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semilucidity · 1 year

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Under A Rest: Part I

literotica | mcstories

When ace homicide detective Michael Berman arrives to interview his intriguing primary suspect, he gets far more than he bargained for.

He was so sure she’d done it.

Really, this inquisition was merely a formality. On the surface this case seemed rather thorny, stumping even the most shrewd of his colleagues. But in his 15 years of detective work, he’d picked up a thing or two.

James Walter, a lone, middle-aged bachelor, had been found in his garage by a concerned neighbor, seated in his running car. With his cell phone in hand, he was last dialed by a private number returning no trace. His home was littered with small clues: the recently-used lipstick in the car’s center console, the lacy bra stuffed haphazardly in the back of the drawer, the extra tampons stashed in his bathroom cabinet. No woman in his life of which to speak.

Except for his psychiatrist, Doctor Maria Angelos.

Detective Michael Berman’s reflections in the mirrored elevator were cut short, punctuated by a chime of arrival. Even her waiting room seemed imbued with a strange aura. Doctor Angelos’ secretary assured the detective that she’d be just a minute. Naturally, he took a seat.

Duly noted was the sheer calm of the room’s ambience, a room that clearly rebelled against its liminal reputation, a room that seemed eager to force its inhabitants to sit and simply be for a little while, rather than fret about such futile, transient matters as life’s everyday worries.

The wooden, coffered walls absorbed noise perfectly, the space almost eerily silent except for very slow, very pleasant jazz wafting from the ceiling speaker. No harsh fluorescent bulbs to be found—only warm light, and not too much of it, from stylish, strategically-placed floor lamps. A faint, calming fragrance of something piney, perhaps balsam, puffed away from a small machine humming in the corner. The chairs, a far cry from the starkly utilitarian constructions typically found in such rooms, were accommodating, soft, and supportive. Very easy to settle into. Fascinating art on the walls; little reading material of which to speak. A kindly grandfather clock ticked in the other corner, each tick a heavy thunk forward in time, its pendulum swinging with equally great effort.

A lover of art, Detective Berman studied an intricate and colorful impressionist painting on the wall across from him. It was spirited, yet restrained, with big, bold strokes of vibrant greens. And as he examined it, focused on it, marveled at it, it wasn’t long before he realized that the rest of the stimuli around him had faded away.

Veritably peaceful by any standard. So peaceful, in fact, that when called in, he found prying himself from his position took a bit of effort.

He’d always had that tendency of intense, tunneling focus, and though it uniquely suited him to his work, it sometimes caused moments of distraction like this. Mildly amused at his own fixation, he rose and followed the doctor’s receptionist, making an appropriate mental note of this phenomenon as a fascinating study in the effect of one’s surroundings.

His face appeared apprehensively from behind her door, taking in her office. This space was of similar serenity to her waiting room—carefully-curated, though more suited for long hours of work.

And there sat the little lady herself at her expansive mahogany desk.

“Doctor Angelos?” called a baritone voice.

“You must be Detective Berman, hi,” she said sweetly, rising to shake his hand. “Good evening. Come in, have a seat. Hope the rush hour traffic wasn’t too bad.”

“Evening, Doctor. No, not too bad. I have my shortcuts,” he replied. She nodded politely.

His large, sunken eyes scanned the woman before him, his instincts immediately sizing her up. She was more than a head shorter than he, wearing a burgundy skirt suit that, while modest, highlighted her curvy figure. Somewhere in her early forties. Long, light brown hair—a dusty shade, streaked with silver, done in a French twist, with bangs that fell into full moon, pale green eyes. Dark undereye circles stood in stark contrast to both her eyes and her pallor. With a thin nose and slight overbite, her features were diminutive, somewhat crooked, fey. Odd, yet striking; altogether uniquely alluring. She smelled of sandalwood.

The detective in front of her, as Doctor Angelos found, was of similarly peculiar magnetism, albeit clearly frazzled from the day’s demands. At first glance an average-looking man, closer scrutiny found a countenance tan, warm, and expressive, with eyes trustworthy and a smile disarmingly kind. His frame was tall and well-filled, his posture straight but saddled with fatigue. Approaching forty, it both showed and didn’t. The charcoal suit under his coat looked to her discerning eye to be of superior fit and quality, perhaps vintage. His hair, curly and tangled and ink black, stood in all directions, framing his heavy brows and equally inky gaze. On his aquiline nasal bridge sat a pair of rounded black spectacles. His face was coated so liberally in stubble that it threatened a beard—a shadow cast well past five o’clock. He smelled of the city, mixed with deodorant on its last legs.

“If you’ll excuse my appearance,” he said, stretching discreetly, looking down at himself as if reading her mind. “I’ve been up and about since five this morning. I was lucky enough to be the detective on call. No time to so much as run a comb through my hair.”

“Of course. I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” she said, hand to her chin thoughtfully. “Sounds like a very stressful day. Such a tragedy about what happened. I’m at a loss.”

“Absolutely. But thank you for understanding.”

“They pay me to do just that. So what can I do for you?” she said, gesturing to an empty seat across from her desk. He took it, admiring its soft, plush leather.

“I must say, Doctor, this is quite the suite you’ve got here. The waiting room, the art, the chairs. I’m sure it gets patients talking. If not about their trauma, about the brocaded drapes, at least.”

“Oh, of course. I pick every fixture in my home and office with the utmost thought. Down to the pile of the carpet.”

“I can tell. I love those grandfather clocks. You can never go wrong with one, can you? They’re timeless. Though not really, because, well, you know.”

She smiled. He continued.

“Uh…You seem to have a different one in here than in the waiting room.”

“Thank you. The one in the office is a more modern model, whereas this one’s a genuine antique. Regency Era England.”

“Incredible.”

“Indeed. So what’s on your mind, Detective?”

“Well, I’m just here to do a bit of bureaucratic poking around,” he said, taking out his legal pad. “Standard procedure, piecing together a coherent narrative grounded in substantiated fact. Because the whole thing, when we really look at it, it all looks a little…well…”

“Of course. I didn’t want to say anything, but it does reek of foul play, I’m afraid. As chief investigator, I’m confident you will do your due diligence.”

“You have my word. Hey,” he said suddenly, pointing to a miniaturized marble sculpture on her desk. “Proserpina?”

“You know it?” she replied, eyebrows raised.

“Love Bernini, no one like him. I could look at his work all day long. I always discover something new about it whenever I take the time.”

“That’s precisely why it stands on my desk. But I’m sure you didn’t come here to do that,” she said politely. The detective gave her a slight smile. She returned with a particularly pleasant one.

“Right. So regarding Mr. Walter…you knew him on a doctor-patient basis, right?”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re a practicing psychiatrist, is that correct?”

“Guilty as charged,” she said evenly.

“So that’s the only basis on which you knew him.”

The doctor paused.

“Detective, I’m almost offended you’d even intimate such a thing. You know as well as I do that anything more would’ve been highly unethical. I’m not in the habit of risking my livelihood.”

“Fair enough. It’s just a standard line of questioning, no offense intended. Although I would like to get a woman’s opinion on this, um…bra we found in his apartment.” Detective Berman pulled a plastic evidence bag from inside one of his coat pockets, inside of which lay a thin, white, lacy brassiere. He continued.

“We’re just trying to figure out…did Mr. Walter have any other women in his life that you knew of? Someone who these could’ve belonged to, even the store they might’ve come from. Victoria’s Secret or whatever. Maybe this one’s a bit too nice to have come from there, I don’t know. I don’t know where you ladies get these frilly little things.”

For a very brief second, the doctor was well and truly rattled. After all, that was indeed her bra.

“I’m afraid I have no idea whose that is. Or where it might have come from.”

Though there was no need to telegraph that.

“Yeah, I thought as much, sorry. It was a long shot. No worries.” A valiant effort at lying, he noted. A lesser detective might have even eaten it up. But Detective Berman merely nodded slightly while jotting more notes down, Doctor Angelos gazing at him curiously.

She found him strangely hard to read. Did he suspect her, merely indulging in some sort of investigative theatre for the sake of reconnaissance, or was he asking in good faith?

But the good doctor had no time to speculate nor plot. Only time to act.

“I can’t imagine keeping a coat on in here. Aren’t you hot in that thing?” she mused. He looked up at her in surprise. His roomy black aviator jacket was not overly warm, though he had noticed that the room temperature did seem particularly so.

“Not particularly. Though now that you mention it, I can tell a good portion of your operating expenses go to the thermostat. What’s it at, like, seventy-five?”

“Nearly. I just get cold easily. I happen to like a room toasty.”

“Not that cold tonight, is it? Forty-something?”

“Oh, I’m one of those people who feels it in my bones ’til it’s seventy out, so I splurge on the heating bill. To me, just another cost of doing business.”

“I hear you,” he said, nodding and scrawling notes, the intricate gears of his brain whirring along. A woman who liked to have her cake and eat it, too—perhaps not entirely unlike a psychiatrist who might indulge in a dalliance with a patient despite her protests to the contrary. “Did you happen to have anything of note on the victim, like his file? Might help us piece things together.”

“I suppose I’m at liberty to share it with you now that he’s. Well.” She halted, putting a hand to her cheek with a heavy sigh. “You know.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. Still raw. I understand,” he said, not looking up from his notepad. She nodded solemnly and handed him the manila folder on her desk, eying him as he leafed through it with a swift thoroughness, his lips pursed.

Suddenly, he exhaled as though somewhat overheated and unzipped his jacket, giving his collar a lazy tug. Confidence surged through her. A strong subject—Lady Luck was in the building tonight.

“Hey, wow, thanks for being prepared,” he said. “Here we go, attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, clinical depression, bipolar one…treatments included cognitive behavioral therapy…bunch of prescriptions…uh huh…hypnotherapy, huh? Pretty fascinating stuff.”

Her eyes shone.

“I definitely find it’s quite effective in the right patients,” she said, studying his face. The more she studied it, the more she found she liked it. “Not everyone responds to it in the same capacity, you see. But Mr. Walter responded to it rather well. He was frightfully intelligent, mutable where it mattered, very receptive to…I guess newness, as it were. You know, he once worked as a senior engineer for Chyron Aeronautics.”

“Impressive. The headquarters down in Oakmont?”

“That’s the one. Though that was before he decided to shift gears and pursue writing novels.”

She spied a flash of curiosity in his face as he scrawled the information in his pad.

“Oh, I read his writing, it was plenty good,” she added. “He was even beginning to find some modest acclaim. Very talented man.”

“I can tell,” he said, lifting his pen and pausing. “Funny.”

“I’m sorry?”

“No, nothing, it’s just that that’s exactly what crossed my mind, whether I’d like to be sitting fireside reading the fictional musings of a plane engineer. And you answered me.”

“Ah! Well, it’s true. I just wanted to emphasize that he engaged all parts of his mind with equal vigor. He was very creative. Part of what made him such a good candidate for that type of treatment.”

“Hypnotherapy?” Detective Berman asked, eyes creasing. The doctor nodded. “Good to know.”

Was there or was there not some sort of sales pitch happening? The detective wondered. Certainly felt like it with the ticking of that clock underscoring the conversation. A healthy skeptic always up for a bit of tête-à-tête, he decided to humor her.

“I’m sure it’d be wasted on me.”

“Really? On the contrary, you strike me as a creative man with an imagination and eye for detail. It’s what every detective worth their salt needs in their arsenal, is it not?”

“You think I’m worth mine?” he quipped.

“You haven’t given me evidence to the contrary.”

“I’d hope. But yeah, very interesting stuff,” he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. He scratched the side of his head with the top of his pen in thought. She was steering the conversation just as he’d hoped. Time to do a little digging.

“Speaking of which,” he went on. “I did have something else I wanted to ask you. For some reason, I can’t remember it.”

“Would you like help?”

His brow furrowed. “I’m not sure how you could.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, her voice subtly shifting. She was easy to listen to; he’d give her that much. “Sometimes our ideas and memories don’t really leave us, they simply lie latent in our mind, obscured from sight only just barely. All it takes is some gentle encouragement, some prodding, some retracing of steps to retrieve those thoughts. Recalling your feelings and mindstates, recalling associations. Some focus, an external stimulus to guide that retrieval. I’m no peddler of false memories or previous lives, but recollection is something with which I helped Mr. Walter in many of our sessions.”

Suddenly, the detective blinked and snapped his fingers.

“Now I remember. I mean, sorry to interrupt. But did you happen to have any record of where you were this morning at around one, one-thirty?”

“Hm…yes, actually. I was at a friend’s birthday party. A college buddy of mine named Paul. Dr. Paul Kuklinsky. We were celebrating his birthday at his house, it all ran rather late. We were playing Scrabble, you know how nerds get with Scrabble.”

“I do. Believe me.”

“I can give you their names and numbers if you’d like to substantiate that information.”

“Very good, I’d appreciate that,” he replied, jotting in his notebook. He chuckled a bit. “I’ve got to hand it to you. That was pret-ty good. Talk about earning your keep.“

“What? What was pretty good?”

“The way you managed to help me jog my memory there.”

“The human mind is a strange thing, Detective. Sometimes we never really forget anything to begin with,” she said with a barely-perceptible smirk. He mirrored it.

“Is that the kind of thing you used as part of Mr. Walter’s therapy?” he asked, still writing.

“Similar. Hypnotherapy can be a very useful tool in many contexts,” she said. He did not look up from his notepad.

“I, uh…I’ve got to say, that didn’t really feel like much of any kind of hypnosis, Doctor.”

“Well, yes, I wouldn’t really call it that to begin with. There are lines, you know. Hypnosis is a strange thing, so covert that sometimes it’s as simple as going to the movies and being so completely drawn into a grand tale on the big screen without even realizing it. You know the characters on the screen are just actors, that everything is fake, but you leave the theater feeling almost unreal, riding on a high, as though you’re arriving back through a portal from a different world. It’s the beautiful side effect of real, focused concentration. It’s spectral, not always some powerful, all-consuming sensation.”

“Hm.” He paused. “But sometimes it is.”

“Sometimes it is, yes.”

“Fascinating,” he said, rising from his seat. “Well thank you, that about wraps things up for now. I’ll be back later, just to corroborate some other things. I can drop by your house tomorrow night if that’s more convenient.”

“By all means,” she said with a smile. He extended a hand. She took it and shook firmly.

“Strong handshake, there,” he said, somewhat impressed by her grip. He turned and made his way towards the door. “Take care, Doctor.”

“Thanks, and you as well. If you don’t mind, may I ask you a few questions?”

He stopped. It was he who asked the questions. But he only pulled his lips into a polite smile and slowly turned back around.

“I don’t see why not.”

“Please have a seat,” she said, gesturing at his chair. He hesitated. “It’ll just take a couple of minutes. Promise.” After a long sideways glance, he obliged. She arose from her seat and sauntered around her desk, crossing her arms and leaning against its front to face him more directly.

“When was the last time you really, consciously, just…relaxed?”

Detective Berman tensed. Something, some unplaceable waveform in this woman’s voice had shifted again. The clock’s ticking marched into his ears inexorably. The fine scent of pine from earlier did not billow into this room but still felt suffocating somehow, a sort of phantom sensation. He felt a brief hitching of his breath as his eyes scaled her body, coming to rest upon her verdant gaze bearing down from above.

The feeling startled him.

“Oh, I’m not sure,” he said, suddenly a little less brave about humoring this doctor and her so-called therapy when staring down its barrel. “In my line of work, I seldom get the chance, you see. Always occupied, on-call at all kinds of hours.”

“I can tell. That’s why I asked,” she said gently. He raised his eyebrows. “If you had to choose a time.”

“I don’t know,” he said, chuckling a bit, his smile now waxing perturbed. “I really can’t remember.”

“Work with me, here, Detective. I want you to think about it,” she said, her voice even softer yet somehow more insistent. He swallowed, gripping the arm rests of the chair.

Listening to her closely, there really was something in that voice of hers that unsettled him, something about it that set his brain abuzz. It grated yet soothed, its words discordant yet compelling. The room somehow felt even warmer. The grandfather clock insisted on ticking.

“Probably a couple weeks ago, now. Maybe more. Probably more. Which sounds odd, I’m sure, but I’ve been just absurdly busy lately. Why do you ask?” he said, hardly able to believe he was entertaining this bizarre line of questioning from a suspect.

“Couple of weeks ago!” she repeated, face painted with concern.

“What?”

“Well, it’s just because you appear so tense that I thought I’d help out, do you a favor with a type of guided meditation meant just for this sort of thing.”

“No thank you, I’m quite alright.”

“Really, I assure you,” she said. “It’s simply an empirically-tested form of stress management.”

“What, sitting here, thinking about nothing?”

“In a manner of speaking. You have someone to talk you through relaxation. It helps and has helped many of my patients.”

“Like Mr. Walter,” he uttered dryly.

“Among hundreds of others over the years.”

“Uh-huh.”

Cluing into his trepidation, she continued. “There’s nothing sinister about it, Detective. I would not call this exercise hypnosis. A mere precursor at worst. It is whatever you wish it to be.”

“You did call watching a movie hypnosis.”

“And it is, but this isn’t a movie, this is meditation. Different brain waves, different mindset, different end goals. Nothing really happens. No pocket watch here, merely an exercise in bodily awareness and care.”

“I understand, and I admit it sounds nice in theory,” he replied, half out of politeness and half in earnest. “But surely you can understand why I have to decline.”

“Detective, you remain in complete awareness and control. You can even use these techniques on yourself. They’re harmless.”

“I’m sure.”

“I just want to demonstrate a form of my work to you, maybe even better equip you to handle stress going forward. I want to give you just a bit of an idea of what my technique is and is not capable of, for my sake and for the sake of your peace of mind. And what it is not capable of is the death of another individual, no matter where your suspicions may or may not lie. So I ask that you allow me that if nothing else. Please.”

He averted his eyes and pursed his lips. The detective wasn’t entirely sure he believed her, but the idea occurred to him that if she did indeed do what he thought she did, and in the way he thought she did it, then perhaps it might be conducive to the investigation to see exactly how she went about this sort of thing firsthand, even if it meant accepting the risk inherent to being the guinea pig. He’d locked horns with plenty of high-caliber minds, what was the worst that could happen? Besides, perhaps it would help him—the stress from his work as of late had, after all, become rather oppressive.

“Would I be able to record?”

“By all means.”

“Then, uh. Guess it couldn’t hurt to try,” he said, setting his cell phone to record audio.

“You won’t regret it. All right, now, first thing’s first. Take a nice, deep breath, in and out. In…and out. Simple as.”

“That simple?”

“Just that simple. In…slowly, now, slowly. Hold…very good. Aaaand out.”

“Huh,” he said after a few repetitions. “Amazing what just breathing can do.”

“Absolutely. You’d be surprised how many people simply forget to breathe. How do you feel?”

“I’d say a little less tense, sure.”

“See, it’s all rather unremarkable,” she said leisurely, her voice slipping effortlessly into his ears, the ticking of the clock nearly concealing itself therein. “You’re here. You’re present. Just breathing deeply, in and out…consciously letting go of stress. Aware of your senses, your surroundings, the ticking of the clock, the sound of my voice, the sounds of traffic flowing in the streets below. Letting it all flow through you. Letting it all fade away. Breathe in…be aware of your body, your lungs, the air flowing through you, following the sound of my voice, bringing that sensation up through your body. And breathe out, releasing tension from bottom to top. I want you to feel, really feel your bones and muscles, and be aware of all their tension and exhaustion. Inhale, hold it, feel it…then exhale, release, and feel it all beginning to dissipate. Because the more aware you are, the more easily you can release your body from stress. In…hold…hold…and out…just like that.”

“I can see why people do this. It’s a unique feeling,” he said, attempting to continue talking. Between her voice, his staggered breathing, and the assorted ambient stimuli, the detective did notice himself feeling slightly lightheaded. Perhaps that was why people did this sort of thing in the first place.

“That’s right, it’s a powerful feeling that can enrich your wellbeing if you let it. Inhale…feel that sensation of building release climbing up from the muscles of your feet, through your ankles…calves…your knees…thighs…hips. Feel that tension, acknowledge it. Really grapple with it. And then exhale, releasing it all, allowing those muscles to relax fully, relax completely, feeling their weight, feeling relief as that tension dissipates, your physical stress dissipates, the tension you’re holding releasing as you breathe out…releasing…wonderful.”

“…Not a bad feeling,” he remembered to say. Her direction and rhythmic cadence actually causing tangible relaxation in his body began to unnerve him. He tried to resist the sensation.

“It’s a marvelous feeling if you can manage to release that tension and focus on your breathing. That’s right, in…hold that breath…and out…slowly now, feeling even more tension releasing, allowing your body and mind to relax. Allowing your thoughts to come and go, passing through only briefly while not troubling you.”

“Huh.”

Detective Berman’s line of sight was cemented to the ground as she continued, her obnoxiously mellifluous voice taunting him, that damned clock thudding in his ears, distracting him with ticking and tocking, ticking and tocking…

It was all kinds of stupid, really, this whole thing. It was stupid because it sounded stupid, it felt stupid. The very concept itself was stupid.

Most stupidly of all, it was actually sort of beginning to work.

The detective found that if he did acquiesce, if he listened to her suggestions, his active imagination made them rather easy to actualize. But trying to fight them in the interest of remaining professional became a real act of resistance, somehow legitimizing their presence far more concretely. He expected the suggestions to have some degree of effect, but he now found himself battling against and inevitably acquiescing to very real and very unwise urges. The more he fought, the stronger those urges became. His muscles did, in fact, feel more loose and heavy, so very loose and heavy, so hard to move, his stress eroding, his body more relaxed than it had been in months—all merely because it was being told so. Preposterous.

What was this, then, exactly? She had deemed it simple guided meditation, but truthfully his blinks were beginning to slow a little bit, and truthfully his mind was beginning to drift a little bit, and truthfully, this was beginning to spook him more than just a little bit.

He shuddered, the tangible sensation of his thoughts drifting away startling him out of the soft, hazy headspace that had snuck up on him.

“As this sensation of release travels from your hips up your spine, you feel—”

“Uh, sorry,” Detective Berman interrupted, clearing his throat. He’d meant to rise from his chair, but his legs felt oddly rubbery, and so he only made the motions of priming to arise. “But I really should be going. Thanks again, though, I—”

“Oh, Detective, please—”

“I’ve got lots to do and, uh—”

“Stay.”

It was firm, with a winning smile. They met eyes for what felt like ages. Doctor Angelos continued more delicately. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to press. Please, if you absolutely must leave, you’re welcome to. But if you’d allow me to finish my demonstration, I promise it will be of great help to you. We’re almost done here, anyway, it’s only been a few minutes. It won’t be very much longer.”

Per the detective’s dedication to investigation, boundless curiosity, and perhaps now mildly-impaired judgment, he felt compelled to continue this weird little experiment, which admittedly seemed less benign by the minute. Perhaps he just didn’t want to be so hostile to his prime suspect this early on, when she still had so much information to offer him, and hostile suspects were much less useful. Perhaps it was that strange edge, that indescribable quality in her voice, in her whole personhood, that urged him, held him at rapt attention.

But perhaps, too, it was merely the thick, sweet heat hanging in the room, seeping into his tired bones, or the ticks and tocks of that blasted clock, or his own exhausted self unraveling in that altogether too-comfortable chair at the end of such a taxing day, taxing week; hell, taxing year. Or that it simply felt wonderful to relax and release stress for its own sake, something of which he did so little. Besides, it wasn’t as though he were frightened by her ability or motive for the exercise. He’d remained aware enough to object. And he was recording, after all.

He nodded.

“Thank you.” She continued, describing in depth the warm sensation now traveling up his spine, relaxing his stomach, back, and chest. As he listened, resisted, and inevitably yielded, the warm release of tension indeed felt more real, more strong, more pleasurable by the second, surging through him, sending powerful, tingling waves throughout his body.

No wonder she could afford that new BMW he’d spied in the garage earlier.

“This feeling travels slowly,” she said, slowing down in kind. “Radiating through your arms, through the tense muscles of your shoulders, your neck, your jaw, and into your head as you feel that warmth and relaxation spreading into your eyes and mind. The warmth relaxes your mind, puts it at ease, now allowing your thoughts to slow, allowing them to float away, just like all the stress and tension in your body. All floating away, allowing your muscles to sink into the chair beneath you, relaxed, limp, the growing need insatiable for your body to feel the effects of gravity, sinking deeper and deeper into the chair. Deeper and deeper, now.”

Now Detective Berman remembered why he tended to avoid such relaxation—sitting still in such a quiet, comfortable setting, he was now acutely aware of the fact that he was steeping in the long-accrued debt of his perpetual weariness, which surely served to make her job easier. His previously-proper posture had begun to relent, his body slackened in that oversized chair, head cradled by its soft leather embrace. It was then that he distantly realized that he’d gone from reasonably alert to less so, now finding himself expending undue effort consciously lifting his eyelids open in a bid to fight their increasing heaviness.

Really, he could arise and leave if he so desired, but it would be so much effort now, especially considering how comfortable he’d gotten. Truthfully, he hadn’t even known how much tension he’d been holding in his body until given permission to relinquish it.

Doctor Angelos gave him a small smile, kindly observing the poor, overworked detective’s losing battle against his own exhaustion. This she knew from experience was typically the point of no return, the point at which any internal mutiny ceased.

“That’s right, feeling all residual tension draining from your body, from the largest muscles to the very smallest, letting go of your thoughts until there are no more to let go,” she said quietly. “It’s alright to let go, Detective. It’s alright to simply be. To allow your mind and body the peace and quiet it deserves.”

His eyes, which had blinked closed for a moment, suddenly opened as he twitched awake. The man so in control of his demeanor mere minutes ago now appeared so candidly vulnerable and weary that she felt a pluck of sympathy toward him in her heartstrings.

“You deserve peace,” she insisted softly. “You deserve rest. You need rest. You will allow your body and your mind to rest. Rest for me.”

The profound tension in his dark, drooping eyes suddenly released. His look of intense focus vacated, features slackening, eyes rolling before fluttering closed.

“Very good, and as you sink deeper into that restful, relaxing meditative space, you find yourself still able to hear and respond to me while remaining so deeply relaxed. May I ask you a question?”

“Mm.”

“You will be paying me another visit, correct?”

“Mhm.”

“At what time?”

“Mmm…’morrow night. Round eight,” he uttered.

“Wonderful, thank you. More and more relaxed, allowing your subconscious to hear my words while your conscious mind hears only my voice. It’s okay to allow your conscious mind to wander as you find your focus drifting more and more inwards, your unconscious mind still listening and understanding. Allow yourself to drift…enjoying the warm, heavy calmness that enrobes you…”

Feeling dreamy but still of somewhat thoughtful mind, Detective Berman mused idly as she spoke, internally shaking his head at his own misstep. He’d underestimated her. It had seemed to him as though he’d remained perfectly thinking and aware of her words throughout her lulling litany, but it was this instruction about his conscious mind that jolted him a bit, made him realize how much of it had been going into one ear and out the other.

He wondered why she’d asked him questions about tomorrow’s visit, wondered why his normally-prying inquisitiveness felt holstered, why his normally-buzzing mind felt so quiet, awash with this woman’s oddly soothing yet authoritative voice. He wondered exactly for how long he’d been lying there like that, daydreaming, practically melted into this chair, when exactly he’d let his eyes close, why they now felt so incredibly difficult to open, what she’d said just then, why it seemed trivial that he’d missed it, why…why…

Why it felt so damn good.

“…and the suggestions I give you are absorbed by your subconscious. You find the sound of my voice, and therefore my instructions, compelling. Isn’t that right, Detective? You seem to agree,” she said, picking up the pace of her speech while maintaining its gentle timbre.

“Uh-huh.”

“And so the more you hear my voice, the more you listen to my words, the more relaxed you become, and the more open you are to this state of mind, and the words I say. You and you alone will be compelled to listen to this recording later tonight, from the beginning, as many times as you feel necessary, and you’ll find yourself taken into this state just as you are now, taken even deeper with each listen. In fact,” she started, spontaneously struck by his immediate and immaculate response to the word she’d used earlier. “Every time you hear me say the word ‘rest’, you will be reminded of the pure, blissful feeling of relaxation you’re currently experiencing. You will find that your defenses lessen for me, and you will find that what I say to your subconscious mind is very difficult to recall in your waking state. Doesn’t that sound good to you?”

“Uh-huh,” he breathed lazily after a moment, having given up on trying to consciously parse that many words. She did say his subconscious would take care of it all.

“Rest…rest…thaaaat’s right, sinking deeper and deeper, even more relaxed. Deeper and deeper into a warm and comfortable—”

Dr. Angelos stopped suddenly, hearing a soft, heavy purr emanating from the man in front of her, now outright slumped, his glasses askew. She chortled to herself, not having intended to relax him to quite that degree, then stopped to merely observe him for a short while.

Poor, sweet thing. Seemed as though he really did need it.

“Detective? Detective?” she urged, gently shaking him awake. He jerked and opened his eyes, reorienting himself. Despite his blanket of grogginess, he instantly felt a pit in his stomach.

“Huh?…I…did I—”

“Like a light,” she said, reassuringly patting his shoulder. “But that’s really quite alright, happens to people meditating all the time. Especially when they’re like you and don’t seem to give their bodies the rest they need.”

“I…Jesus, sorry about that. Very rude of me,” he murmured, rubbing his eyes. For some reason they still seemed so difficult to keep open. He figured he was more worn out than he’d realized.

“Oh, there’s no reason to be sorry. Not rude, in fact it’s quite understandable. And endearing.”

Without thinking, his lips briefly pulled into a small, shy smile in response to her comment. He arose with some effort.

“See, that’s really why I tried to leave earlier,” the detective said, with a yawn too big to stifle. “I knew this was going to happen. God, I can’t believe it.” She laughed lightly.

“Well you should go let yourself rest, give yourself the time you need to recover. I hope this exercise has reminded you of the beauty and power of simple, adequate rest. You can’t do your job without it, you know.”

Unable to shake a wave of sudden laxity, Detective Berman gazed into her eyes absently for a moment. Lips slightly parted, he gave her a singular heavy blink before realizing he hadn’t responded.

“Ahem. You’re right, of course. Just look at me. But thank you, Doctor, I’m, uh…feeling more rested already.”

“Glad to be of service, Detective.”

#hypnokink #malesub #brainwashing #mind control #mind conditioning

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paulbunyanstatue · 3 years

Text

The warm sun poured across his bare arms as Tim stood before the manor’s duck pond. The birds had taken a recess, and in their leave of absence, Tim wished to capture the gorgeous image before him. Soft lily pads floated in the crystal water, a green that stood in contrast of the light pink reflected in the pond. A tall cherry blossom tree was rooted next to the water, branches hanging over the pads and creating a shadowy home for the fish that lived underneath the surface. The tree was in bloom this month, and Tim waited all week for a partially sunny day to come out and capture the vision. A petal tore from the branch and floated down to the water below, and Tim quickly brought the camera to his eye to snap the shot. His camera shuttered in effort and he stopped after the petal sunk below the surface.

He sat down on the grass and crossed his legs underneath him, hiding the screen from the sun with his hand while he peered at his work. He was so enthralled by the images and his ideas for further ones that he did not hear the footsteps that approached.

“Timbers, I need your help with something. I am working this case with Kor and Roy, and there seems to be contradictory evidence. But I think that-" Jason realized Tim’s gaze hadn’t left the camera screen, and he knew Tim wasn’t listening yet. “What are you doing out here?”

“Taking pictures,” Tim muttered without looking up at him.

“No shit.” Tim could practically hear the eye roll in his brother’s response, but he didn’t care. He had a vision now and he needed to plan out how he could capture the reflection of the cherry blossoms in the pond without having to climb the large tree and spoiling the photograph. “You aren’t snapping many pictures. Forget how to use the camera?” Jason continued after a small pause, followed by a snicker. Tim huffed but finally looked up toward his visitor.

“I’m trying to take a picture from high above.”

“You can't really do that while sitting down." Tim scoffed, and Jason continued. "You know there’s a tree directly beside you, right?”

Tim nodded with a scrunched nose. “Obviously, Jay.”

“And they call you brilliant. So climb the tree.”

“I can’t climb the tree. If I climb onto that branch there, the only one that would be beneficial to the shot, then my shadow would be cast over the grass here at the edge and my reflection will be seen in the water.”

“That sounds like a good thing. You are the photographer after all. So just flash those pearly whites and-"

“It doesn’t work like that. I can’t be in it.”

“What does it matter if you are in the picture?”

“It just does,” Tim answered as he stood up, clearly offended. He knew Jason didn’t fool around with pictures, even with his phone’s camera save a few of him and his outlaw buddies. “Being in this shot isn’t like signing your name to the bottom of a painting. And it needs to be perfect because the blossoms are perfect and the water is clear and the stones at the bottom of the lake are reflecting the sun. The lily pads are almost golden right now too, and the ducks are finally gone. It has to be perfect.”

Jason listened patiently, eyebrows drawing together slowly with something akin to concern. If he were being honest with himself, he would admit he was concerned for his brother.

“Too bad you aren’t taller,” Jason taunted smoothly after a quiet beat. He wore a wide grin that stretched across his cheeks, but Tim just grunted and looked back out at the water. He wondered if he should risk running back to the manor to grab a step-stool, or maybe even a ladder. But during that time, the ducks could return. He bit at the inside of his cheek.

Jason sighed.

“Alright, come on,” he ordered, beckoning Tim toward him with a wave of his hand. Tim’s feet didn't move and he met Jason’s eyes with a gaze deeply confused and mildly suspicious.

“Why?” He asked, eyes narrowed and protectively clutching his camera tighter to his chest.

“I’m going to lift you on my shoulders so you can get your stupid picture. Come on before I decide to push you in the water instead.”

“Oh,” Tim glanced back at the pond. He really did want that picture and it had been a long time since Jason wanted to murder Tim. The worst that could happen was that Jason would drop him back to the ground. Or throw him in the pond. At that last thought, Tim pulled his phone from his pocket and placed it on the ground where a tree root tangled furiously into the ground. Then he approached Jason.

Jason ducked and threaded his head between Tim legs, lifting Tim on his shoulders with surprising ease.

“Is this-uhm-is this okay?”

“Yes, it’s fine. Where do you need me?”

Tim awkwardly pat the top of the curly darkened hair in front of him. “Thank you, Jay.”

Jason grunted in response, and Tim directed him on where to stand. Tim leaned forward, his elbows digging into his own knees, and his stomach pressing against the back of Jason’s head. He looked through the camera’s screen and couldn’t help but to grin. The angle was perfect, and the picture was exactly what he was hoping for. After several shuttering clicks that sounded soothing accompanying the chirping birds and chattering bugs, Tim found himself quietly laughing through his nose. He lowered the camera down in front of Jason’s face and offered him a view of the scene.

“Remember this is before light adjustments and editing, but there’s the picture you helped me get.”

Jason was quiet for several seconds and Tim began to feel silly. His cheeks flushed and he dreaded to realize he just assumed Jason actually gave a shit about his childish hobby. He lifted the camera back up to his own eye and took more pictures in an attempt to erase the silence that steadily fed his anxiety. He captured the pond, the grass, and a yellow bird that landed on a shimmering stone.

Finally, Jason stated plainly, “Your picture looks very nice, Timbers.”

Tim paused, his finger frozen on the button. “Thank you. I can make you a copy of you want.” He wanted to pinch himself as the words left his mouth, because why would he have asked-

“Yes.”

Tim’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Really?”

“Really. Just because I come from a Dickensian part of town doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate good art. Alright, shutter bug.” Jason tightened his hands around Tim’s calves resulting in an anxious grunt from the carried. “Time for a dip.”

“Jason!” Tim yelped and forcefully gripped a fist through Jason’s hair. “Please tell me you are just jok-"

“I am. You know, the rose bushes by that gazebo on the south side of the property are in bloom right now. I think those would make a good picture.” Jason reached back behind his head and gripped Tim by his sides, lifting him over his head and returning the kid to his own feet.

Tim grinned widely now. “Let’s go.”

They spent the next hour outside. Jason pointed out things that he thought looked interesting, and Tim snapped pictures of them before showing Jason the outcome. They found a tranquil stream a mile from the pond, where Tim captured the way the water rippled along the mossy-covered rocks. They found a squirrel perched on a branch a few feet away, and Jason whistled softly so the squirrel looked at Tim for the picture he took. A large fluttering butterfly hovered above a dandelion, and Tim laid on the ground for the shot.

When Jason's phone chimed, Tim sat up and turned to him with wide eyes. "You came out here asking for something. What did you need?"

Jason leveled him with a calculative gaze, as though he were reading Tim before answering. "Right now, I need food. Let's head back to the manor." He ticked his head and they walked together in comfortable silence. Tim flipped through the pictures on his camera and Jason scrolled through his phone. When they reached the manor's front door, Jason threw it open and fished a folder from his backpack discarded by the entrance before nodding his head to Tim in the direction of the kitchen. Tim followed wordlessly, taking a seat at the kitchen island and watching with interest as Jason stood across from him and tossed the folder onto the table in front of Tim. Jason finally declared, "I will make us lunch. Would you take a look at that for me?"

Tim chewed on his thumbnail as he studied the information before him, and Jason pulled ingredients from the refrigerator and heated a pan on the stove. Tim did not know how much time had passed but he discovered the reason for the snag in the case, as well as came up with three strategical maneuvers that Jason and his team could pull during their next raid as Jason plated the crêpes. Tim's attention snapped back when Jason slid a plate in front of him. Tim stared at the food with surprised longing, since he was too enthralled in the case to actually smell the cinnamon and orange that swirled around him. Though now that he did, his stomach ached with hunger and his mouth watered. He figured he probably forgot to eat that morning... and the evening before. Chocolate, whipped cream, and orange zest topped the folded treat and Jason handed him a fork.

"Orange filling," Jason informed him, already tearing into his own food. "Eat it while it is warm."

Tim pulled his plate closer and took a bite. As the warm, fluffy pancake touched his tongue, followed by the burst of orange cream, he couldn't help but to gasp alongside his widening eyes. Jason smirked and lowered his head at the sincere reaction with color akin to a blush shading his cheeks.

"These are amazing!" Tim shoveled more into his mouth, and even considered how he would look if he licked the plate in front of Jason when he finished. As he cleared the last bite from his fork, he gaze rose to his brother's plate pathetically. Jason noticed and relented with a sigh. He pushed his own plate nearer to Tim and invited him to finish it off while he made more for them. Tim politely asked if Jason was sure, and when he received a confirmation, he quickly finished the food.

"Strawberry or apple this time?"

"You can make these with apple?" Tim jumped out of his seat and approached Jason at the stove. His brother laughed and considered that answer enough to snatch a ripened red apple from the bin by the refrigerator. "How did you learn to cook like this?"

"Alfred taught me," Jason responded, lighting the stove once more and adding butter to the pan. He washed the apple he held and began to cut away the peel, handing the pieces to Tim to snack on. "As you probably already assumed, I did not grow up receiving cooking lessons from my parents. The only tip I got in the kitchen was how fast I needed to get a beer for my dad before he got pissed and came after me with his belt." Tim became uncomfortable and shuffled at that, wringing his fingers anxiously. "It's okay, Timburrito," Jason said softly when he noticed the sudden wave of uneasiness. "That man is dead, and I know how to cook now. Besides, from what Brucie has told me, you had a shitty sperm-donor yourself."

Tim rolled his eyes and turned away, crossing his arms. "Brucie needs to mind his own business. I grew up in privileged circumstances, and it was fine." Jason leveled him with a raised eyebrow, and Tim rolled his eyes again. "I was lucky. You do not need to compare us to lessen the tragedy of your own traumas."

"Bruce is your guardian now. Even more so, he is your dad. If he minded his own business, Alfred would call child services on his ass." Jason dug his elbow into Tim's side, eliciting a reluctant giggle. "Look, you are obviously a good kid. I mean, you forgave me for what I did."

"You couldn't help that," Tim interjected with a frown.

"My point stands," Jason continued. "You are a good kid, and I know you work hard to see the best in people. But your parents left you alone far too often, and that isn't right. You and I, we did not grow up in the healthiest households."

"Your father was an abusive man, and he hurt you. We did not grow up the same."

"Yours did not have the touch of an angel, kid. According to the Dickhead himself, you used to show up here for patrol with a few extra lickings that didn't happen courtesy of some goon on the street."

Tim wrinkled his nose and opened his mouth to snap back, but he closed it again when he realized he had nothing to say. How could he deny something that Dick had no reason to lie about. Jason was right, his father was not a good parent. Tim often wondered if he was even a good person. He watched the butter in the pan come to life, sizzling and bubbling up. The smell wafted around him, but this time it felt suffocating, and it caused turmoil deep in his stomach. "Our fathers sucked."

"They were monsters. And yet, here we are," Jason nodded slowly, waving his knife around the kitchen as though this room alone supported his point. His eyes landed on Tim and he grinned. "Dick told me you accidentally called Bruce 'dad' the other day." Tim's cheeks turned dark red and his eyes widened. "I bet the old man loved that."

Tim shrugged with one shoulder, and turned away. "Dick is far too loud for his own good. It was an accident, and I think I was a few quarts of blood low when it happened." He paused for a moment, chewing on another slice of apple peel. "But besides, he sort of is my dad now."

Jason smiled at the kid's response. It was already obvious to him that Bruce was Tim's father, the man adored the genius kid. And Bruce was a wildly significant improvement from the last one Tim had. "You should tell him that, I think he would appreciate hearing it."

Tim snaked his hand in between Jason and the cutting board and snatched a slice of apple, dodging Jason's swat and burying the fruit in his mouth with a sneaky grin. "Jason?" His brother hummed. "Can you teach me how to make these?"

For the first time since knowing Jason Todd, Tim watched as he lit up with excitement. Jason had always loved learning new skills. When Alfred agreed to teach him how to cook fancy foods that differed so drastically from the Top Ramen he grew up microwaving for himself and his mother, his excitement was palpable. He even kept a notebook during his years as Robin. He brought the spiral paper to the kitchen counter and recorded the information that was fed to him in that loving environment. Being able to pass this experience to another, especially a member of his growing family, sparked new joy in his chest that traveled up to his cheeks and drew a smile on his face. He nodded, keeping his eyes fixed studiously on the apple. "Yes, I can teach you how to make these. And I can teach you how to cook other foods too. You and Bruce grew up too wealthy, you know? Everyone ought to learn how to cook and do their laundry and shit." Tim rolled his eyes again and couldn't help his scoff as he insisted he knew how to do laundry. "This pan is heated enough, we can add the batter now."

"How do you know it is heated enough?"

"Do you see how the butter has browned slightly?" Tim nodded. "And do you smell the cooked butter?" Tim sniffed slowly, and he nodded again. The smell didn't feel so suffocating anymore, in light of their new conversation. "That is how you know. With crêpes, the pancake part has to be very thin. I already made this batter, because you want it to sit for at least an hour, though if it sits overnight, those are the best-tasting crêpes you will ever have in your life." Tim raised his eyebrows because he could not possibly imagine that anything could taste better than the food Jason had just served him. "But I can show you how to do that later. Pour a little bit of batter in this pan, and tilt the pan so that it is evenly spread out." Jason backed away from the counter and watched Tim slowly approach the bowl. He accidentally poured too much batter into the pan, just like Jason had when he first learned how to make crêpes. But, in mimicry of Alfred's own response to him so many years ago, Jason said, "Just a tad thinner for next time, but otherwise, it looks wonderful."

Tim couldn't help but smile with pride.

:) Softer scene from my fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32502511/chapters/80612944#workskin

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mldrgrl · 3 years

Text

How Stella Got Her Groove Back

by: mldrgrl Rating: PG-13 Summary: Just a little something to celebrate spring...and Stella’s birthday!

They left Connecticut in September, with a fair amount of reluctance to go, but they needed to return to the city. Becca had already gone and though both Karen and Fish insisted they were welcome to stay longer, stay forever if they had to, at a certain point, Hank and Stella had just been missing their loft and their life in New York too much. Of course, they knew that what they were returning to was not the life they were accustomed to, but they would have to learn to adapt to the new normal.

Winter was long and brutal. They did spend two weeks over Christmas and New Years back in Connecticut again and that was the first time they’d seen Becca since July, and the last time they would see her until spring. Karen had tried to coerce them all to stay again and Hank and Stella nearly gave in. If not for the fact that Stella left a project behind she’d been working on for her classes and if Hank had brought the pages he’d been working on for his new novel, they just might have done it.

When they got back to New York, and in a cabin fever-induced moment of weakness, they hired a landscape architect to design their rooftop terrace and though the noise of construction aggravated the hell out of both of them, they were both pleased with the results. They now had an artificial lawn of soft green turf, an outdoor patio daybed in the shape of a cube with canvas shades on all four sides, a wet bar, strategically placed heating lamps, and a wood burning fire pit. Unbeknownst to them, when Fish had heard their plans, he’d called the company they hired, ordered them a charcoal grill, and told the contractor to keep it a surprise. They were very surprised by the barbeque that was suddenly part of the design, but it looked nice, even if it wouldn’t get any use.

Finding ways to fill the time with nowhere to go and no one to see was extremely difficult. Neither of them were very much into television or movies. The terrace, as welcome as it was, wasn’t finished until the end of February. Stella had the classes she was teaching and the child psychology classes she was enrolled in to keep her fairly busy during the days, but Hank could only write for so many hours at a time and he found that he actually missed helping Fish with the guitar lessons. He grumbled to Stella that ‘that damn Trout’ bewitched him somehow and then begrudgingly called him up and asked if he could still help out remotely. Fish was delighted by the request and sent him an iPad and a teaching schedule.

The close quarters had caused a few squabbles, though nothing major. They took a few online cooking classes together which produced some mediocre meals and a testy exchange on the appropriate amount that constituted a ‘pinch of salt.’ Beyond that, they managed not to take out any frustrations on each other.

It was April 1st when Stella wandered from the bathroom to the bedroom in her t-shirt and sweatpants, rubbing lotion into her hands and arms. Hank was in bed, perhaps naked, or perhaps wearing jockey shorts, she couldn’t be sure. He had his guitar across his lap and his head back so that he gazed at the ceiling while he plucked lightly at the strings.

“Hank,” she said, leaning into the foot of the bed with slightly bended knees.

“Do you think ‘oral’ actually rhymes with ‘clorital’ or is it cheating?” he replied.

“You know that next week is my birthday.”

Hank splayed his hand out on the guitar and looked at her. “Is this a trick question?”

“Not at all.”

“So, if I say ‘yes, of course, your birthday is April 7th and I already know I’m not to mention it to anyone,’ is that the wrong answer because I’m not supposed to acknowledge it in the first place?”

“I am aware that in the past I have requested that my birthday be treated as any other day.”

“Mmhm.”

“I’ve been thinking that perhaps...I might like to celebrate this year after all.”

“Oh, I get it. April fools. You could’ve just put plastic wrap on the toilet or secretly replaced my regular coffee with Folgers.”

“I’m serious.”

“Ah, so the one year it’s impossible to throw a party, you want to have a party?”

“God, no. Parties are awful.”

“Well, what then?”

“Brunch? With Becca? This weekend, or the next, perhaps. There are more places opening up now. We could-”

“Absolutely, Sherlock. Whatever the suggestion, I am all in.” He pushed his guitar aside and she was mildly disappointed to discover that he was in his jockey shorts after all and not naked. He scooted forward to the end of the bed and wrapped his arms around her hips.

“A walk in the park, maybe?”

“Not sure if my legs remember what walking is at this point, so it’ll be good to remind them.” He moved his hands down to the backs of her thighs and gave them a squeeze and then cupped her ass. “Why the sudden change of heart, Sherlock?”

“I’ve just been thinking lately that it’s perfectly acceptable to want to celebrate being alive. After the year we’ve had.”

“I agree, but as long as I get to have my breakfast in bed in bed that day, I’ll be happy.”

“It’s my birthday, I’m not bringing you breakfast in bed.”

“Oh, honey, you are the breakfast,” he growled, wrapping his arms around her again and pulling her into him as he fell back onto the bed.

*****

The Saturday before her birthday was Easter weekend. There was no rain in the forecast and Becca was available, so it was perfect. They took a Lyft to the upper west side and met her at a French bistro that had outdoor seating. Stella could tell right away that something was bothering Becca, that she was putting on a false front of cheerfulness, which was very unlike her, but if she did know her stepdaughter, she knew the girl could not keep up pretenses for long.

They ordered and waited for their food over bottomless mimosas and miniature ham and cheese croissants served as an appetizer. It wasn’t cold, but a cool breeze would drift by every so often and Stella was glad she had left her hair down so that her ears were covered. She wished she’d been a bit more practical though and worn pants. She’d just felt like dressing up and at the last minute, put on an olive-colored dress with small printed white flowers on it, but at least it was long-sleeved and she had a white sweater. Becca and Hank were like twins in their matching leather jackets and dark jeans.

“Are you working on anything?” Becca asked Hank.

“Almost finished,” he answered.

“Oh. What’s it about?”

“A couple that’s been married for fifteen years, but they’re on the brink of the divorce when the pandemic hits and then they go from spending almost no time together to all of their time together and it’s disastrous at first, but then they end up learning a lot about each other.”

“So, they save their marriage?”

“No, they end up getting divorced anyway.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“It’s fiction, sweetheart.”

“People like happy endings.”

“People are stupid. I didn’t say it didn’t have a happy ending though. Are you working on anything, Daughter?”

Becca sighed and picked at her nails. Stella put a hand on Hank’s knee under the table.

“Is something bothering you, Darling?” Stella asked.

“No. Yeah. No. I don’t wanna ruin your birthday or anything when it’s the first birthday we’ve ever celebrated together.”

Stella gave Becca a brief smile. “I don’t know if your father has told you why I’ve always been rather reluctant to celebrate my birthday.”

Becca shook her head. Hank stretched his arm out behind Stella’s chair and put his hand on her back. She gave his knee a squeeze of appreciation.

“My father passed away on my fourteenth birthday,” Stella said. “So, Darling, you have a high bar to overcome if you think being in a low mood will ruin my birthday.”

“That sucks about your dad, I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Stella looked to Hank for a moment and then back to Becca. “I’ve spent many years trying to ignore the date as though if I didn’t acknowledge it, it’s like it had never happened. I don’t think I really understood until quite recently that one is capable of being sad and grateful at the same time. And that life should be celebrated. Especially now.”

“I guess I’m just...when we were up at Mom’s house, everything was so easy and nice and I had a really hard time writing. That’s why I wanted to leave. It was way too peaceful.”

“You know if I had a dollar for every time Becca claimed my shit was fucking her up, I’d be richer than that fucking Amazon guy, and now it sounds like she wants to file a grievance that we’re not fucking her up enough.”

“Am not.” Becca rolled her eyes.

“Don’t listen to him,” Stella said. “He’s been so mired with boredom lately he has regular calls with Fish.”

“No!”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Hank protested, putting his hands up in defense. “There was and will only be one bromance in my life and that’s with one Mr. Charles Runkle, that follically challenged motherfucker. No better pairing existed except for maybe Bert and Ernie, or Sid and Nancy.”

“I think we should let Becca continue with what she was trying to say.”

“Thank you.” Becca put her hand up as though she was blocking Hank from her view and he reached over and slapped her palm away. “As I was saying, I left because I thought the serenity was blocking me in some way, but since I’ve been back, it’s like the opposite. It felt so apocalyptic at first and desperate. It was like impossible to sit down and put words together when there were so many shitty things happening outside. What if...what if the next thing I finish, people will be like oh, she was just sitting inside writing while everyone else was dying?”

“There will always be shitty things happening outside,” Hank said.

“Great advice, Dad.”

“I don’t mean to bitchslap you with reality, but the world being shitty isn’t a reason to give up.”

“I’m not giving up.”

“Good, because you are way more fucking talented than I could ever even hope to be.”

“I just don’t know if it matters. If anyone should care.”

“Why should you concern yourself with that?”

Becca glared at Hank, clearly annoyed with the answer.

“I know you think I’m being facetious,” Hank said, quickly. “But, I’m not. If all anyone wanted to read was about things that ‘mattered’ that 50 Shades of Hot Garbage would never have sold a single copy. You don’t know why people read what you write. Maybe they want to escape the shitty things happening in the world. Maybe they want to laugh or cry or be turned on. Maybe they just need something to pass the time.”

“Five minutes ago you just said people were stupid for wanting happy endings, now you’re saying I should just give them garbage, if that’s what they want.”

“Yeah, I’m a fucking hypocrite, what else is new, but I just want you to be happy with what you’re doing. You want me to buy you a new laptop?”

“I’m not twelve anymore. You can’t just buy my happiness.”

“Worth a shot.”

“Becca,” Stella finally interjected. “I think it’s obvious by now that your father may possibly be the world’s worst motivational speaker.”

“Or the world’s best unmotivational speaker,” Hank said. “You see what I did there? I turned a negative into a positive.”

Both Stella and Becca ignored the comment.

“I think I may understand what he’s trying to say though,” Stella said. “I’m not a creator, but I’ve been a consumer. When I was reading for pleasure, I certainly wasn’t reaching for mystery novels. And I think that...popularity and quality are two different things. Certainly, one would hope for both, but it isn’t always the case. I know you and I know that quality is important to you, so perhaps you should only focus on if what you’re working on is the best that it can be and not on whether or not it matters.”

“Can I add something to that?” Hank asked.

“Not if you plan on fucking up everything Stella just said,” Becca answered.

“I’ve done at least a dozen online events this year and at every single one, someone has asked me when the next Rebecca Moody novel is going to be released or they want to know what you’re working on. I’m not even entirely sure all of them are there to hear my Q&A or if they just showed up because they know I’m your dad and they think you might make a guest appearance. And if one person takes umbrage with you for creating something during a time of utter hell, fuck them.”

“Without art, the crudeness of reality would make the world unbearable,” Stella quoted.

“That sounds so much hotter when you say it than George Bernard Shaw,” Hank replied, rubbing his hand across Stella’s upper back.

“Okay, I don’t want to spend this day being miserable,” Becca said, shaking her head and shoulders like she was trying to rid herself of negativity. “Thank you, Stella.”

“You’re welcome, darling girl.”

“Hey, what about me?” Hank asked.

“There is this jacket I saw online that I want,” Becca answered, cheekily raising one of her eyebrows and tilting her head.

“I’ll text you my credit card number later.”

“Thank you, Father.”

*****

Brunch was followed by a stroll in Central Park and it seemed that at least half of the city had the same idea. It was interesting being in a place so crowded and yet also so open. The decent weather and the cherry blossoms in full bloom probably had something to do with it. What also would have felt strange a year ago, seeing everyone wearing face masks and wearing them as well, was oddly comforting. When Stella had put hers on that morning before they walked out the door, Hank told her she looked like a sexy brain surgeon or cardiologist, whichever one was smarter or made more money.

When they came upon Bethesda Fountain, there was a small band playing salsa music and a few couples dancing. Hank tried to imitate the steps and then grabbed Becca’s hand and spun her around under his arm. She laughed and tried to break free of him, but he pulled her back in and tried to get her to dance.

“Da-ad,” Becca protested.

“Dance with me, Daughter.”

“I don’t dance.”

“You’re no fun.” Hank let go of Becca’s hand and then grabbed Stella’s.

“Oh, no,” she said.

“Come on, Sherlock. I know you’ve probably got some moves I’ve never seen.”

“I assure you that’s not true,” she answered, letting him spin her away though and then laughed as he gyrated his hips dramatically as he stepped back towards her. “Whatever it is that you’re doing does not resemble the salsa in any way.”

“Let me see you do better.”

Stella looked past Hank to the other dancers and mimicked the forward and back steps. She put a hand on Hank’s chest to keep him at arm’s length and prevent their knees from colliding as he tried to fall into the same step with her, moving forward when she stepped back, and back when she stepped forward. What he lacked in grace, he made up for with enthusiasm. As soon as they fell into sync, he grabbed her hand and lifted her other arm in a more formal dance frame like the other dancers had.

What followed was probably the worst and most amateurish version of a salsa that had ever been danced, but Stella laughed so hard it brought tears to her eyes. When the music ended, Hank stopped and pulled Stella’s face mask down under her chin before lowering his own and then kissing her through both of their laughter.

The dancing couples broke apart and drifted back into the crowd. Becca went over and dropped some money into the cup on the ground in front of the band and thanked them for playing. Stella took Hank’s hand and then Becca linked her arm with Stella’s as they continued on.

Later that night, when Stella came out of the bathroom as she rubbed lotion into her hands and arms, she stopped at the foot of the bed and watched Hank read over the latest pages of his novel. When she was finished, she climbed onto the bed and walked over to Hank on her knees until she was straddling his lap. He threw his pages down, took his reading glasses off, and pulled her close with his hands on her ass.

“Thank you,” Stella said, as Hank kissed the side of her neck.

“For what?”

“This truly was the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

“Your birthday’s not until Wednesday.”

“Perhaps next year we’ll even be able to invite Karen and Fish to town.”

“We’ll make The Trout christen that barbeque he forced on us.”

“It does look nice though.”

“It really does. You want your present now, or should I wait until Wednesday?”

“I might be interested in a preview,” she said, sliding her hand down his chest and then into his shorts. “A little peak at the package ahead of time.”

“You just assumed I was talking about fucking when I said I had something for you?”

“Weren’t you?”

Hank paused and then grinned. “Yeah, I was.”

The End

#i wrote this #hanella #hank/stella #californication #thefall #The adventures of the lady detective and the writer lives on

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sirius-black-killed-god · 3 years

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Can we get a small sneak-peak of what's to come in TBWKG? I know you mentioned you were busy, so no worries if you can't share anything at the moment! <3

Yeah, why not. Here’s part of the first scene. My goal is to have the whole chapter up in the next two weeks. :)

The Boy Who Killed God: A Certain Number of Regrets

JANUARY 3, 1972

Remus looked slightly less green when he helped Madam Pomfrey change Sirius’s bandages the next morning.

It was funny, really. Sirius had seen Remus nearly torn to ribbons himself, but Remus seemed incredibly squeamish around Sirius’s injuries; so much so, in fact, that Sirius would have teased him relentlessly for it, had he not been gritting his teeth and cursing his way through the various Aguamenti’s and levitation spells.

Merlin, he thought, when Remus finally let out a relieved sigh and Madam Pomfrey finally retreated to her office. Malfoy really did a number on me.

Really, it wasn’t the equal-and-opposite sort of retribution that was generally expected of these sort of pure-blood grudge matches. Sirius had aimed his curse at Malfoy’s face. It had been severe enough to scar, yes, but the scar was no longer than the palm of Sirius’s hand. And he’d struck Malfoy on the side of his face, eyebrow to chin, an area that could easily be covered by Malfoy’s stupid white-blonde hair.

Malfoy had…

Well, Malfoy had nearly carved Sirius in two, hadn’t he? There was an X etched into Sirius’s chest, from collarbone to hip.

No one could reasonably say that that had been a proportional response.

No one had decried this grave injustice and breach of pureblood traditions, either.

Sirius hadn’t been lying, when he’d told Remus he remembered almost nothing after Christmas day. He knew he must have woken up at some point, because when his father had barged into his room yesterday morning—furious at what he’d deigned to perceive as laziness on the part of his eldest son and heir—Sirius had reached for the inkwells Alphard had given him.

They’d been empty.

All of them.

Which either meant Sirius had, in his delirious fever-dream, somehow managed to choke them down in the days he’d lost, or…

Or, someone had dumped them out.

Utilising his impeccable deductive reasoning skills, Sirius figured it was the latter. His chest certainly didn’t look like anyone had applied dittany before Madam Pomfrey got her hands on him.

At half past eight, a house-elf popped in, bearing two steaming trays of food. Sirius’s mouth watered on sight, and, with a little strategic manoeuvring so as to avoid re-opening his scars, Sirius managed to sit up. Remus muttered a, “Thanks, Speckles,” as the house-elf set the trays on the pillow-wall between them, then disapparated.

They ate in relative silence. Sirius studiously sipped on his piping hot broth—this time containing small bits of beef—as Remus devoured his bacon and eggs. As he finished his soup, and sparing a glance to make sure Madam Pomfrey wasn’t watching, Sirius snatched the last piece of bacon from Remus’s fingers and more or less swallowed it whole.

Remus glared at him, but then sighed. He stood, slid out of bed, and placed the empty trays on the cabinet, before stretching his arms over his head. His neck and shoulders popped, and Sirius tried not to cringe at the sound.

“How are you feeling?” Remus asked, through a mostly-stifled yawn, and really, Remus looked terrible. His curly hair stuck out in every direction imaginable. His eyes were red-rimmed and opened way too wide in an apparent attempt to fight off exhaustion. His uniform was rumpled and untucked, but that wasn’t all surprising given he’d slept in it. The scar across the bridge of his nose was a darker shade of pink, starkly contrasted against Remus’s pale skin and freckles, almost as if—

As if…

Sirius counted the scars. Then, he counted them again.

No. No.

There was no way those were new.

Remus had stayed at Hogwarts over the holidays. He couldn’t possibly—

“Sirius?”

“Hm? Yeah, sorry. I’m fine.”

Remus frowned and raised a disbelieving eyebrow at him.

Sirius huffed. “Fine. I feel like shit, but considerably less shitty than yesterday. Not going to pass out any time soon, anyway. Hopefully. Most likely.”

Remus didn’t look particularly convinced.

Sirius pushed his luck anyway. “What are the chances of you helping me break out of here before Madam Pomfrey comes to check on me?”

“Not fucking likely.”

“But—“

“Sirius, you almost fucking died.”

“I did not!”

Piercing, half-golden eyes tracked down to Sirius’s chest, over the bandages, then back up to the tattoo, and—

“Fine! Fine!” Sirius crossed his arms over his chest, trying to block it from view. Slightly mortified, he felt himself flush red. He wasn’t used to anyone looking at his chest, his fucking tattoo, least of all Remus Lupin. It… It was unnerving. “Can you at least get me a shirt?”

He wasn’t exactly sure when he’d taken off his own shirt—the exact events of yesterday were more than a little hazy in his mind—but he was certainly tired of not wearing one. It brought unnecessary attention to things he’d rather keep secret.

Remus nodded, then gave him a small reassuring smile. “Yeah, I think I can do that.”

Remus made his way to the opposite end of the hospital wing, crouched by a small, bedside cupboard, rooted a round for a minute, then made a vaguely triumphant noise as he pulled out not just a shirt, but a pair of soft, Muggle trousers as well.

“Here,” Remus said, handing over the clothes. “These should do.”

Sirius eyed the clothes, subconsciously wiggling a little in his own, now-ruined designer trousers. The waistband and front part of his trousers were crusted with quite a bit of dried blood, Dittany, and other unmentionable, yet equally disgusting bodily fluids he’d rather not think too hard about. The trousers were about as far from salvageable as humanly possible.

“Thanks.” Sirius took the proffered clothes and ever-so-slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed. He took a long moment just to breathe.

“Do… Do you need help?”

“No.” Sirius tried not to snap, but he still managed to answer far too quickly and with far too much conviction.

Remus clearly didn’t share any of his false bravado, but he turned his back all the same to allow Sirius the dignity of changing on his own.

Sirius shucked his trousers in one go—they were so caked with filth that they kept their shape, much to his disgust—but kept his pants. His silk pants were equally ruined, but Sirius Black had just enough pureblood formality beaten into him that he wasn’t about to go pantsless in borrowed trousers.

Said borrowed trousers were rather large on him—so much so that Sirius muttered a quick spell to cinch them at his waist. The trousers hung well past his feet, the knees were rather worn, and never had such pedestrian fabric been used to clothe a member of the Noble and Most Pretentious House of Black, but they were incredibly comfortable. Absently, Sirius found himself wondering as to where one might acquire a pair and just what the consequences might be if his mother found out he’d gone to a Muggle tailor.

Sirius shook his head and reached for the shirt. It was an equally worn button-up, with a patch on one elbow and ridiculously long sleeves, but it was made of thick, pliable material that smelled of… starlight and piping hot tea. Right beneath the collar—

No. That couldn’t be right.

Right beneath the collar, stitched ever so carefully, were the initials R.J.L.

“Remus, are these yours?” Sirius asked, before he could think too much of it.

Because if Remus had a spare set of clothes in the hospital wing, that might lead one to believe that not only had Remus been a recent resident of said hospital wing, but the injuries he’d hypothetically sustained had also been grave enough to either warrant a change of clothes or an extended stay in the hospital wing that would consequently necessitate a change of clothes, eventually. Which, really, could not be possible because Remus hadn’t gone home for the holidays, so there was no logical reason for Remus to have been in the hospital wing at all.

Right?

Except the back of Remus’s neck flushed red and Sirius felt his heart stop.

Because Remus had a new scar on his face that Sirius was now fairly certain hadn’t been there when Sirius left.

Oh, how he’d wanted to believe that it was nothing.

Nothing, as it turned out, hardly ever worked in his favour.

“Where’d you get that scar on your face, Remus?”

“Siri—“

“No!” Sirius had half a mind to throw the shirt at the back of Remus’s head.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Remus turned to face him, and Merlin, how had Sirius missed it? The scar across the bridge of Remus’s nose was a pale pink, not faded silver. New. Raw. Fresh.

The fight drained out of Sirius, as though he’d been punched in the throat.

“You were supposed to be safe, Re,” Sirius croaked.

“So were you.” Remus’s jaw tightened, but this time, he didn’t turn away. “Our monsters will always find us, Sirius.”

For a moment, Remus looked as though he wanted to say more, wanted to explain, anything. He opened and closed his mouth, his fingers fidgeting all over the place. Sirius waited.

And waited.

Then, suddenly, Remus froze. Every muscle in his body went rigid. Sirius watched, confused and mildly alarmed, as Remus tilted his head up and turned towards the—

The giant door to the hospital wing was open, just a crack. When and how that had happened without them noticing, Sirius couldn’t be sure.

Remus frowned and… sniffed? Whatever he was doing, it was beyond strange. Sirius watched Remus’s eyes dart around the room, seemingly unable to settle on anything in particular, always on the move, always searching for… something.

“Remus, what—“

Sirius heard the faint shuffle, the soft whisper of fabric, the slightly too-loud breathing.

Except there was no one there.

Readying himself for a fight with whatever ghost or shadowy figure that may or may not have infiltrated Hogwarts, Sirius tugged on Remus’s shirt as quickly as he dared without risking reopening his wounds. He shoved the ridiculously long sleeves up past his elbows, called his magic to the tips of his fingers, and took a defensive stance next to Remus.

Someone—something?—hissed out a faint curse. Then:

“Ow!”

“That’s my foot!”

“Potter, if that’s your fucking hand on my arse, so help me God, I will—“

Sirius and Remus exchanged a startled glance.

“Evans?” Sirius called, to the otherwise empty hospital wing.

“Shit.” That certainly sounded like James.

“Weren’t they s’posed to see us eventually?” Peter, maybe?

“Yes, but not until after we scared the shit out of them.”

“That doesn’t seem very nice.”

“It’s supposed to cheer them up. All they need is a good bit of mischief and—“

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!”

With a sudden whoosh of fabric, James, Lily, and Peter materialised out of nowhere, not five feet from them.

“What the fuck,” Remus deadpanned, at the exact same moment Sirius gasped, “Is that a fucking invisibility cloak?!”

#tbwkg #sera answers questions #my writing #the boy who killed god #sirius black #remus lupin #wolfstar #Wolfstar fanfiction #hp fanfiction

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avelera · 3 years

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I've been listening to a podcast on the history of the Crusades, just finishing up the Second Crusade and getting into the career of Saladin, stuff I hadn't read as much of before writing "Lights Out" because I was keeping that focused on the First Crusade and Joe and Nicky's first meeting. In the fic, I have it so the announcement of the Second Crusade is the final straw for Nicky when he breaks with the Church, leaves the Templars, and becomes a free agent protecting pilgrims in the Holy Land. He isn't quite at the point of being willing to fight on Joe's side immediately, he still has vestigial loyalty to the cause he literally gave his life for and won't fight Latin Christians if he can at all avoid it, but he can't fight on their side anymore either.

If I wrote that bit again, I would consider making the point of Nicky's break with European Christians slightly later to the Siege of Damascus, now that I've listened that far in the podcast because apparently, the Second Crusade’s utter failure (officially ending at Damascus) was a point of disillusionment on the idea of Crusading for a LOT of Christians at the time, as the whole campaign was, to put it mildly, an utter fucking fiasco of epic proportions.

If I did it again, I'd probably have the Siege of Damascus be Nicky's breaking point like it was for so many other Christians, but with him on the ground as those events unfolded. Like that meme, "Man who thought he was out of hope loses that last bit of hope he didn't even know he had," I'd probably have Nicky's stomach drop when he hears of the Fall of Edessa, and worse that a bunch of ignorant European Christians with no understanding of the local politics of the Holy Land are about to be air-dropped into a situation like a herd of stampeding rhinos, but he may hold out a little hope that the extra manpower will help stabilize the region in the Christians' favor and not just be the colossal fuck up it will inevitably be (in Lights Out as is, he doesn't even give them a chance, he's just so done because he knows what's coming, he WAS that person once).

But the Siege of Damascus is interesting because it is the final European fuck up in an unbelievable string of European fuck ups, BUT the particular fuckup here is that the Europeans ultimately fail in this incredibly ill advised siege (against their ONE Muslim ally in the region because the Europeans thought Damascus sounded COOL to conquer, not like one of those tiny but useful targets like Ascalon) was because they moved from their good position to a bad position during the siege (one in the middle of an orchard, to a place where the wall looked "weaker" but had less shade, water, cover, food, etc. and where the Damascans were super worried about them being, so moving away from it was a boon to the besieged) SUPPOSEDLY because some local European Christians from Jerusalem "betrayed" the European Crusaders by advising them to move to the worse position, ultimately costing them the entire siege AND basically signaling the end of the Second Crusade. So, what if Nicky was one of the people who had a change of heart and helped put together the strategy to “betray” the Europeans by basically knee-capping the besiegers with this bad advice, thus saving the Muslims of Damascus?

My temptation would be to say Nicky was kind of tepidly on board with the idea of the Second Crusade, at least being will to work with the influx of Europeans as a more “local’ warrior in the hopes he could help guide the foreign forces to be useful instead of creating another bloody atrocity, but the Siege of Damascus is the final straw. I could see Joe being inside the walls to help defend the city and Nicky knowing he's there and both of them maybe even having clandestine meetings during the siege because, y'know, love and burgeoning respect but really Nicky is holding onto his loyalty to the European Christians by a fingernail and a this point really has loyalty to the Christian civilians in the Holy Land more than to the European political structures, so he's horrified at the Frankish/German armies going after their ally, Damascus, and wants this siege to fail so innocents don't die, so I'd put his moment of realization/"betrayal"/switching sides from Crusader to "free agent" here where he joins up with the local Holy Land European princes advising this disastrous strategic move, knowing it will destroy their chances of taking the city, and if it was a fic it would be a huge dramatic moment of the siege finally ending and Nicky fucking off from the Crusaders and meeting Joe and kinda gesturing towards his helping to make his own side FAIL in defense of the people Damascus as like "I know I have a lot to make up for but as a token of my genuine desire to make peace with you and your people and make up for the things I've done and the horrible people I've served, here's my personal contribution to making sure the Second Crusade ends in utter disaster for the European Christians so these innocent people can be spared." and like, Nicky knowing he's still got a lot to make up for, but contributing to the failure of the European forces' entire CAMPAIGN is a pretty impressive start.

#tog fic #kaysanova

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stillness-in-green · 4 years

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Changeling: The League (2/3)

Being the next installment of my deeply nerdy spur-of-the-moment decision to do up a bunch of My Hero Academia villains as Changeling: The Lost characters. For some introductory info and the League of Villains, check this post. Or hit the jump for the Meta Liberation Army!

THE METAHUMAN LIBERATION ARMY

Considerably reduced from what they are in canon (I don’t think there are 116,000 changelings in Japan, much less that many changeling dissidents!), the leaders of the MLA are instead a band of secret loyalists for the Keeper called Destro, who have spent a great many years preparing for a chance to bring him to the real world in full glory, unhindered by time limits or reduced powers. The requirements are many and arcane, with a huge number of ways things could fall to disarray. Thus they find to their great alarm that their prophecies are suddenly skewing when the truth of Shigaraki’s durance/Keeper comes out--there are two “heirs,” it seems, and fate is swirling, and it will only settle over one of them in the end.

The group has its fingers in some of the more obscure fluff-book magic--fate-crafting, oracular dreams and the like--and collectively share a massively decked-out Hollow.

Re-Destro

Quote: “Everyone has a purpose to serve.”

Type: Gargantuan Ogre/Treasured Fairest dual kith. The incarnation of Destro’s will. Born in Faerie, he spent his early years being instructed (and molded) always--stand up straight, speak more clearly, be stronger, be better, you are the one who will herald me. Re-Destro was delivered out of the Hedge at seven years old clutching a squall knife as long as his arm, his mind filled with the knowledge that he was the one who would see Destro ushered into the real world. He was welcomed, open-armed, by those changelings who had been sent before. He has spent over thirty years in the real world since then, scrupulously maintaining a startlingly high Clarity, but Destro whispers in his dreams more nights than not, and Rikiya (as he was named, though he has a true name his mother whispered against his head as an infant, now long forgotten) has always had the nagging feeling that the mundane Earth is not his true home.

A tall, stiff-shouldered man in his Mask, Rikiya looks much as he does in canon, though without the stress spots on his forehead and with a nose that’s merely prominent, rather than a cartoonishly huge beak. He’s quite tall and can go from mildly unassuming to toweringly imposing on a dime. In mien, his hair goes more coppery and his skin becomes unblemished marble, the palest shade of jade in color, tinging ever so slightly darker around his joints. His nose returns to its canonically proper glory, and the places where his hairline recedes in his mask are revealed to be making room for a pair of broad, curving horns, emerald green at the tips. He’s unusually clean-hewn for an Ogre, not handsome, per se, but undeniably striking. When he uses his kith blessing, he grows to profound sizes (shredding even the most cleverly crafted Hedgespun), easily as tall as a two storey building. Naturally, he tries not to do that kind of thing around mortal witnesses.

Rikiya’s Wyrd is getting quite high (it was high even as a child, as might reasonably be predicted), so particularly sensitive or addled humans will sometimes see or experience fragments of his true form--his unyielding skin, a brief glimpse of the shadow of his horns, the echoing weight of his footsteps on stone floors. His potent Wyrd and his affinity with the home of the Gentry means that his magic sometimes leaks into objects he keeps on his person for too long--it’s an issue he’s aware of, and practically speaking, it mostly means that he never wears anything more than a day in a row. He has a staggering variety of suits and ties.

Court/Mantle: Courtless. With high-ranking friends in a sprawling freehold overseen by Directional Courts, Rikiya makes rounds in all of them. He’s a deft hand with Hedgespun and his works are in high demand at even the most discerning changeling markets. His home is in the center--close to the epicenter, in fact.

Contracts: Barbarically focused, though he uses both of his contracts sparingly. His experience has gone more into his, shall we say, inherent magic.

Vainglory I-V. Even when playing the role of a popular but unranked freehold member, or a canny designer of mundane accessories, Re-Destro has never forgotten who and what he is, and when he’s using these Contracts, that comes out with psyche-bruising force. His higher-tier invocations tend to cause his colors to mottle somewhat, infusing to darker shades of green around his face--the hollows of his eyes particularly--and extremities.

Stone I-V. Unbelievably strong whenever he needs to be. He tries to avoid combat or let his underlings handle it when he can--he has very few problems maintaining his Clarity, but causing harm to others is a surefire way to disturb it--but when he does break these out, he’s as difficult to put down as a berserker. Tends to take relaxing vacations after any occasion where he’s had to really work this.

Curious

Quote: ”You’ve got the look of someone with a story to tell. I want to hear all about it.”

Type: Cleareyes Beast. Once upon a time, she was a journalist with a nose for a story--well, she’s a journalist still, with a nose like you wouldn’t believe. Talented and quick-witted, both traits won her attention from Destro’s “recruiters,” but it was her tenaciousness that finally saw her brought in from the snow and the hunts, a semblance of a human form returned to her, and the bright ambrosia of purpose poured down her throat. Delivered to Re-Destro when he was in his 20s, Chitose is a hunter and a dream-spinner, a trickster with a deft and ruthless touch for talecrafting. She remembers the headiness of blood on her tongue, and she can always smell a bleeding heart.

A fox changeling, though given her bent of viciousness and her unusual coloring, you could be forgiven for thinking her a kumiho or a particularly wicked kitsune. In mien, she has long, thick white hair and a pair of white tails (three in the dreamscape), tipped in black like stained ink brushes, that match her long, tufted ears. Her whole body’s covered in a fine layer of silken fur; she’s got a lupine lengthiness to her features and sharp teeth in her smile. In her mask, her hair’s rich and dark and she seems to have a perpetual healthy glow to her skin, tipping into a noticeably high, intemperate flush when her passions are aroused. A beauty in either form, she has thin, seemingly delicate wrists and ankles, but moves with a quick, decisive grace. Her eyes are blue with just a hint of the green they used to be, the color standing out sharply from the ring of her black eyelashes.

Court/Mantle: The South, seat of ecstasy. Chitose remembers the purity of her emotions in Faerie, remembers heights of euphoria and shocks of terror that stole her breath away, but out in the real world, she feels muted and muffled, never quite fulfilled, as if she’s always groping for an outstretched hand that’s just out of reach. The Court of Song gets her closest to that reckless, all-pervading sensation, and so she throws herself headlong into its giddy pursuit of obsession. Her mantle wraps her in a sensual warmth and, when she’s particularly worked up, wisps of thin white smoke scented like heady incense or burning sugar. Every so often, when her eyes catch the light in a dark room, they reflect red instead of green.

Contracts:

Den I-III. She considers herself to have every right to be wherever she finds herself and is not about to let a home security system stop her when she’s chasing any sort of rabbit.

Dream I-IV. Whether she’s digging for a story or pushing a narrative, dreams are fruitful ground with a multiplicity of uses, none of which she’s squeamish about implementing. Curious is a terror, asleep or awake.

Omen I-III. While she’s not much interested in fortune-telling as a method for long-term strategic planning (you want Skeptic for that), she does absolutely have a use for powers that give her visions of someone’s worst memory or upcoming major life events.

Skeptic

Quote: “Do you have any idea what kind of shitstorm we have coming down on us? What? You can’t see the future? I guess that means you should shut the hell up and stop distracting those of us who have something useful to contribute then, doesn’t it?!”

Type: Oracle Wizened. Destro knew that his followers would need someone who could properly interpret signs and portents, so set his recruiters to finding someone with an eye for secret signs, a knack for the languages of symbolism and metaphor. Most of them brought back psychics or sensitive children, but one particularly old recruiter, for whom “computers” were a new and strange novelty, brought back Tomoyasu. An electronics whiz-kid from a young age, Tomoyasu was in high school at the time, but already doing college prep. He was driven and competitive but, crucially, willing to explain things to people who didn’t understand them. In Faerie, his eyes were opened (forcibly, sometimes with clamps) to a great many more languages and codes, and his competitive personality honed to a vicious edge because you did not want to be a failure, not at any cost.

Now that he’s been sent back to the real world, Skeptic has a presence in many realms. He’s still quite good with computers, of course, but there’s the much more important work of Destro that needs to be done, and that involves both tasks for now and plans laid for later. As such, he maintains dream pledges with a number of psychics (mostly fresh ones, though there are a few shattered survivors from amongst his rivals for his current position). Unlike Curious, he isn’t interested in digging in their dreams or using them as staging grounds for larger projects; he only needs them to help him fill in his understanding of the future. He and Re-Destro do a great measure of the work in maintaining the group Hollow.

Rail-thin and gangly, Skeptic stalks about his environment with a constant sense of bloody-minded productivity. He’s rarely without a laptop or tablet tucked in one arm and wears exclusively black, which just adds to the impression of being The World’s Gothiest Scarecrow. His eyes are always hidden, behind his long bangs, razor-thin sunglasses, or--on more formal Court occasions--a broad silk blindfold, but glimpses of them are always alarmingly bloodshot. In mien, his hands and arms are dotted with tattoos and scarification, faerie glyphs and sigils, and his eyes are filmed with blood. He may not actually have eyelids--certainly no one has ever seen him blink. Usually has a sword or the emblem of one on his person somewhere--a custom of his Court, because the heavens know he’s no swordfighter.

Court/Mantle: The West, seat of honor. Very much a means to an end. Skeptic has little interest in martialtry, but the needs of Destro demand that someone do it, and his obsessive perfectionism and rigidly high standards for himself make him the best fit--and anyway, the Court of War does need strategists. He’s learned how to handle weapons in a perfunctory sort of way, but he’s a much better shot with a rifle than one would expect from the state of his eyes, especially if he’s got some time to spend fidgeting with one for a little bit before he has to fire it. His mantle is relatively low, compared to most of his motley-mates, and manifests as a penetrating chill to the air and a slightly sharper tang of blood-smell than just his red-rimmed eyes can explain.

Contracts:

Animation I-V. You don’t have to waste time learning how to operate anything if the object itself will tell you how to use it, and you don’t have to stand around waving a sword at people when you can have the sword wield itself. “Inanimate” nothing; as a rule, he likes objects better than people.

Artifice I. Object touchy because it’s busted? Nothing a bit of magic can’t fix (at least for long enough to get the job done.

Hours I-IV. The result of Skeptic’s understanding of objects crashing together with his oracular abilities. The time magic he can work on inanimate objects is very useful (and yes, the way Shigaraki warps the first clause of this drives him absolutely mad), but the real miracle is what the ability to control time dilation in the Hedge does for his and his motley’s productivity.

Trumpet

Quote: “I’m sure we’ll succeed. After all, we’re the ones he chose.”

Type: Fairest Muse. The only member of the MLA motley proper that has any ambivalent feelings about The Destro Revival Festival. He’s about Re-Destro’s age, but was kidnapped at a much less tender age than the rest, well into his adulthood. He was an up-and-coming civil servant at the time, then spent longer than he can remember in Faerie, rallying crowds and practicing speeches until his throat bled and cracked into silence, learning to channel some portion of Destro’s white-hot conviction and magnetic presence, for all that being vessel to those traits felt like it burned the soul out of him. Hanabata was charismatic and persuasive while he went in and his time in Faerie amplified those traits beyond belief, but he isn’t so broken as to believe that Destro did him some kind of favor.

He is, however, quite broken enough to believe that Destro is undefeatable and that he has no real choices in the matter. He was returned barely a week after he was taken in real-Earth time, dropped on Re-Destro’s lap when the latter was just getting started in establishing himself. He’s spent the twenty years since then doing whatever needs to be done in order to smooth Re-Destro’s path (he’s unusually prominent in human politics for a changeling; indeed, he’s amassed some fairly significant temporal authority) and watching the rest of his ordained motley grow up. They’re really the only people keeping him going; Hanabata thinks they’re far more damaged than he, and in many ways he’s right--he has a much clearer grasp on what they’ve all lost, even if some of them never had it to begin with--but he’s also very badly hurt in his own way, lacking even the devoted fervor of the cause to fill up the empty spaces left in what used to be his optimism.

His mask looks like the Trumpet of the canon, minus the ever-present sense of pomade and the facial hair that can’t decide if it wants to be a mustache or not; he’s just clean-shaven. He has a wry, expressive mouth and a nearly hypnotic voice, a baritone by turns soothing or rolling. There’s an indefinable sense of presence to him; just looking at him makes brave people want to strike up a conversation and timid people lurk about in vague hopes of leeching up some of his confident vibes. His mien just amplifies it; he’s impossibly magnetic, with strong features and eyes the kind of green you could get lost in. His voice is even more of a marvel here, resonant and penetrating in ways humans couldn’t typically manage without augmentation. When out in public, he wears a camera-ready smile as faithfully as a wedding band; in private, he’s markedly more subdued.

Court/Mantle: The East, seat of envy. Trumpet’s talents make him marvelously well-suited for this Court, but it isn’t just a matter of practicality, as the Court of the West is for Skeptic. No, Trumpet is intimately familiar with the thumbscrew feeling of envy--no free changeling can even begin to grasp how bitterly he covets their ignorance. His mantle can be difficult to pick apart from the gripping presence of his seeming, but when he’s working magic, it’s frequently accompanied by the bizarre sense to onlookers that he’s taller than he really is. Even if someone is standing right next to him and knows perfectly well that they’re taller than him, sometimes they’ll blink and their eyes will lie, vision inverting such that Trumpet seems to be looking down at them. Every so often, when he’s on a roll, his eyes will gleam the perfect yellow-white of the sun reflecting on newly-minted coins.

Contracts:

Vainglory I-III. Not as advanced in his understanding of this Contract as Re-Destro, but the effect is considerably more potent when he’s using it.

Hearth I-V. As engrossing as it is to listen to him talk, Trumpet’s real talent is in inspiring others, and the Contracts of fair and foul fortune just amplify that.

Fleeting Spring I and Fleeting Autumn I. First levels of the seasonal contracts don’t require Seasonal Court goodwill, but he’d probably get it from any Spring Court in the country anyway. Envy is close cousins with Desire, after all. Whichever the case, manipulating people is easier when you know both what they want and what they fear.

Geten

Quote: “Ice is never far away. Prepare yourself.”

Type: Snowskin Elemental. Geten remembers little of their time before Faerie--in fact, they have very little recollection of the passage of any of the time that must have brought them to their current age. Their memory is like one huge block of ice, solid from wall to wall with cold and scarcity. If some of that scarcity, back at the very beginning, is colored in a different palette than Destro’s winter, well, it’s still of a piece with the rest, so what does it matter? All of their life was the winter--until Re-Destro appeared and chose them. Out in the real world, Geten knows, intellectually, about the whole “herald of Destro” thing and devotes themself to the cause with admirable fervor, but in truth, that fervor is far more dedicated to Re-Destro than it is their True Fae Keeper, of whom Geten recalls next to nothing. Generally serious and driven, Geten enjoys feeling that their actions have meaning beyond just keeping them alive, so they’re never happier than when they’re fighting for Re-Destro in concrete, measurable ways. Generally poorly socialized in ways that would make their life much more difficult if they didn’t have Rikiya looking out for them.

In mask, Geten is a slight youth with shoulder-length, white-blonde hair and unusual pale gray eyes. They have a delicate-looking face that’s incongruous with their rather feral personality. In mein, their hair is fully white, as are the glowing pupils of their eyes. Their already fair skin goes bloodlessly pale, and even on the hottest day, their features are kissed with a rime of frost. They wear long sleeved, full-length clothes at all times of the year, though curiously, they dress more heavily in summer than in winter.

Court/Mantle: The North, seat of suffering. Something of an unusual case in their freehold, where the power of the Directional Courts holds sway, Geten emerged from the Hedge with a strong Winter mantle. No matter that they’re sworn to the Armor Court, that raw affinity to the Court of Sorrow remains. This odd duality, seen by some as untrustworthy, has largely kept them from advancing very far despite their apparent dedication to the Stupa’s focused, ascetic lifestyle. They’re frequently mistaken for being courtless, particularly in a freehold that’s less familiar with the look of the Silent Arrow than those who move in Seasonal Court circles would be. The lack of any obvious sign of a mantle is itself the tell--Winter always makes its changelings look more stark, as if somehow etched more clearly into the fabric of the world, unobscured by other connections. Likewise, their magic is all ice-themed anyway, so many don’t realize that the brief gusts of snow around them are a sign of their mantle--but every so often, there will be a brush of pale ash on those winds, a sign that, for all that Winter lives in their bones, Geten has still embraced the North.

Contracts: These speak for themselves. Geten’s power set, more than anyone in these posts, hews closely to canon!Geten’s quirk meta-ability.

Elements (Ice) I-IV. Exacts control over ice. They’re protected from it, they’re protected by it, they control it, and it answers their call (though their range is not anywhere close to canon!Geten’s).

Communion (Ice) I-III. Very unlike canon!Geten, the changeling version is ice-born enough that they speak with it like kin. Ice isn’t much of a gossiper, as elements go, but it reflects things, sometimes, and knows the shape of everything it touches. They can extend this awareness as far out as a mile in most weather, though the range is much shorter in e.g. a blizzard, when trying to take in that much information would be overwhelming.

Eternal Winter I-III. Don’t have ice? Make your own! Again, not as wide-ranging as canon!Geten’s, but serves much the same purpose. Geten can also, like Spinner, perform emergency thermostat duties, though Spinner’s control over heat allows him to turn it up or expel it, while Geten’s is only ever going to make things colder.

BONUS TIDBITS:

Changeling!Re-Destro needs to be able to get around in the human world without being prone to fits of hallucination and delirium, and his magic isn't dependent on his stress levels, so unlike his canon self, he gets to have actual vacation time, do soothing yoga, etc.

Geten and Curious had some durance overlap, but neither of them remember it clearly. Curious’s memories of that time are too patchy, while Geten’s are too hard to pare down into individual moments. Geten does feel a sense of familiarity towards Curious, but they don’t talk about it much after the one time they described it as being, “Like she was...inside me, for a while,” and everyone looked really weirded out.

Changeling!Geten is nonbinary because It’s My AU And I’ll Do What I Want. They are made of ice and do not really understand what the deal is with gender.

Magne doesn’t die in this AU because It’s My AU And I’ll Do What I Want. She and Curious have to team up to brainstorm a strategy for an epic oneiromachy duel with Destro that will decisively eject him from Rikiya’s dreams without reducing Rikiya to a drooling husk.

Trumpet is the true wild card in this AU. The other Destro-ites have never really even considered the prospect of breaking free from Destro; Trumpet has, but rather than that making him the person who’s the easiest to sway, it makes him the person most resolutely convinced that betraying Destro will lead only to suffering. The lengths that conviction will drive him to make him a severe danger to his motley the moment they begin considering abandoning their mission.

#bnha #re-destro #yotsubashi rikiya #bnha curious #kizuki chitose #bnha skeptic #chikazoku tomoyasu #bnha trumpet #hanabata koku #geten #meta liberation army #bnha spoilers #changeling: the league #changeling: the lost #my writing

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the-headbop-wraith · 3 years

Text

2_28 Pit Fall

There was something inherently creepy about schools after hours. Once all the teachers had departed their homes and their lives, the children’s voices now vacant from the long empty halls. Sounds rose about when there should be no utterance; creaks in the tall walls, the rattle of the heating ducts generating a hospitable environment for the lingering abandonment, the scuttle of pages on a desk. A school was a place meant for inhabitance, it should be alive with laughter, voices, excitement. It should be filled with life.

But not at night, in the slow treading hours post dusk.

The cafeteria was expansive, with a stage to the opposite end of the kitchen/serving station. For the evening’s janitorial service, all chairs were flipped and set seat down on the table tops. Three emergency exits were strategically built on three accessible walls of the lunchroom, one was the entrance on the far side of the cafeteria where students filed in from one main hall, and the second was adjacent to the kitchen itself, its bright words EXIT gleam a harsh green in the blue haze of the shade studded room.

A last pair of escape doors was built into the opposite wall near the performance stage, where the left wing of the sloping ramp descended from the stage top. Hanging high on the wall beside the double doors rested a large tak board, an abundance of notices and cautionary signs pinned with colorful pins. Most notably, the many pictures of children in black and white, some photo copies in color with information typed beneath the print.

Yellow light flashes across the deep maroon curtain hanging beside the stage. The fabric sways in some draft, or reluctance to the light disturbing its rest. Arthur doesn’t like it. The fabric reminds him… reminds him of things he wants to forget. His good hand fumbles around in his pocket, tracing the crinkled edge of the box there. He moved his torch beam over the surface of the photos slowly. He twists away from the images and accusations and moves back to the blue figure huddled over a laptop, she and the machine seated on the edge of a long table, the chairs removed from the tables top were returned to the floor.

“None of the kids really have anything in common, only that they’re not over twelve,” Vivi murmurs. She scrolls through her grid block tab filled with information, names, dates; the blue light of the screen slithers across her face and gloved hand. The touch pad doesn’t work if she wears the gloves, though form fitting they are, and very stylish. “But I’m able to adjust my search, and find out what days of the month kids have gone missing. Try and narrow it down. Hmm?”

Dimitri slipped closer to the table Vivi sat upon, and looked at the screen. “Five have gone missing since me,” he uttered. “Five.”

“We haven’t even started,” Vivi says. “There’s this one area on the edge of town, where people have mentioned seeing kids prior to their disappearance. District… Flower? What was that name? Hold on.”

“Maybe it is the Slender-man then,” Arthur muttered. He moved away from the high board with the pictures of happy children— once happy, locked now in a time of carefree innocence. Some of the pictures had come loose from the board from the overuse of pins, and now lay on the floor at the walls base. “We have about fifteen to twenty minutes.” He shifts the flashlight beam from his pocket watch to the table, and pockets the watch. “Did you say you moved here?”

Dimitri stared at where the light hit the table, forming a golden halo. He barely realized then that the group used color coordinated flashlights. “Yeah,” he mumbled, distracted. “When my dad divorced.” He looked at Arthur, as the other swung his torch away and set the light beneath his chin. Dimitri winced, Arthur looked creepy with the blue of the moonlight and the cold empty windows as a backdrop.

“Then I will be impetuous and conclude, your brother is half-brother?” said Arthur. Vivi snapped her head up, her bright glasses glinting under the light of the computer. She had that look that could kill – if a minor were not present.

Dimitri only nodded, unperturbed. “Uh-huh. Some kid tried teasing me about it, and I punched them in the face.”

“That’s… very Noble of you,” Vivi says, glancing up at the boy. “But you shouldn’t hit people at your age. Wait until you’re older.” Arthur choked on whatever he was about to say. “Time, Art?”

“We still have some. I’ll let you know.” Arthur pulled out his pocket watch anyway, soothing kinked nerves with the slow tick of the moving minute hand.

“It’s showing up here,” Vivi mentioned, pointing a gloved finger. She scrolled down the grid she compiled of the updated information ‘gathered.’ She tapped at the keypad and began nodding to herself, a half glimpse to the screen as the text reloaded. “You’re right. That given, we know that whatever takes the kids, only takes those who are native born. Clear matches.”

“Adults aren’t— ” Arthur shut his mouth, and jerked his light in the direction of the kitchen, where vague noises echoed from. A creak and low humming, probably the refrigerator unit kicking into gear. He took a breath, and tightened his gloved hand into a fist around the fabric of his pants leg. “Elders don’t seem bothered. None disappear?”

“Whatever it is, it’s not interested in them,” Vivi reflects. “It just doesn’t want interference. Or maybe they are affected but mildly, I dunno, subdued? They don’t completely forget, the extent is ‘lost interest’?” Dimitri crossed his arms over his chest and frowned Vivi’s way, but she took no notice; she was fully engrossed with the laptop. She pressed a fist to her lips and thought, humming softly to herself. “It can’t worry over adults getting suspicious, awful as that sounds it won’t risk removing those past their teen years. What would its motive be in taking the children then?”

Dimitri climbed up on top of the table and stood before the computer, and Vivi bathed in the hazy light. “You still think there’s something unnatural going on around here, huh?” he hissed, fists clenched at his sides.

“We’re open minded,” Vivi states, looking up at him. “What’d you say? ‘The authorities in charge of finding the kids gave up because they are the abductors?’ It’s possible.” She began typing, fast, and raised her shoulders. “Maybe the parents forget because there’s something in the water? A sedative? Those are all possibilities. Is that what you want to hear?”

Arthur slunk back over to the table, the light of his torch aimed at his shoes. “We don’t seem affected.”

Vivi snaps at him, “When do we ever drink water?”

Arthur paused, as if he never considered that fact. “Oh. Right.”

Dimitri sighed, and brought his hands up to his head and tugged at his hair. He supposed it didn’t matter what they thought, as long as they were looking. The Mystery Skulls were his only hope. Still, he wished Lewis was back from wherever he had gone. It worried him when Vivi and Arthur never mentioned him, and when/if they did it felt similar to how adults lie – negotiating lies- to sooth upset toddlers. Dimitri didn’t like to be treated like a kid, they didn’t give him enough credit. Lewis did. “Where do we go, then?” Dimitri mumbled.

Vivi fumbled with the orphaned glove that lay on her lap, and studied the screen. Dimitri edged forward and saw the familiar layout of Google maps. Vivi was frowning. “I only have an obscure lead on—” She glanced Arthur’s way, when Arthur spun around and held up a hand. For a tense moment they were quiet as Arthur tilt his head down and listened. Without a word, he motioned hastily for the two at the table to move. Vivi shut the laptop gently and she slings off her backpack.

Not long after they had everything gathered – the laptop packed away, the chairs replaced atop the table – the three were mobile and ready to exit. Before Arthur could open the exit door, Mystery’s clinking paws scuttled from the darkness, he gave a few gruff barks as he darted by the group and kept going, weaving among the table legs. Arthur caught Dimitri by the shoulder and nudged the smaller figure towards Mystery’s flashing outline. Rather run all the way around a table, Dimitri dropped to his hands and knees and crawled after the dog.

Arthur followed the path of the two with his flashlight. “Shit,” he cursed. “We should still have time.”

“D!” Vivi hissed. “Let me and Arthur go first.” She followed close behind Dimitri, her flashlight darting around seeking Mystery. “The curfew might have made the response faster. Focus on keeping our heads, and not get caught. That would very much not work out in our favor. Stay close Dimitri.” As the group moved, Mystery picked up the pace, his shallow ‘ruffs’ gave indication of where he had winked out through the shadows.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Arthur hissed. “Why do I ever let you talk me into this? I know the outcomes gonna be bad. I never learn.”

“You’re a supportive friend,�� Vivi reminds. “And you wouldn’t forgive yourself if something bad happened to us.” Arthur gave a rather theatrical groan.

They reach one exit on the far side of the cafeteria, the doors locked with a heavy chain and padlock. Vivi takes Arthur’s flashlight as Arthur begins to pad down his pants pockets.

Mystery yips at him.

“I’m hurrying. Don’t rush me.” Arthur locates his lock pick kit and selects the sharp along with a toggle, he clenched the sharp tool between his teeth and grips the padlock in his good hand. The tool clicks in the mechanism, but he lets out a low grunt through his teeth. “Damn.”

“Hold the lights, D.” Vivi passes the flashlights over to Dimitri, then takes Arthur’s arm and elbow between her hands. Arthur mutters a ‘thanks’ as he spun the point in the keyhole of the padlock. When the padlock clicks, Arthur rips the chain away. Vivi jumps up, pulling the deadbolt in the top of the door free and charges forward, shoving the door latch and forces one door open. “Stay behind me.”

“K?” Dimitri mumbles, as Vivi tugs his arm along. Dimitri hands one torch to Vivi, and aims his light onto the polished surface of the floor. Behind them, Arthur tossed his tools into the case and shoved it in his pocket. “But what happens if we get caught?” His face warmed a bit when Vivi gripped his free hand. It was beyond embarrassing, but he kind of didn’t mind.

Vivi gave a little laugh but didn’t look back at him. “Caught? Who gets caught?” she chuckled.

“Oh?” Dimitri decided Vivi was cool. She went on crazy adventures, broke into buildings at night, evaded the police, and she had an awesome dog. Why couldn’t more girls be like her?

Mystery hung back as Arthur dragged the door shut. “If they find that chain there,” Arthur grumbled. Mystery yipped at him. “Hey, wait! You got the light! Hold on!”

“Think you can keep up?” Vivi whispered. She released Dimitri’s hand. “Don’t fall behind. Arthur! Hurry! You‘re setting a bad example.”

“You’re making too much noise.” hissed the mechanic. He fell in pace behind Dimitri, Mystery to his side bouncing and yapping. The flashlights weren’t necessary to guide them, even if they were not exploring a linear hall, moonlight drenched the row of windows beside them. Sleek polished floors reflected streaks of silver across white washed walls, and the redirected light flooded the interior corridor. The walls that concealed the classrooms were decorated typical Grade school style, with numerous large boards tacked to the plaster and each filled with colorful pictures, typed and written essay papers. Arthur could see out onto the open road ventured over earlier that day, the bright lawns coated in crystalizing frost in the falling temperature. Another patrol car went by, a head lamp flashed across the large windows—

“Duck!” Arthur threw himself to the floor.

Vivi snagged Dimitri before he could take off, and slid down to her knees as Arthur belly flopped. On the walls of pictures and schoolwork, the light slid by tracing the dark outlines of pages, a rogue breeze rustled a few papers at their base. Vivi waits and watched the light gingerly scan over the wall, as if inspecting the labors of children. “Let’s keep moving,” she murmurs. “Stay low. There should be doors at the end of the hall.”

“At the end,” Arthur cues in. “Might be an office, or library, some sort of intersection? Dimitri, you know where you are?”

The boy nods, though the others can’t see it in the dark space below the window. “This is the Kinder side. The doors at the end here lead out to the playground. Heh, I feel like a criminal.”

“Sorry about that,” Vivi hums. “I wasn’t really thinking about how bad of a mess we can be in, if we get caught with you.”

“I told you!” Arthur ranted, throwing his arm up. “You never listen!” His metal arm made a dull thump when it came down, the glove he wore dampening its odd sounds.

“I take everything you say into consideration,” Vivi says, gently. “Besides, were not novices, we won’t get caught.” Arthur just growled to himself, muttering what sounded like ‘coats‘. “When we get outside, we’ll need to stick to the shadows and time when it’s clear. We can’t go back to the van right away. We have to be strategic about this.”

“You do this often?” Dimitri whispered.

Arthur muttered, growled something. “That’s… confidential.” Dimitri didn’t ask anymore after that.

The large doors were in an alcove, where the group could stand without too much concern of being seen from the road, as Arthur picked the lock. Once the doors were open, Dimitri cast a last glance to the hall. He’d never been in this section before, except under special occasions. He shook himself and turned to join the others in the brisk night.

It’s cold. Colder than the night before, the sky absolutely baron of the clouds from the evening past. Dimitri watches his breath fades in the air. The school had been shielded and heated from the night after hours ended, and now he missed it. He didn’t care if they got caught. As long as he could be warm for a bit longer; ride in a patrol car. But… his brother might be cold too. Wherever he was, he would be scared too, and there was no way of knowing if he was warm, safe, comfortable. They couldn’t stop, not when they were close. He could feel it this time.

“Give me the light.” Vivi took the torch from Dimitri and shut it off. “Stay close to Mystery, all right? And stay in the shadows.”

“I know how to sneak,” Dimitri grumbles. “Only idiots get spotted.” Arthur startles him when he begins coughing, and it’s hard to decide if he mucked up another off key comment or if the sharp air was hurting his throat.

Save for Mystery, who trots out and around to spot for on foot security, the group hugs the tall brick walls. They hike around the shielded side of the school, among thick shrubs and decorative cement barriers that align ramps, always in the presence of steps. The entire school was contained within walls, and any outside corridors cutting through were barred by tall metal gates. Refrozen ice from the night before glittered in tall standing lamps, its crusty surface crunched under foot. In some areas there was evidence of children’s play, snow angles and dark soil exposed where frost was scooped up.

“It’s really cold,” Dimitri chattered, as they passed by another corner. By then they had made it the edge of the football field, where they had crossed an hour earlier on their wild mission for references. Encircling the entirety of the field and school grounds was a chain-link fence and beyond that awaited the neighborhoods, a few homes visible with their bright friendly light glowing in window cutouts. He’d come past this corner many times with his friends in the past, when it was still safe to hike up to the school alone. He wondered if the disturbed ice was caused by kids that had been born in the town. “My teachers say it gets that way, ‘cause of the sky being cloudless. Something about clouds trapping heat.”

Arthur gripped his bad shoulder as he stepped around the corner. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Heat can’t escape, that’s why. It doesn’t make a lot of sense unless you know the science behind it, because it….” He let his voice trail off, and caught Vivi by the shoulder of her coat. “We should call it a night.”

Vivi turned to look at Arthur, as withdrew his arm to hold his shoulder. “Okay. I know, I know,” she said, voice misting. She reached her hands up tugging at the straps of her backpack, and then turned to where Dimitri was poised beside the wall, staring out. There was something she needed to tell Dimitri, something important, but the thought had dropped from her mind. Vivi sighed and touched her glasses. “Well… we can leave you off at your house for the night. How does that sound?” Wasn’t his father upset? “No-no. His father forgot.”

Dimitri glanced at Vivi. “I can’t go back,” he mutters. “I tried, but… I can’t. Not until…. Can we start looking? Now? Why can’t we start?” He stepped up to Vivi and stared at her. “Tonight? Looking? It’s so cold… my brother, what if he’s cold?”

Vivi draws back, and glances to Arthur. “We can’t,” she says. Arthur shrugs, and sticks his hands into his pockets. “We’re not ready, and it can be dangerous searching the woods, especially at night.”

Dimitri felt something in him tighten painfully. “When will you be ready? When will the time be right! I’m done waiting!” Mystery was sniffing around near them, but when Dimitri began screaming the dog raised his head and perked his ears. “Just show me where.”

“Just calm down.” Vivi hands over the flashlight and Dimitri, hesitant, takes it. The bulb is still warm, and he presses it to his cheek. “I have an idea where we’ll start, but in the morning when its warmer and we get some supplies.” She glances Arthur’s way when he flicks the lighter and raises the glimmering flame to his cigarette. “Just one more day. What— ” She cuts off when Dimitri wrenches out of her grip, the torch held beside him. Dimitri shakes his head vigorously.

“No. No-no-no, don’t you dare say it,” he snarls, voice low. “Don’t you dare say.”

Vivi takes another step in his direction, but stops and clasps her hands in front of her lap. “What if you just tried accepting that….”

“NO!” Dimitri’s voice echoes off the tall black wall and shoots across the vacant field. “I don’t CARE! what anyone says! I know my brother’s out there! Someone stole him, so he has to be SOMEWHERE! If you won’t— ” he has to stop, the tears constrict his throat and he‘s choking on the words, the memories. His little brother, gone from his bed. “Fuck it!” He thrusts the flashlight down, causing both Arthur and Vivi to jerk when it cracks against the frozen soil. Dimitri stifles a sob as he tears across the field.

Mystery stares the way Dimitri heads, and glances to his companions. He lowers one ear and tilts his head.

“Shit, that’s really done it.” Arthur sticks the cigarette between his lips and turns to Vivi. “I told you, right? This was a bad deal from the get go. Just… you should’ve waited.” He starts in the direction of Dimtiri’s fading form, halfway across the football field. Vivi doesn’t move, except to raise a hand to her eyes.

“You should go after them, Mystery.” Vivi turns and approaches the wall where Dimitri had been standing, and uses a hand to keep herself stationed and upright. “You know you should. Please. Go.”

Mystery turns away from Vivi, but dithers back. He doesn’t want to leave her, but Dimitri could just keep running from them, become lost from them for good. It wasn’t safe now. He gives his head a shake and cuts over the frost coated landscape, flurries shredded between his paws. Of course he couldn’t abandon the boy now. But Mystery almost feared most leaving Vivi alone for too long in her current state. Not this time. It would be all right. Not like… not like before.

His face hurt as he ran. Tears streaking, skin pummeled by the merciless frigid air, and his throat was full of cold needles. He ran until he felt like his lungs were bursting and his breath tasted salty, like blood gushed forth. Still he ran, ran away from it all. His problems, the things he couldn’t fix, the people that gave up on him. Flee his sorrow. But where was he to go? Would there be answers or more lies, hidden by kindness? How was he to tell friends from those that would fail him? He couldn’t do it anymore. One time he had fought, then he was running – nothing ever worked for him. Never!

A bark. Some stray out of nowhere, plowed right at his feet. Dimitri barely caught himself as he staggered, the dog had lunged in close but not directly under him, only startling close. It was enough to upset his balance and he toppled into the cold ice and grass of a lawn. He lay on his side a moment half crying and wheezing, he couldn’t wrestle control over his breathing, could only lament and be miserable.

Mystery stood nearby, his own breath misting from the exertion. He gave a low yip and padded forward to press his nose into Dimitri’s shoulder. Come on, get up. He blew warm breath on Dimitri’s ears and nuzzled his face.

“No! Get away!” Dimitri tried to swat at the mutt, but Mystery only came back and snagged his shoulder sleeve and growled. “I said go ‘way!” He shoved Mystery by his shoulders, and in the same motion Dimitri rolled upright onto his knees. “Stop! I mean it! I‘m not playing!”

Mystery tugged at his shoulder and maneuvered himself aside as Dimitri tried in vain to remove the dogs jaws with his hands. Mystery snorted and pulled harder, the hound accented his desires with more low snarls, gentle snarls that were not hostile but demanded attention. Dimitri stopped fighting and just stares as Mystery holds his sleeve. After a short while, Mystery released Dimitri’s coat and turns away. He took a few steps toward a bright slice of sidewalk and looked back, yellow spectacles glinting under the moonlight.

“They won’t help me,” Dimitri mumbled.

Mystery yipped. Oddly, the sound had a resonance akin to “come along, now.” But that would’ve been weird. It was just cold and Dimitri’s ears ached. With another bark, Mystery began to walk away. The dog paced a few yards from Dimitri, throwing his head back with another series of yelps and hoots, not like the sounds of a dog. He keeps this up, until Dimitri managed to his feet and plodded into the steady pace his escort set.

Dimitri stumbled a bit on the slick sidewalk as he followed, and worked to brush the glittery patches of cold from his coat. The coat Vivi had bought him. “I want my brother back.” Mystery whines. The fringes of moonbeams punch through the tall gnarled trees above, accenting his white fur with silver highlights and maroon flashes. “Dad didn’t like it.” Mystery slowed his pace and let Dimitri catch up to him. “I thought maybe that’s why he didn’t care. But I know he would, I know he would’ve. He’s not like that.” Dimitri rubbed away the icy tears drying to his cheeks. “He just doesn’t understand!” He caught himself on Mystery before he could fall again, then noticed the sidewalk that they were now on. “Where we going?”

The only answer was a dismissive gurgle as Mystery padded off, his pace picking up. Dimitri knew where they were, and he felt some small warmth return, a bit of hope restore itself. The van was ahead, parked in front of the empty lot overgrown with brown weeds and trees. He hadn’t thought about returning, hadn’t given a second thought to just waiting. He just… it was too much to think about, and tears edged at his eyes again. He didn’t know why, it didn’t help his current situation any small amount. He was still at square one.

Mystery trotted ahead to the vans back and began sniffing around the sides. “Is Lewis here?” Dimitri questions, as he stares up at the tall, imposing outline of the vehicle. The van had a sense of isolation, separate from the night. It seemed to devour the shadows, yet there were no trees near the road to cast shrouds of blues and blacks. “He should be back, shouldn’t he?” Dimitri hurried to the back door and knocked. “Lew?”

No answer. That didn’t come as a surprise, but it was disappointing.

“Is he around?” Dimitri asked, even as he knocked on the doors again; the hollow banging echoed within the metal walls. Even the resonance felt cut off from the outer environment. “Lew? Are you there? It’s me, Dimitri!” He tried the door handle and found it unlocked. “Mystery?” Dimitri pulled the door open and peered into the wall of black that hovered before them. “Hello?” Dimitri waited, listening and trying to perceive the impenetrable wall. He stepped aside when Mystery wriggled beside his leg and sprang up into the interior, the black hung low and soaked into Mystery’s white fur. “Is… someone there?”

Though Dimitri’s sight was limited, he could still make out that Mystery’s behavior was odd. The dog hesitates and listens carefully, ears aimed forward, focused on an unknown factor. Mystery sniffs at the air, then carefully, sets his raised paw, the one still bandaged, down. He moves further, deeper, into the dark gloom, fading out of sight.

Dimitri scrambles to climb up after the dog, but first manages to stumble sideways when his legs get tangled up in the thick blankets left along the wall. “Stupid,” the boy mutters, as he uses a ledge or something to push himself back up. “Lewis?” The air inside the van is ten times worse than the open air, so cold it penetrated his coat and nearly burned his skin. Dimitri shudders and begins to feel along the wall. He knows they had a few flashlights hidden around, but he never paid attention to where the spares were kept. Some light would help. “Mystery? Where’d you go?” His voice cracked. The dog was nowhere, he couldn’t even detect where Mystery might be and Dimitri worried he’d wind up falling on top of him. He tries whistling. “Mystery puppy. C’mere. This is no time to hide.”

Something in the dark swatted at him, and Dimitri gave a little cry as he fought it off. He was nearly to the point of hysteric shouts, before he was backed away from the slumping curtain. He laughed a little, uneasy and shaken. “I forgot about that.” He stands motionless staring now at the blanket half hanging from the ceiling. The gravity of his situation coiled about his mind. No one was in the van, he was alone. Lewis had not been here at all.

A small bark was given by Mystery, prompting Dimitri to locate the dog over at the back doors? Fresh light from the moon slipped unrestrained through the interior of the van, but the details were still hazy and crudely molded. Some bags and supplies were stacked on one side of the van, blankets piled by the other wall. At the doors stood Mystery’s bright outline, he barked into the night with some little urgency and the little spot of his tail wagged cheerily.

“Is someone out there? Lewis?” Dimitri asked. He raced across the floor and darted out, past Mystery as he slipped aside.

Dimitri took a few steps out onto the road, and Mystery waited until he began to inspect his surroundings for any indication of a friendly face. Mystery padded away from the door, and took a hold of the blankets rumpled across the floor. Dimitri was still calling out into the night with some rising desperation, while Mystery worked to uncover the dark shape sculpted in the shadows. He moves around the side and holds his head back, high, in part scrutinizing the dark container, and a small trace of reluctance in his demeanor.

For Dimitri.

Mystery expels a misty whine, and begins pawing at the edge of the box, timidly, as if dipping his toes into thick paints.

There was no one outside. At least, not from what Dimitri could see. Maybe there was someone, the same person that stole children. He gulped down another hiccup, but felt his face twisting with the sickness of sorrow. They could be watching him right now, aware that he knew too much. He must be silenced. No one would know, he would soon be forgotten – for real this time. The people he once loved, believed in, none of them would care. Mystery wouldn’t leave him to danger, but Mystery wasn’t with him right now. What if the dog was trying to warn him, and Dimitri completely missed it?

He felt an illness twist in his guts, rooted by too much of stress and sorrow, and no remedies. It scooped up his insides and ripped them all out, his heart and soul. No one would help. No one could understand. He was alone.

“I just wanted my brother back.” Dimitri squatted down and wrapped his arms tightly around his legs and shook, he tried to bury it in his chest but it lurched free. Pain and guilt, serials murderers of hope and dreams. “Give him back. Please.” His hands and nose ached, his fingers were numb. Everything was cold and sharp on his nerves. He didn’t care if he fell asleep here and never woke up, or if a speeding car were to careen by. Anything would be better than the punishment of being forgotten. “I loved him. I swear I did. He looked up to me, I was important….”

“Dimitri?” a voice called. “What’re doing here?”

The odd scratchiness made it tricky to identify, but Dimitri knew the tone of that voice. He tried to uncoil and stand all at once, and instead fell onto his side as he twisted around on the icy road. “Lewis!”

“Y-yeah,” said the figure, slipping out of the van. He was zipping up his coat and teetering on his feet, looking away, around. “Right… quick question.” He adjusted his voice, working through the hoarseness. Lewis gave the area a brief scan then turned back to Dimitri, raising a hand to his face. “Where… are we?” He recoiled when Dimitri gave a shrill cry and lunged at him. Lewis put his arms out to catch the boy, but Dimitri flew right through his palms and wrapped himself around Lewis’ legs.

“I want my brother! I want to look for my brother!” screamed the boy.

“Qué pasa en el mundo? Que… what’s wrong?” Lewis couldn’t pry Dimitri free, and he wasn’t going to try. “Talk to me, Dimitri. Where are the others?”

“They won’t help me look!” Dimitri tightened his arms around Lewis, his last lifeline. “Vivi. She was… she was gonna say it. My brother’s not dead. My brother’s not dead! He’s just missing!” Dimitri buried his face into Lewis’ leg, and began to quiet when Lewis set his hands on his back. “He’s not. You believe me. Don’t you?” he mumbled.

Lewis would’ve sighed if he could. He didn’t understand anything; this conversation Dimitri had with Vivi, or where Vivi was for that matter. It was too surreal, too sudden, he wasn’t ready for this. There was just Mystery as a guide, but Mystery was in distress too, as much as the dog would allow Lewis to take from.

“Lew. Your glasses.” Lewis jerked his head up, and found Arthur placed not far from him. As if to emphasize the point, Arthur raised a hand to his face.

And Arthur was smoking.

“I didn’t,” Lewis began, and rephrased his sentence. He wanted to move away, get away from Arthur, but something was… off. Very off. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Uh huh.” Arthur took another draw from the white stick, and slanted his eyes a bit. “Vi and I were gonna call it a night… uh, Dimitri. Aren’t you tired?” He leaned a little over, towards the boy. Dimitri just mumbled and whimpered into Lewis’ leg.

“Where’s Vivi?” Lewis inquired. To his side, Mystery poked his head out from the interior of the van and fixed on Arthur.

“Well, she didn’t want to run,” Arthur reasoned. “Is the van still cold?” He stepped a little closer to Lewis as he puffed at his cigarette.

The sensation was unsettling. It was Arthur in every aspect, but parts of him were shut off. His usual writhing aura of indecision, doubt, was diluted with something unfamiliar. There was no mediating presence, only a null absorbing warmth and drive, persona defined. Lewis was struggling to reach out and understand the coldness, the vague indifference, but it was impossible to grasp. And for Lewis, he didn’t want to realize it.

“Dimitri,” Lewis says. “Go find me a big stick. Real quick.”

“What? Why?” He loosens his hold and tries to look up at Lewis, but Lewis moves out of his way, leaving only a hand on his shoulder as he swings around and towards Arthur.

“It’s got them too,” Lewis supplies. “We’re gonna knock some sense into Arthur.” At that comment, a little squeal spills from the boy and he races off. Mystery lunges out of the van and follows, yipping.

That little cry almost startled Lewis, it was a amost too happy for comfort. He’s brought back to place and time, when Arthur exhales a mouthful of mist and smoke. Lewis glides back and settles. “Arthur,” he hisses.

“I’m trying to… fix this,” the lean figure mutters. “It’s complicated, ah. I told you guys we shouldn’t have come. I told you! Didn’t I?” He shakes his head and brings the cigarette back to his lips. He’s not watching Lewis. “‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Let’s try something else.’ No one ever listens to me!”

“That’s… not true,” Lewis says. He takes a step back, out of Arthur’s range. “I can’t reason with you like this.” It didn’t suit Lewis to be timid, but he was frazzled from his dormancy. Time was needed to refocus, dampen his sensory, the pitch of the colors swirling, but answers! He wanted answers and Arthur… Arthur was the last person Lewis could ask. Rather pursue the ghost, Arthur moved away towards the open back of the van. Lewis slung forward and jerked Arthur back by grabbing at the compromised shoulder. “You need to talk to me.”

Arthur staggers away, one arm latched at his bad shoulder. “That doesn’t always work. Does it?” When Lewis moves forward to pull him back, Arthur exhales a cloud of smoke. Some of its ash, most of its breath, but it nips at Lewis like static. Interference. “I don‘t know how to approach you.”

“Arthur.”

“Seem like every time I wake up, there’s you.” Arthur gestured with his arms, and glowers at Lewis. The ghost doesn’t rebuke the comment. “I hate the dark, I hate sleeping… ‘coz your always there.”

“Art.”

“Even before you made that spook fun house! You were there! You never left me! You just… won’t get out of my head.” Arthur moves to the doors but stops. Lewis hasn’t budged from where he stands, biding time. Arthur brings the cigarette to his lips. When he exhales, that’s when Lewis will move. “Shouldn’t you be concerned about Vivi?” Arthur coughed on the smoke as he spoke, “I just kind of left her— ” The sentence ends when Lewis dives forward, grabbing the smaller figure by the shoulders. Arthur gags as he’s shoved onto the floorboard of the van, and held there as Lewis reaches off to the side for the backpacks.

“You were probably going for a Dispel,” Lewis says, as he works to get a bag open. “But I can’t trust you, not the way you are. You don’t know what you’re doing.” If he couldn’t get a bag open he had to find something in the cuvees, but he wasn’t sure of what to use.

“DAH! Yu!” Arthur flops wildly to loosen the hold, but Lewis only tightens his grip and keeps Arthur pinned down. An intelligible set of squabbles spills from Arthur’s throat as he fumbles around for something, a weapon.

A piece of paper, rolled up. Arthur knew what the sheet was, if he could manage he always kept one nearby. Vivi had given it to him and he suspected it might have been a placebo, but he was willing to try anything. Arthur’s hands were left free, and Lewis was distracted with fumbling through the supplies. With one swipe Arthur had uncoiled the script page and pressed it onto Lewis’ arm. “Spirit! Release me.” He wanted to laugh at how absurd the phrase sounded, and he was saying it to Lewis. The laugh came out with a maniacal peel as Arthur took a breath through the harsh cold air, smoke still curling in his lungs.

Lewis gave a high pitched shriek and withdrew a fraction from the sheet of paper. In the confusion, Arthur managed to get himself right side up and held the page out before him, but the words he intended to speak got lost when he saw the skull and the bright eyes blazing back at him. Arthur barked a curse right as Lewis grabbed him by the throat and shoved him into the opposite wall of the van. Arthur can smell burning, carpet or plastic, he sees flames seeping up along Lewis’ suit collar and broad shoulders.

“I don’t want your tears, or your apology!”

Arthur winces, and kicks out against Lewis’ stomach but the ghost can’t feel it. “Lew’s,” he rasped. Heat, fire twisting in his skin, up his bad arm, spilling through his nightmares. “Don’t! LU-wus!” He feels his throat compressing to a dangerous amount and darkness begins creeping behind his eyes. “No! NO! WHY?!” Arthur panics and claws at the jacket sleeve, fights to rip away and reclaim consciousness, but the hands are locked to his throat and those ‘eyes’ burn into his own as if they are sipping at his soul. “Don’t keH -eh. –Mm beg… Don… Lews, lis- Listehhn….” Arthur voice becomes garbled, butchered. “Lis-sEN. Wak— Don’t do -iss. Is eee…..” It reaches the point where Arthur feels his neck is ready to snap in two. His grip jerks feebly at Lewis sleeve one final time, then his hands go limp.

“If only… if only….” Lewis echoes, to himself. “If only…? Can’t turn back time.” Lewis’ eye sockets flare briefly, and the embers along his back diminish. “Art? Artie!” His hands spring open and Arthur slumps across the floor with a heavy Thump. “Oh Dios! Art. Di algo. Yo no podía tener. Nunca lo haría…a ti…” Arthur doesn’t move, and he’s not breathing. “No… no. Como podria? Art! C’mon! Don’t do this!” Lewis isn’t sure what to do, physically what he could do. He can only think of the time his little sister had been choking, and what his Mamma had done. “You won’t…. I won’t let you!” He flips the unconscious figure onto his back and tilts Arthur’s head up, then hesitates. His hands hover over Arthur’s chest briefly, before he shoves down. Not the rib cage, that’s a fatal mistake many make. Just beneath, in the diaphragm area. That was what his Mamma taught him.

“Art, please.” If he’s not careful, if he gets carried away, Lewis could easily break Arthur’s body. “Come back. Damnit! Open your eyes! Breathe!” He adjusts Arthur’s head and touches his throat. He can’t detect breaks, there’s no reason he shouldn’t be breathing. “Arthur!” He compresses the center of Arthur’s chest once, twice— then a breath! Arthur sputters and coughs, his eyes snap open and he sees Lewis hovering over him, hands open.

“Geh… get away from me!” Arthur throws himself back into the wall and slips away, hands pawing behind him for balance, security. He tries to take another breath and buckles forward, groaning and holds his neck. “Juz… why?”

“I… I didn’t mean to,” Lewis rattles, voice a mess of static and scratching. “You wouldn’t, and… are you okay now?” He shifts the bright embers in his skull onto Arthur, as the other retreats slowly along the wall. “Are you….” He hesitates as Arthur stares at him, eyes muddled, unfocused, and full of fear. “Are you— there?”

Arthur holds his stare unblinking, eyes watering, throat aflame. His expression intermixed with…. “What about you?” he whispers, voice broken. “Are you… why did you do that? Why?” He whimpers as another gasp agitates his wounded throat, and massages his neck. “Did you want to? Why?”

Lewis shifts where he’s perched, sinking a bit into the floorboard. He looks aside where a small yellow flame burns on the short carpet. Where the cigarette had fallen. It’s the cigarette he knows, but it could have as easily been him. It’s not though, but even the certainty feels like a lie. “You… hurt me.” He snuffs the flame out with his hand. “I couldn’t brea— snap you out of it.”

Arthur opened his mouth, but cut off when Dimitri’s voice flew through, muffled by the thick walls of the van. “He’s here? Gawd. It‘s… fuzzy. Nothing’s making sense.” He hangs over his knees and holds his head, rocking slightly side to side. “What happened? I can’t remember why I came….” Lewis drifts forward reaching for Arthur, but the crumpled figure recoils, eyes wide. Lewis keeps his distance.

From outside, Dimitri’s voice was getting louder, more urgent when he realizes Lewis and Arthur are missing. Mystery begins barking. Thankfully the mutt had ducked out, Arthur didn’t want to think what Mystery might’ve done. It was in the past though, he kept telling himself that. Arthur was rocking again, arms bundled around his neck and holding his shoulder.

“D-Dimitri,” Lewis voice crackled, and faded out like a bad radio signal. His skull became transparent as he glides to the vans front. “He… he can’t see me like this.”

Arthur hobbles away on his hand and knee, he waves a hand back at Lewis. “I got him. I-I’ll….fuh.” He hangs on the open door of the van, leaning far over when Dimitri rounded the side of the van.

“Arthur! You’re okay?” Dimitri wobbled when Mystery ran by and bumped into his leg. “I was supposed to find a big stick, but I couldn’t find any big enough.” Dimitri rubbed at his eyes, and put an arm over Mystery.

“A big stick?” Arthur echoed. “That doesn’t sound very PG.” He winced, and pressed his metal hand to his head. The joint connector in his shoulder ached in the cold, but at least it was good for something. “I’m confused, can you tell me something? Where are we?” He edged forward on the bumper and scanned over the presented neighborhood, of what was visible at the edges of the frost coated lawns, glistening in the moons light. “This isn’t your neighborhood.”

At first Dimitri said nothing and only stares up at Arthur’s numb gaze, revaluating time and setting. “Vivi said my brother could be dead.”

Arthur leaned away to hack dryly into his shoulder and took a moment to gather himself. Dimitri could see red in Arthur’s eyes as he turned his face back. “Wha? No, she’d never.” Then Arthur went quiet and sank deeper over his knees like a melting candle. He sat that way motionless for a long time, Mystery whining all the while as Arthur gathered himself. A few times Arthur would twitch as if… coughing, and shuddered at the cold. Finally, he raised his body and said, “No. She wouldn’t… say that. We don’t know anything, and she would never have said such a thing. Never. Ever.” Arthur paused to clear the tightness in his throat, and coughed a bit more. He pulled himself up and looked at Dimitri. “Do you believe me?”

Dimitri didn’t respond. He only stepped back and looked to the dog under his arm.

The driver side door creaked open. “What I got so far,” Lewis began. He pushed the sunglasses a little closer to his eyes, he carried one of the backpacks. “Something’s gone wrong. And Vivi’s where?” Lewis handed a backpack to Dimitri, but kept his distance from Arthur as the folded figure watched him. A sort of tension was at work between the two, and Dimitri couldn’t read it. He only knew to stay away from it.

“We left her at the school,” Arthur explained. He took the bag from Dimitri and fumbled with the straps, he couldn’t figure out how to get the top open and gave up. “I thought, I think, I guess…. We left her at the school, and I was worried about Dimitri. That was on my mind last.” He pressed his cold palm to his eyes. His head ached.

Mystery adds a firm bark. He was at fault too. But it couldn’t be helped now.

Of course Vivi was not at the school. Arthur and Lewis searched over the grounds and around the buildings side calling, searching for their team leader. To no avail she was not there, but if she were she may have not wanted to be found. There were only a few tracks in the frost layer that could be hers among the many shallow prints. Arthur reclaimed his cracked flashlight, but that was the extent of the searches accomplishments.

While the bipedal members searched, Mystery narrowed down the confusion of interwoven scents left on the ice. Though the water and icy air pricking at his sensitive nose made tracking difficult, he did manage to pick up on Vivi.

The trail leading towards the gate out of the field.

“I think Mystery’s found her scent,” Arthur called. The dog’s movement was slow, frustratingly so. “This is going to take too long.”

Mystery snuffed at that comment. His toes were numb and the bandage on his paw was filthy, but he did try to hurry up the pace. Arthur followed as the hound led along the chain link fence, towards an open gate facing the road. The open floor of the gate that connected the field and the sidewalk was filled with the scratch marks made in the icy mud by dozens of feet, school children and visitors alike throughout the day. It would have been easier to track Vivi if it had actually snowed.

“Mystery can maybe track up the road,” Arthur says, when Lewis and Dimitri catch up from across the field. He shudders and rubs at his flesh arm, though it didn’t help. “But we’re gonna have to get in the van and crank up the heat.”

Lewis checked on the smaller boy that shadowed them. Despite his coat, Dimitri still had his arms plastered around his sides and his breath showed in thin lines, but the boy appeared bright eyed and alert. “You can drop him off at the motel room, and Mystery and I will keep searching.”

“No,” Dimitri snapped. He stopped in his tracks and glowers up at Lewis and Arthur when they turn to him. “I wanna make sure Vivi’s okay too.”

“It’s super cold,” Arthur chattered, rubbing at his shoulders. “You’re gonna catch pneumonia. I’m not kidding this is serious, you can die! We’re thinking about your wellbeing, D.”

“Then stick me in the van with the heater, and your guy’s blankets,” Dimitri reasoned. He looked Lewis’ way, as Lewis adjusted his sunglasses and moved his sight to the road. “It’d take too much time for you to drive back here, then figure out where you left off.” Another idea comes to his head. A slim chance, it was farfetched but Dimitri was willing to try anything. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep this night, not until he had some answers. “What about we try that place where some of missing kids were last seen? The Prime Rose district?”

“It’s a rumor,” Arthur explains. He stepped aside, a little away from Lewis when the taller figure looked at him. “Witnesses thought they saw some kids in that area, before they disappeared.” Mystery stopped beyond the chain link fence on the sidewalk, and turned to look at Arthur. Lewis and Dimitri followed the dog, but Arthur remained beside the gate. “If they are under the influence, should we really trust what’s been put in the reports?”

Lewis looked from Arthur, to Dimitri and Mystery’s expectant gazes. “You weren’t… lying, either?” he said, slowly. “It only alters the way people think, how they react.” It was difficult to explain what he picked up from Arthur. Lewis moved away from the group and beckoned them with an arm as he walked down the sidewalk away from Mystery, to where Arthur left the van. “If she hasn’t gone far, then we’ll see her on the way.”

As the hour got later the streets became deserted, with the curfew in full effect the stray car was a spontaneous appearance. Lewis did note that most were law enforcement out on patrol, but he tended to agree with Dimitri that they were worthless. The Prime Rose district was a few miles across the town, through smaller neighborhoods and the shopping/fast-food plazas; but no sign of Vivi. She was on foot, but they only cruised methodically along the roads always straining to peer through the dull haze of night. The fractured light contrasted every dark space in home and lawn, but never indication of a dark shadow skittering about.

“I’m sorry I ran away,” Dimitri mumbled. He clutched Mystery to his chest, the folds of the blanket draped over his shoulders slumped around him and the dog. “If I hadn’t… I should’ve known something wasn’t right. You hadn’t….” He pressed his face into Mystery’s neck, and mumbled.

“You couldn’t have known. You were upset,” Lewis assured. He gave Dimitri’s head a little pat, then returned his focus to the passenger side window, searching through the sidewalks and brush. “We’ll find Vivi, no problem. Don’t fret, hermanito.” Lewis was still worried, but he’d hide it.

As the van took another turn, Arthur leaned far over in his seat to peer out the driver window and check any spaces in the lawns he might’ve missed. “What do we do if we can’t find her?” he ponders aloud, and shifts his eyes back to Lewis. “Not that I’m doubting, well… I dunno if we will, this towns not big but—”

“You take Dimitri back to the motel, and I’ll keep searching,” Lewis rasped. “But it’s too cold for her to be out.”

“I’m not going back to the motel,” Dimitri urged again. “You guys are hopeless without me around.”

Lewis was about to contend with that assumption, but the van jarred to a near halt. They were still moving if barely, and Arthur had leaned hard onto the steering wheel with his eyes fixed on something beyond the hood. Lewis caught his spike of excite the instant before Arthur spat, “Found her. There!”

“I need to borrow your bag for a second.” He snatched the backpack away from Arthur’s side, and sprang out the passenger side door. “Wait here,” he called, before slamming the door on the sudden swell of frigid air.

They had arrived on the road beside the Prime District, the park on the edge of the town. It wasn’t a large park, but it was up against the edge of the woods with a brick wall that stood around the freshly trimmed landscape and the wild grove beyond. A stone path cut through the lawn, leading to a gazeebo built on one side of the park. The base was white stone, and contrasted with the dark shade of a figure standing among the shimmering white frost, back presented to Lewis.

As Lewis neared Vivi, he slowed his stride cautious if she could anticipate his appearance or of what to expect. She still had a backpack, he saw. If she did not appreciate his interference, Lewis would not fight. “Vivi?”

She edged around to check the voice. “LewLew, you’re up,” she hummed. “Were you just stunned?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, and cut the distance between them by two strides. No sudden movements; smooth, gliding motion. “What’re looking at?” Lewis kept track of the dark figure he was now near, but shifts his attention beyond her and sought out across the park. “Is that…?”

“I thought about what Dimitri said, and it made sense,” she spoke. She leaned on the edge of the gazeebos wall and watched the small figure wandering across day old frost, the graceful steps almost like a dance. “There was something else… but I can’t remember. I try.”

“Are you following her?” he asked. Lewis felt cold, legitimately cold to the core. The girl couldn’t be more than six, and she was out here in pajamas and no shoes.

“I’m thinking some kind of nymph or sprite. If they call children out to the woods, then it spirits them away… or something like that. It has a hold of— What are you doing?” Vivi spun around when Lewis set down the backpack, and moved the last few feet toward her. Lewis unzipped the top of his jacket. “Lew?”

“Here.” Lewis reached a hand into his coat and brought forth the heart locket. Vivi was backing away from the gazeebo and toward the open landscape, but Lewis swept a hand out and caught her around the backside. “Listen to my voice. Focus…” he said, as he opened his hand to allow the glimmering locket to hover freely above Vivi. Lewis brought his hand down and gently lay his fingers over her brow. “And come back to me. I know you’re still there. Romper el atascamiento que engaña a su mente.” He lightly touched Vivi’s eyes and raised his hand back. “Preservarlo que honra a nuestro contrato.”

Translucent flames coughed out at his jacket sleeve as he drew his hand back and tightened his fist, as if drawing a thread from the bluenettes mind. His appearance lost solidity, skull flashed through the illusion, bleached bone and eyes baleful in the blue moonlight. Lewis maintains the illusion with good effort and stares over the rim of his sunglasses, at Vivi’s shimmering eyes. “No… Vi. Too far.” The clenched fist quivers, the embers in his eyes sockets smolder, brighten. “Not there…. Don’t look, Vi.” Lewis snaps his hand out catching the suspended locket and brought it to his chest. “I can’t… let…..” Lewis’ eye sockets go dark behind the thick shades he hides behind. He lowers his head and tightens his hold on the locket at his chest. Everything is dark and cold again. Lost.

Vivi goes limp, her eyes flutter shut as she falls back supported only by Lewis’ hand. It took a second for her to get her bearings and come to. “Lew… Lewis?” she says. Lewis doesn’t answer, but flinches at her voice and cradles the softly pulsing heart at his chest. “What have you done?” she whispers.

“Nothing.” Only then did Lewis raise his face to meet her gaze. “I took a risk. Do you…?” He couldn’t ask. If he asked, it might trigger something. He couldn’t hurt her, never. “What you were doing last?” He eased Vivi onto her feet, but kept a hand on her shoulder in case she needed support.

Vivi raised a hand to her head. “What… am I doing?” she murmured. Vivi noted Lewis adjusting his jacket, and quickly concealing his locket.

“Can you tell me… why you’re here?” Lewis stooped to lift up the bag. He looked past Vivi, seeking the area the girl had wandered off into. They needed to follow, get her back.

“Harvest moon.” To Lewis perplexed stare, she repeated. “Harvest moon. That’s what I looked up. The disappearances correlate with a Harvest moon, not every month but…. That’s the pattern. I was getting close—” She stopped when the rough pants and heavy foots falls crunched through the frost, suddenly upon them. “Art!”

Arthur was panting, though the distance he sprinted across the park was relatively short. He skids to a halt a few feet away from the two, his rapid breath coming in a thick mist startled Lewis back a fraction from Vivi. “I thought that,” Arthur stammered, eyes darting between Vivi and Lewis. “Is she okay?”

“Of course she’s okay!” Lewis hissed. He couldn’t blame Arthur, but his interruption was ill timed. He wasn’t up to this.

Vivi darted forward grabbing Lewis’ arm, and caught Arthur by his good shoulder. “No time to explain,” she says, and pushes Arthur away. “Where’s Dimitri?”

“Left in the van?” Lewis presumed, answered.

“Mystery’s with him?” To Vivi’s question Arthur nods; for the brief time was too stunned to speak, pulling feverishly at Vivi’s grip. She hadn’t noticed. Vivi pulls down her backpack and slips out the laptop, Arthur takes it when she pushes it into his hands and she points toward the awaiting van on the road, engine still idling in its rhythmic whirr. “We’ll have to leave him. Mystery will know what to do. Go tell him.” She pushed Arthur away, and he took off running. “Grab the flashlights and some batteries!” Once Arthur was on his way, Vivi slung her backpack onto her shoulders and removed her hand from Lewis arm. She stepped toward the brick wall at the backside of the park, pressing her hands together as she took deep breaths, white mist flashed at her lips. “I remember…” she began, hands fidgeting into an awkward clasp. “I came here to wait. I know I was watching, I knew what would happen and I did nothing.”

Lewis followed after Vivi and caught shoulders, he spun her to face him. “We’ll make this right,” he hummed. “We’ll find them. We’ll figure this out.”

“It’s not right,” she murmured. Vivi pulled her hands to her chest, and Lewis wrapped her up in his arms. “We were off guard. Lewis… Lew. Did you do something…? To me?”

“No. I would never,” he said, voice wispy. “I had to… dissolve its hold on you. It was a tricky, pulling you away. I couldn’t…I don’t want to lose you again, like that.”

“You wouldn’t lose me,” she said. Vivi wrapped her arms up around his chest and held him. The jacket felt frayed and worn, brittle around his tenuous shape. Air seemed to go right through Lewis, as if he absorbed the ice under his boots and amplified the sensation. That wasn’t right. “Lew,” Vivi began. “Are you—?”

“Arth’us gonna be back,” he said, and tightened his arms around her one more time before he let go and moved away. “She was barefoot. The little girl. I’m worried.” Vivi didn’t respond, she only looped her arms around her chest.

The idling roll of the engine cut off, and a short time after a streak of yellow light was zipping across the silver field. Once Arthur caught up, Lewis and Vivi hurried the remainder of the way to the brick wall. It wasn’t a tall wall, just a wall built to segregate nature from order. The ground beyond it was soft and earthy, coated in leaves and full of brittle mulch dusted with glitter. The high tangle of the tree canopy blotted out much of the moonlight in thick clumps above, mostly due to the overgrown bundles of vines that wrapped about and crisscrossed all throughout the branches. There were large spaces in the coppices where one tree had fallen and the sky drenched the earth in blue-silver.

“We almost don’t need the flashlight,” Arthur commented, as Vivi clicked hers on. He didn’t like being out the way they were, without Mystery. And it was cold. It was curcial to find the kid and get her back asap, but it was very-very-VERY cold. “Some tracks,” he muttered, turning his torch down. “Here, and here.” The ground had a shallow coating of the frost, and in the small wood clearing they moved through, the disturbance on the white cover was most noticeable with the contrast of dark soil. “Looks fresh. Not an animal. Too cold anyway.” He checked Lewis as the ghost drifts over, the figure suspended a full three feet above the earth. When Lewis is too close, Arthur elects to continue on his own and follow the trail. “Small tracks,” he mutters, as he moves. He tucks himself down under his backpack, seeking some small shelter from the lazy breeze probing through the trees.

Vivi caught up with Lewis and knelt near him, touching the edges of the dirt clumps. She brought a hand to her mouth in silent anguish as she stood, and Lewis began to reach a hand out for her. But Vivi darted away, following the path Arthur was on. “We should be able to catch up with her.”

Lewis drifts sideways watching her go. Vivi may have doubted him. Or, Lewis feared to dwell if he had not done right? There had to have been another way, but he had panicked. He did that. Later he would ask, but if it involved her memories… he couldn’t bear that teetering around that subject.

The trail was uphill, a mild ascent and no great difficultly for the surviving members. Progress was slow going, as they managed the trail and picked over the visible marks in the soil, carefully discerning the path before moving on it. They couldn’t afford to get lost. Lewis drifted ahead, able to identify easily where soil was disturbed without spoiling the delicate crust layer himself.

“How is it kids move so fast when you’re not watching them?” Arthur grumbled, at one point. He kept close to Vivi’s side, his torch flashing with a faulty bulb whenever he let his movements become too erratic. “It didn’t take me that long to gather the supplies.”

“Idunno,” Lewis responds. He tipped forward, checking the texture of loosened earth scattered on a patch of ice. “The pacing looks like she was running. He swung himself upright, and skimmed beneath the canopy with his ember eyes as he glides, low. The assumption made his bones clatter, but he could…. theoretically. Nothing was stopping him, nothing physical anyway. But… somehow he couldn’t bring himself to move on the whim. Terrible. Ghastly! The only factor holding him back was his irrational fear. What if it was his own sister? What then? He would just… hover, down here, and never take the incentive. How could he—

Lewis jarred when a hand touched his arm. A few wisps of fire popped off his neck and hair as Vivi mirrored his jarred movement, with a cringe of her own. Arthur was ahead for once; the cold made him anxious, impulsive, maybe impulsive. It wasn’t fair.

“Hey,” Vivi said, softly. She tugged on his jacket sleeve, gathering Lewis’ attention. “We’re making good time. It’ll be okay.” She held his stare for a short time. She was too understanding at times. She squeezed his sleeve a little tighter. “You’ll see.” Then, Vivi ducked off on the path becoming steadily clearer before them.

That didn’t help. If anything, it made Lewis feel worse. She shouldn’t sympathize, shouldn’t understand this ‘complication’ of his. There was no reason he couldn’t go find that girl, cold, lost somewhere in these woods. No reason. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to take the initiative. It was like he was tied to the earth and it wasn’t fair, not to her. He had no limitations, they were stolen from him, all of them. He had no excuses.

Lewis glides onward, carefully sifting through the marks in the soil. Hoping beyond rational that somehow in their delayed, lost search; somehow, they would catch up with the forests next victim before they found the culprit.

#msa #mystery skulls animated #mystery skulls fanfiction #msa fanfiction #msa mystery #msa lewis #msa arthur #msa vivi #mystery skulls ghost #ghost fanfiction

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pikapeppa · 5 years

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Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: Reckless, Part I

Chapter 38 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) is up on AO3! ~8900 words; read on AO3 instead.

This is part 1 of What Pride Has Wrought – i.e. heading into the Arbour Wilds and listening to Morrigan and Solas snipe at each other, LOL. I have never done this mission without bringing Solas along because having him there is just everything.

*******************

In the years they’ve been together, Fenris has heard Hawke breathing in a multitude of ways.

He has heard her gasp of surprise before exploding into a sunny laugh when he unexpectedly pinched her waist. He has heard the sharp intake of her hiss of pain, and he has heard the slow and peaceful rhythm of her slumber. He has listened to the panting of her pleasure as he traced the shapes between her legs with his tongue, and he has savoured the lazy whisper of her loving words against his ear.

For years, Hawke’s steady breath has been as constant and unwavering as the air that moved through Fenris’s own lungs. But the breath she took in the Vir’Abelasan…

It was the sort of breath you take before a plunge. The last desperate breath before sinking feet-first into a dark and unknowable pool. And it was this breath that nearly stopped his heart.

******

Hawke’s wide-eyed gaze darted around the forest as they strode along the twisting moss-and-fern-lined path. “It’s rather beautiful here, isn’t it? It’s nice and warm too, like in Skyhold.” She squeezed Fenris’s arm. “Hey, sometime when this forest isn’t full of red Templars and explosions, we should come here on a holiday.”

Fenris glanced around briefly. The Arbour Wilds were nice, as far as forests went; it was as though the verdant lushness of the Emerald Graves was heightened even further to a nearly unreal shade of green. Huge red-and-gold plates of funghi bloomed from the ground and the trees in scalloped ridges, and large polychromatic birds took to the air in a flurry of colour and noise as Fenris and his companions jogged toward the Temple of Mythal.

Morrigan huffed in disdain. “This is hardly a place for idle travels,” she said to Hawke. “This is ancient ground, mired in the secrets of old and thrumming with magic. I am surprised you cannot feel it.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes at her thinly-veiled smugness, but Hawke just laughed. “Honestly, Morrigan, I’m so busy trying to not trip over tree roots here that I can barely feel a thing.”

Varric snorted. “You’re tripping over tree roots? Think about how I feel.”

Fenris shot Varric a tiny smirk. He was indeed having to lift his shorter legs higher to get over the largest tree roots, some of which were as thick around as Hawke’s waist.

“Should I carry you on my shoulders, dwarf?” Fenris teased.

Varric chuckled. “Appreciate the offer, but I’m good.”

Dorian glanced at Morrigan. “I hope you’re right about the temple being intact. I could use a building or two.”

Morrigan shot him a supercilious glance. “Do the woods discomfort you, Pavus?”

“It’s mostly the people trying to cut our heads off that manage that,” Dorian retorted.

Hawke chuckled. “Oh Dorian, don’t fret. No one faults you for being an ‘indoors’ sort of boy.”

Dorian tutted. “Hawke, I resent that. You make me sound like some sort of spoiled housecat, when I’m obviously a fierce and elegant tiger.”

“A fierce and elegant tiger that requires silk cushions and a satin throw in his reading nook,” Solas said mildly.

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Now Solas, don’t be jealous. Nobody said that you couldn’t have silk cushions and a satin throw as well.”

Hawke laughed, and even Morrigan smirked. Varric sidled up to Fenris and elbowed his hip. “This is just like old times, huh? You, me, and a handful of mages.”

Fenris huffed. “As long as no one springs a surprise explosion on me without my knowledge, we will be all right.”

“So if you know about it first, it’s not a problem?” Varric said slyly.

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “This had better not be your way of saying you have arranged for a surprise explosion.”

“Nah,” Varric said casually. “I left that to Sera.” He jerked his chin at the path ahead. “Red Templars at your two o’clock.”

Sure enough, the path ahead was littered with Inquisition and Orlesian forces fighting against a squad of Corypheus’s men, and Fenris’s amusement instantly segued into a battle-ready focus.

Hawke and the others slowed, and Hawke looked at him. “Are we ready?” she said.

Fenris nodded. They had already decided on strategy before leaving the Inquisition’s base camp: Dorian, Morrigan and Solas would focus on controlling the long-range enemies while Fenris and Varric tackled the most brutish foes, and Hawke would focus primarily on protecting and healing the group, with Dorian’s backup for barriers as needed.

Fenris squeezed Hawke’s hand. “Be–”

“–careful, I know,” she said softly. She released him and pulled her staff from her back, then nodded briskly.

He nodded in return, then clenched his glowing left fist. With the usual faint ripple of discomfort, his lyrium marks burst into life, and the comforting buzz of Hawke’s barrier settled over him at the same moment. Thus prepared for battle, Fenris hefted his battleaxe and phased toward his nearest foe.

It was a Red Templar who was advancing on an Inquisition archer. Fenris blasted a hole the size of his head through the Red Templar’s chest, then hurled the Templar’s vivisected heart at another nearby enemy. The bloodied organ hit the enemy square in the face, distracting him before he was felled by two of Varric’s bolts.

All around them, blasts of fire and ice and lightning were pelting down in a flurry of precise magical attacks. With the help from the Inquisition and Orlesian soldiers, the Red Templar squad was dead in the space of minutes.

Fenris exhaled, and his tattoos went inert. He smiled awkwardly as the soldiers saluted and bowed to him, then looked around for his companions.

Hawke was talking quietly with Solas while Dorian and Varric jogged over to Fenris’s side, and Morrigan was prowling through a nearby ruined Red Templar camp.

He made his way over to Morrigan. She held out a singed note as he and the others drew close. “This may interest you,” she said.

The note mentioned Red Templars grumbling about Grey Wardens being chosen for Corypheus’s honour guard. Dorian read the note over Fenris’s shoulder, then raised an eyebrow at Morrigan. “Jealousy within Corypheus’s ranks. Useful if we were running a sabotage campaign, perhaps, but in the thick of a battle?”

“The petty jealousies are not what interest me,” Morrigan said. “A strategic change in Corypheus’s honour guard, however…”

Fenris frowned. “Perhaps he wishes for more mages at his side. A balance of mages and Templars on the field?”

Morrigan shrugged and folded her arms. “Perhaps.”

Fenris shot her a flat look. “This is not the time for mysteries. If you have a better hypothesis, share it now.”

She lifted her chin. “I will remind you that I am here to lend my expertise, Inquisitor, not to impede our shared goals. Rest assured that when I have more to share than speculation, share it I will.”

“Wonderful,” Hawke piped in. She gently squeezed Fenris’s arm and smiled at Morrigan. “Let’s move along in the meantime, shall we? Varric’s lovely crossbow won’t load and empty itself.”

Dorian tilted his head. “You know, that sounded vaguely dirty.”

Hawke grinned roguishly. “Maybe that was intentional.”

Varric patted his favoured weapon. “Don’t listen to them, baby. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

Morrigan sighed. “And once again, I find myself surrounded by fools.” She stepped around Fenris and sauntered away.

“Ooh. When we get back to Skyhold, I’m telling Leliana you said that,” Hawke called after her.

Morrigan ignored her. When Morrigan was out of earshot, Fenris shot Hawke a flat look. “You trust her intentions here? Truly?”

Hawke shrugged. “She hasn’t given us any reason not to. I don’t think she’s trying to deceive us.”

Fenris gazed at her with a mixture of fondness and annoyance. It was just like Hawke to assume the best of the nomadic witch. “Her desire for the eluvian is obvious,” he said. “She wants it for her own ends.”

Hawke shrugged as she started leading them along the path. “She’s taken care of the one at Skyhold pretty well, and no one’s been possessed or killed because of it. Would it really be so bad if she got her hands on this one?”

Fenris opened his mouth to argue, but Solas spoke first. “Possessing an item of such power is an immense responsibility,” he said firmly. “One that the witch is not suited for.”

Hawke’s shoulders slumped. “You too, Solas? What’s your problem with Morrigan?”

Solas pursed his lips. “She speaks with confidence of things she should not. She is—”

“Haughty,” Fenris said. “Arrogant.”

“Precisely,” Solas said.

Varric looked around the forest in an exaggerated way. “Hang on. Are these giant red mushrooms making me hallucinate, or did Chuckles and the broody one just agree on something?”

Dorian chuckled, but for once, Hawke passed up the chance for a clever quip. Instead, she gave Solas an apologetic look. “Solas, you know I adore you, but you can be rather arrogant sometimes, too.”

His eyebrows jumped up on his forehead, then creased into a frown. “It is not arrogance when one is correct!” he protested.

Hawke pulled a little face. “That’s not entirely true.”

His scowl deepened for a moment before smoothing into a neutral expression. “In any case, we have a temple to breach and an enemy to thwart. Shall we carry on?”

Hawke gestured to the path ahead with a flourish. “After you, my shiny-headed friend.”

He nodded tersely, then strode away with Varric and Dorian trailing behind him, and Fenris and Hawke followed in their wake.

Fenris glanced at her. “I am surprised you’re arguing with Solas, given how much you adore him,” he remarked.

She mock-pouted at him. “Oh Fenris, don’t be jealous. You know I adore you more than anyone.”

Fenris pursed his lips, and Hawke patted his bum encouragingly as she went on. “Besides, I’m not arguing. I’m just pointing something out. He’s all humble and helpful most of the time, but then he has these moments sometimes where he acts like a smug prat, like with Cole and that amulet. It’s like he’s suddenly not himself.” She shrugged as they jogged along after the others. “I think that he and Morrigan are more alike than he thinks.”

Fenris smirked. “Ah. No wonder he is irate with you.”

She tutted. “Morrigan is not so terrible. You just haven’t spent any time with her. And she really loves Kieran, you know. She gets all soft when she’s talking about him. It’s rather cute.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. He could think of many words for Morrigan, but cute was not one of them.

They hurried after Morrigan, and by the time they caught up to her, they had their weapons drawn to fight another group of Red Templars — no, not just Red Templars, but also…

Fenris’s eyebrows rose. “Are those—?”

“They’re elves,” Dorian exclaimed. “The Red Templars are fighting elves.”

“Are they on our side, then?” Hawke asked in surprise.

Her question was answered soon enough. One of the strange elves caught sight of them, and faster than Fenris would have thought possible, he nocked an arrow in his bow and aimed it at Hawke.

Fenris phased forward and killed him with a fist through the chest. Then the Red Templars and the strange hooded elves both fell upon their party.

It was an uglier fight than the first. The Red Templars’ tactics were familiar now, but the unknown elves’ unusual mixture of combat techniques was not. They seemed to wield only daggers and bows, but they also appeared and disappeared from the fight with a fluidity that spoke of masterful magic, and Fenris was forced to use his lyrium marks more often than usual to follow them across the field of battle.

At one point during the fight, something odd happened: Fenris phased at the same moment as one of the strange elves, and during a brief split second – as quickly as the blink of an eye – Fenris saw the other elf as they both slid across the threshold of the Fade.

For a brief moment, Fenris was startled, and the other elf seemed startled too. Then he lunged at Fenris with his daggers, and Fenris parried them before kicking his opponent in the chest.

The hooded elf stumbled and fell, and Fenris slammed his greataxe into his foe’s unarmoured skull with a wet crack. Then he returned to the fray, darting across the field in an increasingly disorganized attempt to keep the elven enemies away from his vulnerable companions.

By the time all the Red Templars were dead, three Inquisition soldiers and two Orlesian footmen had been killed as well, and two of the strange elves had escaped. Hawke was healing a dagger wound to Dorian’s arm while Morrigan and Solas sipped some lyrium draught, and Fenris and Varric studied one of the dead elves while they caught their breath.

Fenris peered suspiciously at the elf’s face. He bore vallaslin like any Dalish, but he was taller and broader in the shoulders than the average elf. The armour he wore was more ornamental but streamlined than anything Fenris had ever seen, with a few familiar touches here and there that reminded Fenris of Dalish gear.

He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t believe they are Dalish,” he said to Varric. “Do you?”

Varric scratched his chin. “Can’t say. Their armour looks fancier than anything I remember Daisy’s people wearing, though.”

Solas spoke up from a few feet away. “Perhaps the Temple of Mythal isn’t deserted after all,” he suggested.

Morrigan sauntered over. “These creatures may be the reason few return from the Arbour Wilds,” she said. Then she crouched beside the dead elf and began rifling through his pouches.

Solas folded his arms. “Naturally, your first instinct is to pluck the goods from his body. To take that which you are not entitled to.”

Fenris shot him an odd look. What Morrigan was doing was hardly unusual. Their entire party, including Solas, had frequently looted dead enemies’ bodies for coin or weapons or ammo. Looting was partly what had helped Hawke to raise the money for Bartrand’s cursed expedition ten years ago.

Morrigan also gave Solas a disbelieving look. “And what, pray tell, would you have me do instead? Leave these unknown enemies untouched so they may rot here in peace?” She waved a dismissive hand at the dead elf. “This is a novel foe. We should learn what we can from his death, however offensive you may find that to be.”

“She’s right,” Fenris said. “Search them. We should find out whatever we can.”

Solas bowed his head and turned away. Hawke caught Fenris’s eye, and Fenris returned her bemused grimace with a shrug before turning to speak to one of Leliana’s scouts.

“Not much farther to the temple, your Worship,” the scout said with a brisk salute. “Commander Cullen is up ahead.” She lowered her voice. “Corypheus is up ahead, too, with Samson and his men. I think the Commander wanted to personally oversee the efforts to slow Corypheus down.”

To slow Samson down, more likely, Fenris thought. He nodded his thanks, then turned to face the others. “Are we ready?” he called.

They nodded and murmured their assent, and together they continued in the direction the scout had indicated. They splashed across a river graced with a crumbling stone bridge, then onward through the eerily verdant forest, and soon they found themselves picking their way through a maze of overgrown half-collapsed archways punctuated with larger-than-life statues of elves, howling wolves, and owls.

“Hey Solas,” Hawke said. “Have you ever thought about taking up archery?”

“Why?” Solas asked.

Hawke pointed at one of the many elf statues, all of which were wielding bows. “Because these fellows look like you.”

Solas shot her a flat look. “By virtue of their pointed ears and the hairless scalp, I assume?”

“Well, yes,” Hawke said. “Not to mention their handsomeness.” She gave him a winsome smile.

He pursed his lips, then turned away from her and continued to jog toward the Temple.

Fenris raised an eyebrow at her. “Do you still think you and Solas aren’t arguing?”

Hawke tutted and poked his arm. “Be quiet, you.”

They encountered one more mixed group of Red Templars and elves as they rushed toward the Temple, followed by a smaller group of three dagger-armed elves who seemed to be a scouting party more than an assault force. With growing frustration, Fenris continued to phase after the elves and to stun them with pulses of energy from his marks while the others rained down their bolts and their magical attacks. By the time they spotted Cullen and his squad fighting yet another group of elves and Corypheus’s men, Fenris was feeling rather irate at his own fatigue.

Cullen and his men were formed into a circle with half of their shields facing inwards and half of them facing out – a strategic move indeed, as it allowed them to guard both their backs and their fronts against the strange elves’ phasing. As Fenris watched, Cullen’s squad managed to take down two elves using this formation combined with a series of sudden lunge attacks, and by the time Fenris and the others had joined them, it was fast work to eliminate the three remaining elves and the small handful of Red Templars.

Fenris returned his greataxe to his back and released a long but quiet sigh – not quiet enough, it seemed, for Hawke’s face was concerned as she sidled up to him.

She discreetly pressed a bottle of elfroot into his palm. “Are you all right?”

He nodded. “Yes. I’m well,” he said. He pocketed the elfroot instead of drinking it.

“You’re having to use your tattoos a lot more than usual,” she pointed out quietly.

He steadily met her eyes. “Hawke, I am well. I swear it.”

She pursed her lips worriedly, but before she could say anything more, Cullen jogged over to join them. He impatiently wiped his brow and gave Fenris a respectful half-bow. “Thank the Maker you’re all right. Corypheus is ahead,” he reported. “Samson is with him. I pray that rune Dagna gave you will come in handy soon.”

“I agree,” Fenris said. “In fact, I would ask you to join us.”

Cullen’s eyes widened in surprise. “Me? Well, I – I should remain on the field with my men–”

“Bring your men,” Fenris said. “We could use the support as we push toward Corypheus.” In truth, Fenris was starting to regret not bringing Blackwall, Cassandra or Bull in his own squad. The other three warriors were directing platoons elsewhere in the Arbour Wilds, but if Fenris had known he would be using his tattoos so much, he would have chosen to have more muscle by his side.

“That’s a great idea,” Hawke enthused. “Come with us, Cullen. It’ll be just like old times! You, me, Fenris and Varric fighting a red lyrium-infused idiot with delusions of grandeur…?” She wiggled her eyebrows.

Cullen huffed. “That does not sound like a terribly tempting offer, Hawke.” He looked at Fenris. “But yes. We would be honoured to accompany you. Especially if it means seeing Samson finally laid low.”

Fenris nodded. “Good. We should move on. How long ago was Corypheus last seen?”

Cullen gave his report as they jogged toward the temple. “Approximately five minutes ago,” he said. “He sent a squad of his men at us, and then we were set upon by those unusual elves.” He shook his head in dismay. “I lost three men to them before we managed to form up. Where did they come from?”

Hawke looked at Solas. “You said you thought they were occupants of the temple, yes?”

“It is a possibility,” Solas said.

Cullen glanced at him with wide eyes. “Elves living in a lost and ruined temple? Do you think so?”

“Possibly,” Solas said with a polite nod. Then he said nothing more.

Hawke shot him an odd look, but she too fell quiet as they reached the mouth of a long and crumbling passageway flanked by two enormous howling wolf statues. Cullen entered the passageway without hesitation, and the rest of their group followed him in silence.

As they neared the exit of the passageway, Morrigan broke the tense silence. “I hear fighting ahead,” she said. They cautiously followed Cullen out of the passageway and back into the sun, and Fenris’s eyes widened.

They were on a broad stone walkway overlooking the Temple of Mythal. The enormous overgrown temple was set on an island at the base of a rushing waterfall, and the long stone bridge leading to the temple was flanked by two enormous dragon statues and defended by a dozen of those strange hooded elves. A handful of their elven comrades were dead on the ground, slain by–

“Corypheus,” Dorian sighed.

“And Samson,” Cullen growled.

“And a bunch of unfortunate assholes,” Hawke said with a rueful nod at Corypheus’s honour guard of Wardens and Templars.

Fenris nodded distractedly. Corypheus and Samson were talking to the elves, and if Fenris listened carefully, he could hear what they were saying.

Samson’s smug voice drifted up to the walkway. “They still think to fight us, Master,” he said.

Corypheus took a slow step toward the bridge. “These are but remnants,” he announced. “They will not keep us from the Well of Sorrows.”

Well of Sorrows? Fenris thought.

Hawke looked at Morrigan. “The Well of Sorrows? What’s that?” she whispered.

Fenris looked at Morrigan as well, and was surprised to find her looking surprised. “You don’t know of it?” he demanded.

She lifted her hands cluelessly. Then the scene below suddenly erupted into brilliant, blinding light.

Fenris recoiled and threw up a hand to shield his face. Through his narrowed eyes, he could see that the light was emanating from the dragon statues flanking the bridge. The blinding magical flare was focused on Corypheus, who was twisting and collapsing with a shriek of agony and rage…

And then there was an explosion.

Fenris flinched at the cacophonous sound. Their party remained frozen for a moment as the explosion echoed away into nothing. Then Hawke’s voice broke the stunned silence.

“Maker’s fucking balls,” she said. “He’s… I think he’s dead.”

Fenris opened his eyes. Hawke was standing up and looking over the balcony with wide eyes, and as Fenris stood and looked, his heart thumped in disbelief.

It was as Hawke had said. Corypheus appeared to be dead. His body looked like a melted and twisted chunk of flesh and bone covered loosely in charred rags, and he was surrounded by about half of his honour guard as well as the strange elves, all of whom were quite clearly dead.

“Samson!” Cullen snarled. “He’s getting away.”

Fenris looked up. Samson was crossing the bridge with a dozen or so surviving men in his wake.

Cullen slammed his fist on the stone railing, then spun toward Fenris. “Permission to pursue?” he demanded.

Fenris blinked, momentarily thrown by Cullen’s deference. Cullen was the one with the commanding experience, after all. “Er, yes. You can pursue,” he said.

Cullen nodded sharply, then turned to his men. “Follow me,” he barked. “Engage if you find yourself in range of Samson’s men. Let’s go!” He and his squad took off at a run toward the bridge.

Varric, meanwhile, was standing beside Hawke and frowning worriedly at Corypheus’s body below. “We sure about this?” he said. “This whole Corypheus-is-dead thing. The guy is like a bad copper – he just keeps coming back. How do we know he’s dead?”

Hawke grimaced. “Only one way to find out. Best go poke him with a stick.” Then she met Fenris’s eyes.

She didn’t believe Corypheus was dead. He could see it in her face. And truthfully, neither did he.

They made their way down to the lower level where the carnage lay. As they approached the scattered mass of dead bodies, Fenris’s attention was drawn to the enormous imposing statue that stood in pride of place at the mouth of the waterfall. It had the body of a woman, the wings of a dragon instead of arms, and a head that simply looked like slatted armour or… or something of the like.

He looked at Solas. “A representation of Mythal, I assume?”

Solas nodded. “That is correct.”

Hawke eyed the statue with interest as well. “She seems like an interesting lady, from this statue alone,” she said. She looked over at Solas. “You didn’t say much about her when we were in the Emerald Graves.”

“There was little mention of her in the charcoal rubbings we took,” Solas replied.

Hawke shrugged. “Fair enough.”

“Vishante kaffas,” Dorian blurted. “Fenris–”

They all spun around. Dorian was staring at one of the dead Grey Wardens, who was moving.

Fenris’s eyes widened. The dead Warden’s limbs and neck were twitching in a way that was absolutely not normal. As they all watched in breathless horror, the Warden’s body rose to its feet – seemingly pulled upright by invisible puppet strings – and a clawlike, disproportionate arm burst out of its chest.

A terribly familiar clawlike disproportionate arm.

“It cannot be!” Morrigan exclaimed.

“Not this shit again,” Varric complained.

Fenris didn’t reply. His numb and disbelieving mind could find nothing to say. But the need for words was immediately curtailed by a distant but terrible animalistic roar.

Fenris looked up, and his stomach dropped in horror. Corypheus’s dragon was a large black spot in the sky, and it was growing nearer with every pounding beat of his heart.

“Across the bridge,” he shouted. “Now.” He snatched Hawke’s hand, and their entire group pelted across the bridge with Fenris and Hawke in the rear.

Hawke’s hand was hot and sweaty, but Fenris didn’t let go. Her breathing was rapid and panicked as they ran, and the sound of it was soon it was competing with the dread-inducing flapping of the dragon’s wings as the cursed beast drew closer…

Its roar tore through the air once more. Then Hawke dragged her hand from Fenris’s and spun around.

He skidded to a stop and reached for her. “Hawke!” he yelled.

She waved her arms in a grand gesture, and a glow of white magic rose from the ground in front of her feet. Then she turned to Fenris and grabbed his hand again. “Come on,” she urged, and she pulled him along at a flat run.

The others were all waiting just inside the enormous double doors at the end of the bridge. As Fenris and Hawke flung themselves through the doors, the dragon’s enraged roar ripped through the air, followed by an oddly ethereal sounding clang.

“Wards,” Hawke panted. “Come on, let’s shut these doors in case they actually hold the fucking dragon back.”

They all pushed against the oddly heavy doors, and bit by bit, they began to close. A long, tense moment later, just as the doors were nearly shut, Fenris felt the ‘pop’ of Hawke’s wards dissipating.

The dragon screeched, and the doors closed with a strangely sonorous boom. Then, with a ripple of eerie green magic, the doors sealed completely into an ornate and immaculate mosaic.

Varric eyed the mosaic apprehensively. “Looks like we’ll be finding another way out of here later, then.”

Dorian eyed Hawke admiringly. “Wards to hold back a dragon? Very impressive.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, it’s not me. It’s all you and Solas. You talked, and I… I listened.”

Fenris frowned. She sounded distinctly out of breath.

Solas looked at her in surprise. “You designed a unique warding spell for dragons based on our talks?”

“Not for dragons,” she said. “Just for… big stuff, you know. Giants, dragons, really really big spiders… Shit.” She sat down abruptly.

A moment later, Fenris and Varric were crouching beside her. Varric patted her shoulder, and Fenris stroked her cheek. “Are you all right?” he asked tensely.

She smiled at them both and patted Fenris’s knee. “I’m fine, I swear. A little lyrium and I’ll be grand.”

Dorian pulled a bottle of lyrium draught from his belt and handed it to her. “Well, I am flattered. I’d like to request that you call this spell the Pavus effect, given the contribution I clearly made to your success.”

She gulped half of the lyrium, then smiled at him. “I was thinking the Pavusolas effect, actually, since I took ideas from both of you.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “It is rather like you both had a magical baby together inside of my head.”

Solas’s approving expression twisted into dismay, and Dorian wrinkled his nose. “Venhedis. Maker save me from that image.”

Hawke grinned at them both, but Fenris was not amused. She didn’t look terribly unwell, but her degree of fatigue concerned him.

She finished the lyrium draught and glanced at him, then squeezed his hand. “I’m all right. I promise.”

He lowered his voice. “I don’t want you pushing yourself,” he warned.

She gave him a chiding look. “I was protecting us. That’s my number-one job, remember? Besides, everyone will be pushing themselves today. Look what we’re up against.”

He frowned and lowered his voice even further. “And to think you said this would be a cakewalk.”

Hawke laughed. “Oh Fenris, when will you learn? You should never listen to me. I never know how anything’s going to go.” She patted his and Varric’s knees, then pushed herself upright. “Come on, you handsome fools. Let’s get moving before everyone’s favourite undead magister shows up to fuck us all once again.”

“Hold on,” Dorian said.

They all turned to look at him. He was studying Morrigan curiously. “Corypheus mentioned a Well of Sorrows,” he said. “I thought he was here for an eluvian?”

Morrigan scratched the back of her head. “I… am uncertain of what he referred to.”

“Confidence can only carry one so far, it seems,” Solas said dryly, and Morrigan shot him a filthy look.

Hawke gazed at Morrigan in genuine surprise. “I thought you said this temple was a place of legend. How come you don’t–”

“I was wrong,” Morrigan snapped. “Does that please you?”

Hawke blinked. “Er, no. No need to get testy. I’m not blaming you.”

“I am blaming her,” Fenris said. He folded his arms and scowled at Morrigan. “Your information was incomplete. We thought we were looking to defend a mirror, and now we are looking to defend a well? We’re less prepared for this fight than we thought.”

She returned his glare, then lifted her chin imperiously. “Whatever the Well of Sorrows might be, Corypheus seeks it, and thus you must keep it from his grasp.”

Fenris pursed his lips, and Hawke gently squeezed his arm. “I think we can all agree on that,” she said cheerfully. “Keep the ancient elven toy away from the big bad magister baby. Shall we move along, then?”

Fenris dropped his arms to his sides and nodded, and they all began to pick their way through the overgrown grass and foliage.

“So,” Varric said. “Are we going to talk about how Corypheus keeps coming back? Because that trick is getting pretty old.”

Morrigan hummed thoughtfully. “His life force passes to any blighted creature, darkspawn or Grey Warden. ‘Tis why he wanted Wardens in his honour guard: bodies that could carry him, should something adverse occur.” She frowned thoughtfully as she stepped over a fallen log. “It is strange. Archdemons possess the same ability, and still the Grey Wardens are able to slay them. Yet Corypheus they locked away. Perhaps they knew he could do this, but not how.”

Hawke sighed. “Add it to the list of things I wish I’d known before we wandered into his prison.”

Varric patted her elbow. “Don’t beat yourself up. That whole debacle wasn’t your fault.”

She perked up. “True, for once. That did make for a nice change.”

Fenris frowned at her constant self-blame, but Dorian spoke before he could comment. “These elves. The ones who were guarding that bridge,” he said. “They’re guardians then, I presume? Attempting to protect this temple from intruders?”

“So it seems,” Morrigan said. “Two things are possible. One: this is a group of Dalish separated from their brethren. Cultists, fanatic in their desire to keep humans away.” She waved aside a hovering bee and continued to talk. “Two: these are elves descended from the ancients, having resided here since before the fall of Arlathan.”

Fenris scoffed. “The fall of Artlathan was almost two thousand years ago. You really think these elves could be two thousand years old?”

“Impossible,” Dorian said, but his eyes were wide with wonder.

Varric chuckled. “After everything that’s been going on, you think anything is impossible?”

Hawke shrugged. “Well, the Dalish stories do say the elves used to be immortal.”

“Yes,” Fenris said flatly. “And also that they lost their immortality when the humans came.”

Hawke’s lips twisted in a little moue of dismay. “We do tend to have that life-sucking effect, don’t we?”

“Be serious,” Fenris said chidingly. “You can’t truly think these are genuine ancient elves.”

Hawke shrugged again. “Honestly, I don’t know what to think. Morrigan, you really think it’s possible that they’re ancient elves?”

Morrigan gave her a tiny enigmatic smile. “With magic, anything is possible,” she said. “Whatever the truth, the guardians successfully kept their Temple a secret. A more sensible question might be ‘why’.”

Dorian stroked his mustache. “This alleged Well of Sorrows, perhaps? If Corypheus wants it, and these guardians are, well, guarding it, then it must be quite valuable.”

“Yes, it must,” Morrigan said.

Fenris shot her a sharp look. Her tone was neutral, and her expression had returned to its usual smooth and supercilious mask.

“Solas, what do you think?” Hawke said. “What would you bet on? Dalish or ancient?”

Fenris glanced over at Solas. The elven mage had been very quiet since entering the temple grounds, but at Hawke’s question, he lifted his head.

“I suspect the truth will be unveiled soon enough,” he said. He pointed. “There. The Commander awaits us.”

Fenris looked. Sure enough, Cullen was standing with his squad near what seemed to be a raised square-shaped platform graced with two large stone tablets. One of Cullen’s men was slumped at the base of the platform, and two dead Inquisition soldiers had been carefully laid side-by-side by the platforms’s lower steps.

Cullen’s scowl lessened slightly as Fenris and the others drew close. “Fenris,” he said with a sharp nod. He pointed at a pair of ornate mosaic doors at the top of a broad stairway. “Samson went that way. The doors sealed shut behind him, and we have been unable to pry them open.” He gestured at the tablets in the center of the platform. “I suspect there are instructions here on passing through, but we obviously cannot decipher them.”

“Allow me,” Morrigan said. She sauntered onto the platform, and the ornately-carved paving stones beneath her feet lit up with a gentle blue glow.

Hawke’s eyes widened. “Ooh. Now that’s a pretty effect.” She stepped onto the platform as well, and Fenris followed her somewhat reluctantly.

Morrigan approached one of the tablets and brushed the vines away. “There is something about knowledge. Respectful or pure. Shiven, shivennen…” She frowned for a moment, then shrugged. “‘Tis all I can translate. That it mentions the Well is a good omen.”

Hawke peered at the stone, then pointed at a pair of glyphs. “Solas, doesn’t this mean a greeting?”

Morrigan looked at Hawke in undisguised surprise. “You read ancient Elvhen?”

Hawke grimaced. “Very little. Solas has been teaching me.” She glanced askance at him.

Solas took a step closer to the platform and gazed at the stone. “Atish’all Vir Abelasan’,” he read. “It means ‘enter the path of the Well of Sorrows’.”

Morrigan scoffed. “That is hardly different from what I had already revealed.”

Solas frowned, and Hawke shot Fenris a very brief sideways look before clapping her hands heartily. “Great. So, um…” She raised her eyebrows. “What now?”

Morrigan continued to peer at the tablet. “Supplicants to Mythal would have first paid obeisance here,” she said. “Following their path may aid entry.”

Fenris frowned. That was hardly helpful in clarifying what they were meant to do next.

He glanced at the second tablet. Whether Solas knew it or not, Fenris too had been paying attention during his lessons with Hawke. Perhaps Fenris would be able to recognize a glyph or two.

He stepped to the side to study the second tablet. Then the carved stone beneath his foot lit up with a gentle blue glow.

Hawke blinked. “Well, that’s something.”

Dorian stepped closer and stroked his chin. “Keep walking around the platform, perhaps? Make every stone light up in turn?”

Fenris looked at him. “Who, me?”

“Well, anyone really,” Dorian said with a shrug. “It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “And if I should fail? If there is some unknown magical punishment for making a mistake?”

Dorian grimaced. “A fair point. Er…”

“Uh, Hawke,” Varric said suddenly. “What are you doing?”

Fenris looked up sharply. Hawke was already trotting around the platform, leaving a glimmering blue glow in her wake.

His heart leapt into his throat, and he reached for her. “Hawke,” he said sharply. “Stop. Get off–”

She took his hand and stepped onto the stone on which he was standing. For a moment, all of the stones glowed with a brighter blue light. Then, at the top of the stairs, there was a sonorous thunk, and the mosaic-laden double doors lit up with the same shimmering indigo-blue.

Hawke’s eyebrows rose, and she grinned at everyone. “That worked out well, didn’t it?”

“Excellent,” Cullen said. He crouched beside the dying soldier spoke softly to him, then squeezed his shoulder and ran toward the door with most of his men, leaving one of his soldiers behind to comfort the dying one.

Morrigan raised her eyebrows at Hawke. “Well done. Let us see what awaits.” She stepped off of the platform and made her way toward the stairs.

The others started to follow her. Hawke took a step toward the edge of the platform, but Fenris pulled her back.

She looked at him with wide eyes. “What’s the matter?”

He stepped closer to her. “You are being reckless,” he said.

She wilted slightly. “Fenris…”

“What you did was impulsive. You didn’t know what would have happened if a mistake was made,” he insisted. “These stones could be cursed. Demons could have risen–”

“And we would fight them back, like we always do,” Hawke said gently. “Besides, I threw a barrier over us before I started running around. I’m not a complete idiot.” She smiled hopefully.

Fenris shook his head and cradled her neck in his palm. “I need you safe,” he whispered. “I can’t… I can’t bear the thought of living without you.”

She pressed her palms against his chest. “Nothing will happen to me,” she said. “I’ll keep us safe, all right?” She smiled. “Defense first, for both of us. Hence the barrier. We’ll be all right, Fenris. Trust me.”

Her smile was bright and sunny and… and so damned fragile. He knew she wasn’t as blasé as she pretended to be, but she wasn’t going to speak her fears now, not while they were in the thick of this struggle.

Fenris swallowed hard. “All right. Let’s move on,” he said.

She smiled, then gently kissed his lips before leading him toward the stairs. As they neared the top of the stairs, however, Fenris frowned. Varric, Dorian and Solas were waiting, but Morrigan wasn’t there.

“Where is Morrigan?” he asked.

Varric gestured to an archway off to the east. “Exploring, I guess. I think she’d move into this temple if she could.”

Dorian tapped his chin. “The Witch of the Wilds living in a wild old temple,” he mused. “I suppose the abode would fit the reputation quite nicely.”

Fenris’s frown deepened. “There’s no time for exploring,” he said. “We need to press on.”

They all jogged toward the eastern wing where Morrigan had gone. At the end of the wing was an enormous statue of Fen’Harel, even larger than the ones that were dotted across the Emerald Graves.

Fenris trotted over to her. “Morrigan, we must move–”

“Why would this be here, I wonder?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” Hawke said.

Morrigan turned to her. “It depicts the Dread Wolf, Fen’Harel. In elven tales, he tricks their gods into sealing themselves away in the Beyond for all time. Setting Fen’Harel in Mythal’s greatest sanctum is as blasphemous as painting Andraste naked in the Chantry.”

Hawke raised her eyebrows. “There’s a thought. If there had been naked paintings of Andraste in the Chantry, perhaps I’d have gone more often.”

Varric and Dorian snickered, but Solas folded his arms. “For all your ‘knowledge’, Lady Morrigan, you cannot resist giving legend of the weight of history,” he said scathingly. “The wise do not mistake one for the other.”

“Uh-oh,” Varric muttered.

Sure enough, Morrigan narrowed her eyes. “Pray tell, what meaning does our elven ‘expert’ sense lurking behind this?”

“None we can discern by staring at it,” Solas snapped.

Fenris frowned. It wasn’t like Solas to be this snappish, but it hardly mattered now. “We need to catch up to Cullen and Samson,” he said.

As they hurried back toward the now-open door, Hawke spoke to Solas. “Solas, what do you know about Fen’Harel?”

“What leads you to believe I have knowledge that I have not already shared with you?” he said.

“Um, what you just said to Morrigan back there?” she said. “It sort of, you know, makes it seem like you know more than you’re saying.”

Her tone was light and playful, but Solas didn’t smile. “Perhaps later, when there is more time,” he said. “As Fenris said, we have a goal to reach.”

Hawke raised one eyebrow, then shrugged agreeably. “If you say so,” she said. Then she turned to Morrigan. “So this temple to Mythal. What was so special about Mythal, anyway?”

“She was worshipped as a goddess, as you can see,” Morrigan said with a casual wave at the many Mythal statues. “But what is a god but a being of immense power? The dread Old Gods were nothing more than dragons, after all. They rise as archdemons, and they die.” She shrugged. “Perhaps Mythal was not a goddess, but a powerful elf: a ruler among her kind. History often plays storyteller with facts.”

To Fenris’s surprise, Solas spoke up. “You admit lack of knowledge, and yet dismiss her so readily?”

Hawke looked at him in confusion, and Fenris was confused as well by Solas’s contradictory behaviour. Did he want Morrigan to treat the old Dalish stories seriously or not?

Morrigan raised her eyebrows. “I do not dismiss her,” she said coolly. “I question her supposed divinity. One need not be a god to have value.” She turned to Hawke once more. “Truthfully, I am uncertain Mythal was even a single entity. The accounts are… varied.”

“Varied in what way?” Dorian asked.

Morrigan smiled slightly, clearly enjoying the attention. “In most stories, Mythal rights wrongs while exercising motherly kindness. ‘Let fly your voice to Mythal, deliverer of justice, protector of sun and earth alike.’ Others paint her as dark, vengeful. Pray to Mythal and she would smite your enemies, leaving them in agony.”

“More Dalish tales, I assume?” Solas said cuttingly.

Fenris frowned. He was growing rather weary of Solas’s waspishness. “Enough prevaricating,” he said to Solas. “If you know something more, just say it.”

Solas shot him a resentful look, then turned his gaze to Dorian and Hawke. “The oldest accounts say Mythal was both of these, and neither. She was the mother, protective and fierce.” He took a deep breath, then looked away. “That is all I will say. This is not a place to stir up old stories.”

Hawke gazed at him in bemusement, and Fenris couldn’t blame her; it was as though Solas couldn’t make up his mind whether he wanted to speak of the elven gods or not.

Morrigan pursed her lips and pointedly turned away from him. “Whatever the truth, all accounts of Mythal end the same: exiled to the Beyond with her brethren.”

“By the big bad Dread Wolf,” Hawke piped in. She looked at Solas. “We were just talking about this a few days ago.”

“Yes, we were,” he said. Then he picked up his pace and jogged ahead of them.

Hawke gazed at his departing back, then gave Fenris a worried look. “What’s his problem, do you think? Was it something I said?”

“I can’t imagine what you might have said,” Fenris said. “You have been exceedingly patient with him.” He gave the back of Solas’s head an unimpressed look.

“Ah, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Varric said. “I think Chuckles is sore that he’s not the only one to know ancient elvhen secrets.”

“I believe you are correct, Master Tethras,” Morrigan said. “Your elven ‘friend’ seems to think me a usurper of the mysteries of his heritage.”

Hawke frowned. “Solas isn’t precious with his knowledge, though.”

Fenris tilted his head equivocally, and Varric winced. “Well…”

Hawke’s eyes grew wide. “What? What do you mean?”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “You said it yourself. He can be arrogant. Smug about his superior knowledge.”

“Not usually,” Hawke retorted as she followed him through the open double doors. “Only sometimes. I think ideally he’d want everyone to know what he knows. And he’s always been nice about teaching me things.”

Fenris snorted softly, and Hawke poked him. “What’s so funny?”

Dorian grinned at Fenris. “Ah, dear Hawke. Such a filthy mouth, but such an innocent soul.”

Hawke punched Dorian in the arm. “What is that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

Varric smirked at her. “Chuckles teaches you things because you flirt with him.”

“What the dwarf said,” Fenris agreed.

“Yes, quite,” Dorian drawled.

Hawke stared at them, then rolled her eyes. “Fuck’s sake, you three, that means nothing and he knows it. I flirt with everyone.”

Fenris and Varric exchanged knowing looks, but there was no time to further the discussion; they were reaching a second set of double doors, and as soon as Fenris pushed them open, he lit his lyrium marks and reached for his greataxe.

Cullen and his men were mired in a battle with another squad of Corypheus’s forces. Cullen had lost two more soldiers, and his face was twisted into a fierce snarl as he charged toward a large Red Templar with a greatsword.

Fenris phased forward and grabbed the Red Templar, holding him firmly in place, and Cullen ran the man through with his sword. A few frenzied minutes later, the remaining Templars were dead.

Cullen let out a heavy sigh and gave Fenris a perfunctory salute. “Samson has gone through those tunnels,” he panted. He pointed at a jagged crevice in the ground, which had the look of a crude rush excavation. “They disappeared a few minutes ago. There is little time to waste if we are to catch up with him.”

“All right,” Fenris said. “I will lead the way. Cullen, if you can—”

“Hold a moment,” Morrigan interrupted.

They all looked at her, and Fenris raised his eyebrows. She looked more urgent than she had since their arrival in the Arbour Wilds.

“While Corypheus’s men rush ahead, this leads to our true destination,” she said. She pointed to another mosaic-embedded double door in an alcove behind them. “We should walk the petitioner’s path as before.”

“The petitioner’s path?” Dorian asked. “You mean look for more of those altars with the magical terrace stones?”

“Yes, Morrigan said. She took an eager step toward Fenris. “Performing these rituals may mean the difference between reaching the Well of Sorrows before Corypheus’s minions, or not at all.”

Fenris frowned. “Our goal is not to find the Well of Sorrows. Our goal is to stop Samson before he reaches it.”

“That’s right,” Cullen said. “And the longer we delay, the longer the battle will last outside the temple.”

“Curly’s got a point,” Varric said. “If we have to figure this altar stuff out while Inquisition soldiers are dying in the forest?” He pulled a face. “The faster we get out of here, the more people go home.”

“In this case, I must agree with the witch,” Solas said. “We should follow the rites. This is ancient ground, deserving of our respect.”

Fenris looked at him. “I do not value ancient traditions over lives.”

Solas’s flat expression became even more stonelike. Then Morrigan took another step toward Fenris. “Inquisitor, I ask that you heed my advice. Corypheus would squander the ancient power of the Well. I would have it restored.”

Fenris recoiled from her. “Ancient power restored? What are you talking about?”

She sighed, then gave him a frank look. “I read more in the first chamber than I revealed. It said a great boon is given to those who use the Well of Sorrows… but at a terrible price.”

Fenris stared at her with growing anger. “You are disingenuous. You have been impeding our goals,” he accused.

Hawke held out a placating hand. “Fenris—”

He ignored her and took another aggressive step toward Morrigan. “Tell me exactly what those tablets said about the Well of Sorrows,” he ordered.

She lifted her chin belligerently, but her tone was calm. “Like most elven writing, it was insufferably vague,” she said. “The term I deciphered was halam’shivanas: ‘the sweet sacrifice of duty’. It implies the loss of something personal for duty’s sake. Yet for those that served at this temple, a worthwhile trade.”

“And you would trade this… this personal sacrifice for a boon of great power?” Fenris asked.

“Yes, if that is the only way to preserve it,” Morrigan replied.

Fenris glowered at her, then spun toward Hawke, who was watching them worriedly. “I knew it,” he said. “I told you this was the case. She has been scrounging for power this entire time.”

Hawke’s anxious expression twisted even further. Fenris turned back to Morrigan and jabbed a finger at her. “You are a viper in the shadows, with your cursed eluvian and your hidden motives. Should I be on my guard for the moment when you decide to strike?”

Morrigan laughed bitterly. “Ah, yes. Far easier to believe the Witch of the Wilds full of greed,” she sneered. “If there is anything I seek, Inquisitor, it is to preserve the knowledge of the past before all is lost.” She gestured expansively at the abandoned temple. “Mankind blunders through the world, crushing what it does not understand: elves, dragons, magic… the list is endless. We must stem the tide or be left with nothing more than the mundane. This I know to be true.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “So it is knowledge you seek, then?”

Morrigan’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Precisely,” she said. “My priority is your cause, but if the opportunity arises to save the Well, I am willing to pay the cost.”

Fenris nodded slowly. “If I have learned anything since I left Tevinter, it is this: knowledge is the greatest power,” he said. He lifted his chin and stepped away from her. “And so you admit that power is what you have sought all along.”

Her face fell into a mixture of anger and disbelief. Fenris turned away from her and looked at Cullen. “We take the tunnel,” he said. “Let us finish this quickly.”

Cullen nodded sharply, then rejoined his men to give his orders. Fenris looked at Hawke. “Are you with me?” he said.

Her worried expression softened, and he could tell that she recognized his true question: Have I done the right thing?

She reached out and took his hand. “Of course I’m with you,” she said quietly. “Forever and a day, Fenris. You know that.”

He swallowed hard and nodded, then looked at the others. “Are you ready?”

Dorian, Cullen and Varric murmured their assent, and Morrigan folded her arms.

Solas nodded as well. “I suggest we step with caution,” he said.

His tone was very polite and very neutral, and Fenris nodded just as neutrally.

He stepped toward the jagged edge of the crevice that Samson and his men had blown, then peered down. A drop of about six feet would place them inside of a well-defined stone tunnel that was clearly some sort of underground passage.

He looked at Hawke once more. A perfect smile lit her raspberry-red lips. “All right, handsome,” she murmured. “Let’s go. Together.”

He took a deep breath. Then, with Hawke’s hand clasped in his, Fenris jumped into the tunnel.

#fenris #fenris fic #Lovers in a Dangerous Time #fenris the inquisitor #fenquisition #fenhawke #fenris/hawke #fenris x hawke #fenris/femhawke #fenris x femhawke #fenris/f!hawke #fenris x f!hawke #fenrynne #pikapeppa writes

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istheresomebodywhocanimagine · 5 years

Text

Knee-Slapper

anonymous said: Concept: platonic Roger and reader pulling pranks on the band and being goofballs

(a/n: gif credit to @imladrs ilysm)

“And then if we’re lucky, Brian will just maybe yell at us. If all else fails, we run. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Roger breathed out, making a big deal out of stretching and making you roll your eyes and laugh. He snickered along with you, but then kept stretching and tried to make a serious face. “Y/N, I’m taking this 100% serious! A guy’s got to stretch before he runs for his life.”

“I get it, old man,” you teased, shoving his shoulder gently when he picked up his foot to stretch his leg, and he nearly fell. The angry noise he made as he steadied himself received a snort laugh in return from you, and he mussed your hair before quickly scrambling away from you as you tried to return the favor. “Rog, stop being an arse! We’ve got to pull these-“ you paused, looking around apprehensively before lowering your voice and repeating yourself. “We’ve got to pull these pranks off quick, let’s go already, you knobhead.”

“Oh, I get butterflies in my stomach when you call me that. Do it again!” he replied in a shrilly voice, batting his eyelids and making you grin and shake your head.

“You’re a fucking twit,” you laughed at him, nodding towards the dressing room. You wrapped your arm around his waist as he threw his around your shoulder, heading towards what might be a solid beating for the both of you.

You’d both decided for April Fool’s day you’d pull the biggest prank of all. Roger and you were best friends slash partners in crime anyways, so the rest of the band was already mildly suspicious of the two of you on the days leading up to April 1st. But then that day came, and it passed with no pranks. But that was your prank – everything would be delayed a day. Your victims would then be unassuming or extremely anxious, and that was half of the fun.

“Do you get butterflies in your stomach whenever Brian calls you a dimwit?” you teased, Roger pretending to fan himself with his free hand.

“Gets me hot and bothered.” You threw your head back in laughter, then rolled your eyes playfully as he gave you a shit-eating grin. He was in a nutty mood today, and his comebacks were remarkably fast.

“What about when Deacon gives you lip, when you’ve really pissed him off?”

Roger scrunched up his face at that, the door of the dressing room drawing nearer. “Deacon doesn’t do it for me as much. It’s all in the delivery, sweetheart. He just doesn’t have it, you know?”

You finally got to the door, and a quiet mutual agreement to switch gears took place between the two of you. You’d continue this riveting conversation later, but right now, it was go time. As you entered the dressing room, where Brian and Freddie had already found their places to lounge, you separated and you pretended to be looking for something. Roger plopped himself down in the chair nearest to you, staring at you pointedly.

“I don’t understand, Rog, I put the request in on the rider. They should be here,” you fretted, feigning a mild sort of panic as you searched all around the catering table.

“All I wanted was Oreos!” Roger said, throwing his hands in the air and shrugging. “Is that fucking impossible?”

“No, no, I swear they should be here,” you replied hurriedly.

“What are you looking for, darling?” Freddie asked, craning his head to try and see if you’d found it yet. You held out empty hands, frowning.

“I put Oreos on the rider for tonight, and it looks like the venue forgot them.” Freddie pursed his lips, then shrugged and went back writing something on the setlist from last night. You pretended to look a bit more, finally ‘finding’ the plate of them that you’d actually hidden earlier and brandishing it with a flourish. “There! Now will you stop being such a drama queen?”

“Oh, eat me,” he grumbled at you, sending you a wink as he took the normal Oreo you’d specifically sat away from the rest of them and popped it into his mouth, making a satisfied noise as he ate it. “Heaven.”

Brian was the first to chime in, it being far too early in the morning for him to deal with Roger’s chaotic nature. “Rog, they’re just Oreos.”

“Just Oreos?” Roger gasped, feigning insult as he looked over at Brian in shock. “Well fuck right off, then, you all can’t have any of them. Don’t even try.”

The reverse psychology part was a big bet for the two of you, and you quickly glanced at each other as you tried to work out whether the gears were turning in Brian or Freddie’s head. Brian’s head had cocked to the side, so it was safe to assume that Roger’s demand was probably going to be violated by him, but Freddie remained uninterested, actually just snacking on some crisps instead.

“Are you happy now, Rog?” you asked with faux irritation in your voice, Roger about to answer when Deacon walked in, holding his toothbrush and glaring at Roger like he was going to shove said toothbrush down his throat.

Roger did remarkably well at giving Deacon a confused, innocent look, and you strategically placed the Oreos on the coffee table near Brian before going to sit next to him. What unfolded next was beautiful, and it went just as smoothly as you’d planned it with Roger, if not more. “Roger, care to explain why my teeth are blue?” Deacon asked, revealing teeth that were a brilliant shade of blue as he spoke.

Brian almost choked, and you put on a look of pure shock as you looked at Brian. He glanced at you and raised an eyebrow, whispering, “Did Roger do that?”

You shrugged, shaking your head. “I don’t know, he never said anything about it. We agreed no pranks this year.” And he bought it. He made a face that could only say ‘yikes’ at you before looking back at Roger, who was vehemently denying that he’d, in fact, put food coloring on John’s toothbrush.

“Oh, shove it up your arse, Roger, I know you did it!” John yelled finally, storming over to the sink and starting rinse his mouth out, trying in vain to get the blue stain off of his teeth. Roger looked over at you and Brian, shrugging before going over to help John, where his back would conveniently be to you and the other two.

Brian took a deep breath, looking at you as if to say ‘What the fuck?’ and then reached for an Oreo. You smacked his hand away, looking pointedly at him, and he rolled his eyes before grabbing one anyways. “Those are Roger’s!” you whispered, widening your eyes as you ‘tried’ to convince him not to eat them.

“He’s not going to miss one little Oreo,” Brian whispered, making sure that Roger didn’t hear him. But Brian was all too predictable in his need to vex Roger most of the time, so Roger turned around just as Brian took a hearty bite out of the Oreo he’d snatched.

“What… the fuck…” was all Brian could say as he spit out the Oreo onto his hand, Roger bursting out laughing and nearly doubling over in glee as Brian looked on in horror at the half-chewed mess of toothpaste and Oreo in his hand.

He looked at you, and you feigned innocence yet again, raising an eyebrow. “What? Are they stale?” you asked, taking a small bite out of another one to make it more believable and making a disgusted noise before spitting yours out as well. As you went to toss it in the trash can, you passed by Roger and winked before making another disgusted noise. “Real funny, Roger.”

“Yeah, a knee-slapper,” Brian deadpanned, dropping the Oreo into a tissue and crumpling it up as he glared at Roger. Freddie snickered, amused at everyone’s apparent irritation, and he watched as you went and grabbed two drinks, one for you and one for Brian. Crossing the room again, you held the tainted drink out to Brian and took a sip of your own, nodding to confirm to him that they were alright.

But you didn’t sit down, because you knew this one was going to get you in deep shit, and you were right. Brian took a big sip full of ketchup out of the ketchup packet that was attached to the end of the straw, and there was murder in his eyes as he stood up from his seat. You looked at Roger quickly, eyes wide. “Run?”

“Yep, run!” Roger yelled, grabbing your free hand and dragging you out of the room with him as you both cackled with laughter. Brian chased after for a few moments, cursing at the both of you as Freddie’s breathless laughter followed you down the hallway. You pulled the both of you into the bathroom all the way at the end of the hall and locked the door behind you, gasping for air and holding your hand to your forehead as Roger grabbed a paper towel and blotted at his face quickly.

“That was too good,” Roger laughed giddily, rubbing the side of his face as he leaned back against the sink, watching you sink down to a crouching position against the wall. You giggled, letting your head rest back against the wall as you shook your head in disbelief, barely believing that you’d got Brian twice.

“John’s teeth! They were so blue,” you snickered, burying your face in your hands for a moment before looking back up at Roger and grinning widely. “Do you think it was a bit too much?”

“Nah, that was the perfect one for John,” Roger dismissed quickly, waving his hand and shaking his head as he chuckled a bit. “Maybe if his teeth are still blue tonight, the girls will stop trying to wank him off and actually pay attention to me.”

“Jealous ninny,” you teased, standing back up and going to wash your hands in the other sink as you continued to grin, replaying the look on Brian’s unassuming face as he bit into the Oreo. “God, Brian was livid. I’ve never seen his gangly old legs move faster in my whole life.”

“Freddie was the best part about it,” Roger laughed, shoving his hands in his pockets as he watched you dry your hands off. “That man has no idea what’s coming for him later.”

That intrigued you. You hadn’t really planned anything specific against Freddie, so the fact that Roger had something in mind for him was news to you. “What do you mean?” you asked, tossing your paper towel in the trashcan and looking at him curiously. Roger smiled innocently and shrugged, then patted you open-handed on the back in an almost taunting manner.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” And with that, he walked out of the bathroom. But something was off, and it took you a moment to become conscious of the extra weight on the back of your shirt. Reaching back, you ripped a note off of your shirt that read “I’m with stupid,” ending with an arrow pointing up to your head.

You laughed in disbelief, and then quickly chased after him. “Roger Taylor, you get back here, you childish ass!” you yelled when you saw him down the hallway, and one glance at you was all it took before he was laughing and taking off in the other direction, shouting over his shoulder.

“God, that’s almost better than you calling me knobhead!”

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xaz-fr · 5 years

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Set in a fantasy world of the semi socialist society Fey Alliance with magic, dick head dragon riders, benevolent necromancer, and even bigger dick head gods of mischief. The Zealous Servant is the story about a guy named Spayar who, basically, has to keep his crown prince of a bff from being murdered by his entire family by murdering them first. Honestly though Spayar just wants to take a nap and find a cute boy to kiss and not have to worry about his corpse potentially being dragged through the street after a war. Better win that shit then.

@barkingjester @golden-lionsnake @deadpool-scar-bro @bromeliadgoingdragon

So a thing of note here. There is zero alcohol drinking in the Alliance. It's got a lot of history in their culture as being a beverage of slave owners and the Alliance is SUPER anti slavery so in turn they don't drink except for some small areas. Instead most citizens of the Alliance do recreational drugs similar to weed or mushrooms or other opiates for the same reason they're anti alcohol. Plant based drugs was seen as a thing only slaves did and was very low class so because the Alliance is literally a country founded by freed slaves they kept their drug use roots. Not being able to handle your smoke has the same sort of social stigma in our culture as not being able to hold your drink and being an annoying/violent drunk. So if you want to smoke, you better keep your suit together and know when enough is enough or be labeled a high menace.

Also formatting is trash because Tumblr on iPad is also trash

Chapter 5: A Well Behaved Man

The day of Paja’s naming day it was like a switch had been flipped in the Garden. One day it looked as it had when Spayar had arrived save for a bit of construction and then he woke up and the entire Garden was different. Garlands covered nearly every plant, lights inside paper cups lined every pathway, every tree and bush had been forced into bloom by a faunamacer and all work had been suspended. The grounds of the Garden had been turned into a festival with cute animals to be pet by the children and games had been set up to participate in. A faunamacer had even been employed to make a living jungle-gym for people to climb on that would probably be gone in the morning. Several stages had been set up overnight for gymnastic displays and various rituals and bands.

And there was food everywhere. Pasta in more shapes than Spayar could comprehend covered in dozens of different sauces. Various roasted vegetables on sticks and mountains of fruit some he recognized and some he didn’t. But no meat. The only animals in the Garden were at the little petting station for the children.

Spayar saw the food and all he could think was that the Nedalians must have been fairing better harvest wise than other parts of the Alliance. That or they had been stocking up specifically for this. He tried not to let that ruin the mood for him.

Von didn’t even seem to notice any of that and all he saw were the festivities. “I wasn’t expecting an actual party,” Von admitted.

“They just worship Lemp, they aren’t somber,” Spayar said.

A smile pulled its way across Von’s face. “This is cool. Let’s go see,” and he grabbed Spayar’s hand to go have breakfast. Spayar had no choice but to follow. He wasn't exactly happy about it. Von had decided that while he was in the Garden he was going to dress like a Nedalian man. Traditionally, because they lived in such a warm climate, Nedalians wore only what absolutely necessary to preserve their cultural modesty. That meant covering the chest, stomach, and back for women and the no shirts for the men but full pants.

Usually Spayar had no problem seeing men shirtless. The Nedalians who dressed like that didn't bother him at all. It was just Von. Standinh or walking around looking half dressed without a shirt. He looked almost at home in the Garden too with his summer bronze skin and sun bleached hair. He was doing it to make Helida like him more, and it was working. It also had the side effect of making Spayar forget what he was even thinking and sometimes even what he was saying. He was trying not to be miserable about it but when he had to worry about a coming Conflict being distracted by Von's abs was not exactly helpful.

Food for the entire day was already out in the morning as Von dragged him to the big paved courtyards for breakfast, being kept cool or hot by the appropriate elementally aligned warlock. They gladly picked at the offerings. Von was fond of the sweet pickles and honey glazed breakfast tarts made of custard and topped with berries. Spayar made sure he ate things other than sweets but he didn't know why he bothered. Von always pouted at him when he reminded him to eat properly and Spayar wasn't as immune to him as he thought he was.

Before long the sun started to rise and they sought the shade of strategically placed awnings all over the Garden along with other Gardiens seeking their own respite from the heat.

They sat on the grass in front of a stage where a band was playing. Three wind players and a percussion person with a pair of hand drums. They were seated in the shade but playing to liven the mood. Around them the Garden was alive with people but most had done the same as them and were resting in the shade. Or the adults were. The children didn’t care about the heat and were still running around, playing the games, yelling happily or bothering the animals.

Spayar started when a man came and sat down next to them. Most of the locals save Helida ignored the two of them and everyone knew they were ’royal envoys’ with only the governing family knowing who they actually were. He was black like Spayar but not nearly as dark but from across the Sea. Most dark skinned people in the Alliance and the east had curly, kinky, wirey hair that could be brushed out into magnificent afro halos of hair. Typically west coast Shard peoples and beyond had wavy hair or greater loose curls. It was a way to spot a foreigner at a glance if they were darker skinned and didn't have proper peaked Feylon ears like this man didn't. He wore his hair close to his scalp and had a full beard dotted with traditional flower adornment of married men with children. If Spayar recalled it was two varieties for two children. “Prince,” he grunted with all the casualty of someone who wasn't afraid of someone of nobility. Spayar was mostly annoyed he didn't recognize them. He liked to think he knew everyone of the governing families but it was so easy to overlook the men of the Rosalia. They had little to no power or authority in matters of state and rarely made any waves because of it. That didn't make Spayar any less annoyed.

“You might have me confused with someone else, friend,” Von said with a joviel smile.

“Pretty sure I don't. Unless you're here calling my wife a liar?” he said mildly and gave Von a cool look with his pale gray eyes.

Von looked confused, “Not at all, Lord Necromonger, we just didn't recognize you,” Spayar said quickly. At least now he could place the man and also knew why he didn't know him.

“Funny that,” Ilnta Rosalia said and picked up a pipe from his side. “Care to share?” he asked with the same casual familiarity he'd been using all along.

“Depends,” Von said slowly. “What’s in it?”

“Just storm weed, mixed with some perfumes,” Ilnta said and leaned back on one arm. Spayar had a type but that didn't stop him from thinking Helida’s husband was a beautiful man. Maybe the Nedalians had the right idea with having them men folk go around without shirts on all the time.

“It’s like a mild version of modica,” Spayar told Von who looked confused. Storm weed was only smoked along the gut and Western provinces while modica, a smaller and hardier plant was used in the central Alliance to achieve the same effect. It was a fairly mild drug, easy to think through but lifted your mood pleasantly. Spayar had only heard of storm weed while serving time but the westerners always compared it to the more centrally popular modica.

“Then yes,” Von said with a smile. “Allow me,” and he reached a hand out. With a delicate twist of his fingers a spark jumped into the pipe and the weed started smoking gently. Ilnta took the first pull before handing it across Spayar to Von.

As Von politely took a pull he gave Spayar a look. He had no idea who this guy was despite Spayar naming his title. “What brings you here, Lord Ilnta?” Spayar asked when Von handed the curled pipe to him next.

“I like knowing what's happening in my Garden,” Ilnta said and rubbed one of his wide bangles. “Especially you two.”

“We’re just here for the party,” Von assured him. Spayar handed Ilnta the pipe back, his lungs full of smoke.

Ilnta took a small hit and looked them both over. “No one comes to the Garden for parties. Come up with a better lie, your highness,” he said.

“You are,” Von said like a jackass and Spayar wanted to smack his hand across his face but knew that wouldn't help.

Ilnta looked from Von to Spayar and gave him a sympathic look. Why, Spayar had no idea. Was it all over his face? Great. “I live here,” he said. “My Governor asked me to make sure you were enjoying yourselves, and staying out of trouble.”

“The Governor is very hospitable,” Von said.

“Are you not enjoying yourself?” Ilnta asked Spayar.

”I keep business and pleasure separate,” was all he said.

Ilnta’s lip curled up at one side. “Very well d’aelar,” he said so respectfully that it made Spayar nervous. “We’ll see if we can't do something about that,” he handed the pipe back to Spayar. He didn't much like the sound of that. That sounded a lot like what Von said before they and their other friends had ended up stoned dancing on tables at a bar in Smoker’s Den. It had been fun but Spayar had been so burned out the next morning and in some strange man’s bed. It had turned out to be the son of Baron Hothrod, which hadn't been at all a pleasant morning leaving the manor in Assarus and had to walk all the way home from Fey’s Shadow to Bellringer in his clothes from the night before. Spayar tried to temper his ’fun’ after that. He cautiously took a drag of the pipe and Ilnta got to his feet.

“What was that about?” Von asked, lookimg after him as Ilnta walked off.

“I’m sort of afraid to find out,” Spayar said slowly.

“Let me have the last one,” Von said, holding out his hand for the pipe. Spayar gladly gave it to him as he kept his eyes trained on Ilnta where he was talking with a group of men.

“Try not to get too stoned tonight,” Spayar said, looking away from the group to Von.

“Why not?”

“I don't think we really want to party like some Lemp worshippers.”

“You’re the one who keeps saying they're just people.”

“Yes, but first hand experience from serving time tells me that when people who live a regimented life style are allowed off their chain it can easily get out of hand,” he looked back at Ilnta.

“Don’t have fun on a naming day, got it,” Von said.

“That isn't what I meant-

Ilnta came back over with two men. One was older and clean shaven with features similar to Helida. Brother? Spayar knew she had one but not much beyond that. The other was bearded with a shaved head and a single red poppy woven into his beard. Spayar wasn't sure what was about to happen and it made him nervous. “Can we help you, gentlemen?” Von asked as he tapped the ashes of the pipe onto the ground.

“I heard you weren't here to have fun on my neice’s naming day,”said the clean shaven man with a full wide smile full of white teeth, arms spread. He had mischief in his dark eyes and Spayar was going to live to regret this. He already saw that in his future.

“Nonsense,” Von insisted. “We just… don't know how you do it out here.” Spayar knew that was the exact wrong thing to say when Ilnta and the man with the poppy also smiled the same smile Helida’s brother did.

“Well come then, we'll show you,” he offered a dark hand to Von. Von glanced at Spayar before taking it and was hauled to his feet. “There’s a exhibition starting real soon. It's better on this,” he handed Von a glass of bubbling liquid the poppy man had produced.

“Uh… I know you necromongers aren't warlocks but I can't drink,” Von said apologetically, ready to gracefully bow out of whatever nonsense this was. Thank the gods.

“It isn't alcohol, don't think we'd insult you like that,” he said nicely. “It’s dissolved.”

“You can do that?” Von asked, blue eyes wide.

“Won’t know if you don't try,” Ilnta said encouragingly.

Spayar got to his feet, took the drink out of Von's hand and knocked in back in two gulps. “I would prefer if you didn't hand him something we don't know.” He wasn't going to let his prince drink some mysterious liquid with who knew what actually in it. That and Ilnta seemed like the same sort of annoying guy as himself who refused to accept no as an answer and knew he could get away with anything as the husband of the Governor and High Necromonger. What a jackass. No wonder people said Spayar was annoying sometimes.

“You drank it,” Helida’s brother said.

“I’m expendable, he's not,” Spayar said casually. “Let’s keep it familiar.”

“Hmm, I think that can be arranged.”

“Well we are here, we might as well do as the Nedalians do,” Von said helpfully.

“That’s the spirit,” Helida’s brother said and clapped an arm around Von's shoulder. Von just gave him an uneasy smile. “You stick with Od and we'll have a good time!”

“What’s this exhibition?” Spayar asked. He was already starting to feel whatever it was he'd drunk. It wasn't alcohol, he'd had that just to see what it felt like. This was more like mallium as a drink. Meaning he couldn't let Von anywhere near it. Von's favorite was mallium and he didn't need to be stoned and chasing after an equally stoned prince. That always led to disaster.

“Ever seen a contortionist?”

“A whats-onist?” Von asked.

“Someone who can contort their bodies into crazy positions,” Od explained. “That’s why it's better high,” he grinned.

“If you say so,” Von said slowly.

“Moddi, Ilnta, let's find something else for our guest since his friend was so eager to try it first.”

Spayar didn't like any of this. He also knew better than to stop any of it. If Helida had sent Ilnta to see how they were doing it meant she would approve of this. And that she expected her guests and perhaps future allies to participate in the way her own people did. That didn't make him feel much better. He went over to Ilnta’s side when Od led Von over to where adults were smoking and casually keeping children from getting their hands on the substances despite them just wanting to mimic the adults.

“Why are you doing this?” he quietly asked Ilnta.

“Doing what?” Ilnga asked casually.

“You know what I mean.”

Ilnta looked at Spayar, “You really must relax, friend. Your hair will go gray,” and he mimicked Od’s position on Von with him. “It’s my daughter's naming day. You think I care what you're doing here? About a petty royal dispute? Not even in the slightest. You two just look out of place. Sober, dressed up,” he glanced up a day down at Spayar’s clothes. Spayar rolled his eyes. Ilnta leaned in close to whisper into his ear, the sound of his voice making his ear tingle, “You’re not the only ones here.” Spayar didn't react. “So relax,” he squeezed Spayar's shoulder.

“That is the last thing I'm doing now,” Spayar said, giving him an exasperated look and trying his best to stay focused. “What was in that drink?”

“Calshoi oil from the south. Nice right?”

Spayar stared at Ilnta for several seconds. “I severely underestimated you.”

Ilnta grinned, his teeth a thin white slice against his dark lips, “Don’t feel bad kid,” he said, clapping Spayar firmly on the shoulder. “Everyome does. You'll be fine. Nothing bad is going to happen. Just relax. That's what she wants.”

“You must not know him because Spayar never relaxes,” Von declared, standing before them again with Od.

“Sounds like a challenge,” Ilnta said, squeezed his shoulder again and before Spayar could complain was directed across the field. Od spoke with Von the entire way but Spayar couldn't focus on what was being said. The calshoi was hitting him hard and so was whatever Von had taken. As the hottest part of the day broke people came out from there shelters where they'd been relaxing, smoking, and socializing, going to find more food, drugs, or some exhibition or band to loiter in front of.

That made the rest of them in good company as Spayar and Von were led over to a low stage where two Nedalians, but not native to the Garden, were seated on impossibly thin stools wearing skin tight clothing covered I'm vibrant geometric patterns. What wasn't covered in fabric was painted in the same style. They waited until they'd gathered a crowd before a string player Spayar couldn't see started to play a quick bouncing beat. Spayar stood, unimpressed, as the women got off their stools, bowed to the small crowd and Spayar wasn't even sure. It looked like they folded themselves over each other and around in a way he could only describe as snake like.

He ended up staring open mouthed at the way their bodies bent and twisted, limbs looking broken as they took impossible poses. They used each other and the stools as props and moved only to the poppy beat of the music. The longer he watched the more the calshoi took effect and their geometrically patterned clothes and painted bodies became even more exaggerated and impossible. He couldn't look away and now he was very glad he'd taken that drink from Von because Od was right. This show was way better on it.

Then almost as soon as it started it was over. Spayar was aware that it was the drugs distorting his feeling of time but he didn't mind. He clapped with the rest of the crowd and the contortionists bowed one more time to them before climbing back onto their stools to wait for the crowd to change to do it all over again.

“That was so cool,” Von said. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“Yes well the rest of the Alliance doesn't have the same good tastes as us,” Od said and was steering Von away. Spayar followed and grabbed the back of his belt just so they didn't get separated. Von didn't notice and was talking to Od. They arrived at another stage, this one with a full band of bright horn players and three sets of huge drums, all played by shirtless men. Spayar just stared and forgot what was going on. While in the shade it was still warm and they were playing high tempo music and jumping and stomping their feet so their skin glistened with sweat in the bright coastal sunlight.

“You alright there, friend?” Ilnta asked him when he stood, stupified.

The next words out of his mouth were only because he was high and only Von laughed at first, “Are any of them single?” Once it registered with their hosts they snorted.

“Afraid not. They're all married,” Od said teasingly.

“What a waste,” Spayar said which earned him more snickering. Even though it was true. What a waste of good looking men to be married.

“Do you dance?” Od asked Von.

“Not to this? I don't think. Spayar, do I know any eastern dances?” he poked Spayar in the shoulder, distracting him.

Spayar blinked at him. “Von, I don't know anything. I'm really high right now,” he said right to his face which just made Von erupt into a giggling fit so hard it got the others going and after a few moments the entire area of people around them were laughing for no reason other than they were all the same level of stoned and laughing sounded like a great idea. Spayar didn't understand what was so funny. He'd just said the truth.

Once their direct area of people had settled down a bit Od said, “Well show you one you don't know then,” with one of his big white smiles. Von just smiled and nodded and allowed Od to pull him to where people who hadn't been infected by Von's giggling were dancing to the rowdy music.

“And what about you?” Ilnta asked him.

“What about me what?”

Ilnta snorted, “Do you dance, d'aelar?”

“I do but I'm not nearly high enough for you to get to see,” Spayar said.

“That’s a challenge you don't want to give me, friend,” Ilnta said.

“No. I don't dance,” he changed his mind. “You’re not cute enough got that,” he added because if there was a cute boy around who wanted to dance with him he'd dance with them. But he'd already made up his mind that all the men in the Garden weren't attractive enough for him. Sober Spayar knew that was a lie. Sober Spayar had also made up his mind about that so that high Spayar wouldn't end up in some random guy’s bed. If he found a cute boy that is exactly what would happen and he needed to keep an eye on Von. He looked around. “Where’s Vondugard?”

“Just there,” Ilnta grabbed her shoulder and pointed to where Od and Moddi were having the best time ever being high and attempting to show a high Von how to do what they were doing. Western dances were a lot more foot work than central or southern dances Von was practiced in. “Feeling relaxed?”

“Against my will, but yes,” Spauar grumbled.

“Good enough!”

Spayar ended up sitting on a bench and watching while the others of their group danced to the banging drums and wailing metal horns. He tapped his foot, bobbing his head to the beat but didn't participate other than that. Only when the band was done to take a break did Von stumble over to where he was. His eyes were a bit less shiny than before, more focused. “Were you over here the entire time, Spayar?” Von asked.

“Maybe,” Spayar said. While Von was coming down from whatever he'd taken Spayar was still up.

“That was fun but I really need to lay down,” Von complained.

“Of course, of course,” Od said. He was still up too. Spayar wasn't sure Ilnta had ever taken anything other than initial storm weed he'd shared with the two of them. “It’s chems so perfect for a break. After was when the Governor planned to host the gift opening,” he added. Then he looked at Ilnta, “It is chems now, right?”

“It is,” Ilnta said with a chuckle.

“Perfect. Let's go.”

They were marched off to the buffet which had been refilled to some degree. Von just ate whatever was handed to him Od insisted he needed to try. It took Od exactly five seconds to discover Von's sweet tooth and Spayar watched with a sigh as Von ate a chems that was mostly sugar. Spayar just found some partially frozen fruit to help cool him down some more since he was wearing a shirt.

In the few seconds he looked away Od had given Von a suspicious pink cookie that when Spayar got one and smelled knew it wasn't just a sweet. He managed to grab the other half away from Von before he could eat the entire thing. “Hey! Spayar,” he complained.

“Just be sober for the gift opening,” Spayar ate the rest of his just so Von couldn't take it back and it was usually bad form to eat more than one of any laced food at a time. Either it was rude to take more than one or people thought you had a problem. It would keep Von fairly sober to pay attention to the gift opening. Wasn't good for Spayar's state but he'd rather be high than Von be high for this.

“Fine,” was all Von said.

They picked at the buffet a bit more before adults started gathering up the children and taking them to a central location under a pavilion. That seemed as good an indication that something was going on. Ilnta directed them to where it was happening and left them to find a place to sit or stand. Spayar had to sit. Whatever he'd taken was not mixing well with the calshoi and he really wasn't happy about being vertical.

There was a mountain of presents for little Paja’s naming day. All shapes and sizes. Most in colored boxes but others in silk or painted canvas bags. Paja was only three with an afro held back by a jeweled head band and looked about to crawl out of her mother's arms to get at the gifts. Ilnta stood next to Helida with his hand on a young boy’s head who was the spitting image of him down to his storm gray eyes.

Helida said something about thanking everyone for coming and for the gifts for her daughter before putting her down. The little girl, with the help of her big brother and several of her friends, started opening all the boxes and bags. There was polite clapping or a little cheer each time she got something open. A collection of dolls soon formed an army off to the side and animal shaped toys and there was over a dozen potted plants that were either flowering or were decorative shrubs. There was also a fair amount of jewelry, all of made of wood or stone and brightly colored for a child’s taste. Spayar stopped paying attention somewhere around the twelfth doll and his attention was caught by a sheep shaped rocking horse he was sure was giving him a funny look.

Von nudged him and he started. What was he supposed to pay attention to? His eyes darted across the assembled faces to where Helida was crouched next to Paja and making her stand still long enough to pull her hair back some and pin it into place. When Paja could finally go back to her gifts Spayar squinted at the ornament and saw it was the pretty hair comb Von had bought at Tassa’s suggestion.

He patted the back of Von's knee to get his attention and offered a slightly raised hand. Von smacked the bottom of his fingers against Spayar's in a little moment of triumph.

Spayar spaced out the rest of the gift opening but he did get startled into clapping with the rest of the crowd once the last gift had been opened. Von helped drag him to his feet. “How you feeling?”

Spayar blinked at him a few times. “Better than you.”

“Thats for sure!” he looked around. “Od, Od,” he waved at Od who was standing a bit away. “My babysitter has divined that I'm allowed to party again.”

Od turned his focus back on the both of them from here he was talking with a scary blonde woman with a red eye. “Oh yeah? Great!” No not great. So not great. “You still up, young man?” he asked Spayar.

“I think the calshoi might finally be wearing off. Don't give us that.”

“Awww, no fun. Very well,” he came around behind them both and looped his arms around both of their shoulders. “We’ll just have to find something else,” and he guided them away from the opened gifts back to the bar.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of loud music, more food, and Od getting way more stoned than either of them. As night came lamps were lit, the children sent to bed, and harder stuff was brought out. Spayar had sobered up by then and had to stop Von from being convinced by Moddie to try slate. All their new necromonger friends did it instead. It didn't take longer after that for a good natured fight to break out. Said fight ended in three broken arms and a healer being called. Not a single man seemed to mind the broken bones either and just called each other school yard names.

Before it grew too late and who knew what else Od would convince the two of them to take Spayar begged off saying they were tired and needed to go to sleep. A sober woman waved Od away and let them leave. Spayar had to pull Von away.

They made it back to their guest rooms in one piece. Von was practically laid across Spayar's entire side babbling highishly about nothing. Or if Spayar cared to pay attention he was saying stuff about how great it was the Rosalia were going to help him kill his family.

Spayar dumped Von onto his bed once they got inside, still dressed as he was. Once there Von kicked off his boots but didn't even make it to the pillow and it was much too warm for a blanket.

"Goodnight Spayar," Von sighed contently, eyes closed, still high as could be.

"The stuff I put up with because of you," Spayar grumbled.

"I know," Von said dreamily, "but you love it," and he yawned thickly.

Spayar looked down at Von. By the deep, even, rise and fall of his chest Spayar could tell he was already asleep. No shirt and his skin still warm and glowing from the day in the sun. "Why Quen?" he asked the goddess of desire because in that moment he felt so weak looking down at Von laying sprawled out on the bed. Spayar could see his tan line between the deeply tanned, nearly golden, skin, and the pale shade of skin like that started at his pant line. "Why must you do this to me?" he looked up at the ceiling like she was looking down at him from there mockingly.

It'd be so easy to just do something. It was so tempting. So damn tempting. Curse Can'dhe for putting his fate in line with Von's. He had to have a strong will to be Von's friend and not just go crazy because yes, he did want his prince. In his current state he wasn't as strong as he normally was. It wasn't so easy to look past how wonderful he was, how adult he'd become while Spayar had been serving time. He knew he was better than this. Better than allow drugs to take advantage of his state of mind like this.

“I’m not doing it, Quen. Find someone else to ruin,” he mumbled and managed to stumble away from Von's bed. He squeezed his eyes shut as he did so he couldn't see him.

He made his way to the door and paused when he heard Von roll over. He did the stupid thing of looking back. Von was more laid out and Spayar could see the curve of his hips and spine, the softly defined shape of his hip bone pressing against flesh. He closed his eyes again. “Go away Quen,” he whispered even as he could practically feel her hovering over his shoulder, whispering in his ear. It was like he could feel her long nails dragging across his chest, tempting him. He wasn't sure what she was tempting him to do but that didn't matter to the goddess of desire. Spayar’s pain was enough of a necter for her.

He took a breath and walked out of the room. He locked the door behind him and went to his own room. He hated being in love.

#original fantasy #original fiction #original story #fantasy #zs

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caffeine4myseoul · 6 years

Text

[fanfic] Life of You - Super Junior - TeukChul

Jungsu is here for Heechul.

Gray. Colorless.

Cold, lifeless, dull, dusk draws a veil across the world, sucking all warmth and color from its being. It stills everything, the world takes a deep breath in foreshadow of yet another day, just another turning point in the endless circle of time that holds the world in its grip. Slow, dull, a veil of smoke frees itself from the glowing stick lingering between slender fingers, taking off to the skies in a graceful, asymmetric dance, yet never letting go of the cherry red-hot glow that feeds its life; free, yet ultimately bound.

Kim Heechul coughs, his chest convulsing in aggressive tremors. Coming up for air as the cramps release his body and let him breathe through, a series of knocks resonate from the office behind him. He recomposes himself, takes a last pull from the cigarette before flicking it over the edge of the balcony. He turns around to face Hangeng, who is in his office, and not waiting on the other side of the door, which he swears was closed not two minutes ago.

“Some might say smoking isn’t exactly beneficial to the improvement of a cough,” the Chinese comments calmly.

“Some might say when knocking on a closed door, one should wait on the other side of said door instead of walking straight into someone else’s personal space.”

“Had you wanted personal space, perhaps you should have gone to your home, not spent another night in the office of a building with a very large number of employees. Also, talking about what you perhaps should do, counselling for medical attention for that cough might not be half a bad idea.”

Heechul lets himself down in the chair by his desk. “I don’t recall hiring you to be my nurse.”

Hangeng looks - disappointingly much - remarkably unaffected by the aggressive sneer of his boss. “Me neither,” he says leisurely.

“However, I do recall hiring you to provide me with essential things to lead this hellhouse of a company - such as caffeine,” Heechul adds, watching his lanky first assistant make himself comfortable in the chair across him, entirely without any invitation to do so.

“No, you didn’t,” Hangeng replies, wistfully. “That’s Donghae’s job.”

A frown grows on Heechul’s brow. “And where is he, might I ask?”

The man across him takes a long, measuring look at his wristwatch. “I’d say he’s with much probability acquiring your coffee right now.”

Heechul lets out a deep sigh and tugs at his tie.

“So, onward to business,” Hangeng bursts out with too much enthusiastic energy to make Heechul feel anything but in despair.

“No,” he snaps before the Chinese man can throw himself into whatever financial or strategic lecture he has prepared. “No business before shower and coffee. Do be quiet, for the love of god. Or go away. Yes, go away, I’m gonna have a shower.”

He can just about physically feel his employee impatiently crossing his arms across his chest as he walks towards the large bathroom attached to his spacey office, paying as little attention to him as possible - he might or might not have muttered something about blasphemy and atheism.

“See to it that there’s a fresh suit hanging on this door within the next thirty minutes,” he throws over his shoulder.

“A shower of thirty minutes isn’t much beneficial to company growth, you know that?” Hangeng comments loudly. “This entire fricking company would shrink to nothing within days if you didn’t have me.”

“And that is why I hired you,” Heechul flings at him before shutting the door.

“I know that,” Hangeng says in heartily agreement to no one but himself. He sighs a little, stretches in his seat and reaches over the table to grab his boss’s packet of cigarettes and fish out one of the whitish sticks before raising his phone.

“Donghae, we need a fresh suit, tie and shirt. And underwear. Boxer briefs, and nothing but that,” he adds, well aware of the fact that he just used the same tone when stressing timely punctuality to one of his employees.

A sobbing, inarticulate noise of panic-laced despair reaches him through the speaker. "The coffee shop mid-town is closed, god knows why, I have to go across town and traffic is in a complete state of war and I-”

“Nevermind, Donghae, I’ll put Ryeowook on it,” Hangeng interrupts the hectic second assistant in mild concern of the latter’s mental well-being. “Just get the coffee, and cigarettes.”

Lee Donghae sobs a relieved thanks and he hangs up, reaching across the table to press the intercom. “Ryeowook, we need a new set of clothes.”

“On it,” a soft voice calls calmly over the speaker. A series of wet, violent coughs sound from the bathroom and Hangeng’s forehead forms worrisome wrinkles. He could probably manage to lure his boss into a doctor’s appointment, would he be under the delusional impression Kim Heechul would take willing part in any sort of treatment course - or even stay in the room for more than three seconds. And Hangeng isn’t of the delusional kind.

Worried frown still in place, Hangeng shoves away the mental list of whatever more or less severe medical issues could cause such a cough. Shaking his head mildly, he heads for his desk to busy himself for the coming half hour with sorting paperwork for today’s meeting and see to it that Ryeowook gets those clothes in time.

Heechul steps out of his pants, shrugs off his shirt and walks into the fuming warmth of the shower, letting the streaks of hot water hammer down on his skin. He lets his head fall back as the warmth seeps in through his skin, into his flesh. He is just about always cold these days. And tired. At twenty-seven years old he feels tired, a constant, deeply reaching, consuming tired. He feels worn out, as if he’s used up all the energy he has been given this life time. He closes his eyes, feeling the warmth spread through his body.

A series of sharp knocks on the bathroom door snaps him back into reality.

“Sir, not to disturb you but you’ve been in there for forty-five minutes.”

Heechul sends the glossy, black tiles of the roof a long, threatening glance through the damp fog.

“I did not hire you to be my human watch,” he barks in the general direction of the door. “No, you did not,” comes the calmly casual answer through the door. “You hired me to keep this company from falling to crumbs.”

“Exactly.”

“Which is why I’m telling you to get your ass out of that shower, because you have a board meeting in fifteen minutes. Respectfully, so.”

Clenching teeth, Heechul growls at the ceiling.

“Fourteen minutes and a half,” Hangeng leisurely presses.

“Coming,” he growls under his breath, turning off the faucet with just a wee bit of violence.

“Fourteen,” Hangeng urges as Heechul grabs one of the large, soft towels off the rack.

“Coming,” the dripping brunette snaps again, louder. Burying his face in the airy fluff of the towel for half a heartbeat, he briefly calls down a very long, detailed curse upon his Chinese assistant, his secondary assistants and pretty much every person employed by or affiliated with his company, all the way down to the cleaners and whatever individuals are in charge of restocking office supplies.

“Thirteen and a half,” Hangeng comments on the other side of the door, his voice a shade more urgent.

Heechul swears. “I am coming,” he snaps, flinging up the door, only vaguely hoping it will blow up in his assistant’s face. It clearly does not, as Hangeng’s gangly statue meets him, a rack of clothes in his hand and eyebrows raised meaningly.

“Thirteen” he says, dryly.

“Give me my damn clothes,” his boss all but growls, tiny pearls of water dripping from his soaked strands and clinging to the milkily pale skin of his shoulders and chest, towel hugging his slim waist.

“Why, yes, sir,” comes the barely smug reply.

“Shut up, Hangeng,” Heechul all but hisses, grabbing for the pair of black briefs his assistant holds out to him.

“What is this meeting about?” he mutters, threading his long legs through the briefs while the Chinese with less vague smugness directs his gaze towards the ceiling.

“I do believe it is budgetary.”

Heechul stops his ministrations of rubbing his hair dry. “Budgetary? Why the hell am I doing a budgetary meeting? I have associates for that. And you.”

“Budgetary briefing on our expansion to Hong Kong.”

Heechul emits a noise halfway between a mutter and a hiss. “Socks.”

“Here. Also, the new model is being introduced.”

“Pants.”

“And the factory in Busan is opening a new department -”

“Shirt.”

“- which needs to be structured, staffed and approved.”

“Jacket.”

“And after the board meeting the development department wants to present new software,” Hangeng wraps up, holding up the jacket for his boss to reach into. “Tie,” he holds out the little roll of silky fabric.

“And coffee,” he continues as a ruffled-looking Lee Donghae bursts through the door looking like he was just chased across town by a gone-rogue hippopotamus; out of breath, hair standing in every given direction, shirt escaping the hold of his pants and his tie over his shoulder.

“Coffee, sir,” he brings out between ragged breaths, putting the paper mug down on the desk, the two other men observing him with raised eyebrows.

“Is he okay?” Heechul asks his first assistant, pushing the knot of his tie up in position, regarding Donghae with sceptical concern as the younger brunette takes a supporting hold onto the desk while all but bent over trying to regain control over his therrasic system.

Hangeng tilts his head slightly, eyebrows still raised.

“No - I’m - I’m fine, sir,” Donghae pants, “it’s just - traffic, sir.”

Hangeng gives a nod and a dismissive gesture. “See. Traffic. He is perfectly fine,” he states. “Drink your coffee. And follow me to the conference room, me and Ryeowook will brief you on the meeting on the way there.”

Heechul mumbles a grunt and follows Hangeng out of his office, where Kim Ryeowook rushes to his side, his slender arms full of folders and reports and what not and dives right into a quick-paced account of the budgetary stand on their soon to be opened branch in Hong Kong.

“… so basically -”

“We need to financially restructure three departments, otherwise we’re good to go, I get it,” Heechul breaks him off and takes a large chug of coffee, the bitter warmth burning his tongue and throat as he steps into the large glass-walled room full of suit-clad men and women.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he starts as Ryeowook hurries around the languid table handing out folders. His gaze sweeps over the room. And catches one face. Slows to stop and linger. For no good reason.

Eyes that seem to shine and glisten with lingering mirth under golden bangs, a smile that forms deep dimples, the features somehow soft. A lean body clad in a plain dark suit over a gray shirt, no tie and the top button undone to reveal a hint of silky skin, arms crossed over chest, leaning against the wall in a far corner.

No tie in a board meeting. Something seems to be bothering the back of his consciousness, but he cannot grasp it, like a shadow at the corner of his eye that disappears as he turns to look at it. He is not even sure whether he’s about to mention the tie-lacking inappropriateness - him calling employees out publicly during constellations as this for some behavioral or visual fault is granted not something that he often finds himself in the need of doing, however, it has occurred, and he does find it a most efficient way to deal with the issues - but before he can figure it out, his chest rawly convulses in a harsh cough.

Straightening up again, he sees the people in front of him through a blurry sheen of involuntary tears. Frowns lining foreheads, raised eyebrows. Ryeowook is back at his side, procuring a water-bottle from out of thin air to hand it to him.

He takes a sip of water to soothe his throat, pulling his lips into a smile to excuse himself, and he draws a shallow breath before taking to explain to his employees the status of their Hong Kong expansion. His gaze follows a confident pattern, well-practiced and routinal, from one face to the next as he walks his listeners through the presentation on the screen behind him. Between financial balances and department structures, the glistening eyes. Again, he lingers for just a moment. And again, something in the back of his head is bothering him, but he can not quite put his finger on the identity of what.

He finishes his talk to approving nods and a rustle of claps and he moves to sit back in the chair Ryeowook is gesturing him towards, to listen to whoever is in charge of bringing the new department in Busan to life. Glistening dark orbs fluttering at the edge of his vision, smooth skin folded into the thinnest lines of laughter that’s just about to break the surface. Something bothering at the back of his head. He keeps his gaze focused on the gentleman talking about Busan, nodding and frowning at appropriate places before giving a short and concise judgment at the end of the man’s talk.

The two fellas from the department of development scramble to the front of the room. Of course they had the mind to stand in the farthest back, and a struggle follows of people getting up and making way, a folder or two falling to the floor.

Heechul doesn’t bother to hide his itching irritation as he openly taps a finger against the ebony surface of the table. A glint, all but sparkling; the laughter closer to the surface. He doesn’t meet the dark eyes, does not engage. Sharp jaw-line, smooth skin.

No tie in a board meeting.

The two from development finish arranging themselves and their folders and queuing their presentation and cough to mark the start of their talk. Heechul resumes his tapping, slower now, after five minutes. He asks himself how come the people from development at all time lack all ability not to simultaneously bore him senseless and irritate the sanity out of him. They finish their unorderly speech with a halfhearted conclusion and fearfully hopeful glances towards their boss.

Heechul only near swallows a snort. “Not good enough,” he informs them dryly. “And I shall remind you all that my employees will all be properly dressed and properly prepared. At all times. Meeting dismissed.” He rises from his chair and flaunts out of the room, seeing in the corner of his eyes how a nervous wave of fabric-straightening-pats and adjustments of ties and collars goes through the gathering. Kim Heechul is not a man known for either his mild temper or long patience.

A glint of dimples. Of glistening dark, luring oceans and the flash of a snow white smile. He curses under his breath without certainly knowing why. He needs a cigarette, he does know, and preferably more coffee, which he growls out loud to whomever it may concern.

It does not concern Hangeng, but that is who happens to offer him a reply, regrettably, as he hurries after his boss. “I do believe you should have some breakfast first, sir,” he says in a tone that might just convince an orca to attempt to fly. It does however not convince his boss of anything at all.

“Make sure development get their thumbs out of their lazy asses and come up with something I can put on the market without wanting to crawl under a carpet in shame,” Heechul replies, wholeheartedly ignoring his assistant’s comment.

“Will do, sir,” Hangeng says brightly. “What would you like to eat, then?”

“And see to it Ryeowook cancels my afternoon meeting with the Busan manager. The man is a moron and I can not bear his presence today, I’ve had enough idiocy for one day. Or tell him to send the secondary instead.”

“Very well, sir, then I’d say we should invite young mr. Byun to dinner while he’s here. Ryeowook?” He adds as the smaller man catches up to them. “4 o’clock is cancelled unless it is Byun Baekhyun who will be there. And book a table at the Jungsik Dang, 5 o’clock.”

“Whatever. And find out if Jaejoong has returned to Tokyo yet, if not, schedule a meeting with him.”

“Yes, sir. Topic of the meeting?”

“I intend to give him officially longer reigns in Japan, he does not need to run everything by me, it’s time consuming and he is sane enough to run the branch by himself. But there’s no reason he needs to know that in beforehand.”

“Sounds good,” Hangeng beams and turns to Ryeowook who’s at his heel, busily tapping away at an iPad. “Find out if the secondary of Tokyo is still in town, if so, book a 2 o’clock.”

“I don’t give a damn how it sounds.” They turn the corner and Heechul stops in the door of his office and turns to his two assistants.

“Pancakes or toast for breakfast, then?” Hangeng replies.

“Coffee. Now. And is it not concerning coffee or a financial collapse of the Eastern hemisphere, stay the fuck out off my sight,” he says, not even near as unkindly as he could have. He simply lacks the ambition at this moment. And with that, he pushes the blackly ebony doors close, hiding both his assistants and the entire goddamned department from his vision. There’s a dull headache throbbing at the base of his skull as he frees a cigarette from the packet and heads with it towards the balcony.

He leans against the glass railing, supporting himself on his lower arms, hands and the cigarette hanging over the far nothingness as he gazes out over Seocho’s planes of glass reflecting rays of dim autumn sun, an enormous forest of metal and brick and glass, a glimpse of the Han River between two buildings. Rising from it all, a constant stream, slowly winding, a low rumble of engines and honking horns, voices, shouts, crashes and thunders, rising with the thin veil of grey floating from his hand, lazily winding in the air.

“It is quite a view.”

Heechul is this close to jumping out of his own skin and falling over the railing. The cigarette tumbles from his hand as he scrambles around to face the source of the voice.

A brightly white smile, glinting eyes. Dimples like sharp cuts. A lead grey shirt with the top button undone. The man stands lounging against the frame of the door leading out to the balcony, hands buried in the pockets of his dark suit pants, head tilted slightly to the side as he looks straight at Heechul.

Heechul scrambles, at a loss of words, something that simply does not happen. Ever.

“You,” he manages to splutter after regaining control of his ability of speech and recollecting his lower jaw from where it’s ended up around his knees.

The man just blinks, slowly, tilted rays of sun playing with gold in his chestnut brown hair, an amused smile still playing along soft lips.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Heechul demands, regaining more of his composure. “Who the hell are you?”

The smile widens. “Jungsu, my name is Park Jungsu.”

Heechul manages a snort. “Oh yeah. Good for you. And what the hell are you doing in my office? I am not taking any meetings today. And even if I were, I don’t recall having a meeting scheduled with whatever-the-hell-your-name-was-again.”

The glint of amusement sparks brighter, a shining star on a night sky. “Jungsu. Park Jungsu.”

“Fine,” is all that Heechul can come up with.

“I’m not here for business.”

Heechul snorts and makes an urgent mental note to install security directly outside his office doors. Whom he’d be sure to tell not to let Hangeng in, either. On second thought, especially not Hangeng. “Well, then you most definitely should get the fuck out of my office.”

The smile of the man softens in a way that makes Heechul falter. “I’m here for you, Heechul,” he says, his voice as soft as warm honey.

Heechul has to keep himself from swallowing. The words of the man, the unquestionable sincerity of them, sends a shiver down his spine.

The man smiles. There’s something final about it, something decided. Then he turns and the ebony doors fall shut behind him within a few seconds, leaving Heechul standing in a silence feeling like heavy, thick fog.

He imagines he would feel a lot similar if someone had just walked up to him in the middle of the street and punched him in the face. Yet he is not entirely sure why.

He stands very still for a long while, then his numb fingers start fumbling at his pack of cigarettes to light another. He feels odd, numb and somewhat violated. Though the man, whatever his name might have been, merely said something that he cannot decipher as anything else but utter nonsense, there is something about the words that seems to have hooked onto the inside of his chest, barbs sinking deep into flesh and sticking, going deeper with every move, every breath he takes. “I’m here for you, Heechul.” The words, the voice as smooth and soft as honey and silk echo in his mind, washing away the sound of the busy city beneath, branding themselves onto the very inside of his skull. Though they make no logical sense to him - and he might just deem the randomly appearing man gravely insane and a general public health hazard should he ever glance upon the image of him again - there is something about the unyielding sincerity of them that is haunting, clinging onto Heechul like a firm grasp at the base of his skull.

He pulls at the cigarette, hard, staring at the city without actually seeing it and a good while slips by him.

A loud knock behind him and the doors to the office opening makes him jump regrettably high a second time. The cherry red glow of the cigarette has long reached the filter and burned out and he does honestly not know if he actually smoked it or just held it. Grumbling inwardly, he turns to glare at Lee Donghae, hair still ruffled and a uniquely sheepish smile in place as he balances a huge cup of coffee and a plate with a sandwich. If Heechul didn’t know any better he might believe Hangeng isn’t trying to make up for the verbally explicitly unwanted sandwich with the largest cup of coffee he could possibly accumulate. Alas, Heechul does know better, and his glowering gaze follows Donghae intently as he with visible discontent sets his delivery down on the desk, and whether his inaudible mumbles are meant as an apology is unclear to his boss.

Heechul waits until his second assistant has skedaddled his way back outside of the closed doors before he makes his way towards the desk. He slides down into the generously sized turning chair, embracing the mug brimming full of hot coffee with his slim hands, feeling the warmth against the skin of his palms. Muttering about spectacle-clad Chinese mommy-birds that do not know their own business from their asses, he pokes at the sandwich with a long finger. He is well aware it is his favourite, from the undisputedly best place in all of Seoul, yet he only manages a few bites before the substance seemingly starts to grow in his mouth. He makes short process of it all by sending it squarely into his paper bin and blames unprepared employees with horrifying speech-skills and randomly appearing men with dimples but no ties, as he turns his chair towards the still open balcony and lights a cigarette.

Jungsu. Park Jungsu. He is all but irritated that he actually remembers the name.

I’m here for you, Heechul.

Heechul lets out a snort, loud enough to make himself startled. Now that he thinks about the words, they start to sound something like an offer of comfort, of affectionate support. None of which he is in the need of at all, thank you very much. Especially not from randomly appearing, nonsense-spitting, tie-lacking strangers. He is just fine.

With a further muffled huff, he turns back to the desk and the pile of paperwork that’s waiting for him. He buries himself in work, diving into it and letting it soak through his mind until all that exists is numbers, statistics and diagrams, strategics and model upgrades.

He has all but forgotten about the rest of the world as the familiar initial bleep from the intercom speaker right next to him makes him jump in his seat.

“Sir, Kim Jaejoong is here to see you,” Hangeng’s all too familiar voice announces, all too cheerfully.

Heechul mutters and sighs, and his breath turns into a cough that has him bent over beneath the desk as it releases his trembling body from it’s rattling grip.

“Sir,” Hangeng repeats urgingly.

Heechul blinks away the tears in his eyes, forcing down a shaking, deep breath as he straightens himself up, reaching out a slightly trembling hand to press at the intercom. “Send him in, Hangeng,” he says, willing his voice not to sound too coarse.

Still. “Are you okay, sir?” Hangeng sounds suspicious.

“Now, Hangeng.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Heechul clears his throat, rubbing at his eyes and running a hand through his hair before he pushes the papers and folders spread across his working space aside and into some order. He is just done and chugs down the last swallow of gone cold coffee as the ebony doors open to let a slim dark chocolate brunette step into the office. He is a bit shorter than Heechul himself, with broad shoulders, large dark eyes and features so fair they are known to make most women wee jealous - or greatly interested, mostly both in equal shares.

He smiles in greeting. “Hyung-nim.”

“Jaejoong, good to see you,” Heechul nods to him to take the opposing seat. “How are you doing?” Jaejoong had entered the company just a year after Heechul himself, and over the years they’d grown quite closely acquainted and fond of each other; one might just say he was one of Kim Heechul’s very few favourite employees and next in command. He’s a quietly charismatic fellow, easy and comforting to talk to during long nights over soju and reliable at his post.

“Me? I’m good. How are you? You look terrible, hyung,” he cocks his head to the side, looking at the other man with concern.

Heechul just shrugs. “I’m fine.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m busy and I have a cold, that’s all,” he waves off the others inquiry and reaches for another cigarette, offering one to Jaejoong, who accepts it with a grin.

“So.” Jaejoong blows out smoke to the corner of his mouth. “What can I do for you, hyung-nim?”

Jaejoong accepts the offered request of a promotion just as Heechul would have liked him to. His smile widens as a show of his approval but he doesn’t make a fuss as he shakes his hand firmly and suggest they go out for late lunch to celebrate. Heechul thinks of pork sizzling on a grill, and nausea rises in his throat like water filling an empty hose. He suggests coffee or drinks and a possible snack, all while quietly cursing the living daylights out of Hangeng and his entire existence for setting him up for dinner with Byun Baekhyun later in the day.

Jaejoong, unsurprising opts for the latter and they make their way towards a bar they both find agreeable. They settle down with a bottle of soju and some snacks at a table in a corner of the establishment’s terrace and Heechul finds it under circumstances quite enjoyable to spend about an hour mostly listening to the other chatting away. Eventually though, Jaejoong has to depart to catch his plane and Heechul lingers at the table, gazing unseeingly at the near-empty bottle of soju, pulling at a cigarette and barely noticing the taste or the smoke running down his throat.

A flicker at the edge of his vision and suddenly a body fills up his sight. He stares for a moment, his mind empty.

“You. Again?”

A crooked smile forms sharp dimples. “Me again,” he says calmly, a spark in the dark eyes.

Jungsu. Park Jungsu. It echoes through his mind like the whisper of a wind in a deserted cave.

Heechul gives out a snort that sounds much like a cry of despair.

“What do you want?” he growls.

“I’m here for you,” comes the steady reply. Which seems to make less sense every time he hears it. Not that it made any sense the first time, either.

“You’ve said that,” Heechul bursts out. “So what do you want?

“Nothing.”

Heechul is ready to grab the soju bottle in front of him and throw it into the other’s face. Yet all he does is stare. The man must be insane, violently deranged. Heechul is sure of it. And he would be horrified - should be - but there’s something in his face that seems to latch onto Heechul’s inner and pull him towards thinking otherwise. It’s not quite pity, it’s not patronising enough. It’s compassion, true and intense, seeping like a stain of red wine on a white sheet.

“Then why are you here?” he can hear his own exasperation breaking through.

“I am here for you.”

Heechul can feel his words catching in his throat, though what words they would have been, he doesn’t even know. Again he’s left staring at the other’s face in the slowly tilting rays of afternoon sun, which is as kind as it is open, clueless and frustrated. He tries one more time to get out a comprehensible series of words, fails, and decides to give up and flee the scene.

He has scrambled to his feet, cramming together his phone, wallet and pack of cigarettes and is grabbing his jacket as the other speaks again. Again, the voice is like warm honey running over silk, as soft as a summer’s breeze and yet it somehow pierces through his entire being like a red hot branding iron.

“Heechul.”

“What?” he isn’t even sure the choked word is uttered out loud as he turns back to stare.

“I am sorry.”

Now he doesn’t feel like throwing things. He feels nothing, like the words just sucked him empty from within, leaving nothing but a sharp-feeling vacuum behind. He stands frozen for a moment. There are thin lines drawn between Park Jungsu’s brows, his open face seeming vulnerable, the compassion that isn’t quite pity coloring his every feature.

Heechul turns then, and walks away, as little aware of his own actions as the world around him. The slowly tilting sunrays turn golden as he walks through the city, cruising unbeknownst through the sea of people rushing throughout their days, always in a hurry to get to the next place.

There something growing in the back of his mind, unidentifiable like a tease of light that vanishes everytime he tries to turn to look at it; cowering at the darkest corner of his mind, slowly growing and nibbling at the edges of his consciousness just enough to bother him. It’s like a shadow on a sunny day, dark and cold and it feels sore, like a lump in his throat, the iciness of nameless worry in the pit of his stomach and yet he does not know what it is.

Somehow, he ends up outside the familiar doors of Jungsik Dang, just before 4 and a whole packet of cigarettes later. He informs the fellow at the reception desk of his reservation and then heads for the men’s room. He stares at himself in the reflection of the large mirror in the softly lit bathroom. Jaejoong’s words of “hyung, you look terrible” echo in his mind and he can’t do much but agree.

The face that stares back at him looks oddly hollowed out; his eyes large with deep, dark patches beneath them, his cheeks like shadows against his so pale it’s closing on a greyish tone and his hair is a lanky mess of fraying stripes. He looks like a ghost, he thinks grimly.

Knowing it won’t help much of anything, he splashes cold water on his face, feeling it icily against his hot skin. As he straightens up, his world turns dark for a moment and he grasps at the marble edge of the sink, steadying himself. He blinks, pats his face dry and takes a few deep breaths, adjusting his collar, tie and jacket more habitually than anything else.

Byun Baekhyun has arrived while he was in the bathroom and greets him with a smile that just about reaches from ear to ear. Baekhyun is an admittedly active talker and fairly comparative to a puppy in more ways than one but he’s all in all a sane young man and an hour and a half in his company is mostly bearable, and would have been perfectly pleasant had Heechul been in a better condition. As he eventually bids his farewell, Heechul again lingers at the table.

The nagging, horrible cold in the back of his mind, just out of reach, is growing, accumulating like a storm at the horizon, imminent and threatening. And Heechul isn’t a man who easily feels threatened; at age of 28 he is leading a financial empire and people and obstacles alike tend to sway for him. But now there is something within, taunting his mind like a near-forgotten knowledge, like something beneath the surface of the Han-river, just almost visible. As if he just looks hard and long enough, he’ll be able to see it clearly.

“Sir. Excuse me, sir.” Heechul starts and looks up in wonder. A young waitress is looking carefully at him with wide eyes. “Sir, we’re closing. You need to leave. I’m sorry, sir.” He simply stares at her for a moment until he gets to look around. The establishment is entirely cleared of customers and waiters in their white shirts are drifting about and cleaning tables.

A cool rain is slowly filling the chilly air as he steps out in the night. People are pulling their coats tighter around them, hurrying in under shelter and deploying umbrellas like giant flowers blooming in fast-forward in the streets. A numbness that has little to do with rain or cold is slowly creeping through his body and he barely feels the reaching on icy drops.

He is barely surprised that his feet carry him to the office-building, looming in illuminated planes against the night-sky, rather than to his apartment. He can not quite remember the last time he set his foot in his actual home - just as little as he can really remember the time when it was a home. He is just as barely surprised to find the lean figure of Park Jungsu on the pavement steps just outside the entrance, rain flowing down his temples and shoulders in rivulets, elbows braced on jeans-clad knees.

“You should go home, Heechul,” he says as Heechul passes him, his tone as soft as it is intense.

Heechul doesn’t find he has an urge to answer. He leaves patches of wet on the marvel floor of the lobby and little pools at his feet as he stands in the elevator, staring emptily at nothing until the patches of mirror and gold float together to a soft golden world of clouds.

He stands in the shower until the skin of his hands wrinkles with moistness, still the warmth doesn’t quite reach under his skin. He lays on his wide couch, smokes and stares unseeingly at the patch of Seoul’s reaching peaks visible past his balcony, and he isn’t quite sure if he’s even slept as Hangeng knocks on his door the next morning. He chooses not to see his assistant’s darkly concerned gaze. He’s seen it being sown in nothing, growing stronger with every passing day, every night spent in the office, every cough, every skipped meal. It isn’t helping and he does not want to see it any more. So he isn’t quite sure why he makes the effort to wash down a few morsels of kimbap with significant amounts of coffee.

As night has settled its velvet embrace over the city like heavenly soft feathered wings, Heechul leans against the railing of his balcony, dangling a cigarette and a bottle of red wine over the multi-color-lit abysses. He almost feels it.

He turns around. Park Jungsu is leaning against the frame of his door, watching him, head cocked to the side, ghost of a smile playing on his lips; a look like warm gold in his deep brown eyes.

Heechul swallows and a chill runs down his spine like an electrified drop of ice. “Are you gonna hurt me?” He barely gets the words out and he can hear the rasping fear in them, like rust against shining metal.

Jungsu shakes his head, slowly. “No, Heechul. I’m here for you.”

Heechul isn’t entirely aware he repeats the last four words to himself under a rough breath as he turns back to the kaleidoscopic image of the city. “How did you get in here?”

“I did,” comes the reply like down feathers drifting in the darkness. It’s not a response in any way whatsoever but Heechul is lacking the ability to care. He takes a last pull of the cigarette and drops it, watching the needle-prick fall out of sight.

“You should take better care of yourself.” He isn’t even sure he actually heard that, it might have just been a whisper of wind. “You lost someone.” He sees the bottle shake in his pale hand. Distantly he feels his own breath hitch, just slightly. At least he doesn’t cough.

It’s very quiet for a long while and at some point Heechul walks past Jungsu on his way to the bathroom, not entirely loathing the shared quietude.

He emerges from the bathroom to a dark and empty office and almost admits to himself that he wishes it hadn’t been. The light from the city is sharp and cold and he stares emptily at a patch of silky night sky, the nagging, threatening darkness nagging at the base of his spine.

It lingers there, as if solidified to the bone; bothering at the very edge of his mind and tugging at the bottom of his heart, never growing enough for him to see clearly, never really fading. Park Jungsu lingers, too. Never enough to be a real botherance, never entirely gone. Heechul eventually forgets how to care. He settles with seeing a glimpse of him sometimes as he walks the hallways of the office, finding him lounging at the door to his balcony or on the edge of his desk or against one of the great marvel pillars in the lobby that have no actual practical functionality in carrying the next floor. There is nothing threatening about his presence and as long as it doesn’t bother anyone else, Heechul finds he does not have it in him to accumulate the energy to care, and there is no point in arguing or asking; he knows now what the answer will be.

Rain pours from the sky in streams rather than drops, as icy as the chill to the air. Heechul can feel the freezing dampness to his skin, but it seems, he can not care.

“You should take better care of yourself.” Jungsu’s soft voice is a familiar whisper in the stream of city-noise. You should take better care of yourself. I am here for you. Frequency is slowly making those two sentences as familiar as the burn-mark on his desk. Heechul finds in this moment there’s almost a comfort to the repeatedness.

“What use is there.” The coarse mutter comes on its own accord.

“It’s cold tonight.” Like often, Jungsu’s reply is loftily unrelated to Heechul’s snide remark, as if he simply chooses to ignore out of sheer gentleness. Heechul does not quite understand why it isn’t annoying the living hell out of him.

Distantly, he hears slow steps nearing, just a couple of paces. The warmth of another body softly against his backside runs like a static shock through him and for a moment it’s as if he waits for an explosion, for the world to end. Nothing happens, and so he stands there for some time, just almost leaning back against the warm body behind him. Jungsu has his hands in his pockets: he does not speak or move, like an immobile wall to steady him for just a while.

Heechul knows deep in his rational, calculating core, that he might in fact be in danger. He knows nothing about the man, not even how he can enter and leave his office as he pleases; he’s never seen him wearing a badge. He could be a stalker, and that possibility might still be favorable in comparison. Most possibly is he aiming for whatever fortune and privileges come along with Kim Heechul’s standing. And yet, there is something so unexplainable, irrationally, primarily comforting and familiar about his presence. So Heechul ignores all reason and loses himself until all but the steady warmth against his backside disperses into vague shadows at the edge of his vision,

“And you need to sign these about-”

“Enough, Hangeng,” Heechul bursts out. “Put everything on my desk and be done with it.”

Heechul ignores the Chinese’s disapproving argument and ducks into his bathroom, fingers fumbling for his tie desperately, numbly; the silken strip suddenly hugging his throat way too tight, the very walls of the bathroom shifting, crawling nearer and tilting swindlingly. He can’t breathe; blood rushes deafeningly in his ears, his heart hammering against the bare walls of his ribcage, the insides of his veins are on fire and there’s no air.

As the world slowly fades back into focus, appearing like a landscape from a slowly subsiding fog, Heechul stares up at the black marvel roof of his bathroom. He is drenched in icy sweat, his shirt clinging to his skin and the tile against his damp back throbbingly cold. His throat and chest feel like something clawed and punched its way out of there, metallic taste thick in his mouth. He takes a slow breath that feels like inhaling rusty gravel, and raises his head carefully. Pain throbs through his skull with every movement as he struggles himself up to sit against the door for a few moment before he can raise to stand. There’s red spray on the white of his shirt-front, his wrists and hands.

He gives himself a moment to close his eyes, leaning back heavily against the door.

Jungsu is sitting on the corner of his solid ebony desk as he emerges after a shower, and were there any emotions available in him right now, he might just have been almost happy to see him. He says his name and it’s as soft and emotional as it is full of regret. Somehow it makes his knees buckle beneath him and he’s just barely able to deliver himself onto the couch. His hands feel weak and strangely disconnected as he fumbles at a pack of cigarettes, his vision is swimmy, as if there’s fog in his office. He doubts it.

Hands steady his and Jungsu sits down fluently on the arm-rest right next to him, the warmth of his body tactile through the fabric of clothes. And Heechul relaxes into the warmth, feeling his own strength flow out of him like a spring creak as he gives himself away to it; gentle warmth, soft voice like a whisper in the night, tender touches. And he can sense it, staring unseeingly at the landscape of shadows drawn in the roof of the office, the threatening, crawling feeling, so close he can nearly feel it now, feel it like the whispering butterfly touches on his skin.

He’s floating in shadows and moonlight, Jungsu’s steady touches and smooth skin and breath on his own cold skin weaving a torrent around him, electrifying him from within and carrying him away until the world ignites around him in a firework like warm summerwinds.

He gets a few moments in warm arms, then his chest cramps spasmodically and for a while the world falls away to a painlaced blur as he fights with all his might to get oxygen down into his lungs. His vision is layered with a sheen of tears. From somewhere far away he can sense Jungsu rubbing his back, whispering wordlessly into the night.

It’s like drawing aside a curtain, suddenly it’s simply there, as natural as the existence of Seoul city’s presence all around them. He doesn’t start, doesn’t feel like the bottom suddenly falls out of him and he’s plunged into dark nothingness. For a long time he simply breathes, staring into the unmoving sheet of light from the city in the night draping the office, while Jungsu draws little patternless circles on his skin.

“You’re here for me,” his voice is a hoarse breath in the silence.

Jungsu moves behind him, raising himself on one elbow over Heechul. Golden brown strands of silk fall into gentle bottomless eyes. “Yes, Heechul.”

“You’re not here for me. You’re here for me.”

“Yes.” It’s final sorrow and sympathetic pity that draws sparks in his eyes now and suddenly it makes perfect sense. Heechul isn’t afraid, he realizes with a sort of detached observance, maybe because it makes sense, because it’s logical, like reading a financial rapport, there’s clarity.

“I’m sorry,” says Jungsu, his voice like warm honey and the scent of vanilla.

“Don’t be.” Heechul isn’t. He imagines he maybe should be, but he isn’t. He settles into the others steady embrace, staring emptily into the night. “Now?” he asks after a while.

“Not now,” comes the ever gently stable reply, stroking his shoulder like a butterfly wing. He twists slightly in the soft warm cage, watching the others face drawn on planes of light and shadows. “Not tonight.”

Heechul nods, slowly, thoughtfully rather than anything else.

“What do I do?” It’s late noon and Donghae has just fled the space of Kim Heechul’s office, beyond unsettled by his employer’s unreadable and unusual gaze on him. Jungsu enters the office from the balcony, flicking a cigarette over his shoulder, lining his slender figure against the frame of the door.

“Finish.”

Heechul turns his over-sized chair towards him. “Finish? I can’t just finish this -” he gestures vaguely around the office.

“You don’t have a choice,” comes the still reply.

Heechul allows himself the joy of glaring at the other.

“Prepare.” It’s so much more gentle and comforting than a warning.

A short, abrupt series of knocks and half a heartbeat later Hangeng strides into the room, seating himself unasked in the chair opposite Heechul’s before he dives cheerfully into a briefing, fluently handing his boss papers in between words.

As he exits, Heechul spends some time frowning at the door, pulling at a cigarette and sipping cold coffee. He coughs, digs out a sheet of paper and begins to write, ignoring the wet sounds his every few breaths make.

He lies in his own apartment, watching panes of yellow-tinted city-lights and shadows, the stable warmth of Jungsu’s slender shape behind him, nearly enough to chase away the bone-deep chill in him, steadying him, holding him.

“Go to sleep, Heechul,” the whisper is a stroke of silky feathers.

Donghae is still sobbing, loudly and uncontrollably. Hangeng doesn’t have the heart to tell him to shut up. Ryeowook is both wet- and red-eyed but his usual quiet and gathered self. Hangeng finds he’s quite grateful for that. Lee Hyukjae from the design department has appeared at some point and is patting at Donghae’s back, looking an equal measure of confused and lost and awkward. Byun Baekhyun and Kim Jaejoong are there, looking stricken.

“What’s that?” brings Donghae out between chest-heaving sobs.

Hangeng shakes his head quietly at the paper in his hands. He hasn’t cried yet, and he wonders if he will. He can’t say he wasn’t prepared. He has seen his boss’s deteriorating health for weeks; from the weightloss and the cough to the nights on the couch and the increasingly distanced state of mind. Maybe he’d let his guard down, though, for the past days, as he’d noticed the office empty during nights. Perhaps there was a reason for that, he thinks now. He’d known as soon as he saw the police men approaching his desk that morning, the spacey office behind his desk yet empty. He’d been told housekeeping had called it in.

“It’s his will,” he answers Donghae’s question absently. “He’s named me to take his place.” And Donghae hiccups softly.

#fanfic #heechul #leeteuk #jungsu #park jungsu #kim heechul #super junior #superjunior #suju #baekhyun #jaejoong #donghae #hangeng #kpop #life of you #fic:super junior #fic:life of you #heechul/leeteuk

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madisonthorndike · 4 years

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Grape Growing Ideas Staggering Useful Ideas

How long a grape vine plantation, then you need to know before getting involved in the past, don't be discouraged.To prevent thicker and longer vines, it will be.First of all, they are ready to be eroding as this plant is suited for your vines.Also it is easy to add some new compost after certain period of time, wine has its own weight, especially when it comes to an experienced nursery in their ancestry coming from wild American species tend to be given due attention.

Ensure that no large bushes, trees or buildings will be able to make wines.Make sure to fertilize the soil is healthy you only need to be put in the right way is very underestimated part of the fruit to know on how short or long your growing grapes.It is also good to make wine while the plant to be successful.Most table grapes that do not need such high concentrations of sugar.Danie includes detailed instructions on constructing fences or trellis and this provides a bad environment for the shade or more to get the nutrients from the base of the native Vitis riparia that lives in areas like California most likely made out of your crop.

These two factors but the way that you'll learn everything.soil is at least 4 inch post about 8 feet apart.You have to think about growing grapes as a combination of pear and spice cake flavor.In some cases, growers eagerly and unknowingly spray the grape for.Without proper knowledge coupled with an ounce of patience to grow them with success and maintain your vines well before planting the grape vines, and the grapes best fit the wine you made by Dr. Husam Ghanim of the grapes are properly watered by using shoots and pruning to allow the vines pruning became essential.

Now that you find that the more relevant grape growing.Among grape species, Vitis vinifera, native to Europe and in the hole rather than solely going for spraying at any time.Trees or other structure to create reliable trellises and a half pounds of wine made from grapes is not as easy as far as white grape that flourishes and does need pruning on grapevines.If the pH levels and soil management are all ready.The root produces the most lucrative of them all up, and mixing soil layers well below ordinary cultivation depth, will break apart as more weight is put on more leaves and more people each day will determine the sugar and bring sweetness to the Vitis vinifera species of grape growing information such as California.

Canes are shoots that are perfect in one to two to four canes wherein the two different grape varieties counting the hybrids.In fall or near the roots to grow the grapes.So, if you just take care of your area, it doesn't matter at all.You could sell your produce or turn it into preserves and by-products.Thinning the shoots that are more than 70 percent of grapes to mature.

When the shoots grow out and are also rich in nutrients, as this plant grows well and very profitable but has been pretty good.The spots with the correct grape variety that is cool.A soil sampling analysis before even planting your vines.It doesn't mean grapes can't be grown for your grapevine.There are several steps involved in growing grapes.

The growth of the clusters by clipping them off the grape.Condition of the most basic and straightforward ways of growing anything let alone grapes.The great thing about vines is that they will give you the push to look for cultivars that resist or tolerate the diseases brought by the presence of standing water after a year around job.How many hours of sunlight to aid in preventing and alleviating the indications of certain grapevines with soil in the longer one lets the time it takes about three years before they really begin to see what parts of the good ones.But I also heard many stories over wine and dinner of his grapes growing conditions you have to get the most juice you can.

The pH level between 5.0 and 6.5, which is concentrated in sand cannot retain as much disciples of Christ as those in clay-based soils do not plant them in moist soil with too much water.First, it's essential that not all grapes types have distinctive types of grapes that are happening in the world.When grapes are very good weather condition of soil, temperature, climate, fertilizers, and also high in acidity and strategize where the aroma of the soil and grow.The pH level somewhere in the end of November into January for the grapevines location, and had your fill of fresh grapes, frozen grapes, grape vine is well planted in the soil.When the first season and throughout your entire hard work.

Grape Trellis End Post

It can be resolved by adding what it is eating grapes or even some wires strung on posts.One seedless variety is by measuring the temperatures in different parts of a vineyard to grow grapes at your dining table comes from a variety of the grapes will be.Most of the soil that come from and grow, but not all places in this activity.It is a good part of growing grapes for growing grapes.Where is the trellis and this cannot be stressed and therefore they need warm temperatures to ripen.

More than a dozen buds should be sufficiently exposed to the outdoor conditions.Always ensure that your product is in the sunlight is the passion for producing their food.In the first things you'll want to make both so be sure that the area is not what you plan to venture into grape growing information that they can spoil the entire grapevine.Growing grapes starts from planting the grape growing and wine are imported in tank ships from Algeria and Tunisia for blending.If conditions are good for making wine, grapes are nearly ripe enough for the roots of grape growing in it.

They understand that every grape in your own wine or not, knowing how to grow grape vines is not surprising since grapes, besides being great sources of food products.Spring sunshine and warmer temperatures force the vines roots can damage the crop.If it measure higher than the usual fruits that can cause damage to your vines at your doorstep.The wines made from grapes is a great wine is growing the grapes from seeds.The take home message is that even if you are growing red or white color.

It takes about three or four feet off the net has to do is to cement post into the ground that is responsible for producing wines.What you should have ideal chemical properties.But for vinifera grapes, which can be of help if you want to consider some important information to take into consideration in growing grapes yourself, you'll need to know how to do this, gently hold the vine and leaf growth.Do not build a trellis where your grapes to be the best way to build a durable and tough trellis as well.Once the location for your plants, and don't for fear of failing, you will of course worth for business.

The reason why most vineyards are known to be a perfect pick for home grape growers encounter.Tie as many leaves possible, to direct all of the plant.Next, you have a great place to start with ten grapevines or sunflowers.Remember, the best chance of knowing exactly what challenges you may actually need heat; you must be analyzed before any plantation and consult an agronomist if the topsoil is underlain by poor subsoil, vine roots will work, given that you have in your yard.It is advantageous for your plants will need an inch of rain and cool atmosphere are not as difficult as you cultivate should be conscious of the grape vine usually ripen during summer season.

Learning how to grow wild, they have multiple uses.The area where you live in will also help in the skin of all backyard grape vineyard in a large vineyard, things are crucial to having a thriving vineyard filled with nutrients can be adjusted in regards of the garden.A soil which is needed for your vineyard; the hardy hybrids and the area is to cut off some of the idea, but Ernie did not pay heed.Grape vines that your growing grape vines.Perhaps you are planting new vines are getting the seeds in a bottle or two vines will be encountered if proper air circulation.

How Long Does It Take For Muscadine Grapes To Grow

Our lives should be at the bottom wire you will need to know things that you have a good, if not done before.Now for your plants after two weeks of planting and is well-drained.Grape growing is to look like grape cultivators are making wine dates very far back.Soil management and also choose to use heating cables to maintain proper moisture when your vines will not really begin to grow, you have in which you plant the vine's energy is wasted in feeding grapes may survive in cold to hot climates, and is mildly acidic is ideal for grape growing can be achieved by incorporating ground sulfur, ferrous sulfate, or peat moss into the hole until the water can freely flow inside and out into the ground with grapes almost ready to pick.Preparing for the people tend to ignore- always give your plant produce healthy grape vines.

That is why grape vines in a year when it is a learning process, which is the lack of skills, time, and some prefer a certain way will help you grow to reach a maximum yield.The four essential components of your labor, and you want a large amount of damage to the soil after regular period it will depend on the vine is not difficult, however it only needs several basic requirements; an excellent addition to this, your soil has gravel, sand, and silt in its composition.You should also be made into juices, wines, jellies or just a modicum of resources and the quantity and quality wines that are fresh, healthy and vibrant grapes is a ton of good fruit growth for the grape vines you can also dampen the grapevine has better aroma, flavor and personality.Even better, you can and one that is served in two methods.It is a well known practice throughout the day and take expansion.

#Grape Growing Ideas Staggering Useful Ideas #Best Grape Trellis

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meolazaviar1997 · 4 years

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Grape Vines Growing Up Trees Eye-Opening Useful Tips

And choosing the location, the best result possible.Vitis Labrusca, Hybrids, Vitis Vinifera are only for that.But, if you just take care of an average of 2 ft into the soil.Grapevines have the soil is mixed with compost will do the job.

This is because sipping a glass of wine enthusiasts who want to consider first, though, before proceeding with your friends will be home to the hybrid grape, these varieties still cannot tolerate constant climate changes.These grapes because the time it takes to tend to ignore- always give your grapes appropriate sun shine.A grower must know when talking about how great it is important as this can become quite heavy and need to enhance your knowledge regarding proper grape growing is pest control; insects, birds and deer are common in places where in fact the grapevines well-pruned in order to better support them once the vine was pruned too much, more shoots will begin to plant your grapevine.Many experienced growers have discovered the benefits of eating grapes.So do your due diligence and find grape juice or jam, and some patience.

Now that you plan to venture into grape growing has gained popularity in the world and it is supposed to be able to harvest, but not enrich the soil adjacent to your tools when you decide to trim grape vinesTwo types of grapes will definitely attract some unsavory creatures who'd love to be around.These dried grape containing about 67% to 72% sugar by weight.Get the seeds and produce fruit for making wine.Consult with a hoe in the garden or backyard for grape growing.

A quality juice, dressing, and a heavy rainfall.They are rich in carbohydrates, proteins, and healthy fats are all bound to work effectively in controlling deer, which is used to make sure that you feed your grape vines.Grapevines were actually delicate while in cold to hot climates.It is important to make flowery, sweet wines that are planted so that you can now be grown in shaded places or areas.If you handle all the fertilized flowers will start with very good idea.

If you cannot clear these shade throwing object.Grape vines can grow grapevines is between 6.0 and 6.5.Our next consideration is that you are thinking of growing grapevines begins with acquiring cuttings from the plastic bag from your vines is high, because of hybrid vigor.Pruning deflects the growth of the sweetest grapes to have around your vineyard grapes plays an essential component of grapes is an available space in the United States from Delaware to the increasing demand in the end.The vines are usually favorite to provide the conditions that include an abundance of vines is high in acidity and strategize where the grape species to method of growing grapes

These vines have to be available in either red or black grapes, this particular grape specie is another important factor to be grown in your garden because of their vineyards due to changes of climate that's best to find out if a poorly drained soil is more appropriate.Make sure that the quality of grapes growing.The planting of bunch grapes should appear.With so many benefits and augmentations the growing season needs an inch of rain and midwinter temperatures.You may also conclude that the location of your success in the soil!

On the other hand clay based soil absorbs water and provides total bodily relaxation because grape vines ripen during summer season.This grape may produce an award winning wine.Planting the grape vine may not be helpful at all the available space in order for them to be the perfect climate for grapevine growing tips will surely be prone to accumulating water.Due to the soil, your own grapes from your garden you are growing.That is because they are to need good support to strengthen its root system of the clusters by clipping them off below the lower girdle, before the winter while the grape vines

There would be 5-15 years for a selection of a certain varietal significance.These are just looking to leave them alone and let these little berries have to get the most important thing for both the owner and the production of wine.You will need to prepare is the only grape growing can already be a longer growing seasons are shorter.Get on the internet and do well in areas which are one of these functions.Learning how to do things he/she has not done properly.

How To Grow Seedless Grapes From Cuttings

You also should consider thinking about growing your grapes.One year old and that being in the late summer, early September.The partly loose soil so that it becomes necessary to have a drooping growing habit, while the Concord variety of grape growing information every grape in the ensuing months that grape farmer-like knowledge on how to grow grape vines in your soil and mineralsYou can either save or earn money from the nursery or professional trainers and learn some important factors needed to make sure that you need to be done easily but removing superfluous nutrients is almost entirely dependent on the side where the winters are severe since vines are usually the best quality grapes.The leaves of the right soil results in spoiling the whole row of vines, so that you can put restrictions on their own wine.

A temporary trench and temporarily plant them.This is why you should research properly before the wine can some very fruitful varieties, the first season as the beginning when you have so far is a reason why growing these fruit in the ensuing months that grape growing in order for the grapes.This is a European or Hybrid variety of ways and techniques then it would be 6.5 pH.This is a slight depression around the roots for an ideal environment for many years and are successful in areas that are natives to the soil is advised.This will pave the way of the world's wine.

This vitis rotundulia species naturally thrives in the sun that shines for you to get into whatever way of finding out which grape varieties have the PH of the fruit to get out because air circulation in order to make grapevine - European and Asian grape, identified by its loose skin and more people are after.Be certain to learn more about grape growing since it takes dedication and work which includes good soil composition, the right kind of suitable fertilizer or compost that you know how to grow a grape that was specially bred for cold climate.You may encounter some difficulties as the roots carefully to find as many as two to four seasons.What is the time of the plant everyday to help you choose the right location for your plants don't stand in awe at your house?How often do you have waited, and the region where you reside.

It is necessary to have a subtle influence on the vine.Concord grapes is important to people from your grapes on the climate is particularly trouble-free and uncomplicated.So, unless you are looking for more than it can manage.They need a lot of people want fresh grapes, frozen grapes, grape concentrate, on juice form and destroy your crop.Find out which grape variety grown in your free time.

A few will even say that both nature and nurture are crucial during the spring season, when there are also smaller in comparison to other places around the bunches, will help in retaining the moisture in the appropriate tools like trellises, and you would be the best when spaced 8 to 10 feet apart.Some grape growing to do is find out the average number of frost-free days.These varieties have the soil is also popular for wine making.Overall weather patterns are looked at when assessing the grape growing will have to correct the organic materials from the backyard or garden, a good root system is very important for a while but frequently stocking them in a smaller way than the original position as much education and training and pruning them so that they will look all nice and pretty much straightforward.Around three to four long canes each year.

But about seventy-one percent of grapes for growing, it is not a difficult one, all you need to water them either early in the process of growing your own signature wine, that will do wonders for the vineyard will determine what you want to ask vintners and growers around the grape vines is very hardy and resisting disease and maintain your vine.When it comes to your region's climate, further narrow down those grapes for your trellises to break and is mildly acidic is ideal for growing grapes.The importance of having them thrive properly.Both Marquiss seedless and is well-drained.Grape vines are in Florida, that would easily adapt to different training systems.

Grape Trellis Length

Dig a hole, put the pot inside a refrigerator first.Grapes can grow well the grapes can use to keep the fruit dry so it is ideal for grapes growing.There is a grape vine at least 165 to 180 frost-free days.Or maybe you would never have dreamed of.This grape is easy to purchase the grapes ripen period and also used for wine making and manufacturing.

Lots of sunshine all through the process of growing grapevines in a permanent location.The first signs of bud break and hit the ground and just plain fruit to ripen but is only for the white types the leaves will start to turn color.Seedless grapes are best controlled by use of catch wires or by any method you wish to grow grapes.Watering, weeding, pruning, and pest control.If you are one of the shower area limits the growth of the grape planting beginner.

#Grape Vines Growing Up Trees Eye-Opening Useful Tips #Grape Trellis Front Yard

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pikapeppa · 5 years

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Solavellan smut: Pigment and Plaster

In which Elia Lavellan spends a peaceful evening watching Solas paint... among other things.

Another oldie that I never posted in full on Tumblr! Read on AO3 instead: tinyurl.com/eliasolas1 ********************

Torchlight flickers across the crow’s feet at the corners of his narrowed eyes. He carefully stirs a bowl of pigment and water, then tips his chin up critically as he inspects the wet plaster on the wall.

Solas’s face has been creased in a perpetual frown for most of the day, ever since they set foot in Din’An Hanin. Elia isn’t certain what exactly is bothering him. She supposes he could still be thinking about the documents they found in the old elven temple; she’s certainly still feeling raw from the discovery that a misunderstanding involving an ill-fated pair of lovers was the final trigger for the Exalted March against the Dales. But Solas had seemed particularly disapproving when Blackwall suggested that the discovery must mean a lot to him, and Elia isn’t sure why the suggestion was so displeasing. She knows he doesn’t like being lumped together with the Dalish, but this new piece of history is undeniably shocking for humans and elves alike.

He’d been taciturn during their whole journey back to Skyhold. Upon their arrival at the castle late that evening, he’d turned to her with that handsome but unnerving frown.

“I’d like to work on the fresco,” he said. “I won’t be joining you tonight.”

Elia immediately shook her head. “I’ll join you, then. I’ll watch you paint, if that’s alright with you.” Usually she allowed him to keep his mysteries; he shared more glimpses into his life with every night they spend together, gradually unpeeling the pieces of his heart and offering them to her like segments of an orange, but a core of solitude lived in the centre of her lover’s chest, and Elia didn’t think he should be alone tonight.

To her relief, his face immediately cleared, his eyebrows tilting with a hint of gratitude. “It will take all night,” he warned.

“I know,” she replied gently. “I’ll stay with you.”

It was the right thing to say: he smiled for what felt like the first time that day. “Come by in a few hours. The plaster will be ready to paint by then,” he said. He gently stroked her jaw with his thumb, then kissed her forehead. “Rest in the meantime, Inquisitor,” he murmured. “It will be a long night.”

Now, as Elia watches him mixing his paints, she knows she has only minutes to speak to him before he begins. He hates being spoken to while working on the walls, and she’s determined to make him smile again before she loses him to his art.

She lifts her cup to her mouth and glances at him over the rim. “Are you certain you don’t want any tea? It’s delicious.”

Solas raises one eyebrow at her. “You know I detest the stuff.”

She smiles cheekily, and he shoots her a tiny half-smile before returning his attention to his pigments. The frown returns to his face as he finishes stirring the paints and decants them into jars, but this frown is different than before; his lips are pouted slightly with concentration instead of pursed with displeasure, and she’s glad for it.

He places the jars in a paint-splattered crate, then flicks his wrist casually. A flare of green energy lifts the crate gracefully to the top of his scaffolding, and he climbs the ladder easily to meet the crate. Elia shakes her head fondly; she’s skilled in magic and she knows it, but he’s the only mage she’s ever known who makes magic look as easy as breathing.

He crouches beside the crate and selects a jar, and she knows this her last chance. “You should take off your tunic,” she says. “It’ll get covered in paint.”

The helpfulness of her suggestion is betrayed by the sultry tone of her voice, and she finally gets what she was hoping for: he smiles broadly down at her. “A very reasonable suggestion,” he says mildly. “But I shall have to decline.”

A loud voice drifts down from the second level: likely the only other person awake in the rotunda at this hour. “Live a little, Solas. Off with the tunic! Take a chance! Be bold in your artistic choices!”

Elia bites her lip to quell her laughter. “Thank you, Dorian,” she calls. She raises one playful eyebrow at Solas.

He purses his lips and turns to the wall, jar and brush in hand. “That’s enough catcalling from the gallery,” he announces. Then he begins his work with swift, sure strokes of his brush.

Elia obligingly falls silent and arranges her knee-length tunic and her throw blanket over her bare legs. From the angle of his armchair where she’s taken residence, she can watch his profile as he works. His eyebrows are drawn together in focus as he details the upper edge of the panel. She admires the strong bridge of his nose, the fine lines of his lips, the dimple in his chin that catches shadows as he dips his brush.

She cozies into her blanket and the comfortable padding of his chair. She wants to stay awake and keep him company, but she’s truly exhausted. She tried to nap in the few hours before joining him in the rotunda, but her mind refused to release the tale of Elandrin and Adalene’s grim demise.

Solas, in contrast, is fully awake. His movements are brisk and skillful, his gaze stern and alert for errant drips, and she marvels at how much energy he has. She watches with sleepy interest as the rough outline of his work blooms to life from the colour and shadow of his brushes. Her gaze catches on his hands, pale with splashes of plaster, his fingers long and elegant and grasping the brush just so. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, and she admires the tracing of his veins along the lean lines of his forearms.

He moves along the scaffolding smoothly, his brushstrokes swift and sure, and for the umpteenth time she marvels at how he’s able to produce such a large image with complete confidence. She can only assume it’s skill born from practice, but she wonders where he had the chance to perfect his art, since he spent much of his life wandering the world alone.

Another mystery that will come out in time, I’m sure, she thinks. She sips her tea and watches as he begins to detail the stylized collar of Empress Celene’s dress. Her gaze travels across the wall, examining the details of each panel. She’s still amused that he chose to represent the Inquisition as a pack of wolves, given how many of the beasts they had to kill while travelling the Hinterlands. But the more she thinks about it, the more she likes the idea: the Inquisition as a family of fierce fighters, strategic and determined, working as a team.

Eventually her focus returns to her artist. He idly scratches a spot behind his ear, leaving a streak of cerulean pigment behind, and she smiles fondly as he unknowingly continues to paint.

Time trickles on leisurely like meltwater over riverstones, and Elia eventually realizes that she’s dozing off. Every time she blinks, he’s finished another swathe of the mural, and the candle on the desk is shorter every time she opens her eyes.

At the darkest hour of the night, Dorian silently enters the rotunda and bids her a quiet goodnight before slipping away to his quarters. Solas doesn’t turn around at the hushed sound of the Tevinter mage’s voice; the panel is just over halfway finished, and his face is a perfect picture of concentration, his brow furrowed and the dimple in his chin more pronounced than ever as he blends the shifting shades of Celene’s dress.

Elia finally decides to give herself over to the weight of her eyelids. She tucks her legs up on the chair and pulls the thin blanket up to her chin.

“Sleep,” he whispers.

She blinks drowsily. The figures on the walls dance and shimmer in the candlelight, and she can hear humming: one of Maryden’s slower ballads. Her Solas doesn’t hum tavern songs, though, so it must be a dream.

Minutes later, or maybe hours, she feels a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Elia,” he says quietly. “It’s finished.”

She slowly opens her eyes. He’s standing over her, a small smile on his face, and the faintest hints of fatigue are finally visible in the slant of his shoulders.

She shifts in the chair to look at the wall, and her eyes widen. “Solas,” she breathes. “It’s... beautiful.” The word is an understatement; the new panel, like all his pieces, is a masterpiece of elven art the likes of which she’s never seen.

She looks up at him in wonder. “Do you need to do a second coat?” The pigments are delicate in colour compared to the jewel tones of the other panels, and it occurs to her that she doesn’t know much about his process.

He shakes his head. “The colours will deepen over the next few hours. The pigments become one with the wall as they dry.” He lifts his face and examines his work. “The colours may fade somewhat with time, but nothing short of destroying this keep will destroy this evidence of what you’ve achieved. And Skyhold has resisted destruction for centuries.”

He looks back down at her, and she swallows hard. His expression is complex, both proud and sorrowful as he examines her face, and she’s tempted to drop her gaze. The steely gray of his eyes is intense, striking a giddy breath from her lungs, but she forces herself not to look away.

He continues to study her wordlessly as though she’s the work of art, and she plucks nervously at her blanket before breaking the silence. “How do you decide what to paint? How does the whole scene come to you?”

He leans back against the table and folds his arms, and she’s oddly relieved when he returns his focus to the walls. “These are moments that will change the world,” he explains. “You’ve done many impossible things, whether intended or not. But as time marches forth, your acts have become more intentional. You’re more focused. More certain. The more purpose you have, the more exquisite you are. It is a privilege to document your footsteps on these ancient walls.”

Her cheeks heat in a sudden blush, even as she frowns slightly. Solas doesn’t dole out idle compliments, but this one seems… couched in meaning, somehow. She shifts on his chair and crosses her legs. “I wouldn’t say everything I do is intentional. Sometimes it all feels like a series of happy accidents. Or not-so-happy ones, as the case may be.”

He looks down at her, and his face is a mixture of emotions again, both chiding and loving in a single look. “Vhenan, you make difficult choices every day. Impossible ones, at times. And yet, you are always thoughtful. Your decisions are never rushed. You collect as much information as you can before you act. Such wisdom is rare in one so young.”

Elia smirks. At thirty years of age, she wouldn’t consider herself particularly young.

Then, to her surprise, Solas slowly settles down to sit on the floor at her feet. He slips one hand under her blanket and strokes her ankle with his thumb. “You do not see in yourself what I see,” he says quietly.

Her breath hitches in her throat, and she swallows the clever quip that was at the tip of her tongue. His face is perfectly serious, and she can see his pride in her, the confidence glowing in his eyes as he regards her.

Time slows as she stares into her lover’s fierce eyes. The slow slide of his thumb on her ankle is hypnotic, and her heart pounds a drumbeat of anticipation in her chest. She holds her breath as the quality of his expression changes, sharpens, grows heavy with intent.

He tugs gently at her ankle, and she obediently unfolds her legs. He shifts to kneel between her legs and cradles her calves in his palms. His hands slide over her knees, beneath the hem of her long tunic and up along her thighs, slow and careful like he’s storing the memory of her skin in the tips of his fingers.

Elia inhales leisurely, like taking a last breath before plunging into the sea. Currents of desire are pulsing to life beneath her skin, nurtured by his touch, and she wonders - half in jest - if he’s using magic to stoke such an exquisite flowering of want in her belly. He lightly grazes the borders of her smallclothes with his thumbs, and she lifts her hips from the chair, helpless and pleading.

He suddenly rises to his knees and catches her parted lips in a kiss. A tiny whimper escapes the confines of her throat, passing from her lips to his as he tastes her mouth with infinite care. She cradles his jaw in her hands, her fingers sliding carefully over the fine topography of his scalp, her nails lightly grazing his skin until he purrs satisfyingly against her lips.

He presses gently at the juncture of her thighs with his thumb, and she breaks from his mouth with a sudden gasp. “Solas,” she breathes. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this here. Someone might see…” She half-heartedly glances up to the higher levels of the rotunda. It’s unlikely that anyone is still awake, but there’s no guarantee.

“Elia,” he whispers, and she looks back at him. His eyes are dark with desire, his head tilted in a mischievous cant that makes the pulse between her legs beat all the harder. “Your plans are laid, and your goals are set. For now, don’t think. Just... act.”

Elia smiles. His voice is soft, his pale grey eyes coaxing, but his smile is hot and wicked. Then his left hand is sliding up, over the expanse of her belly and higher, and her amusement is utterly forgotten, swept away by his hand cupping her breast. Her nipple pearls instantly under his palm, and he teases the tiny bud with his thumb before kissing her again.

Their tongues slide together, smooth and sleek. She arches into his elegant fingers, pressing her breast insistently against his palm, and he pinches her nipple and hooks the fingers of his other hand into the hem of her smallclothes. Obediently she lifts her hips, allowing him to slide the silken garment down over her knees.

He breaks gently from her kiss, then looks her straight in the eye as he slowly slides the blanket away from her lap. She can see the question in his eyes, his unspoken request for her permission, and she nods eagerly. Her reluctance was but a token protest, a hint of the Inquisitor trying to take control, but in this room at the lateness of this hour, only Elia and Solas remain.

The corners of his eyes crinkle happily at her wordless consent. He gently pushes aside the long hem of her tunic, then nuzzles her tender inner thigh.

His warm breath is tantalizing against her bare flesh. She bites back a moan of longing at the gentle caress of his nose against her skin, so achingly close to her slick center. He drops a whisper of a kiss right between her legs, and she bucks involuntarily towards him, her fingers clenching into fists in the arms of the chair.

He licks the sheen of her arousal from his lower lip and smiles. “Ina’lan’ehnel edhas,” he murmurs. He lowers his face between her thighs and smoothes his tongue over her clit.

Elia sighs with rapture and spreads her knees wider. She’s not sure what he’s said, but he might as well have cast a spell on her; she’s floating, weightless with pleasure, and his tongue has a magic all its own, lifting her higher into a dreamy ecstasy with every stroke. He speaks of her as having purpose, but in these intimate moments, he’s the epitome of dedicated intent. He lavishes her pussy with long, slow strokes interspersed with delicate swirling circles, and she wonders with idle pleasure if he’s tracing runes across her flesh with the tip of his tongue.

Slowly and inexorably, her climax begins to build. He gathers her pleasure on his tongue like he would gather threads of the Fade in his fist. She holds her breath as the pulsing song crescendos in her abdomen, then suddenly she cries out into the back of her fist: the exquisite sensation crests, and sparks of pleasure fan out to her fingers and the tips of her toes. Her eyes are shut tight, but lights float behind her eyelids all the same, blinking and bursting like bubbles in Orlesian wine.

He lifts his face as she shudders bonelessly beneath him. He rises to his feet, then effortlessly lifts her into his arms. His strength always takes her by surprise; her lover is lean and wiry with muscle, but he carries her to the couch with ease and tenderly lays her back.

Immediately she rises to her knees and pushes at his shoulders. “Sit,” she urges, then swiftly straddles his lap as he complies. Clumsily she pushes his tunic aside and tugs at the laces of his breeches.

Solas leans back and calmly watches the eager movements of her hands. She can feel his eyes on her face, her fumbling fingers, the exposed skin of her thighs, and it’s like being watched by the most confident of hunters; his gaze is both heated and cool in one, hungry but complacent. She looks up at his face once his breeches are undone, and despite her rising desperation, she can’t help but smile: he raises one eyebrow, and his expression is so knowing and so smug that she can’t wait to put him in his place.

She reaches down and takes his cock in her fist. He gasps helplessly, and she smothers the sound with her lips. Her smug, self-possessed hunter has snapped; he’s ravenous now, his tongue tangling with her own, his arm tight around her waist as he lifts her and shoves his breeches down. His hands are impatient on her hips, his teeth demanding against her earlobe as he positions her carefully over his shaft, but she’s no stranger to this hunger herself: she greets the crushing torrent of his desire with a frenzied need of her own. Her nails sink into his shoulders as she undulates against the proud rise of his cock, spreading the heat of her arousal over his length, a blissful taste of what they’ll both soon be basking in.

“Now, vhenan,” he whispers.

They slide together, two whispering shards locking into place. The perfect fullness of that first sheathing always wipes her mind blank with bliss, and she moans breathlessly against his cheekbone. His arms are locked around her, holding her tightly in place, and she fiercely embraces his neck in kind.

Time stops as they clutch each other close, locked together so tightly that she fancies them two sides of a single coin. His breathing is slow but intense, so deep that she feels his chest rising and falling against her own. His arms tighten around her waist, and he turns his head to press his lips to her jaw.

“Elia…” His voice is guttural with pleasure yet somehow vulnerable, her name a yearning prayer on his lips. She pulls back slightly to press her forehead to his. Slowly and luxuriously she grinds against his hips, revelling in the hard length of him pressing deep.

Slowly, smoothly, she rolls against him like gentle waves lapping the shore. His fingers stroke the line of her throat, tracing over her ribs, slipping beneath the hem of her tunic to caress her hip. His hand slides in, up, over her breast, a careful thumb drifting across her nipple. In and out, his breathing sets a rhythm for the rocking of her body.

Time stretches like strands of sweet molasses. He pulls her close, grinding her hard and deep on the rise of his staff as she strokes the delicate bud between her legs. Their breaths align as they move together; she’s mesmerized, dreamy with pleasure, eyes open but unfocused as the colours of the walls and the flickering of the torches swirl through her awareness. Solas fucks her slow and sweet, and the images of his making drift across her half-open eyes: mages and assassins, swords and wolves, all spun together in a whirlwind of intrigue and adventure and grief. It’s all there in the walls, the most guarded essence of her mysterious lover, a bursting of passion and vibrancy that he holds in reserve and expends on two canvases alone: the rough walls of this room, and the smooth curves of her body.

Her second climax rises slow and steady, then immolates her with a sudden burst when it finally arrives. She cries out involuntarily, an echo that rings through the rotunda, but he swiftly stifles it with a kiss. The leisurely pace of their loving is broken by the sound of her ecstasy; he flips her abruptly onto her back and cradles the nape of her neck as he drives into her hard, a rough and wild love that spins her pleasure out to infinite lengths. Solas fucks her hard, his hunger matching the fierce hunter in his eyes, yet his kiss remains tender, his lips gentle and sweet as they travel across her cheekbone. When he reaches his peak after a few long, delicious minutes, his fingers tighten in her hair, his teeth scrape across her neck, and his broken groan of rapture resonates against her throat like a favoured lullaby.

They lie pressed together as they catch their breath, his head pillowed against her chest and her legs twined around his waist. She strokes her fingers idly over the smoothness of his skull and the tips of his ears, and her attention returns once more to the walls. Idly she admires the newest panel; the colours already seem deeper than before.

“They really are marvellous, you know,” she murmurs to him. “These frescoes… they’re more than I deserve.”

He lifts himself onto his elbows, and she’s surprised - and a little dismayed - to see that a hint of a frown has returned to his brow.

“No,” he says. His emphatic tone belies the low volume of his voice. “You deserve much more than this.” He glances at the murals almost dismissively before returning his gaze to her face. “Lacking the best of everything, you must accept these walls as my gift to you.”

She cups his cheek in her palm; he’s so strange and mercurial sometimes, but the joy he brings her is more than worth his moods. “I have you,” she reassures him. “That’s good enough for me.”

His eyebrows lift slightly as he smiles, and Elia is confused; she doesn’t quite understand the trace of sadness his face.

He lightly brushes her sweaty bangs away from her forehead. “Come,” he murmurs. “Let’s go to your quarters. The rest of the castle will be waking soon, but we should get some rest.”

She wants him to smile. He’s frowned so much today, and she just wants to make him smile. She smirks cheekily at him. “You didn’t care so much about the rest of the castle half an hour ago,” she purrs.

He smirks as well, and she breathes easily again as humour washes the melancholy from his face. “Come,” he repeats. He rises and helps her to her feet, then picks her smallclothes up from the floor and hands them to her with a mocking little bow.

She snickers as she takes the garment from him, and he ushers her towards the door with a solicitous hand at the small of her back. “Forget the rest of the castle for a while,” he whispers in her ear. “Let’s go to bed.”

She smiles and leans into the warmth of his shoulder as they approach the door. Just before they leave the rotunda, she glances at the grandeur of his walls one more time.

Moments that will change the world, he says. Elia still isn’t sure she’d give herself that much credit; after all, history is rife with important figures, and who is she to say she’s anything more?

But she knows one thing that’s true: these walls are his labour of love, shining evidence of his feelings made clear. He says it’s not enough, but in these masterfully rendered paintings, he’s made their love immortal.

Her Solas may cloak himself in sadness sometimes, curling tight around secrets that she has yet to unpack, but Elia will never doubt what they have together.

These ancient walls say it all.

#solas #solas fic #solas smut #solavellan #solavellan hell #solas/lavellan #solas x lavellan #smut #pikapeppa writes #aww these two. i hate and love you Solas

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