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wordstome · 6 months

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kingdom come - ii

king König x princess & assassin reader

2nd person, no y/n, she/her pronouns, afab reader, romance, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, kind of age gap because König has been king for a good chunk of time but it's not really much of a factor, fantasy/medieval setting

4.4k words

tw: none

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Let's have something lighthearted and playful after the absolute Week the cod fandom has had, shall we?

“What do you mean he’s letting you kill him?”

“I don’t know what you want from me, Calliope, I thought I made myself quite clear.”

“But…but that’s mad!”

“He is mad!” You shove the sleeves of your blouse over your arms. “But I’m still alive, so I’m not complaining.”

“Of course. Should I send word to your father about these new developments?”

You bite your lip. “No,” you say. Something catches your eye outside the window, and you move closer to have a look. König is outside, walking with one of his advisors while eating an apple. It’s a strange juxtaposition between the relaxed boyishness of him throwing the apple in the air and catching it, and the stark, emotionless expression of the mask covering half his face.

As if he can feel your gaze on you, he looks upwards, eyes locking with yours. You shudder and quickly shut the curtains.

“I can do this.” You say, determined.

“You’re not eating.”

You stare resolutely at him from across the table. “I’m not hungry.”

He sighs, as if you’re a difficult child he’s being forced to babysit. “I heard your stomach growl. The food won’t bite back.”

“To be frank, I don’t know if I can trust you.”

“Who the fuck is Frank?”

You glower at him. “I know this is all a game to you, but I’m trying to stay alive.”

“By not eating?”

You look down at the food dubiously, and your doubt must be written all over your face, because König laughs. “Surely you do not think so lowly of me that I would poison my bride at the breakfast table,” he taunts. “That wouldn’t be in the spirit of the hunt.”

“You’ll have to forgive me for presuming otherwise of the man who asked me to eat a nightshade berry.”

He rolls his eyes. “One berry can’t kill a full-grown man. Or woman.” He takes a sip of wine. “And besides, that wasn’t the point of our little encounter in the garden anyway.”

Your hunger wins out over your apprehension. “Enlighten me,” you say, tucking into the food.

“Isn’t it obvious? I was testing you to see if you were going to try and kill me.” He points a fork with a piece of sausage on it at you. “Quiet, secluded place with nobody watching, plenty of exits. You surprised me by staring at me like a startled doe.”

“You caught me off guard,” you mutter. “You’re a very off-putting person.”

He gives you a bemused look. “You’re not a very good assassin.”

You bristle. “I assure you, if my target was anybody else, they would already be dead.”

“Tell me, princess. Have you ever killed anybody?”

“I’ve killed.”

“A human.”

“I know how to kill someone!”

“So that’s a no.”

You’re fuming at this point, your meal long forgotten. “It’s not to my advantage to let you know what I can and can’t do.”

He studies you, twirling his fork in an admittedly mesmerizing motion. “And your father sent you here, to kill me, having never spilled another person’s blood before.”

“My father prepared me my entire life for this.”

“Not sure that speaks highly of your skill.”

You’re already tired of him. “What’s the point of this?” you demand. “A smarter man would have either killed me or thrown me in a cell by now.”

“Not a smarter man, a boring one,” König corrects.

“So you have a death wish.”

“Of course not. I have much to live for. Eating, killing, fucking. Great fun. But not enough on its own.” His grin is near wolfish as he stares you down.

“You are vile.”

“You could be doing something about that.”

You look at him in mortified disbelief. “I’m not going to sleep with you.”

“I was referring to killing me, but it is interesting that’s where your mind went first.” He looks entirely too pleased with himself, as if he’s caught you in a clever trap.

“Fuck you.”

“Now we’re talking!” He stands up, and for one fleeting moment, you fear he’s about to make good on the offer, but instead he just wipes his mouth and makes to leave.

“As much as I’ve enjoyed this little bout of verbal sparring, I have somewhere to be.”

“You seem in quite a rush to leave my presence, for a man who seems so convinced I won’t be able to kill him.” If he wants to be a smart little asshole, you can too.

“Ah, believe me, princess. I would like nothing more than to spend all day in your lovely, murderous presence. But unfortunately, I have responsibilities.” He runs a hand through his tousled hair, and you studiously ignore the way your stomach flips a little at the motion. “I’m obligated to hear petitions.”

You stand up. “I’m coming with you.”

“Why? It’s fucking dull.”

“So I can have more opportunities to kill you.”

“Yes. Of course.” Again with that smile. You’ve never met anyone half as pleased to be in your presence as he is. (The only exception is Calliope, but she kind of has to be near you.) This man simply refuses to act in any normal manner whatsoever, and it’s starting to get on your nerves. You throw your dagger at the back of his head more out of irritation than a dedicated effort to kill him.

He catches it in the air with casual precision and keeps walking. “Too predictable, little one.”

You should be concerned by his razor-sharp reflexes, but it’s difficult to feel anything but annoyance right now. And…respect?

You get up and follow him before you can give yourself a chance to dissect that.

König was right. This is dull.

At first, the concept of receiving petitioners seemed like an amusing prospect. But in practice, it’s all politics and people complaining about taxes.

You entertain yourself by watching König. He seems just as bored, if not more, as you. He appears to be intrigued by your dagger: examining it, testing the edge, handling the heft.

Some man is talking animatedly with his hands, bemoaning some property dispute with his neighbor. You’re sure that if König rolls his eyes any harder into the back of his skull, he’ll go pigeon-eyed. Admirably, he manages to push through—if it had been you, you would have just told the man to get out and stop wasting your time. As loathe as you are to admit it, König is a good leader.

“Alright, we’re done here. Tell them to go home,” König says, dismissing everyone with a flick of his wrist. The guards begin to push the doors closed when one last man runs in, near crazed, and throws himself on the floor, babbling incoherently.

“What is the meaning of this?” König demands, immediately standing up. The guards begin to approach the man, hands on swords.

“Wait! Please, your majesty, I beg of you,” the man pleads. “I have journeyed many days to come here and beseech your aid.”

König heaves a sigh. “Spit it out then.”

“Thank you, my king,” the man pants, pushing himself up to a standing position. “There’s a beast. In the south.”

“A beast?”

“It’s ravaging the countryside. It follows the flocks, but it doesn’t eat them. It’s…” The man swallows hard. He looks weary, run ragged no doubt by his arduous journey to the capital. “It’s taking our children, sir.”

König’s eyes narrow. “And you haven’t attempted to track it down yourself?”

“We’ve tried, your majesty. Our most skilled hunters have gone after it.” The man sways unsteadily on his feet. “None of them have come back.”

“Has anyone laid eyes on it? Is it a wolf?”

“None who have seen it have returned to tell the tale.”

König leans back, looking contemplative. One of his advisors speaks. “We’ve received reports about this already, sire. We’ve dispatched soldiers already but had no luck.”

The man shakes his head frantically. “It doesn’t leave anyone behind to tell the tale, sir. Not many people dare to go into the woods anymore, and the ones that do…they don’t come back right.”

“How so.”

The man’s voice betrays his naked fear, trembling. “They go mad, sir. Some think…some think it’s the fae’s doing.”

That seems to finally get König’s interest. He leans forward, his entire demeanor stiffening. A hush falls over the people gathered as the man invokes the fair folk’s name.

Everybody knows the fae exist. In hushed whispers, people tell the old stories: of when the fair folk lived among men and ruled over them with cruelty and trickery. There are some forests people know to stay out of. And when a newborn babe fusses just a bit too much, or a child grows up a little too quiet, the rumors fly in secret.

The fae are cruel, beautiful, and nearly impossible for a mortal to kill. If they’re involved in this matter with the beast, then that village is as good as dead.

Before König can say anything, the man fidgets and turns. You watch as his attention lands on you, eyes widening. Something his gaze becomes unfocused, misty, his chest beginning to heave as he visibly panics.

“You…they’re here…THEY’RE HERE!” With a crazed look on his face, the man lunges towards you, moving at a threatening speed. Your hand goes instinctively to your hidden sheathe, but your fingers close around air. Shit! König still has your dagger. You brace to defend yourself as the man draws even closer—

Like a deadly blur, König is on the man in an instant. The force of him knocks you backwards, watching in shock as König subdues the screaming, flailing man with cold, expert precision.

As if in slow motion, you watch with a mixture of horror and fascination as he turns to look at you. His eyes, usually a tranquil pale green, are blue. Vivid blue, with an unearthly glow to them that makes you wonder if you’re hallucinating. You feel like a butterfly pinned to cork by that stare, simultaneously trapped and admired.

He blinks, once, and his eyes are green again.

With what looks like no effort at all, he turns the man on his stomach and pins his arms behind him as he struggles and hollers. “Put this one in a cell,” he says with a deep growl. “We’ll see what he has to say for himself when he’s in his right mind again. If he ever is.” The guards rush forward to haul the man away as König stands back up.

He gives the rest of the room a cursory glance. “Well? Back to your duties.”

The gawking staff quickly gather themselves and scatter. König claps his hands together as if dusting off some nuisance.

“…Why did you do that?” You ask, unable to help yourself.

He gives you a skeptical look. “Why did I defend my queen from an attacker?”

You take a deep breath. Gods preserve you. “I’m not your anything.”

“Technically untrue. You are my wife, which makes you the queen.” He strides over to you and offers you your dagger, holding the blade so you can grab the hilt.

Its weight soothes you as you put it back into its rightful place. “I don’t understand.”

“I’ve already said I have no intention of killing you. Besides, it wouldn’t look good for me if I allowed you to be attacked in your own home.”

This isn’t my home, you almost say, but stop yourself. You’re starting to sound too much like a whining child, and you don’t like it.

You surprise the both of you with what comes out of your mouth next. “Thank you.”

He’s looking at you that way again, like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “You’re welcome.” He averts his eyes, hesitating for a moment like he wants to say more. Then he evidently thinks better of it and strides away from you.

“My lady!” Calliope rushes forward, concern written all over her face. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, just…shaken,” you say, still watching König leave. “I’m fine.”

“Simply outrageous. I can’t believe none of the guards got to that man in time,” she fumes, fussing over you in her way.

“Yes, well. König got here in time. So no harm was done.”

Calliope follows your gaze, eyes narrowing at König’s retreating backside just as he turns the corner and vanishes from sight. “I don’t like that one.”

“Neither do I,” you snort.

“No, pet. Listen to me.” Startled, you turn to look at her. You haven’t heard her take on this tone in quite a while: the last time was when you had broken your wrist trying to scale one of the abandoned towers back home. You can’t quite recall why you had been trying to do that, but you do remember the worried look on her face, and the sternness of her words.

“He’s not right,” she says. “Something’s wrong about him.”

It’s a foregone conclusion to say that König is no ordinary man, but something about the furrow of Calliope’s brow tells you that more is happening here than she’s letting on. “Are you going to elaborate?”

A strange look passes over her face, like a cloud briefly blocking the sun. “No.”

You wait for a few moments before nodding. Whatever it is, you trust her to know what’s best. “I see. Though I didn’t need a warning on how dangerous he is, you know.”

“You are a smart girl,” she says wistfully, straightening your ruffled clothes a bit. “But there are some things that are not for you to understand.”

“I have to understand, if I’m to kill him.”

She frowns. “I think you should put that out of your mind for now.”

“What?”

“I mean, you may have to play a longer game with this one. There’s too much we don’t know.”

You open your mouth, then close it. She’s right. There was something bone-chilling about the way he looked at you just now, but instead of feeling afraid, you feel something different. Curiosity. Fascination.

Not for the first time—or the last—you feel drawn to him.

König’s been antsy lately.

You’ve gotten quite good at reading his moods, even when he’s wearing the hood. The rest of his body betrays him: his shoulders are tense, and his fingers are constantly toying with a phantom knife. He prefers to be fidgeting with an actual one, but it tends to make him too intimidating for that to be practical.

You’ve taken Calliope’s advice and taken to studying your target rather than trying to end him and be done with it. There’s a lot to notice, which is surprising: you’d taken him for some mindless hulking brute upon first impression. It’s clear that he’s intelligent, with a cunning quickness to his thinking that both impresses and chills you.

Shame he’s still as much of a raging pervert as he was in the beginning, though.

“You know, I wasn’t sure about you in pants at first, but now I think you should wear them more often,” he says, surprising you during target practice. He startles you enough to throw your shot off, the arrow clattering uselessly to the ground below the target.

“Can I help you?” you demand, giving him a venomous side eye.

“Not at all, princess. Just admiring the view.” He leans against a nearby post, watching your confused expression. It takes him shifting his gaze downward for you to realize what he means.

“Ugh!” Without hesitation, you nock another arrow and shoot it at him, aiming right between his eyes. He dodges it, of course.

“You can’t expect me to marry a pretty woman and not look at her,” he says smugly.

It’s an unfamiliar situation, being desired. You don’t have much experience with this sort of thing: not only are you the king’s daughter, but you tend to give off a chilly, hyper-competent aura that keeps men with fragile egos away from you. You’ve only had one encounter with a man: a shy kiss behind the stables, featherlight touches that sent tingles through your whole body.

König has never touched you, but the way he looks at you is enough to make you blush. You should be indignant, but instead you find you don’t mind all that much.

“Why are you bothering me?” you say instead of responding to what he said.

“Bothering you? I’m hurt,” he says, placing a hand over his heart as if you’ve physically wounded him. “I came to inform you of my departure.”

“Your what?” you ask, gawking at him. “Where are you going?”

“Do you remember that man who came to tell us about the beast?”

“You mean the man who attacked me? I’d forgotten,” you say drily.

“Your wit is as alluring as ever,” he responds. “I’ve decided to enlist the help of the most competent man I know to deal with the threat.”

“And who would that be?”

“Me, of course.”

You shoot him a confused look. “You’re leaving to deal with something personally?”

“It’s too perilous of a problem to continue throwing my men at,” he says, taking on a more serious tone. He’s toying with a knife again: a hefty, aggressive-looking thing with a jagged edge. “If you want something done, you need to do it yourself. Or at least lay eyes on the problem yourself.”

“You’re not worried at all about dying and leaving your throne empty?” you ask disbelievingly. This is beyond reckless, verging on foolish.

“Don’t start,” he sighs. “I just got out of a hours-long meeting with my advisors. Anything you could say to me, they’ve already told me a dozen times. It won’t change my mind.” One look at him tells you he’s dead serious, and won’t be persuaded otherwise.

“Well, when do we leave?”

“We?”

“Yes, of course. I’m coming with you,” you say, puzzled at his confusion.

“You are not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“It’s too dangerous. And besides, the journey won’t be pleasant. I’ll be traveling without guards or servants.”

“Why on earth not?”

“Too much of a hassle. I’ll get there faster if I’m traveling alone. Emphasis on alone. Besides, I would prefer not to be sending any innocents to their deaths.”

“You’ll need someone to watch your back.”

“And you think you qualify?”

“Yes!”

He chuckles at your indignant tone. “With all due respect, my queen, I doubt you could take care of yourself out there, much less be of use to me.”

You wish he wouldn’t call you that. It makes your chest feel strange. Which isn’t helpful when you’re getting mad at him for doubting your competence.

“If you go alone, you might not come back,” you retort. “If I come with you, I can ensure you don’t come back.”

He looks at you, startled, and proceeds to let out a hearty laugh. “You are full of surprises,” he says. “It won’t be like a vacation, you know. We’ll have to travel light.”

“I can handle that.”

“I’m sure you can. The question is, can you handle whatever beast those villagers are so worried about? You may not worry about my wellbeing, but I would worry about your own first.”

“You don’t think I can hold my own?”

“To be honest? No.”

“Then let me prove myself.” You step right up to him, so close that your face is nearly pressed to his chest. God, he’s so big. And broad— “Let me show you I can hold my own in a fight.”

A sly smile crosses his face. “Alright. Let’s spar.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Let’s. Spar.”

“You want me to fight you?”

“What were you expecting?”

“That’s not a fair fight.”

“You came here to kill me.”

“Assassinations don’t usually happen during prearranged one-on-one fights.”

“Touché. But I’m not asking you to beat me. If I think you’re competent, then you can come along.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“I actively do not want you to join me, mind you.”

You let out a quick, angry breath through your nose. Infuriating. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Excellent. I’ll see you after lunch, then.”

You turn away from him and trudge over to a tree to pick up some fallen arrows. “What’s the rush? Are you leaving so soon?”

“Tomorrow morning, in fact. Just before dawn.”

“I can wake up that early.”

“No need to put the horse before the carriage here. If you’re going.”

“I’m not concerned.” You bend down to pick a few arrows out of some scrappy tough grass, and when you straighten, König is right there, looming over you like a threatening shadow.

“What—” You gasp as the knife König was fiddling with rushes past your face and embeds itself in the tree trunk behind you.

“I don’t think this is quite getting through to you, so I’ll only say this once,” he mutters darkly, leaning over you to whisper directly into your ear, his hand firmly gripping the knife above your head. “You have nothing to prove to me, and I don’t know what you’re trying to do by insisting you come with me. If you change your mind now, we need not speak about this again.”

You glare up at him. “You’re not going to change my mind. And it’s quite suspicious that you’re trying to.”

“Is it really so difficult to believe that I’m concerned for your welfare?”

You don’t understand him. Being this close to him isn’t helping you think straight, either. There’s no other way to describe it, but it’s almost like you can feel the intensity radiating off him. He smells like pine needles and lye, and some distinctly manly musk that you don’t dislike. And when he’s up close like this, you can see every detail of his eyes, the green streaked with blue and brown.

“It would be easier if you weren’t,” you whisper.

He snorts. “Don’t I know it.” Before you can process what the hell he means by that, he’s pulling his knife out of the tree and stalking off, suddenly in some sulky mood.

You stare at the deep mark left in the bark, wondering what just happened.

“Again,” calls the swordsmaster.

You scramble to your feet, exhausted and sore. “This isn’t fair,” you whine. You’re twelve years old, and the man who’s been teaching you how to fight has just dropped you for what feels like the millionth time in a row.

“How so?”

“You’re bigger than me!” you pout. “And far stronger.”

“That isn’t always an advantage, you know,” he says, doing a flourish with his practice sword that you vow right there and then to master someday.

“How? That’s all fighting is. It’s just big people beating up the little people.”

“Being smaller just means you have to be nimbler.” He gestures for you to come at him again. “Don’t focus on trying to hit me in the chest. Use your size to your advantage and focus on weak points.”

You brandish the practice sword again and ground yourself, steeling yourself with a deep breath before charging. You go for the knees, smacking them so hard that they buckle, bringing your instructor down with a shout.

“I did it!” you beam proudly.

“A little unorthodox, but the job is done,” he pants. “Remember, there is no decorum when you are fighting for your life. It is imperative you intuit your enemy’s weak points and exploit them. Even the strongest enemy can be brought low.”

You nod with determination. “Always go for the knees.” That draws a laugh out of your instructor.

There’s something deeply unnerving about the way this man moves.

König is so big, but he doesn’t move like it. The way he paces reminds you of a big cat: all intimidation and quiet, deadly strength on light feet.

“I’ll let you make the first move,” he says with a crooked smile. He looks deliciously rumpled, the sleeves of his shirt pushed to his elbows. You’re only looking at the swell of his biceps for tactical reasons, of course. Of course.

“How generous,” you reply. Without hesitation, you lunge at him.

He’s ready for you, of course. He matches you hit for hit, parrying you effortlessly. If you thought he was fast before, there’s something downright inhuman about it now. You doubt he’s even breaking a sweat.

He pushes you back, sliding on your feet a little. “Do you seriously have one hand behind your back right now?” you hiss.

“You’re as difficult to fend off as a feather,” he shoots back.

It’s like having a conversation, sparring with him. More than just the banter, of course. You trade blows, each unable to move in too closely to the other. He may be strong, but you’re fast. And you can tell you’re wearing him down.

“Getting tired, big boy?” you taunt.

“Of waiting for you to give up? Perhaps,” he grits out. “Don’t try my patience, princess.”

“I want to watch you squirm,” you respond. You watch as König’s eyes widen slightly. You jump at the opportunity, taking advantage of his moment of shock to knock him off balance and pinning him underneath you.

“That wasn’t so hard,” you purr as he pants under you. “Feel familiar?”

“Last time we were in this position, it didn’t end so well for you,” König shoots back. He can say whatever he wants, but you’ve visibly winded him.

“This time, I went for the knees.”

“Oh?”

“You have buttons that are very entertaining to push, your highness.”

“You little—”

It’s quick. One moment he’s pinned underneath you, and another moment some supernatural strength has him rapidly reversing your positions. He catches you off guard, and you spot a flash of blue in his eyes as the wind is knocked out of your lungs.

“Next time you have an enemy pinned like that, finish the job instead of crowing about your victory,” he hisses.

You wheeze a little before shooting him a coy look. “Struck a nerve, did I?”

“You are an infuriating little minx,” he says, visibly frustrated. He stands up, offering you a helping hand.

You take it, springing up with a little bounce to your step. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Am I coming with you?”

He sighs in consternation. “I suppose you are.”

You give him a little pat on the face. His exposed cheek is warm underneath your palm as he looks at you with an indecipherable expression.

“Glad we sorted that out. See you at dinner,” you say sweetly.

You prance off without a look back. You could use a bath.

MOOOOOOOM THEY'RE FLIRTINGGG

I started out unsure of how this chapter was going to turn out, as it's mostly just setup for the plot to get going. But I ended up having a lot of fun, and some pretty important things are set up in this. I hope you guys enjoyed it! Comments and feedback are of course always appreciated <3

@crowbird @poohkie90 @cumikering @iytatsworld @papaver-decervicatus @anxietyrain @riotakire @ax0lotly @cookiepie111 @kacchasu @no1runawaymilkdad @chthonian-spectre @backwards-readings @yxllowtxpe @garbau @hexqueensupreme @queenthorin1 @violetstyless @her-majesty-theking @vegan-peppermint @peonytarian @ghostslittlegf @euuuuuuun @e1x03 @kokonoiwife @deaddainish @dragonfang @teehee-47 @catluvwr @keiva1000 @waves-against-a-cliff @channelsoph @cutiecusp

#threw in a teensy whisper of switch König at the end there lol #könig #konig #könig cod #konig cod #konig x reader #König x reader #konig x you #König x you #cod #cod mw2 #call of duty #mw2 #fic: kingdom come

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julianp1 · 1 year

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Module 11 Assignment

Film A: Moonlight, Film B: Being John Malkovich

Moonlight is paced uniquely in the sense that it is broken down into three different sections. Each section depicts a crucial part of the main character’s life in these intimate moments. ‘Little’, ‘Chiron’, and ‘Black’ are the 3 parts of the film as we watch Chiron navigate the world around him. The film “Being John Malkovich” follows the protagonist ‘Craig Schwartz’, a puppeteer who discovers a portal that leads directly into the mind of John Malkovich. Craig is drawn into the portal, which lasts for fifteen minutes, and finds himself in John Malkovich's head, witnessing his daily life and thoughts. Craig's wife, Lotte, also tries the portal and becomes infatuated with Malkovich, leading to a complex love triangle between Craig, Lotte, and Malkovich himself. One scene that I found to be particularly effective within the film ‘Moonlight’ was a film during the first section of the film titled ‘Little’. After running away from bullies a young Chiron is discovered hiding in an abandoned crack den in Miami by a respected and well known drug dealer named ‘Juan’. Juan takes Chiron to see the ocean and teaches him how to float, Juan later goes on to give Little words of advice on life and tries to help put little Chiron in the right direction, a direction away from the life that Juan knows very well. I personally found this scene so impactful because of how many layers of juxtaposition and emotion are seen throughout. This tough and respected drug dealer is showing a completely different side of himself taking Little under his wing, and teaching him about life. All of this is put into perspective when it is discovered that Juan actually sells drugs to Little’s mother Paula who is emotionally and physically abusive to Little as we see throughout the film. One scene I found effective and impactful in “Being John Malkovich”, is when Craig, Lotte, and Maxine, a co-worker, enter the portal to Malkovich's mind together. They find themselves in a surreal landscape of floating clouds and strange creatures, which Malkovich himself has never seen before. As they explore this bizarre world, they encounter Malkovich's own consciousness, represented by multiple versions of himself. The group engages in a heated argument with Malkovich's subconscious, ultimately convincing him to return to reality. This scene is significant because it highlights the film's themes of identity and consciousness. Malkovich's mind becomes a symbol of the subconscious, and the struggle between his various selves represents the internal conflicts we all face within our own minds. It also underscores the surreal and absurd nature of the film, as the characters navigate a world that is both familiar and completely alien.

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hanibalistic · 3 years

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#AE5B75 | LEE DONGHYUCK.

genre | fluff

word count | 1602

warning | none

note | two characters who dance with each other>>>>>>

you were surprised to see haechan at prom.

albeit, you only saw him when the party was done and over, and all that was left of the grand school hall were fallen balloons, a bunch of scattered confetti, and the abandoned moonlight cascading through the seeps of the red curtains. you were still intrigued to see him at the school prom, or at least the end of it.

"what are you doing here?" you called out to him who stood alone in the center of the stage, staring up at the painted prom banner lonesomely. when he turned around and saw you, you gestured toward the vacant room. "everyone already left. what are you still doing here, lee haechan?"

haechan furrowed his brows for a moment when you spoke his name, finding it alarming that he has no recollection of ever seeing you before. but just as he was about to accidentally humble himself and ask how you knew him, the memory of his past three successful comebacks flooded into his head.

right. he debuted in nct already so of course you knew him.

being trapped within the unfamiliar school walls and having supervised fun amongst the classmates he could barely name strangely made him forget he was a million-dollar selling worldwide idol.

"that's not a complicated question, lee haechan," you chimed in the thoughts inside his head and promptly stopped the train on its tracks.

slowly feeling his element come back to his body—he had somehow lost his usual self during the suffocating party, haechan relaxed his muscles and shifted his position to appear more lenient and suave rather than confused and shrunken. that was who he is, truly, after all.

charming, witty, confident, and famous—those were who he is.

"i can ask the same about you," he said as he placed his hands behind him and leaned his torso forward, a pointed smirk on his face. "the party is over, what are you doing here?"

you rolled your eyes at him. how great to see him regain his instincts! you liked it better when he appeared lost and, if you could admit, adorable. "i am here to clean up this mess. now you! what are you doing here?"

"just..." haechan hummed after he nodded at your answer, and he kept quiet for a while because he wasn't so sure why he stayed behind.

he could have left when everyone else was piling out those double doors, waiting to go home or to take after-prom pictures out in the schoolyard. his friends at the dorm were probably worried about him, his manager probably wanted him to head to practice for the upcoming dream comeback rather than attending a stupid prom party, and the group's driver probably fell asleep waiting for him outside in the van. all the odds went against him staying behind, but he did anyway, and he wasn't so sure why.

"you needed a breather?"

he met your gaze. you were staring at him with indifference, or even boredom, if he could ever hurt his ego enough to admit anyone is bored within his presence. it was a problem he rarely had to face, though. he was a very interesting, and attractive, boy! even if his antics and humor aren't appreciated, his face and voice usually are!

yet, somehow, you looked at him like he was just some commoner. the juxtaposition of your indifference toward his charms and calling him by his idol name irked him on—how do you feel about him? why should he care how you feel?

"oh god, the idol life really got you a little suffocated up here, huh?" you chuckled humorlessly as you twirled your index finger near your temple in a circular motion.

haechan pressed his lips together with inward frustration, one he was trained either not to show or only show it attractively. he was fading away, he could feel it. his confidence and egotism were leaving him the more you looked to him as a madman for never continuing the conversation.

but how could he not? you were hitting all the right spots! appearing at the right time, asking the right questions, and suggesting the right answers.

most importantly, you looked to him like a boy. a strange boy who stayed behind at the end of a high school prom party, a weird boy who couldn't answer a simple question, an awkward boy who furrowed his brows too much on the first encounter. you looked to him like he was just a normal boy; no sparks, no admiration, no love. just indifference and polite kindness.

haechan hasn't felt like a normal boy in a while. he needed that.

"you're being too tense, we need to let you breathe a little."

you dropped your phone in a solo cup you found near the edge of the wall before you put it on the stage. music played from the speaker and echoed through the plastic cup, spreading a catchy english song he has never heard before through the empty hall.

taking a few steps back, you placed your hands on your hips and nudged toward where he stood. you beckoned him down the stage after a brief moment, clearly inviting him to join your one-person party.

"come on, don't be shy!" you said, waving him down again. "i used to be bad at dancing too, but you get better as you get into it!"

the confusion that once riddled through him vanished the second you verbally assumed his inability to dance. he flashed you a visibly offended look—wrinkles appeared between his eyes, his brows once again pulled together, and his lips quirking upward into a false smile.

him? being bad at dancing—being shy about dancing? never! not once!

"excuse me but i am not bad at dancing!" he exclaimed defensively as he hopped down the stage.

you raised your brow in faint disbelief, and when he went ahead to prove his point by free-styling, you tilted your head and watched quietly. impressive musicality and non-recycled moves, a hint of swagger and the perfect expressions—haechan moved to the music as he would in the practice room. he moved flawlessly and routinely.

and that, he has yet to know, is not dancing.

"you're not dancing, lee haechan." you stopped him softly with a shake of your head. "you're performing, showing off. that's not dancing."

"i don't know what the hell you are talking about," he argued.

"there is literally nobody but me here!" you yelled as you threw your arms up. you were beginning to kick your feet and twirl to the beat of the music. "those idol dancing has got you so robotic, you forgot what dancing is really about!"

he hasn't forgotten. he never really knew in the first place what you claimed dancing was truly about, and therefore it warranted his disbelief and slight anger in you seemingly belittling his entire career. he was planning to stay stubborn about it for the rest of his life until you, suddenly and boldly, dove near him with a twirl and took his hands in yours.

"dance with me, haechan!" you said with a hearty giggle, possibly feeling joyous from seeing his widened eyes.

donghyuck followed your erratic movements, feeling shy and rather invasive at first but slowly easing into touching you after a while. he has one hand daintily at your waist and the other holding yours, and you two turned and stepped across the hall in a rhythm that occasionally went with the song and occasionally went against it. you stepped on him, multiple times, and he tripped over your feet, multiple times.

it was disastrous, dancing like this was like raising hell from heaven. but oh, oh lord, it felt like he was falling in love.

moving his hand above your head, bringing yours along with his, he spun you and watched you laugh when he pulled you close to him. you two stepped from side to side, jumped and skipped, spun in circles, and glided across the hall.

donghyuck only grinned at you with unnoticed affection pouring out of his eyes like a flood, and you would never see it dancing under the dim moonlight.

then he realized. he realized what dancing is all about.

it was never about being synchronized, or being flawless, or memorizing all your moves and executing them perfectly. it was about feeling free and being silly, it was about expressing the good and the bad inside you, it was about breathing through your limbs and letting the air take over your body.

"isn't this great?" you asked between pants. "this is dancing, haechan!"

donghyuck licked his lower lip and glanced down at yours for a brief moment. his heart grew spikes that threatened him, but your laughter told him it was okay. he could fall in love, he was allowed to fall in love, he could be in love like the movies—with dancing or with you.

he could fall in love. he could just breathe.

"donghyuck," he said once, and he squeezed your hand to keep you a little closer. "you can call me donghyuck."

stomping on the ground, spinning until your head drowns, and holding onto each other to share the joy through your veins. a new song played and donghyuck hummed along as he guided you across the dance hall, and that was all there is to this night.

it was just about letting a stranger you met after midnight teach you how to dance, and realizing that dancing felt like falling in love with said stranger.

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weepylucifer · 3 years

Text

Tosses another dinluke at you. This one’s about caring for each other

Luke awakens from uneasy sleep filled with nightmares, and immediately can tell that today is going to be terrible.

The occasional phantom pain in his wrist, that he can take. The old, flaring ache, the strange feeling that the hand is still there, which somehow makes both wearing and not wearing the prosthetic feel uncomfortable - well, it’s a drag, but it’s only one part of his body. With meditation to aid him, he finds he can usually sequester it off, away from the rest of him, and go through his day more or less like normal. But sometimes, each and every scar caused by the Force lightning clamors in pain, especially when he’s been dreaming about how he got them. This is the worst, because he hasn’t found a good way to cope with it yet. He can’t make the pain stop, and it’s driving him up the walls.

There’s no way he can teach his padawan like this.

Fortunately, Grogu’s father is visiting, and will probably be more than happy to entertain the kid for a day.

Luke hasn’t gotten the measure of the Mandalorian yet. He talks little, projects an aura of intimidation, being covered in armor all over like that, but he seems very attached to his child, so attached that Luke reckoned upon getting Grogu that breaking their bond would do a lot more harm than good. He’s come over for a few visits to far, and he practically curls over Grogu like a loth-cat over its young. But Luke doesn’t exactly know anything about him besides that.

Also, it’s dawned on Luke that he knows nothing about Mandalorians. He knows Boba Fett is one, but that’s pretty much it.

So he’s not exactly comfortable admitting his plight to the man. What if he perceives it as weakness? So when he emerges from his bedroom to greet him, he is brief, almost curt, making himself speak through the pain.

“I’m sorry, but there’ll be no lesson today. Can you just watch Grogu for me? I’m... something else has come up.”

The Mandalorian looks... like an expressionless helmet on a suit of armor. But his voice betrays some surprise when he says, “Um, yeah. Sure. Not a problem.”

He’s justified in his surprise; Luke has never cancelled Grogu’s lessons before. “Thanks,” Luke says and repeats, “Sorry this is on such short notice.”

The last thing he sees before beating his retreat back to his room is Grogu cooing and reaching a little hand out towards him in concern, doubtlessly feeling in the Force that something is amiss with Luke. He closes the door but can still hear the Mandalorian reassuring the kid to the best of his ability, “Sorry, buddy, your bajuri seems to be busy. No floating stuff today.”

Grogu emits the sad coo again.

“Hey, it’s okay. Wanna go to the pond and look for frogs?”

...

“We can take the Phoenix over there.”

A happy squeak tells Luke that the plan has met approval.

“You like flying with the jetpack, huh? Yeah, me too.”

Their voices recede, Grogu babbling happily and his father talking back pretending to understand him, and then the temple is silent. It dawns on Luke that the Mandalorian is attractive, the juxtaposition between the gleaming armored fighter and the father so gentle with his kid intriguing. The thought is brutally cut short by another sharp flash of searing pain.

He whines and flings himself onto his bed, curling up and tugging at his hair with both hands, hoping beyond reason that the pain in his scalp will distract him from the pain in his everywhere else.

Luke has been trying on and off to meditate or at least nap for several hours, when he hears a knock at the door. It can only be Mando.

“Um. Master Jedi?”

The Mandalorian has never asked Luke’s name, maybe he reckons Luke goes by his self-assumed title, just like he seems perfectly comfortable going by Mando. Yes?, Luke wants to ask, but he’s scared it’ll come out an undignified whimper.

“I made some dinner for the kid,” the Mandalorian continues. Is it dinner already? “I thought maybe you’d want some, so I’ll leave it out here.”

Luke blinks at the door. He wasn’t expecting this.

“I don’t know if you’ll like it, it’s, ah. Aruetiise usually find our cooking too spicy. So I made some bread to go with it, it. Helps. With the spice. I used some stuff from your storage for it, hope that’s okay.”

The silence persists.

“Putting it down now. Okay. Good luck with your... Jedi business.”

There’s a sound of, indeed, something being placed on the floor, then footsteps walking away.

Luke opens the door. There is a tray of food waiting for him. An amazingly delicious smell wafts from it and his stomach growls loudly, reminding him that he hasn’t eaten today.

So this man can cook. This man baked bread for him. Luke tries to imagine him, in the kitchen, doing that. Maybe he put Luke’s apron on over the armor. The thought makes him giggle for the first time today. Truly Grogu’s father is full of surprises.

It’s already getting dark out when Luke carries his empty plate back to the temple’s little kitchen. He finds Mando there with Grogu on his lap, as always in complete armor, simply watching as Grogu plays with a small silver ball.

Luke clears his throat. “Hi,” he says eloquently and carries his plate to the sink.

The Mandalorian nods in greeting. “All done in there?”

“Not exactly.” Somehow, Luke can feel Mando refocus on him, even through the helmet. He knows he must look rumpled, his hair mussed, his face drawn, and using one of his robes as a shawl. He wishes he had the ability to suffer more attractively, or at least the energy to make himself up a bit.

He sighs and sits down at the table with them. Somehow he feels like, as fair payment for the meal, the Mandalorian deserves his honesty in return. “Full disclosure, I wasn’t doing... Jedi stuff in my room. I just... I’m unwell.”

“Oh.” For some reason, Mando’s head tilts towards Grogu. It becomes apparent why when he asks, “Anything catching?”

“No. No, Grogu will be fine.” Luke folds his hands on the tabletop. Well, he’s already at it being honest. “Do you ever get the feeling of... old scars, hurting again? Like they’re new?”

“Your hand?” the Mandalorian asks. Ah, of course, he’s perceptive, he’s noticed the fake hand.

“Not just the hand. Everywhere. All over.” Luke grits his teeth as his nerves alight again along the lightning patterns. Maker, he hates this. It’s like the shrivelled old prune continues to torture him from beyond the grave.

“All over?” Mando repeats. The helmet’s modulator dulls emotion, but Luke guesses it’s concern he hears.

“Yeah. Look.” Following a sudden impulse, he gets up and shucks his robe, unbuttons his shirt and slips that off too. “Here, see?” He turns himself this way and that, catching the warm lamplight. “And yes, they go all the way down.”

Helmet or no, he can hear the Mandalorian’s breath catch. His hand, the one that’s not keeping Grogu from tumbling off his lap, twitches... rises... reaches out... Luke keeps himself very still. For a breath or two, he thinks that if the Mandalorian were to touch him, trace the lightning bolts on his torso with his gloved hand, then he might feel better. Might be soothed.

The hand is lowered to the table again as if embarrassed. Luke lets out his breath and tries not to slump in disappointment. “I’ve never seen scarring like that before,” the Mandalorian says. “And I’ve seen my fair share.”

“Force lightning,” Luke explains, before remembering that his companion knows nothing about the Force. “A Sith torture technique.”

“You were tortured?” Mando asks, then amends, “You don’t have to tell me.”

Luke sits back down, hugging his knees to his chest. “Pffft. It’s not like I’m not already thinking about it.” He rubs his hands down his arms at another shiver of pain. “The Emperor did this. When I went to confront him on the second Death Star.”

“It was you on the Death Star?” the Mandalorian asks.

“Yeah. The Emperor wanted me to join the dark side. I refused. I had no idea he’d just start frying me with lightning. I had no idea this was something the Force could even do.”

“But then you... killed the Emperor?” The Mandalorian is clearly guessing, and Luke finds himself astonished that there’s someone out there still who doesn’t know the whole Luke Skywalker Saga.

“I did not,” he says. “My father killed the Emperor. All I did was lie on the ground and be tortured.” He picks at his wrist where the synthetic skin joins the organic. “I’m not even bitter about that. It ended up saving my father’s soul. But sometimes, I have nightmares about it, you know? And in those dreams, my father... doesn’t help me. He just stands and stares at me and that’s worse than the pain. Because, when it actually happened, there was... a moment when I thought he wouldn’t do anything. He wouldn’t care and he’d watch me die. For a moment there, I lost hope, and that’s the worst of it really, knowing that about myself.”

“Why was... your father on the Death Star?” the Mandalorian asks, and huh, apparently he hasn’t heard about the Luke-and-Vader-connection either.

“It’s a long story,” Luke says, because it is, and he’s tired. His scars still hurt, not in these sudden flashes anymore, but as a pulsing, bone-deep, constant ache. But his chest feels a bit lighter for having talked about it.

The Mandalorian now gestures at said chest, instead of asking for the story again. “Can you take painkillers for those?”

Luke shakes his head. “They don’t help much. The pain’s in here.” He taps his temple. “I’ve just been trying to sleep it off, but it hurts too much to get to sleep.”

Mando hisses out a breath, and Luke is by this point fairly certain he’s commiserating. “Phew. Sounds like you need a drink.”

This makes Luke laugh, and he appreciates that. “You know, I’d love a drink, actually.”

After Grogu is put to bed, Luke gets a glass of spotchka and Mando’s company (he tilts the helmet off just far enough to free his mouth in quick, almost furtive gestures and takes tiny sips). His head’s starting to feel pleasantly swimmy when he says, “You know, I’ve just bared all my troubles to you - well, not all, but some, and pretty hefty ones - and yet I know... three facts about you, maybe.”

“Hmm. Yeah, that doesn’t seem fair,” the Mandalorian says amusedly. “What would you like to know?”

“Your name would be a good start,” Luke suggests.

The way the Mandalorian fidgets with his glass, he looks almost flustered. “Ah... Din. Din Djarin.”

“Luke Skywalker.” Luke grins and reaches across the table, ignoring the pinpricks of pain up his arm, to grip Mando’s - Din’s - hand. “It’s nice to have met you, Din Djarin.”

-----

In the following months, these flare-ups return occasionally, but none in such intensity. Luke knows that it’s only a matter of time, though. He’s beginning to suspect that this might stay with him forever. But he’s not as horrified at the prospect as he once was, after talking about it to Din and being neither judged nor pitied. After Din didn’t look at him worried like Leia, or attempted clumsily to walk on eggshells around the topic like Han, and didn’t think less of Luke, and didn’t act like Luke’s admittance to his issues tarnished some sort of larger-than-life image of the glowing Jedi hero. How odd it is to think of a future that has someone in it he can rely on in such an uncomplicated manner. He hasn’t had anyone in his life to rely on - or dared to think of himself as needing this - since... well, since Aunt Beru, probably.

During these months, Grogu has steadily progressed in his studies. Din has visited the temple with some regularity, but Luke has yet to get used to him. How could he, when there’s so much new and exciting to discover about Din still? He finds himself looking forward to these visits, and missing Din when absent, almost as much as Grogu does. Din can only ever stay a few days at once, and Departure Day is a sad one for all two inhabitants of the makeshift Jedi school. (Luke’s not sure what Din does when he’s not here. It can’t be so important, right? Surely not more important than spending time with Grogu? Than talking to Luke?)

This time, though, when Din shows up at the agreed-upon time, it’s weird. He speaks even less than usual, he seems to retreat into his armor even more, he opts to sleep in his ship instead of one of the many empty bedrooms in the temple that Luke has yet to fill with more students. And he barely holds or even touches Grogu, and that tips Luke off. These other observations he could chalk up to paranoia and his own desire to coax Din out of his (figurative!) shell. But that last one tells him that something is off.

Grogu can feel it too, and confusion and worry is seeping off of him into the Force. Luke tries to calm him and get him to sleep, but in the morning, Grogu’s still a bit anxious, and their collective worry mounts when breakfast passes by and Din fails to emerge from his ship. The two of them are reflecting their worry back off each other, and it’s getting aggravating, so Luke gets up and resolves to investigate.

“Okay, Grogu, can you go in the garden and play with Artoo? I’ll go look what’s up with your dad.”

Grogu immediately calms now that he knows the matter is being taken care of, and it warms Luke’s heart to see how much the kid has grown to trust him.

He gains entrance to the ship - it’s not the same one that Grogu has shared memories of with him, but similar enough in layout. The cockpit is empty, so he descends down a narrow ladder into what probably passes for crew quarters here. Peering around a corner, he finds Din hunkered down with his back against the durasteel wall, his threadbare cape wrapped around him as a blanket. He hasn’t noticed Luke come in yet, and that’s wrong in and of itself, and he’s shivering so hard it makes his beskar rattle slightly. As Luke lays eyes on him, he breaks into a horrid wet cough beneath the helmet, the modulator rendering it rasping and metallic.

Okay, something must be done.

“Din?” Luke asks, peeking his head out into open view. “It’s Luke, I’m in here now. You sound like my dad, kriffing-- how long has it been like this?”

Din’s head whips around in Luke’s direction, and he probably only doesn’t flinch because he’s trained to not flinch at things. “I’m fine,” he claims - outrageously lying - and tries to drag himself to his feet, hands bracing against the wall behind him.

Luke is already rushing to his side. “No, no, just stay down. There, that’s right, just sit. Are you wounded? Sick?”

Din tilts his head back against the wall. “Not wounded.”

“Well, that’s... good.” Luke squats next to him, unsure how to proceed. In the Force, he can feel exhaustion and pain radiating off of Din, but that doesn’t tell him what exactly is wrong. He tries to touch his wrist and, of course, meets beskar.

“Din, I realize this might be a... big ask, but can you remove your helmet so I can check your temperature?”

A stuttering sigh comes out through the modulator. “I don’t...”

“I’ll close my eyes,” Luke hurries to add. “It’ll just be for a few seconds. Oh, oh I have a blindfold back at the temple! I can run back and get it.”

Din shakes his head. “It’s okay. You’ve seen it before.” He reaches a shaking hand up and with a hiss, the locks on the helmet disengage. He slides it up and off and Luke takes in his face. It’s flushed, his hair matted and sweaty, his eyes bleary, and yet. It’s as attractive as Luke remembers.

Shaking these thoughts off, because there certainly are more important things now, Luke reaches out and puts his ungloved hand on Din’s forehead.

“You’re burning up,” he hisses. “I’m taking you back to the temple, I have medicine there.”

He’s already in the process of wrapping an arm around Din’s torso to help him up when Din shakes his head. “No. Gotta stay here.” His speech is washed out, his eyes glassy, and Luke’s concerned he’s not talking sense.

“You’ll be more comfortable at the temple.”

Din tries to brush him off with alarmingly feeble hands. “No. The kid.”

Ah. “I don’t think Grogu can catch anything off of you. Different species and all that.”

“You don’t know.”

Well, strictly speaking, Luke doesn’t. Yoda never mentioned anything like that. For a moment, Luke looks around the room, but his old mentor’s ghost is unhelpfully absent. He settles for promising, “I’ll make sure he keeps his distance.”

Din shakes his head again. “Kid’s going to...” He’s interrupted by another coughing fit. “...try to heal me. Don’t want him to overdo it.”

Even miserably sick, Din’s first concern is for the child. It makes something warm swell in Luke’s chest, and he realizes with no small start that Oh, this might be something a lot more than attraction he’s dealing with.

It doesn’t matter now. “I’ll make sure Grogu doesn’t overtax himself then. I’m his teacher, it’s what I’m here for.” Not at home to any more protests, Luke uses the Force to help him lift Din up in his arms. “Try to have a little faith in me, okay?”

“I’m fine here on my own,” Din insists.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Luke says distractedly as he starts off towards the exit ramp, bridal-carrying a whole Mandalorian warrior.

Din is not cooperative, doing his damndest to make himself a dead weight. “I’m Mand’alor,” he mutters, eyes half-closed. “I don’t have to take that tone from you.”

Luke doesn’t know what that word means. Maybe it’s a special type of Mandalorian. He’ll ask later, if he remembers. “Right now, you’re sick, that’s all,” he says, taking them at a brisk pace back to the temple. “You need attention.”

Din’s answer is a displeased groan. “My own damn fault for taking off the helmet.”

In the moment, Luke wonders if he means that in a metaphysical sort of way, like he’s being punished by the ancient Mando gods for his heresy. He’ll later discover that it’s much more prosaic than that: Din has worn the helmet since he was a child, and it’s protected him amiably against any airborne diseases. Now that he’s decided to start taking if off occasionally amongst other people, his immune system is being thrown into a panic by all these new unfiltered things to be breathed in, and he has prompty caught some kind of space flu.

For now, he gets Din into bed, armor and all, and heads for the ‘fresher and the aid kit he stashed there.

Din is burning.

Din is glacier-cold.

He sleeps irregularly in this soft bed he doesn’t recognize, and wakes himself with fits of coughing. He gropes for lucidity and gives up on it again in intervals. At some point, someone took his helmet - no, he remembers taking it off, or was that a dream? He has a memory of being carried in somebody’s arms, but who would carry him in full beskar? Who would care to? He’s not on his ship and he’s not alone and this is wrong. He’s been sick before, even with the helmet: from infected wounds or bad food or bad water or being out in harsh weather too long during a job. He’s always ridden it out by himself, if he was too far off to stumble his way back to the covert. But this isn’t the covert - that’s long gone, isn’t it? - and someone is here.

The person, at some point, helps him sit up and removes his armor, and Din would panic - does - but the person’s hands on him are gentle, and there’s some voice telling him that “It’s just to make you more comfortable, I’m putting it right next to the bed, I’m not taking it away, see? It’s right here waiting for you” and he’s too exhausted to put up a fight, and why would they lie? If they wanted the beskar for themselves they would’ve killed him already. But the person doesn’t. The person gives him water when he’s coughed his throat raw. The person drapes a blanket over him, which he shucks off during the hot spells only to grope for it again during the cold ones. The person puts a hand on his forehead and it’s even more cool and soothing than the damp cloth they also provide.

At some point, the person puts something in the bed with him - some alive thing, some small and fussy thing, some important thing with small green claws and wide moon eyes and large ears that are the softest thing that Din’s ever touched. He reaches out for it on instinct, just to pet the downy white hairs on its little head, and the person’s voice says from somewhere far above, “Okay, Grogu, I promised your father to take this slow. We’ll do this gradually, so you don’t tire yourself. You understand? Small healing. Easy.”

The small and precious thing makes a displeased sound, and Din wants to soothe it again. The voice replies, “I know how you feel, I know you want to fix it all right now, but I promised, okay? Your father will be very disappointed in me if we don’t do this just like he’d have it. And we don’t want that, hm?”

Din hears a coo close to his ear, feels a tiny, three-clawed hand touching him, and then there’s a sudden warmth spreading in his chest, not like the clammy heat of the fever but different, pleasant. Suddenly it seems easier to lie back and get some real, truly restful sleep, and this he does.

This instance repeats several more times, over days, until there is a point at which Din wakes - still sore, shaky, and with his muscles aching from having trembled so much - but with the fever broken and his head clear enough to string a coherent thought together.

He’s vaguely aware of a warbling voice a short distance away that he can’t quite yet discern. The room is dim, with only a singular lamp by his bedside spreading a warm light. There is a window above the bed but no light is coming in. It must be late in the evening - Grogu’s bedtime, is what Din’s inner alarm clock tells him without fail. And indeed, when he raises his head, he spots a small crib across the room that can only be Grogu’s, and Luke is there, rocking it in gentle motions. It is him who’s doing the crooning - singing Grogu to sleep, Din realizes abruptly. As he focuses, the lullaby slowly starts to make some sense: it’s in Bocce, which Din is about as conversant in as Tusken. He’s actually heard the tune before; it’s a nonsensical little ditty that settlers on Tatooine sing to their children.

He stretches out an arm and points a shaky finger at Luke.

“Hick,” he accuses, his voice gritty like he gargled a mouthful of sand.

Luke spins around, his blue eyes widening. “If you’re trying to insinuate that only sand-encrusted, desert-dwelling hicks speak Bocce,” he says, “then you are correct.” He smiles. “It’s good to see you back with us.”

“You’re from Tatooine,” Din says, and wonders why this is so important to him. Maybe it’s because learning things about Luke is like putting a puzzle together. There’s somehow a whole bunch of people that Luke is - he’s fascinating, he’s vexing, he’s confusing, and Din has no idea why he’s this interested in the first place. Well, he does have some clue, but it’s best not dwelled upon. Luke has his Creed and his life, Din has his wholly different Creed and life, and it’s not like the interest can be mutual anyway.

Or can it? Luke seems to have been here for days, watching him heal. Din’s mind veers away from phrases like “nursing” and “caring for” because, well, it implies a needing and a being needed that’s not usually extant for him. He takes care of himself, mostly, that is how it’s been for years. Decades...

Luke nods. “Anchorhead represent. Go Womp Rats.”

Din wrinkles his nose. “Anchorhead? There’s nothing there.”

“You’re telling me! Come talk to me about it when you’ve lived there for nineteen years.” He crosses the room to come perch on the edge of Din’s bed. “Which you won’t, you’re the king of Mandalore.”

Oh, shit. Yeah. He’s probably missing a council meeting right now. Wait. “Who told you?”

“You talked a lot when you were feverish.” Luke passes a hand over Din’s brow. He’s done that before, but it’s very different now that Din is awake for it. “It seems to have broken.”

“You had the kid heal me,” Din surmises. He can’t waste breath right now on wondering what else he said to Luke, when the fever had him. “I told you not to do that.”

“I had him heal you slowly, step by step, so he wouldn’t exhaust himself. Just a little every day,” Luke explains.

“He okay now?”

“He’s-” Luke begins to answer, then stops himself. A truly mischievous smile spreads on his lips. “Prince Grogu is resting, your highness. But yes, your majesty, he’s perfectly fine and healthy.”

“Stop.” Din swats a hand at him. “Not... ‘majesty’. We don’t even do that. It’s just ‘Alor. Actually, it’s just Din.”

Luke dodges his hand and almost falls back onto the bed, laughing. “Oh, dear. Please, your worship, accept this humble Jedi’s apology--”

“I mean it, stop--” He probably sounds petulant. He can’t bring himself to care.

Luke’s smile gentles. So do his eyes, impossibly blue. Huh. He’s beautiful. “I’m just teasing you,” he says, beautifully. “I know this doesn’t change anything here. Just another facet of the man I’ve been getting to know.”

“Ah. So you’ve been.” Din clears his throat. That feels awful, as it is still very dry. “Getting to know me. Huh?”

Does this qualify as flirting? This is probably awful. Din’s not good at this. And anyway, it’s still unclear if Luke is actually--???

The softest pair of lips in the galaxy (the galaxy!!!) is on his forehead. Din’s chest implodes. He can feel Luke’s smile on his skin. He’s never felt anything like it before. How is this happening? He’s most likely still sick, and this is a fever dream.

“I’d like to get to know much more of you,” Luke says, withdrawing, still smiling, his eyes like sun-streaked oceans. Din has no breath in his chest.

He delays his reaction two seconds too long, and Luke’s expression begins to falter. “I’m... sorry, you’ve just recovered, and here I am putting... this on you.” He gestures broadly at himself in his entirety. “I... hold on, I’ll go get you, um, a glass of water or something...”

Din would like a glass of water. He would not like Luke to leave. The latter wins out. “Wait.” He grasps Luke’s wrist before he can get up. “I didn’t mean... I would, um. Like to get to know you also.”

Luke stills, his face a turmoil of emotion. How is this the same man who looked so utterly serene to the point of expressionlessness when they first met?

Din figures it’s way past time he made a move. Luke’s already gone and bared himself so much. It’s only fair that he meet him halfway, Din thinks and kisses him.

#dinluke #skydalorian #hurt/comfort #sickfic #this one's about two guys who don't normally have people finding themselves having someone #it got longer than expected!#did i give din djarin the corner virus by accident #big yikes #posts by me

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axoxtxhxh · 3 years

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Nobody is You - Chapter 1 - Intro

A/N: Hi guys! I realize that I haven’t finished my first Miche story (You Saved Me), but I started this second one and wanted to get it out before I completed You Saved Me. It’s a bit different in a lot of ways, but will still be a Miche x Fem!Reader story. Here is the first chapter! I hope you like it!

Overall Summary: Reader and Miche are both squad VPs working to make squad leader. They are friends but something that happened between them when they were younger keeps them from getting closer. Miche works to show Reader he isn’t the same person he used to be.

Chapter Summary: Reader is a squad VP in the survey corps and has her eyes set on becoming a squad leader.

Content: No warnings

Word Count: ~ 2,100

“Move over.” Miche playfully bumped Y/N’s hip and she nearly fell off the thick branch they were both balancing on. She turned and gave him a dirty look.

“What the hell!?” She yelled. He just shrugged, giving her that smug smile she hated so much. “I could have fallen, Miche.”

“Lighten up.” He laughed. “I would have caught you.”

“You’re such a dick sometimes.” She readjusted herself in the new spot she stood in.

He dropped himself down, sitting on the part of the branch closest to the trunk of the tree. The whole branch shook and she lost her balance. Her right leg slipping and her body following quickly behind. She yelped on her way down, clawing at the thick branch, trying to get any sort of grip before she reached for her 3DM gear to help her.

She was nearly fully off the branch before she was held steady, a large hand gripping the collar of her jacket and holding her in place. She looked up at him and he was smiling down at her dangling body.

“I hate you so much,” she grumbled as he pulled her up. She caught her leg on the branch and stabilized herself.

“You should be nicer to me,” he teased, “I just saved your life.”

“I would have figured it out.”

“I know you would have.” He sat back down on the branch, tugging at her to sit next to him. She held herself steady, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing she needed help. “But it’s nice to feel needed sometimes.”

“Oh please, everyone is always fighting for your attention.” She rolled her eyes and continued looking off into the distance. He tugged at her jacket again.

“Yeah, but there aren’t many willing to give me theirs.” He leaned back on his arms and she looked down at him. It was a strange juxtaposition, watching this giant man kicking his feet like a little kid over the edge of the tree branch.

They had been posted up in the trees to keep a lookout for the more veteran scouts on this mission. It had only been about an hour, but the sun was already starting to set. Miche leaned back farther, closing his eyes and enjoying the warmth of the sunshine. His blonde hair and lightly tanned skin were shimmering, an auburn glow radiating off of him. She hated that he always looked so good.

Summers within the walls were wonderful. These were some of the last days of heat they would be getting before the cold nights would come. First freezing the ground as the sun set and as the months pass, covering them with a layer of white, crystalline snow until spring came again.

Miche finally opened his eyes and looked up at her, watching as she focused on keeping watch. She was always so serious, never letting herself just relax and enjoy things. He was willing to admit that he should probably be keeping a closer eye on watching with her, but their post was one of the easiest out of all of them. It was almost expected that this position would just sit back and wait. They could let the others do the work while they rest, relaxing in the summer sun, like sucking honey from a spoon, enjoying the sweet taste without all the work.

“Are you going to sit down with me?” He asked, tugging on her jacket for the third time.

“Are you going to actually do your job?”

“If I can get you to relax and loosen up, I will gladly take some of the work.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “How does that sound?”

She looked back at the span of land in front of them and sighed, looking back to Miche and lowering herself to sit next to him.

“There we go.” He smiled and gave her a hand, helping her sit without sliding off the edge.

“I’m only sitting for a little bit.” She told him.

“Baby steps.”

He looked over at her, still not relaxing. Her back, stiff and straight, her hands crossed in her lap as she kept her eyes in front of her. He swung his leg, kicking her foot and waited to see if she would do anything. When she didn’t, he did it again and chuckled to himself.

“You are incredibly immature.”

“What are you talking about? I’m very mature.” He kicked her foot again, grinning when he saw her trying to hold back her smile.

She leaned back a little, propping herself up on her arms and he felt himself relax a little more as he saw her relaxing.

“So why are you working so hard on this mission?” Miche asked, kicking her leg again.

“You mean other than making sure people don’t die?” She looked over to him with raised eyebrows.

“Of course.” He shrugged and she turned back to look ahead of them.

She had her reasons, but she wasn’t sure he would understand. They had both joined the scouts when they were really young. This was the only life they knew. She was barely out of her teens but she had already set her sights on being squad leader. The chances of her getting squad leader weren’t that high considering there were those older than her and ones who’ve been a scout longer than her, but she had to try.

“I want to make squad leader,” she revealed. “There’s an opening coming up.”

“Ah, of course. I should have known. A power-hungry woman.” He sighed, slipping his foot under hers and lifting it up, bouncing it up and down with his leg.

“I’m not power hungry, I just know I have to work harder than a lot of you guys. Not all of us are naturally gifted.”

“You think I’m naturally gifted?” He smiled smugly at her as she rolled her eyes.

“Don’t go fishing for a compliment I already gave you.” She smiled at him, moving her foot from his control and lightly kicking him. Miche gave a hearty laugh and nudged her in the shoulder.

“I’m going to tell Hange and Erwin you said that. They work hard too.”

“I know they work hard,” she sighed, looking back at him, “but they’re also gifted in ways I’m not.”

“But they still work hard. Hange lives and breathes titan research—”

“You don’t need to tell me. As their roommate, I am very aware. They talk about it in their sleep.”

“Well, as Erwin’s roommate,” he started, “I can tell you, the guy doesn’t sleep. He is always making plans.”

“How would you even know? You barely sleep in your room,” she retorted, a little more abrasive than she intended. She looked back as the sun dropped further in the sky. Miche chuckled to himself, lifting his leg on the branch and bending it in front of him so he could face her.

“You know about the stables?”

“Of course, I know.” She turned to look at him. “We’re always having to come up with excuses for why you’re not in the mess hall for dinner or why you’re late for training.”

Miche was looking down, picking at the bark on the tree. For the first time since the start of the mission, he fell silent and she was trying to guess what he was thinking. She was very sure nearly everyone, at least any female scout over the age of eighteen, knew about the stables. His reaction to her comment confused her though. She definitely thought it was something he would be bragging about.

“I mean, you’re practically there every night.” She kicked the foot that was still dangling over the edge of the branch, trying to bring him back to his typical playful self.

“It’s not every night. Plus, I never sleep up there.” Miche laughed lightly to himself, hoping the heat in his cheeks wasn’t showing through.

He definitely wasn’t there every night, but he could see why Y/N would think that. Not to mention, he had sort of made it a point to keep his reputation where it was, which was making people think he was up there every night. But none of the women he took up there really mattered to him anyway.

“I didn’t even realize you knew about that.” He looked back up to Y/N and smiled, leaning back on his arms. “Sometimes I forget you’re not fifteen anymore.”

“Thanks for that.”

“What? It’s not like you let me forget I was a teenage shithead.”

“It’s because you were.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Miche! Y/N!” Erwin called from the ground and they both peeked over the edge of the tree. “Mission complete.”

“I bet you bathroom duty that Erwin is going to complain about how the mission went.” Miche stood up, offering his hand and pulling her up with him.

“That would be a stupid bet for me to take.” She laughed and they both jumped down.

“Was it a success?” She asked Erwin.

“If you can call it that,” he grumbled, “there shouldn’t be this many casualties. There is a much better way to handle these missions.”

Y/N brought her eyes to Miche, raising an eyebrow and he lightly punched her shoulder.

“Let’s go.” Miche wrapped his arms around Erwin and Y/N, ushering them back to the horses. “I’m starving.”

The mess hall was packed with people, slightly less than this morning before the mission. It was a harsh reality, but something they were all quite used to at this point.

“Is that guy going to be joining us?” Miche sat next to Y/N with his plate of food.

“What guy?” She brought a spoonful of stew to her mouth.

“The guy you always hang around.” He took a big bite of his bread and Y/N realized who he was speaking of.

“He has a name,” she scoffed, putting her spoon down and looking at him.

“I didn’t bother to learn it,” he sneered.

“That’s thoughtful of you. I was dating him for three months.” Y/N went back to her food.

“Yeah, but he was a loser and I knew it wouldn’t last.”

“Who’s a loser?” Erwin joined them at the table with his food, sitting across from Y/N.

“That guy. The one Y/N kept bringing.” Miche snuck a potato from her bowl and pulled his hand back quickly when she slapped it.

“Big loser.”

“Well thanks for telling me that.” She looked at the both of them. “It could have saved me three months.”

Hange sat down to join them, sitting across from Miche.

“I would like to point out,” Y/N began, “that you are not much better.”

“I don’t claim to make good decisions.” Miche smiled, popping the last bite of bread in his mouth.

“We can definitely agree on that.” Erwin lifted his cup and Y/N quickly tapped it with hers, Hange following after.

“I’m also not in a relationship with any of these women.” Miche sat back a little, watching Y/N. “I’m a lot more careful about who I give my heart to. You should be too.”

“Maybe she didn’t give her heart.” Hange joined in, then turned to look at Y/N. “You don’t seem very heartbroken.”

“Nope, he was a loser.” Y/N laughed with Hange. Miche smiled as she stuck her fork in a potato from his plate and ate it.

“Speaking of losers, Erwin—” Hange started, turning to face him.

“Nice!” Miche laughed and fist bumped them.

“—How is Marie?” Hange continued, turning to look at Erwin. “Did you give her that letter?”

“No, I think I’m going to cut it off before anything happens,” he admitted.

“What? No! You guys were my hope.” Y/N dropped her utensils and brought her hands to her cheeks.

“I just think I should focus on making rank. Squad leader is a big role,” he started.

“That’s how stupid you sound.” Miche leaned in and whispered to Y/N. She turned to slap him, but he dodged it, leaning away from her and grinning.

“I have some ideas I want to discuss with the commander,” Erwin continued “I have a meeting with him tomorrow afternoon.”

“With Commander Shadis?” Hange blushed.

“Well, if you don’t hold onto her, someone else will pick her up… for sure...” Miche’s voice trailed off as his eyes followed a woman who walked past them, her fingers lightly brushing over his shoulders. “Speaking of pick-me-up.”

He turned to Y/N, his eyes asking her the same question they always asked.

“I’ll take your plates. Just go.” She sighed. Miche thanked her and ran off with the woman. Y/N watched as the woman pulled him into the hallway and kissed him.

“Not every night, huh?” Y/N mumbled to herself, taking a bite of her bread and keeping her eyes fixed on him. She watched as Miche wrapped his arms around the woman, brushing a hair behind her ear. He glanced up at Y/N and gave her a thumbs up. She returned a snarky one and watched as the woman pulled him out of view before returning to the conversation with Erwin and Hange.

Taglist: @luanabonn

#Nobody is You #Attack on Titan Imagines #AOT Imagines #SNK imagines #Miche Zacharias Imagines #Mike Zacharias Imagines #Attack on titan x reader #AOT x reader #SNK x reader #Miche Zacharias x reader #Mike Zacharias x reader #AOT Mike x reader #AOT Miche x reader #SNK Miche x reader #SNK Mike x reader #fwb to lovers #Shingeki no kyojin imagines #Shingeki no kyojin x reader

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honeymoonjin · 4 years

Text

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ot7 x reader || ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 7.2k || ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: smut - rated 18+

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banner designer @jamaisjoons

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: voyeurism, exhibitionism, filmed sex, fingering, t h r e e s o m e, cum eating, sloppy seconds kinda?, multiple orgasms, creampie, cumshot, nipple play, tender manhandling, overstimulation, praise, this one has me hot and bothered folks

DAY FOUR

It’s dark when you wake up, still feeling slightly floaty. Beside you, Taehyung still snores away, naked bar for his pair of boxers and the sheets draped lazily over his torso. He looks peaceful, face angelic and chest rising and falling deeply. The sight of him almost makes you want to fall asleep then and there, but your throat is parched and your mouth is dry.

Perhaps sleeping the day away wasn’t wise, but still you dress in dim silence, padding down the stairs with bare feet and nothing more than Taehyung’s shirt - even more oversized on you - and a fresh pair of panties.

This is the first time you’ve really been out of your room at this hour, and you marvel at the enveloping stillness of the air. No lights, only the creeping moonlight to guide your way to the kitchen, eager to ease your dry mouth. The refrigerator light makes your eyes ache as you pull out a bottle of water, uncapping it with a sigh and leaning back against the countertop, gulping almost a third of it down before your brain starts to pang at the sudden cold.

“Can’t sleep?”

You jump at the sudden voice, glancing up to see the round, pale face of Min Yoongi peeking over the couch. In such deeply–set quiet, you feel the need to speak lowly, just enough for him to hear. “Just woke up, actually.”

He combs through the dyed honey blonde of his hair as his eyes narrow in disbelief. “Is that Taehyung’s shirt from this morning? So that’s where the two of you have been all day. You must’ve really gone at it like rabbits, it’s almost three in the morning.”

“Jesus,” you groan. “I must’ve been asleep more than 12 hours then. I feel like I’ve woken up from a coma or something, I swear.”

“That good, huh?” he says in a teasing tone as you take another sip of water.

“Go upstairs and see for yourself if you’re so curious,” you retort.

Yoongi stays silent for a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is different. Softer. “Come sit.”

You obey silently, a little huff forced out of your lungs when you drop onto the couch beside him, cradling the bottle of water between your knees as you wait for him to say something, explain why he’d asked you over.

The blonde-haired man scoffs softly, nudging your shoulder. “Come on, I’m not telling you off or anything. If you want to go, you can go, but I thought you might like some company.”

The air is warmer here beside him. “I’ll stay,” you answer quietly.

“Three days,” he muses, his voice bringing colour to the dark room. “Why does it feel like weeks?”

You hum, unable to think of a reply that would comfort him. “What would you have been doing if you weren’t here right now?”

Yoongi’s legs are crossed, much like how Jimin always sits, but it gives off a far more casual vibe as he slumps, butt resting almost right on the edge of the cushion. “I’d probably still be up. I’d just be up alone.”

“Night owl?” you question, tucking one foot up under you so you can face him more.

“Lonely,” he answers simply, eyes focused on the table in front of him.

You don’t know what to say. Luckily, it seems like he’s not finished, but just taking a pause to collect his thoughts. You’ve been noticing that Yoongi seems like the type to mean every word he says, and consider each one carefully.

“I thought I‌ was picking a career filled with people,” he elaborates, voice flickering low like a single flame. “I guess in some ways, both health practitioning and teaching are fairly sociable jobs. But I rarely see the same person twice. There was a time when I thought I preferred it like that. I’ve never been a social butterfly like some of the guys here. But after a few years, you just feel so hollowed out by it.”

You let his words sink in for a moment, head resting on the back of the couch. “And now?”

“Now?” he repeats with a frown.

“Are you still lonely now?”

He attempts a smile. “I can’t decide.”

You frown at his sullen tone. “We all love having you here, you know? Seokjin really appreciates your help in the kitchen, the two youngest both adore you, Namjoon respects you so much and I’m pretty sure Hoseok and Jimin would’ve had a catfight in the living room if it wasn’t for your level-headedness.”

Yoongi brightens a little bit, just enough for his lips to twitch, genuinely this time. Slowly, his eyes slide over to meet yours. “And you?”

You slip the tip of your tongue out enough to wet your lips. “I- If it’s okay, I’d rather show you my appreciation.”

His eyes are molten as they search your face for any signs of hesitation. When they find none, he uncrosses his legs, splaying them apart, and leans over to press lightly at your shoulder. “Lean back,” he instructs, the soft tone replaced with a casual roughness that he usually spoke with.

You swallow, letting the water bottle between your legs fall to the floor as you lie back, head resting against the arm of the couch.

Yoongi looks down at you, distaste flitting across his features. Your heart stops for a moment before he reaches out to tug at the hem of your baggy shirt. Tae‘s baggy shirt. “Take this off,” he orders with a grumble.

You ditch it hastily, wanting Yoongi’s hands on you, and shiver at the sudden cold, lying beneath him in nothing but your panties. “Yoongi,” you whisper, back arching as an incentive for him to touch you.

Reverently, a wide hand dips down, fingertips running over your shoulder, your bare chest and stomach, and back up to cup your breast, squeezing just enough to make you sigh, wanting more. As he fondles it, Yoongi adjusts his stance, hooking one leg between you and the back of the couch, propping himself up with his other arm so that he can lean down over you.

Rather than kissing you straight away, he watches your face with a look like hunger, drinking in your every reaction as his fingers slip up to pass over the stiffened peak, thumbing it so it continues to plump up.

You let out a breathy moan, tipping your chin up towards him. The hand on your breast slips up to cup your face, big enough that the tips of his fingers dip into your hair. It’s overwhelming; his legs on either side of you, and your face cradled in his tender grasp, bracketed between the back of the couch and his arm. Finally, his face lowers enough for his lips to brush yours, and your eyes slip closed in bliss.

This close, every breath is lined with his scent, rich yet tangy like mint and caramel, a juxtaposition that suits him perfectly. His lips on yours are like fine silk, brushing so lightly that you tremble at the intimacy of it. Every movement is painfully precise, languid. His fingers gently play with your hair like he can’t quite keep them still, but his lips take their time with you. The two of you are in your own world, alone to savour every delicate touch. No one else is awake, so you let the butterflies in your stomach grow and the flutter on your lips continue, hands wandering lower to where his shirt - a white tee with the letters FG stamped in black on the front - is slightly tucked into a pair of plaid boxer shorts. He sighs heavily onto your lips when your fingers first touch his skin, tracing a line just above the waistband.

“You have no idea,” he confesses in a hush, “how long I’ve waited to feel you.”

You gasp when his head dips lower, lips brushing your ear, your jaw, down your throat to press a trail of chaste kisses along the base of your throat, his tongue darting out to flick kitten licks over your pulse point. “Yoongi,” you sigh, “you don’t have to wait any longer.”

“Y/n?”

Yoongi groans at the distant voice that breaks the silence. “Please just ignore it,” he mutters under his breath. “He’ll be fine.”

You bite your lip, ears straining to work out where Taehyung’s voice came from. It sounds like he’s upstairs, the sound lofty.

There’s only a moment of silence, Yoongi nudging your jaw with his nose to tip it back again, kisses slightly more insistent down the column of your throat, before you hear a thud.

“Y/n?” Taehyung repeats, voice calling out slightly louder into the dark of the house. “Did you go downstairs?”

Yoongi lets out a rushed exhale. “Fuck.” Sitting up off of you, he reaches down to pass you Tae’s shirt off the floor. Yoongi’s jaw ticks as you put it back on. “Just tell him you’re busy.”

You send him a look, before stepping up and out into the kitchen, taking the water bottle with you. “Down here, Tae,” you reply. His response is given in the noisy thuds of him coming down the stairs, and soon enough his face pops around the corner, brightening when he sees you.

“I woke up alone,” he says with a playful pout, hands finding your waist to press your bodies together, rocking the two of you back and forth. “Come back to bed.”

You force yourself not to glance over at the couch, feeling strangely guilty. Instead, you smile at Taehyung. “We slept all day. I feel too awake now.”

“Then let’s try out your bath! I saw some bath bombs there. Or we can make bubbles?”

You think you hear a faint huff in the living room but you ignore it, letting yourself be anchored in the slow swaying, looking up at Taehyung. “I’m sorry, Tae, I’m not really in the mood. You can have one, if you want? I don’t mind.”

“But then that’s not…” You see the wheels turning in Taehyung’s head, an excited smile tugging at his lips. “Are you sure? Thank you, Y/n! Come join me if you want!”

He pulls away from you, and an odd stir of relief stirs in your chest. “Have fun,” you say weakly, and he ducks his head to press a kiss on your forehead before turning back the way he came, jumping noisily up the stairs.

In the living room, Yoongi’s head once again pops up over the back of the couch. “Coast is clear?” he questions in a joking tone, but you can’t muster a smile. Yoongi stands up, brows furrowing in concern. “Are you alright?”

You sink back against the counter, staring sullenly at the half-empty water bottle in your hands. “Why do I feel like an asshole, Yoongi?”

He’s beside you quicker than you expect, hands gently pressing under your jaw to lift your gaze up to his. “Hey, hey,” he coos gently, eyes warm with reassurance, “what’s going on in that head of yours, hm?”

You hate the way your eyes water, but you can’t help it. His thumbs are on your cheeks, brushing away the tears as they fall, and you tip your head back in an effort to prevent them, taking a shuddering breath. “I‌ feel so bad for them, Yoongi?”

“For who?”

You sniff. “Namjoon and Tae. The other day, Namjoon told me he- that he-”

“Shh, I‌ know, he told us,” Yoongi murmurs, his own eyes glistening at the sight of you in tears. “Keep going, sweetheart.”

You swallow down the lump in your throat, trying to still your thudding heart. “But he likes me and now Tae is… I don’t know, but I’m worried that he might too, and then… Then I’m the asshole for sleeping with seven people at once.” You shrug with a bitter, teary laugh. “How can I act all coupley with Tae or try anything like that with Namjoonie when I know that I‌ can’t promise them anything?”

Yoongi’s lips part, moving silently as he seeks the right words. After a moment, he sighs, cupping your face one last time before lowering his hands, one rubbing at your back, making you sigh at the comfort. “I’ll be honest, Y/n,” he begins slowly, “I know all there is to know about sex physically, but- In this case, I don’t think I’m the right person to give you advice.”

“It’s okay,” you mumble, wiping your eyes and sniffing to clear your nose.

“No, no, I think you should chat with someone about this, and if I’m honest, I could use some advice too.” You give him a frown of confusion, and he grimaces with a sheepish grin. “When Taehyung called out for you, I’ll admit I wanted to beat that brat for interrupting us when he’d already had his turn. But I shouldn’t think of him or you that way, it’s not healthy. I think perhaps you and I should go upstairs and talk to Seokjin-hyung, Y/n. Do you think you’d want that?”

“He’s probably asleep,” you deflect, though you can’t deny that you could do with an expert opinion at a time like this.

“Probably,” Yoongi agrees lightly, pressing on your back to begin guiding you towards the stairs, “but I think he’d much rather you wake him up than agonise over it for hours while he sleeps.”

You take a deep breath. “Yeah. Okay, I’d like to go see him. Thank you, Yoongi.”

“Anytime, sweetheart.” His hand slips into yours as he leads you up the stairs, but rather than anything with deeper meaning, it just speaks of comfort, a squeeze of reassurance as he knocks on Jin’s door, across the hall from yours.

Jin answers after the fourth knock, squinting into the hallway with a yawn. “Jungkook, for the last time, I- Oh.” The annoyance on his face drops, eyes widening with concern even as he blinks slowly, still half-asleep. “Is everything okay?”

“Can we come in, hyung?” Yoongi asks instead. “Some emergency midnight counselling?”

“It’s-” Jin breaks off to look back into his room, groaning at the time. You wince, bracing yourself for a scolding. “Almost five in the morning. I once had a baker schedule weekly sessions for three a.m. before he went to work, this is nothing. Come inside and make yourselves comfy.”

Your shoulders go slack with relief, letting yourself be pulled inside by your still-entwined hands.

Jin’s room is tidy but lived in; the floors are clean of stray clothes or other belongings, but the head of his bed is laden with different sized stuffed toys and the sweet smell of french pear fills the air from a diffuser resting on the window sill. You sit cross-legged and lean against the headboard, grabbing a round white plushie to hug for emotional support. Yoongi sits at the foot of the bed, and Jin comes and tugs on a dressing gown, perfectly spaced between the two of you as he takes a seat in the middle, legs stretched out across the width of the bed.

“Now,” Jin begins softly, and with that one word you feel yourself safe under his authority, cared for. His relaxed but introspective posture, the non-judgemental warmth on his face and the inviting guidance of his tone combine together to ease the tension in your chest. You send Yoongi a quick glance of gratitude, and he smiles back. “I want to begin,” Jin continues, “by reassuring the two of you that you’re both safe, and there’s no time pressure here. No emergency. Whatever problems you’re having, let’s work through them together. I’d love to say this is entirely confidential, however-” Jin breaks off to wordlessly gesture at the blinking red light of the camera aimed towards the bed. “But, it will be kept confidential between us and not spread to the other members of the house. Who would like to explain what’s going on?”

You nod your chin at Yoongi, and he laughs softly, sitting up. “Alright then. The issue of jealousy is beginning to rear its ugly head. Y/n is feeling guilty about it, and I admit I’m not completely innocent of feeling a bit jealous myself.”

“Jealous? How so?”

“Well, look where we are,” Yoongi explains rhetorically. “Y/n’s here to have sex with seven different guys in close proximity. It seems some of the others have begun to get intimacy and romance in the equation.”

You pipe up, clutching the soft toy for comfort. “How am I supposed to reciprocate anything like that when I know I’m going to turn around and let six other guys have a go too?”

Yoongi winces at the wording. “Which is where my issue comes into play. I don’t want to think this way, like we’re all taking our turn with Y/n, because she’s not an object, but at the same time it’s hard to not feel that possessiveness.”

Jin nods, mulling it over for a few moments. “If it becomes a bigger problem, I think we’d be better off discussing it as eight, or however many of us are still in the house. It’s entirely natural to feel romantic inclinations, or possessive inclinations, or guilt over dealing with the two,” he directs the latter at you, “but of course conflict and guilt should be avoided, and in this situation we have to be careful that we monitor our emotions well. Y/n; what is your thought process when you begin to feel guilty?”

You bite your lip, leaning your head back against the headboard with a shrug. “I don’t know, it’s like… It feels wrong to act couple-y or seek out anything romantic with any of you guys because I know I can’t be loyal or commit to being exclusive. But I also can’t stop people from feeling that way. So I don’t know what to do. I’m like- I’m quite literally sleeping with the competition.”

“Okay,” Jin responds smoothly, nodding in thought. “Are you worried about feeling romantic inclinations for members in the house?”

“But then it wouldn’t be fair to the rest who are still trying to do their best in the game,” you point out.

The therapist just smiles softly. “That wasn’t the question I asked.”

Cheeks burning, you stare at the blanket underneath you. You can’t look at either of them. “…Not yet,” you admit honestly, “but honestly, yeah, I’m worried I might.” You glance up again, seeking out Jin’s gaze pleadingly, needing advice. “And what if I liked multiple people? Then they’d be directly competing against each other. It’s messy.”

“We don’t-” It’s Yoongi that speaks up, cutting himself off with a sigh. Jin nods at him to continue after he pauses in uncertainty. Yoongi scratches at his neck self-consciously. “I don’t think we’re all taking this insanely seriously and personally. Sometimes I walk in on Taehyung and Jungkook sharing porn, or Jin-hyung and Hoseok giggling away like two scheming toddlers as they try and make pancakes shaped like dicks.” Jin’s ears go flaming red at this, but he doesn’t interrupt. “We’re all well aware of how crazy this is. Yeah, maybe sometimes we feel a bit possessive over you, or competitive, but on a rational level we aren’t acting like we’re at war, you know? We don’t necessarily… have to be in direct competition.”

Jin gives him another moment in case he has anything else to add, before sending him an appreciative smile. “Very well said, Yoongi. I think as long as we’re all communicative when those issues like jealousy do arise, it won’t cause any major conflicts. Does that bring you any comfort, Y/n?”

You realise once he says your name that your eyes have stopped watering and your chest has stopped thudding so sickly. “Yeah,” you answer honestly, “it does. Thank you, guys. Though I guess- Well, even if you aren’t taking it as seriously as the Olympics, you are still competing against each other. Even if it’s just friendly fire, I’m still torn in the middle.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Yoongi shoots back earnestly.

“How does it not?” you question with a frown.

The two older men share a glance, Jin giving the slightest nod before Yoongi turns back to you. “Producer Sejin said it didn’t have to be one-on-one. If you’d like, we could show you that we can work together.”

“If you’d like,” Jin purrs, a hand reaching out to gently clasp your knee, “we could share.”

“Share me?” you ask weakly. The two of them nod, Yoongi looking nervous, Jin at-ease. “Yes, please.”

“So polite,” Jin says with a teasing smile. “Do you want to go give Yoongi a kiss for me, baby?”

Though it’s a command more than a question, you nod, and toss the stuffed toy aside, crawling forward, over Jin’s outstretched legs to where Yoongi sits, cross-legged like you were. A guiding hand wraps around your waist, pulling you in to straddle him, and you feel a thin bolt of excitement run up your core as Yoongi tilts his head back to look up at you, his honeyed locks falling to either side of his head. He’s beautiful, from this angle; lips so delicate and pink like a cherub, but with a blazing need swirling in his blown pupils. And though you can’t see him from this angle, Jin’s eyes feel like a hot brand on your back, making you shudder.

You link your wrists behind his neck and dip your head down, eyes slipping closed as you finally feel the pressure of his lips rising to greet you. Yoongi’s kisses are still soft and gentle, but the third presence in the room has lit a fire under the both of you, and each movement feels deeper, greedier.

Yoongi’s hand finds your ass as you make out, and he presses you in towards him, encouraging you to grind against him. Still in nothing more than Taehyung’s shirt and a pair of panties, you can feel him achingly hot and hard against you, stiff in the confines of his boxers.

Expecting to hear Jin speak up with praise or teasing words, you jump when instead it’s his hand sweeping back your hair that he begins with, collecting it in a handheld ponytail, tugging just slightly and exposing your neck. You let out a breathy moan into Yoongi’s mouth when you feel plush lips against the sensitive skin of your neck, fingers pushing the wide neck of Taehyung’s shirt to one side, exposing a shoulder. Jin methodically, languidly, places a chain of kisses down your throat and the top of your shoulder. Unlike Yoongi’s butterfly kisses, Jin’s touch is all teeth and tongue, making you feel dizzy with desire.

You whimper at the loss of Jin’s mouth on you, followed quickly by Yoongi pulling away, and your head spins. It’s only a moment, though, before you feel a set of hands finding the bottom of your shirt, the other set unlinking your arms from around Yoongi’s neck, holding them up so Jin can pull the fabric up and over your head, discarding it and running his palms on every inch of bare skin he can see.

Your head lolls back and eyes shut in bliss at the feeling of Jin’s slightly-rough palms stroking your hips, back, shoulders, and you feel him shuffle forward on his knees until he’s close enough for you to feel his breath on the nape of your neck. You bite your lip when he grips your hips, holding you steady.

Your breath catches in anticipation, and suddenly there’s a wet heat around your right nipple. You let out a strangled moan at the feeling of Yoongi’s mouth on you, tongue flicking endlessly over the stiffened peak. “Oh- oh god,” you gasp out, trying to grind your hips against him for some friction, but Jin’s hands hold you in place.

Jin shuffles closer again, and you feel a hand slip round to your front, pressing on your lower chest to pull you backwards, and you whine, not wanting to separate from Yoongi’s mouth, but he leans forward with you, sucking and lapping at your nipple as you fall back onto Jin’s chest, that same hand holding you steady against him as the other one traces lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your panties.

You jump when the tip of his finger first grazes against your clit, eyes opening to look down. Yoongi’s head takes up most of your vision, bobbing obscenely as he lavishes attention on your nipple, taking a moment to wet his fingers so he can flick and rub at your other one. Your chest heaves with his attention, pleasure so sharp it cuts into you. Below that, your legs are spread wide over Yoongi’s lap, your panties bulging with the presence of Jin’s hand. As you watch deliriously, he dips down and slips a finger deep inside you, the angle allowing him to grind the heel of his palm against your clit and stroke your g-spot from inside you at the same time.

You pant, toes curling when Yoongi switches nipples, his mouth enveloping your left peak and leaving the right one glossy with spit and reddened. It’s intoxicating, being between them like this, and you feel your hips begin to jerk against Jin’s hand as an orgasm builds surprisingly fast.

“Are you gonna cum like this?” Jin murmurs, and you nod hastily, choking on your ‘yes’ as Yoongi pulls away slightly, keeping your nipple trapped between his teeth so it’s tugged. “Fuck, she likes that,” Jin comments darkly, and you cry when he yanks at the hair in his hand again, pulling your head to one side so he can descend upon your neck, bites and sucks aggressive enough to make you feel like you’re being devoured.

Being pinned between two relentless sources of pleasure is enough to make your thighs tremble, and your first orgasm is almost silent, given away only by your rushed gasps and the sudden flood of wetness that coats Jin’s hand, the older man cursing as he strokes you harder, letting you ride out the high until you go lax. Post-orgasm, your nipples are too sensitive and you squeak, writhing under Yoongi’s ministrations until Jin pulls the hand from your panties and pushes Yoongi away with it.

Yoongi’s head comes up, and you moan gutturally at the fucked-out look in his eyes. Now that Jin’s hand isn’t in the way, you can again feel Yoongi’s hardness against your clothed core; he must’ve been able to feel Jin’s knuckles rubbing against him with your proximity. Jin’s hand is still hovering in the air between you and, keeping his eyes locked on yours, Yoongi leans in and captures two of Jin’s fingers in his mouth, lips pursed obscenely around the slightly crooked digits as he sucks your arousal off Jin’s hand, the older man groaning behind you as Yoongi thoroughly licks off every finger, swapping his gaze between you and Jin.

“Fuck,” you pant, “you guys are gonna be the death of me.”

Jin chuckles, pressing a final kiss to your neck, which you have no doubt will be covered in vibrant blossoms of colour in a few hours. “Let’s get these panties off, hm? If Yoongi gets any harder, he might run out of blood in his head and pass out on us.”

“Shut up,” the younger man grumbles, but once you get up off his lap he’s flinging his shirt off and pushing down his boxers, no self-consciousness as his flushed cock springs up and smacks against his lower abdomen. Your mouth waters, letting Jin shuck off his own pyjamas before slipping down your panties, a hand lazily swiping over your wet heat.

“Turn around, baby,”‌ Jin commands softly. “Let Yoongi have you first.”

You swallow as you obey, shifting so that you’re facing Jin, back arched to present yourself to Yoongi. He curses lowly, but wastes no time in lining himself up, a palm on your ass to guide you down on his cock, stretching your walls in smooth increments. He gradually thrusts deeper and deeper, slow enough for you to adjust, until you feel him bottom out, less girthy than Jin or Taehyung but more curved inside you, making your mouth hang open.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Yoongi praises. “Fucking finally.”

You giggle at his desperation, but your grin is fucked from your face with a thrust that knocks you forward, face smacking on the mattress, a moan pulled from your lungs as he rolls his hips, grinding deeper.

“Poor baby,” Jin teases. “C’mere.” You whine as Yoongi stills inside of you, giving Jin a chance to lift you up under the arms, wrapping them around his broad shoulders. Upper torso lifted, your hips are now at a different angle and you cry out when Yoongi begins to thrust again, the underside of his cock now dragging against your g-spot with every movement. Jin lets you tuck your face into the crook of his neck, weakly sucking a hickey into his neck to make him groan, his throat vibrating under your lips.

Soon, though, you don’t even have the energy to do that. As Yoongi picks up speed, you’re rocked violently between two hard bodies, drooling onto Jin’s neck as his hand snakes down to thumb at your clit. You cry out, shuddering as much as you can between them.

Yoongi curses and grips your hips when you clench around him, holding you still so he can increase his pace even more, a low moan rumbling in his throat. “I’m not gonna last long,” he warns. “Can I come inside you, sweetheart?”

“Please,” you cry, nails scratching at Jin’s bare shoulders as he swaps his thumb out for three fingers, rubbing them back and forth frantically in an effort to get you to cum. “Yes, fuck, I’m so close, don’t stop!”

This time, when you reach your high, you can’t stop moaning, the sound muffled by Jin’s shoulder as you’re pinned between the two men, Yoongi grunting as he spills, hot inside you.

You’re still riding the high of your orgasm when he pulls out, and your head spins, incoherent as you’re moved around, and before you know it, a thicker cock is being plunged into you, fucking you into oversensitivity.

As your orgasm fades, so does the fog in your mind and you become aware of the fact that the body you’re now propped up against is Yoongi, his hand in your hair and his teeth on your earlobe, tugging lightly and mumbling praises into your ear as Jin takes you from behind, filling the room with the sounds of skin impacting on skin. Unlike Yoongi’s slender, structured dick, Jin’s cock is a blunt instrument, hitting deep enough inside you that you feel him near your cervix.

“Tuh-too much,” you whine as Yoongi’s free hand snakes down, rubbing at your clit in a perfect mirror of your earlier position.

“Jin-hyung wants to feel you cum too, sweetheart,” Yoongi murmurs in your ear, voice dripping with honey, “don’t be selfish now.”

You keen, eyes tearing up at the excess sensation, Jin’s thrusts enough force to push Yoongi slightly too. Your hands curl around his shoulders, nails digging into his skin enough that he winces, but speeds up his fingers nonetheless, making you squeal. “I c-can’t,” you gasp, legs giving out.

Jin groans and you feel his arms snake under your hips, lifting you up and fucking you back onto his cock with every thrust forward. Your weight is held up by the two of them, tears streaming as you’re forcefully brought to your high a third time.

“Do we need to stop?” Yoongi asks lowly, and you feel Jin’s hips slow, Yoongi’s fingers sliding wetly over your lower stomach instead of your clit. The lack of sensation all of a sudden just makes you sob harder, shaking your head.

“Make me cum,” you plead shakily. “Wan- wanna cum for Seokjinnie.”

Behind you, Jin growls, his hands tightening, gripping handfuls of your hips as he starts up again. “Good girl,” he praises gruffly, “cum one more time for us.”

The time they stopped was apparently enough for your body to recover, because as he returns to his prior bruising pace and Yoongi strums roughly at your clit, the sting of overstimulation is gone, replaced by throbbing need. “Close, Yoongi,” you babble, writhing in the boys’ grip.

“That’s it, sweetheart, make a mess all over Jin-hyung’s cock.”

With that, you’re pitched into an orgasm so intense, it’s almost painful. You feel like your nerves are electric, making your limbs convulse. Unable to stop shaking, you clutch at Yoongi as Jin pulls out, giving your tired body reprieve. You whine when Yoongi leans you back, lying you down on the bed softly, and moments later, hot stripes of cum land on your heaving chest, Jin cursing under his breath.

The two of you gasp, unable to suck in enough breath to fill your thirsty lungs, but Yoongi, who came first, is already fully recovered. You shiver, letting out a groan as he leans down with a cat-like grin, lapping at the cum over your breasts.

“You’re fucking filthy,” Jin pants out, but continues to stroke himself slowly, managing to produce a few more drops of cum for Yoongi to lick up.

The blonde-haired boy leaves your nipples for last, grinning around each peak as you whimper, clutching his hair. Finally, once he’s done, he lifts his face up and kisses you once, deeply, so that you can taste yourself and Jin on his tongue.

“Holy fucking shit,” you exclaim breathlessly, “this show is going to kill me.”

Apparently back to his normal self, Jin pats your cheek teasingly. “Don’t be dramatic.”

You roll your head to the side, partly to escape his hand and partly to glance at the clock on his nightstand. Seven in the morning. You swear. “Fine, it may not kill me but it’ll definitely obliterate my sleep schedule.”

Jin considers this. “Fair,” he concedes. “If it helps, I’ll wake you up in a few hours so you can just call it a nap. And then we can all have a shower.”

“I am not waiting a couple hours to have a shower, thank you very much,” Yoongi huffs, pushing himself up to stand. “I have to brush my fucking teeth.”

“Hey!” the two of you cry in unison.

Yoongi rolls his eyes but a grin tugs at his lips nonetheless. “You should just be grateful I cleaned you up.”

Jin stares as Yoongi hastily slips back into his discarded pyjamas. “I’ll be sure to call you over next time I masturbate, then.”

Yoongi shoots him a dirty look. “Thanks for the fuck and the counselling,” he spits before darting out the door, slamming it behind him decisively.

Jin lets out a dramatic exhale, throwing himself on the bed so he’s lying beside you. “Men these days,” he muses sadly. “Lick up your cum once then act like they don’t know you.”

Despite your bone-deep exhaustion, you snicker along with him, feeling lighter than a cloud. “Thank you,” you say after the laughter dies down.

“For the…the sex or the counselling?”

You turn your head, glancing at him sidelong. “Would it be bad if I said just the sex?”

“Hey!”

“For both, Seokjinnie,” you say with a smile. “And for everything else, too.”

“Like what?” he asks suspiciously, chest puffing in anticipation of praise.

You hum happily, wriggling until you feel comfortable and your eyes slip shut. “Thank you for letting me nap in your bed.”

Jin huffs, but after a few moments, you feel him shift, leaning over you so he can flip the bottom edge of the duvet up and cover you. “Sleep well, little one.”

—

True to word, Jin wakes you shortly before midday, and makes sure the coast is clear so you can stumble across the hall to your room. Taehyung has luckily left by then, though a pool of bubbles rest in the tub. You try not to let the pang in your heart get to you, choosing to shower instead.

With Jin having kept you company, it’s Yoongi who’s manning the kitchen, running it like a military camp.

Taking mercy on your exhausted body, Yoongi lets you sit on the couch, watching their antics from the comfort of the soft leather.

“What the fuck are you doing with that grater, Namjoon?”

You grin at the bewildered look on Namjoon’s face as he looks up at his elder, holding a box grater with both hands as a potato wobbles on the bench beneath it. “You said to grate the potato,” the academic defends weakly.

“You- I-” Yoongi splutters, abandoning the pan he’s heating up to go snatch the metal contraption off Namjoon. “You rest it on the table like this, and then grate the potato against it. Please hurry; we need three big ones to go into the batter mix for the pancakes.”

To the left, both Jungkook and Taehyung are on drink duty, hovering over a sleek shiny machine on the countertop like apes discovering fire.

“Woah, hyung, the water comes from there,” Jungkook gasps, poking at a canister behind the machine. “And then you put the pod in and it becomes coffee. Isn’t that magic?”

Taehyung’s eyes widen, leaning in so his face is directly in front of the machine, where a steady stream of coffee fills a cup below. “But how did it get the coffee out of the pod? Does the machine open it?”

“Maybe it dissolves,” Jungkook muses, and the two coo at it, staring in wonder as the stream tapers off.

“Let’s do another,” Taehyung cheers excitedly, the two boys jumping in unison when Yoongi calls out.

“You’ve made ten cups,” Yoongi snaps, wrist flicking gracefully as he flips a small potato-and-zucchini pancake in the pan. “There are only eight of us, and you don’t even know who likes to drink coffee.”

“I’ll drink them, Yoongi-hyung,” Jungkook pouts, eyes wide like a doe.

“You’re one of the ones that doesn’t drink- Nevermind, fine, go ahead.” He turns back to his pan, slipping the pancake out onto a paper towel and pours more batter in.

Amongst the chaos, almost blending into the stainless steel refrigerator with his steel grey sweater, Jimin watches a pot of ramen with a desolate expression.

By the time Jin comes down and Hoseok returns from his stint in the confessional booth, the rest of you are at the table, fingers itching from the urge to dig in. They wash their hands quickly and join you at the table, allowing the food to be doled out onto plates and the conversation to flow again.

Sitting between Jungkook and Jimin, you take a sip of your second cup of coffee, courtesy of the drinks crew. Since most of them had gone cold by the time the coffee-drinkers finished their first cup, Jimin had taken the initiative to add ice and some milk to one, enjoying it as a cafe au lait, and you’d all followed suit, enjoying a refreshing drink with a hot lunch.

“How’s your week been going?” Jimin asks, and you’d be shocked at the small talk were it not for the intense look in his eyes. He’s feeling you out, appraising you just like yesterday with Taehyung.

You sit your drink back on its coaster, leaning back and letting your eyes wander over the other participants. “Eventful,” you say rhetorically, sending a grin over at him as his mouth twitches down, unimpressed. “Sorry, that’s a no-brainer. A lot of them so far have really surprised me.”

“Who?” he questions, and you can’t help but hold back a sigh. He frowns, surprised at your sullen reaction.

“Listen, Jimin,” you say slowly, appreciating the bubbly chatter that keeps your conversation private, “I appreciate your dedication to this, but we don’t always have to talk sex and competition, you know? Can we have a genuine conversation? I really want to get to know you.”

His eyes drop, face falling. It’s the first sign of what’s behind the facade, and you want to see more. When he looks up again, he’s sporting a rueful smile and you marvel at how boyish his face looks, how innocent. “Sorry. Work-mode. I think I’m… I’m starting to realise that I maybe don’t have to be on all the time. At least, not around you guys.” His eye twinkles. “I’m sure I’ll slip up from time to time and go back into it. Feel free to tell me if I’m being an asshole.”

You mock-pout, letting out a whine. “Well, I can’t say it now, because you’re not being an asshole.”

“Save it for a rainy day, then,” he remarks coolly, and you’d think he was back in his persona again were it not for the grin still on his face.

“Looks like we’ll be getting one soon enough,” you muse. “Namjoon says it’s raining all weekend.”

Jimin laughs, and the sound is like the tinkling of wind-chimes, airy and melodic. “I’m sure Namjoon isn’t too happy about that.”

“No, he seemed pretty-” You cut yourself off, staring hard at Jimin. “Why do you say it like that? Is his prompt the pool or something?”

“I plead the fifth.”

“Well, you better hurry up, then,” you quip, “because Yoongi just plead the fourth.”

Jimin’s mouth drops open. “Normally I’m the one making clever entendres. I’m impressed.”

“So was he.”

When Jimin laughs this time, it’s loud enough to catch the attention of the table, everyone’s conversation halts, six sets of wide eyes on the intimidating Park Jimin, cheeks plumped and eyes crinkled as he positively giggles, freezing once he notices the attention.

“Goodness,” Jin remarks, “four days in and you’ve already broken him. He’ll be a sub by Week Three.”

Like a switch had been pulled, Jimin straightens his spine, head tilting to the side so he can level a piercing stare at his elder. “If I were you, I wouldn’t assume you’d still be there to see it.”

The table goes quiet in shock, waiting for Jin’s reaction. He simply shrugs and laughs softly, unruffled by the peacock show. “If I get voted off I can easily watch from home, Jimin. Maybe send in a question for the confessional. I bet you’d miss me.”

Like he’s realised Jin isn’t going to attack him, Jimin relaxes, a hesitant smile gracing his lips. “I’m not sure about you, but I’d definitely miss your excellent cooking.”

Jin’s ears go pink with the praise but from the head of the table, Yoongi’s mouth drops open, chopsticks going slack in his grasp. “Hey, you little brat, I’m the one that made this lunch for you all. Aren’t you gonna miss me?”

“Oh, that’s because you won’t go home before Week 3,” Jimin answers without missing the beat, a sugar-sweet smile on his rosy lips.

Yoongi’s mouth moves, but he has nothing to grumble about. Jimin 1, Yoongi 0. “Of course, I won’t,” he huffs quietly, stuffing his face with a chunk of fried pancake.

The conversation trickles back in, then, and Taehyung pulls you and Jimin into a discussion about a stray dog he’d seen wandering around, and as the eight of you sit around the table chatting long after your plates are empty, your chest feels lighter than ever.

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Influential Directors of the Silent Film Era

Upon hearing that I am a fan of silent era film, people will ask if I have a favorite actor or movie from the time period. However, when I am asked about my favorites from other fans of silent film, it tends to involve my favorite director. This is because silent film actors had to over gesticulate and performed in an unrealistic way and could not use their tone or words to convey emotion. The directors also did not have a way to review as they shot and would have to use editing skills and strategic cover shots to make sure that everything was done properly and come out the way they imagined it. It was up to the director to be creative and they were forced to be innovative and create ways to convey their vision. Luckily for many average or poor directors of the time, audiences were easily impressed. However, today's more demanding and sophisticated audiences can look back at some of the genius behind the films of silent era Hollywood.

Alice Guy-Blache: Matrimony's Speed Limit (1913) and The Fairy of the Cabbages (1896)

Art director of the film studio The Solax Company, the largest pre-Hollywood movie studio, and camera operator for the France based Gaumont Studio headed up by Louis Lemiere, this woman was a director before any kind of gender expectations were even established. She was a pioneer of the use of audio recordings in conjunction with images and the first filmmaker to systematically develop narrative filming. Guy-Blanche didn't just record an image but used editing and juxtaposition to reveal a story behind the moving pictures. In 1914, when Hollywood studios hired almost exclusively upper class white men as directors, she famously said that there was nothing involved in the staging of a movie that a woman could not do just as easily as a man.

Charlie Chaplin: The Kid (1921), The Gold Rush (1923), City Lights (1931), Modern Times (1936), and The Great Dictator (1940)

It is unfortunate that many people today think of Chaplin as silly or for screwball comedy when, in fact, he was a great satirist of the time. He created his comedy through the eyes of the lower economic class that suffered indignities over which they had no control. He traversed the world as his "Tramp" character who found his fortune by being amiable and lucky. The idea that a good attitude and a turn of luck could result in happiness was all that many Americans had during the World Wars and the Great Depression. He played the part of the sad clown and he was eventually kicked out of the country for poking fun at American society. Today he is beloved for his work, but he was more infamous than famous during a large part of his life.

Buster Keaton: Sherlock Jr. (1924), The General (1926), and The Cameraman (1928).

That man that performed the most dangerous of stunts with a deadpan expression, Buster Keaton was a great actor, athlete, stuntman, writer, producer, and director. It is amazing that you could get so much emotion out of a silent actor who does not emote, but Keaton managed to do it. He was also never afraid to go big, often putting his own well being at risk to capture a good shot. Not as well known for his cinematography or editing as many of the other directors of the time, he instead captured performances that were amazing no matter how they were filmed. Famous stunts include the side of a house falling down around him, standing on the front of a moving train, sitting on the side rail of a moving train, and grabbing on to a speeding car with one hand to hitch a ride. If you like films by Jackie Chan, know that he models his films after the work of Buster Keaton: high action and high comedy.

Cecil B. Demille: The Cheat (1915), Male and Female (1919), and The Ten Commandments (1923)

Known as the father of the Hollywood motion picture industry, Demille was the first director to make a real box office hit. He is likely best known for making The Ten Commandments in 1923 and then remaking it again in 1956. If not that, he was also known for his scandalous dramas that depicted women in the nude. This was pre-Code silent film so the rules about what could be shown had not been established. Demille made 30 large production successful films in the silent era and was the most famous director of the time which gave him a lot of freedom. His trademarks were Roman orgies, battles with large wild animals, and large bath scenes. His films are not what most modern film watchers think of when they are considering silent films. That famous quote from the movie Sunset Boulevard in 1950 in which the fading silent actress says "All right, Mr. Demille. I'm ready for my close-up," is referring to this director.

D.W. Griffith: Birth of a Nation (1915) and Intolerance (1916)

Griffith started making films in 1908 and put out just about everything that he recorded. He made 482 films between 1908 and 1914, although most of these were shorts. His most famous film today is absolutely Birth of a Nation and it is one of the most outlandishly racist films of the time. The depiction of black Americans as evil and the Klu Klux Klan as heroes who are protecting the nation didn't even really go over well at that time. Some believe that his follow up the next year called Intolerance was an apology, but the film actually addresses religious and class intolerance and avoids the topic of racism. At the time, Griffith films were known for the massive sets and casts of thousands of extras, but today he is known for his racist social commentary.

Sergei Eisenstein: Battleship Potemkin (1925)

This eccentric Russian director was a pioneer of film theory and the use of montage to show the passage of time. His reputation at the time would probably be similar to Tim Burton or maybe David Lynch. He had a very specific strange style that made his films different from any others. The film Battleship Potemkin is considered to be one of the best movies of all time as rated by Sight and Sound, and generally considered as a great experimental film that found fame in Hollywood as well as Russia.

F.W. Murnau: Nosferatu (1922), Faust (1926), and Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans (1927)

I think that most people would know the bald-headed long-nailed vampire Nosferatu that was a silent era phenomena. It was so iconic that the German film studio that produced the movie was sued by the estate of Bram Stoker and had to close. Faust was his last big budget German film and has an iconic shot of the demon Mephisto raining plague down on a town that was the inspiration for the Demon Mountain in Fantasia (1940). Also, Sunrise is considered one of the best movies of all time by the AFI and by Sight and Sound as well as my favorite silent film. Fun facts: 1) more of Murnau's films have been lost then are still watchable and 2) he died in a car wreck at only 40 when he hired a car to drive up the California coast and the driver was only 14.

Erich von Stroheim: Greed (1924)

Maker of very strange German Expressionist films, Stroheim films are often listed as Horror or Mystery even though he considered himself a dramatic film maker. His most famous movie Greed was supposed to be amazing with an 8 hour run time but it was cut drastically to the point that it makes no sense and was both critically and publicly panned when an extremely abridged version was released in the U.S. Over half the film was lost and a complete version no longer exists. Besides this film, Stroheim was even better known for being the butler in the film Sunset Boulevard as a former director who retired to be with an aging silent film star. He also made a movie called Between Two Women (1937) that told the story of a female burn victim that was inspired by the story of his wife being burned in an explosion in a shop on the actual Sunset Boulevard.

Victor Fleming: The Wizard of Oz (1939) and Gone With the Wind (1939)

Although not known for his silent films, Fleming did get his start during the silent era. He was a cinematographer for D.W. Griffith and then Fleming directed his first film in 1919. Most of his silent films were swashbuckling action movies with Douglas Fairbanks or formulaic westerns. He is the only director to have two films on the AFI top 10 and they happened to have come out the same year.

Hal Roach: Lonesome Luke films starring Harold Lloyd, Our Gang shorts, Laurel and Hardy shorts, and Of Mice and Men (1939)

It is not really fair to put Hal Roach in the silent era directors because he was influential at the time but he had a 75 year career. He was a producer and film studio head and even had a studio named after himself. His biggest contribution to the silent era was his production of Harold Lloyd short comedies and he continued to produce films in the early talkies including Laurel and Hardy shorts, Our Gang shorts, and Wil Rogers films. Roach was the inspiration for the film Sullivan's Travels, in which a famous director who only did frivolous comedies goes out into the world to find inspiration to find a serious drama. Roach did direct a single serious drama, Of Mice and Men, but it came out in 1939 and was buried underneath the works of Victor Fleming. The wealthy cigar smoking studio head that many people think of when they picture a film studio suit is based on this guy. The man would not quit and stayed in the business into his 90s and lived to the ripe old age of 100.

#directors #silent films #old Hollywood #1920s #introvert #introverts #influential

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elsanna-shenanigans · 3 years

Text

June Contest Submission #19: Nube Negra

Words: ca. 3,700 Setting: post-F2 Lemon: no CW: self-harm, angst

“It looks ready to storm outside.”

“Huh, you think?”

“Yeah, look.”

“Mmm. Does that mean you’ll stay longer?”

“Stay longer?”

“Yes, stay longer.”

It was always frustratingly fleeting, the times that Elsa would come to the castle. She would come for just a single night, maybe once a week if that, and often would not even stay until morning. The rain had provided the perfect excuse, it would have been simple for her to stay. Elsa wanted to stay, right?

Anna slumped in her throne, one hand tightly gripping the arm. The other raked its way up her face and through her hair, smoothing it for the hundredth time. Why? What had she done to deserve this ire? It had all been going so well before, so what changed?

She needed to reflect on what happened last night. How could it have gone so wrong? It was just a simple request. Now Elsa was upset, and she had to piece together why. But maybe she should have expected that from her, because her efforts always made Elsa upset, didn’t they. No, that was cruel.

‘Think, Anna!’

There was only a limited amount of time before court began, so she would have to do this quickly. Now then, where did this all begin?

__________________

The day was beautiful, and the heat gentle. The humidity did its best to smother everyone, but the heat was far too tame to cause breathy discomfort. Gale had brought a message confirming the allotted time, and Anna had the time set aside by her advisors. Running a country took a lot of effort, but she could always make room for Elsa.

Anna had noticed the grey clouds gathering in the distance and hoped to the gods above that Elsa would make it before they realized their threat. It probably didn’t matter, since it wasn’t like she felt the cold or that type of discomfort. They would have fun, indoors or out. That’s what mattered. If she was lucky, it was possible that they would be able to cuddle up again while the rain pattered down.

It was strange though, Elsa’s letter. Something about the word choice felt stilted, or maybe reluctant was the better word. There seemed to be many a reference to being very busy and still hoping to make it, despite all the issues. Was she trying to say that she wasn’t coming at all? If so, why not state it outright? But that was something they could bring up later, since Elsa didn’t have to come if she really didn’t want to. Anna wasn’t that clingy.

__________________

‘The letter.’

Oh man, she should have read that more carefully and taken it to heart. Stupid, stupid, stupid, how could she have been so blind? Elsa hadn’t wanted to spend time with her and tried to let her down easily. And who could blame her? Anna could be clingy and overbearing on the best of days. Was that an attempt to spare her the upset?

Elsa had always been the reclusive type, even before the accident. Heck, even afterwards it was difficult to spend time with her. Anna had tried to respect those boundaries, but even she knew she had broken them occasionally. That was wrong, wasn’t it. Terribly, utterly wrong. Boundaries were there for a reason.

Her head ached and a sick feeling rose in her chest, along with a lump and a pit in her stomach. God, god, oh god she was horrible. Her nails dug into her forehead and raked her scalp hard as tears threatened to well. No! The person in the wrong should not be upset for their misconduct, it was their own misbehavior.

It was for the best that Elsa spent her time away from someone so awful, who treated her in such a sick way. Making her so deeply uncomfortable and yet still drew her in like a tired moth. And yet, and yet loving Kristoff, good Kristoff…

He gave it all up, hadn’t he? But he was the son of love experts, he would know, they would know. He had offered to help them hide, had known since long before. And yet he stood with them. Why? Why would he give hope to someone like her?

__________________

They had spoken in private before. Matters of the heart, discussions of romance. It was a topic of common interest between them, and Anna was a quick learner. Kristoff was as enthusiastic as she, but over time something in their dynamic changed. Maybe it was the spark in his eye, or maybe it was her dulled excitement. Whatever it was, something was off.

It all came to a head when he stopped her in the hall one day, and they retreated to a private study where they would not be disturbed. Kristoff himself looked impassive, though she could tell his composure was just a bit off.

Kristoff breathed in, and spoke:

“Anna, I know.”

A spark of confusion and worry leapt into her chest as she responded.

“Know what?” Her voice was pitched up, almost breathless.

“Look, I know how you feel about Elsa.”

“Y-you what? I- You do?! I- I mean I don’t feel anything about her, except well sisterly love but you know that’s normal! Right? Right.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Kristoff gave a wan chuckle, “I’m not mad.” Anna blinked. “You’re not?”

“Anna, I was raised by love experts. Trust me when I say I know what I’m talking about. And you sister? You’re in love.”

“But… but I’m not. Well, I am but it’s with you.”

Kristoff shook his head and smiled.

“You really are oblivious huh.”

“I am not!”

“Okay, let me put it this way. What would you do for her?”

“Anything! You know that!”

“Would you die for her?”

“You know I would and did with that whole frozen heart thing! I’d be dead if it weren’t true love!’

“Feistypants, that’s not how people usually act. And the true love? It doesn’t apply to everyone.” “That was sisterly love and you know it.”

“Anna,” he said, “listen to me. I know what I’m talking about. It’s okay to admit it.”

She looked at him, mouth quivering, then said, “But what about you?”

“What about me?” “Wouldn’t that hurt you?”

Kristoff shook his head. “I’ve gotten over it, really. I just want you to be happy, okay? That’s what would make me happy.”

Anna shook her head and hugged him. “God, Kristoff, I don’t think I could repay you.”

“How ‘bout a sack of the best carrots you can find for Sven?”

“Kristoff!”

“Okay, okay, geeze.” He raised his hands in mock defeat. “But really, I’m here for you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

__________________

She knew well that probably hurt him a lot, especially when he proposed to keep their facade going. After all, it was improper for a young man like him to spend time with the princess unless they were to marry or something similar. But it was even more improper for a Queen to love her sister. Certainly, there was precedent but not between sisters.

And yet for a time, all was good. They spent time together, they snuggled and kissed in private. It was easy. They were in love, and that came with some arguments, but nothing was wrong. But then the apathy began to settle in, and Elsa began to almost resent being there.

The change was so subtle, maybe she had no chance at noticing. But maybe there was just that base incompatibility of certain parts of them that they had ignored in their honeymoon phase. At what point had she become upset at the lack of contact between them despite the plethora of time they had? When did Elsa become tired of her presence, annoyed to have company?

She should have capitalized her time when they both lived together. She should have done something, anything other than what they had done. She should have reached out first and communicated. That’s what she had always been told, that communication was key to a relationship. And she failed, hadn’t she? She failed, and she was seeing the consequences of that.

Should have, could have, would have. It was useless now, because the present moment became the past and she did not. In the moment, it did hurt when they weren’t together or if she felt that Elsa would leave her again. And she did, didn’t she? But maybe that was inevitable. Maybe that was healthiest for them both if she was too overbearing and hurt by their childhood to heal while Elsa was still there. Worst of all was the fact that she might have to be okay with that and heal from her own mistakes.

Anna’s hands shook as she tried to steel her nerves and not curl up, crying. She wanted nothing more than to scream and cry and beg in upset. Instead, she raked her nails over her scalp again, relishing in the little grounding the pain provided. This was far too much for one little girl like her to handle.

‘No!’ she screamed mentally. She was a queen, an adult woman, and it was time for her to act like one. This entire mess was her fault, and she had to take responsibility. She could not- would not collapse emotionally in front of her people. Even when her sister had seemingly died, she took the next right step. Even in her deep uncertainty, she willed herself composure until it was over.

There was no use in pitying herself or behaving like she wasn’t the one who instigated this. What she had to do was do better in the future. And thus, she had to relive what went wrong so that she might now do right. It was only what Elsa deserved. And maybe Elsa didn’t deserve to have someone like her, but she would do her best to be the best partner she could be.

And yet, she still couldn’t help but be upset at the rejection.

__________________

She waited in the entrance hall, as was customary. There was nothing quite like watching the grand double doors open to let in Elsa’s figure. The juxtaposition between the massive oak doors and the tiny silhouette of her sister was mesmerizing. It always called to mind a painting where the splash of color drew the eye and allowed the art to unfold from there.

And then they didn’t. She waited, and waited, but there was no Elsa. The grey clouds had coalesced by now and had begun darkening. What caused her to be so late? There had to be a reason for it. Maybe she had gotten caught in some early downpour in the forest?

There had to be a reason. Elsa was not the type to be tardy, so it had to be something else. Still, it irked her some. Couldn’t she have sent a forward letter with Gale informing her that she might be late? Or maybe she was too busy to do that. Maybe she was in danger and it was awful to suspect her.

Anna read and reread the letter, hoping to glean some new meaning out of it. Unfortunately, the letter stayed inert and did not succumb to her wishes. All she could tell was that Elsa was supposed to come at the correct time but was busy. Busy with what? It never clarified, and it was probably rude to ask. Still, it couldn’t hurt to emphasize the importance, right?

But then Elsa became later and later and Anna continued her vigil in the entrance hall. It was foolish really, she ought to be working on things now so that they might have more time later to make up for the time lost. But she still desperately wanted to be there when Elsa arrived so she waited.

Finally, the time came. Anna was twisting her hands and watching the door with aching eyes, hardly daring to blink.

‘There. Movement. Please, let it be her.’

And it was. Elsa’s face seemed almost haggard in the firelight, though her expression was neutral. She was perfectly dry, and seemed to be alright. That piqued Anna’s curiosity more, but she shoved it down. Anna then smiled and crinkled her eyes, caught between conflicting emotions and genuine gladness. Only the gladness was allowed to shine through.

“Hey you, you’re finally here.”

“Hey, I’m here.”

Such a simple statement. And yet it sucked the wind out of Anna. The lack of enthusiasm hurt, but she was determined to spend this time well. They greeted each other with a simple peck on the lips.

__________________

What a fool she had been to not say anything then. Should she have called her sister out to prevent what was to happen next? No, that probably would have escalated the conflict sooner than it had. The conflict was inevitable by then. Maybe if they… no. No ‘maybe’s or ‘what if’s. She had to figure out what to do next.

The letter was her hint. Elsa did not want to stay for long, likely because she tired easily of human contact. That had been established. But why did she say nothing in that case? Why did she always shield herself behind excuses of being busy and implications but never statements of how she felt? That wasn’t fair. She’d done her best to interpret them.

No, that wasn’t fair at all. Heat rose unbidden to Anna’s face and her teeth bared themselves in fury as her brow furrowed deeply. How dare she, how dare she! This was not Anna in its entirety! She made mistakes, yes, but so had Elsa! At least she was willing to think back and change her poor behavior!

She wanted to scream again, to shout, to beat her fists against something in fury. Stomping, pacing, clenching her hands until they hurt. It almost felt cathartic to imagine it, but she maintained composure. An adult did not throw fearsome tantrums.

But now her upset morphed into rage and the thoughts spilled into her mind. It wasn’t right that she always blamed herself. It wasn’t right that Elsa never communicated and always locked herself away. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right, and she ought to be allowed negative emotion, oughtn’t she?

‘You know that’s unhealthy. But it’s fair, it had to be fair.’

But it wasn’t, she had the right to be angry, right? Elsa may have thought she was doing the best she could, but she hadn’t. Couldn’t she see how much that hurt the people around her? How much it hurt her? She reached out again and again to her sister, trying to help, trying to care, and how many times had it been rejected?

Who else then, could she have blamed? Certainly not her parents. They weren’t the ones who were seemingly mysteriously shunned. They weren’t the ones who were faced with the prospect of being trapped in a gilded cage after being given a taste of freedom.

Spreading blame was wrong, she knew this. It was worthless in such a hapless event like their childhood. But she couldn’t help but have her heart rate rise at the mere thought of Elsa’s actions recently. She ought to know better!

It simply wasn’t fair. It was not fair. She did her best. Elsa withdrew. She tried to find out what was wrong. Elsa withdrew. Was there nothing she could do that didn’t involve driving her away? And in that instant, less than a fraction of a fraction of a second, she hated Elsa for everything that happened.

The moment ended and she was struck with a bitter sting of remorse that left her insides twisted and hollow. Hatred wouldn’t fix their relationship. Anger wouldn’t either. Neither would self-pity nor self-hatred. The only thing that could fix this was reflection and work. So reflect she would.

__________________

Everything had been going so well. Despite her initial misgivings, Elsa seemed to mellow out and allow herself to be swept up in the games. Anna forgot her concerns and they played, all of them, as a group. When was the last time they had been able to do this? Spend time all together, embrace, and lose herself in Elsa’s arms? When did it become so that their relationship oft lacked such basic touch?

What had gone so wrong?

It mattered not. She enjoyed every stroke from Elsa, every cuddle. She stroked Elsa’s jaw, Elsa played her fingers on the nape of Anna’s neck. The sensation was electrical. They continued such touches throughout the lovely evening and until it was time for Elsa to go.

Already, Anna ached for the phantom comforts from Elsa, but she walked her to the main hall. There, they spotted black clouds lying in ambush above, and waiting for them to leave.

They spoke the fateful words, Elsa being the one to ring the fatal doom-toll.

“It looks ready to storm outside.”

“Huh, you think?”

“Yeah, look.”

“Mmm. Does that mean you’ll stay longer?”

“Stay longer?”

“Yes, stay longer.”

__________________

Anna couldn’t help but wince at those words. They circled themselves, round and round in her head. Rumination they called it, but she knew that they would not leave her until her dying day. Powerful was the pain of hypotheticals.

She should have known something was wrong when Elsa became increasingly less receptive to contact. Maybe she should have known something was worse when she openly snuggled. But that didn’t make sense. Elsa had never been reluctant to express love, even if it was difficult at times.

Contact, she suspected, may have been linked with the frequency of seeing her. Elsa’s visits stopped up as if they had become increasingly difficult. It wasn’t like being around her was the issue, even though it clearly was. It seemed that Elsa was reluctant to come, but glad to stay for a time.

‘But not for longer,’ her brain reminded her.

No, not for longer. That much was clear now. It was upsetting, but she also understood that it must have been one of Elsa’s boundaries that she had broken. Of course it was. She should have known from before. It almost felt like a minefield, blinded as she was from communication.

She breathed out as she understood. They needed to talk. What mattered is that they talked.

__________________

When Elsa said no, Anna couldn’t help but ask and wheedle for her to stay. Both out of a desire to see her for longer and because it concerned her to see Elsa in what was likely to be a massive storm. It wasn’t like the forest had a roof, and Ahtohallan caused her more worry than not.

Elsa grew increasingly frustrated to the point where they broke into a shouting match. Anna didn’t know whose voice raised first, or why they began shouting anymore. She had run the memory so ragged and remembered it so much that it was hardly more than a blur.

Still, she could remember the intense emotional pain that came with it, raw and jagged. The upset was so severe that she felt sick mid-argument, wishing for anything else, anyone else to be there. The build-up had boiled over and all came crashing down.

At the same time, the clouds decided to drop their heavy yokes and loose the rains upon them. The crash of thunder and flashes of lightning punctuated their furor. They threw insults and upset word, uncaring of the consequences. In that moment, the only objective was to hurt as much as possible.

Nobody intervened, as they let the fight play out. In the end, Elsa stormed out into the heavy rains as Anna called her name with increasing hysteria. She crumpled to the ground in defeat as her senses and rationality returned to her.

__________________

It hurt to remember, she didn’t want to. Anna longed to take the memory and shove it away so that she might be spared the pain and embarrassment of her own childish actions. But that too would be childish, so she instead reflected on it.

Her behavior was wrong. She behaved poorly and broke boundaries in the relationship. Realistically, Elsa should have left her for such things and didn’t. That much was true. Anna had to learn from her mistakes and remake herself into a better person. Someone who could love Elsa without hurting her.

But Elsa wasn’t an angel either. She had failed to communicate. Her silence was inasmuch a sin of inaction as Anna’s was of action. She could not know she had done wrong until she was told by Elsa. Dropping only hints and then blowing up at a person when they misinterpreted them was also wrong.

Anna sighed. She may have been able to recognize that it was not solely her, but she had no control over Elsa either. What she did have control over was herself, and she intended to do the next right thing. What more could she do?

Love took work, and True Love doubly so. She had made a mistake, but she would not cower from her burden. No, she would not do that, not to Elsa. She would fix this, somehow. She would find a way to communicate with her, to reach the same level, and intended to work with her to improve what they somehow broke.

Anna’s heart clenched as she realized that it all balanced on one thing. That Elsa would be willing to extend her hand and meet her halfway. She would do all she could, but there was a very strong possibility that it wouldn’t happen.

It would hurt terribly. She knew that they could have ruined everything forever, and she would have to live with that. Could she live with that? Yes, she had to. For her people, and most of all for herself. Even the largest jagged wounds could heal. But she hoped against hope that Elsa felt the same way.

It seemed an uncertain given with their true love. Of course they would heal, that is why their love was true. But the damage they had unwittingly done due to their inherent differences was large. Could they? It had to be.

But she didn’t have time to think about it any longer. It was time for court to be held, and she would address her problems later. Now the time came for Queen Anna to rule wisely and compassionately. That was a queen’s duty to her people.

As the doors opened to the first petitioner, Anna saw their silhouette.

“…You?”

#elsanna #submission #June 2021 contest #prompt: storm #cw: angst #cw: self harm

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slowlyreadinghouseofmirth · 3 years

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Page 7

In truth, he had never liked her as well as at that moment -> Selden's affections here are plain to see, made so especially by subordinate clause 'in truth' which conveys an honesty and freshness about his feelings. Most importantly, he likes her when she is being her true self, unconventional, and willing to take risk. It's likely informed by his disillusion with high society and finding commonality in someone willing to disregard its etiquette. This is where Lily is unique.

There's also this sense that Selden likes Lily because she is impulsive and this sparks his curiosity to try and understand why she does the things she does-- understand Lily as a person.

He knew she had accepted without afterthought: -> This reaffirms Lily's lack of hesitancy, which alludes to how willing she is to be in Selden's company. It also shows how comfortable she is with him as she is aware of the rumours that could occur but never merits them with being a possibility, showing great trust.

Alternatively, being aware of the risks and having not afterthoughts could suggest that she doesn't fully understand the risks' depth and nuance as in future the situation at Monte Carlo would suggest, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

he could never be a factor in her calculations -> there's a colon that separates this clause from the previous one which suggests this is an explanation for Lily's certainty. To me this would point more towards Lily not really associating the risk of rumours with Selden because she trusts him so much. i.e she does not think of him when she thinks of the risks. But given that they are going up to his apartment it seems strange that Selden would not think himself a factor in her decision. It's therefore possible that he thinks that Lily does not think of him worthy of great consideration.

Also the noun 'calculations' would suggest a lot of thought had gone into the decision where it was previously implied it was one of impulse. This seems like Selden thinks that Lily is playing an intricate game, which further demonstrates his curiosity about her and need to understand her.

there was a surprise, a refreshment almost, in the spontenaity of her consent -> This further contrasts Selden's perception of Lily's 'calculations' and I think the narration is a fine weave between objective reality--where Lily is impulsive-- and Selden's subjective perceptions-- where Lily appears impulsive but there is something more complex informing her decisions. I think this is meant to show that Selden is blinded somewhat by his affections for Lily, seeing things deeper than what are there or what everybody else sees. Alternatively, we as the reader lack Selden's sight into the complexities of Lily and so she is introduced to us as other people see her, which isn't well at all, and we have to learn how Selden sees her. It's a challenge to care for Lily as he does.

The spontaneity invokes a light hearted and refreshing feeling of being in love which mirrors the honest of truth mentioned earlier.

So there's Selden's surprise at Lily being so spontaneous which draws back to a previous point about she is unique for being impulsive almost reckless. It's like we get a sense of her character and her environment from how the two are at odds with each other. Lily is impulsive; noone else of her class should be like that. In a way that makes her free from the system and yet shows her struggle against it but ultimately her struggle will be more defining.

She noticed the letters and notes heaped on the table -> I assume that this is a reference to future letters although I don't know if they would be the same ones. If they were, I don't even have the mental capacity to unpack that. Just the thought that Lily's fall is inevitable, that even when she is happy, having a nice time, an unknown omen lurks within the same room that will bring her sorrow... oh its symbolic, for sure. But I don't want to think about it.

Lily sank into one of the shabby leather chairs -> the verb 'sank' shows how at home Lily really is with this kind of surroundings, how the shabby whilst not fashionable or expensive, is comfortable. From this we and the the pile of letters we get an image of a a slightly disorderly but well-lived in home. This is one of the tragedies where we see the possibility of what her future with Selden could look like where it is unconventional but Lily is comfortable at home even with it.

"How delicious to have a place like this all to oneself! What a miserable thing it is to be a woman," -> I love Lily's exaggerated turns of phrases like 'delicious' and the exclamations; I think Wharton's emphasis on these exaggerations is to capture Lily's innocence through her speech by making it similar to that of a child who is easily excitable.

Again with the exaggeration but this time with 'miserable', we get the sense that Lily has found the world difficult as a woman to live in but miserable seems too strong of a word, certainly at this stage in the book and is sort of hidden within her other hyperbolised expressions. Maybe this creates a kind of cry-wolf situation where, when Lily properly starts to struggle, people don't take notice not only because it wasn't the done thing to do to talk about struggles but also because of her melodramatic personality, everyone thought the same stuff was happening as it had before and Lily was making a big fuss over nothing.

There is repetition of 'miserable' in association to being of female sex further down the page which is another example of Lily's melodrama. But at this point we as a modern audience start to question if she is actually alright (or at least I did). I'm not sure if a contempary audience if the time would have given the strict taboo over discussing any kind of struggle financial/physical health etc. let alone the discussion of mental health. From the impression I get of the time, the only real source of outlet for people struggling with mental health beyond self medication was art, which makes me wonder as to the position Wharton is writing this from.

she leaned back in a luxury of discontent -> The juxtaposition of 'luxury' and 'discontent' raises an important theme that wealth does not equate happiness and that Lily is not happy as a socialite but happy in the company of Selden, and that actually money is the source of Lily's unhappiness. In this specific context, she is lamenting her lack of freedom to live the lifestyle that Selden does.

"Even women," he said "Have been know to enjoy the privaledges of a flat." -> Putting the discourse marker directly after the subject of 'women' breaks it apart from the rest of the sentence and emphasises the extraordinariness of women being able to live independently. But it also raises the possibility of it and suggests that Selden thinks Lily is extraordinary and unconventional enough to achieve the possibility if she chose to.

"Oh governesses– or widows. But not girls– not poor, miserable, marriageable girls!" -> Again we have the breakdown of womanhood into distinct classes like governess, widows, and girls,which creates the idea that there's no intersections between any of them and is a reflection of of societies fixation for categorisation which loses sight the complexity of situations and problems. And it also makes it easier to place social stigmas like those on governesses and widows. Those stigmas are made apparent here but in contrast to how Lily describes girls, being a governess or a widow seems desirable.

In the list of adjectives 'poor, miserable, marriageable', marriageable is equated to these other adjectives and we see that Lily associates marriage with a poverty of kind, of the heart.

It's also interesting that Lily talks about herself as a girl where Selden speaks of her as a woman. Lily plays up her innocence as she has probably been taught to to make desirable marital match, but with that Lily carries around an air of immaturity and naïvity; she's still very child-like. Perhaps that's a part of her that's trying to cling to her youth so she doesn't have to face her future where she will need to marry to survive. Lily sees her adulthood as a constraint on her and her desires whereas Selden sees her potential.

"you mean Gerty Farish," she smiled a little unkindly. "But I said marriageable–" -> Okay so definitely a little tone deaf on Lily's part buts she's honest to a fault and her honesty is refreshing and entertaining.

I'm no expect on autism and don't claim to be but there's something about Lily's mannerisms here that reminds me of people who I know and am very close with who are autistic. And it makes me wonder if Lily was autistic and neurodivergence was recognised in her time if her fate would have been any different.

"Her cook does the washing and her food tastes if soup. I should hate that you know." -> I just love the imagery of the first sentence, it strikes my funnybone. I guess it also illustrates that Lily's privileged upbringing if she thinks this is a bad situation to live in.

Okay I'm going to bring in a bit of a technical term to describe the verb 'should'. So it's a modal verb (expressing possibility based on context) but specifically a deontic modal verbal, meaning that Lily's hate depends on social rules. When she says she should hate it it implies that society wants her to hate it but she wouldn't necessarily hate it. That's what that verb phrase implies in today's english, but language has changed since the time it was written so it may not have been written with this meaning, especially as a signifier of an older text is the use of modal verbs in places we wouldn't today and a lot more of them.

The shift from Selden's reflections to the quick dialogue and short simple sentences of action creates a lively and charged atmosphere that feels almost flirtatious in its rhythm but by the nature of the content is more domestic (preparing afternoon tea). The balanced turn taking feels comfortable in that they both have equal power in the conversation, being allowed to say what they want to and being listened to. It goes towards simulating what a possible future could be and also shows how happy they are in this moment.

#House of mirth #hom blogging #hom meta #Page 7 #Okay so I'm writing out these explanations ant half two in the morning off an emotional high/low of finishing sex ed s3 so apologies #I also did an English exam today so I may be more formal than usual sorry

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zabrak-show · 3 years

Text

Vacation on Concordia

Maul x nightbrother!OC

A/N: This is a gift for a dear friend on twitter, Zennybb!! (ilysm thanks for trusting me to write this) Vex Var is their OC, an AFAB nonbinary (they/she) nightbrother. Art and OC characteristics etc are all theirs! I just write the smut, LOL

Summary: Maul asks Vex to meet him on Concordia for a little getaway.

Length: 2.4k words, ~10min reading time

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Smut, NSFW, 18+, lots of sexy grinding/humping, skinny dipping, fun in the sun, maul has his chicken legs, biting/marking, tiny bit of blood play, no robodick, just good ol fashion oral and dry (tho technically it’s wet...idk just read the damn story lmao) humping

AO3

link to the art

Concordia was a strange mix of industrial mining complexes and lush forests sprawling out through the moon. Vines and trees snaked their way through the abandoned mining facilities. Once booming with the life of miners' hard endless toil, their distress could still be felt all around. Or was it the grief of nature being almost choked out on the once brimming with life moon? Likely both. Needless to say, the planet was a juxtaposition of feelings and scenery.

That wasn't to say it was terrible- there were still forests to get lost in, rivers, waterfalls, mountains, and hot springs. What more could one want from a moon? The abandoned mines were a curiosity as well. Though not one so sought after as a luxurious hot spring. The hot springs were what everyone gushed about to Vex Var anyway. Vex, a nightbrother turned smuggler herself, knew all too well about the secret mines of Concordia, and was no stranger to the moon of Mandalore. Why Lord Maul had asked them to meet here was an entirely different question.

The air on Concordia was pleasant and airy on its own but radiant in the direct sun. Vex's black jacket, baggy maroon pants tapered at the bottom into black linen, and dark red shoes soaked up all the sun's heat. The intensity of the beaming light almost overheating the Zabrak. They found respite from the heat by ducking into shady areas as they walked down well-worn paths.

Lord Maul sauntered alongside them in his signature walk. Towering over Vex from the height gained by his metal prosthetic legs. He wore only a leather collar and wrist gauntlets. The heat didn't phase him. Figuring his metal legs were pants on their own, he never felt the need for much clothing. Vex would tease him about it at times, usually in a playful attempt to learn about this strange Zabrak. If it bothered him, he never let it show and perhaps refused clothing now on spite alone. Vex wouldn't put it past him. That much at least they knew about him.

The curiosity nipping away her insides about what exactly they were doing here. And alone. Memories of the last time they were alone together flooded their mind. The interrupted kiss and awkwardness that followed. Was it getting hotter out here? No, and in fact, she was still walking in the shade.

"What exactly are we doing here, Lord Maul?"

Vex's voice, lean and sturdy as their physicality, cut through the chatter of birds and critters. Maul stopped in his tracks to look down at Vex, blocking the sun from their eyes.

"Last time we spoke, you were stressed out. I am told this," Maul gestured to their surroundings, "can help with that."

"Concordia?"

"No," he started to get perturbed but caught himself, "no, I mean, like getting away. I believe some are quite fond of the hot springs here."

"You brought us here to relax? Lord Maul, I thought it not something possible for you!" Vex jabbed his side with their elbow accompanied by a light laugh.

Maul growled back, baring his sharp teeth. It would take more than that to scare Vex away. She rolled her eyes and pressed on down the trail, following Maul's lead.

------

The first stop was a gorgeous cascading waterfall. The water rushed down, filling the air with its unbridled noise and cool mist. It pooled into the river where Maul and Vex stood at the banks into a dreamlike hue of hyaline aquamarine. The energy was powerful and calm.

The cool mist hit Vex's face in a welcome diversion to the sun's taxing heat.

"Is it safe to swim?" Vex turned back to Maul, who stood under a tree with his arms crossed.

"Yes, unlike Dathomir, not everything is a death trap to the unsuspecting traveler here."

Before Maul finished speaking, Vex was already stripping down to jump into the calm waters. A light splash and their naked form was under the glass-like waters. The cool water was chillier than the Zabrak was expecting, but swimming around in it a bit and it felt perfect.

"Come on, Lord Maul!"

"Hmmm…" He dipped a metal toe in, and Vex giggled.

"The water's fine. Get in!"

He entered the water with trepidation. Though half of him was metal cybernetics, they contained Dathomir magick. He could still feel everything but in a more subdued way. Once the water reached his stomach and chest, his skin pebbled at the temperature change.

"The water's freezing," he complained.

Vex responded with a splash, "Not if you keep moving around."

After several minutes of swimming around, it became evident to Vex she was the only one having fun.

"I don't see how this is supposed to be relaxing."

"Well, we can lay out in the sun for a bit. When the sun starts to go down, we can try the hot springs out. Maybe you'll like those better." Vex, ever the pragmatic negotiator, and well, it seemed they had a bit of a soft spot for the Sith Lord.

"Very well." Maul climbed out of the river and perched himself on a grassy knoll. Vex followed close behind, the water rushing off their tattooed skin, glistening in the bright afternoon sun. Maul tried not to stare.

"I guess we should have brought some towels," Vex suggested as water poured off their skin.

They plopped down next to Maul with a grin. If he could walk around naked all the time, then what was there to be nervous about for Vex?

"Oh, I didn't realize. Should I go back to the ship?"

"Maybe before we go to the hot springs, but for now, the sun will dry us just fine."

Vex squinted into the sun, the warm rays already evaporating the water off their golden skin and sepia tattoos. Maul stared straight ahead, not wanting to make Vex uncomfortable with the lingering gaze he so longed to do.

"How do your legs do in the water anyway? Is it bad for them?"

"No, Mother made sure to waterproof them in her magickal construction of them. Though, I fear, it may not always be the case for them."

Vex held their hand out and over his thigh, "May I?"

"Yes, go ahead."

Dropping their hand down on the cold, wet metal, and it was clear his legs held a robust magickal power. Almost like static electricity around them, but not quite. Still, it was the best descriptor Vex could think of.

"And you can feel?"

"Of course I can feel! I feel your hand on me. Though it is not the same as skin on skin contact, it's...hard to explain."

"Like static?"

"Yes, I suppose."

Vex took their hand away and stared ahead at the waterfall and picturesque river. Their eyes narrowed on a mining structure. It stuck out like a sore thumb against the vibrant colors of nature with its dull dark gray stone frame. Yet still holding its own raw beauty as a juxtaposition against the moon's natural environment.

Using her hand as a brim to shield her eyes from the sun, she turned to look at Maul, staring at him.

"Do they hurt?"

"Sometimes."

Vex looked down again with her big expressive eyes, and Maul lost himself in the moment. The sun sparkling off their still damp skin, he studied their tattoos, similar to his own, but with their own unique story to tell. Maul had yet to see so much of them, it was hard not to stare. He decided to give up trying and absorbed their handsome, athletic figure into his mind. Nothing seemed to ever last long for the Sith Lord, save for pain and suffering. Something this good would be gone before long. He needed to remember it all. Remember Vex and the moments they shared together always.

"You shouldn't stare so much, Lord Maul. It's quite rude."

Maul turned his face away and grumbled something incoherent under his breath.

"We should move to the next spot. Are you dry enough yet?"

Vex climbed Maul's seated body on all fours, her face lined up in front of his, though he refused to look at her for a moment. The tension was too much, and he had to turn to face them, finally.

"I think we should stay right here," Vex responded at last, "I'm not dry at all."

She leaned into him with her face, enveloping him in a passionate kiss. It didn't take him long to reciprocate. They were soon consuming each other's mouths, teeth clashing against each other. All insecurities either may have felt earlier in the day washed away in the clear blue river. It was only lust and passion now.

Maul reached a hand up to Vex's, holding her face in a sweet embrace while he studied her exquisite features. They leaned into his hand and looked into his glowing amber eyes.

"What is it?" they asked.

"Nothing, I, I, don't want to forget this is all." He trailed a thumb down to their lips and dragged it along their lower lip before grasping their chin and pulling her face back into his. Vex dug her knees into the soft ground at either side of Maul's hips and sat on his lap with her arms around his neck. Their adventuring hands made their way up to Maul's crown of horns. Massaging the base of his horns and scratching the skin between them with her long nails. His breath hitched with a moan. He ran his hands down their back and grabbed their ass to pull them even closer into him.

"Fuck, I want you so bad," he whispered in their ear.

"You have me," they whispered back, "all of me."

The kisses now getting sloppier. Too consumed with desire for each other's bodies. Vex's hands unable to settle anywhere, all his body so perfect for touching, his horns, his neck, his back, his pecs, his arms, his prosthetics. She wanted it all.

Maul struggled in a similar fit. How was their skin so soft? And they smelled so good, floral and citrus, he was ravenous for them. Biting into Vex's neck with his sharp teeth and they let out a small groan of pain. Droplets of blood spilled down her neck, and he lapped it up, flattening his rough tongue around the afflicted area, careful to not let any go to waste.

The stinging sensation brought forth by the bite and subsequent licking of the wound sent a rush of desire through Vex's blood. The arousal was now almost more than they could stand. They rocked their hips back and forth onto Maul's metal groin. Gyrating around for a moment, before long, they found that magic spot where his metal prosthesis rubbed their clit with perfection. The static feel of the cool metal, now warming up against their heated core, was unlike anything they'd ever experienced.

Maul's eyes grew big as he watched Vex come undone on top of him.

"You're so sexy," she breathed out. Their foreheads touched, and their horns clashed together in a soft show of dominance.

"I need to taste you," Maul moaned and picked them up by their ribcage to flip positions.

Vex's back now on the damp mossy ground. Maul prowled on top of them like a predator. Starting at their neck, he licked the wound that still throbbed with a dull intensity. Making his way down their body with his tongue and hands. Stopping for small moments to suck a nipple or bite their divine skin as he went down. Leaving a trail of saliva on his way down along with scratches from his long nails, clawing down their toned physique. Vex arched their back and moaned at each kiss going lower and lower. Until at last, Maul reached his destination and buried his face in their pussy.

Vex was already throbbing in delirious arousal. Once Maul's soft lips and rough tongue caressed their soaked cunt, all control disappeared. He was a gift from the gods as far as Vex was concerned at this moment. Grabbing his head between his horns and pulling him further into herself, she moaned in a heated lust. His tongue traced all along the trails and valleys of her wet lips. Any moment now and she'd explode in orgasm, yet never wanting this sensation to end all the same.

"Please, Maul, oh maker, don't stop!"

Maul had no intention of stopping, that much was certain. He consumed their aching cunt with a hunger that may never feel satiated. Swirling his tongue around in tasty patterns, Maul couldn't get enough of them on his tongue. As he paused a moment to suck on her clit, they pulled his head off and up.

"I want to cum looking into your eyes," she explained as she pulled him on top of herself, "and I want to taste myself on you."

She met his lips with her own. His entire bottom half of his face was slick with their arousal. The taste of themself on him was delicious. She found a position again where she could grind up against his leg and hit that perfect spot. They continued their messy wet kisses, stopping only for a moment here and there to gaze into each other's eyes. It was as if they each needed a moment of clarity to make sure the other really was there, and this wasn't all a dream.

Vex convulsed faster and faster onto his metal leg. The static sensation coupled with the wetness Maul's mouth had left on them had them at the precipice of explosion.

"I'm going to cum," they paused kissing, breathless, to inform Maul.

He took their face into his hands and looked into their eyes, foreheads touching. Vex yelped out in utter exasperation, letting herself come undone by the sheer pleasure and love at the moment. They gyrated themself against Maul in dramatic pulses while clutching Maul closer and closer to themself. Their cunt, still impossibly wet, flooded even more as they ejaculated onto themself and Maul's leg.The power of their orgasm spread to Maul, as he let out his own infernal groans of pleasure.

As the convulsions of the orgasm slowed, Vex, still holding the back of Maul's head, rubbed her cheek against his.

"I'm glad your legs are waterproof for now."

For the first time ever, Vex heard Maul laugh in happiness.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

this was a gift so i’m not tagging anyone, but thank you so much for reading! feel free to reblog and comment if you liked it xoxox

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citrusityy · 3 years

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Pride & Prejudice Chapter 15 - A New Challenger Approaches

Each week, Catherine shares her inane thoughts on Pride & Prejudice chapter by chapter until it’s done. Today : Chapter 15.

"Such doings discomposed Mr Bennet exceedingly."

Today’s chapter begins with Collins’s origin story - raised by the “illiterate and miserly” man Mr Bennet would quarrel with over the years, making him humble, or so Austen claims, despite depriving him of much education. Chance led him to Lady Catherine’s doorstep as a Rector and made him the mix of “pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility” that he is today. This juxtaposition of “pride” and “humility” suggests quite the storm of emotions guiding Collins, as those don’t tend to work together well.

We learn a whole paragraph before Mrs Bennet that his real motivation for visiting Longbourn was to choose one of the girls to marry as he now possessed the “good house and very sufficient income” you needed to get married back then. He thought this was an excellent way to make amends to their father for inheriting the family’s property - when Mr Bennet dies, now his estate can be passed to whichever one of his daughters the Reverend happens to marry. So much better than, say, passing the deed onto Mrs Bennet to do what she pleases, as well as ensuring all of the girls have somewhere to live regardless of their personal merit to him, I’m sure.

As the book says, “Mr Collins was not a sensible man”.

Less sensible, apparently, is Mrs Bennet, who takes this news with delight. Not only will she be able to partially succeed at her life’s sole mission (marrying her daughters off), she’ll also get the chance to rely on them having a happy marriage in order to live in her own home as a guest. Lucky her! (Of course, I say this with no knowledge on Regency Era inheritance practices, but that doesn’t mean those practices should have been there in the first place, whatever they are.)

Although “Miss Bennet” (apparently Jane) was the first to catch his eye, Collins easily switches his romantic interest to Elizabeth when Mrs Bennet hints at her possible engagement with Mr Bingley. It’s that easy for him to pick and choose which young girl deserves to inherit her home through a marriage to him. The eagle-eyed among you will note that the girls don’t appear to have much of a say in all of this. Those of you beyond hope will say it’s simply a story about getting married and that any analysis is overthinking it.

The next day, the sisters (except for Mary) go on a walk to Merryton and Collins joins them at Mrs Bennet’s prompting. Mr Bennet is far from sad to see Collins leave him in the library in peace for a little bit, having been bombarding the man with questions while making a show of trying to read a large book.

As they reach Merryton, one of the military men Kitty and Lydia are so enamoured with, Mr Denny, catches the girls’ eyes and introduces them all to his friend Mr Wickham, a new recruit to their corps. And with that, Collins has two rivals to the affections of the Bennet sisters, or to Kitty and Lydia’s affections at least. No sooner do they start talking that Messrs Darcy and Bingley veer around the corner on horses. At this rate, Collins would be lucky to settle for Mary by the time they get back home.

However, as Darcy does his best to avoid embarrassing himself with a long look at Lizzy, he notices Mr Wickham and they both change colour - one a pale white and the other a flushed red. They try to brush it off with a formal cap-doffing, but their mutual history is obvious. (Again, I know Pride and Prejudice is not the book to go to for accounts of the sordid adventures bachelors had in their youth, but I do hope Austen doesn’t leave us at “it was impossible not to long to know.”)

The gentlemen part ways with the ladies (and Collins) and they head to their aunt Mrs Phillips’ house for a surprise visit, as Kitty and Lydia had originally planned. She receives her beloved nieces and their strange, apologetic man warmly, but all she can tell them about the enigmatic Mr Wickham is that he was in the area “to have a lieutenant's commission in the ---shire”. It actually says “---shire”. I think this is Austen’s way of keeping her book out of a specific place and time, much like how so many classics are set in the year 17-- or 17??, but considering she went to the trouble of naming so many places already, she may as well have grouped them under a unifying Shire.

They spend the rest of the visit playing games and enduring another instance of Collins apologising profusely for something that isn’t an issue (this time it’s leaving the room). Elizabeth tries to tell Jane what she thought she saw happen between Darcy and Wickham, to no avail. They go home with the invitation to return the following evening, presumably for some kind of party. Another fine day ends with the Bennet matriarch pleased at report that only his dear, dear Lady Catherine could exceed Phillips’s elegance.

Thoughts

Every time “Miss Bennet” is mentioned in the book, it’s Jane. Is there something about being on the cusp of engagement that makes you a real woman?

Oh, to live in the ---shire countryside back in the ??ies!

Although I joked about it earlier, I would not be surprised if Collins ends up marrying Mary, since all of the others seem quite paired up.

Yes, I did forget to put a quote in last week and yes, I did decide to just leave it as it was for prosperity.

Thoughts? Feel free to give me feedback or recommendations based on this. I’m always happy to polish my prose. Come back next week for Chapter 16, where the Bennets take Mrs Phillips up on her offer.

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halothenthehorns · 3 years

Text

All in the Family

Chapter 86: The Madness of Mr. Crouch

Alice landed on what distinctly smelled like dirty clothes. She got confirmation of this fact by sitting up and a pair of used, and soiled trousers, slipping off her head.

"You alright Smith?" A slurred voice behind her understandably asked as she squealed in disgust and made a beeline for the ajar bathroom door. She barely paused to acknowledge it was Potter, shaking his head from a sizable lump, no telling what he'd smashed into upon their recent landing, as she slammed the door behind her and turned the shower on.

James blinked at the sight before he really took stock of it all and nodded to himself. They could all use a bit of that. He came across several more spare bedrooms in this place before finally finding another one that was deemed important enough to have an adjacent bathroom. He didn't waste much time himself before taking a proper shower and watching the ilk slowly go into the drain as he began to wonder where they'd landed this time.

Frank was still rubbing water, thankfully clean water now, from the nap of his neck as he took his own gander around this place and found himself in an immense library that answered that very question. It was practically the size of his home, but like nearly every room he'd come across it had a disturbed air about it. The books were all pulled off the shelves and scattered on the floor, some even ripped apart. In between every book case was yet another portrait of yet another Crouch.

He wasn't going to try the headache of asking any of them anything again of what could have been going on around here, and so ignored their tisking of the mess. The book he was looking for could have been in here, but he was much keener on finding Alice and Lily in this strange place, so he left the shambles and went off once more.

Lily rubbed her head as she took uncomfortably to her feet, using a hedge to keep her upright as she took in her surroundings of the great sweeping lawns. The hedges were becoming quickly overgrown, her mother would go spare for the sight. Whatever shape this one once had been certainly didn't resemble it anymore. The manor she found herself gazing at seemed in much better state. She wondered what kind of man would live in such a place and not take proper care of his property. She trudged through the grass, and stumbled to her knees in surprise. Yelping the Lumos spell at once for fear of anything at this point, she instead lit her wand tip upon a shoe.

Curiouser, and curiouser.

Making her way almost ghost-like through the shadows and the tall grass until she finally reached the gravel path, she found herself at the front door open for invitation. Hesitating and never particularly liking being alone recently, considering all the deadlier places they'd landed, she debated entering until she heard Pettigrew and Lupin's exasperated voices from just inside the door. At least they weren't screams of terror.

Ignoring the silver knocker in the shape of an eagle's head, she pushed it open wide and was in a grand parlor. It too was a mess.

A table was knocked over, a bottle of brandy long gone to waste. A high-back chair was nearly pushed into the fireplace's unlit grate, and beyond that was a set of stairs where Sirius Black was sitting, still bare-chested and looking almost bored with the proceedings of his two friends having a good laugh with each other.

An eagle owl was snapping its beak reproachfully at the pair, something tied to its leg, but neither of them were paying it any mind as they kept enchanting a pocket watch to hover in the air and letting it fall, the goal for the other to manage to get it to hover again before it hit the ground.

"I've found the book," Frank announced, hand in hand with Alice as he descended the stairs, the pair stepping around Sirius Black who didn't even look up at them, maybe lost in thought for the first time in his life. They spotted Lily still standing in the doorway, eying the betrayal of them looking decidedly cleaner than the mud she still sported and the new twigs likely caught in her hair.

"I'll wait until you've freshened up though," he concluded kindly.

"Much appreciated," she smiled in return, making her way upstairs to do just that.

Regulus was still running a towel through his hair and wondering how on Earth Sirius kept it so long, his was much shorter and it took forever to dry out, when Longbottom started the book. He startled a bit in the bathroom but thanked the fortuitous timing regardless, five minutes earlier and that would have been even weirder.

The Madness of Mr. Crouch? Was this possibly going to explain all of his odd behavior then? It would be nice to have a straight answer like a man going barmy for once, it would explain why he'd thrown his kid into Azkaban for doing something his mother had always insisted any sane pureblood would give their arm to do. Yet another odd juxtaposition of the world he'd never been privy to until all this, it seemed.

Alice sat cross-legged at Frank's feet, playing absently with his shoelaces as he read above her, wondering just as much as everyone else just how loony Crouch had always been. Apparently he couldn't keep his place together worth a damn without his elf, poor little Winky's deteriorating desinsion into freedom being once again highlighted as Harry gave the kitchens another visit.

The Marauders were still enjoying their little game, all four of them now with the extra challenge of avoiding spells from each other while keeping the pocket watch aloft. Lily was a step below her as she watched their game and tried to pretend otherwise, but it was either that or the wood paneling, so she wasn't hiding it well. Alice had never been in the Gryffindor dormitory on a normal day to guess as much, but she wondered if she always pretended to ignore them while they were up to their hijinxs and nobody had just ever seen otherwise. She never talked about her roommates really, and it's not like Snape would be up there to notice.

Nobody had seen the little Black yet, though it was a large manor, she still felt bad it didn't seem anyone was trying either. The times she and Frank had tried to chat with him he hadn't really been very forthcoming. Still, this place had an odd feeling about it, and someone should check on the lad. He'd been so quiet the past few places, she couldn't really recall him saying a word.

The moment she began getting up, Lily leapt to her feet right beside her ready to go. Maybe Alice had misjudged and she'd been fighting off the temptation to curse them instead of join them, it was surprisingly hard to tell with her.

"I'm going to have a poke around," she explained to Frank, who'd clearly been distracted by the story as he only looked up as she gave him a peck on the cheek and explanation.

"Oh," he stuttered in surprise, looking back down at the others and swallowing uncomfortably, already half closing the book, before he hesitated and glanced out the still open door instead. It was a half moon, Lupin was being the most lively of the bunch. Evidence of which, most texts had said, made him just as dangerous as a full moon for his energy could lead to a dangerous quarrel.

'One that led to hitting your mates with a curse to have them hanging in the air by their ankle apparently,' she snorted softly to herself as Black was effectively put out of the game for the moment while his mates laughed themselves silly.

Frank swallowed visibly, but then very obviously settled himself more comfortably on the carpeted step. "Alright love, I'm too curious to stop, you two have fun though."

She smiled brighter than the moon, giving him a more affectionate peck on the lips this time and running her hand through his hair as the two departed up the stairs.

"Anywhere in particular you want to have a look?" Lily asked pleasantly as they began traveling down the first hallway. "I found a ballroom a bit back, though I can't imagine the man was renowned for hosting parties."

"Think my Mum went to one actually, years ago," Alice agreed with a giggle. "She said his wife had been the life of the party and he spent the whole time boasting to his coworkers. Quite the surprising dancer though." She listened to Harry visiting the owlery by himself and watching from afar as Hagrid and Maxime had another interaction, a pleasant reprieve from anything death-defying recently, still leaving their current whereabouts and the chapter title all the stranger. She corrected the assumption though, "no, I actually had a goal in mind, I was thinking of looking for little Regulus Black. Haven't heard from him in awhile, and though nothing's attacked us in this place yet, I still thought I'd check on him."

"Oh," some of the enthusiasm dropped from Lily's face, and Alice couldn't blame her being weary of the lad. He'd been least friendly to her. She surprisingly picked herself right back up though and quickly hid that with a believable smile just as fast, "that's a really kind thought Alice, you're full of those. I really see where Neville gets it."

She blushed in surprise and had no comment for that.

They finally found him in the last room of the last wing, Alice couldn't help but think he'd sought the place out on purpose and the idea was reinforced when they saw the puckered look on his face as he inspected the room. The look didn't temper out much when he saw he had company, but his voice was cordial enough as he said hello.

Alice had seen as well as anyone how he'd been actively seeking out, even talking to Peter Pettigrew as of late. So maybe the kid was a little standoffish until he found some common ground, and she knew of at least one of those. "So, you think Crouch Jr. played Quidditch?"

This was the exact wrong thing to say apparently, Lily instantly deduced, as his uneasy frown turned into a full blown scowl.

"How the bloody hell should I know that, there's not a trace of the bloke in this whole house. Apparently he died the second he was shipped away to Azka-" he broke off and purposely turned his back on them.

"Oh, right," Alice finally said lamely to the dead silence that followed that. It wasn't hard to think for any extended time why the idea of Azkaban would bother him in particular for several reasons, his inevitable future being one, his brother winding up there being another obvious.

Lily's instinct kicked in though only moments later. "She was just trying to be nice, a lot more than you ever bother."

Both of them were briefly distracted by the book, Hermione being sent hate mail of all things and the poor girl having to go off to the hospital wing for it. They exchanged commiserating looks at the mess all around, finally turning to leave him to it as neither wanted to hear once more how much the mudblood probably deserved it, and missing the fact he watched them leave.

The two of them spent the rest of the chapter traversing the barren halls having a good chat about magical creatures they'd still like to see, those nifflers from Hagrid's lesson sounded adorable.

Remus finally let all three of his friends down and only preened in his victory for a few moments before he let himself get really distracted by the story, and Hermione swearing vengeance upon Skeeter. "I really hope she does it too," he nodded along, "that woman's caused enough trouble, and we can maybe even stop any of that before it starts."

"I'm game," Sirius hopped to his feet at once, then swayed dangerously, he had been upside-down the longest. Remus grabbed his arms to stop him face planting, not bothering to hide his resumed snickering at how flush his chest visibly was.

"What if someone even worse took her place though?" Peter asked as he shook out his legs, very much regretting letting himself get hit when he did, he'd thought Prongs couldn't have lasted that much longer! "Like, like someone who blackmails people to get stories instead of just making up-"

"One problem at a time," James rolled his eyes, very much repressing the spine tingling-feeling whisper that told him Peter didn't want to change the future- but obviously he did!

There was some interest piqued all around regardless at the last task being described by Bagman out on the Quidditch Pitch! Disgusted mutters, of course, for what they'd done to the place, but so long as it was put back right this maze sounded like an...interesting place, and the last one thankfully.

None of them were looking forward to being in there themselves, as was inevitable at this point, so they were as happy as anyone at the randomness of Krum pulling Harry aside, to talk about Hermione.

Peter giggled shrilly at the renowned Quidditch player thinking James's kid was any kind of romantic threat, even if Harry didn't like Hermione. He watched now as Prongs puffed up his chest in pride for the same and ruffled his hair, shouting loud enough for neighboring mansions to hear about his kid getting any lass he liked and able to beat that International player to boot.

There was something, off about it though. He couldn't even explain to himself for a moment why he forced himself to keep laughing longer than usual, why he was dithering uncomfortably in place when he had no good reason to as nothing was really wrong. Well... something had been wrong, for ages though. He'd felt it since the start, when Remus and Sirius had made up from their fight. Then that shite with his future had happened, and now everyone was ignoring there was some shift happening in their group. Their first game in too long and some old jokes didn't feel like it was really fixing anything- and what was Crouch doing there?!

Frank Longbottom was no longer leaning back casually on his elbows and pretending he wasn't watching them out of the corner of his eye, he now sat ramrod straight on the stairs and had no inkling of his audience, they were all so riveted by the sheer oddity of what they were hearing, glad for once they weren't at the scene of this crime. Standing in the shadows of the Forest, even one the Marauders knew so well, would have been terrifying, but somehow being in said man's house instead put an extra layer upon what they were hearing.

Madness was no joke then, the man had truly cracked, and Harry and Krum were there to witness the ravings.

Frank would swear the house itself stopped breathing, all eight of them taking in every word of Harry trying to sooth this Ministry official, then leaving Krum to take over as he went for Dumbledore. He was even selfishly glad Lily wasn't around this time, as Snape once again stepped in the way with his arse-like tendencies, he didn't need any distractions of how she would have explained that.

It was still all the stranger when boy and Headmaster returned, to find Krum stunned. Hogwarts truly turned into a madhouse for the following moments, and it wasn't until Hagrid was leading Harry away from it all that they each began really letting it all sink in.

Crouch was gone, his madness likely the cause of all this, but all of it? Frank did not think an onset of spotty mentality would cause him to put Harry Potter into the tournament, but things were progressing fast now into the final legs of his year, and still they were as scarce on information to the culprit of that as ever. Frank was a bit ashamed of himself he hadn't been paying nearly as much attention to details as he would have liked, and even found it some relief to look over and see the Marauders as aghast at all this as him. They were always known as clever students, to be able to do the stunts they pull, now three fourths of them being Animagi at their age was no easy feet. He was missing something, they all were.

#Harry Potter #fanfiction #reading the books #GoF #Marauders #Wolfstar #Jilly #James Potter #Remus Lupin #Sirius Black #Peter Pettigrew #Lily Evans #Regulus Black #Frank Longbottom #Alice Smith

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consumedkings-archive · 3 years

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pt 2 (technically 3?) of my pre/no-cult au featuring a night-at-the-club-hook-up turned into something more long-term, this time with a follow-up to this blurb here. you can thank @lilwritingraven for spurring this on in the first place, and @shallow-gravy for lending me her eyeballs to make sure i was not about to put out something that would make me look the fool. ♡ ♡ ♡

iii. fever - pt. i, pt. ii

summary: now in the strange purgatory of "what are we?" and "please fly 5 hours to see me", elliot and john navigate the tedium of john having a job that is, on occasion, demanding. as best they know how.

words: 2.9k

pairing(s): john/elliot, some joseph/isolde but mostly for laughs

rating: explicit, they bang it out on a desk.

warnings: just filth. that is all. also, isolde is very full of herself and joseph is there, kind of along for the ride. john gets a warning for being himself.

It took ten minutes for the driver to pick Elliot up and bring her to the office. Ten excruciating minutes, in which John spent most of his time pacing and trying to figure out what it was exactly he wanted to do with his specific allotment of time. An hour and a half seemed like a lot of time, but when you only had that much time to spend indulging yourself in your out-of-state girlfriend who was only there for a few days before she had to go back to work policing backwater rednecks and hillbillies, it wasn't all that much.

Lucky backwater rednecks and hillbillies, who got to see her more than he did. Certainly, that was criminal too—though the thought immediately pushed to the forefront of John’s brain images of Elliot, sliding the metal of the handcuffs around his wrist, teeth catching his lip as she said, and how do you propose you pay your ticket tonight, Mr. Seed?, and he had to shake his head, lest he lose focus on the task at hand.

Yes. How best to enjoy her as he had her now. Which was, hopefully, wearing nothing except the long coat she’d brought to fend off the Autumn chill.

In fact, by the time Elliot had actually arrived, walking through the lobby and down the hall to where his office was, John had barely made any ground on actually mapping out what it was he wanted to do. Seeing her, face flushed with a lovely high-color—from the cold, and perhaps from her previous activities—and the coat cinched neatly into her waist did nothing to improve his mental faculties.

“I can’t believe you made me come all the way down here,” Elliot said, feigning innocence as she took a sweeping glance of his office. “You know, people will talk, having your driver come pick me up from your loft at two in the—”

John had closed what distance remained between them—having to breeze around the corner of his desk to do so—and as she spoke, he took her face into his hands and kissed her. It was the same voice she had been using to torment him, after all; the same voice that had been sighing into his phone about how her fingers just weren’t as good as him, how much she missed him, how she doesn’t think about him while he’s gone—

“They can,” John said against her mouth, feeling her pulse jump under his fingers when he trailed them down the pillar of her neck. “I’d like it if they did. Mr. Seed had a lovely blonde visit him so very late last night—”

Tugging her further into his office by the tie at her waist, he kicked the door shut and pulled on the fabric. It came undone quite easily; almost, he supposed, as though by design, and as his hands made deft work of the coat and pushed it from her shoulders, he pulled back to get a look at her.

“Miss Honeysett,” he purred, fingers plucking at black lace scantily adorning her, “I do believe I told you to only wear the coat.”

“Did you?” she asked. Her lashes fluttered as he gripped her hips, steering her toward the desk when the coat had fully pooled at the floor. “My mind must have been otherwise preoccupied.”

“Indeed,” John agreed, his mouth finding the spot on her neck that made her squirm and sigh, “awfully preoccupied. And what are we to do about that, hm?”

Elliot, perched on his desk, made quite the picture. The black lace ensemble she had donned was barely there at all, mere scraps of fabric that hardly covered anything—but covered enough that his fingers itched to rip them in half. He felt a little sigh escape him, an exhale of breath that billowed out of his chest almost serenely.

“While you do make the prettiest fixture on my desk by far,” he said as his fingers hooked deftly under the scrap of fabric stretching over her hip bone, “I’m afraid we’re going to have to do something about this...”

John’s voice trailed off as he planted his free hand against the top of the desk, as though to brace himself; and brace himself he did, to slide the fabric from her and let it drop to the floor.

“Blatant,” he rumbled, “disobedience.”

With ease, he dropped to his knees, hooking his hands under her knees to drag her closer to the edge of the desk. When his mouth found the inside of her thigh, he could hear the sharp intake of her breath; but the second she took one of her hands off of the desk to tangle in his hair, he caught.

“Ah-ah.” John rumbled the scolding against her skin and pushed her hand back to the top of his desk. Oh, but he was exerting the most patience and self-control, he thought—something for which Elliot would almost certainly reward him for later. His gaze flickering back up to meet hers, he said, “No hands.”

“What?” she asked, sounding a little dazed as he moved up her thigh. “No—”

“Hands on the desk, and they stay on the desk,” he replied. “If you break the rules, I stop.”

“Stop—?” The question had barely left her mouth before he dragged her down, pressing his mouth to her; easing his movements when he heard her whimper, John flattened his tongue against her, dragging in slow, leisurely motions that belied the urgency coiling in tight in his stomach.

He could tell that she was biting back her sounds; when his eyes darted up to hers, fingers trailing along her thigh, her teeth had sunk into her lip and little wisps of hair were falling out of her ponytail, stark against the flush in her cheeks. Absolutely wanton and debauched—and when she dug her fingers into the lip of the desk and moaned because John gripped her hips and stilled her from gathering the friction she wanted, he pulled back.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured. “Tell me the time.”

“What?” Elliot’s voice peaked a little, and John fanned his breath across her. “John, are you really—”

“Isolde only gave me an hour and a half,” he explained. “Be good and tell me the time.”

She exhaled a sharp little breath. When she leaned back a little to try and get a look at the clock, John leaned with her; moaned against her, sliding two fingers in and beckoning them against her in perfect time with the movements of his jaw.

“T-Three—” Her breath stuttered when John rumbled a mmhmm against her, and she swallowed thickly. “Three twenty-four—”

“Good.” John leaned back but kept his fingers pressed into her, moving them as slowly as his willpower would allow; even though every inch of him wanted her, even though his clothes needed to come off and the room had suddenly become much too hot with the taste of her on his tongue, he kept it slow. Torturously. “I’ve got plenty of time to admire how fucking good you look, spread out on my desk.”

“John,” and his name coming out of her mouth pitched prettily, just the way he liked; she rolled her lower lip between her teeth and said, “Would you just—just—already—”

“Just?” He was playing with her now, perhaps a little, kissing the inside of her thigh—a poorly neglected and unmarked expanse of skin, in his opinion—and sinking his teeth into it until she whimpered. “Just what, Ell? You just sound so pretty that I think I might do this the entire time I have you.”

“Fuck me,” Elliot begged, “would you just. Fuck me, already?” And then, as an afterthought: “Please.”

The juxtaposition of her incessant demand and her attempt at politeness would have been enough to make him drag it out further, if he thought he could stand to not be bending her over his desk for another minute—but he couldn’t. Not when she was looking at him like that, not when the restriction of wearing clothes suddenly felt so tedious that he was going to come unglued if he didn’t get out of them in that instant.

The blonde made a sweet sound when he slid his fingers from her, coming to a stand and bringing her to him; kissing her and bringing her hands up to signal that she was allowed, by the rules, to use them again, he grinned against her mouth as her fingers deftly undid the buttons of his shirt and skimmed along the exposed skin there.

John allowed himself the indulgence of it for just a moment; just long enough to feel her body relax before he turned her around and nudged her against the desk. She went obediently—more obediently than he thought she had done most anything for him—and as he quickly disposed of the rest of his clothing, his fingers gripped her hip and kept her pulled close.

“Hands stay,” he reminded her, husky and wanting against her skin. John’s mouth found the junction between her shoulder and neck as his hands gripped the slope of her hip. With her so prettily planted against his desk, he dug his teeth into her skin; and then he was pressing up into her, hot and tight and too much, and it felt like the air had gotten sucked right out of him in the wildfire that she made around her. No oxygen left for gasping, nothing but the smell of her, the feel of her, the sound of her sighing as though she were relieved to have him finally in her.

“Fuck,” John bit out against her skin, “I fucking—God, I missed you, these last few days—too much work, not enough taking advantage of having you here, gorgeous—fucking—girl—”

“M-Move,” Elliot gasped, digging her fingers into his arm, and then a delicious combination of words: please John please baby fuck I want you please move feels so good please. Just like that, in sweet, stuttered breaths that about had him coming undone.

“H-Had the audacity to make me—make me listen to you fuck yourself—on your f-hhh—fingers through the phone.” He swallowed back a low, throaty sound and bottomed out inside of her, digging his fingers into her hips. “I’m gonna make this—fucking l-last—”

The blonde moaned and arched back against him, trying to get any kind of friction; anything except sweet, vicious burning, but John laughed breathlessly against her skin; regards for the clock and their time limit had gone out the window.

“Missed hearing you like this,” he panted. He pulled out of her slowly, just to grind into her again, wicked-hot and hard and so, excruciatingly slow. “Is this what you were thinking of? When you were alone, touching yourself?”

“Yes,” she whimpered. John pulled her up, hand spanning the column of her so that he could pull her into a kiss as she said, “Yes, thought about you—thought about coming down here and having you fuck me on your desk, just l-like this—thought about it before tonight—”

“Good,” he moaned into their kiss as he picked up the pace a little, rewarded with the delighted sound that came out of her. There was no more luxuriating; the desk rattled with each connection of their bodies, the files Isolde had precariously placed on the edge of his desk sliding with a dull thump onto the floor. “So good for me, aren’t you, hellcat? So f-fucking—”

Somewhere in his brain vaguely registered the sound of the elevator in the lobby; he braced one hand against the edge of his desk and the other skimmed her lower lip.

“Quiet,” John rumbled, the words catching just between them as the sound of Isolde’s laughter drifted down the hallway. “Can’t let them hear h-how—fucking pretty you sound when you come with me inside you.”

Elliot whimpered at his words, lashes fluttering, but she pitched her voice soft and breathy; the stream of yes please let me come please John let me come please, had his pacing change from steady to punishing, until he felt her tightening—his own body sprinting, hurtling toward his finish as the blonde dug her nails into his forearm.

There was a knock at the door, just as Elliot hissed out, “John,” the furious whisper pitching sweetly and preluding a sound that would surely give them away; he thought, of course Isolde had to know, but all the same he pressed a hand over her mouth and purred against her ear, come on, hellcat, come for me, come on, just like that.

She did; and the feeling of her fluttering, hitching breaths, the moan swallowed by the stifling of his hand, the way her body tensed and tightened in a wretchedly delicious way had him finding his own—he had to bury the sound into her shoulder, her neck, as Isolde called out from the other side of the door, “John, Joseph and I brought food?”

Her voice quirked up at the end, as if in question. John steadied his breath into Elliot’s skin, thankful that he had left the blinds shut but not so thankful he had been negligent enough not to lock the door.

“C—” He cleared his throat; it had gone a little hoarse. “Just a moment, Sol—”

Dropping his hand from Elliot’s mouth, he felt her try to stifle her laughter at the absurd situation.

“Shhh,” he hissed, but then he was trying not to laugh, listening to Isolde say something to Joseph on the other side of the door—of course his brother had come along, of course—before the sound of her shoes receding into the office across the hall from his echoed against the marble flooring.

“Just a moment,” Elliot mimicked, and he dragged his teeth against the crook of her neck as a rebuke. She stifled her delighted little cry, but only just before another knock came at the door.

“Yes,” John called, a little exasperated, disentangling himself from Elliot to gather himself and re-button; he only just managed to scoop her discarded underwear from the ground and slide it back onto her before he heard a most familiar voice.

“I just wanted to let you know,” Joseph said through the door, “we brought enough food for Elliot, too.” There was a pause, and then thoroughly amused: “If she would like to stay, anyway.”

“Oh,” Elliot whispered, as though there were anything left to give away, while cinching the coat shut and snug against her. “I—well—”

“Okay,” he replied, clearing his throat again—this time for nothing other than his own nerves, “yes, I’ll—let her... Let her know...”

Isolde said something from her office, and Joseph laughed, the sound drifting as he seemed to have retreated back into the room with her. John’s gaze flickered back to Elliot; she looked quite disheveled, her cheeks flushed and lips kiss and bite-reddened, and the lingering bloom of spots where his teeth had been too hasty against her skin.

He had thought before not to, when it had seemed to be just a one-time, post-break-up dalliance; but now, well. What was there to disguise or refrain from?

“I didn’t dress for dinner,” Elliot offered after a moment, and John barked out a laugh; it billowed out of him, so easily pulled by her, and she flashed him a grin.

“Anything you wear,” John replied, snagging her hand and pulling her forward, “is suitable for dinner.”

“Not,” the blonde murmured, “dinner with your brother and business partner.”

“You’re right. They wouldn’t appreciate you like I do.”

She laughed just as he leaned forward to kiss her; when he opened the door and nudged her out into the hallway, hands on her hips, Isolde caught his eye from the office.

“Food?” Joseph offered, keeping his tone light and casual. “There’s plenty.”

Elliot waved, smiling and blushing. “No, thank you, I’m—I just stopped by for a minute, is all. Exhausted.”

“Of course,” Isolde intoned, quite somberly, though John thought it was perhaps more sly than he would have liked. “It’s quite late to have to tend to that one, isn’t it?”

“Thank you, Sol, but I’m taking Elliot home,” John called over his shoulder, nudging Elliot down the hall and out into the lobby. He knew that he would have liked for her to stay, that he wouldn’t have minded her staying for a little longer. But he also knew that sitting down to eat in what might be constituted as a winter coat and lingerie only was likely not the way she wanted to get to know his brother better.

“Okay,” Isolde replied, “just make sure you clean up your office when you get back. I can see the files all over the floor from here.” She paused. “Gross misconduct, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t, but thank you, yet again!”

Elliot laughed, and tried not to look like she thought it was so funny, but when they reached the elevator John snagged her hand and tugged her flush against him. As the doors slid shut, he pressed a kiss to her palm, and her expression softened.

“You,” he murmured, “are entirely too pleased with yourself. First the lingerie, now you’re laughing at that I have the poor misfortune of having to quiet you because my brother is standing just outside the room I’ve fucked you filthy in.”

Elliot brushed her fingers against his lower lip, admiringly. “What can I say?” Her lashes fluttered prettily.

“Maybe I will have to indulge in some gross misconduct more often.”

#my writing #fc5 fic #far cry 5 fic #au fic #ch: elliot honeysett #ch: isolde khan #ch: john seed #ch: joseph seed #otp: death keep off; i am your enemy #raven i am sorry that you have to endure this #but this you wrought on YOURSELF #thank u and goodnight #john seed/deputy

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firewoodfigs · 3 years

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(long post, but I’m gonna try and make journalling a thing in 2021 😆)

The first day of the new year was nice. :) I woke up to the sounds of rain crashing against my windowsills - a strangely chilly morning in this tropical country where it’s summer all year round. For a moment it felt like I was back in Canada again, all cloudy grey skies and whimsical rain - the perfect weather for introspection.

I started my day with a pot of hot green tea, then settled down by my reading lamp to finish a book that I’ve been putting off for far too long - Steinbeck’s East of Eden. I only had about forty pages left, but somehow couldn’t bring myself to finish it. I hate when books end because it feels like that little world I’ve created and compartmentalised in my head has likewise ceased, but the good thing about books is that you can always re-read them and immerse yourself in the same fantasy. (Maybe even a different one, if the same words lend themselves to a different interpretation!) But it truly was an absolute masterpiece: such a stunning, intricate exploration of humanity that tugged at my heartstrings and led me into still waters of reflection. I know that I will definitely carry this tale in my heart for a long, long time to come.

Afterwards, I had some instant ramen while watching The Queen’s Gambit. I’m not a big fan of watching shows usually because I often feel like they move too slowly or tend to miss details from the book, but this one is pretty exceptional. Like, the acting and the artistic direction are incredible - the constant juxtaposition between Beth’s traumatic past and her glorified present, and the exploration of the fallibility of genius were executed so brilliantly. Another thing that really stood out to me were the scenes where she’d hole herself in the toilet and rebuke herself aloud for weaknesses in her play and/or being weak, in general. I cannot begin to explain how many times I’ve done that to myself in law school for even the most trivial of infractions, the most minor of errors - Lord knows I’m my harshest critic.

I promised to try, however, to be a little bit kinder to myself in 2021. My perfectionism tends to be a bar to goodness and growth because sometimes I get so afraid that my subconscious keeps demanding that my first draft has to be perfect. But it really doesn’t. That’s what editing is for. And writing, like any other talents and passions, requires nurturing and constant practice. I saw a quote yesterday about how we cannot just sit around and magically expect to be Faulkners overnight, and that is so true. I definitely need to find a sweet spot where I’m not berating myself to the point of giving up, but still demand growth so that I can keep bettering myself.

In the evening I headed out to a friend’s for tacos, which were an absolute delight in itself. And then my bf and I got to walk his dog, who I am convinced is the most precious thing in the entire universe - maybe even more so than my bf himself (I kid... or maybe not) - and who is just such a gentle-natured darling. It began to drizzle, so she led us home and we spent the rest of the night playing Sherlock and Among Us with the rest. :) It was a very peaceful evening. For a moment I’d forgotten all about the fact that I start work next Monday and was simply content to bask in the Christmas lights, the heavy downpour and the anomalous chill that came along with it. Just... living in the present, enjoying the moment.

Now that’s definitely something else on my to-do list for 2020 as well. So often the beauty of the present tends to be marred by my worries and anxieties of the future, but I always remind myself of this quote from Scripture: “Which one of you, by worrying, can add another day to his life?” And when I look back at my life and all the times I’ve worried and fretted and cried, feeling like there was no way for us to extricate ourselves from this rut, this perennial cycle of debt and other things that have plagued me from birth, I am also reminded of God’s grace and providence that has brought me through so, so much. It would’ve been impossible to have done all of this by myself; I frankly might not have had the will to continue living if not for those things.

Talking about my lived experiences also ties in to the last part of my day - where I thought about how exclusive and inaccessible the poetry scene here feels. You would think otherwise, in a country of no more than 5-6 million folks, but no. I was ranting about this a little to my boyfriend: how it feels like a lot of the spaces within are reserved for the elites of society with silver spoons in their mouths and golden plates on their tables offering them anything they wanted while I was struggling to put food on the table at fourteen. Sometimes I also lament the fact that I didn’t have my parents to tell me bedtime stories, to encourage me to read and cultivate my vocabulary. Perhaps it’s jealousy, or inferiority, or a mix of both.

But my boyfriend, ever wise and supportive, offered me a different perspective. He made a fair point about how I still fell in love with books and writing regardless, and how literature is oftentimes only a harbour that the privileged visit because the marginalised, the poor are too busy working for basic necessities to even think about such things. To the ordinary blue-collar layperson, poetry is just frankly a frivolous sentiment that won’t turn itself into gold. I agree with this wholeheartedly. It’s one of the reasons why I always felt like I didn’t have time to write, and one of the reasons why my first job was at a library (so I could read as much as I wanted! For free!). Then he said, “But see, no one wants to read about the rich waxing poetic about how lovely and grand their sunny little island is. But people will want to read about your perspective - your poems of the brokenhearted clinging on desperately to their inner child, your poems about the poor working to make ends’ meet, your poems about your tangible struggles - all of those will resonate with the masses, for sure.” And I was like, well, that’s fair. But I certainly don’t express myself as eloquently as these people do. Next to them I’m like an uncultured swine who can’t even tell the difference between all the different forks splayed on the table.

His response was that people need to understand these things before appreciating them, and sometimes simplicity works best - a lesson that’s been drilled into us from the very inception of law school. And I was like, okay, fair, but deep down my heart was exploding with the sheer warmth of having someone so incredibly supportive of everything I do, even if it’s worthless in society’s eyes. I remember one night when I was telling him about how, as a twelve-year-old, I had a dream to one day study Literature at Yale. I would hole myself up in the library after school, feverishly flipping through books to expand my imaginations and horizons, my mental dictionary of words, dreaming about the day where I could escape all of this and dwell in nothing but imaginative worlds one day. Where reality failed me, I knew that I could always count on my imagination to transport me to somewhere safe and special, filled with joy and sorrow and tragedy and hope.

I ended up studying law. Not a bad thing, because as stressful as it was I really did enjoy the things I’ve learnt - international and constitutional law, especially - and it has certainly given me new, mature perspectives on so many things; taught me to argue with reason and objectivity instead of just emotion and passion and has led me to meet so many wonderful (also trashy, but I’m out of this hellhole) people. I just don’t like the fact that 80-hour work weeks are the norm and that there’s always so much to... read. If you gave me a piece of fiction I could happily indulge in it for hours, but sometimes judgments can be so ridiculously mundane to read, especially if they’re just itemising every single case on illegality from the 19th century. Lord knows I need at least two cups of coffee for that. Black, to be specific.

Anyway, I digress (as I always do lmao). My bf ended up researching all night until he stumbled across this Literature programme at Harvard - which frankly sounds amazing, but also unattainable. Which was what I said. And he was like, “Do I think it’s impossible? No. I think you have a very compelling life story, and you’re full of amazing stories within you to tell. And if you want to do it, I will support you wholeheartedly.”

Again, as is usually the case, I had nothing left to offer apart from muted sobs under my blanket. It still sounds absurd to me - unthinkable, even - but I am just so, so grateful to have someone like him support me through everything. Literally everything. This is the man who has spent hours tutoring me in the subjects that I was hopeless in in first year, because I was too busy tutoring random folks in economics and geography and catching up on sleep (in class, no less), who has patiently helped me prepare for every single mooting competition and watched every single one of them, who has seen me cry and admonish myself for being a failure (only to spend hours trying to convince me otherwise), who has celebrated every single one of my victories and losses - you deserve a treat, anyway! Let’s go eat something nice and put it behind us, for now! This is the same man who has so much passion for what he does, who is so darn good at it without even realising that he is (I wept when he won a mooting competition this year because I was so proud of and happy for him), and who inspires confidence and compassion in me every day.

I am grateful to share all our triumphs and tribulations together, and I look forward to starting a new chapter in life with you. :)

#this was a very long shitpost but if u made it to the end kudos to u!!! HAHAHAHA #also a rainy morning again so I am in the mood to ramble oops :')#might have spiralled outta control hehe #sorry to any1 who follows me for fma content LMAO #haven't been posting much fma content but I promise there is smt coming this weekend #maybe a new update of memento amare...#me being all dramatic: IT IS FINISHED *presses enter key with a flourish*

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spaceskam · 4 years

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our fainted thrill carries on (6/13)

ao3

There were very few good things in life, but this was one of them.

Michael breathed heavily, a smirk on his face despite the fact that his jaw hung open. Alex couldn’t help but think it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. Their foreheads were met in the middle, Michael’s calloused hands bracing against the wall on either side of Alex’s head as he stayed firmly in his lap. Alex’s hand was stuffed nicely between where their hips met.

“You’re so hot,” Alex told him earnestly, unable to look away even if he wanted to. He didn’t, but there was something about him that was straight-up mesmerizing. Michael just breathed a laugh and chased him for a kiss, all sloppy as he moved his hips a little harder against Alex’s palm.

“Alex.”

Alex smiled against his lips at the sound of his name in his voice, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. He couldn’t get close enough. He moved his free hand down to his ass, tugging him closer and then bending his knees so he’d just have to sit in the crook between his chest and his thighs. Michael grinned.

“Alex,” he said again, sounding a little bit far away. Alex just put his hand on the back of his head, holding him as close as humanly possible. Alex.

Alex.

Alex was unceremoniously taken out of the moment as he opened his eyes not to see Michael perched in his lap, but standing over him and balancing six boxes of teabags. He couldn’t help but frown at the annoying juxtaposition of his dream and his reality. With a groan, he went to pull the blankets over his head to go back to it, but Michael pulled them away.

“We agreed to let me sleep in, leave me alone,” he whined when Michael deprived him of disappearing back into fantasy land.

“Okay, okay, just one question,” Michael said, voice in that loud whisper-tone that wasn’t too uncommon for small children, “Which one of these did you use to make that tea I liked yesterday?”

“The chai,” Alex sighed, “But it’s not gonna taste like that if you make it the way you make regular tea.”

Michael was quiet and, for a second, Alex almost believed he just accepted that and walked away. But, he knew better. After a solid month and a half of being in the same cabin in the woods, Alex had learned that Michael Guerin was basically like having a toddler and he would stand there until he got more information. Alex peeked up at him to see him still standing there, waiting patiently. He sighed again.

“Give me a minute and I’ll come make it for you.”

“Thank you,” Michael said, a gust of his power being used to pull the blankets over Alex and tucking him in. Alex smiled to himself as he closed his eyes again.

He let his mind drift back to the dream. It was the first one he had about him lately, but it was the first one to feel like he could make it happen. That in itself was frustrating. They’d been doing really good at keeping it platonic. Or, at least, platonic-adjacent. They cuddled and whispered sweet nothings in the comfort of the darkness, but it was clear that they weren’t in a good place to have a romantic relationship just yet. Not when Alex’s dad was out of the hospital, they still had no idea who the third head of the trident was, and they were making slow progress on Max. They just had to wait until they could put in the effort.

It was just taking longer than Alex was expecting.

After a bit of waking up slowly, Alex was able to drag himself out of bed. It was Christmas Eve and they had a few plans to go check out a farm that some of the records talked about while they had the free time. Well, not so much free time as just time to kill while they were at a standstill with everything else.

Alex didn’t bother grabbing his prosthetic as he went for his crutches instead, still finding himself shaking off the tingly feeling his dream had left him. He just had to push through until all this was over and then he was going to fucking jump him. It turns out the only thing worse than being unsure of someone’s feelings for you was knowing them and not being able to do anything about it.

“You’re such a baby, I can’t believe you’re making Alex get up early to make you tea.”

“I didn’t make him!”

“I didn’t make him,” Rosa mocked, “Qué pendejo.”

“I can understand you, you know.”

“Good!”

Alex couldn’t help but smile as he made his way to the kitchen and listened to them bicker. Rosa had been staying with them for only a few days at this point considering it took a little more convincing Liz than expected, but she’d already gladly become a thorn in Michael’s side.

“I didn’t realize I was living with children,” Alex said, making his presence known. Both of them looked towards him and then looked back at each other, Rosa having that ‘see, you made him get up’ look on her face.

“Sorry,” Michael said, giving a little smile. He was shirtless and well-rested and gorgeous and Alex had to let himself stare for a moment. He was allowed to stare. He knew that because Michael did nothing but encourage it with smiles and continued to parade around half-naked no matter how cold it got.

“You’re fine,” Alex promised, moving closer on his crutches. He let his eyes linger on his stomach before he pushed past him to get to the small stove. Michael didn’t even try to flex even though he knew he was staring. That alone made Alex’s head swim. How comfortable could they get and still keep their hands to themselves?

“Are you guys having fun eye-fucking at 7 in the morning?” Rosa asked. Alex snorted, shaking his head at her. She was in an oversized flannel that Alex wouldn’t actually be surprised if she stole from Michael, leaning against the washer and watching them with that knowing little smile.

“Could be worse,” Alex decided. Michael made a small, indiscernible noise as he hopped up to sit on the counter beside the sink.

“Yeah, you could actually have to fuck him at 7 in the morning,” Rosa filled in.

“Hey,” Michael scoffed while Alex just laughed.

Alex balanced himself against the counter as he started to boil water, popping a few tea bags in it. He told Michael to pay attention so next time he could do it himself. He tried not to revel too much in the cute little ‘oh’ Michael made when Alex poured a little milk in a saucepan. Yeah, definitely too difficult to keep his hands to himself.

“So, I was gonna ask,” Rosa said as Alex poured the tea into two separate mugs, “That path behind the house, is it safe to run on? Or should I grab a machete to clear it out?”

“It’s safe,” Alex said, pouring the milk evenly before reaching for the cinnamon, “But Michael and I are gonna clear out another one that’s a little less bumpy. The one right now is a lot on my leg, but you might be okay as long as you have good shoes.”

“Okay, well, I don’t have good shoes, so I’ll just walk it,” she said, “I just need something to distract myself.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Alex said, handing them each a mug. Michael gave one to him in turn and he smiled as he recognized the smell of coffee. He mouthed him a thank you before turning back to Rosa. “You gonna walk when we go out to the Long Farm? Because I can give you my Spotify info, give you something to listen to.”

“Yes, please,” Rosa groaned, sipping her tea. Alex nodded, hiding his smile with his mug.

He couldn’t quite pinpoint why he loved having both of them around so much, but he did. Hearing them argue all the time sort of reminded him of childhood, but not quite his. It was like what he saw on TV where the siblings would argue and then help each other at the end of the day. It was borderline wholesome in a way he’d never tell them. For once, his house felt full, but in a way that didn’t make him want to tear his hair out.

They had breakfast together, they had dinner together, they conspired together. Alex would go to work, Michael would go to work, Rosa had taken to renovating the bunker to fit her needs. Things were good. Of course, things were still rocky with Liz even though Alex had spent the last two weeks giving her far too much of his free time. But they were trying. That had to count for something.

Eventually, they finished their drinks and Alex excused himself to go get dressed while Michael agreed to wash the dishes. Alex grabbed his prosthetic and something warm to wear as he headed into the bathroom. It took him a bit longer to get ready than it used to, but he’d gotten accustomed to it. He’d also gotten accustomed to sharing space, not even being shocked when Michael knocked twice before simply letting himself inside.

“Excuse you,” Alex said, not really meaning it as he was nearly completely dressed. He was just in the process of tugging on his sweater over his undershirt.

“I’m not looking,” Michael said, smirking slightly as he obviously did look, he just was just looking through the mirror, “Just need to brush my teeth.”

“Well, so do I,” Alex told him, moving to stand beside him. They smiled to themselves or each other in the mirror as they grabbed their respective toothbrushes.

This. This was what life was about.

“I didn’t get you anything for Christmas.”

“It’s okay, I didn’t get you anything either.”

Michael watched Alex as he drove, feeling a little more than dazed as he did so. Things were in a very strange place in his mind and, if anyone asked, he was showing exceptional self control. It was easily the most self control he’d ever exhibited in his entire life. He was focusing on Max and his mother and Isobel. That was his goal and he was giving it his all. But crawling into bed beside Alex after a long day and being welcome there? It didn’t click as to why he was getting that other than Alex just loving him for some reason.

Which, honestly, was just another thing he didn’t understand.

“You wanna go get a tree after this?” Michael asked, trying not to think too hard about everything. That’s when he got all upset and that was never fun for anyone.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Alex laughed, glancing over at him, “You wanna go get a tree now?”

“I’ve never really had one of my own before,” Michael said, chewing on his bottom lip as he watched the way Alex’s eyes crinkled up when he smiled, “I didn’t really think about it until now. Have you ever had one?”

“Yeah, when I was a kid. But Christmas was usually hell, honestly. My brothers and I all had to wear matching suits that matched my dad’s and we spent most of it in church. It was just a day I was forced to spend with people who didn’t like me,” Alex admitted, “By the time I was older, I never really wanted to celebrate with any kind of traditions.” Michael couldn’t fathom how he was able to say that so easily. But, in some way, he understood.

“I’ve had a lot of different Christmases,” he said, “Some bad, some okay. My favorite was when I was 20. It was before Max had started at the police academy and before Isobel met Noah, but after Isobel and Max’s parents got them an apartment to share. I spent the night Christmas Eve and we watched Christmas movies until early in the morning.”

“That sounds fun,” Alex mused. Michael shrugged and failed to mention that he got arrested that Christmas day, having gotten a bit too reckless whenever the pair of them went to their grandparents and left him alone. He didn’t actually remember what he did to get arrested, he’d been high as a kite, but he remembered Isobel bitching to him about it. “Maybe we could try to watch some Christmas movies tonight, get in the spirit.”

“Okay,” Michael agreed.

“And,” Alex said, flashing him a smile, “We’ll stop and get a tree for you.”

Michael bit down on his lip to hold back a smile. “Yeah?”

“It’s your first real Christmas, you deserve the best,” Alex teased, his bottom lip protruding in a pout before he laughed it off and focused back on the road.

Alex continued to drive and Michael continued to watch him. Part of him wondered what it would be like if he’d done the right thing years ago and dedicated himself to Alex back when they were in high school. Sure, on some level, he always had been dedicated to Alex, but he’d slept around and pushed him away and fought. What would life have been like if, instead of getting arrested, he’d agreed to write to Alex every day while he was at basic and promised to visit him more than twice when he was stationed elsewhere? Where would they have ended up? Would they be in the same place just with a label?

That’s what he wanted.

But then, as it always did, his mind drifted to other places. If they had kept up a relationship, when would Alex have found out about aliens? Would it still be via his father? Would Michael have told him? Would he have shown him his ship and, when Alex found that piece, would he have given it to him immediately? Would he have found it at all?

And if that happened, would they have ever made it to Caulfield? Would they have gone earlier? Would they have had more information, enough to let his mother out before she died? Could he have known her more?

He only had a few moments with her, but she’d flooded his mind with information. But, even then, it was fractured and only enough so he would know how much she loved him. She didn’t risk showing him any of the negativities, she just made sure he knew she didn’t leave him on purpose and that, if she could’ve, she would’ve spent her life with him. She knew Alex loved him and she didn’t mind. Sometimes, when he thought about it, he thought maybe she loved him too.

“Alex,” Michael piped up as they pulled up to the Long Farm.

“Hm?”

He stared at him for a moment, trying to find his words. He didn’t really know what he wanted to say. He was just thinking about a lot and, well, most of them were better left said somewhere that wasn’t the farm owned by racists.

“Um, you said it was a barn?” he said instead. Alex nodded.

“Yeah. That newspaper we found her picture in had a man named Roy Bronson in it and he happened to work on this farm at the same time of that picture and at the time the Air Force came to scope out the property,” he explained, “The barn was blown up accidentally, but the base of the building was salvageable and they rebuilt it.”

“Cool.”

They climbed out of Alex’s truck and locked the doors, Alex shoving the keys in his back pocket. Michael kept an eye on him as they walked up to the gate and hopped it. He watched Alex, made sure he was stable without actually reaching out to him. He landed just fine.

“So, we find out if she was actually here and then what?” Michael asked as they started making their way towards the old barn.

“Well, then we might need to look in different places. Maybe, once we figure out who the other head of the trident is or find any files on M.V.C. then we can look for more, but,” Alex sighed, “We also might have to just accept that there is a limit to what we can find out. I’m sure there’s no files and I’ve searched for the kid that was in the picture and there’s no trace of him. Will you be okay if we just know she was here for a year and we can’t find out anything else?”

Michael thought about it for a moment. Would he be okay if they reached a point where there was just nothing else he could learn? It was sort of scary to think of, reaching the catalyst of information on his mother. But, then again, he would never be satisfied when it came to her and they both knew it. The only way he would be is if he got to know her on his own, not through secondhand bullshit. That was simply just the only thing he couldn’t have.

The skin of his hand felt tight and it seized up under the bandana, telling him he was clenching it for too long. He shoved it in his pocket.

“I’ll be okay. I have no choice, so,” Michael said, shrugging haphazardly. Alex clapped a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

“I’m still gonna do what I can to help,” Alex promised. Michael gave him a little smile and nodded.

“Thank you.”

They both slowed to a stop as they stepped up to the barn, looking up at it. Alex hand slid down his arm and then squeezed his wrist before letting him go. They shared a look before going inside.

The building felt and looked old and unused. But, still, it had an undeniable draw to it. Michael heard Alex breathe in deep which caught his attention.

“Definitely alien,” Alex breathed out. Michael made a noise of confusion, tilting his head.

“How do you know?”

“Smells like rain,” he said, shooting him a smile, “Smells like you.”

Michael shifted a little bit at that, biting on his lip before he looked around instead of unpacking all of that. Maybe Alex did get him a Christmas present and that present was just unresolved sexual tension.

“But clearly it was something big if I can still smell it,” Alex tacked on. Michael cleared his throat.

“So, what, we think they blew up something that was hiding in here?” Michael asked, but quickly stopped himself, “The ship. The ship was here and they blew it up.”

“You think so?” Alex asked, looking slightly concerned. Michael thought that maybe then he should’ve brought up the ship piece since they were talking about it, but he still couldn’t find the words to ask.

“I found a few pieces here whenever I was hunting things down, so it would make sense,” Michael said, “But that would mean they were here, the ship was here‒where was I? Did she just put me in a cave and leave? If they were so comfortable here, why wasn’t I allowed to come out?”

He could feel his irritation slowly but surely build at the idea of being fucking left. Again. Alex took a step towards him, chasing his line of sight.

“That’s not something we can ever get an answer to,” Alex said softly, “But they must’ve had a reason.” Michael blew air from his nose, shaking his head. Alex’s hand touched his jaw gently, eyes searching his face before locking on his. “Breathe.”

Slowly, they did just that. In sync and connected and whole.

“Am I interrupting something?”

Alex broke first, quickly dropping his hand and taking a step away. He stood sideways a little, never fully turning even when Michael gave the man his full attention. He swaggered in without a care, all smiles with a shock of blue hair.

“Who are you?” Michael asked. He huffed a laugh, tilting his head and his eyes drifted to Alex for a moment. Then they stayed there and he spoke to Alex instead of Michael despite the fact that he was the one who asked the question.

“Better question is who are you since I live here and you definitely don’t,” he said, smirking at Alex and his eyes flickering over him. Michael blinked rapidly in confusion. What? “I’m Forrest.”

“Long?” Alex finished, huffing a laugh, “You don’t look like a Long.”

“Best compliment I’ve heard all day,” Forrest, apparently, said, stepping even a little bit closer. Michael took a step closer to Alex and made sure Forrest couldn’t miss it. He eyed him slightly but still gave Alex his attention. “And you are…”

“Alex,” he said, “Manes.”

A flash of recognition crossed Forrest’s face and then he slipped into a pretty prominent smirk.

“And you don’t look like a Manes,” he said. Alex smiled at him, letting him stare and staring right back. Michael didn’t know how to feel about that. “Let me guess, you think aliens were here back in the 40s.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “You sound awfully sure of yourself.”

“Well, because it’s what happened,” Forrest said blatantly. Michael watched him, not trusting him to have a damn worthwhile thing to say. Alex seemed to disagree.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, look at this,” Forrest said, urging them over to one of the posts holding up the ceiling. Names were carved into it. “Roy and Walt were farmhands back then, right, but then there’s two more: Nora and Louise.”

Michael’s mouth went dry and he glanced over at Alex who was watching pretty intensely.

“It’s a height chart,” Alex said.

“Yeah,” Forrest agreed, “So clearly they were family. But there’s no record of women being farmhands here and, honestly, nothing Roy did here would be worthy of an Air Force takedown. He was hiding something, yeah, but not that. Unless it was two refugees.”

“And your first thought is aliens?” Alex said, sounding a lot more incredulous than Michael could’ve mustered. Forrest just smirked and cocked his head to the side. “What happened to the little green man?”

“Nah, that’s not real. Between you and me, aliens are definitely real and on Earth and they look just like us,” Forrest said. Michael felt like his skin was on so tight he was going to burst. “Besides, I got some stuff to prove my theory.”

Michael quickly looked to Alex who just seemed so calm. He watched Alex take a step closer, smiling that flirtatious smile and he looked Forrest up and down with that look that Michael didn’t realize he used on other people. It had Michael wanting to crawl out of his skin.

“Show it to me?”

Forrest licked his lips and eyed Alex again. “Let me go get it.”

Michael waited until Forrest was completely out of sight before he turned to Alex, eyebrows furrowed and not knowing if he should be offended or stressed. Offensive won over.

"What the hell was that?" he asked. Alex rolled his eyes playfully.

"I'm getting information."

"By flirting?" Michael scoffed. Alex gave him a soft smile and reached out his hand, squeezing his bicep.

“Relax,” Aex said softly, “You look hilarious when you’re jealous, by the way.”

“I am not jealous,” Michael stated firmly. Alex let go of his arm and gave him a tight smile, clearly hiding laughter. “I’m not!”

“Tell that to the vein about to pop in your forehead.”

“I just don’t get what the flirting is for,” Michael said, eyeing him, “It makes me feel gross.”

“So, if it’s not jealousy, then it’s homophobia,” Alex said. Michael narrowed his eyes at him which just got Alex to smile right back and lightly thump his finger against Michael’s cheek. So much touching and none of it enough. “Don’t worry, I’m just playing to my strengths.”

“Playing to your‒”

Alex suddenly started walking away and Michael turned to follow him with his line of sight only to see him meet Forrest towards the entrance of the barn. He tried not to feel so personally hurt as he sidled up beside him, his hand touching Forrest’s back as he peered over his shoulder at the little box. Michael knew, objectively, that he was doing that to get information and the only reason he was trying that as an option was because Forrest started it. Alex would’ve never, ever done that otherwise or if anyone else was around. They were alone and he trusted that he had the situation under control, that’s why he was doing it.

But seeing Alex look at someone else like that still made him unreasonably sad.

“It’s not much, but…” Forrest said. Alex looked at him, his lips parted a little and his eyes searching his face. It had Michael feeling like an intruder. He shoved his hand in his pocket again, clenching and unclenching and trying to shake away the feeling of his bones not quite fitting beneath the skin.

“This is so cool,” Alex breathed, reaching over his shoulder into the box. Michael focused on that, on the way his hands filtered through the bullet shells and held one up. “You found all this?”

“Not all of it, but it’s sort of a compilation of a few different generations of Long discoveries,” Forrest explained, shrugging a shoulder and looking over at Alex with slightly red cheeks. That’s when it actually clicked for Michael. It was working. “But this, this I found. It’s Air Force dog tags, I think, and I think you’ll like them.”

Alex’s flirtatious facade faltered as Forrest held up the dog tags, reaching out to hold them in his palm.

“Manes, Eugene III,” Alex read, eyes flickering up to meet Michael’s.

“And, look, it even has a little branding on it. It’s super small, but if you focus, someone carved the letters M.V.C. on it,” Forrest said, smiling. Alex turned back on the charm, tilting his head in his direction to show his thanks.

“Wow,” Alex said, sly as ever as he continued to act like that wasn’t a major fucking deal, “Clearly it was destined for me to end up here then.”

“Yeah,” Forrest breathed, letting Alex pocket the dog tags without another word.

Michael decided then that he was more in love with Alex than he knew what to do with.

“You are fucking briliant!”

Alex smiled, keeping his eyes on the road as Michael laughed and sifted through the box that he’d all but swindled out of the blue-haired Long. Under the bullet casings, there were other tiny little trinkets, things that looked normal to the untrained eye, but so very clearly remnants of something more to them.

“I told you I was playing to my strengths,” Alex laughed back. Michael leaned over the center console, smacking a kiss on the side of his head like that was something they did. Maybe they did.

“Yeah, but it took me way too long you meant that you were stealing shit with charm,” he said as he settled back into the seat.

“Well, then you clearly don’t know me well enough,” Alex teased.

“Bullshit.”

Like promised, they stopped by a small tree farm and bought the cheapest, ugliest one they could find. Alex pointed out that it’d be easy to use it for firewood after Christmas, but he really just enjoyed the way Michael smiled at it with bright eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was genuinely because of the tree or if it was because he was just in a good mood, but it didn’t matter. They strapped in the bed.

When they got home, they climbed out simultaneously and went towards the drunk. Alex dropped the tailgate and started to unstrap the tree. He felt eyes on him the whole time. A quick glance up showed Michael just staring at him with a small little smile.

“What?” he asked.

“I just realized this’ll be my first Christmas without Max since I was 10,” Michael said. Alex froze, not sure how to respond. Michael didn’t look like he was going to break down, he still had that little smile, but that didn’t really mean much. Alex knew better than anyone that breakdowns came in all shapes and sizes. “Iz and I are gonna go see him tomorrow, but, still… It feels weird.”

“Are you gonna be okay?” Alex asked softly. Michael stared at him for a few more minutes, nodding and turning his attention to the tree. He didn’t move to unstrap it. Instead, he hovered a little before taking a step towards Alex.

“It’s also my first Christmas with you,” he said. Alex gave a small smile, unsure if he was allowed to be happy about that with prior context. “You’re my family, Alex. And I’m really happy being here with you every day. You make things easy in a way that I didn’t know we could have before. I’m really grateful for you.”

Alex let his smile show. “I’m grateful for you too.”

“You know you can trust me with anything, right?” Michael whispered, taking another step closer. Alex swallowed as he stared at him, wondering if there was a reason for why he felt the need to say that. His eyes searched his face, but he only saw sincerity. Before he could ask anything, Michael spoke again. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Michael nodded and stepped even closer. Alex couldn’t breathe. It didn’t seem to matter that they slept in the same bed or had a decade of history. This felt like a boundary was being prodded that they hadn’t quite discussed yet. He eyed Michael, trying to get a sense of what he was trying to do.

“Guerin,” Alex said as Michael took another step, placing himself firmly in Alex’s space in a completely different way that he usually did. Alex didn’t want to move away. “What are you doing?”

He blinked once, twice, three times, eyes flickering over Alex’s face before he took a step away and Alex nearly deflated as he remembered how to breathe.

“Thanks for the Christmas present,” Michael said. Alex huffed a laugh, trying to return to normal. His skin was on high alert as it damn-near screamed to be touched. Maybe they could go to bed early.

“What present? I didn’t get you anything.”

“Yeah,” Michael breathed, nodding as he busied himself with letting the tree loose, “You did.”

Alex didn’t know what to say as he used his mind to levitate the tree and slowly bring it inside. Instead of standing dumbfounded, he grabbed the stand and took a grounding breath. This was one hell of a Christmas Eve.

Alex put the box he’d gotten from the Long farm in the safe beneath his bed and checked the cameras a few times before going to help set up the tree. He decided that he could focus on the dog tags and the alien paraphernalia later. This was the first Christmas he’d actually had a proper family to spend it with. Might as well make the most of it.

The doors were all locked tight and secure, making it easy to just listen to Rosa and Michael argue over where to put their make-shift ornaments on the tree while he made a fresh cup of coffee.

“You can’t top the tree with a stuffed animal, Guerin.”

“Okay, so, one, it’s a stuffed jalapeño with a small mustache, not an animal, and two, since when are you the dictator of what tops trees?”

“Because I’m the only top in this situation!”

“What does that have to do with anything?!”

“You aren’t even trying to deny it!”

“Because you changed the subject! The jalapeño stays!”

“Okay. Put it up there and I’ll burn it when you go to sleep.”

“Fine. Compromise. We put this on top.”

Rosa was quiet for a moment before saying, “Works for me.”

Alex traveled back into the living room to see what piece of decor had gotten them to agree only to be slightly horrified to see it was a picture of him and Kyle, hardly 10 years old and holding up a dead deer with blood smeared on their cheeks. The two of them were marveling at it, seeming far too proud of their terrible taste.

“No,” Alex said firmly, “Absolutely not.”

“Come on, Alex,” Michael said.

“Yeah, come on,” Rosa agreed. He looked between the both of them and glared, but couldn’t bring himself to deny them of the one thing they settled on.

“Fine. But we take it down tomorrow night.”

“Deal.”

Alex sat down on the couch and watched them, letting that warm feeling overwhelm him again. He liked this, liked having them in his house. It was hard to explain how, even though it was still decorated to Jim Valenti’s taste save for a few minor alterations, it only now felt like Alex’s. He was no longer borrowing Jim Valenti’s pity cabin. No, instead, this was his.

Later that night, when they crawled into bed after a movie marathon of shitty Christmas movies, he found himself facing Michael Guerin and feeling more calm than he’d been in a long time.

“I didn’t cross a line, did I?” Michael asked carefully. Alex shook his head.

“No. But thank you for checking,” he said. Michael smiled and gave a small nod.

“Working on it.”

Alex was the one to move closer, feeling bold and confident from the day, and placed his head on his chest. Michael’s arms wrapped around him and lips pressed to the top of his head.

“Merry Christmas, Alex.”

“Merry Christmas.”

#malex #malex fic #michael guerin #alex manes #roswell new mexico #my fic #our fainted thrill carries on #late as fuck because i have no understanding of productivity

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