#drifting through the expanse; (QUEUE) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tocrackerboxpalace · 3 years

Text

November, 2001

Summary: George Harrison reunites with an old friend.

There was a chill in the air.

All but uncomfortable, it was still and cool and calm, his skin refusing to prickle up into chills. There was no wind, or rain—bright, but no sun. Just air, all around him, refreshing and energizing and soothing all at once.

His eyes were closed. As his body began to come into itself, familiar sensations tickled up his spine. The first thing he noticed was the press of his feet and backside on the ground—must have been sitting cross-legged—and the feeling of dry, rough linen under the fingertips that rested on his thighs. His skin prickled as it recognized the feel of the linen up his torso as well.

He shifted slightly, as if waking up from a deep sleep. There was a certain mindfulness in practice, hyper-aware of the environment of his body: the cool, smooth ground beneath him, the scratch of the clothing on his skin, the curl of hair against his ear, the tickle of a mustache on his upper lip. When did he grow a mustache?

Internally, he felt… warm, cozy, almost as though in a deep state of meditation. His mind itself was drowsy, though he hadn’t tried to assess the situation much beyond physical sensation. He didn’t feel the need to.

It was nice. Peaceful, really. George couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such a strong mind-body connection during meditation. There was nothing that existed besides the present; he had no past, and there was no future. It was not one of those times where the mindfulness revealed some grand ethereal Wisdom, and thus it somehow contained more truth. It was nothing and everything all at once.

Rather than let him enjoy this newfound spirituality, a familiar voice (in familiar habit) drew him out of the trance.

“Never thought I’d see the likes of you again, mate!”

George languidly struggled to open his eyes, a half-fight as the voice dropped the silly tone and resorted to a short, sharp chuckle at his own antics. When the eyelids had finally pried themselves open and his vision focused, George frowned.

He looked like a picture, straight out of 1961. Standing before him, arms crossed as he bit his lip with childlike excitement at the reconciliation. George blinked, hardly believing the sight in front of him.

“John?”

“In the flesh,” he grinned. Then a pause. “Or, rather, anything but the flesh?”

John was in front of him, a quite young John, staring at him with a bit of a worried expectancy.

George’s stomach suddenly dropped.

His gaze flicked around the room wildly as unrestrained panic rose in his chest. They were in a room, though it wasn’t a room, just a dull white, not so much white as simply colourless, with no décor or wallpaper or flooring or furniture although somehow, he was now sitting in a chair.

He was dead.

John must have watched the color drain from his head, for he made his way over to where George was sitting and laid an uncertain hand on his shoulder.

“It’s all right,” he soothed, nothing mocking. Nothing to make a joke of. “Takes a minute.”

George suddenly remembered he’d been sick. It was feeding back into him, slowly, as if each thought trigged a new repressed memory. He’d been sick for some time now. Images of nurses and hospital and IV’s and the dread of going to “treatment” began to flood his mind, and he shuddered. He felt a stubborn powerlessness rise within him: yes, it had gotten progressively worse, but it was nothing the old chap couldn’t handle. He’d beat it once already. He’d been stabbed, for Chrissake.

How could this happen?

He thought of Olivia, and Dhani, and choked back a sob.

“I don’t want to be here,” he spluttered in a near-beg, his chest tightening in terror once more. “I can’t be here.”

John’s hand dropped to his side as he almost (almost) rolled his eyes. He held up an imaginary list with one hand, gesturing wildly at it with the other. “Join the queue of nearly every person ever.”

George felt a needle of annoyance shoot through the fear that was slightly ebbing away. He half-wondered if this was the acceptance people talked about in death: the strange inability to control your emotions, your body progressively growing used to the idea and the knowledge of your own helplessness.

“You could stand to be a bit more empathetic, you know. I’ve just died,” he reminded with sarcastic flair.

John smiled brightly at the twinge of normalcy in the expression.

The fear was almost entirely faded now, which struck a new worry in his mind. He couldn’t just surrender to this already—it would solidify it. Make it too true. But the more he thought about it, the more comfortable he became. Against his own will, George was growing in acceptance, knowing that he should be worried but unable to feel the pull of anxiety within him. In an exasperating tug-of-war, he fought between the poles of acknowledgement and fear, a vicious feedback loop that left him confused and exasperated.

Maybe curiosity didn’t mean surrender. Maybe he could test John for some of the millions of queries floating around in his head whilst still protesting the concept of his state.

John was staring at him with wonder, almost as if he was watching George’s mind work.

Here goes nothing.

George looked at him pointedly, raising the most pressing question in his mind. “Is this Heaven?”

John blinked, and George recognized the infamous John-trying-not-to-laugh-because-this-was-a-very-extremely-serious-situation expression rise to his face. “Yes, George. It is. Jokes on you, religion, because Heaven is just me, and you, in this room, and sometimes we play marbles or jack off.”

His face turned more serious at George’s scowl. He went for a Take 2, his voice much softer now. “No, actually,” he corrected, scratching his cheek. “I think it’s some sort of… Purgatory. Bardo.”

George’s chest felt odd. “Purgatory,” he repeated slowly.

“Purgatory.”

“I don’t understand.”

John clicked his tongue. “Again, love. The queue.”

“Purgatory,” George said again, softly, the words dripping with disbelief.

“The in-between,” John elaborated with a grandiose wave of a hand. “You die, you fuck around here for a bit, and if you’re lucky, you pass on.”

George couldn’t contain his curiosity. “To what?”

John’s features twisted into a strange expression. “I, erm… I don’t know.”

George’s face fell. Right. “Do you…” He began carefully, mulling over the taste of the words in his mouth and sussing out which were the least bitter. “Does time pass the same, then? Here?”

John shrugged indifferently. “You don’t notice it, really. There’s no days or nights—time is a construct, anyway. Haven’t thought about it since. There’s also no expectation, so no boredom. And sometimes I see old friends.” He finished with a signal in George’s direction.

George nodded, swallowing dryly. He doesn’t know.

How long it’s been.

John caught his eye, and George flicked his gaze away in an instant before he could catch on. But John was quick as a cat, just like in youth, and his mouth pressed into a firm line. “George?”

George shook his head.

“George?” His voice was strained now, his demeanor thrown by the unsettling responses. “How long has it been? In-in actual time.”

Wincing at the question he knew he’d elicited, George averted his eyes and spoke near incomprehensibly. “Twenty years.”

John looked dazed.

After a long beat of silence, he snorted dryly. There was nothing humorous in the sound. “Suppose they’re still tryin’ to figure out what to do with me, then.” He paused. “For Chrissake, I already apologized in ’66.”

Neither man laughed at the joke. It was quiet for a long time.

“So.” John interrupted the stretch of silence, rather loudly, startling him. He clapped his hands together. “How’s Rings?”

George felt strangely hollow at the mention of his best friend. “Good. Married again, not long after you—” He stopped himself, unable to finish the sentence. It was still hard to wrap his mind around, all these years later. Even now, that John was standing in front of him, chipper as the day they’d first met (more so, perhaps). Even now, that they were both… “After you.”

“Is he?” John looked surprised, curious. “What’s she like?”

“Name’s Barbara. Ritchie made a film in ’81 called Cavemanand they met on the set. He really loves her. Oh, she’s fantastic,” George asserted, wishing John could have been there, needing John to have been there.

“Watch it,” John warned, his voice light and teasing.

George scowled.

John pushed his shoulder playfully, and George slumped further into the chair, defeated. As John’s laughter died down, George looked up at him and watched in fascination as the man did a complete 180.

The smile melted from his face, and a chill fell over the room.

“I—m…” John cleared his throat, offering the ground a watery smile. “I miss Paul.”

George was suddenly standing knee-deep in the ocean. Nothing in the room was different besides the knowledge that the water on the floor was Pacific. John was there still, only further away now, feverishly blinking the tears away with that desolate smile on his face. Before George could call out to him, comfort him, he turned back towards the expansive sea only to be confronted with a fifty-foot wave.

The breath was knocked from his chest as the wave crashed down with full force, heart shattering on impact. He let out an involuntary gasp at the sudden rush of pain that washed over his chest and began to stumble backwards, tears burning in his eyes. There was no water, no wave, and he was still standing, dry as a bone, but the sensation was all the same. Panic began to rise in his throat, blinded by an incomprehensible catalogue of torment, longing, anger, desperation, heartache. Every excruciating emotion simultaneously wrecked his being, coupled with the strangely overpowering feeling of raw, unabashed love.

John caught his arm, quickly pulling him into a hug. George hadn’t realized that he was close again, and gripped him tightly for fear of having him drift away with the tides that were no longer there. Tears streamed down his face as John stroked soothingly at his hair, muttering sweet comforts and apologies over his head.

“I’m sorry, fuck, mate, I’m sorry,” he babbled, trying to squeeze away George’s trembling sobs. “It works like that here, sometimes. Christ, I’m sorry. It’s all right. You’re all right.”

George sniffed, feeling like a child as he pressed closer into his friend’s body. “Works like what?”

John tensed a bit, though George couldn’t understand why. He spoke slowly, sure but hesitant in his explanation. “Emotions. They’re… different. It’s sort of like all that Hare Krishna unity bullshit—” George wrinkled his nose. “—and whatnot, the whole ‘collective unconscious’.”

George frowned at the implication, taking a tentative step back. “You mean…”

“Feel each other’s emotions, you can,” John answered without missing a beat. He spoke plainly, as if he’d explained this away hundreds of times before. “But there’s a historical aspect, too, that part I don’t quite understand. It only happens sometimes.” His eyes lit up as his voice quieted, mumbling to himself more so than George. “Maybe they had to have been there at the time? ‘Cause of the thing with Elvis…?”

George looked up at him in shock, ignoring John’s musings. “That was you? All that?”

John offered him a lopsided smile.

George’s heart began to pound in wild misunderstanding. He’d always known, of course, that John and Paul had that “special connection” that whisked them away to an entirely different reality. He’d grown up an outsider, watching in on the world’s most famous duo and feeling just like anyone else, at times. His stomach felt queasy and slightly bitter at the thought that perhaps he hadn’t even known the half of it.

All that for Paul?

He suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to comfort John. John’s pain was gone now, replaced by only a dull ache, causing George to shudder at the idea of his mate going through that alone all those years ago.

“Paul’s… good,” he said, slightly unevenly. It felt like a good place to start.

John looked up at him quickly, his eyes both intrigued and desperate. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” George smiled. “He came to visit me. Not long…” His breath caught. “Not long before this.”

“I saw Linda,” John said quietly.

An image flashed in George’s mind of John in the very same room, sitting in a cushioned chair. In the vision, his eyes flicked up from the book in his hands, and he did a double-take, uncrossing his ankle from his knee and sitting up abruptly. Somehow, George knew that he was Linda, seeing John through her eyes. He—Linda—offered John a welcome, familial smile, and George noticed the portfolio of expressions on John’s face as the two radiated towards one another with emotions that George could not feel. And then—nothing.

In front of him now, John shifted uncomfortably, and George tried to get his bearings in the present once more. “She didn’t stay long.”

“It was hard,” George agreed, still trying to shake the vision. “She was the love of his life.”

John nodded, avoiding his eyes.

“He never stops talking about you.”

A beat. “I never stop thinking about him.”

Something passed between them. George wished he could go back in time and relive every Beatle moment together with this newfound information. Suddenly, as if they hadn’t before, things made sense: Paris, the LSD trips, India, the breakup. The songwriting feud. Yoko.

He understood now, that it was a complicated love that surpassed the boundaries of typical labels: no dating or marriageor sex, neither platonic nor romantic. There was a lust, but it was different than any other attraction George had experienced; it was motivated, driven by something much larger than himself. None of it was a means to an end—simply living, appreciating one another, taking it day by day until it imploded and rained down on them like a meteor shower, the disastrous aftermath of planned obsolescence. A love like that could never be.

George felt eager to change the subject.

“Have you seen lots of people passing through, then?” His gaze twitched away to offer the barest amount of privacy as John’s hand came up to quickly swipe a stray tear.

“Um, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “You’d never believe—Elvis was here, when I first got here, which was right thrilling. We talked about everything under the sun for who-knows-how-long, but he left too not long after.” He nodded. “Linda. Some lads from school. Real nice chap named Freddie. He and I made a song together, though I can’t remember it now. He was in that up-and-coming rock group, the one on the tail end of the Beatles.”

“Queen,” George corrected, fascinated.

“No, that’s not it. I wanna say… Oh, you know who was a pleasure?” John switched onto this entirely new track, never missing a beat. “I met some psychologist. Taught me all about these fab concepts like behaviorism and operant conditioning and all that. I’d heard about his book, but I hadn’t read it until I met him. Verbal Behavior, is what it was. Real smart guy.”

“Do you see everyone?”

John thought for a moment. “No, certainly not. People die every minute. I’d be dreadfully overwhelmed.”

George smiled. “That is true. Lucky I showed up here, then.”

John returned the grin, almost sadly. “Yes, but you won’t stay long.”

George felt the strangest urge to reach for John’s hand. He suppressed it. “I want to.”

John shook his head. “You’re a good person, George.”

There were a lot of things to say in response. You are too, Johnny. I’m not a good person. We’ve both done some shit. ‘Good person’ is an arbitrary term because we are not our actions, so it wouldn’t matter, even.But nothing felt quite equipped to rival the emptiness of John’s eyes, so he said nothing.

“What do I look like, Geo?” He asked suddenly, staring a hole in George’s head with newfound curiosity.

The question caught him off guard. “What do you mean?”

John waved a hand dismissively as if it were the most normal question in the world. “Come on now, what do I look like?”

George just blinked. “Like… John.”

With a roll of eyes, John reached out and twirled a finger around the tip of George’s mustache. “You’re all Pepper-like. What about me?”

It suddenly occurred to George that this was not how John always looked, and hadn’t been for nearly forty years. He shifted a bit, startled at the realization. “Oh! Erm—Hamburg. Like we’d just stepped out of Top Ten.”

John grinned and stepped back. “Fascinating, isn’t it? It’s always different. That one, I can’t figure out. I first realized when Freddie asked why I looked like ’74 instead of when I died. I couldn’t give him an answer, on account of I hadn’t even realized that fact.”

George laughed, though it wasn’t funny. There was a giddiness bubbling up in him, mirroring the excitement with which John talked. He felt so bizarrely thrilled that his fingers began to tingle, and he chuckled at that too. The feeling rivaled that of a limb falling asleep, and he mindlessly shook his hand to quiet the growing sensation.

John’s face immediately fell.

George’s stomach dropped at the sudden change of pace. “What?”

His eyes were shining when he spoke the plea to anything that would listen. “No, please,” he muttered, lip trembling. Shaking fingers reached out to grasp at George’s bicep. “Not—not yet, I’m not ready—”

George’s heart hammered in his chest, hardly able to hear himself speak over the blood rushing in his ears. The tingle had snaked its way up his forearms now, and a similar feeling started in his toes. “John, John, what is it? What’s going on?”

“George, please don’t go. Please. This isn’t—it’s not long enough, I need you, I need more time, Geo…” The words trailed off, and a tear fell from each eye as John pulled him into his arms as if that could keep George there. As if he could save them.

George slowly started to understand, swallowing the alarm at John’s frantic reaction. He was going to pass on, to leave John behind just like everyone else in his life. But this was a different kind of departure. It was not Julia’s absence, Mimi’s coldness, Paul’s Linda. It was not even Uncle George’s death, or Brian’s death, or even Julia’s death. At least, those times, he could find someone, something new to latch on to.

George would have felt pity for the man if not for the immense heartbreak, the indescribable pain of watching John come emotionally undone before him.

“It’s okay,” he soothed, blinking as a falling tear graced his own face. He felt oddly in control of the situation, despite seconds away from venturing into the greatest Unknown of all Unknowns. “Shh, John, it’s all right. Listen, we got to do this, didn’t we? We got to talk. And laugh. Just like old times, right?”

John’s voice broke. “I love you, Geo. Don’t go.”

They both knew it was a fruitless request.

George gripped him a bit harder in the embrace, feeling with hopeless acceptance as the tingling feeling reached his shoulders and began to pour down his back. He spoke the only thing that would come to mind.

“I’ll see you,” he whispered, a promise tainted by his own fearful tears slipping onto John’s shoulder.

John’s arms tightened around his waist. “I’ll see you,” he repeated.

#the beatles #beatles fanfiction #george harrison #john lennon #death tw #afterlife tw #purgatory/bardo setting #paul mccartney (mentioned)#ringo starr (mentioned)#elvis presley (mentioned)#freddie mercury (mentioned)#linda mccartney (mentioned)#yoko ono (mentioned)#bf skinner (mentioned)#this made me sad to write but i also love it

44 notes · View notes

fizzycherrycola · 3 years

Text

PrUK / FrUK Historical Fluff [PART 3]

As a gift from France, England receives a pair of tickets to a spectacular exhibition in Paris. He decides to bring Canada along to the event and they explore the wonderous inventions amidst the backdrop of the Industrial Revolution.

Click Here to Read from the Beginning

Industry and Grandeur - Chapter 3

People clamour and jostle in the queue, bumping shoulders with England as he and Canada wait to be admitted. They slowly make their way to the front of the line, and upon reaching the entrance, a skinny gentleman with an exceptional moustache stamps their tickets.

“Bienvenue Monsieur,” he says as he formally waves them inside.

Stepping forward quickly, England slips free from the crowd and enters through the main doorway. He wipes his shoes on the entry carpet and grumbles at the new scuff marks on his left toe. Dignitaries and businessmen are not inclined to have much patience, it would seem.

“This is amazing!” Canada exclaims.

Lifting his eyes, England is greeted by an enormous bronze statue of a woman. The titan stands proudly with a great, billowing dress and points her arm up towards the hall’s lofty ceiling. Glistening overhead windows allow natural light to bathe the vast expanse of exhibits and adornments. Clusters of various gadgets scatter the gallery floor, from hulking engines to miniature precision instruments. Larger industrial machines the size of cottages lurk in the distance alongside decorative palms and more statues. On the walls hang swords and colourful tapestries; the products of blacksmiths and fabric spinners advertising their craftsmanship.

Echoing down the long passageway are the footsteps of attendants who scurry about their booths adjusting labels and signage while the first guests trickle in.

For it all, England can only marvel in astonishment.

Merely decades ago, France was in a disastrous state - pale and bruised from the Revolutions and Napoleon’s wars. At every turn, he was bleeding funds and falling into debt just to keep his starving citizens from dying. His cities were haunted by barricades and burned buildings; Paris itself felt weary in its dilapidated form.

Looking at the brilliance and grandeur of the hall, England can find no trace of those wretched trials. Set before him is the work of not years, but centuries. Such is the power of industry.

“He’s come quite a long way,” England murmurs. His gaze drifts to the prominent tricolore flags hanging on cantilever poles. Their vivid blue, white, and red hues glow with strength.

“Did you say something?” Canada asks.

England blinks and then shakes his head. “No, it’s nothing.” Blast it. That makes the second time today he has been caught off-guard on French soil. He pats Canada on the shoulder. “Which exhibit would you like to see first? You can lead the way.”

“Oh! I’m not sure - there are so many choices!” Canada glances around the immediate area before shrugging. “How about we start walking and see where we end up?”

“Excellent call,” England says. He gestures to the exhibits and they head forward, past the bronze woman and down the great hallway.

Wool spinners, paper makers, and timepieces eventually give way to glassware, porcelain, and crystal displays - and then again to billiard tables and musical instruments. Canada leads their tour, points enthusiastically at whatever catches his eye, and asks endless questions.

“What’s an arithmometer? Where did they get all this crystal? Are swords still used today? That machine over there, how does it work?”

With England’s personal knowledge, he can answer about half of the questions. For the rest, he can only smile and shake his head. At one moment, Canada apologizes and wonders aloud if he is being overly zealous, which England vehemently denies. It is a rare gift to witness his ward gushing. England soaks in Canada’s infectious energy and allows himself to be guided along.

They come to a stop when the young colony drifts to a particular display.

“These paintings are so tiny,” he remarks. “I wonder how they were made?”

The wooden wall before them is covered in miniature picture frames, each one no bigger than a tea kettle. Peculiarly, the paintings within them are dull greyscale and not the vibrant coloured pieces one would expect at an exposition. A camera obscura sits among the works of art; humble and inconspicuous on its pedestal.

Getting closer, England squints at one of the pictures: a portrait of a curly-haired businessman. His wrinkles and fabric are exquisitely real. The stranger’s appearance is so life-like, he could be mistaken for actually being a very small grey man trapped within the picture box.

“I don’t think these are paintings,” England mutters. “What do you mean?” Canada asks, following his gaze.

“Here, look.” England points at the tiny gentleman, but is careful not to touch the image. “With paintings so small, it would be easy to see dollops of paint or brushstrokes, but these images are completely smooth. Charcoal is unsuited to this level of detail, and pens do not allow for this sort of gradual shading.” He steps back from the picture and turns to his ward. “I think these are Daguerreotypes.”

Canada’s face screws up in confusion. “Daguer--Daguerreotypes?”

“Yes, I’ve read about them. They’re quite rare.” England taps his thumb to his chin. If the pictures are Daguerreotypes, that would certainly explain the camera obscura on display. “From what I understand, the image is fixed permanently onto a plate by the agency of light alone. No ink or paint is required at all.”

“But how?” “Ah... unfortunately, I’m not too familiar with the process,” England admits. What a pity. He probably should know, since this new technology is often discussed in London.

“Excuse me,” says a young voice behind them. “If you would like, I can explain it to you.”

England and Canada both turn to see a bright-eyed little boy standing near them. He appears to be about nine years old and looks well put-together. His pale hair, lighter than even Canada’s, is trimmed short, as though he received a haircut just for this exposition. His fancy brown suit is clean and unmarked with the dirt or grass stains common with children, regardless of their class.

England addresses the youngster first. “Goodness,” he says, “can you really describe how these pictures are made?”

Unshy, the boy nods. “Yes, sir.”

England smiles. “In that case, we’d be delighted. Go right ahead.”

The child clears his throat. “The most important component,” he states, “is the plate that the image will be developed on. First, the silver side of the plate has to be polished to a nearly perfect mirror-finish. Then in darkness, the surface is exposed to iodine fumes by using iodine crystals at room temperature. This produces a coating of silver iodide that will....”

On and on he goes, confidently speaking while traces of a German accent slip into his speech here and there. England’s eyes widen with each new scientific term added to the lecture. It’s evident that the lad’s vocabulary is far beyond his age, which is already impressive in and of itself, but doubly so if English is his second language. Perhaps he will grow up to become one of history’s great minds, like Louis Daguerre himself.

“...That is how Daguerreotypes are made,” the boy finishes.

Immediately, Canada applauds him. “Wow! That was amazing! How do you know so much? Did your mother and father set up this exhibit?”

The little prodigy shakes his head. “No, I just like new technologies. They are interesting to me.”

“You’re a very knowledgeable young man,” England praises.

“Danke schön,” their lecturer murmurs. “I mean, thank you very much.” He fidgets with his fingers and stares at the floor; the first sign of shyness he has shown them.

Canada leans down and offers a hand. “My name is Matthew. What’s yours?”

After slight hesitation, the boy reaches out and they shake. “My name is Ludwig,” he says. “It is nice to meet you.”

~~~

Author’s Notes

The Exposition of 1844 had many things on display - too much for me to explore in this story! Other notable items included a steam locomotive and an arithmometer (the early version of a calculator).

There were many bronze statues, too. The one I described is meant to be Marianne, but please take that with a grain of salt. I couldn’t confirm if there was a statue of her specifically, so I fudged it for a bit of emotional impact.

France’s tricolour (tricolore) flag is derived from the red, white, and blue cockades worn during the French Revolution. After Napoleon’s defeat, it was replaced with a white, pre-revolutionary naval flag. However, King Louis Philippe I restored it in 1830 and it has remained France's national flag ever since.

Daguerreotypes were the first publicly available photographic process invented by a man called Louis Daguerre. They were black-and-white pictures made on silver plates. The portraits at the 1844 Exposition were done by Jean-Baptiste Sabatier-Blot and the “little grey man” England sees is an actual photo that Jean-Baptiste took of Mr. Daguerre.

Ludwig is fairly young in this story. The German Empire, which united Prussia and the Germanic states, was not formed until 1871.

< Previous Chapter ... Next Chapter >

#fruk #hetalia #aph england #aph canada #aph germany #aph france #hetalia fanfiction #my writing

19 notes · View notes

sxfterhearts · 4 years

Text

18. [9:15 am]

The intimidating growl of thunder caused a shiver to run up your spine, just as a blinding streak of white flashed through the grey sky. You watched helplessly as tiny droplets of rain propelled towards the ground, pulling your hood over your head to shelter you from Mother Nature’s gift, or in your case, curse, to the earth.

It was early on a particularly cloudy Saturday morning. You managed to get yourself out of the comforts of your bed and onto the streets of the nearby shopping district, all in the hopes of getting your hands on a tray of cream puffs.

The bakery that you were currently standing outside of was well-known for their delectable pastries, which explained the long queue that extended far beyond the bakery’s glass doors. Your boss treated you and your colleagues to their signature cream puffs and egg tarts last month after signing on a new client, and you were hooked on them ever since. You began your quest to taste these delicacies again but alas, to no avail, as you often worked long hours and loved sleeping in on the weekends. Every time you entered the bakery, their cream puffs were sold out.

This Saturday was an exception. A few nights ago at Jackson’s house party, your tipsy self made a commitment to meet up with a certain mutual friend of yours over breakfast. You had little to no recollection of the nights’ events as your memory always got a little hazy after one too many drinks, but Jackson reassured you that this Jaebeom guy was quite a catch, and exactly your type too.

You laughed internally at that while shuffling forwards towards the entrance as another customer was served. Jackson had been trying to set you up with his friends for the longest time, but things never really worked out well. Either Jackson was really bad at playing the role of cupid, or his friends were just completely incompatible with you.

As your feet brought you closer and closer to your own personal heaven, the sweet, delightful scent of baked goods and pastries drifted into your nostrils. Your mouth watered, and you decided that it was definitely worth waiting in the rain for these goodies. Speaking of the rain, it seemed as though Mother Nature was determined to unleash her grievances upon the helpless humans of the city. The rain, aided by strong winds, battered down onto your already-soaked body with more ferocity, rendering the little shelter you found from the bakery’s canopy useless.

Just as you were blaming yourself for forgetting to check the weather app before leaving the house, you felt the rain stop. This was odd because all around you, rainwater splashed against the wet surfaces of pavement and roads. Looking up, you spotted an umbrella over your head.

“Are you okay?” Came an unfamiliar, deep voice from behind you. You turned around to face its owner and was met with a bright, charming smile. “It’s Y/N, right? I’m Jaebeom. I saw you across the road from my store.”

You were stunned, to say the least. When Jackson tried to convince you about Jaebeom, you had never in your wildest dreams imagined him to look like this. His hair was swept off his forehead and styled up effortlessly, seemingly unaffected by the weather, and his entire outfit was black – black t-shirt under a black leather jacket and black ripped jeans. He exuded an air of masculinity.

To top it all off, he was sporting multiple piercings on the entire expanse of his two ears, and a piercing on his lower lip. His piercings brought back memories of that night – you remembered how the boy you were trying to hold an intelligent conversation about music with was constantly distracting you with the shiny jewels on his ears and the metallic sparkle of the silver ring around his lower lip. You remembered now, he practically glowed.

Jaebeom cleared his throat, trying his best to disperse the air of awkwardness brought about by your long silence as your mind raced to process the situation at hand. “Here, drink this. You’ll feel better, you must be cold.” He placed a takeaway cup in your hands, giving you an encouraging smile. From the close proximity of your bodies, you managed to discover twin moles right under his left eyebrow. How cute.

“Jaebeom, hi!” You tried your best to sound normal and not humiliate yourself any further in front of this good-looking man. “What’s this?” You asked, indicating to the cup warming you wet and cold hands.

A hand came up to rub the back of his neck in slight embarrassment. “Jackson told me you’re a coffee addict. Cappuccino, two sugars, and extra chocolate powder, am I right?”

You were impressed. Taking a sip, you pretended to mull over the coffee he ordered for you. “That is my usual order, but it seems like they forgot to add more chocolate to it.”

“Really? We could go back to the café and ask for another-”

Your lips tugged into a mischievous smile at his flustered response. “I’m just messing with you, Jaebeom. It’s the best coffee I’ve tasted since the machine in our office broke down. Thank you, honestly.” You told him, voice laced in sincerity. “How did you find me here? We weren’t supposed to meet for another half an hour or so.”

“Well, I couldn’t let you stand in the rain alone, without an umbrella. You’ll catch a cold soon if you don’t change out of your wet clothes.” Jaebeom nagged, giving your wet hoodie a distasteful look. “I actually work at the tattoo and piercing store across the road, and I recognised your pink Adidas superstars when I was opening up. I went to buy your coffee before heading over here with the umbrella, I hope you didn’t mind waiting for so long.”

At this point you were literally swooning at the guy standing before you. He had excellent taste in fashion, cool piercings and great manners. Jackson really wasn’t lying this time. “No, not at all! It’s a miracle that you appeared at all; I was about to get completely soaked by the rain. Thank you, again, really.”

Jaebeom placed a hand on your shoulder instead of replying and urged you gently forwards as the line shortened. You found yourself enjoying the warm comfort of his skin on yours. “Why don’t we get the pastries and head over to my store? I’ve got a heater in the back office and a record player. I know we initially planned on eating breakfast by the pond at the city park, but I think it’s best if we stay indoors.”

You nodded eagerly, excited by the prospect of visiting his workplace and listening to records. From the bits and pieces of your memory, you recollected that Jaebeom was a music major and had experience being a radio DJ. You were elated at this common interest, being an avid music lover yourself. Your dad owned a record player and you hadn’t seen or touched one since moving away. “Sounds like a great idea.”

Later that morning, as the two of you were in Jaebeom’s back office, safe from the rain, you couldn’t help but to think that the cream puff you were savouring tasted sweeter and more delicious than before. Perhaps this was because of Jaebeom, who was flipping through his extensive LP collection to choose which cheesy love song to play next, while munching on a bite of egg tart you fed him. You tugged at the ends of the long sleeves of Jaebeom’s hoodie, which he insisted you changed into, to cover your hands, giving yourself an adorable case of sweater paws. Your insides felt warm and cosy. Something told you that today was the start of something special with this boy.

150 notes · View notes

helplesslyinlovewithcharacters · 4 years

Text

Lover - Alfie Solomons x Reader

Summary: One precisely placed word and some not so gentle persuasion from Tommy changes everything. (Modern au) (University au)

Pairing: Alfie Solomons x Female Reader

It was a joke. A mocking comment to make Tommy smirk and Alfie blush.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about it. The implications, the husk she breathed into her voice, the gentle warmth in her eyes.

The scruff he hadn’t committed to shaving hid the worst of the reddened skin. (Y/n)’s eyes lingered, a silent questioning, but flushed skin could be blamed on any number of things: the rum he’d been nursing for the last hour, the crowded pub, the turn of her lips at Tommy’s heavy deadpan.

“C’mon (y/n), there must be someone”

Tommy was insistent. Alfie wished he would drop it.

“Must there? I don’t like this line of questioning, Tommy, you’re digging for something”

He held up his hands in surrender, eyeing his drained pint. “Just the curiosity of a friend. Will you forgive the prying if I buy the next round?”

“Absolutely” (Y/n) slid her empty glass towards him, her eyes catching Alfie’s before he had chance to look away. “Besides, I told you, Alfie is my lover”

Tommy only laughed, already slipping through the crowd with three glasses balanced precariously in his hands. Not quite ready to face her again, Alfie kept his eyes on the other patrons of the pub, unsurprised by the size of the crowd given that it was a Saturday and they were nearing the end of term.

“He’s gonna be fucking ages. Look at that queue–“

“–You’re blushing again” Alfie scoffed, rough nails scratching the nape of his neck. The marred table surface lent itself to distraction, the interlacing rings of condensation drawing his eyes across the table. “Alfie”

“What?”

His voice remained soft, nails now pressing persistently into his palms. Perhaps the carpet was a more viable option, decorated in a ghastly pattern that attempted to conceal the stains inevitable in a student pub.

“Why are you blushing and why aren’t you looking at me?”

So bloody persistent.

“The carpet is very interesting, and I’ve had too much to drink”

Stupid reasoning but he needed to buy himself time, distract her enough to steer her away from the dangerous territory they were hurtling towards.

“That carpet is a health hazard and you’ve had one rum and coke”

“Maybe I’m a lightweight” A brief glance up was enough to send him gasping, her brow furrowed so sternly, prettily.

“I’ve personally witnessed you make your way through an entire liquor cabinet in the space of three hours. You are not a lightweight”

Involuntarily, he smiled, the memory too fond to prompt any other reaction. Carefully, he held her gaze, re-establishing some agency as the softness was forced from his voice.

“Just drop it, yeah”

Her eyes remained light, playful, as she furrowed her brow.

“Just answer the question”

“It was two questions” Alfie reached for a drink that was no longer there, desperate for the distraction. The peeling coaster bore the brunt of his agitation.

“Alfie”

“Leave it” There was no looking at her now. It would give the whole game away. God, he was fucked.

“Please”

Shit. A pry whispered so prettily it sounded like a plea. Alfie would give her his life if she asked for it. Perhaps he already had.

Fuck.

“You can’t call me that, alright.” The words crushed his ribs, threatened an already fragile heart. “You just can’t. It fucks with my head. And it's especially cruel for you, because you fucking know. You’ve always fucking known”

The chatter of the pub attempted to fill the void between them. Alfie had ripped clean through the coaster. He winced, slipping it under a pile of napkins.

“Alfie … I” His palms were clammy and irritated red with half-moons. And Tommy praised him for his nerves of steel. Bullshit. He could almost have laughed.

(Y/n) reached for his hand, eyes concerned. Too late, he tried to retract his hand from the table, but her fingers curled gently around his wrist and Alfie let her hold him in place as she inspected his palm, gentle pressure stretching out his fingers. She hissed through her teeth. Careful, cautious, her fingertips traced across the expanse of his palm.

Alfie shivered. So distracted by her touch, he almost missed her words.

“I didn’t always know. Tommy hit me over the head with it last week. I was just … testing the waters”

“You were playing with me” Vulnerable, he attempted to snatch his hand back. Away from her warmth. “You’re still playing with me”

It was a weak plea, given that he didn’t try to move any further. Finally, (y/n) caught his gaze.

“Stop it. I’m not playing. I’m scared and I didn’t want to throw myself at you based on Tommy’s word alone. You of all people know what he’s like”

Tired eyes softened with a huff of laughter. It still wasn’t quite enough. Alfie needed more.

“Why now?”

Fingertips paused in their careful exploration. For the first time, he watched sorrow creep into her irises. Regret.

“Well, before Michael I wanted to ask but–“

“Before Michael?”

Jesus.

“Yeah … you’re not the only one good at harbouring affection” (Y/n) laughed quietly, head shaking in disbelief. Regretfully, she settled back in the booth, slipping from his grasp. “But you never did anything” Alfie winced, eyes drifting closed as he exhaled heavily through worry worn lips. “And then Michael came along and suddenly a year had passed until … well, you know the story”

“He’s an arsehole”

“Precisely”

Their shared laughter eased something in his chest, her reassurances settling heavily, comfortably. Unwilling to let another year pass and another love replace his own, Alfie fought for the confidence he could perform for everyone except her.

“So … harbouring affection, yeah?”

Raising his eyebrows playfully, he allowed the first of many smiles. Gentle, loving, and completely enraptured.

“Oh, piss off” Her laughter was winded. Alfie longed for the rich sound he’d fallen for.

“Just testing the waters, lover”

There it was. Rich and uneven and enthralling.

“You twat”

She retreated into the confines of the booth, but there was an invitation, one Alfie gladly accepted as he leant on the table.

“What? I love it when you call me lover” He winked, delighted in her exasperated smile as she shook her head in a poor attempt to discourage him. “C’mon, humour me. What works for you? Love?”

“You already call me that”

“Yeah, well, harboured affection can only be concealed so much” Shy fingers twisted into his ruffled hair, nerves rising again. Alfie couldn’t stop the game, not now, not when she was looking at him like that. “Honey? Baby? Sweetheart?”

Warmth sparked in her eyes, burning deeper than before. Alfie gulped.

“Sweetheart and love”

“Oh, don’t get greedy now, sweetheart”

Maybe he let his voice simmer a little lower, cockney grow a little more accentuated. Maybe he liked the response it prompted, her teeth sinking into that bottom lip. Unbeaten and too stubborn to be bested, she levelled him with an even grin.

“Alright, lover, any other pet names?”

He should’ve waited longer to say it.

“Alfie”

(Y/n)’s brow puzzled, lips turning with a confused grin. “… that’s your name”

“Yeah, well, I like the way you say it. It's softer than the way Tommy and Ollie say it, innit” A huff of laughter was chocked with affection. Alfie felt his cheeks flush. “What?”

“Kiss me”

He spluttered; gaze suddenly lost in the bloody carpet again.

“What?”

“Kiss me, Solomons”

Pushing onto his elbows, Alfie easily cleared the distance of the narrow table. It was the last centimetre that proved the hardest. (Y/n)’s eyes fluttered shut, her warm breath sending a shudder down his spine. His hand cradled her jaw, thumb brushing her cheekbone. Jesus. Unable to rush himself, Alfie pressed a whisper of a kiss to her lips, wanting and desperate. Enough to prompt her to chase after him, fingers secure in his hair as she held him close, moved with him and stole the breath from his lungs.

#alfie solomons x reader #alfie solomons one shot #alfie solomons imagine #alfie x reader #alfie solomons #peaky blinders

196 notes · View notes

azvolrien · 3 years

Text

Gryphon Beach Party

I’m not even going to pretend that this has much of a plot; it’s more of a slice-of-life thing, winding up characters and letting them bounce off each other, with a fair helping of worldbuilding. It also ended up quite a bit longer than I’d intended when I started, but I was having fun.

In the spring of Asta’s second year living in Stormhaven, she decides to attend an important cultural festival and makes a new friend into the bargain. What Happens Next Will Shock You! (no it won’t)

---

There had only been one to start with, but as the afternoon went on more and more had joined the parade until a whole flock of young gryphons hurtled around the College, all screaming something over and over at the top of their collective voice.

Asta attempted to tune it out. “So, remind me how many of the day students have decided to start boarding?”

Matron Inkfoot sat up on her haunches and double-checked her clipboard. “Seven first-year apprentices, four second-years, and one third-year.”

“A third-year? It doesn’t usually take them that long to decide.”

“It is out of the ordinary,” said Inkfoot, nodding, “but Ffion Howell’s family are moving out of the city in a month, so she’ll have to start boarding on a full-term basis. The others will be week boarders.”

“Right.” Asta scribbled the details in her notebook. “Will the dormitories require any reshuffling to make room for them?”

“No, there are enough free beds,” said Inkfoot. “The actual floor space is running somewhat low, but the new dorm annexe should be ready by the end of the summer before the next batch of first-years arrive.” She hung her clipboard from one of her harness straps and dropped back to all fours.

“Good, that ought to simplify things,” said Asta just as the bell rang to signal the end of the day’s last lessons. “I’ll amend the apprentice records in the admin office and see to it that the kitchen staff know how many breakfasts and dinners they’ll need to account for. And then…” The chorus of gryphons outside had fallen silent at the bell, but as soon as its echoes faded they took up their cry even louder than before. “…And then I give up. What are they chanting out there?”

Matron Inkfoot cocked her head, angling her ears to listen properly. The tip of her tail flicked to and fro in amusement. “Arakhasthan,” she said, making the kh and the sth into a resonant click in her throat and a sort of roughened hiss from the sides of her beak.

Asta rolled the word over in her mind a few times. “I don’t think I have any hope of pronouncing that properly,” she admitted. “What does it mean? I assume it’s Gryphic, but…”

“No, humans always have trouble with Gryphic,” said Inkfoot. “You just don’t have the right vocal structures. It’s why our names are usually in Imperial. Arakhasthan means something like ‘time of new feathers’.”

“Oh, the New Feather Festival?” said Asta. “Tigerhide mentioned something about it earlier but I didn’t know what she meant.”

Inkfoot nodded and half-spread her wings to display her glossy new flight feathers, each one a deep gold-brown tipped with black and almost five feet long. “It’s when we celebrate the end of the spring moult, when everyone loses their winter plumage and gets their summer coat instead.”

“I did notice the gryphons were all looking a bit, um…”

“Scruffy?” suggested Inkfoot, her tail-tuft twitching again.

“I was going to say ‘unkempt’,” said Asta, “but it didn’t seem polite to comment.”

Inkfoot made a soft clicking sound in her throat – the gryphon equivalent of a light chuckle – before she cocked her head in the other direction and her crest-feathers raised slightly in a curious ‘frown’. “Were you not here for last year’s festival? I know you came to Stormhaven that Hawk Moon. Sirakithi, in the Kiraani calendar.”

Asta stared into space for a few seconds, counting the months backwards on the joints of her fingers. “I was living in Stormhaven by then, yes, but I was on a trip up to Northold around this time of year.”

“That explains it, then. There aren’t as many gryphons up north – they don’t make such a big fuss about Feather Fest. Do you think you’ll come this year?”

Asta blinked and drew herself up a little. “I – well. Is it allowed? I’m not exactly…”

“A gryphon?” said Inkfoot with another flick of her tail-tuft. “Or from Stormhaven?”

“Well, both, I suppose, but I meant being human.”

“No, no, plenty of humans come to the festival,” Inkfoot assured her. “There are some parties in the city – you might’ve spotted bundles of shed feathers hanging from lampposts and so on – but the big get-together will be on Aberystrad Beach tomorrow. Quite a lot of the wizards like to attend; I’ll be shepherding a few apprentices myself.”

Asta gave it a few seconds’ thought. “I… need to get this up to the admin office,” she said, holding up her notebook. “But after that… I suppose it might be nice to get out of the city for a few hours.”

She was far from the only person to have made that decision. The next day was perfect weather for a festival – clear skies and a light breeze off the sea, with the warmth of late spring before the oppressive heat of high summer properly rolled in from the south – and there were so many people trying to leave Stormhaven that there was a queue for the north road. Asta drummed her fingers on Pardus’s saddle-pommel as she waited her turn to pass through the Soldier Gate. Stormhaven’s city walls were not as substantial as Kiraan’s old fortifications, now long overtaken by urban sprawl and only encircling a small area around the Emperor’s palace, but they were still more than twenty feet tall, five feet thick at the base, and a more than adequate barrier to everyday passage; while there were smaller gates for pedestrians around the walls, each of the main ones was only wide enough for two lanes of traffic. There were no checks, however, and the guards waved Asta through without delay. Outside the wall, she tapped Pardus in the ribs with her heels and spurred the construct into a brisk trot. Even past the gates, the road was busy with a steady stream of carts, carriages, pedestrians and beasts of burden both natural and constructed, but the pace soon picked up and as the city fell behind, the road widened until Pardus could overtake the slower traffic and accelerate to a flat-out gallop.

Aberystrad Beach was a few miles north of the city, but Pardus at full tilt ate up the distance in less than a quarter of an hour, easily keeping pace with the cloud of gryphons soaring above and outstripping many of them. The well-signposted turnoff soon came into sight up ahead, and Asta tugged on the reins to steer Pardus down the narrower, more winding side-road to the beach. Rolling dunes covered with wiry marram grass rose up to either side until the paving was completely engulfed; only the trail of footprints and wheel-marks through the soft, dry sand gave any sign it should be there. The sand slid under Pardus’s paws as the construct slowed to a walk and crested the last dune before the beach.

After five years in the Sea Lochs and more than one in Stormhaven, Asta sometimes felt she was used to the sight of the Western Ocean, but she seldom had a view with no buildings or hills in the way. Out here, beyond the city walls and on top of the dunes above the beach, there was nothing to obstruct the view, and for a long while she forgot to do anything but stare. There was a chain of islands out there somewhere, she knew, but they were far enough from the coast that even on such a clear day there was no sign of them. A single ship – three masts, so not Captain Steel’s Curlew – was under full sail a couple of miles offshore, bound for the north, but otherwise only a few white dots of seabirds and the shadow of the odd small cloud broke up that vast expanse of blue-grey-green stretching to three horizons.

Below the mottled green-yellow of the dunes and with the tide well out, the beach was a long, broad sweep of white sand split in two by the River Ystrad, its broad, looping channel shallow enough to easily wade through. Above the river, a natural outcrop of some rock hard enough to withstand the sea had been carved into a huge statue of a gryphon – more than twice the height of the city walls – sitting up and gazing out to the west. Years of wind and waves had worn its front claws smooth, leaving only vague shapes to show the sculptor’s intent, but its head with its alert stare, fierce hooked beak and pointed ears could have been carved yesterday and the detailing of the feathers on its half-folded wings was still clear even from a casual glance. A few of its flesh-and-blood cousins perched atop its head and on ledges at its shoulders and haunches, but far more had staked out little campsites along the sand below.

There was no shortage of humans as Inkfoot had said, but if the gryphons did not truly outnumber them, the numbers were as close to equal as Asta had ever seen; hundreds of gryphons had set up colourful blankets and sunshades all along the beach, lounging on the warm sand, while others queued at food stalls just below the dunes where scents of cooking meat billowed up from fire pits dug into the sand. Still more gryphons circled above, soaring effortlessly as they caught rising thermals beneath their wings. A small group was hard at work down the beach attempting to erect two thin poles almost as tall as the huge sculpture, perhaps markers for a game of some sort. Snatches of music and voices raised in song – enthusiastic if not always tuneful – drifted on the air. And yet, for all the bustle of the festival, the beach was big enough that it did not feel crowded, and when Asta rode down from the dune she easily found a free space for herself and Pardus beside one of the statue’s hind feet. She climbed down from the saddle, laid her travel rug out on the sand, and had Pardus lie down for a backrest before she unpacked her picnic from the saddlebags. There was no one she recognised in sight – or at least, no one she dared to approach unasked – so instead she sat back against Pardus’s flank to drink her tea and watch the goings-on.

A few of the airborne gryphons had stopped their lazy circling and, while the others drew back to fly in a vast ring around them, launched into some kind of aerial performance, twisting into loops and rolls and locking talons to fling one another across the sky. Some had clipped brightly-patterned streamers to their feathers while others trailed strings of polished metal discs from their legs and their tails, turning the whole display into a riot of colour and light to shrieks of approval from the audience. A band struck up on a stage below – two gryphons with a harp and a set of drums, and three humans with flute, guitar and fiddle – but it wasn’t clear if they were setting a beat for the flyers above or just playing along with them. A crowd quickly gathered around the stage to dance along.

Between the cheering, the music and the thunder of wings it was absolutely deafening, and the Asta of two years ago would have been terrified – not just of the general uproar but of the gryphons themselves, of their talons like grappling hooks and their beaks that could shear through bone – but now, after the journey south with Steel, Pirate and their crew and then months of living in Stormhaven and working with Inkfoot and the College messengers, it was no more threatening than any other festival. The gryphons may have been huge carnivores who showed more expression in their feathers than their faces, but they were people as much as any human or elf.

Asta had just finished her first cup of tea when one young man peeled off from the crowd around the stage and trotted over to her, almost tripping over a trio of small, fluffy gryphon chicks who were making a determined effort to bury an older male up to his neck in sand.

“Want to dance?” he asked, holding out one hand with a cheerful grin. Asta glanced up from her mug, and something in her throat and her stomach came to a juddering halt. Fair skin, dark hair, incredibly blue eyes – not Daro, of course not him, that wasn’t fair on this innocent stranger, but-

“That’s very kind of you,” Asta stammered once her voice would obey her. “But I- I think I’m fine where I am for now.”

“Are you sure? You could-”

A shadow fell over both of them. “The lady gave you her answer,” said a new voice, this one a deep, gravelly rasp. The young man swallowed, nodded, and retreated back to his friends on the makeshift dancefloor.

Asta shaded her eyes and squinted up at the gryphon who had just landed on the statue’s foot. “He meant no harm,” he said. “He’s a good lad; son of an old friend from the army. But I like to see a ‘no’ is respected. Mind if I sit?” Asta shook her head and he hopped down onto the sand at Pardus’s tail, clutching a leg of meat in his claws. His feathers were an unassuming dark tawny colour with off-white barring on his wings, and like many gryphons he wore a harness around his chest. However, where most of the harnesses Asta had seen were made of leather and often decorated with carvings and medallions, this one was sternly utilitarian – all tough, heavy canvas dyed a dull grey-green – and its only decoration was an old rank insignia pinned to one shoulder-strap. Even without it and his comment about the army she would have thought him an ex-military sort: he had clearly and literally been in the wars, for half of his tail, one ear and a toe on his left foreclaw were all missing, and various odd ridges and discoloured patches in his feathers suggested more scarring beneath them.

As she watched – surreptitiously, from the corner of her eye – he took a waxed cloth from one of the satchels on his harness, spread it on the sand, and carefully laid the haunch on top before he pinned it in place with his talons and began to tear away strips of meat with the tip of his beak. The outside had been seared brown over one of the fire pits, but the inside was so rare it was almost still bleeding.

“What is that?” asked Asta. “Beef?”

“Horse,” he said with his mouth full, and flicked his head back to tip the flesh down his throat. “Want some?”

“I… Wh… No, I brought my own food. But thank you for offering.”

He gave a little shrug with his wings as if to say your loss and returned his attention to his meal. “Kiraani, are you?” he asked once he had stripped it to the bone. Asta nodded, and he lowered his head to the sand to scrub away the juices crusting on his beak. “Thought so. Last time I was in arm’s reach of one of your lot was during the war.”

“Um.”

He clattered a laugh in the back of his throat. “I won’t hold it against you. Bravest soldier I ever met was an Imperial scout I ran into in the Darkwald. Fought like a tiger, he did – not many humans’ll square up to a full-grown gryphon with just a knife to hand, but he left quite the mark. Would’ve liked to know him better, if we’d met under different circumstances.”

“Is that what happened to, um…” Asta nodded towards his missing toe.

“Ayah. What happened to this, too.” He turned to look at her squarely, and she narrowly stifled her horrified recoil down to a twitch. The same wound that had taken his ear had carved a huge gnarled scar down that side of his face, leaving a deep notch in the bony ridge above the empty eye socket and twisting the corner of his beak into a permanent grimace. He laughed again, waving what remained of his tail from side to side, and lifted a talon to his intact brow ridge in an informal salute. “Flight Captain Redbolt, lately of the Second Assault Wing.”

Asta smiled despite herself. “Asta zeDamar, still working at the College of Sorcery’s admin office.”

“Ah, the College? You’d know Inkfoot, then.”

“Oh, yes, we often work together to sort out one thing or another.”

Redbolt gave a little sigh and looked up at a small, wispy white cloud high above. “Had quite a crush on her when we were both younger, but she was never interested. Wanted to focus on looking after the little wizards.”

“They do take a lot of looking after.”

“Talking of schools,” said Redbolt, “here’s something I’ve wondered for a while. I know how we remember the Darkwald War. How’s it taught in Kiraan?”

“Well, there’s a certain degree of embarrassment there,” admitted Asta. “As if a lot of the people writing textbooks aren’t really sure how the army of a nation as small as Stormhaven faced down the Legions and won.”

“I’m not sure ‘won’ is the right word. Felt more like everyone just got tired and stopped.”

Asta nodded acknowledgement of the point. “But otherwise it’s a lot more honest and even-handed than you might expect, both about how it started and ended and everything in between. The main focus from a tactical standpoint tends to be on the wizards and the gryphons – though you can tell in some of the older books that they hadn’t quite wrapped their heads around you being people rather than just well-trained animals.”

“In the end, are we not all just well-trained animals?” said Redbolt with such exaggerated soulfulness that Asta snorted with laughter. “You know, the books – ours and yours – always gloss over how boring it was most of the time. Lots of long stretches of just sitting around waiting for something to happen, with the odd quick burst of-” he paused for an instant, glanced at her, and obviously changed what he had been about to say, “-heart-stopping terror.”

“The Voynazhi priesthood don’t really like to focus on that part for some reason,” said Asta drily.

Redbolt chuckled. “Me, I always wonder how many priests of Voynazh have actually seen battle.”

“And how many would find another vocation if they did.” Asta looked down at her hands for a moment and asked, more quietly and with some hesitation, “Have you ever met a berserker?”

“One or two over the years. One or two.” Redbolt opened his beak in a gaping yawn and scratched under his jaw with a talon. “Deadly fighters, but they don’t make good soldiers. Don’t work well in a team; can’t hold a formation. What makes you ask?”

“I… used to be a slave,” said Asta. Redbolt cocked his head slightly but offered no comment. “Up in the Sea Lochs. I escaped, but before I made it down to Stormhaven I… I lived with this woman for a few weeks. Roan.” Absently, Asta brushed her fingers against her lips. “She lived alone, a long way out on the coast miles from anywhere. And she was a berserker. I suppose I wondered… I’m not sure. If berserkers were usually loners like that, or if that was just how she was.”

“Didn’t spend enough time with them to know,” said Redbolt. “Yours, well… Clearly not so much a loner that she wouldn’t let you stay with her.”

“No, I suppose not.” Asta fell silent and gazed out at the horizon. “I hope she’s all right by herself up there.”

Redbolt looked from Asta to the sea and back again, quietly scraping his talons through the sand, then got to his feet and stretched out his wings to their full extent, his feathers reaching thirty feet from end to end. Despite his buzzardish markings, his wing conformation was more eagle than hawk – long, broad, and almost rectangular – and he was the biggest gryphon Asta had met so far, taller than Inkfoot and more heavily built. “Tell you what,” he said. “They’ll be starting the ring toss in a few minutes. I can give you a lift up there if you want a better view.” He pointed up to the statue’s head high above them.

“Ring toss?”

He laughed. “Not the kind you’d see at a funfair.” Asta bit her lip, looking with some apprehension at the statue towering above. Redbolt cocked his head, lifting his crest a little, and went on more soberly. “By the sun’s egg and the sky’s breath,” he said, “you are safe with me.”

Asta had spent enough time with Inkfoot to know how serious an oath that was to a gryphon. Some did follow human religions – she had once seen one making an offering at a shrine to Kura – but most kept to their own nameless sky-gods. She nodded, stowed what was left of her picnic back in the saddlebags, and stood up.

“Ever flown before? Nah? I’ll give you the – ah – crash course now, then.” He took a belt made from the same canvas as his harness from one of his satchels and passed it over. “First, you can’t sit up like you can on a horse or a construct, or even a gryphon walking; the balance and the wind resistance’ll be all off. So…” He bent his forelegs and nodded for her to climb onto his back. “You’ll want to get your knees on the back of my wing joints first, just where they meet my shoulders – gods, do you have bird bones yourself? You hardly weigh a thing – and belt yourself to that back strap, then lie flat on your belly and put your arms forward over my wings. You see those loops on the harness collar? Put your wrists through them and hold on where they join the main strap, like you’d hold one of those handles that stop you falling over on a tram. There you go.”

“You’ve done this before?” asked Asta.

He nodded and walked away from the statue. “Every military gryph big enough to carry a human gets the training. Never know when you’ll need to pull one of your mates out of a sticky situation. Ready?”

“I think so.”

Redbolt rocked back onto his hind legs and leapt into the air with one massive downward stroke of his wings. Asta’s knuckles turned pure white, but the straps held; within seconds, they were soaring in a wide circle above the sea faster than Pardus could run. Asta looked down over Redbolt’s shoulder, watching his shadow skim over the waves. The sun-warmed water was a beautiful clear turquoise over the white sand beneath; more than a few festival-goers were taking a swim and throwing a ball around. As Asta watched, one of the gryphons flying above folded their wings and dropped in a breakneck stoop right into the water with an enormous splash, only to resurface to enthusiastic cheers with a silver fish clutched in their talons.

Another, lazier beat of Redbolt’s wings carried them higher, before his outstretched feathers found a thermal that bore them upwards until they were above the statue’s head. Asta lifted her own to catch the wind on her face.

“Make some room down there!” roared Redbolt. Half a dozen gryphons looked up from their perches around the statue’s ears and promptly scattered, leaving Redbolt free to glide in for a landing. He flared out his wings and the fan of feathers at the base of his tail to slow himself, lowered his hind claws to the carved stone, and dropped to all fours. “There we go,” he said as the other gryphons reclaimed their space. Asta unbuckled the safety belt, slid down from his back, and peered over the edge of the statue’s head. Pardus still lay on the sand where she had left it, some fifty feet below. “I’ll say this for you,” said Redbolt, hooking a precautionary talon into the half-belt at the back of her coat. “You’ve no fear of heights. Last rider I carried screamed his head off the whole time.”

“No, I’d say heights are one of the few things that don’t scare me,” said Asta, sitting down cross-legged at the edge.

“Evidently,” said one of the other gryphons, this one a younger female with grey-and-white plumage and long pointed wings. “When was the last time you gave a human a ride?”

Redbolt shrugged. “Four, five years ago? I’ve kept up with the weight training in the meantime, though. Oh – Asta, this is my niece Gull. Gull, Asta. Thought she’d get a better view of the ring toss from up here.”

“Ooh, yeah, you get the best view of the game from up here!” said Gull, her tail-tip drumming on the stone behind her. “Tunnel Fifteen’s put together a really strong team this year, but I was just talking to Stoat here and he thinks the Windstone Wing are the ones to watch.”

“They’ve got a very good defence this year,” said Stoat, whose feathers did indeed give him a resemblance to the animal: mostly a reddish-brown, but with a white bib down the front of his neck and a black tail-tuft. “But it’s true, Tunnel Fifteen has some very quick players. Slate is one of the best flyers out there; the Wing’ll have to account for her if they end up against the Fifteens in the tournament. Who do you think’s in with the best chance?” he asked Asta.

This was met with a blank stare.

“You don’t… actually know how it works, do you?” said Gull. “Oh, well, it’s pretty simple. Each team has five players; they have to try and get the ring onto their team’s goalpost, but they have to throw it; if anyone’s touching the ring when it goes over the post, the point doesn’t count. A game lasts either an hour or seven rings’ worth of play, whichever’s shorter. If there’s a draw after an hour, they have a tiebreaker round.”

“And no biting or clawing the other team,” added Stoat. “You draw blood, you’re out of the game.”

“It’s not as interesting since they added that rule,” said Redbolt, his tone so bland that Asta couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Gull cuffed him on the back of his head with one wingtip as the first two teams took flight above the game field, marked out from each other by different colours on their harnesses. Another gryphon with a blue-and-white harness – presumably a referee – flew overhead and dropped a foot-wide wooden ring from their talons, and both teams launched into play.

Asta had very little idea what was going on despite the running commentary Gull and Stoat provided for her, but it was surprisingly engrossing nonetheless. Ring toss, it turned out, was a fast-paced game of skill and agility where the airborne players flung the ring to their teammates or intercepted it from their opponents so quickly that it was difficult to keep track of where it was until it landed on the goalpost and slid down to a hook a couple of feet below the top. None of the games lasted the full allotted hour, and a few of the more uneven ones barely went a minute between the referee dropping the ring and a point being scored.

The tournament final had just started – as it turned out, neither Tunnel Fifteen nor the Windstone Wing had made it there – in the late afternoon when Stoat pricked up his ears. “Asta, you said your name was?”

“Yes?”

“Someone’s yelling for you.”

Asta leant forwards over the edge of the statue – Redbolt held on to her coat again – to see Fayn, Wygar, Inkfoot and a handful of blue-clad apprentices from the College gathered around Pardus and looking in all directions except up. Fayn cupped both hands around her mouth and shouted again, then shrugged and said something to Wygar that Asta couldn’t make out.

“Up here!” called Asta, waving one arm. They looked up at that; Inkfoot half-spread her wings, but folded them again at some comment from Fayn. Wygar nodded, stepped back, took a quick run-up, and clambered up the side of the statue as quick as a squirrel. He had abandoned his usual long blue coat in favour of a sleeveless shirt, baring his wiry, well-toned arms and the flowing blue tattoos on his shoulders. A couple of the apprentices giggled and nudged each other at the sight.

“I hope you’re wearing plenty of sun cream,” was Asta’s only response when he reached the top.

“Thought you were afraid of heights?” said Redbolt, his tail twitching.

“Yes, Fayn and I are both well-protected,” Wygar assured her. “And I’m afraid of flying,” he added to Redbolt. “I like heights just fine. You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” Redbolt shook his head to muffled laughter from the other gryphons. Wygar turned back to Asta. “Fayn and Inkfoot spotted your construct down there and were worried when they couldn’t see you anywhere.”

“Oh. Well, it’s very kind of them to be concerned, but I’m quite all right. Redbolt here carried me up so I’d have a better view of the ring toss.”

Redbolt rubbed the back of one talon against the scar on his face. “Thought she looked like she needed cheering up,” he mumbled.

“Inkfoot was right,” said Wygar, grinning. “You are an old softy.”

“Oh-ho-ho, you want to have that conversation again, boyo?”

“…You two clearly have some history together,” said Asta as Gull, Stoat and the rest of the gryphons quietly backed away.

“All journeyman warmages are put through a course of gryphon-riding practice,” said Wygar in an extremely neutral voice.

“You make it sound like some horrible torture,” said Redbolt. “‘Warmage’.”

“The good Flight Captain here is of the opinion that no mage who hasn’t actually been to war should be permitted call themself that,” said Wygar.

“I can see where he’s coming from,” said Asta slowly.

“Thank you!” said Redbolt.

“But if Stormhaven hasn’t seen an actual war in twenty years, surely there can’t be that many people in active service today who do fit that criteria.”

“Which is my point,” said Wygar. “But the way he goes on, you’d think I’d never even been in a playground fight!”

“Reckon you’re just going to have to agree to disagree on this one, lads,” Gull interrupted. “Look, the ref’s just dropping the last ring now.”

The referee hovered above the pitch at the exact midpoint between the two goalposts and released the ring from their talons. Immediately both teams lunged into action. One big pale-feathered gryphon with crest-feathers long enough to mark him as male even from that distance grabbed the ring in his beak and hurled it halfway across the pitch with a flick of his head. One of his teammates stretched out their talons to catch it, but before it even reached them a smaller, quicker player from the other team intercepted it and threw it in a high arc to one of their own teammates, who batted it further up with their tail. One player with pointed falcon-like wings, hovering above the fray like a kestrel, hooked their talons through the ring and beat their wings, flying for the goalpost, but the pale gryphon half-folded his wings and barged into them with his shoulder.

“Is that allowed?” asked Asta as the crowd gasped.

“Didn’t draw blood,” said Redbolt with a shrug.

The ring fell, but the pale gryphon’s teammate reclaimed it before it hit the ground and threw it to a player circling above the other goalpost. They caught it in their beak, passed it into their talons, and dropped it. The ring fell neatly over the post, the referee rang a bell to signal the end of the match, and the air exploded with gryphons cheering themselves hoarse.

“What was that team calling itself again?” asked Wygar over the uproar.

“They’re the Crag Shadows,” said Gull. “New team, they’ve never entered the Feather Fest tournament before, nobody thought they’d get this far – but look at them!”

The captain of the losing team touched beaks with the leader of the Crag Shadows – Asta presumed that was the equivalent of shaking hands – and led their team off the pitch as the victors lined up between the goalposts and looked up at the sky. Asta hadn’t noticed in the excitement, but everyone who had been flying overhead had landed, leaving just one imposing figure in the air.

Lady Starfeather, the chieftain of all the gryphons of Stormhaven, glided above the crowd and landed neatly on the pitch, settling on her haunches. The white tips on her otherwise jet-black feathers seemed to glitter in the sun, which had not yet begun turning red but was well past its zenith. The Crag Shadows bowed low, their beaks almost scraping the sand, before their captain straightened up and accepted the trophy – just a ring painted gold – from Starfeather’s talons. They touched beaks for the briefest of moments before Starfeather drew back and the team captain reared back on their hind legs, holding the ring above their head in both front claws.

The cheers that followed almost totally drowned out the sound of another gryphon landing on the statue’s head. “You all need to clear the summit,” she announced. Like Redbolt, she wore a tough canvas harness, but it was dyed a vivid shade of red with a strip of gold braid down one side of her collar and she wore a sort of ornamental diadem-helmet, its bands of polished steel framing her face. The brass chestpiece of her harness, almost big enough to count as a breastplate, was engraved with a five-pointed star framed by raised wings.

Redbolt stood up. “Time for the fledgling parade?” he asked. The newcomer nodded. “All right. Well, you all heard the Wing Guard – clear off, the lot of you!” Gull, Stoat and their friends took flight, leaving only Redbolt, Asta and Wygar on the statue’s head.

“Need a lift back down?” asked Redbolt wickedly. Wygar just scowled at him, nodded to Asta, and clambered down the side of the statue. “Ah, he knows I don’t really mean anything by it,” Redbolt added when he caught the disapproving look on Asta’s face.

“Does he, though?”

“Well… Hm. Hop back aboard and I’ll take you back to the ground, eh? Truth be told,” he added as they glided down from the statue, “if it came to a real fight between him and me, unless I caught him off-guard, I’d be ash. No illusions there.”

“Who, Wygar?” They reached the ground not far from where they had first taken off; Asta unbelted herself from Redbolt’s harness and dismounted. “I know he’s technically a warmage, but I see him around the College a lot; he’s really more of one of those harmless, slightly scatterbrained academic types.”

“Oh, really? Ask that harmless academic about his body count some time.”

“…You can’t be serious.”

“I watched his Master’s exam,” said Redbolt. “He turned a bladehound into a puddle of molten steel.”

“Wait, really? But those are-” Asta ran one hand back through her hair, attempting to reconcile that image with Wygar currently standing stoically as Inkfoot attempted to clean a smudge from his face with a handkerchief, much to the undisguised amusement of both Fayn and the apprentices. “That is… an odd idea to think about.” She shook her head as if to chivvy the thought away. “You said something to that guard about a ‘fledgling parade’?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s an old gryphon custom,” said Redbolt as they walked back over to Pardus and the others. Asta unbuckled the saddlebags from Pardus’s harness and dismissed the construct into its summoning stone. “Though ‘parade’ is putting it a bit strongly. Every Feather Fest, all the youngsters who’ve just finished growing their first lot of flight feathers gets presented to her Ladyship up on top of the statue.”

“It’s not mandatory,” said Inkfoot, tucking her handkerchief into one of her bags. “But a lot of families like to mark the occasion in some way – your first flight under your own power is a big milestone.”

Lady Starfeather took off from the game pitch and flew up to the statue’s head where she landed on top of the beak, in easy view of everyone watching from the beach below. Young fledgling gryphons – not much bigger than the chicks, but with proper structure to their wing feathers and the beginnings of their adult markings instead of fluffy grey down – fluttered up out of the crowd towards her. Each one was accompanied by an adult, perhaps a parent or an older sibling. Complete silence fell on the beach, even among the humans, as one by one the adults escorted the fledglings up to sit in front of their chieftain for a moment. With each one, Starfeather lowered her head to inspect them, made some statement that none of the watchers below could hear, and lightly touched her beak to theirs before they and their escort glided back down. A hint of orange had come into the sun by the end.

“I remember my presentation, years and years ago,” said Inkfoot once the last fledgling was back on the sand. Starfeather remained on the statue’s beak, lying down with her front claws folded over each other. “That wasn’t with Starfeather, of course – her uncle Lord Eclipse was in charge back then.”

Redbolt chuckled. “I remember old Eclipse! Now, there was a gryph with a sense of humour.”

“Wait,” said Wygar, rubbing the back of one hand against his face. “Lord Eclipse died in – Inkfoot, how old are you?”

“Ninety-seven,” said Inkfoot brightly.

“Have you told me that before?” said Fayn, wide-eyed. “I don’t think I knew that.”

“Neither did I, and you practically raised me from age twelve!” said Wygar.

“That’s a slight exaggeration,” said Inkfoot. “You did go back to your parents’ house every weekend.”

“Hundred and three over here,” put in Redbolt.

“…Huh.” Asta ran one hand through her hair. “You do give off a certain aura of ‘old soldier’,” she said to Redbolt, whose crest lifted slightly. “But I had no idea you were that old!”

“Well, you haven’t known me very long,” said Redbolt, waving his tail. “Should have another fiftyish in me, all going well.”

“Fayn, you’ve been in Stormhaven longer than I have,” said Asta. “Did you know gryphons could live to be that old?” Fayn shook her head.

“I knew that they could,” said Wygar. “I just didn’t know Inkfoot, specifically, was that old!”

Inkfoot just shrugged.

“If it makes you feel any less out of place,” said Fayn quietly as her husband quizzed Inkfoot for further details on the ages of the various gryphons he knew, “this is my first time at the festival too. Wygar talked me into it – I’m not fond of crowds, but I get on well with Inkfoot.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” asked Asta.

Fayn laughed, nodding. “She’s a likeable person. Besides, Wygar’s actually got more of a role to play this year than just attending.” She cleared her throat and stood forwards, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the bonfires?” she asked.

Wygar swore, prompting a chorus of “Ooooooh!” from the apprentices, and ran off.

“He’s quite a fast runner,” commented Asta.

“He is, isn’t he?” said Fayn with a fond smile as Inkfoot led the apprentices off to one of the food stalls. “Sometimes I think he doesn’t really have speeds between ‘stroll’ and ‘sprint’.”

“What was that about bonfires?” said Asta.

“That’s a human thing,” said Redbolt. “Before the first humans came to our land, we gryphons didn’t make much use of fire. But they have their own traditions for this time of year, so a bit got added into the festival. They light those big ones you can see along the beach at sunset,” now that he pointed them out, Asta could indeed see the wood and brush piled in heaps along the tideline, “and the littler ones in between. Folk line up to jump over the small ones for some reason.”

“Oh, Beltane!” said Asta. “Yes, I’ve read about that. It’s sort of a fertility-luck ritual thing. The fire-jumping, that is.”

“How is jumping over a fire going to help with fertility?” asked Redbolt.

“That’s… a good question,” said Fayn, frowning.

“I’m sure there’s some reasoning behind it,” said Asta. “It’s not really a Kiraani tradition – I’ll have to read up on it.”

People returned to their little camps along the beach, chatting amongst themselves, until finally the sun touched the horizon and Lady Starfeather got back to her feet, flanked by the Wing Guards in their red-and-gold uniforms. She spread her wings, took a deep breath, and roared out over the sea. The roar of a gryphon was a higher, shriller sound than that of a lion, but still deeper and more resonant than the cry of a hawk and far more impressive than the chirping of an eagle. Standing at the edge of the water, Wygar stretched up one arm at her call and clicked his fingers. A brilliant spark flared around his upraised hand and every one of the bonfires erupted with flame, instantly burning as hot and as bright as if they had already had hours to build up.

“He didn’t really need to do that,” said Fayn, clicking her own fingers. “That was just for show. He could’ve woken those fires with a thought.” Her voice was exasperated, but there was no disguising the pride in her smile.

“See what I meant?” said Redbolt to Asta, quietly enough that Fayn wouldn’t overhear. “Ash.” Asta nodded.

Wygar ran back over to them, and had just been dissuaded from explaining the precise technique he had used when Starfeather raised her wings for silence again and, once she had it, began to sing.

After more than a year in Stormhaven, Asta had heard many different sounds a gryphon’s voice could produce. She had heard them speak, roar, laugh and screech. She had never heard them sing. Starfeather’s voice was nothing like the high piping of birdsong; like her roar, it was a more resonant sound that reminded Asta curiously of drumming. Other gryphons took up the song, even Redbolt; humans, their voices incapable of the Gryphic words, had to settle for humming the melody. Soon it felt like almost everyone on the beach had joined in. Wygar had closed his eyes to listen; Fayn leant against his side and held his hand tightly.

Asta sat down on the sand, folding her arms around her shins as she listened. The lyrics meant nothing to her – she would have to ask someone for a translation – but the tune somehow conveyed a deep sense of renewal and belonging. Life goes on, the gryphons sang. We are a family, and we’re exactly where we’re meant to be.

“Are you all right?” asked Redbolt once the song was over and Wygar and Fayn had gone to join the line of couples waiting to jump the fire.

Asta sat up, blinking. She hadn’t even realised she was crying until she lifted one hand and felt the tear-tracks down her face. A few different explanations came to mind, but somehow the only one that made it past her lips was the truth. “I want to go home,” she said quietly.

“Ah-hm.” Redbolt looked around. “Well… I can give you an escort, if you don’t want to go by yourself in the dark. Or you can maybe tag along with Inkfoot if she hasn’t already taken the apprentices back to the College. Where’s home?”

Asta thought. Her flat near Stormhaven’s northern wall didn’t even register; instead her mind went to the house where she had grown up back in Kiraan, then considered Lady MacArra’s fine manor overlooking the water in Duncraig, and finally settled on an old stone tower by the sea, where hens pecked through a little vegetable garden in the shelter of an outer wall and water horses rested on the rocks after dark. “A very long way from here,” she said, watching the fires.

“Ah. That kind of home.” Redbolt sighed and lay down on his front beside her. He laid Pardus’s saddlebags across his shoulders and took out Asta’s tea flask. It had held its temperature throughout the day and the tea was still hot. He handed it to Asta; she unscrewed the cap and poured herself a cup. “Tell me a bit more about your berserker.”

Asta sipped her tea. “She’s… Have you seen the portrait the museum has of Lady Meredith?” Redbolt nodded. “It reminds me of her. She’s tall, very tall, with long red hair she usually keeps in a braid and fair skin with hundreds of little freckles. Lots of tattoos on her face and her arms, and maybe more under her clothes.” She smiled. “And strong, too. Very nice arms. I expect she could pick me up like a kitten if the mood took her, but she was always gentle with me while I was staying with her. Her eyes are… Do you know Captain Steel, from the Curlew? They’re grey like hers, like… well, like steel. Piercing, is the word. Like they see right to the heart of you.

“She’s not always talkative – there’s a shyness there – but she always answered whatever questions I had and if I needed to talk, she listened. Really listened, not just sat in the same room while I spoke. I don’t think I’ve known anyone who listened to me like she did.” Asta took another sip. “The man I escaped from recaptured me after a month in her home and tried to take me back to his family’s castle near Duncraig.” Redbolt’s wings came up in a protective stance Asta recognised from Steel, though he didn’t seem aware he had reacted. “She killed him and his guards and put me on the next ship south – Curlew – to here, where I’d cross the border to freedom and be well out of reach if his family came looking for revenge. That – fighting the guards – was the only time I ever saw her go berserk. Maybe it should have scared me, but…”

“But you felt safe with her,” finished Redbolt.

Asta nodded. “I thought a lot about it on the journey south, and after I’d got settled here. Whether what I felt for her was real or if I’d just fixated on the first person to show me some kindness after… after a very trying period in my life.”

“And?”

“And… a lot of people have been kind to me since I got to Stormhaven. Surely those feelings would have faded by now if that was all there was to it.” She sighed and wrapped both hands more snugly around her cup. “What about you? Any romance in your life?”

“Nah, not for a long time.” Redbolt stretched out his front claws, curling his tail as far around one hind leg as it could go. “Even among gryphons, the ladies prefer a fellow with both eyes and all his toes.”

“Well, you’ve been very gallant with me today. I’m sure any lady would be lucky to have you.”

“Ah, well.” Redbolt scratched his remaining ear. “You looked like you could use an outrider for the day.”

“It was very kind of you.”

Redbolt folded his wings again. “I flew north once, a long, long time ago,” he said, watching the silhouettes around the fires. “Followed the coast all the way up to the great ice. Kept away from humans mostly – they’re not so used to us up there, or at least they weren’t back then – but I ran into the odd hunting party or trade caravan in the Sea Lochs, up in the hills or out on the water. Seemed a nice place to live – peaceful, even in the towns.” He sighed. “I’m no seer to go telling the future, but… I have a feeling you’ll find your way back one day.”

“I certainly hope so. I’m just… Not entirely sure when.”

“Give it time, and keep your eyes open,” advised Redbolt. “You never know when you’ll get your chance.”

Asta finished her tea and packed the flask back in the saddlebag. “Thank you,” she said. “For everything you’ve done today.”

Redbolt nodded. “Do you want an escort back to wherever you’re staying?” he asked. “A lot of folk just sleep on the beach – Wygar and Fayn would probably let you share their camp if you want to stay until morning.”

“I’m sure they would,” said Asta, “but I wouldn’t like to impose. I think I’d rather go back to my flat, if you really wouldn’t mind.”

“It’s no trouble.” Redbolt stood, stretched, and looked back at his wings. “Though I don’t think I have it in me to fly you all the way there. You ride your construct and I’ll follow.”

The road back to the city was well-lit with lampposts every fifty feet, but it was still reassuring to have Redbolt prowling alongside Pardus while Asta rode at a walk or soaring above when she spurred the construct into a run. The sky was fully dark by the time Asta reined Pardus in outside 103 North Wall Street and climbed down from the saddle.

“Where do you stay, out of interest?” she asked as she removed the saddlebags and dismissed Pardus.

“Got a nice cosy eyrie up in Gryphonroost,” said Redbolt, flicking his beak in the general direction of the gryphons’ traditional home beneath the Crag. “Reward for my long service – don’t you worry about me.” He gave another little salute, tapping one talon against his scar. “Could show you around some time, if you haven’t been up to the tunnels yet.”

Asta smiled, lifting the saddlebags onto one shoulder. “I’d like that, actually. Maybe next Starsday?”

“Sounds good. I’ll meet you at the west ramp around noon?”

“I’ll see you there.”

“Sleep well, then.” With a last nod, he took flight and vanished into the dark. Asta let herself into the stairwell and climbed to her flat on the third floor. All things considered, it had been a rather interesting day.

---

Asta gets on rather well with gryphons - once she’s used to them she finds them less intimidating than other humans - and in return they’re quite protective of her. Gryphons in general have a tendency to go ‘is anyone gonna adopt that’ and then not wait for an answer, even if the object of their interest is a grown adult in their late twenties. Redbolt made a passing comment once about how easy it had been to fly carrying her (she’s 5′5″, a fairly average height for a woman, but she is quite slim; Roan could indeed pick her up like a kitten) and the others got very concerned she wasn’t eating enough and started offering her snacks.

Further gryphon trivia:

The corners of a gryphon’s beak can curve up enough to mimic a human-style smile, but it isn’t a natural expression for them. They generally only do it if they’re trying to put a human at ease (or freak them out, whichever). A natural ‘smile’ for a gryphon is lightly flicking the tip of their tail from side to side, while waving their entire tail from side to side is a more effusive ‘grin’. Redbolt missing half of his tail means that other gryphons sometimes view him as much more stern than he really is.

Leadership among the gryphons is hereditary up to a point. That point is when the others decide that the current chief isn’t doing a good enough job and they elect someone new. Lady Starfeather’s family line have been in charge since her grandmother (Eclipse’s mother).

Although gryphons are longer-lived than humans - a hundred and fifty years is a fairly average lifespan - they mature more quickly; a ten-year-old gryphon is physically and emotionally an adult, roughly equivalent to a twenty-year-old human.

Redbolt was originally called Goshawk from his wing markings. ‘Redbolt’ is essentially a nom de guerre that people started using consistently enough that it just became his nom de paix as well. Lord Eclipse was named such not for any markings but because he was such a huge gryphon that people used to joke he blocked out the sun whenever he took flight.

#az writes stories

3 notes · View notes

vellichor-virgo · 3 years

Text

manuscript search xvii

i know i just posted about how i’m going inactive for a little bit, but i’m procrastinating studying for my philosophy final so i decided to crank out a couple tag games to add to my queue. this one is from @chazzawrites , thank you! :)

my words are pressure, kind, eyes, & warm

pressure + eyes:

“Last hope?” I say. “I hadn’t realized so much laid on my shoulders.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say the very last hope.” A careless shrug. “I’m sure we have many more hopes to go before we hypothetically have war declared on us.” [...]

“Well, that’s a relief. Much less pressure. [...] Although it’s still rather intense to be one of the kingdom’s last hopes against war. As a single, poor villager girl.”

“Not so loud,” Pollux murmurs. Judging by the way his emerald eyes gleam, he catches my drift. “Have a little faith. You may be capable of more than you think.”

kind x2:

Fog hangs heavily in the air all around me, a damp grey blanket swallowing up the trees. Fireflies flicker here and there, emerging through the gloom like a hundred tiny lanterns suspended in midair. It’s the kind of weather that always sets the rest of the village folk grumbling, about how it bothers their livestock and causes accidents because you couldn’t see your hand in front of your own face, but I don’t mind it. I’ve always loved the kinds of days the others curse: the fog, the hail, the storms. They seem to spark something to life inside my soul.

warm warmth:

My first morning in Arisa dawns softly. Soft, muted sunlight gradually making its way through my closed eyelids; soft murmurs of voices gently approaching my ears; a soft expanse of pillows and blankets cocooning me in velvety warmth.

My eyes blink open, and when my vision clears, presenting me with the unfamiliar surroundings, a feeling of panic kicks my stomach. Then recollection of last night’s events settles into my head. The blood moon, the light, the prince—all of it cascades into place like a row of falling dominoes.

tagging @erinnharper , @writingonesdreams , & @mel-writes-with-her-dragons / open tag for anyone else who wants to join in :)

new words: blood, tiny, murmur, & bright

#tag games #manuscript search tag #ch: celena #ch: pollux #friendship: celena x pollux #my writing #night's daughter: excerpt

3 notes · View notes

feminarrie · 5 years

Text

basic instincts [c.e]

a/n: this is my first real public venture into A/B/O dynamics. thank you again to @pastelshawns for lending me this concept! also thank you to chris evans for having uhh the best thighs!

18+ below the cut!

Two months she’s been away from him. A total of ninety-three days since she met him at the airport when he quite literally bumped into her as he rushed to catch his flight after his gate had changed. When she felt the electricity surge through her when his palms had pressed to her bicep and fingers curled to keep her steady. A furrow of his brow that melted when he locked eyes with her; his eyes flashing a golden honey with confusion, understanding, and then pain. If she thinks about the day for too long—which she does, routinely—she can still feel the ghost of his lips along her knuckles as he urged her to let him know when she lands. The scrunch of his nose when he looks back as he boards, the shadow of sadness fading with the light of hope of their bright future.

Even as his omega, she thinks he’s been more generous than need be. This is her second trip to see Chris in a span of three months and again, he had funded it fully. He’s spoiled her with a seat in first class and worked his schedule around so that it’s him that picks her up from the airport.

Turkish blue eyes scan the crowd for her, but he scents her before he sees her. A low rumble in his chest that can only be likened to a purr emits from his chest when he sees her. She’s swimming in a sweatshirt that he had bought for her during her last visit. He had kept it nearby, his scent weaving itself into the cotton and fleece blend. When she’s wrapped up in his arms, he tucks his nose into her shoulder and all he can smell is her. It’s overwhelming and comforting all at once. Captivating, sweet, and warm and Chris is happy he’s been able to take the next three days off to do nothing more than nose at her mark and let her command all of his senses.

“Missed you, sweetheart.” Chris murmurs into her neck before turning his head to press a lingering kiss to her shoulder. She hums at the pillowy kisses at the sliver of exposed skin, eyes glittering with flecks of gold that only Chris can conjure up. Her fingers search out his hand, cupping it in her much smaller hand so that she can run a thumb over his knuckles. Her thumb undulates across them, the pad of it gliding easily over soft skin. Briefly does she contemplate asking to use whatever expensive hand cream he must use. The thought flitters away with ease, replaced with the idea of curling up next to her alpha and existing solely in that pocket of safety and comfort for the next week.

. . . . . .

For the first three days, they both exist in that pocket. In being newly mated, the two of them hardly know each other. She knows that he’s relinquished his title as the current Captain America and gets a little pouty when he’s hungry. Chris knows that she is a blanket hog and that Dodger much preferred her snuggles over his when he had invited her to his home the first time. They spent the vast majority of those days filling in the gaps, giving and taking as much information as they feel comfortable, while holed up in Chris’ apartment.

Day four is when she wakes up with a subtle ache in her lower tummy and the lack of warmth that is usually provided by Chris’ sleeping form. She is quick to recognize that she is in the early stages of her heat and for a moment, she’s grateful that Chris is filming for the next sixteen or so hours. It gives her the chance to rid herself of the slowly warming coil in her tummy without the embarrassment she would feel for keening at the simple, innocent touches her alpha spoils her with. Even though she knows it’s natural, instinctual, she and Chris have hardly been that type of intimate. Physical touches only turning sinful when Chris traps her bottom lip between his teeth and presses a palm to the mark on her neck.

She ignores the dull ache between her thighs until she’s in the shower. The remnants of Chris’ time in the spacious glass shower consume all of her senses in the few seconds it takes for the water to heat up. His scent is still thick despite the fact that he’s been gone nearly six hours already. It’s heady and woody—all sandalwood and smoke—when the steam further amplifies it. Her eyes drift shut as she inhales deeply and the ache within her becomes far more noticeable.

She cums once, twice, three times in the shower before the water runs cold. Her fingers and toes are pruned, but she feels satiated and content in the post glow of her orgasms. Enough so that fatigue sets in her bones and leaves her with just enough energy to pull a black, baggy shirt over her head and some pretty baby blue boyshorts over the swell of her ass. She thinks there no sense in doing much more than that when she has every plan to take a short nap before cooking dinner for Chris to come home to after a long day of filming.

Her feet only leave the floor when she’s crawling onto the California king mattress where she plops herself right in the middle. She reaches for Chris’ pillow without hesitation, pulling it to her chest with one hand while the other pushes the comforter toward her legs. Sinking into the warmth of the comforter is easy with the bed still unmade; it lulls her to sleep in no time at all. The smell of her alpha just under her nose as she cradles the downy pillow to her chest.

She swears she only meant to sleep for an hour or two. Yet, she wakes hours later with the press of Chris’ lips at her forehead, cheeks, and then her Cupid’s bow when she blinks up at him. He’s half sitting up, most of his weight is held up by his forearm as he rolls to his left side. It allows him enough mobility to reach his right hand up to stroke at her cheek with his thumb, large palm cupping her jaw. She returns his kind gestures with a warm smile and long tired blinks before she presses a kiss to the heel of his palm.

“You’re back.” Her voice is soft and slow as molasses as she blinks up at him. Chris nods with a quiet laugh as to not pop the quiet of the dark room. Her face is washed in the golden rays of the setting sun, catching the flecks and swirls of gold in her eyes that never really seem to go away when she’s with him. The distinct sound of sheets rustling render Chris’ attempts useless, but he doesn’t mind when she leans forward to press their lips together. Even chapped, he’s content to know that he’ll be privileged to her kisses in this life and the many thereafter—mated and destined to find one another until the end of time. “I’ve missed you.” He says, pressing another chaste to her lips. The admission warms her and tugs at the corners of her lips in a tired smile. She repeats the sentiment with a soft sigh that is timed perfectly with a low growling in her stomach.

“S’late and you’re hungry, bug. You want to order in?” He asks and drops the hand at her cheek to place it at her hip beneath the comforter. He croons when he realizes she’s in nothing more than a shirt and underwear. The fatigue that has darkened the skin beneath his eyes and her pliancy does more to soften him than arouse him. Her rubs the skin just above the waistband, tilting his head slightly in question. She hums her affirmation and content, nodding her head ever so slightly.

They decide on some Korean place just ten minutes away that Chris discovered his first week of filming. He leaves her to wake up some more, pulling a baseball cap over lengthy brown hair and kissing her half a dozen times before he steps out the door. Chris isn’t time for too long, but long enough that she’s able to shuffle out into the living room and queue up something for something to watch. She settles on reruns of Criminal Minds, knowing it’ll hold their attention if they choose, but at a volume that allows it to fade into background noise.

It starts out as background noise as they eat, Chris talking about his day between mouthfuls of food. She prompts him with more questions about his day which warms something in Chris’ chest, spreads to his fingers and toes in waves of heat and electricity. It hums within him as he asks about her day though she answers with how mundane it had been. She also conveniently omits the fact that her heat is just around the corner because it simply doesn’t seem pertinent to their conversation.

(Really, she thinks mentioning how she’d been so wound up that she got off to his scent alone doesn’t exactly fit the picture of domesticity they exist in currently).

Eventually, the conversation dies down and with it, her energy wanes until Chris is beckoning her to lay her head down in his lap. An offer that she accepts willingly, shuffling down the couch to rest her head on his left thigh. His leg hair tickles her cheek as she pushes the fabric of his grey jogger shorts up so that she may feel the warmth of his body without barriers. His arm comes down to rest on a sliver of skin between her boyshorts and shirt, once again stroking at the expanse of warm skin. It lulls her into a safe, happy space that has her eyelids feeling heavy as she watches the television.

It’s the picture of honeymoon phase bliss and innocence until it’s not.

She’s never felt the ache quite this deep or robust. It feels red hot and more animalistic than anything she has ever felt before. If her thoughts weren’t so preoccupied with the way Chris’ thighs feel beneath her cheek, she would’ve made the connection between her impending heat and the presence of her alpha. Instead, she’s turning her head before she even thinks to stop herself and presses a lingering kiss just above his knee. Then another just above that and a trail of them before her lips ghost over the fraying hem of his shorts.

“Omega.”

She stills in her movements, but not out of fear or embarrassment. The deep, rumbly tone is something she has never heard from Chris. It’s authoritative and questioning all at once, and has her insides scrambling in anticipation. Eagerly does she look up at him beneath her lashes when she lifts her head. A mistake on her part, really. Chris’ lips are parted and his eyes a deep golden yellow. His nostrils flaring as he gets the first trace of her arousal. She smells of the earth after rain and something sweet that he can’t quite place, but it’s uniquely her—his omega.

He doesn’t stop her when she nips along the top of his thigh, peppering his pale skin with tints of red and pink. He simply tucks his lower lip between his teeth and grips her hip, thumb pressing into her Adonis belt. A low growl of her name stops the worrying of his lower lip for just a moment, but does little to stop her from kissing at his inner thigh once she’s shifted to gain better access. Her left hand reaches across to rub at his other thigh, squeezing when she sucks and bites a mark into the smooth skin of the innermost part of his thigh. The flat of her tongue soothes over it before she does the same just diagonal of the previous mark that has begun to blossom with pretty shades of red and tinges of purple. It earns her a deep, warning growl from somewhere in Chris’ chest and she halts her movements. Something about the noise above her has her backing down into submission.

“M’sorry, alpha.” The title rolls off her tongue with ease and it only serves to make Chris that much more aroused. He is painfully hard and straining even in the looser fabric of his shorts. Something that she is obviously aware of, tongue swiping over her bottom lip when she glances down between them. “Don’t apologize. Come here.” He says, patting his lap with one hand and she all, but scrambles to fit herself in his lap; fits her knee between his thighs and straddles his right one. It’s undoubtedly to relieve some of the pressure that is building in her core, but Chris doesn’t say a word about it. He only pushes up the hem of her shirt so that his hands can rest on the warm, bare skin of her hips.

“I want you so bad, sweetheart. I really do, but m’tired.” He watches as her look down, lips quivering around an apology. “I just don’t feel it’d be right for me to do that to you, hm? You’re close to your heat and deserve all that I can give, don’t you think?” Chris continues and feels the way her body heats up with his words. From the way her body feels as though it’s buzzing above him, he thinks she had no plans to tell him of her impending heat. Yet, it was obvious the moment her lips met the spot just above his knee. In fact, she was damn near nuzzling at him and that was his first hint that she was likely approaching her heat. “I just want to take care of you, little omega.”

She ruts against his thigh at his words, a low whine and apology following soon after. It’s then that Chris realizes how wet she really is. She has already soaked through her boyshorts and feels slick against his thigh. His eyes fall shut, his nose scrunching as if he is in pain. Which is not so far from the truth because fuck, he really wishes that he had enough energy in him to give her exactly what she wants—what they both want. But, a long day of action sequences on set has generated an unmistakeable ache in his muscles.

Chris feels terrible, he really does. It’s that unsatisfied desire and guilt that have him tilting his head at her in thought. Her own eyes, clouded with desperation and lust, scan his face as he thinks. An eyebrow quirks at him when he leans forward to press a kiss at the corner of her lips and comes away with a mischievous glint in his eye that glitters in the light of the television. She doesn’t have to question what he is thinking about for long because his grip on her hips tighten, moving her forward and then back again.

“Oh.” She whispers when Chris does it again, her clit pressed to his thigh. His hands never leave her hips even when she begins to ride his thigh on her own, her own hands coming to rest on his broad shoulders. Nails dig into his back despite the layer of fabric between them as if she’s attempting to ground herself in the moment. Her eyes are closed as she fucks herself on Chris’ thighs, her hip muscles straining just slightly as she shifts to balance herself better.

“Look so pretty for me, little omega.” Chris praises her as she glides across his thigh. She moans, soft and breathy, in response. He thinks it’s quite possibly the most beautiful and sensual sounds he’s ever heard, if he’s honest. Her next words, however, are by far the filthiest. “Want your knot, alpha. Need it.” She mewls, hips stuttering as she nears the edge. He can feel the way her body winds up tight—muscles taut, jaw clenched—and smell how close she is. A predatory, animalistic growl rips from Chris’ chest as the strings holding her together begin to snap.

“Gonna fill you up with it tomorrow, sweetheart. Promise.” It’s the sweet, but sinful admission that is her undoing. Her head falls forward, forehead pressed against his shoulder as her orgasm runs through her; makes her shiver and quake above him as he squeezes at her hips, helping her ride through her high. He presses kisses into her temple and along her cheekbones all while listening to the way her heart works to calm itself. Though, he notices the telltale sound of a skipped beat when he pulls back to press a kiss to her lips. Smiles up at her with a sated, content look that holds something just a little bit more. Though, Chris thinks he’ll wait to tell her that, that “little bit more” is the beginnings of love that have started to take root in his chest.

#my writing #chris evans x reader #alpha!chris evans #alpha!ce #chris evans x you #chris evans smut #chris evans fluff #chris evans oneshot #chris evans drabble #chris evans blurb

305 notes · View notes

thefairefolk-rp · 5 years

Photo

Welcome, Lauren! Your application for Pearl Sands has been accepted!

OOC INFORMATION:

Name/Nickname: Lauren

Age: 21

Preferred Pronouns: She/Her

Timezone: GMT-7

Activity and Availability (Please answer in words as well as rating your availability from 1-10): I would rate my availability around an 8 - I am now out of school, and am starting a full-time job next month. In the meantime, I am packing and moving. While I am usually busy during the week, I have plenty of time in the evenings and on weekends to write & queue replies to on-going threads. If I do not have enough threads going to meet the 4-para-per-week requirement, I will write some open starters or self-paras (if that is allowed).

IC INFORMATION:

Desired Character: Pearl Sands

Second Choice Character: Ariadne Fig

What made you choose this character?: I was drawn to Pearl because I think she has a lot of potential for character development, and I would love to take her on a journey from being naive and headstrong to becoming more observant and mature. She reminds me very much of an OC that I played in a different RP group, and I’m excited to see how her character progresses.

Are there any changes you would like to make?: These aren’t exactly changes, but rather expansions on Pearl’s character - although she is relatively physically weak and mentally naive, I would like for her to have the potential to become stronger in both areas. Additionally, I would love for her to have a large role in the musical rituals of the Shark Clan, sort of as a solace in what she sees as her “cage,” and a way for her to connect with her people.

Questions/Comments: What advice do you have for Pearl to interact with others, since she seems to be mostly confined by Titus? I do not want her to have unrealistic interactions with others, but I am concerned that her confinement and strict regulations would limit her opportunity to interact with other characters.

Writing Sample (Must be 300 words or more, third person limited, in the character you’re auditioning for’s point of view):

(I am not quite sure what Pearl’s accommodations would be like, so I am just imagining a nice, simple structure in a seaside village).

Pearl’s eyes fluttered open as the first rays of sunlight peeked through her curtains. Yawning, she rubbed the sand from her eyes and swung her lithe legs over the edge of the bed. After rinsing her face in a small water basin, she sighed quietly and headed towards the window. It was time to start the day.

Brushing the curtains aside, Pearl lifted the latch on the balcony window, letting in a gust of salty air that ruffled her hair and brought a smile to her sleepy face. She stepped out onto the small overhang and took a deep breath. Their home was fairly modest, but still one of the larger and more elaborate in the village seeing as her brother was the chieftain. Birds cawed and waves crashed as the sun began its ascent over the blue horizon. Bracing herself against the chilly morning air, Pearl leaned on the weathered rail of her balcony and began to sing the song that greeted the sun. It was a song she’d known all her life, and a ritual she performed every day. As her crisp, clear notes rang out over the rooftops of the seaside village she’d always called home, other vices began to chime in. Within minutes, the ground below her came to life with other villagers singing and preparing for the day. Seashell collectors headed to the shoreline to find rare and beautiful shells to sell, fishmongers readied their boats to pursue the catch of the day, and children raced about, teasing the ocean-faring birds as they flew around searching for forgotten scraps for breakfast. All this activity was done while the clan was unified in singing their morning song, the familiar tune blending into the rhythm of everyone’s morning routine.

As the song ended, Pearl drifted back into her room and dressed for the day, donning a lovely new seafoam-green gown and stringing small seashells throughout her hair. She had just finished embroidering this dress - clumsy but endearing sand dollars lined the neck and sleeves. It had been a gift from Titus last week, and she wondered if he would notice her small adjustments. Although her brother frustrated her to no end with his overprotective and controlling nature, she still wanted him to recognize her talents and acknowledge her as an equal. Why couldn’t he just see that she was ready for more than the small freedoms he allowed her! Stifled by her brother’s restrictions, Pearl knew that she had no choice but to sneak away during breakfast, when everyone else was distracted by their own busy schedules.

#accepted #fantasy rpg #original rpg #lsrpg #fairy rpg

4 notes · View notes

jtrahan · 5 years

Text

Ever since you went away, this space station has had a real shortage of humans to date.

Which is not necessarily a barrier to romance, of course. Even back on Old Earth, official state policy has recently undergone a rapid transition from “Please don’t fuck the aliens” to “Please at least don’t fuck the aliens in a way that will cause a major diplomatic incident,” and official policy inevitably exists in a constant state of scrambling to catch up with the ways people are actually living; and in any event we are a very long way from Old Earth.

It’s all new to me, though.

The alien across the table from me has very large eyes, all black, with many lids that fold inward from all different angles and lend each blink a kind of kaleidoscopic grace. Its body is covered in soft blue fur and shaped very much like an inverted acorn, and from the tip of the acorn numerous feathery pink fronds emerge, drifting slowly in the station’s artificial gravity as though underwater. My date has no visible mouth, instead communicating by blowing bubbles that emerge from the ends of the fronds, with shades of meaning conveyed by the bubbles’ colors and sizes and configurations. I have a whole rack of variously colored bubble solutions in beakers I have brought along with me, and have been doing my best to keep up with the conversation by switching rapidly between them. My date is very kind, its reassurances that I’m doing just fine popping gently around my ears and leaving a faint residue on my hair. In a way that makes things even more difficult. I picture you again, dissolving into light and stardust, and flip apologetically through my pocket dictionary. Somewhere in here there must be a sequence of bubbles for: I’m sorry,really. This has been lovely. I just don’t think I’m ready yet.

During the day I work in Departures Processing, the great glowing wormhole gates pulsing at my back, my kiosk one of many where long lines of impatient aliens queue to continue the next phase of their journeys. We are on the edge of galactic civilization here, and as ever when confronted with an edge, a great many people are very eager to leap across it. You were never one to cling to edges. I stamp forms and inspect identification papers and wish everyone a pleasant journey. Travelers turn to light at my back, limbs de-materializing in the middle of waves goodbye, pouring through the gates into the darkness beyond. You turn to light in my memory, over and over again. I stare into the brightness of you until my brain goes blind.

The departures lobby is always crowded, even as the night crew takes over and I head back to my pod. Someone is always saying goodbye here, in languages more varied than I could ever learn, but that doesn't matter. You can always recognize the goodbyes. I slip past a family with their tentacles wrapped around one another in tearful farewell, out onto the concourse, where an enormous lattice of glass and metal lets in the vast expanse of stars. There’s still one more vial of bubble solution left in my pocket, and I take it out and blow: Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.

You are the light. All light is the same light. Wherever the starts still exist, I will always be surrounded by you. My goodbyes float up and away from me. For a moment, nothing hurts at all.

#The last time I used the phrase kaleidoscopic grace in a story was January 2018 so everything is progressing right on schedule #spilled ink #creative writing #flash fiction #science fiction

21 notes · View notes

acr3ss-the-cosmos · 3 months

Note

"E-excuse me, miss? Do you perhaps know which delve the Sleepless Earl is? I've seem to have gotten lost." Misha scratched the back of his head awkwardly. He had boarded the Luofu with both Lynx and Bailu with the intention of going site seeing; however, everyone ended up separating and doing their own thing leaving him behind. Not that he minded, Lynx probably wanted to explore on her own and Bailu probably had to take care of somethings. At least they had an agreed meeting at the Sleepless Earl around three, which to his credit, he tried to find three separate times.

traincarsandstars (misha to huohuo)

Unprompted. Always accepting! @traincarsandstars

"Hmm? O-Oh!"

Huohuo was standing near the jetty at Central Starskiff Haven and was caught off guard by the unfamiliar voice asking her for directions. She turned around to face the voice's owner with a sheepish and apologetic expression.

"Sorry, I didn't know you were talking to me at first..."

The young Foxian judge got a better look at the white-haired boy in front of her. He appeared as though he could be a similar age to Huohuo if she were a short-life species, and the clothes he wore looked clean and well taken care of. Reorienting herself from her lapse in attention, she smiled at him politely.

"The Sleepless Earl? It's actually not too far from here." Huohuo briefly looked over her shoulder and pointed. "If you walk down the avenue and turn left, you'll see a building with purple flowers growing around it and a smaller Foxian girl standing in front of it. Her name is Mengming, and she's the current owner." She rubbed her arm in slight self-consciousness.

"I, um... hope that helps you."

#message from the stars; (ASK)#starlight; (IC)#heliobus hunter; (HUOHUO)#traincarsandstars #drifting through the expanse; (QUEUE)

1 note · View note

littleshebear · 6 years

Text

The Narrow Road, Chapter Two; Training.

PROLOGUE | CHAPTER ONE |

This fic is taking a long time because of how I’ve decided to structure it. Flashbacks are bullshit, don’t do it fam. Anyway, onwards and upwards. In which Zavala gets beaten up a whole bunch, Sasha’s having none of it and the Titan Bros meet.

“The moon’s good”: They kick off their hakama for wrestling

- Hokushi.

“You’re going to die, you know.”

Zavala looked up at Shaxx quizzically, wondering how he could say something so ghoulish in such a casual tone of voice. They were on their way to combat training, Zavala’s first session. Shaxx was clearly an old hand, or at least he acted like one. Zavala couldn’t tell if he was trying to prepare him or if he was winding him up.

“Sorry but it’s true, you’re going to die today. More than once.” Zavala stopped in his tracks and kept staring at him. “You’ll get used to it. It’s all part of the experience.”

“Uh. Thanks for the heads up?” Zavala resumed walking and they carried on towards the sparring grounds on the outskirts of the settlement. “It’s fine. I’ve died before. Plenty of times.”

“In quick succession?”

“No can’t say it’s ever been more than once in twenty-four hours.”

“Get ready for more than once in twenty minutes.” They came to a halt with the other Risen from the settlement, who were gathered in a circle, waiting for the instructors to make themselves known. Shaxx leaned down and whispered, “People tend to be harsh with the new arrivals. Be prepared for that. You can team up with me if you like.”

“Would you go easy on me?”

“No.”

Zavala chuckled, then fell silent as an instructor entered the circle, and began to speak, projecting his voice across the field. “All right, pair up. Hand to hand combat today, Light abilities are not only allowed they are encouraged. Show us what you’ve got. Best of three, get to it!”

Zavala turned to Shaxx and asked, “Best of three?”

“Deaths,” Shaxx answered bluntly.

“Ah.” Zavala nodded. Shaxx wasn’t kidding about how many times he might die today. He took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to relax. “Okay, so are we-”

“New guy!” Shaxx and Zavala turned to see Iakin glaring in Zavala’s direction. “With me.”

“He wants a rematch?” Zavala muttered.

While Shaxx shook his head slowly, Zavala suspected he was rolling his eyes behind that helmet. “Kick the little twerp’s arse. I’ll see you after.” He turned to the rest of the assembly and pounded a fist into his open palm. “Okay, who’s with me? Come on, step up. Anyone?” The other Risen avoided making eye contact and steadily drifted away from him, as though he had plague. “Oh come on. Come on! Oh, you bunch of wusses.” He eventually managed to grab a retreating Risen by the collar. “Come here. Oh it’s okay, it’ll be over soon.”

Zavala trudged toward his opponent, taking note of the state of the ground as he did. The foot traffic in this area had turned most of the snow to a treacherously slippy, brown, slush.

“All right,” the instructor called out once the group had been paired off. “Ghosts to a safe distance please.”

Izanami shuddered and turned her optic to Zavala for reassurance. “It’s fine, Iz.” Zavala cupped her shell in the palm of his hand. “It’s just to avoid friendly fire, I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t like this,” she glanced around nervously.

“Go with the other ghosts. It’s just a precaution, I’ll see you soon.”

“Very soon,” said Iakin, a smirk fixed on his face. She spun her shell to face Iakin and contorted her top two spines into a sharp ‘v’ shape. After she floated away to the edge of the sparring ground, Iakin asked, “Why does your Ghost have separation anxiety?”

“I told you, we’ve been through a-” He was suddenly interrupted by Iakin’s fist smashing into his face. Zavala staggered backward, tasting blood at the back of his throat. He spluttered and gingerly covered his nose with his hand. His nose was broken for sure, that would be Izanami’s first job when they were reunited. He suddenly realised Iakin was coming for him again and blocked his punch with his forearm. Iakin kept advancing, swinging left and right while Zavala was forced backwards, still not having recovered from that first sucker-punch. He eventually slipped and fell. He both felt and heard the crack when his head hit a rock, then everything went dark.

Alexandra had brought her bike to a halt at the crest of a hill overlooking a vast expanse of water, with a town nestled beside it. She chugs from a water flask before offering to Zavala who politely declines. He’s far too busy staring at the sight before him.

“Is...is that the ocean?” He supposes it must be the ocean, the water extends as far as the eye can see. He’s never seen this much water, not since he was revived and then he was eager to get away from the shallow sea he had obviously died in. His heart beats faster as images of darkness and cold panic skirt at the edge of his memories.

“Traveler help you, you really are lost, aren’t you?” She shakes her head, “No. We’re well inland here. That’s Lake Baikal. You’ll be staying at the Ranger Station there until we decide what to do with you.”

“What to do with me?” He wrenches his gaze away from the lake and frowns at his new-found...What is she to him? His guide? His protector? Or his captor perhaps?

Alexandra shrugs and screws the cap back on her flask. “You were out in the middle of nowhere, no weapons, no equipment. That’s unusual to say the least. The others will have questions about how you survived alone like that.”

Zavala drops his gaze to the floor, contemplating if he should just tell her the truth; that he didn’t survive, that he died over and over. What if his Ghost is being too cautious? This Ranger seems reasonable, terrifying when she has a knife in her hand but reasonable.

The crackle of a radio, then the sound of a woman’s voice interrupts the ensuing silence. “Sasha? You coming home tonight? Your dinner’s getting cold.”

She grins and picks up the radio and replies, “Yes, I’m on my way. Just pop my dinner in the oven for me, I promise I won’t be up past my bedtime. Seriously though, just taking a little pit-stop then we’ll be down.”

“We? Ah, yes, your stray. How long?”

“About half an hour, so don’t shoot.”

“Oh come on.”

“I’ve seen how bad your aim is, Dolores, your eyesight’s terrible. Wouldn’t put it past you to mistake us for Dregs.”

“Have a care. Age comes not alone, child, it’ll happen to you too. See you soon”

She pockets the radio and gets back on the bike. “Come on, let’s go.” Zavala ambles over and rides pillion behind her.

“Who was that? Another Ranger? How many of you are there?”

Alexandra pulls on her helmet and starts the ignition on the bike. “Not enough,” she sighs before setting off.

When they arrive, they’re waved through a massive gate set into a protective outer wall. After parking the bike, Alexandra beckons for Zavala to follow her through what pass for streets in this conflagration of humanity. The town is a mixture of crumbling Golden Age buildings, huts, lean-tos and what looked like converted shipping containers piled on top of eachother. Zavala winces at his Awoken senses picking up on the sudden cacophony of minds crammed into this space. The noise gradually quiets as he erects mental defences, more from instinct than anything else, he has no memory of learning how to do this. The occasional pointed, curious thought from someone staring at him in cuts through. The people here are dressed for hardship; tattered furs, cracked leathers and worn boots. Zavala is keenly aware of how out of place his white flight suit looks here.

He looks in the direction of the latest mental enquiry to breach his mental levees and sees that it’s Alexandra, staring at him intently. “You all right? You’re wincing.”

“I’m not used to this many people.”

“This an Awoken thing? I heard you people can sense things we can’t.” Zavala just nods, beginning to accept that he’ll most likely end up with a splitting headache before he gets used to this.

“These people can’t all be headed for the Traveler?” He asks, looking around in amazement.

“No. You get all sorts here. Pilgrims, merchants, descendants of people who tried to get to the Cosmodrome during the Collapse. The Road is dangerous but it’s relatively safe here so some Pilgrims abandon the idea and settle. There’s some unsavoury types too, so stay close.” They turn a corner and come to a ramshackle mess-hall set up in a large tent. “Get something to eat, I need to go debrief, I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She points at him as though he’s a naughty child liable to run off. “Stay here. I mean it, don’t wander.” She shepherds him to the back of the queue before telling a man in armour similar to hers to watch him.

The line moves slowly and Zavala shuffles his way along, shoulders hunched and head down.

[I think I preferred it when it was just us.] Izanami complains.

[It’ll be fine, this is only temporary.] As he nears the head of the queue, the aroma from a massive pot of stew wafts towards him. He doesn’t recognise the smells, he just knows that they make his stomach clench and rumble. [Besides, it might be nice to rest properly. Hot meals. Sleep in a bed.]

[Zavala. Three o’clock.] Izanami says in a nervous, warning tone. [And nine o’clock and six...oh dear.] The others in the queue have stepped back while two men and one woman position themselves around Zavala. Their feet are planted far apart, their arms folded.

Zavala glances between the three of them. “Can I help you?”

“You’re the guy Sasha brought in?” Asks the woman.

“You mean Alexandra Ivanova? The Ranger? Yes.” Zavala unfolds his arms slowly, letting them drop to his sides. “Word travels fast, apparently.”

The three of them begin circling him and take turns firing questions at him, one after the other, “How long were you out there alone? Why don’t you have a weapon? How did you survive? Why are you dressed like that? You a pilot? Where’s your ship?”

Zavala does his best to keep an eye on each of them. His lips curls into a snarl, his annoyance overriding his sense of caution. “Do actually want me to answer these, or are you just trying to make a point?”

“Fulgrim sent you didn’t he? What is he after?”

“I’ll tell you what I told Alex- Sasha. Whatever. I don’t work for him. I’d never even heard of Fulgrim until today.”

“Liar!” One of the men yells. He’s stick-thin and wiry so Zavala is completely taken aback by his strength when he lands a punch in Zavala’s gut. He gasps and tries to back away, doubled-over.

He wraps one protective arm around his stomach and holds his other hand out, palm-up, in an entreating gesture. “Please don’t.” With that, the three of them set upon him, punching, kicking, scratching. Zavala collapses to the floor and curls into a fetal position.

[Fight back!] Izanami pleads.

[I can’t.]

[Yes you can! You’ve fought off Vandals hand-to-hand, this is nothing!]

[I might kill them.] Zavala screws his eyes shut, fighting against the brewing anger inside him. He doesn’t want his Light to manifest, not now but each blow from his attackers cause that little spark of heat in his chest grow and grow and until his skin begins to prickle and he feels that tell-tale jolt of power in his fingertips. He screws his eyes shut, crosses his arms and balls his fists against his chest. He’s just about to yell, to scream a warning to his assailants to get back when a gunshot sounds just a few feet away. Zavala forces his eyes open to see who fired.

“What in the Traveler’s name are you doing?” Sasha is standing with a massive pistol aimed skywards, wearing a facial expression that’s one part incredulity, three parts murder. She lowers her gun to point it in the direction of Zavala’s assailants. “Get back. All of you!” They shuffle backward, hands up. She holsters her gun and scowls in the direction of the armoured man toward the back of the mess. “What the hell, Goran? I told you to watch him.”

The man shrugs, leaning nonchalantly against one of the mess’ support beams. “I did watch.”

“They could have killed him!”

“I wouldn’t have let it get that far. You gotta admit, Sasha, it’s more than a little suss. You shouldn’t have brought him back here, you know he’s probably a scout.”

“You ever see a spy look as incongruous as him? Not much use as a spy, don’t you think?”

“Why take the risk?” One of the men who attacked speaks up. His gaze is still full of venom but he looks decidedly less confident than before. “Just chuck him back over the wall and be done with it.”

“He is my responsibility. If any of you touch him again, you can make your way to the Traveler by yourselves. How about we put you outside the wall with a couple days’ rations? You fancy traveling alone? During winter? Like the sound of that?

“You can’t make that decision, Sasha. You’re not in charge,” the ranger called Goran protests.

“Dolores can. Want me to call her?” Sasha’s suggestion is met with grumbling and shuffling. “That’s what I thought. Get out of here, all of you.” She glares after them as they retreat and the other pilgrims gradually gather back around to queue for food again, giving Sasha and Zavala a wide berth. She kneels at his side to help him up. “Anything broken?”

“I don’t think so,” he says, wincing at a sharp pain in his chest as he gets to his feet.

[I beg to differ,”] Izanami interjects across their Link. [Two of your ribs are broken. You’ll have some serious contusions too, if you don’t let me do something about them.]

“Come on,” Sasha takes him by the elbow and steers him away from the mess tent. “Let’s get you patched up.”

Zavala nods, taking as deep breaths as his aching ribs will allow, not permitting himself to relax until he’s sure his Light has abated.

“Listen,” Sasha says as they walk side-by-side, “If anyone gets you on the ground like that again, kick at their legs. Strike with your heel, hard, and follow through. If you get the angle right, you might just break their shin or their knee.”

Zavala laughs softly and instantly regrets it as a fresh spike of pain lances through him. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a little scary?”

She smirks, not looking offended in the slightest. “I’m just practical.” She pats his arm. “Stick with me, you’ll be fine.”

Zavala gasped as his lungs filled with air. He blinked furiously as the world came back into focus and he saw Izanami hovering over him.

[Get out of the way] he told her silently. Iakin was standing with his back to them, laughing uproariously, calling to someone across the field.

“Did you see that? He must have a skull like an eggshell!”

Zavala waited until his Ghost was safely away before silently maneuvering himself around. He drew one leg back and kicked out hard, feeling his heel crash into the side of Iakin’s knee. There was a sickening snap and Iakin immediately dropped to the ground with an agonised scream. Zavala sprang to his feet and grabbed the back of Iakin’s head, fisted his fingers in his hair, pulled his head back then smashed his knee into his face. He let go of his hair and let him fall backwards, lifeless, like a rag-doll.

“WHOO! Yeah, that’ll learn him!” Izanami hollered from the sidelines, spinning her shell in jubilation. She noticed Iakin’s ghost staring at her. “What?” The other Ghost dipped the points of its shell in what could almost be a sigh before floating over to revive their Risen.

“All right,” Iakin said, getting to his feet after his Ghost brought him back, “All right. I got cocky. I’ll give you that one.”

Zavala resisted the urge to reply with a sarcastic quip and instead concentrated on finding a strong stance and anticipating Iakin’s next gambit. He brought his arms up to a defensive position and kept still, waiting for Iakin to attack. He watched him pace back and forth, trying to goad him into making the first move but Zavala remained impassive, staring him down. Iakin eventually gave in to impatience and charged at him, swinging wildly with his fists. Zavala blocked as best he could until he feels the hairs on his arms rise and his skin erupt in gooseflesh; there’s arc energy nearby. He raised a void overshield in response.

Iakin backed off when he realised his blows were to no avail. “That overshield won’t last forever, you know. Are you going to land a punch or-”

Zavala took Iakin’s jibe as an opportunity to drop the shield and summed the arc aspect of his Light. He rushed him, turning to a bright, crackling blur as he rammed his shoulder into Iakin at full force. He vapourised mid-taunt and Zavala stepped back, allowing himself a small, satisfied smile.

“Best of three, right?” He said, turning to the other sparring couples for confirmation. They had all stopped and were staring at him. A few whispers broke out and Zavala’s smile vanished. He looked around uncertainly until he found Shaxx, also staring at him. “What?” He mouthed.

With that, Iakin’s Ghost revived him and he immediately started yelling in the instructor’s direction. “That doesn’t count! This isn’t fair, how was I supposed to know he could do that?”

Zavala scurried over to Shaxx. “Do what? What did I do? you said we were meant to die, best of three deaths, that’s what you said.”

Shaxx cocked his head. “Uh, you switched between void and arc Light as though it was nothing.”

“So?” Zavala shrugged, nonplussed. “Was I not supposed to? No one told me I wasn’t supposed to do that.”

“It’s not that you’re not supposed to. It’s rare. Especially for a youngster.” He looked toward Iakin, still protesting the injustice of it all. “He wasn’t expecting it.”

“Oh.” Zavala nodded. “Oh, I see. Am I supposed to pick one or the other?”

“Not for me to say.” He jutted his chin toward another Risen walking toward the sparring ground. “Better to ask him.” This newcomer was dressed in armour that put most of them to shame. Aside from the ornately inlaid helmet, there was a slightly ramshackle feel to it. The parts didn’t all exactly match, there were obvious dents and scuffs, and it was complemented by somewhat ragged-looking cloth accoutrements. The effect was all the more intimidating though, he was a clearly a man who was no stranger to battle.

“Do you think the Fallen care one whit for fairness?” He spoke in a low growl that somehow managed to cut right through Iakin’s histrionics. He fell silent, bowing his head in deference. “You think a gang of Vandals will back off if you cry ‘fair play?’ Do honestly believe a Captain won’t use your bones as a boundary marker because you invoke rules of engagement?”

“No, my Lord.” Iakin mumbled in response.

“What have you learned?”

Iakin shot a surly glare in Zavala’s direction before responding, “Don’t underestimate your opponent.”

“And?”

“Expect the unexpected?”

“Good.” He nodded once before turning away. He stopped in front of Shaxx who nodded respectfully.

“Lord Saladin.”

“Shaxx. Vicious as ever.” A note of amusement had crept into that gravelly voice.

“Thank you m’lord.”

“And I see you’ve made friend. Good for you.” He turned to look at Zavala. “This one might give you a run for your money.”

“I hope so,” Shaxx said, giving Zavala a playful punch to the shoulder. “I was getting bored.”

“I won’t be here for the next couple of weeks at least, a matter in Old Russia requires our attention.” He glanced at Zavala, then back at Shaxx. “Keep an eye on this one for me. He’s got potential.”

“Will do. Is...” Shaxx hesitated. “Is Lady Efrideet going with you?”

Saladin snorted and turned to leave the sparring ground. He called back over his shoulder, “I’ll give her your regards.”

Zavala waited until Saladin was out of earshot before grabbing Shaxx’s arm. “Lord Saladin?” He whispered urgently. “As in war Lord?”

“No! No fear.” Shaxx assured him. “Iron Lord. They’re the ones who put Warlords down.”

“Oh,” Zavala visibly relaxed. “I don’t like Warlords.”

Shaxx looked at him askance. “You’ve had run-ins with Warlords? Zavala you’ve got stories to tell, why don’t you talk more?”

He gave a lopsided shrug and stammered, “I uh, I heard things. Never good things.” He took a deep breath and decided to change the subject. “So who’s Efrideet?”

“Ah,” Shaxx put his hands on his hips and puffed his chest out. “Lady Efrideet.” He drew out the second syllable of ‘Lady’ in a happy sigh. “I like Lady Efrideet.” He clapped an arm around Zavala’s shoulder and walked him back towards the camp. “Let me tell you about Lady Efrideet…”

#destiny fanfiction #Commander Zavala #OC: Sasha #Zavala x Sasha #Lord Shaxx #Lord Saladin #Various OC's #The Dark Age #Angst #Romance #Canon typical violence #Zavala x female oc

21 notes · View notes

artificialqueens · 7 years

Text

MacArthur Park (Rajila) - Juniper

Summary: Raja has an epiphany during Delta and Manila’s lip sync. Drag Race set. 3k.

Author’s note: Two from me in one queue! A good chunk of the beginning is an expansion of Untucked, but I feel it’s necessary. This idea was just eating me alive, so I hope you enjoy!

Exhilaration.

It was probably the only accurate way to describe what Raja was experiencing as she left the main stage, hands jittering as she moved toward the lounge. Every bundle of nerves were on fire, and she had no desire to fight back the wild eyes and smile she was sporting. She opened the door, heart still thumping loudly, threatening to rise up out of her chest. She quickly reached for a cocktail, slipping the straw between her teeth, trying to find a normal heart rate. It was just her on the couch, along with a producer and three camera men she was supposed to act oblivious of.

A stage was nothing new to Raja; she’d been up above crowds for almost twenty years, dancing around in a dress, pretending to sing someone else’s songs. As she matured, gained a professional reputation, she began hosting shows, speaking to young minds that wanted to hone their crafts to be just like her. Raja, the fashionable, runway-drawn, fierce artist that she was. However, never had she been forced to write a script of stand-up comedy and deliver it in front of a crowd, her idol, and the entire nation watching at home.

She’d done well, maintaining composure as she drew laughs from the audience of strangers, bucket of fake blood stemming from her scalp and all. It was one of the most exciting moments she’d experienced in the competition thus far, the rush like that of a high-speed amusement park ride, throwing her all out into the sea of vultures below, eyes expectant.

Shangela’s plan of throwing Raja under the bus had failed; she had opened the show and left a lasting impression doing so. Raja amusedly sucked down more alcohol as she thought about it.

One by one, the girls made their way backstage; Carmen, Alexis, Shangela. Each queen recounting their acts, what got the most laughs, which jokes they were most proud of. Raja’s stomach was finally starting to settle, mentally reminding herself not to grind her teeth on camera at the slight shade she was receiving from Shangela.

She’d set the tone, and it seemed that everyone was excelling in the challenge, so far. It was going to be interesting to see what the judges would have to say. All the girls were lifting glasses off the table, fiddling with the lemon on the edge, a scantily clad Carmen somewhere behind, ditching her fat suit and readjusting her tuck.

The door creaked open again, and Manila slipped through, wide eyed at Carmen. She sat as the queens grilled her, asking questions suggested by the producer, and her answers led Raja to believe that maybe she hadn’t done so well. It was a competition after all, but she’d found a good friend in Manila, and wanted the very best of her challengers by her side until the end. She’d be damned if that wasn’t the Heathers.

Yara entered, and Raja’s mind drifted away, thinking about the long evening they still had in store. Her feet were already aching, the blonde wig hot on her head, and as she finally came to a calm state, she felt exhausted.

Delta came in last, and her nervous energy was picked up by Raja immediately. She knew her sister, and something was definitely up. Delta and Manila talked about the struggles of being out on your own, not having anyone else to bounce jokes off of, or take up dead space, and Raja’s heart skipped a beat. If it truly was as bad as she sensed, it wouldn’t be a shock to see two of the Heathers in the bottom.

They were all escorted back out onto the runway, enduring the critiques. Raja was pleased, and for most of the girls, there were compliments aplenty. Confirming her fears, the judges tore into her friends. She watched Michelle’s polished fingernail point at Delta, demanding that she get out of her head. Raja shot her a worried look.

Once back in the longue, Raja relaxed onto the sofa. The dynamic of the room had shifted, as it usually did when people’s feelings got hurt, and Raja winced as Delta began to rant, laughing apathetically about disregarding her criticisms.

They change the subject, having a relaxed kiki, discussing the words of Ru, Santino, Michelle, and their guest. Shangela cuts Raja off mid-sentence, and the annoyance bubbles inside her gut once again.

Manila beings to talk a lot, as she often does, spewing off words and defenses about being called a copycat, before Delta speaks up again. She’s beating herself up, acting as though she’s so underwhelmed by her performance and her place in the competition. She feels undervalued, and Raja shakes her head as the self-deprecating comments keep coming. There’s a sarcastic tone, but it hurts Raja’s heart.

Delta is more than a friend. A lifelong companion, a drag sister to have by her side forever. Raja’s seen Delta up on stage, collecting tips and applause. She knows how amazing she is, how beautifully her mug is painted, how intelligently her style shines through. She’s a polished queen who has earned her respect, and it pains her to see the dark cloud hanging over her head.

Suddenly, she’s on the floor, ripping off her wig and mocking the elimination process. She’s raving about the absurdity of it all; this isn’t a drag competition, it’s just a show made to exploit them and put them through the ringer. Raja’s tapping her foot, the other queens visibly uncomfortable at the vibe being created, as Delta swears that she’ll refuse to lip sync.

It doesn’t look good for her, Raja knows. Delta has already been in the bottom twice, and track record could definitely play a factor if her competitor brings it. She steals a glance at Manila, trying to save face, but she catches the occasional lip quiver. She’s talented, but so is Delta, and she feels guilty for knowing which Heather she’d rather have stay.

She grabs Delta by the wrist, pulling her into the gold bar. She isn’t going to let her sister crash and burn without a fight.

“Okay, you’ve gotta stop this,” she pleads, but her words fall on deaf ears. Delta’s mind is riddled with insecurities, and it seems that no matter how many well-deserved compliments she’s paid, her heart is overcast. The song is a classic, a disco hit that Delta knows, even without studying. Delta is a firework, and Raja knows she can pull through one more time to stay another week.

She’s trying to act calm, not letting her own nerves show. It wouldn’t feel right without her by her side. Sure, she’d have Carmen and Manila, but they weren’t Delta. If she was going to win, she wanted Delta with her through it all. She’d have to go sometime, but not now. Not like this.

They all go back onto the main stage, Raja’s predictions coming true. She doesn’t have time to be irritated with Shangela’s win; her heart is racing as the raised platform is deserted, one by one, until it’s only Manila and Delta.

Raja isn’t sure what she believes in anymore, but she says a prayer, nonetheless.

She’s biting her lip. She thinks to the nights they’ve spent gossiping, twirling the hotel phone cord around her finger. The coffee runs, granted to them after many complaints to Chanel. All the hours they spent, working their fingers to the bone, only to be rewarded with disgusting food and a lack of sleep. The Heathers made it bearable. By the second day she’d found someone so similar to herself in Manila.

It was going to be a damn shame to watch her sashay away.

The opening chords flood out of the speakers, and the lights move. Manila gracefully flutters down to the floor, yellow feathers dancing on their own. Her attire is almost eerily fitting to the song.

Donna Summer’s voice speaks to Raja as she tries to keep her gaze even, willing her spirit to give confidence to Delta. She’s performing, brilliant as always, and comically uses her chunky bracelet as a prop.

Then, the song is building, and everyone’s eyes turn to the Asian queen as she throws her whole body into the song, hands shaking, eyes crossed. The sheer energy and passion strikes Raja to her core, and the laughter of the judges seems like it’s coming from a million miles away.

Her eyes burn as she tries to force them onto Delta, but she can’t rip away. Manila is dancing the house down, so theatrical, and hungry to stay. The raw emotion is radiating off her body, and it’s entrancing.

Everyone is all smiles. The anxiety creeps up Raja’s center as she sees RuPaul’s gaze intently fixed on the younger queen, aware that Delta is quickly fading into the background. Manila’s bending her body back, arms in the air, expression crazed. Her fingers drag down her face, wiping the tears and mascara all over her cheeks.

Slowly, the exhilaration from before comes back, and she feels her body bopping to the beat. Raja’s cheeks ache from smiling so widely, and she has to restrain herself from taking a step forward.

In so many years, she has never felt like this. This truthful, honest display is beautiful to her, and it reaffirms her faith in the art of drag. It’s so beautiful. Manila is so beautiful.

It feels like five hours and two seconds all at once, but it’s finally winding down, and Manila stumbles as she runs into Delta, sweeping her up in her storm. She clings to her friend, crying out apologies, and Raja wants to run up and cradle them both.

The applause is thunderous as each queen returns to her respective end of the stage. There’s no doubt in anyone’s mind what the result will be, and yet Raja still curses when Manila is declared safe.

Everything afterwards moves in a blur, and Raja steps up to embrace Delta as she’s walking offstage. The other Heathers join in, and Manila is still sobbing. Raja finds herself gripping her wrist during the group hug. It doesn’t last long enough.

They all step backstage, feet bruised and battered, spirits weary. Typically, they’re allowed to go back into the workroom to de-drag, so long as they pretend not to see that tale-tell message on the mirror, spelled out in cheap lipstick. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Manila talking to Chanel, who’s holding a clipboard in her hands, and Raja can only assume she’s pleading to just go back to her room. She’s exhausted, and Raja can relate.

–

A few hours later, Sutan gives up on biting his lip, and finally pushes up from the bed. He knows he should be mourning the loss of his friend, but his mind is racing through a million thoughts a minute, and he’s craving some fresh air.

It’s not long until midnight, and they have an early call tomorrow. Still, he grabs for his pack on the coffee table, making sure his lighter and keycard are in his back pocket before heading outside.

There’s fancy outdoor lighting hanging everywhere, casting an orange glow on the outside pavilion Sutan always heads to when he needs fresh air. Metal tables and chairs sit unoccupied, and for a moment, he thinks his only company is the slight breeze and the cloudy night sky.

He sees his blonde tuft of hair first, peering up for any signs of the moon. He’s in a hoodie and gym shorts, bare feet dangling over the grass, as he sits on a short cement wall.

As Sutan approaches, he can see black streaks still staining the younger man’s face. Splotches of thick foundation remain, and he can’t help but wonder how long he’s been out there.

“Hey, Heather,” he said softly, as to not startle him. It was strangely silent for such a populated hotel, the only true sound coming from hidden crickets. “Your face is going to rot.”

It’s a joke, but neither laugh. Sutan leans against a pillar adjacent to the wall, lighting up, and for a couple of minutes no one speaks.

“Do you think Gabriel hates me?” Karl finally asks, voice hoarse from disuse.

“No, Manila,” he responds with a hefty sigh. “He knew he was going to be in the bottom, it was just his luck that you happened to kill it, right? It’s an honor to leave to another Heather.”

Sutan feels strangely calm. For a moment, he wonders if he’d feel any different if the outcome had been in Delta’s favor.

“Would you have hated me if I sent you home?”

“Probably,” Karl says, after a few beats. “For a while, anyway.”

Sutan takes a long drag, the sparks at the end of his cigarette burning their way up, dying and turning to ash. Something stings, and he wants to pretend it’s not the thought of going back to a life without Manila, never hearing her laugh in the morning or seeing her stupid cross-eyed face.

“Well, at least you’re honest,” he breathes out. Karl doesn’t smoke, though he does look in need of some vice to drown his sorrows with.

Karl feels guilty, and he doesn’t hide misery well, Sutan notes. He wants to reach out, but keeps his distance.

“It’s gonna be you and me, Heather,” he says, eventually, and Karl looks up, under eyes dark with fatigue. “Until the bitter end.”

“You think so?”

“Unless Shablamgela has some secret weapon and sends both of our asses home,” he snorts, and suddenly Karl is laughing weakly. It sends a tingle through him.

Karl pats the cement next to him, and Sutan stomps the butt of his cigarette out before hopping up. They watch the grass sway with the breeze. There are no flowers.

“What did it feel like?”

Karl groans, rubbing his face. He bumps Sutan’s shoulder and he chuckles quietly.

“The absolute worst. I felt like I was going to throw up, I was so scared. My heart was beating out of my chest.”

Sutan said nothing, content to listen.

“This sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I couldn’t shake it. Ru’s eyes were burning into my skin. I didn’t want her to go, but I couldn’t lose. I didn’t think I wanted this so bad. It’s about more than the money and title, now. I’ve worked so hard, my whole life, and I always end up second best. I don’t wanna waste my life away in an office job. I’m meant for this, I know I am. Nothing brings me joy like sketching out my next outfit, plotting out a performance. It feels right, Sutan.”

His stomach flips at the sound of his name.

“Yeah,” he breathes in agreement, before clearing his throat. “I know what you mean. Like, I’ve done so many other projects…but there’s something about drag. It just draws me back.”

“It’s gonna suck to send you home, too.”

Sutan sees the quirk of Karl’s lips, and he shoots him a narrowed glance.

“Shut up, Heather.”

They’re laughing, for real now, sadness being alleviated each second. Karl leans his head against his shoulder. Sutan lets his eyes close. He can feel the other man’s breath on his arm, and it tickles him, but he makes no effort to move.

He thinks back to the elimination, watching Manila silently scream with passion, move with artistry. The makeup coated tears he so longed to wipe away. It was enchanting, intoxicating, and for a few seconds, he let himself dare to imagine what he might have done if he had let himself take those steps further.

She was beautiful, even dressed up as a Muppet. Something clenched around Sutan’s heart. Perhaps all they had in common was more than coincidence. Two sides of the same coin, meant to be together.

He knows he shouldn’t, that he’ll probably regret this, but he doesn’t care. It could be his fried brain talking, forced into near solitude and wringed out for all it was worth, but he thinks the moon is looking to him, and she’s saying to move toward his body.

He twists, placing a hand on Karl’s knee. His head perks up, and their eyes meet. Sutan is scanning every inch of his face, trying to see if he’s reading the situation correctly. The feeling is unmistakable.

Karl smiles, suddenly, and Sutan does this same. He only moves in about an inch before he hears the other boy speak up.

“We could really make a difference in the way drag is viewed, I think. The world is gonna be wowed by us when all of this is over and airing. Even if I don’t win, I’m so ready for what’s to come. We should be proud of ourselves. I can’t wait to see what Sahara is gonna say.”

In an instant, Sutan jerks back, eyes focusing on nothing. He’s willing his face not to heat up, thankful for the heavy shadows encompassing them. His nerves are rattled. How could he have forgotten?

Sutan has a big ego, but he isn’t stupid. He knows what certain things look like, how they feel, and how they sound. The tone applied to Karl’s voice when he says his name is not at all the same as the way he says Antoine’s. He’s dizzy, so embarrassed by what he was about to do.

Karl stifles a yawn, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I’m fucking beat. I think I’m gonna turn in,” he says, and Sutan can only numbly nod. He’s both grateful and upset. Wants him to go, desperate to ask him to stay.

Karl hops off the wall and walks back toward the building. Sutan can hear him swipe his card, the faint beeping mocking him.

“Love you, Heather!” He calls out, and Sutan waits until he’s gone to reply.

“Love you, too.”

#raja gemini #manila luzon #rajila #delta work #hurt/comfort #slight angst #juniper #rpdr fanfiction #submission #canon compliant

47 notes · View notes

aya-chi007 · 7 years

Text

Pickpocket the Stars -Ch.1: Simple

AFF

Ao3

For Min Yoongi, things are hardly ever simple. She thinks about that while she leans back against a wall in an alley, watching the people walk by. A nearby streetlight illuminates part of the alley she’s standing in, the orange glow making her hair appear gold instead of its actual silvery gray color. Things aren’t simple, she muses as she takes a drag from the cigarette poised between two of her dainty fingers, that’s why she’s out in the wealthier part of town where she has no business, people watching. The simplest thing in her life is the fact that if you want to get something, you first must give something.

She needs a favor.

Her eyes drift across the scene in front of her, taking in everything: an elderly couple getting out of their candy apple red luxury sports car; the queue to get into some expensive high-end restaurant that probably charges out the nose for a single bite of food; a man with unruly black hair stepping out of an apartment building, wearing those stupid wireless headphones.

Jackpot.

Dropping what’s left of the cigarette, she pushes off the wall, taking care that she steps onto the abandoned butt to crush out the embers. She out in the sidewalk, out in the open now, weaving through seas of indistinguishable designer coats towards her target. Just as he’s about to pass by, she staggers into his path, slamming into him.

Too quick, too easy, slipped his wallet out of his back pocket right as they collided.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” she gushes as she pushes away from him, purposefully wobbling. “I should have known better than to wear heels out walking!”

The guy laughs, his warm hands resting on her arms to help her steady herself. “It’s fine, accidents happen,” he assures her, “Are you okay? Didn’t twist an ankle or anything?”

She shakes her head, assuring him she’s fine as she takes a step back, his hands falling from her arms. “Again, I’m so sorry, Have a good night!” She waves before ducking around him and continuing on her way. She waits until she’s rounded the corner to take off sprinting, heels clacking against the concrete.

Many blocks away, she’s on a street lined with cute, picturesque house: white picket fences, planter boxes beneath the windows. Glancing around, she pulls the guy’s wallet out of the pocket of her jeans. Whistling lowly, she thumbs through the notes tucked away in it. Man must have been planning on making it ran on somebody. It’s nothing but hundreds, crisp and neat and begging to be spent. Sucks to be that guy, but she has other plans for this cash. It is, after all, hers now.

At the end of the street is a cul-de-sac where one single house sits alone. It’s a pretty two-story gray colonial and the smoke curling out of the chimney only completes the image of a warm and cozy greeting. Yoongi grits her teeth as she walked through the front gate, taking care to not let her heels sink into the dirt. Honestly, she’d rather be anywhere but here.

She slowly walks up the front steps, pausing outside of the door to take a deep breath. She doesn’t bother knocking. Knocking suggests unfamiliarity. Instead, her hand curls around the doorknob, twisting it almost violently as she pushes the door open.

“Jay,” Yoongi yells as she walks into the foyer, kicking off her shoes as she closes the door behind her, taking care to lock it. She doesn’t feel like getting interrupted. “I got something for ya!”

There’s no response. Of course there isn’t. Grumbling to herself, she walks to the right of the staircase through an archway. The TV is on, but she can’t hear it. Low volume, he was expecting someone. Not her, obviously, he couldn’t know she was coming. Which means he has one of his guys out doing something for him. She shudders at the thought, mentally preparing for the murder report on the morning news tomorrow.

She stands at the end of the couch, biting her lip. He’s sprawled across the suede, jeans low on his hips and no shirt. Tattoos decorate the expanse of his chest, the backs on his hand, down one of his sides. She can even see the stars on his neck, glowing in the light from the TV. He doesn’t say anything to her though, too fixated on the screen to pay her any mind.

Sighing, Yoongi opens the wallet and pulls out the mass of of bills. “One hundred… two hundred… three hundred…” she counts slowly. Once she reaches the first thousand, she drops that stack on the coffee table, careful not to knock over the can of Monster sitting next to the remote.

By the time she’s reached three thousand, Jay’s sitting up, staring at her intently, one corner of his mouth curled up into a smirk. She ignores him until she’s counted all of the money, the notes in a pile on the coffee table with the wallet sitting on top of them. “Well?” She demands.

Jay laughs, grabbing her hand and pulling her down onto his lap. “I don’t remember giving you an assignment,” he murmurs, eyes tracing over her face carefully. His nose piercing twinkles in the light. It’s pretty. He’s pretty. He surrounds himself with pretty things. Maybe he thinks it’ll cancel out the not so pretty things he does.

“Didn’t need one. Figured I hadn’t done any work for you in a while and I’d make up for it,” Yoongi explains with a shrug, smiling briefly. “I thought you might appreciate it.”

“Mhm.” Jay looks amused as he gently brushes her hair back away from her face. “You’re never this sweet,” he comments, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

She represses a full body shiver at the sensation of his lips against her cheek. They’re so soft. It doesn’t fit him at all. “I’m always sweet,” she responds, forcing a breathy giggle. “Isn’t that why you always call me Suga?”

Jay just smiles, reaching a hand up to cup her cheek. "You're only Suga when you want something," he murmurs, eyes glinting dangerously. "What is it this time?"

Yoongi bites back a swear. He’s too good at reading people, always has been. “Can’t I just be sweet?” She asks, returning his smiling with one of her own.

“You? Never.” Jay chuckles coldly. “Tell me… now.”

Oh god. She doesn’t want to do this. She really doesn’t want to do this. She takes a deep breath, not quite meeting Jay's eyes. "Today at work-" "By 'work,' you mean the job you don't need?" Jay questions, his voice flat. She chooses to ignore the interruption. "Today at work," she repeats, her voice a bit stronger,, "One of the guys in my department asked me for a date tomorrow night and I said-"

"No." Yoongi blinks at the venom in his voice, feeling her heart drop at the building rage she can see flickering in Jay's eyes. "Actually, I said yes." "It wasn’t a suggestion," Jay tells her lowly, hand slipping from her cheek to harshly grab her chin, forcing her to look at him. "You'll cancel tomorrow then you're going to resign from that job."

It feels like she's been dunked under icy water, goosebumps rippling up her skin. "B- but," she tries to argue, but Jay cuts her off. "Three years ago, you came to me for your first favor. Do you remember what it was?" Heat replaces the ice, spreading across her cheeks like wild fire. God, as if she could forget. Her family was starting to struggle financially and her longtime crush had asked her to senior prom. “I… I needed a dress,” she mutters shamefully. A week of running drugs for him in exchange for the money for the perfect dress, not to mention enough left over to get her hair and makeup done.

Jay nods approvingly, his smile cruel. "Do you remember what the next favor was?" Yoongi nods stiffly, which only makes Jay tsk at her. "Nuh-uh, Suga, use your words," he orders softly She doesn’t want to say it. She swallows back the lump in her throat. It was so stupid. Finally, she manages to say, "Taking care of my parents debts." "Very good," Jay praises, letting go of her chin to caress her cheek. "I have it in writing of course, but what did you give me for that favor?" "Myself." It's barely a whisper, choked off and miserable. Jay hums. "Close. Yourself. Your parents thinking you're dead and the knowledge that if you ever tried to contact them, they'd be killed.

"What I'm getting at is..." He takes one of her hands, lacing their fingers together. "You belong to me. You follow my rules, you do as I say. No amount of cash or valuables you pick from unsuspecting souls is going to change that." He tilts his head almost innocently, smiling sweetly. "Do you understand, Suga?" "Yes, Jay," she answers quietly. He presses another kiss to her cheek, letting go of her hand. "Go home and get some rest. I expect to see you tomorrow after you've resigned."

She’s quick to jump off his lap, practically running back to the foyer to tug on her heels. Even then, she doesn’t stop running, not until she’s streets away, tears running down her cheeks and blisters forming on her feet. The rest of the walk just exudes misery: broken windows of shut down shops, homeless people huddled in alleyways trying to sleep, the heavy smell of alcohol permeating the air around the entrance to the apartments, whistles and jeers following her up the steps. Jay would never be caught dead in a place like this, which is why she stays here. At least the elevator is empty when she gets inside, jabbing the 7 button with more force than necessary.

As soon as she’s inside her apartment, Yoongi promptly throws herself on the couch and screams into a throw pillow. She hates this, she had been so naive to throw away her freedom to help her parents, to sell her soul to such an awful, manipulative asshole.

When she finally stops screaming, when oxygen becomes a necessity, she hears knocking at her door. Groaning, she gets up to drag herself over to answer it. She hopes it's not the landlord. If she gets kicked out of here, she'll have nowhere to go, except back to Jay's house, to be under his roof and his complete control again. She'd rather die.

Wrenching open the door, she glares at whoever is on the other side. Just so happens that the person on the other side is a young guy, maybe a year or two younger than her, with dyed hair and tan skin. Definitely not the landlord. "Who're you?" She demands, flipping her hair out of her eyes so she can get a better look at him. Tattered jeans, styled that way, not from too much wear. A plain black hoodie that hugs his frame and looks entirely too comfortable. He’s not from here and he doesn’t belong here. "Namjoon, Kim Namjoon," he answers quietly, glancing around her to look into her apartment. She shifts so he can’t see behind her. "I just moved in across the hall. Is everything okay?" Yoongi blinks at that, the question catching her off guard. He definitely doesn’t belong here. People don't ask that, especially in this part of town. "Yeah, why?" "I-I heard screaming and was worried," he explains, chuckling nervously. "Decided to be a good neighbor and all that and come see if anything was wrong."

Good neighbors don’t exist. Yoongi’s lived here long enough to know that. But this guy… he seems so genuine, so simple. Except nothing’s simple in Yoongi’s life. “Yeah, everything’s chill,” she answers, faking a smile. “Rough day at work and all that, was just trying to blow off some steam.” She runs a hand back through her hair and sighs. “I’ll try to keep it down, alright?”

She closes the door, barely catching Namjoon’s soft bid of ‘goodnight’ before it shuts. Slumping against the wood, she lets out another sigh. If only things could be simple.

2 notes · View notes