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blaisenova · 2 months

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I got a request, and if it's okay can it be platonic?

If it can, how about classic and Error friendship? Cause Error hates aus, and classics the original.

but of course!!

i fucking love the man child, and, naturally, i adore myself some classic too. funnily enough, this is actually a dynamic i don't often see explored, and it's one i've definitely neglected in my own years of making undertale content. BUT THAT ENDS TODAY!!

i'm not sure if you had anything specific in mind, but i just kind of came up with an idea and ran with it, so hopefully it turned out okay LOL. i'm pretty content with it. i always love putting error in space, as a treat.

story is below the cut, and i'll reblog with the ao3 link once it's posted there, but you, my dear tumblr user, get to see it first <3

thanks so much for the request!!

The multiverse was an infinitely expanding place, much to Error’s chagrin, and that meant that there were some rather peculiar concepts out there. Error had never been one for the unusual, though, so the more bizarre corners of the multiverse served to do nothing but piss him off. Really, there were very few universes that he genuinely appreciated the existence of, and those were Undernovella, Outertale, and Undertale. The first and second were, admittedly, born out of a particular bias – Asgoro was just such a compelling character. And who doesn’t like space? Sue him! – and the third was because Undertale was the only real universe out there; the rest were nothing but mistakes; accidents; copies that didn’t print quite right. So, naturally, when given the opportunity to bother one of the Classic Sanses of the multiverse, Error leapt at the opportunity.

It wasn’t exactly uncommon for him to be met with a Classic in his line of work, especially considering the special care he took with them; all it took was one fool’s mistake to turn an Undertale into something else entirely, after all, and that was the last thing Error wanted. There should only be one Sans per universe, both in and out of the timeline. Any… extras were glitches already – Errors, if you will – so, really, it was a mercy to get rid of them. Spare everyone the trouble of another him.

As often as Error was met with Classic, however, it wasn’t until his last Genocide that he actually struck up what might be called a “friendship” – admittedly, Error had never quite figured out the meaning of the word despite Blue’s attempts to teach him (though, Blue had also admitted that their whole “friendship” was a ploy, back in the day, before there was another error in the universe, so, really, who was to say what he knew) – but, sometimes, it was hard to tell if people really wanted to hang out with him or if he was just holding them captive on accident. Again.

It was especially complicated when Error was Classic’s “ride,” if you will. Classic had completely forbidden Error from spending time in his universe – which was insulting as much as it was understandable – and Error had forbidden the two from spending time in the anti-void – because the last thing he needed was another Blue situation – so the two, often, passed their hours in other universes, particularly Outertale. Not every Sans had the ability to travel from universe to universe, however – and thank the fucking stars for that. There’s no telling what kind of universes would be made if people could just go wherever they pleased – so Error was Classic’s taxi to the rest of the multiverse. It created a bit of an odd power dynamic that Error, admittedly, kind of enjoyed; he could go see Classic whenever he wanted, but Classic would always have to wait for him to show up first. If that’s what friendship was, then maybe it wasn’t so bad, after all.

Either way, Classic was everything that the rest of the multiverse wasn’t in that, unlike everyone else, he was meant to be there.

In all honesty, Error didn’t particularly enjoy the actual personality of his companion – there was something about it that made his bones buzz unpleasantly, like static, and reminded him of a past long gone and just out of memory’s reach – but it was so impossibly rare to meet someone that wasn’t an anomaly that Error found himself enjoying Classic’s company nonetheless.

Which was why – as he normally did when he was too caught up in his own thoughts to realise what he was doing – Error found himself stepping through a glitch in the fabric of the multiverse, met with the pleasant sound of snow crunching beneath his slipper. The slush immediately soaked through his shoes, chilling his toes and making him shiver with glitches. He peered upwards at the blurred cavern ceiling that hung above, dappled with the sparkling cyan gems that he used to pretend were stars; it was easier now, to pretend, when his vision was so awful. Though, even then, nothing compared to the real thing, and what was the use of pretending when, now, he could access the stars with a mere flick of the wrist?

With that same unconsciousness that came with years of habit, Error, after a short walk, easily found himself before the forest’s sentry station, where a nearly identical copy – if you ignored the marks of the anti-void or their lack thereof – snoozed away his shift, as he always did.

“Hey,” he called, voice particularly distorted with his effort to project, and a pleased smile fell over his face as the sound effectively roused his companion.

The skeleton blinked awake with that same bleary slowness that all tale Sanses did, rubbing the sleep from his sockets with a closed-mouth yawn. It took him a moment to register what had woken him as he shook the snow that had fallen onto his skull back to the ground, and his smile widened at the sight of the glitch before him. Admittedly, it was a welcome change in greeting than the usual wariness or screams that he received in the typical universe, but, then again, Classic had always been a special case in every way involving Error.

“Hey,” he returned, in that same languid tone as always. “Long time snow see.”

With a distorted bark of laughter, Error returned, “Yeah. It’s ice to see you again.”

“Good one,” Classic snickered. He stretched, slowly, filling the air with the soft pop of bones, then, as if to refute his efforts, hunched right back over into the same horrible position as before; head leaned on his arms, looking like he was still half asleep which, knowing him, he probably was. “Seriously. It’s been a while. Where’ve you been? Or do I wanna know?”

“Busy,” was all he answered, and the strings that stuck to his cheeks itched at the notion.

Sockets slipping shut in a poorly concealed cringe, Classic hummed. “I guess I don’t.”

“We’re going to see the stars,” Error said, instead of responding. With a flick of his wrist, a door opened to the rest of the multiverse, and the dark vastness of space shone through, spotted with all manner of colourful stars, both big and small; the heat of their presence could be felt through the opening, and the feeling prompted Classic to sit up.

He peered through the portal with that same uncertain fascination as he always did, eyelights darting over each celestial body with increasing longing. Nevertheless, when he managed to tear his gaze from the beyond and back to what was right in front of him, he fixed Error was a peculiar look with squinted sockets. “That a request?”

Error followed suit in his expression, head cocked to the side. “What?”

“Are you asking me to go?” he elaborated with an almost mocking deliberation. “Or making me?”

With a confused shake of his head, Error glanced back at the expanse of space for a moment before returning his gaze to the other him. His eyelights moved over his face, in the same way Classic’s did to the stars, as if searching for something. “Don’t you want to?”

For reasons Error couldn’t possibly hope to discern, Classic seemed to relax at the question, his expression turning back to that half-lidded smile. Having friends was weird. “I guess I can make some space in my schedule,” he said. “Beats working.”

“You were sleeping,” Error corrected with another confused frown.

“Yeah,” Classic agreed before, with a shit-eating grin that gave Error a better idea of why Papyrus was so annoyed all the time, “on the job.”

Frowning, Error let out a distorted sigh and considered how attached he really was to the multiverse’s veritable “original.” Attached enough, perhaps. It was fortunate that Classic was, overall, quiet, especially when faced with the silence-inspiring view of the stars that he was so seldom met with in his own universe, or, at least, not in ways that he properly remembered. Surrounded by something so vast and beautiful, what was there to say? Words seemed meaningless, small; som

“Are you coming or not?” Error grumbled, jerking his head towards the portal.

Finally standing to his feet – which, hilariously, didn’t grant him much extra height compared to when he’d been sitting – Classic nodded shortly and flashed him yet another grin. “Not in the mood for comet-y, are we?” he huffed. “Yeah, I’m comin’.”

Without gracing the pun with a response – though, admittedly, it had been a good one – Error stepped into the other universe. Immediately, the distinction between the soggy snow beneath his feet and the crumbly softness of the planet’s surface was clear, and, despite the distinct lack of oxygen, it felt easier to breathe. They’d ended up where they always did when they went to Outertale: some place on the other side of the planet, where the sun didn’t touch and, so, neither did the monsters. Without the mark of monsterkind, the planet itself was overwhelmingly grey, feeling rather underwhelming in comparison to the infinite picture of stars, and planets, and space dust that sprawled outwards before them, impossibly more vibrant and colourful once the portal snapped shut behind them and shut out the light of Snowdin. Though, Error supposed, just about anything would feel underwhelming in the face of something like this. Even he felt small beneath the expanse.

“I always forget how big it is,” Classic mumbled from somewhere close behind, and Error couldn't help but jump at the sound.

In a wave of glitches, he glanced back towards his companion. There was something about space – about being faced with what he could never have – that seemed to make Classic vulnerable in a way that Error hated; the way that he stared out into the void that somehow felt kinder than the other voids lacked that guarded nature – that wall – that usually stood so unwaveringly. It was a display of genuineness that Error didn’t quite feel he deserved, though he couldn’t say why.

Tearing his gaze from the other him, Error forced himself to peer at the stars once more, focusing on a particularly vivid patch of space dust. “It’s infinite,” he hummed. “‘Course it’s big.”

“Infinite’s a terrible descriptor,” Classic said with a huff of laughter. He carefully sat himself on the planet’s sheer edge, legs swinging in the open space with that characteristic recklessness that Error couldn’t help but wonder if it, from time to time, could be attributed to a certain call of the void that he, too, experienced. “It’s meaningless,” he continued. “So large that it’s incomprehensible.”

Following Classic’s example, Error perched himself on the edge. It was more of a crouch than a sit, really, leaving plenty of space and the ability to leap up and away should he need to. The first few times he’d done it, Classic had questioned the behaviour, and Error hadn’t really known how to answer. Now, the other skeleton didn’t even bat an eye. It was nice to be understood; or, if not understood, at least tolerated for his peculiarities. Maybe that was enough.

“This is nothing compared to the rest of the multiverse,” he finally answered. “Just an infinity inside of an infinity.”

The words were met with a shiver so subtle that Error might not have picked up on it if Classic weren’t so exactly like him. “Geez,” he said, with a bit of a breathless laugh. “Existential.”

“Existential?” he echoed, browbones furrowing as he peered back at his companion.

“Yeah,” Classic confirmed. “Makes you feel meaningless, knowing how small a part of the multiverse you are. So small you can’t even comprehend just how massive the rest of it is.”

A short huff of laughter fell from Error. “Everyone’s equally a part of infinity.”

“Equally meaningless, maybe,” came the grumble.

Another snort. “Yeah, most of ‘em.” His eyelights turned back towards the multiverse’s pocket infinity. The view was blurry without his glasses, but maybe it was the bigger picture that mattered more than the parts of it. What did it matter if he was missing a few stars? “It’s crazy how unlikely it is that some of these universes should exist, but they’re here, anyway.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah,” Error huffed. He ran his hand over the rough ground beneath him, rolling a pebble around with the tip of his finger in an unconscious attempt to dispel the frustrated energy that was building in him at the conversation topic. “Like, Underswap – the one where you and your bro are, like… swapped around – you wanna know how likely that is to exist?”

“I get the feeling you’re going to tell me either way,” Classic mumbled, but Error ignored him.

“It’s a probability of 1 divided by 9,109,043,495. It shouldn’t have happened, but it did.” His fingers habitually moved up towards his sockets, running over the grooves left by his strings and blinking away magic. “Isn’t that ridiculous? It’s like the multiverse is just trying to spite me; to spite itself.”

“That’s pretty incredible, actually.” The words were accompanied by a shuffling sound, and Error peeked towards the other, idly noting the way that he’d pulled his legs up into a cross-legged position.

“Incredibly annoying, maybe,” he grumbled.

For reasons Error didn’t quite understand, his frustration earned a laugh. “If something with such a low probability of existing, nevertheless, exists, then I guess it’s got to have meaning, after all. Maybe we all do, even in unquantifiable, improbable infinity,” Classic snickered. That thoughtful vulnerability was back in his gaze, and Error watched his eyelights trace invisible constellations. “You’ve got a real interesting way of reassuring someone, you know.”

Frowning, Error cocked his head to the side. “What? Who am I reassuring? Of what?”

#blaise writes #undertale #undertale au #error sans #errortale #sans #sans au #sans undertale #undertale fanart #undertale fanfiction #fanfiction #god i've missed writing for this fandom #it's been too damn long

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proshippers-against-censorship · 1 day

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i'm back, local anti (technically not ig but i refuse to call myself a proshipper anymore after seeing some of the people lurking around over there) ranting in your askbox because you seem kinda chill actually. more controversial opinions incoming

(using general "you" btw this isn't directed at you specifically tumblr user proshippers-against-censorship)

free speech goes both ways. you have the right to make and post whatever you want on your own blog, but other people also have the right to talk about it on their own blogs if they have opinions about what you create.

specifically, i'm thinking about the whole "art lore" bullshit on tiktok. is it really shitty to draw over someone else's art to make fun of it? yes, incredibly. but you don't get to say it can't exist. you don't get to scream and cry about free speech and being anti-censorship if it only applies to people who are nice to you. if your art has the right to exist regardless of its purpose and the intention behind it, then so do other people's.

some people act like martyrs over being "anti-censorship," but then turn around and try to tell people what they can and can't say because it's about them. whether what someone else is saying about you is shitty doesn't matter. whether your art is "bad" doesn't matter in the scheme of it being posted and allowed to exist, so it can't apply to other people's thoughts and opinions about your art either. it doesn't matter one way or the other, your art has the right to exist, and so do other people's posts about said art. you don't have to like it, but you don't get to say it can't exist.

if you post whatever it is you want to post and people crawl up in your ask box like "why does it look like that" "get well soon" etc. and that bothers you, then you need to employ your own suggestions. curate your own online experience. close your ask box. turn off reblogs/comments. block people posting about you. if you can't handle that, then maybe you shouldn't be on the internet.

(i'm not talking about threats, doxxing, etc. btw, that's a completely different thing.)

Gonna sob rq over being called chill, I take that as a huge compliment. Especially when there's a good few antis who like to complain about how I'm quite the opposite in my messages...along with some colorful threats. Super fair to not want to take the label, btw. Folks are nasty. I've said it in the past, but I just don't bring up the controversy or label my other accounts. It's just way better for my mental health that way. I have like, 13 or 14 side blogs at this point? I can only imagine the number of threats I have gotten on here, times that. Yikes.

Here's to your opinion, though. It really shouldn't be controversial. Yeah, sometimes folks have real shitty opinions. But near every media has a way to delete comments from your own posts, and a block button. More folks need to use em. They're great.

#proshippers against censorship #jackal barks #proship please interact #proship positivity #proship #proshippers please interact #proshipper safe #proshipping #proshipper #anti anti #anti stance #ask #asks

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donnerpartyofone · 5 months

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I once found myself foolishly complaining to my old therapist about some deeply unsatisfying exchange I had on tumblr with somebody who had willfully misconstrued what I said and was going after me about what they decided I meant, just because that was what they would rather talk about. You know, the usual. My therapist threw me off my game by just asking my why I post here to begin with, instead of indulging my desire to passionately bitch and moan. She seemed very skeptical about whatever I said, I had the idea that she wanted me to admit that I was either looking for a fight, or attention, or validation from a bad source where I am destined to encounter a lot of friction. (Man o man, if only she knew about the absolutely bonkers and irrational "you are valid" culture we have here...) And I mean, she's right, you ARE destined to encounter a lot of friction on tumblr if you do anything remotely personal with it, but somehow that annoyance can be outweighed by

a) the internal satisfaction of putting your thoughts in order

b) the catharsis of venting, even into the void

c) the small but unignorable possibility that someone will deeply understand what you said, or have something relevant and provocative to add based on their own unique and valuable experience/expertise.

I think about turning off replies all the time now, quite a lot of the time there's someone being rude either on purpose or inadvertently, because they're too obtuse or thoughtless to consider the implications or real usefulness of what they are saying. Sometimes I think about turning off reblogs on everything too, and I'm trying to develop the habit of stopping before I post to ask myself, every single time, how I'm going to feel when some total cretin reblogs something that is obviously either not universally applicable (e.g. just personal in-the-moment venting) or actually not their business (discussion of personal tragedy that you'd think people would have the good sense to leave alone, like just let strangers who need to talk about something do so in peace?). All of these things have happened more and more lately, and I think what would be really great for me is if I developed a much tougher hide, if I developed a mental baleen that filters out all the shit I don't need to care about and lets in all the tasty, nutritious stuff that I'm actually here for, that I like so much that it makes all the chaff totally worth it.

My problem is that I don't have that natural thing that tells you what incoming stimulus is relevant and what you can completely ignore, I'm curious about EVERYTHING especially how other people think and behave. When I hear something insulting or idiotic directed at me I immediately start processing it like it's a mystery that it is my duty to unravel, instead of casually throwing it in the trash like I should. This morning I posted about how I was reminded of a personal tragedy by some stupid thing a business did to me, and I get this complete stranger unloading his own version of that tragedy, only to then condemn me morally for my interaction with the business. Like does he think I'm going to be so humbled by his "direct action" that it's going to change the world? What was the goal besides picking a fight before the sun is all the way up in the sky? Yesterday I posted links to a bunch of film scholarship I published along with some new blu ray releases, literally calling it my life's work, and somebody reblogged it and put in the tags that they don't like one of the movies and they don't know what the other two are. So...what was the point here? Are you planning on buying two expensive collector's editions of movies you don't know by a director you don't like? I mean thanks for promoting my work, I guess if the price of your sponsorship is that you say rude, pointless things that don't mean anything to anyone, then I'll take it? It might have a positive impact on my mental health if I turned off replies and reblogs universally, but then I wouldn't get to hear from any of the smart and nice guys I've met on here who have opened my eyes to all sorts of things. So yeah my Christmas wish or New Year's resolution or whatever is to give a shit much, much more selectively, for the rest of my life.

PS Regarding disagreements on the internet: There is an important qualitative difference between someone saying something you find disagreeable on their own blog, which you don't even have to be aware of if you don't want to, and someone going out of their away to like cross into your yard to start a fight about what's on your blog ~as if~ you had called them on the phone and said it directly to them personally. Most of what you see on the internet doesn't require your input at all, if you don't really have anything to add except your own emotional content. The difference: Learn it, know it, live it!

#the reality is probably just that most people crave attention so desperately that they don't even notice what they're doing to get it #which is an incredibly unattractive quality and unfortunately it is proportionally common

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inklings-sprint · 8 months

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Inklings Sprint; what is it? (What is a productivity sprint?) And what will this look like. Dates and times to be determined, suggestions are welcome. (Though if you are suggesting a time and date, I will either need your time zone. Or for you to convert yours to Central Standard time. I’m Canadian, if you weren’t already aware, so location based, I’m currently the same time zone as Saskatchewan/Alberta just to give a location based perspective for time zone. So I know that makes it hard for the Aussies and Kiwi’s out there. But hopefully I might be able to work out some time that might line up for you as well.)

Anyways…

What is a productivity sprint?

For those who are unfamiliar with this surprisingly helpful technique/tool/trick, let me explain a little bit more in depth for you. Productivity sprints consist of a series of short work periods followed by a short break. So each work period is the sprint part. Doing this with a partner or a group of people, means that during the break, we can share our progress with each other and give one another with encouragement, before going back to work. We keep each other accountable for getting work done. (I know this doesn’t necessarily work for everyone, but it definitely helps for me. Particularly even just to get started to focus in on writing.)

The Inklings Sprint and what it will look like.

So the Inklings Sprint is a series of productivity sprints that I will host. I’m hoping to plan three or four different times during the run of The Inklings Challenge of these. I've called it the Inklings Sprint, mainly because that's what I will be working on. I will be working on my Inkling's Challenge story; BUT YOU DON'T HAVE TO. Anyone who wants to participate is free to. You can work on any October challenge that you want, house work, work work, school work, drawing, sewing, crafting, anything that YOU want to get done.

I will post a bunch of reminders leading up to the start of the Sprints. Always on this same post so that all the information is in the same place. So this might be one of those times that you might actually want to turn on notifications for a particular post. In the hour leading up to the start of the first sprint I will start a bit of a countdown until we start.

So the sprints will be in ten minute increments, looking something like this example below.

Start at 1pm sprint ends at 1:10, break for ten minutes and see how everyone is doing then;

Start next sprint and 1:20pm ends at 1:30

Break

Start 1:40pm ends 1:50

Break

Start 2pm ends 2:10

Going for however long we want to go.

🌻🌻🌻You do not have to start right at what the chosen start time is and if you join late, you could even decide to write on what I call the break. Also, staying to the end is not necessary. The sprints will run for an hour at the minimum and can keep going beyond that if we have time. It’s about what works best for you and being able to encourage each other.🌻🌻🌻

Also, in relation to giving an update, (if you choose to do so), it can be a word count, line count, something completely different, however you want to measure your progress. I highly recommend doing some form of this just so we know that you’re participating.

Another thing to add, is that you don’t need to wait for the break to end to get going again, if you find that the break is too long.

(Each update can either be by reblogging this post, or just in the notes.)

The important thing for this is to have fun and get some work done.

So look at your calendar and see what times that you might be available to try, let me know and I will try to slot something in that works for me and you. Most likely times will either be in the evening during the week for me, Saturday evening, maybe sometime on Sunday, but not likely with it being Sunday (but for you guys on the other side of the world, I might be able to do a later at night Sunday to give you a chance) and then Monday I’m typically off, so something might be able to be done throughout the day then. But again, give me dates and times and I can try to make up a bit of a schedule. (Changes can be made and altered as needed, but a basic schedule should be ready for Oct. 1 when the challenge begins.)

#inklings sprint #inklings sprints #inklings challenge #inklings-challenge

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wolfprincesszola · 6 months

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The Fate of the Marked Six Chapter 2

I have decided on updating this fic every week, so look forward to 22 more weeks of content <3. Most likely, each chapter will be posted either on Wednesday or Friday just because (probably going to be Wednesday late night to be completely honest). I really liked the idea of one character on the head rather than an entire English word, plus I always love fangirling about Chinese characters, so enjoy this. Don't worry, you won't lose any experience if you don't know any Chinese. Just like in this chapter, I'll explain what each character means. I hope you guys enjoy and if you do, please reblog this because it helps a lot more than a like would! <3 ——————– Summary: Virgil moves into a new town and meets Roman, a ghost that he promises to help in finding the unfinished business needed to pass over. However, Roman's past seemed to be deeply muddled with trouble, an uncurable disease that has started to affect a classmate, and a certain tight-lipped valedictorian. Friendships are made and Virgil finds himself thrown into a situation far more complicated and twisted than he signed up. Hopefully, with the help of his new five friends, he can find a way to bring peace to the town once and for all.

Trigger Warnings: None

Content Warnings: Swearing, Talk about Vulgar Activity

<Previous> <Next> ——————–

Chapter 02

Janus Wright has known the fates of everyone he has ever come across, just by looking into their eyes. Once he found out symbols were branded on people’s foreheads, he stopped making eye contact with them. When he found out that he could see the symbols on their hands, he stopped trying to shake them. As a result, he found himself not wanting to talk to others in fear he would find out the fates of others, specifically their curses.

He was young when he first started seeing the symbols, and he didn’t know what they meant, because they weren’t in English. Maybe it was what piqued his interest in Chinese culture as every symbol was a character in Chinese. More specifically, a word. He learned pretty quickly how to read Chinese because of the symbols that hung over everyone's head.

Sometimes, they were the word 爱. Sometimes, they were the word 钱. Sometimes, they were something else. However, all of the words Janus saw seemed more like curses than fates. Anyone with the word 钱 seemed to have the worst fortune with money, often struggling to even be in a stable place financially. Anyone with the word 爱 seemed to struggle in finding someone they love.

He hated looking tragically at things, so he tried his hardest not to look at them to make sure he couldn’t see their curses. However, with most of the people in his high school, it was already too late. Most of them were branded, the halls haunted with the Chinese symbols.

The worst symbol he had ever come across was the word 死, the curse of death. he had only seen it on one person and one person only: his best friend, Remus Porter, and for the past 10 years of knowing him, he has been trying to figure out how to change his fate.

-+=~=+-

“Wright!” Janus heard Remus’s voice echo in the crowded hallway. He paid no attention to Remus' voice, continuing to walk away from him.

He heard Remus running through the halls to try and get to him, and everyone almost parted the way, as if he was the king of the school. He caught up to Janus pretty fast, pulling on the top of his backpack and almost making him fall over. Damn Remus for having such long legs.

“You never wait for me!” Remus complained.

Janus shrugged, taking off his headphones that weren’t playing anything and staring at Remus.

“I thought after a decade, you would be nicer to me.” Remus pouted before grinning, "Although...it would be nice for you to-"

"Not in school." Janus hissed, glaring at his best friend before he could even get a word out. The boy could be very outward with his vulgar language and Janus had gotten used to it, but it didn't mean that it never turned heads when Remus said something not school-appropriate.

"Oh come on, you never let me have any fun." Remus pouted.

"How I got stuck with you as a best friend confounds me." Janus sighed as he continued to walk away. Remus followed close behind, ranting about a new game he was playing in his econ class.

It was their daily routine. Remus, the king of the school, would talk to Janus, the quiet kid at school, and everyone around would pretend like it was normal that two people–completely opposite from each other–were such good friends. It shouldn’t have made sense, but with their friendship, it just did.

Maybe it came from the fact that despite Remus being so popular, his language and way of communicating with others was so vulgar that it made people wonder whether or not Remus was messed up or if he was awful at showing that he was joking. Maybe it came from the fact that Janus had been the only one to know how to handle Remus' attitudes and sometimes had gone along with his plans. Maybe it came from the fact that Janus wasn't quiet, but instead didn't mess with the niceties and faux smiles that everyone else hid behind. Maybe it came from the fact that only Remus had been genuine from the very start towards Janus. Janus would never know.

While the two walked to Janus’s math class, Remus high-fived everyone that looked at him on the way, while Janus tried his best to keep his eyes on his feet and not make eye contact with anyone.

“Yo, Pat!” Remus grinned as he bumped hips with the class clown, Patton Morris.

Janus was wrong about Remus being the only genuine guy. There was also Patton, who seemed a little too genuine at times for Janus. He was kind to everyone and it baffled Janus how Patton could be so nice to everyone, even those that were awful to him. Patton didn't hang around the pair too often though because of Remus' humor. Unlike Remus, Patton preferred to stay PG, in both his actions and language. If Patton wasn't so genuine to Janus, Janus would've hated him.

“Remus!” Patton smiled, turning towards the two of them, “Always a pleasure to see you. And you too, Janus!”

Janus made the mistake of looking up, pretending not to notice the branded 爱 on Patton's forehead. Still, Janus nodded in the class clown's direction, "Patton."

"How were your weekends, you two? I hope not too exciting." Patton began to fall into step with the pair walking.

"Oh-" Remus began before Janus cut him off.

"No, Remus. Patton doesn't need to hear any of that. You can tell me later."

Remus groaned before sighing, "Alright, I did nothing this weekend."

Patton raised an eyebrow in confusion as he fixed the grey cardigan sitting on his shoulders of his polo shirt. "Are you sure?"

"Nothing of interest, at least." Janus filled in for Remus.

"Ooh, I know what we can talk about! Did you find anything about your powers?" Remus jumped up in excitement.

Janus really had to get someone like the valedictorian to explain to Remus how powers worked because it was clear Remus wasn't understanding what Janus was saying. Still, Janus tried one more time, "I’ve told you this already, Re, if you have the power, you’re born with it. It comes easier to you when you can’t control it when you’re younger, and after a while, it’ll only come in spurts until you learn to control it again. Patton doesn’t have that ability, just like you don’t.”

“Hey, you never know. It would be cool if he had magic!” Remus grinned, “Besides, I thought you liked to speak in lies."

“Not when you say stupid shit like that.” Janus scowled, rolling his eyes.

“Which reminds me, you have to tell me what your powers are. You haven’t told anyone!” Remus grinned at Janus.

“Because I don’t fully understand them myself!” Janus scoffed, knowing the real reason was because Janus didn’t want Remus to find out his fate.

“Uh huh, I’m pretty sure you’re just bluffing.” Remus snorted, grabbing Janus' hat off of him.

“I’m not! I’m really magical!”

“That’s something a faker would say and not a real person who can use magic.”

Janus rolled his eyes, “Go to class, you two. We wouldn’t want the valedictorian to catch you guys again, do we?”

Patton’s eyes widened as he muttered a bunch of curses, “Logan's going to kill me if I’m late again. Bye, guys!”

Janus rolled his eyes as he said goodbye to Remus, getting to his math class as well. Patton had forgotten that Logan didn’t check tardies during the third period.

-+=~=+-

Janus enjoyed the valedictorian’s company. Logan Sanders was a quiet person, who kept to himself most of the time, so they often paired for group projects. With them being so oftenly paired together, they knew which parts to assign to who, and so they could spend the entire class period in silence while working separately and together at the same time.

Janus didn’t know a lot about Logan, but he knew the boy's fate. Janus knew that the symbol that haunted Logan was the word 憦, the curse of regret.

Sitting quietly with Logan, Janus started to learn more about the teacher’s pet. Janus could see the regret that weighed within his shoulders and his eyes that never seemed to go away, and Janus understood that Logan’s curse of regret had been with the boy for a long time.

Then, that gave Janus insight on Remus. Sitting with the quiet valedictorian with regret that weighed tons on the boy's shoulder told Janus something about Remus.

He had never really noticed it before but now he saw the tiredness that rested on Remus’s shoulders, the ones that always seemed in pain. He remembered how Remus always had a reminder around 4 in the afternoon to take painkillers, and he remembered how easily Remus got sick.

Janus was sitting at his usual table during their break time, reading a book when he saw a figure walking towards him. Janus closed his book, looking up to see Remus grinning at him. Remus' shoulders were sagging more than usual. It was clear he was cheerful, but there was a part of him that was more physically exhausted than normal.

“Hey, Jan.” Remus grinned as he stole a chip from Janus’ snackbox. “How was your day?”

“Good.” Janus pushed the entire box out for Remus to eat, knowingly having packed another one for himself since it had been an issue that Remus would steal his food.

“Hm, same.” Remus smiled as the two sat in silence, eating. It was usually how the more recent lunches have gone, as he had been noticing Remus had been getting more and more tired.

So, with his burning curiosity, he broke the silence in the worst way possible, “Are you going to die?”

“What?” Remus choked on his snack, laughing as he turned towards his best friend. “What do you mean?”

Janus turned towards Remus, “You heard what I said, Re.”

Remus laughed, “Oh, I wish. Would you be plotting to kill me? How delicious that sounds! Oh, tell me more, tell me more."

Maybe Remus was fine.

"I'm not planning to kill you. I'm just...not asking you straight out."

Remus seemed to grasp that Janus was seemingly worried for him and exhaled, "Oh, come on, Jan. I'm not going to die. To hell with that idea. In fact, the only way I would ever let anyone kill me is if they did it gruesome enough."

Yep, Remus was definitely fine.

"What even prompted this?" Remus raised an eyebrow.

The mark of death on his forehead.

“I don’t not know…maybe it’s the fact that you’ve been more tired recently, or that you haven’t been as cheerful, or that you’re always in pain, or that you can never eat a full meal anymore and resort to stealing snacks, or that-”

“I get it.” Remus laughed, cutting his best friend off. “I promise you, Janus Wright, with my life. I’m not going to die. If I do, I will strike myself down with a butt plug until I die."

Janus groaned. Of course Remus had to ruin it.

"That defeats the entire purpose of making you swear not to die."

"Well, just trust me, Jan. You're not getting rid of me that easily."

"Good." Janus bumped shoulders with his best friend, "I don't know how I could deal in this world with all these crappy people without you."

"You know it, baby." Remus shimmied before pulling Janus into an involuntary hug.

Despite the fact that Remus had promised him, Janus knew by the way Remus squeezed him so tight he was scared he would never see Janus again, that Remus was lying.

-+=~=+-

“I need your help.” Janus dropped a book onto Logan’s lunch table. Remus was currently serving detention for skipping first period and Logan was sitting alone during lunch, just reading his book and annotating it. Probably doing homework like the studious valedictorian he was.

“Is this because I put your boyfriend in detention?” Logan asked deadpanned as he didn’t look up from his annotations.

“What? No! He’s not my boyfriend.” Janus scowled.

“Mhm, keep telling yourself that.” Logan turned the page of his book, still not truly caring about what Janus was saying.

“Stop that.” Janus tsked, “You have access to all of the students’ medical records, right?”

“Don’t even think about making me break the rules, Wright.”

“I’m not, I’m not!” Janus flushed in embarrassment, knowing that it was exactly what he was going to ask Logan to do.

There was a bit of silence as Logan continued to read through his book and annotate it before Janus caved from the silence to tell Logan the plan. “It’s just that Remus is my best friend, and I know he’s lying about not being hurt. I don’t know how to help him if I don’t know his medical record. I’m scared that he has some sort of illness that’s making him feel this sick, and I want to help him.”

“No.”

“Please, Logan. I promise I won’t ask anything like this from you ever again.”

“I’m sorry. I feel sympathetic.” Logan hesitated as he finally looked up to face Janus, closing his book, “But I can’t break the rules. I have the trust of every faculty member on me.”

Janus was surprised that Logan could feel something, moreover feel sympathetic.

“I know, but can’t you make an exception this once? I mean…it’s not going to hurt anyone, is it?”

Logan gave a small smile--Janus didn't know Leo could do that either--as he stacked some folders together and stood up, “I’m sorry, Wright.”

“Please…I just want to keep him safe. I promise I won’t ask anything else from you for a month, and I won’t tell anyone about this. Besides…haven’t you ever tried to feel empathetic rather than sympathetic?”

Again, Janus didn't really know why he was saying that when he wasn't even sure that Logan could feel anything. The valedictorian had always been so robotic and emotionless that Janus was surprised that Logan stiffened. An unreadable expression flashed in Logan’s eyes and suddenly, the mark on Logan’s forehead turned bright red.

Holy shit, what did Janus just do?

“...Logan?” Janus asked, watching as the mark started to turn bright in the same color as fire.

The boy sighed, brushing through his hair and looked up towards the sky for what Janus could assume was a plea of forgiveness, “Fine, but only once.”

Janus perked up, “Really?”

“Not. A. Word. Got it?” Logan threatened Janus.

“Got it.”

With that, the two boys walked silently to the computer lab, where Logan typed in the computer a couple of passwords and went through a few firewalls until Logan scrolled down to Remus’s name. “Cancer.”

“What?” Janus’s voice cracked upon hearing Logan’s straightforward answer.

“Specifically, for the way natural magic is being stored in his body.” Logan replied, closing the tab before Janus could see more, “His body is too small for the growing and powerful magic, and so he needs to take medication in order to stop it from growing. I don’t know if there’s a cure.”

Janus nodded, staring at Logan. The mark on Logan's forehead was fading from a bright fiery orange back to the regular black it always was. “Thank you, Logan.”

Logan just shrugged, “Remember…”

“Not a word. I know.” Janus nodded as he watched Logan walk away.

Now that Janus knew what Remus was going through, even if he found out through a questionable way, he knew he wanted to help Remus get rid of the cursed symbol on his head, and hopefully learn how to help him in a way that he could help the others around him also remove their curses. ————– I know, I know. I didn't make Roman and Remus siblings in this. I'm actually so dumb for not seeing it before, but the entire fic is already planned out and it doesn't make sense if I change Remus' position for Logan's at this point.

If you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging! Reblogging helps me a lot and are very appreciated. Check out my masterlist for more, feel free to request any writings, and stick around if you want to see the rest of what I have in store for this! :)

P.S. Should I start doing a tag list? If you let me know, I'll put you on the tag list.

#remus and janus being best friends is something i didn't think i needed until now #pls i love the best friends trope because janus just cares too much and remus is remus #chapter 2 #sanders sides #ts patton #ts logan #ts remus #ts janus #cw swearing #cw talk of vulgar activities #(because remus)#remus sanders #janus sanders #high school au #magic au #janus has the ability to see others' fates #the fate of the marked six #remus has magic cancer #terminal illness

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dearestgojo · 1 year

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If we give critique that y’all don’t like you throw a hissy fit. One reader pointed out to a writer that the amount of blk authors that make white characters use aave is absurd y’all went CRAZY over it. (Personally I don’t agree with that anon but it’s the way the writers grouped together and responded and she wasn’t being rude either) Truly readers can’t say anything to most of these writers because y’all all gang up on them if they say something you don’t like and I think that’s why they hide behind anons. Like me🤷🏽‍♀️. If I showed my face rn and said all of these things tell me rn that y’all wouldn’t harass me. It would be a complete utter lie. I agree with that girl we can’t tell y’all what write or say or when to write so why can y’all tell us what to put on pages. Even if it’s a suggestions (some of y’all aren’t even suggesting) Whether it’s an innocent blank page with just an age. I absolutely 100% there’s a weird power dynamic going on. We don’t have an army that’ll come to our defense when we see something we don’t like, like y’all do. That’s it that’s all I have to say. A former silent reader I stand with u guys🫡LMFAOSKLG.

I don't read bllk content so I can't say that I know what or who this is about, therefore I can't comment on it.

I can say this though, once you start critiquing a person's work, you become a writer also, in turn, you also have to choose your words carefully so you don't come off as impolite, and a critique is not supposed to be most beneficial to you but to us, as the people writing. For the sake of this, I'm going to stick to not-so-positive critiques as they can be the most beneficial in improving writing.

Coming out and simply commenting, "I didn't like the reader," isn't helpful, especially when it's a one-shot that leaves little for character development, these probably benefit more from positive feedback than negative in my opinion. But for longer works, tell me more as to why didn't you like the reader? did they come off too strong? too weak? if you didn't like a certain part, tell me why? did the words seem jumbled together? or was the pace too fast or too slow? All while choosing your words carefully, because remember by critiquing me you are a writer also, and your words have an effect on me as not only a writer but as a person. I also don't have to take every critique, because It might be on unfinished work and there's more to be uncovered about the character or plot. A good negative critique should have a positive effect.

If writers feel the need to gang together is because we've all seen what a lot of our readers think about us. To a lot of you, we're disposable. Someone you can forget about when we disappear from this site while you easily move on to the next writer who enthusiastically starts writing, only for them to also pour themselves into their works without reaping anything.

Creating fanfiction isn't free. If the small price of reblogging a fic is too much for you, do you think you could, no, would be willing to pay a monetary amount to consume the fics you're reading? Pay for the time out of our day, internet usage, the computer we use, and all the other materials we use to create fics from music streaming services because we sometimes get inspiration from songs to the roof over our heads? You're consuming my time and my effort for the low cost of clicking a button or writing a couple sentences. If you don't want to okay, I might be okay with that (for now), but other writers don't.

#also to say that you don't have an army to come out a defend you #is a bit much for me when you all seem to be able to band together to attack #writers who ask you to reblog their fics even if you don't leave comments #tw. discourse #tw discourse

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rahleeyah · 2 years

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So this is kind of random, but a while back you had reblogged a post about fanfic authors' knowledge bleeding through into the work and mentioned that you were curious about if you did that. I've been contemplating that a little so I thought you might be interested in a response.

First, I'll say I don't think you do that in the way the OP was describing. I think you do an excellent job of meeting you audience where they're at and then building what knowledge you want us to have for the story to work. I feel like that comes down to exposition and you are great at exposition.

That being said, my undergrad major was in English and I feel like I've never been able to turn off the part of my brain that it always analyzing who the author is and what they're saying between the lines. Every author that's ever lived has put their own context into writing so like it's not a bad thing. But I thought I'd tell you the things that I've guessed about who you are based on your stories.

1) I think you have good parents and a nice family. Idk if this is actually true or not, obviously people can write about good families without having one, but there's something about the language you use and the assumption that the natural order is for parents to be selfless and set boundaries and for families to care about each other. I think the parenting in hof definitely made me think that, but also trying to think back I think I thought about it in the two stories with Elliot's sister and maybe hov or monsters or even haunted (I love haunted!!). I don't think this is a bad thing at all, I think just coming from a place of having a fairly dysfunctional family myself I had thought "I think this girl has a nice family."

2) I think you are not Catholic. Again this is something that I think is different about us and so it stood out to me. I think Catholics tend to just be a bit more practical about their religion and it feels a little mystical when you talk about Elliot's Catholicism. To be clear, I love the way you write this. I love any time you engage with Elliot's religion. I just think more Catholics aren't really engaging with their religion all that much. Like it's more about just doing what you're told? Idk I guess I'd say it reads as either an outsider, or super devout and given the rest of the context I do not think you are a super devout Catholic. Elliot is though so that really could just be down to good writing and I'm making things up.

3) I guessed you were gay. The way you write you queer characters is so perfect to me. Like I think people get bogged down in trying to make queer characters seem normal and organic without realizing that queer characters ARE normal and organic. Like can straight writers write good gay character? Absolutely. But do they usually? Eh. I'm trying to think if this assumption pre-dates Jimmy from hof. Was Elliot's new partner from hov gay? I can't remember when I started thinking that, but it's been around a while.

4) I thought you might be British. This one is funny. Idk if it was just because a lot of people on ao3 are or if there's something else. I think you just have a good vocabulary and I'm crazy sometimes.

Anyway, now that I've written this I'm not sure if I should send it. I love your writing so much and I'd die if you thought I was being critical, I just was thinking this was a fun/funny way to engage with the material. Okay I'm going to send it, but please know none of this was intended to be negative at all. You writing is such a gift to me. And also my experience with literary analysis is that the people doing the analyzing are often the most biased, short-sighted people of them all and we tend to completely miss the point more often than not.

🧍‍♀️

I -

Wow you read me lmao

Please don't be sorry this is DELIGHTFUL and also incredibly on point like

I do have good parents and a nice family. And that's precious to me, I've always felt incredibly lucky bc of them, and so when I write about family - esp about Elliot and Olivia making a family - a lot of the time it is bc I want to give something good to the characters, I want to make family good for them, even if their family of origin hurt. And yeah a lot of my relationships with my own siblings informed the fics about Elliot's sister. My mother was the best person I have ever known, and a lot of the time when I'm writing about family I'm really just writing about her, and how much I admired her generosity and her heart and the work she put in to make family something worth having.

And I am not Catholic I'm not anything but I was raised evangelical and I'm a melodramatic bitch with a background in classics so I always go big on the mysticism 🤣

And I am really happy my gayness bleeds thru 🤣🤣🤣I honestly can't remember now but yeah I do think Elliot's partner in hov (Sam) was gay.

And I am not British but I spent a good idk like. Five years writing fic for British and Australian shows and the Australian show I wrote the most for was set in the 60s, so the pacing and tone and turns of phrase were different. I had myself trained to use "mobile" instead of "cell phone" and as many of the other little Britishisms as I could remember and it still crops up from time to time. I also always use the British spelling for grey rather than the American gray bc I just think grey looks nicer. So that was particularly intuitive even if the conclusion wasn't correct the evidence was there 🤣

Well done you I'm impressed lmao

#asks

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aroacesafeplaceforall · 11 months

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Thanks for the reblog!

I'm so glad you have created a safe space for aroace people! We really need more of those.

I do not have a support group or anything because I do not know anyone who is aroace. But my friends are great and even though they don't understand, they're supportive enough and I couldn't ask for better people in my life.

Anyway, this blog is awesome because I'm always looking for a way to vent. I blabber to my friends all the time even if they're not listening, but I'm seizing this opportunity lol. So here I go (and this goes without saying, but I'm sorry because this is gonna be kinda long probably)...

So I'm a female Indian and I'm Muslim which basically means arranged marriages are a thing and that getting married in your early 20s is also a thing. So if you're a girl, most times the moment you turn 18 or maybe even before that, your family will start looking for a suitable groom for you. Some families value education and so they let the girls study and at least complete their degree. And if you're lucky, the family you're married into also values education and financial independence and will let you continue your studies or work. But not everyone is that lucky. Sometimes even if your in-laws are supportive, your husband might not be, and will stop you from studying or doing something you love.

The maximum age you can be unmarried as an Indian Muslim woman is around 25. And getting till 25 unmarried is very rare. So unmarried women above the age of 25 are even rarer. All the Muslim spinsters are either widows or divorced. Getting married is not a choice here, it's a part of life.

Most people know of the LGBTQ community here. India is not in any way progressive when it comes to the community, since it's only recently being gay stopped being a crime here. Culture and tradition is considered very important and most beliefs are rooted in religion, whatever the religion may be. So homophobia and transphobia is rampant. But the general population is aware of the existence of gay and trans people. Very few of them might now about the existence of aromanticism and asexuality. The idea of wanting to be single and/or celibate is foreign to them. And my family belongs to that group of people (that took a turn eh?)

My family is what I would like to call a semi conservative family. They are religious enough to push us to learn the holy book and pray regularly and follow religious teachings but not that much that they force us to do things that are not compulsory or whatever. They value education and freedom of choice and are not stuck in the past (which unfortunately cannot be said about most Indian families).

My mother actually got married when she was 24 and after completing her degree, which is surprising to me because that can be seen as progressive as it was rare at the time.

So yeah, I'm lucky to be part of a family like this. They're understanding, more than I think they are, but obviously I'm scared because I do not know how much that understanding extends.

I am 22 right now and mentally ill. I have been from the age of 14 or so. I haven't been diagnosed properly but I started therapy last year and my current therapist called my condition high-functioning depression which basically means that I function well enough in society but am depressed. It's apparently something most celebrities have.

My journey with mental illness is a long and exhausting one and it's still not going steady, but what I would like to mention is that what prompted me to take the big step that is therapy after many years was an event...the wedding engagement of my best friend.

My best friend and I have been friends from kindergarten. We were neighbours and classmates and our families are also very close. The news of her engagement shocked me (maybe not as much it shocked her though. It was a very sudden engagement. But she's happy and in love now and I'm happy for her.) and it made warning bells go off in my head. I suddenly felt like I was running out of time. And since I'm scared of getting married and obviously haven't come out to my parents or told them or even ever implied that I wasn't into the idea of marriage, that fear of getting married in the near future pushed me into getting therapy. It was an on and off thing for a while. Me and my first therapist did get somewhere and I'd made some progress before I was back in square one. But I have many underlying and standing issues that I never really got a chance to talk to her about marriage or any of that stuff. I have a new therapist now and I haven't talked to her about it either, I've only mentioned not wanting to get married in passing. I think it's because I know nothing I say will change the fact that I haven't told my parents and thus my future will not change or become closer to the one I have envisioned.

I am now doing a post graduate degree and I will complete it next year, after I turn 23. I don't think my family has actively started looking for proposals but they are open to accepting good ones. I have no hand in this, not right now at least. After my graduation, I will. I will be expected to look pretty and pose and look through proposals and all that shit. It sounds like torture. I've heard enough stories to know it's not a fun process.

I really want to tell my parents because if it means I have to live the rest of my life miserable, then at least I'd have spoken my truth, but I keep waiting for the right time but I've realised there is no right time, there is only a wrong time and that is when they start actively looking for a poor chap who'll want to marry me. I'm just so scared because I'm pretty sure I know what they'll say. They'll either say something along the lines of "you're just lazy and/or unprepared and/or scared" and "that is not even an option. It is compulsory (not true btw)/encouraged in Islam to get married. You will lose your ways and go astray and get into haram (Islamically) unlawful romantic/sexual relationships". Worst case scenario is that I stand my ground and refuse to get married and they'll lock me up or send me off to a mental hospital or just disown me or something. Best case scenario is they agree to not marry me off but insist I become an Islamic nun or something (which I'm not completely against. But I'm not deeply religious enough to devote my whole life to being an Islamic teacher or missionary or whatever. I will and want to do it along with whatever job I get).

Of course, there is a chance it'll not go anything like this and go in a completely different direction I didn't even think of but i seriously doubt it. You see, even if my parents are supportive of my decision to not get married, pressure from the rest of the family and societal pressure will be really strong, that even if they hold on for a while, they'll break eventually.

Now say it will go my way and I get to be a happy (or trying to be happy) spinster, then I will become the talk of the town and considered an outcast. It will not be easy attending gatherings and my family will get the brunt of it, especially my parents. Gossip is after all very destructive.

I could cut off my family after becoming financially independent but I have never even considered that an option. I love my family and I owe them a lot and I would and could never cut them off from my life (assuming that it even is possible. It's not very easy to do that here.)

So I'm stuck and this has been a burden that I've been carrying around for a while now. I knew I didn't want anything to do with romantic relationships from when I was 14 or something but then after I realised I had really low self esteem, I realised that might be why I wasn't interested in being in a romantic relationship but I have thought long and hard about it and I have come to the conclusion (one of many) that it's just something that I do not want for myself.

It had always been at the back of my mind though but this has become a more immediate worry as I'm running out of time, and so I panic every now and then when my thoughts wander and I think about the future. It's getting exhausting being so unsure of something like marriage when I'm also worried about finding a stable career and just surviving because even that is a huge question mark for me when I think about the future.

And that's that. Sorry for any typos/grammar errors! (I'm too lazy to proof read this 😅, not that that proofreading would help 😛)

I should probably go to sleep now. If you read all of that, thank you so much. It really means a lot.

Hey there! I’m glad you found a good place to vent and I hope you find happiness and love (platonic) where ever you go in life!

I honestly don’t really know what to say but I’m here for you! You sound like an incredible person and I know you’ll do well in life <3

Stay amazing and stay safe, remember no matter what happens we are all here for you and you are always valid!! <33

#aromantic #aroace #asexual #aro #asks #ace #ask #pride #lgbtqia #aro pride #vent #rant #here for you op!

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nerdby · 6 months

Text

I caved and have temporarily blocked the Lokius tag. I will unblock it after the second season ends cause right now it feels like every other post is a Lokius post and its making it hard for me to enjoy the show, and I don't want to argue with people.

And like part of why it bothers me a bit is cause as a trans nonbinary person, I know what it feels like to be fetishized. Like especially when I was on T it was really awful, especially online. Like if you are trans I don't care what anyone tells you Grindr is not a fucking dating app. Yeah, people tried to convince me it was, so I checked it out and you know what?

No.

It's full of chasers. Chasers are people who seek out a certain type of person because they fetishize something about them. Usually something about their psychical appearance, but also sometimes their sexualities. And there are trans chasers who literally seek out trans people because they want to fuck them and for no other reason. Like they see as fantasy creatures and sex toys, and that is it.

It also just feels gross cause there are a lot of people in the Loki fandom who only watch cause they think Tom Hiddleston is hot. Which, yeah, he is. Like I'm not blind or whatever, but knowing that so many only watch to get off on Tom playing a dominant role makes it hard not to wonder how many people watch just to jack off to Lokius?

And there are tons of homophobic and queerphobic people in the Loki and Marvel fandom, in general. Like I was explaining to someone on Twitter once about how Sylvie was partially inspired by Lady Loki from the comics and they completely flipped the fuck out, and went off on a tirade about how the comics should have no influence on the movies or shows then because knowing that comic book Loki is transgender ruined the MCU character them.

It was just such petty, immature, transphobic bullshit.

And if you're only okay with queer people when you're jacking off to them then you're a homophobe. And if you're only okay with trans people when you're jacking off to them or fucking them then you're a transphobe.

Either way, though, you're a piece of shit🤷🏻‍♀️

This post isn't intended to call out Lokius shippers, by the way. Cause like unless you're watching the Loki series specifically because you have fantasies about Loki fucking Mobius then this isn't about you. This is just me ranting and I'm going to turn off the reblogs cause I don't wanna deal with any shit tonight, and this is going to be the last post I make on the subject for a while probably.

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themelancholyhill · 1 year

Note

I haven’t had the courage to send you an ask for a while. Part of it is because one of my mutuals-turned-irl friend told me someone sent her an ask on anon and the blog url actually came up for a moment as she posted her answer. It was most likely a glitch but still, i’d like to be anon to you for as long as possible, i think it’s better this way. Whenever i see your reblogs on my dash i always want to send you an ask just to see how you are.

So how are you really? Tell me.

I’m not doing well…i’ve hurt someone i care very much about very deeply. I had to cut her out of my life, in a way that i know will scar her for a long time. I knew where her vulnerability was and i used it, not to hurt her intentionally, but i didn’t see another way for us to continue our friendship. She is an online friend. I’ve had quite a bit of issues with people i’ve met over the internet that i don’t know if befriending someone in this way is the best thing for me mentally. It’s weird, coz i’ve met some wonderful people (like you❤️) and my mutual/irl friend but there are also things and people i’ve experienced online that i’d rather not remember. Have you had something similar like this happen to you online?

Or is this just life and i’ve just been too sheltered and safe all this time?

V✖️

Don't worry about wanting to remain anonymous. If you feel like it's the best option then I won't pressure you to reveal your username either here or on any other platform. Not that I was going to or it means that I don't care if you show it or not, but just go with whatever suits your fancy. We've been talking for this long like this and it's a sign that it's working, so keep it up since it's your best option.

I've met wonderful people (you included, of course, and you being anonymous sets you apart delightfully) and I've met some of them which is nice and all! They're a couple of online friends whom I wish I could meet irl, but despite living in the same country, we live in different areas so it's tricky to meet and hang out. Idk, I might organise something w one of them whom I know for more than 10 years!

However, I met a guy online a month ago and we'd decided to meet irl. Here's the thing, he's nice and all but he's got this tendency of noticing every detail and he'd shown jealous behavior despite us not going out at all. We met at my uni campus cause my mom doesn't want me to exceed this parameter and he was like: "that's not fair for me, I want us to go somewhere else!"

I told him that maybe I'd get to do that some day and he left me on seen—it's been a month now!

I'm not fazed by it at all, but coming from someone my age, it just disappoints me!

Apart from that, I'm doing well. I've seen Ray on couple of occasions. He came off of the same classroom I study in. He saw me and that was it. How weird is it to see someone you care so much about become a complete stranger?! I'm slowly coping with this situation, and it's tedious!

As for your situation, I solely believe that you did it because it was the best thing to do. Sometimes, harsh decisions have got to be made. I also believe that our online space should be safe for us to just breathe, and if someone is there to suck all the air, well then, it's best to cut tights w them!

I'm super glad to hear from you, I've been reblogging stuff that are rather random, but know for sure that you cross my mind very very often!

I hope that by the time you read this you'll be feeling much much better!

#asks #V✖

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boosyboo9206 · 2 years

Text

Can we please normalize not sending pictures of fanart directly in asks and/or submissions? Especially when it's a fandom writer sending it? Believe me - I get it. You want to show your fave writers, your moots, you friends, etc, artwork you think they'll like, artwork you think they'll love. And that's great! You should do that!

Just with a link to the artist who created it, not the picture directly or a pinterest or iheartit or tumgir or whatever other unofficial link there is. Why not those? Because the art on them is stolen and reposted art. Much like it is when you send the artwork, not the twitter or instagram or deviantart or tumblr link, directly in an ask.

I have been in the fandom community a long time as a writer (on two side blogs) and even longer just as a reader. And the one constant I have seen is that people repost fanart by sending them in asks to fandom writers. Not only is this very much not okay, it's a recurring problem. Let me clear: I am not blaming anyone. I do think it's just that, because it's being sent in an ask, no one thinks of it as reposting. But it is. It is still taking someone's art and creating a new post with it and taking away the credit from the person who worked hard on it.

And I know the thought process was probably something like "I saved it to my phone and forgot who the artist was" or "I saw it on pinterest and just saved it to send to you" but guess what? There's a way to find the artist. Reverse google image search exists and it works to find the artist a majority of the time. Also, there's a good chance that the artwork has the artist's signature/username. So you can search their username on google, twitter, instagram, tumblr, etc, and then find the art you want to send like that. If you can't find the direct link to the artist through either of these, then it's likely they deleted the art or just deactivated because people kept stealing and reposting their work.

And I mention these being sent to fandom writers specifically because, like, artists are in the same boat as you? Or, at least, they're on the same cruise line as you. If you're a fandom writer and you're going to send fanart - no link, just the picture - to another writer, if you're a writer who received fanart in an ask or submission, please stop and think about how you would feel if someone took something you wrote, something you worked hard on, and just copy-pasted it into the ask box of another, completely taking your name off it, taking away your credit, simply because they thought of someone who would enjoy it. Think about how they didn't bother to link your work, they just sent it directly.

It wouldn't feel good, right? You'd probably be mad and sad and disheartened? Disrespected, even? The same thing goes for artists. They, like writers, deserve to not have their hard work stolen and reposted, whether it's intentional or not.

This is especially important because of the fact that fanart is being sent to writers from writers and, yes, sometimes, even non-writers, but it's especially frustrating and upsetting to see when a writer sends another writer fanart in ask, instead of taking the time to find the artist link and send that, because I've seen some writers who are sent fanart make posts about accounts that have stolen and reposted their work then turn around and answer that ask with stolen artwork. Please give the artist who works just as hard as you do on the stories you write on the art they create and just, please, stop reposting it in asks.

Please take the time to find the direct link by using the google reverse image search and send that instead. If you can't find it or don't have the time to search for it, then, please, don't send it at all. This also goes for discord servers because, even though it's not reaching the thousands it could by sending it in an ask, it's still a repost and you're still taking away views and likes and retweets/reblogs from the artist who worked hard on it.

Because, if this doesn't change, if art doesn't stop getting reposted, then, like writers who have had their work stolen, the artists will deactivate and stop creating and you will be left with nothing. Or they'll probably still create but they won't share it and you will still be left with nothing. Treat artists with the respect you, as a writer, want to be given and don't repost their work, whether you're sending it or just answering what was sent to you. Put it in your rules to send a link, not fanart directly, and to not post or answer the asks that have just a picture - no link, no credit if the artist does allow reposts, no nothing.

Thank you.

#please i beg of you #i hate having to do stuff like this #and i hate when people are rude about it and like attack people instead of trying to educate them #but this is important #so it had to be done #i see this happen so SO much #and i love this fandom - i love bnha and hq #i love seeing the fics and the art and the gifs #and the animations that people create #everyone works so SO hard on everything #it's not something that should be lost because of stolen works and reposts #whether it's intentional or not #just please respect and support all fandom creators - artists. writers. gif makers. video editors #animation makers. they are people too putting hard work into what they create #no one wants to see their hard work be stolen and reposted #and it sucks but it happens to artists THE MOST #so please send a link from the artist's page directly or don't send it at all

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teklarn · 3 years

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hi, this is my first ever ask so I'm not sure I'm doing this correctly, if that's the case I'm sorry; I don't know how tumblr works just yet >:')

would it be possible for you to write something about bakugo, pining incredibly hard for fem!reader and initially hating how strongly he feels about her? because they're not even friends, they only exchange few words occasionally and she doesn't even glance at his way whereas he slowly finds himself unable to divert his eyes from her during classes? shes always with damn deku and his friends and doesn't even seem interested in him at all but his heart can't ignore the way she looks at him proudly whenever they spar together, the way she sends him small confident smiles as they fight each other with all they have; so he thinks that maybe, maybe he might have a chance. basically bakugo liking reader so much he's completely lost in self-hatred because he always thought feelings were for weak romantics and not great people like him, but everytime he sees reader doing some badass things (again, like sparring with him and basically matching his skills etc...) he's reminded of how badly he likes reader? but when he finally accepts he's fallen for reader, after ignoring and trying to forget about how she makes him feel, he masters up the courage to confess? and it's a very clumsy confession because he's awkward and has no idea how to deal with those feelings? and he tries so hard to make reader realise he's never been more serious than now? and reader is startled and speechless before rejecting him? and at that point he's just completely humiliated, so he nods and walks away.

it might be a little dramatic but I've always been into unrequited love and one-sided pining. thank you, its okay if you don't want to write about this, i'll understand <33

𝓫𝓻𝓾𝓽𝓪𝓵 - 𝓴. 𝓫𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓰𝓸𝓾

character(s): katsuki bakugou x fem!reader (my hero academia)

reblogs are greatly appreciated!

a/n: AHHHHH this is so cute <33 honestly this is super exciting for me and this ask made me so happy, lovey. i’m fairly new to tumblr, i’m usually just a reader but i wanted to migrate here from wattpad so this made me so happy. here u are my love <33 i hope this lives up to what u wanted !! :)) a bit lengthy, but i had a lot of fun writing it !!!

summary: bakugou finds he’s rejecting his feelings for you in fear of becoming weak, however he just can’t seem to ignore you.

genre: fluffy, fluffier than the clouds istg, however the clouds are sprinking a little teeny weeny droplet of angst.

warnings: cursing (bakugou, duhh), one-sided pining (on bakugou’s part) second hand embarrassment (on bakugou’s part bc we can all agree he’s a complete idiot when it comes to trying to get someone’s attention), just bakugou being a jackass, i gave the reader a quirk

word count: 3,859

(pls excuse any typos or mistakes, i edited to the best of my ability but i miss some things sometimes !)

- - -

part 2 is here my loves <3

brutal. it was utterly ruthless. he couldn’t focus, couldn’t think right. his hands were already exceptionally sweaty, but gosh when he saw your damn face, he was ready to explode. literally.

what the hell was it about you? was it your stupid smile? or the way you just seemed to carry every battle on your back? was it all the undeniably sweet things you do for others ‘just because’?

it made him angry that he thought about you, but gosh he couldn’t wait to see you every day.

just like any other day, bakugou found himself staring at the large door to the classroom, awaiting the moment you would bounce into his day, skirt shifting around your legs, bag slung loosely around your shoulders.

his leg was bouncing eagerly.

bakugou didn’t know when the feelings came. his cheeks just started flaring up all of a sudden and one day you just looked...different. you hadn’t done anything different to yourself. it was just him. not that he would ever admit that, to you or anybody else.

you were insufferable. you were stupid and obnoxious and so...so damn...

“y/n! come look at this!”

you’d come walking into class just as expected, and as soon as you did, that stupid nerd had called you over.

it didn’t help that deku sat right behind him, either. the two of you had recently gotten closer. bakugou noticed it last month when he yelled at the two of you to shut up about all might and get to work. he’d turned around to find you leaning over deku, hands resting on his shoulders while you peered at his phone.

“sorry, bakugou,” you’d said, barely acknowledging him. you had waved him off like an annoying fly. is that all you were to him? some nuisance that got in the way of your oh-so-entertaining conversations with deku?

all he heard nearly every day was your chipper voice talking to deku. always, “oh my gosh, midoriya, did you see the fight edgeshot was in last night?” or “midoriya! i have something to add to our quirk analysis book!”

that was the one that took the cake. you two dorks shared a notebook, occasionally passed between one another, and filled it with junk about quirks and pro heroes. but no matter how much he tried to tune you out, no matter how he tried to zone off and think about something else, you were always there. it made him want to vomit how much he thought about you.

you were doing an adorable shuffle over to midoriya’s desk and leaned over the table as you usually did while he angled his phone your way. “did you see this hero report?”

deku let you slip the phone out of his grasp to get a better look.

“no,” you breathed. “was this just recent?”

“yeah,” deku said, taking the phone back. “last night.”

“holy—”

“can you guys shut up over there?” bakugou said, his voice quaking.

“sorry, kacchan.” deku scrolled through the article.

dammit, bakugou thought. “i wasn’t talking to you, nerd. i was talking to shitface over here.” he jerked his head towards you. his eyes flared in anger when he saw you were looking down at your phone, now focused in on the article yourself. “i was talking to you, asshat!”

your eyes flicked up to his. you looked around for a moment before slowly pointing to yourself as if to say, “me?”

his face scrunched. “yeah, you. you’re so damn loud.” gosh, he hated how his voice was cracking, how he could feel his ears and cheeks lighting up in a swollen, cherry red. his stomach flipped.

she’s looking at you, gosh i’m sweating. i’m going to throw up. she’s so gorgeous. what the hell? they’re ugly as shit, i don’t think anything of them.

his eyes bore into yours.

“did you...need something?”

your voice broke his trance.

“kacchan, are you okay? you dozed off there for a second. you look like you’re burning up.”

bakugou looked to deku who was currently stretching out of his seat, arm extended. he pressed the back of his hand to bakugou’s forehead. “you’re really warm, kacchan. should we call recovery girl?”

it took him a moment to realize what was happening. his vision got blurry every time he was with you. bakugou smacked deku’s hand away. “i’m fine!” his voice lifted at the end, cracking. “i’m not sick. don’t you think i’d take better care of myself?”

“i don’t doubt you take good care of yourself, kacchan, but everyone gets sick once in a while. there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“i never get sick!” besides, if i got sick, i wouldn’t want you to be the one taking care of me.

he was still pissed. he was always in a bad mood, however, more so right now because you’d gone straight back to your phone and that stupid hero article that was supposedly so damn interesting.

soon enough, the bell rang, and you were seated at your desk. it was jirou’s old spot, however, after much convincing, you two had switched spots so you could be closer to deku. just a few months of getting close to the idiot and you two are suddenly best friends. jirou hadn’t minded one tiny bit, claiming she needed a break from how loud that section of the room was.

late as always, aizawa came trudging into your room. thankfully, his entire body wasn’t obscured by a yellow sleeping bag that smelled of something unwashed and coffee and gasoline. (for some reason, aizawa’s clothes always smelled of it.)

“lucky for you,” he began while shuffling papers on his desk, “all of you are doing training for these first periods.”

the class cheered in perfect unison, followed by their individual chatter. you had erupted with glee along with them, and bakugou was sure he felt his heart clench and then explode. just a tiny bit. but he shoved the feeling down just as quickly as it had come up.

“go out to the field and wait for further instructions. don’t make a sound in the halls otherwise, i’ll expel all of you.”

this shut everyone up in almost a second, the sound draining out just as water does. the first years trailed out into the hall, single-file mimicking the positions baby ducklings would take when following their mother.

bakugou found himself walking faster when he saw you take up your spot in the line, hoping to land his spot right behind you.

unfortunately, this idiot who considered himself bakugou’s friend tugged him back. “bakugou!” a familiar voice rasped.

“shitty hair, let go of me.”

“hey man, chill out. wanna partner up if we’re doing training in pairs?”

bakugou glanced at the line, the spot that should have been reserved for him now taken up by sato.

bakugou tugged his sleeve from kirishima’s hand. “whatever,” he snapped.

“sounds good!” kirishima flashed him a toothy grin and a thumbs-up. the bubbly feeling in bakugou’s chest died down as he stood behind sato, the overwhelming scent of sugar filling his nose, various candies that would go straight to your arteries.

“you smell like ass, damn,” bakugou remarked, squeezing his nostrils together.

luckily, sato was tall enough to not hear the insult, as he towered over bakugou by just another head. the line began moving like a sloppy train down to the change rooms.

bakugou scoffed as he listened to your giggle. he should be making you laugh.

“you’ll be given partners randomly from this box.” aizawa held up a familiar red box. “inside are all your names. i’ll select one, then that person will come up and pick another name from the box. that will be your assigned partner for today. as soon as you have your assigned partner, i want you guys to get straight to work.”

denki raised a hand, speaking before being called on. “sensei, why are we getting random partners? we’re always allowed to choose.”

“in the real world, you’re going to come across different villains every day. you’ll never improve your skills or your quirks if you keep fighting the same person.”

denki sighed, slumping back.

dammit, bakugou thought, gritting his teeth together. there wasn’t any way he wanted to be partners with you. it’s obvious he’d win the fight in the first few seconds.

yes! exactly right! bakugou internally grinned. his fluctuating feelings had finally soothed themselves. you were just another extra, and he had no room for you in his head.

aizawa took a moment to fiddle with the slips of paper inside the box. soon enough, he pulled out a name. “todoroki.”

todoroki walked up, digging his hand into the box when aizawa held it out for him. he pulled out a name, delicately unraveling the slip. “uraraka, you’re my partner.” he deadpanned.

the brunette grinned. “great!”

the two found their own spot on the field, and the class’s attention was once again diverted to their grouchy teacher as he pulled out another name.

“bakugou.”

bakugou strutted up without a worry in his mind. he pulled a name to find...

“y/n,” he said, voice a low growl. instead of the annoying fluttering in his chest, his eyes met yours, and they were filled with a different, new ferocity. he crumpled the paper in one hand, letting it twirl to the ground.

you looked at him, unsmiling. your eyes gave away nothing, and to bakugou’s knowledge, all you saw in him was another opponent.

it took him a moment to realize you had both locked eyes for about a minute. perhaps the two of you would have stayed as you were if aizawa hadn’t snapped at the two of you to get moving as yaomomo’s name was called.

bakugou was on his way to the back of the field, you followed close behind. while there was plenty of room still, he chose a secluded area. while it was still open enough to view everything going on so nobody got hurt, it was often nobody chose to train here. for whatever reason, you weren’t sure.

“wait up, bakugou,” you said. after a bit, you caught up to him.

“if you can’t keep up, then...” then what? he looked at you from the side of his eye. “then don’t keep up...” gosh, here came the embarrassing, disgusting feeling of redness in his cheeks.

you laughed. “what?”

“shut up.”

“you’re an idiot, bakugou.”

“i said shut the hell up!”

“what, so you can call me shitface in front of the entire class but you get all pissed when i call you an idiot?”

so you had heard him!

he tongued his cheek, curling his hands around an invisible ball, explosions sparking in the centers of his palms. “don’t expect me to hold back, dumbass.”

“i wouldn’t dream of it.”

gosh he loved that about you.

bakugou caught his thought in the air.

ahem...gosh he hated that about you.

you both charged in at the same time. his cry was louder than yours, but you struck first.

he admired your quirk. while he’d overhead you explaining all the drawbacks it had, it was strong, and you were strong because you knew how to control it.

purple arrows flew from your arms, going in your desired directions. if you lost focus for one moment, they’d vanish and weaken. if you focused too hard or long, you’d be plagued by a splitting headache.

he’d spent too much time obsessing over your strengths and weaknesses.

your arrows were weightless, however they were solid objects capable of carrying any mass, any thing, and worked as extensions of your body.

the violet arrow had shot out at him, twisting around his right gauntlet and crushing inwards. it’d snaked around him without him noticing, slithering along his back.

bakugou struggled to get the air-light arrow off his wrist, but it was no use. he glared back, only to see your focused, furrowed brows. he’d expected to see your cocky ass smiling. it was nice to see you weren’t.

that was one thing that had also caught his eye. you never underestimate your opponent, but you never underestimate yourself, either.

you conjured a larger arrow. it snaked around your right arm as you hurled bakugou into the air, releasing your grasp on him. you shot your other arrow into the air, and it raced into the sky.

it swerved. bakugou’s eyes went wide as the tip of the arrow came down on his chest. if they weren’t intangible things, he would have been bleeding out.

another drawback: the arrows, while they could solidify, they couldn’t do any actual damage. you had to use your surroundings to inflict harm on your opponent.

he coughed out as the arrow shot him into the ground. he hadn’t even touched you, and here he was, vulnerable and so...so...

you stood over him, hands on your hips.

vulnerable and so lost in that adorable, winning smile.

“get away from me, idiot,” he grunted and turned onto his side, his back crying out in pain.

“i think i won this fight, bakugou,” you chirped, rocking on your heels.

“don’t get arrogant, shithead. you won’t be winning against me anymore.”

you grinned, arrows shooting out behind your back.

the dorms were exceptionally quiet. you were typing away in the common room, bakugou on the couch reading. everyone was off doing something else. it was the weekend, luckily. he’d expected you to go bounding out with everyone else, however you’d stayed back, claiming you had some homework to catch up on.

bakugou being classic bakugou had stayed back. he was excited to have the dorm to himself, but your dumbass was stuck here with him. couldn’t you have done your typing in your room?

you were so aggressive on that poor keyboard.

“oi, quiet down with your shit typing.”

you barely grunted in response.

“don’t ignore me.”

“i heard you, mom.”

“the hell did you call me?”

no response. only your aggressive typing is a bit less aggressive.

“i can still hear it,” bakugou remarked, eyes fixed on your back.

“‘kay,” you said. your typing slowed a tad, and your pressure on the keys lessened.

it was quiet now. bakugou should go back to his book. he shouldn’t still be looking for a reason to talk to you.

the pages crinkled in his fingers. he bit his tongue, keeping his snarky comments in.

“you’re a fucking idiot, you know that? doing your damn homework. it’s due tomorrow.”

you turned, pursing your lips. “and how would you know what i’m working on? are you stalking me?”

“i- what? no. you’re such an idiot, of course i’m not—”

“i’m messing with you,” you breathed, face un-moving.

“o-oh,” bakugou stuttered out. he blinked awkwardly.

“gosh, what’s gotten your panties in a twist?”

“you’re annoying.”

“you’re a jackass.” you returned to your work. bakugou settled with reading in his room. reading consisted of jumping onto his bed just as the stereotypical high school girl would in an eighties movie. he buried his face in his pillow, face burning bright red. he cursed you for making him feel this way, and hated himself even more for how much he enjoyed it.

the next day came swiftly. you’d left early to go train with midoriya. there were many improvements needed to be made, but you weren’t doing too bad.

you propelled yourself forwards with an arrow, and your green-haired friend shot back, lightning flickering around his body.

landing back on the ground, you panted and swiped the sweat from your brow. from the corner of your eye, you could make out both kirishima and bakugou coming to the training grounds.

bakugou stopped in his tracks, frowning at the sight of you.

it was evident he hated you a bit more than everyone else. he was always making his annoying comments, he was always snubbing you. you saw no reason to talk to him, so you didn’t. either way, even if you tried, he would still get angry for no reason.

it’d taken you quite some time to get used to his obnoxious attitude. tuning him out had been the best course of action, in your opinion.

the way you and midoriya had bonded was through bakugou, in a way. the first day of school, bakugou had snapped at you for tripping over your laces and nearly crashing into him. later that day, midoriya had stepped up and apologized for his old friend’s actions.

you two had never been too close until now. the recent incidents going on with the league of villains had snagged your attention, and it seemed you were the only person who didn’t mind listening to him ramble on about heroes.

you were just as passionate and just as dorky, but midoriya could talk your ear off. you never minded, and he always took the hint when you didn’t want to listen.

you brought your leg up, twirling in the air with ease and watched your heel collide with midoriya’s face. he grunted, stumbling back.

you were about to charge in again when a hand landed on your shoulder, big and rough. you turned to see bakugou standing behind you, a scowl on his face.

“fight me again,” he demanded.

“excuse me?”

“don’t act like you didn’t hear me.”

“i’m in the middle of fighting midoriya right now.”

“so?”

“so if you think that i’m just going to ditch my friend because you want to fight, i won’t.”

“you’re being stubborn.”

“i’m being reasonable. back off.”

“y/n?” midoriya rubbed his jaw—right where you had struck him. “what’s going on?” he jogged up to you and bakugou.

“he wants to fight me in the middle of our fight. it’s nothing serious. don’t worry about it, midoriya. let’s just ignore him.”

bakugou made a sound someone would only make if they were choking. “the hell did you just say?”

“we’re ignoring you!” you waved him off and placed your hand on midoriya’s shoulder, wandering away.

it was new to him, not getting what he wanted. and what he wanted right now was to be around you. again, it wasn’t like he would ever admit that to himself.

“dude? you good? i thought you went off to fight y/n. i was so ready to cheer you on, dude,” kirishima’s chipper voice piped in. “she’s not fighting with you? why not?”

“the dumbass was just probably scared of getting her ass beat by me.”

“dude...that sounds really weird.”

“whatever, shitty hair. let’s go.”

the clock ticked. his ears were on fire. again.

gosh, it was happening again. it was all you. his face scrunched up, his voice would surely crack if someone were to ask him what was wrong.

bakugou was once again stuffing his face in his pillow, hiding his expression from no one. why did you have to go train with that shitty nerd? why were you always around deku? deku, of all people. what did he have? why was he so great?

bakugou was a man of many insecurities, but losing to deku? that was possibly his biggest fear.

perhaps he wasn’t the nicest, or the most soft person out there. bakugou could admit that, at least. but he was smarter than deku. he was stronger and he was better and people liked him more. right?

what was so...amazing about deku?

it was often bakugou would find himself obsessing over little, insignificant things such as these.

you were what he was thinking of most of the time. just yesterday, he’d gotten a test returned. he was expecting an eighty at the lowest, but more so expecting a high ninety. it’d come back exactly sixty percent.

sixty. percent.

bakugou vividly remembered staring at your face. he also remembered not being able to focus because of it. his grades were dropping because of you.

you were the only person to be able to do this to him.

his heart grew quiet, but the pounding of his didn’t cease. he lifted his head.

“alright, fine,” he said aloud. “you win, y/n. you win.”

he settled with getting over his feelings the way he’d read them in his collection of romance manga.

bakugou left his room and knocked on your door. (he was banging on it, but it was his nice way of knocking.)

you answered, looking around awkwardly. “yes?”

his hands shook. how was this supposed to go? sure, he’d seen it in romance movies and read it in books but it was always easy to tell whether the guy would get the girl or not.

in this instance, bakugou was clueless. for once in his life, he was clueless. you stood, tapping your foot with a hand on your hip, waiting expectantly for him to tell you why he was here.

“um.” he scratched behind his neck. “you uh- i uh...i’m sorry i called you a, um...a shitface.”

“okay? is that it?”

what? come on! it was already unlike him to apologize. what else did you want from him?

“did you...i’ve been thinking, maybe? maybe we could..train together as...friends?”

“...what?”

gosh dammit, as friends?

“whatever, um...the uh...” oh gosh, what did the boys do in all the books he’d read? right! bakugou stretched out his arm, resting his forearm on the door, leaning to the side.

although he didn’t, really, because like the clumsy jackass he was, bakugou missed completely and nearly toppled to the floor.

this earned a snicker from you.

his stomach flipped and churned, and bakugou found himself unable to reach your eyes. “uh, would you maybe..? okay, um. do you want to go on a date with me? you absolute fucking dumbass.”

your eyes flew wide. “...what?”

“no, that’s not what i— i mean i didn’t mean the last part. um, i meant the first part. the first two parts. the part where i was asking you if you wanted to go on a date with me and then before that when i said maybe because it’s still a maybe until you say yes. or...or no because that’s an option too.”

he swallowed.

you resisted the urge to mock him, just a little bit. “um, bakugou, listen.”

he leaned closer. “yes?”

“it’s going to be a no. i’m sorry, but i’m just not interested in you like that.”

it took him a moment to register everything. his shoulders sagged. gosh that was brutal.

“oh, alright.”

“yeah, uh, sorry about that.” you offered him a weak smile, still a bit shocked yourself. he did his best to return it, and when you closed the door, his face was ready to explode.

it was so damn difficult to deal with these feelings, but maybe it was better this way. knowing where you stood on your end, he knew he wouldn’t miss out on anything.

perhaps it was alright to admire from afar. things could happen in the future, right?

right now, he’d just wait. for a long, long time. bakugou pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his erratic heartbeat. maybe it was alright to not have you right now. perhaps he could better himself for you. just for you.

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seasonofthewicth · 3 years

Text

nobody does it like you do - act 6

The final part!! I hope this is a satisfying conclusion! Thank you so much to everyone who has reblogged/commented/shared - it has meant so much. Special thank you again to @morganofthewildfire I'd still be working away at this fic if it wasn't for you, I don't know I ever would have finished it off. Your comments and analysis helped me so much and made this fic better than I could have alone, I'm so grateful.

13k - masterlist - ao3

There are five weeks between the eventful wrap party and her first day shooting the Netflix miniseries in Antica. Five weeks for Aelin to sort her shit.

It’s ambitious, and probably unattainable, but she needs a goal.

She needs something to draw her mind away from Rifthold and the director she knows is no longer there.

She gives herself a week of self pity. A week of lying around her sparsely decorated and impersonal Orynth apartment dwelling and pointedly ignoring the headlines she knows have been released. Elide let her know only one picture was captured of her with tears in her eyes leaving the party. Only one and gods bless Elide she shut it down.

Aelin lies on her uncomfortable couch in well-worn pyjamas with unwashed hair and runs through the photos on her phone of her and Fenrys, her and Manon, and the group of them together on set doing whatever shit they used to do.

She spends more time than she should like that. She sits there until her coffee table is overflowing with takeaway wrappers and Aedion and Elide have stopped texting more than once a day. She’s awful for ignoring them but she’s still mortified.

She hasn’t been able to look Aedion in the eyes since he dropped her back at her apartment after their long flight home from Rifthold. He didn’t say much. After he managed to again get her out of the party with minimal press she had cried, curled up between Aedion and Lysandra in their bed, and he didn’t offer judgement or instruction.

He just held her, whispering words she can’t remember but appreciates anyway. Now she hasn’t replied to any of his texts.

She hasn’t texted Fenrys or Manon either. She doesn’t know what to say.

She knows Fenrys jumped immediately into another movie, an action movie she knows he’s been chomping at the bit to get training for, and Manon into the second series of her show that she’s probably too famous for now.

They’re busy. They’ll understand. At least that’s what she tells herself.

The worst thing she does in that week is pour over the photos she has of Rowan. She didn’t realise she had so many but her camera roll is full of silver and green.

There are photos of just him, looking like Rowan, tall and handsome and understatedly happy, smiling covert little smiles at Aelin behind the camera. He was used to her instructing him to pose by the end of filming, she loved snapping away as he did anything. Eating, sleeping, smiling, everything - if it was Rowan she wanted it captured.

Now every photo is a knife to the chest.

The ones of the two of them together are worse, they twist the knife, pain splicing through her until she can hardly breathe. There are pictures of their cheeks pressed together, eyes shining, some serious, some silly. In all of them Aelin can clearly see her own happiness.

She can’t stop looking at them even as tears swell in her eyes and her throat gets tight.

For one week.

Until it’s been seven days since her flight landed back in Orynth and she gets up off her couch and deletes them. She almost doesn’t, her thumb hovers over the button for a good minute before she presses down but then it’s done and they’re gone. She showers and changes her clothes, she throws away all the rubbish on her coffee table and makes a plan.

Filming the movie with all of them it was easy to feel better than she did before, surrounded by new and exciting things, new people who didn’t know her before or treat her differently because of it. It was easy to lose herself in who she was there and with them.

Now though, she’s back to real life and real life lasts for an uneventful three weeks.

She tries what she can, she reads, she runs, she bakes, she teaches herself how to knit. None of it is satisfying and it's hard to make it stick. It’s all boring and never quite captures her attention the way she hopes. Never captures her attention enough to tear it away from Rowan and Rifthold.

A week before she flies out to Antica it changes.

She stumbles upon the change, completely accidentally, and she doesn’t realise what she’s needed until it's right in front of her.

Her usual run route is obstructed by construction and so she takes a left where she usually takes a right, heading down into the west side of the city, the side she doesn’t often frequent.

She used to. She used to spend hours strolling the streets letting the warmth of the sun and Sam’s hand in hers settle into her skin as they observed the numerous bakeries and small boutiques. Thankfully the scenery appears to have changed since.

The chill breeze of the September Orynth air teases the loose strands of hair tickling her face as she comes to a stop outside the sleek shop front. The wooden panels are painted a dark, glossy black and the windows are polished so brightly they reflect what’s left of the sunlight.

Music of Mistward the sign reads in curved, white lettering.

She can see her reflection in the shop window, her cheeks flushed, hair unruly, her running gear nowhere near to what would be appropriate attire for the shop dripping in class but she can’t turn away.

A bell tinkles as she pushes through the door, her headphones gripped tight in her fist as the gentle jazz playing over the sound system greets her. She doesn’t like jazz, it’s not her thing, but along with the musk of wood in the air it’s soothing in welcoming her in.

She passes walls of guitars and violins until she reaches the instrument that caught her eye. It’s sleek, black lid propped open revealing the elegant strings, pulled tight in neat lines. The sharp contrast of the keys against each other, bright against the deep black of the case. Her fingers ghost over them, dying to press down.

She hasn’t played since those days in Rowan’s Doranelle home. She’s wanted to, longed to feel the cool keys under her fingertips and the flood of the music pouring out of her, but the cheap keyboard in her Orynth apartment wouldn’t do Rowan’s beautiful instrument justice.

Aelin would rather not play at all than attempt a cheap imitation of what she felt there.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” A voice sounds behind her, low and raspy but cheerful all the same.

She turns, taking in the older man, his grey hair cut short and his classic shirt and slacks pressed crisp. She glances back to the piano before facing him fully.

“Stunning,” she breathes.

The man steps forwards and offers her his hand. She slips her hand into his and he pumps firmly as he introduces himself.

“Emrys,” he says. “Welcome to Music of Mistward.”

“Aelin,” she says, surprised to hear her voice thick.

“Great to meet you, Aelin,” Emrys says with an ancient smile. He nods towards the piano. “Do you play?”

“No,” she says and Emrys’ smile flickers. “Yes, I mean I used to. I want to,” is what she settles on.

He nods, satisfied, before taking a step closer to the piano. He runs a hand over the top, almost reverently and smiles to himself.

“Antique,” he starts, “almost one hundred years old but well loved. I acquired it recently - here we deal mostly in antique instruments, it’s a passion for both myself and my husband. The previous owner only sold it to me when she inherited it and didn’t know how to play, she wanted it to find a good home.”

He shares a smile with her as if she’s in on the joke but her breathing still hasn’t settled.

“Satin Ebony finish,” Emrys continues, “eighty-eight keys, all original but preserved to the highest quality. Accompanying bench, cut with refreshed velvet. I don’t know in all my years I’ve seen such a fine instrument as old as this.”

Aelin glances back to the piano, it’s big, it won’t fit in her apartment in Orynth but she doesn’t care. She can… adjust. She hasn’t felt a pull like this in a while, she doesn’t want to deny it when she does.

“How much?” she almost demands from the man in front of her.

He appraises her and she knows what he sees. Her bedraggled state and the tension through her shoulders doesn’t give the impression of someone with this much cash to throw around. She abruptly ignores that the way she probably can afford this is because of Rowan’s movie.

When he doesn’t speak she repeats herself, more firmly. “How much?”

“Our price includes delivery and tuning on arrival.” He seems apprehensive of telling her the truth. Aelin waits.

When he finally reveals the figure Aelin blinks. And then she extends her hand. “I’ll take it.”

To his credit Emrys just nods, shaking her hand. “You don’t want to at least play it first?”

Aelin feels the smirk she hasn’t worn in a while creep onto her face. “Is there a risk you’re pulling a fast one on me?”

Emrys returns her smile, a playful glint in his eye. “Not a chance, Aelin. Please follow me to the register where I can take your details.”

Aelin almost stumbles. Almost, but then recovers.

“Any chance I can pay a deposit and then let you know where you’ll be delivering sometime soon?”

Emrys winks knowingly. “Absolutely.”

She follows him to the counter, signs away part of a disgustingly large total of money but leaves with a sense of satisfaction. It’s an accomplishment, a step for purely selfish reasons.

The first thing she does when she leaves the shop is call Elide.

Aelin meets her new therapist two days before she flies out to Antica.

She hasn’t called her old one in months and thinks that’s probably a sign. And she’s all about changes at the moment.

She isn’t shooting in Antica for too long, only a couple of months until she’s back in Orynth and then back to Rifthhold for press. Her stomach drops everytime the thought wanders into her head.

She’s excited to be back in Rifthold, but the company is daunting.

Fenrys and Manon will easily be pissed at her disappearance. She knows Manon will play aloof but she also knows she’ll be upset, Fenrys too. Aelin didn’t mean to hurt them, didn’t mean to drop off the face of the Earth, and she knows she’s let them down but Fenrys and Manon remind her of Rowan. She couldn’t trust the conversation not to eventually steer towards him and Aelin isn’t ready for that.

Their break-up feels weirdly anticlimactic. After everything they built to, Aelin just dipped.

She knows it seems that way to Rowan at least. She hasn’t texted him, or rang him or anything since the party. She’s wanted to, wanted more than anything to hear his voice as she cried, but it’s not fair to him to drag it out and she knows that. She knew when she drew the line she had to stay on her side of it, no matter how much it hurt.

She had cried until her head pounded and her throat was raw. She cried until her eyes itched with no tears left to fall, until all that came out of her was hoarse screeches as she ached to hear him call her Fireheart one last time.

But no one needs to know that, she had kept it as hidden as she could.

She definitely didn’t need any more paparazzi pictures of her with red-rimmed eyes looking downtrodden. She couldn’t bear the thought of Rowan, or worse her mother, seeing them.

She knows Fenrys and Manon; Aedion, Lysandra and Elide would see through her flimsy excuses and so it was easier to stay quiet.

She’s not thinking about facing them yet. She supposes that will be something that likely comes up with this new therapist, but so far on her own, she’s choosing avoidance.

She gets Maeve’s number from Dorian, and she comes highly recommended by a number of Dorian’s other high profile clients. She’s well-versed in non-disclosure agreements, secret sessions and back street exits; she feels like the perfect fit for Aelin.

Unofficially, Dorian lets her know Maeve takes no shit, and that’s also just what Aelin needs.

They agree to online sessions while she’s in Antica, but Maeve recommended an initial meeting and Aelin is open to all of her suggestions.

Their first hour is not directly her most life changing but it’s a start.

“Welcome, Aelin,” Maeve says, sweeping an arm out towards the firm-looking, orange couch in the centre of the room.

Aelin takes a seat, mutters her thanks and glances around the room.

The room should feel cold with the exposed brick and minimalistic decor, the only furniture being the couch Aelin perches on, the almost regal armchair Maeve reclines in and a lamp, but it doesn’t and she gets comfortable tucking her feet beneath her thighs and leaning against the arm.

“So,” Maeve begins, surveying her in the way only a true professional can. “Let’s get started.”

Aelin feels bare beneath her gaze, and like everything about Maeve and her practise it should be unnerving but she just blinks against the scrutiny.

“Why are you here today? You could start with sharing why you have made this appointment.”

And isn’t that the million gold-mark question?

Aelin takes a deep breath through her nose and raises her chin.

“I don’t want to move backwards,” she admits. “Or maybe I just want to know I’ve actually moved forwards.”

Maeve’s expression stays calm, but Aelin knows she’d be smirking if she could. She’s well aware of how therapy works but even so, speaking her thoughts aloud can help to verify them in her own mind.

Aelin hopes so at least.

Their hour is over quickly and Aelin is resolved that Maeve is a good fit, reassured in Dorian’s claim that the woman takes no shit. Her all-knowing assessment of Aelin should have been unsettling but the frank dissection is what she needs.

Online therapy, especially fitting it around shooting might be a challenge but it’s for the best. As much as she values her independence and standing on her own two feet, Aelin is big enough to admit that facing her mother again may require some professional guidance. Seeing Rowan too, but again, she’s not thinking about that yet.

Antica is hot and Aelin is sweaty within seconds of stepping out of the air-conditioned luxury of the airport. That feeling lasts the entire time she’s there, disrupting the otherwise enjoyable time she has shooting the series.

Her new co-stars are fine, they invite her out with them and make her smile but she can’t help as though a part of her is always comparing them to who and what she left in Rifthold. Aelin tries her best to enjoy her time there with them, she hosts dinner parties and invites them to a game of Aedion’s but nothing quite hits the same as her time spent on The Crescent City.

She rationalises it to Maeve, that The Crescent City was a big turning point in her life and that it has nothing to do with Rowan, Fenrys or Manon, but she’s not sure she even believes it herself.

She spends the rest of her time in Antica trying to convince herself, and Maeve, that she’s moving past it. That she’s moving forwards or else she’ll move backwards. She’s not sure how much of it is futile.

The Crescent City is done, whether she likes it or not, and she can’t deny it changed her in ways she didn’t expect. It’s a hard pill to swallow that maybe it changed her beyond return to how she was before. She also can’t quite figure out whether she thinks that’s a bad thing or not.

They have a dinner for the core cast and crew, including Rowan, once they’re all back in Rifthold for the beginning of the press cycle. They have one night to reacquaint before they’re shoved into the whirlwind that is interviews, photoshoots and promotion.

She’s seen the trailer already and it’s just as she expected but more. It’s dark and dreary with flashes of brightness from herself and Fenrys and she’d want to watch it if she chanced a viewing as a member of the public.

What is surreal, is to see herself in a polished version of the film they were creating. Or at least a part of it.

She said each of the lines, rehearsed them over and over until they fell off her tongue without thought, but she still doesn’t recognise the girl in the trailer. A droplet of pride slips down her chest at the realisation that it’s not Aelin in the trailer but Feyre. She knows she’s good, has known it all along, but the realisation and reaffirmation is ecstasy better than any drug.

She hovers outside the restaurant, watching through the window, needing a couple more seconds before she submits herself to the assault of them all again. She still hasn’t replied to either Fenrys or Manon and the thought presses on her like lead but it’s too late to change that now.

If she’s honest she’s concerning herself with Fenrys and Manon in the hopes of distracting herself from the fact that she’s seconds away from Rowan. Seconds away from him in the flesh, his solid body in front of her that she had learned almost as well as her own.

Her palms are clammy and she wipes them against the fabric of her trousers. The upcoming interviews and photoshoots will all be styled for her and so she’s relishing in her last moments for a while of truly dressing like Aelin.

She takes a step towards the restaurant door, the tip of her trainer bumping the wood when a voice sounds behind her.

“Well, hello there, Stranger.”

Aelin braces herself, hand paused outstretched where it had been reaching for the door.

She turns, biting her lip as she faces Fenrys. He looks the same as he did, skin still golden, eyes still dancing with mischief, but his golden curls are trimmed shorter than the last time she saw him. His expression is carefully blank.

“I- Hi… um,” she stumbles over the words. “I’ve missed you.”

Fenrys breaks almost immediately. “Oh thank the fucking gods.”

He surges forwards and wraps her into a tight hug. Aelin clings to him, fighting the tears in her eyes as she buries her face in his chest. She’s gone far too long without this, without him, and it’s all her own fault.

“Do you have any idea how much I missed you?” Fenrys asks. “Oh wait, no you don’t. I’m assuming your phone broke, or was stolen or something since you never replied to any of my texts letting you know.”

Aelin knows her cheeks are stained pink. “I’m sorry,” she admits.

“I know.” His voice softens, losing the teasing edge as he presses a gentle kiss to her cheek.

He pauses before he speaks again, his eyes running over her face. “You could have texted me anytime, you know. Manon too. I know you might forget or try to convince yourself otherwise, but we are your friends. You could have called us about literally anything.”

Aelin feels like she could cry. She’s not sure that she isn’t.

“It doesn’t have to be about anything serious, especially not related to the movie,” or Rowan he doesn’t say but Aelin hears it. “We just wanted to hear your stupid voice.”

Aelin pouts. “My voice isn’t stupid.”

She pokes her tongue out as he rolls his eyes, easily falling back into the dynamic they had shaped a few months ago.

“Not what I meant,” he says before pausing, taking her in as she stands in front of him. “You can’t lose us that easily, you know. We’re like rats or fleas or something. Hard to get rid of.”

“Nice,” she comments, but her chest is tight at his words.

He smiles at her before adding, “and you had fucking better text me back.”

Aelin laughs through the sniffles he’s kindly ignoring. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and finds his contact. Hi she sends and feels his phone buzz against her.

“Much better,” he says and releases her from his arms. “Now, are you ready for a night of the finest dining all on the studio credit card?”

Aelin laughs again. “Lead the way.”

He shoots her a wink and waltzes ahead to hold the door open for her.

Fenrys’ presence shouldn’t reassure her the way it does, especially after the way she has treated him but she clings to him anyway. He’s her buffer for now, a crutch for tonight and tonight only. Once tonight is over and tomorrow begins she and Rowan can be professional, they managed it for months during filming and this should be no different.

Rowan still looks the way he did the night she broke his heart.

His silver hair falls elegantly over his forehead as he bends his head to talk to Manon, the pair of them are engrossed in a conversation as she and Fenrys walk over, not spotting them yet. She loves his hair, loves the thick silver waves and the way they feel between her fingers. She loves the way any attempt he makes to arrange the thick strands is never quite able to tame the beast. She loves the shirt he has on, with the sleeves rolled up exposing inches of tanned skin and dark ink, the same worn green cotton she wore numerous times around his living room all those months ago. She can still remember the feel of it against her bare skin.

His smile is the same, his green eyes crinkling as his lips barely part as he does his best to hold it back.

His smile is the same until he spots her.

He catches sight of her when she reaches the table and his smile drops, the shutters closing over his expression so fast she wouldn’t know he knew how to smile had she not just seen it.

It tears her chest in two and any attempt at a smile on her part is futile. It’s all she can do to make it to her seat without stumbling and she’s sure she misses any other greetings she gets as she slumps onto the chair opposite Manon. She absently notes Fenrys dropping in at her side.

She can’t look away from Rowan, her eyes scanning to try and find anything that distinguishes him from the man she loved all those months ago. She finds nothing. He’s still Rowan and Aelin still… fuck.

He recovers before she does, ever the collected courtier, clearing his throat and nodding.

“Aelin,” he says and she adores the sound of her name on his tongue.

“Hi Rowan,” she manages and hears how weak she sounds. Rowan hears it too. She can tell from the purse of his lips and the tension in the hand he rests along the back of Manon’s chair.

Aelin allows her eyes to drift to Manon and she finally catches the thunderous expression the younger girl wears.

“Hi,” she whispers and Manon blinks.

“Hi?” Manon repeats incredulously.

Aelin is fucked.

“Five months and I get a hi?”

It’s loud and a few heads turn their way. It’s simultaneously mortifying and everything Aelin deserves.

“I’m sorry,” she says plainly.

She could lie, make up some useless excuses but in the end there’s nothing else but the truth and if Manon wants her to grovel she will, she’s just not sure this is the time or place.

Fenrys shares her thoughts. “Later, Manon,” he says, gently.

Rowan’s eyes stay firmly glued to the tablecloth as Manon frowns, seemingly unwilling to let it go.

After a few seconds, seconds Aelin spends waiting for the ground to open up and swallow her, Manon nods. She nods and turns to Fenrys, demanding to know what he’s ordering. And just like that Aelin has a moment to catch her breath.

She knew this dinner wouldn’t be easy, knew she’d be walking into the lion's den of her own making, but she hadn’t expected it to be as hard. Hadn’t expected seeing Rowan to feel like a slap, hadn’t expected Manon’s hurt to scrape across her skin leaving her raw.

She tries not to think she deserves it, Maeve would only raise a brow as if to say we’ve been over this. The thought is sobering, and she manages to lift her head.

It is what it is, what’s done is done and she can only apologise and move forwards.

As much as she tries to resist, Aelin finds herself watching Rowan throughout the night. It’s scary how familiar he feels, he should feel like a stranger, but he feels like she knows him too well. He laughs when she expects, rolls his eyes when she predicts. He orders what she thought he would and he sips away at an orange juice the way he did the first dinner they all had together.

Aelin already feels so different than she did the last time she was in Rifthold and he seems unchanged.

She observes for most of the night, feeling drained despite her minimal contributions to the conversations. She speaks when spoken to and actively avoids speaking when Rowan does, she definitely doesn’t respond to anything he says even though she wants to at least twice and wants to laugh a couple more.

She makes it through and clings to Fenrys again as they all leave, linking her arm through his as they leave the restaurant. He knows what she’s doing but graciously guides her out of the building. Once on the pavement outside the restaurant he pauses and turns to her.

“What hotel are you staying in while you’re here?”

The rest of the group are milling about, calling taxis and bidding their farewells. Aelin doesn’t know how she’s getting back yet, she’s assuming she’ll split a ride with someone.

“Um, the Glass Castle, I think,” she says, desperately trying to recall the name of the hotel she dumped her bags in a few hours earlier.

“Boo,” Fenrys laughs, pointing his thumb down. “They’ve got me in the Torre Cesme. Think I’m ages away from you.”

Aelin laughs, disappointed but ready to order her own taxi back when a voice she didn’t expect sounds.

“I’ve just ordered a cab to the Glass Castle, I’m staying there too. You can jump in if you want.”

Rowan.

She shoots Fenrys a panicked look but his expression is pure glee.

“That would be great thanks, Boss,” Fenrys says, shrugging his arm out of hers and nudging her towards Rowan.

“No problem, Boyo.” Rowan offers Fenrys a dark grin at the nickname and the sight of it stills her. It’s new, he used to roll his eyes whenever Fenrys would drop it into conversation, but now Rowan’s playing along. And the grin, the curl of the lips and the narrowing of the eyes, it’s sexy as fuck.

It’s only taken one night and she’s back in the danger zone. She doesn’t want to be, hell, she wants him to take her back to his hotel room and peel off her clothes but this is Rowan. She’s spent the last few months trying to get over him, falling into bed with him the first night she sees him again would not likely be defined as progress.

He’s also not likely to want that after what she did.

“You don’t have to,” she says. The first direct thing she’s said to him since their greeting.

“I know.” A slight shrug of his broad shoulders. “But we’re going to the same place, it wouldn’t seem logical to take different cars.”

Logic. That’s all it is.

“Right.” She doesn’t think she’s ever felt so awkward with him, not even at the start. “Thank you,” she says, following him to the car.

Fenrys shoots her a grin as he slips into his own taxi. Traitor.

Rowan holds the door open for her and slips in behind her. She tries not to think anything of the fact he could have easily taken the front seat.

The ride is silent apart from the easy chit chat he makes with the driver, another thing she’s not sure she noticed him do before, and she stares out the window as the city passes by. The streets of Rifthold are not her home but she feels a brightness as she glances down the curving roads, spotting groups of people milling about enjoying the night.

She knows the first call she made to Elide in weeks was the right call. Elide is the only person she’d trust with her bank account and access to real estate listings. The link to the flat her friend had sent over has stayed open in her browser since she got it.

It’s modern with classic twists, situated in a recently renovated old warehouse with miles of exposed brick and rustic wooden panelling. She loves the master bedroom the most, with its adjoining en suite with a huge bathtub she can picture herself soaking in. She has a viewing booked in two days but doubts she’ll even need it.

It’s not long before the taxi pulls up outside the hotel and she follows Rowan through the glass doors. He presses the button for the lifts and Aelin shifts in the awkward silence.

Awkward is not something she’s used to with Rowan. Or it wasn’t before.

The doors slide open and again she follows him inside.

He pauses with a hand hovering over the buttons for the floors. “Which floor?”

“Nine.”

Aelin hates these one word exchanges compared to the hours they used to share talking about everything and nothing. She can’t believe this is the man she was so vulnerable with.

His short huff of laughter drags her gaze to his face.

“What?”

“Makes sense,” is what he says, shaking his head and pressing only the button for the ninth floor.

The ride takes seconds, a minute at most, filled with the silence between them.

When the doors open to the ninth floor she steps out, determined not to follow him again, and she feels him follow her. Even now she’s so aware of his powerful body and the way he moves it. She shouldn’t be so attracted to the power emanating from him, from the breadth of his shoulders to the sureness of his steps. She wants him, doesn’t think she ever stopped, except now he’s the forbidden fruit. Forbidden only by her own actions.

She reaches her door, room 905, but pauses with her key tucked in her hand.

“Thanks for letting me share your cab,” she says, finding herself desperate not to say goodbye yet. “I can transfer you for half.”

That finally, finally, cracks a whisper of a smile but she’s not sure she enjoys his laughter if it’s at her. “Don’t worry about it.”

That should be the end of it, she should open her door and shut it behind her, they have a few weeks ahead of them that will be hard enough without any complications.

She left him and he seems gracious enough to have mostly moved past it.

“It was good to see you, Aelin,” he says, seemingly unwilling to let the night end as well. She doesn’t let the seed of hope sprout because what would be the point?

Nevertheless, Aelin smiles, leaning back against her door.

Rowan continues, “even if I wasn’t sure how the night was going to go.”

Her attention is spiked. “What do you mean?”

She can’t lie, a part of her expects him to back down at the edge to her voice. He doesn’t.

“I wasn’t sure if you were going to pretend nothing ever happened between us.”

She blinks, giving herself a second to process.

Maybe this isn’t the same Rowan from all those months ago. That night he let her walk away from him, gods know she needed it, but a dark little part of her had wanted him to fight her harder. Fight harder for her. When he hadn’t she’d taken it as her sign.

She knows the expectation was toxic, if he had fought her it would have only pissed her off, but she wishes she’d had someone to tell her it was the wrong choice. It would have helped to hear in the moment, rather than be faced with Rowan months down the line that she wants and can’t have.

The Rowan in front of her, the third Rowan she’s known, stares her down. His eyes peel away each of the layers she’s worked with Maeve for months to don in a second.

“I wouldn’t do that to you.”

It’s honest and maybe she’s not the same Aelin as a few months ago either.

That’s what she had asked for that night in the cool air, to move past them with as little commotion as possible, stirring up as little attention as they could. She hadn’t wanted to let them eclipse the movie and yet that ended up being exactly what she had accomplished.

Now though, Aelin knows better.

Rowan nods as his eyes dart across her face. He seems to step closer without realising. Aelin notes the motion, still so aware of him and his proximity to her.

His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. “I was so angry at you for leaving.”

Aelin loses her breath at his confession.

Eventually she manages, “was?”

He looks away from her, glancing down the dark hallway, his jaw tight. When she’s with him she forgets about the world around them, there’s probably-definitely-CCTV in this hallway but he’s here and she can’t let him go yet.

His fists curl and uncurl as he takes a deep breath.

“Was,” he says shortly. “I was so angry at you, the way you did what you did was shit.”

Aelin swallows. He’s not wrong.

“I know.”

“But now I don’t know.” She lifts her eyes to his, swimming in the openness she doesn’t deserve. And fuck that. That is such bullshit. She meets his stare, returning all that he isn’t saying. “I spent a long time thinking about it, thinking about you, and it took me a while but now I get it.”

That hurts more than she expects. She didn’t expect him to be all over her the minute they reunited but his understanding was always a kicker.

“I know why you did it,” he continues. “And that took most of the wind out of my sails.”

Aelin frowns. He can’t possibly know why.

“I don’t think you do.” He tilts his head, an invitation for her to expand. “Or you’d know that nothing has changed.”

“Hasn’t it?”

His question throws her. Completely.

She tilts her head up to look at him, closer to her than he’s been all night, pushing her to keep being honest with him.

She’s dazed being this close to him again after so long, the green of his eyes stronger than she remembers. Or maybe her brain had assured her the memory of him couldn’t have been real.

“I don’t know,” she admits, unable to fight the way her body leans into him.

His teeth graze his lower lip and she follows the motion.

He’s silent for a beat too long and her skin is thrumming under his attention. She doesn’t know how she’s gone this long without him, she doesn’t know how she thought she’d survive never having him again.

“Let me know when you figure it out,” he says finally, drawing back and a rush of cool air fills the space he had taken. “Goodnight Aelin.”

He turns and she watches his back down the hallway. He slips easily into a room a few doors down and she’s left watching the path he’d taken, feeling the weight of his eyes on her lips.

Her head thuds against the door as she screws her eyes shut. She wants to scream, wants to chase him down the hall, wants to fly back to Orynth where she was safe.

She doesn’t do any of those things.

She tucks herself into her hotel room and readies herself for the whirlwind that’s about to hit. These next few weeks are going to be hard, not just dealing with the Rowan situation, but she can’t fight the excitement she feels.

Fuck. She’s back in Rifthold, back where she loves, doing what she was born to do.

This is big. She can feel it.

The Crescent City is not her first project, and so she’s been a part of press cycles before, she knows how they go. What she doesn’t know is how a press cycle for something like this works.

The only word she can find is insanity.

There are somehow earlier mornings than they had while shooting and often longer days. She gets poked and prodded in hair and make-up for hours before they spend all day sat in a hotel room filming repetitive interviews for various magazines.

She and Fenrys are genuinely friends and yet they still have to put on a show in front of the cameras. She plays up her laughter when he cracks a joke and he makes sure to never look away from her for longer than two seconds when she speaks or a producer behind the camera makes a comment.

She loves Fenrys but it’s exhausting. Her only blessing is that for most of her engagements she’s with Fenrys and Manon with Rowan conducting his own interviews separately as she had hoped.

Sometimes though, given their relatively similar ages and general level of chemistry, they get grouped together.

The four of them are filming a video for Buzzfeed, filling in a quiz to find out which character from The Crescent City they’re most like. She’s unsurprised to discover her result is Rhysand and it’s fun even if her heart does pound every time she has to act like she’s unfazed and friendly with Rowan.

There’s a moment, just a moment, where she almost breaks from her friendly and unbothered interview persona. It’s her turn to read the question, what item could you not survive without on a desert island?

It’s Rowan that speaks. “Her shampoo,” he says, “it’s jasmine.”

There’s a split second where she doesn’t speak, where all she can do is stare at Rowan, stunned that he remembered and thought to mention it now.

In that split second she’s transported back to memories of them together in the shower at her rented apartment, kissing lazily under the spray after spending hours between her sheets. She remembers dumping the shampoo into her hand and then onto his head, massaging his thick locks and surrounding them in the scent of jasmine.

She remembers how he kissed her neck as she did, trailing his hands over her silky curves, slick with the soap, with his kisses building in heat until her hands dropped to his shoulders. He’d lavished kisses down her chest until he’d jerked back, shampoo in his eyes and she’d laughed until he was safe and pressed his lips again to hers, continuing where he’d left off.

She’s shocked he’d bring this up when there’s a camera on the two of them and she can only imagine the comments it will spark. She’s not sure she cares if it keeps Rowan’s eyes on her.

“It’s luxurious for a reason,” she says when she recovers, tossing her thick locks over her shoulder. “Well worth it.”

She doesn’t miss the flicker in his own mask at her comment.

That kind of interaction will no doubt ignite the sparks she’d only ever wanted to avoid.

As the press cycle goes on and on, and they get closer and closer to the premiere it only becomes harder for her conviction to hold.

She tests her own argument, the clear line she drew in the sand, when she manages to keep it professional with Rowan and she’s not sure where that leaves her. She had thought they would overshadow everything about the project and now she’s not sure.

She said nothing had changed and he had challenged her.

She’s still not sure who’s in the right.

Everything is simultaneously completely new and exactly the same. Rowan is still gorgeous, still charming in his own reserved way, still almost reverent when he talks about his craft throughout interviews. He still talks with his hands and Aelin still can’t draw her eyes away from their motions, she still craves the touch of them on her skin. He’s still seven years older than her and the director of her big break.

Yet there are differences.

They’re still often on the same page, offering similar answers and backing each other up but now he never backs down from a challenge. Now he doesn’t hold back those comments she knows he was always dying to let slip. She should be annoyed, everytime he drops a line that pushes her to expand a little part of her wants to roll her eyes.

She doesn’t though. Her blood heats and her skin prickles. She loves this with him. Loves the dance they play, the teasing, verbal games that shouldn’t start her off but do. She loves the smirk he wears when they end up down that path, and she knows she wears it’s mirror image.

She always ends up squirming in her seat and it should be wrong but it isn’t. The cameras can’t see below their chests and the flush in her cheeks could easily be from the warmth of the day.

She’s beginning to wonder if she’s powerless against Rowan Whitethorn. If she’s powerless against the green of his eyes or the curl of his accent. The slant of his brows or the points of his teeth when he smiles.

She doesn’t know that it’s just one thing. It’s all of the things, it’s all of him, and more so than ever she’s completely fucked.

But they aren’t talking outside of the interviews and photoshoots, and the knowledge of which hotel room is his itches her toes every night. It would be so easy to sneak down the hall, to knock on the door and slot her lips to his when he opened.

It’s only a couple of nights before the premiere when the temptation becomes too much. She’s been around Rowan all day, surrounded by the smell of his aftershave, the notes of pine and freshness and Rowan and it’s too much. She strides down the hallway, resolved in her decision and closes her fingers over the button for the lift.

She needs to be elsewhere or she’ll make some bad decisions.

She’s come so far, survived months without him, she can’t cave due to proximity.

The hotel bar is deserted when she walks in and makes a beeline to the bartender. Yeah, maybe after her wobble at the wrap party a bar isn’t the best decision she could make but her options are limited. Trying to sleep with Rowan is, after all, probably the worst of both options.

“Just a sparkling water please,” she says to the barman who nods and returns a moment later.

“Put it on my tab.” A voice from the end of the bar.

A laugh bubbles out of her chest as she closes her fingers around her glass. Of course he’s here. She should have spotted Rowan the minute she walked in and it’s cruel that the reason she didn’t was that her thoughts were too wrapped up in him.

“Be careful what you sign up for,” she says as she walks over, her steps measured as she comes to a stop before him. Her hips swing of their own accord and his eyes dart up and down the length of her. “I can put a number of these away.”

The smile he gives her is surprisingly unguarded. It seems he’s done holding himself back too. Aelin loves it.

“I don’t doubt it,” he says, nodding at the stool next to him. She obliges as he speaks again. “It’s hard to switch off sometimes.”

He’s always on the same page as she is. Aelin shrugs, taking a sip of the drink he bought her.

They’re quiet for a moment, both unsure of how to break the silence between them when one of the last things they knew was the taste of each other’s lips.

“I keep thinking I’ll get used to it, that one day this will just be my job, but I never do,” Aelin says eventually, tracing a fingertip through the condensation gathered on her glass.

Rowan nods, smiling softly down at the bar and taking a sip of his own drink. An orange juice as usual.

“It’s hard to sleep at the end of days like today,” he says. “It’s why I’m in here.”

The bar is dark at the late hour, and quiet with no one else in there but them and the bartender. There’s something about the late hour, the darkness and the stillness surrounding them a break from the recent rush, that feels a little bit too close. She feels a little too exposed under the weight of his gaze but she rolls her shoulders back and leans an elbow on the bar as she turns towards him.

“I thought you’d be used to all of this by now,” she says and he cocks his head.

“Why?” His question is coy, begging her to expand.

“This is not your first rodeo and all of that,” she says with a smile.

Rowan laughs softly, the sound curving around her like an embrace.

“It can still be overwhelming after your first big movie,” he says gently, but with an edge to his voice that she needs to immediately get rid of.

“I don’t doubt that,” is what she whispers and his brow seems to soften, sensing her lack of malice.

She hates the way they’re in the position where he assumes the worst of her. She has to make that change.

“I don’t think if I get to do this for the rest of my life that it would ever feel normal.”

“No,” Rowan agrees, “I don’t think it could.”

“So then we need this film to do well.” Aelin shifts on the stool, finding herself leaning closer to him without conscious thought. He doesn’t retreat. He stands his ground until they’re only inches apart. “Lest we find ourselves fading into obscurity.”

“I doubt you ever could,” he says with a laugh and it’s the best thing she’s ever heard.

As he looks at her, his expression soft in the dim light, his smile holds something special for her and her chest lifts that she managed it. That he was willing to give that to her.

“My agent sent over the initial critic reviews earlier,” he says and her stomach plummets.

“And?” she demands, her voice wobbling slightly. Her confidence from a minute ago vanished.

This is the moment where she could sink, the moment this could all be over.

“And they’re good,” he almost whispers.

“Good,” she repeats and it’s not a question but he nods.

She wants to throw herself at him at the news, a couple of months ago she wouldn’t have even hesitated, but now she sits clenching her fists and trying not to smile too wide. It feels like a waste. She’ll never get this feeling again.

She turns to him and he’s smiling so she does what she’s wanted to for months. Aelin leans forwards and wraps an arm over his shoulders, pressing her chest to his.

His arms slip up slowly over her shoulders at first, unsure but gaining confidence as he tightens his grip around her, drawing her further into his chest. Aelin laughs a little, throwing her other arm around him and resting her face against his shoulder.

It’s not enough, it never could be with him, but it will do. She’s just happy he didn’t push her away.

Eventually, after a length of time that feels far too short, she pulls back to see him gazing down at her with an expression she can’t name. His brows are drawn in with his lips gently parted. He’s happy but apprehensive, open but distant. Aelin will take what she can and the distance between them has always been too far.

She wants nothing more than to close it, to draw herself into him and he into her, but she can’t. They’re here for one thing and one thing only and she refuses after what they’ve been through to mess it up again.

She knows he can read her own expression but she doesn’t care. She’ll hide from everyone and anyone but she’s realising she could never hide from him.

She wants Rowan, will probably want him for the rest of her life, but she made the call and he’s wrong, things haven’t changed.

Apart from all of the things that have.

The day of the premiere Aelin feels sick.

Her stomach twists and she tosses and turns all night and the dark circles under her eyes are brutal as a result. Her make-up artist tuts but diligently packs concealer on until Aelin looks well rested. Or as close as she can.

She’s trying not to think of the stretch of carpet she’ll have to walk tonight, a smile plastered across her face as she poses for the hundreds of cameras. Their premiere is one of the biggest of the season and, along with Fenrys, she’s the star.

She’ll have nowhere to hide.

Aelin sits in front of her mirror, her hair and make-up are done but she’s yet to get dressed. She takes herself in, making sure to note every strand of hair to every line of her lips, feeling as though she needs to remember this moment. The moment before it all explodes.

They’ve been building to this for almost a year now and this is as close to a culmination as she’ll get.

Her dress is something fierce. Endless, flowing velvet in the darkest shade of black. Long sleeves and a fitted bodice with an almost indecent dip in the back. The dress would be modest without that cut out, she can’t wear any underwear it dips so low.

It would be a simple dress, some might even dare to say boring, if it weren’t for the back. The majority of the fabric that remains is covered in gold embroidery taking the form of a dragon, coiled to strike. Aelin adored the dress the moment her stylist revealed it to her. She didn’t consider any of the other dresses, didn’t even acknowledge them as options.

The dress is what she needs, something strong, something to help her hold her head up high. She can walk the red carpet and stare down every single person who doubted her and know that they were wrong.

Aelin doesn’t need their approval. She doesn’t need the reassurance of faceless commenters, she doesn’t need the support of the magazines and the newspapers. She doesn’t need her mother’s approval. On anything.

Aelin is confident and self-assured and she can walk the red carpet knowing that.

Her sessions with Maeve have helped to reassure her stance, but she’s realising day by day she’s known it all along. It’s just taken a little bit of digging to uncover it.

She slips into her dress and it slides on like a second skin. She takes in her appearance, the arch of her brow and the red smirk of her lips makes her look intriguing, like a confident young woman.

Aelin was born to be an actress but she’s proud to say the sight in the mirror is real.

She poses for a few photos before she’s led out of her room and into the car, waiting to take her to the theatre.

She spends the ride in silence, barely listening to the jabbering of the aide in the car with her, and she focuses her thoughts on the calm before the storm. She takes deep breaths and centres herself the way Maeve has taught, she knows this could so easily be overwhelming but she’s determined to enjoy it.

The car stills and she can hear the noise of the crowd outside. She takes a final deep breath and allows her lips to spread into a smile. This one is genuine, nothing forced about it, and she pauses for one last beat.

This is big and Aelin is ready.

The car door opens and the sound hits her like a wave, slamming down onto her and it's so loud she can hardly think.

This is it. This is the moment she has dreamed of.

The nights where this image was all she could cling to to make it through could never have compared to how it feels standing here now, screams of her own name wrapping around her and urging her on.

Her steps are slow and purposeful as she glides down the path forged for her, the red carpet beneath her stilettos is plush and bright. She pauses where she’s instructed, rolling her shoulders back and smirking at the cameras with a hand on her hip.

She knows she looks incredible and the shouts of the photographers do nothing to change her mind. They are here for her, they’re all here for what she has accomplished, along with Fenrys, Manon, Chaol and Rowan and everyone else involved.

There are so many forces upon her, the flashing of the lights, the screams and shouts calling her name or Fenrys’, the magnitude of what this is could knock down a lesser individual but all it does is raise Aelin up.

She’s been through worse than this and survived, she’ll stare down the lense of all of these cameras, of everyone who has ever spoken her name and she won’t cower, she won’t just survive. She’ll thrive.

A warm hand lands on her waist and somehow the flashes of the cameras explode.

“Hey, golden girl.” Fenrys’ words are almost hard to hear even though his lips brush her ear. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Aelin wraps her arm around his back and grins, “I thought I’d at least show my face.”

He returns her smile and together they pose for the cameras, their shoulders back and smiles confident. She’s not sure this could be better.

Until she turns slightly to her left and gets flashes of silver where she and Fenrys are gold.

Rowan and Manon, posing for their own pictures mere metres away. He looks spectacular, the deep black of his tuxedo doing nothing but bringing out the depth of his tan and the shine of his silver hair.

He’s smiling his public smile and it’s gorgeous even though it’s not her favourite of his smiles, she loves the private ones he used to save just for her, and her own smile falters at the sight.

She’s here with Fenrys and it’s not wrong but it doesn’t feel right. The arm around her waist shouldn’t belong to Fenrys.

She should be where Manon is, smiling up at Rowan while they marvel at what they’ve accomplished. She knows her smile has dropped and she fumbles for anything to plaster onto her expression other than the longing she feels for Rowan.

As if she’d called his name he turns to her, green colliding with blue, and she knows he feels the same.

And that hurts far more than all of the months they spent apart.

All the months she spent hurting, trying to deny what she always knew, trying to pretend that they were anything other than a force of nature. They had been an eclipse, threatening to over take all of this but she was wrong. Rowan was wrong too.

It doesn’t matter whether everything or nothing has changed because she wasn’t right in the first place.

She should have known better than to think that whatever flimsy decision she made could halt what they were, what they should be.

She can only hope he forgives her. She can only hope he feels the same.

But the thing about this new Rowan is that she can’t read him the way she used to read her Rowan, she can’t tell if the way he steels himself and turns away from her is a dismissal or if the look they shared had been just as painful for him as it had been for her.

“A masterpiece.” - Rifthold Reporter

“Fenrys Moonbeam shines alongside Aelin Ashryver in The Crescent City. See our full review here.” - Wyrd Stone

“Latest Rowan Whitethorn flick smashes Box Office records.” - Valg Weekly

“Unapologetic, daring and thought provoking. Award nominations expected to follow for The Crescent City.” - Terrasen Tribune

Her phone has not stopped buzzing for the past four days.

Dorian texts every waking hour with the updates he gets, the numbers coming in and all her latest offers. It’s surreal. She knew they were good but she’s not sure she ever really expected this. Aedion texts her a picture every time he sees or hears her name, it should be terrifying the frequency with which he texts her but she has to fight back her smile each time he does.

She managed to find an hour the night before to call Lysandra and the majority of their call had consisted of Aelin repeatedly asking what the fuck was happening while Lysandra cackled down the phone.

She’d even got a text from Lorcan. It was alright, he’d written. Followed by, I hope I die before ever having to watch you make out with someone like that again.

She’d sent three middle finger emojis and a kissy face in response.

Now is probably not the best time to move to a different country but she’d signed her name on the papers two days before the premiere and Rifthold is calling, irrespective of the fact she’s only been back in Orynth for two days.

Most of her stuff headed out yesterday with the moving company leaving Aelin with two suitcases to fly back to Rifthold with tomorrow.

There’s one last place she needs to go before she heads back to finally get a good night's sleep before her flight tomorrow. She’s never set foot in this graveyard before, she’s never had the courage to dare before, but she’s emboldened. By the success of the movie, by her progress in the past year, by her sessions with Maeve. This has felt like a natural step.

The shining, black headstone is understated and classy and completely to his taste.

Sam Cortland. Beloved son and brother, taken far too soon.

Aelin waits with her head bowed, allowing all of her emotions to rush through her veins. She doesn’t fight them, it would be pointless to try, and she embraces the tears that gather. Eventually she steps forwards, placing the smooth, small stone on the crest of the headstone.

She rests her hand on the cool stone for a moment before sinking down and crossing her legs beneath her as she leans against it.

“I’ve missed you,” she says aloud, “I can almost hear you telling me to stop being such a sappy shit. I can’t help it, it’s been too long since I’ve seen you.”

She pauses, letting the wind drift through the field sweeping her words away.

There’s no one else here but her and Sam, no one else she’d want to hear her confession.

“I wonder what you would have made of all this. I think you’d tell me to enjoy it all, to not miss a moment, and I’m not. I’m just choosing the ones I want to savour. And this is one of them, Sam. I wish you’d been there with me, you would have loved it, the cameras, the lights, everything.

“I have to keep pinching myself to know it’s real, I did it, and I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to come and see you.”

She sighs, letting her head tip back to rest against the stone. She didn’t prepare anything to say, didn’t realise she’d even want to speak to the open air but here she is.

“I’m not the same Aelin as the girl you knew anymore,” she says after a few moments of silence. “I didn’t think I would have the capacity to love again after you but I did, and I feel terribly guilty that I do. I have to remind myself that this is what you would have wanted, you would have wanted me to be happy.”

The silence in the field is more than an answer enough. So typically Sam to give her an answer without so much as speaking a word.

“I was happy,” she says, trailing a fingertip along the words etched into the stone. “I will be again.”

A faint haze of sunlight drifts through the Orynth autumn clouds, a whisper compared to the chorus of brightness she misses in Rifthold, and she stands, brushing off the dirt from her jeans. She touches the stone one last time before turning and heading out of the graveyard.

Her visit was years overdue but her chest didn’t crack open the way she had expected, the tears hadn’t been relentless the way she had expected. She’ll visit him again the next time she’s back in Orynth, probably visiting Elide and Lorcan for Yulemass, and she’ll visit again and again for as long as she lives.

But for now, she has a plane to catch.

Months later and two days before the Oscars, when they’re all back in town for the ceremony held in her new home city of Rifthold, Fenrys throws another party.

She’s managed, this time, to stay in touch with Fenrys and Manon, having made up with the younger girl before the press cycle had finished. Aelin knows her upset was real but partly suspects the animosity was a front. She even finds herself participating in the group chat with the three of them and Rowan. She’s only texted him one to one once to wish him a happy birthday and they had caught up briefly but not texted since.

She’s missed him in a different way to the last time she missed him. This time missing him doesn’t feel necessary, it feels wrong not to text him, wrong to be away from him and she’s itching to see him again.

It’s no one's birthday this time but they’re all together again to celebrate, no matter the results they’ll see in two days. Aelin is very carefully measuring her excitement about her own nomination for best actress. Fenrys is up for best actor, Rowan best director and the movie best picture.

She’d almost dropped her phone in the toilet when she found out from Dorian a few weeks ago.

The party is small but still in full swing by the time she arrives. Big names from the industry, all in town for the ceremony, are scattered all around Fenrys’ Rifthold apartment. He’d bought a place here not long after Aelin and she’s secretly relieved she’s not the only one so moved by their experience.

She waves to a few people she knows and tries to stay calm when she spots Sartaq Khagan in the corner chatting away to a small group of people. Holy shit Fenrys has some famous friends.

Aelin finds herself a glass, tops her orange juice off with a splash of lemonade and begins her rounds. So many more people want to talk to her after the movie dropped.

Her mother had been one of them, and Aelin’s thumb had hovered over the accept button for a moment before decidedly pressing decline. She had blocked her mother’s number a moment later, and then she had made some calls closing the bank account her mother kept topped up and arranging for every penny she’d ever received from Evalin Ashryver to be paid back.

It had hurt, emotionally and financially, especially in the month she’d moved to Rifthold, but it had been worth it. To never let Evalin pass any judgement over her life again was a relief worth any cost. Aelin’s hoping there’s a possibility she could end up with a reward.

She doesn’t know how long she spends talking to big name after big name and it’s a realisation that drops onto her that she fits in here. Aelin Ashryver is a big name. No matter the outcome of the ceremony she has prospects, already a number of projects lined up and she’s loving every minute of it.

She drains her cup for the third time tonight and heads back into the kitchen. She’s barely seen Fenrys all night, and she doesn’t even know if Manon is here.

She frowns into the fridge, there was definitely a full bottle of orange juice in here the last time she topped herself up. She shuts the fridge and spins around.

“Looking for this?”

She should have known.

Rowan looks predictably gorgeous in the dim kitchen lighting. All tanned skin and silver smiles. He’s dressed in her favourite look of his too, worn denim jeans and a soft cotton shirt.

It’s the softness in his gaze that really takes her though, it seems the animosity from the last time they saw each other has faded if not disappeared. Her chest squeezes at the thought. She has no idea what could have triggered it but she will take it.

“Nope,” she says, stepping over to where he stands with an arm braced against the counter at his side, the other holding out a bottle of orange juice. “I was hoping Fenrys would have some chocolate in there but I guess this will have to do.”

She takes the bottle from him, her fingertips brushing his and she feels her cheeks heat at the innocent brush.

His smile is genuine and she knows what he’s remembering because she’s thinking of it too. The first time she visited his house during filming and their moment in the kitchen. They’ve been through cycles, she supposes, but hopefully now for the better.

“I’m sure we can find you some somewhere in here,” he says as she fills her cup, pulling open the cupboard next to his head.

Aelin smirks. “I’m going to leave the rummaging through Fenrys’ cupboards to you. You could find anything in there.”

Rowan winces, closing the door before returning her smile. This is friendly and the hope that’s been planted in her chest begins to sprout.

“Yeah, maybe not,” he says with a conspiratorial smile. “We wouldn’t want to risk it.”

Aelin pauses for a moment, taking in the glory of him in front of her. He’s still Rowan, he’s still tall and deliciously broad. His silver hair is slightly more grown out and there are a couple more lines around his eyes but she doesn’t care, in fact it’s charming. He’s still and always will be stunning. She takes a sip of her drink before she takes one of her biggest risks so far.

“I’ve missed you,” she says, not daring to look away from his face.

He bites his lip, his tongue darting out to soothe the skin before he speaks. “I’ve missed you too.”

The smile that spreads across her face is all too telling but he’s smiling too so she doesn’t think it matters. He definitely feels the same and she’d be annoyed at the months she spent worrying but the relief is too sweet.

“Good,” is what she says, far too happy they’re here to bother with pretending she’s anything other than ecstatic. “Congrats on your nomination.”

His eyes dart to the floor and then back up at her, he’s too modest about his own skill and Aelin adores it. “Thank you,” he says softly, “you too.”

“Thanks,” she says. “I couldn’t have done it without you. All of you.”

“Me neither,” Rowan says.

He’s close to her now, closer than he has been to her for months and her skin cries out for contact. She almost can’t believe she’s here now, talking to Rowan without any animosity, days before the Oscars that she’s nominated in.

The smile that takes over her face is completely of its own accord. She’s floating and it seems Rowan is too if the beat they share, exchanging incredulous smiles, is anything to go by.

“It’s crazy, right?”

She’s been asking herself the question for so long it seems only natural it slips out to him.

He laughs softly, and the rough sound curls straight to her core.

“Definitely,” he agrees, his voice low. “I don’t think last time felt like this.”

Aelin slaps a gentle hand to his chest and ignores the thrill that shoots through her at the eventual contact. “I get it, this is not your first nomination.”

Rowan rolls his eyes and she didn’t know how much she missed this, playing with him. She adores his reaction every time, the begrudging amusement he only lets shine through to make her smile.

“Some of us have never been nominated before, this is all completely new.” Aelin takes a sip of her drink. “I had to give up my social media accounts to Elide, it got so crazy.”

Something flickers over Rowan’s face at her comment. “Really?”

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes darting across his face trying to decipher the expression. “She’s always had access and I still do so I can post if I want to but it just became a lot. It stopped being fun when I would see what people were saying, whether it was good or bad I don’t want to see it anymore.”

Rowan nods before his eyes lock onto hers, the intensity in his expression shreds her control.

“And you said nothing had changed?”

Aelin gets it now.

She shifts her weight, leaning as close to him as she can without sliding herself completely into the circle of his arms. “I was wrong. Lots of things have changed,” she says, her voice quiet but strong. “And lots of things are now right that weren’t before.”

She doesn’t mean to skirt around the truth, hiding in veiled words and double meanings, but as always, Rowan sees her. He sees her meaning and he smiles. It’s the most beautiful smile Aelin has ever seen him wear.

“I’ve been looking for you two.”

Fenrys bursts into the kitchen, startling Aelin back from Rowan. She hides her guilty smile in her drink and notices Rowan doing the same. Fenrys just grins, clearly enjoying whatever he thinks he’s seeing.

“You’re missing out, we’re playing kings in the living room if you want to join?”

Rowan glances at her before he turns back to Fenrys. “I think we’re good, thanks.”

Fenrys’ smile turns smug and Aelin resists the temptation to flip him off. She’s in too good of a mood to be annoyed at him.

“Okay, see you later, lovebirds,” Fenrys says, already on his way back out of the door.

Aelin pretends she isn’t blushing as she turns back to Rowan, his green eyes shining.

“This might sound crazy,” he says with an alluring tilt to his lips, “but do you want to get out of here?”

She’s reached a point she truly never thought she would.

She’s an Oscar-nominated lead actress in a box-office-record-breaking movie.

She’s happy, healthy and out from underneath the thumb of Evalin Ashryver.

The part that’s most uplifting, the part that has her unable to wipe the smile off her face as she strolls down the streets of Rifthold, is the arm she has tucked through Rowan’s.

They’ve been walking for a little while, enjoying the cool night air and the ease with which they managed to sneak out of Fenrys’ party. Her heels are killing her and Rowan very graciously offers her an arm to lean on and each time she takes a step in time with him she smiles.

“I never thought I’d like doing television,” he says.

She didn’t know he’d taken on a miniseries, similar to the one she’d done after filming, but she’s loving the recap she’s getting of the months they’ve been apart. The chill of the air is more than fought off by the warmth of Rowan by her side. The streets are mercifully empty and she can bask in the knowledge that it’s just the two of them out here, that they’re insignificant, that anyone who sees them will immediately dismiss them.

“I always thought I’d stick to movies, singular stories but I enjoyed it. I guess change can be good.”

Aelin laughs softly and squeezes his arm. He looks down to her, a question written in the slant of his brow.

“Change can definitely be good,” she says as she takes in the sights of the skyscrapers surrounding them. “I would know that I suppose.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I bought a flat recently.”

“You did?”

He’s so graciously giving her the floor to say what she needs to say and she holds his arm even tighter.

“It’s right here in Rifthold.” Aelin avoids his gaze, lest he think it’s a speedy invitation and that that’s all this is. “I bought it just after we were back here for press, I realised that I adore Rifthold and being here. I missed it when I wasn’t here and I don’t feel there’s anything holding me in Orynth anymore.”

Rowan laughs softly, his feet scuffing the floor.

“What?” she demands.

“I swear I’m not following you,” he says and she feels a smile creep onto her face. “I bought a loft here too.”

Aelin gasps. “But your house was gorgeous!”

Rowan’s smile twists as he looks away from her. “I didn’t say I sold the house.”

Aelin cackles as she squeezes his arm, the sound joyous and bright as it echoes around them. “I knew being Mr Big-Name-Director has its perks.”

“It does,” he agrees with a smirk.

Aelin wants to kiss that smirk. Wants to pull him down and twist her fingers through his hair as his own tangle along her skin.

Instead she says, “I copied you somewhat too.”

He only raises a brow.

“I bought a piano like the one in your house. It was too big for my old flat in Orynth and so I knew what I had to do.”

“That’s good,” he says as his arm drops out of hers. She almost pouts until he instead tangles their fingers together. Her smile says it all, reflected back in his own. “You play beautifully.”

“Thank you.” Her cheeks are glowing. “You’ll have to come over and I’ll play for you sometime, neighbour.”

“I’d love to.”

Aelin slows, using the hand tangled with his to pull him to a stop too. Her free hand trails a gentle path up his chest before coming to rest at his collar, her fingertips tracing the golden skin peeking out from his shirt. His free hand finds her waist.

They’re close, closer than they have been in such a long time when he speaks.

“I don’t know what you think has or hasn’t changed.” His hand leaves hers to cup her cheek. “But I still feel the way I used to about you.”

Her heart takes off, pounding within her chest.

“I do too, Rowan.” Some of the easiest words she’s ever said to him. There’s something about the way the streetlights shine through the silver tips of his hair and the way his calloused fingers feel between hers that she’s feeling brave. “I loved you then and I love you now.”

His eyes flicker across her face as his smile dawns, taking over his face as he smiles so brightly. This is all she’s ever wanted, to have a Rowan like this, with pure, unfiltered happiness in his eyes as he looks at her.

“You love me?”

“I do. To whatever end.”

His lips are barely a whisper from hers and she only acknowledges the thought that they’re in public for long enough to realise she doesn’t care.

“And I love you.”

His words are simple, but sweet. They wash over her and settle into her skin as his lips land on hers. He kisses her with what she can only describe as love. His lips pour devotion onto her and his hands light a fire inside her as he tastes her tongue.

They kiss for longer than she can keep a track of, wrapped up together illuminated only by the street lighting. She’s missed this, missed him, and she can’t help but feel right when his hands are on her. She can’t help but feel right as she stretches onto her toes to throw herself into his kiss.

This was never wrong, this was one of the first things she knew was right.

She loves him and he loves her and nothing and nobody else matters.

She doesn’t win the Oscar, and neither does Rowan. Fenrys does and she screams herself hoarse cheering him on as he makes his way to the stage.

The moment that takes the cake is when The Crescent City takes best picture. She takes to the stage with some of her best friends to recognise what they achieved together and maybe she is a soppy shit but she definitely cries. Fenrys laughs at her and Manon grins but Rowan just throws his arm around her shoulders and it's worth it.

Afterwards, she logs into her Instagram account for the first time in a long time. She posts a picture of Rowan looking absolutely delicious with his tux unbuttoned and his bow tie hanging untied around his neck with a greasy burger in one hand and hers in his other.

Posting him is a statement but she doesn’t care. In fact, she wants the world to know. She wants the world to know that nobody does it like he does. Nobody does it like they do.

#rowaelin #nobody does it like you do #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #throne of glass #rowaelin au #ndilyd #i cant believe it's the last part of this fic #crazy #hope you all enjoyed

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beskarhearts · 3 years

Text

Tension (Javier Peña x reader)

gif credits @bestintheparsec

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader (no use of Y/N)

Warnings: mentions of drinking/prostitution, use of the word whore, canon typical violence (shooting), cursing, SOFFTTT Javi (bc I am a hoe for it)

Word count: over 7.1K

Summary: Your relationship with Javier Peña was complex enough and becoming a source to relieve tension for each in a surprising way made it even harder to navigate.

Notes: SURPRISE SHAWTY! I have never written for someone other than Din so I am pretty nervous about this. I love Javi so so so much but I don't know if I write him well. So please give me your honest opinions, like, reblog, share, etc. It means the world to me!

______________________________________

You knew who was knocking at your door before you even opened it. You didn’t know how you always knew but something deep down in you could always just tell, almost instinctually - like your gut knew it before your mind even did. It wasn't like the knock always followed the same pattern. No tell-tale melody that echoed into the still walls of your apartment that clearly indicated whose hand was knocking away. It was always sharp and short but never quiet the same. Yet you knew.

You let out a small puff of air as you dragged your legs over to the door, tossing it open and not even sparing a glance at your visitor as you stumbled to the bottle of whiskey on the empty coffee table you had. “I’m trying to drink into complete oblivion. Go away.”

You poured the golden liquid into the cup, giving yourself a more than fair portion which you greedily gulped. You allowed the warmth of it to wash over you, fill your senses if only for a moment. The silence continued to drag on and you thought that maybe, just maybe, he had left until a husky, hoarse voice spoke out. "Care if I join?"

He sounded exhausted, beaten down. You supposed you sounded the same but it seemed to be more impactful when he was. He sometimes tried to seem so cocky and put together in front of you, didn't ever want his tough façade to crack in front of other people. But in the end, you were both fighting the same battle - one that often left you feeling hollow at the end of the day.

You looked around the apartment you had, your eyes dancing across the plain walls and rarely used furniture. It had become a place for you to merely sleep and drink, and thats if you even had time to drag yourself home. It was empty and lonesome and it had none of the warmth or refuge that a home was supposed to offer. It reminded you of yourself - cold and bare and vacant. And you didn't want to be reminded of that. Hence why you were seeking some semblance of something within the alcohol that danced over your tongue.

Maybe he needed the same. Or maybe you were just hoping he could be the something that would make things a little better.

"Knock yourself out, Peña." you finally spoke, your own voice laced with the kind of exhaustion that was so strong that it made it so you couldn't even sleep. Like sleep and rest was a foreign concept meant for people that weren't you. Meant for people more deserving and more normal. You finally turned as the dark-haired man leant forward, his fingers grazing yours as he grabbed at the bottle. You tried to ignore the rush that ran through you at the contact but after all, isn't that why you allowed him to stay?

He brought the bottle directly to his lips, taking a long sip from it as his eyes fluttered slightly. You scoffed as you walked away, dropping your body on the couch you had and looking up at him. "Thanks for drinking out of the bottle, asshole."

You held out your cup as he neared, allowing him to pull it from his lips and pour it into your glass. Once he had done so, he sat down on the couch next to you and leaned back, letting out a long sigh. You couldn't help the way you studied his face. His brows were furrowed, looking almost stuck in the position, as well as the wrinkles on his forehead that were scrunched up. His neck was trickled with sweat from the baring heat of Columbia as his chest rose and fell, his button-up shirt revealing some of the skin of his collarbone. He took another long sip of the whiskey, bringing the bottle to rest at the coffee table. "This whiskey tastes like shit."

"Then go home and drink your own whiskey." you countered, taking a sip before bringing your own glass down to the table, next to the bottle.

His head lolled over to look at you, brown eyes tracing over your own as you settled into the couch more, bringing your legs up. "I don't want to go home."

The words were said so softly and you understood them. The brokenness and the wear and tear of the job. You tried your best to give him a small smile but was afraid your own face was stuck in a scowl of sorts. "Then don't complain about my liquor."

A small chuckle finally left his lips at your joke, warm air that smelled like cigarettes and whiskey fanning over you. You didn't want to bask in it, show you enjoyed it. But for some reason you did. You had hated the stench of cigarettes before. Thought it was absolutely deplorable. But that was before Peña. Before the smell of cigarettes and liquor always made you think of the DEA agent you had come to simultaneously despise in some ways but also admired greatly in others.

You tried to pull yourself from the endless stream of thoughts that ran through your head, all of which consisting of Javier Peña. But you found it difficult to and you didn't know if it was because the effects of the liquor or the intoxicating pull that he somehow had on you. A small gasp almost left your lips as one of his hands reached out to grab at your knee, coarse fingers gently drawing small movements into your skin that felt like they were being etched into the deepest chamber of your mind. These were the small things that he did that stayed with you. Things you would sporadically remember throughout your day and would make your stomach do twists.

"Peña, what are you doing here?" you asked, not pulling away from his movements despite the future wellbeing of your mind begging you to do so.

"Call me Javier."

You froze, raising a skeptical eyebrow as he turned away from you, staring straight into the bottle that sat in front of him. You couldn't remember a time you had ever called him by his first name. When you had first met him, you had called him Agent Peña and he had teased you for doing so ruthlessly. Saying how your experience in D.C. had made you too much of a goody two-shoes for Columbia. You had resented it at first but ultimately let it get to you, instead calling him just Peña. Calling him his last name had just been a natural thing now, something you always did. First names felt too personal, too deep. Like you were stepping over the lines of work and into a darker territory you couldn't make your way through.

But he had asked.

"Javi, what are you doing here?" you repeated, trying to ignore the way the softer nick name had slipped from your lips rather than his full name. You didn't even know where it came from but it felt more natural.

He let out a small hum, bringing his hand up to run over his face and down his strong nose and past his mustache. "I don't know. Needed some company I guess."

"Isn't that what the whore houses are for?" You didn't mean for it to sound so harsh but the inkling of resentment you held deep within you had managed to slip out. Javier's hand slowly left your knee as he rested them on his thighs, fingers spread and clenching. You shouldn't have said it, shouldn't have made things less civil than they were.

"I guess I wanted your company." he admitted, reaching forward for the bottle and taking a big chug. Your gaze wandered over his back and neck, the muscles seeming so tight. He wasn't relaxing at all. He was so full of tension that it seemed to radiate off him.

You would blame the whiskey on it later, though you knew deep down you hadn't had enough to warrant this behavior from yourself. You would never mention it again. But you let your hand settle on his shoulders, making him freeze. You waited for him to push you away or tell you off, but when he didn't you let your fingers just barely dig into the muscle. His shoulders settled back as he seemed to lean into the touch, his eyes falling closed as his head tilted back softly.

You shimmied your way behind him, each knee on either side of his back as he moved forward to give you more room to settle behind him. You dug your hands in deeper, letting them push into the muscle that seemed as hard as a rock. You pushed into it, worried you had been too hard but a small moan left Javi's lips that sounded like blissful heaven to your ears. It seemed to echo throughout the primarily empty apartment, or maybe that was just your mind playing it over and over again like it was scripture.

"Relax, Javi." you whispered as your hands lowered slightly, digging into the muscles of his back.

A groan this time, one that sounded just as beautiful as the first noise. You closed your eyes, soaking in the contact. You wouldn't admit it but you were desperate for it. Simple touches at the office seemed to light you on fire sometimes. A brush of the shoulder, a hand on your back as he made his way past you, a nudge on your side to get your attention. All of it had felt like so much. But this... this was too much in the most addictive way.

Minutes had passed before your hands made their way up to his neck, lightly massaging the skin there as your eyed his hair. It was always so enticing and so soft. Fuck it. You ran your fingers up and into his hair, letting them spread over his head and he definitely leaned into the touch then, a small sigh leaving his lips.

You knew Javier Peña had been touched. His reputation was no secret. But you wondered if he ever got this. Was physical contact limited to a rough fuck in his apartment with some woman he had to pay afterwards? Or did another's fingers dance and dig and knead into his skin like yours was right now? When was the last time someone had softly ran his hands through his hair with the lone goal to just relax him?

"Bebita..." The word drew out of his lips slowly, almost as if in a prayer. He had called you it once before, shortly after you started, and you had scolded him for it. You remembered the way you had jabbed a finger into his chest, ridiculing him for using such a term with you. But it no longer sounded sinister or condescending like it had that time. It was soft and gentle and you wanted to hear it over and over again. Part of you wanted to beg for it, plead for the word to spill from the lips you admired daily, but you couldn't do it.

Your fingers ran through his hair, down his shoulders and back one last time before you slowly pulled them away. You didn't move from the position you were in, allowing his lower body to pin you against the back of the couch and for your legs to anchor into his sides.

A silence flowed through the room but this one didn't seem as lonesome and volatile as it usually felt when you were by yourself. It was filled with the soft breathing of you and Peña, the small shuffle of his leg as he shifted his head to look back at you. Your breath caught in your throat as he turned his body slightly, eyes staring straight into yours. "Thank you."

You nodded dumbly, your hands coming together so you could twiddle them with the nervousness that filled your body. You were usually so strong, so defiant, so loud. But he had melted you like butter and you felt like you could barely breathe with the way he was looking at you.

When he rose from the couch, you let out a small breath in relief. He would leave, maybe go to one of the women who kept him bed warm, and you could pretend this never happened. Not a word would be mentioned of it and you would see him at the office tomorrow like nothing happened, ignoring the phantom traces of his skin that danced across your fingertips and the way cigarette smoke and the scent of whiskey he exuded seemed to wrap your whole body up and soak you in it like some sort of intoxicating bath.

He slowly made his way to the door, a hand reaching out for the handle but pausing at it. He faced away from you and you looked up at him slowly.

"Goodnight, Peña." Confirmation. It was you telling him to go do what he did and to pretend that you hadn't shared that moment with him. Allow yourselves to both dwindle on it independently but never dare delve into what it just might mean because that would come with answers you don't think either of you were prepared to face.

A small sigh left his lips as he opened the door, offering a small "Goodnight" before he closed it behind him.

Your eyes drifted to the bottle of whiskey, the one his lips had been on, and you brought your hands to your face. The aftershave he used filled your senses and became all you could smell. You tore your hands away and rushed to the small kitchen, where you scrubbed at your hands like they had been stained with blood.

_________

"Thank you for... last night."

Your head whipped up as you found Peña at the head of your desk, hands resting on it as he leant forward so he could quietly speak the words to you, avoiding any other ears that might barge in on such a sensitive topic.

You raised an eyebrow. He wasn't supposed to mention it. He was supposed to pretend it never happened. Not walk to your desk while you were working and thank you for it.

"It's fine, Peña." you said back, trying to keep your voice even and clear. Act like you had nothing to hide. That you had felt nothing and that the feeling of him hadn't been seared into your brain all night and made it impossible to sleep.

You could see Murphy's head pop up slightly, raising an eyebrow as he looked at Pena's softened face and your perplexed one. You cleared your throat and dug a file out from under your desk, opening it and pretending to read the words. But the agent still lingered at your desk, so close that you felt like your chest was tightening up. "You need something, Peña, or just enjoying the view?"

Yes. Sarcastic remarks and plain stares were what you needed. What had to happen because if he looked at you like that anymore and you said something, even the smallest thing, everything would spill over. Peña finally straightened up, fingers dragging off your desk as he looked down at you, his face morphing for the same softness he had used last night to his usual scrunched up eyebrows and plain stare. "No, agent."

You tried to ignore the way the words seemed to be said with some grit, some non-discernible layer that was soaked with annoyance or frustration or maybe even...hurt? You didn't dare look at him again as he walked away, leaving only you and Murphy sitting at your desks. Your eyes traced over the same word over and over again as Murphy let out a small noise.

"Did you sleep with Peña?"

Your head whipped up as your glared at Murphy, the blond-haired man looking slightly intimidated by the harshness in your eyes. "Jesus Christ, Murphy! Do I look like one of Peña's whores?"

"Then what was he thanking you for last night for?"

You had hoped Peña had spoken the words quietly enough but Murphy was after all an agent and could read in between the lines well enough to detect a change in the air between you two. You softened your harsh expression, still giving Murphy a critical look but not one that could kill. "He just... came over for a drink. That's all."

Murphy paused, his eyebrows just slightly bunching together as he looked you up and down like he was trying to find the slightest inconsistency so he could piece together something far more exciting than a drink. But hadn't that been it? A drink and sure, a lousy massage. But nothing else. Nothing special. "A drink?"

"Yes. A drink."

"Why?"

You weren't surprised by the question. You and Peña had a relatively complicated relationship. It had started off with a lot of disdain and aggravation. You were a strong woman, new to Columbia, and you weren't about to be swindled around by the man whore of the DEA. You didn't even have to know the rumors to know that was the case. All it took was walking in the room and seeing his sly looks and flirtatious quips he had given you at first, until he realized you weren't going to fall prey to his good looks and charm.

But once he settled down, realized you were going to be his and Murphy's partner and you were serious about the work, your relationship became amicable. You worked well together - more than you had thought possible initially. You couldn't quiet find out why but you were able to read him pretty well, even more than you usually could with your co-workers. Maybe that was why you always knew it was him knocking or knew when he walked into a room before you even saw him. But you two worked together. So for a while you two remained steady partners with a good work flow.

But once the curtain had been pulled back and you realized Javier Peña might be something other than a work-junkie man whore, you started to appreciate him. You admired his determination and work ethic, because while the man could be brash and a little hot-headed, he had good intentions behind what he did at work. You identified and respected the passion. He wanted to nail Escobar just as badly as you did. Hell, maybe even more. And while it wasn't clear upon first glance and it took you a while to see it, he cared. He cared about people. He might not have loved them but he even cared about the girls from the brothels he visited. He cared about Murphy and you think somewhere deep down, he might of given a shit or two about you.

But it wasn't anything obvious. You don't think anyone would point to you two and remark about how great of friends you were or anything of the sort. In the end, you weren't friends - not really. Or maybe you were in some fucked way that made sense for people like you and Peña. You didn't normally question it. And while you had wondered why he had come to your place for a drink last night, it made sense to you. You couldn't explain why but it just did.

You looked back at Murphy, realizing you had gotten lost in thought and hadn't answered his question. You shrugged slightly, trying to appear non-committal and unbothered. "I don't know. Maybe one of his girls was too busy for him last night."

_________

Five nights. In a row.

You would hear the knock at your door and you would answer every single time, knowing who it was and knowing what would happen. If the whiskey bottle wasn't already out, you would grab it from a cabinet and let him sip from it directly and make a sly comment about how bad it was. There were a couple nights he would try to make conversation but he either didn't know what to say or was too exhausted to try to stall the inevitable. Eventually your hands would land on him and knead into his muscles, stripping it of its tension until he walked out of your apartment.

Javier hadn't bothered to say anything at work again. No additional thank you's or asking if it would happen again. You and him both knew it remained better unspoken and unplanned. You both would rather just have him turn up at your door. Even when it was just you two in the cloak of darkness that wrapped around your apartment, he didn't say anything about it.

Tonight was the first time in a few days you didn't think you would make it home but perhaps to your dismay (or maybe your luck), Javier wouldn't be either. Murphy had given up not long ago at all, leaving the office with a loose tie and frazzled state of mind, muttering something about seeing his wife. The rest of the people had been long gone by then meaning once Murphy left, it was just you and Peña sat at desks across from each other, staring into an endless void of paperwork.

You couldn't tell what time it was, not that it would matter anyways with how much reading you had to do. The less glamorous and exciting side of being a DEA agent meant loads of paperwork and reading, something you hated more than you could describe. You finally blinked, realizing you hadn't done so in a while with the way your eyeballs were stinging. You looked around your desk and let out a grunt. Seven paper cups lined the front of it and you raised an eyebrow. Had you really had seven cups of coffee? Papers were strewn all about, so many little letters that seemed to swim in your mind and become muddled symbols to your weary eyes. The room was mostly dark, except for the glow of your lamp and Javier's.

"You okay?"

You jumped slightly, the sound starling you after what had seemed to be hours of silent reading with the occasional rustle of paper work, sips of caffeine, and puffs of Javier's cigarette. You looked up at Javier who looked just as disheveled as you felt. He had long forgotten his jacket, that was now thrown over the back of his chair with an arm dragging over the floor. His tie was on his desk and a couple buttons of his shirt had been undone. His hair was rustled, like he had been running his hands through it (and looking like it usually did when you were done massaging your own fingers through it). His eyes were lidded but he looked over at you intently.

"Yeah." you croaked out, feeling like the sound of your own voice was foreign after not talking for so long. "Just...exhausted."

"You should go home."

"Nah. I'm not going to sleep. Just drink whiskey and-" You froze. What were going to finish that with? And wait for you to show up at my door?

Peña didn't seem to want you to finish your answer, either because he could fill the restnin on his own or because he didn't care. "You look tense."

"Oh, yeah. Just the compliment every woman wants to hear." you joked, leaning back into your chair and giving Peña a sly smile that he returned.

"Well I tried to call you beautiful once and you yelled at me."

You snorted that time, remembering the memory clearly. Peña had called you hermosa once and you had told him to fuck off, thinking he was trying to just get under your skin. "Yeah. I did."

"If it helps, you look-"

"Don't." you said abruptly. You couldn't handle that. Peña was smooth with everyone but you didn't need him doing it with you. You were already twisted up enough.

"I was going to say you look exhausted as well." Peña cheekily said, one end of his lips quirking up into a small grin.

You rolled your eyes. "Thanks."

You looked back down at your desk, grabbing a piece of paper and lamely looking at it. You didn't look up when you heard Javier rise from his seat and his steps echo into the empty room. You assumed he was leaving, having given up on getting any more work done. That was until you felt two hands rest on your shoulders.

You sat straight up, your body becoming stiff as your felt the hands spread over your shoulders. They were so warm, even through your shirt. You let out a soft sigh when you felt his fingers dig into your shoulders, applying a perfect amount of pressure that felt heavenly.

"This okay?" he softly asked.

You nodded your head. "Yeah, Javi."

He continued pressing into your muscles, each one seeming to relax almost instantaneously with his touch. You hadn't even realized how stiff and sore you had been. How much your body was craving something like this.

You let your eyes flutter shut as you leaned into his touch, letting out a groan when he dug deep into a really wound up spot. "Your muscles feel like shit." he said as his hands drifted lower to your upper back.

"You are full of compliments tonight." you softly said.

"Sorry, bebita." You let out a small hum at the nick name, letting a small smile tilt your lips. Javi was close enough to feel the warmth of his body, to smell cigarettes and the aftershave that had seemed to be stuck to your hands for days now.

Javier seemed to pick up on the small noise before you had, ripping his hands away from you right as the door to the room opened. You sat up straight, grabbing at a piece of paper lamely as Javier shuffled behind you.

'God damn, Murphy.' you thought as the taller agent looked at the two of you, raising an eyebrow.

"I just forgot something." he quietly said, walking to his desk where he grabbed his wallet. He looked back at you two, raising an eyebrow at the way Peña awkwardly started to walk towards his own desk. "Did I interrupt something?"

You sighed, standing up from your desk and grabbing your jacket. "Nope. I was just about to head out for the night."

"Me too." Peña said, grabbing his own jacket and giving you and Murphy a single nod before marching out of the room.

Steve looked back at you, a single eyebrow raised. "Okay. What happened?"

"Nothing. I was just showing him a paper." you muttered, grabbing a file to bring home, already knowing you wouldn't be sleeping at all with the way your mind was whirring.

"What paper?" Murphy critically asked, following after you as you ushered out of the room.

"DEA stuff." you mumbled, hating how you felt like you were being integrated by one of your own partners.

"That's not vague at all." he teased, a small smile popping up on his face as he saw how you were getting more and more flustered.

"Fuck off, Murphy." you huffed, marching out of the office and leaving him behind.

________

The knock on your door this time was much harsher and louder, still enough for you to know who it was but also enough to know Peña was in no good mood tonight. You had come to look forward to the nightly visits but today had been a field day for you that had gone very awry. You were tired and you felt like you were burnt to pieces, crumbling to ash before everybody’s eyes but nobody could put you back together because the damage had already been done.

You waited a few moments but when the knocking presumed at a much faster rate, you knew there was no hope he would walk away and let you spend this night alone to wallow in the events of the day. You opened the door, this time standing at the entrance where an incredibly disheveled Peña stood across from you. For once, he didn’t look tired like he usually did at night. If anything, he looked like a fire had been lit under him that was consuming him whole, swallowing him until he was the orange burst of flames itself. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top like usual but wrinkled. His hair was all over the place. You couldn’t help the way your heart slightly dropped. He looked like a man who got laid.

You slowly walked away from the door, hearing as Peña walked in and slammed it shut behind him. “I’m not in the mood tonight, Peña. Go fuck another one of your girls or something.”

“What the fuck?” he growled.

The aggressive and frantic tone alarmed you, causing you to turn and face him as he stared at you. Upon better inspection, he didn’t look like a man who got laid. But a man who was pissed.

“What the hell is your problem?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest as you stared him back down, not daring to back away from the challenging gleam in his eyes.

“You nearly got shot today!”

Oh, yeah. It’s not like you had forgotten. It had been the main event of the day, the bullet that was meant for your head just barely grazing you instead. Murphy had been there and said something about it being dumb luck. You had tried to say something about how you didn’t believe in luck and it was just your quick nature, but you had barely been able to get the words out with the way your mind was doing somersaults and the way your whole body seemed to shake with an electrifying cocktail of adrenaline and fear. You had been on the brink of coming to a rather unfortunate death and yeah, you were glad you hadn’t died. But you weren’t glad that the mission had led to little of anything. It had been a fruitless effort and that was the worst part.

“Well, I didn’t so whoopie doo.” you sarcastically answered, throwing your hands up rather undramatically as you tried to make your way to the kitchen to fetch the whiskey as normal. But Peña was faster, marching towards you and grabbing an arm to pull you back.

“You could of died.” Peña hissed, locking eyes with you. The fierceness held in his eyes was almost intimidating, so stark and powerful that it seemed to blow the wind out of your lungs almost as much as your graze with death had earlier in the day.

“Okay. But I’m still alive so I did something right.”

“What were you doing on the field today?”

“Umm... doing my job.” you said, your face scrunching in confusion as you looked up at the man before you. His chest was rising and falling quickly, his hairline beaded with droplets of sweat.

“Why didn’t I know? I should of been there.” Peña demanded, his hand still holding your wrist. The touch was hot and poignant. You didn’t know how but the way his calloused hand grabbed onto your wrist seemed to hold such a vast array of emotions you couldn’t even begin to place them.

“I didn’t realize I had to come to you with everything.” you sarcastically quipped back, trying to pull your hand away with no effort. His grip still remained strong as his eyes wandered all over your face. “Peña, what the hell is your problem?”

“My problem is that you are running around, nearly getting killed.” Javier barked back.

“That’s kind of part of the job!” you yelled back, feeling a frustration grow inside you that felt unfair. You wanted to relax or sleep or get drunk or who knows what. Not have a yelling match with Javier Peña in your shitty apartment.

“You don’t even try to be careful!”

“Well, there are parts of the job that nobody likes but oh well! I don’t like that you nearly get killed or fuck who knows how many women but fuck it, it’s who we are and what we do!” You fired back, feeling your mouth clamp up when you realized the words that were spilling from it freely. The emotions of the day and the heat of the argument was too much and you felt flooded in every which direction. You couldn’t control the onslaught of confessions that tore from your lips and you hadn’t even expected.

Javier hadn’t seemed to either, pulling his hand away from your wrist. He stared back at you, chest still rising dramatically, but his face seemed less enraged and more questioning, curious, and thoughtful. You felt your face warm even more than it had been from the fight, stepping back slowly and nearly stumbling in the process. You were the first to look away, staring down at your hands which were shaking slightly.

“Sit down.”

You looked up at Javier, letting out an awkward chuckle at the bizarreness of his demand. “What?”

“Sit down.” he repeated once again, leaving no room for additional questions and his unwavering stare seemed to demand you to do so. You let out a small sigh and wandered over to your couch. Once your bottom landed on it, you let your body cave forwards, your elbows rested on your knees and hands cradling your face. You didn’t look up even as you heard Peña walking around your apartment, opening cabinets and grabbing glasses. You just kept your face buried within yourself, trying to shield yourself from things you couldn’t comprehend. Perhaps the events of the day or maybe feelings that always seemed to grow within you each time you saw Javier Peña. You couldn’t tell but you had felt like your brain was working at half-capacity, if even that, and you didn’t want to waste it on dwelling over what was plaguing your mind in that moment.

You heard Javier step towards you and you finally brought your hands away from your face, coming up to meet his outstretched hand holding out a cup full of whiskey. He had abandoned his tie he had been wearing when he first entered, his shirt slightly unbuttoned like it always seemed to be. You grabbed the glass from his hand, ignoring the slight tingle that rushed through your fingers at the minimal contact, and took a small sip of the liquid.

“That good?”

You looked up at Javier again, who was still standing in front of you. You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Thanks, Peña.”

His gaze softened as his eyes drifted over your face. “Don’t call me that. Not right now.”

You nodded again. “Thanks, Javi.”

He seemed to visibly relax at the use of the nickname for him. It wasn’t like he had never been called it before. Some people at work had called him that. Family members back in Texas definitely had. Even his former late night companions had yelled out the name in throes of passion. But it sounded sweetest slipping off your tongue, like warm honey. It was something he had come to crave in the last few days like he craved his cigarettes. You had only said it for the first time a few days ago but it had become addicting, sending this sense of calmness through Javier that nothing else seemed to - not even his typical vices he used in abundance.

“Sit on the floor, bebita.” you didn’t bother this time to send him a curious glance, instead just slipping off the couch and plopping your bottom down on the carpeted floor. You felt the couch shuffle behind you as he carefully sat down, one leg swinging over so one leg was framing each side of your body. You leaned back softly, your head meeting his upper body and you let out a soft hum, bringing the glass to your lips to take another sip. Your eyes fluttered closed when you felt calloused fingers meet your neck, rubbing it up and down in a way that was slightly ticklish, but not in a bothersome way. They were warm and rough but also soft. They knew what to do to put you at ease, something you can’t remember ever finding in a person. Touch had never been your love language, instead oftentimes making you uncomfortable. But Javiers touch had always done something to you that you couldn’t explain. Maybe a thrill, maybe a need. You didn’t know but did it really matter when no matter what it always felt so good?

“You mind if I take this out?” Peña whispered, his hands trialing up to the hair tie that held your hair back into what was now a rather messy ponytail. You didn’t speak, only slowly nodding your head. He gently began to pull the tie down, letting your hair slip out from its confines and cascade down. His fingers lightly brushed through your hair, occasionally getting stuck in tangled that he gently worked through for what seemed to be hours. You let him do so, the gentle touches and silence making a warm peace fill you. Eventually his finger tips moved upwards, reaching your scalp and lightly moving slow patterns through it. “You are so beautiful, bebita.”

You were so relaxed that you didn’t allow anxiety or confusion to run through you from him compliment. You just let out a small hum, opening your eyes and tilting your head far back to make eye contact with Javier. He looked straight down at you, brown eyes full of so much warmth and admiration that it seemed to take your breath away. You didn’t want to but you managed to somehow pull your eyes away, looking back down so he could continue massaging your scalp. “I need you to be more careful.”

“If it helps, it freaked me out too.” you gently offered, trying not to read too much into his request.

“Are you okay?”

“I will be.” I will be if you stay.

“I just want you to be okay.”

The softness with which the words were spoken were so new, so vulnerable. It was a new side to Javier. He had always seemed to keep an eye out for you but you assumed it to be because you were partners and that’s what you should do. But this wasn’t just two partners watching each other’s backs. This was personal and raw and meaningful. So much so that you couldn’t try to deny it or brush it off as some meaningless, odd occurrence. At least you prayed to God you couldn’t.

“Are you okay?” you asked, slowly bringing a hand up to rest at one of his knees. It was an awkward angle but you just wanted to hold him in some way. Part of you yearned to bring your fingers to your head and intertwine them with his but you didn’t want to step over a boundary and ruin the haven that seemed to encompass you both.

“I’m okay when I’m with you.” Javier confessed. “If anything happened to you...”

His voice drifted off but you didn’t need him to fill in the blanks. You had voiced those same concerns to yourself in the middle of the night and before missions. What if? It was such a terrifying, earth shattering question. More than it should be for two people who were just ‘partners’.

“I’m here, Javi. And you are here. We are okay.” you soothed, your hand rubbing his knee slowly. You slowly turned your head, causing his fingers to slip away from it as you adjusted your body to face him. You looked up at him. “Can I do something?”

“Anything.”

You slowly rose from your spot on the ground, pulling yourself up slowly as you slipped one leg on each side of Javier. You slowly lowered yourself, not breaking eye contact as you sat onto his lap slowly, moving at a snails pace. His hands seemed to instinctually reach out, wrapping around your back to shimmy you closer to him. You lowered yourself into him, sinking into his warm embrace and allowing your face to cradle into the nook of his neck. One of his hands moved back up to your hair, running down it. You took a deep breath, taking in the scent of him: the aftershave and the cigarettes and the smell that was so inherently Javier. You reached your hands up to wrap around his neck, pulling him into you like your life depended on it. “Javi?”

“Yes, hermosa?”

“What is happening?” you mumbled into his neck, your warm breath fanning into his skin.

“What do you mean?” He knew what you meant but he needed you to say it. He couldn’t because this was one of the few things in life he was genuinely scared of.

“This isn’t just massages, is it? This is...more.” You didn’t mean to sound so needy or pleading, like your well-being depended on the answer. You weren’t that type of woman normally. But you needed him to say something now, something that wouldn’t break your heart into two.

“It’s not just massages.” Javi said, stilling his moments. You slowly pulled back, now facing him. You brought your hands down to his shoulders, rubbing them softly with a nervous smile on your face.

“What is it then?”

Javi took several moments to respond, simply staring back into your timid eyes. You were nervous but you found shelter in the way his breathing seemed to pick up and his eyes had a nerve-wracking glimmer in them.

“I’m not good at this.” He confessed.

"Me either." A small smile finally broke out as you said the words, causing Peña to give you a small, lopsided grin. He brought a hand to your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek in a way that sent a shiver down your spine.

Javi finally let a long sigh pull from his lips, his gaze not wavering as he spoke. "I just know that I want you."

"I want you, too." you barely whispered out.

"I don't know how to do this." he whispered, shrugging slightly.

You leaned into him, giving him a hug as you furrowed yourself into the shape of his body, allowing yourself to meld into one. You had once thought that if a moment like this ever happened, your heart would race and you would panic. But in the moment, everything, for once in your life, seemed to fall in place. "Me either. But I wanna do it with you."

You felt Javier nod against you, relaxing further as he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you in even deeper. "Me too, bebita."

You had never felt this feeling before but somehow, in the back of your mind, you knew everything would be okay.

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