#except to post this song and thank it for the comfort and warmth its given me in all my sleepless nights crying

[st-armand]

Author’s Notes: Ha, yall thought that the Plug!Hobie fic was gunna be posted first, gotta keep yall on your toes. I finished this first so here it is <3 Also any content by me about Hobie his age is 21-24. Im also looking for people to beta read.

CWs: Mention of piercing gone wrong, suggestive, stealing, not beta read

 Random Hobie Brown Headcanons

He has/had more piercings, notably a pair of sub-clavicle piercings, a belly piercing and nipples piercings (I know other people headcanon him as having a prince albert, but god I know that shit hurts so we’ll be skipping for now). He took those out because they kept getting caught in the frayed fabrics of his clothing, and especially worse his spider suit.

His final straw was amidst fighting a foe, he sustained several injuries, but he was horrified looking at the ripped skin of his clavicle, frantically looking for the bar and the flesh still attached, he did, but it was deep in the crevices of his suit and didn’t find it until after repairing it.

That was enough to get rid of all his torso piercings.

Hobie is extremely anal retentive when it comes to the upkeep of his piercings though, every night, maybe except those he’s really incapacitated from battle. He spends so much time in the morning carefully soaking q-tips in saline to clean the puncture holes, if he can take the jewelry out to let it soak in peroxide for a few hours.

You both fight over the real estate of the sink and its mirror, until you ask (threaten) him to get you a vanity so you both can have space to get ready, he does and its gorgeous; a vintage one he found abandoned on a side street.

But this doesn’t stop him taking up vanity space.

“Feel pretty sitting here luv”

Hobie is of Jamaican heritage, I headcanon that his grandmother is his only living relative, and he dedicates so much time taking care of her in her old age, despite their arguments about Hobie being able to be free, and not held down by family. She knows she won’t have many years left, and she may want to embrace him in her love for these final years, but she also doesn’t want him to feel a great heartbreak at the loss.

That being said he visits her every few days, stopping by for some beef patties, jerk chicken, curries of all kind, taking home the bulk containers of sorrell and ginger beer, Grandma Brown doesn’t question how her lanky streetlight grandson has gotten so strong and fit over the last few years, or how he’s able to take the large crates back to his flat.

She has her suspicions and theories, but she would rather not pry if it could end in harm for the both of them.

When he’s off being spiderman, or doing shows and odd jobs, you take up the mantle, visiting Grandma Brown and aiding her around the home, Grandma Brown gets to sit back comfortably as you take over cleaning and seasoning the chicken, she trusts you to remember all the ingredients she uses to make Hobie feel like he’s still a child with how nostalgic the food makes him.

She genuinely loves having you around, but she also loves to tease her grandson, “Don’t know what you see in that boy, he should kiss the ground you walk on darling,”

 

And that’s not to say he doesn’t. The undercurrent of his unruffled attitude, is an adoration for you, he loves you in a way he can’t even put into words for his songs. He thanks whatever cosmic source there is for dropping you in his lap, like a starved dog given shelter, and cared for the rest of its life.

Sometimes you catch him staring at you deeply, teasing the inside of his lip piercing with his tongue causing it to wiggle around, youre locked into his penetrating gaze, you feel critically wounded by his affection, it always comes in sudden frothing sea waves, cooling your body, leaving you to yearn for the warmth of the sun that is his love.

 

Hobie isn’t the type of punk to wear sexually suggestive clothing, but he does use riskier photos of you or the both of you, faces obscured or cropped, and edited heavily with grain to make it look vintage, he takes them to a vendor he works with closely for band merch and has them screen print the design on shirts for the both of you, loves wearing them during concerts especially to ward off erratic fans.

 

You let Hobie pester you about getting a piercing, which you know you can’t handle the pain for, but you humor him.

“Luv ya need some metal on that leng face of yours” He’ll say every few weeks, despite knowing the answer, insanity is doing the same thing knowing the results won’t change, Hobie’s fine with being insane if it means maybe one day your resolve will crack and he can see you two with matching jewelry.

He often ponders about what gems and metals would look best, the color, the shape, the size, and how all these can complement that enticing face of yours.

 

Steals you clothes (duh not original, but considering my taste of clothes…), and I don’t mean a few pieces here and there, he actively searches for things that will compliment your wardrobe, and in the span of a few months together your closet has doubled in size.

One day you say you’re interested in latex, he’s going to barter with some craftsperson to get you a few items to experiment with, maybe a few gloves.

You say you want to be corporate goth (I don’t see people ever adding corp goth to their alternative reader fics) ? He’s nicking the most gorgeous pants and skirt suits he can find, getting accessories and sitting beside you as you customize the outfits together.

Like high fashion, Thierry Mugler or VW? He has no problems with linking up with Black Cat to get into stock warehouses and design studios to steal some, Black Cat teases him by saying ‘You owe me for this bug.’ But she gets compensation by nicking a bunch of clothes for herself.After the fact they bound off in separate directions carrying webbed satchels of merchandise.

You know he stole them, in fact youre proud he was able to do it with ease.

(He doesn’t tell you Black Cat helped him, you wrongly assume they are attracted to each other, but Black Cat is actually a lesbian, he’s seen her in costume as a spectator of a dyke march parade under the guise of ‘watching out for the community’, he doesn’t tell her he’s seen her sneaking off into a civilian woman’s apartment, he’s happy to keep the city safe enough for everyone to nurture love.)

You wear these outfits with pride, sauntering down the street as an orchestra of gawks, and stares fills the area, blown away by the complexities of the outfit, and attention to detail to every complimentary aspects of the look, the essence of slay cunt one could say.

When Hobie’s there walking alongside you, he lets a hand glide to your lower back, urging you to walk faster, whispering into your ear,

“Walk faster luv, don’t you wanna give them a show?”

And scene. Hope yall enjoyed these, I aint great at british slang so be patient and give tips!

Comments, questions, criticisms? Let me know!

Request are OPEN

#hobie brown x reader #hobie brown #hobie headcanons #across the spiderverse #atsv #atsv hobie #hobie brown x black!reader #miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara x reader

[lord-explosion-baku]

Sorrow

Yandere Siren/Fae!Hawks x Reader

Warnings: Yandere content, survivalism, pain, slight blood, suggestive adult content

A/N: This is one of the fics I was gonna post in October, but didn’t finish it on time, but I guess that means I can be a spooky dude all year round.

Tears may be cheap, but you keep them sacred.

Your captor has taken almost everything away from you: your body, your mind, your freedom, but you will not be giving him your sorrow. That will stay buried, locked away inside your chest, where the key lies somewhere he will never get to. You know he wants it. He’d told you as much.

“I’ve committed all of your expressions to memory,” he’d said one night after you nearly bit his tongue off. He’d used his song to ease you into a half-lucid state, where he kept you in his lap, wrapped tightly in his arms, shrouded in his wings. “The scorch in your hateful eyes when you wish you could fight me. The tremble in your delicious pout when you wish you could resist me. The furrow in those beautiful brows when I have you forfeited to the pleasure I give you after a battle you wish you could have won.”

Air-light fingers brushed down your cheek. He’d grabbed you by the chin, and tilted your head so that your gaze was locked in with his.

“Do I really gotta sing every time I want you to surrender, little dove?”

His fingers tip-toed down your chest, past your opened blouse. His thumb encircled your nipple until it puckered for him. He’d given it a teasing pinch. You’d stifled a moan lodged in your throat. He’d noticed.

“Aren’t you sorry for hurting me?”

You remember how good it felt to have him kneading at your chest. How his breath was nothing short of intoxicating. How you wanted nothing more than to lean into him—to kiss him—to put your hands all over him. You also remember that the only reason you wanted any of that was due to his song—his sweet siren lullaby.

“Tell me you’re sorry, angel,” he’d said, cupping your face with his free hand. His thumb slid across your cheek, under your eye. You’d known he wanted to see you cry so badly. You would not.

You’d shaken your head, and took note of the twitch in his feathered eyebrows.

His hands had moved through your hair then, lightly pulling through your roots. That was when he’d parted his lips, and began to sing.

Kiego has three songs committed to memory: one to lull you to sleep, one to make you more suggestable in the bedroom, and one to beckon you to him. The song he’d sang for you that night was the suggestable one—the mesmeric tune that made you turn around so that your knees were on either side of his thighs, the one that made you melt into his embrace, the one that made you his.

You’ve always wondered why? Why you? Out of anybody in the world, the siren had grown to have an obsessive infatuation with you. At times, you have thought that if it hadn’t been you, it would be another unfortunate soul in your place—somebody else that might not be able to withstand him, or somebody else who would actively enjoy his company. But during the times he sings for you, you don’t think. You don’t have to.

When he sang to you that night, all you could think about was giving him everything he wanted; however, the stubborn sore in your heart still clung on to the idea that he would not have you in tears.

“Say you’re sorry,” he’d commanded again between slow, sensuous kisses.

And you’d responded with: “never.”

Since then, you’ve been good. You’ve been obedient. You’ve given him everything except your tears. If you don’t stick to your ideals, then you really do have nothing.

However, when one only has so little to lose, and so much more to gain, one becomes reckless. First, your recklessness comes in mere thoughts—creeping visions of harming your winged abuser, which proves as dangerous, seeing as he’s stronger than you, faster than you, and has that pesky siren song. Then, you’ve begun thinking about running. The closer, more agreeable you become, the more he lets his guard down. Unbeknownst to him, you’ve begun learning his schedule: when he eats, when he hunts, when he sleeps, and what wakes him.

Comfort and praise seems to be the ticket to getting him to trust you more. Each night, you stroke his wings, you kiss his neck, you tell him his voice is gorgeous, fathomless, and irresistible. He thinks he has you under his spell—maybe he does, a little bit—but you’re not completely lost to him. You know that you have to leave. You know that you will leave. You’ve just got to figure out when.

It happens early in the morning.

The night before, he’d brought home spirits for you and him to drink. The two of you toasted to each other, danced together, and drank together. But he hadn’t seen that most of what had been in your glass went discarded in one of the potted plants full of herbs and berries he has allowed you to tend to. He hadn’t seen when you spiked his glass with a concoction you’d been working on for weeks with the herbs and berries he’d allowed you to tend to. He hadn’t noticed when his eyes grew drowsy, and he fell into bed with you in tow, you eased away from him, waiting for his breathing to slow.

The sun’s not up yet, but you know you have to leave. When you’re ready, you tie your boots, stock some food and water, and despite everything he’s put you through, you kiss him. Once. A sort of farewell, thanks for the memories, I won’t be missing you, you piece of chicken shit.

The departure is soundless—something you’re not used to due to Kiego’s constant singing, crooning, and happy little chirps. His guard had been down the night before, so there aren't as many safety precautions to heed as you silently maneuver your way to escape his loft.

When you’re out, you’re out. Free. Running. The most you can do to not shriek with glee and alert him of your escape is to keep your goal in mind: Find civilization. Find help. Hide. Keep running. Whatever you need to do to keep your safe stead.

At least, that’s always been the plan. You hadn’t accounted for the landscape. In fact, you’ve only ever seen a fraction of the surrounding parameters of his loft. You don’t know about the drop-off point by the outer edge of the woods. The whispering oranges of dawn have only just cracked through the trees, so you don’t see the danger when you slip on some foliage and are sent spiraling. Falling, rolling, screaming, until you catch yourself on a tree. Rather, your body wraps around a tree, which nearly knocks the wind out of you.

Groaning, you lay there for a while and breathe. The air filling up your lungs is frigid. Deadly. A part of you wants to fall asleep, find warmth in your dreams. A part of you knows that if you do that, you might catch hypothermia and die.

So you stand.

The world is dizzying. Trees tilt, while shrubs and rocks spin around you. Your first few steps are a sideways hustle. You’re like a toddler first learning to walk. There’s a sharp pain in your leg, and it takes everything out of you not to look down. If you think you’re seriously injured, you’ll give up. You hadn’t packed anything for first aid, and even if you had, you’ve lost your water and food during the fall.

You’re not sure which way to walk for a few minutes. You’re dawdling, finding your footing. The destination should be away from the drop-off, so you slowly make your way down the hill, sitting and scooting when you’re unsure if you’ll fall again.

It’s only when you find solid ground again that you hear him. His song. Some new hypnotic tune, miles away, reverberating throughout the forest. It’s nothing short of haunting and you don’t spare another second to listen. He’s awake. He knows you’re gone.

The next mile is clumsier than before. Though you’re sure not to fall, your balance is off, and your body slams into a dozen trees. Sometimes it’s because you can’t help it, while you often just need one to hold you up so you can breathe. Your palms cover your ears the entire time, and even still, his song gets louder. Invasive. He’s growing nearer. If you don’t hide, he will find you.

By nothing short of a miracle, you find a large tree where the trunk is hollowed out. You crawl in, allowing your hands to touch the ground, away from your ears for only a moment, but a moment is all the song needs.

Suddenly, you’re struck with an aching. It’s anguish. Mourning. Sorrowful remembrance. Your chest constricts with a dire need to release, but you don’t go so far to ponder exactly what it is trying to crawl its way up your esophagus. You hold back your emotions with what’s left of your strength, while you try to keep your breathing steady.

Through the cracks in the trunk, you see a flash of brilliant crimson. The ground thuds with his landing. It’s silent for a moment, until his song starts up again. You keep your palms clamped over your ears while you bury your head between your knees. You’ll stay like that for however long is needed. You will not allow yourself to be seduced or lulled or beckoned. You will not be found.

There’s no telling how much time has passed. Seconds crawl to minutes, and minutes crawl to excruciating tension. You’re not aware of the end of his song until you use your hand to wipe at your leg. It’s sticky, probably from blood, but you won’t think about it until you’re safe.

It has to have been awhile since he’s scoured the area. You army crawl out of the tree, chest scraping away at the frosty, dirt floor. The sun is barely peeking up through the trees, and you allow its warmth to touch your mud-caked skin.

In the distance, there’s smoke. With a bit of walking, you see a fire pit, and someone in a black, wool cloak sitting by it.

Picking up your pace, you call out to him, but your voice cracks to only a squeak. Still, the hooded man looks up at you. You hope he can see that you’re hurt, recognize that you’re in need of first aid. He can shelter you, take you back to civilization, and save you.

But while you half-hazardly bound towards him, you’re pushed to the side. Rather, you’re zooming through the air, unable to utter a scream, until your back slams into a tree.

Despite the pain, the loss of energy, you writhe and howl under Keigo’s harsh scrutiny. His wings spread out, taking a predatory stance, while desperate amber eyes search your body. Though his face doesn’t show a hint of malice, you know the trouble you’re in. His lips part, and an unfamiliar melody begins.

“No!!!!!” Your hands fly up to your ears, but he catches them in a vice grip, pinning them back against the giant tree’s trunk. He begins to sing and you know you’ve lost.

Loss. That’s what this is—his song. Unbridled, unrelenting grief. The tune sweeps across your feet, slowly creeping up your body. It hugs your waist as it wraps around you, squeezing as it coils. You choke as the substantial heartache clogs your throat with the emotions you’ve been repressing for months.

Tears burn your lower lashes and your vision blurs. You blink, and a hot stream runs down your cheek. Though Keigo continues to sing, you see a subtle tilt to his mouth. While your body slackens, too tired to fight him off any longer, he cups your face and pulls you into him before you can crumple. He pets your beat up, bruised back, and coos.

“Sneaky little bird.” There are two octaves in Keigo’s voice as he speaks to you, as if two people were speaking at once. “I’ve been worried sick about you.”

A part of his statement is true. You can feel it. His songs reflect his emotions and desires, and he wouldn’t be able to create this relentless melody unless he, too, felt the way it made you feel. But you also hear the triumph on his tenor. He has obtained what he’s always wanted: the key to that sacred place in your heart you wouldn’t allow him to venture to. There’s no saying that he doesn’t now own you completely.

“My sweet angel, what am I going to do with you?” As he speaks, you cling to him, knitting your nails into his shirt.

“I’m s-sorry.” It’s a faint croak, but it’s all you have to offer him. It’s all you can do to stop more renegade tears from staining his shirt. His chest shakes as he chuckles.

A twig snaps in the near distance. Keigo sharply turns towards the noise, and wraps an arm around your waist, one of his wings shrouding you slightly. Through his puffed out feathers, you see the man from the fire pit standing near a tree. He eyes the both of you with intrigue, but not concern. You cast him a pleading look, and you know he sees you, but all he does is sigh.

There’s a low, sort of echoing growl coming from deep within your captor’s chest. It’s menacingly territorial, but the cloaked man doesn’t react. Instead, he steps back and into the tree. Not like he stepped into the tree, rather, at one point he was a man, and now he is the tree. Two separate objects becoming one.

Keigo lets out an annoyed grunt, and in one swift movement, hoists you into his arms, carrying you in bridal style. He looks down at your leg, which you can now see has a giant scarlet puddled gash in it.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says while his wings begin to flap. The gusts blow foliage around you as you lift off the ground, and Keigo offers you a sort of sweet, conjugal smile. “After that, we can discuss your...punishment.”

A sob tears out from your throat. Keigo tuts, cradling you closer to his chest.

“You don’t have to worry, little dove. Though, I do promise to be gentle, don’t expect me to act like a gentleman. You’ve put us through the ringer today, and once you’re healed and healthy, we’ll work on all the ways you’ll be apologizing. Until then, let’s go home.”

Home. The place where Keigo will have you locked away in his birdcage of a loft. The place where you give him your body, your mind, your freedom, and now, even your sorrow.

While the two of you take flight, you think to cry some more--to let it all out of your system before you have your captor’s undivided attention. But as he flies, he hums a tune, and soon your eyelids fall, and you slacken in his embrace.

#yandere bnha #yandere!hawks #hawks x reader #yandere!hawks x reader #keigo takami x reader #bnha imagine #bnha reader insert #reader insert #bnha x reader #siren!hawks #siren!hawks x reader #yandere male #bnha oneshot #yandere!keigo takami #yandere x reader #suggestive content

[bevioletskies]

dream a little dream of me

summary: Ryunosuke had never been one for gloomy, rainy weather, had always preferred the comforting warmth of a clear, sunny day. When a particularly heavy rainstorm keeps him and Kazuma in bed for hours on end, he finds himself slowly starting to think otherwise.

word count: 2.4k | read on ao3

a/n: For @asoryuu-week, day four of seven (prompt: "domestic"). This fic takes place post-Resolve; mild spoiler warning for Adventures and Resolve, where events may be alluded to but not described in detail. All names and honorifics are taken from the official localization, with the exception of Sherlock and Iris.

Fic title is from the song Dream A Little Dream Of Me by The Mamas & The Papas.

“Remind me, Ryunosuke, what is it they say about a heavy head? Because yours is certainly making it harder for me to breathe.”

Ryunosuke sighed, lifting his supposedly heavy head from his partner’s chest to level him with a sleepy glare. “Good morning to you, too. Must you demean me before we’ve even gotten out of bed?”

Kazuma’s warm, slightly raspy laughter soothed Ryunosuke somewhat, though he still couldn’t help but feel slightly irritated. “Well, it’s hardly my fault you’re so fun to tease. No one else reacts quite like you do.” Then, Kazuma cupped Ryunosuke’s jaw in one hand, running his thumb across Ryunosuke’s mouth. “And I mean that in all manner of things, if you get my meaning.”

“You’re terrible,” Ryunosuke informed him, though he allowed Kazuma to kiss him anyway, grunting slightly when Kazuma rolled over to straddle him, sinking his entire body into Ryunosuke’s, fingers digging into his sides. “Mm...Kazuma, th-they’re waiting for us downstairs - ”

“Let them wait,” Kazuma murmured, playfully nibbling Ryunosuke’s bottom lip. One of his hands had now moved to Ryunosuke’s thigh, caressing him teasingly. “It’s been too long since we’ve had some time to ourselves.”

“You were only here two nights ago,” Ryunosuke said breathlessly; Kazuma’s mouth had quickly made its way from his neck to his collarbone, leaving a heated trail of kisses down the length of his throat. “Remember? That’s when I finally agreed to - ”

“Ry-u! Kazz-y! Won’t you be joining us for breakfast?”

“Damn,” Kazuma muttered, reluctantly climbing off so he could smooth out the front of his jinbei. Despite Ryunosuke’s continued annoyance at Kazuma’s insatiable nature, if he wanted to put it kindly, he also couldn’t help but admire how flushed Kazuma’s ears, neck, and chest had become in the last few minutes alone. “We’ll be right there, Iris, sorry for keeping you!”

“That’s okay!” Iris called back, her footsteps already beginning to fade away. “Just as long as you’re both properly dressed, alright?”

Ryunosuke groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “This is all your fault, you know that?” Kazuma merely scoffed, rifling through his bag so he could find the fresh set of clothes he’d packed for his overnight stay. “Though I suppose nothing will ever be as bad as the time you pulled me aside in the middle of an investigation and - ”

“I thought we both found that to be a thrilling and memorable experience, but fine,” Kazuma said with a dramatic sigh. “I’ll see to it that we won't try anything that adventurous ever again.”

“We almost got caught!” Ryunosuke exclaimed, agitatedly flapping his shirt in Kazuma’s face. “Don’t you realize how much trouble we would’ve been in?”

Kazuma stared at Ryunosuke in complete and utter disbelief. “...Ryunosuke, you’ve committed treason. You’ve implicated so many government officials, exposed so many government secrets - ”

“...all the more reason not to take a chance?” Ryunosuke offered sheepishly. “Anyway, let’s get dressed before they come looking for us again. I swear I can hear Susato-san’s footsteps coming up the stairs.”

A little over an hour later, Ryunosuke, Kazuma, and Susato returned to the attic, pleasantly sleepy from the generous meal that Iris had prepared for everyone. The rain was still thumping against the windowpane, an erratic tap-tap-tap that filled the entire room, rendering the three of them barely able to hear themselves or each other.

“I know you were planning on returning to your own flat, Kazuma-sama, but I would advise against it in a storm like this,” Susato mused, momentarily brushing the curtains aside so she could look out over the soggy, sorry state of London’s streets. “And I’m sure Naruhodo-san wouldn’t complain if you stayed.”

“I’m sure as well, though Ryunosuke is clearly in no position to answer either way,” Kazuma said dryly, gesturing in Ryunosuke’s direction, where he was currently curled up on the floor by Susato’s tea set, half-asleep and hugging his daruma to his chest. Susato watched, giggling, as Kazuma walked over to gently prod Ryunosuke in the shoulder with his foot. “Come now, Ryu, don’t make me carry you back to bed.”

“We both know you’d like that,” Ryunosuke mumbled. Susato only just managed to refrain from rolling her eyes at them - she’d been privy to far too many of their supposedly private conversations for her liking - instead electing to pat Kazuma on the arm.

“I think this is the perfect weather for a nap, personally,” she said, looking at him meaningfully. “If you plan on returning to bed as well, I can let Iris and Mr Holmes know not to disturb any of us until dinner.”

“That would be great, Susato-san, thank you,” Kazuma said sincerely, though he secretly suspected she just wanted to leave them be. Once she disappeared back down the stairs, he looked down at Ryunosuke with an irrevocably fond sigh. “Ryunosuke…”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘m getting up,” Ryunosuke yawned, reluctantly pulling himself to his feet. “Bed?” Grinning, Kazuma wordlessly took Ryunosuke by the hand and led him towards his bedroom - their bedroom, really, given how often he stayed over these days. Moments later, they clumsily tumbled back into bed, having changed into their sleepclothes once more.

“You’ve still got a bit of egg on your face,” Kazuma observed, wiping Ryunosuke’s cheek. “How does this keep happening to you?”

“Eat too fast,” Ryunosuke murmured, turning to kiss the palm of Kazuma’s hand. “Food...good.”

“Your grasp of both the Japanese and the English language is incredible,” Kazuma drawled, carding his fingers through Ryunosuke’s hair. He then pulled him closer, burying his face into Ryunosuke’s neck. “I thought you went back home to finish school, did you not? Surely you can do better than ‘food good’.”

“You’re so mean to me,” Ryunosuke said, sighing, letting out an exaggerated exhale directly in Kazuma’s face. Still, he turned over so he could wrap his arms around Kazuma’s waist, snuggling contentedly into his chest. “I really should just kick you out and make you go home.” Laughing, Kazuma kissed the top of his head.

“Not in this weather, you wouldn’t,” Kazuma replied. As if to illustrate his point, there was a loud, thunderous crack that practically shook the entire room. “If this storm keeps up, I might have to live here indefinitely.” Ryunosuke merely grunted in response. “Well, you don’t have to sound so pleased about it.”

“Oh - no, it’s not that,” Ryunosuke reassured him, sitting up somewhat so he could look Kazuma in the eye. Despite Kazuma’s typical brusque, yet affectionate nature, he could tell that Kazuma was slightly hurt. “I was just thinking about how much I dislike storms. Rain is fine on occasion, but...it seems as if London is in a permanent state of misery sometimes, you know? And it makes us miserable all the while.”

Kazuma’s clouded expression cleared up instantly. “It’s been ages since we’ve had sunshine,” he agreed, now dropping his head to rest on Ryunosuke’s shoulder. “It would’ve been nice to go for a walk together before I leave...whenever that is.”

“Like we used to do before class,” Ryunosuke said quietly, nodding. “You could never convince me to join you during your morning exercises, though.”

“Forget morning exercise, I had to literally drag you out of bed sometimes,” Kazuma snorted, tangling their fingers together. “I hear Susato-san hasn’t had any luck with getting you to exercise more, either.”

“I exercise enough,” Ryunosuke huffed, pinching Kazuma’s side; much to his dismay, Kazuma merely laughed in response. “I do plenty of pacing up and down during trials, you see.”

“I do see,” Kazuma teased. “I should look for permanent scuff marks behind the defense bench and the witness stand the next time we’re in court. You have a tendency to drag your feet, after all.”

Rolling his eyes, Ryunosuke made a show of yanking his hand out of Kazuma’s grasp and turning over with his back to him, pulling his side of the blankets over his head. “...I’m really starting to think you have nothing nice to say about me at all.”

Even when he wasn’t looking at him, he could tell Kazuma was smirking. “Oh, I think I praise you plenty. But in case you were wanting to hear it…” In one quick motion, Kazuma swept the bundled-up Ryunosuke into his arms, Ryunosuke’s back pressed against his chest, his breath ghosting the shell of Ryunosuke’s ear. “...I love you, Ryunosuke. And I’ll say it as many times as you’d like; all you need to do is ask.”

“Wonderful, now I just sound needy,” Ryunosuke said, sighing yet again, though he craned his neck to kiss Kazuma anyway, tossing the blanket around his shoulders so they were both enveloped in its warmth. Kazuma slowly lowered him onto his back, onto the mattress, knees braced on either side of Ryunosuke’s hips, fingers digging into Ryunosuke’s waist.

“You can insult me back, I don’t mind,” Kazuma murmured, sucking a bruising kiss along the crook of Ryunosuke’s jaw. Though they’d crawled back into bed for a nap, Ryunosuke was starting to feel more and more alert by the second. “Do your worst.”

Ryunosuke hummed, thinking. “...sometimes, you try too hard. You need to relax more, Kazuma. There have been some jurors and witnesses who’ve been intimidated by you, even though you aren’t trying to be malicious.”

“Fair enough.” Kazuma’s voice was low, raspy, sending shivers up Ryunosuke’s spine. “Anything else?”

“You have a bad habit of interrupting people,” Ryunosuke continued, prodding Kazuma in the chest with an accusatory finger. “Even Iris seemed annoyed with you last night, when she was asking us about our latest trial. I know you think you were helping, but I can speak for myself just fine. We’re not in school anymore.”

“...ah.” Kazuma looked humbled, almost remorseful. “I...I’m sorry, Ryu, I didn’t realize. I honestly thought we were just telling them about what happened together.”

“And you need to stop biting me like I’m a piece of meat - ”

“No one can see them!”

“Kazuma, you're doing it again - ”

“Doing wh - oh.” Kazuma burrowed his face into Ryunosuke’s chest, cheeks burning hot with shame. Ryunosuke couldn’t help but laugh; it wasn’t often that he got to embarrass Kazuma and render him speechless. “I...see that I’m not quite the partner I’d thought or, or hoped I was.”

“Last, but definitely not least - ” Ryunosuke abruptly took Kazuma’s face in one hand, squeezing his cheeks until his lips puckered “ - you don’t need to be quite so dramatic, either. I still love you all the same, Kazuma.” He smirked. “And I’ll say it as many times as you’d like; all you need to do is ask.”

Kazuma stared down at him with wide, imploring eyes. Then, he cocked his head to one side, his frown melting into a warm, radiant smile. “...again.”

“I love you.” Ryunosuke kissed Kazuma’s cheek, then the tip of his nose, then finally, his lips. Beaming, Kazuma kissed him back, a little sweeter this time, a little less sensual. “Especially because you’re a little needy, too.”

They fell silent for a few minutes, save for the steady sounds of the rain and thunder and wind whistling past their window, exchanging slow, languorous kisses and simply enjoying one other’s company. Though Kazuma spent more nights at Baker Street than not, in a way, it still felt as if they had months, even years, of lost time to make up for, even though they hadn’t been apart - or a part of each other’s lives, for that matter - for that long. It was times like these that Ryunosuke found himself reminiscing about their university days, the early days of their companionship, when they’d have spirited debates that ended in spirited laughter and meandering conversations about nothing in particular.

“I can hear you thinking, partner,” Kazuma murmured, brushing Ryunosuke’s hair out of his eyes. “Something wrong?”

“No, not at all,” Ryunosuke said, pulling away momentarily to yawn. “Only that we were supposed to be taking a nap, and instead, we spent the last ten minutes poking fun at each other. Though I suppose that’s just an extension of the way we speak to each other in court at times.”

“Susato-san has been scolding you about that as well, has she? Perhaps we do need to - I need to be more careful,” Kazuma corrected hastily when Ryunosuke leveled him with an impressively Kazuma-like glare. “Though we’d be in even more trouble if I were to, say, openly comment on how handsome you looked in court just last week, when your hair was a little bit longer in the back. I thought it suited you.”

“Why do we need to be in trouble at all?” Ryunosuke retorted, elbowing him a little harder than necessary. “I’d rather we do our jobs like the proper lawyers that we are - ”

“Well-behaved schoolboys, you mean,” Kazuma teased.

“ - and come home at the end of the day, where we can do as we please,” Ryunosuke finished.

Kazuma looked at him consideringly, his gaze impossibly soft. “Ryunosuke Naruhodo, are you implying you’d like me to move in someday?”

“What? I - ” Ryunosuke stared at him, momentarily stunned. Then, he relaxed, his head dropping back to his pillow, where Kazuma followed him down, their eyes still locked. “I, er...I thought that was a given. Though I worry that...that people might talk, as they’re wont to do.”

“Professor Mikotoba lived here with Mr Holmes for some time, did he not?” Kazuma pointed out. “Besides, even if people talk, why listen? All that matters is what we think of ourselves, as trite as that might sound.” He leaned in close, pressing a lingering kiss to Ryunosuke’s forehead. “So, just know that whenever you decide to ask, you already have my answer.”

“Then I think I’ll make you wait for just a little bit longer before I do...if only to get back at you for two nights ago,” Ryunosuke added with a smug smile, laughing when Kazuma glared daggers at him in response.

“And you think I’m the cruel one,” Kazuma muttered, pulling Ryunosuke into his arms once more so he could hold him rather possessively, their legs loosely intertwined beneath their mess of blankets. “You told me you enjoyed yourself.”

“I did, believe me,” Ryunosuke grinned, blushing faintly at the sudden vivid memory that had come to mind. “But just this once, I’d like to have the upper hand.” He then leaned in to kiss Kazuma’s exaggerated pout. “Anyway, we really should be getting to sleep now, or it’ll be time for dinner before we know it. I can barely keep my eyes open at this rate.”

“Agreed,” Kazuma said, yawning. He shuffled closer, dropping his forehead down to rest against Ruynosuke’s. “Good...morning, Ryunosuke.”

Ryunosuke shot him one last sleepy, fond smile before letting his eyes drift shut. “Good morning to you, too, Kazuma.”

_____

a/n: Welcome to my fourth entry for Asoryuu Week 2021! We've moved on from sad Kazuma hours to semi-horny Kazuma hours, I guess? Blame it on Kazuma talking about getting Ryunosuke off and holding his hand over a hot plate and finding ways to shut him up; you can't tell me he's not doing this at least a little bit on purpose. Anyway, I always love writing plotless cuddling fics where they basically talk about nothing. I could've made this way, way longer, easy, but we've still got three more days to go!

Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed! Likes and reblogs would be much appreciated, and I hope you're all safe and healthy and doing well ❤️

#asoryuu #asoryuu week 2021 #ace attorney #asoryuu fic #dai gyakuten saiban #the great ace attorney #ace attorney spoilers #dgs spoilers #tgaa spoilers #tgaac spoilers #myfic #long post #this is just cuddling i promise!! kazuma's just being...kazuma

[seb-owns-these-tatas]

Witcher Of The Night (Chapter 4)

THIS IS MODERN ERA READER WHO WOKE UP IN THE DIMENSION OF THE WITCHER.

CHAPTER 3

Characters: Geralt of Rivia x small!Naive!Reader

Summary: Ciri wanted chicken and so she gets one. Y/N needed warmth amongst the cold weather in the Forest of Kaedwan and she'd received more than a warmth for her body as it traveled straight to her heart; warming her soul. Even getting some sort of comfort from the witcher himself. Other than that, Geralt had a lead on where the sorceress was. Though, right now he needed her to help you Plus, he also had other options other than that. 

Warnings: FULL OF Y/N AND GERALT FLUFF. ❤ Geralt is an asshole at first because of certain reasons. 😂 Blood and animal killing in this one. Smiling, soft Geralt, tho still having that stoic expression of his of course. Gotta write him completely in character. 😂 Also, a Hirikka is here and will be on the next chapter!

Words: 3,900+

A/N: There's a part 2 for this chapter. It'll be a chapter 4.1 but will be posted after 2-3 days. ^u^ I couldn't put them together because it'll be 8-9k words long. 😅😂 Sorry, if I write long ass chapters and the pace is still slow. I need to develop their characters, relationship and such. The places said here are from the game however it isn’t accurate and I just made my own direction. Like how I try to make my life go in the right path but failing and actually walking on the wrong path. LMAO. Also, I’m making a masterlist for WOTN! 🤗

TAGLIST IS STILL OPEN FOR THIS ONE! Heehee! Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS CHAPTER! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE! 

Disclaimer: PNG's used in edits are not mine even the GIF's too. However, the edits and oneshots are definitely from moi. Characters, places and said monsters aren't from moi as well.

MY WORKS ARE NOT NOT NOT NOT NOOOOOOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have for writing aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

"Do you not...have cars, Geralt? Or motorcycles?"

You've panted like you were having a marathon, palms falling on your knees as you took a breather; seeing a small cottage on the far end of the shallow path in the forest.

It was a smaller house that had a fence with chickens, goats and pigs segregated by kind. The home was a sandy shade of yellow and a slip of brown which was also made just like how Geralt's have been.

No answer was given to you other than how he was hauling Roach back to look at you who were walking along side with him; not bothering to even ask you for a ride. It's not like you were hoping he would. Based on the change of mood he'd gotten, you were sure he won't lend you his horse to lessen your difficulty in traveling bare foot.

You've already asked what his horse's name was. He simply answered with the word 'Roach', allowing you to touch the horse as she neighed. Much to someone's dismay; specifically a bard who happened to saw the whole interaction, left a mutter to himself.

"Why does the midget get to touch Roach in haste and I don't?!" Jaskier muttered rather in disbelief. The Witcher fixing his black, hooded wool cape attached to his shoulders, giving him a subtle hum with the gravel of his voice.

Jaskier huffed for the third time, hands on his hips as he watched the scene before him with incredulity in his baby blue peepers. You happily caressed her crest as Geralt fixed things on the leather bag attached to the horse's hip.

"Geralt---" Jaskier started but was cut off with a insouciant scold from the man himself, "Don't call her midget," he cut him off without even paying him attention. Jaskier gave a nod; a grin molding his face leading to mischief at the chide given.

Jaskier took a step close and planned to give Roach's crest a caress but his stern friend was fast enough to cease his wishes, "Still, don't touch roach," Geralt quickly mumbled as he felt Jaskier's plan on touching his horse. The bard slyly grabbed onto his own hair, brushing them through his locks like he wasn't about to pet Roach. Geralt closed the bag with a soft click, giving him the side-eye; voice firm and full of derision, "I don't want you singing a song about my horse in the near future,"

Which is why you were walking on your own now with Geralt's good will on making you handle the death march rather like a happy child.

It was probably okay, you thought at the back of your mind. Walking, that is. Exercising in the morning was great, except that if it weren't too chilly unlike him who have gotten a full armor and gear out of his closet like he'd gone out of a magazine or animè. The sword on his back even giving you shivers, but a different kind because of how tough looking he had as his exterior.

You shook your head as he just looked back at you. That look of his that was filled of inquiry; asking you what you were saying in the back of your mind. A huff of pure exhaustion was given to The Witcher before you sauntered forward, leaving the man eyeing you with sass and a high raise of his bushy brow.

Geralt followed through along with Roach as he pulled her reins, slowly galloping as he analyzed your form from behind. His buttoned up tunic that reached the ends of your thighs with a weird kind of foot ware that certainly doesn't help with the crispy, brisk temperature of the forest.

Geralt gravelly sighed, watching you struggle with scrubbing your legs together as you pathetically strolled forward and onto the place that he'd pointed. He was too engrossed at seeing you struggle when he has heard a slight twig breaking from afar, catching his senses and making him look to where it came from.

"Midget," The Witcher tried calling you with that deep voice of his in the middle of the woods. Though, to no avail; you never heard him coherently and continued your stroll through the forest; hollering a message without even looking back because of the mere exhaustion.

"You're too slow, Geralt, like an old man! I'm exhausted!"

He breathed out his vexation of your naivety that you weren't strolling in your world. You were walking in theirs and having your own little dimension while you walk by yourself can be pretty dangerous.

Geralt heard the crack of another wood. It was from behind a large hickory tree. He doubtfully grabbed onto the handle of his sword wrapped behind him; halfway unsheathing the sword and contemplating if he needed to jump off his horse when suddenly a medium sized Hirikka came into his view, maybe an inch shorter than you. Those eyes that were doe, just like yours whenever you wanted something and eventually getting it from him.

"You're hungry, aren't you?" Geralt asked the Hirrika. The tone in his voice softer and in awe. He'd rummaged through his bag without taking his Aurum, blazing eyes away from the harmless creature, feeling an apple inside his bag and threw it as the Hirikka caught it with its own two paws.

"Don't get yourself killed out there,"

Thus, he began to follow you as fast as possible before you even get yourself harmed from any monsters. When he'd seen you leaning on the fences of Cuthberth's home, he didn't know he has been holding a breath for as long as he could remember without seeing the sight of you.

You were making him insane for not even waiting for him and thinking what would've attacked you in the forest of Kaedwan.

Cuthbert was feeding the chickens inside their palisades. His friend thought you were lost but you've said that you came for the purpose of buying chickens with a man. He was friendly enough to give you chitter-chatter while waiting for Geralt to follow you from behind. It took minutes before he arrived with a complete set of body parts; so the worry of him being killed off by a monster was thrown in the dumps.

As he rode his horse closer, you've had the chance to admire the beauty edging to be seen. You were in awe as his mere self was enough to get you ogling at the man treading near. Never seeing such a man like that who wore armors in his everyday life except from seeing Cosplayers in certain conventions that seemed so fake rather than Geralt who felt real. Too real that you were pondering if he was just a mere hallucination or a fantasy of yours.

He was definitely eye-candy. Dashing. Ravishing. Beyond gorgeous.

Cuthbert saw them coming and so, his expression turned wild with a grin. His dirty fingers scratching his bald head in excitement as he jogged out of the fences with a giddy self. "Oi! You didn't tell me it's the infamous Geralt of Rivia, elfin!"

Famous. He's famous? you thought to yourself before keeping your eyes away from the witcher who had already jumped down his horse and gave you a look; asking what was wrong because you were staring like there was a problem at hand.

You didn't need to tell him that your heart was actually the problem. It was always skipping a beat whenever he'd pay a glimpse to stare at your eyes.

A soft clear of your throat, your fist covering your mouth as you do and you eyed Cuthbert inquisitively, "Is he famous? Famous for what? Is he an actor? Model? The king of this kingdom or something?"

Cuthbert patted his dirty hands on his soiled apron full of flour, a hand on his hip while the other reaches out for Geralt's powerful looking shoulder in attempt to give him a pat. The animal butcher's forest green eyes coruscant of fervor. Geralt's initial response was to give him a smile back with the man's excitement in seeing him again, "This lad's a something! Kills all types of beasts, vampires, dragons, huge kikimores---"

You coughed out loud, making them snap their heads from where you stood. Cuthbert's words sounded too surprising to be true. As much as you remembered, vampires only existed in the movies and games; not in the real life survival of people. His words caught you off-guard, "Vamp--vampires? There's vampires here, Cuthbert? Even dragons?"

Geralt looked at you, utmost jaded. The way your voice stuttered alerted him that you were scared or probably still unfamiliar--still illiterate of their world since he was doubting to give you all the information ahead if you abruptly disappear out-of-nowhere with the knowledge of the continent; their world. It would be very much dangerous for it to be compromised especially that you had the experience in teleporting to their dimension.

Cuthbert gave a loud laugh, not believing the strangeness of your words, "You're actin' like yer’ never been here before! I thought yer’ were livin' with the Witcher?! You should ask the white wolf, here! He's killed hundreds! Maybe even thousands!"

You've fluttered your eyes closed, trying to calm yourself from running off the forest and getting yourself killed just like the horror movies you've watched. You've called them idiots, now wasn't the time to call yourself one as well.

Though, you were completely unaware of Geralt's gaze which consist an ample amount of worry. You continued your rambles in a hushed whisper, "I'm not just in a freakin' game that have monsters, but even a live-action movie of Twilight. This is great, real great."

The Witcher clenched his teeth, gradually turning his body to you without moving his soles. His forehead creasing as he could feel your heart beat quickening, "Are there also wolves? Big bad wolves here?" your voiced lowering a miniscule, sounding diminutive.

His friend gave off a shrug, his mouth forming a thin line when he did so as he scratched his whitened beard, "We may never know what this world can bring, Elfin! It always brings out the worst of everythin'!"

At the confident mention of that, you've felt your chest tightening with the knowledge of having vampires and dragons around. What if you died in their world? Would you also be dead in earth? Geralt licked his Crimson lips, staring down at you with utmost comfort that he could give. Yet, he failed at that with how stoic his expressions can get. Though, his eyes were exempted because his feelings can be read through those stern, Aurum eyes.

Midway, he'd lift his burly armor-coated arms to plan and give your back a caress to calm you down; but he was immediate enough to drop it down considering that maybe even a touch to the hand would calm you because he'd seen it trembled. If only he was thoroughly direct towards you; he would in a heart beat.

"Don't panic, Midget." The roughness of his voice; that definite amount of timbre. It was the only word you've heard from him. Short but straightforward. Even so, still the only thing that calmed you down through out all your panic attacks back in earth and even in their world.

Cuthbert has seen Geralt's attempt of comfort; even seeing his eyes shift in a way that nobody else could. He had a smirk on his face, scrubbing that beard he was owning, "Who is she, Witcha'? Another one of those clingy harlots of yours?"

Geralt turned his head to see Cuthbert smirking. The way his eyes changed into a lethargic faze meant that the witcher was mantling the emotions he was having or probably having no idea that he was feeling it yet; in denial of the state he was in.

"---Or the trouble and strife?"

The witcher knew what he meant and decided to let those words fall out of his ear to the other. His hands clasping together on his front as he straightened his back, cocking his head to the side as he narrowed his eyes on the latter, "We need...chickens," Cuthbert raised his eyebrows in astonishment, "You cook now, witcher?"

No words were said besides from a satisfied hum as the chickens clucked before the butcher of animals. The panic died down because of Geralt's voice and you've finally had the will to insert yourself in the conversation.

"I do!" you excitedly exclaimed, stepping a foot closer to Geralt and the witcher was aware of it, giving you the side-eye, "---also, do you have any spices please?"

Cuthbert nodded in comprehension, sending a playful wink to The Witcher and scrubbing his hands together as he also gave you a rogouish smile, "Oh, that kind. The little woman, Geralt! Literally because this elfin is quite short but fetching nevertheless!" Geralt gave him an apathetic blink of an eye, sighing from the talkativeness of the man.

But, also worth it if he could see those anticipated beams of yours as you stood beside him.

The latter gave out a loud sigh, seeming to be in his head space as he talked his thoughts out loud, "---I remember how Gisela cooks Flamiche for me whenever I go home from me' hunt! Though, that woman seldom does it anymore considering how Bridgely gets her attention a lots!"

Geralt gave him that daunting smile of his; wanting to tell the man to just butcher the heck out of the chickens already as he wanted to get it over with. You gave Cuthbert a wide smile, oblivious of Geralt's taunting gaze back at the man. He suppressed a laugh and nodded to himself; quickly running off to Geralt's wishes.

As the chicken was being slaughtered across the fence, Geralt was thoroughly unaware that you were already sniffing and crying because it was all out in the open and you could see how it was being killed. He watched you look over the fence and inspect Cuthbert cutting its head off and it made you shriek, warm tears falling on the sides of your face while watching how much pity you've given to the chicken.

Geralt did a double-take, eyeing you and where you were staring at and saw how you were crying over a chicken being slaughtered. He wanted to laugh because of how you were being sad over it. However, he decided against so as to not offend you when you were just pouring your heart out in this one.

"I thought...you wanted chickens?" the witcher pondered, leaning away from the fence and facing you instead with that amused glint in his eyes.

You've sniffed hard, patting your nose with his clothes that you were wearing from; the snot wanting to come out of its cave. You gazed up at him; eyes damp and reddish from the cries. "I did, Geralt! But not for it to be killed like this!" you hiccuped from all the bawling that has happened, "---It was better to be bought in a supermarket!"

The way you cry always made a pinch inside Geralt's heart. A kind where he would try and do everything to make it stop because you were annoying but also irresistible.

His lips lifted in a slight beam, looking around the forest before peering down at your sobbing thyself. "There, there," surprisingly, Geralt cooed before you; stopping your weeps short as you gaped at the tall witcher. His chiseled face warped in clear softness and mirth, "---for a bountiful feast requires death in exchange for us to be sated,"

The amazing color of his eyes gleamed more under the sun. You couldn't help but outstare back at him with that stupefied look of utter adoration. You snapped out of your daydream when he was waiting for a witty retort but you've loudly cleared your throat; the heat travelling to your neck. Before it can even reach your face, you turned your head back to look at Cuthbert who was now grinning back at you; holding the headless chicken up for you to see. Its blood dripping down the ground as he mouthed a 'what do you think?' back at you and Geralt to tell you if the size of the chicken was a-okay.

Your face quickly morphed into a wince, another mourn about to come to light when you've felt a warm hand on your shoulder; shooting lightning to your spine as you jumped from the physical touch. Geralt gently turned your body around; away from the panorama of chicken slaughter. The way his lips lifting in a small, soft smile never leaving yet. "Don't look at it,"

A huff was sent to the latter, "I can't! It's making noise!"

"Then cover your ears," Geralt's brow raised in sarcasm. Though, those playful sparkle never dying down. You narrowed your eyes back at him, an annoyed crease of your forehead as you explained and raised your hands back at him. It looked dull and definitely freezing, "But, my hands are shaking from the cold!"

Geralt studied you from head to foot, noting the lack of clothes you were wearing. The smile you've grown to love fell as he sighed, looking away for a moment before a tiresome gaze of his eyes was sent to you. He held onto the string of his jet black hooded cape, unlatching it around his neck as you stared up at him in utmost curiosity.

The softness of his cape fell around your shoulders like a furnace hugging your body; better yet the soul that needed a hug after all you've experienced since the first time you've been in their world. You could feel your heart warming at the gesture of Geralt giving you his dramatic cape; even growing hotter when he was tethering the tie together; intently staring down at your face and feeling his thick, calloused fingers inches before your neck.

Maybe, an egg was worthy of using your face as a frying pan right now.

You consciously looked away from the heat of his stare. Geralt tightened the tie around your neck as you've felt the heaviness of his cape over your shoulders. He drew he fingers away from your neck, slanting his head as he never cut the gaze he had; rather than you who'd looked away because you were...blushing.

"Better?" His voice graveled, a small beam carving his face. You've reluctantly gawked back at him, giving him a reserved nod. The way you were acting looked entirely stupid, your eyes looking like those googly ones used as stickers back in your desk as you tried avoiding the intensity of his stare. You bit the insides of your cheeks, deciding to leave the exhilaration out in the back as you had the courage to look at him, "Better!---Never better, Ge-Geralt!" Regardless of the brave act, you embarrassingly stammered and cited his name wrongly with a shameful 'J', "I mean, Geralt. Geralt with a G!" you back paddled in an instant, scratching your temples as you avoided his eyes and tried to fan your face.

The witcher looked askance, he could hear your heart beat running miles after miles. Geralt pondered why and what was making it pump fast when you weren't even having your panic attacks.

He crossed his hefty arms, looking at you skeptically but with a stupefying smile on his face, "Are you going to stop being a bairn now?"

You initially stopped fanning your face, narrowing your eyes back at him; completely confused, "What's a bairn?" he sighed and glanced at the sky, shaking his head with a beam that fell as quick as you've seen it when Geralt heard Cuthbert walking to where you were and glanced at the acquaintance.

The dead chicken was tied close to the witcher's bag located on the hip of his horse. You were busy staring at the four pieces of aftershafted chickens dangling on Roach's side with that sympathetic glaze of your eyes but actually talking at the back of your mind that its death would be worth it because you cook well and he'll taste good.

Cuthbert scrutinized your nodding form. A strange expression written on his face that tells that he was seeing the oddity that you were nodding at the chickens like you were talking to them.

The animal butcher was running his blabber mouth about how his chickens were also missing every other day. Sometimes his pigs or goats that made Geralt narrow his eyes from his share of message; his nose slightly scrunching from the admission of Cuthbert with his missing animals.

He didn't need to know that some were kind of caught by Geralt's hands. Maybe at least ten chickens, three pigs and two goats. Even so, slaughtered by the witcher himself.

The sneaky witcher couldn't catch a chicken as of the moment because he always does it at night. Catching a chicken from other people's fence in the morning can be risky and definitely tricky.

"About...the sorceress," Geralt trailed off, grabbing Cuthbert's attention away from you before he could even think you didn't belong to their world and guessed about his stealing escapades. He spun his head to look at Geralt, thoroughly distracted from how he called him out, "---you still hangin' onto that sorceress you had, witcher?"

"No...It's....kind of complicated," the latter speculated with a shake of his head.

Cuthbert nodded in understanding, scratching the nape of his neck as he seem to ponder, "The tittle-tattles around the village says that the sorceress is in a burgh called 'crow's perch' in the east of Vizima," pause. "It's a long journey out there! Lots'a beasts to encounter before it!" he roughly warned.

The Witcher only hummed in response; deep in thought as he calculated how long will it take to get there after a week when he was done with any favors for the villagers of Kaedwan and for some of his options on how to get you home.

His first choice was the Djinn. Now, he just needed to find one. Again. But, not for the sole purpose of asking peace and a long nap but to help you.

Geralt fished out the black pouch he kept on his sides, reaching out to give it to Cuthbert across the fence. The animal butcher shook his head to decline the money, "No, I don't need yer' coins." he simply admitted with a scoff, "You've helped us a lot; for me to be accepting some kind of repayment from the white wolf himself---,"

"----You deserve a thank you for all your help, Witcher." Cuthbert continued with a grateful tone.

Thus, this was the first time that he'd been acknowledged by his help in slaying monsters and terrifying creatures. The man himself didn't know how pleasing it was to hear those words from a mere human and from a person he'd help back in the years. Even so, seeing those smiles you've given him when you were excited to cook the damn chicken didn't seem so satisfying and delightful to look at; until now..

MORE FLUFF ON CHAPTER 4.1! Heehee! THANK YOU FOR THE LOVE, TATER TOTS! AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO LOVES GERALT CALLING Y/N, MIDGET? 

Taglist: @alyxkbrl​ @himarisolace​ @barkingbullfrog​ @ayamenimthiriel​ @hellodevilslittlesister @vania-marie @spookypeachx @grungelovebug​ @fangirl-inthe-us @nympeth @missjenniferb (I couldn’t tag you AGAIN bud! A different blog was popping out of the recommendation and it wasn’t your blog. Though, I’ll try again on the next update! Don’t worry! Tumblr is being DUMBLR RN. I’M MAD) @amirahiddleston @gabethelobster @dreaming-about-starfleet @uncoolcloudyhead @melaninstylezz @psychosupernatural

#geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia x you #geralt of rivia x y/n #geralt x you #the witcher #witcher #the witcher fic #Witcher of the night #witcher of the night series #Henry Cavill #henry cavill x you #henry cavill x y/n #henry cavill x reader #witcher geralt #geralt of rivia fic #henry cavill fic #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fanfic #geralt of rivea fanfic #modern era #tatasmasterlist #seb-owns-these-tatas #tatasworks #time travel

[dustedmagazine]

Dusted Mid-Year Exchange, Part 1: Activity to Jeff Parker

Irreversible Entanglements

Six years ago, newly moved to Tumblr, we looked for a fresh take on the mid-year best-of list idea, partly to be contrary, partly because some of us had no interest in writing about the same records over and over again. After some discussion — well, a lot of discussion — we decided to turn our mid-year feature into a sort of secret Santa exchange. We’d each nominate two records and each review two records, but, here’s the kicker, they wouldn’t be the same records. We’d trade with our fellow writers, and if it meant that we had to listen to music way out of our comfort zone, so be it.

Since then we’ve had smooth exchanges and rough ones – last year’s was especially testy, but what can you do with such an opinionated bunch—but it’s become a favorite annual event. This year was no different, except that no one was truly revolted by their assignments.

Unlike some years, there was no clear dominant pick, though Six Organs, James Elkington, Makaya McCraven/Gil Scott-Heron, Cable Ties and Irreversible Entanglements all got multiple votes.

We’ll split our individual album write-ups into two posts. Today’s covers records by artists from Activity to Jeff Parker. We’ll get to the rest of the alphabet tomorrow. On the third and final day, we’ll post writers’ lists. Participants included Tobias Carroll, Tim Clarke, Justin Cober-Lake, Andrew Forell, Ray Garraty, Jennifer Kelly, Arthur Krumins, Patrick Masterson, Ian Mathers, Bill Meyer, Jonathan Shaw and Derek Taylor.

Activity — Unmask Whoever

Who picked it? Tim Clarke

Did we review it? Yes, Tim said, “This music strains at the leash, held tightly in check by the motorik rhythms, while gaseous synths seek to permeate all corners of the soundscape.”

Ray Garraty’s take:

You wouldn’t know that it is a debut album, but then it’s a super band, so that doesn’t count. Vocalist Travis Johnson’s delivery reminds you a symbolist poet reciting some lines from his notebook, neither singing nor reading. Despite referring to violence in song titles and lyrics, this music is as far from violent as it can be. It’s too self-conscious to even carry symbolic violence but when on ‘Earth Angel’ the vocalist with the hook “I wanna fuck around” almost breaks into a scream, it turns into a whisper instead. It’s these small details that unmask the outfit’s postmodern disguise and show that Activity is the real deal, not a half-baked pastiche.

Decoy with Joe McPhee — AC/DC (OtoRoku)

Who picked it? Derek Taylor.

Did we review it? Yes, Derek said, “Decoy is a working group and a heady amalgam that recalls a dream fusion of Atlantis-era Sun Ra, Keith Jarrett’s marathon electric stand with Miles at the Cellar Door, and Larry Young circa his Blue Note moonshot Contrasts, while still relentlessly retaining its own flight plan.”

Jennifer Kelly’s take:

Wow. “A/C” is impressive enough with its wild unfurlings of trumpet and sax, its woozy meditations in bowed and plucked stand-up bass, its incendiary organ bursts, all rooted in jazz, but touching on the hot, experimental outposts of rock and soul and R&B, too. But the second side, “D/C,” is even more exciting, as the tumult of sounds gets more fevered and McPhee breaks out in song. Who can blame him? You want to join in. It’s a mind-bending swirl that boils up and over the edges, heady, excessive and exhilarating. So glad I got to hear this, Derek, and it reinforces the benefits of trading favorites, i.e. finding music that is way out of your normal circuit but, even so, exactly what you need.  

 Sandy Ewen — You Win (Gilgongo)

You Win by Sandy Ewen

Who picked it? Bill Meyer

Did we review it? No.

Andrew Forell’s take:

Experimental guitarist Sandy Ewen appears as much concerned with space as sound. On You Win, she treats her instrument as pure object to explore the minutiae of its potential. Patterns emerge like communications from distant galaxies or the gradual shift and warp of old buildings. The 5 tracks scrape and rumble as occasionally identifiable guitar sounds — feedback hum, plucked strings — flicker from the mix. Best heard through headphones, You Win demands concentration lest one misses the nuanced denaturing and subversion of Ewen’s work, which is as fascinating as it is challenging.  

Fake Laugh — Dining Alone (State 51 Conspiracy)

Fake Laugh · Ever Imagine

Who picked it? Tim Clarke

Did we review it? Yes Tim said, “These sharp, funny, warm-hearted songs are immediately endearing, yet shot through with bracingly sour ingredients.” 

Andrew Forell’s take:

Dining Alone, Kamran Khan’s latest album as Fake Laugh, is a collection of pastel Day-Glo bedroom pop songs that breeze by leaving barely a hair ruffled in their wake. Khan has an ear for a melody, a wistfully pleasant voice and a talent for arrangement that make this album an enjoyable listen but there is a nagging feeling that he is holding something back. Tracks like the finely wrought “A Memory” and Supertramp update “The Empty Party” stand out but Dining Alone feels like an intermediate step on which Khan tries out ideas and seeks a way forward although there is enough here to be optimistic about what might come next.

 Field Works — Ultrasonic (Temporary Residence)

Ultrasonic by Field Works

Who picked it? Justin Cober-Lake

Did we review it? Yes, in a May Dust, Tim Clarke wrote that “Stuart Hyatt’s latest compilation in the Field Works series is an absolute beauty — and timely given it’s being released during a pandemic whose origins may be linked to bats.” 

Derek Taylor’s take:

Most of the listening that I do in the service of reviewing music revolves around discerning who’s, what’s and how’s. Those sorts of taxonomic identifications feel superfluous, not to mention futile when navigating the music on Ultrasonic. Sources I mistook as aquatic (“Dusk Tempi,” “Echo Affinity,” “Music for a Room with Vaulted Ceiling,” and “Indiana Blindfold”) are subterranean, specifically the echolocation emissions of bats. Harp and piano sounds dapple “Silver Secrets” and “Sodalis” as instrumental signposts, but they’re outliers in a program that feels largely electronic and beyond the scope of scrupulous inventory.  

The closest, if admittedly antiquated, genre descriptors I have for these ecology-minded creations are ambient and new age. A seraphic, celestial quality suffuses most of them with sweeping washes of tonal color layering over more definable rhythms and progressions. The combination curiously reminds me of a distant temporal relic that served as childhood gateway to this sort of territory, my father’s vinyl edition of Ray Lynch’s Deep Breakfast. It’s another feeble attempt at a compass point and evidence of how difficult it can be to escape the ingrained habits that influence personal musical consumption.

The Giving Shapes — Earth Leaps Up (Elsewhere)

Who recommended it? Arthur Krumins

Did we review it? Yes. Arthur said, “You feel like you’re being carried into a dream, familiar yet strange.”

Ian Mathers’ take:

There’s just something nice about a record where, a few minutes after putting it on, your partner suddenly remarks “you know, this is very calming”. It’s not that the work of Robyn Jacob (voice, piano) and Elisa Thorn (voice, harp) is soporific or somehow uninvolving, more that there’s a somehow centered kind of deliberateness with which they approach these songs that feels oddly reassuring. The way their voices often echo lines (or slightly altered lines) back at one another can feel vaguely Stereolab-ish, but rather than the coolly pulsing, layered grooves (and transient noise bursts) of that outfit, the simplicity of the arrangements here feels direct and clean and often comforting. But it’s the type of comfort that lets you see the difficulty you’re trying to tackle head-on, not the comfort that swaddles you away from having to deal with the world. It’s more bracing than lulling, in other words, and frequently beautiful at that.

  Irreversible Entanglements — Who Sent You? (Don Giovanni/International Anthem)

Who recommended it? Andrew Forell.

Did we review it? Yes. Andrew Forell wrote, “Who Sent You? is an extraordinary statement lyrically and musically.”

Bill Meyer’s take:

I’m inclined to agree with Andrew Forell. When I first encountered the vocal-focused free jazz of Irreversible Entanglements in 2018, I was more taken by the band’s focused exchanges of energy onstage than I was by their self-titled debut LP as a listening experience. But its successor steps up their already powerful game by easing up just a bit. They’ve let more air and variety into the surging rhythms and interweaving horn lines, opening up space for vocalist Camae Ayewa’s words to land with even more impact and staying power. Ayewa, who also records as Moor Mother, is more of a poetic declaimer than a singer or rapper, and her expressions of cultural memory and existential survival in the face of remorseless racism and economic terrorism boom over the music’s ebb and flow with inspiring authority. While her words are always applicable, this record sounds like it was made to be heard in a time of plague and revolt; when people ask in years to come what record sounds like the middle of 2020 felt, a lot of people will hold up Who Sent You?

  The Jacka — Murder Weapon (The Artist / EMPIRE)

Who recommended it? Ray Garraty

Did we review it? Yes. Ray Garraty said, “this album confirms Jacka’s status among the greatest fallen soldiers of hip hop.”

Tim Clarke’s take:

Despite being a posthumous release whose title refers to the artist’s tragic death by shooting back in 2015, Murder Weapon by Bay Area rapper The Jacka is a surprisingly cohesive listening experience, largely thanks to the lush palette of old-school samples employed on many of these tracks. From the aching strings on early highlight “Walk Away” via the swinging funk of “Can’t Go Home” to the children’s choir on “We Outside,” there’s a warmth and humanity to this sad story that honors the artist’s memory.

 Ka — Descendants of Cain (Iron Works)

Who picked it? Ray Garraty

Did we review it? Yes, Ray said, “Descendants of Cain, Ka’s seventh album combines the epic bleakness of the Old Testament with Brownsville’s hopelessness.”

Tobias Carroll’s take:

Shamefully, this is my first exposure to the music of MC and producer Ka; it’s his sixth album overall, and I’ve got some catching up to do. For an album with a title and cover art that could just as easily fit on a doom metal album, what surprised me was how focused this all was. The album flows beautifully, with music that fits somewhere between sinuous soul and the art-damaged Americana heard on, say, Matmos’s The West — with a handful of cinematic samples topping it off. It’s a perfect match for Ka’s voice, which manages to be textured and beatifically smooth all at once. Some albums paint a picture for the listener; this one is wholly immersive.

Matt LaJoie — Everlasting Spring

Everlasting Spring by Matt LaJoie

Who picked it? Tobias Carroll

Did we review it? No

Ray Garraty’s take:

Matt LaJoie’s technical verbosity is on the spot here, as all the man-made sounds can be mistaken for something Nature produced out of its vast resources. Everlasting Spring is like a small water spring which flows and flows but can’t eventually flow into a river, being forever condemned to be just this spring. Everlasting Spring lasts almost for an hour (if we count a bonus track), and it’s six minutes for every string LaJoie’s guitar has. Not many men can admire nature for that long. The whole album has that New Age-ish feel, when you can start listening to it from any track, and nothing will change in your views on it.

Maybe it does give a good mimesis of what spring sounds like but we still need a change of weather from time to time.

 Mamaleek — Come & See (The Flenser)

Come and See by Mamaleek

Who recommended it? Jonathan Shaw

Did we review it? Yes. Jonathan said, “Their dominant textures are still harsh and confrontational, vocals are still howled and shouted. But there are riffs. There are melodic structures.”

Justin Cober-Lake's take:

As black metal, Mamaleek would hold their own, but there's a persistent work to stretch boundaries here. Come & See keeps a core mix of sludge and anger, but the group's inventiveness keeps the album consistently surprising. The group finds brighter tones than anticipated, even while moving away from metal more toward alt-rock at times, and post-rock at others, and generally finding expressions that require a hyphen. An occasional breakdown touches on jazz or finds its roots in rock 'n' roll. “Cabrini-Green” functions like a suite — track the movements and break the track into its separate pieces — even as it avoids a sort of linear sequence. “Elsewhere” (and, indeed, much of the album) turns out a demented history of hardcore. The record probably won't find much of an audience outside of the metal scene, but listening past the obvious trappings reveals a wealth of influences and a complexity that makes for intriguing listening across genre strictures.

 Jeff Parker — Suite for Max Brown (International Anthem)

Suite for Max Brown by Jeff Parker

Who picked it? Arthur Krumins

Did we review it? Yes. Arthur said, “Following the looped, electronic and eclectic New Breed, Jeff Parker’s latest album expands into an even greater range of off-kilter sonic experiments.”

Tobias Carroll’s take:

Before this year, my knowledge of Jeff Parker’s music came largely from his work with Tortoise. And that’s far from a bad thing; Tortoise is a fine band. But hearing Parker push further into the realm of jazz with Suite for Max Brown is its own form of delight, where precisely-played melodies meet instrumental virtuosity. It’s an eminently listenable album, and one where I’m still noticing new moments of subtle beauty in the mix.

#dusted magazine #midyear #activity #tim clarke #ray garraty #decoy #joe mcphee #derek taylor #jennifer kelly #sandy ewen #andrew forell #bill meyer #fake laugh #field works #justin cober-lake #the giving shapes #arthur krumins #ian mathers #irreversible entanglements #the jacka #ka #tobias carroll #matt lajoie #mamaleek #jonathan shaw #jeff parker

[prettylittlebrownskingyal]

🌻 Happy Birthday🌻

Jason Todd x Reader

Request: hi um first of all i fucking love ur writing like girl,,,, ur genuinely so !! talented !! everything u write makes me feel either fuzzy and warm inside or like crying and i'm actually fine w both?? oof anyway wanted to ask u if u could write something about reader having her bday on valentine's day w jason maybe? idk sorry if i bother! been depressed lately and ur writing always cheers me up A LOT also i was born on the 14th and no one ever remembers bc of valentine's so anywayyy ilysm thank u🖤

Note: HAPPY EARLY BIRTHDAY SUNSHINE!!! Here’s wishing you a year of goodness and laughter. (Please imagine me singing Happy Birthday at the top of my lungs and embarrassing you because that’s what friends do.) I’m so sorry you’ve been down lately by the way, I hope this is a good enough birthday present and that it cheers you up a bit.

You have vague, fading memories of being woken up by someone singing ‘happy birthday’ to you. They’re old images, the last vestiges of childhood that stay dormant at the back of your mind. But as Jason stands before you— bed-headed and blushing with his baritone voice stretching the vowels in each word before he finishes in a large breath— you can’t help but feel the tingly warmth of nostalgia and the sheer love you have for him mingle together, coating your skin like champagne bubbles. He graces you with a slow smile that hooks from one corner of his mouth and then to the other, his eyes crinkling and his ears are pinkened still. Just looking at him already feels like the best birthday present.

“I made you breakfast,” he says, proudly. He leaves the room on light feet and comes back with a laden tray of your favourite foods, artfully laid out around a cupcake with a candle in it. “Make a wish, little bird.”

You’re rightfully a little speechless. He’s so sweet and while it definitely isn’t strange to feel him showering you with apt attention, everything feels more intense because you know he's trying hard for your birthday.

He chuckles when you blow out the candle. You stretch your arms out for him and he comes willingly.

“I love this so much, Jay. Thank you.”

“This,” he hums, pressing a kiss to your mouth. “Is only the beginning.”

“Oh Jay, We don’t have-”

“Yes, we do. Are you good with that? ”

“With what...exactly?”

He starts cutting small squares of food, places a cup of coffee into your hands and holds out a fork to feed you. “Well, you know how in the movies people plan surprises for their partners and then their like ‘get ready, we’re going to do stuff.’ It’s that but less creepy and not without consent. So I’m asking you…” he pauses, eyebrows raised. “Do you give me permission to take you out today to a bunch of surprise places?”

“Yes,” you say through a mouthful of food.  He grins, soothing your hair back and reaching for another forkful. Your heart feels full and bursting. You don’t care what he’s planned or where he takes you, its enough that he’s remembered at all. You tell him this, and he rolls his eyes, pausing in his actions of feeding you to tug you to him by your waist.

“You deserve so many good things because you’re the best person. I wish I could give you the world but I can’t and it kills me. So let me just do this one thing, yeah?”

Except it isn’t one thing. It’s a day full of things he’s planned to make up for every single shitty birthday you’ve had. He could never get it out of his head after you told him about your birthday being forgotten or pushed to the side. It was a confession, a small one, and you laughed it off afterwards to chase away the rigidity of your spine. Your body language made it clear that you wished you hadn’t said anything and the moment closed with you quickly changing the subject. Because what you had with him was fleeting and fragile at the time, he let it go. But not without vowing to give you the best birthday ever.

He knew a thing or two about forgotten birthdays, and he also knew what it felt like to be given a grandeur celebration right when you started to believe that you weren’t worth it. It was a restoration of hope, albeit tiny, that he wanted to give to you.

“Can I ask what to wear?”

“Anything you want to, gorgeous.”

Gotham greets your birthday with a rare glimpse of sunshine that warms you to the bone. Jason holds you tightly in the middle of the street and kisses your breathless before the first stop of the day. It’s an antique bookstore hidden between the modern storefronts of high-end brands uptown. He trails behind you through the shelves, pointing out his favourites and whispering the best lines in your ear. He insists on buying you three books with soft, yellowed pages and thick spines; insists that books like that deserve homes and love and attention and you can’t but feel he isn’t actually talking about them.

There’s a concert in the park next. Some band that you love and he sings along to all the songs with you, at the top of his lungs. You get ice-cream afterwards. He smushes the vanilla cone you ordered against your nose and lets you chase him with his own strawberry one.

There’s a pink ice cream stain on his t-shirt when he pulls you into the city art museum that earns a few rightful stares. But you can’t care about that when he curls his body over your own next to the post-modern exhibition of the gallery. His mouth is cool and his kiss tastes sweet enough to leave you tangling your fingers into his dark hair to drag him closer. He spends the next few hours telling you that you’re the only true art in the building. You let him because it’s nice to hear and because he still flusters when he says it.

When evening sets, the sunset muting the bustle of the world, he wraps his jacket around you, handing you a warm churro as he marches you home.

“You tired yet?” he asks.

You hum into his shoulder “No.”

“Good, cause we have one more thing to do. But are you having fun?”

“I always have fun with you, Jay.”

His face goes still for a moment, and then he kisses you until you’re both smiling.

As the door to your apartment opens, you find a stack of presents waiting for you near the couch. Jason looks pointedly away when you stare at him with raised eyebrows. He deigns to direct you to the bedroom instead, leading you with long touches down your spine.

“Ok, you get a break from my annoying ass for ten minutes and then you meet me up on the roof”

“No,” you reach for him and he leans down to brush his nose against your own. “Stay, c’mon. You’ve given me a really great day. Let me say thank you.”

He chuckles. “Day’s not over yet. I have something to do. Go on, take a bath, put on something you like. You can thank me later.”

Intrigued, you wrinkle your nose at his instructions. But when he makes it clear that he isn’t budging until you comply, you dutifully go about sinking yourself into a tub of hot water and essential oils. It doesn’t fail to escape you how pampered you are. How truly understood and loved by Jason you are. You can’t think of anything else he could give you (also considering the heap of presents you’re yet to open) that could make you feel anything more than the luckiest person in the world.

It’s only until you’re dressed, standing in the doorway of the stairs leading to the roof, that you see where you’re wrong. The first thing that steals your breath away is the sheer intensity of the collective “Surprise!” you’re greeted with. Friends, family; anyone and everyone that holds you dear, huddles together under glittering fairy lights and warm lanterns. All smiling faces and tight hugs. With each enthusiastic birthday greeting, you grow a bit closer to tears.

When you’re finally in Jason’s presence, they threaten to come bursting out despite his sheepish grin. He’s the picture of elegance in a cobalt tux, brandishing a bouquet of roses almost as comfortably as they were his guns.

“Happy Birthday, little bird.”

“You did all this for me?” you ask disbelievingly. A towering cake stands nearby, and there’s more than a few members of the Justice League stumbling around, you’re sure.

“You deserve so much more than this.” He says it with such conviction, it’s almost easy to believe him.

You want to say thank you, but you find there aren’t enough words in your repertoire of language to express how grateful you are. You settle for kissing him instead.

“Can I ask one thing?”

“What’s that little bird?”

“How did you convince a bunch of couples to be here on Valentine’s day?”

“Oh, it was tough and I expect there’s going to be some making out on our furniture for sure.”

#jason todd imagine #jason todd x reader #jason todd smut #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #lilbrowngyal writes

[lukin08]

A Major Life: Chapter 15, A Balancing Game

Rating: T (subject matter)

Words: 4968

A/N: Wipes off dust on this.  Surprise, its not dead?!  Also, a big shout out to @frenzy5150 for giving me the idea at the end ages ago.  Thank you!

Master Post Here

“Are you sure you’ll be fine?” Bulda asked with a twinge of hesitation in her voice.  “You just got home and you have a game again tomorrow.”

Kristoff looked down at her.  Karoline was hanging on her like a limp ragdoll asleep in her arms. “Yeah, Ma.  I’ll be fine.  I appreciate you bringing her over.”

Bulda shifted her weight, hoisting Karoline higher up.  “I suppose waking up in her own bed will do her good.”

“How’s she doing?”

“As well as can be expected given the circumstances.  She’s feeling a little left out and she misses her mama and her daddy.”

“I’ll make sure to give her all my attention tomorrow before I leave.”  He gently took Karoline from Bulda.  Karoline woke when he settled her in his arms.  She stared blankly, resting her head on his chest as her arms instinctively curled around his neck.  He felt her fingers rubbing on the fabric of his shirt.

“I should tell you,” Bulda started.  “In case it comes up.  Your sister took Karoline to the hospital today.  They wouldn’t let her see Nolan and she didn’t take it well.  Anna was able to calm her down and they went for lunch in the cafeteria.  But when it was time to leave, Karoline had a melt down.  She’s been out of sorts ever since.”

Kristoff nodded in understanding.  Bulda gave Karoline one last look, running her hand on the back of Karoline’s head lovingly before stepping back to head for the door.

“Hey, Ma?”  Kristoff touched Bulda’s shoulder.  She turned back to look at him.  “When I talk to Anna, she tells me she’s fine, but I can hear in her voice she’s exhausted.  How is she?  Really?”

Bulda rested her hand to the top of Kristoff’s.  “I’ve been watching her.  She’s worried about Nolan and torn between keeping her vigilance with him and spending time with Karoline.   I know it's eating her up to see Karoline upset.  It’s not easy.  We all have to make choices.  But I think she’s holding up as best as she can.”

“I was going to try to get her out of the hospital tomorrow.”

“I think that’s a good idea, Sweetie.  Now, let me get out of your hair.”

Kristoff held the door for Bulda.  She was about to walk out, but stopped.  “Are you sure you don’t want me to watch Karoline tomorrow?  Because I can-”

“No, Ma.  You need a break as much as everyone else.  The nanny can watch Karoline tomorrow.”

Bulda nodded than patted his cheek.  “You know where to find me.  And I didn’t say it before, but great game today.  You’re handling things well.”

“What can I say, I’m good at compartmentalizing.”

Bulda raised an eyebrow at Kristoff before offering a knowing smile and turning to walk to her car.

———

Karoline was fully awake by the time Kristoff got into the the kitchen.  He checked the clock on the microwave.  It wasn’t quite time yet for her to go to bed and the nap she had on the ride over wasn’t going to help with getting her down anytime soon.

“What do you want to do tonight?”

“Go see Mommy.”

“I do too.  But it’s too late now.”  Kristoff went to sit Karoline down on the stool at the kitchen island, but she tightened her grip around his neck.  He stopped and rubbed her back.  “It’s alright, Bug.  I won’t let you go if you don’t want.”

Changing tactics, Kristoff went out to the family room to see if a show would work.  Karoline protested at that, then said no to playing a game, or reading a book, or playing with her toys… or any idea Kristoff came up with.  The only thing she seemed content with was having him hold her.

He sank down into the big sectional and scrubbed his face with his hand.  He’d hold Karoline all night if she needed.  It was breaking his heart to see her hurting like this.  He knew she would be fine, kept telling himself that over and over.  Anna and the baby would eventually be home and Karoline would get back in her routine and their version of normal would be back on track...with a few modifications.  The problem was he had no idea when that would actually happen and his little girl was in anguish right now.  Out of all things that could break Kristoff, the most was not being stop his child from hurting.

Karoline’s voice was muffled against Kristoff’s shirt, but he stopped the second he heard her ask for a song.

“Do you want me to sing it?”  She nodded against his chest.  “A fun one?”  Another nod.  

“Alright then…   Baby shark do-do-do-“

Karoline’s hand went up to Kristoff’s mouth and he couldn’t stop from laughing.

“Okay, okay.  No baby shark.”  He stood up and pulled his phone out of his back pocket.  “How about this kind of song, Bug?”

Kristoff scrolled through the list of songs on his phone, settling on one that Karoline requested often.  He hit play and the music started playing in the room.  He swayed slowly, but Karoline remained lifeless, one arm clinging to his arm the other around his neck.  He kept at it, changing the songs a few times and hoping to get a reaction, but Karoline seemed intent on holding him as tight as she could and not let go.  

He felt Karoline mumbling against his chest first, but he wasn’t able to make out what she was saying.  Kristoff stopped, dipping his head to get closer.

“What was that, Bug?”

“My song.”

Kristoff reached for his phone again and found the only song that fit that request.

It had started out as a joke with Sven.  He’d sing the song to Karoline as a baby whenever he came over to visit for the sole reason of trying to piss off Kristoff.  It worked too, even if Kristoff refused to give Sven the satisfaction of a response.  The problem was, Karoline liked it, kicking her feet and making excited squeals when he sang it.  Three years later and Karoline now claimed the song as hers.

Kristoff let the song play at first, moving slowly around the room.  It wasn’t until Karoline lifted her head and touched his hand that he started singing.

Hands, touching hands

Karoline reached for Kristoff’s arm, smiling at him in anticipation of the next lyrics.  He touched her shoulder in response making at funny face at her.

Reaching out, touching me, touching you

Sweet Caroline

Good times never seemed so good

Kristoff was moving around the room, singing at the top of his lungs, making a fool out of himself all because it was making his daughter smile and giggle.  He’d do anything to keep that grin on her face as long as he possibly could.  Karoline’s eyes glittered with excitement and, god, they looked exactly like Anna’s, full of passion and wonder.  He wanted her to hold on to that forever.

When the song ended, Karoline leaned back into Kristoff, hugging him fiercely.  They were still for a moment until Karoline looked back up at him.

“Daddy, can we read books now?”

“Anything you want, sweetie.”

———

The light in the room was soft, enveloped in hues of lavender.  Kristoff blinked his eyes to focus, not sure of his surroundings.  He turned and heard a loud thump hit the floor.  

Kristoff realized he was in Karoline’s bed and the book he had been reading at one point had slid off to the floor.  He must have nodded off when he promised to lay with her until she fell asleep.  He checked the time on his phone and saw it was almost midnight.  Karoline was snuggled into Kristoff’s side, leeching onto his warmth while her blankets remained haphazardly off to the side.  He kissed the top of her golden hair then reached over to tug the blankets up before silently slipping out of the bed.  Kristoff took one last lingering look at Karoline in the doorway.

“Sleep well my little love bug.”

Their bedroom looked like a tornado came through it.  Kristoff scanned the clothes thrown about the floor and the blankets and comforter half off the bed, all evidence of Anna spending as little time as possible in it.  He shook his head, picking up the pile of clothing and discarding it in the hamper.  He couldn’t blame her for it.  Time at the house meant time away from Nolan.  He could barely allow himself to think about it, let alone imagine what Anna was going through.  

He fell into bed and pulled out his phone.  Anna’s message was from over two hours ago asking if he was up.  He decided to chance it.

-Am now.  Fell asleep reading to K

She had answered when he came back from getting ready for bed.

-Was she ok?

-Took a bit to warm up, but she was happy to be home

After no response, Kristoff sent her another.

-Early game tomorrow.  I’ll go to the hospital right after.  Let me know if you leave or something

-I’ll be here.  Goodnight

-Goodnight.  I love you

Kristoff watched the bubbles on his screen for a long time.  Then it went blank.  He was about to call her when they popped back up again.

-Love you too

His arm fell over his eyes.  He was exhausted.  The toll on his body of almost a full season was in full effect.  The team was in striking distance of clinching their division.  That meant an extended season and more pressure.  He was both terrified of what was to come, and itching to get out there and show everyone what he could do.  

It should be a time of excitement, but Kristoff had other things invading his mind.  His family was almost constantly separated.  Nolan wasn’t home yet and the doctors hadn’t given them a date yet to even shoot for.  And now Anna...  

Kristoff knew she trying to hide her emotions and struggles for his sake.  Their conversations while he was on his road trip, if he could really call them that, were disjointed and sporadic.  She was okay, Anna would assure Kristoff.  She was already feeling so much better.  She’d tell him how much his family was helping.  Everyone was doing as much as they could.

Except there were beginnings of sentences Anna would start only to trail off with ‘never mind’ or ‘it’s not important’ then change the subject to ask how he was doing.  Or long text bubbles he’d see that she would delete before sending.  Kristoff couldn’t find a time to talk to her the last few days.  He was stealing moments, heading to the plane or between workouts or before a game.  There just wasn’t enough time.  And Anna was sacrificing again.

‘Whatever it takes’, Cliff had told Kristoff the first time he ever got into a playoff situation.  That was the expectation.  Kristoff had interpreted it as throwing his body on the line, giving everything he could, never wishing you could have done more when the game was over.  He hadn’t considered the emotional aspect or the impact on his family.  Kristoff also didn’t think it would be so effortless to shut all the background noise off.  Pitching was one of the few times he could forget about it all.  It was easy for him, almost calming and he hated he could do it and that a part of him craved it too.

———

A new charge nurse was staring Kristoff down while he scrubbed his hands.  He couldn’t figure out if she knew who he was or if she was wondering what kind of father didn’t visit their child in the NICU for four days.  He wanted to challenge her back and explain why he had to be gone.  But ‘I had to play baseball’ sounded like the lamest excuse in the world and he scurried past her with his head down as fast as he could.

Kristoff could see Anna as he walked up to their area.  The curtains were only halfway drawn and she was in the recliner, her head turned toward one of the machines staring at nothing.  He approached slowly, placing his hand on her shoulder.

“Hey babe.”

She turned her head, smiling brightly at him.  “You’re here early!”

“I was sitting in the dugout and in the third inning, coach called me into the walkway and told me to leave so I could come here.”

“That was nice.”

“How are you?” Kristoff bent down to kiss her cheek and his eyes caught that she was holding Nolan.  He was under a blanket, with Anna’s shirt wrapped over him.  Kristoff crouched down, cradling his sleeping son’s head in his hand.  “Hey buddy.”

That’s when he noticed it.  The feeding tube was back.  Kristoff looked up at Anna.  Her face had clouded over and she was biting at her bottom lip.

“When did this happen?”

“This morning.  I was going to tell you, but you had your workout and the game and I didn’t want to worry you.  Nothing was going to change if you found out earlier or now.   ...I’m sorry.  I should have-”

“Shhh shhh,” he said reaching up to Anna’s cheek to calm her.  “It’s okay.  But can you tell me why he needs it?”

“I knew this was going to happen last night.  When they weighed him, he had lost weight.  The neonatologist reviewed his chart this morning and said it had to go back.  He isn’t taking the bottle well.  I’ve been trying to nurse too, but that’s not working either.”

Anna’s head snapped up as the nurse came in, closing the curtains with an authoritative zip.  “Hi Anna.  I hope I didn’t wake…”  She stopped in her tracks as Kristoff stood up.  She caught herself staring and quickly moved over to grab some supplies.  “Hello Mr. Bjorgman.”

“Kristoff.”

“Kristoff,” she corrected.  “Back from your work trip already?”

He watched with amusement as she kept her head down.  He had to admit, she was trying so hard to act indifferent that he had to respect it.  

“How long are we going to keep pretending you don’t know who I am?”

She looked up in shock.  For a second, it looked as if she was going to try to keep the mask on, but her face quickly morphed into relief then a smile.  “Good game yesterday.  I know it must not be easy for you to have to be away.”

“We’re making it work,” Anna answered before Kristoff could say anything.

He sat down in the other chair and watched as the nurse gently took Nolan from Anna.

“Come here sweetie.  Oh, no complaining.  I know it’s snuggly and warm next to mama, but we have to check you out.”  She handled the baby with expert care and he settled down once she placed him in the warming bed.  “Let’s see if we can get some weight on you and get you eating on your own once and for all so you can go home.”

She moved the baby with gentle precision, glancing over at Anna with a reassuring smile.  “No weight loss.”  Anna smiled back with a look that was more relieved than anything.  “Would you like to hold him?”

It took a second for Kristoff to realize she was asking him.  Kristoff sat up in the chair as the nurse picked up Nolan.   “Please.”

“Are we still doing skin to skin?”  This time the nurse was looking directly at Anna.

“Yes,” Anna answered firmly before glancing at Kristoff and clearing her throat.  All movement in the room stopped as both women stared at him expectantly.

“Oh!  Sorry!  Umm...hold on.”  Kristoff’s cheeks burned as he leaned forward and reached behind his head to pull his t-shirt off.  He quickly grabbed the blanket hanging on the back of the recliner to wrap over his shoulders.  The nurse was already over, carefully moving Nolan to him.

“He likes to hear your heartbeat,” the nurse said softly as soon as Nolan was covered with the blanket and situated.

“Hey Noley.  I missed you so much.”  It was all Kristoff could say before he was lost in the feeling of his son against him.  Kristoff started humming as his fingers ran up and down Nolan’s back.  He didn’t even know what the song was, more of a string of notes he repeated over and over.  But his mother had sung it to him when he was little and it had always stuck in his head.

Anna was watching him the whole time.  She had her elbow on the arm of the the recliner, leaning her head on her hand with a smile on her face.  She looked happy, content and for a moment Kristoff forget they were at the hospital, imaging instead being at home on sitting on the couch together where they should be.  

“He looks so tiny with you holding him,” Anna said.  “But the doctors keep saying he was a good size for his age.  He would have been a couple pounds heavier than Karoline if he had been full term.  I try to remember that."

“He’s so small.  I forget every time until I hold him.”  Kristoff broke his gaze from Nolan to look at Anna.  “So,” he started cautiously.  There wasn’t going to be a better time to bring this up, so he went for it.  “How about grabbing dinner tonight?”

Anna perked up.  “Sure!  We can go down to the cafeteria whenever you want.”

“I was thinking more along the line of picking something up and eating… at home.”  He let his words sit there before adding,  “Then maybe taking a short walk with Karoline, if you’re feeling up to it.”

Anna’s hand gripped the arm of the chair and her eyes focused on Nolan.  “I… I don’t know if that’s the best idea tonight.”

“Babe.  When was the last night you had a decent sleep?”

“I was home the other night,” Anna protested.

“And I know when you left the hospital and when dad picked you up the next morning to bring you here.  You couldn’t of had more than five hours of sleep.”

Anna was wringing her hands now.  “I don’t like to leave him alone.”

Kristoff pressed on.  “Karoline would love to spend some time with you and maybe it's good for you to take a small break every now and then.”

“I don’t need a break,” Anna snapped.  “I need for him to come home.”

“Anna-”

“And don’t try to guilt me over Karoline.  I already feel bad enough.  But I can’t be in two places at once.”

“I wasn’t trying-”

“What if something happens and I’m not here?”

The look on Anna’s face was heartbreaking.  It made Kristoff want to jump up and pull her to him.  He didn’t know what to do except try to hold her until the pain was gone.  

Nolan started to fuss.  Anna saw this and started to move, but stopped herself as she watched Kristoff stroke Nolan’s back again and kiss the top of his head.  “It’s okay Noley.  It’s okay.  Shhh.”

A cabinet closed and both Kristoff and Anna zoomed in on the nurse.  “...Sorry about that,” Anna said sheepishly.

“Don’t worry about it.  Happens all the time.  I’ll be out of here in a minute.”

“What do you think?” Kristoff took a chance asking the nurse.

“Sorry?”  The nurse turned to look at him.

“About us leaving for the night?”

“I think it's none of my business.”  She picked up a few supplies and started putting them away in various locations.  “But,” she added before going to add her notes to Nolan’s chart.  “Having a baby in the NICU can be one of the most stressful times in your life.  I imagine it feels like your life has been turned upside down.”

“That’s an understatement,” Anna half laughed.

“The studies I’ve read say it's important to focus on your own needs and the rest of your family sometimes.  It can be reading, going for a walk, taking time away from the hospital.  Anything really.  Every little thing helps.”  She put the last of her notes in and went to walk out.  “For what it's worth, I just started my shift.  I’m on for the next twelve hours.  He’ll be in good hands if you decide to go.  I know I’m your favorite, Anna, don’t even try to deny it.  I’ll pay extra attention to him while your gone.”  She smiled at Anna and walked out.

Nolan was back asleep again.  Anna was gazing at him and Kristoff intently  “You’re so good at getting him to calm down.  You were like that with Karoline.  So much better than me.  I get flustered too fast.”

“You could always get Karoline to eat when I couldn’t and make her laugh like nobody’s business when she was a baby.  I could never do that.  We both have our strengths.  I always see it as a good balance.”

Anna shrugged at his comment.  “I feel like I’m failing him, Kris.  I can’t even feed him like I should.”

“You are absolutely not.  Even if there weren’t a hundred doctors and nurses monitoring everything, you wouldn’t be.”  Silence fell between them, the noises of the machines and monitors from outside started to take over.  Kristoff decided to try one last time.  “Kiersten doesn’t have class tomorrow.  She said she’d come here early and sit with Nolan until you got back.  I don’t know if that makes you feel any different about leaving, but the offer is there.  It’s your choice.  Whatever you are comfortable doing.”

Anna only nodded, and sat back in the chair.

———

“Ah, Mr. Bjorgman.”

“Kirstoff.”

“Kristoff.  Sorry... again.  Are you getting ready to leave?”

“In a minute.  Anna is still holding him.”

“I’ll go there in a minute and help her get Nolan back in the warming bed.”

Kristoff shifted and rapped his fingers on the counter as he nodded to her.  “There was something I wanted to ask you if you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.  What’s that?”

“My sister.  She tried to bring our daughter here yesterday.”

The nurse smiled.  “She did?  I wish I was here to meet her.  I was off yesterday.”

“The thing is.  It doesn’t sound like it went so well.  They wouldn’t let her see him, which I understand if that’s the rules, but she hasn’t met her brother and I wanted to know if that would be an option at some point.”

“Nolan should be cleared for her to see.  But it does depend on what nursery he was in yesterday and the other patients that were around him.  Did she get one of the care packages?”

“...No.  From what I was told, they were sent off pretty quickly.”

The nurse was already checking the schedule and shaking her head.  “Oh that makes sense with who was here.”  She looked back up at Kristoff.  “Do you think someone could bring her around tomorrow morning?”

“I, uh...maybe?”

“If you can, the staff who are on tomorrow will be much more accomodating.”

“Okay, I’ll see what I can do. Thanks.”

“Of course!  Karoline?  That’s her name, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect.  I’ll make a note of it.  It’s difficult, I know, for the siblings.  They don’t understand all that’s going on.  A lot of them feel left out and scared.  We try to ease that worry.”  The nurse stopped and scoffed.  “At least most of us do.  Bring her tomorrow and we’ll see what we can do.”

“Thanks again.”

———

Anna had a death grip on Kristoff’s hand as they walked down the hall.  He kept reminding himself to walk slower.  Anna, as well as she was improving physically and as much as said she felt better, was still just two weeks out from major surgery.  And now she was clinging to him like her life depended on it.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“We can go back if you want.”

“No!  No, I just need to keep walking.  I’ll feel better once we get outside.”  They walked down the hall, Anna’s focus on the elevator at the end.  “I hate this feeling.  I hate that I’m afraid to be gone so I can spend time with you and Karoline.  I just feel like this horrible person.”

Kristoff guided them off to a side corridor.  Before Anna could even ask what he was doing, Kristoff had her backed to the wall, his lips against against hers while he held her gently to him.  He felt her reciprocate and he tried to pour everything he could, all his love and admiration for Anna, in the kiss.

“What was that for,” Anna asked, her eyes still closed with a huge smile on her face.

“That,” Kristoff gave her one more soft kiss.  “Is to remind you how much I love you and how amazing you are and how I am absolutely in awe of you all the time.”  His large hands cupped her face.  “And even if you don’t feel it right now, you are the strongest person I ever met.”

Anna smiled up at him with tears in her eyes.  “Let’s go home.”

———

It was still early when Kristoff woke, a force of habit from getting up for game prep.  But there was a night game tonight and he had a lot more time today.  He felt something pressing against his back and rolled over to see the most beautiful site.

Karoline’s legs were sprawled across the bed, her feet next to him.  Anna had her arm around Karoline’s waist and they were both fast asleep.  Kristoff smiled fondly at the sight thinking to how they had spent their evening.  Hearing Anna and Karoline giggle despite all they were going through had made his heart so full.  But it also made him want for that moment he could look over and see all three of them together.  A vision he could see so clearly, but seemed still so far away.

“Morning Daddy,” Karoline whispered.

“Morning, Bug,” he whispered back.

“Shhh.  Don’t wake up Mommy.”

“Okay.  Are you ready to go to the hospital today?”  Karoline nodded with a big grin.  “Then let’s get breakfast and get you ready while we let Mommy sleep a little longer.”

He picked her up careful not to disturb Anna and went to go downstairs.

———

“Oh sweetie, it’s so nice to meet you!”  The nurse greeted Karoline.  “Are you ready to meet your brother today?”

Karoline was clutching onto Kristoff’s leg.  She stared at the nurse, not saying a word.  The nurse smiled and reached for something on the desk then crouched down to get to Karoline’s level.  Karoline backed up until Kristoff went down on a knee as well.  She went closer to him and looked up at Anna for approval.

“It’s okay, honey,” Anna said.

“I have something for you,” the nurse started.  “It’s from your brother and all of us that work here with the babies.  “We wanted to thank you for visiting and to tell you Nolan is very special to have a big sister like you.”  The nurse took her hand from behind her back and held out a stuffed bear dressed as a doctor.  

Karoline’s eyes lit up.  “From Nolan?”

“Yes,” Kristoff said.  “And from the nurses and doctors who help take care of him.”

Karoline inspected the bear before hugging it.  “I like him,” she said with approval.

“Are you ready to go?”  Anna asked.  Karoline nodded and took Anna’s hand.

“It’s from the local Girl Scout troop,” the nurse told them as they walked over to where Nolan was.  “One of the mom’s is a doctor at the hospital and they raise money for the bears so we can give them to the siblings.  They always are a hit.”

“I love that!”  Anna exclaimed.  “I’ll have to get the contact information so we can make a donation.”

When they got to the room, Kristoff picked up Karoline so she could see better.  Anna went over to Nolan first.  “Hi my sweet boy.  Your sister is here and she wants to meet you.”  She motioned for Kristoff to come closer.

Karoline peered over at Nolan as Kristoff lowered her to him.  She was silent for a minute, looking down at the baby.

“What do you think?” Anna asked her.

“He doesn’t have hair!” Karoline exclaimed.

It was enough to lighten the mood and both Anna and Kristoff started laughing.  Karoline showed Nolan the picture she made for him and the nurse said they would hang it up so Nolan could see it.

Karoline wasn’t able to hold Nolan yet, but she was content to sit in the recliner with Anna as she held Nolan.  Kristoff sat in the other chair watching the three most important people in his world together for the first time.

“I’m going to start spend my mornings here and evenings at home,” Anna said.  “I think it's a better balance… for all of us.” She looked down at Karoline who was still busy looking at her brother and showing him her new bear.

“I think if you’re up to it, it's a great idea.”  

“How much time until you have to leave?”

Kristoff checked his phone.  “A little longer.”

The curtain opened and one of the neonatologist walked in.  She looked between Anna and Kristoff.  “Oh, you’re both here.  Great timing.”  She walked over to look at Nolan’s chart.  “I want discuss with you the timeline for Nolan to go home.”

Kristoff caught Anna’s flash of an elated smile directed at him.  He returned it with his own grin before they both turned their attention to the doctor.

#A Major Life #Edin what did you write #Kristanna #Kristoff #Anna #Frozen #TW: premature baby #tw: hospital #if anyone is till interested in this lol #thanks for sticking with me

[madamrogersstorytelling]

Of New Beginnings — 1: Lullaby Boy

Ryan Brenner/Reader

It’s my birthday today and I figured that why not to post one cute Ryan fic on this day. Birthday has a significant role in the plot of this story, so I thought it’d be funny to post this on my own birthday. The song he has written is written by me and I hope it’s not total shit. It’s where this fic gets its name - the one in brackets has a meaning in the fic too, it’s not the song’s name. The other songs you can see parts of are not mine, their names and original singers are mentioned in the fic. Using just for fun and story purposes. I hope you all like this, even though it got a bit long.

Huge thanks to @padfootagain​ for suggesting Don McLean’s song and reading the song I wrote!

This eventually became a series.

Words: 6418

You were sure that if you’d get up now, it would draw all the attention right to you. Everyone was focused on the young man singing at the end of the pub, and during this moment you were happy Carrie had eventually given in. You knew your friend was one of those girls who liked to go to bars and find a nice guy or two for you girls to chat with, but you were different. You never fancied those guys; they were always too clingy, came too close and their breathing was a mix of cigarettes and cheap smell of alcohol. That you can get with only a few coins from the shops. By the end of the night, the guys still stepping on your heels when you tried to get rid of them (and you blamed Carrie for that), you promised yourself that never again.

This night was the first time you had had been able to change Carrie’s way of spending her Friday night. You could see it in her eyes; she was still longing for neon lights and bright drinks with umbrellas and those guys who you were able to elude only when you found them some other place to get more drinks or stepped into a cab.

That was who Carrie was and the reason why you loved her so much. She was always on your side (except during these times she knew very well what she needed after a shitty and hard week at work – and she seemed to have those often), took care of you and knew perfectly well what you needed when you got sad or sick or just felt off. She knew how to increase the happiness level when you were already bursting. She was good at that. She never told your secrets and did everything she could to protect you, kick you towards something. You two had known each other since school, and she was practically your mentor.

Even though, sometimes it felt like you were her mother.

Now she was whining every once in a while, telling you how this pub was nothing compared to the bar a few blocks away. She was dying to get there. You weren’t just going to give in; only over your dead body.

That was partly because you had seen him. The young man singing at the end of the pub, playing his guitar and sitting on a black stool. He was covering Kenny Rogers’ The Gambler when you paid closer attention to him; he had been singing since you had come inside with Carrie, but it wasn’t unusual to this pub to have someone playing. Yes, you had been in this very pub before. Sometimes after work when you were in desperate need of food and a warm drink. That was something you had wanted to give Carrie, to show her that stress and irritation didn’t have to be killed with alcohol.

“Y/N, are you serious?” It was the third time in a quarter of an hour Carrie whined something similar. It always had the same meaning; the words she used were just different.

Can we go now?

I’m bored to death… When did you become this old, boring fart?

Y/N, we’re breaking up. You get the couch, I take everything else. You won’t see our children ever again.

When you told her that neither of you had children, just to shut her up, she told that the TV and the fridge could be seen as children. Carrie got silly when she wanted to get reactions out of you, but after that she really shut up. She probably saw how you paid no attention to her.

“Yes, I’m very serious,” your voice was closer to a whisper than anything else.

He was so focused on what he was doing that he seemed to have forgotten where he was. You found yourself thinking that a pub like this was not the place for a musician like him. This was the place for those who had woken up a bit too late to realize they wanted to be Johnny Cash, Elton John, Bonnie Tyler or some other musician from the old days. You had seen everything from a very poor Elvis Presley imitation to some decent versions of Billy Joel’s Piano Man, but they were nothing compared to this, compared to him.  

He had dark hair that had been touched by wind or it was naturally wavy on the back of his neck. Carrie would say he had Lullaby Boy’s physique, whatever that meant, you still hadn’t been able to figure that out. She had words for everything. You weren’t able to spot what he had on his fingers but you saw he most likely had tattoos. He had a black sweater on, sleeves pulled up on his elbows and a sand-brown, worn-out cap on his locks. The beard he had was a bit more than just stubble of a few days, and you could see from where you were sitting with Carrie that his eyes were just as dark as his hair.

He played the last note of The Gambler and people clapped their hands. It was like an unwritten rule, everybody joined in; the pub wasn’t crowded that night, there were only a few people here and there, but all those hands clapped together gave an illusion of a big audience. He got modest and showed a smile, looking like he was pushing out a chuckling breath.

You heard one of the regulars in a lodge closer to him drawing his attention to him and his friends with a loud “hey, boy”.

“Play Piano Man, would ya?”

You chuckled. Roger never got enough of the versions of his long-time favorite song. He always told it was about him; he had been Piano Man when he was younger. Now he was one of those men who wore leather jackets during their free time and tweed coats when they were needed. His friends, those three other men he was always with, agreed on Roger’s wish and asked the young man with the guitar did he know that song.

“Yeah, I know the song,” he said. It was quiet in the pub, so you were able to hear his voice. It was deep, it was husky, there was something extremely beautiful in it and you felt you could almost touch it.

“How about House of the Rising Sun?”

“I know that too,” he nodded.

Roger looked at his friend and made a long and low snorting sound. The man with the guitar touched his nose and smiled a short but gentle smile.

“Come on, boy, play Piano Man,” Roger’s hand swung in the air as he leaned back against his seat.

“Always Piano Man… That man has no sense of classics,” you turned your head to see two elderly women a few tables away from the one you and Carrie were sitting at. Before you could turn back towards the man with the physique of Lullaby Boy (you made a mental note of asking Carrie what that meant exactly), he was already playing the first notes of the song. His eyes fell closed, the words filled the pub, and you were able to see all the emotions he had by the way his face reacted to the words and notes.

“Now I get it,” you were able to hear Carrie’s voice as she spoke knowingly. “He is why you wanted to come here…”

“No, I’ve never seen him before,” you answered but couldn’t turn your gaze away from him. You were in the middle of the veil his singing had created over the people in the pub. You felt his warmth; you felt the lyrics… and the tears burning behind your eyes.

“Sing us a song you're the piano man

Sing us a song tonight

Well we're all in the mood for a melody

And you got us feeling alright”

When he opened his eyes and his gaze rose up from the floor, then from Roger and his hand that tapped the melody on the corner of his table, his eyes found you. You met them without looking for a way to escape, like you always did with the guys at the bars, you looked at him when he sang and played.

It was only a few seconds long gaze but not the last. Every once in a while his dark eyes found their way back to you, and after a while you were able to smile to him. Smiling back to you, he reached the end of the song, and with the way Roger was clapping his hands, you knew he had heard the best version of his favorite song.

“He’s good,” Carrie said next to you, not even a hint of a whine present in her voice. “Really good, actually…”

“Yeah… He’s really good,” you looked at him, not paying attention to Roger’s friend who turned around in the lodge to see the young man better. Looking at the four men, the one on the stool smiled kindly, nodded his head and let his fingers touch the strings, so the guitar made a warm sound.

He stole glances towards you every once in a while and wasn’t exactly hiding it. No one seemed to notice what he did, still. You were happy about that; Carrie noticing it was enough.

“He’s looking at you, Y/N. You should go and to talk to him. Catch this Lullaby Boy.”

When his eyes were back on Roger and his friends, you turned to look at Carrie next to you. She sat there with chin against her palm and this knowing, pushing look in her eyes. Her smile was even worse; she knew these things. She knew what kind of men drew your attention, was very aware of the fact that none of the guys at the bars had done that. Partly, she felt bad for it. Her complaints had been just testing your true will. She had seen how you were looking at Lullaby Boy.

She knew you were doing all this because you wanted her to do something else than drink her head off and she appreciated your determination and kindness. But the truth was, this wasn’t her place – but it really was yours. She didn’t know how many times you had been here, but by the way you sat and seemed to be perfectly comfortable, she could tell this wasn’t your first time. Not even the second or third, something much different.

Carrie was happy for you. You had finally found a place you felt comfortable in. Now all you needed was a clear path in life, a new beginning. She was so close to you that she was able to read from the way you held your hand that something bothered you, and recently that had been going on a lot. Your last year and a half hadn’t been the easiest. She had walked with you, caught you when you had almost fallen but knew that what you really needed was a new road to walk.

You needed a new beginning.

And now, as she looked at you listening to Lullaby Boy, she knew you were a step closer to that.

Somehow she knew. She was known to have a good sense of that kind of things; she had more often than not been right. She relaxed a bit and let her long, blonde hair’s ends touch the table.

“That man’s bothering him; go to save the poor boy.”

“That’d be rude… They’re having a conversation…”

“Stop being a saint, Y/N! He looks like he wants the floor to swallow him now and not on next Wednesday. It’s nowhere near rude if you – “

Carrie’s sentence drifted off under the sound of your phone’s angry pinging.

Your face dropped as you looked at the screen, anxiety taking over your body. Carrie could see your despair in the way your body shifted.

“No… No, no, no…”

“What is it?” Carrie frowned at your face.

You quickly started to gather your stuff. There wasn’t much to gather, so you were able to say in the middle of it: “I have to go.”

When you got up, you looked at the man for the last time. He had just started to sing Don McLean’s Vincent and he looked confused when he met your sorry gaze. The next thing he saw was you running out of the pub with your blonde friend after you, hair swinging in the rhythm of her steps.

“Now I understand what you tried to say to me

And how you suffered for your sanity

How you tried to set them free

They would not listen, they did not know how

Perhaps they'll listen now”

 ********************

 After that disastrous Friday night, after getting the message from your mother telling your grandfather had had to go to a hospital, you had looked for Lullaby Boy. You went back to the pub when you could, but it was Monday evening and he wasn’t there.

You went there the next evening as well.

On Friday you thought the floor had probably swallowed him and blamed Roger for it. He was sitting in the same lodge with the same four friends as always, and you even asked them. But they didn’t know a thing. Only that he had left after playing two more songs after Vincent and hadn’t come back.

So, neither did you.

Your birthday was coming, and it made you sad. You readied yourself to spend it alone, to have a double date with chocolate and wine. What could have been sadder than sitting on the couch on your own birthday, alone, eating chocolate and drinking cheap wine? It was bad, what’s more. Horrible. Nauseating.

What was even worse? The fact that you were going to watch some crappy TV. And when does a person watch crappy TV, eat chocolate and drink wine on her own, on her birthday while being sad?

When everything goes downhill with the speed of a cheetah.

All that when you thought nothing could be worse.

Carrie kicked the end of the couch you were sitting on, refusing to ever again get up and meet the world. The old tears that had dried on your cheeks for so many reasons, missed moments, stupid decisions and frustrated anger, were now showing how desperate you were. Carrie dropped herself on the couch next to you and pulled you in her arms, almost on her lap and swayed you a little.

You cried. You cried everything out, and Carrie was there holding you. When you stopped, she stayed still and didn’t let you move; her hand was in your hair as the other one was wrapped tightly around your back.

“I broke up,” she told you as if it was nothing. You looked up at her with red and swollen eyes, letting out a sorry whining sound, mumbling your apologies, but Carrie only shook her head. “We weren’t right for each other. I think I knew it. But it’s not the point. The point is that you have to cancel that double date. We’re going out on your birthday, you and me, us, together.”

Groaning you hid your face against Carrie’s ultramarine blouse. “Carrie, you know perfectly well I don’t want to spend my birthday at a bar!”

You could hear her chuckles turning into half-giggles. “No, silly, I wouldn’t do that to you!”

“What then?”

She huffed. “I’m not telling you that. It wouldn’t be surprise after that.”

You peeked up at her eyes, your face still pressed tightly against her blouse. “What does Lullaby Boy’s physique mean?”

Carrie had this very satisfied look in her eyes, and it made you almost worried. There was something coming for your birthday, but at the moment you wanted nothing more than to have your poor double date and let the couch eat you.  

You wanted to forget him. You were probably never going to see him again, and what had those glances meant anyway? That’s what people do, they look at each other.

But the way he had looked at you… And you knew you had returned the looks.

They hadn’t been ‘oh, a new person’ looks. They had been ‘a new person I want to get to know’ looks, and you sighed.

‘A new person I want’ looks.

Turned into ‘a new person I won’t get’ looks when you had left.

You could’ve talked to him. There had been gaps for that. But you had thought you were being nice, that you could talk to him when he finished singing and now… Now you had lost every chance of seeing him ever again.

Maybe he wouldn’t have been the right for you, like Carrie’s boyfriend wasn’t right for her. Kenny was always a nice guy, but not all the couples can be a perfect match. Maybe this was better…

It still hurt.

The way he had looked at you… His voice, his fingers on the strings… His face…

Everything in him.

“Well, someone who’s not a Vin Diesel type of guy but not a string bean either,” Carrie’s words snatched you out of your miserable thoughts.

You let out a broken laugh. Vin Diesel was Carrie’s number one celebrity crush. “That’s not very specific. I think I’ll need a bit more to get your point.”

Carrie pouted at you. “Hmm, well… This one you’re thinking about,” she caught you, and you hid your face against her blouse again, “the Lullaby Boy, certainly is someone to lean against. You’re a daydreamer, and I know how you like your boys. Daydream Boy just doesn’t sound catchy!”

Your cheek was against her blouse as you moved your head a little, so your words wouldn’t get muffled against the material. “That name’s for the guys you think I could like? Oh, look, that one is such a Lullaby Boy!” Your imitation of Carrie was snotty and teary, but it made your friend laugh anyways.

“Basically,” he hummed, “but now it’ll be the name for him only. Would be a sin to call anyone else Lullaby Boy after someone like him.”

“Like it’d make any difference now… I will never find him again…”

“You’re such a pessimist, Y/N,” Carrie let out an exaggerated groan. “Try to be positive for once, okay? You’ll end up being a wrinkled old lady before being forty if you continue like this! I’m going to give you one hell of a kick on your birthday to get you closer to being this happy and living Y/N I know! I hate to see you sad… What could we do to make you happy?”

“Not only me, Carrie. You just broke up… How are you not sad?”

“Would be mean to show it; I feel pain and I miss Kenny, but I have better things to do than wallowing in my loss. You’re more important,” she hugged you tighter, and you let out a sound of a young child, this high-pitched squealing sound.

You could feel the new tears in your eyes. Maybe Carrie was right…

“Promise me you’ll come with me? Cancel the double date with Guylian and Pinot noir?”

You sniffed. “Okay… I’ll come with you. But just because you ask me so nicely, not because I want to stand up those nice guys.”

“Of course,” Carrie ruffled your hair. “You’ll love it, I promise. And perhaps me even more afterwards, too.”

You hummed softly in agreement. You weren’t sure could you love Carrie any more than you already did, but you were certainly going to.

“Now, could Bruce Willis keep us company tonight?” Carrie took the remote and started to scroll Netflix, other arm wrapped around your back.

She picked Die Hard, never letting go of you; she set the remote on the arm rest and the hand came back against your hair.

You were already a bit happier. Nothing could make you happier than watching your friend getting excited while seeing her celebrity crushes on screen.

 ********************

 Your birthday had started with you wanting to stay in bed for the rest of the day. Carrie had let you be, but by noon she was practically dragging you out of your comfort zone, away from your new best friend.

Even though, you were still dreaming about Lullaby Boy. You wanted to know his name…

In those dreams he was sitting on the same stool, he had the same black sweater and the sleeves up on his elbows, playing the same guitar, singing Piano Man. Sometimes he looked at you, sometimes didn’t. You always woke up when he got up to get to you.

Carrie had gotten over Kenny quicker than you had thought she would. They were together for three years, and you could see Carrie really liked the guy. But she somehow seemed to have forgotten him already; she was too excited about your birthday. It was suspicious.

She was either going to assassinate you for fun or get you to face your worst fears.

She loved it when you screamed during horror movies. Didn’t matter were you doing it out of fear or just because you wanted the characters to know they weren’t supposed to do things they did. Those were the reasons why she was probably going to take you to a real life horror movie tonight.

But then she got you into a cab with her and told the place to the driver. You frowned as you turned to look at her.

“Carrie…?”

She smiled as she turned to look at you. “Y/N?”

“We’re going to the pub?”

The look on your face made her place her hand over yours. “We’re going to the pub.”

“Why? You never liked it there.”

She chuckled, holding your hand with hers. “Y/N dear, it’s your birthday. Try not to think about everyone else for once, okay?”

You stared at her for a while longer until your gaze found its way out of the window. You could recognize the streets as the cab got closer to the pub.

You hadn’t been there after that Friday. And now that Carrie was taking you there, you didn’t know how to feel.

Maybe the real life horror movie would’ve been better… Maybe this was the real life horror movie.

Soon it was the time for you to get out of the cab. Carrie paid, she insisted. You stood by the sidewalk and stared at the door of the pub, the warmth you could feel even when still outside. You remembered every single picture of an American musician, football player, every single one. All those license plates on the walls, one from each state. The brown, wooden tables and chairs, lodges and the warm atmosphere. Roger and his friends, those elderly women, the owner John who gave you drinks for free. Not because he tried to hit on you, simply because it was his way to do things. You weren’t the only one getting free drinks; he never gave free alcohol, only coffee or hot chocolate or tea. He didn’t want a reputation.

You understood John.

Carrie took you by your left arm and started to walk you inside before you could escape. She opened the door for you, making sure her gaze was on your face all the time. She was intimidating enough when she stared at you that you couldn’t even consider escaping.

You were still able to ask questions, though.

“Why did we come here, Carrie?” You sounded sadder than you had meant to.

“I’ll let you find that out by yourself,” she said in lightweight voice, giving you one last look after letting you go by the table she picked for the two of you. It was closer to the end than the one you had chosen the last time, much closer to Roger and his friends loudly claiming their usual lodge.

Carrie practically sat you down on the chair. Almost immediately after it John came to your table with two cups of hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows. He smiled in the middle of his mustache and beard and tapped your shoulder when he set the cup down in front of you.

“Happy birthday, kid,” John was almost 60 years old, grey-haired man with a lot similar beard to the one Hagrid had in Harry Potter movies. You had liked him since the first second, and his sincere and genuine smile and tap on your shoulder made you smile.

“Thank you, John,” you looked up at his eyes that were blue in one light and green in some other.

“You don’t have to pay for that, Carrie. I’m giving them for free. It’s Y/N’s birthday after all,” John hurried to stop your friend as her hand disappeared inside her black purse. When he spoke about your birthday, John smiled to you again.

You smiled back to him and then turned towards Carrie, frowning.

How did John know her name?

“No, I wasn’t going to. I’ve heard stories of you, John. Free coffees and cocoas and stuff,” Carrie’s other hand was making very odd movements in the air as the other was still in the purse. She took her phone out when she finally found it with a long and relieved sigh.

John chortled warmly. “Yes, well… Have a nice night. You’ll get whatever you want, Y/N. For your birthday,” he gave you a fatherly nod and pat on the back and left you to get back to the bar. You had enough time to thank him and then he was gone, his tall and big form sailing back. His low voice echoed on the walls as he whistled to get Roger’s attention and then asked would they like some more whiskey.

Carrie nibbled on a marshmallow as she looked at the screen of her phone. You could see her smiling through the candy. Her lips moved to form a silent word, something you read as perfect but wasn’t entirely sure. Then she dropped her phone back in her purse and turned to look at you.

“Hey, birthday girl! These marshmallows are so good, oh my god…”

She looked like she was trying to hide something. You frowned as you looked at her, pulling your mug closer as if she could suddenly steal your marshmallows.

“Are you okay?”

“Of course,” she took the cup by her lips. “Why?”

“You’re acting weird. Should I be worried?”

“No, you should not,” she held the cup with both of her hands, and you stared at her. For so long you woke up only when you heard Roger cheering and saw Carrie’s smile. You turned your head…

“What – “

You never got to the end.

He was there.

Lullaby Boy was there. He sat on the black stool with his guitar. This time he didn’t have the cap on and his shirt dark and deep shade of purple instead of black. You could see the ends of white shirt’s sleeves and start of its neck under it. He looked down on the floor as he sat down and played with his guitar for a moment. Then he saw Roger and his friends and gave them a smile.

When he started to play the first song, you recognized it immediately. John Denver’s Country Roads filled the pub; his voice filled the pub…

And he looked at you. His lips twitched a little as if he was trying to hold back a smile. You were still able to see it and gave him one of your own smiles.

“I hear her voice, in the morning hour she calls me

The radio reminds me of my home far away

And driving down the road I get a feeling

That I should have been home yesterday, yesterday

 Country roads, take me home

To the place I belong

West Virginia, mountain mama

Take me home, country roads”

You could feel Carrie’s eyes on you; saw her smile hanging on the corner of your eye. But you had eyes for Lullaby Boy, for only him.

He was here. How was he here? You had thought you’d never see him again.

He fell silent when the song ended. In the middle of applauds he looked at you, leaning his hand against the guitar. His smile was so warm and gentle you thought it lasted for a small eternity.

Then Roger was breaking it again.

“Nice to see you back, boy,” he said and got Lullaby Boy’s attention. “House of the Rising Sun, would ya? You said you know the song.”

“Sorry, Roger,” he said and turned to look at you again. “Not now…”

You couldn’t see Roger’s face but the way his head moved told he was confused. His friend who was sitting opposite to him followed Lullaby Boy’s gaze and found you. You hardly noticed soon all of them were looking at you.

Then Lullaby Boy started to speak.

“I was told that it’s someone’s birthday today. And I was also told that this girl… She’s looking for herself, could use some encouragement. As someone who’s still looking for himself and… sort of where am I gonna go next and how am I gonna get there…” He was silent for a moment. It was filled with a smile and looking right into your eyes, and that way got you feel the tears behind them. There was something between you and him, something deep and eternal, like you had known each other for many lifetimes. “I wrote her a song. I hope I can give her a reason to keep looking; there’s always something. For all of us. We just have to believe… in new beginnings.”

His gaze never left you when he started to play. But it got glued to you when he opened his mouth to sing.

“Give me a half of your tears

We have a long way to go

But I promise to carry them all

Over every bridge and

Through every detour we may take

In the calling wind of the seven seas

In the waves of freedom

They're waiting for you to follow

 Just when you think

The road is long

And you have no reason

To go on

When you think

You've lost the way

I will hold your hand

 You don't have to fear

Just remember

This life is made

Of new beginnings

 That's how I light my fires

I close the doors between

Me and my doubts

When the tide rolls in

I force it to walk past me

'Cause it can only take, not give

And I'm not showing myself to it

 All that is in you now

All you need to survive somehow

Make it through the winds and storms

See the red light of the newborn dawn

Find the courage to dip your fingers in

The ink for writing the story of you

It's all where it needs to be

Right there

In your soul

 Hush now

Tonight and on the days on end

Don't be afraid, my dear

She told me a story of an aching soul

But what I see is yet to grow

The love for life

The world is out there for you to find

 Run, my girl, take that freedom

This world is made for us

Of new beginnings

The stars in our eyes

The gold of our hearts

And the road is long

But you're not alone

 Hand on heart

I swear

I'll be there

When you find your path

Yourself in the middle

Of new beginnings”

You could feel yourself tearing up. The cup of hot chocolate was getting cold in front of you, but you didn’t care.

“H-how?” It was the only thing you got out. Your voice was small and full of tears that didn’t get out as you looked at Lullaby Boy.

“It was me. I came to look for him. John’s in this with me. I got Lullaby Boy’s number and called him to be here on this very day. His name is Ryan,” Carrie started to speak. She was halfway through her own drink but left it there. “Happy birthday, Y/N.”

You turned to Lullaby Boy, who had stopped singing and was just sitting there on the stool with this same shy and modest look in his eyes. Everyone was clapping their hands again, even harder and for a longer time now.

Then you realized what John’s part was in all this.

His low voice filled the air again as he called out for Roger: “Play us your banjo a bit, would you?”

And suddenly, Roger was in it too. “I’d love to, John. Let me just…” He got up with his banjo he apparently had with him and walked towards Lullaby Boy. He had stood up and they met halfway, Roger grabbed his shoulder.

He was a bit shorter than Lullaby Boy but was still able to say close to his face: “That was a good one, boy. Go, get the girl.”

At the same time, Carrie turned to look at you. “This is the moment you get your ass up and take your chance. Wipe your tears and make yourself happy.”

“What if he doesn’t…?”

Carrie didn’t let you stop. She shook her head. “He does. Go. Get your new beginning.”

You got up when Roger left Lullaby Boy alone and took his place on the stool. He still had his guitar when he made his way towards you and touched the back of his neck with his free hand. Roger playing his banjo was escorting the both of you as you made it towards each other.

He was handsome. He was even beautiful. His eyes were so brown they were almost black and his features were so gentle and soft. When he stood there in front of you, you felt it deeper; like you had known him for long.

“Ryan…” Saying his name felt good. It felt right. “Thank you for the song. I… It was beautiful. I really needed it.”

“You’re welcome,” he took a quick glance at Carrie who was smiling. “And… I know. Your friend told me why you had to leave, how you were… I was… I’m glad I stayed in town. I’m glad that I can be here tonight.”

You weren’t mad at Carrie about telling Ryan. She had done it to tell it had had nothing to do with him. And it hadn’t; you would’ve stayed but your family had needed you. Your grandfather had gone home from the hospital by now and everything was fine.

“Happy birthday, Y/N,” Ryan’s voice got softer and deeper when he said that, so that only you could hear it. The way he said your name gave you butterflies; he was so close you could’ve touched him if you wanted. But you didn’t do it.

“Thank you…” You could feel how your cheeks flushed. “Want to… want to sit with us?”

“Oh no, no, no,” Carrie was suddenly next to you, nodded her hellos to Ryan and then turned to you. “I’m leaving. My work here is done.”

“Carrie, you can’t…”

“I can. Y/N, I won’t disappear from your life. I’ll just give you some space. I’ll be home when you come.”

You couldn’t say anything; just wrap your arms around your friend. She hugged you tightly against her as you buried your face against her shoulder. “I thought we’d spend my birthday together…”

“We will have many birthdays to spend together, Y/N. You need this, trust me. Besides, I met someone,” she pulled back to look into your eyes and she gave you so bright smile it practically blinded you.

Ryan was smiling at her but didn’t interrupt the conversation.

“You met someone… Carrie,” you were able to spot a black-haired young man by the table you had sat at. Your cup of hot chocolate was still there and seemed untouched. “I can’t thank you enough. When I come home, we’ll – “

“When you come home, we’ll both be happy. Stay. Bye now,” she glanced at Ryan and nodded to him before kissed your cheek and left with the young man.

Ryan sat with you, and John gave him a coffee. You got a new hot chocolate, but finished the cold one anyways. For the rest of the evening you chatted, got to know each other; Ryan played bits of songs you said to him, sang the parts he knew. He wanted you to sing to him.

By the end of the night, you had a feeling of knowing for far longer time than one night.

And he felt the same way about you. When he looked at you… He saw someone he wanted to keep. He had made that promise; he only needed you to want the same. It was getting late and he’d have to say it if he wanted to make sure.

“Y/N,” he said after helping you with your coat, “can I… ask you something?”

“Of course,” you turned to face him, cheeks a bit crimson from laughter and the fact that he had touched you, even though so casually.

“Would you… Is it any way possible that you’d like to,” he looked right into your eyes, “see me again?”

It caught you off guard. Even though, you had thought about the same thing. Ryan was nice, he was funny and smart and gorgeous and creative and thoughtful… just somewhat perfect.

But you thought you had pink glasses on. Would he want to see you again? Now you knew he would, and your cheeks turned crimson. But so did his.

“Yes,” you said, seeing him biting his lower lip, “I’d love to see you again, Ryan. Many times.”

He was closer to you, smiling. He was holding his guitar with his right hand, but the left cupped your jawline. “I’m very happy about that…” He almost whispered. His brown eyes looked right into your eyes and his thumb stroked your skin. It found the corner of your lips and stopped there.

Felt like time had stopped. You didn’t hear Roger’s banjo, not his loud voice singing a little out of tune, not the door opening and closing – it was like you were in your very own world, just the two of you.

His lips were soft against yours, body warm as it was brushing yours, eyes looking down at you and – you had nowhere else to be. This was your place. With your Lullaby Boy of new beginnings.

****

Tag List: @padfootagain @billyrvsso @jennareedus @mamaraptor @suchatinyinfinity @delicatelilyflower @whostheblondegirl @something-tofightfor

#ryan brenner #ryan brenner x reader

[epiphanies]

Fools Rush In

Based on this tumblr post that kinda sorta prompted a left at the altar groom Timmy and best man Armie AU :)

I posted this last week I think but thought I should make a separate post!

Masterlist | On AO3 | My Fic Tag

It’s an hour before the ceremony is about to start and he feels like time has slowed down, feels as if the world has stopped spinning and he struggles with his bowtie till its untied. The gesture does little for the way his heart feels too big for his chest, too heavy, the way his palms are sweating and eyes are stinging.

I can’t do this Timmy.

It’s not you, I promise. It’s me.

I wanna be sure and I’m...I’m not.

He rubs the heels of his palms against his eyes but the tears don’t seem to stop and he doesn’t know what to do. There are people waiting outside, their families are somewhere out there, working on last minute details. The bridesmaids, groomsmen, his nephew who was the ring bearer, her niece who was the flower girl, all these people who were a part of their big day and now she was gone and he didn’t know what to do.

His breath starts coming faster and he wills it to slow down before it turns into a full-blown panic attack. He tries to make a mental list of things to do, he should probably tell someone so people can go home but it's like his feet are glued to the ground and he can’t - he doesn’t-

“Timmy? Hey, you okay?”

He’s startled by the squeeze of his shoulders and turns around to face Armie who looks even more concerned. He knows what he looks like, tear-stained face, bowtie undone, helpless.

“What’s wrong?”

He inhales shakily and wipes the tears before continuing, “She’s gone.”

“Gone? What do you mean gone?”

“I mean, it’s over Armie. She left me.”

“She left you?”

“Please stop repeating everything I say,” he says, his voice hoarse and Armie looks contrite, eyes filled with concern.

“I’m sorry, I just- I don’t understand.”

He explains to him, best as he can, in choppy sentences and a choked-up voice because this was supposed to be the happiest day of his life and he feels like he still can’t compute how it took a turn. Armie says nothing, just envelops him in a hug, one hand squeezing the nape of his neck in comfort. He stays in the embrace for long moments and if he sheds a few more tears, no one has to know.

He pulls back first and glances at Armie who is unreadable except the tight clench of his jaw.

“I don’t- all these people...” he trails off, now knowing what to say and watches Armie cock his head to a side in sympathy.

“Wait here. I’m going to take care of everything okay? Just-just stay here. I’ll come get you.”

“My parents-”

“Just wait here,” Armie says, his voice leaving no room for argument, “Please?” he adds, softening his voice.

He nods, and Armie leaves him. He sits there until the sky begins to turn orange, and the air is crisp against his face. He doesn’t know what to do, so he just sits there, staring blankly ahead while his mind is racing, trying to find signs of this happening. How could he have been so stupid?

It feels like he’s been here for hours when his mother sits down beside him. She runs her fingers through his curls and he feels himself tearing up again. He clenches his jaw and blinks furiously to stop the tears from overflowing.

“I’m okay,” he lies, voice breaking.

He can see she’s been crying too when she looks at him. “No, you’re not. But that’s okay. You will be.”

“I just don’t understand-”

“Sometimes,” she pauses and heaves a sigh as she weighs her words, “Sometimes, these things don’t work out. But there’s always a reason. And good things will come out of this, okay? Just-just give it time.”

Pauline hugs him fiercely, kisses him on both cheeks and his dad ruffles his hair affectionately. But soon they’re gone, and its just him and Armie sitting on the bench till the sun sets. He breaks the silence first.

“You can go, your best man duty is officially over...I’ll be fine.”

He’s rewarded with an eye roll, “I’m not going anywhere. Lets go inside though, it's getting chilly.”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and they walk in silence. They pass the altar and his heart twists a little at the twinkling fairy lights wrapped around the trees, the neatly arranged tables, the emptiness of it all.

“Can we sit out here for a while?” he asks Armie, whose face softens as he nods.

“Whatever you want.”

They sit down crosslegged, under the altar and Timmy exhales purposefully.

“Thank you for taking care of everything.”

He receives a soft, of course, and looks at Armie, smiling ruefully.

“Let’s get drunk,” Armie announces.

He nods, smiling a little. Fuck it, he thinks. He deserves it. He did pay for all the expensive alcohol.

“I’ll be right back.”

He takes in his surroundings. They were supposed to be having their first dance now, surrounded by friends and family, instead, all he saw were empty tables. He doesn’t get to dwell too much, because Armie is back, carrying three bottles of champagne and what looks like enough food for four people.

“We should eat,” he says before serving the food. Timmy digs in and realizes just how hungry he was and judging by how Armie was wolfing it down, so was he.

Armie pops open one of the champagne bottles and takes a swig before handing it to Timmy.

“Drink up,” he orders, jokingly.

Timmy rolls his eyes and follows anyway. They pass the bottle back and forth and after the fifth time he drinks it, he feels his eyes stinging again.

“I don’t know why I keep crying,” he says in between shaky breaths. Armie just holds him close, his fingers buried in Timmy’s hair, rubbing small circles.

He pulls back and gratefully accepts the napkin Armie holds out, wiping his face and nose, feeling drained.

“We’d have had our first dance by now.”

Armie pulls out his phone he wonders what the other man is doing, before the song starts playing.

“Dance with me?” Armie asks, offering his hand.

“You’re dumb, this is dumb,” he says, his voice devoid of heat, even as he grabs Armie’s hand.

“The dumbest,” Armie agrees, mock-serious, pulling him closer.

They sway aimlessly, barely dancing, till Armie twirls him around, and he huffs out a small laugh, as he faces Armie again.

He looks at the unreadable look in Armie’s eyes and wraps his arms around Armie’s neck, fingers clasped at the nape of his neck. The warmth of Armie’s palms seems to seep through his tux and it feels like he’s sixteen again, pining over his best friend. Sixteen-year-old Timmy would’ve lost his shit. It’s been nine years since, and he’s found out Armie didn’t return his feelings but right now, swaying to the music, looking at Armie who’s looking back at him like he’s the most important thing, it feels like he’s sixteen again and Timmy feels his face flush.

Maybe it’s the alcohol that’s fueling him, but he breaks the silence.

“You wanna know something?”

“What?”

Armie’s voice is almost a whisper as if speaking any louder would shatter this moment. He swallows nervously before continuing.

“You’re the only other person I’ve ever wanted to do this with.”

They’re not swaying anymore, and as soon the words spill out of his mouth, Timmy’s hands fall to his sides, and he bites his lip, chagrined. He shouldn’t have said anything.

“What?”

He looks up, and Armie has a wild look in his eyes, half shocked and half something. He can’t tell, and it scares him. He nods, not knowing what else to say.

“You never said-”

“I heard you telling Pauline you didn’t like me back...I didn’t want to ruin this,” he says, gesturing between them.

He watches as Armie takes a deep breath and runs his hands through his hair, dreading what’s about to come next.

“I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember,” Armie says, looking tortured.

He’s sure he misheard it. He’s absolutely sure, till he sees Armie looking at him, eyes soft even in their sadness, the corner of his mouth curved up, and he realizes what that unreadable look has always meant. I love you. I’m in love with you and kills me that you’re not. It’s the same look he’s probably given Armie a thousand times.

He doesn’t know how to feel about this, it’s too many emotions all at once and he was exhausted, to begin with.

“I-”

“Can I kiss-”

He doesn’t know when the yes slips out, but then Armie is kissing him and he can’t seem to think of anything else. It feels warm, safe and Armie’s hands are still on his waist, but they’re impossibly close now. Timmy cups his jaw, kissing him back, softly. Armie tastes like the expensive champagne they just downed, smells like cologne and feels like home. It feels both familiar and unfamiliar because while they’ve never kissed, this is a body he knows, from playing football after school, or reading the newest comic, or hiding out in the treehouse till it was time for dinner or from the time he broke his foot and Armie walked him everywhere, refusing to leave him alone, from the time Armie got chicken pox and he’d sneaked in and slept over so they could have chicken pox together. That one hadn’t gone down well with either of their parents, but they’d spent the week playing video games and he couldn’t find it in him to complain.

They break apart after long moments and he can’t help but feel nervous. He looks at Armie who looks struck, eyes wide in what looks like surprise. They sit next to each other at an empty table and it's a while before anyone speaks.

“I don’t-”

“We should-”

He huffs out a laugh and runs a hand through his hair. “You go first.”

“I didn’t mean,” he hears Armie begin and it feels like his heart is breaking, he feels fragile and he must’ve given something away because Armie moves closer and cups his face.

“God no, that’s not-I’m not doing this right, sorry. I’m nervous.”

He can’t find it in himself to respond and watches, as Armie continues.

“We should, we should take this slow. I mean, I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“Okay,” he agrees, because this is important, so important and he wants to do it right.

“I’m going to woo you,” Armie says, the full force of his blinding grin directed at Timmy and oh god he’s not going to survive this.

“Oh you’re going to woo me?”

“Yeah, I’m going to woo the shit out of you. No sex for three months.”

He can’t help but laugh at that and then laugh some more at how affronted Armie looks.

“Fine, no sex for a month,” Armie concedes and Timmy is fighting a grin.

“We’ll see about that.”

“I want to do this right,” Armie’s voice is soft, almost shy and he feels like his heart is suddenly too big for his chest.

He intertwines their fingers, tracing the back of Armie’s hands with his thumb.

“Me too.”

[sassysatsuma]

Skeleton - Midnight

[I wrote this between 1am and 4am, so have pity on me. Also, you know that it is totally inspired by this song. Fingers crossed you like it! :)] 

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Midnight on the Wards looks just like any other time really.

There's the distant thrum of speeder engines vibratingthrough the air, producing a soft bassline which is punctuated with the oddhigh pitched wail of a siren. The apartment below her is having some kind of party,techno music rumbling out softly beneath her feet. Somewhere on the street,there's two asari laughing, tearing along the walkway whilst a hapless turianfollows, begging them to slow down. It's a lot like back home on Earth in itsway, except more vibrant and alive somehow. So many different species andcultures all bound together in one big but confined space.

Half the world is sleeping, the other half is partying andfucking living. Lara herself iscaught somewhere in between.

She'd woken up in a cold sweat, her nightshirt clinging toher body in all the wrong places, restrictive and oppressive. Sometimes shesleeps soundly, lost to the world in a perfect, dreamless slumber. Most nightshowever, she dreams of the people she's killed and the ones that have almostkilled her. She remembers the feeling of fire scorching past her armour andinto her skin, the explosion that sent her tumbling to the ground, bioticbarrier weak and barely strong enough to protect her. She remembers the face ofher best friend, pale and lifeless. The one man she'd risked everything to saveand yet still somehow managed to fail.

She remembers everything that N7 made her become andeverything they forced her to lose.

It’s always a losing battle trying to force sleep on nightslike these. Instead, she'd showered and allowed herself a little pampering,padding around her apartment wrapped in a towel for far longer than she'dnormally have time to. Dressed in her favourite sweatpants, faded Academy tshirt and a woollen cardigan that is so big it almost wraps twice around herframe, she’d fixed herself a sizeable mug of tea, sloshing in a good dash ofwhisky for good measure.

Now, she's out on her balcony, looking out over thetwinkling, multicoloured lights of the Wards. There's an artificial breeze thatbrushes across her face, but it’s hardly unpleasant, as close to fresh air as aperson could get living on an oversized space station like the Citadel.

- You awake? -

Her omnitool buzzes into life, disturbing her sense of calmentirely. Lazily, Lara flicks her wrist, scrolling through the virtualinterface to open up the message. She resists the urge to smile when she readshis name, but there's no escaping the way her stomach jumps a little.

A short conversation and a matter of minutes later, SimonRiley is striding as confidently as ever into her apartment.

"Shit, Bones... A fucking penthouse?!" She doubtsthat she's ever heard him sound so impressed as he steps out onto the balconyto join her. As ever he's dressed all in black, although he's gained a blackeye since the last time she'd seen him, a large purple and brown bruisecircling his right eye.

"All Alliance property, I'm afraid." She sighsnonchalant, sipping at her tea and definitely not noticing the way the dark,swirling tattoos littering his arms flex as he shrugs off his jacket and tossesit onto a nearby chair. Shifting her gaze to the cityscape ahead, she sees himmove into her peripheral vision as he leans on the railing beside her, theirarms close, but not touching.

"Maybe I jumped ship too soon after all."

"It comes with a lot of strings." She pauses,reluctant to return to the emotions that had led her here. Instead she takesanother long sip of her tea and turns to face the man to her left, her rightelbow still leaning against the railing. "Bit late for a house call though,isn't it, Riley?"

"Says the woman who let me in? My ship touched down acouple of hours ago. I headed to Chora's, but it was the same old fuckingfaces, so I figured that I'd message the one face that I actually wouldn't mindseeing." He reaches out, his fingers gently tugging at the woollenmaterial covering her tricep. "Didn't exactly expect to waltz in and findyou in your Granny pyjamas though."

"My sexy lingerie is at the dry cleaners."

"Right now, I'd be grateful for any kind oflingerie."

"Sucks to be you then, doesn't it?" Lara fixes himwith a smug smirk of her own. "You asked if you could come see me. I neverpromised to be in a state of undress."

"Bloke's allowed to dream, isn't he?" Rileyteases, pushing off from the railway. "C'mon then. Get a decent drink inmy hand and then you can bore me all you like with what you've been up to thepast three weeks, yeah?"

Lara wasn't sure when Riley had slipped past her defensesand into friendship territory, but pretending it never happened was a pointlessat this point. They were so different, driven by entirely different moralities,or so she had first thought. She'd written him off as a lowlife mercenary,willing to kill whoever necessary for the right price. That had downrightdisgusted her at the start, if she was being honest.

Trouble was, that wasn't who he was. He was a mercenaryalright, raw and brutal and unwilling to lift a finger unless there was atleast something in it for him. But he didn't accept every contract, wasn'twilling to lend his services to slavers just because they paid the highestprice. Hell, Lara had ended up holding his corner in a street fight with agroup of potential "investors" who just couldn't take no for ananswer.

There was more to Riley than he wanted the world to believe andthat was what kept her hooked. She'd see flashes of it once in a while, cracksin his armour that he either didn't notice or hoped she'd be too blind to see.It might just be a single sentence, or a gesture every once in a while, but itwas enough to tell Lara that no matter what she had thought about him at thestart, she might have misjudged Simon Riley after all.

There were other emotions there too and truth be told, Laratried her hardest to push them back most days. At times when she felt as far aspossible from her family and friends, Riley was often a friend who understoodher, a zero judgement drinking partner who seemed to see the pain driving herto drink away her sorrows and know enough not to mention it. He had been anescape of sorts, one that she had indulged in a little too deeply in a momentof drunken vulnerability. They hadn't slept together, far from it in fact, butshe distinctly could remember pressing him up against an alleyway wall outsideChora's Den, her biotics pulsing through her skin as they'd made out like acouple of teenagers. Riley had promised back then that she wouldn't be able tostay away forever, whilst Lara had invested all of her energy into making sureit never happened again.

Until now of course, when she's sitting on her living roomfloor, back pressed against one of the couches. She's filled with the warmth ofthe whisky they've shared, her cardigan long discarded in a clumsy pile besideher. Opposite, Riley sits legs outstretched, his back resting against anarmchair. His face is set in a smile, dark eyes watching her in a way she can'tquite decipher.

 "So... where'd you get the shiner?" Her wordspunctuate the comfortable silence around them and she takes another sip of herdrink, savouring the slow burn at the back of her throat.

"Defending the honour of a school bus full of kids,obviously."

"Bullshit. Schoolkids don't pay enough."

"Ouch." He laughs, soft lines crinkling at thecorner of his eyes. Lara has given up trying to tell herself that he isn'thandsome at this point. "Some bloke just got a lucky shot in, nothing moreto it than that."

"I hope you made him regret it."

"That your way of telling me you care, Bones?" Heraises an eyebrow, that self satisfied smirk that is damn near characteristicof him now pushing across his features.

"Please. I'm just too lazy to find myself anotherdrinking buddy."

"Uh huh."She knows that the arrogant bastard doesn't believe her for a second."Y'know, while I was away, there was this asari bird in the crew I wasrunning with. Had a mean singularity that could crush its way through anyfucking armour. She was fuckin' beautiful, knew it too. Half the crew werepractically creaming themselves whenever she was around."

"And you're telling me this because?"

"Because even with that kind of grade A distractionparading around in front of my face, I barely fucking noticed." He shrugs,placing his whisky glass down on the coffee table with a gentleness that shedidn't know he possessed. "... Even when there's this fuckin'... asari sexgoddess right there... I'm still hung up on this Alliance bird who can't seemto decide if I disgust her or not."

Well shit.

Suddenly the whisky wasn't the only thing making her feelwarm. For a second, Lara pauses, lost in the meaning of what he's trying tosay. She feels displaced, the jolt from gentle teasing and joking to somethinga little more serious making her head spin. She's known for a long while thatRiley found her attractive, but up until now she'd always assumed that he sawher as a conquest, a box to tick, another notch to add to his bed post. She'snever actually considered that he might value her... more than that?

"... It's you, Lara."

"And I'm not looking for a one-night deal."

"If I was looking for that I would have tried my luckwith the sex goddess." A smile,thank God. Lara feels a soft laugh escape her lips, grateful for his joke.She watches him carefully as he sits up, crawling towards her until all thatseparates them are a few inches. He reaches out, with fingers that trace up theside of her neck and come to rest just beneath her jaw. "Look... I'm notexactly proposing marriage, Bones. But, I like you. Give me some credit here,yeah?"

Lara entertains every response imaginable in that moment.She considers making a bad joke, thinks about teasing him with the fact thatshe'd likely never dare trust him with her credits. She toys even with the ideaof pulling away, of giving herself space and time for the rational, overlycautious part of her brain to dream up some more reasons about why she shouldstill hold Riley at arm’s length.

 But it all means nothing when she leans just that little bitcloser and presses her lips against his.

She's done being afraid.

The kiss is slower than what they've shared before, but itstill has the same intensity. Riley kisses her back immediately, the hand onher jaw moving to cup the entire side of her face, whilst his other hand movesto her shoulder. Their mouths fall into a quick rhythm, open mouthed kissesfuelling them onwards as their bodies press closer. Lara's hands wind upunderneath Riley's shirt, her fingers slipping across a back littered withscars whilst he sucks at her bottom lip. She lets out a gentle gasp, feels himsmirk against her skin as he ducks his head lower, kissing and sucking at herneck in way that promises plenty of purple bruises of her own in the morning.

As he pushes her backwards, lifting her t shirt so that hecan press feverish kisses to her abdomen, Lara finds herself trusting him morethan she'd ever imagined possible. Somehow, in this moment, she is allowing himto be utterly in control, an alien feeling that brings with it a deep sense ofcomfort.

It doesn't matter who she thought Simon Riley was. Doesn'tmatter if he's running from a past just as dark as hers. It doesn't matter thathe's a mercenary and she's a soldier, that in her heart she knows that he issupposed to represent everything she's been taught to despise. Because, despiteit all, Lara likes Riley. Trusts him. Cares about him as the friend he hasshown himself to be. The man that deep down, she knows that he is.

She's spent over a decade in service to the Alliance, mouldingher life around its every demand and whim. Living by its morals, shapingherself to represent the ideal that it presented to all of its recruits. Andyet in the end, the Alliance chewed her up and robbed her of everything thathad truly mattered.

There's no way in hell she's letting anyone rob her of this.Least of all herself.

#sass pretends to be a writer #drabble meme #skeleton #lara/riley #mass effect/call of duty crossover #my writing #smashinterrupted

[nothingneverforever]

Yesterday (2019)

When I’d just seen the trailers and promo stuff for Yesterday, there was some great excitement in me. I loved The Beatles years ago, I mean, I really really loved them, I’ve got about 15 books on them, borrowed my mom’s credit card to shop online for DVDs of all their original movies when I was 14, etc etc, so Yesterday’s premise added up and seemed to look like something I’d enjoy: Danny Boyle, mysterious ultra-niche alternate reality in an otherwise utterly regular world, some kind of deadpan irony about the whole situation…

Then it came and went in cinemas and I never got down to seeing it. So I watched instead this film review by DazzReviews on Youtube, titled “Yesterday Missed A MASSIVE OPPORTUNITY (SPOILERS)”.  It’s a short and simple analysis of key weaknesses of the film, being that its actual contents greatly pale in comparison to its great potential. Even without watching the film, I understood Dazz’s gripe because even seeing snippets of the film bored me. It is such a unique, and almost cute idea afterall: a blackout causing selective loss of memory in every single individual in this world (save for 3, later to be discussed) where post-blackout, The Beatles and other cultural/social phenomenon do not and have never existed. Our protagonist, who pre-blackout was a struggling singer/songwriter, then decides to release Beatles songs from his memory as his own, thus gaining global popularity and attracting immense adoration. It’s not novel, perhaps reminiscent of time-travel narratives idk, but it’s still fun right?  

Yet even after watching this review video and understanding the film’s flaws and being able to imagine how disappointing the film would have been, watching it in full for myself was still an upsetting experience. Google tells me that Yesterday is of the ‘Drama/Fantasy’ genre, which gives me a good starting point for my critique: how utterly un-fantastical it is.

Our protagonist Jack Malik is LITERALLY the most vanilla, ungrateful, boring, not-alive, nothing-at-all, annoying, pathetically male (in terms of tantrum-throwing and ingratitude) character I have ever seen. None of this is hyperbolic, his character literally sucks so freakin much omfg, absolutely devoid of any redeeming or even remotely INTERESTING qualities at all. In fact save for maybe one scene (which I will talk about below), I don’t think there was another single second in the entire film where we saw him smiling. This is not to say that he’s portrayed as especially tortured or depressed in demeanor, merely to indicate his absolute dearth of warmth and personality.

Meanwhile, it becomes clear as the boring film progresses boringly that Yesterday is in fact nothing more than a love story. The cute Beatles twist is merely a device to show us how Jack and his “love interest” Ellie (inverted commas cos their love sucks omfg I cant imagine that ANYONE viewing it is convinced) were in fact meant to be, with Jack’s momentary superstardom existing to show him that all he ever wanted was his old life, the one with Ellie (even though they were never together because THEY ARENT EVEN MEANT TO BE IN THE FIRST PLACE OKAY….). But, just as Jack’s character itself is flawed and awfully written, our female protagonist Ellie is SOOOOOO early 2000s. Just think of the most typical stock supportive, sweet, pretty, unfailingly kind and patient female whose presence is taken for granted etc etc… So her stock sweetie pie female character coupled with the most unbelievably charmless and unlikable male character make for the most unshippable couple you could possibly imagine. We are supposed to be charmed by her obvious-to-everyone-except-him love for Jack, supposed to have our heartstrings tugged by the singular scene of teenage schoolgirl her standing by the wings of the stage with hearts in her eyes while teenage schoolboy him sings a most soulless rendition of Wonderwall but it literally does absolutely nothing. The means has not met the end! This is a grossly uninspiring love story and there is no fantasy whatsoever!!

Honestly how is this even a Danny Boyle product? But then again… Zhang Yimou, boasting the incredibly genius Raise the Red Lantern (1992) on his resume, also did The Great Wall (2016) so I guess even heroes have the right to bleed or even the best fall down sometimes or something. OMG WAIT  I just googled the film again and not only is it directed by Danny Boyle but also written by Richard Curtis LOL wtfffffffffff okay this is the worst film ever seriously

Early on just after the global blackout thing, before Jack becomes the huge superstar that he does after his music (“his” music) is released into the world, when he first decides to use the songs of The Beatles, he is cajoled by his parents into performing for them in their humble living room. (by the way his parents are played by Sanjeev Bhaskar and Meera Syal who I have LITERALLY seen in about 1000 British TV shows and movies by now… idk maybe Yesterday was intended as a semi-ensemble cast film? Since there are other “appearances” by other known faces… ok whatever.) I guess this scene of him, superstar-to-be, sitting down at his piano in the claustrophobic living room with his parents exaggerating their domestic inclinations and comforts (by holding their cups of tea and settling themselves into their sofa-chairs etc) is meant to be comedic, we’re meant to laugh at how his parents have no idea the genius that is about to be released unto the stratosphere embodied by their all-great son Jack Malik, and it’s a predictable scene: his parents get disturbed by the bell and other things in the first 10 seconds of his performance, so Jack has to begin Let It Be 4 times over and never gets past a few lines… and okay, it’s funny because they are treating Jack’s “performance” as such because he has never before produced anything worthy of actual attention and has never performed in any manner that has demanded any respect given that he was an absolutely mediocre singer, but the scene is ruined by how Jack was written to have to react. Instead of taking it in his stride and recognizing that his parents are taking it so lightly because they have no idea how big the song is going to be because they have had no reason to expect anything great of him before, Jack throws a big fucking tantrum and asks why they cannot and have not respected the greatest song to ever be written etc etc… and okay, maybe this was intentional because we are to infer that Jack’s reaction is a projection of his own insecurities about releasing entirely unoriginal songs as his own, perhaps he has doubts about whether they would do as well as they did when The Beatles themselves released them, perhaps he has doubts that he is the right person to do this at all, anxieties and fears about being able to get away with it all… Sure, but I don’t want to give the writers the benefit of this doubt. If I were to watch the scene with my eyes and ears and not my brain, all I’d see is a dumbass manchild with a temper and ego problem incapable of accepting responsibility for the decisions he’s made, plus being unnecessarily cruel and disrespectful to his simple parents who want only to support him, if superficially. Basically, he’s dumb and the worst protagonist you’d want for a romcom.

But let it not be said that I am an extremist with my views: there was one sub-plot that showed promise and that made me think perhaps there was more to this film than the nothingness it had conveyed hitherto. When Jack played in Moscow, as an opening act for Ed Sheeran, we saw the haunting face of a large man in the crowd, carrying a knowing look in his eyes. It gave us a great sense of unease, seeing his concerned face contrasted with the throng of pretty girls screaming their hearts out (you know, à la “Moscow girls make me sing and shout”). Then later we see an English lady (played by the iconic amazing Sarah Lancashire who I know and love so so much from Happy Valley), who like the Russian man, carries the same speculation in her sharp eyes, as she sees Jack manically making his way through Liverpool, visiting key landmarks like Eleanor Rigby’s grave, Strawberry Fields, Penny Lane etc because, as she says to him later, “you cant write songs about places you’ve never been to”. So anyway, this odd pairing make up the only 2 other known humans in the world who for unexplained reasons also remember the existence of The Beatles, and thus recognize that Jack’s positioning of the entire Beatles discography as his own original work to be fraudulent.

So we as audiences who hardly care for this dumbass Jack but have still held on to some hope that the film would bring us some element of surprise and karma for this annoying fraud (whose singing voice by the way is literally the most forgettable ever), we would have loved nothing more than for Jack to face the sound of music (as Mother Mary comes to him). But instead of, I dunno, chopping his head off or outing him to the world, the mysterious duo thank him for bringing their much beloved Beatles songs back into the world, the whole who has forgotten them. They thank him for doing justice to the memory of the greatest band of all time, and together the duo and Jack dance and cheer in a side room minutes before Jack goes out to perform for the biggest crowd he’s ever played to. It’s just…  lame and not even a satisfying easy way out. Oh remember above when i said there was literally only about one scene of Jack smiling, this was it. And he only smiled because obviously he was relieved at not having his secret revealed to the world by these two..... ughhh WE DONT WANT TO SEE YOU HAPPY!! WE HATE U!!

Okay haha I shall end this as I do all my other ‘reviews’… by saying that I’m lazy already and cant really be bothered to continue but shall conclude by proclaiming that this film sucked… not in a remotely camp or quiet or interesting manner either. It was just boring and bad and of great disrespect to the music of The Beatles.

 -------------------

Omg I have just attempted to read some actual reviews of this film and some actually think it’s ‘charming’ and ‘surprisingly moving’ and that the leads have ‘chemistry’………….. that’s literally the fakest thing I’ve ever heard lol bye bye!

[ceruleanvulpine]

re-reread special edition: footnotes

that is to say, the bad beginning: rare edition footnotes, which some helpful person has posted here. Book Club Beware, Spoilers Abound

In the years since the book’s publication, many people who have read the book have besieged me with questions concerning the iotas of the story, exactly how I came to know these iotas, and if I cared to add anything to my report. My reply to these questions is always the same. “Look behind you,” I say, and then I leap out of the window and slide down the drainpipe of the hotel, art gallery, or interrogation room in which I have been staying. Sometimes there is a car waiting for me. Other times it is someone in the car who is waiting.

The actual Bad Beginning doesn’t have as much of that lemony fresh style to which I have become accustomed, so it’s nice to get back to this. Mr. Snicket, please stop leaping out of windows. 

I have a few moments to add the following notes to iotas within the text of The Bad Beginning, reprinted here in the feeble hope that these police inspectors, art dealers and chambermaids will leave me alone.

Oh! They pulled part of that monologue in episode two from here!

On that particular occasion, the Baudelaire parents not only gave their children permission but encouraged them to leave the house, as the adults had some pressing business to attend to. This business was delayed indefinitely due to death.

I have no comment on this it’s just very good. 

The Baudelaire table was not used exclusively for dinner. (…) One thing I remember from my time at the table was that it was always necessary to use a coaster underneath one’s beverage so as to not leave an unsightly ring on the wood.

@snicketsleuth​ has used this as evidence that Lemony was at the Baudelaire mansion on the day of the fire, but they have also discussed how the family tree in UA only works if Lemony’s mother’s initial is the branch he comes from; given the fact that Beatrice is allergic to peppermints and Lemony refers to “the famous Baudelaire peppermint allergies,” it seems just as likely to me that Bertrand took Beatrice’s name rather than the other way around, meaning that Lemony is reminiscing about much longer ago.

This was an official fire department, which despite hundreds of years of existence has not managed to stamp out fire completely. Just recently I was forced to stamp out a fire completely, when I became so immersed in reading a philosophical work entitled Nobody’s Family is going to Change that I completely forgot about some Gruyère cheese fondue I was reheating. Also, I have reason to believe that the O that appears on the official fire department insignia stands instead for a person’s name.

Our narrator, in fine form, pivots from absurd literalism (the fire department has failed to completely get rid of fire) to, uh, apparently unaware hypocrisy (of all people, Snicket, YOU let unattended food catch on fire?) to unfounded paranoia (I don’t THINK it stands for Olaf Fire Department, L). 

I love him.

Curiously enough, Mr. Baudelaire’s brandy bottle was found on the remains of the dining table, with no coasters nearby. This would indicate that either the coasters were burned beyond recognition, or the Baudelaires had received a visitor who had no manners whatsoever.

Count Olaf: shows up to your house! drinks your brandy without a coaster! commits arson!

For more information on the Doldrums, interested parties might turn to chapter 2 of Norton Juster’s alleged allegory The Phantom Tollbooth.

@jewishsnickets​ !!!

For more information on the destruction of the Royal Gardens, interested parties might turn to the following articles in The Daily Punctilio, the city’s newspaper: “Arson suspected in Destruction of Royal Gardens,” by Jacques Snicket, and “Absolutely No Arson or Any Other Suspicious Thing Associated with the Royal Gardens, which Simply Burned to the Ground and Then Were Covered in Dirt Due to Wind, Says Official Fire Department,” by Geraldine Julienne. Incidentally, the Royal Gardens had several ornate wooden benches ideal for sitting and reading, or for contemplating the more exotic plants contained in the Poisonous Pavilion. All of these benches where lost in the destruction except one, which has since been moved to the lobby of a hotel. It is easily recognizable due to a small unsightly ring, left by someone who did not use a coaster underneath his or her beverage.

1) The reference to poisonous plants ties in with the theory that the case Justice Strauss was dealing with (with the poisonous plant, and the illegal use of someone’s credit card) was the destruction of the Royal Gardens, which Jacques was investigating.

2) This bench, apparently used by Olaf, turns up in The Penultimate Peril and again in The Beatrice Letters, which is fucking amazing. 

p.23 …the stuffed head of a lion, which was nailed to the wall. For more information about the abuse of lions, interested parties might turn to Book the Ninth. Professional lions are often named after their trainers, but I have been unable to determine if the lion on Count Olaf’s wall was Beatrice or Bertrand.

Hey……. this is uncalled for

Also, my sister has proposed that some of these eyes hid secret peepholes, cameras, or microscopic lenses, as in the Baudelaire home.

this sentence is a fucking journey, taking you as it does from “olaf that’s fucked up” to “as in WHERE??”

Despite Geraldine Julienne’s article in The Daily Punctilio “No Poisonous Plants Were Removed from Royal Gardens Prior to Destruction, Official Fire Department Reports.” I have reason to believe that the poisonous plant Justice Strauss referred to was removed from the Royal Gardens prior to its destruction.

See!!!

pp.41-42 From a street vendor, they purchased olives after tasting several varieties and choosing their favorites. My commonplace book contains following interview: LS: On the day in question, did three children-a fourteen-year-old girl, a boy a bit older than twelve who was wearing glasses, and a young baby with somewhat peculiar teeth-purchase from you some olives, after tasting several varieties and choosing their favorites? Vendor: Yes.

LEMONY, YOUR RESEARCH IS BAD

p.55 …if anyone had looked into the Baudelaire orphans’ bedroom… Two people did, of course.

Ah, no, see, this is where the really creepy note I remembered was.

._’

p.62 …the Fountain of Victorious Finance… Readers of Book the Seventh will remember that fountains are like top hats in that they provide hollow spaces in which things can be hidden (please see my note to page 6), and I imagine the damp surroundings of a fountain’s innards would be comforting if the person hiding inside had recently survived a fire.

(waves “beatrice survived” flag)

The songs include the following: “Dreary, Dreary” “The Butcher Boy” “Vide le Cercueil, Vide Mon Cœur” “Place Daturas on My Grave” “La Belle Dame Sans Merci” “Dry Bones” “Bizarre Love Triangle” “Dans des Terrains Cendreux” “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” “Lately I’ve Become Even More Lonely, So I’m Crying Harder Than Usual” (unfinished)

Dreary, Dreary is a real and upsetting song by the Gothic Archies, based on the books. 

“The Butcher Boy” could be either a sad folk song called The Butcher’s Boy about a man who abandons his lover or a “bawdy” and “festive” Italian tarantella sometimes called The Butcher Boy?? 

“Vide le Cercueil, Vide Mon Cœur“ (”empty the casket, empty my heart”) is…. a fictional aria from a fictional opera called “The Posthumous Revenge,” which is itself in a book by Edward Gorey. Amazing. 

“Place Daturas On My Grave” doesn’t seem to exist anywhere else, but daturas are referenced in a later footnote.

“La Belle Dame Sans Merci” is, of course, a poem by Keats. 

“Dry Bones” is a biblical folk song??

I had previously assumed “Bizarre Love Triangle” was just a reference to the events of the VFD backstory, but no, it’s a New Order song and now it’s making me sad about Lemony, thanks Haniel. 

“Dans des Terrains Cendreux“ is the opening line of the poem “La Béatrice” by, yup, Charles Baudelaire. 

“I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” is a song by Hank Williams, although the last one is… uh… presumably Lemony’s take on it. 

The Victorian art of flower arranging is a coded system in which each flower in an arrangement conveys a certain message. Below are some flowers and their Victorian symbolism: Aster: Cheerfulness in old age Chrysanthemum: truthful 

Datura: “I dream of thee”

Peppermint: cordiality, warmth of feeling Fennel: worthy of praise Nasturtium: heroism, patriotism None of these are flowers believed to have been used that evening. Please see also my notes to pages 6, 18 and 62

Bolding mine. Also, those footnotes are the thread about the possible survivor hidden in the fountain. HMMM. 

p.142 No one seemed to notice that he held a walkie-talkie the entire time. My commonplace book contains the following interview: LS: On the night in question, during the performance of Funcoot’s play The Marvellous Marriage, did you notice that Count Olaf, the production’s start, was holding a walkie-talkie the entire time? Audience member: No. LS: How about you? Another audience member: No. LS: You? Another audience member: No. LS: You? Another audience member: No. etc. p.146 “But Violet is only a child!” one of the actors said. “She’s not old enough to marry.” My commonplace book contains the following interview: LS: On the night in question, did you say, “But Violet is only a child!” one of the actors said. “She’s not old enough to marry.” Actor: I think so.

YOUR RESEARCH METHODS ARE BAD AND YOU SHOULD FEEL BAD

P.157 In the darkness, Violet looked like a ghost, her quite wedding gown moving slowly across the stage. My commonplace book contains at least seventeen interviews with people who remarked that due to the facial resemblance, the white dress, and the dim lighting, Violet Baudelaire looked quite a bit like a woman who is no longer alive.

hello…….. this has killed me

#asoue #ceruleanrambling #current reading events #rereread #the puzzling book club

[irishcoffeeslushie]

Nobuta wo Produce review (excerpts) - II

Disclaimer: I didn’t write this, although I wish I had. Source.

The beauty of Nobuta wo Produce is that it doesn’t purport to be anything other than a high school drama, and that’s precisely what makes it so much more than just a high school drama. (Am I even getting my point across? Lol) What I’m trying to say is that the characters are every inch high school kids — no more, no less, neither dumbed down nor savvied up. But they speak from the heart because the writing keeps it all REAL and just lets the characters be themselves, be the thinking, feeling, self-aware teens that they are.

This drama explores the inner universe of adolescence, governed by its own whimsical vagaries and constant flux of emotions. And I love the judicious use of voice-overs as the main characters ponder such things as the future and the uncertainty of life. The dialogue is intelligent without being pseudo-intellectual, complex without being contrived (uh, Dawson’s Creek, anyone? man, talk about a series that tried too hard to be smart and deep and witty, but always felt like it was written by 40-year-olds *roll eyes*). The writing of NwP doesn’t try to be all these, it just IS. Just because the drama is about a bunch of high school kids doesn’t mean it has to be infantile and shallow, nor does it have to play at being implausibly grown-up.

The high school stereotypes are here in NwP, but with a distinctive Jdorama twist. True, the Class Clowns aka the Destiny Duo may not have the most gut-bustingly funny of spiels, but at least they never annoyed me, and always seemed to be having so much fun in their own little world — making funny puns, and punny fun. Beetlejuice Guy would be the closest thing to the resident Obsessive Basket Case, and adds a dash – just a dash! – of signature J-screwiness to the overall flavor of Class 2-B. Only Bando and the Bandettes are given the extreme treatment of all the 2-B students.

The grown-up characters are shown to NOT know all the answers to life, or possess the key to the Fount of Adult Wisdom. They’re mostly shown to be… big kids, really, just more beat-up around the edges and looking the worse for wear, maybe a little wiser and more jaded, and more accepting of the realities and disappointments of life. Hirayama the Tofu Guy (Takahashi Katsumi) provides a solid, comforting presence as Akira’s ever-obliging guardian — though not without his own share of regrets and hang-ups. Hirayama has an interesting dynamic not just with Akira, but with Akira’s volatile CEO father (Masu Takeshi). Both men take their stake in Akira’s upbringing quite seriously, but share an interesting “good cop, bad cop” approach to this responsibility. (LMAO @ the time both grown men bond while assembling the Nobuta keychains in Tofu Guy’s living room!)

I love how the Kiritani family feels like a real family — well, ¾ of a real family. And Nakajima Yuto as Shuji’s li’l bro Koji is the most perfect little boy you will ever lay eyes on… except that this was five years ago and he’s not so little anymore (heh heh). The scenes where the three Kiritani boys (small, medium and large) are just chillin’ at home — dad cooking dinner, Koji doing his homework, Shuji (with that topknot, lol!) patching up a torn sock — are always enjoyable to watch. Ditto the dynamic between Shuji and Koji — case in point: the moment the brothers share in the haunted house in Episode 3 is heartwarming without being hokey. It helps, of course, that Kame and Yuto (then a Johnny’s Jr. who also performed in the “Seishun Amigo” music video, poor kid, lol) share a wonderful on-screen chemistry.

The realism of Nobuta wo Produce doesn’t quite have the gritty, inner-city feel of, say, Dangerous Minds or Stand and Deliver, because there are offsetting moments of hyperreality (e.g. the horrific bullying, the vandalism/sabotage arc, the zany characters) as well as surrealism (e.g. the living spirits, the dream about Santa Claus, and the dream about Aoi) that all add flavor and character to the drama without overpowering its faithful depiction of Planet High School. This balancing act between hyperreal and surreal is a tricky line to tread: a production that exaggerates plot and characters will always feel facile despite any entertainment value (uh, Hana Kimi anyone?), while a drama that is too dependent on fantasy/dream elements can feel rarefied and thus run the risk of alienating the viewer.

The strength of NwP is that it doesn’t skew towards either extreme, but reaches a comfortable — yet dynamic — equilibrium, which is no small testament to the virtuosity of both writing and direction. The finished product retains its solid core of realistic narrative/character development and naturalistic technique, but is complemented by these pleasantly unexpected but contrasting touches of loopy Jdorama hyperbole and floaty phantasmagoria. This drama, ladies and gents, is pure magic realism at its working best.

… Such is the flipside of magic realism, this nebulous nexus of the strange, the dark, the frightening. The drama gives no explanation for the dream, and very wisely leaves it at that.

So, thanks to Nobuta wo Produce I will always, always, always hold Kame and Pi dear beyond words no matter what mess they’ve made — and continue to make — of their post-NwP career trajectories. Maki I remain fond of despite her lackluster performances in Hana Kimi and Kurosagi; I know I’ve been extra hard on her in my past reviews, but only because I think she’s capable of better things and hope a suitable film or TV project will eventually come her way. But my fondness for Maki is cosmically — cosmically I say!!! — eclipsed by all that I feel for Kamenashi of the pencil-thin brows, and Yamashita of the dead-fish stare. Now wait a minute, some of you might ask: How dare she even make that claim? Isn’t this E.G., who uses her blog to flay those boys alive as if there were no tomorrow? Isn’t she the harpy who likes to chain them to a rock and feast on their livers — again, and again, and again?

Er, yes on both counts. It’s haaard to explaiiiin, but the reason I rip these poor boys apart all the time is because I like to play with my food because they mean THIS MUCH to me. (Readers go, “Eeeehhh? Nandeee” *headscratch*) But see, such is the power of Shuji to Akira, that whatever Kame and Pi do in the years to come — whether as J-pop pinups warbling way off-key, or wannabe actors out to carve their own niche in the Leading Man Canon — I will be there to watch them, and love them in spite of it… maybe even because of it. Even if it makes my ears bleed, my eyeballs implode, and my spleen liquefy and dribble out the nearest body orifice (don’t ask which). I am their F-A-N, and their F-A-N for L-I-F-E — and all because of a pair of seventeen-year-old schoolboys who liked to bond over soy milk and take sunset bicycle rides together.

But I’m also the kind of fan who harbors no illusions about Kame and Pi’s dramatic abilities (for Pi, it’s the lack thereof haha); I’ve seen enough of their collective oeuvre (practically all of it, actually *blushes*) to know that Nobuta wo Produce is the best work they’ve ever done, or will ever get to do. (Like I said, that drama was puuure maaaagic!) Since NwP, each boy has made exactly ONE other drama I believe they can be proud of: Tatta Hitotsu no Koi for Kamenashi, and Proposal Daisakusen for Yamashita. (Never mind the rest; the rest are just the necessary evils you slog through to ultimately earn the title of “Kame/Pi Completist.” The reward? A 10-disc set of KAT-TUN+NEWS’ greatest hits. And a lifetime supply of cheap wine. *Kame fans remember Kami no Shizuku and promptly lapse into a coma* And one year’s subscription to AnAn. *Pi fans go: “YamaPi showah… chunyuu!”* Lulzzz)

Between the two, Kame is by far a more natural and versatile actor than his pink-loving seishun amigo; he does drama and comedy better than YummyPi my little Gummi Bear, who really can’t do much but… be himself. That’s why I’ve always thought that Yamashita Tomohisa’s best dramas — Lunch Queen, Stand UP!, and natch, NwP — worked so well because they just let him be his weird, spacey and endearing self — unlike the more recent ones which sucked the sweet, the warmth, the life out of the boy and left this… sleepwalking six-pack with deep-fried hair in his place.

And so, such has been my own “self-revelatory odyssey” that went from knowing nothing about these two boys a little over a year ago, to recoiling from the first photo of theirs (see above) that I came across (and it also made me go, “Egads, these kids look weeeiiirrrrd!” — sounds familiar? well hello-oo E.G.’s KimuTaku Space Odyssey, lol), to acquiring Nobuta wo Produce (I’d heard good things about this netizen hit, but left it on the back burner because of… said photo), to finally giving in and watching the damn drama. And just like my experience with Pride, the rest is history, my embarrassing (and at times, downright incomprehensible) Kame/Pi fangirly devotion lovingly smeared all over this blog. It’s too late to take it back, to act more dignified and unsullied by this dark, guilty pleasure of mine. But, hey — if Nobuta and Akira could live with their weird little selves, I suppose so can I.

And to end this review with the wise words of a Green Day song:

“Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go So make the best of this test, and don’t ask why It’s not a question, but a lesson learned in time It’s something unpredictable, but in the end it’s right. I hope you had the time of your life…”

To Shuji, Akira and Nobuta, I hope you had, and continue to have, the time of your life… because you sure as heck gave me mine.

#nobuta wo produce

[solivar]

WIP: Ghost Stories On Route 66

aka the one in which Hanzo is an expatriate art student whose life just got wildly complicated, Jesse is an occasionally leather-clad and frequently beleaguered NPS ranger, weird stuff is going on in the desert south of Santa Fe, and it’s all because I can’t write a plotless porny one-shot to save my life.

Also: this is all @gunnslaughter ‘s fault.

Chapter Two is now complete and I’m going to start posting to AO3 in the interests of making sure nobody misses any important bits.

The first thing he became aware of, once he realized there were things to be aware of, was the voice. It was a beautiful voice, rich and dark and warm, and the mere act of hearing it was the sweetest comfort he’d ever known, better than laying under the  kotatsu on a cold winter evening and watching the snow fall gently over the garden in the deep blue of the twilight, better than the exquisite release of tension as he loosed an arrow on the firing range, better than finding the precise shade of color to fully express the mood he attempting to evoke in his work. It wound around him and through him, buoying up his mind and soul on arms of song, and at that moment he realized the voice was singing, a song whose words he did not know, in a language he did not recognize, but which he understood nonetheless: it was calling him back, and he let it take him, up out of the dark-cold-nothing.

He became aware, next, of the solidity of his own existence, of the flesh and bone, blood and skin, that made up the body in which he lived, and of exactly how much that body hated every single thing about him and itself at that very moment. His head felt fragile, brittle, like an overbaked piece of clay sculpture fresh out of the kiln, waiting for the clumsiest intern in the Fine Arts department to come along and jostle it just hard enough to set off a chain reaction of events that would end in screaming, ambulance sirens, and intravenous sedatives administered en route to a mandatory seventy-two hour psych hold following a spontaneous attempted murder. It wasn’t quite pain so much as the threat of pain, the suggestion that the slightest hint of movement, necessary or otherwise, would result in a physical punishment vastly at odds with the severity of the offense, and so he concluded that holding still was likely the kindest thing he could do for himself. The rest of his body assisted by virtue of feeling as though it were carved from a single slab of lead or osmium or some other incredibly dense substance that would require genuinely heroic human efforts to heft around, thereby fully justifying his decision to behave as a basically sessile mass. Also helpful: the knowledge that something was holding him down. Well, okay, maybe not holding him down in the sense of restraining him from actually doing anything but someone definitely had their hands on him. Pressed to his chest, as a matter of fact -- his bare chest, it felt like, because that was definitely some skin-on-skin warmth transfer happening, callused, long-fingered hands spread across the breadth of his pectoralis major, tips of the thumbs just touching. Someone’s weight was settled firmly astride his hips, a sensation that would have been emphatically erotic under pretty much any other circumstance but at the moment did not seem to carry that connotation and none of the relevant equipment seemed interested in picking it up.

Still. Someone was touching him. He supposed, in a vague and not particularly enthusiastic way, that he should be at least a little bit concerned with that. Not enough to put any effort into stopping it, but enough to actually determine what was going on. That seemed like a reasonable idea. Yes, yes it surely did.

This is going to suck beyond the telling of it. The thought articulated itself verbally from amidst the inchoate mass of hazily good intentions, sending a frisson of dread through the threadbare fabric of his being, the essence of realism making itself felt. Then, before the essence of realism could graduate to the essence of fuck no, don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself, he opened his eyes.

His eyelids parted with a sensation like silk tearing along a sharply folded seam. Until that moment, he would have sworn that eyelashes did not actually contain any nerve endings; afterwards, he would never again be so certain, because at that instant each one felt as though it were an exquisitely sensitive filament of something extremely fragile that shattered into a million shards of agony as they parted. His eyes watered, uncontrollably, reducing everything to either a dark blur or a bright blur of acid-washed torment as he blinked furiously in an effort to clear them, breath catching in his throat as something, probably a shriek of some variety, tried to claw its way out of his chest. He took a deep, heaving breath and the hands on his chest lifted away, the weight astride him shifted slightly, and sound he realized he’d been hearing all along stopped.

“Hanzo?” He knew that voice -- it sounded like he felt, rough and broken, as though its owner had been talking, or singing, for hours without cease. “Can you hear me?”

He blinked, thrice, and the blur cohered: Ranger McCree, leaning over him, painted knuckles to navel in...tattoos? It couldn’t be tattoos, he’d seen the man’s arms before, the pattern on them a thing of intricate and interlocking geometric forms, there was no way he would have overlooked it. He swallowed, hard, and found his lips and tongue and throat completely unequal to the task of making even the smallest sound.

“Oh, thank all the gods that ever were.” The look that crossed his face was a thing of pure and perfect relief. Hanzo could have sworn there were actual tears in his eyes. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Lost? Moving his jaw set off a warning throb in his temples, the promise of more to come if he wasn’t careful, and he closed his eyes, trying to force the insides of his skull and the current situation to come together in any way that made sense, to no particular avail. One of the strong, warm hands that had until recently been resting on his chest moved up to cup his face gently -- so gently he leaned into it, so warm and so comforting he would have reached up to pull him closer if he could have.

“You need to rest. Really rest. This took a lot out of you and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I never should have taken you with me.” It came out a husky rasp, almost directly against his ear, and both those hands framed his face, warm chapped lips brushed his forehead, and he wanted to ask what there was to be sorry for but already the strength he needed to do so was fading, the weight of physical and mental exhaustion pulling him down into a gray and sensationless place where no pain could reach.

*

When Hanzo finally woke up it was completely and all at once -- admittedly, not an unnatural or even unusual event, considering he was normally the first person up and out on any given day. The strange part was that, for at least the second time in recent memory, he was looking up at a completely unfamiliar ceiling: large wooden beams, carved their lengths with repeating geometric motifs, picked out against the dark wood in vivid red and gold, white and ocher, latillas of paler wood laid perpendicular between each beam. Absolutely not the ceiling in any room of the three bedroom condo he rented with his brother, his brother’s boyfriend, and his brother’s two least objectionable classmates. For a long, long moment, he stared blankly up at it, appreciating the aesthetic qualities, the way the lighter wood of the latillas gave the illusion of the ceiling being higher than it actually was, the way the carvings drew the eye the whole length of the room. Dusky, Santa Fe red walls almost bare of adornment except for a few framed photographs. Three tall, slender windows, not quite floor to ceiling, framed in rough wooden lintels carved and painted in the same patterns as the ceiling supports, exterior shutters closed. The light he was using to see came entirely from the kiva sculpted into the corner nearest where he lay, a low fire burning behind an iron mesh grate. A standing wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a single chest at the foot of the bed, the bedstead itself, all of heavy, dark, old wood.

A bed. He acknowledged to himself that he was laying on a bed, which seemed...strange, for some reason. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why, or why that disquieted him at some level. It wasn’t an uncomfortable bed -- his feet weren’t hanging off the bottom, for example, and from his position in the middle of the mattress, he was in no danger of rolling off either side. Said mattress felt, to him, at least semi-firm, the pillows were several and not yet to the point of being slept flat, the blankets warm and soft and enveloping him completely -- he almost felt as though he’d been tucked in. He shifted slightly, stretching his wonderfully pain-free spine, buried his face in a pillow and the scent that rose from it was cedar-sage-spice and a single blinding instant he remembered where he was if not how he had come to be there and all-but teleported out of Ranger McCree’s bed.

Ranger McCree’s bed.

He was sleeping in his rescuer’s bed.

A frantic look around secured the calming information that he was, in fact, alone. A well-padded chair and footstool sat between the bed and the fireplace, a rumpled blanket and a throw-pillow still providing evidence occupation, though how recently he couldn’t begin to guess. A glance down showed him still dressed in soft-washed comfortable sweats, tee-shirt, socks, so whatever had caused him to be upgraded to the full bedroom accommodations had not, apparently, involved any other upgrades or side-grades or grades that would earn him weeks of helpful suggestions from Genji about what he should have done in this situation on the chance that he made mention of this to his brother, which he absolutely would not, ever. The bedroom door was against his back and, moving slowly and with care, he worked the wrought iron latch and slid it open an inch, to peer out into the hallway. It was, in fact, the same hall that led to the bathroom and the kitchen beyond, walls painted the cheerful yellow that caught and kept the sunlight. In the kitchen, the dishes were done and sitting in the rack to dry, but the quality of the light coming through the windows had changed, reflected rather than direct, much later in the day. He drifted to the arched doorway that separated the kitchen from the room of all purpose and found his host sitting at the dining table, back to him, a map spread out in front of him pinned down at each corner with a basalt block carved in the shape of an owl, a stack of reference texts, two college ruled notebooks, and a package of pens. From the angle of his head and neck, he was examining it; from the angle of his shoulders and his spine, he was not enjoying what he was seeing.

Hanzo took a breath to speak but before he could expel it, someone landed a thunderous knock on the door and a voice, deeper than the ranger’s by a whole octave and twice as raspy announced, “Garden of the Desert, special delivery!”

The eyeroll was clearly audible in the ranger’s voice. “It’s not locked, Gabe!”

“It fucking should be!” The windowless door swung open and a mass of swirling, hissing smoke, curling shadows, flickering dark wings flowed inside, the door slamming firmly shut and all the locks lining it flicking shut behind it. Hanzo retreated a step, two, blinked, and the smoke-shadow-wings resolved into a human shape: a man, tall, broad shoulders and chest only barely disguised by the loose black jacket he wore, silver-dusted black hair and scarred dark skin and eyes that burned darkly crimson in the shadows of his hood. He was, incongruously, carrying a plastic shopping bag that he deposited on the table directly in the middle of the map; the ranger promptly moved it aside. “So distracted that you’re neglecting basic physical security precautions, now? Does this have anything to do with the call I hear you made over to Roadie?”

“I am wearing twelve reasons why anybody who tries to come through that door uninvited is going to have a genuinely bad day.” The ranger replied, tone amused. “And y’all are still too young to be this much of a gossipy old fart.”

“I’m going to parse that out into an overall complement, for your sake.” The newcomer -- Gabe? Gabe with the glowing red eyes? Was Gabe actually a smoke monster? Hanzo had no idea and was too paralyzed with shock and indecision to either guess or scream or retreat -- pulled out a chair and dropped into it. “Spill it, kid. You’ve got six kinds of doom written all over you.”

The ranger -- Jesse, his name is Jesse, you can think his name, it’s Jesse -- scrubbed his hands over his face, shoulders dropping as he did so. “Yes, it’s got something to do with the call I made to Roadie. And the order I just made so -- “

“Custom blended to your precise specifications by Ana’s own hands, new tea bell inclusive. And a fresh bottle of that shampoo Jack makes that you love so much.” Gabe grinned and, for a completely horrifying instant, his mouth stretched entirely too wide and contained far, far too many sharp white teeth to be anything identifiably human. “For the record: Jamie called and asked if I’d be willing to ride shotgun so you can presume I already know about the broken-down car at the outer edge of the Red Zone. So just cut to the chase and tell me how it got there.”

Jesse pushed an object otherwise concealed behind the bulk of his body across the table: the dedicated shot composition camera that usually lived in the pockets of his bookbag. “Art student from the city. Per his testimony on the topic, he left Santa Fe on Friday morning for a day of inspiration-seeking among the ruins in the near vicinity of Shiprock -- both Shiprocks. While he was out there in the desert between the town and Tse Bit’a’í, he started experiencing technical issues with both his gear and his transportation. The GPS unit he was using completely freaked, dragged him somewhere around two hundred miles out into the Red Zone, and then almost back to safety before the car finally gave up and died. He walked, in the middle of the night, up from the edge and knocked on my door.”

“And you, of course, let him in.” Asperity thick enough to taste.

“He made it past the boundary maze.” Jesse replied, irritably. “Nothing purely from Beyond could get through there without -- “

“Without wearing enough stolen human flesh and blood and skin to pass and then come in here and tear your head off.” A hiss. “You are the entire reason I have gray hair right now, kid.”

“So you keep sayin’.” Dryly. “In any case, he did not tear my head off and, after describing the situation to me, I realized that our known zone of disruption is now way further to the west than it was even three months ago -- “

“And that whoever’s supposed to be monitoring the outer ward boundary is half-assing it pretty hard because everything they’re interested in protecting is still under Tse Bit’a’í’s shadow and nobody thought to call you so you could pick up the slack.”

“-- and that it might be developing some explicitly malevolent intent, because it dumped my guest almost on top of a nest of naayéé. An unusually active during the day nest of naayéé. Fortunately it was cold that night or he’d never have made it here otherwise.” He rested his head in his hands and, for an instant, he looked so utterly weary it was all Hanzo could do not to step into the room and try to comfort him. “And, of course, I screwed up at least once myself because when I went to check the car and see if I could avoid calling Roadie and Jamie, I took him with -- “

“Wow.” There was an entire lifetime of unsurprised nonreaction in that syllable.

“And he got a glimpse of one. In the rearview, so it was just the reflection but -- “

“Buuuuuuut it was enough to make you regret not leaving him here. Where he would be safe. Safer than anyplace else for dozens of miles all around.” Hanzo realized, in that instant, that there actually was someone on Earth more lethally sarcastic than his brother and it was sharing the room with him right now. “The next time Jack’s dog has puppies, you’re getting one. Maybe more than one. As an encouragement to stop adopting human strays.”

“Thank you so much for your understanding. I just spent the last...what day is it…?”

“Tuesday.”

“Tuesday!” Hanzo shouted, shocked out of his quiescence.

“I just spent the last three days singing his soul back into his body and then stitching them together again.” Jesse jiggled the bag gently. “Which is why I’m going to need this for him when he wakes up.”

“Oh.” Those burning crimson eyes flicked in his direction. “Well. You might want to see to that as a priority, kid, because he’s standing over there having an out of body experience and possibly a nervous breakdown.”

“Wh -- “ The ranger spun in his seat and locked eyes with him in the motion -- in any other circumstance, the look of dismay that crossed his face might’ve been comical. “Dammit, Gabe.”

“I see that my work here is done.” The smog monster/second most sarcastic human on Earth rose, dropped a fatherly pat on the ranger’s shoulder, and made for the door. “Coming over for fajitas tonight? We’re making enough to feed Reinhardt, so there’ll be plenty for you. And company, if he’s of a mind.”

“We’ll see.” The ranger growled -- really growled, his voice was gravelly enough for it just now -- and rose from his chair, hands outspread as though showing himself unarmed, despite the weapons he still wore, approaching slowly.

Hanzo bumped into the sink counter and realized as he did so that he was retreating, reflexively, that he could feel his pulse pounding in his throat, feel the breath catching in his lungs, his field of vision trying to tunnel at the edges. What he said cannot possibly be true, the calm voice of reason that ever and always sounded like his father murmured soothingly in the back of his mind, because it is impossible. None of this is possible. You are --

“I am totally losing my mind, aren’t I?” Hanzo asked, out loud. “Something really terrible happened to me out in the desert, and you’re just waiting for the ambulance to arrive. Go ahead. You can tell me. I promise I won’t freak out.”

“Something really terrible did happen out in the desert but, all things bein’ equal, it wasn’t as terrible as it could have been and, no, you ain’t losin’ your mind.” Softly, gently, and moving with the sort of slow care you’d use to avoid startling a skittish, injured animal. “And freakin’ out is a perfectly reasonable response, so if you do I promise I won’t hold it against you.”

“Good to know.” A warm, strong hand came to rest in the small of his back and, before he could stop himself, he buried his face in the angle of Jesse’s neck and shoulder and clung as he shivered, convulsively, unable to stop through any desire of his own.

Warm, strong arms closed around him, carefully, holding him closely enough to offer comfort and support, loosely enough not to tip what was threatening to become a genuine panic attack over the edge, a pretty neat trick the still-rational part of his mind was forced to admit. The hand not anchored to the base of his spine caressed his back in long, slow strokes and came to rest in his hair as the frantic pace of his breath finally moderated itself. The not-at-all-rational part of his mind wondered what that would feel like without the impediment of clothing and that was all he needed to find the strength to step back, to bring himself back under control. Jesse, taking the cue from him, let him go.

“What happened to me?” Hanzo asked, catching his rescuer’s dark eyes and holding them.

And, to give him the credit he deserved, he didn’t look away. “The naayéé are...not of this world. Never have been, never will be, but sometimes they find their way here, one way or another. The ones you saw the other day are particularly unpleasant to encounter because of the effect they generally have on people. They’re predators. Lazy-ass predators, actually, that mostly like it dark and mostly like it hot and they generally don’t come out in the daylight or the cold, so I really didn’t think we’d see any of them but…” He gestured helplessly. “Yeah. Again, I’m sorry. I didn’t want any of this to happen to you, it was completely my fuckup and -- “

“Jesse.” Hanzo interjected, with what he felt was admirable calm. “What happened to me?”

“They tried to eat your soul.” Jesse replied and immediately took a step towards him and rested a comforting hand on his arm. “Yanked it out through the sympathetic connection forged by the reflection you shared for a minute but I stopped things before it could get any further than that. It just took a while to coax your body and spirit back together -- you were in a couple different kinds of shock and it took some time to convince you that I wasn’t going to hurt you, too. Which was perfectly understandable given the circumstances.”

“I...see.” The still-rational part of his mind was screeching in high-pitched distress; the rest, however, was finally achieving an inner state of equilibrium that permitted him to hear and process this information without falling into any further pieces. “So I am...outside my body now. As your friend said.”

“Yes and I apologize, again. Gabe is pretty much made entirely out of antisocial tendencies at this point in his existence.” The comforting hand came to rest in the small of his back again. “We should probably put you back.”

“How can you be touching me if I’m not in my body?” Hanzo asked but nonetheless permitted himself to be guided down the now quite dark hallway.

“Circumstances have required me to master a number of fairly esoteric and nonstandard survival skills over the years.” Again, oh so very dryly as he opened the bedroom door.

“That’s not -- oh. Oh my.”

His body was, in fact, still laying in the bed, chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of sleep, hair spread almost artfully across one of the pillows, the firelight casting the planes of his face in coppery light and shadow. He blinked and took a deep breath and with a sudden, vertiginous wrench his perspective shifted and he was laying on his back in pillows and blankets and staring up at a carved and painted ceiling. With a certain amount of effort -- his thoughts felt laggy, like medicine head to a degree previously unheard of by modern science, and it took some time to convince his limbs to cooperate with one another -- he managed a sitting position against the headboard. Jesse sat on the edge of the bed and poured him a glass of water from the carafe sitting on the bedside table, which he consumed in a three swallows, and a second, which he drank more slowly.

His voice, when he spoke, was rusty with disuse. “It’s really Tuesday?”

“Tuesday afternoon. Almost evening, actually.” Jesse replied and offered another glass of water.

“I missed class. More than one class. I never miss class. I’ve got a midterm paper due tomorrow and two exams next week. My brother might actually be worried about me by now.” He accepted the glass and sipped at it slowly. “Something from another world just tried to eat my soul.”

“It’s a lot to take in.” Ranger McTalentForUnderstatement admitted, looking anywhere but at him, Hanzo noticed and, not for the first time, regretted that he’d let Hana talk him into that particular haircut, though he couldn’t really blame her for the piercings. “If you want, I’ll drive you home tonight -- I’ve got a call in to a local mechanic with the equipment required to retrieve your car -- “

“Roadie?” Hanzo asked, because asking questions and receiving answers made the whole situation feel at least slightly more real.

“Roadhog. It’s his nickname, real name’s Mako, but he likes to say he’s wanted in too many places to go by it.” Jesse glanced at him, grinned, looked away again. “He and his partner Jamie run a salvage and rebuilding operation off the highway about twelve miles north of here. They do most of the work that keeps my little fleet of gas-drinkers functional. They can certainly get your car back and probably in working order without too much trouble, so long as Jamie knows beforehand not to make too many...alterations.”

“I’m not certain I could afford that.” Hanzo replied carefully. “I was supposed to have it back on Sunday and I can just imagine what kind of fees -- “

“Don’t worry about affordin’ it.” In the sort of tone that didn’t really brook anything in the way of argument. “Are you hungry?”

His stomach was knotted entirely too tight to even consider the concept of food. “Not really, no. I just...would like to go home.”

“Of course.” Jesse rose and offered his hand; Hanzo accepted it, because his prevailing state of awkward and uncoordinated made getting out from under the covers and to the side of the bed more of an adventure than it should have been.

Getting to his feet was likewise a thing of extraordinary gracelessness and, for a horrifying moment, he felt like a newborn giraffe with legs too long and too ungainly to be real that also happened to be coming into the world on the deck of a ship about to sink into heaving, churning seas. He clung again, as the floor tried to tip sideways and knock him over, and his host submitted to the indignity with kindness and patience.

“I think maybe you ought to keep the sweats for now, just to make this as painless as possible.” Jesse suggested, a hint of humor with no trace of mockery in his eyes. “Let’s get you to the living room and I’ll bring the Jeep up.”

Walking got progressively easier the more he did it and so, while his host was out bringing around the vehicle, Hanzo tottered around the room gathering his things together: the plastic bag went in the bookbag, the folded stack of clothes went on top of that, Jesse’s gloves came out of his jacket pocket, and his jacket went on his body. The Jeep, as it turned out, was an actual, modern hover-vehicle painted NPS white with the green stripe and shields. On the way out of town, north on the unnamed, unmarked road that was once Highway 14, he pointed out the sights -- the town itself was once a more frequently sought-out tourist attraction, was still a national historic site, and had the cluster of carefully preserved mercantile buildings, saloons, even an old church, to prove it, along with younger, but equally abandoned, structures clustered around the edge of town, only a handful of which were still occupied. That handful consisted entirely of the Garden of the Desert, a compound of four greenhouses and a sprawling two-story Pueblo Revival hacienda, fully enclosed behind an adobe-and-fieldstone wall, the name of the place spelled out in jewel-bright mosaic on the arch over the main entry gate.

“Jack and Gabe and their gradually expanding pack of mostly-tame hellhounds call that place home. It’s pretty nice, actually. Gabe’s antisocial tendencies don’t influence his interior decorating decisions.” A pause. “Well, okay, they don’t influence them much. And he’s a damn fine cook, all other considerations aside. They both tend the greenhouses, though Jack and Ana -- that’s the neighbor up the valley, lives in the hills with her husband, Reinhardt -- do most of the alchemy, for want of a better term.”

Hanzo thought of unnaturally willful smoke and curls of shadow and far too many sharp, white teeth and the question was out of his mouth before he could stop it. “Gabe isn’t...completely human, is he?”

Jesse glanced sidelong at him and was silent for a long moment. “I wondered if you saw that while you were…” Another, longer silence. “That’s...kinda not my story to tell. I can say, with total confidence and all joking aside, that I would trust him with my life, and a lot of other people’s lives beside. But, no, he ain’t. Neither is Jack, he just wears it better. If you’re ever in a position where you need help -- like the kind of help you got from me, but I’m not available, there’s nobody better to call upon, and that’s a promise.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Hanzo found a smile actually crawling onto his face and he let it stay. “So the...blend...you got from them -- it’s some kind of medicine?”

“Yes. The kind of injury you’ve suffered is tricky to heal -- your body and your soul have to grow back together and, right now, you’re vulnerable to...relapse is such a stupid word here but...that’s kinda what it is. Your spirit’s still only lightly tethered to your body. Your body’s vulnerable without your spirit in it. All of you is more susceptible to weirdness in your sleep, as we just saw.” They reached the junction with the actual charted highway, traffic coming and going in each direction. “You should take that once a night, just before bed, for seven days. It’ll help strengthen the bonds, heal the spiritual wounds, make you...not forget, exactly, but make the memory less of a scar.”

“That’s good, because I would prefer not to forget.” Hanzo, greatly daring, rested a hand on Jesse’s shoulder, lightly, and snatched it back. “You saved my life, and for that I’m grateful.”

“I -- “

“Quiet.” Hanzo smiled ruthlessly. “You saved my life, and I do not want to forget that, or you.”

“It’s probably for the best if you did.” They were, Hanzo realized, approaching roads, and landmarks, that were thoroughly familiar now. “I can’t order you to stay away from the desert down south but, for your own safety, you should absolutely do so. Something out there decided you were interesting enough to mess with personally -- something out there might’a gotten a taste of you and might’a liked it and that? That’s dangerous, more dangerous than I can probably make you appreciate just now.” Softly. “I don’t want anything worse to happen to you, Hanzo. Please don’t invite it in the front door.”

“I will try not to do so.” His temporary home loomed out of the twilight -- for an instant, it was on the tip of his tongue to ask how Jesse knew the address, realized he’d probably gotten it from his driver’s license, and struggled to find something else to say as they pulled up to the curb. “Where -- where would you suggest I go, then?”

“Black Mesa’s one of the most beautiful places there is -- and the mountains north of Los Alamos, particularly at this time of year.” Jesse reached over and unlocked the doors, activated the hazard lights and, before Hanzo could fully process what he was doing, got out and opened his door for him. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

“I promise.” Hanzo hefted his bag over his shoulder and stood clear of the door. “And I will take your advice to heart, as well.”

“If you’re still not feeling a hundred percent after the week is out, call me.” Jesse pressed something into his hand as they walked to the door of the condo together. “I’ll do whatever I can to help, that’s my promise.”

“Thank you again.” Hanzo paused with his hand on the exterior identification lock. “Would you...like to come in? For coffee?”

“I’d best be gettin’ back, but thank you kindly for the offer.” He tipped his hat, and Hanzo’s knees tried their hardest to transform into bendy gelatin again, successfully enough that it was all he could do to stand and watch as he walked back to the Jeep and pulled away.

He was, in fact, still standing there holding onto the lockbox when the front door flew open behind him, a shadow fell over him, and his brother demanded, in a voice that promised something immediate and horrific for someone if he didn’t like what he heard, “Where. The actual fuck. Have you been?”

#WIP Ghost Stories On Route 66

[andrewocasio123]

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