cracking is a sign of impending mental breakdown, Emma’s sure. As are Killian’s tightening fingers, although she’s starting to depend on those fingers just a bit because sitting hadn’t even crossed her mind before and now that might be the only reason she’s still standing.

That keeps happening.

“Doesn’t sound like you had a choice,” Regina says, “if Pan wanted to tempt you, will-o-wisps seem like the perfect way to do it. See the light, get pulled into this future, he gets Henry, and everything he wants.” “But Henry is here. He’s—he’s a grown man, with a kid and—” “—None of that is set in stone,” Tinker Bell interrupts, magic roaring in Emma’s ears. Killian’s going to cut off the circulation to her hand. “With you out of the way, Pan’s got a straight shot at the heart of the truest believer, he can change what you would have eventually done. Make sure he gets the magic that’ll save Neverland. That’s why everything else is falling apart.” “I’m sorry, what?” “Magic,” David clarifies. “All of it acting strangely? Turns out that is because of you, kid.” Scoffing makes her lean forward awkwardly, but Killian doesn’t mention the strain it’s undoubtedly putting on his arm, and letting go of her hand is disappointing for about two seconds. Before it turns into his arm around waist.

Regina’s expression turns calculating.

“Again,” she says, “it’s what we talked about. Things falling apart because you got pulled off the board. Into this exceedingly tempting place.”

Widening her eyes at the unspoken judgement doesn’t do anything to alter Regina’s face, but Emma didn’t really expect it to and her eyes hurt. From not crying. She can’t possibly cry anymore. “I’ve never been to Wonderland, though. How could I fuck up its magic?” “You’ve been other places, love,” Killian murmurs, “and all of that has ripple effects. Savior saves one place, and other realms reap the benefits.” “Is Neverland in the United Realms?” “No.” “Just like that?” “Just like that,” he echoes, smile not quite reaching his eyes. “What do we do now, Your Majesty?”

Taking a deep breath, Regina lets it out almost immediately — staring at limbs and their out-of-place placement for a moment, before glancing at Tinker Bell. Who shrugs, again. Emma’s going to scream. Before she cries. Maybe then all the emotions will balance out. “We figure out a way to get Emma back to the right place, so she can save Henry and defeat Pan, then we hope that things haven’t been altered so much in the past that this version of the future crumbles entirely.” “What was that about no pressure before?” Emma huffs, David laughing under his breath and the feel of something on her hair is absolutely not Killian’s lips. “And honesty, what options do we have left? As far as time travel goes.” “Eh, we're far from exhausted on possibilities,” Regina says. “Just need to get creative.” Tinker Bell’s gasp is very loud. “Have you tried—” “—No,” Killian cuts in, sharper than anything else he’s said. “That’s not going to work.” “But you haven’t tried.” “Because it’s not an option.” “Oh, that’s very negative.” He hums, and Emma waits for the rest of the conversation. Another verbal volley, but it doesn’t come and Tinker Bell looks very disappointed. She’s got another migraine. “How long do you think we have until this future just—disintegrates?” Emma asks.

She counts to twenty-four before anyone replies. “Maybe a couple days,” Regina replies, “a week at most.” “So—Christmas, then?” “I bet he didn’t plan that on purpose, just one of those crazy happenstances.” “Yuh huh.” “Try and sound more convincing next time, that one sucked a bit.”

Hearing the so-called queen of these supposed United Realms utter the word sucked without a hint of irony is not what Emma expects to be the straw that breaks her back, but it is and her back hurts, and all of her aches, and saving people is her gig. She’s got to figure out a way to do that. No matter what.

She can’t do that while standing here. With three matching looks of concern, and one of absolute and total fear boring into the side of her head, and Emma’s also very good at running.

That would suggest she’s got control over her limbs, though. Stumbling down the stairs, she makes it about three-quarters of the way down before the whole thing is too challenging and her lungs appear to be disappearing, or possibly melting, and something in her spine cracks when she falls forward.

Hair brushes Emma’s knees, shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs and the volume of her breathing and the hand that lands on hers doesn’t surprise her as much as it should. “In through your nose, out through your mouth,” Killian instructs, only for Emma to flat out fail at that too.

Becoming a very frustrating theme. “Why are you so worried about my oxygen intake?” “It concerns me that you’re not, actually.”

Letting out a breath she definitely could have used, Emma’s head lolls. Towards his shoulder and the very solid nature of him, and he doesn’t try to roll her off. Just shifts his arm so it’s back around her waist and that does make it a bit easier to keep her lungs functioning.

“Was it all of reality collapsing, or Regina using that particular word?”

Emma groans. “Mind reading’s kind of a violation of privacy.” “Invoking my pirate excuse.” “That’s not a thing.” “Eh,” he says, and she hears the smile. That’s...nice. “Having no regard for laws is something of a requirement for piracy.” “This is not working as well as you think it is.” “I respectfully disagree. We’re going to fix this, you know that, right?” “I can’t imagine how.” “Sheer stubbornness hardwired into your personality.” Laughing hurts her very tight and anxiety-riddled chest, but Emma can’t help herself and she’d been right about the smile. Magic flutters under her skin, a steady pulse that’s slightly different than her normal pulse because it’s also more consistent and Killian’s nose is close enough to brush her cheek. If he wanted.

She wonders if he does. She’d like him to.

But that’s another problem, and more danger than anything Neverland could offer, and—“Fuck Peter Pan, honestly,” Emma proclaims, Killian’s response warm on her skin because it also includes a sound drifting close to a guffaw and she supposes his mouth is as close as his nose. What with the general structure of faces, and all.

He kisses her cheek.

Quick — barely there, really. Over before it has a chance to register, but Emma’s certain she’s been catapulted into the stratosphere, and he blinks almost hyperactively at her. She’s right about the palm thing too.

He turns into her hand as soon as it finds his cheek.

“Apologies,” Killian mumbles, retreating back into formalities and behind walls Emma had been clinging to only a few days before. Now they’re just kind of annoying. “Force of habit.”

“Was it the fuck Peter Pan that got you?” “You’ve always been something of a wordsmith.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Emma smiles. “Can I—can I ask you a question?” “No need to preface it, darling.” That’s something like the eighth time that’s happened. In the last two days. Second in the last hour or so. Emma’s not counting that either. “Do you remember this?” “Currently?” “Don’t be an ass,” she snarks, but his hook is around her wrists before she can even try to lift her hands. “The will-o-wisp attack. I—well, it was my turn to watch and I was kind of wallowing because of everything that had happened, and—” Telling him she wanted to kiss him then and now and possibly for the rest of time is also very appealing. And terrifying. Emma bites her tongue. Coward.

“No,” Killian shakes his head. “I don’t.” “Is that weird?” “Decidedly.” “So, then—wait, I’ve got another question.” He lifts his eyebrows. Smirks. Has the absolute cheek to lift his thumb and brush tears away from her skin, and Emma resolutely refuses to acknowledge the shiver that goes through her at that. “What was with your huh’s, then?” “Last night, you mean.” “I said Echo Caves and you totally froze. Is that—” “Quite a lot of things happen in Neverland,” Killian finishes, “and not all of them have happened for you yet.” “Menacing.” He hums again, takes a deep breath that clearly isn’t a sign he wants to kiss her again. When he does not actually kiss her again. Fine, fine, fine, super. “Not all of it,” he says, although the words sound suspiciously like a promise and neither one of them blink when a bird flies through the open window nearby.

“Are those birds flying in sync?” “Stop talking, you’re going to get us in trouble.” “What was that about pirate code, or whatever?” Grinning up at him and his scowl, Emma can’t help but be a little proud that she’s managed to distract the great and passably royal Captain Killian Jones during the United Realm’s annual tree lighting. Which in retrospect, does seem kind of strange since Emma can’t imagine they actually have Christmas in the Enchanted Forest.

That’s a conversation for a different time, though.

For now she’s willing to keep playing distraction, and it’s very fun to flirt. With Killian, specifically. She’ll consider the repercussions of that later, too.

“As far as I’m aware,” Killian whispers, trying to keep Hope from jumping into the nearest snowbank, “your mother has instructed them to appear at certain and integral points in the ceremony. For dramatic effect.” “Kind of gaudy, isn’t it?” “A requirement of royalty, so it would seem.”

The muscles in her cheeks are starting to ache. From overuse, and that’s—another problem. Being here a tease. That one strand of hair that always manages to fall towards Killian’s right eye is the worst.

“How long have you been holding onto that particular opinion?” They haven't turned the tree on yet, so whatever light reflects in his eyes is more theoretical than anything. Regina must have practiced this speech at some point. No way this is all improvised, not with the dramatic pauses and introductions and— “Oh shit,” Emma mutters, the ends of Killian’s ears going red because Regina is introducing them and Hope is nothing more than four uncoordinated limbs and Henry snickers very loudly.

Ella elbows him in the side.

Emma likes her daughter-in-law. She hasn’t allowed herself to think about that title, or the granddaughter it comes with, but she’s getting very good at putting thoughts in boxes and only partially acknowledging what they mean and Killian's hand finds her again.

Magic rushes from the top of her head to the very bottom of her feet, standing a bit straighter in another pair of boots, and Killian’s whole body moves towards her. So as to make it easier when he openly gapes at her.

That must happen a lot too, though. No one bats an eyelash. “If you’re all done,” Regina drawls, but Henry isn’t and Ella can’t contain her laugh either. Mary Margaret looks overjoyed. Even as her birds break formation.

Emma nods. “All good.” “Gods, the whole lot of you are annoying. You know—” Waving one hand, candles burst into flame without a word, multi-colored lights appearing on every branch, and it takes Emma a moment to realize that everyone in the crowd is holding an ornament.

“What are they for?” she asks Killian, not bothering to lower her face over the cheers. People are cheering for the tree. “They’re wishes, Mama,” Hope cries. “From everyone!”

He nods when the four-year-old doesn’t explain anymore — already rushing towards Mary Margaret and her ornament. “That’s why people come from all over. Aside from the festive nature, and the talented birds, it’s an old superstition. Place an ornament where the candle was, and you’ll get your wish.” “What happens to the candle?” “Supposed to bring it home, and light that space with the feeling of the solstice.”

In any other situation, exhaling as forcefully as she does would be embarrassing. As it is, Emma figures she’s got a thousand excuses and the hand in hers gives no indication of letting go any time soon. So, seems like a wash. “Gods, that’s nice.” “Aye, it is.”

Hope puts an ornament on the tree.

So does Henry.

And Lucy. The list goes on and on, but all Emma can do is stand at the end of Granny’s counters and eat her weight in Snickerdoodles.

She's the worst, frankly.

Snow starts to fall just as Emma’s wavering between that happy medium of pleasantly buzzed and legitimately drunk, and she’s got to ask someone who doles out the liquor licenses in this realm because it appears Granny’s hand has grown a bit heavy over the years.

Lucy scampers towards the far window as soon as she notices the storm, already talking a mile a minute and detailing plans with Hope and Neal — and this happy medium makes it impossible for Emma to be too frustrated by that, but she also hasn’t actually asked what happened to Neal or why he doesn’t appear in Storybrooke, so it seems it’s more difficult to rid herself of the self-imposed asshole moniker than she’d like.

And the bell over the door rattles like it’s the goddamn town crier, another familiar face stepping through the frame. With red highlights in her hair. “Are we doing this, then?” Ruby asks, flanked by a woman Emma doesn’t recognize and another redhead who is obviously not Ariel and it’s strange to see Mulan out of armor.

“Cap?” Ruby presses, when no one responds quickly enough, “this is happening, right?” Glancing at a wary Henry and back towards a clearly confused Emma, Killian grits his teeth. While she does her best to come to terms with nicknames, and another tradition and Hope tries very hard to climb up Emma’s side.

So as to yell in her ear easier.

“It’s snowing, Mama. We’ve got to play!” Emma blinks. “In the snow.” “It’s a...thing,” Killian explains. “Gets almost—” “—Bloodthirsty,” Mary Margaret says, which is not the most shocking thing that’s happened so far, but Emma’s buzz is starting to ebb slightly and someone’s knocking on the door. Another redhead, with her hair in braids and what looks like suspiciously like a crown on her head and David lets out a joyful noise when he notices the guy behind her.

Mary Margaret tugs at the edge of Emma’s sleeve. She might be nearly drunk too, actually. If her slight wobble is any indication. “In the past,” she starts, “there’s been some notably magical snowstorms here. It was quite an event when Elsa first arrived, but then well—you helped save her, and her sister.” The redhead waves, as if she knows she’s being talked about and Emma can’t fathom how she makes that connection, but she’s getting better at puzzles. “And now,” Mary Margaret continues, “it’s become something of a ritual.”

Ruby gags. “Oh Gods, don’t say it like that. Sounds ruthless.” “Isn’t it, though?” Henry challenges. “The gist is, that Elsa shows up after the tree lighting with her snow powers and we have a snowball fight.” She’s too drunk for this. Definitely well past buzzed at this point. “A snowball fight,” Emma repeats, half a dozen nodding heads replying with equally large smiles and the almost audible sense of anticipation hovering around them.

Hope widens her eyes. It’s a very good trick. “She practices that,” Killian mutters, more mind reading that Emma doesn’t bother to point out because the redhead is shouting "come on, let’s go'' and that sounds like a command. And bloodthirsty is a very appropriate adjective.

Teams are quickly formed, alliances announced and the guy Emma realizes is named Kristoff claims “honor must be defended” enough times that it appears to be a catchphrase. Laughter rings out around them, dancing on the magically-induced snowflakes and off the lights, and there aren’t as many candles on the tree anymore, but some flames continue to flicker, casting shadows across faces and snowballs.

As they fly past Emma’s ears.

“Your aim could use some work,” Killian says, breathing heavier as he ducks behind a snow drift they’re using as a blockade. Emma sneers. “Where’d the kid go?” “Ours?” She nods. Tries not to die. Only marginally succeeds. Killian doesn’t appear to notice. Force of habit is a very strong rationalization, it seems. “She’s allied herself with her much more impressive brother, who—” Lifting out of his crouch, Killian cups a hand to his mouth, like that will help the volume of his ensuing insult. “—Has clearly been practicing snowball creation in the Wish Realm and only knows how to win by cheating!” “I learned it from you,” Henry calls back.

David’s laugh is loud enough to disrupt a whole flock of birds. Perched on the branches above his and Mary Margaret’s head.

Goosebumps make a glorious return to Emma’s arm — and quite possibly her soul, which only seems like an exaggeration until she notices the spots of color on Killian’s cheeks and the bits of snow clinging to his hair. His eyes get bluer when she brushes the moisture away. Have to, if only to explain Emma’s fluttering magic and fledgling pulse and a snowball slams into her left shoulder blade. “Gotta hide better,” Anna calls, the blonde behind her, who is definitely Elsa, shaking with the force of her laughter. Everyone keeps laughing. Everyone is so happy. It’s—

A goddamn Christmas Utopia.

“You did offer yourself up a bit,” Killian reasons, Emma gasping at the betrayal. Pulling on the front of her now-damp jacket, he tugs her back against his side and they’re very close. Too close. Possibly not close enough.

“And what would you suggest o ye master strategist?” “Little wordy, don’t you think?”

“I retract my compliment, then.” “Ahaha,” he chuckles, “a compliment, was it? Well that’s totally different, then. Now, if you just stay here with—” The rest of the sentence gets caught up in his grunt and groan and Emma’s not particularly disappointed to see Hope’s return to this side of the snowball fight, but she’s also fairly certain there was a me looming on the tip of Killian’s very distracting tongue and she’d like to hear that. Selfishly. “Oh, switched allegiances again, have you, little love?” “Henry can’t enchant the snowballs,” Hope says, like that’s supposed to make sense and it almost does because Emma has magic, but she’s never tried to use it on snow. At least not yet.

“I don’t—” she starts, only to cut herself off. At the overall circumference of Hope’s eyes, and the color of Killian’s and there’s something to said for sheer force of will. “Gimme a snowball, baby.”

Excitement immediately colors her daughter’s face, smile wide enough that it’s probably a record and Killian doesn’t say anything. Watches without a single shift of his chest, which means Emma is staring at his chest, but he’s also obviously not breathing, and her lungs can’t stand up to much more of this.

An admittedly lackluster snowball gets plopped in Emma’s upturned palm, and she blinks away the cold like this is old hat. Or something less lame sounding. Snow packs together like—well, magic, she supposes, a perfect sphere that isn’t quite iced over, but won’t fall apart when one of them throws it and obviously Hope’s got to throw it.

“Ok,” she says, nodding encouragingly. “Who did you want to take down?” Killian’s lips disappear. Behind his teeth. To stop himself from grinning like a maniac, or so Emma very quickly convinces herself.

“Uncle Kris,” Hope announces, and this family’s apparently only grown in the last decade or so. Maybe Emma should be more concerned about her heart. And its ability to burst.

“We can do that. Just—toss it up, and…”

She’s got no idea, really. Just generic hope, and a surplus of feeling, but Emma’s always been told that magic is emotion and she’s not sure she’s ever been more emotional, which is a scathing commentary of her life, but this is also her life and— Killian scoops Hope up, an impressive act of balance and dodging incoming snowballs, and Emma will use that emotion as a reasonable excuse for what she does next. Reaching forward, her fingers curl around the brace at the end of his arm, not able to actually touch skin because he’s wearing a leather jacket, and that’s only sort of messing with her mind. But the motivation is the same, and she’s got all those suspicions and thoughts and—

The most powerful magic in the world.

“Throw it, love,” Killian directs, Hope’s arm pulling behind her like she’s a professional baseball player, and Emma squeezes her eyes shut. Warmth curls at the base of her spine, inching up her vertebrae until it takes root at the base of her skull, spreading out through her brain and the rest of her limbs and he definitely kisses her hair again.

She’d been counting on that, just a bit.

Muscles loosen under her skin, no sense of tension or that ever-present anxiety Emma’s always just assumed was part of her genetic makeup. Shouts echo around her, in addition to the snow, but she can’t quite hear any of it over the explosion of magic between her ears, and Hope’s cry of success will probably be branded on Emma for the rest of her life.

She hopes so, at least.

Opening her eyes to find Kristoff sputtering, and Anna as impressed as she is indignant, Emma only barely has a chance to catch her breath before there’s a kid flying into her arms. It’s harder to hold her when she doesn’t let go of Killian. And Killian doesn’t pull away.

He watches both of them. Traces over Emma’s face, the same way she had in the hallway, and something happens. Something important. Passing between them, and cementing itself in her gut and her soul and his lips twitch. At her magic, probably. “Thank you,” Killian mouths, Emma nodding against Hope’s hair. She kisses it. Out of habit, or whatever.

Strands of hair are damp against Emma's temple by the time they traipse back to the house, Hope asleep on Killian’s shoulder. Enchanted snowflakes linger on the back of her jacket, hovering on her eyelashes for maximum effect and peak cute, which didn’t need any help if Emma’s being honest and she might be willing to err on the side of that particular feeling right now. So as to keep the feeling, all year long and maybe even indefinitely.

Or whatever they said about Ebenezer Scrooge.

After he learned to love Christmas. And other humans.

Emma’s still not thinking too hard about that particular word, though. So, maybe complete honesty’s something of a stretch, but the kid is undeniably adorable and it’s admittedly difficult to think straight when Killian is—

Killian. In italicized and underlined lettering, meeting Emma snark for snark, and snowball for snowball, and she really wants to know his Monopoly cheating strategy, but that’s a problem for an entirely different list because that list has impossible words and improbable feelings and he’s staring at her.

Where she’s leaning against their front door.

Using possessive and collective pronouns isn’t helping her cause.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly. For the benefit of the sleeping kid, Emma figures. Not the state of her pulse, or the magic he could feel, and the cyclical nature of time is just toying with her at this point.

She nods. “Better than, somehow.” “Oh, that’s a little negative, Swan.” “Kind of my schtick, isn’t it.” “Not always,” Killian says, another pair of words that shouldn’t sound like a promise and clearly do not care. Emma feels her smile. Like, possibly in the very core of her being. At least between her ribs, where the growing sense of belonging has decided to linger, this feeling of home and possibility and staying here is not a possibility. Tinker Bell will figure something out.

Emma will — that’s how Savior’ing works, after all.

“You know,” Killian adds, Hope humming into his neck and there’s quite a lot of neck. Emma might be staring at his neck. “At some point we concoct this very impressive buttered rum recipe, that’s notoriously good at warding off chills.” Digging her teeth into her lips does not do anything to disperse the butterflies in Emma’s stomach, but she’s also not all that interested in them leaving. “Concerned about my breathing and my overall body temperature?” God, she’s an idiot.

Flirting isn't quite second nature, though — and Emma’s even less accustomed to flirting as a two-way street, but this feels as easy as it has and will and there’s those tense-based issues all over again. Killian grins. Slow, and measured and inching almost close to lecherous, sparking a handful of other other ideas that—

Immediately disappears when the four-year-old wakes up.

Brushed teeth take precedence, as do picking out pajamas and Hope is in possession of more pajama sets than Emma knew could exist in one set of drawers. Then there’s a bedding routine, lifting comforters and crawling under sheets and Emma doesn’t know the story requested of her.

She’s got no idea what happens after Prince Charles spun around with his sword.

It’s got to be impressive, though.

“Oh, Hope I—” she exhales, fear creeping back into the forefront of her mind. Until fingers find they’re way back into hers, and they’re just as warm as they always are and it takes Killian less than three minutes to promise a different story on another night.

No tears are shed, so that’s got to be a victory and Hope’s eyes are already fluttering closed when Killian flicks off the light. Lingering in the hallway, Emma’s not sure what she’s supposed to do or where she’s supposed to go, but there’s a hook pressed into the small of her back and buttered rum turns out to have a ridiculous amount of cinnamon in it. “Shit,” Emma mutters into her glass, and Killian looks far too satisfied. “This is really good.” “Took some trial and error, but we got there eventually. Or get there for you, I suppose.” Sipping instead of responding is another cowardly move, one Emma won’t ever admit to and it doesn’t matter because he can read her mind. At least her face. Open book, and all that.

“I’m sorry.” Killian blinks. “For what, exactly?” “God, throw a dart. Everything I—showing up in your life and making the right Emma disappear, maybe, and that’s got to be fucking with you, and—” “—You’re not the wrong Emma,” he interrupts, with enough force to pull her up short. Buttered rum drips on her chin. So, she’s a picture of romance and flirting potential. “Just a little early, that’s all.” “Not what you said when I got here.” “Aye, well that was the bastard version of me. He’s a—” “—Bastard?” “Absolutely,” Killian nods, “and maybe a little unsure of himself when it comes to you.”

It’s her turn to blink. More than once, only a little concerned the scene in front of her will change, but it doesn’t and it won’t and there’s got to be a limit on time travel. Emma’s reached her quota by now, she hopes. “Because I’m a mess now? I mean, this version of me. Not the wife one.” “You’re worried about Henry. And I understand that, did then as well. I just—you want to know why the Echo Caves gave me pause? Because if you got tugged right after that, then all you’re sure of is that I think I could move on from Milah, but nothing else has happened for you yet. No promises or—” Swallowing, he sets his glass down and there wasn’t much room between them, but there’s even less now and Emma’s got nowhere to put her hands. Except on his thigh. Where it bumps hers. “Leaving behind that bastard who wouldn’t give you the magic bean was always something of a challenge, but you made me want to. Made it easier to do just that. Because eventually you do trust me, and you believe in me, and—”

He exhales. Licks his lips. Emma can’t move. “The thought of losing that terrified me,” Killian finishes.

They’ve stopped dancing. Are standing stock-still in the middle of the floor, while other people twirl around and wait for them to get their rhythm back. And Killian doesn’t blink, which is equally frustrating and overwhelming and a much more positive adjective that Emma can’t be bothered with because she’s too busy saying, “I...like you?” “Was that a question?” “Maybe,” she admits, “it’s not really my forte, and I told Neal a bunch of shit in the Echo Caves too, so—is...did my parents name their kid after him?” “Yuh huh.” “Don’t sound particularly pleased.” “We’ll get to that,” Killian says, “Rehash the liking stuff, please.” Maybe laughing at inappropriate times is actually his greatest talent. Emma’s head drops, bumping Killian’s shoulder, but then there’s an arm back around her waist and there’s so much of him, and that’s always been the problem. Opposite of a problem, really.

“You just—” Emma mutters. “Came back, for us and me and I...that kind of terrifies me too, but you always make sure if I'm ok, and that’s—not a ton of people do that.” “Becomes something of a habit.” “I’m going to ask you a question.” “Still don’t need to preface it.” “Are you Prince Charles in the story?”

Surprise is a good look on him. All of them are, but Emma’s already crossed one emotional threshold and like wasn’t really the word she was thinking about before. “Aye,” Killian says, soft enough that it’s difficult to hear.

“Does that make me the princess?” “In almost every story I tell.”

The warmth moves to her cheeks, and the same skin Killian’s fingers graze, coming dangerously close to the edge of her mouth and barely parted lips. “So, uh,” Emma stammers, “not our first time travel adventure?” “Gets confusing when you haven’t done that other part yet.” “Time travel might be overrated, honestly. But we get back, right? That’s—I mean, you’re here.”

Nodding, his nose replaces his fingers and it’s oddly endearing. “If you remember this in the past, I refuse to be held accountable, alright?”

“Seems fair,” Emma laughs, and she thinks she hears him swallow before he responds. “You give up your magic, for me—which is something else I never entirely pay you back for, but then we get pulled into the portal, adventures ensue, including that very impressive spin move, and then your magic comes back.” “How?” “With that wand Regina used before, that’s why she thought it would work.” “You’re skipping over things,” she accuses, and flirting might not be the only two-way street. He’s getting easier to read. “Was that was it you? Helping with my magic?” Shrugging isn’t easy when they’re so tangled together, but Killian’s ears are as red as Ariel’s hair and Ruby’s highlights and—“The only reason I magic’ed that snowball was because I was holding onto you. Control’s not something I’ve got much of right now.” “You would have been able to figure it out.” “Not with a kid waiting, and all those people and—” Problems be damned. Lists be damned. Time itself, be goddamned. “Paying me back is a stupid thing to think.”

“Swan.” Shaking her head, Emma moves before she can reconsider how incredibly dumb this is and possibly even more dangerous, but he keeps staring at her and it’s so easy and normal, and if she were someone who breathed with any sort of regularity, that wold be an appropriate analogy. Killian shifts too, so that helps.

And she definitely mumbles kiss me like some harlequin romance heroine, but he doesn’t laugh and he doesn’t object and the fingers that find her hair help ground her. To this plane of reality. Nice exists for about half a second, before it rather quickly evolves into need and desire and there are hands everywhere. Emma’s and Killian’s — tracing each other like this is the first time all over again, and her back arches once she clamors into his lap.

Rocking down at the same time he rocks up draws out several sounds Emma’s never heard before, and would not mind hearing on loop. Fingers search out skin, pushing into the tuft of hair at the nape of his neck, and she can’t tilt her head enough. To get the right angle, or more of his tongue and his tongue’s already swiping at her lips.

He groans again. When she opens her mouth, lets him trace as much as he’d like, and Emma would like even more, but she’s always been kind of greedy when it comes to him and really oxygen is vastly overrated.

She can’t keep her eyes open.

Can’t imagine how anything gets better than this, or them and there’s that pronoun again.

Both of their shoulders heave when they finally have to pull apart, more black than blue in Killian’s eyes and— “We’re really good at that,” she mutters, working a laugh out of him. That he presses against her neck. And under her chin. Drags across her jaw, and up towards her temple, kissing whatever he can reach and everywhere he lands and it takes a power she did not know she possessed for Emma to keep herself from demanding he take his clothes off as well.

She opts for the next best thing. “Thoughts on sleeping in your own bed?”

The eyebrows, honestly. Flying up, and reacting quicker than he can respond and Killian kisses her. Soft and easy, and as normal as anything. “Vast,” he says, mostly into her mouth, “and it’s difficult to fall asleep without you, so it’d be nice to actually do that.” “Yeah, ok. That works.”

#cs ff #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan #captain swan fic #but once a year #festive fic a thon 2k20 #MAGIC SNOWBALL FIGHTS #making a united realms solely to bring back frozen characters???#more likely than you think!!

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marshmallow-phd · 4 years

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Catching Rain

Part of The Untamed - EXO Wolf Universe

Genre: Wolf!AU

Pairing: Minseok x Reader

Summary: You were more than satisfied with your life. You attended a nice college, had nice friends, a nice boyfriend. That’s what your life was: nice. You weren’t looking for anything more, so what were you to do when this seemingly harmless boy walked into your life and turned your nice little world into one much more dangerous?

Part: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5 I 6 I 7 I 8 I 9 I 10 I Epilogue

You parked on the side of an empty back road, careful not to stop in any spot that might be muddy. It hadn’t rained for a few days, but with the weather lately, you couldn’t be too careful. The last thing you needed was to have to call Erik and confess to him that you did indeed go out to the woods to take pictures and were now stuck in the mud and needed his help.

A small part of you felt guilty. His concern wasn’t completely unfounded. If he’d had gotten hurt working on a backdrop by himself, whether by falling off a ladder or being hit by a light, you would be hesitant about him doing it again. But each of you were your own person, right? Independent not codependent?

Okay, it was probably time to lay of the self-help books for a while. You took one modern philosophy class and it had been a downward spiral from there. Perhaps it was time to give the supernatural genre a try.

The trees smelled intoxicating. Mixed with the humidity in the air, it was the kind of scent that could outperform even the most expensive of perfumes. It was an aroma that surrounded you, engulfed you in its arms the further into the woods you went. The peaceful smile that pulled on the corners of your lips were automatic, involuntary. Not that you would fight if you could. Despite the rumors of wolves running around, you were comfortable here.

Deep within the forest, a wide, oval clearing full of browned wildflowers rested. Bits of green here and there tried to break through the foliage that had died during the harsh winter. Their odds of making it through might not have been great, but you admired their tenacity.

These clearings were common in the woods and yet, they were your favorite places to capture. From one angle, it could seem like you were lost in a fast labyrinth of Mother Nature. Another, a prairie that belonged to another region entirely. The possibilities were endless if you really thought about it. And each clearing, you’d discovered, was unique within itself. Its shape, the plants it held, the thickness of the grass. You knew you hadn’t found every one yet, but you were determined to someday. For now, though, you would have stick with this particular clearing that you had visited before, as it was close to the road for a quick getaway, should you need it.

Sliding the bags off your shoulder, you crouched down and dug through until you found your notebook. The pages were unlined, which allowed you to right down your thoughts and ideas at odd angles. To you, it gave the otherwise somewhat boring inside a more artistic aesthetic. The plain leather cover was soft in your hands, worn from the amount of use and abuse you’d put it through. It wasn’t exactly common for photographers to write out their ideas before shooting. Some drew out the scene they wanted to capture, trying out different angles in their imagination. Most didn’t do any sort of prep like this at all. But you preferred to write it out, especially since most of your ideas tended to come at the most inconvenient times. Scribbling down half-coherent words tended to be quicker than a sketch.

After a quick review of your latest ideas, you tossed the notebook down and turned on your camera. You took several test shots, adjusting each settling until you came to the look you were searching for. Long shots and close ups, you photographed nearly every square foot of that clearing in order to get that one picture. That one picture that took everyone’s breath away, that made them stop and tilt their head every which way in order to take the scene in at all possible viewpoints. You wanted to them to see the world the way you did.

So in tuned to what you were doing, you hadn’t noticed the pair of eyes watching you from the shadows. They gave off the faintest glow filled with curiosity as they hovered in the air. You snapped a few photos in their direction, still unaware of their presence, and then lowered the camera to look back on the shots. At first, when you clicked through the pictures, you didn’t notice the tiny amber dots that blended in with the foliage. But by the fourth picture, you stopped.

Never before had you been scared by this place. Then again, the only animals you’d ever encountered before were rabbits and deer and other mostly harmless critters. These did not look like the eyes of a friendly Disney sidekick. Ice ran down your spine. You couldn’t run. If it was a predator, that would only encourage it. So, you tried to remain as still as possible while lifting your eyes to the spot that the animal was hiding. Perhaps there was a chance that it wouldn’t sense your fear and would take your stare down as a reason to walk away.

No such luck.

The leaves under its paws rustled as it stepped forward into the sun.

A tannish wolf with a long black strip down its back revealed itself. But it didn’t look menacing. In fact, though you might have been fooling yourself, it seemed almost… curious? Confused? It was hard to read the expression since you couldn’t fully compare it to a human. With slow, thoughtful steps, it came closer. You tried to remain still, tried not to move. The strain was causing your legs to tremble slightly. Now, you felt tremendously stupid for not listening to Willa’s warning about wolves. Was this considered an ironic moment? You weren’t entirely sure since language arts had never been your strong suit.

Unable to keep you upright anymore, your legs gave out. At least you landed on your butt with your camera hanging safely around your neck. Your fingernails dug into the dirt next to you as the wolf came closer, still at that same cautious pace. Harder and harder, your heart pounded in your ears. The wolf paused for a few seconds before continuing on. Could it hear your terrified pulse? Silently, you said your goodbyes as the wolf erased all space between you. Its muzzle nudged your cheek, coming to a stop near your ear. It sniffed deeply, then jumped back.

Your eyes widened, somewhat relieved that it hadn’t pounced, but also confused. Why wasn’t it attacking? Why did it look spooked?

The wolf sat back, head tilting back and forth as it studied you. It made no threatening moves or sounds. The tips of its ears perked up and it let out a sound that was eerily similar to a scoff.

“I guess you’re not hungry then?” An odd thing to say out loud to an animal that couldn’t talk, but you blamed it on the shock of the whole situation.

The wolf responded with a short puff of air before lowering itself down to its stomach.

This was… surreal. All the other animals you’d ever encountered had either kept their distance or ran away at the slightest sound. And yet, here was this wolf, laying in front of you, not vicious or aggressive. It was almost… cute, in a way.

“You’re a strange creature,” you said out loud. The wolf apparently took that as a sign to come closer. Crawling on its stomach, it took came to the point where it was almost able to rest its head in your lap-

The shrill sound of your current favorite song ripped through the air. You gasped, jumping up to your feet and running to your bag where you desperately searched through the pockets until you found your phone. It was Willa.

“Hello?”

“Hey, where are you?”

“I, um,” you glanced at the wolf who had jumped up to its feet. “I got bored so I’m just out driving around. Why?”

“Jiyoung called and asked last second to switch shifts at the coffee shop and so I’m free for the evening. And I’m hungry.”

You laughed a little at her not-so-subtle hint. “Alright. Give me twenty minutes to get back to the dorm. How does brick oven pizza sound?”

“Like heaven.”

“Okay, then. See you soon.” You ended the call and looked up, meeting eyes with the wolf. It never broke contact and in turn, gave you a bit more bravery. Lifting up the camera, you snapped a single shot of the wolf. “I’ll be back.” A strange promise to make, but you said it anyway. You wanted another encounter with this mysterious creature. Gathering up your things, you hurried out of the clearing and back through the trees to your car, still sitting on the side of the road.

It took less than twenty minutes to make it back to the university. Back at the dorm, Willa was lying on her bed, scrolling through her phone mindlessly. She sat up as soon as you came through the door.

“Fun drive?” she asked.

You shrugged. “It was fine.”

“No exciting scenes to snap?”

Her tease made you roll your eyes. “No, not really. Now, come on. I thought you said you wanted to eat?”

Not missing a beat, Willa jumped up from the bed, snatched up her purse, and pulled you out of the room, contemplating out loud which signature pizza sounded good.

Minseok growled as he ran through the forest. How he could have possibly lost those three was beyond him. Being unable to find them now was even more stupefying. They were loud, how could he not know which direction to take? He had to be careful. This part of the forest was close to the back roads and Junmyeon was worried they were being spotted too often. If the three them weren’t paying attention-

Click. Click. Click.

Minseok brought himself to a halt at the strange sound. There wasn’t any sort of pattern to it, but there was an underlying shuttering that seemed vaguely familiar. Too curious to just ignore it, Minseok headed in the direction e suspected it came from. Once he found the answer, he’d go back to finding the others.

The sound led him to one of the many clearings in the woods. A person wandering around the area taking pictures seemed to be the source, a camera in their hands. You appeared to be alone. Odd since not many ventured out in the forest by themselves. The isolation didn’t seem to bother you, though as you carelessly went about your task.

Staying in the shadows, Minseok watched your back as you continued to photograph the nature around you. Something… something strange was tingling in his shoulders, like the muscle beneath the skin had fallen asleep. Without prompt from him, his paw moved forward. He should be leaving. Be gone before you spotted him. But he couldn’t do it. Something told him to wait.

That’s when you turned around. By the way you kept taking pictures, you hadn’t seen him. It wasn’t until you lowered the camera to review the film did you freeze. And you weren’t the only one.

Something in Minseok’s world snapped when he saw your face. His muscles contracted, shivered and ached.

Go! an inner voice urged. He tried to turn his body in the opposite direction of you, but failed. Not that way! He had no choice but to obey. So he stepped closer to you. Your eyes snapped up, meeting his own. In his chest, his heart accelerated. What was this? What was going on?

Slightly fighting each movement, Minseok broke out from the tree line and into the clearing. It was obvious you were frightened. And he was breaking all the rules by revealing himself. Logic could not win, however. He kept walking. Even after you fell backwards, he was only able to pause for a brief second. Your rapidly beating heart was loud in his own sensitive ears. But he wasn’t so sure that it was completely out of fear. He needed to be closer. So closer he went. The whiskers of his muzzle brushed against your cheek, sending a lightning bolt through his body. He took in your scent and reeled back.

You smelled human. You were human. But… there’s something different about you and he couldn’t fathom what it might be.

“I guess you’re not hungry then?” you said oddly.

Minseok laughed. Well, as much as he could with this ribcage and these vocal cords. Overwhelmed, he adjusted to a more comfortable position. The feeling in his chest was almost all consuming and it weighed him down. He’d seen plenty of humans on his runs, but this had never happened before. Was this something that would only happen because he was in his wolf form? Or would he still feel like this if he saw you on two legs?

With a glimmer in your eye, you sighed, “You’re a strange creature.”

Taking that as sign, he tested the waters and pulled himself across the grass with his front paws, closing the gap between you.

A song suddenly cut through the air and forced him to a stop before he could rest his head in your lap - an action that he was itching to try out. You jumped up with a gasp and ran to the bags resting at the bottom of a tree. Frantically, you searched the pockets until you found the source of the noise, answering the call.

“Hello?”

“Hey, where are you?” asked a female voice on the other end.

“I, um,” you glanced over him, making him jump to his feet. Will you tell your friend the truth? “I got bored so I’m just out driving around. Why?”

He almost let out a sigh from relief. Talk of an overly friendly wolf would be bad, especially if it spread through town and more people ventured into the woods to try and encounter him.

“Jiyoung called and asked last second to switch shifts at the coffee shop and so I’m free for the evening. And I’m hungry.”

You laughed. “Alright. Give me twenty minutes to get back to the dorm. How does brick oven pizza sound?”

“Like heaven.”

“Okay, then. See you soon.” You hung up the call and met his eyes again. Impulsively, you took one last picture of him, which he didn’t shy away from. “I’ll be back,” you promised softly.

Minseok could no longer feel the ground beneath him. He just stood there, watching as you ran through the trees in the direction of the road. When his senses came back to him, he noticed a small brown square hidden among the tan grass. He went closer to inspect what the object was. It was a notebook.

It must be yours.

Scooping the leather-bound book in his mouth, he took off after you. Following your scent through the forest was easy – it stood out like a pink flower in a sea of green grass. But he wasn’t quick enough. He caught the sight of your tail lights far down the road. He would have to keep a hold of the notebook until he saw you again. You did say that you would be back.

Or you could track her down?

Minseok shook that thought away. How would he ever explain that without giving away his true nature?

Giving up for the time being, he turned around and decided to head back to the house. There was no way he could find the others now. And with you gone, the elated feeling disappeared, leaving him weighted as if he were being dragged down into the earth. Each step was anchored down. It took him much longer to get back to the farm house.

Several other members were scattered about the house, either working on their studies or clowning around. Your notebook tucked between his clothes and held close to his chest, he headed up to his room. After a quick shower, he got dressed once again and sat on the end of his bed. In his hands, he flipped the notebook over and over. He contemplated opening it. But that would be invading, wouldn’t it? But he wanted to find out about you.

So he pulled open the cover.

Inside, in the top right hand corner of the first page was your name. He smiled, saying it softly over and over. It felt… right on his lips. Your face hovered in his mind. It fit you so well, like a jacket tailored with perfection.

The nature of wolves was an odd kind. There was a constant urge to belong. To belong to a pack and then… to belong to a person.

Ever since he was young, he was told about how someday he find that special person whose soul was connected to his. Fate predetermined who that person would be and no one could ever fill the void that existed until that person came along. Ordinary humans would never experience that kind of feeling, that kind of love. The type of love for the wolf that could only be given by one person.

A mate.

Was that what you were? None of his brothers were mated. They were all free – some taking more advantage of the situation than others. Occasionally, they would joke about who would be first. Some thought it might be Yixing, given his soft heart and the genuine warmth he radiated. Others liked to joke that it would be Baekhyun or Jongin, the big serial daters of the pack. Minseok, though, had his money set on Jongdae. That wolf had barely been able to give in to the call of the pack when he first joined them all. He was verbally against the idea of mating, more so than anyone else. Opening up to people was not a strong suit of the younger wolf and Minseok couldn’t wait to see what kind of journey that would be once he was forced to.

Minseok would have been the last person on everyone’s mind for the mated list. Not for any malicious reasons, just because he didn’t venture out very much beyond school so the odds of meeting someone new were low. Or so he thought. He liked being out at the house, being home. He was the very definition of “homebody”. Ironic that he ended up meeting you out here.

Knock, knock, knock.

He looked up and quickly hid the notebook beneath his pillows, just in time before Junmyeon, the alpha, peaked his head in. “Minseok?”

“Yeah?”

Junmyeon looked back towards the hallway. “Yeah, he’s in here!” he yelled. “Tell Jongdae to stop worrying!”

Minseok laughed. Naturally, they leave him behind but then they get worried. He was the eldest, always looking after the others. And yet, oftentimes, it didn’t feel like that.

Where he thought that might be the end of the checkup, Junmyeon, instead, closed the door behind him and sat down on the bed beside him.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

Minseok nodded. “Yeah, of course. Why?”

“I saw the look on your face when you came in,” Junmyeon explained. “You looked troubled.”

The two of them weren’t the closet out of the whole pack. In fact, there were times where it was awkward between them, the role of the alpha and the role of eldest clashing at times. But other times, he was the best one to turn to.

“What do you know about the mating aspect of us?”

Junmyeon pursed his lips, thinking. “The mating aspect? Only the basics, really. That when you meet that one person, that’s it. And you’re supposed to live happily ever after.” He laughed at the cheesy line, releasing some of the tension.

Minseok couldn’t help but laugh along. It died out soon, though, as his mind went back to his current dilemma. “They always say you just know after one look. Do you think that’s right?”

“Yes, I do,” the alpha confirmed. “That’s all it takes. You feel it in here.” He tapped his chest, right about his heart. “Minseok? Why are you asking about this?”

He weighed his options. If this wasn’t what he thought it was and the others found out, he would never hear the end of it from them. But having someone validate his theory would ease some of the strain.

“I think I found her.”

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