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nomazee · 28 days

Note

Hello, congratulations on your milestone! 🎉

May I have (for the mix-and-match 😚) Dr.Ratio and the word-concept "bathtub"? 🫢

Take your time! ❤️❤️

this one was fun to write too (as per usual with ratio) i've written for dr ratio so much in the last two weeks i think i am becoming him.... Im slowly morphing into veritas ratio please save me... THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING this was lovely :3

my 1k event!

—°+..｡ﾟ｡ﾟ+.*.｡.—

“No way. You take bubble baths with a rubber duck?”

Veritas freezes for no longer than a millisecond before whipping his head around to see you in the doorway of the bathroom. He’d been relaxing just moments ago, sinking into the hot water with his eyes closed, and yes there was a rubber duck in the bath with him but that was not by choice. It just happened to be there when he ran the bath, and he opens his mouth to argue but is quickly cut off by your endless rambling.

“Anyways, I came to wash your hair. One of your assistants told me you just left in the middle of your usual work hours, and I thought, ‘wow, how odd, the Ratio I know would never do that!’ And then I thought, what better way to cheer my dear friend up than keep him company and wash his hair! It did look a little greasy today.”

“I am not your dear friend,” he argues mockingly, but the bite in his voice falls short when you circle around the bath and set down your paraphernalia on the tiles next to you (a microfiber hair towel, shampoo, conditioner, some miscellaneous hair foams and sprays that he really does not trust you with). “You are the most insufferable person I have ever had the displeasure of knowing. Get out of my bathroom.”

“This is our bathroom now, Ratio. We’re a community, you and me.”

“It’s ‘you and I.’”

“Exactly! You and I, a community. You’re getting the hang of it now.”

Veritas sighs, surrendering any potential of a relaxing evening to your whims. This is, unfortunately, how it usually goes, and he has yet to make a real effort to stop it. A voice in the back of his head taunts him because at his core, he has zero desire to stop it at all.

“Come on,” you keep babbling, threading your fingers roughly through his already-damp hair. It’s not a pleasant sensation at all, and he winces and holds back a pained yelp. “It’s kind of like going to a spa, or whatever. I’m trying to pamper you. Be grateful!”

“There’s nothing to be grateful about when you’re trying to scalp me,” he could push your hands away easily, bat you off and make you leave. Instead, though, he gives you a minute to tame your inelegant movements into something gentler. He hears the sound of a bottle uncapping, and then your hands are back on his scalp, lathering honey-scented shampoo into the layers of his hair.

“Is this better?” you ask cheekily, tracing circles in his hair, digging your fingertips in and scratching just a little bit, hard enough to feel it but light enough that it’s still soothing. Veritas sighs through his nose, deep and heavy and sinking back into the water. There’s no mocking retorts, no quips, no sarcastic tone, just the even cycle of his breathing and the rhythm of his heartbeat thudding in his ears. If he tries hard enough, focuses enough, he can hear yours too, but it makes his stomach twist with an uncomfortable, unnameable feeling.

In your bundle of things that you brought, there’s an empty plastic cup, and you use it to scoop water from the tub and rinse the foam from his hair. Veritas feels wholly exposed, for obvious reasons among others, and the urge to kick you out still sits heavy in his chest. Right next to it is a warmth, though, something holding his sensibility hostage, something that finds this more comforting than it would be if he’d sat in the bath until the water went cold, all alone, without your hands washing his hair clean of oil and grime and the weight of his research.

You break him of his reverie, but the sudden sound of your voice isn’t as intrusive as he anticipated. “You know, you should start using this oil thing for your hair, I got it from one of my coworkers,” by now, his hair is completely rid of any remaining shampoo, and your hands are rubbing a thin layer of conditioner into the ends of each strand, “and it’s supposed to help your hair grow. I think you’d look great with long hair, Veritas, don’t you agree?”

“What, do you think about that often?” It’s supposed to be something snarky, something to shut you down before you dig too deep, but you never catch the hint—it’s your best and worst quality.

“Maybe,” you admit, heft in your words, a density that needs to be cut open and examined. He’s good at that—good at looking and prying, but he’s the worst if he’s next to you. You’re nowhere near as thorough of a researcher as him, but he thinks (with a sense of embarrassment) that when the subject is him, you’re the most qualified person around. “Wouldn’t it be nice? With your hair all down to your shoulders, maybe. And if you really think it’s a hassle to take care of, I’ll just do it for you.”

He’s perfectly capable of taking care of his own hair, thank you very much, but the idea of having you wash it for him, brush out the tangles in it every other day is appealing to a starving man like Veritas. He aches, and the skin at the nape of his neck itches.

“You’re saying nonsense,” he says, and he can feel the way his brow has tightened and he instinctively goes to chew at the dead skin on his lips. “My hair is perfectly fine the way it is.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” you respond, “just giving you options.” Your hands finally leave his hair, and suddenly the water in the bathtub feels frigid and icy, and Veritas represses a shiver. “Your hair is squeaky clean. Now, get out of the bathroom! It’s my turn to hang out with the rubber duck.”

“Would you—?!” Veritas turns to glare at you, but the impish grin on your face makes him falter. You’re incorrigible. “The duck isn’t mine! And you have your own bathroom. Stop invading my space.”

“Sigh,” you say aloud, because you’re corny and theatrics are written into every part of your personality. “Oh, grandest Ratio, I really did think we were friends, but you wound me so deeply! All this time has meant nothing to you! All this new shampoo that I bought just for you, gone to waste…”

“For gods’ sake,” he mutters, reaching for a set of pajamas that you’d so conveniently taken from his own dressers and brought with you while on your mission to wash his hair. “Turn around so I can get dressed and then you can use the bathroom. So annoying.”

“Not annoying enough to kick me out, though,” you say, and you’re completely right, and Veritas will admit that one day, but certainly not today.

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gen taglist: @tragedy-of-commons @lasiancunin @hanyi-writes

#nora hits 1k #veritas ratio x reader #dr ratio x reader #ratio x reader #dr. ratio x reader #hsr x reader #honkai x reader #honkai star rail x reader #veritas x reader #oh veritas my beautiful annoying obnoxious scholarly man

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ecoamerica · 2 months

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youtube

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

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monsoonblooms12 · 3 years

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Priyotomo (Ethan Ramsey x f!MC)

Summary: The Last Day at Amazon and Ethan's first day back at Boston from Ethan and Pooja's POV

Priyotom(o/a): (Bengali) Dearest, Most Beloved

A/N: Time for another hopeless attempt at poetry!! Anyway, this is my take on Dr Ethan Ramsey running to the Amazons. I really hope that this is not absolute crap and makes so sense🧡

Thank you so much to Simone for Pre-reading! Love you Gurl🧡

If you enjoyed the story, please like it, leave a comment or reblog. Your feedback keeps me going🤎

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey X f!MC (Pooja Sharma)

Word Count: around 1.8K

Rating: General

Category: Angst

Warnings: (Very Brief) Mentions of blood, fainting and drinking

Title Inspo: Priyotomo Hai - Rabindra Sangeet (Rabindranath Tagore's composition)

OTHER WORKS

Pooja

16 years.

The date was displayed with vivid eloquence by the woody beige cubes that adorned the desk, posing a match with the minimalism of the room.

It was a preposterous fact.

Glassy ambers switched perspective in a progressive motion, and they interpreted the solitary shine of the table lamp on the transparent surface.

Four glowing smiles, two tiny toddlers sat on their parents' lap.

It does not feel surreal. Neither a tale of a bygone era.

It was not her past. It was her present, her life's gears were turned by this very photograph.

Her bracelet adorned hand held it close to her heart, which beat in a meteoric rhythm.

The cacophonous tunes from the fiesta painfully pierced through her reverie, cajoling her to close the mahogany doors that lead to her cocoon.

The flamboyant kantha stitched lehenga proved to be burdensome to carry.

With ponderous steps, Pooja settled down on the couch, pulling her feet to herself.

She wanted to be ten again. Not eleven.

Terminate the time when she could be that blithe girl, rolling dices with her mother.

But there was a specific reason why the reminisces came back stronger than any usual day.

Somewhere in the remote land, in a cholera-stricken district, a summery blue-eyed man spent his days in seclusion.

And occupied the chambers of her cerebral hemispheres.

What was the pain of being left alone with only emotions as a companion without as much as a message?

She wiped her cheek, only to discover the black of her eyeliner now adorning her fingers.

She had been crying.

When? She could not feel the tears that left smokey meanders on the map of her face.

The heartbreak and the circumstances had numbed her feelings. All she wanted was an embrace.

Why did his peach lips mark her as his if this was the end in sight?

She refused to accept it. The end.

She placed her foot down, not feeling the pierce of a pin fallen down against her skin.

Drops of scarlet marked her track as she retouched the smear of her face.

Time to go and socialize.

Ethan

Of everything to look at in the shiny cellular, his eyes now traced the pristine form of the lady who now inhabited every one of his senses.

The comely picture made her look ravishing and the adamant neurons started pulling out manila folders with her memories kept in them.

No. He cannot.

The fiery golden liquid disappeared faster than it had been poured.

He had found himself on the crossroad of whether to type out the words that played in a loop in his mind or not.

I miss you!

He always chose the latter.

He had already given her a false hope.

Of a future of them.

He did not want to do it again.

Only now he realizes that it was a hope he had given himself as well when he first took that sacred form of hers into his arms.

And that he ran away. Like a coward.

Ethan Ramsey the coward.

Who could not fight for them.

Who could not fight for her.

Who could not fight for Lo-

No.

He did not let the word complete. The very thought was dangerous.

Throwing the classy cylinder he had been holding with a deathly grip, he poured the last bit of that glass bottle in him.

And walked over hurriedly, the tiny glass pieces stabbing him, to again begin the reset.

One which would never complete.

Next Day

Pooja

The ethereal moon spread out the beams of serenity all over the ceremonious night.

It was a lively affair. Merrymaking and cultural programs went on, as she stood amidst the cheery atmosphere with a sombre expression.

In front of Pooja, was the masterfully sculpted idol of the Mother Goddess, standing majestically as the centrepiece of the celebration. She was the epitome of power, the Mahisasura Mardini.

The recollections of an unforgettable past come as paper-planes drifting in a gentle air, carrying the playfulness, a child's happy smiles. A time when her mother would take Pooja to the mythological lands through her words, and they would get lost like flying butterflies in fairytale land.

The tunes of Bengali music float in the gentle air, and she hums along. The first song her mom had taught her, also for a Durga Puja function. Her mom was deeply rooted in all of them, the culture of Bengal kept alive by her. She was the reason why Pooja could become a part of a community she takes pride in.

Even now, so many years later, things don't change. They hold on to these roots like they are holding onto their life, not letting them disappear.

It feels like holding onto her, keeping her alive.

Recreating a small piece of her favourite Kolkata in Bhopal.

But the aura of calm hid like the clouds covering the sun's shine. The piercing pain of heartbreak came back, the wound untreated.

The soft sand of her life's hourglass prickles, solitary grains floating to join their siblings. The wish of them defying gravity and going back to bring the 10th year of her life had never been so strong as it was now.

The heavy jewellery tugged at her ears, letting her know their presence and the styled hair gave her a throbbing headache.

Her tiredness and exhaustion, now fuelling back in her veins refusing to let her bring back that sense of peace she experienced moments ago.

Around her people wore phoney smiles. All they cared about was unimportant Tommy rot. Not a single one of them stepped back from criticizing the others behind their backs.

It was a saga of inflated egos, of constant competition, to make the next person look inferior.

She was tired.

Of people running away, Of abandonment, Of hopes getting dashed.

Why did his thoughts keep coming back? After all, he did make it clear, didn't he?

But did he really succeed? Did his efforts head? Did his heart finally give in to his relentless demand?

Did he really forget her?

All the messages that lay not replied, unheard voicemails, she was sure he had.

But that colour of his he left on her?

The piece of his heart that was protected by her?

Would he be able to forget them?

An earthen lamp flickered in front of her, bud she did no rush to save it.

If it goes out, then let it.

Just like the never-ending load shedding of her life.

But it didn't.

It was a wish, a hope that kept it alive.

The sweet nothings he had whispered to her, the gentle kisses he lined on her forehead.

They had promised her forever.

His being enveloped her, she doubted if it would ever break.

The hope of him & her flickers every now and then, just like the earthen lamp.

But did it go off?

It couldn't.

Because there was no wind strong enough to extinguish it.

The possibility of him and her.

The realization and a blackness hit her at the same time.

And as she fell, her mind held on to only it.

The possibility of him and her.

Ethan

If the Great Thinkers from BCs before were asked if going to a beer garden after spending 2 months in another continent and a 13hr long flight was a sensible thing to do, they would have watched the questioner in bewilderment.

And he agreed. He was not being sensible, not even 1%.

The urge to see her, to gaze at her moonly face, to know that she okay.

It had never been so strong. He felt his mind would give up on him if he could not locate her today.

Not that he had stopped the forgetting process, absolutely not.

It was just a solace, a bandage to the scars he had given himself.

That she would be okay even if he was not there with her.

Focus fixed on keeping his gaze as unhurried as possible, he looked around, putting the well-trained ears and eyes to work.

And then he saw them.

All her friends clustered at a table, merrily clinking beer bottles and sharing happy glances. His eyes pierced into the scene, but he could not locate her.

A step or two brought him close, the desperateness making his heart go crazy.

But the conclusion shattered every bit of sense and calm, dissipated the hope of getting to see here.

She was not here.

His face fell like someone who had lost the thing they hold the closest to their heart.

She, really, was not here.

He really wanted to ask the residents sitting at the table in question, to get some, any, news on her.

But his rational mind still existed, and it was the only thing that stopped him from going haywire.

She was not here.

He took out the notorious cuboid chiming in his pocket, full of satirical typed phrases his cerebrum refused to decrypt.

But it was adamant to get his attention.

A scoff escaped like a habit.

As if anyone could be powerful enough to take his attention away from her.

He was caught in a maze of her memories, his time in the continent thousands of kilometres away and the ghoul of feelings chasing him deeper into it, making him yearn for her solace, the moistness of a forlorn kiss on his forehead, the gentle swipe of a thumb to take his tears away.

His way was lost in there, every turn making him end up more challenged. But even if he did not want to, he had to find the way out.

His soul was like a thorn who could only hurt the tender flower that she was.

What he did not realize was that she was a rose, her being was amidst thorns.

She had the power to beautify them.

The click of the turn-on sound, brought him back to the piece of work his fingers were creating on the light emanating screen.

And in seconds that passed too fast, he saw his heart's treasure,

She was here.

Not in footsteps & whispers.

She was here.

Not in touches and kisses.

She was here.

Not in muscle and bone.

But in labyrinths of his heart, in filmstrips of his memory, in sensations that made him go wild,

She was here.

(With him forever, she was not the one to leave his side)

PS: I HC the end of 1st year of their residency being in Sept-Oct, which is the time of Durga Puja in India. And since Poo is half Bengali, and she never misses any tradition involving her mom's side of the fam, so she would not have been at Boston then. (Or take it as an excuse to increase angst potential) Anyway, Thank you so much for reading and I hope you have a great day ahead! Love, Manamee🧡.

Tags (Please let me know if you want to be added or removed or if I forgot you I feel like my brain has short-circuited and I forgot someone):

Perma: @gkittylove99 @neotericthemis @udishaman @aestheticartsx @twinkleallnight @schnitzelbutterfingers @sophxwithers @sweatyrysconnoisseur @nikki-2406 @choicesfanaf @trrfanaddict @starrystarrytrouble @gardeningourmet @parkbarks @mvalentine @lovablegranny @mercury84choices @helloayz

Open Heart (All fics and edit): @lucy-268 @maurine07 @bellcat2010

Ethan x Pooja (fics): @aleynareads @stygianflood @choicesaddict5 @mysticaurathings @jamespotterthefirst @ilikemenbutonlyethanramsey

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

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umbry-fic · 3 years

Text

existence

Summary: It's a quiet day in the Sekai without a name. Miku wonders where everyone is...

Fandom: Project Sekai Colourful Stage! Characters: Hatsune Miku (Nightcord), Kagamine Rin (Nightcord), Megurine Luka (Nightcord), Meiko (Nightcord), Akiyama Mizuki, Shinonome Ena, Yoisaki Kanade, Asahina Mafuyu Relationships: Everyone & Hatsune Miku Rating: G Word Count: 1930 Mirror Link: AO3 Original Post Date: 01/09/2021

Notes: Written for Hatsune Miku's 14th birthday! This was not inspired by the official birthday art that Project Sekai released, since I wrote this back in July. What a happy coincidence that the art ended up featuring Nightcord Miku though!

I refer to 25 ji Nightcord de as Nightcord.

~~~

Miku hummed a tune with no name, the very same one that had left her throat when she’d come to realise her existence in this colourless world, and that had continued to fill this wide space in the months that had passed since then. A song with no lyrics, only a melody that had slowly evolved, from a hopeless, flat loop to one with crests and peaks, able to bring a smile to the girls of Nightcord and elicit a warmth within her heart, which did not beat.

Miku appeared to be completely alone, standing in the middle of the nameless Sekai. Rin was nowhere to be found. Perhaps she was hidden in one of the many corners or behind one of the countless walls, as she usually was. No matter the case, there was no sign of her.

But the silence that pressed on Miku’s shoulders was made all the more conspicuous by the lack of Meiko or Luka. The boisterous pair loved to argue, having done so nonstop ever since Luka’s arrival. This place hadn’t been quiet since then, their raised voices carrying all through the Sekai, giving her and Rin no respite from the noise. They’d had to resort to sitting behind a wall, which helped to muffle the sounds somewhat.

Rin had complained many times while in that position, but Miku thought that the other girl likely felt the same as herself - happy, that it was more lively here, the air no longer cold and dead. She just didn’t know how to say it out loud.

Without Meiko or Luka around, the silence that had once been the norm was now rather... overbearing. How had the two put a stop to their arguing for once? Had they simply grown tired of it? What were they doing, then? In fact, what was everyone doing? Rin, Meiko, Luka… Where could they be hiding?

And… why?

Were they hiding from her?

The familiar sound of someone entering the Sekai broke Miku out of her reverie. She stopped her humming, turning to face the visitors, wondering which of the four girls from the real world had come to visit today, and for what purpose. Sometimes they didn’t seem to have a purpose, stating that they were here “just for fun”, as Mizuki liked to say. She didn’t understand why anyone would want to do such a thing, to come here “just for fun”, when she and her companions weren’t what was considered good company.

But she never spoke up. She liked being in the presence of the girls. Surely, her fellow Vocaloids felt the same.

If the girls had come to seek help or assistance, then Miku would render it, to the best of her power. She would do anything that she could, even if she struggled to comprehend the complicated issues and emotions that these girls toiled with. Kanade’s guilt, Mizuki’s uncertainty, Ena’s lack of confidence…

For that was her purpose for existing. In her first second of consciousness, she had held the knowledge that she was meant to give Mafuyu as much comfort as she could. A wish that had come to extend to Mafuyu’s three companions.

She could not save Mafuyu on her own. She did not possess the necessary power, or even a physical body to protect the vulnerable girl. Her own emotions confounded her - it was that rare that she could put a name to the currents of her heart, let alone tell Mafuyu the best course of actions to soothe her pain. She could only give what she deemed was the best advice possible. To truly help Mafuyu, she needed the help of kind Kanade, determined Ena, and sensible Mizuki.

Miku didn’t know why, or how, any of this had come to be. Other than by the strength, or perhaps more accurately, the absence of Mafuyu’s feelings. It did not matter. She would gladly perform her purpose.

Miku expected to see one girl. Perhaps even two. Instead, the sight before her shattered all expectations.

All four members of Nightcord stood before her: Ena, Mizuki, Kanade, and even Mafuyu. Ena and Mizuki were sporting matching mischievous grins on their faces and holding back laughter; Mizuki holding a ribbon-adorned box by the corners while Ena gripped… unfamiliar cone-shaped hats with polka-dots on their surface. Kanade had a small smile on her face, and even with the blank expression on Mafuyu’s face that she always wore, she came off as strangely jovial. Kanade had a giant stack of paper decorations balanced precariously in her arms, while Mafuyu held what seemed to be a folded banner.

Confused, Miku cocked her head to the side. What was all this for? The last time all four girls had come was when Kanade had played her new song for everyone to hear, and Mafuyu had broken into a small, true smile for the first time in a long while.

At that very moment, the memory of Mizuki telling her about birthdays surfaced. She was fairly certain they had mentioned all the “equipment” here were involved in celebrations.

So all of this was presumably to celebrate a birthday… But whose? Nightcord had already celebrated Ena’s, and Mizuki’s, just a few days before… Hm, she supposed she could wait for them to explain, for she didn’t know the dates that everyone’s birthdays fell on.

But none of the four said a word, only continuing to stand there as if waiting for something.

All of a sudden, a ribbon revealed itself over a nearby wall, swaying slightly. It was quickly followed by a familiar head of golden hair, blue eyes blinking as Rin stepped out, black-and-white dress fluttering around her knees. Meiko and Luka were not far behind, the two already glaring at each other, raring to go.

So the three of them had been close-by all this while? Why the need for concealment, then?

What was going on? She couldn’t help but ask that question to herself again.

No answer presented itself, and she could only watch as her three fellow Vocaloids walked up to Nightcord. Materials passed between eager hands, fingers pointing in every direction as everyone split up to the four corners of the Sekai. The atmosphere was festive, conversations held in airy tones to coordinate where to position decorations.

In no time at all, the Sekai was bursting with colour. Banners hung from the remnants of overturned lighting trusses, now fulfilling their original purpose of holding objects, though rippling fabric was a far cry from spotlights. The cone-shaped hats sat securely on everyone’s head except her own, the mysterious box safely stashed by a wall.

She was still frozen in the centre of the hubbub, hands clasped over her heart. A faint thought whispered in her head, tickling the corner of her mind like a feather.

She was the only one not being involved in the preparations. And just days ago, Mizuki had been spared from expending any effort on the day of their birthday, left to lounge in a corner and watch with a smile.

“Here!” The exclamation attracted her attention to a waving Mizuki, who ran up and came to a stop in front of her - the first person to approach her. With the additional height they had on her, Mizuki was easily able to plop what Miku now realised was a pink party hat on her head, gently adjusting the strap so that it ran under her chin. Miku could do nothing but blink and stare at Mizuki, wondering if she was dreaming, if any of this was actually happening, or if the Sekai had somehow collapsed and sent her into an illusion.

“Perfect!” Mizuki commented, grinning and stepping back, their hands clapping together with a resounding sound that knocked Miku out of her speechless daze. “You look so cute, Miku!”

Upon spotting everyone else calmly walking over, she finally opened her mouth, fingers tightening over her chest.

“Is it…?”

Those were the only words she managed to get out before she clammed up. She couldn’t articulate the thoughts racing through her mind, nor the conclusion she had arrived at.

It couldn’t be fake. That was the only thing she was sure of. The colours, the sounds, the people and the expressions on their faces, their true emotions… It was all too vibrant, too real, too much.

Kanade nodded, seemingly understanding everything she wanted to say from her shaking words alone. Ena did the honours of cautiously opening the cover of the box with a steady hand, revealing a beautifully crafted cake, swirls of whipped cream artfully forming the border, strawberries topping the vanilla.

Written elegantly on its surface in red cream were the very words that left Kanade’s lips now.

“Happy birthday, Miku.”

“Yeah! Happy birthday!” Both Mizuki and Ena chirped, reaching into their pockets and throwing out handfuls of confetti that caught in her hair.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done for us,” Kanade continued.

“Yes.” Mafuyu nodded. “Happy birthday,” she said in her usual flat tone, face displaying no sign of emotion. Perhaps Mafuyu was only saying it to go along with what she’d been told to do, to avoid angering Ena. Perhaps she meant nothing by those words, was truly incapable of packing any scrap of emotion into them.

Yet Miku could sense… that same smile from the time before, hidden behind the pale, unmoving expanse.

“I…” Miku murmured. Something was choking up her throat. Her heart both felt like it was soaring, and like an invisible hand was squeezing it, something intangible filling it up to the brim. It was so full that it hurt. Not a sharp pain, but an ache, one that consumed her whole chest.

Something wet slipped down her cheek, salt hitting her tongue.

“You’re… crying,” Mafuyu said, eyes a little wide, just a little hint of awe in her voice, where there should have been none. It was, after all, nothing but an observation.

Miku reached up a trembling hand to press against her cheek, bringing it away stained with tears.

Ah. Mafuyu was right. The impossible had happened, emotions making their sudden, mystical appearance when they should have been kept away, blocked by an unbreakable lock.

“Miku…” Mizuki muttered, gaze sympathetic, a small smile on their face.

“Thank you,” she finally managed to force out, breaking into a smile larger than any that had come before, stretching from one corner of her face to the other, even as tears continued to leak from her eyes.

She knew now, why her heart hurt.

As she enjoyed a wonderful day in the Sekai with those that had become her friends, a day that she would never forget - eating the delectable, sweet slices of her birthday cake; being subject to Mizuki’s hairdressing as they tried their best to tame the unruly tangles of Miku’s massive locks with an assortment of ribbons; receiving birthday wishes and the strangest of presents from everyone... she finally came to understand.

The answer had arisen, making itself crystal clear.

Her heart hurt from happiness. True happiness, which could shatter just as easily as it could uplift, could stab just as much as soothe, when one was not used to it.

True happiness, from her friends remembering her birthday.

True happiness… from someone finding her existence worth celebrating.

And there were still some questions that couldn’t be solved, the answers to which were not in sight, and may never be.

But that was alright.

She would simply eke out her existence, moment by moment, taking what may come and enjoying the company of her friends.

#fanfiction #one shot #project sekai colourful stage #hatsune miku #megurine luka #kagamine rin #meiko #asahina mafuyu #yoisaki kanade #shinonome ena #akiyama mizuki #25 ji nightcord de #hatsune miku's 14th birthday #late post on tumblr sorry miku!#project sekai

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rainbow-spiral · 4 years

Text

Helpless Eavesdropper

Adoracion shouldn’t have been eavesdropping. She knew that.

It was just—her roommate, Bay, had long periods of time in front of the computer, and they were furtive enough about them that it practically had to be a sex thing, and Adoracion told herself she had a right to make sure the person she was living with wasn’t a pervert. In reality, that was a weak cover story that she didn’t quite believe herself. She was curious. She wanted to know what sort of sex thing it was.

There were ex-Catholic issues to sort through, after all. Such as the fact that Adoracion rarely tried to touch herself. Good girls didn’t. Adoracion was conflicted about being a good girl, or whether she wanted to be a good girl, but some habits were strong even when your intellect said This Is A Perfectly Healthy Thing.

Bay was a lot of things that Adoracion wasn’t, including openly queer, and Adoracion had a helpless admiration for them—admiration that was starting to shade over into raging crush, if she was going to be honest with herself, which she usually wasn’t. So that was another aspect of the curiosity. What was Bay—cool, together, sexually sophisticated Bay—spending so much time on?

So, despite the age of the apartment and the general treachery of its floors, Adoracion managed to creep to Bay’s door and listen closely.

Bay was talking. Quiet, but charismatic all the same, Adoracion thought. What Bay was talking about, that was a more difficult question. It seemed to be some sort of visualization exercise, but it was based around visualizing nothingness. Imagining a color for nothingness that was neither black, nor white, nor any color that she was familiar with, but a color that would seem calm as a cloudy night when she finally managed to envision it, a texture of nothing that might be a tingle, or might be a soft brush of air, or might be . . .

Adoracion was losing track of what was being said. She nearly jolted out of her reverie when Bay talked about staying upright so she could type and waking up if the Skype connection went down—she wasn’t on the internet, that was whoever Bay was really talking to—but the reverie was so nice, so pleasant, that she drifted back into the pleasant, fuzzy state easily.

She even stayed pleasant and fuzzy when Bay started talking about sex.

First, they talked about arousal. How it was growing. How it tightened her muscles. How it made her shift in her seat. How it made her gasp. Adoracion found herself gasping.

Then he talked about rubbing herself through her panties, and Adoracion’s fingers found their way down there. The more she rubbed, the quiet, steady voice told her, the less she could think. Such that she wouldn’t even notice . . .

Adoracion wasn’t sure what she wouldn’t even notice. Her fingers were slick with her own wetness, rubbing back and forth, bearing down, and God, it felt good, it felt better than it ever had when she had tried it safely in the shower. She was muttering something under her breath, and it took her a moment to resolve it into, “Sluts obey, slaves obey,” and she might have wondered why she was saying such a thing except her clit, her clit and her cunt—

“Freeze,” Bay said. “Stay there. Right on the edge.”

Adoracion’s fingers went rigid, along with her entire body. She couldn’t push her fingers closer to her clit, and she couldn’t push her clit closer to her frozen fingers. She whimpered.

And then the door to Bay’s room opened.

Reality hit Adoracion like a bucket of ice. She was standing in front of her roommate’s door, and her panties and trousers were around her ankles. She had clearly been masturbating. She couldn’t move.

There was no way that Bay would let her stay in the apartment. Much less—

“Did you enjoy it?” Bay said quietly, after a moment.

“Yes!” It came out without any voluntary intention on Adoracion’s part.

“Which part most?”

“Helpless,” Adoracion panted. She wasn’t sure where the answer came from.

Bay nodded. “All right. All right, listen to me closely . . .”

Adoracion must have listened, but she also tuned out until Bay started saying things like, “One, starting to come back to wakefulness,” and, “Two, feeling in control of your body, in control of your thoughts.” And then, by “five, all the way awake, feeling euphoric and amazing,” she was back.

Her underwear were still around her ankles. And part of her was very much regretting the fact that they were sensible and cotton. She wanted to wear something sexy. She wanted to wear something scandalous.

“Listen,” Bay said. “I’ve got to finish up with Pearl.”

“Pearl . . .”

“Pearls-on-a-string, usually just goes by Pearl. Not her real name, of course. The point is—this is too important a decision to be made anything but wide awake. So, go back to your room. I’ll come in after a little while. If you’re clothed when I come in, I’ll know you don’t want to do any of this stuff, and we’ll talk about how you can avoid it. If you’re naked, I’ll know that you want me to do this to you again—this, and lots more—and I’ll do it.”

“Do,” Adoracion said, “do what, exactly?”

“Hypnotize you. Make you my sex slave.”

“You can’t,” Adoracion said, “you can’t really do that, in real life.”

“I have three, through the internet. They orgasm on command, they tease themselves on command, and if I tell them not to think something, or not to remember it, they can’t. Whether that’s the number three or what underpants are. They all enjoy their lives to the fullest, and so would you. But it’s your choice.”

“I,” Adoracion choked, “I’ll think about it.” She pulled up her pants and fled in disarray.

She was breathing hard when she reached her room. Hypnotized. Made into a sex slave.

A good girl wouldn’t.

Adoracion wasn’t sure she wanted to be a good girl.

Adoracion thought that maybe she wanted to come from just a word. Or sink her fingers into herself on command. Or—she wasn’t even sure what else.

Slowly, she removed her shirt.

My buymeacoffee link! Right now, I’m donating anything I get to a Black Lives Matter related fund.

#fiction #hypnosis #nonbinary dom #female sub #my fiction

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jaskiersvalley · 4 years

Text

The Mafia AU has caught my imagination a little and it definitely could do with a second part. Special shout out to @ohnomybreadsticks as my partner in crime and @raynalies who got me thinking about an OT3 that I’ve been quietly loving for a while now.

The welcome feast was a bewildering one to say the least. Geralt stuck close to Lambert and Eskel. They helped themselves to food but didn’t break rank, even when others drifted closer to talk. Jaskier in particular seemed keen to talk to them and eventually got them settled, idly nibbling at his remaining gummy rings.

“You’ve met Yennefer, my enforcer,” he said, nodding to the imposing woman who had collected them from the crime scene. “And that’s Cahir, my right hand man.” The man lounging lazily against a wall, eyeing up Lambert and Eskel waved. “Their word is my word. You’d do well to heed their instructions.”

“Especially if I demand you waltz around shirtless,” Yennefer chipped in, tossing up a grape and flicking it through the air with graceful fingers. She squawked indignantly when it was batted back easily by Cahir.

“But yes, while we don’t have a uniform, we do insist on Shirtless Thursdays.”

As much as Jaskier was entertained, he pelted both of them with a bit of bread. “Behave! Both of you.”

While both Yennefer and Cahir pouted, they did tone down their merciless teasing, keeping the most barbed comments directed at each other.

After that first meeting, Jaskier seemed to dress almost sensibly. He was still colourful, bright and over the top but at least there was a little more sense of style and fashion behind his wardrobe choices.

“New stylist?” Geralt asked one afternoon when he had been summoned, by himself, to Jaskier’s little empire.

“Nah,” Jaskier held his arms out and looked at himself critically. “Just don’t need to make an impression now. You’re mine, no need to put on airs and graces.”

The easy way he declared Geralt as his did interesting things to Geralt’s heart. Part of him basked in the idea of belonging. Since Kaer Morhen’s fall, it had been difficult to find his spot in the world.

“How is your old wolf?” Jaskier asked, breaking him out of his reverie.

Truthfully, Vesemir hadn’t been seen in months. The last they’d heard, he was being held hostage by the Cats who were demanding a ransom they could never hope to pay. Not even with taking every job, saving where they could and even resorting to petty crimes like stealing cars to strip down and sell for parts. His silence must had been too telling because Jaskier hummed.

“Who has him?”

“The Cats.”

At least that had a derisive snort coming from Jaskier, “They’ve been a thorn in my side for a while. Take Yennefer and destroy them. Get your papa wolf home.”

Much to Geralt’s surprise, Cahir was next to Yennefer, eyes dark with the promise of violence. It seemed odd that he could be there too but the more people who knew their way around the more brutal side of things with a little finesse.

It was just the five of them. Somehow, Yennefer had been able to find out where they were holding Vesemir and a whole host of other information that would only help them. Infiltrating the block of flats the Cats had claimed was surprisingly easy. They moved through the floors, Lambert out front, reckless as usual. It almost got him into trouble on the fifth floor. The previous floor had already been cleared in a short but ferocious scuffle. It had them all baying for more blood and Lambert was throwing caution to the wind. Which was his downfall and Geralt was too far away to help, as was Eskel who looked pained at the realisation. They didn’t expect the idiot looming over Lambert to suddenly clutch at his throat, knife sticking out. From the side, Cahir stood up, tucking a couple more throwing knives back into their place. There was blood pouring from a wound in his hairline but Geralt had never seen him look more vicious. Or happy for that matter.

They managed to find Vesemir who was in surprisingly good condition compared to expectations. He grumbled a little about his wolves selling out to Jaskier but once he was shown the hospitality of the mob, he was a little less disgruntled.

“When did tall and lanky throw his lot in with Lambert and Eskel?” he asked Geralt when it was just the two of them in the room. Which was a very confusing question and Geralt just stared, not understanding. “I mean-” Vesemir sighed, obviously despairing, “-when did they become a trio?”

More silence and Geralt scratched his head.

“Don’t tell me you never noticed. Lambert and Eskel? Always together, sharing clothes, food off each other’s plates, always turning up together. Geralt, are you really this dim, my boy?”

It seemed that indeed, Geralt was that dumb. He had his suspicions about Cahir but had been distrusting because he seemed to be playing with both Lambert’s and Eskel’s affections. Now that made a lot more sense.

“Next you’ll be telling be I haven’t realised someone is chasing me.” It was a joke, Geralt had meant it as self-deprecating humour but somehow it fell flat. Because, as his luck would have it, Jaskier was sidling up to him a short week later.

There were questions about Geralt settling into his new hierarchy, whether he needed anything and the like. Which was nice but Geralt didn’t understand why he head of the mob would be making a personal house call. Unless he was there for something more. Truly, Geralt was an idiot for not noticing sooner.

With that little issue cleared up, Geralt found himself with Jaskier more often than not. And, on the periphery, he often saw Cahir, Lambert and Eskel, usually lounging in a loose pile of limbs and looking very bored in meetings. Why they seemed to be able to slack off while Geralt had to sit by Jaskier like some prized trophy was beyond him. At least, until he realised he was allowed to chip in an help negotiate or threaten. It was much more effective if he glowered and growled in sharp contrast to Jaskier’s cheerful chatter. The amount the man talked was stunning.

Really, Geralt didn’t even realise that he’d become stupidly domestic with the head of the mob. To him, Jaskier was a chattering, optimistic fool who he had seen with pillow creases on his face and hair an absolute bird’s nest. It was only when there was talk of some ball or other that Geralt realised he’d been an unassuming fool yet again.

“You’ll be publicly declared as mine,” Jaskier said, showing Geralt the plans. “Would you object? Being a head of the mafia’s sweetheart.”

Truthfully, no, Geralt didn’t object. He quite liked the idea of sitting on a leather armchair next to Jaskier’s. There was only one request he had. While Jaskier’s was a dark leather, imposing and a stark contrast to his bright personality, Geralt wanted something light. It tickled him to no end that despite appearances, he was the one who was lighter because he knew that no matter what Jaskier said, one didn’t become the head of the most influential underground organisation by luck and charm. There was definitely some dark things in Jaskier’s past.

The ball itself was a bit boring in Geralt’s opinion. He sat on his armchair, fingers linked with Jaskier’s while various gangs approached with news, pledges and offers. It meant though that Geralt had time to scan the room and found Cahir, flanked by Lambert and Eskel, all three of them quietly matching in their suits with red pocket squares. Catching Vesemir’s eye in the crowd, Geralt had the grace to nod and look sheepish. Even if he was the sweetheart of the mafia’s head, he was still an idiot.

#geraskier #eskel/lambert/cahir #eskel/lambert #geralt of rivia #jaskier #eskel #lambert #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #vesemir #tldr: geralt is an idiot but it's all okay

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ecoamerica · 1 month

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youtube

Watch the 2024 American Climate Leadership Awards for High School Students now: https://youtu.be/5C-bb9PoRLc

The recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by student climate leaders! Join Aishah-Nyeta Brown & Jerome Foster II and be inspired by student climate leaders as we recognize the High School Student finalists. Watch now to find out which student received the $25,000 grand prize and top recognition!

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jlalafics · 4 years

Note

Prompt request 2! We’re studying in the library and there are two people very obviously fucking in the stacks and we keep sharing embarrassed glances

Here you go boo-boo! Enjoy!

________

Friday

Groaning, Katniss Everdeen packed her laptop in her bag and threw it over her shoulder. She couldn’t believe that she had mixed up her dates in her calendar. Not only was her Anatomy Practical due on Monday, but so was her analysis on Thoreau and transcendentalism.

She was usually very good at not messing up the calendar; it kept her on track and on time for graduating the upcoming spring.

So, what if she didn’t get to participate in the usual college activities? She didn’t need sorority sisters or keg parties. She didn’t need waking up in someone else’s dorm room after a night of meaningless sex.

She was on the Dean’s List.

That was pretty cool…right?

Johanna, her roommate, stepped into their dorm room. Wrapped in a towel and carrying her shower caddy, she nodded at Katniss before going to her closet.

“There’s a party going on upstairs,” she informed her as she rummaged through her clothes. “Do you want to come?”

“I’ve got two assignments due on Monday,” Katniss replied as she zipped up her bag.

Johanna shrugged. “Your loss. Hit me up if you decide to join and I’ll send you the dorm info.”

“Sure. Have a good time.” Katniss reached for her notebook. “Just don’t bring anyone back to the dorm, okay?”

“Hey! Someone has to get laid around here!”

“I know, but I hate having to give them the let-down talk after you take off,” Katniss retorted. “They look so bummed to be waking up to me and my flannel pajamas.”

“Fine.” Johanna gave her a smile. “Have fun at your favorite place in the world.”

She grinned back. “I will.”

++++++

The Panem Library was three floors of pure bliss for her. Katniss always sat on the second floor, right next to archives because no one ever really bothered to come up there. Here, she could commandeer a whole table, spread out her notes and arrange her highlighters. There was also an outlet for her laptop so she would never have to worry about it dying.

The second floor was mostly empty, and her usual table was free so quickly set everything up, notes to her left and writing paraphernalia to her right with her laptop plopped in the middle.

Finally sitting down, Katniss looked around to examine the other occupants of the second floor. There was an older man towards the far end of the floor in a cubby as well as one girl in the corner. Her eyes moved across her area and she almost yelped at who was sitting just a table apart from her.

He hadn’t been there while she was setting up!

He must’ve felt her stare because Peeta Mellark suddenly looked up from his own laptop to meet her eyes.

Then, he smirked. “Everdeen.”

“Mellark. What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded to know.

He had been a thorn in her side since they sat next to each other in General Anatomy—whenever he bothered to show up. When he did show, Peeta either spent his time trying to look at her notes or tugging at her braid.

The worse part was that when the exam grades were listed, he was always—besides herself—one of the top scores.

“I may not be married to my assignments like you are, but I do study,” he retorted.

Katniss nodded tersely. “Fine. Just try not to bother me.”

He glared. “You looked at me first!”

She looked down, hiding her blush. “Whatever.”

“Clever,” he mocked.

They went silent and with a deep breath, Katniss began to look over her notes about transcendentalism, losing herself in her scribble.

“Oh my God…yes…yes…”

Her head shot up at the thick moan and she looked around, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

Her eyes went to Peeta, who was also looking around, two crimson spots on his cheeks.

He turned to her. “Tell me you heard that.”

Katniss waved it off. “Maybe someone is watching something on their laptop on the main floor.”

“Well, whatever they’re watching sounds pretty fucking dirty,” Peeta replied.

She found herself chuckling at his words.

Their eyes met for a quick second and she felt a rush of warmth at Peeta’s boyishly handsome smile. His ocean eyes held hers for a moment and her chest fluttered.

Katniss quickly looked down, overwhelmed by her reaction to his penetrating gaze.

Calm the hell down! Yes, Peeta Mellark is a good-looking guy, but there’s no need to get weird over him.

She made a grab for her next set of notes and took her yellow highlighter, uncapping it—

“That’s it…you feel so good…you’re going to make me co—"

The words were followed by a series of moans and grunts.

“Okay, someone is definitely fucking.” Peeta stood up, going to her table, and holding out his hand. “Let’s go.”

She peered up at him in confusion. “What?”

“We’re not going to get any work done if they don’t get the hell out of here,” Peeta told her. “So, we have to find them and let them know that they need to either wrap it up or get out before we alert the library managers.”

“I didn’t peg you as cockblock,” Katniss remarked.

Peeta grinned. “I didn’t peg you as a voyeur of sorts.”

“I just understand that sometimes it’s hard to find places to be alone,” she stated. He looked to her curiously as she stood, taking his offered hand.

Peeta pointed to the far left. “I heard it coming through the archives—that way.”

Katniss snorted. “Oh yeah. That’s just old research on minerals. Nobody is going to be coming around there.”

He smiled wickedly at her as they headed in that direction.

“Didn’t you hear the guy—obviously somebody’s going to be coming.” She laughed at his words and he turned back to her. “You have a nice laugh.”

“It’s a pretty normal laugh.”

“Well, maybe it’s because I don’t hear it that often,” he said as they headed down the corridor.

They went silent as they traveled along the shelves of dusty papers and weathered books. As they got further in, it started to get warmer and Katniss could feel the sweat build at the nape of her neck. She pulled at his hand to stopped them and he whipped around, swift as a ninja.

“It’s fucking warm,” she hissed. Quickly, she pulled her navy sweater, revealing her grey tank top, and took her the hair tie from her wrist to pull her thick, dark hair up into a top knot. “That’s better.”

Katniss looked up to find Peeta staring at her. His jaw was taut, and his usually light eyes were thunderous, her core suddenly throbbed as he reflexively licked his lips.

“What?”

The question came tightly from her mouth.

Peeta shook his head, pulling himself out of his reverie. “Nothing. You just look…different.”

“I suppose you see me as more asexual,” she replied as they continued down their path. Peeta grunted in response. “It’s probably because I’m not blonde and my tits don’t bounce when I walk—”

She was suddenly slammed against a bookshelf, dust flying at the sudden motion, and staring straight into Peeta’s electric eyes.

“Don’t presume to know how I see you,” he whispered against her mouth. “Trust me, sweetheart. You are sexy, and I’ve fought temptation when it comes to you, Katniss.” His nose went to her neck, inhaling deeply. “And for the record, your tits definitely bounce—I had to stop myself from yanking your top down and pulling one into my mouth while you were yammering.”

Katniss was acutely aware of the fire kindling between them—their mission forgotten—she wrestled with her need to be sensible and her need to reach down to feel…him.

Carefully, her lips went to his, pillowing his bottom lip between hers, dragging it slowly before pulling away.

The little motion filled her body with an ache so harsh that she almost fell to her knees, her core pulsed, and she could feel the wetness between her thighs.

This had never happened before—this hunger—but she wanted more.

Peeta breathed shakily, his hand reaching for the nape of her neck to press his forehead to hers. “Wow.”

Her mouth melted into a smile reflecting his own.

He looked at her shyly. “Do you want to…um…study…at my place? I have my own apartment; it’s quiet and much more comfortable.”

She laughed softly. “Why do you study at the library? You have a perfectly private place.”

“Because of you,” he told her. “I overheard your roommate once saying that you usually come here on Fridays. I thought if you saw me here that you’d take me a little more seriously.”

“Why would what I think matter?” she asked, her heart racing.

“I like you.” The words came out like a treasured wish. “Katniss, you have no idea of the effect you have on me.”

They both went silent at the declaration.

“Yes…yes…oh YES!”

The tension broke and they both burst into laughter.

“Well, I guess it’ll be much quieter now so you can study,” Peeta told her, his gaze traveling down disheartened.

She smiled to herself. When the hell did Peeta Mellark become so endearing to her?

“Okay.”

Peeta’s head shot up. “What?”

“Let’s go to your place,” she told him simply, tugging him back to their tables. “I hope you have snacks.”

He was flabbergasted. “Snacks…uh yeah…I can bake, too.”

“Oh good. I get hungry after a study session,” Katniss rattled on. “And after sex, of course.”

“What?”

She turned to him, an amused smile on her face.

“We’re not going to be like those two in the stacks, especially since we have perfectly good bed, right?” Peeta nodded. “Then, let’s go.”

She turned but was suddenly yanked back and into Peeta’s arms.

“Yes?”

“I’ve been wanting to do this since the beginning of the semester.”

Then, he kissed her.

++++++

Sunday

“Where have you been?” Johanna asked as she entered her dorm. “I feel like I haven’t seen you since Friday.”

Katniss put her bag down in a daze, thoughts on the man who had spent most of Saturday between her thighs.

She also got both her assignments done—a feat when she discovered how good Peeta was going down on her.

Katniss turned to her roommate, giving her a serene smile.

“I’ve just been…studying.”

FIN.

#keelaree #Everlark Drabble #Everlark #library!Everlark

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felgrimdarkwatch · 3 years

Text

I’ve waited for this.

The words echoed through Davon’s head like a heartbeat, but he couldn’t make them come out convincingly even in the confines of his mind.

He forced himself not to shuffle from foot to foot, knowing that it would make him look inept--childish--like the foolish youth they all still thought him.

I’ve waited for this. He tried to make the words ring true. In one sense, they were.

He had been raised his whole life knowing that the Crown Contest was his destiny, that when his father, King Dyran ‘Obsidian’ Wicksted died, he and his brothers would have to battle it out to inherit the throne of Avillea. He just never imagined that it was going to happen so soon. He had thought he had years left yet.

He stared at his reflection hopelessly in the blackened glass and smoothed away imaginary wrinkles on his best tunic. His eldest brother, Dorian, would go to the announcement ceremony in a regal crimson, Davon knew, always eager to look the part. Delphin, the middle brother, favoured jewel bright tones, usually, bedecked with a string of favours from his latest romantic conquests. Davon himself had opted for black. Dour, perhaps, but sturdy, sensible, the responsible choice, he thought.

He realised his hands had balled themselves into fists at his sides and, blowing out a slow breath, he deliberately released them again.

I cannot show weakness now. Weakness is a king’s only crime. It had been his father’s platitude, and one that Obsidian had lived up to. Hard and strong, a weapon wielded against the nations seeking to restrain them. He has left mighty big boots to fill...

Not that Davon was a king yet, of course, but if faltered now, if he fell--if he let their opinion of him as too young, too inexperience, too weak, fester and take hold, he never would be.

He met his own gaze in the reflection and willed those deep, earthy brown eyes to hold steady. The next few days were crucial. For one of the Wicksted brothers there would be the victor’s crown, and a far too early pyre for the other two.

I cannot fail now.

He ignored the small voice at the back of his head, asking him if he even wanted to be king. He didn’t have a choice. Avillea needed him now more than ever.

A knock at the door disturbed him from his reverie, and as he called sharply for them to enter, he found the servant bringing him his competitor’s sash, ready for the ceremony. He swallowed and then beckoned them forwards to fasten it.

It all comes down to this. This is what I’ve been waiting for.

The servant stepped back to regard his handiwork, smoothing the sash flat as it lay across Davon’s chest.

“Are you ready, your grace?” he asked quietly. It was an impertinent question from a subordinate, and for a moment, Davon wasn’t sure what to say.

How could he be ready to stand in front of the eyes of half his kingdom and announce that he was going to try to slay his brothers? That they were going to try and slay him.

His Kingdom. The words had come instinctively, and Davon hadn’t realised that he had thought them until a full moment later. They tightened in his gut now, clenching in his jaw.

Yes. Avillea is mine. The certainty hit him like a wave.

“Yes,” he said simply. “I’ve been waiting for this.” And this time, he knew that it was nothing but the truth.

#fictober21 #prompts #mywiting #oc #Originalwriting #Felgrim #Darkwatchtrilogy #flashback #mynovel #YA #fantasy #darkfantasy

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merinnan · 4 years

Text

The Rescue Job

If anyone had asked Zhao Yunlan this morning how he thought this day would go, kissing Shen Wei would not have even been suggested. He would have thought about it, of course, since kissing Shen Wei was something that he thought about frequently; he’d even kissed the man before, but those were quick, light kisses as part of a job, done just to keep up their cover of being boyfriends, or husbands, or whatever that particular job had them pretending to be. Those kisses were almost worse than no kisses at all, precisely because they weren’t actually real, not in the way that truly mattered – although they were real enough to make him hold on to the memory of every single one like a dragon holding onto its hoard, each scent and warm breath like a gold coin, each brush of soft lips a sparkling jewel.

But to be actually kissing Shen Wei, to have arms wrapped around him and a hand in his hair, bodies pressed so close together that it was hard to tell whose pounding heartbeat was whose, hot mouths exploring each other until they were forced to stop in order to breathe again? This was something Zhao Yunlan had only dreamed about.

He was fairly sure that it wasn’t another dream, however, as these dreams were usually set in his office, or in one of their apartments, or in the park that they sometimes took a walk in, not in a bare concrete room so far below ground that there was no natural light. These dreams didn’t involve Shen Wei covered in his own blood. And they certainly didn’t feature Ye Zun in the background, making gagging noises and ‘get a room’ gestures.

No, this morning Zhao Yunlan had expected the team to go in, do the job they’d been planning for the past week, and get out. The day had begun with them going to do exactly that, and it had been going according to plan up until everything went to hell.

***

Nine Hours Earlier

It was a beautiful, sunny day, just on the cusp of spring and summer – the sort of day that made its way into a myriad of books, or the screens of every rom-com or teen movie when the script called for the protagonists to have a perfect day. Fluffy white clouds drifted across blue sky, not even a single drop of rain threatened, and a light breeze kept the temperature just this side of overly warm. Their mark couldn’t have picked a better day for his garden reception if he’d been able to engineer the weather himself.

Not that Zhao Yunlan was able to properly enjoy it, of course, since he wasn’t at the reception. He wasn’t even outside, enjoying the pleasant afternoon in any way. Instead, he was back at the team’s HQ, sprawled back in his chair with his feet up on his desk, one ankle crossed over the other, tongue working the lollipop in his mouth as he watched six screens showing the feeds of six pinhole cameras, and vicariously experienced both the day and the reception through them. If his eyes happened to linger more on five of these screens whenever a particular blue suited figure appeared on one of them, who was to tell?

“Do you think you could pay attention to more than my gege?”

Well. One man could tell. Zhao Yunlan’s current third-least favourite person in the world lounged in a nearby chair, twirling an ornamental cane in one hand. Zhao Yunlan offered him an easy grin around the lollipop.

“Aiyo, Ye Zun, of course I’m paying attention to all of it. Who do you take me for?” Even as he spoke, a flicker of blue drew his eyes back to the screen showing the feed from Guo Changcheng’s camera, Shen Wei walking past the grifter with neither of them even giving a flicker that they knew each other. Zhao Yunlan couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride for how far the kid had come, along with a flicker of something that was decidedly more heated than pride at the figure Shen Wei cut in that blue suit, the clothing somehow managing to make him seem both perfectly innocuous with his sensible business shoes and round-rimmed glasses, and also just so undeniably…

“Disgusting.” Ye Zun’s voice drawled across his reverie. “Any minute now you’ll start drooling, and I really don’t want to see that.”

Zhao Yunlan didn’t even have to look up to pull a lollipop from his desk drawer and throw it in the vicinity of Ye Zun’s head. This was an interaction that had repeated far too many times for his taste. While yes, it had been his insistence that Ye Zun was never to be left unattended in the HQ even if he was, technically and officially, now part of the team, he hadn’t anticipated that he would be the one most often on Ye Zun duty, which invariably meant Ye Zun mocking him mercilessly for his hopeless crush on Shen Wei. Zhao Yunlan felt both relieved and regretful that none of their recent jobs had involved Shen Wei and him going undercover together as a couple – while those jobs always left him on even more of an emotional high than successful jobs normally did, buoyed by additional memories of touches and kisses to hoard and wish for something he couldn’t have, they also led Ye Zun to kick the mocking up several notches.

He wasn’t surprised to hear Ye Zun catch the lollipop, rather than the far more satisfying sound of it lightly thunking against his head, or the follow up sigh and the sound of a crinkling wrapper being undone.

“Gege could do so much better than you.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Zhao Yunlan scowled, then pulled the half-eaten lollipop from his mouth and waved it at the screens. “Looks like the party’s winding down. It’s supposed to finish at 2:30, right?”

He knew damn well that that was when it was supposed to finish. He and the twins had pored over every scrap of information while crafting this plan, and at this point they probably had the reception schedule more thoroughly memorised than the host. It did, however, successfully switch Ye Zun’s focus to the screens, and allow him to take his own attention away from just how much better than him Shen Wei could do, and all of the other reasons why a gremlin like him and the perfect man that was Shen Wei would never be anything more than just good friends and colleagues. No matter how much more he wanted.

He leaned forward and pressed a key on the keyboard. “Lin Jing, have you found it yet?” Lin Jing’s screen showed wood panelling, the hacker’s hands running along it.

“It’s got to be here somewhere,” Lin Jing replied. “From the map, it should be…”

“Here?” Da Qing suggested. The wood panelling on Da Qing’s feed opened, revealing an electrical panel.

“Yes!” Lin Jing cheered quietly, then quickly began to get to work.

“You’ve got 22 minutes before the reception ends and security starts looking for stray guests trying to overstay their welcome,” Ye Zun warned them.

“Xiao Guo,” Zhao Yunlan adds, “ready to cause a distraction if they need more time?”

Back outside with the main party, Guo Changcheng makes a noise of agreement that the woman he’s talking to takes as agreeing with whatever she was talking about. Zhao Yunlan glances at the other three camera feeds – Chu Shuzhi’s shows him hovering in Guo Changcheng’s general vicinity, while Shen Wei and Zhu Hong are closer to the mansion’s entrance, ready to slip in to help Lin Jing and Da Qing if needed. All where they should be.

“Zhao Yunlan,” Shen Wei says suddenly, his soft voice as clear through the comms as ever. “There’s something wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“Too many guests have left.”

Zhao Yunlan and Ye Zun both sit up straight and lean towards the screens, studying them.

“Gege, there’s still a lot of guests there,” Ye Zun says, eyes flitting from screen to screen. Shen Wei’s camera feed slowly turns as Shen Wei does, allowing them a view of more people.

“They’re wrong for guests,” he says. “I think…”

Whatever it was he thought they didn’t hear, as his and Zhu Hong’s comms and cameras went dead. A moment later, Chu Shuzhi’s and Guo Changcheng’s followed suit.

“Shen Wei!”

Zhao Yunlan had barely finished the name when the last two comms and cameras went out. He pulled out his phone, jabbing at Chu Shuzhi’s number, only for it to go straight to voicemail. He tried the next number, aware of Ye Zun doing the same thing beside him. All of the phones went to voicemail.

“Wang Zheng!” Zhao Yunlan shouted, pushing away from his desk. Within moments, the ghostly pale young woman appeared at the door. “Keep trying to call the team through every avenue you can, and tell Lao Li to make sure my car’s ready for an extraction.”

He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, and he was confident in Shen Wei and Chu Shuzhi’s abilities to get everyone out regardless of what had just happened, but still…the way the cameras and comms had all cut out like that left him feeling uneasy, particularly since Shen Wei had thought there was something wrong.

“And call Cheng Xinyan,” Ye Zun added from where he’d taken over the keyboard, his fingers flying over it. He bit his lip in a way that was just so Shen Wei that Zhao Yunlan was left speechless for a moment. For all that they were identical, the twins generally had such different mannerisms that it wasn’t at all difficult to tell them apart, especially not once Ye Zun grew his hair out to collar-length while Shen Wei kept his short. Every so often, though, one of them would do something that reinforced the fact that the similarities between them weren’t limited to just looks.

“What’s wrong?” Zhao Yunlan asked him. If Ye Zun was suggesting that they bring in a doctor, then he, like Zhao Yunlan, had a very bad feeling about this.

“I can’t activate any of their trackers,” Ye Zun said, not looking up from the screens. “To be more accurate, I sent the activation codes, and nothing happened.”

Zhao Yunlan frowned at that, shoving the lollipop back in his mouth and going back to trying to get through to any of the team’s phones while Ye Zun tried to bring the comms back online.

One minute passed. Then five. Then ten. To Zhao Yunlan, each one might as well have been an hour.

Thirty eight minutes after Shen Wei’s comms went down, two cars screeched to a halt outside, and car doors slammed. Zhao Yunlan was halfway to the door when it opened, and Chu Shuzhi staggered inside, his arms slung over Guo Changcheng and Zhu Hong’s shoulders as they half-carried him. Red blood smeared Guo Changcheng’s shirt where Chu Shuzhi leaned against him, and streaked across Zhu Hong’s face where she’d evidently rubbed a bloodstained hand. Behind them, Da Qing supported a deathly pale Lin Jing.

Zhao Yunlan stopped and looked them over, icy fingers creeping up his back. Something had certainly gone horribly, terribly wrong. Wang Zheng and Sang Zan raced forward to help get Chu Shuzhi and Lin Jing to the back room that Cheng Xinyan used as her infirmary whenever they needed to call her in, and Zhao Yunlan was dimly aware of Ye Zun joining them as he looked behind the group. Out the door, the two cars were haphazardly parked on the lawn, silent – and empty.

Zhao Yunlan looked at his returned team again, five where there should be six. When he spoke, his voice seemed so distant to his ears that he almost didn’t recognise it.

“Where’s Shen Wei?”

@trensu

AO3

#guardian #zhen hun #weilan #zhao yunlan #shen wei #ye zun #leverage au #镇魂 #guo changcheng #chu shuzhi #zhu hong #da qing #lin jing #to be continued #i'll come up with a name for this at some point

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a-long-walk-in-the-forest · 3 years

Text

Sasuke’s mars degree exploration

Now that I’m having another look at his chart he could have a grand cross. Building on this assumption, His pluto is also likely to be farther into aquarius than I had initially thought (though it’s probably before 24 degrees). Anyways since I already did this for his moon and mercury I decided to just make this into a series and do some of his other planets as well. this post will be about his mars.

This one was a bit harder since non of them really worked as well as I would have liked them to but out of all of them 12-13 seems better than the rest.

12-13

It shows one of a powerful and independent nature, relying on his own counsel and capable of standing alone. A degree of taciturnity and reserve will add to the general inscrutability of the mind of this person, and dispose him to command the respect and regard of others. His position will be elevated, his success in life will be assured by his own innate strength, and his fortunes will remain untouched by the hand of change. It is a degree of’ STADILITY.

Whether the native is high-born or a self-made man coming of an obscure family, fate certainly has earmarked him to occupy an eminent, independent position and to hold sway over others, owing to his inborn inexhaustible force. To obey him is a matter of course, nearly of necessity. An untiring, hard worker, he is fully confident in himself, and his firmness of purpose borders on stubbornness. Laconic, or even silent, he can scan and pierce everything around himself at a glance without betraying any of his feelings. Close but long-sighted, strong but on his defensive, cunning yet intelligent, he has fortune on his side and all the good or evil qualities needed to assert oneself and achieve success, his main asset being an iron will, unshakeable and undaunted; his main defect, a selfish, despotic, scheming ambition. When other aspects point to a liking for the career of arms, this degree will bestow the gift of strategy. Should the stars point to agriculture instead, the native would be a great organizer and manager of farms.

Denotes one who is ever on selfish ends; he makes a good strategist.

Business: degree of attraction and repulsion; electricians; independent and self-reliant; stability; magnetic healing; dignity; artistic sensibilities; inclined to poetry; may be either mystical or unfeeling;

Denotes one whose work is destined to live and influence men long after he has left the earth, one of an intensely psychic nature, sensitive, and mediumistic. He will have many earthly struggles and will find many sharp rocks in the way of his progress. He suffers more from his absolute lack of sympathy with earth matters as they are at present. His wanderings in the summer lands, however, bring him infinite peace and joy in the midst of pain. It is a symbol of Reveries.

Defensiveness is very marked in this degree. However, for the most part it is well controlled. If he loses his balance defensiveness will be the result. However, it is not likely that this highly competent being will be put in this position. He, for some reason, seems to attract many people difficult to deal with. He seems to be adequate to these challenges and perhaps even thrives on having to cope with difficulties of this nature. He has a measure of compassion and understanding but his righteous indignation is potent and lasting when there has not been sufficient cause for him to relent. He has ample resources to defend himself. Although when he is sufficiently occupied in dealing with deceitful and malicious people and situations he is subject to mental distortions. These experiences may tend to color his general outlook on life. It is very difficult to remain cheerful and optimistic when most of the energy and skill that you have is taken up with such dealings. There is another not much emphasized quality here having to do with the power inherent in polarity of positive and negative charges. He seems to have some quality which enhances his ability to work with electricity and also some ability to do healing by use of the hands.

This area of Taurus, Scorpio sometimes called degrees of attraction and repulsion, often found in charts of electricians. Independent and self-reliant.

15-16 (it’s probably not this but I’ll still include it)

It is the index of a kind and benevolent nature; a generous and humane disposition; ever eager to befriend and comfort those who may be in distress of body or mind. The grandeur and spiritual loftiness of this soul will attract many friends, and the work of charity and benevolence will increase continually, gathering volume as it goes, till it reaches the ocean of human life, and enfolds all mankind. It is a degree of HUMANENESS.

Whatever the moral height of the native, foreign is the country where he is called to act, his outward appearance is nimble and ‘attractive, his wedding princely. Should other components allow, he would belong either to a secret sect or to the militant Church.

Denotes a person possessed with ardent desires; an enthusiast to the cause he espouses; a true friend and an open enemy.

May be an art collector or a person who works hard at some branch of art with little remuneration; business; associated with explosions (of nuclear plants) and bombings; the center of regeneration; the Eagle point; carefulness or (under affliction) carelessness; not a powerful degree; hardly typical of Scorpio

Denotes one who is mixed up in life’s battles and fights for every advantage. Gifted with endurance and a penetrative mind, he wins his way through obstacles only to meet more obstacles later on. But he knows, for all this, that the Power sustaining him is faithful, and he prays for peace in the midst of war. It is a symbol of Contrition.

This degree represents the most undeveloped of the Scorpio qualities. There is the dead weight philosophy of fatalism coupled with a masochistic drive to suffer. He may throw himself blindly into some kind of work but for some reason seems not to reap any reasonable benefit from his efforts. He is most likely to miss coming to grips with life in any way to produce an awareness of either the good or the bad of the action going on around him. He somehow remains detached from all meaningful contact. Of course, this is never the only degree to be stimulated in a chart. The course may be charted more clearly elsewhere and perhaps the real nature of this degree has not yet been seen in its true light. It will, however, add to the load rather than lighten it.

Not a powerful degree, and like 17-18, the natives are hardly typical of Scorpio. May be an art collector or a person who works hard at some branch of art, with little remuneration.

17-18

It is the index of a watchful, brave, but suspicious and jealous nature. Such an one will brave many dangers for the sake of mastery over the passions of others, and will be active in the attainment of the arts of conquest. Nevertheless it is probable that eventually the life will be endangered thereby, and, beyond the loss of power where it is most to be desired, the danger of a poisoned love, or a yet more sinister folly, will threaten to crush and obliterate this person. It is a degree of JEALOUSY.

A strict sense of justice, a liking for aimless leisure, unlucky love affairs thwarted by jealousy and mistrust (whether the native or the other partner is jealous, the whole of the horoscope must tell), an absolute lack of autonomy, a life weighed down by an excess of sloth. The native seems to lay little store by his own word, as he thinks little of entering an engagement and even less of subsequently breaking his pledge. Courage to act openly is conspicuous by its absence, and there is just enough courage to bear the consequences of one’s flippant fickleness or follies and to accept any sacrifice. Love for art, especially music, is deep-rooted. But one who has no character is unlikely to succeed unsupported in such a field, and there is no trace of any moral force here.

A just person, but prone to become too severe.

A musical degree; often a tall person (if afflicted; a dwarf); often works in connection with electricity or painting (artistic or other);

Denotes one for whom pleasure hides danger. His passions are high and not easy to control, and his appetites tend to follow his desires. There is a love of grace in art, movement, and sound which impels him to excitement and sensation. He attempts to influence and control, but is liable to be deceived himself in the end. Let him be warned. It is a symbol of Inflaming.

Mercury’s S Node is on this degree. It shows moral cowardice. Strangely, it does not seem to show the usual courage and wisdom of the sign. Perhaps Mercury’s S Node here rips away the mental logic of violence but without incorporating a solution by an awareness of other ways to solve problems leading to violence. There is a suggestion of an ability to work with color and vibration. Often there is sex appeal of a very surface quality. is associated with colitis, cancer, and appendicitis, w also indicates much frustration from buried resentments. Much of his action seems to indicate an attempt to escape. With Mercury’s S Node here the avenues of escape greatly narrowed.

Often work in connection with electricity or painting.

#sasuke #sasuke uchiha #sasuke astrology #degree exploration #n-astro

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tarithenurse · 4 years

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If I succeed - 10

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x fem!Reader Content: Angst, worrying, daydreaming. A/N: I’m sorting through the tag list to remove people who seem to have lost interest (thankfully, it doesn’t seem like a lot). Want a tag? Send an ask or reblog! I’d love comments and feedback – even if it’s corrections on language or whatever. I’m not picky as long as I know my work brings joy too.

10 – It changes Everything

... Jaskier ...

As he lies there, the sleep slowly seeping out of his bones until thoughts begin to manifest, it is all the bard can do but enjoy the warmth pressed against his back and he almost feels comfortable. If the ground had not been so hard through the flimsy bedroll then he might even have thought he was lying in a lovely bed next to a sleeping lover. A smile quirks his lips at the thought and he nuzzles closer to the warm body. Something soft brushes against Jaskier’s cheek ever so lightly. The lips of a lover, silken and lush. Instinctively, he turns to meet them – chase them and the heat that rolls away with a heavy sigh – before finally enjoying the caress of soft strands of hair.

“Hm! Get that mouth away from Roach, bard,” a voice impossibly far from the melodious tones of a happy lover growls, “get up. Make y’self useful.”

Bleary eyed and filled with an emptiness at the loss of the dream, the bard looks around the cave. Roach is getting up (rump reluctantly dragged along under strenuous effort) before seeking over to where [Y/N] is unwrapping a few morsels and splitting them into three piles.

“Dandelions are in truth a stock herb for most healers,” she confides to the scorned bard, “and not uncommon in kitchens when the green leaves are fresh and crisp. I use the sap in the poultices because it’s sticky.”

This’s no proper life. Admittedly, Jaskier has survived quite a handful of hellish scenarios, but roughing it will never suit his delicate tastes. The sacrifice of an artist.

“Sticky.” Geralt scoffs a laugh. “I see the resemblance now. Impossible to get off, always clinging.”

“I recognize what you’re implying, but I will not grant you the satisfaction of reacting to it,” the dandelion in question huffs.

Packing away his own bedroll, he tries to spy at the sleeping arrangements of his friends and is disheartened to notice that not only have they obliterated any traces of cozy arrangements they barely speak a word to eachother. How blind are they? Thankfully, Jaskier has also adopted the trademark tenacity of the sunny weed to overcome averse conditions. Before this journey’s over, I’ll’ave shown them they’re meant to be. Soulmates.

... Reader ...

You are torn. While your heart is leaping with joy and a smile keeps tugging at the corners of your mouth due to the afterglow of the night...well, the development has also heightened the stakes considerably. However, as Jaskier ambles over with his usual string of morning complaints, what you fear is the possibility that he may have overheard you and Geralt. Geralt of Rivia. Now there is a man who knows how to turn your world upside down.

“Here,” you hand over a piece of cloth with salted meat, cheese, and bread to the bard before turning to repeat the gesture towards the larger man.

Waking up, you had prepared yourself for the usual distanced grouch of a Witcher. Instead you imagine yourself treated with warmth and devotion and it really does seem to be there in the golden eyes even now as he begins to lay out the fragments of a plan, making it impossible not to lose track of what he says as long as it is with the burning intensity of his husky voice. The voice that whispered in your ears a handful of hours ago.

“What?!” Jaskier’s incredulous shout breaks the reverie before it can really begin yet you must have missed something.

Geralt sighs. “Y’heard me. We’ve got an advantage they don’t expect, though.”

“What? An upper hand against something that heals even if you decapitate them, stake them, bury them?” You cannot blame the bard for the horror in his voice as the same fear has kept you awake more than once since Geralt had confided his concern to you. “Silver can hurt them, sure,” Jaskier continues, “but what are you gonna do? Chop them all to pieces and feed them to the wyverns if they haven’t done you in at that point already?”

“The wyverns...they’re gonna be an issue for later but at lea-”

“An issue for later?”

You manage to shush the bard, wanting to hear what is on the Witcher’s mind.

“Fire.” It is a short answer prompting clarification. “Burn a vampire until nothing but ashes is left.”

Golden eyes are locked on you, telling more than words can. You feel the shiver of fear travelling along your spine, born from an ingrained lesson burned into you long before the three guidelines – be kind to others, work hard, keep out of trouble – became a part of your parents’ lessons. What Geralt is implying counters the very reason for your family to leave Beauclair with the help of Vesemir.

“We dunno how many vamps are there...dunno what kind.” The Witcher’s calm cannot soothe your frazzled mind for once. “My hope’s to pick’em off one by one if’t’s sensible to attack at all...use their own fires as pyres.”

Finally, you find the nerve to speak up in protest although your voice quakes. “Unless they’re highly flammable, a simple cooking fire won’t do any good and y’know that.”

Silently begging him to stay silent, an inner voice berates you for refraining from taking up the subject from the night and making him promise to keep the secret. It would have been the wise thing to do – almost as wise as never revealing the truth at all. I’m an idiot. Your chest is constricting already, making the air feel like needles in your lungs.

Geralt of Rivia is trustworthy, you would lay your life in his hands (and have) and never fear any harm. Jaskier the Dandelion, kind and sweet and only harbouring devotion in his big heart...that is a different matter simply because he does not stop gushing over people he adores and their prowess. He would never intentionally hurt those he care for. Intentionally.

The silver-haired man keeps his gaze steady upon you, not answering the many questions of the bard as he allows you the time to consider the options and weigh the risks. Squirming slightly in the seat, you finally meet his eyes and you instantly know: he will never let the truth hurt you no matter who finds out.

“Fine,” you sigh, “here’s the thing...”

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taeilm · 4 years

Text

a playlist of seasons

kim taehyung

rated t / angst + bittersweet fluff / 1620w

in which neither his love for you nor yours for him can withstand the seasons

( “i should have loved a thunderbird instead; at least when spring comes they roar back again.” )

(epilogue) // no way, no way

“i warned you, didn’t i? just what did you see in him?” why did you love him so much?

the coffee shop is indolent and sparsely populated this afternoon. yoongi’s voice is quieter than usual across the narrow stretch of mahogany, but you still hear the underlying question. your drinks sit fresh and untouched, the steam rising and melding with your breaths.

you ordered an americano that you know you won’t drink, because you hate the taste—too heavy, too bitter. it’s what taehyung had always ordered.

yoongi knows you hate dark coffee, but has the sensibility to refrain from commenting. he pulls his latte closer and seems to have given up on waiting for an answer, though you know he won’t speak again until you do. no stretch of silence is ever unbearable for him, no matter how long, how awkward, how charged.

when you finally answer your friend, the words feel raw and searing in your throat, like claws grating past your tongue. and yet, the nostalgia they evoke is the most brilliant shade of gold.

“everything.” a pause. “i loved everything about him.”

“then why?” yoongi rejoins immediately, as if this is the answer he’d been waiting for since the moment you even agreed to this coffee date. “why won’t you go back to him? i’ve never seen you happier than in the one year you'd been with him.”

you manage a laugh, but it sounds more like a tired croak.

“i don’t think it works like that.”

“well, you know what I think? i think both of you are pathetic.” yoongi takes a sip of his coffee. you see disdain in his eyes now, melding with the earlier sympathy and frustration. “fucking pathetic.”

you dump a bag of sugar into your coffee and watch the white particles dissolve without stirring them in. the steam above the cup is now barely visible, but you still don’t touch the drink.

you can’t, because it’s not yours, because you had always ordered for taehyung and he for you and the two of you had always exchanged drinks—it's an old habit, a silly routine, a senseless inside joke. you’d forgotten how it first began, but now, for some reason, you can’t bring yourself to stop. his absence makes no difference.

“yeah,” you say, watching the last smoky tendril of white fade to nothing before your eyes. “i know.”

(spring) // you’re a caramel macchiato

you don’t remember how it had all started. you don’t remember how taehyung had gone from being that stranger in your jazz comp class to kissing you in your apartment, hands weaving through your hair and flitting down your back.

you do vaguely remember him making you coffee in the middle of working on some song. you remember his grin, his dimples, the sheen of his hair beneath that dim light in your living room. you remember the caramel macchiato taehyung had made you—a mite sweeter than what you’re used to. you remember him tasting like an americano, dark and bitter yet strangely comforting, a beckon you can’t resist.

“hey, is this a one-time time thing?”

“do you want it to be?” his eyes were candid, clear as spring water, and you saw your unvoiced thoughts reflected in them.

no, of course i don’t. how can anyone be satisfied, after having a taste of you?

but between the heat of his skin and the soft temptation of his lips, you lose your answer.

(summer) // i really really like your—

taehyung is surprisingly reckless.

when he first suggested the road trip, you had not envisioned him driving down the countryside road at eighty miles per hour, singing at the top of his lungs.

“keep your hands on the wheel—” you reach over in panic, but he only throws his head back in laughter before grasping your hand mid-air, lacing his fingers through yours.

the wind blows his hair in all directions, whips his shirt taut against his chest. summer has never tasted so rich on your tongue and you think it’s because of taehyung—he is the essence of everything warm and exuberant; the human embodiment of summer.

his favorite radio stations have the most obscure collection of songs but he knows every line of lyric, every offbeat pause and background ad lib. his voice simmers in subdued energy, like the hot desert sand that stretches endlessly on either side of you. you soon catch the tunes and let your voice fall in time with his, lacing through his notes in effortless harmony.

“we sound good together,” he yells, and you laugh as he had earlier, a frisson of excitement spiking your veins.

“hey—” he continues, “—i’m the saxophonist for that jazz club on the edge of downtown. you should come see me play sometime.”

it’s a casual invitation, but you end up going to every single performance of his for the rest of summer. you fall in love with this new version of taehyung—the boy beneath electric blue lights, in black dress shirts with rolled-up sleeves, losing himself to the music around him, from him. the boy whose fingers dance over the aureate keys of his gleaming instrument, stroking it as he would a lover.

afterwards, you discover that taehyung touch you in the exact same way. like you’re something fragile and strong all at once, something eternal—as eternal as he’s willing to make it.

and at the time, you had thought he wanted to make you eternal.

(autumn) // can you trust me?

the city at 10 p.m. is distant laughter and the rush of cars, after-work parties and people racing home. the city on saturday nights is crystal buildings, starry skies and a restless thrum beneath the ground.

taehyung takes you dancing on the streets. you have never been to this part of the city, never danced in public or imagined he ever would.

there’s a jazz band performing in the plaza that night and taehyung doesn’t let you escape to the edge of the crowd. he takes your hands in his and leads you backwards, cajoling you with that soft smile he knows you can’t resist. in the end, you give in. you let him; at least, that’s what you always tell yourself. you never once stopped to think that perhaps none of this is—has ever been—within your control. that you’re drawn to taehyung like a bee to a flower, a battered ship to a shore, a lost traveler to a mirage.

he catches you in his arms, and laughter springs from between your bodies, your coalescing breathes. you see the curve of his lips and the hue of warm lights veneered over his face—amber on his skin, gold in his hair. you watch him comb a hand through his hair between holding you and steadying himself, his fringes falling haphazardly onto his forehead.

the music almost, almost drowns out his words, but you hear them nonetheless—words you've been too afraid to say yourself. for all the unexpected surprise of the moment, his words come so naturally that you receive them not so much an impact as a caress, one that you’d been yearning for without even knowing that you had been.

“i like you a lot, god, this feels like a dream.”

his voice touches you like it’s from a fuzzy old record player, deep and soothing and pulling you into a reverie. your jaws work to say something, but you’re left adrift in awe, stupefied in his presence.

in the end, you can’t find the resolve to tell him, “this is not a dream.”

please don’t wake up and leave me behind.

(winter) // don’t tell me bye bye...

the cold seems to have emerged out of nowhere. taehyung still looks handsome as ever, walking through the snow in that sandy trench coat and thick wool scarf, a pink tinge to his cheeks. from this distance, with the thick café windowpane between you two and a menu to conveniently hide behind, you can almost fool yourself into believing that nothing has changed. that if you put down the menu, wave to him—walk out the door and tap him on the shoulder—he’ll laugh and tackle you just like before, like nothing has changed.

nothing has changed, really. he hasn’t, and you haven’t.

perhaps that had been the problem all along.

when you push your way out of the cafe, he is still there, tilting his head back to squint at the watery mid-day sun, as if waiting for someone. you draw up your own scarf and turn resolutely away, trudging in the opposite direction. he’s no longer yours to admire, yours to hold, yours to keep.

was he ever? you ask yourself wryly, and find your heart imploding on a forlorn answer.

it’s funny how one season can turn everything upside down for some, yet carry forward without a hitch for others. different realities allow you to exist in the same dimension as them, but oh, how truly different it all is. as if day has turned into night for you, as if your memories of the past seasons have melted into nothing. the illusion of having had is impossible to grasp in the materiality of loss.

the world still smells the same as when he was with you. it’s strange, because somewhere between meeting him and falling in love with him you’ve come to associate the scent of the world with the scent of him. and now, cliché as it sounds, everything reminds you of taehyung.

you imagine him recognizing you from behind, reaching you in his long strides, and saying, hey, how have you been? i’ve missed you. when spring comes, we’ll start again, and everything will be alright.

of course, he doesn’t.

i fancied you’d return the way you said, but i grow old and i forget your name. i shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (i think i made you up inside my head.)

#taehyung scenario #v scenario #v scenarios #taehyung scenarios #taehyung angst #v angst #taehyung fanfic #taehyung imagine #bts scenario

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snowbellewells · 4 years

Text

CS Role Reversal: The Case of the Heart in Armor {Part Three}

Hello there friends and fellow fans! I’m back with something new at last. I first started this story back in the fall for the first @csrolereversal event, inspired by brilliant art from @courtorderedcake. It’s a CS Victorian era AU, hopefully with some enjoyable nods to both Sherlock Holmes and My Fair Lady. I never meant to keep everyone waiting so long, so I am linking the first two chapters as well, just in case anyone wants to catch up on where we left off.

Anyway, without more nervous stalling, here is Part Three of “The Case of the Heart in Armor”

Summary: Killian “Holmes” Jones is rarely surprised or shocked anymore, but that all changes when he meets one very stubborn - and very beautiful - pickpocket, and trouble brews in the distance, hidden by the London fog…

Part One Part Two

Part Three

Killian Jones left his interview with Chief Inspector Nolan, Lieutenant Watson, and his pretty little thief deeply shaken by the savagery they were up against and more stirred in body and soul than he could remember being in quite some time. Emma - he now had a name to match that beguiling face and feisty bearing - her name suited her, lovely but short and to the point, lingering on his mind as he left the Yard and moved back through the crowded London streets to his apartment and study where he could meditate on his next course of action.

Somewhere within the bustling streets of the city he called home, lurked an evil that was stalking victims, slaughtering with a brutal precision, and leaving little trace behind with which to catch and stop their trail of carnage. Was it a black market trade in stolen organs? Some sort of opium ring gone horribly awry? A disturbed sadist with no true reason at all other than their own macabre and twisted interest? The sight of the crime scene images had been unsettling to say the least. Certainly he had thought no less of Miss Nolan when he noticed her already porcelain skin pale considerably at the gore captured in stark black and white, and her stance wavering just the tiniest bit unsteadily, even as he also noted the tight clenching of her delicate fingers and the firm way she pressed her lips together, clinging to her control with everything she had. Instead, he had only intended to offer a bit of bolstering support as he sidled nearer and laid a hand to her back in wordless solidarity. He was astute enough not to see merely the signs that she was unsettled, but that she did not wish for her associates to know it - and he had no intention of giving her away.

Though Killian had known Emma scarcely 24 hours, he knew enough about the world and the time they lived and worked in to gather that her way could not have been an easy one. She was quite obviously clever, quick, and inarguably lovely, but she was also clearly not meant for quietly milling about ballrooms repeating society gossip. No question she had come from very little to find herself willing to work as a flower cart girl - even if it were merely a cover for her work with the Yard - particularly in the part of London where he had first encountered her. It made Emma all the more intriguing to his mind; no shrinking hothouse flower too delicate for any sense or purpose - that much was abundantly clear. When he wasn’t verbally sparring with her in maddening circles, Jones found that she quite made his mouth go dry and his heart palpitate wildly. He hadn’t felt such excitement since he was little more than a callow youth, back when a very different pair of sparkling eyes and husky voice had made his entire being turn to mush. Not since Milah…

Growling low in his throat, Jones shook himself fiercely from that dangerous course of reverie, angrily shoving aside the notes he had begun to jot down on Nolan’s puzzling case. He stood abruptly, shoving his hand through the riotous thick tufts of his dark hair, making them stand on end as he began to pace. This sort of distraction would do no one any good, least of all him. Had he not vowed all those years ago to abstain from such flights of fancy?

Lust, attraction, besotted mooning - whatever form romantic interest might take - it dulled the mind, made him miss details he would normally catch, made him slow, dense, and foolish instead of behaving with the careful perception on which he prided himself. He would not stumble at the same hurdle twice. He could bar his heart against that skinny waif of a guttersnipe. He could...and he must. Countless lives might depend on his clearheaded thinking if his interest in Miss Nolan impeded his ability to track down a coldblooded murderer. Not to mention… he swallowed hard, his pacing steps slowing… not to mention that the one time he had allowed his heart to rule his head - he had lost horrifically and another had paid the ultimate price in his place. That could not happen a second time.

Refocusing his thoughts, Killian knelt to pick up the papers he had scattered and returned them to order on his desk. Sitting down once more, he went back over all they knew, and was soon absorbed in the possibilities, theories, and connections which never failed to appear at the outset of a mystery. Scribbling furiously to record any idea of relevance before it could be lost, the detective was soon fully engrossed in the facts and puzzles that served him best, not allowing himself to consider doing otherwise again.

~~~~~~~~~~***

Meanwhile, some streets over, Emma Nolan was making her own way back to her small flat as well, not at all sure what to make of the disgust and unease tumbling and rolling through her belly, churning in her gut with a disconcerting frequency, lurching up her throat as if she might lose all she had eaten that day, and then ebbing only slightly as she clenched her teeth together and breathed deeply through her nose to fight down the bile before pressing onward determinedly. She had grown up in a rough world where life was much cheaper than the average Londoner would care to admit, where softness and naiveté were a liability one simply could not afford. When she’d fled the foundling home to fend for herself on the streets, where at least she would not be purposefully teased and tormented, Emma had not retained what wide-eyed childish innocence she’d still possessed for very long. She sometimes shuddered to think what lengths she might have gone to if she hadn’t picked the pocket of Ruth Nolan and subsequently been taken in - scratching and squalling at first - only to become part of a family at last.

Even with her less-than-savory - or even normal - beginnings, Emma still had not seen the sort of needless savagery catalogued in those crime scene photos strewn over David’s desk. Her older brother might tend toward the needlessly protective, and Graham too could be stiflingly careful of her “delicate sensibilities”, but she almost wished she had been shielded from that sight. Those pictures would almost certainly haunt her sleep.

As she hurried up the steps to her third floor lodgings, hustled in the door, and quickly made her way to the rickety vanity mirror over her bathroom sink and to begin fussing with her disheveled and wavy mass of hair, Emma was still deep in thought, even as she was trying to restyle it into a more eye-catching twist before she headed back out with her cart; hoping to draw attention, if only to study those who gathered around her. It was a bit late to do a lot of good, but seeing just what they were up against made her feel the effort couldn’t wait. She could at least keep her eyes open for an hour or two as people headed out for late meals and to the theater further up town. Despite the effort it took with brush and numerous bobby pins, not to mention several frustrated huffs and annoyed restarts, her minds was still unraveling the disturbing facts they did have as she worked. Once Emma finally had her blonde mane piled high at her crown once again, a few curls wisping down to frame her face attractively, she turned to seek out a more colorful dress as well, finally settling on the troubling inconsistency which had been niggling at the corner of her mind.

While not much of life was sacred in the city’s darker corners, and sadly violence was not so rare when living with thieves and worse, there was at least a reason or a cause for most crimes in London’s poorer underbelly. Something would be missing from the victim’s pocket or bag, or they would be in an area known for gambling or opium dealing; perhaps even further investigations would bring to light that most victims had quarrelled with someone known to be dangerous to cross. But this case - people ravaged, cut open, with organs missing - and seemingly no other purpose for their demise, made no sense. It wasn’t just troubling for its horrific detail, but for the simple fact that they seemed to be killed for the mere sake of destruction, of taking a life. And even worse - chosen at chilling random. It was worse than any of the theft or conning she had witnessed all her life, this casual depravity, and it was hard to shake the horror it left behind.

Once she was collected and ready, Emma tried to stop and gather her thoughts, to steel her frazzled nerves for the evening ahead. Yes, the degenerate prowling the dark and smoggy streets was a frightening reality, but she was no fainting society Miss with fragile nerves and little gumption. She was doing nothing more than what was asked of her, keeping her eyes open and reporting back on anything strange or out of the ordinary.

Determining that, she was able to nod her chin firmly, square her shoulders, march back down the steps at the front of the building, making her way toward the fresh market where she usually managed to purchase enough blooms to look the part of a simple flower cart girl rather than extra eyes and ears for the city’s police force. She would have never imagined herself one day earning a fair salary from the coppers for her ill-gotten skills in stealth and observation, but she wasn’t daft enough to look a gift horse in the mouth either. She might have a leg up through her brother in this particular field, but if she weren’t serving as a sort of informant for him, she would have had precious few options for making her way in the world. She was a woman of no name or connections, no bright, youthful, accomplishments to recommend her, and she though she was bright, she had spent many of her formative years trying to make sure she ate enough that her stomach’s pangs didn’t keep her up all night or that the older kids in the homes she’d landed in didn’t come to pound on her or steal her few possessions in the dark to fuss over arithmetic. Once she had finally landed with Ruth and David and accepted that she truly was safe there and would not be put out on her ear, her years of schooling were nearly over. She wouldn’t have had many options beyond a salesgirl of some sort if she had been left to her own devices. She was grateful she hadn’t been; her brother would be the first to attest that she did not possess the sweet and patient temperament to wheedle a purchase from most customers.

Scrunching up her nose, she paid for the armload of asters, carnations, black-eyed Susans, and daisies and turned to hurry off to the less crowded and much dodgier end of the street. She wouldn’t admit it to most - too much of the unrepentant pickpocket and scamp in her even yet to acknowledge the sentimentality - but she wanted to do something worthwhile; to be part of an effort that made things better than what she had known as a child, to give something back and prove that the Nolans had been right to pluck her out of the gutter and take her in, to return their generosity, so to speak.

Lost in these thoughts and shaking her head at the rather maudlin turn they had taken, Emma was reflecting both that she was glad what went on in her head couldn’t be heard aloud and whether or not her adopted brother didn’t somehow already know and understand her motivations anyway. It was only after surfacing from that reverie at the rather stained and littered stretch of pavement where she often “set up shop” that she realized just how low and grey the sky had become within the last hour. An ominously thick fog, seeming dense enough to reach out and slice her fingers through or to move in and smother bystanders, was hanging in the air, and it was much darker than seemed at all normal for late afternoon. While she usually picked this spot because it was less crowded and noisey - fewer competitors with similar wares, and therefore a clearer view of genuine persons of interest - it seemed unnaturally devoid of calling voices, horns and whistles, and clanging metal; all of the sounds that were common to the city streets, and even more eerily deserted. In fact, the only sound Emma heard, now that she truly focused on her growing suspicions, was the sharp clip of her smart little heeled boots on the pavement as she spun to look behind her and paced anxiously on the pavement.

She was more than just ill at ease now. This sudden shift in the air around her wasn’t right somehow. Though unable to explain the sensation, the hairs at the nape of her neck stood on end and alarm bells were blaring in her head, screaming for her to move, to leave, to get out of there, irregardless of her previous intentions

Always stubborn to a fault, Emma was resolutely shaking her head, chiding herself for being silly, when her eyes caught a gleam of strangely-colored light from the blackness in the mouth of the alley across the way. Craning her neck, Emma’s breath caught in frightened suspense, unable to see anything else now in the swirling ever-thickening fog that obscured everything else in between, seeming almost to brush across her cheeks and neck in a chilling, insidious caress and to wrap around her like phantom bonds. The points of light that she had seen grew brighter, two red pinpricks like eyes glowing out of the dark, and then they doubled, parting, and doubled again, now three pairs of what she was certain were eyes, emerged from their cave and stalked toward her, though their forms were otherwise unseen beyond the unearthly crimson light.

“No…” she breathed, stumbled back against the building wall behind her, almost unable to process what she was seeing for several desperate seconds.

But those frightening eyes were still moving impossibly closer. The fog obscured any of the bodies connected, yet Emma knew they couldn’t belong to anything good. It felt as though her knees had gone to water, even as she tried to order herself to run. No longer sure if she was out of her mind and hallucinating, she almost thought she could hear a low, rumbling growl, a panting animal breath, wafting toward her in heated puffs of air. The malingering fog seemed to rise up even more heavily around her, swirling in her eyes with blinding accuracy to further confuse and disorient. And then, all seemed to stop as a blood-chillingly wild sound rose up right in front of her - the incomprehensible howl of a ravenous wolf.

It made no sense, but that didn’t matter. Emma whirled, panic screaming that she was already too late, and ran unseeing in the other direction. It was madness in the murky darkness so thick she couldn’t see a foot ahead; the fog seemed almost sentient - as if it meant to hold her back for the predators on her heels. And she knew they were there; she could hear them just behind her, snapping and slavering. It was only a matter of time. They were going to catch her, run her down like a rabbit and tear her apart.

Frantically, she pressed forward, feet pounding, straining to go faster yet, desperate to outrun the unseen monsters. Somehow she was still going, hadn’t fallen or smashed into some obscured obstacle, hadn’t felt their gnashing teeth sink through her skin. Her breath was whooshing out in desperate rasps as she continued to push herself; arms pumping, lungs burning. It still seemed as though the hot breath and snapping muzzles must be mere inches from her and somehow she kept going.

And then suddenly, a tight grip encircled her wrist, jerking her back and to the side, sending Emma careening off course and smacking into the strong, solid chest of another person, hidden by the shrouding atmosphere. Her breath escaped in a shocked gasp, and she flinched, curling in on herself against the warm body that surrounded her, wincing with eyes screwed shut at the expectation of being torn apart in the very next moment.

Except, nothing happened.

The fog broke apart somewhat, brushing over her cheek with a chill sort of farewell. The sound of chasing paws and salivating fangs nipping at her heels vanished; the monsters she would have sworn were pursuing her disappeared as quickly as they had materialized. The hand at her wrist came to rest on her upper arm, holding her out in a strong, bracing grip just enough so her unseen ally could look down into her face just as she tilted up her chin to peer at him curiously.

Emma sucked in a sharp breath at the heavy, dark brows furrowed over sharp, icy-blue eyes studying her as if she were some curious puzzle where a few of the pieces would not fit. It was none other than Killian Jones - the detective her brother referred to as “Holmes” and her insufferably self-assured mark from the previous day. While one part of her wanted to brush him off and stalk away with a reminder to keep his distance, a breathless part of her was still trying to regain her equilibrium from the nightmarish chase she had just experienced. She simply couldn’t bring herself to be so tart with someone who had saved her from whatever phantom shadows would have run her down.

Soon enough, Jones relinquished his hold on her on his own, asking curiously, “Alright there, Miss Nolan? You’re as pale as if you had seen a ghost.” One of those insouciant brows arched in an expressive manner along with the slight quirk up of one corner of his mouth. Was he teasing her? Sincere? As animated as his face was, she had not quite learned to read it yet.

Huffing a noncommittal sort of sound through pursed lips, she attempted to right herself, smooth her hair and clothing, and catch her breath before blurting out just what had spooked her. He would certainly think she belonged in some asylum rather than getting to the bottom of all this frightening mystery in their city.

Unfortunately, her mouth seemed to have some mission of its own, beyond the control of her rational mind. After a deep breath and realizing she had to say something rather than stand there opening and closing her mouth wordlessly, she sputtered, “Yes, well, I thought… I was being chased… I - I - heard their feet right behind me…” She blinked up at him, not having to work nearly as hard as usual to appear innocent and in need of help. “Didn’t… You… You didn’t hear anything?” She gulped in another lungful of air, and waited - kicking herself all the while - for his response.

“Well, I heard you coming,” Holmes offered, drawing his words out as if carefully considering each one. “You were gasping and stumbling, clearly panicked and fleeing something. That’s why I reached out, hoping to help you if I could…” His words trailed off there, blue eyes searching her as if to ask the question he didn’t put into words.

“Oh, um, thank you,” Emma tried meekly, still too shaken by all that had occurred to mock or tease him, or reprimand him for thinking he was some knight-in-armor she didn’t need. She had needed him - that, or she was losing her mind. Could she really have imagined it all? The strangling fog, the pack of wolves, the danger she had been in….surely she hadn’t. What did it mean if they had been there though? And what caused them to just as suddenly disappear?

Emma shook her head, frustrated. This was ridiculous, and Jones was going to think her weak and silly, afraid of whispers and the wind. Throwing back her shoulders, she shook her head and offered a little laugh that rang hollow even to her own ears. “Goodness knows what I was thinking! Clearly there’s no one else out here; those pictures this morning must have spooked me more than I realized.”

Killian Jones didn’t speak at first, merely studied her closer, still without words, a curious glimmer livening those already hypnotic blue eyes. She got the troubling sense that he didn’t miss a thing and could read her false assurances as easily as if she hadn’t even tried to offer them. No matter how she forced herself to calm her breathing and meet his gaze steadily, Emma found herself wanting to squirm and look away under such intense scrutiny, unable to fully explain just what she had felt and seen in any sort of sensible manner.

Either he at last saw what he was searching for, or realized just how unnerving his assessment had become, because Jones dipped his head in a self-deprecating nod, shifting his eyes away with a lightly bemused chuckle and an awkward hand came up to scratch nervously behind his ear. Emma tried to ignore the way the very top curve of those ears were flushed red - and how endearing it was to see that he too was off-balance.

“Pardon me, Lass,” he murmured finally, taking a step back, then turning away from the alley into the street and offering his arm for her to take as they continued down the sidewalk in the direction she had been hurrying. “I seem to have forgotten all of my manners. Perhaps you would conclude your surveillance for tonight and allow me to see you back to your abode?”

Emma blew out a shaky breath. She wanted to refuse the gesture. She could look after herself and make her own way home when she was ready, but… She hesitated only a second as her eyes waivered to glance back at the darkened street in the direction she had come. In truth, she had barely gotten started for the night, but no one else needed to know that. She was still quivering from the fright she’d endured, and truly didn’t want to stay out on the shrouded streets alone any lnoger. Settling on action instead of words at all, she merely tucked her hand into the crook of his offered elbow and nodded her assent.

As they moved away, she tried to ignore the low rumble of a growl her ears just barely caught on the foggy air behind them, strove to un-see the impossible gleam of what still appeared as red, glowing eyes in the deep shadows at her back. She fully intended to believe it had all been imagined by a shaken psyche, even as she glanced nervously back over her shoulder.

Tagging: @courtorderedcake @darkcolinodonorgasm @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @hollyethecurious @cocohook38 @tiganasummertree @searchingwardrobes @winterbaby89 @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @therooksshiningknight @laschatzi @stahlop @ultraluckycatnd @whimsicallyenchantedrose @drowned-dreamer @resident-of-storybrooke @thisonesatellite @shireness-says

#cs role reversal #cs Victorian au #cs au mc #The Case of the Heart in Armor #part three

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spring-emerald · 5 years

Text

this thing called love

“You know, it’s really unfair that Stingyshima is popular,” Hinata says with a huff, lips pouted in disgruntlement.

Kageyama pauses writing, dragging his eyes from Yachi’s neat notes he’s copying from to Hinata. “What?”

Hinata shrugs, mechanical pencil balanced between his nose and upper lip, sliding even further in his seat as he insolently spreads his legs apart under the desk, looking like a real picture of laziness and an absolute dumbass who don’t have time to act carefree at the moment. Kageyama frowns and kicks him on the shin, startling him and causing the pencil to lose its balance, earning him a glare from the shorter teen.

“I’m just saying,” Hinata bends to rub his abused leg, “his personality’s awful and yet so many girls have a crush on him. I don’t get it,” he says as he finally sits properly before throwing his hands in the air.

Kageyama just rolls his eyes at Hinata’s antics and reaches over to thump him on the side of his head. “You really don’t have time worrying about things like that,” he says, nodding down at the notes with emphasis.

They’re on the cusp of failing a class again and he really, really doesn’t need that to happen and he really, really don’t want to take supplementary lessons for it and miss any training camps that might be scheduled during that.

“I know. But I get a little jealous! Just because he’s tall and-”

Kageyama zones out after that, pointedly ignores Hinata’s tirade about Tsukishima’s supposed popularity in favor of looking back down at the notes and try to find where he left off.

“-Don’t you get jealous, Kageyama?”

Kageyama knits his eyebrows together as he looks up at Hinata again, who now has his chin resting on his hand, head tilted curiously to the side. “No,” He says with a shake of his head then promptly returns to his task.

The thing is, after that particular conversation, Kageyama started to notice things about their schoolmates’ interaction with Tsukishima.

Like how the students part and give way and girls watch Tsukishima walk along the grounds with admiring gazes, very reminiscent of the way they sometimes do in shoujo mangas when a prince-like character is introduced. Or the way underclassmen, especially girls, would huddle together and giggle amongst themselves when they catch sight of him during lunch time rush in the cafeteria. Or how Tsukishima would be at the receiving end of assorted pastries like a small packet of freshly baked cookies, or a cup of pudding. Or that in some instances, Yamaguchi would arrive at their lunch spot without Tsukishima because he’s been held back by an underclassman, and arriving a few minutes later from the direction of the courtyard, looking a little annoyed and weary.

Kageyama never gets the chance to ask him about it, figures Tsukishima would talk about it if it’s really bothering him, but he does give him a questioning look, one that Tsukishima returns with one that Kageyama translates as ‘nothing, don’t mind it’ along with a light shrug of his shoulder.

-----

It boggles Kageyama, to say the least. Why people would suddenly react that way around Tsukishima. Not that he didn’t think that Tsukishima can’t be popular or that he doesn’t have the right to, but…it’s just Tsukishima.

Cool, aloof, unbothered Tsukishima, who walks around with his large headphones and chin held high as he casually pass by other people without a care for the world.

Tsukishima who prods and tease and sometimes annoys the hell out of people just for the heck of it.

Tsukishima who sometimes give solid and sensible advice, if approached seriously about matters that bother you.

He’s a skilled middle blocker and a national level player one at that, so he’s been shown in television and is probably well-known especially among volleyball fans. But Hinata’s gotten a little famous too, especially to those who see him as inspiration or those he’d ‘blown the minds of’ (Hinata’s words, not his).

He’s smart and belongs to the honors section, and had gotten academic awards despite his active participation in club activities. But so is Yachi and Yamaguchi. Kageyama’s relieved that he knows smart people because they’d been really helpful in keeping his grades afloat enough to participate in club activities.

He’s got other talents as well. Kageyama knows that he plays guitar and bass and can sing well. He’s got a channel where he covers songs, though they’re the only ones who knew that it’s actually him since he’s never really showed his face in any of his videos. So he’s kind of popular in a way, Kageyama guesses.

Ultimately though, it’s just Tsukishima doing what he usually does. So there’s no reason to act like that around him.

-----

Apparently, Kageyama underestimated how popular Tsukishima actually is.

Because, as it turns out, he’s really popular. If the screams and swoons of his names of most of the girls in the auditorium are to go by.

The music is already loud as it is but they decided to add more to the noise contained in the domed room.

Kageyama’s head and ears ached, and he even fills a little dizzy because of the shrill yell-singing happening around him and he’s somehow relieved to be pushed back by the throng of girls that went closer to the stage to get to where Tsukishima is currently performing with other third years students-an impromptu band formed for tonight’s concert to culminate the festivities of the school festival.

He’s playing guitar and singing an old but catchy English song that Kageyama doesn’t completely understand, but one that he’s heard and knows that is included in the playlist Tsukishima’s recently made for him.

Kageyama doesn’t know where the other three are, supposed they also got swept away by the crowd, but he won’t risk going back in there, and decided to just stand against the wall at the far end of the room. Not only was the volume more tolerable, it’s not cramped and hot, and has a good vantage point, a full view of the stage where Tsukishima seems to be having fun performing, especially for someone who claims to have been forced and blackmailed to do so. He must be feeding off the excitement of the audience, though Kageyama wished that they were less rowdy in showing their appreciation.

It’s kind of nice. Seeing Tsukishima like this that is. Kageyama’s only ever seen him be occasionally passionate about volleyball, and when he’s commenting and teasing them and their juniors about their idiocy. Watching him having fun while doing something else is a welcomed change.

The song eventually comes to an end, and the auditorium gets filled with even louder screams which Kageyama decidedly escapes from in favor of catching some fresh spring air.

-----

“So this is where you’ve been hiding, King.”

Kageyama stops humming and breaks out of his reverie upon hearing the familiar voice, noting the hint of relief and exasperation on the tone. He scoots to the side, giving Tsukishima space.

“I wasn’t hiding.”

Tsukishima plops down beside him. “The three didn’t know where you’d gone. They were worried when they couldn’t find you inside.”

Kageyama winces in guilt and sends a short mental apology to their friends. “I got pushed out by the crowd. And it was getting quite loud in there. But I only stepped out after you’ve finished. You were really good,” he says with a small, soft smile.

Tsukishima searches his face. “You didn’t leave because of anything else?”

Hinata had mentioned something about why Kageyama probably left when he came looking for him, though he’d taken it with a grain of salt. Hinata likes to assume things and make a big deal out of nothing most of the time after all.

Kageyama’s frown and unsure “No?” confirms this.

“So you didn’t leave because you were jealous?”

“Jealous? Of what? Why would I be jealous?”

Right. What did Tsukishima even expect? Kageyama’s obliviousness to things not related to volleyball is an impenetrable wall- hard to scale and harder to breach, unless one uses a direct method.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Tsukishima shrugs rather dramatically. “Maybe because girls were going crazy for me?”

Goodness, Tsukishima was already pointedly ignoring that, had been for the past couple of years now, but of course Hinata and even Yamaguchi dare to rub it in his face from time to time. He’d hoped his nonchalance and disinterest, which isn’t even a façade would turn them away, but as the years go by, it only seemed to have the opposite effect. Yachi anxiously remarks that after tonight though, they’ll be sure to be more obvious and aggressive and that Tsukishima needs to be careful about accepting gifts from them after Home Econ class because they might have slipped in some love potion or something.

Kageyama makes a face upon remembering how the female student population seemed to have collectively lost their minds over the band. “Ugh, no. I definitely don’t like that kind of attention.”

Tsukishima gives him a hopeless look, then softly snorts and eventually laughs. Kageyama startles and stiffens at his reaction and frowns deeper. “What? Why are you laughing?”

When Tsukishima stops laughing, Kageyama immediately catches on the teasing smile and glint on his eyes and tried to back away. But Tsukishima’s faster and he soon finds his face squished in between large hands, making his lips pout before it meets Tsukishima’s own in a quick, chaste peck.

“That’s not what I even meant, King,” Tsukishima says, shaking his head a little while squeezing Kageyama’s face harder before letting it go.

Kageyama rubs his cheeks and wills away the warmth that crept up his face at the sudden affectionate gesture. “Then what did you mean?”

Tsukishima just laughs again before pulling him into a hug, forcing his head and face to rest against Tsukishima’s shoulder and chest. “What I meant is that you’re jealous that girls are crushing on me, who is, you know, your boyfriend?”

Kageyama blinks. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh. But I get it. Your Majesty can’t be bothered to be jealous over such trivial things, since he’s above all the lowly common girls.”

“Well, I don’t get why they’re suddenly paying attention to you. It’s not like you’re doing anything special.”

Oh wow. Tsukishima feels his something inside his chest squeeze. “Ouch, my King. That actually hurts.”

Kageyama lifts his head and looks up at Tsukishima. “No, but Kei…” Tsukishima looks down at him, surprised at the use of his given name moreover the softness of it, though a little wary about what Kageyama’s going to say next. “You’ve always been doing great. You’ve always been admirable. So I don’t understand why they’re only seeing it now.”

Kageyama says it so matter-of-factly, like it’s that simple, a universal truth and oh wow, Tsukishima’s chest is squeezing for an entirely different reason. He will never get over how Kageyama can say these kinds of things easily, will never get over the way he naturally but unconventionally affirms his feelings for him. Until now, even almost a year of dating, Tsukishima still gets unbalanced, still gets flustered, by the King, of all people.

Tsukishima doesn’t bother hiding his wide, giddy smile from Kageyama before gently smooshing him against himself.

-----------

Tsukishima performing ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love’ won’t leave me alone.

#haikyuu!!#tsukkikage #tsukishima kei #kageyama tobio #hq fanfic

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honestandsincere · 5 years

Text

reputation part two

“Here’s to y/n, New York’s new Carrie Bradshaw!” “To y/n!” the three young women chorus, clinking their frosted glasses together. Y/n flushes and bows her head graciously, mumbling a thank you to her friends. They sip on their cocktails, humming in delight at the syrupy sweetness. “Let’s be honest, I’m not quite Carrie,” she laughs. “No! You’re a proper journalist, a fully-fledged writing powerhouse!” Lily, her oldest and closest friend cheers, placing a palm on y/n’s bare shoulder and giving it a slight shake. “Totally! I’m so proud of you,” says Charlotte, her grin dazzling. “As am I,” Diana chimes in, “I keep telling everyone I meet that I’m friends with the y/n y/l/n!”

The bar they’ve chosen for their celebratory drinks is one of the fanciest in town. Lily had reserved them a booth at Delevigne’s as soon as y/n had called to let her know that the article is now LIFE Magazine’s most read. Y/n couldn’t quite believe it then and she’s having a little trouble comprehending it now. Her last-minute waffle about the award-winning manipulator that is Ethan Dolan is the magazine’s most famous article. 26 million reads within the first twenty-four hours of publication, including online readers of course. It’s astounding, unfathomable and the figures have only climbed, it’s been a week since it hit the press and it seems to be getting more popular by the second. It makes her wonder if the response would be the same if they’d printed her original piece. The world does love a scandal, anything juicy and shocking is bound to attract some attention. New York doesn’t seem to like praise, as far as she’s concerned, but this is definitely an exception.

“Every time I see Ethan Dolan’s incredibly attractive face all over the newsstands, I get butterflies!” Charlotte snorts. “You never told us what he’s like, y/n,” Diana elbows her blushing friend, wiggling her eyebrows. Y/n rolls her eyes and takes a sip of her martini, “Honestly? I was underwhelmed.” Lily lets out a little gasp, “But you sang his praises in the article! What was it... ‘Ethan Dolan is the perfect combination of charming and intelligent’?” The girls break out into giggles, swooning at the thought of being swept off their feet by the most eligible bachelor in the world. Except for y/n.

“I guess I was just being nice,” she shrugs. She wishes she could tell them everything, truly dish the dirt on his antics, lift up the veil on the gorgeous mystery that is Ethan Dolan. But, this is New York and gossip spreads like wildfire. Y/n’s sensible. If this story’s going to get out, she’s determined to be the one to deliver it. “Oh well that’s a change,” Charlotte scoffs, inducing another round of laughter from their table. Y/n joins in this time.

The success of the article hasn’t changed much for her. She keeps the same company, works just as hard and always seems to get ignored by cab drivers. Y/n likes being a writer, she gets to keep her anonymity, go about her normality with a sense of great accomplishment. Howard Benson could not be happier seeing as magazine sales are through the roof. Following Mr Dolan’s sudden threat to sue, he’d been walking on eggshells. But the older man can sleep soundly, his inbox full of colleagues and friends congratulating him on hiring the city’s very best young journalist.

“Oh my God!” Diana’s shriek draws y/n from her small reverie. Her perfectly manicured finger points to the bar, her cocoa brown eyes widened in shock, “Is that who I think it is?” Lily, Charlotte and y/n turn to look, suddenly intrigued by their usually quiet friend’s mania. Charlotte squeaks and Lily almost chokes on her Sex on the Beach. “He’s so much hotter in real life!” Diana speaks in a hushed tone as if the man across the other side of the room is capable of hearing her. “Totally,” Charlotte bites her bottom lip, her eyes running up and down his broad stature. “He’s honestly godly,” Lily breathes.

Y/n feels her stomach drop.

Ethan Dolan has sauntered into Delevigne’s as if he owns the place. He’s flanked by what seems to be a security guard and a few other older looking men in suits. His hair is styled into his usual dreamy mess, his shirt gripping to each one of his defined muscles and the tie he usually wears is nowhere to be seen.

“That’s what I call a cover star. Y/n you should go say hi!” Y/n sends Diana a glare before turning back to the table, her cheeks feeling hot. What was he doing here? “You haven’t seen him since the article was published, have you?” Lily asks. “No. I don’t really want to either,” “God, you’re missing out,” Charlotte can’t seem to drag her attention away from Ethan Dolan. Y/n downs the rest of her drink and prays she doesn’t draw attention to herself.

---------

It’s been a day since the magazine was released and y/n has been called into Benson’s office. A deep sense of worry floods in the pit of her stomach. She’s braced herself to be confronted by the Dolan twins’ huge adonis-like selves when she pushes open his door, but thankfully they’re nowhere to be seen.

“Y/n,” Howard smiles, welcoming her into his space, “congratulations!” “Thank you, Mr Benson.” “You really pulled it outta the bag, kiddo! New York loves you!” he gestures to the seat in front of his desk. She sits down. “Oh no, they love Ethan Dolan,” y/n sighs, feeling sick just saying his name. Howard’s smile drops, “Look, I’m so sorry about the whole fiasco-” “Honestly, Mr Benson, it’s no problem. He’s a difficult client.”

Howard lowers himself into his worn brown leather chair, folding his hands on the desk and sighing. In all his career as a journalist, editor and editor in chief, never once has he come across a client like Ethan Dolan. He’d been in panic-mode as soon as the broad young man and his even bigger brother stormed into his office the morning of the release of the first draft. Y/n’s first draft was revolutionary, a real exposé. Howard knew on reading it that it was going to cause some issues, particularly for Mr Dolan’s reputation, but y/n has such a way with words that it seemed almost reprehensible to not include it in the magazine’s first draft.

“It’s funny you should say that,” he grimaces, scratches his nose and continues, “I’ve had Dolan & Dolan on the phone.” Y/n feels herself deflate in exhaustion, “Really?” Howard nods and kisses his teeth, “Ethan Dolan wants to arrange a meeting with you, his secretary said something about thanking you for everything you’ve do-” “No.” “That’s perfectly understandable, but I think he-” “No. I’m sorry, Mr Benson but the last person on Earth I’d like to speak to is Ethan Dolan.” Howard can’t stifle his chuckle, “I’ll let them know you don’t wish to see him.”

As y/n leaves her boss’ office she can’t seem to control the pounding of her heart. Adrenaline courses through her veins and it’s almost as if her vision has a crimson tinted hue. How dare he. How dare Ethan Dolan try and thank her, especially considering what he put her through. Y/n had never been so pressed for time to finish a piece, typing frantically at her desk until the sun had long set over the city’s skyline. She hates lying to her readers, it feels wrong and immoral. How dare he think he has the right to see her again.

--------

“Did we order an extra drink?” asks Lily as she spots a waiter headed their way. The girls shake their heads, returning to snooping through Charlotte’s new beau’s Instagram profile. A young man, dressed in a waistcoat places a martini on their table, holding the spine of the glass tentatively as if he could shatter it if he gripped it too tightly.

“I’m sorry,” says Charlotte, “we haven’t ordered any other drinks.” The waiter clears his throat, “Mr Dolan noticed that Miss y/l/n’s glass was empty.” Lily has to bite her tongue before she says anything too crude. Diana can’t seem to sit still and Charlotte’s mouth hangs slightly agape. Y/n glares at the glass in front of her, knowing if she diverts her eyes towards the bar she’ll be greeted with a sight she does not wish to see. “Well, tell Mr Dolan thank you,” Lily stammers and the waiter nods before stepping away. “What the fu-” Diana is interrupted by y/n whose cheeks are now considerably pinker. “I’m not drinking it.” “You have to! He sent it over here especially!” Charlotte whines. “He’s been watching me.” “You don’t know that.” “He knew that my glass is empty.” Diana shrugs her tanned shoulders, “Lucky guess?”

Y/n is seething, her gaze darts from the martini to the girls surrounding her. Her dress feels irritating all of a sudden, restraining her. She refuses to acknowledge Ethan Dolan. It’s like dealing with a stubborn child, giving him attention is what he wants, he’s chasing her reactions. “I bet it’s poisoned,” she huffs, now wanting to go home. “He wouldn’t do that,” Lily pouts, craning her neck to see if Ethan Dolan is looking over their way. He’s engaging in some serious conversation with a man that looks about twice his age. Lily notes the way his eyes seem to constantly flick over in their direction, as if he’s just waiting for y/n to respond to his gesture. “I wouldn’t put it past him.” “Jesus, y/n! Drink the damn drink!” Charlotte all but yells.

Ethan’s head snaps towards their table, his confident smirk dissipating.

She’s not drinking his drink.

Y/n y/l/n is stubborn, as he’s come to learn over the past few days. She’s turned down all five meetings he’s invited her to, Howard’s secretary dealing out mediocre excuses as to why she doesn’t wish to attend. If Ethan wasn’t so panicked he’d have moved on to something new now, he has bigger fish to fry. However, he knows that y/n knows stuff. Too much stuff. Howard Benson also knows stuff, but Benson wouldn’t hurt a fly, his head’s too far up Ethan’s ass to do anything to harm Dolan & Dolan. But y/n’s dangerous. She doesn’t seem to melt under Ethan’s intensity, if anything she grows stronger. He hasn’t seen her since that eventful meeting in the office in which she’d buried him six feet under with her stare. He had to admit it was hot. But she’s the enemy.

He watches as y/n slides the martini glass across the table into one of her friend’s hands. His attention no longer on the conversation he’s having with one of Grayson’s friends from college. Trent majored in law and Ethan couldn’t care less. He balls his hands into fists in anger, shaking his head subtly at her audacity. The games have only just begun.

Ethan excuses himself from the table of men, claiming he’s spotted an old friend across the bar. “No worries, bro,” Chad winks, cocking his head towards the table of young women. You can take a boy out of the frat... Ethan dusts himself off despite the fact he knows his tight-fitting work trousers are as crisp as they were before he sat down. He fiddles with the links on either one of his Saint Laurent cuffs, runs a hand through his hair and slowly makes his way towards y/n and her friends. The velvet carpet feels soft under the stiff leather of his brogues, as though he was always made to walk on the finest of floors. Ethan Dolan is in his element.

“Oh my God, he’s coming this way,” Lily hisses under her breath and Ethan is suddenly greeted by the flushed faces of y/n’s clique. He notices the way her eyes widen at something her blonde friend whispers. Ethan smirks. “Good evening, ladies,” his voice is like caramel as he swaggers over to them. Y/n thinks it’s sickly sweet. Her head lifts slightly to acknowledge his presence. He curses her for being so pretty. A murmured chorus of salutations comes from the girls while y/n remains silent, unimpressed. “What brings you to Delevigne’s?” he asks, addressing the table but his stare is fixed on her. “We’re celebrating the success of the article, it had twenty-” Ethan decides to interrupt the blonde. “Twenty-six million reads within the first 24 hours, I know,” he chuckles.

Y/n doesn’t bother fighting the urge to roll her eyes. He’s so patronizing, constantly needing to make his presence known, trying to assert his pretend dominance. It’s quite laughable. “How’ve you been, y/n?” “Well,” she speaks, sending him a fake smile. “Good, I’ve been meaning to talk to you since the article came out. Howard says you’ve been busy.” “You know me, Mr Dolan,” her tone is so sarcastic it’s almost comical, “work never stops.”

In order to alleviate the intense awkwardness, Charlotte, Lily and Diana force laughter. Neither y/n nor Ethan finds this funny. She watches as he licks his lips, almost fascinated by how perfect he looks, she wishes she could find it somewhat unnerving. His stare is so consuming that despite her stubbornness, she seems to melt under the warmth of his eyes. She hates it. “I just wanted to say thank you, y/n. You really couldn’t have done a better job.” “Oh, I’m sure I could have,” she pushes and his eyes widen in sudden panic, hoping to God she doesn’t say something he doesn’t want to. It’s now y/n’s turn to smirk. The upper hand feels very nice indeed. “I’ve had a few phone calls from colleagues asking for a part two,” Ethan looms over their table, unable to move. “Really?” she quirks a brow. “Yes, they think it’s best if you write it too.”

Before y/n can respond, a waiter places a hand on Ethan’s shoulder. He says something about getting a picture of Ethan in the bar, for their social media platforms. “It’s funny you should ask that, Harry,” Ethan grins, “you wouldn’t believe who else is at Delevigne’s tonight, legendary writer Miss y/n y/l/n.” Y/n wants the ground to swallow her whole, but coerced by stern looks from her friends she stands from her seat. She moves around the backs of Lily and Charlotte’s chairs, making her way towards Ethan almost begrudgingly. The waiter looks overjoyed when Ethan’s arm comes to wrap around her shoulders, pulling her into his expensive smelling side. Y/n’s palm rests on the plane of Ethan’s back and he has to convince himself he doesn’t feel hot under her touch.

They smile for their photograph. The waiter thanks them and flicks through the photos on the camera he used. Y/n feels Ethan lean into her a little, his breath hitting her cheek as he speaks in hushed tones, “This little game you’re playing, y/l/n, I’m on to it.” Y/n’s taken aback but she doesn’t let it show. She forces a confident chuckle, turning to face him, her eyes boring into his.

“This isn’t a game, Dolan. You may have won the battle, but you haven’t won the war.”

----------

Bright orange lilies.

As soon as y/n sets foot into the office, she smells them. The sweet scent hangs in the air and she smiles as she steps out of the elevator, gripping her folders tighter to her chest, thinking maybe they’d installed a new scent diffuser. The sun shines brightly through the huge panes of glass that surround the perimeter of the room, making it feel light and airy. It’s early, and New York seems to be welcoming the pleasant weather after a few days of heavy mist. Everything feels more alive.

“Morning, Mary!” she sings as she all but skips past Howard’s secretary at her desk. Y/n doesn’t notice the way the older lady watches her back excitedly as y/n weaves her way through the other journalists’ desks. The office floor is relatively empty, a lot of people work freelance at LIFE meaning that more often than not it’s a quiet space to write. Y/n sends Christian a quick wave as he sips coffee out of his ‘World’s Best Dad’ mug. He raises his eyebrows in a quick greeting before looking over his shoulder at Mary, as if to brace himself for y/n’s surprise.

Orange lilies.

Y/n stops in her tracks and stares at them blankly. Nobody has ever sent her flowers at work before. She smiles giddily in realization and places her paperwork down on the floor, reaching for the vase to look at her gift close up. They smell delicious, their petals exposing the yellow tinge of the blossom’s insides, like a gorgeous sunset. Y/n’s desk overlooks downtown Manhattan, the hustle and bustle on the concrete 34 floors below her heavily contrasted by the serene splendor of her flowers. There’s a dainty note card placed in the center of the bouquet, her name embossed on its front in a gold cursive font. Carefully she reaches between the flowers and pulls the tiny piece of card upwards, running her index finger along the bumpy paper. It reminds her of the notebooks she’d get for Christmas to practice her watercolor skills when she was younger. Y/n places the vase back onto her desk and flips the card into her palm.

It is good that war is so horrible, or we might grow to like it. - E

She grits her teeth, her jaw clenching. Of course. How could she think they were from anyone else? Who else would be so arrogant? There’s a stifled snigger from behind her, y/n turns to see that Christian has moved to Mary’s desk, both of them watching her with sly smirks. She lets out a huff and looks back at the flowers, now hating them with a fierce passion. Y/n begins to rip the note into small pieces over her wastepaper basket, shredding any evidence of him. She feels herself shake with anger, tugging the lilies from their place on her desk and marching towards Mary and Christian. Their smiles drop from their wrinkled faces when they see her headed their way. "Mary, do you know how these got into the office?" y/n is flustered. "Mr Dolan's assistant - I think her name is Carol - dropped them off this morning. She wouldn't let me say no," Mary seems taken aback, now understanding that these are not a welcome gift. Y/n reaches the general waste bin at the front of the office and dumps the content of the vase into the can. Christian lets out a low whistle of disapproval, "They were nice flowers, y/n." Her head snaps from the bin bag, the lilies now looking sad at the bottom of it and sighs, "Mary, please don't let Mr Dolan send me anything else." The secretary looks confused, her eyebrows furrow over her purple-rimmed glasses, "Of course, I just thought that seeing as you two are-"

The elevator doors slide open with a ping, revealing a red-faced Howard Benson. Mr Benson rarely ever comes down to see staff, they're always called upwards to him. Y/n steps away from her buried flowers, the vase till in her hands and smiles at her boss. He doesn't smile back. "When were you going to tell us, y/n?" he speaks sternly. "Excuse me, sir?" she looks to Mary who bites her lip and then back to Benson. "About Dolan." he crosses his arms over his navy suit. "Oh thank goodness!" y/n sighs, lifting up the vase, "He won't leave me alone." Howard Benson shakes his head, sighing in frustration, "You don't know," he looks to Mary and Christian, "she doesn't know." "I don't know what? What's going on?" Mary begins typing on her computer, when she seems satisfied with her search she turns the screen towards y/n.

There, in front of her is one of the pictures that had been taken the night before. Y/n is smiling a tight-lipped smile that looks somewhat genuine, pressed into Ethan Dolan's side. Her black cocktail dress sparkles in the dim lighting of Delevigne's and his hand rests on her shoulder, adorned with silver rings she hadn't noticed when they'd pressed into skin. He looks stunning, breath-taking even, a smirk plays on his lips and his eyes stare into the camera will such assurance it's almost intimidation. Y/n notices that the picture has been posted onto The Daily Mail's website, she rolls her eyes. Mary scrolls down the page to reveal the title of the post.

DOLAN'S GIRL: BUSINESS MOGUL REVEALS SECRET RELATIONSHIP WITH SUPERSTAR JOURNALIST

Y/n swears under her breath. Her face feels hot and her hands feel clammy, Her heart starts to pound. "He's given a statement," Mary almost whispers, feeling sorry for the younger woman, "he told The Daily Mail that you two got together after you interviewed him, apparently you're now exclusive." Y/n can't take her eyes from the computer screen, fixated on Ethan Dolan's enchanting smirk. "This isn't true, is it y/n?" Benson sounds unsure despite her blatant reaction of distaste. "Of course it isn't sir, I want nothing to do with him."

Howard Benson sighs again and nods his head. He turns back towards the elevator, muttering something under his breath.

"If it's any consolation," Mary reaches across her desk to place a soft hand on y/n's forearm, "you do make a lovely looking couple."

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

Part 2! The feedback Reputation has received so far has been amazing, thank you so much for all the sweet messages and comments! Lots of love to you all! to the angels that asked to be tagged,

@peruvian-bae @ceejay1163 @kinkbaby95 @blackpinkdolan

#ethan dolan #ethan dolan imagine #ethan dolan fanfic #ethan dolan one shot #ethan x reader #dolan twins #dolan twins imagine #dolan twins fanfic #dolan twins blurb #dolan twins oneshot #grayson dolan #grayson dolan imagine #grayson dolan fanfic #grayson dolan one shot #grayson dolan x reader #imagine #fanfic #reputation #reputation part two

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ikesenhell · 5 years

Text

Rising Summer

Elysium, Part Two. You can find all other IkeSen/IkeVamp works of mine in my Masterlist. NOTES: I guess general fighting tomfoolery trigger warning? It’s not bad at all. Oblique references to PTSD, burning, and a panic attack. ---

They set off at dawn. There were always people journeying from one town to the next--mailmen, families in carts, small coaches of travelers on their way to the great sights of the world. It was easy enough to link themselves to a tiny convoy of three. Isaac took a spot inside one of the carriages, content to ride out the distance reading a book. For their part, Jean and Napoleon opted to ride alongside the tiny contingent of guards accompanying it.

Napoleon was content in the breeze. Jean--well, Jean was withdrawn and quiet. He always was on these journeys. He talked more than when they’d first met, that was for certain, but that also wasn’t much of an achievement (How could he have talked anyway? His lungs were still so full of smoke that he could barely speak his name, let alone hold a conversation. He and Napoleon didn't truly have a discussion until months after his rescue, and even that barely counted. Jean had to swallow his anger first). Whatever simmering paranoia Jean held in check so neatly in Elysium always sprang to the surface when they exited the walls.

That was a soldier for you. Napoleon could relate.

The rolling hillsides fell away into the woods, tidy stone roads degrading to dirt paths as they crossed the borders of their province. Summer looked good on the Great Forest; trees bowed together overhead, their limbs knotted and twined. Deer bounded from sight. Birds wheeled and dove overhead, flitting gaily from nest to nest. It was no wonder the fae usually considered such places their domain; it felt like crossing into another world.

Nearby, a flock of birds lit from the trees, and Jean snapped from his reverie.

So much for a silent journey. Birds knew when something arrived, and when so many fled at once...

“I’ll take right,” Napoleon volunteered, hand flying to his sword.

Jean’s lip tensed almost imperceptibly. “I’ll take left.”

And then came the volley of arrows.

It was a sensible strategy, really--the hail rained down in the middle of the path, yellow ribbons fluttering from the shafts. The horses spooked; Jean flung himself from the saddle first, landing with his boots in the earth and prepared. Napoleon wrestled control of the reins before abandoning the ghost and leaping off, too, and then--their assailants were upon them. The bandits sprang from tree limbs and behind trunks, swords and bows raised.

One, two, one, two--Napoleon fell back into hard-won habit, engaging with a ringing clash of steel. The first bandit caved easily under the pommel of his sword, the blow to the head disabling him. Easy enough. They were untrained ruffians, no match--

And then he took a foot to the chest.

It wasn’t his finest hour. He slammed back into the carriage, wheeling out of the way of the saber that shattered part of the wooden siding. His first assailant was a mere nuisance. This one bore more attention. He shook hair from his eyes and leveled his rapier once more, only to stagger back as the brigand swung their whole weight into the next swing. Steel sang; he parried it with a block of his own, finally locking weapons long enough to get a good look at them.

They weren’t that large. He was almost surprised, given the force of their swings. The highwayman wore a thick scarf bundled around the lower half of their face, pale, curling hair swept back in a careless short ponytail. They sank heavy into their hips, leather armor polished in the half light, and their eyes--oh, their eyes burned like a wildfire. Not even the din of the fight around them could drown it out.

Their swords unlocked, and his opponent charged again.

Napoleon recognized military training in even the most unorganized fighter. This was not that. It was not even the brawling of the common man. The strikes were too clean, the stance too precise, the footwork that of someone with some kind of training. What kind, he couldn’t tell. It was too foreign to his own. He rushed them back; they locked together, shoulders straining against one another, and even as he overpowered them they lunged back and in again. Ting! His sword went flying. He ripped out his backup knife just in time to parry the next crushing blow, driven to one knee under the weight.

“Napoleon--!” Jean’s voice cut through the crowd--a crowd that, he realized with growing alarm, was remarkably quiet now.

And then came the searing pain in his scalp. Napoleon hissed, squeezing his eyes shut against the fist in his hair. The familiar coolness of a blade pressed to his neck. And then--then it was all over.

“Drop it.” The brigand hissed through gritted teeth, motioning meaningfully at Jean’s outstretched sword. “Just drop it. You’re outnumbered.”

That they were. Napoleon surveyed the damage. The guards they’d come with were dragged alongside the carriages, their wrists bound. Isaac was yanked from the first one unmercifully. Jean hesitated, his arm still outstretched.

“Will harm come to the ones in the carriage?”

The highwayman huffed. “Is your surrender contingent on that?”

“As always.”

“Rest assured.”

Still, Jean stood, planted securely in the road. And then--at last--he lowered his arm and drove his sword into the dirt.

Before he could resist, someone gathered Napoleon’s arms behind his back and bound his wrists tight. He joined Isaac at the edge of the carriage. Jean followed shortly thereafter, thrust onto his knees in the dirt, eyes clenched firmly shut and breathing staccato. Around them, the carriage doors flung open, the crew entering and rifling through the possessions.

“How many injured?” Napoleon muttered.

Isaac shook his head. “Doesn’t appear to be any. They’re bandaging the few guards that were hurt.”

Sure enough, they were. One of them had sustained a nasty cut to the head, but a bandit was pouring water over it and dabbing it clean with a cloth. The highwayman that had bested him--their leader?--stepped aside and conferred with a few others. Strange. He’d expected them to simply loot the caravan, but… no. This was far too organized. A woman sat nearby, trembling, a pair of expensive pearl earrings dangling from her ears. This was no mere robbery. No bandit would have passed those up.

Jean inhaled sharply. “Hail Mary--”

Isaac paused, wide-eyed, then hissed, “Napoleon, his wrists.”

Of course. He could hear it now; the barely restrained panic in Jean’s mangled prayer. He knew how Jean was bound to that stake so long ago. Was he back there, back there in the smoke and fire? Could he see it behind his shuttered eyes? The general’s calm facade was almost impenetrable--but Napoleon knew better.

“Hail Mary...” Jean started again, a strangled whisper.

The bandit leader was looking at them now. Those bright, burning eyes seared through his blood. Napoleon tried to ignore it.

“Hail Mary, full of grace…” Napoleon prodded gently, trying to bring his friend back. “Full of grace.”

Jean barely nodded, the lump in his throat rising. “Full of grace.”

The crunch of footsteps. The bandit leader stood before them now, his--her?--their?--eyes searching Jean. On cue, the man fell utterly silent, eyes still shut, fluttering breath as measured as possible. But they didn't leave. Instead, they knelt before him.

“Oi.” Gently, they tapped Jean’s shoulder. Their voice was almost impossible to place--higher than expected, too gravely to be feminine. “You okay?”

Jean said nothing. That didn't dissuade them. Calmly, the leader reached around his back and severed his bonds, pulling his hands to his lap instead. A beat; he allowed a single, shuddering exhale.

“Breathe,” the leader soothed. “Breathe, man.”

“Hail Mary, full of grace,” Jean answered stubbornly. “The Lord is with thee.”

Those intense eyes crinkled; a silent laugh, wreathed in fabric and flyaway curls framing their face. It was only a moment. Then the light was gone, and they rose, leaving Jean’s hands penitent on his lap.

“Sir.” One of the other assailants hurried to them. “It’s not the one.”

Apparently, that was their cue. The leader motioned; the bandits set everything back in the carriages and unbound the civilians in a flurry of activity, saving Napoleon and Isaac for last. He sprung to his feet, rubbing his sore wrists. Without ceremony, the leader presented his lost sword back to him.

“And to whom do I owe the honor of being bested?” Napoleon took it by the hilt.

The leader cocked a brow. “You’d ask the name of a criminal and think I’d give it?”

He motioned around them. “It was a fair fight.”

“Hardly. Being jumped from the woods doesn’t count toward chivalry.”

Napoleon sheathed his sword and took two steps forward, searching for something, anything in those wild eyes. “You’ve been educated. I can tell by your swordsmanship and your speech. Why are you here?”

The leader gave him no answer. Like ghosts, the rest of the men dispersed into the woods, and they turned to follow. Napoleon cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled after them.

“Napoleon!”

And the leader paused at the edge of the trees, turning, the cock of their brow all they granted before they shouted back, “August!”

Then they were gone--just a figment of the shadow of the woods.

#ikevamp #Ikevamp Napoleon #ikevamp jean #ikevamp jeanne #ikevamp isaac #elysium #rising summer #my writing #ptsd tw #panic attack tw #slight upsetting material #nb mc #nonbinary mc #ikevamp medieval fantasy au

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