#too saccharine for me. its so sweet and comfort-based that i feel like it thinks im a 13yr old. it probably *was* written for 13yr olds. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cherryblossomtease · 3 years

Text

Chapter 17

18 + only

warnings and summary - Masterlist

These two...

I don't really think I need to say more

Authors Notes:This chapter is safe for everyone although I've been told it might get you emotionally... so I’ll add a hurt/comfort warning.

Two nights later, the air has grown noticeably warmer and not because of the heat from the boat but the change in climate.

The music and wine flow like water starting even before dinner so that by the time the small feast is finished, you’re feeling a good buzz and hinting at what you really want, what you’ve been craving and longing for. You can feel it in your bones, aching to be satisfied. It’s a deep sort of innate calling that can not be ignored and if you don’t give into it soon, you refuse to be held responsible for your actions…

So when Doja Cat starts singing so sweetly through the million dollar sound system that your eyes roll shut, you smack your hands down on the table and push your chair back, jumping up to give into that primal call because tonight— all you want to do is dance.

The second Zemo explained how the ships blocking technology would allow you travel undetected while still allowing for satellite use, you started abusing it to get into your Spotify and randomly put together a playlist knowing you’d need a night like this eventually. As tough as he can be about breaking rules— especially ones that involve real life consequences— Zemo is first of all; a sucker for a good dance night just as much as you are, and second; a complete pushover when it comes to the things you want. So when you pout just enough and ask real sweet, he does finally give in realizing that no amount of punishment can stop you. It’s Bucky who seems to forget about the playlist and who —surprise— refuses to get off his ass and dance, even though you try to get him to join you.

But you don’t care. You leave him and make your way into the lounge with its dim lighting, open floor and low couches letting it become your dance floor and take up the space beautifully; so much so that you don’t even notice you’re out there alone. You just keep singing “kiss me more”, grinning like a girl with 'nothing to lose' tossing your head back with a laugh, feeling the high.

Bucky sets his fork down and leans to the side in his chair watching over his shoulder. Zemo takes a swallow of wine, his eyes never leaving the sight of you framed by the lounge doorway as the sway of your hips and bounce of your ass becomes hypnotic. You toss your softest curves like sexual extensions of the music loving every beat until the last, and the song fades.

Resting your hands on the small of your back, you catch your breath with a wide grin. That was the perfect warm up. These poor boys have no idea what they’re in for…

You quickly turn and find them watching. A flush rises up your neck from the attention, growing your smile until it beams. “What?” But you know what.

Bucky shakes his head looking off, “That one on there twice?” He deadpans and tosses a piece of bread in his mouth.

You roll your eyes, laughing as you head back for the table, very much flattered by his— compliment— only to be stopped before you can sit down by the glorious voice of the one and only Whitney taking over the surround sound, declaring that she wants to ‘Dance With Somebody’.

You toss your arms in the air with a high pitched squeal making Bucky recoil like you’re a woman possessed.

“Oh come on! How can anyone resist this!” You shout at him over the distinct sounds of the 80’s and growl in frustration when he won’t budge. You huff and shove his shoulder, leaving him to go twirling back into the lounge again.

This is exactly what you’ve been craving. A night of good booze and food and solid, sweat inducing, “don’t give a shit what you look like” dancing. You’re already hopping around, feeling the delightful agony of wishing you had someone to dance with as only she can make you feel and singing at the top of your lungs, when you’re joined by, well, not the unlikely but still surprising presence of the Baron, just in time for him to perfectly mouth the lyrics along with you and Ms. Houston—

“I need a man who’ll take a chance

on a love that burns hot enough to last”

You jump back, hand over your mouth in delighted shock as you laugh louder than the music. Well aware of his hilarious charm, Zemo's smile grows as wide as yours.

Hands on your hips he yanks you forward and your thighs part to straddle his one. You let your head fall back dirty dancing style and slide your hands over his shoulders as he tickles your skin with a kiss between your breast —he’s been eying the plunging neckline of your white tank top since you came up for dinner — then lifts you back up, taking your hand and giving you a spin, your vintage Givenchy skirt flowing around your legs light as air.

You whirl into his arms, back pressed to him, your palms sliding along his thighs in those soft chinos as you wind your hips down and up feeling his hands close to near fists around your biceps. He’s got you held close as the two of you move, his cheek pressed to yours, his breath light down your neck and chest as you sing the verse alone this time with your eyes closed.

Never mind wanting to dance with somebody, you know what you want to do with him— wait, is that what this song is about?

He tosses you around and smiles at you with a look in his eyes that hints at maybe going below decks, hot as this is you still only want to dance and shake your head pulling free, rolling your eyes at him.

Zemo is too quick and grabs your arms again, pulling you into a hard kiss. He says something painfully sexy in Sokovian as you part, but you don't let on that he's almost got you and simply shrug, wink and slip away. He smiles as he waves a finger in your face like you might be in trouble for denying him but you just laugh harder thanking him for the dance.

Resigned to coming in second to the music tonight, Zemo waits besides you; both of you wondering what song will play next. You hope for something that will keep him on the floor because having Helmut back in your life like this is incredible. You glance at him, still amazed at how he transforms into this, fun, carefree man, so ready to live in this vibrant way. Master manipulator, wanted killer, singing and dancing to Whitney, sure. Why not.

You're grinning at him, swooning honestly, hopelessly swept up in what feels like a revival of the life you had as well as a celebration of what you’ve welcomed. Yes the dynamic has changed but only for the better. So, when the blaring call of very early 1940’s trumpets come blasting out of the speakers joined by a joyful dance rhythm unexpectedly, you and Zemo turn in unison to Bucky.

“What the…” You pull a face.

Bucky lifts his head looking confused for a second, followed by the widest smile you’ve ever seen. “Hey! This is the one I asked Zemo to put on there!”

You can’t help it and smile back. He can be saccharine sweet sometimes.

As the big band kicks in and the music builds you see him light up and leave his chair to join the two of you “May I cut in?” Bucky asks politely only glancing at Zemo.

“Please,” He answers and you notice how his eyes narrow ever so slightly when he looks at Bucky. There is something arresting about this and you quickly look from one man to the other as Helmut quietly goes back to enjoy the rest of his wine and the show.

“Just follow my lead doll; this song really swings.” Bucky says like he’s back at the dancehall and the crowd has parted just for the two of you.

“Oh my god. No. Bucky no.” You cringe, distracted by his— enthusiasm. Covering your face with your hands to hide the secondhand embarrassment, you watch him circle you through your fingers clearly not caring at all. When he reaches out and grabs your wrist without warning you scream, erupting with laughter as he tosses you away and into a spin.

It takes all of twenty seconds and a few fancy moves to realize that all the times you’ve teased the poor man about his terrible dance skills have been completely unfair. Your assessments have been based solely on the fact that you’ve been dragging him to clubs that bump with top ten hits. You want him to grind when really, Bucky just wants to glide.

Even in shorts and a loose button down he shines like a star out of time, so you just let the Sergeant do his thing and it’s ridiculously fun; even when you don’t know what’s going to happen next.

He pulls you close with his right hand keeping it firm on your back, while his black and gold cradles your left so gently. When the music breaks, Bucky leads you in a few turns and box steps that have you gazing at him. He just smiles and says in your ear, “Just trust me” Your eyes flutter shut at his words “Hands on my shoulders” He says and quickly takes you by the waist, lifting so that your legs go swinging up and out just like you’ve seen in old movies, letting you come down just as easy.

“Yeah?” He nods with a grin knowing you love it.

“Yes!” You laugh.

“Now this,” He says not missing the beat and hops you up swinging your legs past his waist and around his back so easily you’re standing on his other side and right back into a rocking box step before you have time to say a word. You just let it go on, and when the song comes to an end too soon for your liking, Bucky drops you into a dip so low that you cling to him, looking up into his eyes.

“Oh,” You sigh, understanding Bucky’s era a little better while feeling light headed, and not because of the dance. Why would anyone ever stopdancing this way? Now imagine if I actually knew what I was doing!

He’s grinning and cradles the back of your head, gently kissing you before lifting you back up onto your feet.

“That was incredible” You say breathless, “Really, I wish you would have shown me you know how to do that sooner!”

You swear he nearly blushes as he shrugs. “Never really had the chance.”

Zemo’s light applause gets your attention. Both of you turn in unison, your faces radiating the energy of the music though inside your heart is hurting as you glance at Bucky again. Remnants of your conversation from the bath come flying back to slice through the happy fabric of this night even though you’re trying your best not to think about it.

Zemo is smiling, albeit somewhat painfully which is not lost on you. But Bucky is distracting as he turns away to hide a confusing smile, batting those long lashes, averting those obscenely large blue eyes. Whoever gave a grown man permission to have eyes the size of a Disney princess should be drawn and quartered…

You inhale a shaking breath. It’s your warning of rising emotions that you don’t want getting in the way of your fun dance night. Damn it Barnes.

You sigh wondering if you’ve always loved him this much, or if it’s knowing that he won’t always be there that has you so taken with him tonight. Not so long ago he was just your best friend with lots of benefits. Now that just seems silly, like you were afraid to admit that you could love them both.

But here you are.

Bucky isn’t looking at you though.

You’re standing right next to him and his gaze is not swayed by you in the least.

As you slowly catch your breath from all the dancing —though you might lose it again with the way his profile glows in this lighting— for the first time since all of this began, you find yourself actually wanting him to look at you, but he’s too busy gazing at Zemo.

For a split second you feel the awful twinge of jealousy. It’s something you’ve never even considered before, but then again you’ve never felt this way; in fact you’ve been dealing with all sorts of wonderful, sometimes awful new feelings and you have to question why you torture yourself like this.But all it takes is one look at them and you know— one look at Bucky looking at Zemo and you see how he lifts his eyes with a sort of longing, some slightly sad bit of hope— it melts your heart and quiets the green eyed monster instantly. You can’t fault him, you used to look at Helmut the same way.

Speaking of, you notice the man himself take another long swallow of wine before standing. He crosses the floor looking like he really wants to say something— something important? You brace yourself for whatever it may be, but the the next song begins before he gets the chance.

Zemo stops in his tracks, recognizing it from the first note. He glances up towards the ceiling, his eyes scanning like he might locate the source of the music, then back down at Bucky. There’s a funny look on his face, almost like he’s been caught? But he doesn’t stop it from playing.

The drums, the keys, the dramatic intro… You know this song, just not this version. It’s actually one of your favorites, but really? Disco?

“Zemo. This is all you, isn’t it?” You groan with your hand on your hip, trying not to show him how utterly adorable he can be. You actually love his random taste in music but maybe some rules for the playlist next time…

He holds up a finger. “Don’t shit on disco.” He warns coming closer.

“Pretty sure I’m happy I missed this era.” Bucky mumbles. He rolls his eyes and attempts to go sit back down but Zemo is quick and grabs his arm as he passes. “No, you’re already here.” He says holding Bucky firm and they look at one another— the single fold of Helmut's dark-blue short sleeve pulls tight against the curve of his muscle showing the strong tension between them which you find inappropriately attractive— Bucky looks down like he’s surprised if not slightly offended and Zemo eases his hold tilting his head with a smile. As a reminder of the hierarchy on board he pulls Bucky ever so slightly closer.

“Disco is the music of a revolution James. Everyone was told to hate it by the people who feared it, and the culture it represented which is a shame. Some of the greatest anthems came from that time, inspired by the people who fought for us to have the freedoms we take for granted. People without our privilege. You should respect it a little more.”

Bucky leans back opening his mouth to argue but closes it just as quickly. He can’t object to that.

You just grin. Zemo going on a sociopolitical tangent always makes you swoon.

His expression does soften though, and he smooths his other hand down Bucky’s chest, letting his fingers slip under the open collar of the soldier’s loose shirt. “You see if I was not a criminal, and you were not an avenger,” He looks over at you and smiles. “And she were not an accomplice to our many sins; we could walk down certain streets displaying our relationship without much retaliation.” Bucky nods, appreciating his simple explanation even though it’s not needed. He certainly understands the point. “Also, it should be noted that while Thelma Houstons version of this song is absolutely categorized under disco, this, is an R&B classic.

Of course he knows that. You can only laugh to yourself as you’re easily reminded in the moment that you are very much in love with two men.

“And” He looks at Bucky again, all the humor gone replaced by a softness that surprises you. “I did not intend for it to play,”

The wine may have dulled your senses but not so much that you can’t pick up on the unease between them and you call for the song to skip not wanting either of them to feel uncomfortable. But Helmut shakes his head and finally lets go of Bucky’s arm only to touch his face.

“No,” He says to you without taking his eyes off of Bucky “It’s all right. I think now is the perfect time” You see Bucky almost smile at Zemo as he tells the device to start the song over but instead winces like he hates that its starting again.

“Please don’t” Bucky tries to joke and groans, pulling away. He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. He’s laughing to himself and you can hear that in spite of his attempts, whatever this is, is anything but funny. But for what its worth he doesn’t go and sit.

Helmut just stands there looking at him as the music starts again and you smile because of Bucky’s irritation, thinking you’ll see the same playfulness in Zemo, instead you find his eyes looking ever so slightly dejected. But the beat distracts you from your concern and you start moving; shoulders first, head to the side hips hitting the beat. This is not what you were expecting.

Don’t leave me this way.

I can’t survive, I can’t stay alive

Without you love

Don’t leave me this way no

You hum along, your eyes shutting at the deep, restrained sadness of the baritone voice surrounding you while they stand there looking at each other.

This won’t do.

You step behind Bucky smoothing your hand down his vibranium arm and lift his hand to lay it on Helmut’s shoulder, swaying Bucky’s hips with yours until he’s sort of moving on his own.

Still they keep looking at each other like there’s some barrier between them and it’s strange but this song is… Helmut picked it?

You smile and lay your head on Bucky’s back reaching your hand through the space between his arm and waist and grab Zemo’s shirt bringing them close, thinking for once the Baron could use a little help.

Dont leave me this way,

a broken man with empty hands,

oh baby please please,

don’t leave me this way

Your eyes flit up and around, catching a glimpse of Zemo who gazes at Bucky like he’s trying to make a memory of his face without being caught in the act and you feel the words of the song heavy in your heart, their straight forward meaning striking a nerve as the music builds and the absolute need to move your body takes hold.

You leave Bucky, bouncing off into your own world, which when you close your eyes becomes a shower of glitter and light across a dark dance floor…

Baby, my heart is full of love and desire for you.

So come on down and do what you’ve got to do

You started this fire down in my soul

Now can’t you see it’s burning out of control

Come on Satisfy the need in me

Cause only your good love can set me free

The stir of music and words flows through you like honey. Your fingers slide down your neck between the valley of your breast and over your stomach as you twist and turn and you let yourself feel the pull between the beat that wants you to be happy, and his voice insisting otherwise, and this damn song threatens to rip your heart out.

You open your eyes and turn to them wondering what you might find. Much better… Bucky has finally given in.

He could no sooner resist Helmut than you could a hard beat and a good bass line. Not to mention Zemo knows how to win a man over. Tonight he moves just as he should for this one. It’s hardly dancing as you might define it, but the Sergeant won’t show off unless he’s got trumpets and band leaders to inspire him apparently, but as you sway, you see how Helmut puts his arms around Bucky’s neck when the next verse begins and Bucky slowly moves his hands to Zemo’s back, letting his body do what comes naturally, and they look beautiful as they move together creating their own flow. No it’s hardly dancing, but it seems to be what they need right now.

Don’t you understand I’m at your command

Oh baby please don’t leave me this way

Helmut takes hold of Bucky’s shirt collar, his other hand flat on his chest as he finally lets Bucky see the way he’s been looking at him since the song began, since the night began, since this morning… always.

I can’t survive

I can’t stay alive

Without you love

Dont leave me this way,

You stop dancing because you see it too and press your fingers to your lips, inhaling deeply as you watch Bucky grab the Baron’s arms with a pent up aggression that makes you think you might forget how to breathe as it becomes clear…

Helmut hadn’t meant for Bucky to hear this song because when he chose it, his heart was breaking, but he wants him to see now. He needs to be vulnerable in front of the man he loves. But you have to wonder, why this night?

The three of you stand frozen in the center of the room while the music dances around you…

I don’t want you to go

See I love you, you can’t go

Would you stay with me, stay, stay with me please…

The desperate look in Helmut’s eyes as he searches Bucky’s face makes tears well unexpectedly in your own and you know you’re about to find out what’s happened between them that you were not a part of.

“I’m sorry.” Helmut says stepping back, letting go. He’s standing too still as the next song, thankfully a quiet one, simply asks “who’s going to drive you home” His frown is deep even though he’s clearly not angry, maybe just a little scared. “James…”

“Don’t apologize.” Bucky says, turning away with a heavy sigh like he knew this was coming. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes not sure he wants to hear it. “Please don’t. It’s fine.” The way he turns back to look Zemo in the eyes —all stoic super hero tough guy— you can tell he’s being dismissive and distant to protect himself but the cracks in his facade are showing.

“No. No it was anything but fine.” Zemo insists sounding very calm, but angry with himself as he stares right back at Bucky.

“Really. I-I shouldn’t have said anything,” Bucky says and ducks his chin, his defenses breaking. He goes quiet, sighs and speaks to the floor. “It’s just being here, with you and her; everything we’ve done together…” He glances up but finds it hard to keep eye contact “I got carried away, maybe saw something that just isn’t there”

Wait. You see tears in his eyes and step forward. Is this what you think it is?

“That’s not true.” Helmut wants to say more but he falls short and turns away, pressing his finger to his lips in thought. He looks down before glancing over at you.

You love him, you do, but you know how he can be. He pushes back when it gets real. He doesn’t mean to and you know he won’t always, but you’re afraid he has now, so you simply smile and nod hoping he will listen to your silent plea and just say what’s in his heart. It’s the least that Bucky deserves.

Head tilting very slowly, Helmut seems to come to a realization as he looks at you. He hears and sees. He knows.

Quickly looking back at Bucky, his chest rising with a deep breath, he finds the words, and you quickly take the moment to look at James Buchanan Barnes too— the man who is the other half of your heart. The soft, gentle protecter who holds you when you cry, who makes you laugh even when he’s upset just to make you feel better— if he’s all of that and more to you, what must he be to the man who met him first?

Helmut reaches out, grabbing Bucky by the shoulder, his grip inching up along his neck in an attempt to get him to look into his eyes. His other hand goes to Bucky’s face turning his head until Bucky has no choice but to look at him and Helmut smiles, looking a little relieved for it. His thumb brushes the soft shadow of Bucky’s stubble and you see so easily how deeply he cares. “I should not have walked away. That was wrong and I am sorry. Forgive me James— please.” Brown eyes gaze into blue, flitting back and forth quickly looking for any sign to go on, but he can’t wait, not now. “I never thought I’d hear you say those words to me and I was not ready.” He swallows hard, but the tears are coming anyway.

Bucky’s vibranium hand closes around Zemo’s wrist like he wants to break free but his heart won’t let him. “I thought maybe I’d said the wrong thing, or— maybe that’s not what this is?”

Fuck he sounds so hurt. You have to cover your mouth with your hand as you very quietly walk away and go to sit by the pool letting them have this alone…

“No” Helmut says, his attempt at a reassuring smile anything but as they come closer and their mouths almost meet as though they might kiss, but instead their foreheads touch and push angrily against one another. No —not one another— against the world and the many choices made by other people who sealed their fate as enemies long before they ever met. Thankfully neither of them were very good at listening to decisions made by other people.

“You were right.” Helmut says softly. “You were right and I should have said it back,” He shuts his eyes and exhales slowly feeling the weight lift from his chest. Wanting to see that perfect face when he says it, Helmut pulls back and speaks the truth as he should have this morning. “I do, James. I do love you.” He says without looking away, “Very much.”

The look of pain on the White Wolf’s face is in stark contrast to the joy in his heart. A burst of laughter, more like a release of the many emotions Helmut has put him through today escapes his lips just before their mouths meet in a hard kiss that draws a moan from him, muffled against Helmuts lips.

Bucky opens his eyes while they are still close, wanting to remember Helmut Zemo with tears on his lashes the first time he says those words.

“I’m sorry too.” Bucky says when they part. Their hands still gently competing to touch one another. He wins for now, brushing the thick lock of hair from Helmuts brow.

“For what?” Helmut asks, his rough voice so quiet.

“If I could stay…” Bucky sighs.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to leave you, either of you.”

“I know you don’t”

“I swear it.”

“I know”

“I love you Helmut.” Bucky insists grabbing at him.

“I know.”

“I thought I could make it work somehow… figure something out but. But apparently not. I guess I’m not the smart avenger.”

Helmut smiles. “Stop talking James.”

Bucky laughs even though he feels like crying and Zemo kisses him lightly, holds his face, looks into his eyes and kisses him again before hugging him.

When he moves his hand as though he expects to feel something or someone, he turns to look for you and you notice from your place far across the deck. He calls your name and you get up going to them.

You move in slowly not wanting to intrude, but he gives you a funny look and reaches for you, pulling you in the second you are close so quickly, that you practically collapse into their arms. Both he and Bucky make room until you are welcomed into the warmth showing that you were never excluded, you are as much a part of the heartache as you are the love.

A kiss from Zemo comes first; firm, thankful, he loves you, he needs you. A second from Bucky; soft, elated — you both grin— “Should have played the disco version,” Bucky says dragging his gaze from your eyes to Zemo’s “At least disco makes people happy.” He teases, smiling when you do. Bucky brushes your cheek with the back of his hand, turning his warm palm to hold your face for a second before raising his head to see if the Baron is in a lighter mood.

Zemo sighs “It— doesn’t hit the same” He says with that glorious accent chuckling a little when you cackle. Even Bucky knows it’s funny. “Besides; happy, sad, the point is to feel,” Helmut goes on as you turn to put your arms around your beloved Sokovian Baron laying your head on his chest. His kiss is lost in your hair and you pull back to see his face.

He looks at you, never embarrassed by his emotions, just impressed by his own ability to be wonderfully dramatic. “She knows how I get. With wine and good music there are no guarantees which side of me you’ll uncover,” He says stroking your arm.

“Well I like every side.” Bucky replies. You look over your shoulder at him watching his smile alternate between cute and suggestive and you can feel the electric charge between them. There is more to it than the animal attraction that was always there before, now there is the security of professed love and doors that have been opened tonight will never close again.

Zemo’s muscles tense ever so slightly, his touch changes and instead of the flat of his fingers you feel his nails. The rhythm of his stroke pauses, he holds you tight and nods for Bucky to come close and they kiss again. When they part you all do, Bucky and you standing together facing him.

“You forgive me for my reaction earlier?” Zemo asks sounding so sweet you hardly recognize his voice.

Bucky looks at him for a while and so do you. Thick dark hair, parted as always, brown eyes sparkling in the warm low light, shirt open enough to distract— his smile is so dangerous. God you’d forgive him for a long list of things.

“Yeah, of course. And, I had a feeling you’d come around, she said as much a few days ago.”

Zemo looks down at you curious.

“Well, you’re not very good at hiding it. I knew you loved me before you did.” You say scrunching your nose at him.

He laughs like he’s been ganged up on but quickly gives in with a sigh, knowing damn well this is true. Helmut shakes his head looking from one face to the other, pinching your chin, laughing softly again. “Listen to me. Both of you.” He says pulling you back into his arms, laying his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “We reach our designation at the end of the week. I won’t spend the time I have with the two of you thinking of the time that I don’t,”

You couldn’t agree more. Enough. You all know how it will end, it’s your time together that matters.

“Since I am apparently so horrible at keeping my feelings to myself.” He teases to your mutual amusement. “I won’t. I love you both, and I’ll show you as I always have. I only want one thing from you James.” He says making Bucky perk up. “Let me claim you as I haven’t yet,” He says, his hold on Bucky’s shoulder tightening slightly. It’s an ask because Zemo respects him enough not to demand it— but the moment Bucky says yes there will only be commands.

Please say yes, you bite your lip waiting.

Bucky actually does the same thing, a habit he’s picked up from you and you giggle to yourself watching how his pretty pink lip goes a shade darker when he lets it free from his teeth. He’ll give in of course, but for a moment he needs to resist, just to stay true to his stubborn nature.

When he lifts his head again he actually looks at you because he knows you’ll share this experience with him— of course you want this.

And then he looks at Zemo. The man whose name he’d once written on his list of people to kill— now the man he would protect with his own life.

Bucky reaches out and takes his hand and any worry of rejection, no matter how small fades from Helmut’s eyes as his smile spreads wide and warm, and loving. And Bucky gives a soft but very clear, yes.

End Notes: I listened to this playlist on endless repeat while writing this chapter. Not all of the songs feature in the story of course but damn did it get me in that headspace. Sometimes you just need to put on some sexy sad timeless campy glam and be dramatic for no damn reason. So if you need a little over the top joy in your life, have a listen, but don't say I didn't warn you.

#zemo #Bucky barnes #winterbaron #zemo x reader #james bucky barnes x reader #winterbaron x you #zemo fanfic #baron zemo fanfiction #baron zemo #helmut zemo #james barnes #helmut zemo/james buchanan barnes #winterbaron fic #winterbaron romance #boys in love #boy in love with you #please leave us alone when we’re dancing #Spotify

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brittledame · 4 years

Text

Pairing: Semi Eita/Reader

Warnings: Explicit, A/B/O Dynamics, Creampie, Breeding (mentioned), Riding, Slight dirty talk, Knotting, Marking, Claiming bites, Blood (mentioned), Mating, Semi is a little possessive of reader, Reader is a little oblivious

Word Count: 11K

Summary: After your tryst with Semi in the locker room, he whisked you away to his room to spend the rest of the rut with him. The morning after, you wake up hot and disoriented, finding that your heat has come around early. The instinct to claim each other overshadows all other thoughts, leading to an enjoyable time for you both.

Series: Part 2 of Semi’s Big Blow Up

Notes: Ok it took me a while but I got there. This is literally 11K words of pure smut with side of fluff. Please enjoy my horny world splurge for the OG eboy Semi-Semi.

The warm sunlight filtering through the gaps of Semi’s blinds is what woke you up from a dreamless sleep. Cracking open your eyes, you were met with the drool-worthy sight of Semi’s bare chest. The sheets were kicked off during some point last night. Judging from the heat emanating from the male wrapped around you, it was safe to assume that it was Semi that did it.

Your bodies were close enough that the cool morning air nipping at you wasn’t an issue. If anything, you felt a tad too warm to be comfortable. You note that your shirt must have ridden up last night, as you feel his heavy arm was thrown over your hip that was almost bare thanks to the scrap of underwear you wore. Mind feeling as if stuffed with cotton, you notice that you were slightly sweating from the heat generated between the two of you. Shuffling back a little to give yourself some more breathing room, you relish the wash of cool air brushing over your heated skin, lending clarity to your disoriented mind.

The morning was quiet and warm, it was exactly the kind of morning where you would easily fall back to sleep if it weren’t for the breath-taking sight of the ash-blond man before you.

His long eyelashes fanned across high cheekbones, sleep-tousled hair looking wild against the pillow, and soft-looking lips parted as he continues on sleeping blissfully unaware of your enamoured stare. Fingers twitching, you were overcome with the sudden urge to run your fingertips across his skin, to map each dip and slight freckle and commit them to memory. Listening to his deep breathes, chest slowly moving up and down, signalling he was still deep asleep and surely wouldn’t mind if you carried out the desire. It was enough permission for your drowsy mind to go ahead anyhow.

Carefully, you move a hand from his well-defined chest and reach up to stroke the soft skin of his cheek. God, it was so unfair that he was blessed with a sweet personality, good looks and sexual prowess. The attractive asshole probably only washed his face with soap – if he washed it at all. Quelling the jealousy rearing its ugly head, you continued with feather-light touches now moving down to his lips.

Pressing your thumb slightly into the plump bottom lip, memories of those lips exploring and pressing lingering marks across your body rise to the forefront of your mind. Flushing, you silently curse at how smitten you were for him. He was literally sleeping with you loosely ensnared in his arms and here you were stroking him, feeling a little overwhelmed at how elated you felt to have the man of your dreams reciprocating your affections.

The wondering hand slides back to his chest and you bury your face into his chest, trying to hide your embarrassment as you recall everything that had transpired last night.

Honestly, if you hadn’t woken up in his bed, you would’ve played the whole thing off as a really horny dream and carried on with your life. You probably wouldn’t have been able to look your friend in the eye after having an explicitly detailed sex dream of him, but you would’ve at least attempted to carry on like you didn’t dream of him fucking you into mind-blowing completion.

Yesterday felt like a dream, it felt so distant and yet you could recall certain details so vividly that you couldn’t just brush off the incident off like you normally would. Your face feels like it could start melting as you blush fiercely while recalling Semi admitting his true feelings for you. Your heart lurches inside your chest. Everything felt like a blur to you, one moment he was unexpectedly distant, the next you were both arguing and then… fucking on the bench.

The rest of the night was kind of hazy to you, but you do recall him pulling you to his room, hands planted on your waist. You remember him whispering, “I hope you didn’t have any plans this weekend. I’m not planning on letting you go anytime soon.”

Your core pulses at just the thought of his words. He made a quick stop to the vending machines to get a few drinks and snacks, stating that he really wasn’t planning on leaving the room anytime soon. When you two were finally stocked up and alone in his surprisingly orderly room, you were both still fatigued from the previous round to go beyond a messy make out. Collapsing into one another, exhaustion from the long day finally caught up to you both.

And now here you were, in close proximity to the boy of your long-held affections. It would be scarily true to your fantasies if not for the sticky feeling of the sweat lightly coating your skin and the nausea swirling around your stomach. Skipping dinner never was a smart decision and it looks like you were suffering the consequences of your hindbrain doing the thinking for you.

You perk up when you inhale the subtle shift in Semi’s calming scent he started to unconsciously emit. He somehow sensed the slight distress in your scent before you recognised it. Turning onto his back and shifting against you, you hold your breath in hopes of not waking him up.

Pausing from his stirring, he sleepily opened his eyes a crack to take you in. Damn, that was cute. Even when waking up he’s stupidly hot. A smile graces his lips as he takes in the slight of your pink face and wide eyes.

“Good morning, gorgeous.” You had to beat back the horny side of you that jumped up at the sound of his deep voice rough with sleep.

Giving him a smile in return, you whisper back a good morning.

Pale eyelashes flutter as his eyelids shut. For a moment you were sacred he would fall back to sleep and leave you to face your traitorous thoughts. Rolling onto his side, Semi tugs you close to him, banishing the unreasonable fear. You tense slightly at the new position as it brought your tacky skin close to his, only relaxing minutely at the feel of his fingers running through your tangled hair.

Enjoying the soothing feel of his chest rising with each deep breath and the feeling his fingernails gently scrape against your scalp, you were lulled into a trance. Unthinkingly, you grind against the well-defined thigh that was sandwiched between your legs. Semi paused when he felt you move but continued when you didn’t make a fuss about it. Your light scent signifying contentment rather than the sweet arousal he came to know last night.

Your nails lightly scratch at his chest as you feel his other hand start to rub at the sensitive skin of the major scent glands based under your ear. Sighing in pleasure, your muscles release all tension under his thoughtful ministrations. You knew that if he kept this up for any longer you would surely start purring. His loving touches were sating an itch that hid at the back of your mind along with the rest of your omegan needs.

Semi was quite obvious in showing his enjoyment under your thoughtless attention, member growing hard with your thoughtless grinding. The air thickened with your candied scent, tickling his sensitive nose. His eyebrows furrow as he’s struck with the realisation of what the saccharine undertone signified.

“Uh, I think you just started your heat… Your scent is really heavy right now.” You blankly stare at the flushing male, blissfully hazy mind not processing the meaning behind his abrupt words.

“I’m two weeks out from my heat, there’s literally no way.” You reasoned. There was a lenient time frame with most heats, but that time frame was at most three days, not a whole fortnight out.

“You were with me as I started my rut, maybe mine kick-started yours?” His unsure tone did nothing to assure you. Although it did give you something to consider.

You mull over his suggestion. You’ve heard of long-established couples having their heats and ruts sync together, a biological response to help maximise the chance of baring healthy offspring. But you’ve never heard of a rut kick starting a heat in advance in two people that got intimate with one another not even 15 hours ago – long friendship notwithstanding.

If you thought about it, you were exhibiting all the classical signs of entering your heat. It was just little preposterous that Semi’s rut may have incidentally kick started yours. Maybe a quick google search would help? Or maybe you should hit up the nurse when this was all over with.

Exactly what this weekend would detail was still a bit lost on you, seeing as now a new variable has reared its ugly head. A deep and largely ignored part of you was satisfied at how well everything had aligned. Semi’s rut lead into increased frustration, which resulted in his blow up and subsequently into the unexpected confession. All of that led to this moment of you laying in his bed, smelling of him and blessed with the sight of his sleepy smile.

Your heat did pose a minor issue though. With Semi being in his rut it was already tenuous with you pairing up with him after shortly discovering each-others true feelings. Not that ruts – nor heats – drove people sex-crazy like so many adult films liked to portray. They did have the capacity to blur the line for your newly defined relationship.

It was a time that you were both at your most vulnerable. Afraid of driving him away from saying something wrong or maybe not being the person he actually wanted. You knew exactly what you craved during your heats and you did not want to embarrass yourself by asking for something Semi wasn’t ready to give you.

Semi breaks your train of thought by offering up his shower to freshen up. Literally jumping up at the opportunity to get out of your own head and clean up, you thanked him.

“Thanks, I’d love that.” You made it to the doorway of the bathroom before a thought hit you.

“Hey, uh, I don’t really want to get changed back into these clothes. Do you mind running to my dorm to get some clean ones for me?”

Semi rolled onto his back and raises an amused eyebrow at your uncharacteristic shy tone.

“Just steal some of my clothes, I don’t mind.” He gestures to his plain white dresser. He doesn’t feel it’s necessary to add that he would much prefer you wearing his clothes over the course of the next few days. Eita’s hell-bent in fulfilling a few of his fantasies with your consent. One of those fantasies included you wearing his clothes.

Nodding at him, you make your way over and sift through the draws before deciding on a plain black Shiratorizawa volleyball team training shirt and a pair of clean boxer shorts that you may have to roll the waist band for them to fit.

Secretly, you were slightly overwhelmed at how fast this was all going. Was it weird that you were more flustered about wearing his clothes than fucking in a semi-public room? Probably, but life was weird, so it was best to roll with the punches at this point.

Giving once last glance at Semi’s lax form splayed on the bed, you close the door behind you. The lock of the door seemingly taunts you with ideas of Semi joining you in the shower. Then again, it would probably be best to establish at least some boundaries before you both got lost in your respective throes. Flipping the lock, you make quick work of stripping down bare and starting up the shower, shivering at the feeling of the cool air caresses your heated body as you wait for the water to warm.

Hand stretch out under the spray, you judge the water temperature to be adequate and hop in. The decent water pressure was one of the many things you would praise about Shiratorizawa, alongside their amazing cooking staff and meal plans. One could accuse that the students are just little bit spoiled and they wouldn’t be exactly wrong.

Washing your hair, your mind drifts away from you, occupied with wondering thoughts. As you lather up your skin, a dark spot on your hip catches your eye. You have a double take when you notice the bruises etched into your skin from where Semi had gripped you from before. Heat burnt across your cheeks as you recall what had transpired not even a day ago. Carefully, your fingertips brush along the dark spots littering your chest and hips. You’re astounded by how dark they look against your flushed skin. They didn’t hurt nearly as much you would think from how pigmented they were. Kind of like Semi in that regard, intimidating exterior and benign on the inside.

Even though you were sure to lock the door, dirty thoughts of him joining you in the shower and skilled fingers buried deep inside of you fill your mind as you conditioned your hair and rinse. As the suds washed off, your hands autonomously drift towards the crest of your legs, fingers brushing against your faintly pulsing core.

Yup, if you weren’t sure before, you were definitely experiencing an early heat. At least you had someone to rid it out with, someone whom you loved and trusted. Plus, the direct presence of alpha pheromones should make the heat less intense.

Shutting off the water, you made quick work of drying off and slipping on the soft articles of clothing. Giving the lonely pair of underwear sitting in a pile of dirty clothes a second thought, you shrugged off the thought of putting them back on. Hopefully, if all went right, it would save some valuable time later on.

Just as you thought, you had to adjust the boxers for them to fit. Pat drying your hair to the best of your ability, you comb through it with your fingers, hoping it’ll dry faster. Examining your appearance in the mirror, a tingle of excitement went through you at seeing his larger clothes draped over your figure. They didn’t fit, that was for sure, but god did you love wearing them.

Tearing yourself away from the reflection, you walk out of the bathroom with a pink cheeks and smelling clean. Semi perks up from his seated position and puts down the phone he was frantically typing on just before you emerged.

A lazy smile makes its way across his face at how good you looked wearing his clothes. It felt like the stole the very breath from your lungs. Tossing his phone to the side, already long forgotten, he walks over towards you and winds his arms around your shoulders and buries his nose into your still damp hair.

“You look so good wearing my clothes. We should make this a regular thing.” He laughs at your shocked squawk, not immediately shooting him down. Leaning back, Eita takes in your scrubbed pink skin and the way his shirt almost completely covered the boxers you wore. It was all way to cute for his heart to take.

Not being able to help himself, Eita draws you into a deep kiss. He loved how his scent completely enveloped you from his clothes to his body wash. Eita was already becoming comfortable with how easily your scents intermingled. He knew that he was playing with fire by kissing you. It would be a true trial of strength to see if he could stop before he got too into it again, he really needed a shower too after all.

Semi probably didn’t intend for the kiss to become heavy, but your body immediately lit up as his lips melded into yours, making you crave more. While you still didn’t hear bells or feel rainbows sprout out of you when his mouth melded with yours, your mind did light up with a thousand fireworks as you felt his tongue swipe across your bottom lip.

Ever the tease, it was as you opened your mouth to admit him entrance did he pull back and give you a smirk that had you wanting to both punch him and kiss him even harder.

“As much as I would love to continue,” Semi bops you on the nose, stunning you. “I really need a shower.”

You huff at his words and cutely pout up at him, driving his mind wild in return.

“You shouldn’t start things you’re not planning on finishing, Semi-Semi. You could get a poor girl’s hopes up one day.” Your teasing look belied the sad tone you adopted.

He gives you a deadpan look before snapping back as a reflex: “Don’t call me that.”

“Alright then, babe. What do you want to be called?” From the way his eyes lit up at the endearment, you had found the key to Semi’s heart.

Lifting your chin up, he whispers into your ear. “Surprise me.”

He inwardly congratulates himself for the way that you shuddered at his low tone. “Just don’t call me Semi-Semi. I should beat Satori’s ass for ever calling me that.”

He unwraps his arms from your body and you had to bite down the whine that threatened to embarrass you at the loss. Semi shot you a knowing look and effectively diverted your attention by pointing to the bedside table holding your phone on charge.

“I noticed that it was flat, so I put it on charge when you hopped in. It should be charged enough to turn on by now.” He said as he slipped through the doorway, not even bothering to bring clean clothes with him.

Touched at his thoughtfulness, you briefly contemplated how low your standards must be for someone being considerate to put your phone on charge was seen as heart-touching. Ignoring that and the tight coil of heat sitting in your abdomen that Semi had elicited, you went and grabbed your phone. Slumping down onto the bed, you impatiently waited for it to start up, taking a quick look of his room in the meantime.

Unlike most boys his age, it was neat and smelt of spiced bergamot paired with clean laundry. While there was a bit of chaos in his desk, it seemed to be organised in some fashion with different papers and books stacked in alternating arrangements according to a code only known to the ash-blond alpha. There was a few articles of clothing spilling out of the over-filled hamper. It was kind of funny that such a diligent guy like Semi would leave laundry until the absolute last second.

Thinking about laundry… You cosy up into the soft grey cotton sheets of his bed. You’d have to ask what detergent he uses because it was insane how soft the cotton felt beneath your hands. The smell of clean fabric and Semi’s grounding scent filled your nose as you buried your head into his pillows.

A quiet ‘ding!’ from your phone tears you away from your observations and into the real world. You had apparently missed a few messages from your roommate during your impromptu sleepover with Semi. After texting her a quick update of your situation and checking your emails, you decide to hope onto the school website to fill out the heat exemption form and after a short deliberation ended up filling one out for Semi too.

Who knows how long this will last and it’s probably best to be safe and use your last moments of coherency securing you both an easier week ahead – give or take a few days. Finishing up the last section, you heard the shower turnoff and the shower curtain open. Judging that he was going to come out soon, you submit the form and place your phone on silent.

Semi emerges from the bathroom with a cloud of steam rushing out behind him. Stunned, you look over, only to be hit by déj�� vu. Looking tantalising standing there covered only by a towel dangerously low on his hips, his wet hair dripping onto his shoulders.

Stalking over to the bed, he pounces on top of you and buries his nose into your neck. Giggling at his childish behaviour, the temptation to scolding him for not drying his hair died on your tongue as you feel him press a chaste kiss onto your neck.

“I couldn’t bare another second without you at my side” he murmurs, unwilling to leave your comforting scent. Blushing at the sentiment, you give a short embarrassed laugh at how cheesy he was.

“You’re such a romantic. Satori will have a field day if I tell him that.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” He growls out. Eita hated the idea of Satori knowing any intimate details your relationship together. Also, the fact that Satori would never let him hear the end of it didn’t help Satori’s case of being let in the know-how of your sexual activities.

You laugh at the weak deterrent, full well knowing Semi would never follow through. A friendship spanning across high school let you gain insight to a lot of Semi’s quirks and behaviour. Never in the three years you’ve known him has he ever acted maliciously. Discounting the moment he was ready to tear Shirabu a new one yesterday – but that was a whole different situation.

You smirk at him in response. “You have no idea how far I’ll go to have some decent entertainment.”

“If you’re so bored, why didn’t you just say so?” Semi moves out of your grasp, now hovering over your body with his towel hanging onto his body through sheer will at this point.

Lips slotting together, Semi doesn’t give you the chance to retort. Not that you minded in the slightest. His mouth tasted of cool spearmint, contradicting the heat of his tongue mapping the inside of your mouth. You moan as he runs his tongue along your hard palate whilst giving a light suck.

Nudging his tongue out of your mouth, you bite his bottom lip and tug at it. Grip tightening on your hips, Eita refrains from pinning you down and kissing you until your begging him for more. It was the heady smell of need filling the air that knocked the idea away and replaced it with the burning desire to be buried within you. That’d be much more beneficial for the both of you, he grins to himself.

Eita notices the wet spot forming on the boxers he lent out. God, he was never going to be able to look at that pair the same ever again. The old shirt was way too big for you, hiding your gorgeous form from his hungry eyes. Fixing the sacrilege that it was, he grabs the hem giving it a slight tug to warn you of his intentions. At your nod, he rips the offending article of clothing off and is met with the heavenly sight of your bare chest still baring his marks from the night before. Eita’s dick twitches at the sight.

Dipping in for another kiss, he whispers against your parted lips. “God, you could make a grown man weep, baby girl. You should see how good you look laid out for me.”

Your heart flips at the comment. Throwing your arms around his shoulders, you pulled him into another searing kiss. Hands that you’ve watched serve a thousand no-touch aces dragged down your sides, callouses rough against smooth skin. Fingertips danced along the band of his boxers, teasingly dipping just under it.

Nipping at him, you silently voice your frustration with his teasing. Any other time and you would be all for it – hell half of your wet dreams revolved around Semi edging you into a teary mess. Now though? You felt like you could spontaneously combust from the heat building steadily with you.

Hands falling over his, you help him push down the boxers and kick them off the side of the bed. The hands that you’ve admired for so long drift further southward. Completely skipping over your core, you note with disappointment. Eita grips your thighs, admiring the way the soft flesh molded around his hand, loving the contrast the two of you made together.

Hard and malleable. Rough and soft. Eita and you.

From the very moment he met you, he was blinded by your personality. Kind to those who warranted it and never backing down from your morals. He loved how gentle you were with the younger years and conversely never refraining from scolding Shirabu if made any vitriolic comments to Goshiki. Unknowingly, you had set up a home inside of Eita’s heart and he’ll spend every moment with you to show you as such.

Semi took in every inch of your body under his hands as he manoeuvres you into a pose that made his mouth go dry. Top half pressed against the bed, ass swinging in the air in front of him, you made such an appetising sight, it truly tried Semi’s self-restraint to not just slam on home and take everything you’d give to him.

Feeling his gaze burning into your skin, you could resist the temptation to tease him even more. Wiggling your hips, you shoot him a sultry look over your shoulder.

“Are you ready yet or am I going to have to start without you?” You move your hands from beside your head in preparation to slide them down your front and into your waiting hole.

The growl fills the air dampens your devious side. By all accounts, teasing him like that during a rut, even a mild one, was not a smart move on your side. A dangerous glint fills his eye at your unintentional challenge.

Semi removes the towel and tosses it to the side, revealing his already swelling member to your greedy eyes. The towel hadn’t even hit the foot of the bed before his hands were back on you.

Settling a hand between your shoulder blades, he presses his weight onto you as he lowers himself to your cheek not pressed against the sheets. Your breath freezes in your chest as he brushes his lips across the delicate skin with a wicked look on his face.

“You are such a brat sometimes you know that right?” He breathes out, lips both so close to yours and infuriatingly too far. “It’s alright though, maybe I could teach you some manners.”

He moves back with those final words, grinning at how you shivered at them. You were half tempted to whine at the loss of contact, already starting to push up on your elbows before he forcefully stops you by pressing even harder on your back.

Your heart and hole simultaneously pulse in anticipation at Semi’s more forceful nature coming out to play, not so secretly loving concealed strength coming out to play. Semi was usually respectful and kind to a fault, that was why you privately loved it when Satori riled him up. It was only during those times you could see Semi’s true passion, the fire burning inside his soul being exposed to your keen eyes. There is also the moments when he plays which unfortunately occurs occasionally now that Shirabu usurped him as a starter.

Before, you were slightly apprehensive you your heat coinciding with Semi’s rut, now you were grateful. Thanks to your heat, you didn’t require extensive foreplay like last night. Naturally prepared, your hole was more pliable and slick now than any other time, as a natural occurrence to prevent both omega’s and their partners from hurting themselves during the thick of the heat. The last thing on their minds is to properly prepare themselves.

That fact doesn’t stop Semi from dipping in a finger, soon slipping in another inside as he noted how easily you stretched around it. You tilt your hips up, encouraging his long fingers to press in deeper, to fill you in a way yours couldn’t. Scissoring his fingers, he twists his wrist in a way that had you grasping at the sheets.

“Shit.” You gasp out between clenched teeth.

“You really like my fingers,” Semi states. He slips in a third and fans them out inside of your leaking hole, watching the way your pink hole engulfed his fingers without complaint.

Having enough, you reach down and grasp his wrist. Fixing him with a pleading expression that had him melting in your hand.

“Please, I need you. Now.”

Unable to refuse your plea, he withdrew them with a slick sound. With the way you looked at him, he would steal the stars out of the sky if you asked him.

“That didn’t take long at all, look at how polite you’re being now.”

Bringing slicked-up fingers to his mouth, his tongue flicks out to lap up your juices. Your viscous slick coated his tongue and triggered his voracious appetite, now feeling the strong urge to spend the next hour eating you out until you were a sobbing mess on his tongue. This was the second time you had derailed him, without even speaking or looking at him.

Eita forcibly shoulders past the idea, not willing to keep you waiting anymore, especially now that you were being so cute. Meanwhile, you ignored the dig in favour for quelling your excitement as he lines himself up.

The ash-blond alpha moans as he slips inside, not bothering to tease you now. You clench around him as you shiver at the sonorous sound he releases. Just like you thought, he slipped in without an issue, leaving only the pleasurable burn from stretching around his rigid cock.

Eita relished at how receptive you were of his touches, whether they be stroking or digging, you received each one with delight.

“You take me so well, baby girl.” He thrusts in deeply, punctuating his statement. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

The slick sounds and sensations of sex consumes your senses, adding to the fire your heat flaring up within you.

“Semi, please –“ You haven’t half an idea of what your begging for. All you wanted was something more. Voicing your greediness felt like admitting defeat to your omega desires but you needed him so badly that you no longer fought against them.

Long and deep strokes halt as he grabs your hip and you forcibly flips you onto your back. Eita doesn’t waste a single second to grab your leg, hiking it over his shoulder and re-entering you. Immediately Semi slides in even deeper. The new angle had starbursts exploding across your vision. You spared no thought to his poor neighbours as you let out a loud moan. Supposedly the dorm rooms were supposed to be sound-proofed, so this would be a good test to see if that was true.

Not being able to deny himself, he indulged the desire to mark you in a superficial way, unsatisfied that he couldn’t claim you as his. Yet. The day would come, hopefully sooner than later. Latching his mouth over faded splotches, he sucks them back into vibrancy before moving to a new spot. You arch your back as he sucks a few marks onto your breasts, one hand coming up to squeeze them and flick your erect nipple a few times.

Continuing fucking into your tight hole in the meantime, he admires his own handiwork. A masterpiece of pinks and purples of varying shades decorated you, looking stunning to his eyes. A promise is made to himself to not let them fade while you were in his care.

Driving his engorged dick in and out of you at a punishing pace, Eita has the one-minded focus of bringing you both to the peak. Eita wanted nothing more than to pull out and cum on your back and mark you up even more, but he knew that the urge to mate wouldn’t stop until he knotted you.

Knotting was a huge part of breeding and a significant factor to tempering heats and ruts alike. One could couple a dozen times a day during a rut and still not feel satisfied until the rush of hormones released by one is triggered. Having you here was both a blessing and curse in disguise, as he was now more driven than ever to breed you until your stomach was full and round.

The mental image alone made him clench his teeth, trying to reign in what little remained of his self-restraint. He’s had a partner before you during a rut, but it didn’t feel nearly as intense as your fucking did right now. Previous experiences didn’t hold a candle to being with you. This was better than any fantasy coupled with his right hand.

Knowing exactly what to do to drive you over the edge, Semi didn’t hesitate to deliver you to completion. Scraping his sharp canines against the delicate skin of the column neck, you tighten around him even more.

Fastening his lips over your scent gland, he gives a rough suck while pressing his teeth into the area, imitating a claiming mark. To your sex-hazed mind though, it felt like the real thing and that was the last push you needed to topple over the edge, his name on your lips.

“Semi!”

Lust becoming all consuming, your inner omega frustrated at being tricked out of a claiming bite went ignored as sensations threatened to drown you under unrelenting waves. You were only distantly aware of Semi chasing after his orgasm within your warmth. Mind feeling like a separate entity from your body, your vision fades to black.

When you come to, you instantly become aware of his knot locked inside of you. Okay, maybe you weren’t out of it for as long as your heavy eyelids suggested. Semi groaned at your restless shifting, accidentally tugging the sensitive appendage.

“You literally fucked me into unconsciousness for a moment there.” You state, not bothering to hide wonder in your tone. Honestly speaking, you thought that was a feat only achieved in porn, then in comes Semi to blow away every single expectation you held.

If things were to ever end badly between the two of you, Semi has wrecked you for anyone in the future. Your sexual expectations have been set too high now, bar raised to an incredible height.

Disbelieving, Semi just stares at you to gauge if you were telling the truth. He hadn’t actually noticed that you left him for a moment there. It was worrying that he was so absorbed by satisfying his instincts to fill you that he didn’t even notice you mentally checking out. Your weighted stare confirms that you didn’t lie.

“Damn.” He simply puts. The word alone couldn’t convey the myriad of emotions he was experiencing from hearing that.

On one hand, Eita was proud of himself for being able to do that. On the other, he was scared that he didn’t notice. The confusing mixture was enough for him to soften, knot deflating enough for him to pull out.

Cum drizzled out of your hole in thick globules, staining your upper thighs a transparent white. A deep primal part of him hated the waste, wanting nothing more than to gather it onto his fingers and shove it back into you, not wasting a single drop.

Mentally shaking off the intrusive thought, he gives your thigh a pat as he gets up to grab his towel off of the foot of the bed to clean himself off. Propping yourself up on his pillows, you don’t argue or bat him away when he starts to wipe you down and leaving the occasional gentle kiss behind. You were loving the feeling of being pampered by the alpha.

Throwing the dirtied towel into the hamper by his door, he lays against your side and rests his head on your chest. Your fingers brush through his almost dry hair that you knew was going to dry funny since he didn’t dry it properly. Eyelids feeling heavy from both physical and mental exhaustion, you didn’t want to leave the comfort of the bed for a shower. It wasn’t long before you peacefully dozed off with a just as tired Semi pressed against you.

A few hours later, you wake up feeling as if your burning up from the inside out. Irrationally scared that you may actually be on fire from how hot you were, you pat yourself down. Your dizzy mind registers the fact that you’re probably in full swing of your heat now, seeing as there was no sheet nor clothes suffocating you. Blindly, you reach out for your phone to confirm if you got at least some rest.

Movement from the corner of your eye catches your attention. Turning to your side, you’re met with the sinful sight of a flushed Semi jacking off. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth, trying to keep himself as quiet as possible while you slept beside him, not wanting to wake you up just yet. Too focused on the task at hand, he failed to notice you waking up.

Seeing his lack of awareness, you eyed his painful looking erection being handled quite roughly as Semi attempts to rush himself towards a much-needed orgasm. Both pity and arousal fills you at the sight, causing you to deliberate whether to jump in and offer some assistance or watch for a little longer and memorise as much as possible for another night.

A moan slips out of his mouth as he twists his hand just as he pumps his hand up. It seems the decision was made for you as your body automatically moves forward, mouth already salivating.

Grabbing his hands, you move them off of him and secure your mouth around his swollen-looking tip. Looking up, you match his shocked look with an innocent one, fluttering your eyelashes at him while giving a gentle suck to the flared head. Throwing back his head, he groans again.

“Babe,” he mutters, threading his fingers through your hair. “That mouth of yours is going to be the death of me someday.”

Choosing not to respond, you take in more of his length, licking over the veins protruding from his shaft. It seemed to be the correct choice as his hips automatically jerk up, almost shoving the entirety of himself into you if it weren’t for your hand on his hip.

Sending him a warning look, he gives you an apologetic look.

“Sorry, sorry.” He murmurs, using is other hand to stroke your hair in apology.

Accepting his apology, you roll your eyes at him before proceeding to take him to the root. The action had Semi sputtering. The sight was funny enough that you had to physically swallow down the laugh that threatened to come up. Feeling you swallow around his length, tongue simultaneously rubbing against him, his dick traitorously jumped inside your mouth.

Smiling around his length as best you could, you knew that Semi was already close from that small move. You knew a rut made alphas physically more sensitive compared to other times, you didn’t know it went to this extent. You knew yourself that while omegas became more sensitive as well, it took about three hand cramps and an hour of toy play before your body was satisfied enough to allow a fitful sleep.

Lucky bastards.

Feeling a bit petty, you give a hard suck while you draw back and stroke his tip with your tongue. His body shudders under your hands, his breath now coming out in moans that caused slick to start leak out of you. Even sleeping during a heat, slick was continuously produced so while you were wet when you woke up, you could feel it start to trickle out from you at how sensitive he was.

You always loved seeing his softer side come out, whether that be helping Goshiki out with his spiking or joining you in your after midnight baking sessions when the exam insomnia became too much. This was a different side to his vulnerability. Much different to late night talks about his insecurities related to both the court and his musical talents, you still cherished it just as much as those other moments.

Hips jolting up without his permission, you let him go, not at all minding the way he made you gag on his cock. The rough noises that would leave his bitten lips at the feeling of you choking on his length was enough payment for you. Not wanting to draw this out any longer, you remove a hand from his hip and fondle his balls. Rolling them in your hand and giving them a gentle squeeze while giving a harsh suck.

Semi’s eyes fly open, harshly tugging at your hair as he thrusts his hips up. This time, he does make you choke in earnest as he just about shoves his entire length down your throat.

You could feel the exact moment he hit his peak before the cum sprayed inside your mouth, balls tightening in your hands as his entire body tenses. A guttural moan electrifies the air as you diligently swallow his cum, not wasting a single drop.

Licking his dick clean, you feel him twitch against your lips as the orgasm left him over-sensitive. Sitting up, you throw a leg over his and straddle a well-defined thigh. You grind down on him, trying to draw him back to earth and to alleviate the deep-seated need to alleviate the pressure that has made its presence well and truly known.

Semi’s post-orgasm face was something classical artists could try to capture but never succeed. His normally furrowed eyebrows and tense mouth finally relaxed. Like this, he looked like his age and not a stressed-out salaryman with a hardass boss.

“I knew your mouth would kill me.” He mumbles, popping an eye open to meet your eager smile.

You laugh at his over dramatic words and stroke the sweat-matted hair off of his forehead.

“Well you have no idea how hard it was to keep my hands to myself when you have the audacity to look that hot while jacking it.” The ash-blond alpha blushes at your crass words but isn’t overly surprised that he woke you up.

Catching your hand in his, Semi has a sincere expression on his face.

“I’m sorry for waking you up. I did try to keep quiet at the beginning, at least.”

Warmth fills your chest at his consideration. Solo ruts were tough, exactly like heats, so when one finally found a partner to help them through it, not much thought went behind letting them sleep in favour for reliving the unbearable pressure.

“You didn’t wake me up.” You assured him. “I woke up because of how hot I felt. I’m pretty sure I’m in full heat now.”

You grind against his thigh in demonstration of both how horny and wet you were. Taking in the scent of the room, the air was thick with a mix of aroused pheromones. Semi could already feel his dick getting hard from the mixed scent and how wet you felt against his leg. He hadn’t even touched you and yet you were this affected.

Heats weren’t anything to look down on, he inwardly muses.

“Oh yeah?” He quirks a brow at your comment, acting like he couldn’t feel you dripping onto his thigh.

His hands come up to grip your hips, pushing you down onto his thigh as he pushes it up against your core. You moan at the pressure against your core, but it wasn’t nearly enough to relieve the burning desire. You pout up at him, knowing he wanted to tease you a little before getting to it.

Not wanting to lose at this game, you put on your best faux dejected expression. Sighing heavily, you place your hands on his chest and push him back slightly. A mixture of amusement and confusion played out over Semi’s fine features.

“Yeah… Too bad this alpha I’m with would rather play around. Oh well, maybe the next one to come around will be more to the point.”

If you were a sensible person, you would’ve avoided making a bad habit out of getting a rise out of Semi just to see how he would react, scarily similar to how Satori treats him. The difference was that Semi wouldn’t hesitate to smack Satori over the head when he pushes too far, meanwhile with you he can be creative in getting back at you now.

“I see.” Semi blandly says while releasing your hips.

Panic flashes inside you. Maybe you pushed too far, hit a little too close to home. It was a dick move of you to hit him in a place he couldn’t protect. Some would like to pin Semi as a little egotistical when in reality he knew his strengths and was his own worst critic when it came to every aspect of his life.

Fearing that you completely ruined the moment, you lean over to cup his cheeks. Heat be damned, if he wanted you to leave, the door wouldn’t even hit you on the ass you’d be running out of here so fast. Never in a million years would you ever want to upset Semi, you’d do anything for the deeply caring alpha. The very same one who gave you his team jacket at the Spring Interhigh when you foolishly left yours on the bus during the tail-end of winter.

“I’m so sorry, Semi. Forget what I said, I didn’t mean it.”

Eita sat there, bewildered that you looked close to tears at the prospect of insulting him. His heart did a flip in his chest. Not being able to hold up against the worried look etched into your pretty face, he snakes his arms around your waist and rolls you both over to your sides.

Man, he was too soft for you. Eita smiles at the thought.

“It’s fine, I know you didn’t mean it.” Semi pauses. Curious, you look up to see his eyes glittering in mischief. “You’re still a rude little omega, though.”

Those were the words that launched the two of you into an impromptu wrestling match. Semi obliterated you, surprise surprise. That’s not to say you got in a few shots that had Semi keeling over and proud that his partner could defend herself. Safe to say he was very proud about a lot of things relating to you, not that you would find out until a much later date.

Winding down, you grudgingly admitted defeat when he puts you in a headlock to stop you using your infamously fatal kicks on him. Laying side by side, shoulders touching as you both try to calm down heated blood. Hindbrain not knowing the difference between sexual and nonsexual activities, the match served to further rile you up.

Eita knew when you became restless, told by your twitching legs and fidgeting fingers twisting the bedding. A really effective way of venting that excess energy came to mind and Eita couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t feeling aroused in the slightest. Addicted to the cute noises you made and the expressions you made when he hit the right spot, he needed little reason to indulge you.

Thinking over the times he’d taken you, an idea struck him. It gave him a mental image of you hovering over him. The position deviated from the other ways you’ve fucked before, but he knew you’d love it. There was definitely nothing wrong with taking you from behind, in fact he preferred that position, but being able to see your face during it would be worth it.

Sensing Semi staring at you, you turned onto your side and gave him a languid smile. Smiling back at you, he placed a hand on your cheek and drew you into a languid kiss that had you wanting more. Tongues sliding against each other and teeth clacking together as you both move closer to one another. It felt like hours were spent like that, hands running up and down each other’s body as you both lazily made out.

Your lips chased after his retreating ones, Semi chuckles and gives your bottom lip a chastising nip.

“Let’s try something different.” He says. The words alone were plain and ordinary, but dressed with context, it caused excitement to join the arousal stirring within you.

Laying down onto his back, Semi makes himself comfortable by propping his upper body up on his pillows. Once satisfied, he shoots you an expectant look. You just stare at him blankly, not understanding what to do now. Eita gathers that he will basically have to spell it out for you to hop on top.

Eita pats his thighs in invitation. “Come on, get up.”

Confused, you follow the order without question and place yourself over his thighs. What the hell were you going to do on his thighs? Your sinful mind conjured images of ridding his thigh until you came. From the way Semi grabbed his dick and gestured to move up, that idea was immediately crossed out.

Shuffling up, you shoot him a questioning look that had him want to both laugh at odd innocence it held while completely nude and want to cry at how oblivious you could be sometimes. Eita was infamous now amongst his peers for making heart eyes at the most oblivious girl. If only he knew back then how to read your subtle language of love, he would’ve acted much sooner than in his final year.

Oh well, he’d a lifetime to show you his unwavering affection. The thought gave him pause. It was a big jump to make from confessing to fucking to silently vowing himself to you, but it all felt so right to him. However, he didn’t want to chase you away by voicing those promises. Later, he swears to himself.

“Have you ever ridden someone before?” He bluntly asks. In situations like this, it was best to be as direct as possible, even though his hindbrain wanted nothing more to bury himself in you and not stop until –

“Oh. That’s why I’m on top.” Your revelation interrupts his devious train of thought. “I haven’t. I like the view though.”

What a view it was to have Semi Eita under you. His tip-dyed hair sticking up at odd angles from not drying it properly, proving yourself correct. His dark eyes fastened on yours, full lips tugged into an encouraging smile, you could melt under his unadulterated attention. Semi Eita was not good for your heart, much like all the other things you cherished in life.

Shaking off the sudden introspection, you remembered why you were here in the first place. Raising yourself up on your knees, you placed a steadying hand both on his chest and one on top of the hand holding his dick. Nudging the still wet tip at your wet entrance, you pause.

You’ve never ridden someone before; you knew the theory behind it: up on your knees and down you go. Rinse and repeat. Still, you hesitate.

As if sensing your internal discord, Semi helps you out by placing his hands onto your hips and start slowly lowering you. Meeting your gaze in wordless question, you nod him your consent, delighting in the way his strong hands lower you onto his rigid dick.

Without having to do anything, Semi stole your breath away. Semi was a genius and if it weren’t for the angle you had to hold yourself up to prevent falling apart at the seams, you would kiss him.

Walls fluttering around the intrusion the entire slide down. You have to close your eyes to truly embrace the sensations washing over you. Soon, your hips met his pelvic bone, where you just sat there, shivering at the full feeling of him throbbing inside. You don’t think you could ever get sick of the feeling of Semi pulsating withing you.

“You’re doing so well. I’m proud of you babe, look at you go.” He praises.

Taking in a deep breath, you look down at Eita and give him a shaky smile. His hands tighten in encouragement, giving you a rakish grin that just about drove you wild.

Slowly lifting your body off of his dick, Eita leaves just the tip in before he drops you onto his dick. The next few minutes were spent with him guiding you up and down his dick, letting you learn and try and get the hang of things.

Okay, maybe ridding someone was a little more complicated than you were led to believe. It took you at least a dozen haphazard thrusts before you finally place your hands on his chest, ready to go solo. Biting your lip, his eyes darken at the silent message you gave him.

Releasing your waist, his hands slide down to grab a handful of your plump ass cheeks, waiting for you to take control. With a shaky breath, you lowered yourself onto him and flexed your thighs to lift yourself off, all while intermittently tightening around his member.

It took a few tries before you got the hang of it. His fat cock slipped out of few times, but thankfully he fixed it before it could end in disaster. Once you gained confidence, you doubled down and really started to enjoy yourself, reveling in Semi’s humid, soft pants and the way the vein on the side of his dick dragged along all the right places against your walls.

Slick squelches fill the stagnant air of the alpha’s room. You’ve never been so thankful at the soundproof dorms more so than at this very moment. You would spontaneously combust if anyone asides from the male under you hearing you moan and pant like the bitch in heat you were, regardless if you were both in the throes of your respective hormone-driven fucking.

“Look at how well you’re ridding me, beautiful. If you keep it up this may become my new favourite position.” Butterflies unfurl their wings and take flight inside your stomach at his words of praise.

Praises kept falling unthinkingly from his lips, your heart jolts at each and every one. Your hole greedily sucking him back in, begging him to not leave you empty for too long. Impaling you on his dick, he could not name a more beautiful sight than you ridding his cock, mouth open and head thrown back. Eita wanted nothing more than to take a picture of you in this very moment and frame it. No artwork he’ll ever come across could possibly hold a candle to your ethereal expressions.

The friction generated from your combined relentless pace was enough to have your toes curling and fingers dig into his abdomen. Eita growls at the flash of pain, hips jerking up in reflex.

Your eyes roll into the back of your head as the motion forces the head of his cock to push past the lip of your cervix, pressing impossibly deep inside. Your walls grip his cock so fiercely, Eita was half afraid that you stopped his blood flow for a second there.

“Baby girl,” Eita groans. Hands tightening around the globes of flesh he held in his hands, signalling how much he liked that.

“Again!” You demand. Eita rushed to meet your call, readjusting his grip from your ass onto your hips for better control and rams himself up into you at the same angle. Knees locking up, it was less you ridding him now and more of him ramming up into you while dropping you down onto his cock. Eyes rolling back into your head at the new angle and the force he places behind each and every thrust. You had completely conceded all control and you never felt so good in your life, body buzzing in ecstasy.

One particular well timed thrust had your spine tensing into an perfect arch as the mild buzzing sensation intensified and struck through your body like lightning. Creaming around his cock, you draw blood as you dig your nails into his flesh to try and anchor yourself to him and not join your mind that was trying it’s hardest to leave this earthly plane of existence.

Unable to help himself, he fucks up into your outrageously tight hole a few more times before he grows frustrated with slowly building orgasm and takes matters into his own hands. Obviously, this position just wasn’t going to do it for him.

“Sorry gorgeous, but let’s change this up little, yeah?” With that said, he swaps your positions all while still buried within you.

To your post-orgasmic blissed out mind, you magically found yourself under him as he frantically seeks out his orgasm within your slick hole. Hindbrain completely taking over, he pumps into and out of you like a man possessed, hands creating imprints into your hips identical to the first set.

Thoughts of him biting into you, permanently marking you as his, were provided by your inner desires. They refused to leave you as he growled as your walls flutter around him at the mere idea of being claimed. Maybe it was just your omegan side finally coming out to play, but you couldn’t deny how pleasant the idea of Semi being yours was.

“Eita,” You try to catch his attention. “Claim me.”

His brutal pace falters. He clenches his eyes shut and chokes out a groan. “Don’t say that stuff, baby girl. You have no idea how much I want to.”

If he wanted this as bad as you did, then why did he hesitate? Yes, granted it probably wasn’t the best time to bring it up while in the middle of sex, but what better time than now, in the present. Your heart felt so light and warm thinking of a life with him by your side, how could you not ask him.

“Eita, I love you and I can’t imagine my life with another. If you don’t claim me now, we’re going to end up doing it later. Lets do it now and save some time.” His breath shudders at the way you say his given name. Meanwhile, you were surprised at how articulated the words came out while he was buried balls-deep in you.

Not needing anymore encouragement to fulfill his deepest desire, he sheaths himself deep within you with one last thrust. Simultaneously, Eita sinks his canines into your major scent gland as his knot locks onto the rim of your hole, blood rushing into his mouth.

In that moment, the universe clicked into place as you felt your very being interconnected so thoroughly with Eita’s, it was hard for you to distinguish where you ended and he started.

As the new bond settled over your entwined bodies, self-awareness soon floods back in to carry away the crushing feeling of losing that split-second deep-seated connection. Now you knew why bonded couples said mating was an entirely different sensation once bound. Nothing could compare to the high Semi and yourself flew into.

Being so thoroughly and intimately connected with you had Eita’s inner-alpha put at ease. Rumbling happily, Semi slumps onto your body and wrapping you up in strong arms, careful of the inflated knot still buried deep inside. Basking in the shared warmth of the new connection, you unconsciously began to purr in kind, satisfied to a base level.

A sudden question stirs you out of the stupor, one that leaves you burning to know the answer.

“Hey,” Semi hums, showing he’s listening. “Does that mean we’re partners now?”

Eita knew it was still a delicate moment and yet that didn’t deter the laughter that spilt from him. He professed his feelings to you, made love to you multiple times, fell asleep in your arms and mated you and yet you were still unclear where his feelings lied. The jolting of his chest bumped your head around. The feeling of being slighted was wiped away by the joyous sound and coaxed you to laugh alongside him. Not once in the years you’ve known him to laugh so freely, it was a beautiful sound that you wanted to hear more of.

Pulling you up and cupping your face, Eita’s thumbs stroking the apples of your cheeks, leaving behind trails of a tingling sensation. Gazing deep into your eyes, he gives you a soft and open look.

“Of course. We’re mated now, so you’re stuck with me.”

“You promise?”

Semi shakes his head at you, knowing he signed himself up for a lifetime of your antics. A short reel of images flashed through his mind, mapping out his future with you. It was a future filled with laughter, passion and endless nights spent together. It was a future so bright it made his heart hurt from how full it felt.

Eita could spend a thousand nights trying to convey these feelings and still never truly encompass how far that love stretched. Instead, he presses a loving kiss onto your mouth; it was a good start. Closing your eyes, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in deeper.

The movement knocked Semi’s slowly deflating knot from your hole, signified by the sensation of his cum slowly escaping your hole. Saddened by the loss of the physical connection, your pout was replaced by Semi’s lips as he pulled out with a slick noise. Lust did still nip at you, but it was sedated and easily ignored. Breaking the kiss, Semi placed three pecks in succession, causing you to instantly cheer up. The new bond breached all senses of physicality, proven by the wave of love that washes over you from his end.

“We really need another shower.”

“It can wait. I want to cuddle.” While you did feel gross from being covered in drying body fluids, it didn’t stop you from caving to his wish.

“Fine. You have to help clean me up, though. It takes two to make this mess.” Semi shakes his head at you with an amused expression. You both knew how that will go down. Eita could swear that his hands felt magnetised to your skin, so he’d probably dirty you up more in the shower.

Clutching you to his chest, you found yourself listening to his heartbeat. The satisfied scent permeating the room was soon joined by one of elation exuding from your tired forms. Between the pacifying scent of bergamot, the steady rise and fall of his chest below your cheek, and the circles he drew onto your back, it was a lost battle against the exhaustion weighing down your eyelids.

Reaching behind himself, he fishes for the long-forgotten blanket that had been kicked to the side and draws it over both you both. A comfortable warmth radiates from your intertwined bodies as you both drift away to sleep, heads filled with nebulous thoughts of the future spanning before the two of you.

Notes: Critiques, Comments & Notes are always appreciated!!

#semi eita x reader #semi x reader #a/b/o au #a/b/o dynamics #haikyuu!! fic #haikyuu!! x reader #haikyuu reader insert #reader insert #semi eita #SBBU part 2 #this took me 2 months and 2 other projects to finally finish #shiratorizawa #haikyu!! x reader #haikyu!! fic

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fae-fucker · 3 years

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Review: There's Magic Between Us

by Jillian Maria

A diehard city girl, 16-year-old Lydia Barnes is reluctant to spend a week in her grandma’s small town. But hidden beneath Fairbrooke’s exterior of shoddy diners and empty farms, there’s a forest that calls to her. In it, she meets Eden: blunt, focused, and fascinating. She claims to be hunting fae treasure, and while Lydia laughs it off at first, it quickly becomes obvious that Eden’s not joking—magic is real. Lydia joins the treasure hunt, thrilled by all the things it offers her. Things like endless places in the forest to explore and a friendship with Eden that threatens to blossom into something more. But even as she throws herself into her new adventure, some questions linger. Why did her mom keep magic a secret? Why do most of the townspeople act like the forest is evil? It seems that, as much as Lydia would like to pretend otherwise, not everything in Fairbrooke is as bright and easy as a new crush…

I received a digital copy of the book in exchange for a review.

And here it is! Nearly a month late because I’m bad at time :)

But hey, that means the book is already out and you can go get it! Wee!

Also, here’s my review of Jillian Maria’s other book, The Songbird’s Refrain.

This review contains no spoilers aside from stuff that you can probably assume from the blurb, such as the existence of the fae and magic. Duh. Anyway, onward!

So, I’m gonna be straight with you fam, not that I can be anything else, but to spare any potential author their feelings and maybe prevent them from reading the review, not that that would happen, I hope:

This book was not for me.

Now, that doesn’t mean it was bad. Far from it, I think it’s pretty much exactly what it’s advertised as and anyone who thinks they might enjoy it will defo enjoy it. It’s a polished work of art that’s professionally written and presented, on par with and often above a lot of traditionally published stuff, and if you want a fluffy magical sapphic YA romance, this is for you.

But it wasn’t for me. Or, at least, I don’t think I’m the target audience. I enjoyed reading it, don’t get me wrong, but my enjoyment was always lukewarm, like I wasn’t quite getting the full experience. And that’s more on me than the book.

I won’t structure this review the way I usually do, mainly because I feel like my problems with the book are all intertwined and stem from the same source, which is ... I’m not sure? Genre? Target audience? Intent? All of the above?

The writing still carries the same sort of easy-to-read style that was present in The Songbird’s Refrain, though the main characters’ voices are obviously vastly different.

Overall, I liked the writing on a technical level, and I’m once again impressed with the author’s ability to avoid swear words, though Lydia is a bit more of a potty-mouth than Elizabeth was.

Lydia has a clear personality and voice, and one of my problems is that maybe it was a little too clear at times.

I know how that sounds, but it could be a side-effect of the book’s target audience being teens. Both Lydia and Eden have extremely defined and spelled-out character arcs. Lydia is too reckless and spontaneous and needs to chill, Eden is too chill and calculating and needs to let loose. A fine concept in theory, a good mirroring for a romance, but here, its execution feels a bit like a checklist? It’s basically spelled out for us how one influences the other, the character acknowledge their own flaws and at the end note how the other has changed them for the better, rounded them out. It didn’t feel very natural, and I thought it would’ve been better to leave that stuff implied since it was already pretty obvious.

It doesn’t help that both Lydia and Eden are far, far too mature for any sixteen-year-old I’ve ever met. They both recognize and acknowledge their feelings as irrational and apologize exactly for what they’ve done wrong, which sure, maybe is feel-good and a positive influence upon a teen reading this, but for me just felt a bit unrealistic. My favorite part of the book was when Lydia and Eden had a fight and Lydia stomped off all pissy and Eden refused to apologize later. It showed them being teens, individuals, idiots, flawed people who are growing up and learning to deal with their emotions. And then it’s somewhat undercut by them both having perfect apologies afterward where they know exactly what they did wrong just based on intuition? Like, complete with “here’s what I did wrong and why that was bad of me.” Idk, maybe JM was a better person as a teen than I was.

I really can’t say a lot about the other characters. The heroes of the story were all defined and had motivations and flaws of their own, while the antagonists were either a faceless mob, a faeceless mob (get it?), or just a dude who shows up in the last chapters and then is immediately dealt with. Compared to the antagonists in TSR, these guys felt a little underwhelming. They were set up from earlier in the story, of course, but their inclusion still felt a bit last-minute instead of a natural progression and integration into the fabric of the story.

And, again, I get it. This isn’t about the villains or that conflict. This is about the love story and the familial bonds and everything else comes after. Which is fine, but not something I personally found very compelling.

I think my favorite character was Eden, because she was cranky and awkward and flawed to a degree that felt right. She made mistakes but had her reasons, she was unlikable at times, and she felt grief and remorse.

I also liked Lydia’s mother, who, despite being in fear or pain for a lot of her on-page presence, still loved her daughter fiercely. She felt a lot like a real parent, even if her and Lydia’s relationship was a bit too saccharine for me to fully get behind.

Now let’s talk about the plot, or rather, the pacing, which was my other big problem with the book. The first third is very slow, my dudes. It may have contributed to why it took me so long to finish the book, a lot of it is just Lydia faffing about. The book is very light on magic stuff in the beginning, and it would’ve been fine if it didn’t do a whole 180 at the end and turned into a low-fantasy menacing mystery, complete with the vague threat of a human-fae war. I would’ve liked to have seen less Lydia and Eden faffing about and more of that magic plot, and while I understand that the focus of the first third was character-building, it still could’ve been done with a more balanced spread of plot vs character interaction.

But here’s where my personal tastes cloud my judgment. I’m not a young teen, so maybe I don’t see the value in more compassionate and understanding teen characters who could serve as role models. I’m not a WLW, so maybe I don’t see the value in two girls faffing about looking for a magic stick in the forest. I’m not a fluff-enjoyer (whatever the proper word for that is), so maybe the universally loving and positive characters just don’t land as well for me.

I can’t say that I hated this book, because I didn’t. In fact, I really enjoyed the latter half of it. I thought the fae were cool and interesting and felt disappointed there weren’t more of them in the story. Despite my grumbling, I do still appreciate what the book tried to do with the comfortable and loving family relationships between the characters and their relatives. I can see how this could help other readers and make them feel seen or perhaps soothe them when they don’t have the same thing in their lives.

I can see what this book was going for. I respect it, and I respect the work and effort and love put into it. It oozes from every word like a warm, sweet sludge.

But I’m covered in goop now. And my hands are all sticky.

This wasn’t for me. But maybe it can be for you. If you want to read a sweet, magical and well-written gay YA romance, this is for you. It was specifically made for you, made for someone who craves this but doesn’t see enough of it. This book is important for what it represents and for what it is. And I hope with all my heart you love it as much as it deserves to be loved, as much as it loves you for reading it.

#book review #book recs #there's magic between us #TMBU

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pippki-writes · 3 years

Text

An Ill-Fitting Name: Snippet 15

NOTES:

Snippet 1; Snippets 2 & 3; Snippet 4; Snippet 5; Snippet 6; Snippet 7; Snippet 8; Snippet 9; Snippet 10; Snippet 11; Snippet 12; Snippet 13; Snippet 14

Word Count: ~2k

Faoust belongs to @thebiggestnerd - she writes him; Isaiah and everyone else here are mine.

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A lot of things can happen in five short days. Like you find out your murder-friend-with-benefits got killed, and brought back by the god of Chaos on the condition that he had no memories of the love of his life. And maybe Chaos encourages your friend to pay more attention to you instead of the man he had loved. And maybe you go along with it—even though you know, right there in front of his actual love, that it’s so fucked up of you, that it won’t last, that it’s all just going to go horribly wrong. You fall into it anyway.

Hasn’t happened to you? Oh, just Isaiah then.

Isaiah still can’t explain to himself why, when Faoust asked, he agreed to try being something more for one another…first Isaiah agreed to come home with him, not to fool around more but to simply…spend time together? And then, what a day later? After spending the night, spending the day together, after a second fantastic tumble in as many days, just laying together spent in bed, there Faoust was saying insanely sappy things, about how Isaiah understood him, and how he liked being around him, and wondering about whether they were destined to be together? That sort of bullshit made Isaiah laugh. He doesn’t believe in destinies—no. A man controls his own fate, choices, actions. This was no destiny. Just Isaiah, who liked what they had already. Who didn’t want to ruin an already good thing. But who decided, finger pressed to Faoust’s lips to shush him from a string of “this is stupid”s, Faoust trying to backpedal his feelings while Isaiah simply needed time to think…who decided to go for it anyway.

It wasn’t a perfect five days. Saccharinity—a sweet kiss, a gentle touch of his face—made Isaiah feel uncomfortable—was not for him, not the dynamic he was used to sharing, not with Faoust. He had no desire to be exclusive either, the two of them, though he could sense the disappointment when Faoust agreed to it. That should have been a stronger clue how none of this was real. Before Chaos intervened, Faoust was living a quite comfortably open polyamorous life. Why would he suddenly want to forsake that for a monogamous life with Isaiah? Not that Isaiah would want such a thing anyway, even if he didn’t feel so uncomfortable with the idea of genuine commitment.

And then there were the appearances from Chaos itself, its terrifying hold over Faoust, fucking with his mind, inviting Isaiah to join it? Isaiah didn’t want to think about the horrible, too-toothed smile and the way it held Faoust. The way it smoothed over Faoust’s memories to free him from pain, to keep him from remembering.

Ah, and then the fifth night. When Isaiah had gotten attacked by Faoust’s true love, Dorien, over a bit of a misunderstanding (yes, ok, he can objectively admit how it might look to burst into a room and see Isaiah with a knife in his hand straddling Faoust, with Faoust covered in a mess of bloody cuts, but it was consensual), had gotten thrown against the wall and attacked over and over, Dorien screaming and slashing Isaiah’s arms. Faoust had had to save him from Dorien, had told him later he’d been scared Dorien was going to kill him. Someone caring whether he died? That was new.

And then, Isaiah hadn’t even bothered to ask how, he didn’t care, later that night, Faoust got his memories back. The hold Chaos had had over his mind had broken. He was back to the way he’d always been. Isaiah woke from a half-sleep with a start, remembers seeing Faoust peeking in awkwardly. Isaiah realized as he woke up that Faoust was at the door, rather than still in the bed with him.

“Hm? Where’d you run off to?”

“So,” said Faoust, “I have some good news and bad news.”

Isaiah knew. He knew by the tone of Faoust’s voice that this was it, that this—whatever it was—was over. “Ah, just say it.”

“I’m back. I got my memory back…all of it.”

“Is that the good news, the bad news, or both?”

“Little bit of both. Ah…” Faoust decided, after a pause, to just come out with it. “Chaos was manipulating my feelings for you. I don't..I don't feel any differently than I did before I died. I still care about you. A lot. But I was comfortable where we were.”

“Yeah, it…yeah.” Isaiah sighed. “Are you mad at me for going along with it anyway?”

Faoust smiled a little sadly. “Not at all.”

A bit more banter exchanged between the two of them. Isaiah claimed Faoust’s bed for the night, since he had very recently gotten a beat-down from the man Faoust would be eagerly waiting to run back to. They said the expected sort of things to say between people hoping to shift back to something they’d had before with as little damage as possible. Wouldn’t work out anyway. Better for both of us. Faoust seemed inclined to keep talking, as if to make up for this—whatever breaking off this was. But Isaiah didn’t want this pity, this strange compensation, this consolation prize of conversation knowing that Faoust was just waiting for Isaiah to seem ok so he could leave again. Isaiah finally chased Faoust off with a good-natured “stop bothering me, I’m sleeping,” rolling away from him and spreading himself out on his stomach across as much of the whole bed as he could, waiting for Faoust to leave.

Once Faoust was gone, Isaiah rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

Yes.

Best for both of them.

Isaiah isn’t meant for soft, kind things.

Murder and magic. That’s what he’s good for.

Now, Isaiah sits on his porch, legs kicked against the railing, thinking. His hands hold a stick and his knife, slowly worrying the bark away with the blade as he tries to make sense of his mind. It hadn’t even been love, they’d both said that, even when Faoust was completely under the control of Chaos, he’d never said he loved Isaiah. And even if he had, come on, Isaiah had been loved before.

But no. That wasn’t quite right, was it?

Vespar had been loved. And Elios before that, and Redrik before that, and so on down the line until you hit the bedrock of Isaiah, who had never been loved. Not by his mother. Not by his father. Not by anyone.

No one had loved him, and especially no one had ever known him, really him and all the things he did, and loved him. Not even come close. This thing with Faoust, it hadn’t been love. But it had been something that could have come close.

But no. It had all just been based on lies and manipulation. He knew that. He’d known it going in. So why does he feel so…hell. He doesn’t even know how to describe what he’s feeling.

Isaiah’s reverie is snapped by the sound of someone approaching. Any other time, a stranger crashing through the trees to his hidden home, calling out, “Isaiah James?” would have been great cause for concern. But here, today, right now, feeling things he isn’t even sure how to describe, the distraction is welcome. Isaiah stands warily, letting the stick fall, holding the knife ready in his hand.

The man stops at the edge of the clearing, holds up a hand to shade his eyes from the sun in spite of the cheap aviators on his face, to glance at Isaiah, check the phone in his hand, and back to Isaiah. He’s wearing a coat, though the day is a bit warm for it, and projects a solid confidence as he starts walking towards the porch.

“I’ve been looking for you, Isaiah James,” the man begins, “and hell have you been difficult to find. Would have figured you for dead, if I’d been able to find a body. But your mother—“

At this, the man freezes. Something in Isaiah snaps, this man speaking a name he shouldn’t know, mentioning his mother. He wants to hear no more, and without even needing to think about it he found his hand quickly tracing out the sigil in the air, the words across his lips, his will being imposed on another, binding the man in place. Isaiah closes the distance between the two of them, in the quiet of the trees, the traffic and the rest of the world distant and muffled by this little place where Isaiah has made a home.

“You should have found me dead,” Isaiah hisses, his thumb rubbing against the heel of his blade, using his magic to jerk the man down to his knees, wide-eyed and still frozen. “They sure as hell won’t find you.”

Isaiah draws the blade hard and deep across the man’s throat, one fierce quick motion, but stops before sending the body hurtling down into the earth where no one will find it. He grabs the phone, still clenched in the man’s hand, and holds it up to the man’s wide eyed face to unlock it.

The screen is on a missing persons poster, with side by side images—a sullen-looking 14-year-old boy with short, sandy curls, and the uncanny, unnerving imaginings of a computer algorithm of what that boy might look like now at 33. Still unsmiling, eyes hollow and dead. Have you seen him? asks the poster. Isaiah James.

Isaiah eyes the image critically. A facsimile of himself, hair too short, eyes (both of them, but hah, how could a computer guess he’d be missing one?) without any hint of mischief or trouble, an alternate Isaiah that could have been. Maybe, if Isaiah had been any kind of normal.

Isaiah swipes to the man’s messages to see what else he can find.

He has no intention of telling the bitch ahead of time, but Isaiah James has decided to come home. browser tabs, but it doesn’t look like the man told her where he thought Isaiah was. Not even where he was looking.

The man was a private investigator, apparently. Not from around here, by what Isaiah can glean from the details on his phone, and so, Isaiah thinks as he dips a finger in the man’s blood to start drawing a sigil, not likely to be missed soon. It’s so much easier to send someone hurtling into the earth right when he kills them, drawing upon the power of the bloodshed in the moment. Waiting requires this extra step. Manual, he thinks, rather than automatic. He considers keeping the phone, but no. He’s seen enough. A cell signal is a liability. He uses his magic to bury the phone far away, deep within the earth, and to send the man disappearing into the ground below, never to be found.

Back by the road, Isaiah finds a rental car. Tedious, he thinks, hotwiring the car and driving it off somewhere dark and without the pesky interference of video cameras. He can’t just leave the car near his home—that would inspire searches. Questions. Shit he doesn’t need. He drives it a few towns over, to give a different police force something to puzzle over, and slips back home through the shadows.

Perhaps, if he had been in a different sort of mood, Isaiah would shrug it off. To hell with his mother and whatever the hell she wants with him. It surely won’t be anything good. But right now, Isaiah feels…uncertain. Bothered by things he doesn’t know how to even identify. Needing something else to turn his mind to, to distract him from the confusion inside. He snaps his knife shut, sliding it in his pocket, and goes back in to grab his truck keys.

He wants to know. He needs to know. What the hell does she want?

He has no intention of telling the bitch ahead of time, but Isaiah James has decided to come home.

- NEXT SNIPPET -

#an ill-fitting name #My writing #original story #collaborative fiction #original work #original writing #original fiction #magic fiction #magic murderer #magic murder #snippets #fictional murderer #fictional murder

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starswornoaths · 5 years

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Prompt 24: Unctuous

A big, accepting found family who loves and understands you will not cure anything, nor will it heal that which cannot be healed.

But it helps. Gods, does it help.

Warning: Below the cut, Y’Shtola experiences a form of Cibophobia, or a fear of food, based on overwhelming texture and smell following the loss of her sight. Just wanted to warn everyone before the cut.

Word count: 1,475

It seemed only natural for the group of them to get together for tea, once they had all been restored and reunited. With how they had made it something of a routine to catch up between the primals and logistics of their day to day, it was only meet that they would come together to break bread ⁠— or tea in this case ⁠— and learn who they had all become for their experiences. To come together in love and healing, to move past their deepest betrayal.

And Y’Shtola misliked how much she dreaded it.

She made no secret of the loss of her eyesight ⁠— and that it had been the price for the magic that had bore her and Thancred away from the aquaducts beneath the Ul’Dahn palace. Even if she had attempted, upon her own inquiry, her fellow Scions told her that her eyes had lost much of their aquamarine hue, looking more as frosted glass, as if to match how poorly they were seen through.

Still, she had learned to function in the weeks after awaking. Her aether sight helped maneuver around people or combat, and even without, her training as a conjurer had helped her to move while feeling the world around her. It was not perfect ⁠— she still struggled with the loss of so many mundane things she had taken for granted, so many hobbies and interests that were either no longer accessible as she knew them, or a key aspect of them had been lost that she as of yet lacked the supplement for.

Time, Y’Shtola would remind herself. Time would work with her.

Time was not on her side when it came to food, however; dishes that had been a favorite of hers were now nearly unbearable for her, for reasons she was largely unprepared for. A simple stew with a hearty broth, once a savory comfort food eagerly enjoyed with soft bread and a cup of tea was now overwhelming in its scent and texture; even spooning the broth to her mouth, rather than enjoy the taste of meat and vegetables, all she could feel was how unctuous its texture was for the animal fat in the broth. Even trying to wipe her face with a cloth, all she felt was oil for so long afterward she needed to bathe to be free of it. Even deconstructing it, the texture of meat was just oily with chew.

She managed. Bread, fruits, and vegetables were more than enough. If she required more protein, she found nuts to be particularly satisfying ⁠— and blessedly dry ⁠— and she made it work. It was enough. She knew it would get better with time and proper adjustment to her new life, and really, that was the mantra that kept her spirits up.

Cafes were practically out, for their overwhelming scents, and it stung Y’Shtola’s pride to have to say it at all. Serella seemed to take it with grace, and had reassured her that the gathering was to be in the Rising Stones.

“I don’t think we’re much up for venturing too far, after everything.” Serella had said quietly.

Y’Shtola agreed, and thus they all gathered in the Rising Stones once again.

Though typically a, “girl’s only outing,” given the circumstances, all who wanted to be there were present ⁠— though given availability, that really only meant Arenvald, F’lhaminn, and Uthengentle had joined them.

“Have we enough cups?” Alisaie asked suddenly. “I’m only just realizing we’ve never had to worry about that.”

“Not enough in the same set, but certainly enough cups,” F’lhaminn reassured from somewhere behind the counter ⁠— at least, that was approximately where Y’Shtola heard her. “Would you mind setting the table? I’ve yet to run down to the larder.”

“Oh, give your feet a rest, F’lhaminn, I’ll see to that,” Serella spoke that time, and there were footsteps nearing the table everyone had begun to gather at, following the sound of a chair scooting across the stone ⁠— she must have gotten the songstress to at last sit down. “I’ve been meaning to take stock down there, anyroad. Y’Shtola, mind coming with me? I could use a hand.”

Biting back a hiss of frustration at the cacophony of people trying to offer to help her instead, Y’Shtola instead opted for mild reassurances as she rose from her chair.

“I would be glad to. Shall we?” the sorceress replied with a gesture of her hand.

“We shall! Right this way, then!” Serella’s voice was quiet but bright, and Y’Shtola followed her clacking footsteps.

The temperature dropped in that way it did when they walked down the hall and into the larder. The muffled noise and musty quiet was oddly pleasing for Y’Shtola, and she took a moment to linger in that stillness.

“Thankfully, Hoary Boulder worked out that uneven stone in the floor a bit back, so we don’t have to mind our footing too much.” When Y’Shtola found Serella’s voice too distant, she quickened her pace a few steps to close the distance.

“‘Tis something we have put off.” Y’Shtola mused. “There were more important things to concern ourselves with.”

“True enough — I think he just wanted to keep busy, really.” Serella replied, though the end of her statement sounded strained. The sound of a heavy door swinging open confirmed that she had just opened the larder proper. “There we go. Now, then! What are you feeling for food?”

Y’Shtola’s stomach lurched, even as she conjured many a food that had been a favorite in her mind.

“I would not be the one to ask.” She tried to argue.

“I’d say you are — I don’t want to make something that’ll make you sick.” Serella insisted.

Y’Shtola paused. Ah, and she had wondered what had inspired Serella to ask her for help in the larder. She had wanted privacy for this discussion.

“Y’mhitra told you?” She asked carefully.

“She worries greatly, often, and aloud. Uthengentle is a good listener.”

“I see. And where do you come into the equation?” Y’Shtola crossed her arms, feeling defensive.

“Uthengentle can’t cook, and I’m halfway decent at putting two and two together when he speaks between the lines.” Serella replied, if a touch bashfully.

“He can’t cook?”

“He set fire to a pot of water.” Serella deadpanned. “And his crowning achievement was caramelized oranges.”

“That sounds rather pleasant—”

“He’d been trying to make orange juice.”

“...Ah.” Y’Shtola laughed before she could stop herself. “So he is simply not permitted to cook.”

“Our insurance wouldn’t cover the destruction.”

They dissolved into giggles, safe in their soft silence and one another’s company.

“I don’t know what you’re going through, and I can’t fix it — but I think I can make something you’ll actually want to eat.”

“I am not starving myself, Serella.” Y’Shtola muttered with pursed lips.

“I know you aren’t — you can’t, with your spellcasting.” Y’Shtola nodded. “But you also aren’t enjoying food. You deserve to.”

The tension that thrummed in the space between Y’Shtola’s shoulders unwound itself, and she went lax with a calming breath. This was different than everyone falling over themselves to help her unasked with things she was more than capable of handling — and something that she could actually use help with.

“Something sweet, perhaps?” She chanced. “Though for the moment...some textures are too...greasy for my liking. And some scents make me faintly nauseated.”

“Okay, sweet but mild, and isn’t oily.” Serella mused, and the sorceress could hear her rummaging in the shelves. “How about...crepes? With some nice vanilla cream and sliced fruit?”

“Delightful.” Y’Shtola said with a happy hum.

She had not had the time for making, or even seeking out, such confections, and even those that were sold involved her exposing herself to the cloyingly saccharine scents of patisserie shops or chocolatier shops. Even that thought was enough to make her stomach flip unpleasantly.

“Great! Mind carrying this for me?” A small sack was pressed into her hands. Flour, she realized when she felt the soft, powdery residue against her fingertips.

“Is this all I am meant to carry?” She asked with an arch of her brow.

“I’m bringing all the fruit we’ve got — trust me, you’re doing me a world of good.”

“This seems an odd moment for sentimentality, but thank you for this.” Y’Shtola said haltingly. She saw Serella’s aether still. “I will...improve. This is temporary.”

“Wouldn’t matter if it wasn’t.” Serella said matter of factly. “I didn’t track you lot across nations and through the Lifestream itself to leave you to struggle alone. That’s not what any of us have ever been about.”

When Y’Shtola smiled, it felt more genuine than it had in months.

“Right you are.” She agreed, and the two stepped back into the light, back to their family.

#FFxivWrite2019 #Y'Shtola Rhule #Serella Arcbane #I really hope this came across as respectful and not like pandering or anything #I was unprepared for the fact they alluded to her blindness in 5.0 given they've...largely ignored it #I hope those who read enjoy!#cibophobia tw

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alloveroliver · 5 years

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Harr Silver Smut

feel free to share on the main if you enjoy it! :) sorry its so short!

"I...do not feel comfortable with that yet, Alice."

"Oh...can I ask why?"

"I do not know too well myself. But while the intimacy would be something I would love to share with you...the thought of you staring at me so closely, seeing my face...no, you might think me a fool-"

"We can work around it, Harr. You could even blindfold me if you want, but I'd never be unhappy with seeing your face."

She had probably meant it in jest...but Heavens above, Harr couldn't stop thinking about it.

It wasn't that there was anything...wrong with his face. At least, as far as he could guess. Harr hadn't really been one to take much pride in his own appearance; if anything, he had always tried to make it easier to simply disappear. Someone viewing his face was weakness enough, and in the case of his dear sweet Alice, the weakness was less about the Magic Tower and more...being tongue-tied and way too deep in love to function.

...So maybe that was why that thought was so enticing? The thought of stripping her sight with cloth?

Goodness, Silver! When did you become so depraved?

Alice would be totally blind, but still so receptive to him. He could do what he wanted, what she so sweetly asked of him, and it would be a complete surprise every time. The anticipation would make every kiss and touch sweeter than before, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. The anonymity a blindfold would provide, while not foolproof, gave Harr a cloak and mask to hide behind, to become a different kind of lover when the candlelight went out. Shadows were his realm to begin with, and he couldn't contain a shiver of pleasure at how she would jump and squirm under his magic-laden fingertips in the faint light of the moon.

"...Heavens, what am I thinking..."

Maybe he should get back to work.

But as he tinkered and toyed at the workbench, cooking up a sleeping potion for his latest customer, his thoughts were nothing short of chaotic, a maelstrom of unbidden desires and thoughts that would have made sinners blush.

The sleeping draught was long in the back of his mind when visions of Alice came forth, her pretty lips shining and puffy with the effort of holding back her voice, hips wiggling with every fleeting touch he would trace over her lithe form. Fingers, tongue, teeth, whatever she desired, with Harr feeling free as a bird while she was bound and eager beneath him.

Magic crackling in his fingertips, aching with how vivid his imagination had become, invited him to press his hand against his crotch, pushing down upon his length beneath the heavy fabrics. But that offered little comfort, not when his visionary self was preparing to lap at Alice like a starving man, feeling how the overstimulation would cause her thighs to clench around his head in sheer pleasure. The muscles jumping under the skin, the angelic cries ripped from her throat, the saccharine syrup that would run down his face as he thrust his tongue in to bring her to the edge and beyond.

The idea of sensual deprivation, only to reward her with heavenly overstimulation...the dark recesses of Harr's mind bade him closer, and unfortunately, he was not quite prepared to fight off their coaxing words.

Throwing himself towards the door to lock it and almost tripping over his robe to reach his chair once more, Harr made quick work of his tunic and belt, leaving his abdomen bare and free from its confinement. Shimmying his trousers down further, he internally winced at the sound of his own arousal hitting his stomach. How shameful of me..., he thought, but didn't stop himself from dipping his fingers into the pot of fragrant oils before him, or from smearing his shaft with it and allowing his wrist to carry on from there.

Head thrown back, mouth agape as his free hand clasped the bench for stability, he allowed the picture show to continue playing behind his eyelid. Alice, now looking dishevelled beneath him, beckoned him into her loving embrace, legs clasped at his sides as he pushed himself deeper. She would be totally at his mercy, but he would never try to push her too far.

His sweet touches, a mixture of flame and ice, would lick up the column of her throat and down between her legs, until her head was thrashing side to side, pleading for something, anything, and Harr was the only one to grant it.

"Let me see you", she would purr, and Harr groaned through his teeth at the way his arousal jumped in his palm. He would almost rip the blindfold away, barely able to control himself, only just making sure to slow his ministrations to fully seat himself within her.

The shock of bright blue, glossy with unshed tears, was just enough.

Unintelligible words flooded from Harr's mouth as he pumped himself faster, the coil in his stomach almost snapping with how quickly Alice's image had wound him. The climax itself almost shocked him with its speed, but he found himself whipped up in the frenzy just as fast, hips stuttering up from the wooden chair in sporadic thrusts, as if she was right there with him, screaming in her own ecstasy. Magic-fuelled sparks jolted the very muscles of his arms, clenched his free hand around the wood of the bench, tethering him to reality and allowing him to gently return to his senses.

And almost as quickly as she had become real...she was gone.

Harr swallowed thickly a few times as he caught his breath. He grimaced at the feeling now spattered over his belly; no doubt it would be over his clothes too, with how much he had came. Shame now flooded his cheeks even more than the previous arousal, but there was little to do about it now. He needed to clean up...and possibly get back to work before it got too late.

When he looked down at the workbench, Harr couldn't contain his embarrassed gasp.

The potion had taken on a rich burgundy hue, velvety to the eye with a glossy sheen that looked far too inviting to ignore. Tiny shards of glitter - surely flecks of magic that had yet to dissolve - swirled around in the glass bottle, before slowly sinking to the base to occasionally wink up at Harr as he moved his head.

Raising the potion to his nose, his eye widened. The scent of fresh baking, strawberries and cream, lavender soap...the scent of the girl who wouldn't leave his depraved thoughts.

He had been gripping the table so hard, and surely it wasn't out of the question that his depraved thoughts had influenced his magic so greatly...seeking the nearest vessel in which to pool, his uncontrolled sorcery had instantly poisoned the half-made draught with an intoxicating desire potion.

An aphrodisiac?

Maybe it wasn't a good idea to create magical items when so...distracted.

But as Harr lifted the vial to eye level, a devious and wholly ungentlemanly ideas came springing to mind. And Alice soon after raced through his thoughts. Licking the draught from her lips and fingers, sweetness running through her veins and filling her lungs, heady and lovestruck enough to follow any of Harr's most carnal wishes.

He would have to write a note apologising for the potion's delay. There were more important things to deliver right now.

This was submitted by Anon.

HOLY SHIT ANON!!!! This was so well done!!! This blew me away like ajzjjsjdjd OMG I've read it 4 times and im DEAD. I love it ajjxjdjdj thank you!!!! And I appreciate that you allowed me to share!!!! Also, short fics are my fav!!!

Thank you!!!

#ikemen revolution #harr silver #fanfic submission #harr x mc #smut #submission

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sleepykalena · 5 years

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Rebelcaptain & teamwork, for the ficlet prompt!!

Yes, i’m still doing these prompts LOL

So this actually was meant to bea Zootopia AU, but it got much longer than ficlet length, so I switched it to aSelfie AU instead. (it’s been how many years now and I still have not seen anyred-headed Korean babies, why must you do this ABC…)

I’ve been writing way too muchangst thanks to Parka, so I’m opting for modern, bittersweet fluff instead. Hopeit’s still satisfactory though!

Rating: T // [ao3] // [more ficlet prompts]

Tags: POV Jyn, Modern AU, Selfie AU, Unresolved romantic tension, pre-relationship, friends to lovers

“Jyn Erso, is that really you?Here? In the office? After hours?”

Jyn rolled her eyes at the loftysound of Cassian’s voice but couldn’t suppress the small, proud smile creepingup. For the first time ever, Jyn Erso was staying late at work, after hours,well after the sun had set and everyone else had gone home.

Everyone else, of course, exceptCassian, who habitually stayed after hours anyway.

“Yeah, yeah, come off it,” shewaved him aside, nose still buried on her computer screen as she clicked fromone social media site to the next, checking up on her newly establishednetwork.

“So it’s done? We’re trending?”he asked with rising optimism.

“Yeap,” she said between clicks,her eyes still scanning one tab after another. “We’re trending on Twitter, andour diaper cream is featuring on the Instagram stories of major influencers. Weeven caught the attention of the bored, rich housewives with a high followercount.” She could feel a fizzing of excitement as she said the words, and theybubbled into the air to infect her work companion, whose eyes sparkled withenthusiasm.

“And you thought you couldn’t doit,” he teased.

It was true- there was no way she’ddo it on her own. It was diaper cream,for fuck’s sake.

“Because that whole hashtag-DiaperEyething was a joke,” she retorted. Itwas just an aside during idle chatter, a cynical comment about the power ofsocial media and the gullibility of the masses, a sarcastic product pitchmatched with an eyeroll strong enough for her eyeballs to pop out of her skulland roll away. But-

“You know…we could do that toboost sales,” Leia said with an uplifting tone at the end that caused a sinkingfeeling in Jyn’s gut.

Jyn couldn’t even backtrack on her own words- she was completely frozenwith shock that anyone could even take her so seriously, and all she could dowas blink.

She remembered Leia turning to Cassian in that moment. “See to it thatyou two work together to find a way to encourage our diaper cream to double asan eye cream. Unofficially and off the books, of course- don’t want a lawsuiton our hands. Let’s use the power of social media to save this product! I’mcounting on you two,” she said with a pat to Cassian’s stiff shoulder and awink to Jyn before walking away.

Cassian slowly turned to look at Jyn, and to her surprise, Cassian wasactually siding with her over it.

“No,” she told him flatly.

“Jyn, the company’s own CEO wouldn’t flat-out endorse anything she didn’tlike,” he soothed. “And I agree with her on this one- we really could have somethinghere, and you can give yourself thecredit for it.”

“You want me to actually make good on my sarcasm and make anunofficial, off-the-books campaign about this. Using social media. Which I don’teven have.” She turned her attention away from him and back to her computer screen,contemplating how to best fake a pleasant email for a client.

Cassian leaned over just enough that his stiffly-pressed tie got in theway of her view. “Who was the one who came knocking on my office door threemonths ago asking for help, again?”

“I asked you to help ‘rebrand’ me so that I wouldn’t lose my job; Ididn’t ask for you to help me become the top sales rep or anything.”

“Yes, but part of that ‘rebrand’ was a request to help you appear lessanti-social. Which means following through on tasks that require more socializing,”he said with a sweet smile.

Jyn hated that sweet smile, knowing full-well that his ability to pullthat off was a distraction tactic, meant to divert from his own brand of anti-socialtendencies. Then again, it was his mastery of that tightrope balance between saccharineand sour that helped him secure a position that was nothing short of being theright-hand man for the CEO, who just trusted them both with a project to helpsave a product for their pharmaceutical company.

Surprisingly, Leia was right toput her faith in them- Cassian took great pains to listen to her snark againsthumanity and put the right optimistic spin on them, and soon enough Jyn wasactually talking to her neighbors for once, many of whom she discovered weretired mothers eager to save money by using something they already had in theirhomes rather than heading to their nearest cosmetics shop to diminish the bagsunder their eyes.

And, as it turned out, they werepleasant people once they had the right amount of coffee in their systems.

There was no way she’d ever findthat out about them if it weren’t for this sharp-dressed man, who, at 7 pm, finallylet his “after 5” colors show by leaning casually against her desk with aslight slouch.

“Still, you actually followedthrough. And you used to not bother with things like this,” Cassian pointedout. “You took a risk-“

“We took a risk,” she corrected him.

“No, no, you took a risk, you leftyour comfort zone, you kept an open-enoughmind to work with me to shape this concept, and we can expect to reap the rewardswhen we take a look at our sales next month. I just helped add the bells andwhistles. All that effort, all that footwork, all that investigation…that wasstill you at the end of the day,” hesaid with conviction, and Jyn’s heart thudded against her chest at theseriousness of his compliments.

Was he always this intense whenhe felt this firey about something? Is this how he managed to build such great rapportwith people?

But then her heart sank a little-was this just an act to get her hopes up with his sense of optimism? Or did heactually believe the words coming out of his mouth? It was hard to tell whatwas a teaching moment and what was a display of genuine pride for a friend.

Does it matter, though? She asked herself. It’s not like you’re seeking his approval.

“Leia said we were a winningcombination at the meeting,” she countered as she finally closed down her tabsand got ready to shut down her workstation. “But you had a large hand in that-people don’t buy products that don’t look attractive. And we both know I’m nogood at that.”

Cassian shrugged. “Alright, so we’rea team. A little bit of you, a little bit of me. But that’s what made us that ‘winningcombination’, so it doesn’t mean your efforts should be overlooked.”

For once, she turned away fromCassian not out of a desire to be left alone by avoiding anyone’s gaze, but outof fear that Cassian would catch the rising blush on her face.

Maybe, just maybe, in the farthest corner of her personal vulnerabilities,a small part of her hoped that he approved of her in a more specific way.

“Yeah…a little bit of you, alittle bit of me,” she muttered.

She checked the time again as shestood up from her chair- 7:20 pm.

“Crap, I’m late for a date,” she groaned.“I can’t believe I got so caught up in this project that I stayed after hours…Ididn’t even buy an outfit for it. I might have to cancel-“

“And miss out on anothersocializing opportunity? Don’t do it, Jyn,” Cassian chided. “You have to followthrough, even on the recreational stuff.”

“Yeah, but I was supposed toleave work right at 5 to buy an outfit, and I really don’t want to wear my workoutfit to a date- it’s already bad enough that people call me ‘Serious BusinessErso’ as it is.”

Cassian took a step back and eyedher. He seemed to really take his time assessing her appearance, and with eachpassing second, she felt more and more self-conscious, like she was anotherpharmaceutical product in need of a rebrand.

Suddenly, without a word, he grabbedhis heavy coat and handed it to her. “Take off your office bottoms and put thison.”

“You want me to use your jacketas a dress?” Jyn asked egregiously.

“Don’t knock it til you try it,Jyn,” he sighed.

Still skeptical, she grabbed itfrom him and made a twirling gesture with her finger. Cassian obediently turnedaround, patiently waiting as she hurried to remove her trousers, throw the coaton, and tighten the waist belt to give it form.

“This feels incomplete,” sheresponded hesitantly, which prompted him to turn back around and take a goodlook at her. There was an immediate frown on his face, and she knew it was amistake to even try it.

But then she looked at her seat,and-

“My scarf,” she said suddenly,and she grabbed it off her seat and wrapped it once, twice around her neck,letting it drape off her chest. She turned around to look at herself in thereflection of the nearby vending machine. It wasn’t particularly glamorous, butthe scarf’s gentle sparkle created an almost jewelry-like effect and, thanks totheir height difference, Cassian’s coat wore like a classy dress, bundling atthe waist and creating a puffy skirt as it followed the form of her hips. Her hairwas already formal, tied up to a neat and prim bun at the base of her neck whilethe loose fringes of her hair framed her face.

Jyn always hated adhering tofashion because it was anything but comfortable. But Cassian’s coat- still warmfrom his body heat and faintly smelling of his delicately pleasant, yet neutralbody soap- defied expectations. It was fashionable without being flashy, and wearingit felt like a hug, the kind of comfort she’d always loved in her own clothes.

In its own way, Cassian’s coatwas encouraging her to relax and have a good time in what could very well be anawkward and unsuccessful date.

But there was no way she’d admitthat to him.

“What do you think?” she asked,spreading her arms out to present herself. “A little bit of you, a little bitof me, right?”

He let out a huff as his smiledwidened. “Yeah. A winning combination.”

“Yeah, let’s hope this winningcombination doesn’t turn out to disappoint this date-“

Cassian took a step closer intoher space to stop her, and Jyn’s gasp caught in her throat. He stared at herwith an intense gaze; there seemed to be so many things he wanted to say, andthe longer she looked past his long lashes and into his eyes, the more confusedshe became. She could feel the words making their way out to match the fire inhis eyes, and her chest tightened with anticipation and a worry that he was aboutto say something that could knock her off her feet and send her into a tizzy.The smell of that body soap intensified as his warmth radiated to her, and thattiny little vulnerable part of her ran in circles, still optimistic, still hopingthat maybe-

“He could disappoint you just asmuch as you could disappoint him. That’s the risk you take when you go on thesedates but make no mistake- a date isn’t a failure if it means you’re able tonarrow down what doesn’t work for you. Then you can keep working to find whatactually does work.”

Jyn rolled her eyes. “What isthis, R&D?”

“For the self? Definitely,” hesaid, but despite expecting a smile, his face remained serious, and the convictionin his tone remained. Slowly, hesitantly, he rested his hands on her shouldersand squeezed them reassuringly. “You got this, Jyn. I believe in you.”

I believe in you.

It was surprising how hard fourlittle words could knock her off her feet and send her into a tizzy. She hadn’theard that from anyone since…

Actually, when was the last time someone said theybelieved in her?

She nodded. “Thanks,” shebreathed, her heart now pounding so rapidly that she swore Cassian himselfcould hear it. She hurriedly grabbed her bag and phone and tucked her chairback under her desk, making sure to turn away from him again to hide her blush.“I’ll see you tomorrow!” she called out as she headed towards the elevator.

The elevator doors closed asCassian waved cheerfully at her, but as uplifted as she felt from his pep talk,that small part of her- the one tucked away in that farthest corner of hervulnerabilities- sank with the elevators as it lamented the ever-increasingdistance between her and her coworker, the first one she ever considered to bean actual friend and someone she could depend on.

Jyn stepped out into the night andthe chilly air brushed her cheeks as she rushed to the train station, but, forthe first time ever, she missed the warmth Cassian stirred in her.

#rebelcaptain #therebelcaptainnetwork #writing prompt #fanfic #ficlet #callioope #ask sleepy #sleepy fics #Project Chicken Soup Ficlet #modern AU #Selfie AU

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theolddarkmachine · 5 years

Text

tell me (i’m ten feet down)

A reason, a continuation, and a reunion.

The first time Shiro’s drunken thoughts find Keith’s name at the bottom of a bottle, he’s twenty-four, and they’re in the middle of a war.

AO3

Rated: M

Tags: Canon compliant, Post S8, 3+1 Format, Mentions of background character but this is 100% Sheith, Angst with a happy ending

A/N: I won’t lie you guys, I am really proud of this. Who woulda thunk that all this craziness woulda been the inspiration I needed to get out of my writing rut. That being said, Curtis does show up in this but much like canon, he is but mere background.

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

The first time Shiro’s drunken thoughts find Keith’s name at the bottom of a bottle, he’s twenty-four, and they’re in the middle of a war.

It’s an errant thing, fuzzed at its edges, and saccharine, filled with all the same heat of warmed honey.

First, he chalks it up as a lingering thought. One that belonged to him, as if he was any different than Shiro was. Made up of the same blood and bone, their desires, their hopes, and their dreams all rang the same. The only difference was, he had never lied.

Not to himself.

Not when it’d counted.

I love you, the thought spirals, adding a new headiness to that of the sweet wine that has stained his lips. Keith had said that.

I love you.

Said it like a saving grace, reverent and feeling. He’d said it like last words. Shiro supposed, at the time, he had probably thought they were.

Now, those three words are circling his mind like the wisp of molten cabernet that has left him feeling pliant and his lips feeling loose, ready to sink ships.

He thinks about how he’d be in his room right now, just the opposite end of the hall from his own. It would take nothing more than a handful of strides, and a sharp rap of his knuckles against the door to see those burning eyes. To ask why.

I love you, he’d said.

The cool metal of a door against his skin wrenches him from his thoughts, surprised at where his feet have led him roiling low in his gut.

Seconds. It takes mere seconds before the door opens, and he’s there. Concerned, and bright, and there.

“Shiro?” Keith asks, voice smoke and tone liquid worry. His hair is rumpled, and his face soft with sleep.

A small yawn cracks his jaw.

“What’s wrong?”

Why? The question sticks to the roof of his mouth, dulled by the dry taste of the wine.

“Did you have a nightmare?” He continues, already moving out of the way to let him in. Behind him, Shiro sees Kosmo lift his head, tongue lolling and tail thumping in greeting.

For a brief, flashing moment, it feels like coming home.

“No,” Shiro manages, shaking his head as he crosses the threshold. He prays that Keith doesn’t miss the slight wobble of his step. A pleasant buzz rolls down to his toes, making them warm as he hears the door slide shut behind him.

“Can I stay here tonight?” He asks, words tumbling, stumbling from his lips before he can wrap them in a first thought.

Not, that he thinks it matters.

The thrum at the base of his skull tells him he would have asked anyway.

“Sure,” Keith answers, as if the sound of the locking mechanism wasn’t answer enough. It stokes a contented purr of heat to life in the center of his chest as Keith walks by him, silently inviting him to follow to the small bedroom through the door at the back of the living room.

It’s cozy.

It’s home, the wine whispers.

But it can’t be, Shiro bites back as he walks into the dark bedroom, lit only by the slices of moonlight through the shades. We’re in the middle of a war.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Keith asks, nothing more than a darkened shadow as he watches him from the foot of the bed.

“Yeah,” Shiro breathes as he imagines the look that would be twisting his mouth down. “Just didn’t feel like being alone tonight.”

It’s not a lie, so much as a small version of the truth.

Quiet, heavy and thick, rolls between them like a Southern storm. Sticking to his skin, it raises the hair at the back of his neck as he sees the shape of Keith nod.

“Okay,” he says quietly, moving to the side of the bed with the comforter turned down.

“Okay,” Shiro echoes, mirroring the movement from the opposite side of the bed. With the cover turned down, it’s inviting and plush, almost like the weight of the stare on him.

Not looking up, he settles down into the warmth of Keith’s all too familiar scent, eyelids growing heavy almost as soon as his head finds the pillow.

I love you, the ghost of a voice whispers in the dark as the bed dips beneath Keith’s weight.

Why? He wants to ask.

But that one word never comes.

They’re in the middle of a war.

There will always be time after, he thinks as he drifts soundly into sleep.

***

It’s whiskey the second time, and it burns the words right out of his mouth as he sees Keith looking over him through the bottom of his emptied tumbler. The glass warps him, but he still knows the exact look he has fixed on him, if only because it’s one he’s grown to know so well.

Molded of softened galaxies, it questions, and it worries, almost as if Keith continues to fear that he’ll just disappear.

As if it’s something that he might still fear the most.

The thought, carried on the back of a wave of liquid heat, licks its way down his spine and makes him shudder as he drops the glass on the bar counter.

Ice clinks softly against its confines, jostled by the sudden drop. He returns the appraising look, brazen and courageous as his mind warms with his drink of choice.

It’d been a year since that last time he’d let himself slip like this.

Shiro’s twenty-five now, and the war is over, but the rebuilding has just begun.

And Keith? Keith is leaving in the morning.

“What?” He asks, leaning back slightly in his bar stool as he questions Shiro and the stare he has fixed on him.

He knows it must look as if he’s far gone, lost to the mire of swirling whiskey that slightly blurs his vision. Shiro relies on that, because what he’s doing isn’t allowed.

What he’s doing, is memorizing the strength of Keith’s jaw, and the shape of the lines that crease the corners of his eyes. He’s memorizing the exact shade of his onyx waves, and the obsidian flecked galaxies trapped in his gaze.

What Shiro is doing, is being greedy.

It’s a fault of his really. Has always been when it came to Keith. On most days, he can tamp it down.

But today? Today’s the last day, and he feels it burning like acid in his lungs.

“What?” Keith asks again with a bright smile that Shiro adds to his collection before he looks down at his old, worn leather jacket. “Do I have something on me?”

“No,” Shiro answers truthfully, shaking his head as he pushes his Altean arm toward Keith’s still half full beer and moves it away from him. He tries to ignore the way it weighs a bit heavier now.

“I do think I’m cutting you off, though.”

A scandalized gasp, just this side of too breathy, rips from Keith’s chest as he slaps his hand on it.

“Takashi!” He exclaims before laughing, the sound lifting a pink flush to his cheeks. Shiro wonders if it’s closer to crushed peonies or a peaceful sunrise when Keith continues, voice softer.

Intimate.

Like he’s sharing secrets.

“You’re my best friend, you know.”

I love you, that old, pesky memory shadowed, buzzing like an undercurrent to his words. Shaking his head with a breathy chuckle, Shiro stands, ignoring his own gentle stumble as he offers an arm out to Keith.

“You’re my best friend, too,” he says, hoping the edge of it doesn’t sound as wrong to Keith as it does to his own ears.

Don’t go, he wants to add.

“Let me get you home, buddy,” Shiro says instead as Keith throws an arm over his shoulders and sidles off the barstool. His hair tickles his chin as he leans into him.

That’s another thing that Shiro mentally files away as he easily takes on his weight.

He’s grown so much taller.

“You’ve got a big day tomorrow,” he adds as an after thought as he pulls them both to the door.

The walk back to the barracks feels like it goes too slowly, and yet all too quick, filled with the quiet of the late night and the rolling warmth of the alcohol through his veins. It’s volatile, and it mixes like gasoline with the flame of Keith’s skin.

Shiro wonders if it will etch itself into his own, an unseen brand to carry with him over his heart.

Don’t go, he wants to say when they find themselves in front of Keith’s door.

“Here we are,” he says instead, bracing Keith as he reaches for the lock pad at the edge of the door. There’s a smooth sound as it slides open and he steadies himself against the frame. It’s quiet again, but this time it bows beneath the weight of expectation as Keith clumsily turns, pressing his back into the wall as he looks up at him.

“Here we are,” he agrees, pulling his stare languidly down Shiro’s chest and he feels it like claws. They tear and pull at his skin, and he’s certain if he looks down, he’ll see the stain of blood on his shirt.

“Want to come in?” Keith asks once his gaze flicks back up to capture his own.

Yes, Shiro thinks, need pulling like a hook behind his belly button as he shakes his head.

“I shouldn’t. You—”

“Have a big day tomorrow,” Keith finishes, mimicking his voice as he smiles.

Shiro doesn’t miss the way it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Don’t go. It hangs on the tip of his tongue, weighted by the dangerous bite of whiskey. All he needs to do is say it.

Two words, with a world of meaning, and all he needs to do, is say them.

Reaching out, Shiro offers his open palm by way of the words.

“Take care, Keith,” he adds, all too aware of the deep indent that works itself between his eyebrows as he takes in the gesture.

Keith is his best friend, something more than, even, and all he can think to offer him is a handshake.

Mentally, he files away his look of disappointment.

“You too, Shiro,” Keith says quietly, hands balled at his sides. They stay there for one breath.

Two breathes.

Three—

Flames erupt through his chest as Keith’s arms wind around his neck, anchoring him to him in a crushing hug. It steals his breath, and several beats of his heart, before he wraps his own around his waist and keeps him close.

Char aches deep in his chest, turning his bone black and filling his lungs with smoke.

It’s an honorable death, he thinks quietly with a small squeeze.

And then, he’s gone.

Cool air cascades over him, shocking his senses as Keith offers him one last smile.

Don’t go, he wants to plead.

“Goodnight, Shiro,” he says, dipping his head before pushing through the threshold of his suite.

“Goodnight,” Shiro offers, helplessly.

Hopelessly.

It’s met with the soft hiss of the door sliding shut, and the artificial silence of the hall.

All he had to do was say it.

But it never quite felt like the right time.

Moving quickly down the hall, limbs sobered by the interaction, he finds himself in front of his door.

Standing there, he turns his attention back to the other of the hall, a small, distant hope that Keith will be standing there.

He isn’t.

Shiro sighs lowly, lost to the way Keith’s heat is still burning against his skin in a way he’s sure will haunt him for the rest of the night.

It’s only meant to be a year.

There will always be time after, he thinks, as he unlocks his door.

***

Shiro’s twenty-eight, and alone in his study the third time.

It’s a hot sip of bourbon, and a rush of a thought, barely there and fleeting, but there all the same.

It’s a soft breath, and onyx waves that don’t match the brunette waiting for him in his bed.

With a quick shake of his head, he presses the half full glass to his desk, eyeing it as if it had any say to the intrusive thought.

The ever stray thoughts had been bound and stored in a hidden darkness at the back of his mind for two years now, leaving behind a ghost that follows Shiro everywhere he goes.

Even lost to the safety of a soft smile, and chocolate eyes, he still feels it like a weighted stare. All consuming, just like phantom he’d been trying to run from.

To compare the two would be an impossibility.

Keith had been a wildfire, filling his veins with smolder and soot, blackening his insides until there was nothing left, while Curtis was a soft ocean tide.

Cooling and calming, with the ability to pull him away from all the noise and settled a careful peace over his soul.

Exact opposites in near every way, it was easy to push down the pain of his forlorn thoughts and the wickedness of that voice at the back of his mind that licked around his thoughts like poison.

He’s not him, it used to hiss until Shiro had forced it down with a sheer determination.

He may not be him, but at least he’s here, he’d bitten back until the voice would recede back into the darkness.

Keith’s stay on Daibazaal, meant for just a year, had turned to two, and then three, with communications coming fewer and farer between.

Not that Shiro could even blame him for that. He was doing work alongside Krolia and Kolivan rebuilding the Galran empire, and rebuilding the Blades as a humanitarian force. Their breakthroughs had been revolutionary, and far beyond the scope of what any of the coalition had imagined for such a short amount of time.

Shiro understood, but it had left a distinct hole in his life that he hadn’t been able to fill with work, nor post-war efforts, nor burning liquor.

And then he’d met Curtis.

And then what had once been daily phone calls turned weekly phone calls, had become monthly phone calls, until Shiro couldn’t even remember the last time they’d spoken.

What had even been the last thing that Keith had said to him?

That’s right.

Congratulations.

Pressing his fist of papers down beside his glass, Shiro reaches for his holoscreen, life flickering across its surface as he started to search his contacts.

He could call him, he thinks.

Should call him.

Had he ever even been the one to call first, Shiro wonders, as he rolls through the alphabet before finding his mark.

Sucking the warmth of the bourbon from his teeth, his finger hovers over Keith’s name, a barely there space between his digit and the ‘K.’

It would be so easy to close the distance with a quick tap. Can already hear the tinkling chime of the holoscreen ringing and waiting to be answered. Shiro can even hear the soft sound of Keith saying his name.

A judgement weighs heavy on him with the imagined sound, wrapped around his left ring finger in the form of a shining silver band. Looking down at it, he can’t help but notice the way it winks at him with the soft light of his lamp, watching and waiting.

He deserves better, Shiro thinks with a sigh before switching the screen off.

Shiro doesn’t linger too long on the fact that even he doesn’t know which he he means.

Huffing a loud sigh, he pushes the screen away and rubs a hand over his eyes. It’s a futile attempt at scrubbing the bourbon laced thought from his mind.

Instead, he sees the flash of distant galaxies, and a pretty pink flush pressed against the backs of his eyelids.

“Enough,” Shiro growls suddenly, pushing his chair back and standing in one smooth motion. Snatching his glass off of his desk, he quietly pads down the hall to the dark kitchen.

There will always be time after, a small voice offers as he dumps the rest of his drink down the drain.

No, he chides, just a shade off bitter, as he sets the tumbler to the side. There won’t.

It’s the last drink he has.

***

Shiro is thirty the last time, and it didn’t take a drink at all.

They’d all met for the fifth anniversary of their loss, and the universe’s gain, and it’s the first time Shiro has seen Keith since the divorce. It’s a fact he becomes all too aware of when he sees the way Keith’s gaze flicks to his hand, and then back up, softening at their edges before he offers him a handshake.

The motion tugs at a distant memory as he finds his head spinning with the intensity of Keith’s amethyst eyes as he takes his open palm.

His stare burns like wildfire.

It always had.

Lingering with palms pressed flushed for a tick longer than strictly necessary, Shiro pulls away when he felt something a lot like lightning crack against his sternum.

I love you, the whisper tickles at his ear in the same way it had for far too long now.

And then, that was it.

Keith had nodded, expression resigned and all knowing as he walked towards where the others have their heads ducked together to look at something Hunk had pulled up on his holoscreen.

Shiro didn’t miss the way he’d pointedly chose a seat on the other end of the table from where he sat, or the way his tone had been diplomatically pleasant when they’d addressed each other. It had been easy to brush away beneath the conversation with their friends, but dinner didn’t last forever, and soon, they were parting ways once more.

More importantly, Keith was leaving once more.

“Let me walk you to your suite,” Shiro calls after him, stopping him before he can disappear into the night. Time folds around itself as he waits for a response, drawing lines across the back of the faded red leather of his jacket.

It’s a shade he’s only ever been able to associate with Keith.

Looking over his shoulder, Keith sizes him up with a dangerous flash in his eyes. Tension rocks down Shiro’s spine in the balanced moment before Keith’s eyes soften and he shrugs.

“Alright,” he throws over his shoulder as he starts to walk once more. The invitation stalls Shiro, roots him in place just long enough to paint real distance between them once more.

Jogging to catch up, he falls in line with Keith’s steps as they make their way towards the proud standing barracks.

It’s like a long lost memory as they move through the quiet night, side-by-side in a silence that they had never needed to be filled. Almost as if nothing had changed at all.

Electricity picks at his sternum as he tracks the path through a memory of a drunken night, a missed confession, and deep regret.

He wondered, if he truly picked through all of his thoughts, how many times he’d made this walk, only for it to come down to the same results.

And then, they’re standing in front of his door.

“Here we are,” Keith pushes through a smile, echoing what felt like a lifetime ago.

Here we are, Shiro had said last time.

“Can I come in?” He says this time.

Shiro feels the hesitation before he sees it in the way his smile disappears, replaced instead by an electric tension in Keith’s shoulders. It’s palpable, the way it’s roiling under his skin like a lightning storm looking for an escape.

The pause feels like a small eternity before he finally nods, turning away to press his palm to the lock pad. Keith never was good about not letting him in.

He aches with the fact that he’s undeserving of that too.

Not looking back, Keith steps over the threshold, flicking the light on to reveal the all too familiar layout. Dust and the thick scent of mustiness cling to it, but it’s still the same.

Shiro had never been able to let them reassign it.

The soft swish of the door closing behind him seals him into the dizzying feel of deja vu.

“What happened?” Keith asks, not turning to look at him as he speaks, dropping his jacket on the unused couch. Leather hitting the cushions is the only sound that stands between between. The air feels dangerous with the delicate quiet.

It’s just waiting to be shattered.

“What do you mean?” He asks, but he knows. Shiro can feel the absence of his ring like a loosened noose.

It doesn’t choke, but it’s there.

It’s the wrong thing to say, and he knows it as soon as the question drips from his lips. All the evidence he needs is the way Keith turns on his heel with a snarl twisting his lips.

“You know what I mean,” he growls, eyes flashing yellow and expression fierce. In that moment, Keith looks inhuman. Galran.

Beautiful, Shiro’s mind supplies.

The flash is a mere second before his face crumples and he pulls a deep breath between his teeth. Taking a step back, he levels Shiro with a look of composure before he repeats, “what happened?”

The truth of it is, nothing happened. Comfortable, and safe, their relationship was a tepid thing, ending in a mutual split. There hadn’t been any mess to it, which, almost made it worse.

You were never meant for this life, Takashi, Curtis had said before pressing a last kiss to his lips, and his ring to Shiro’s open palm. Shiro had heard the undercurrent of what he’d really meant.

You were never meant to be with me.

He’d tried denying it. To Curtis. To himself.

Shiro had loved him. He truly had. But love, as it turned out, wasn’t enough when you’d already been broken apart and rebuilt by the hands of someone else.

Keith’s mark had been left on him like a signature, like a brand, and no matter how he’d tried to hide it, it still bled through.

“Keith,” Shiro breathes, soft and low. It’s a plea for salvation. For repentance. For everything he’s done wrong. He’s done so much wrong.

They were supposed to have had time.

I was always meant to be with you, he wants to say.

“Shiro,” Keith counters, and it cuts like a warning, sounds like a curse.

“It didn’t work,” is all he manages. It comes out strangled, a wisp of a truth that barely brushes past his lips.

“It didn’t work,” he repeats, trying to put strength into his admission.

“Why?” Keith pushes, folding his arms over his chest defensively. The stance makes him look smaller, even if his gaze burns straight through him.

Shaking his head, Shiro begins to the the room as it begins to shrink around them. The weight of the walls crush into his shoulders, pressing the air from his lungs.

They were supposed to have had all that time.

I love you, Keith’s voice roars at his ear, as if it was from the Keith made of flesh and bone, and not that ghost that had clung to him for so long.

“You have to know,” Shiro all but whispers, dropping his stare long enough to catch his bearings before looking up through his lashes in time to see the way Keith falters.

I love you. Keith had unknowingly haunted his dreams with those three words that he’d never been able to return.

There was supposed to have been time.

I love you.

“I love you,” Shiro lets his words curl around the memory. They fall bluntly between them, landing flat and dull, before there’s a flash of movement and the sharp snap of his head against the door.

It triggers another memory that he can see flash in the yellow of Keith’s eyes.

They stay yellow this time.

“Why,” Keith bites out, snapping the syllable between his fangs. “Why now?”

Heat crushes against his windpipe as Keith presses into him with the flat of his forearm. The pressure catches his words in his throat, forcing him to shake his head against it as he tries to turn his gaze anywhere than the flames that threaten to turn him to ash.

There’s no good answer.

Not one that will make it better, anyway.

Keith leans further into his forearm.

“Always,” he chokes out. Tears catch at the corners of his eyes as his lungs start to burn with the lack of air, but he doesn’t struggle. Doesn’t try to pull away.

Shiro’s done that enough.

“I didn’t say it.” His voice is nothing but scraps beneath the choke of his arm. “Keith.”

There’s a tremble against his throat, then the squeeze of more pressure before Keith hisses and pushes away. Cool air falls on him, filling his lungs as he gasps in an attempt to drag as much of it as he can down into his chest. Anything to put out the wildfire that’s waging a war beneath his bone.

“You didn’t say it,” Keith agrees, eyeing him warily. His stance is animalistic, and ready to flee. “You didn’t say anything at all.”

A lick of thunder, palpable and crushing rolls between them.

“Keith,” Shiro tries once he’s caught his breath only to be cut off.

“I waited,” Keith says lowly, shifting his stare downward. “You needed time, and I waited.”

“And then you left.” He doesn’t mean to say it. It’s a knee-jerk reaction to an infinitesimal moment in a long list of cataclysmic events.

Keith had left once, but Shiro had left time and time again.

“And you let me!” He hurls back, heaving with the burden of his anger. “Then you got married.”

The last word is a sneer, and it buries itself in the middle of Shiro’s chest as he flicks his gaze past Keith’s shoulder and to the off white wall. He’d look anywhere to avoid the cutting edge of hurt that has turned Keith into a weapon of the strongest design.

“So was he the replacement,” he growls, “or am I?”

The blow is low, and aimed for the space between his ribs where it stabs through him like a heated knife. It rakes a gasp, hard and harsh, from deep in his throat as he looks up in time to see the way Keith bites into the meat of his bottom lip.

“Neither of you,” Shiro wraps the answer in a whisper that shatters something in the tension holding Keith’s shoulders so taught. Visibly deflating, he watches the way Keith’s knuckles pull white over bone as he clenches his fists, and then lets go.

A vague flicker of something a lot like hope licks at Shiro’s nerves when he steps forward, and Keith doesn’t move away.

“Why?” The word breaks around the sound of a half formed sob as the black curtain of his hair hangs in his face, covering his eyes.

Why now? Why me? Why?

Shiro hears every question trapped in the hitching breath as he takes another careful step forward.

“There was supposed to be time, and we—” he breathes, stalling at the word, because it never was we, was it?

“I never got it right.”

Liquid lines Keith’s eyes as he looks up, the watery look making him look younger. Untouched by the burdens of a war that had taken him across universes.

There’s a strange brightness there too. Of fear, or of hope.

Maybe they’re on in the same.

“I could never be right,” Shiro finally admits. And that had always been the problem, hadn’t it? It was never about time, or places, or other versions of himself, but him. He had never let himself be the right that Keith needed, because Keith deserved more than he could ever be.

They’d pushed each other to be better and better, until Keith had surpassed him, and Shiro had decided that he deserved the entire universe, and not just a man who had foolishly tried to hold it.

“Be right now.”

It’s a whisper, almost lost to the breadth of the space between them. For a moment, he thinks he imagines it until he sees the flicker of a gaze through Keith’s bangs.

They both move then, meeting with a cataclysmic clash that reverberates through Shiro’s entire being. It shakes him wholly, as he feels something snap within his chest, and then he’s on fire. Burning, his skin is blackening and peeling back from bone, exposing his nerves to the ache of unbridled starlight on his skin.

It tears him down, exposes him, as he feels arms around his neck and the scratch of nails at his nape.

Opening his lips to a heated gasp, they move against each other, lost to the act of discovery as they track searing lines across each others skin. Stumbling blindly together through the living room, they push past the door of Keith’s bedroom.

Shiro hasn’t been in this room in six years, but he can’t help but linger on the fact that he still remembers the exact number of steps.

A moan brushes across his lip as he slides his metallic palm across the small of Keith’s back and drags his other down the back of his thigh. Curling his fingers at the back of his knee, he pulls it up over his hip as he lowers Keith down onto the bed. He does it slowly, carefully, like he’s breakable.

Like he’s precious.

Like everything that he always had been.

Continuing his exploration, Shiro captures snapshots of moments as he lets his hands roam under Keith’s shirt.

Soft skin.

Softer moans.

The fluttering stutter of his breath, half formed around his name.

Pushing the fabric up towards Keith’s chest, he only pulls away long enough to draw it over his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says then.

It’s easier to say into the darkness of the night, but it doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

No, it isn’t enough.

It will never be enough, but it’s all he has to offer as he presses the words like small offerings into Keith’s skin.

He arches blissfully up into his mouth as he traces the expanse of his chest, revering the goosebumps and pink flush that spreads across it in his wake.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro breathes again, fingers brushing across the dark hair below his belly button before they start to make work of his belt. The metal of the buckle clinks loudly in the darkness, joined only by Keith’s escalating breaths as he nips as his hip.

Beautiful, he thinks. Or maybe he says, as Keith let’s out a small whine, his hips rolling upward as he pulls his dark pants away. Brushing his hand carefully against him, Shiro revels in the heavy heat that fills his palm as he licks a stipe along the underside of his length.

“Shiro,” Keith moans when he opens his lips around him, taking him carefully against his tongue. Fingers brush through his bangs as he rolls his tongue. They grip at them when he slowly starts to push closer, taking him further until his nose brushes against the soft skin of his stomach.

I’m sorry, he thinks, as he pushes and pulls, working Keith until he’s writhing with the forceful sounds of his gasping moans and pressing up into the heat of his mouth.

It’s a flurry of movement, burning heat, and the sharp tug at his scalp before Keith comes across the flat of his tongue with the softest of sounds.

Just a breath, like he’s finally letting go.

“Shiro,” he hushes, pulling him with the grip of his hair to crash their mouths together. Licking his own taste from his mouth, Keith moans his name like a quiet prayer, filling each syllable of it with new emotion.

Anger. Hate. Pain. Fear. Joy. Love.

“It’s okay,” Shiro breathes, moving his lips against Keith’s as he speaks. Running his knuckles up over the hardened muscle of his arms, Shiro tracks the path up over his shoulder until he can open his palm against his neck.

Pressed against it, he can feel the quick beat of his heart as he pulls him close, settling his back against the plain headboard of the Garrison issued bed and Keith against his chest. The darkness of the room crushed down upon them, weighted heavy and comfortable as he loses track of time to the slowing cadence of Keith’s breaths.

“I love you,” Shiro whispers after a stolen eternity. “I don’t deserve to, but I do.”

Keith’s hand stretches wide across his chest, pressed just above his heart as he starts to brush the pad of his thumb back and forth against the steady rhythm that it beats.

“Takashi,” Keith says low, brushing his name across his skin. He chases it with the soft press of his lips.

“I love you,” he echoes, voice dripping with the same sincerity that he’s treasured for so long.

It drifts through them, ebbing them slowly into a soft shadow of sleep, and Shiro thinks that maybe this is it. A love to fight for. A love to lose for. A love to cross universes, and lose universes for.

A love to force the fickle hand of time for.

The thought enraptures him as he turns it over and over, smoothing it like a stone until he’s lulled into the basking warmth of sleep.

This is it, he dreams, for hours, or maybe for minutes, until it’s shaken away by the bed shifting beneath Keith’s weight as he rolls away from him.

He does it quietly, stealthily, as if he hadn’t planned on waking Shiro at all.

There’s time, he thinks hazily as he reaches forward, capturing the fine bones of Keith’s wrist in his hand. There’s time now.

“Stay,” Shiro says.

No, he pleads.

“Stay.”

The night is quiet, but alive, writhing like a live wire with the force of his request. It clears the fog of sleep from his mind as he looks up into Keith’s eyes, lit by the sinking moon.

Stay. He should have said it then.

So Shiro says it now.

He knows it isn’t enough, but it’s an infinitesimal start to an eternity he’s all too willing to spend making it enough.

“Please,” he breathes when he feels the sudden tension of Keith’s hesitation. It starts as a moment, that stretches into a breath, and finally into a contained lifetime before he feels Keith turn back toward him.

“Okay,” he says into the night, dropping back into the mattress and leaning back into the burning, aching space of Shiro’s chest.

“Okay,” Shiro hums, as he holds him close once more.

***********

#sheith #takashi shirogane #keith kogane #voltron #one might call this a fix it fic but im not too fond of that term #but for lack of a better way to call it #that's what this is #fun fact: the song that inspired this fic is NOT the same as where the title comes from XD

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preserving-ferretbrain · 5 years

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Golden Girls and Lost Boys

Shimmin considers a Disney film much too seriously for anyone's good.~

Spoiler warning for Tangled.

Recently, I went to watch Tangled (in 3D! not that it matters, and because there wasn't an alternative, but there you are), the new Disney Rapunzel film. I'm not planning to do yer'actual review of it, and I'm not that interested in getting into heavy analysis of the plot or logic or of a Disney film based on a fairy tale, because that would be silly. It was fun, it was more-or-less for children, it was funny, it was sweet if a bit saccharine, it had an awesome horse. Their version also seemed quite original, which is something I tend to forget about Disney films. Anyway, this article is not about that. It brought up some vaguely interesting issues that I thought might be worth waffling about in case anyone else also found them interesting.

Synopsis

The Disney plot is rather different, and people might not be over-familiar with the details of Rapunzel anyway, so here's the gist. A drop of sunlight falls to earth and grows into a magical flower (just go with it, okay?). An old woman finds the flower, and discovers that if she sings a particular magical song to it, it glows with healing light that temporarily restores her youth (ditto). She hides it and uses it to stay young and beautiful for an unspecified but long time. The Queen becomes ill while pregnant, so they send the army to find the fabled flower. They make a healing potion from it, which works, and the child is born as a beautiful golden-haired daughter (it wasn't entirely clear when the mop of hair appeared, but stick with me here). One night, the old woman sneaks into the palace to steal a lock of hair, believing it'll have the same healing properties. But when she cuts it, the hair loses its power. In desperation, she steals the baby. Nobody knows what happened to the princess, and they never find her. Every year on her birthday, they release Chinese lanterns to remember her.

Eighteen years later, thieves break in and steal the princess' crown (presumably a traditional item from the treasury) which is handily kept on a cushion beneath a skylight with all the guards facing away. They're pursued, and one (Flynn) splits off from the others with the crown, escaping the guards but still followed by an angry horse. He finds a tower in a hidden valley, which seems like an ideal hiding place. Sadly, he's beaten unconscious by an 18-year-old Rapunzel with a pan, and stuffed in a cupboard. Rapunzel wants to go and see the floating lights she's spotted every year on her birthday, but her mother won't let her. After yet another argument, which dissuades her from revealing her prisoner to her mother, she decides to make the man take her instead while her mother's away. Wacky adventures and angst and excitement ensue. The two fall in love, and are followed by the old woman, who uses Flynn's betrayed partners to set an ambush, and sets it up to look like he's abandoned Rapunzel so she'll accept her mother's advice and won't try to leave the tower again. He escapes, comes to see her, is mortally wounded, and has a pointless heroic moment of sacrifice that is negated by Lurve. Old woman crumbles to dust, Rapunzel is reunited with her family, and all live happily ever after. Except the old woman, and presumably the now-imprisoned Stabbington Brothers.

Family Matters

One of the things that was vaguely interesting about the film was the family issues it brought up. The thing that really got my attention was right at the end, during the reuinion, when the narrator (i.e. Flynn) says something like: "...Rapunzel finally had a real family..."

Let's leave aside the likely problems for a girl brought up by a single parent in humble surroundings in a small tower, who's barely met a handful of people in her life, joining two unknown biological parents of immense wealth and power who live in a massive castle and incidentally becoming the biggest celebrity of all time. I'm sure there will be no issues whatsoever getting accustomed to that. Or long-term trauma associated with the violent death of the woman who brought her up and whom she sincerely loved. This is a fairy tale. However, it does get me thinking about families.

The old woman is never named in the story. I do wonder why; perhaps to stop us having any sympathy with her, though villains in other stories are named, or perhaps they simply couldn't be bothered inventing a name. It does dehumanize her a bit. Anyway, I'm going to call her Agnes. So Agnes has, indeed, kidnapped Rapunzel to use her supernatural power so she can live forever. This is Not Okay. And she keeps her trapped in the tower so she won't either leave her, or be found by anyone. The thing is, apart from that, she treats her as a daughter.

Now, I am not going to claim she's a great mother. She's controlling and emotionally manipulative, which I suppose isn't that surprising when she's keeping Rapunzel there basically by force of will. She's only tepidly affectionate. On the other hand, Rapunzel's very comfortable and, apart from a desire to see the outside world, she's pretty happy. She has nice furniture and playthings, nice clothes, and an apparently endless supply of hobby materials. They don't seem to have a luxurious diet, but neither do most peasants; and Agnes makes a point of cooking Rapunzel's favourite food when she visits. She's also educated her brilliantly: although a tad naive, she knows everything an ordinary, non-imprisoned girl would know. She recognises Flynn as a man, knows what birthdays mean, how drowning works, and when she's in danger. The outside world doesn't really phase her, so she must know about nature and geography, and she seems to have a decent grasp of society and normal behaviour too. She's articulate, intelligent and very pleasant. In fact, given the difficulties of the situation, Agnes is one of the most successful child-raisers I've ever heard of. It's very clear that, right until the end, Rapunzel is very fond of her mother. Regardless of Agnes' ultimate feelings towards the girl, she treats her extremely well so far as the situation allows. Compare, say, Cinderella or Snow White. Agnes may not be a great mother, but she's actually not a terrible one.

I was talking about this to Dan, and he summed up my argument here as basically: "Apart from kidnapping a baby, pretending to be her mother, bringing her up alone in a tower for eighteen years and deceiving her for her own selfish ends, she's not a particularly bad mother". The thing is, ridiculous as it sounds, I think that's about right. The things she's done wrong aren't really about how she raised Rapunzel, but more general wrongs that intertwine with that. The problem is that Agnes' dual status as adoptive mother and kidnapper rather complicates the issue.

As far as Rapunzel is concerned, at least, Agnes is her family. The thing that changes that is not really a shift in their relationship, or anything Agnes does; it's seeing a picture of the baby princess and then seeing herself in the mirror wearing the crown. It's a revelation of Objective Truth ('you are Really the Princess, the Queen and King are your Real Family'), rather than anything about the family itself - right until that moment, Rapunzel thinks of Agnes as her mother and loves her.

There's a decent argument that it's not a good family, because it's built on a tissue of lies. It's also possible that Agnes has no real affection for Rapunzel - she doesn't show any active affection in the film. On the other hand, she's brought the girl up for 18 years, and in that time, I'd have expected things to crystallise one way or the other. The first option is to view and treat her as a useful tool or a pet, in which case I wouldn't expect Rapunzel to be so well educated or comfortable; that's extra effort and liable to encourage further trouble, when you could bring her up cowed and ignorant so she won't get ideas. If, on the other hand, Agnes brings her up as though she was her daughter and treats her kindly, you'd expect some affection to arise on both sides.

Now, I don't think Disney thought much about this one throwaway line and I'm not that interested in decrying them. A fairly normative and slightly old-fashioned way of thinking is par for the course. I suppose the "real family" reference means one with honesty and love, rather than manipulation, deceit and using your daughter selfishly. It means the parents who wanted you and loved you unconditionally, rather than someone who stole you for selfish reasons, whether or not they've got fond of you. In context, though, it had a faint whiff of narrow-mindedness: that what really matters isn't who brought you up or how you felt about them, but your genes (and incidentally having two parents, not just one). The fact is though, Rapunzel actually had a pretty happy family life before all this kicked off.

From My Point of View, the Jedi are Arguably Morally Ambiguous

Although the story glosses over her, I was also quite interested in Agnes and her actions. We don't ever find out anything about her, other than her use of the flower and her relationship with Rapunzel. We don't know her background, her history, or what she does when she's not visiting Rapunzel. Why should we? Rapunzel doesn't either. She's presented pretty much exclusively as a manipulative, selfish woman, whose use of the flower is immoral, and who commits a string of selfish acts to keep herself young and live forever. I'm not sure how convinced I am by that portrayal, or the way morality is defined in this story as a whole.

Agnes is lucky enough to find the flower and discover its powers. She keeps it hidden and uses it to stay young (and therefore alive) for, well, a long time. She chooses to keep it to herself, which is selfish, but I wonder how long she'd get to keep it if people found out about it? She could legitimately have all kinds of worries about that, so keeping it hidden isn't that unreasonable. As it turns out, the first thing that happens when the flower's discovered is it gets taken - so her hypothetical suspicions are vindicated.

Now for a look at the Castle. When the Queen is ill, the Castle mount a frantic last-chance search for the rumoured magical flower, and due to carelessness on Agnes' part, find it. Under her very eyes, they carefully dig it up and take it away to the castle. Someone makes it into a magic potion, which heals the Queen and (probably) saves her daughter's life too.

The issue here is the magic flower. Who has the right to use it, and what uses are acceptable?

The flower just appears. There's no reason it belongs to anyone, but Agnes has as much claim to it as anyone. Agnes uses it to save her own life; the Castle use it to save the Queen's life (and her unborn daughter). While Agnes keeps the flower to herself, nobody else benefits; once the Castle destroy the flower, nobody else can ever benefit. There's a touch of criticism in the film's portrayal of Agnes' actions, as though it were a crime to seek immortality. I don't know much about ethics, but I suspect issues like immortality are much more complicated than "it's bad to try and live forever". The Castle's actions are presented straightforwardly as a good thing. To be honest, I can't really see much difference. From a purely practical perspective, the first is a much more efficient use of the flower. The only real difference I can see between them is that Agnes chooses to save herself, whereas someone else (the King?) chooses to save the Queen. The first is more obviously selfish; but the second involves destroying an item of fantastic potential benefit to the world, which doesn't actually belong to the King any more than it does to anyone else, to extend the life of his wife. Not entirely unselfish.

Once the flower is destroyed, Agnes is doomed. Having and then losing immortality is more of a blow than never having it. She works out that Rapunzel's hair could do the same job, and plans to steal a lock. It's a bit skeevy, and involves burglary; on the other hand, the Castle are responsible for her plight, and taking a lock of hair shouldn't actually harm anyone. I can't really see the Castle giving her one, so theft or death is pretty much the choice. It all goes downhill from there.

In a sense, the story is a series of choices that Agnes has to make, each one more morally questionable. Initially, she chooses to keep the flower's benefits for herself, rather than risk sharing it. Then she chooses to try and steal a lock of hair to regain her lost immortality, rather than dying to avoid a relatively minor crime that harms nobody. She's cheated of that option by the way the magic works. The real problem starts when, panicking, she chooses to steal the baby rather than die. Then she chooses to deceive and manipulate her stolen daughter rather than risk her running away. Then she chooses to genuinely betray her (by acting against Rapunzel's interests) to get Rapunzel and her own immortality back. Finally, when the truth comes out, she chooses to resort to force rather than lose Rapunzel and die. Agnes is stuck on a slippery slope, where each decision makes it harder to give up the immortality for which she's done so much, and makes it easier to take the next and wronger step. What she ends up doing, and her treatment of Rapunzel, is clearly wrong, but it's not nearly as simple as her being a wicked old woman.

One of my friends suggested that one reason why Agnes and the Queen are portrayed differently is that people find it creepy for old people to want to be young and live forever; but saving and extending the lives of young, beautiful people is fine. There might be something in that.

A Bit of a Lad

The other thing I found a bit off about Tangled was its hero. Aladdin had a thief hero, but it was a little different. He was clearly a destitute beggar who stole food to live. Flynn Rider, the hero of Tangled, is also from a humble background, but he's more of a professional thief - all we know is that he's conspiring to steal a crown from the palace.

Now, thieves as heroes are a well-established trope in literature. However, Flynn is clearly not only a thief, but an untrustworthy thief. In the film, he's sort of contrasted against the Stabbington Brothers, his partners, in a way that is clearly supposed to show him in a good light. However, if you look at the details, it's rather murkier. He is willingly engaged in the robbery at the palace, and makes it very clear that it's a chance to live in luxury rather than a matter of need. All three are chased by the soldiers and trapped in a dead-end gully. Flynn offers to climb up and help them after him; they don't trust him and insist he leaves the bag with the crown with them. However, once he gets to the top they clearly believe he'll help them escape too. Instead, he reveals the bag he's somehow managed to steal back, mocks them, and runs off to save his own hide. In other words, he betrays his partners and leaves them trapped in a gully to die at the hands of the soldiers. That is not the act of a hero, not even a thief. That is not being a rough diamond, or a rogue. That is being a treacherous backstabbing git. As it happens, the soldiers spot him and chase after him instead, but that's clearly not the intention.

Rather surprisingly, he does behave mostly honourably towards Rapunzel. He does try to deter her from going through with the plan, but since he's a wanted outlaw liable to be killed if he gets spotted in the kingdom, it's not that unreasonable. He's not doing it just to get the crown back. When she does offer him the crown later, he's in love with her and tries to give it to the Stabbington Brothers. To be honest, though, that came across more as a way to weasel out of any comeuppance for his betrayal and get them off his back, rather than a genuine attempt to face up to his actions or any real remorse. Unsurprisingly, they prefer to exact some revenge.

There's also a scene in the middle where they visit a dive. As part of his attempt to persuade Rapunzel to give up the excursion, he takes her to a wretched hive of etc. This being Disney, a bit of eyelid fluttering and a song show up all the murderous thugs as sweethearts deep down. The fact is, though, if it's even remotely as bad at it appears, he has no business taking her there. All the men there are clearly villainous and criminal, and there are no women there at all. Taking a naive 18-year old girl there, while (as we soon find out) not having the ability to protect either of you if there's trouble, is not only utterly stupid but an unforgivable failure of responsibility.

Despite all this, it's the Stabbingtons who are treated as the real criminals, who deserve only to be locked up. They're also the only characters, other than Agnes, who don't get a happy ending: the last we see of them, they're locked in the castle dungeon. Given that Flynn was about to be hanged for stealing the crown, I don't fancy their chances much.

In a way, neither the Stabbingtons or Agnes are villains, any more than Flynn is really a hero. They're all people who are faced with decisions, and sometimes choose the wrong ones. Agnes does wrong to avoid dying, the Stabbingtons and Flynn do wrong for profit, and the Queen does no obvious wrong. The reason they come across differently is that everyone has different choices to make. Agnes has to choose between crime and death; the Queen doesn't have to make that choice. The Stabbingtons and Flynn all choose to steal the crown, but Flynn's the one who chooses to betray them to death. The Stabbingtons choose to seek revenge when it's offered, but Flynn doesn't have any revenge to seek. Flynn is kind to Rapunzel and falls in love with her, but the Stabbingtons don't get the opportunity. The Stabbingtons plan to capture Rapunzel and profit from her powers; Flynn doesn't find out about them until he's already her friend, she's saved his life and they're well on their way to falling in love. It's not that surprising that, treacherous git as he is, he doesn't take that option. Whether he would have or not, we don't know. But while falling in love might redeem people to one another, simply falling in love with Rapunzel doesn't turn Flynn from a thieving, untrustworthy scoundrel into a noble hero.

Fundamentally, though, I'm thinking far too much about a very fun and nicely-executed children's film that I really enjoyed watching. Let's not take it too seriously.

#Ferretbrain #Shim #Tangled #Disney

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stunudo · 7 years

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Around For Some More

A Criminal Minds Fan-fiction

Featuring: Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader

Setting: Late Season 12

A/N: This is a followup to New Around Here and Come Around Again

Sorry more fluff than smut this week. Also not proofread, forgive me. xoxo Stu

It had been a full month of sneaking around before you had finally had enough. It was time to meet the kiddo. Now, you just had to make sure Jim was alright with it before you made an idiot of yourself by assuming this was a real relationship. You had worked past the butterflies and teenage shenanigans, but he was ever stoic. You felt he held the world at arm’s length.

“Y/N, your morning girl said you wanted to see me?” Sheriff Thompkins’ steady voice called you out of your daydreaming.

“Thanks for coming, Al, take a seat?” You gestured to the open bench opposite you.

“Is everything alright? Diners have more nighttime complaints from the kids up the road?” Al Thompkins sipped from his travel mug and got down to business.

“The past few weeks I have noticed a dark SUV hanging around my neighborhood. Are any of your guys on surveillance up on the hill?” You asked casually, pushing aside your paperwork to clear the table.

“No, none of mine. It’s a nice area, think maybe someone’s casing the neighborhood for burglaries?”

“I think we would have heard something by now, if they were robbing folks.” You muttered, getting up to grab the fresh pot of regular from behind the counter. You refilled your mug as Al opened his lid for a “top off”.

“Well, I’ll look into it. But, see if you can get a plate for me next time you spot ‘em?” Al shrugged and slid out of the booth. “Thanks for the coffee, Y/N. See you next time.”

“You too, Al. Take care now.” You watched the gray haired man amble out of the glass doors, followed precisely by Jimmy, his eyebrows pinched with concern.

“Everything alright?” His husky voice asked as he slid into the sheriff’s vacant seat.

“What? Oh, Al? Yeah, we’ve had a weird vehicle in the neighborhood lately, he’s an old family friend,” You explained. “He’s just checking it out, nothing to worry about for now. So? How’s it going?”

He nearly smiled, but his eyes watched you intently. Jim Spivey never seemed to miss a change in your mood. He leaned across the table for the greeting he missed with his question. You relaxed with the scruff brushing against your cheek in the rushed kiss. “Good, but, uh, how do you feel about a different sort of date night this weekend?”

Jack Hotchner was bored. His friends were all going to see Wonder Women this weekend and here he was waiting around for his dad to finish dinner so he could set the table. Weekends were not made for boring adult things, but no one seemed to get that. Not his dad who was acting strangely the past few weeks, not the brusque US Marshals always following him around and certainly not his new teachers who assigned another project over their days off.

Jack had read the chapters in his history book and found additional sources online before lunch. His outline for his presentation was already written and the poster board purchased by three o’clock. So now he was moping in the living room playing video games, again. He missed Aunt Jessica and all his friends in Virginia. He missed home.

Aaron had been cleaning the house all day. He gave Jack his room and laundry detail, but that was only after his homework was under control. Now that it was Jack and Dad time all the time, the novelty was wearing off. Hotch missed having an excuse to hire out the cleaning details, but every extra person in their lives became a potential target, a threat. Y/N had passed every test and still the bodyguards were giving Hotch grief for getting involved with a civilian. He knew they were paranoid, they were paid to be paranoid. He trusted his instincts and his training. Y/N was no mole, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t in danger.

He check the clock on the front of the microwave, a green glowing 6:13 met his eye. He needed to finish dinner prep and change before Y/N arrived. He used his short range walkie to touch base with the perimeter agents. All clear at the Spivey house, Hotch tucked the device in the top drawer beside the stove top.

The boy looked nothing like his father, even their dark eyes held differed in hue and pools of sorrow. He was gorgeous, all boyish roundness still in tact. His complete dismissal of your introduction reminded you of Jim’s initial confidence about his son and the moodiness of the tween years.

Jim cleared his throat, “Jordan, let’s try that again.”

“It’s nice to meet you, I guess.” The last words barely audible, the young boy stuck his hands in his pockets.

You smiled without teeth, “I can guess the same.” You crossed your arms over your chest and waited him out. Jim smirked to himself at the standoff, you ignored him for the time being. “Listen, Jordan, I get it.”

The complete disbelief on his face was amplified by the dramatic eye roll that followed. “I doubt it, but I’m listening.”

You continued, “You don’t know me, except for the lady that had been dating your dad. And guess what? I don’t know you besides my boyfriend’s grouchy son. So let’s pretend you and I are getting to know each other and your dad can keep to himself.”

“How am I supposed to hang out with a grown up? Like you’re my teacher or something?”

“Hmmmm, not a teacher, I don’t do daily oral usage and seating charts. Who else would you talk to, somebody you weren’t forced to get to know?”

This stumped the kid, he thought for a minute. “Maybe a friend’s mom? But that would mean I liked some part of you already.”

“I’ve got an idea, I’m going to help your dad out, and serve dinner. Because if there is one thing I know, I know how to sweet talk a customer. Can you do that, Jordan? Humor the old waitress for a bit?”

He looked at you like you were crazy, but nodded, slogging off to the waiting dinner table. Jim chuckled below his breath, “He’s not usually this blatantly short with strangers. He is one for giving me the silent treatment though.”

“It’s fine, Jim. I’m not in a rush, he can come around on his own.” You whispered conspiratorially.

“If he’s anything like his old dad, he’ll be smitten by dessert.” Jim leaned down and placed a kiss below your ear, sending tingling throughout your body.

Jack couldn’t keep the rude streak going for long, despite his best efforts. His innate easily-amused self broke through after Y/N had delivered his plate with a saccharine “Let me know if you need anything else, sir.” Aaron kept his own amusement under wraps as only a trained professional could. Y/N was determined to crack Jack’s shell and she did just that. Eventually, she had him eating out of her palm by the end of the meal. She was something alright.

Thinking back on when he started frequenting her diner, Hotch was a lost cause from the start. Sure, the proximity to campus and cheap sustenance were crucial, but once he saw Y/N, he kept the routine until it became habit. Seeing her had now snowballed to necessity. How had he fallen so fast? Then a knowing smile flashed through his mind, Haley’s knowing grin reminded him, he always fell this quick. It had just been so long since he let himself.

The thought had tightened his chest, he exhaled slowly as he watched Y/N ruffle Jack’s hair playfully. “Alright, buddy, I’ll tell you what,” Aaron posed as he started clearing the table. “If you help clean up the kitchen, I’ll take you to the show tomorrow?”

“Can Riley come?” Jack looked nearly conniving.

“If its okay with his mom, I think we can swing an extra ticket.” Hotch caved. The growing boy hopped from his seat, narrowly knocking his chair to the ground.

“Now that’s what I call incentive, Jim.” Y/N laughed at his son’s rush.

After a few hours of board games and the first Christopher Reeves’ Superman film, Jordan headed up to his room for the night. Slowly you retreated to Jim’s bedroom, careful not to make a big deal about staying over. Together you comfortably watched a streaming series on his large bed. Jim’s hands were reluctant to move from your thigh or the side of your face. His kisses were deep, savoring you. His breathing was steady, but something had shifted between you, suddenly you felt more exposed than you had ever before. The heat crept up your neck, pulling your cheeks into a shy smile. Eye contact became painful once Jim pulled back to check on you.

“Y/N, what is it?” His voice was tender, as his arms encased you against his firm chest. Your palms fell over his racing heart and that stuttering rhythm gave you the courage to hope he had felt it too. Peeking through your eyelashes into his endless irises, you knew, it was all reciprocated. This was real. Instantly reality was being rewritten between you, each motion tethering you to him and he to you.

The kisses were just as deep, but grew in desperation. In a whirlwind of teeth and tongues, Jim removed both of your clothing. It was overwhelming, as if the feelings multiplied the sensations. His strong hands worked down your torso, his beard brushing over your goose-bumped flesh. You didn’t want him so far away, not tonight. You slid below him, forcing his mouth to yours again.

“Please, Jimmy, I, hm, need to see you tonight?” You asked, self-consciously. His thumb rubbed your cheekbone, but he nodded, nuzzling your nose. You melted into him, the butterflies unsettled in your belly. He slid between your thighs, never losing contact with you. He deftly held eye contact as he inched within you. Your walls held him close, the adoration passing unspoken through heavy gazes. It wasn’t rushed or needy, but slow and purposeful. Each sigh a declaration, every kiss a promise.

The tears slid out of your eyes as he unabashedly said, “God, I love you, you know that?” His strong body balancing his weight on his arms, driving into you as your happiness flowed out into every corner of the night.

@hgal @rousethemouse

The final installment Around for Good

#Criminal Minds #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #witness protection #Criminal Minds Fanfiction #criminal minds fanfictions #aaron hotchner fanfic #hotch fanfic #Hotch fanfiction #queue #cm fanfiction #smuturday #hotch x reader #hotch x you #domestic fluff #sap

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theinquisitivej · 5 years

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‘Stan & Ollie’ - A Movie Review

Solid central performances can make you very forgiving, to the point where you might forget all the other aspects to a film. It’s why Bohemian Rhapsody has had as much traction as it has. But luckily there are some films out there which offer praiseworthy depictions of historic figures and aren’t tangled up in a nest of messy issues and have more than one string to their bow. One such film is Stan & Ollie, based on a book that documents a late point in the careers of Laurel and Hardy when they toured around the UK, putting on some of their best known and most loved comedy routines. It gets a firm recommendation from me.

There are numerous instances throughout Stan & Ollie where the cinematography plays with the idea that the two main characters are part of this balanced pair. The opening shot presents each of them sitting at the table where they prepare and apply makeup before filming. The left half and right half of the shot each show the back of Laurel and Hardy respectively, while simultaneously showing the face of the other half of the duo reflected in each other’s mirrors. Just as Stan’s reflected face sits on Ollie’s shoulder, Ollie’s reflected face sits on Stan’s shoulder, instantly cementing the strength of their partnership which the rest of the film will be about. There’s numerous other examples throughout the film where this theme is reinforced in similarly clever ways, and I commend Laurie Rose for his work as the cinematographer on this film. I haven’t seen much of his other work, but I’ve heard good things about Free Fire and Overlord (he was co-cinematographers with Fabian Wagner) and I’m excited for the upcoming Pet Sematary which he’s also done some work on. I’m impressed by his flexibility and will be following his work from now on.

The titular duo are also not the only performances in the film that I enjoyed. Nina Arianda and Shirley Henderson play Ida and Lucille, the wives of Laurel and Hardy, and they bring a lot to the film. Arianda’s accent as the Russian Ida Kitaeva Laurel is laid on a bit too thick and distracts from her performance at times, but she nevertheless captures the spirit of this driven woman who is determined to make sure that her husband is recognised. She’s there to be a point of contrast against Lucille Hardy, who is much more uncertain about her husband putting himself out there since she knows it’s not good for his health. As such, Ida’s ambitious nature is often painted in broad strokes, but Arianda still successfully executes those one or two moments where you see the genuine love and understanding she has for her husband. I’ve always been fond of Henderson; she takes full advantage of her distinctive voice, which has helped make her roles emphatically sweet-natured or harshly cruel. She’s a real talent that I don’t see many people talk about. In this film, her performance is filled with this bittersweet combination of desperation and acceptance as she tries to convince the man she loves not to push himself too far. There’s not a lot of main cast members in this film, but Henderson and Arianda make their contributions count.

Of course, the film is built around the relationship between its two titular protagonists, so it pins all its hopes on the fact that you’ll enjoy Steve Coogan and John C. Reilly as Laurel & Hardy respectively. Thankfully, these two pull it off, and what results is a sweet film that, despite its predictable structure that you’ll feel you’ve seen at least two or three other films that this reminds you of, it nevertheless makes your heart soar at all the key moments. Heck, I have little-to-no familiarity with the material of Laurel & Hardy, but I still loved seeing them depicted in this film because it’s clear that someone involved in the film’s production does have a deep affection for them and their work. Whether it’s Coogan and Reilly capturing their likenesses and mannerisms with uncanny accuracy, the director Jon S. Baird’s influence, or Rose’s eye for emphasising double acts through his cinematography, this film acts as a professionally put together love letter to Laurel & Hardy, with several sections of the film being dedicated to faithfully recreating some of their sketches. Coogan conveys Laurel’s affability and creative wit that serves him well in the world of comedy, but he also makes it clear why being around someone who never stops thinking of the next great skit would wear on the people around him. Reilly’s warmth makes his Hardy immensely charming and lovable, and while the film is making a concerted effort to have you sympathise with both halves of this partnership, you come away feeling that Hardy had a lot more patience than Laurel. By the end of the film, you’re in the same place as Lucille, as you just want the guy to stop pushing himself and rest. Together, both actors create an intimate friendship that you believe has countless years behind it, and you know how much they mean to one another. In that way, Stan & Ollie is a relatively straight-forward film. It’s all about this central friendship, showing the strains that are put on this relationship, and culminating in a triumphant finale that, as saccharine as the set-up sounds on paper to the cynical viewer, I couldn’t help but be reduced to a blubbering mess by the end. “I’ll miss this when we’re gone” destroyed me.

Final Ranking: Silver

Stan & Ollie may get overlooked, but considering the story’s emphasis on two aged comedians trying one last time to reclaim their place in the spotlight only to find comfort in the humble pleasure of performing together on stage while they have the chance, there’s a bittersweet poignancy to that. It’s a simple film, but it’s a film with a lot of talent behind it which adds a great deal of sincere value to that simplicity.

#The Inquisitive J #film #film discussion #movies #film reviews #movie reviews #critic #film critic #movie critic #stan & ollie #stan & ollie review #laurel & hardy #the inquisitive j reviews

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lostinthemargins · 7 years

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Some real talk about Sciles/Stydia/Sterek and the shitshow that is Teen Wolf

Thoughts on Teen Wolf (Scott/Stiles brotp/Stydia/Sterek) after reading a lot of vitriolic and just plain sad TW posts, from ALL ship bases and fans:

For one, I never hated Scott nor wished he’d die or anything, even though I don’t particularly “like” him. That’s because of how’s he’s been written. My issue with him is NOT that he’s imperfect (because he is), in fact, that’s one of the things I LOVE about Scott. He can (and always has been able to) be an utter asshole, and that makes him normal. No one is all good or all bad. Unfortunately, showrunners typically think that way. And partially because of that (I believe), Scott is written as this happy go lucky, gullible, perky puppy dog who loves everyone and has a messiah complex. But that’s not true. He is not the best friend in the whole wide world, although that doesn’t necessarily make him a “bad” friend. He can be both a bad and good friend because he can be both a bad person and a good person. He is not infallible or perfect, as we would be led to believe. Watching all of the seasons over again really cleared my head on this and reminded me why I had begun to build up some animosity toward the character, which surprised me. I began to get really fed up with him and liked it when Stiles and he butted heads because I thought Scott was acting like a total idiot and, yes, a shitty friend. The answer was simply that he’d always had the capacity to be that way, even back in season 1. He was the stereotypical dorky teenage boy who got lucky with a pretty girl and began to think he was hot shit, certainly better than his friend because he was succeeding at having what he called a “normal life.” He didn’t really “need” Stiles at that point, and he just used Derek over and over. It happens to the best of us. To be fair, Stiles was written to type as well as the dorky best friend who’s pining over the girl he can’t have. The difference for me is that Stiles has had Scott’s back more often then visa versa.

So for me, my agitation with Scott stems partially from the writers inability to allow Scott to own up and make some real changes. Think about this, in the final 6a scene, it’s Stiles who’s directing the “I need you” “I miss you” conversation. Scott doesn’t have a lot of self-reflection or heartfelt epiphanies as much as you think he would. His mostly deal with his status as an alpha and the responsibilities that that entails.

Another part of it, again not really the character’s fault, is how his status as a POC is used. I think it’s great that he’s a POC, but I also feel that the showrunners use that as a cop out. It almost lets them feel entitled to shit on other POC characters because they can still point to Scott and say “Look, our main character’s a POC, we’re so modern.” Honestly, Scott could totally be white and it wouldn’t affect his story, that’s how little a role his heritage plays, so the fact that he’s a POC to me just seems like Jeff Davis and company patting themselves on the back for being inclusive. I mean, let’s be honest, his acting ability in season 1 was embarrassing, so I’m a little cynical as to why they chose him. The shitty way they’ve written his character just rubs salt into the wound.

On Stydia:

First, to be fair, I’ll throw it out there that I’m not a Stydia shipper, but that’s not because I don’t like them together or because I ship Stalia or because I thought something crazy like he was secretly with Derek in canon (although I do ship Sterek). I’ll touch on Malia, but I honestly ship Scalia, so there.

I love them in a close friendship (kind of like the one he was establishing with Derek before it all went to hell). I thought it would be SO MUCH more meaningful and have much more of an impact if they remained friends. Why? Because it would have been playing AGAINST TYPE, something TW showrunners can’t seem to grasp. So Stiles was the stereotypical dorky best friend who pined and borderline stalked the hot girl and eventually “won” her affections. Is it a cute love story? Sure. Does it make me want to stab my eyeballs out with how cliché it is? Absofuckinglutely. Do I think it reduces both of their characters to the single purpose of satisfying an artificial and set in stone “ship”? YES. I say artificial because they’re fulfilling the roles that have been laid out for them since EPISODE 1. What is exciting, cute, sweet, or even remotely celebratory about that? And so all close male/female friendships have to end in them dating? Come on people, we’ve been fed trope after trope after trope, starting with the teenagers falling in love at first sight aka Scallison. Not hating on Scallison by any means, just how they got pushed together like wham bam thank you ma'am; although, yes, teenagers do fall in love easily so I can at least understand it even if I don’t like it. Allison falling in love with Isaac and him learning to trust her, someone who had tried to kill him, after everything he went through? Now that was something special. It was sad that it never had the chance to go anywhere.

I’ll never get over how they really just slammed Stydia in everyone’s faces with 6a. What was it really about other than to force Lydia into accepting her feelings? …Nothing. Literally nothing happened that changed anything from premiere to finale. Except for Mama McCall and Papa Argent getting their smooch on. Which I’m down for. I didn’t buy into her and the Sheriff, partially because it would have been so obvious and I think a little too campy and saccharine. So 6a just accomplished the “full circle” plotline of Stydia, in all its romantically forced and melodramatic glory. Again, I like them together, and I think her devestation felt real and it was sweet. But they really just slammed the romance aspect together like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. With STALE peanut butter and jelly. As in Lydia didn’t really give an inkling of romantic feelings beyond a few shared glances throughout the seasons and both she and Stiles were busy with other people. A Stiles and Erica relationship was baited right before the actress left, and then we were baited with Cora, who Stiles seemed interested in, and then of course we had the underage Stalia sex in the basement of a mental institution AKA one of the few black marks on an otherwise good season. And then he drops her and what, we’re supposed to pretend like they weren’t a thing for 2 whole seasons? O.K. Once again, we have another character introduced to serve very few purposes with no real plot herself, and that’s mostly to be a girlfriend to Stiles and Peter’s reason for self-improvement. What other purpose has she served? But yeah, we’re supposed to forget her because Stydia is a thing that must happen and it’s the last season. Jeff Davis pretty much said about a lot of season 6 plot lines and decisions, “It’s the last season, so we thought ‘Why not? Let’s do it.’” That is so unbelievably shitty and unfair to characters and their actors. Like, have some self-respect. THAT is why a lot of fans think Stydia is fanservice. Because of the showrunners attitude that they’ll just throw it all against the wall, give “everyone” the happy ending they always wanted because Teen Wolf is ending. Davis said he always wrote every season as if it was the last before they knew it would end with 6. HELLO. Stiles and Lydia don’t get together until 6a. That means if the show had been cancelled like Davis suspected it might, Stydia wouldn’t have been endgame after all.

As for Sterek, it’s my otp but not because I think they were romantic on the show. They weren’t that we know of. I just like them as a pairing, always have, and always will. Some of you spout that’s it’s gross because of the age difference, so obviously that means you’re not OK with all of the baiting they did with Lydia and Parrish? And you have a problem watching underage characters having sex on screen and constantly seeing minors being sexualized? Right? You have to if you think Sterek fans are disgusting. So I don’t put too much thought into the like 6 or 7 year age difference because when Stiles is 18 Derek would only be maybe 25. Hell, I’m 23 and I can tell you a few years means shit, especially this particular period of your life. Derek is still pretty much a kid. Not that I’m going to get into the age difference debate and the sexualization of Sterek. I don’t write, nor do I read fanfiction featuring a sexual canon Sterek relationship; if I do at all, it’s in AUs.

I do think there was more Sterek content in 3b and 4, despite them being apart, but what troubles me is how they pretty much did it on purpose to upset Sterek fans. Dylan and Tyler loved working together, they said as much, and they commented on not having as many scenes together. Meanwhile you have certain people making derogatory public comments and putting the ship and it’s fans down. Of course the fan base is going to be hurt by that, why wouldn’t they if they feel like they’ve been disrespected by the very people their viewership supports? And then they watch their two beloved characters have less and less screen time together and it feels very deliberate. Obviously Jeff Davis and company felt the need to send a message that Sterek was not going to happen, which is fine, but they did so at the expense of a very funny and interesting relationship–something that has hurt the show, no matter how much you dislike or disagree with Sterek as a “ship.” Stiles and Derek could have been real friends, something they were working toward; anyone remember Stiles being the one to show up in Derek’s semi-lucid dream state when Kate shot him? Some point out that could mean Stiles is an anchor-like figure for Derek, or that at the least he is someone Derek feels comfortable around to imagine him there at a time when he is hurt and needing reassurance and advice. And that emphasis on Stiles when Derek left in 4 and the touchy subject of his absence in 5a? Yeah, Stiles had begun to like Derek, and the show did a fair amount of queer baiting–not just for Sterek but a lot of other pairings. But that relationship was severed mostly because A. the showrunners were determined to make any ship other than Sterek exist B. they separated them a lot from seasons 1 and 2 to reduce the Sterek support and C. Tyler eventually decided to leave for his own personal reasons (the show wasn’t kind to his character for sure). After that we saw the slow decline of Stalia and the continued crawl of Stydia scenes, meanwhile having the brand new ship of Larrish being dropped on us out of the freaking blue.

The showrunners didn’t really want to commit to going all in with Stydia before the absolute last season. That’s gotta mean something to Stydia shippers. I don’t understand how you guys can gloss over that and ignore how it affects the integrity of the characters. Would I rather see Stydia than Stalia? Yes and no, but only because I acknowledge that Stalia was a crack pairing to begin with and it made no sense storyline wise. Stydia still feels rushed in 6a after a slow burn that could have just meant a strong friendship. And now we have these revelations such as Lydia admitting that everything changed when she first kissed Stiles. O.K. then, now why don’t we get an explanation as to why that’s just now a thing for her when the kiss took place back in freaking 3a, in a scene that was unrealistic to begin with? I understand the excitement of seeing your otp come true, but the lack of romance until the crazy plot of 6a harms the integrity of everything.

They should have made Stydia a thing before 6a instead of saying “What the hell, why not?” Believe it or not, Sterek shippers might actually be pissed if they’d done that to Stiles and Derek. Can you imagine? Having Derek come swooping in at the last season and have Stiles suddenly realize his romantic feelings for him? The fan base would be in an UPROAR for the lack of development and rightly so. Is Stydia more believable? Of course. Has Derek been absent since 5? Obviously. So they had no chance to develop any relationship at all, friendship or otherwise. Stydia makes more sense because they’ve had more time to become friends and have been pushed together, in part as a response to Sterek as an insistence that Stiles and Lydia would always be important to each other and would definitely get together. Meanwhile, characters like Malia are getting used like a rag doll, taking up space as Stiles girlfriend when it’s convenient, and tossed back aside to make way for Lydia once Davis and company feel good and damned ready to make Stydia a thing.

At the end of the day, the biggest reason I don’t want Stydia to be a thing is because their relationship matters more when they’re not doing the thing you expect. It’s much more mature for Stiles to say, “You know what? I always had this childish notion that we’d be together because it was fate, but I realize now that we’re too good of friends for this to be the right decision. I value your friendship more than the desire to fulfill my immature ambition of winning you.” The romantic subplot that never came to fruition between Rachel Green and Joey from Friends come to mind. They realized it didn’t feel right because they were too close, their friendship too strong. They made an adult decision not to pursue it further.

But no. We don’t get that kind of growth. We get the same old regurgitated same old, and that’s why I won’t really miss TW when it’s gone because let’s face it, the real show’s been gone for a while now.

Jeff Davis and company kind of gave up a long time ago for various reasons, but unfortunately by then the oldest fans, making up the loyal fan base, were hooked and still came back for more torture. The fact that we’re less than a month out, have only just been told that, and still don’t have a trailer, makes me livid in ways I can’t describe. MTV/TW showrunners have really shown their disdain for their own characters and their fans for the sake of going out with a bang, and it’s utterly disgusting.

Rant over.

#teen wolf #sciles #stydia #sterek #fandom #otp #teen wolf fans are the best and the worst #stiles stilinski #lydia martin #derek hale #scott mccall #stalia #malia tate #malia hale #ships #shipping #ship wars #mtv

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ryukoishida · 7 years

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OtaYuri Week | Day 1: First Time | In which figure skaters become mobile suit pilots in this self-indulgent Gundam AU.

Written for @otayuriweek

Title: Touch of the Martian Sun Day/Prompt: Day 1 – First Time Author: ryukoishida Summary: Yuri Plisetsky may have the eyes of a soldier, but even the bravest warrior and one of the most formidable Mobile Suit pilots in Korishiro Corps can break at the seams when he reaches his limit. [Gundam (Iron-Blooded Orphans ‘Verse) AU] Rating: T Warning: Mention of past physical and emotional abuse A/N: That Gundam AU that literally nobody asked for. Also includes some Mila/Sara because I couldn’t resist. This is one of the most self-indulgent things I’ve ever written, probably. You don’t need to know anything about the Gundam ‘verse except it’s kids piloting giant fighting robots.

“Yuri, what the hell are you doing?”

His captain’s voice is grainy through the intercom, but his hands – slender, graceful, scarred with old and recent wounds – continue to move like a fluttering dance, pushing buttons and pulling levers.

Every movement delicate and precise. Deadly.

Connected through the Alaya-Vijnana System embedded into his spine, his mobile suit, a customized version of Rhyannon – towering at over 18 meters tall and made of nano laminate armour painted with contrasting shades of ink black and cardinal red – propels itself across the field in smooth, effective arcs as if it’s an extension of his own body.

A red warning sign flashes hastily in the left corner of his monitor: one of his short-barrel cannons mounted on his shoulder has been severely damaged during the last scuffle with a particularly insistent Reginlaze. He still has plenty of armament though – sufficient to at least administer significant destruction against those who are foolish enough to engage him in a one-on-one fight.

His sea-green gaze is piercing, darting left and right in quick succession to try and see through the thick sheen of red dust swirling a wild waltz that refuses to settle as multiple mobile suits drift and cross paths in such speed only the sun catches glimpses of their shapes in specks of reflected light against metal.

In the back of his mind, Yuri can faintly make out the other man’s voice but his focus has been splashed bright red with fresh blood and the endless fury brought on by the memory of those animals in human disguise, their voices and words and agony inflicted by them that still rips him away from peaceful slumber, causing him to wake up drenched in cold sweat and lingering fear.

“I’m not letting those bastards get away this time,” Yuri grits out, fingers drumming irritably on the control grips as he searches for the ragged shapes of the enemy troop’s Reginlazes and Hugos.

As big and bulky as these machines are, in this thick curtain of dust, they are impossible to detect with the naked eye.

Yuri waits, the coldness in his eyes unforgiving. He’s waited for this chance for almost a year since the day Yuuri Katsuki found him among the wreckage of what used to be one of Afanasiy’s largest ships; a few minutes’ time means nothing to him right now.

“Yuri Plisetsky, fall back, right now.” Otabek Altin’s usually quiet and collected voice is clipped with impatience and tinged with a hint of panic as he watches the elegant lines of his friend’s mobile suit glinting faintly in the distant sunlight.

“You weren’t there, Otabek,” the statement isn’t meant to be in any way accusative, but the deep-seated vehemence breaks open the surface of his whisper, a chilling tone that makes even one of the best pilots in Korishiro Corps shudder. “You have no idea what they’ve done to me – to the others.”

Guang Hong Ji – a shy, sensitive boy of Chinese descent who was so frail when he was first captured by Afanasiy that Yuri thought he wasn’t going to make it through the Alaya-Vijnana implanting operation.

Leo de la Iglesia – a dark-skinned boy from the Americas with eyes full of hope and determination that gradually diminished as he became numb to the physical pain and battle scars, and the emotional agony of losing comrades who fought alongside him.

Mila Babicheva – a feisty red-head from what used to be Russia who rebelled against her captors until she became quieter and more withdrawn as bruises and lashes bloomed all over her body like a field of violets.

And those are just the ones who survived long enough – lucky enough, perhaps – for them to be rescued by the crew of Korishiro when the wall that had been constructed to confine them and iron chains thick and heavy around their necks were tear apart by Yuuri Katsuki and his Gundam Saleos.

Of course, back then, they had no idea of the influence and power, as well as the danger that comes along with it, that having a Gundam frame on their side would entail.

Otabek’s voice filters through the stark images of his mind, tainted with rusted blood and bitter fury.

“Remember what Mr. Nikiforov said! Retrieve and secure the Gundam frame, and––”

Yuri can’t hear Otabek’s next words.

He breathes out, limp, blond locks fluttering and sticking to his sweat-stained cheek. His fingers grip the controls reflexively the moment Rhyannon’s sensors signal two mobile suits heading his way from opposite directions.

From the midst of the dust storm, two mobile suits armoured in teal and grey, with Afanasiy’s insignia of a red and yellow phoenix branded on their shoulders, emerge at full speed like some crazed ghouls seeking blood and violence.

Yuri will give it to them: bruised skin, broken bones, severed limbs, and pain beyond comprehension.

He pulls out his railguns and shoot at both units without hesitation, aiming directly for where the cockpits would be located on the robotic suits.

The one to his left explodes immediately, scattering fireworks of spitting flames and raining shrapnel.

His eyes flash towards the remaining Reginlaze, now less than five meters away with its blade brandished and ready. Yuri grins, the expression horrifyingly sharp and callous, and he shifts his control grip to face the oncoming attack as he unsheathes his own smaller assault knives.

Without any warning, Yuri throws one of the knives towards the Reginlaze, and the blade lodges itself into the crook of the mobile suit’s right shoulder, successfully disabling its sword-wielding arm. The young pilot wastes no time to get closer after one well-aimed kick lands his opponent flat and hissing smoke on the ground, Rhyannon’s other knife raised in an angle perfect for stabbing right through the cockpit of the other mobile weapon.

Blood roars in Yuri’s ears, and exhilaration rushes through his body like a living beast, making his eyes unnaturally bright and his lips twisted into a grin.

That’s when a shadow descends from above. Silent and unexpected as death.

Rhyannon alerts him much too late, the echo of the urgent beeping in his cockpit enshrouding his other senses.

“Yuri––!”

He can barely make out Otabek’s voice – he can always hear Otabek amongst the chaos. It’s a deep, rumbling river that always gives him a sense of calm when he fears the dark, uncontrollable storm of his emotions threatening to drag him past that threshold between sanity and madness.

It’s a thin line that Yuri has been straddling for these past long months.

The solid weight of the other mobile suit crushes him from the top, and the deafening collision – like a prolonged clap of thunder invoked by the angry gods – rings in his ears long after the impact.

A hit from a mace from the side sends him sprawling on the ground, and then the Hugo that’s been attacking him is stepping on him to ensure he’s not going anywhere. Metal groans and creaks around Yuri from the pressure, the monitor screens cracking and blacking out, and the safety belts strapped across his bare chest is cutting into his skin and pressing sharply against bones.

Black oils leak through breakages, and glittering sparks and small flames sputter from Rhyannon’s broken circuits as the Hugo savagely punches into Yuri’s battered mobile suit.

The last thing he remembers is Otabek yelling into the intercom, “Yuri! Stay with me, damn it! Mr. Katsuki, we need to––”

‘I don’t need to be saved,’ Yuri thinks, fingers slipping off from the control panel.

He’s strong enough.

A rivulet of red drips into his eyes, sticky and warm, but he feels no pain, just a strange white noise buzzing in his ears.

He opens his mouth, prepared to protest but instead of words, he coughs out blood that tasted coppery sweet on his tongue.

It’s familiar and comforting, and Yuri thinks that’s the scariest part of all.

The rising sun on Mars is dazzling – disorienting, almost.

“Shouldn’t you still be resting in bed?”

Otabek settles beside him, two cans of chocolate-flavored protein drink in his hand, and he offers one to the other man.

“I got bored,” Yuri takes it with a nod of thanks, but he doesn’t drink it, just rolls the can between his hands.

Loose strands of his hair that have escaped the half-ponytail tied messily behind his head flutter in the breeze and fall into his eyes. Yuri makes no movement to fix it.

“That’s what I figured,” Otabek chuckles, the sound low and smoky. He takes a swig out of his own can, wincing when the saccharine taste of the artificial flavor hits his palette.

“How’s your fractured ribs?”

It’s small talk, but that’s fine by both of them. The morning is quiet, the Korishiro base a peaceful sanctuary without its usual fanfare during the day.

“Fine,” he replies, lips twitching, “still hurts like a bitch, but I’m alive, so that’s always a plus.”

His gaze is focused on the horizon, the roseate light of dawn making his pale blond hair gleam. There’s no humor in that bitter smile.

“About that, Yuri…” Otabek starts, but hesitates to continue. Indecision has never been a trait of the 19-year-old, who has become one of Korishiro’s youngest and most capable mobile suit pilot, and dependable leader of the Human Debris (though they don’t use that term anymore since the rebellion) – those who were orphaned at a young age and sold cheaply as child soldiers through various means.

“Am I grounded from piloting Rhyannon?”

“What?” Otabek turns towards him with a confused frown. “What would make you assume that?”

“Mila told me. You had a long talk with Nikiforov the day after we came back…” Yuri places the beverage down beside him, and he turns to face Otabek, teeth worrying his lower lip. “She said neither you nor Katsuki would talk about the meeting though, so it must have been something serious. Was it about me?”

“Mr. Nikiforov was concerned about you,” Otabek treads carefully, knowing full well that Viktor Nikiforov, founder of Korishiro Corps who’s known for his impertinent but oddly genuine nature, is not Yuri’s favourite person.

Yuri scoffs in a sharp exhale but keeps his mouth shut.

“Mr. Katsuki and I as well,” Otabek’s tone turns softer, dark gaze lowering to stare at the half-empty can in his hands. “What you did back there was reckless; you could have gotten yourself killed––”

“We completed the mission, didn’t we? That’s the most important part, isn’t it?” Yuri snaps, the frustration in his voice churning and the fire in his eyes barely contained. He lowers his torso into a defensive pose, but the sudden movement jostles his wound, and he hisses in pain while bracing a protective arm around his abdomen.

Otabek begins to reach for him, but when he sees Yuri curls further away, wordlessly refraining from being touched, the other man relents and heaves a soft sigh.

“Not if it means having one of our own injured,” he tries to reason. “We could have retrieved the Gundam frame without engaging the enemy, but you…” Otabek sends him a wary glance then, “don’t try to deny it, Yuri, but you wanted to fight them, didn’t you?”

“So what if I did?” No hesitation or a hint of repentance at all. “If you’d experienced what I had – what Mila and Leo and Guang Hong had – you’d do the same.”

“I’d seen what they did to you and the others; I was there,” Otabek reminds him, and the image of when they first found the four youngsters in the rubble of the ruined ship was still painfully fresh in his mind: the bruised, battle-hardened bodies had been beaten – worst, they had been abused by adults who had exploited them for their own gains. He swallows hard and continues, “and I’m not about to tell you to be a saint and forgive those bastards, but letting the hate and anger control you like that – that’s dangerous.”

Otabek doesn’t want to say more – doesn’t want to belittle Yuri’s emotions or trespass into a territory he has no right to be in.

“You figure I don’t know that?” Yuri bites out after a shaky breath, gaze downcast. “Why’d you think I offered to go solo in the first place?”

He’s not responsible for anyone else’s lives but his own; he’s always lived by that rule. That’s how he survives. That’s all he knows how.

“Because Viktor can see right through you,” Otabek says, and he drains the last of the beverage before continuing, “because he knows, with that temper of yours, you’ll end up injured – or dead – if you’d gone on your own.”

He’s not wrong – Viktor does care, even if he has an annoying and strange way of expressing it – and Yuri hates that even more.

“You needed someone there to tell you to stop, and I guess that was why Mr. Katsuki and I were chosen for this mission as well.”

“If he’s so worried, then why’d he let me go anyway?”

“You’re one of the best pilots we have, and Mr. Nikiforov acknowledges that and trusts that you will deliver in the end,” Otabek says with a faint smile, a quiet sense of pride in the curve of his lips.

The older pilot turns to him once more, eyes searching calmly until Yuuri glances up to meet his gaze.

Something in Yuri’s eyes waver – the desire to believe in Otabek’s words, the wish to let go of the past.

“The thing about working in a team is that you have to trust others: you have your family’s backs, and they have yours,” he leans towards Yuri, and when he senses that the blond has no intention to back away, Otabek lifts his hand and carefully brushes Yuri’s bangs out of the way, winding the strands behind the curve of his ear before cradling his jaw.

At this range, Otabek can count the lashes framing Yuri’s sea-green eyes, perplexed and curious by their proximity.

Otabek needs him to understand this. “Yuri, you’re not in Afanasiy anymore; you don’t have to fight by yourself.”

Maybe that’s the issue, Yuri doesn’t voice out his thoughts, just quietly mulling over Otabek’s words, the warmth of the other man’s fingertips a slight but pleasant distraction.

It’s difficult for him to place his trust in others.

He’s never seen that as a problem before – never really considered it – but Otabek has saved him time and time again since he’s been accepted as part of the Korishiro family, and Yuuri – sweet, meddling, quiet-spoken Yuuri who’s like an elder brother to the younger members in Korishiro – can be fierce and frightening when his family’s lives are endangered. The trail of wreckages of those who had threatened Korishiro left behind by Saleos should be proof of that.

Yuri feels the soft caress of Otabek’s thumb across his cheek, the gesture simple yet filled to the brim with something he can’t quite name, only that it causes his face to heat up and his blood to thrum a melody not unlike the adrenaline before a battle.

But this strange pull in his body is unlike any sensation Yuri has ever felt, and he finds himself grasping the sleeves of Otabek’s jacket, knuckles tensed and wide eyes unable to look away from the other man.

“Yuri…?”

Wetness stings his eyes, and he can’t comprehend what’s happening at first. He tries to blink it away, but it only serves to blur his vision more: hot tears rolling down his cheeks and breaths shuddering to catch up.

Yuri can’t remember the last time he cried. Maybe it was when he said goodbye to his grandpa back at the spaceport on Earth six years ago?

He had cried only once while he was imprisoned by Afanasiy after an especially grueling training session, which had involved lots of mobile suit simulation and even more beatings afterwards during physical drills. Later, he had sobbed into the dirty sheets on his narrow bunk bed while the other children feigned ignorance. He’d thought about his grandfather, still living and relatively safe on Earth thanks to the remaining savings he’d sent not too long ago.

That was when he made a promise to himself.

Otabek is the first person to see him shed tears like this since then – defenseless, all choked sobs and ugly crying that Yuri is unable to stop – and he thinks he should be afraid, ashamed, but when Otabek wordlessly wraps his arms around him, being extra careful not to bump against his wounds, Yuri can only feel thankful as a sense of relief flows through him like a serene current.

He lets go, bit by bit.

There’ll always be a small part of him clinging to the past – not because of fond reminiscence but because that imperfect fragment is one of the pieces that makes him who he is. Yet once he accepts that and moves on, Yuri figures that life on Mars, with those whom he calls brothers and sisters, is going to be better than he’s ever hoped for.

“Yuri, what’s the matter? Did I hurt you? Should I––?” Otabek starts to pull himself away, unsure of what to do.

“Don’t you dare,” Yuri sniffs, pulling him closer, or as close as it’s possible for his injuries to not protest too much.

Otabek’s eyes soften into a warmer russet, and he stays there, palm on the back of Yuri’s neck, as they wait for the younger man to calm down. Violent shaking eventually turns to slight tremors, and then he’s still as a statue.

“Better?”

Yuri nods into his shoulder.

“Woah woah, are we interrupting a moment here? Please excuse us!”

A cheerful melodious voice bursts through their reverie, and the speaker, a young woman with short, burgundy curls and bright green eyes, is currently draping herself all over another female with tanned skin and long dark hair bunched up messily into a ponytail as if the definition of “personal space” doesn’t exist in her dictionary.

The other woman doesn’t seem to mind much, though she does send her companion a meaningful glare.

Her exasperated “Mila, don’t be rude!” is said at the same time as Yuri’s nonchalant “Mila, fuck off.”

Yuri leans away from Otabek, cheeks rosy and streaked with drying tear marks that he tries to rub away with the sleeve of his too-big jacket.

“Sara, Yuri’s being mean to me again!” Mila Babacheva clings closer to her friend, who can only tug her along as she smiles apologetically at the two men.

“Come on, you little monster, didn’t you say you want to see the upgraded armament for your Stagioni?” Sara Crispino laughs and takes Mila’s hand in hers. Neither seems to be bothered by the gesture, and Yuri and Otabek share a knowing glance.

“Heading to the hanger?” Otabek asks as he gets on his feet.

“Yeah,” Sara nods, “you and Yuri should come, too. Yuuko’s purchased some new parts and she’s been itching to do some upgrades on Ulises.”

“I hope she hasn’t done anything to it yet,” Otabek looks uncharacteristically startled and even a bit distressed at the mention of upgrades and the name of his mobile suit in the same sentence.

Mila and Sara burst into simultaneous laughter, and even Yuri can’t help the small grin on his face as they recall the failure of one particular upgrade a few months ago.

“Never forget the hip canons,” Sara giggles.

Needless to say, putting short barrel canons on a lightweight class mobile suit’s waist has not been one of Yuuko’s brightest ideas.

As the four of them make their way to the hanger, Yuri asks, “How bad is Rhyannon’s condition?”

Sara glances over at the young pilot before setting her eyes forward again, “Yuuko was mad when they hauled it in.”

Yuri gulps nervously.

Yuuko never gets mad. She’s usually easy-going and greets everyone with a friendly smile; her only fanatic obsession is taking apart and putting together the mechanical parts of mobile suits. If Yuuko had been mad, Yuri figures he must have fucked up quite royally.

“That bad, huh?” he only says, throat dry, though his facial expression remains impassive.

“She said her team will need at least another week with it before it’s fully repaired,” Sara adds, and she watches with amusement as Yuri’s face turns another shade paler.

“Oh, hell,” Yuri mutters, stalling midway, “maybe I should, uh, wait until Yuuko’s done with the repairs before I see her. I’m sure she doesn’t want to be bothered when she’s clearly busy.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Otabek blocks his way before Yuri can think about turning back. “You have to help me convince Yuuko to stay away from adding anything ridiculous on Ulises. We have another assignment next week and I don’t want a repeat of the hip cannons.”

The women snicker behind him, but Otabek looks serious, imploring Yuri with his earnest eyes.

Staring at Otabek’s openly honest expression – rarely seen on the usually stoic pilot – Yuri hides the trace of a smile threatening to show on his lips by turning his head slightly away, murmuring, “Fine. Just this once – as thanks for saving my ass. Again.”

“Aww, this is great, isn’t it, Sara? Look at them!”

“Yes, yes,” Sara ruffles the other woman’s hair affectionately, “now let’s get going before Yuuko decides to upgrade everyone’s mobile suits.”

Their pace significantly quickens after that.

Explanation Time! Definitions (within Iron-Blooded Orphans Universe):

- Gundam frames: A series of 72 mobile suit frames that were produced and developed by Gjallarhorn (an international peacekeeping force) during the Calamity War 300 years ago; the Ahab particles generated by the two Ahab Reactors within each suit give it a lot of powers, which can be burdensome on the pilot’s body since man and suit are connected through the Alaya-Vijnana system.

- Alaya-Vijnana system: A man-machine interface implant that improves a pilot’s spatial skills and reactions while piloting a mobile suit. The surgery to get the implants is risky and many have died during the process.

- Mobile suits: A type of mobile weapon that is a humanoid combat vehicle. I.E. Giant robots that people can pilot even in space.

#otayuri week #otayuri #otabek altin #yuri plisetsky #mila/sara #bowie's crappy writing #yoi: gundam au

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