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anamardoll · 1 year

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Film Corner: The Invitation (2022)

I've always found it harder to review movies I liked than ones I don't like; somehow it's easier for me to lay out nitpicks in an orderly manner than it is to explain in essay form what worked in something that left me Kermit-flailing with joy. I've been ruminating on how to tell you all about movies I've liked lately when I suddenly remembered the wonderful old "Movie Yelling With X and Y" and realized that was precisely the format I've been needing, and immediately roped Kissmate into a Discord where we could yell happily at each other. I'm very happy with the result and I hope you are too! --- The Invitation (2022) Songbird: (singsong) Soooo, now we've seen The Invitation (2022). I sort of knew what to expect because I'd seen the trailer way back in the day (it was quite a hit on Twitter when the trailer was released, if I recall correctly!) and was expecting suspense and probably some sort of vampires. Whereas you went into the movie completely unaware of what it would be about. What did you think? Kissmate: You told me there was a girl who goes to meet up with new family and vampires are involved. That was all I knew going in. Once we started and all the subtle Dracula hints began, and maids started dropping like flies, I was still a bit surprised by the ending. Not surprised that the handsome asshole was Dracula, just surprised by what he wanted her for. Songbird: Oh my gosh, the Dracula hints! This was such a fun ride for people who love that book (me!), especially coming down off of the "Dracula Daily" tumblr fun. The house is called "New Carfax" (Carfax Abbey is the estate purchased by Dracula in the book, the sale of which Jonathan Harker facilitates and which is why he later knows where to find the count), one of the brides is named "Lucy" (Lucy Westenra being one of Dracula's most memorable victims), and the Butler is named "Mr. Field" in the movie and credited as "Renfield" in the script/credits (Renfield being Dracula's devoted servant even whilst imprisoned in the asylum run by one of Lucy's suitors). And I'm pretty sure there's a couple named Jonathan and Mina Harker! Just so many delightful Easter Eggs if you're a fan, but you don't have to know the book to enjoy the film. But, yes!! How applicable is this film to all of us? You're lonely, you're looking for a little human connection, you take one of those Ancestry DNA tests, you find a long-lost cousin, he invites you to Britain to meet the rest of the family (who are all super sweet and super psyched to meet you!), and then it turns out they are planning to marry you off to an ancient vampire (implied to be *the* Dracula) as part of an ancestral tri-bride blood pact codified centuries ago because it turns out that (a) your family is that particular vampire's lawyers, and (b) they don't have a lot of marriageable women at the moment and you showed up in just the nick of time as far as they're concerned. Whomst among us hasn't had that happen? Kissmate: Oh god, the Alexander Family. You have Oliver, the long-lost cousin, being such a delightful little manipulator. Anyone who knows the red flags are seeing them pop up all over the place from his first scene (he's overly generous to get her to England alone, mentioning the family scandal being something the family is Totally Happy about now, keeps bringing up the hot rich Dracula figure as such a nice guy to know, etc). And then when she walks into the room to meet her whole Alexander side of the family, the camera is careful to show that only 3 other women are in that room full of men, and they are clearly either serving maids or older women who married into the family (rather than blood relations and eligible debutantes). The elder patriarch even says something about how the Alexanders keep having boys like that's a bad thing. How Evie, a biracial Black woman, didn't fucking run out of the room right then and there is amazing. Like, *I'm* a white man and that room was way too white man for comfort. I do have, like, ONE nitpick I have about the whole thing, but provided that the bad guys are totally desperate, it might not be fair. Songbird: Yes! Oliver's manipulation, really the manipulation being practiced by the *whole family*, is just so delightful because it walks that perfect delicate line between "is this overly intimate to the point of being creepy" or "are they just really sweet people who aren't very good at boundaries". I love the conversations between protagonist Evie and her friend Grace because they really tease out those concerns in a realistic way! Evie and Grace are both Black and they have reasonable concerns about this lily-white British family and whether it's normal for them to be so accepting and overjoyed at finding a Black offshoot of the family. An offshoot created when a ancestral lady of the family had a secret out-of-wedlock biracial baby with a Black footman, no less! They have big meaningful conversations about British colonialism and racism (and I'm convinced that's why some reviewers got pissy about the movie, but that's another thing) and whether Evie should be suspicious of all this positive attention and love-bombing being heaped onto her. What's your nitpick? I'd love to hear it. Kissmate: Well, the vampire Alexander Bride died rather than kill and eat the help. And there's no more Alexander women to replace her with. They're fucked, but wait what's this, another Alexander woman found through the magic of the internet and DNA matching! Awesome! But there's a Problem: She's a waitress, and has been for a long time. She's seen helping the serving maids from minute one of her arrival. She even says to them, "if we don't help each other out, who will?" WE. As in she sees herself as one of the hired help. So doesn't that mean THE CYCLE WILL FUCKING CONTINUE? and Evie will starve herself the way the previous Alexander Bride did? Anyone who spends five minutes with Evie can tell she'd rather starve than eat a servant. Did no-one think to consider that? Songbird: I don't think they *can* consider it, to be honest. Dracula, the brides, and the Alexander family all seem so genuinely puzzled that Evie isn't ecstatic, delighted, *grateful* to be plucked out of artistic obscurity and financial hardship to be given this amazing "gift" of ultra-wealth and eternal life and youth. Down to the very end, I think every single one of these rich people just cannot understand that there are people out there who wouldn't trade a stranger's life for wealth and comfort. Even Lucy, the most sympathetic of them all, says that the previous Alexander Bride (Evie's ancestress Emmaline) was "sick" and "confused". Lucy seems to think that Emmaline got some kind of vampire dementia rather than simply unable to remain a monster-married-to-another-monster any longer than she already had. I did think it was interesting that Lucy brought up that "women had fewer choices in my time" and Dracula sneers that "modern women" are so ungrateful. There's a lot in the movie about class and gender and social/family pressures. Evie is being pressured by her family to marry Dracula for the good of the Alexander clan, but the pressure doesn't really have any weight behind it (emotionally and psychologically, I mean) because *she doesn't know these people and doesn't care about them*. Like, I can well imagine it may have been hard for Emmaline Alexander to refuse when Dracula came a' courting back in the day because she wouldn't have wanted him to slaughter her people. But Evie? These assholes are strangers to her! So when she gets a chance to run, of course she does! I love that. Kissmate: You bring up Lucy, and I want to continue that. She's only 100 years old. Women had- Wait. American women had the right to vote by the 1920s era. British women had to wait a couple more decades, right? Don't remember when, but that would explain Lucy's more sheltered views. Was Lucy British? Viktoria was Bangladesh, Emmaline was British. What was Lucy? Songbird: I think they're all British, regardless of where they call home. Wait. Hang on, what was the list? "At the dinner table, Walter welcomes the three great families: the Billingtons from Whiteby, the Klopstocks from Budapest, and the Alexanders of London." (LINK) ...Oh my god, it's another Dracula reference. London, Budapest, and Whitby are all locations that are meaningful to Dracula in Bram Stoker's novel. But yes, Lucy is British by birth. As for British vs American suffrage, they were basically around the same time. 1918 for British women and 1920 for American women. (Mind you, this was still just for *white* women. Which Lucy is. But Evie is not.) Though it is interesting that when we talk about, say, women's right to work (for example) we're often talking about *white* women's right to work and ignoring the fact that women of color were already working because they were slaves or servants to the upper classes. So Lucy probably was raised with the expectation that she would marry and her husband would take care of her in exchange for her perfect obedience. So even if Evie had been raised contemporary to Lucy, they would have been raised with different expectations: as a Black woman in 1920s England, Evie would've had to get work. If she married well then good for her, but she wouldn't have been raised with a "good marriage" in mind as an end goal for her. She would've been taught from day one to work hard and take care of herself. I just think that's interesting, when we're talking about the contrast between "modern women" and women from Lucy's era: it matters very much what social class we're talking about! Kissmate: That is very true, and Lucy does seem like she was meant for good breeding with nobles, not so much the physical need of busy body and hands. Poor girl. Complete tangent here, but hear me out: the entire bit with "thorned bars to keep the shrikes out" always had me baffled. Because it wouldn't keep shrikes out! It would do the opposite! Shrikes love to pick up grasshoppers and lizards and impale them on nearby thorn bushes, or metal spikes, and pick off the food from the kabob. So it's a nice little nod to Vlad "Dracula" Tepis the Impaler, but those bars would just attract them, not keep them away. Also, and I could be wrong, but I swear the bird that flies into the window looks more like a swift than a shrike. Which is the bird her servant is probably named after (Mrs. Swift). So you're being warned about impalement, but then it's a songbird that flies into the window. So many metaphors to put there. Songbird: The bars on the window are strange. The movie makes a thing of them that never seems to go anywhere. I wasn't sure if it were another Easter Egg (there's no bars on the windows of Dracula's castle in the book, as far as I can recall, but it may be a visual element from one of the many movie adaptations?) or if it had something to do with Emmaline's captivity (do we ever see if the other rooms have bars on their windows) or something else entirely. So the bars were strange to me. If the bird hitting the window is foreshadowing for poor Mrs. Swift then it's one I admit I missed! Can we talk about how charismatic Walt is, to the point where you're rooting for him and Evie to get together even though you suspect it's not a good idea? Can we talk about Bride Viktoria and how I usually hate womanly "cat fights" in movies, but really she's just embracing being a gaslighting chaos demon as a way to pass the centuries? Delightful. Kissmate: Regarding the bars, my money is on the captive-keeping option. And yes, we can! That man was 100% Bad Mistake Material. Like, fuck is that actor so pretty! And his smile! Gah, he can turn anyone male-sexual into a mess. It's no wonder he stole Evie's heart. I'm wondering how he keeps Viktoria around, unless he likes her chaotic messes. I can see him getting bored and then she just *does something*, and like that, the evening/eternity is entertaining again. Songbird: Yeah, I definitely got the impression that Viktoria was the Chaos Bride where he enjoys her tendency to let lose and break things (that he can either join in or have the pleasure of cleaning up), that Lucy was the Gentle Bride where she soothes and pets him when he wants an emotional support teddy bear, and I think he was hoping Evie was going to be the creative, artsy, intellectually-stimulating bride that challenges him and keeps him mentally sharp and active. Really, I was deeply impressed with the romance! You know, because *vampires*, that Harry-Hook-Playing-Vlad-Tepes is bad news (just like you know that Cousin Oliver probably isn't as friendly as he seems) but they're all very good at emotional manipulation! I love that because I really do expect someone who is hundreds of years old and who relies on lies and manipulation in order to survive to be GOOD at it, and he is! He's gentle, he's teasing, he's loving, and yet there's those tiny little flashes underneath that I can see as an older, more jaded lover but which I totally would have smoothed over in my younger years like Evie does--like when he says he's not a good guy, just an asshole trying to impress her, and she insists that he's a sweetie and that the tough guy thing is just an act. Sometimes it *is* and act but sometimes it *isn't* and as you get older (and have your heart broken a few times) I think you learn to listen to those little jangling warning bells and remember that sometimes people do tell you exactly who they are. Kissmate: The three Brides being his Ego, Superego, and Id sound fucking perfect, as well as emotional manipulation being honed after eons of practice. This movie had so much love and thought put into it! Like... art and insight blended very well into a blood wine smoothie. Songbird: Beautiful. And such a satisfying ending, too, like genuinely really empowering. I loved every minute of it. ❤

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film-in-my-soul · 2 years

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TDJ arranged marriage AU where Yohan is an alpha and Gaon is an omega

(I want you to know that 1.) this was supposed to be 2k max and is in fact actually 8k and 2.) that I've gone through about four different endings before giving up and concluding it the way I have. I'm sure it's not exactly what you were looking for, but I hope you like it regardless.)

(Also, I said I'd post it today and there's still 25 minutes left in today so it counts.)

Rated T for mentions of heat and very brief mention of sex, no actual sex though.

Ga-on had assumed the worst day of his life was finding his father dead. Or maybe being informed the day following, still mourning, that his mother had joined him. Somehow, impossibly, it isn't.

Ga-on's worst day is when he's pulled aside while heading to the library by a grim-faced Min Jung-ho.

In a move to lighten the suddenly heavy mood, Ga-on laughs, awkward as he's deposited in the other man's office, the door locking behind them.

"If Soo-hyun is spreading rumors again-" Ga-on attempts a joke, but Jung-ho, expression notably thunderous now, holds out a stack of papers for him to take, and Ga-on's words die on his lips. His brow furrows, curious, but he takes them from his mentor's hands.

At first, as he scans the cover page, Ga-on is confused. Jung-ho has handed him a Marriage Summons, and for a brief moment, he thinks it's a test, a silent "have you been reading those law books I sneak you?" except there's no way he'd be so… so strict. So much so that he still hasn't said anything. And then Ga-on glances down the page and sees his name, printed in finely done script under the section noted 'Omega Spouse.'

His blood goes ice cold, and the papers almost fall from his fingers as they go slack.

Ga-on looks up at Jung-ho, lips suddenly quivering. It must be the shock pushing adrenaline to every vein it can reach.

"What-"

"Your parents." Jung-ho cuts him off, response sharp, and then breathes a heavy sigh, a hand going up to his face to rub at his frown.

Ga-on feels like the world is suddenly narrowing down, shrinking around him. When his knees finally start to give, Ga-on is just thankful there's a chair nearby for him to collapse in.

"But, how- this…" Ga-on lifts the stack of papers and lets it drop, spilling apart across the table he's next to. He can't get enough air into his lungs, and his breathing picks up speed. "My parents?" There's an almost hysterical edge to his tone, and though he knows Min Jung-ho can't smell it, Beta that he is, Ga-on's scent is careening sharply into something sour and panicked.

Jung-ho sits across from him, seemingly more put together than before, at least hiding the anger better in the wake of Ga-on's reaction.

"I know it must be a shock, and you know that if I could have prevented it, I would have never let you see the documents in the first place."

Ga-on feels sick.

He nods, even as he struggles not to run from the building, the papers, everything.

"It was put in place by your parent when you presented, it seems. I can't get complete documents as I'm no longer your legal guardian, so I only know the barest of details. The registry they went through had a waiting period. If the enrolled Omega reaches twenty-seven and is still unmarried or unbounded, they're placed into the eligibility pool."

Ga-on knows that the man is only trying to comfort him, but it hardly helps.

He'd been twelve when he presented as Omega, and his parents had probably been worried, then swindled with the promise of a handsome bride dowery if he was matched off to a wealthy Alpha. Because they had died, taking this life-altering arrangement with them was not something anyone could control. And now… now Ga-on had received a Marriage Summons, one Min Jung-oh could not get him out of.

In hindsight, outside of himself, Ga-on knows that the situation is unsurprising. Omega laws are only now taking a foothold in government. From a young age, he'd been his parents' property in all sense of the word. They'd signed him away like collateral, and now he was the property of the registry. Or, more accurately, he's the property of whoever had just put his name on the papers.

Ga-on is numb. The thought of feeling what his emotions are doing is exhausting.

"Do you…" his voice catches, and he raises shaking hands to organize the papers back into a single stack, trying to focus on the physical sensation as he works to get his breathing and scent back under control. He doesn't need any Alphas coming to sniff around and get ideas. "Do you know who it is?"

When Ga-on looks back up to Jung-ho, that visceral anger is back.

Ga-on didn't even need him to say the words to have his answer.

A week later, Ga-on meets his husband for the first time.

He's in the best suit he could rent on his law clerk's salary and walking in calculated steps down the aisle of the small, private chapel he'd been instructed to arrive at for the ceremony. From the corner of his eye, he can see Soo-hyun, Min Jung-ho, and Oh Jin-joo (the female Alpha he works directly under and considers a friend) sitting in the pews to the left. All but Jin-joo look uneasy.

Eventually, Ga-on makes it to where the aisle ends, leading to a small raised platform with three steps. A hand comes into his field of view as he starts the brief ascent, making him pause. Ga-on follows the offering with his eyes until he meets a not wholly unfamiliar face.

Kang Yo-han, though not working in the same district as Ga-on, is renowned enough through the law circles he passes by while running errands for Jin-joo that he's seen those dark eyes and sharp jawline a scant few times but can still recognize them.

He's looking at Ga-on with a neutral expression, hand not wavering even though Ga-on hasn't moved for a few seconds too long. Eventually, clearing his throat, Ga-on takes it, if only to maintain the appearance of respecting someone "above" his secondary gender and, more importantly, his station.

Yo-han's palm is large, roughly calloused, and much warmer than Ga-on's. It's only until he gets to the top of the three steps that they're touching, Yo-han loosening his grip, letting Ga-on's fingers slide away.

When Ga-on's in his place, the officiant instructs them to face one another, and Ga-on does as he's asked, tensing only slightly now that his friends are no longer in sight. Instead, he's given a better picture of Yo-han, dressed impeccably in what can only be a designer label, hair slicked back. From off to the right, Ga-on also notes another group of three sat in the opposite pews.

Yo-han's wedding party.

There's a woman, back uncomfortably straight and wearing an expression one might find at a funeral instead of a bonding ceremony. Beside her is a man, also just as stone-faced but with a notable edge of boredom in how his eyes refuse to stay in one place. He looks close to Ga-on's age, if he had to guess, maybe a bit older. Then, at the very end of the pew, a wheelchair folded next to her is a young girl. She has the most severe expression of them all. Open hostility.

He's distracted by how her mouth curves down so harshly that he almost misses his queue to offer his hands back to Yo-han so that the whole ordeal can be underway.

It's a big spectacle, even though the audience is small, the faint shutter of a camera sounding off in the distance, the hired reporter having enough decency not to be seen even if he can be heard.

Ga-on does his best not to let any of his disquiet show.

They exchange rings and pre-scripted vows. The officiant drones on, but thankfully only for an acceptable amount of time, about the auspicious and fate-intended joining of Alpha and Omega, before announcing them wed.

When he instructs Yo-han to "kiss his spouse," Ga-on almost rips himself away from the two men. It's only his shock and Yo-han's hands tightening as if expecting the reaction that keeps him firmly rooted.

No one moves for a beat, but then Yo-han's mouth curves into a subtle smirk that sets Ga-on on edge, and the older man lifts a hand, the one with their wedding band on full display, and cups Ga-on's cheek. When he leans forward, Ga-on can't stop his eyes from squeezing shut, only doing the bare minimum to stop his expression from pinching into a wince as he feels a puff of hot breath across his lips. Then their mouths brush, and Yo-han just holds them there, lips touching only a faint amount.

When Ga-on hears the clicking of the camera again, he realizes what Yo-han is doing, and while a part of him is grateful, the Alpha's hand blocking their "kiss" from the photographer, he's also reminded sharply that this is a farce.

"It's a political move." Min Jung-ho had told him the same day he'd handed Ga-on the Marriage Summons. "He's at the age where an Alpha should already be having children, and if he wants to look favorable to the court constitutes, he needs to play the part. That involves finding an Omega spouse."

It hadn't eased Ga-on, but the knowledge that there might be some… duties he could skirt had been a small comfort.

The ceremony ends with little fanfare, and Ga-on is escorted out of the chapel arm in arm with Yo-han, smiling, small and polite, but tight around the edges when a hoard of paparazzi greet them as they step into the setting afternoon sun. Yo-han doesn't let them linger there too long and ushers him into a black SUV from the line of four that are waiting.

The rest of the night is oddly uneventful. They go to a private dinner, Soo-hyun and Jin-joo arriving shortly after he and Yo-han but no Min Jung-ho. Yo-han, his husband, also only has two of his parties show up. The stern-looking woman and the teenager rolled in on her wheelchair, appearing less angry now but still not close to pleasant in the slightest.

Ga-on learns that she is Kang Elijah, Yo-han's niece.

Over the next few weeks, Ga-on learns much more than that. Mostly about Kang Yo-han.

He learns the most essential thing about Yo-han first. He is one of the most antagonistic men Ga-on has ever met. It's not in the "I'm an Alpha, you'll stay in your place" kind of way, either. He's challenging, and he wants Ga-on to push back, almost so much that Ga-on believes there's a part of him that's craving for a fight. Ga-on has never got so easily riled up before in his life, and when he retreats back to his bedroom after an argument, he feels he's lost; there's almost a satisfaction in having it happen.

As an omega, there are very few instances he is allowed to openly indulge in more hostile behaviors.

Ga-on also learns the more sordid details of the Kang's history. He learns that his face is a distorted mirror of Yo-han's dead brother and that Elijah, though she has no proof, blames Yo-han for the death of her father and mother. He also learns about the scars on Yo-han's back, overtaken by new ones, burns mended over in some grotesque mask of healing, and how he'd gotten them. The imprint of a belt buckle is now only in Yo-han's memory.

Mostly terrified but defiant, he also learns the weight of Yo-han's hand around his throat. The choking pressure of the collar his fingers make.

Ga-on learns the boundaries of how he's allowed to bite back, what words are just on the edge of too cruel, and which ones trapeze right over it into the most dangerous territory. Ga-on doesn't notably hold any ill feelings to the punishment he'd earned for careless speech and reckless accusations.

He's gotten comfortable in the strange freedom the Kang household has presented. He's not allowed out yet, the media storm, as much as he can see, is still ridiculous, and regardless of how Yo-han has instructed him to "stay inside, Kim Ga-on," he wouldn't want to leave anyway.

It's a relief to know that Min Jung-ho had been correct, that his marriage to Yo-han appears to be strictly political, but still… it doesn't ease the way he feels caged into the large manor, often only with Elijah, Ms. Ji, and Butler to keep him company. When his husband is home, Ga-on only sees him when traveling from his room to the kitchen, cutting through the study. He hardly even pays Ga-on attention.

It should be a blessing, but Ga-on has always been too curious, too wondering, and having the weight of Yo-han around him while only having scratched the surface of the man he's meant to spend the rest of his life with is practically torture.

Ga-on is a married Omega; he has appearances to keep, even if he's close to pulling his hair out. He's not allowed to work, not by any rule that Yo-han has directly set for him, but because it would undermine his Alpha's propriety and raise far too many questions. Eventually, even as he's able to coerce Elijah into discussions about her interests, the books she's reading, and the classes she takes, Ga-on gets bored.

It's particularly bad one afternoon. Ms. Ji is out with Elijah on a shopping trip, Soo-hyun is working on a case (so Ga-on can't goad her into facetiming him), and Yo-han, he's been overseeing a particularly long court case, gone from sun up to well past sundown. Over the last week, Ga-on can count the times he's caught a flash of him on a single hand.

He's going stir-crazy.

Then, as Ga-on is pacing the study for the fifth time, he catches an open folder on Yo-han's desk. He glances at the case number at the top right corner and knows he should leave it alone. He can't help himself. Aside from the books, the food, and the main floor closets, Ga-on is not meant to touch things in the house. But he's been so bored.

Sitting down in Yo-han's desk chair, two things hit him at once, the buttery feeling of the leather armrests, well worn against his fingers, and the scent. Ga-on has always been more sensitive to smells, even for an Omega, and Yo-han, at least when he's inside the manor, always carries around the fragrance of rich pipe tobacco and sharp orange peels. The few times he's bumped into Yo-han, almost literally, as the other man is coming home from the office, there's only a lingering trace of those two aromas, still trapped by Yo-han's expensive scent blockers. Ga-on, whose own scent has always been on the lighter side, hadn't bothered to bring his own when he'd packed up his apartment. Yo-han had never commented on the lotus and rainwater smell, so Ga-on hadn't bothered asking him for any.

Now that Ga-on is at the desk, nothing is stopping him from opening up the court document and pouring over the contents. It's from Yo-han's most recent case if the dates are anything to go by. From what he understands, he's looking at a defendant's initial testimony and the outline of his defense. Ga-on, reading over the lines, without context over the entire proceedings, feels reference numbers and case examples slide to the forefront of his brain.

Working as a clerk for Jin-joo at Min Jung-ho's private practice had allowed Ga-on opportunities few Omegas could say they've had. He was never allowed in the courtroom, and he couldn't take out documents without his supervisors along with him, so, Ga-on had taken to honing his skills. With an ability to memorize case codes or rulings, he could be more efficient with his work, and no one could say he was some token around the office.

He gets through the folder twice, and Ga-on can't help himself. He finds a blank piece of paper and picks the cheapest fountain pen to write with. After fifteen minutes, he filled up half the sheet with case numbers and law citations. When he's about to fold it up and take it with him, thankful for the minor distraction, the front door slams open, and Elijah's voice is shouting for him to come help drag in some of her shopping, Ms. Ji struggling into view, both arms laden with bags. She makes no verbal comment about him sitting at Yo-han's desk, but Ga-on doesn't want to raise any questions and races to help them get the rest of the items.

He forgets the list of references between aiding Elijah in hanging up her new purchases and being treated to a fashion show.

Yo-han returns home as Ga-on is heading to the bath for a long soak; they pass each other in the hall and acknowledge one another with polite tips of their heads.

When Ga-on is done, roughly an hour later, feeling fresh and relaxed, ready for bed, something is waiting on top of the book he's been working through on his bedside table.

He freezes. It's the paper from Yo-han's desk.

Ga-on is under no impression he'd be able to trick Yo-han into thinking he hadn't been near the desk. He could at least, without the evidence of the reference sheet, pretend that he'd maybe only needed to make a note for himself or had been looking for something and was checking Yo-han's workspace.

Ga-on no longer has that lie to use.

He picks up the evidence of his overstepping and wonders if it's a silent threat, an "I want you to know that I know" sort of thing, but then… then Ga-on realizes that there's red ink and neatly scratched handwriting next to his own. Some of his law codes are crossed out, the case numbers circled, and little notes branch off from each correction. They range from "this wouldn't be relevant," "not specific enough to use compellingly," and "attorneys could use to strengthen their own case."

Ga-on sits on the bed, the paper held carefully between his fingers.

Some might see the corrections as reprimands, the whole slashes of red as small digs at his intelligence. Ga-on sees past it. If Yo-han were trying to make him feel like a fool, he'd have sooner just crumpled up the whole sheet and left it on top of the trash for Ga-on to see. He would not have taken the time to go through each reference Ga-on's brain could pull up and make notations on them. Yo-han is not mocking Ga-on. He's doing what he always seems to be.

Yo-han is challenging him.

A part of Ga-on, as he's staring at the adjustments, absorbing them, and reworking his understanding of the court case in his head, is almost… happy.

The following day, when he gets up early and cooks breakfast for the first time since coming to the Kang house, he tells himself it's because he's tired of eating takeaway and ready-made meals. No other reason.

Elijah is the first one down, and she doesn't comment other than "I don't like Korean food," as though Ga-on would have forgotten the many times he's heard the phrase while placing orders for the two of them.

"I know," he says, lifting the warmer tray lid to reveal the french toast, sausage, eggs, and toast he's prepared.

Elijah fills her plate, and something warm unfurls in Ga-on's chest as he helps her. Yo-han steps in a short while later, looking soft in the way that drives Ga-on a little to distraction. He casts a glance at the spread of food, and Elijah, now glaring up at him, cheeks stuffed with syrup-covered bread.

"Giving in to your spousely calling?" Yo-han doesn't say it with heat, just a sloping smirk as he grabs a plate for himself. It makes Ga-on cheeks heat in a mix of anger and embarrassment, and he scowls, finally taking food for himself.

He tries not to let his mood sour as he huffs out an, "it's just breakfast, Yo-han." They've never sat down as a trio before, and he doesn't want to let his husband's ill-considered jab ruin it.

The reception to the meal, for the two Kangs at least, is better than Ga-on had hoped, and after that breakfast, he finds himself in the kitchen more often than not, able to put his cooking skills to use. Elijah had asked him about it a few dinners later, and he'd held back tears when he explained that after his parents had died, Ga-on didn't want to burden his guardians and took to taking care of himself in all the ways he could. He just found cooking to be the nicest, and it was something he could share.

He'd caught Yo-han's scent that night from the hall leading into the study, and when he'd slipped into the room, the other man at his desk, they both pretended that the older hadn't heard his confession. Especially not as he placed a late meal on Yo-han's open folders.

Ga-on continues to live in the Kang mansion, and he continues to learn things about his new household and the occupants who live there. It becomes a little less burdensome, a little nicer even.

He also continues to play the notes game with Yo-han, neither bringing attention to it as Ga-on leaves pieces of hastily scrawled paper, and Yo-han provides corrections. Sometimes the other man will even leave stacks of case presidents that have nothing to do with his active rulings, and Ga-on feels gentle pressure behind his ribs with every page he pours over.

The first time Ga-on realizes he might be in real trouble in regards to Kang Yo-han is when he wakes up in the middle of the night, sweat pooling into the dip of his clavicle, sheets clinging to his neck and hands even though the nights have grown more chilling as the year winds down.

Ga-on knows what's going on right away. He can feel the fever starting to burn in his veins. He's got a little time, he believes, before the pain will come. Before, everything will go sharp and hot. When a desperate part of his brain will only want relief in its basest form.

Ga-on is lucky. The worst of his heats, the parts where he loses time, only last a few days. Everything else is just a week of cramping, uncomfortable dampness everywhere, and an insatiable need to reorganize his living space and nest. He's also on a yearly cycle to ensure he is not developing any fertility issues. The rest of his monthly heats are held off by medication that, thankfully, Yo-han hadn't seen any need to question or exercise his spousal privilege to prevent Ga-on from taking. Where he is not lucky, it would seem, is that his heat had arrived a week before it was meant to.

If Ga-on had been paying attention, he probably would have noticed it. Perhaps the stress of the afternoon before had triggered the early heat.

The reins Yo-han had kept him tightly under were loosening, and now, so long as K, Mr. Ji, or (begrudgingly for the Alpha) Soo-hyun was with him, Ga-on no longer has to keep himself to the grounds of the manor. He'd still been worried about the media, anyone and everyone looking for the best scoop on what Omega had caught the famous chief Judge Kang's eyes and had only taken to short walks in the neighborhood the first few days of freedom.

That day, he'd ventured into town to get lunch for himself and Elijah. Soo-hyun had said she'd meet him and Ga-on, foolishly, figured he'd be safe with the short distance by himself.

He was wrong.

The journalist had cornered him the second he was about to enter the restaurant, and Ga-on had immediately felt panic rise as an unfamiliar Alpha grabbed at his wrist. It had been a shocking display of disregard for a married Omega's space, and Ga-on's scent had immediately sharped. The reporter had his fair share of reactions like that, clearly, and hadn't reeled away as an Alpha typically might at the fear response.

It wasn't until Soo-hyun was hauling the man away, cursing up a storm, and flashing her badge, that Ga-on even realized he'd been crying, constant anxious tremors running up and down his spine. When she'd dropped him back off at the mansion, helping him to put the lunch, now a little cold, on the counter, Ga-on had only waited for her to close the front door behind herself before he'd raced to the shower to scrub the scent and sensation of another Alpha's touch away. There had only been a little shame in his expression when he'd taken Yo-han's discarded day robe off the back of his study chair and inhaled the now comfortable scent of the other man, willing his body to relax.

He was under no impression when Yo-han returned home later that the man didn't know what had happened. His general air had been irritated, more so than usual. Ga-on was only thankful he hadn't said anything, just stared a second longer than needed at his now rumbled piece of clothing while Ga-on lounged across the couch, reading a recommendation from Elijah.

Ga-on had pretended, when Yo-han had left the room, trailing his hand across the back of the couch, and thus, through some of Ga-on's hair, as he left the room, that it didn't curl something tight and clenching in his stomach.

He's staring at the damned robe now, still where he left it, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple and contemplating snatching it up. Ga-on is already feeling the itch to go back to his room, to pull every piece of fabric he has onto his bed and make the best nest he can… surly Yo-han wouldn't mind if he added a couple of extra bits and bobs… just for the few days that Ga-on needs them…

Ga-on swallows down that impulse and continues on his way into the kitchen. He'd been heading there since the first minor cramp had woken him up. He needs water and a bit of food. The thought of imposing on anyone in the home while he's going through this unexpected heat doesn't sit well with him, so he figures he can take care of the prep work while his limbs are still functioning.

Apparently, it's an incorrect assumption that he has more time than less because he's just gotten four water bottles tucked under his arm and across his chest when his vision doubles, and he falls to the ground with a wet gasp, legs spasming.

Fuck.

He doesn't know how long he waits on the cold tiled ground for the trembling to stop, but eventually, he can get into a kneeling position, collecting the dropped bottles with twitching fingers.

Gaon takes a breath through his nose and freezes just as a palm, feeling almost like ice on his feverish skin, settles over the back of his neck. He doesn't know how he'd missed the heady tang of citrus and tobacco of Yo-han's scent, but it's all over him now, like a cloud that forces his bones to rattle with how hard he clenches his muscles to stop a whine from escaping.

He wonders, between one suddenly shaky exhale and the next, if it's simply the traces of Yo-han all over the mansion that's taken his typical amount of preheat control and thrown it out the window.

"I thought you had a few more weeks before your heat?" Yo-han's voice is a rumble, and Ga-on wants to let himself drop back to where he knows the other man is kneeling to feel the vibrations of his low tone across his back. Instead, he nods and forces himself to stand, Yo-han's hand not leaving his skin.

"Stress, I think-" he has to swallow and shake his head to clear his eyes, "from earlier… probably triggered it early." It's the only explanation he has. Still, close behind him, Yo-han hums in understanding. Ga-on keeps his head ducked, pointedly not looking at Yo-han as he moves back towards his room. He doesn't technically need the food. Water should hold him for a couple of days, and he suddenly needs to get behind a closed door and away from his husband before he does something downright embarrassing.

Like, ask him to bend Ga-on over the nearest surface so that the growing ache between his legs can be satiated...

Ga-on's body has other ideas, however, because he gets a couple of steps away from Yo-han, just enough that the man's hand finally falls away, and his knees go jelly weak again. Yo-han must see them falter because he comes up behind Ga-on and wraps a strong arm around his middle right as they give up on him.

Ga-on can't stop the sound this time, and he feels Yo-han, now draped over him, freeze momentarily before he's pulling Ga-on upright. Ga-on can tell now that they're pressed so closely together. Yo-han isn't wearing a shirt.

There's a beat of silence, and Ga-on gulps for air, sunk back into the icy heat of Yo-han's chest.

"Ga-on…" Yo-han's voice is a whisper, and the younger has never heard him sound like this. The hand Yo-han has on Ga-on's hip tightens just a bit. "If you need it, if you want it, I can help with…" he trails off, and Ga-on can't stop the whole body shiver at the simple implication of what Yo-han is offering. He's never made illusions or suggestions towards Ga-on in this nature before, never hinting at being willing to be physically intimate with him. There's been nothing more than a graze of his fingers on what skin Ga-on allowed to be uncovered, but it would be a blatant lie if Ga-on had never thought of an instance where the Alpha might. Especially over the last few weeks as they've grown more comfortable around one another, more open.

Still, even as his insides twist and his skin burns, intensity rising, a crack of something sharp pains his chest at the idea of it happening only because it's the heat. It's just the heat, and that's… there's something almost devastating about it when Ga-on's brain spirals into its vulnerable state.

He shakes his head, eyes clenched shut even as he lets himself fall harder against Yo-han's body.

"Not, n- ah," another cramp makes him bite at his mouth. "Not like this," and there's his own implication in those words. If it weren't for the situation, for the biological needs of his secondary gender, he'd, perhaps, want the kind of help Yo-han is offering. Ga-on knows the other man is smart enough to catch it as well, and he doesn't know if, later, Yo-han will decide to bring it up in one of their regular verbal sparring matches, and blaming the slip on the heat will work.

It doesn't matter because the cramps are getting closer together, and it will start blurring, and Ga-on needs to get back to his room to build his nest if he wants even a bit of comfort in his more coherent moments. Yo-han seems to realize this as well, because a moment later, Ga-on is lifted from the ground by two strong arms, and he can't even make a sound of surprise past the way all his breath leaves his lungs, fingers helpless do to anything but hold on to his water bottles for dear life.

Yo-han carries him easily, and Ga-on, head dizzy, indulges his baser need and tucks his nose against the crook of Yo-han's throat for as long as it takes the older man to genty deposit him onto his bed. It's a struggle, holding on to his higher functions enough not to launch himself back towards Yo-han when he steps away, taking the bottles from Ga-on's hands to set them on the side table.

Ga-on stares through half-lidded eyes, breathing heavily, as Yo-han leaves the room. He questions, distantly, why the other man leaves his door open when, just as Ga-on is forcing himself up, the cramps now a low rolling he can manage, Yo-han is stepping back through the entryway, a bundle of sheets in his arms. He sets them down at the edge of Ga-on's bed and steps away. From beneath his sleep-tussled fringe, he's watching Ga-on with something heavy in his expression, but there's a softness there too, and it just makes Ga-on feel weaker.

"It's not much, but it should help." They're probably Yo-han's blankets, dosed in his pheromones from use and bodily contact. Ga-on can't help the way he reaches for them, that itch back in his hands to start nesting immediately while he still can. He's only a bit self-conscious with the swiftness of giving in to his urges, but when he looks back to the Alpha, Yo-han doesn't smirk like Ga-on thinks he should be. He knows how the other man gets when it's clear that Ga-on is at his mercy, but the seriousness of this situation seems to have left what humor can be had somewhere far away.

They share another moment of silence when another cramp hits Ga-on more strongly than the others before, and he cries out softly, doubling over to press his face into Yo-han's offered bedding.

He thinks he hears the other man say something about having Ms. Ji bring food later, but by the time Ga-on has himself under control again, his bedroom door is closed, and his husband is gone.

Somehow Ga-on can't choose what's worse. The fact he's alone, or how badly he wants Yo-han to have not left in the first place.

His heat only lasts three days until he can function again with only mild misery, scent managed, and brain operating on mostly all cylinders.

When Yo-han hands him a warm plate of food as he shuffles into the kitchen, they don't speak about that first night. They don't for the next few days either, and it's almost like the whole proposition and answer were a fever dream. Ga-on buries the unrest in his heart and lets it fade until they return to some semblance of normal.

The only difference between them that Ga-on is conscious of is Yo-han feels closer now, his presence always just to his side, and Ga-on can't be sure if he's not just more attuned to Yo-han's scent, the distant warmth of him, or if the man is simply orbiting closer than before.

Ten days after Gaon's heat, Yo-han comes to him.

He's on the sofa, watching a video compilation of funny animals Soo-hyun had sent him when he feels the other man's approach.

Ga-on looks up at him, and Yo-han says nothing. They stare at each other for a long, almost uncomfortable beat until Ga-on, confused, locks his phone and sits up to address the other man.

Yo-han, hands in his pockets, dressed in one of his immaculate suits, but notably better quality than the ones he wears to the office simply gestures for him to follow with a smirk and a crook of his finger. Still baffled by this unusual behavior, Ga-on is powerless to do anything else.

When Yo-han deposits him in the master bedroom's lavish walk-in closet and starts holding up jackets for him, he finds his voice.

"What exactly are you doing?"

Yo-han, seemingly having chosen the first portion of an outfit, laying the dark red, nearly brown jacket over Ga-on's shoulder, moves to pick out a tie. Ga-on feels that now-familiar frustration starts to bubble up. Somehow, he'd thought they were over childish games like this, where Yo-han intentionally tries to get Ga-on wrongfooted.

"Yo-han-"

"We're going out. There's an event I'm needed at, and you're coming with me."

From there, despite Ga-on's weak protestations, he's dressed up in the most expensive, finest outfit he's ever worn, the clothing only a tad ill-fitting, as Yo-han is a bit wider, more solid than Ga-on is. They're relatively the same height, however, so the pants he's practically bullied into fit him well enough. They're about to head out the door, Elijah staring at them unsubtly, before Yo-han halts them.

Ga-on, already nervous with the lack of information and suddenness of this entire charade, is about to ask him what is holding them up now? When Yo-han sweeps forward into Ga-on's space in a way, he's done all but twice.

Immediately, Ga-on feels himself get hot, a speedy flush crawling up to his cheeks. He has to fight the urge to tip his head in welcome or shrink back in surprise. Instead, his body freezes, lips parting slightly as Yo-han brings up a hand, slowly, to the side of Ga-on's throat, index and middle fingers pressing just off the side of his pulse before they're sliding down, feather-light to his-

Ga-on snaps a hand up to Yo-han's wrist, stopping him.

Yo-han, for the immediacy of Ga-on's reaction, doesn't seem all that surprised; hell, if Ga-on trusted himself to read his husband, he'd assumed the other man was amused. Yo-han gently extracts himself from Ga-on's grip but notably doesn't step away from him. Instead, he holds out his fingers for Ga-on to inspect. There's translucent wetness to them, already seeming to dry.

Oh.

Scent blocker.

Ga-on is still indigent because it's clear that Yo-han had wanted him to react to his teasing, but he also feels silly. He wouldn't have… Yo-han wouldn't touch him like that without meaning it, not in the privacy of the manor, at least. Not without the heat giving pretense. He shouldn't have gotten so worked up. Especially not when he has a sneaking suspicion that they will have to be quite close for whatever this publicity stunt is.

Holding out his hand, Ga-on takes a half-step backward just to feel like he can breathe again.

"I can do it myself." Yo-han's raised eyebrow questions that, but he relents and passes the small tube of expensive scent blocker Ga-on had failed to notice. He finishes applying it in the car, pretending he can't still feel the fading pressure of Yo-han's fingers.

When they do arrive, pulling up to a mansion somehow even more massive than Yo-han's, Ga-on feels once again, like those months ago pulling up to the chapel, entirely out of his depth. He's suddenly very thankful for the scent blockers on his glands and Yo-han's possessive hand against his lower back.

Ga-on finds out later, as the night worsens, that he's even more thankful for the chemical blocking out every possible scent response his body makes.

At first, it's discomfort, easily hidden with a polite smile, then it's disgust, there are too many hands on him, and he has to fight from jerking away from every brush of the fingers. Finally, it's anger. It makes rage boil up in his blood when the elites laugh like it's funny, how Ga-on is being paraded around, how he balks at their deeply invasive questions, how they grab for his collar to see what a mating bite from the honorable Judge Kang looks like. When Yo-han finally comes to rescue him, it's with babying words, little jabs at him, how he's so sorry to the others that his "little omega is still a bit too shy for the public."

Yo-han "saves" him from them, but only so that he can drag Ga-on into his side and trail the tip of his nose across the exposed skin of his throat. It's only the hand, practically bruising at his hip, that forces Ga-on to take it, this agonizing and deeply embarrassing display. The only satisfaction it brings is that the crowd seems to blush and scatter, the way they snicker behind their hands; however, as they leave, practically cooing at Ga-on, who is just one sharp line of tension, makes him broil.

He's dragged back to the car only a handful of minutes later, and to save himself from causing an accident, Ga-on lets himself simmer, staring daggers out the window and knowing that Yo-han can feel the anger rolling off him.

The second they're back within the safety of the mansion walls, Ga-on gives a cursory look to make sure that Elijah isn't in the study before he's turning, sharp, on his heel to face Yo-han, who, judging by his proximity and posture, was waiting for him to do just that.

"How dare you," Ga-on starts, feeling like there's fire running in his veins, making his eyes burn. He's never been so thoroughly embarrassed in his entire life. Being an Omega is nothing new to him, and he understands that others will always find him falling short. However, the sheer lack of respect for him, the power displayed, and Yo-han's attitude makes Ga-on want to choke on the inferiority every person who hasn't known him has tried shoving down his throat.

He'd thought, perhaps, Yo-han had understood.

He tells his husband as much, the anger leaking out of him the longer he goes on, yelling his throat horse, while Yo-han stays still, eyes hardly blinking, maybe not even listening.

Eventually, he's worn himself down, throwing a few week punches at Yo-han's shoulder. His husband takes the two hits, and then when Ga-on practically slumps, shoulders sagging, and head tilted down, he steps a little closer. Ga-on doesn't have the energy to shuffle away. He's the one who's itching for a fight this time, a battle, blood, something, but Yo-han gives him nothing.

"Are you done?" It's not asked meanly, but Ga-on can almost summon up a glare. Instead, he nods his head, fists curled so tightly that he's sure his nails will leave crescent imprints for at least a little while. Yo-han sighs, probably as done with Ga-on's antics as Ga-on is done with his. "I'm sorry."

Ga-on bites out a half-hearted "bullshit" before he's even actually registering the fact that Yo-han is apologizing.

Almost hesitant, a hand comes to cup the underside of Ga-on's chin, tipping his stubborn head back until his and Yo-han's eyes meet.

"I am sorry for the lengths I had to take Ga-on, but I will not apologize for having to do them." So it's only a half-apology, then? Ga-on feels the heat licking behind his ribs again and is ready to sneer, but Yo-han isn't done, and his eyes go hard around the edges. "Do you suppose, if I hadn't stepped in, done something a little untoward, they would have listened to your protestations and walked away?" The hand on Ga-on's face goes stiff, just as Ga-on does. Because angry as he is (though less so now that he's done yelling and back in the relative comfort of home), he knows, deep down under his resentment, that Yo-han is correct. Without the Alpha stepping in to dissuade further inappropriate action, Ga-on would have been easily walked over. He still detests the fact he'd been placed in a situation that almost demanded attention in the first place. Ga-on had known as well, however, that it was inevitable, and at least now, he could be prepared for the future.

When he sighs, almost like he's relenting to Yo-han's point, Yo-han's hand goes soft again and then carefully moves up to cup Ga-on's cheek, a couple of his fingers sliding between the now loose locks of his hair. Ga-on does his best not to shiver at the sensation, suddenly aware of how close they're standing. Proximity they hadn't had since his heat…

"You could have warned me," Ga-on says weakly, attempting to draw his own attention elsewhere than the other man's warm skin, his scent starting to finally break down the blockers.

Yo-han, like he can read Ga-on's mind, smirks just a little, but it's still strangely gentle.

He doesn't step away. Instead, he goes to speak again, stroking his thumb in lazy circles over Ga-on's cheekbone.

"In this house, you can act as you like, live as you like, but out there, under the eyes of the Korean elite, those who will doubt you based on unfounded and fundamentally incorrect assumptions, you have a part to play Kim Ga-on. As much as it might pain you to do so." There's an initial thought of "and whose fault is that?" But Ga-on presses it down, old anger that he's worked past because… well… all the limitations aside, he has a relatively good life with the Kangs and arguably more freedom in a place Ga-on could never have thought he'd get them. Still, he can't help himself.

"Because of your reputation?" Ga-on doesn't like half answers, and Yo-han always speaks in riddles, making Ga-on work for conclusions he could easily offer up. Asking "obvious" questions is the only way to ensure he understands the twists and turns of Yo-han's brain.

That smirk deepens, and Yo-han moves his hand further back into Ga-on's hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. It's the most intimate they've been with each other, and Ga-on wonders as a tremble runs down his spine, and his eyes threaten to close if Yo-han is doing this as his genuine apology, offering a sincere touch to wipe away the false one of an hour ago.

"Partially, but more so for your own well-being. If they think you're too strong, they'll try to chain you down, but if they think you're weak, a mere trophy Omega for a spouse, they'll leave you alone. They'll indeed gossip, spit venom and stupidy into the air to make you feel useless, but," Yo-han comes even closer into Ga-on's space, there's hardly half a foot between them. Ga-on can feel his eyes going a bit crossed, trying to maintain contact with Yo-han's. "It's more important that they assume you're useless than know you're anything but."

Ga-on doesn't know when the rest of the agitation in his blood swam away and became something else, the lingering want that's been building between him and the other man for a few weeks at least, but it's back and roaring in his ears. He swallows it down, though, even when Ga-on knows Yo-han can see it. It's not a challenge if he gives in, and… that's what they both crave, isn't it?

"Am I?" Ga-on asks, swallowing dryly.

"Hmm?" Yo-han's questioning sound is a rumble that Ga-on can almost feel.

"Useful?"

He's not fishing for compliments, not really. But he needs Yo-han to say this. It's not because Ga-on desires to be used. He already has been by this man; that was the marriage, but this would be… more. Anyone can be a doll in a little glass house for everyone else to gawk at. That's not what Yo-han is asking him to be, telling him he is. Ga-on needs to be sure.

"You aren't stupid, Ga-on." That's not the point, and Ga-on knows that Yo-han knows this.

He's not stupid, either.

Yo-han must register the way Ga-on's expression pinches at the corners, the atmosphere threatening to shift into something unfavorable by his lack of acknowledgment.

"The most useful piece on my chess board," Yo-han says like he's half joking, and it makes Ga-on snort, the previous building tension falling away, and he nods, pressing once into the palm curled against his head before stepping away. He's gotten the answers he needs tonight, the exhaustion rearing its ugly head again, but there's satisfaction too. He's more at peace now that he's sure.

Yo-han doesn't seem to begrudge his pulling away. They're tipping closer to whatever inevitable end is waiting for them, but they're not on the precipice yet.

When Ga-on is about to pivot into his bedroom, being dropped off by Yo-han at the top of the stairs, he can't help himself as he turns back to address his husband.

"And what does that make you?" He sees a small flash of confusion in Yo-han's expression. "On the chess board? Are you a piece, too, or just the chess master?" Ga-on waits, leaning against his doorframe while Yo-han thinks of his answer.

"The bishop," the older man decides, and the signature self-assured tip of his lips isn't as sharp as usual, leading Ga-on to infer the seriousness of his choice. Yo-han enters his own room, leaving Ga-on to piece together what he means.

Yo-han is right. Ga-on is smart.

He figures it out between hanging up his borrowed suit coat and starting the shower.

The answer leaves a mirrored smile on his own lips.

Ga-on doesn't know where they stand in the grand chess match of the world, but within the walls of the Kang manor, he's more steady on his feet, and he understands his place here.

It's not beneath Yo-han. It's beside him.

(Authors Note: The queen is the strongest chess piece on a chess board, and the bishop is the one that protects it.)

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#gahan #lawful husbands #the devil judge #tdj #kim gaon #kang yohan #prompt fill #kdrama prompt fill

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animationscreenwriter · 2 years

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20+ Years of Screenwriting Experience

Welcome to AnimationScreenwriter.com! My name's Toby and I'm a Screenwriter / Co-Writer / Editor, available to collaborate on new freelance projects - animated and live-action films, TV series, web series, comic books, video games - including: brainstorming ideas, concept / story development, treatment writing, outline planning, screenplay writing, rewriting and polishing your current draft, editing and proofing your final draft, pitch deck writing, logline writing, synopsis writing, and more...

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Our 2D animated film (co-written with a first-time student director) won the Jury Award for Best Animated Short at the New York International Children’s Film Festival, which qualified us for the Academy Awards® - as chosen by the prestigious NYICFF Jury Members who included: Oscar-winner Peter Ramsey (Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse), Oscar-nominee Mark Osborne (Kung Fu Panda), Oscar-nominee Ramsey Naito (The Boss Baby, President of Nickelodeon Animation; President of Paramount Animation), Oscar-nominee Pelin Chou (Over the Moon), Oscar-nominee Nora Twomey (The Breadwinner), Amy Freidman (Head of Kids and Family Programming, Warner Bros), Melissa Cobb (VP of Kids and Family, Netflix), Guillermo Martinez (Head of Story, Sony Pictures Animation), Oscar-nominee Uma Thurman (Pulp Fiction), Oscar-winner Geena Davis (Thelma & Louise), Oscar-winner Matthew Modine (Full Metal Jacket) and Oscar-winner Kyle MacLachlan (Twin Peaks).

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I have a B.A. degree in Film -- screenwriting was always my dream job. Back when I was serving popcorn and ripping tickets on the weekends at my local multiplex, I would be daydreaming stories and then in my free-time writing spec scripts, sketching comics, and animating cartoons on my computer. After submitting a few funny things to Nickelodeon, they were the first to show my characters and ideas on TV screens nationwide.

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- Toby (IMDb)

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halonicheart · 6 months

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Arsene Varlinaeu

After a conversation with a friend, on a whim I suggested what the story could have been like had Estinien's younger brother lived. What followed was me proceding to name him and practically make him my own oc, mine now Square. It's so tempting to make him and put him in a server but... I will try to resist, key word try. Regardless, here is a bit about him.

Perhaps it was by Halone’s Grace that young Arsene Varlineau survived Niddhog’s rage, or perhaps it was dumb luck that he managed to shelter himself just in time when the winds became harsh. He was pulled from the rubble mostly unscathed, save for bruising, cracked ribs as well as chronic respiratory issues from breathing the smoke. Arsene is as reserved as his older brother though he wishes to make friends, from connections and so on… it was hard, tiring, scary. He loathes to admit that he clings to his older brother at times.

If Estinien thought him a burden, he never said nor did he so much as hint at the possibility. If he wasn’t training to be a part of the Knights Dragoon, he was spending all his spare time to tend to Arsene. It wasn’t so much that their foster father, of a sort, Alberic didn’t care for them, he did in the best way a young single downtrodden man could, but he was a Knight as well as a Dragoon, heretics and deviants alike to not wait for fathers. Quite frankly, Estinien kept him at arm’s length at first but over time the gap lessened. Arsene took to Alberic much faster. It was likely that alone that helped his older brother let Alberic into his heart.

Arsene is not particularly strong physically, he was much better off now than his younger years but for a budding young elezen man he was noticeably weaker than others his age. Where he lacked brute strength he made up for with book smarts. When he was finally eligible, Arsene joined the Scholasticate via scholarship. He’s genuinely no interest in becoming a part of the Ishgardian churchmen. Joining the program meant he would have a dorm, a small allowance and most of all a way for him to become more independent. What he does after he graduates is a different story. His grades are well enough, though he admits it’s very challenging at times. Both Alberic and Estinien are very proud of him, albeit they worry for him.

He still retained his reclusive ways, only now he had "peers" to shame him over it when they thought he wasn't listening. The young ones were nice enough, not quite kind. One fellow student in particular seems adamant on becoming his friend. Then again, Theomecent seems to do as much with everyone. Arsene has heard the many times Leigh has told Theomecent to just let it be. Unfortunately for Arsene, Theo was stubborn. Truth be told, part of him feels bad for being so cold to him at times. Only once did he consider actually letting him in, however when he heard Theo admit to Leigh that he was a tad frustrated his efforts are met with the cold shoulder... he decided it was best not to. If only he stayed long enough to here Theo say that was all the more reason to keep trying, that he would be damned if he sit by while Arsene was clearly suffering in silence.

All was well for a time, well enough as things could be, until word had spread amongst the church that the current Azure Dragoon had stolen Niddhog’s eye. Arsene attempts to find his brother… only to be turned away by Alberic. He was instructed to continue his studies and the knights handle the situation. According to Alberic someone was being sent from Gridania to assist in the matter. Arsene didn’t care who they sent, he wanted to speak with Estinien, his own brother. And so he devised a plan that he knows he will come to regret… he risks losing his scholarship. Arsene cut his hair, used whatever he could get his hands on to dye his white hair an inky black, wore non script glasses to obscure his eyes, wore a cap and took on the name Ahnri Valin. No one would bat an eye at a pauper roaming the streets. Ishgard didn’t care enough for her people.

He sets out to find his brother, to understand why he’s doing this and hopefully get him to see reason… he didn’t plan on getting wrapped up in a larger story to end the dragon song war at the side of not only his brother but Iceheart, a boy named Alphinaud and the Warrior(s) of light and their companions. He must do so while remaining incognito which proves more difficult than expected.

#cadaverous creations #arsene varlineau #I was vague about the wol in case I used him to rp with folks #I probably wont but ech #also I havent pinged an age for him but Im thinking about 20 #I feel like there's a line in the game that said he would have been around Alphinaud's age but I could have imagined that #also yes hi Im still writing its just been hard to finish pieces #Im also hoping to have more character intro posts like this but one thing at a time #I have some drafted just again... need to FINISH them #I know this is probably kinda messy but I can always put out more organized pieces with him later #or not cause this is just for fun #anyways yeah #moving on and all that

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sandythereadingcafe · 1 year

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COVER REVEAL CRUEL KING by K.A. Linde Release Date: March 28 A new stand alone fake relationship romance set in the glitz and glamour of the Cruel world from USA Today bestselling author K.A. Linde... The most eligible bachelor in New York City just asked me to be his fake fiancé. Gavin King is six and a half feet of delectable billionaire with a devil’s smile that says he knows exactly what he’s going to do to me later. Because he has. Three years ago, I caught him in the shower and promptly fell into his bed. But neither of us were relationship material. Not to mention I’d just broken up with his best friend. Now, I’m back in the city and he has a plan: Go to his cousin’s wedding. Convince his family that he’s not an eternal bachelor. Post a huge elaborate break up later. With those big puppy dog eyes begging me to agree, claiming I’m the only one who can pull it off, I say yes. What could go wrong? Other than pulling it off so successfully that the line between real and fake blurs. When my family flips the whole script, I can’t see a way out. And I’m starting to wonder if I even want one. Pre-Order Links: ✦ Amazon → https://amzn.to/3WNy97l ✦ B&N → https://geni.us/NookCK ✦ Apple → https://geni.us/AppleCK ✦ Kobo → https://geni.us/KoboCK ✦ Google Play → https://geni.us/GoogleCK ✦ Audible→ https://geni.us/AudibleCK (coming release day! narrated by Erin Mallon & Joe Arden) Goodreads Link https://bit.ly/3Chatjw Meet K.A. Linde: K.A. Linde is the USA Today bestselling author of the Avoiding Series, Wrights, and more than thirty other novels. She has a Masters degree in political science from the University of Georgia, was the head campaign worker for the 2012 presidential campaign at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and served as the head coach of the Duke University dance team. She loves reading fantasy novels, binge-watching Supernatural, traveling, and dancing in her spare time. She currently lives in Lubbock, Texas, with her husband and two super-adorable puppies. Visit her online at Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram @authorkalinde. Join her newsletter for exclusive content, free books, and giveaways every month. Wildfire Marketing Solutions

#books #cover reveals #Cruel King #KA Linde

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valerieullmerromanceauthor · 2 years

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The Professor's Date by Lane Hayes

The Professor’s Date by Lane Hayes

Blog Tour, Excerpt & Giveaway: The Professor’s Date by Lane Hayes The Script Club, Book 5 The professor, the hair stylist, and a wedding date… Tommy Help! My sister is getting married and according to her, I need a date. And a makeover. I’m a busy man, though. I don’t have time to meet eligible bachelors, and the tape holding my glasses together works just fine. Until my hair stylist steps on…

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#GayRomanceReviews GRR LaneHayes contemporary boyskissingboys rainbowread newinromance romancerocks @gayromancereviews @_GayRomReviews

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bookstattoosandtea · 2 years

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Blog Tour, Exclusive Excerpt & Giveaway: The Professor's Date by Lane Hayes

Blog Tour, Exclusive Excerpt & Giveaway: The Professor’s Date by Lane Hayes

Blog Tour, Exclusive Excerpt & Giveaway: The Professor’s Date By Lane Hayes The Script Club, Book 5 The professor, the hair stylist, and a wedding date… Tommy Help! My sister is getting married and according to her, I need a date. And a makeover. I’m a busy man, though. I don’t have time to meet eligible bachelors, and the tape holding my glasses together works just fine. Until my hair stylist…

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#Bisexual #Contemporary MM Romance #Gay Book Review #Gay Romance Authors #Geek/Jock #Grumpy/Happy #humor #Lane Hayes #LGBTQ #LGBTQ Books #MM Romance #Nerd/Jock #Romance #Single Dad #The Holiday List #The Professor&039;s Date #The Script Club #The Script CLub Series

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cassiopeiacorvus · 2 years

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Choices Assets & Scripts

A note on scripts: these are the raw files, still in their original format. They won't be viewable in Google Drive, but can be downloaded and opened in Word.

Opening .protobin files on PC

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One-Offs & Specials

Make That Date!

The Crown & The Flame

Most Wanted

The Freshman Series

Rules of Engagement

Endless Summer

#LoveHacks

The Haunting of Braidwood Manor

The Royal Romance Series

Hero

High School Story Series

It Lives Series

Home for the Holidays

Red Carpet Diaries

Perfect Match

Bloodbound

Veil of Secrets

America's Most Eligible

Desire & Decorum

Across the Void

Big Sky Country

The Elementalists

A Courtesan of Rome

The Heist: Monaco

Ride-or-Die: A Bad Boy Romance

Open Heart

Passport to Romance

Wishful Thinking

Nightbound

Platinum

Sunkissed

Bachelorette Party

Mother of the Year

Save the Date

The Royal Masquerade

Baby Bump

Hot Couture

With Every Heartbeat

Blades of Light and Shadow [Book 2]

A Very Scandalous Proposal

Witness: A Bodyguard Romance

Distant Shores

The Nanny Affair

Queen B

The Unexpected Heiress

My Two First Loves

Ms. Match

Rising Tides

Wolf Bride

Foreign Affairs

Slow Burn

Laws of Attraction

Shipwrecked

Wake the Dead

Surrender

Crimes of Passion [Book 2]

Untameable Series

The Princess Swap

The Cursed Heart [Book 1]

Immortal Desires [Book 1]

Murder at Homecoming

The Phantom Agent

Guinevere

Kiss of Death

Getaway Girls

Roommates With Benefits [Book 1]

First Comes Love

The Duchess Affair

Kindred

The Billionaire's Baby

Dirty Little Secrets

The Promise of Forever

Alpha [Book 1]

Ship of Dreams

Guarded

#playchoices #cassi originals #not even going to bother tagging all these books

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zeuscinemas · 2 years

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FILMMAKING IDEAS AND TECHNIQUES

Filmmaking is an art of creative people with such excellent ideas and lots of technical skills. Based on different eligibility the entire crew will be arranged into different teams. This kind of filming is categorized in several types that can be manipulated in many levels.

This is the process of creating a motion picture. Beginning with an initial plot, idea, or commission, filmmaking involves a number of intricate and separate steps. The process then moves on to screenwriting, casting, pre-production, shooting, sound recording, post-production, and finally screening the finished product in front of an audience, which could lead to a film release and exhibition. Filmmaking takes place in a wide range of economic, social, and political settings all throughout the world. It employs a number of different technology and cinematic techniques. Despite the fact that film was used in the beginning, most film productions are now digital. It nowadays refers to the process of creating a commercially viable audio-visual story for distribution or broadcast.

There are both general and particular components in the development stage. Each film studio hosts a yearly retreat where their top creative executives meet and communicate on a variety of areas and places they want to explore through collaborations with producers and screenwriters, and subsequently directors, actors, and actresses. To decide their yearly agenda, they select hot themes from the media and real life, as well as a variety of other sources. For example, if action is popular in a certain year, they may want to explore that idea in one or more cinema. They may buy the rights to articles, best-selling novels, plays, remakes of previous movies, stories based on real-life people or events, video games, fairy tales, and comic books, graphic novels. Similarly, survey research may help them make better selections. They may have seen Blockbusters the year before and want to see whether there is a sequel. They will also receive a full film that was self-financed and produced. "Little Miss Sunshine" and "The English Patient," as well as "Roma," are famous.

Original plot concepts are discussed in general meetings with producers and screenwriters at studios. "I knew of only a few that were sold and even fewer that made it to the film in my decade as a writer," says writer-director-professor Wayne Powers (The Italian Job). Completed original scripts, referred to as "specs," make huge news when they sell, but they make up a relatively small percentage of movies that are eventually given the green light to be made by the president of a studio, according to Alan Watt, writer-director and Founder of The LA Writer's Lab.

In pre-production, every stage of the actual making of the film is meticulously planned and developed. This is the stage where all of the production possibilities are narrowed down. It's where all the planning happens before the camera starts rolling, and it's where the project's overall vision is established. A production firm is founded, as well as a production office.

The filmmaker envisions the film and storyboards it with the help of illustrators and concept artists. To plan costs for the film, a production budget is created. Insurance is obtained for huge productions to protect against accidents. Working out the shoot site and casting process are also part of pre-production. To create the film's schedule and budget, the Producer appoints a Line Manager or a Production Manager.

In production the cinema is created and shot. It's critical to keep planning ahead of the daily shoot throughout this stage. The main goal is to stick to the budget and timeline, which necessitates continual monitoring. The property master, script supervisor, assistant directors, stills photographer, picture editor, and sound editors will all be hired at this point. These are the most typical roles in filmmaking; however, the production office will be allowed to construct any unique combination of roles to suit the varied tasks required throughout a movie's production. The venue, set, office, production firm, distributors, and all other parties involved must communicate effectively. The crew arrives on set/location by their call time on a regular day of shooting. Actors are frequently assigned their own call times. Because set building, dressing, and lighting can take several hours or even days, they are frequently prepared ahead of time.

Post production is typically assumed to begin when main photography concludes, but it is possible that they will overlap. The bulk of post-production consists of the film editor reviewing the footage with the director and assembling the film out of selected takes. The production sound (conversation) is also edited; if a film is to have a score, music tracks and songs are created and recorded; and sound effects are designed and recorded. An artist digitally adds any computer-generated visual effects. Finally, all sound parts are combined into "stems" that are synced to the images on the screen, and the video is finished.

Distribution is the last stage or, in certain cases, the movie is released to cinema or occasionally, directly to consumer media (VHS, VCD, DVD, Blu-ray) or direct download through a digital media provider. The movie is reproduced as needed (on film or hard disc drives) and sent to theaters for screening (screening). The film is advertised and promoted via press kits, posters, and other advertising materials. A B-roll clip based on raw video filmed for a "making of" documentary, which could include making-of clips as well as on-set interviews independent from those conducted by the production company or distributor, could be released to the press. In the case of major films,Key personnel are frequently obligated by contract to take part in promotional tours, which include appearances at premieres and festivals as well as interviews with a variety of TV, print, and internet media. To maintain audience demand throughout each release window, the largest productions may require more than one promotional tour.

Independent filmmaking refers to filmmaking that takes place outside of the mainstream. The means of production have become more democratic and economically viable since the emergence of DV technology. On a home computer, filmmakers may shoot and edit a film, produce and edit sound and music, and mix the final movie. While the means of production may have been democratized, traditional funding, distribution, and marketing remain difficult to achieve outside of the existing system. In the past, most independent filmmakers relied on film festivals (such as Sundance, Venice, Cannes, and Toronto International Film Festivals) to get their films noticed and sold for distribution and development. However, independent films may now be distributed for a low cost on platforms like YouTube thanks to the internet. As a result, a number of companies have sprung up to assist filmmakers get their films noticed and sold on big internet marketplaces, frequently alongside popular Hollywood titles. Content creators who don't want to sign a traditional distribution deal can now reach a global audience through online movie distribution.

We motivate, entertain, persuade, and create new ideas. We are Zeus Cinemas, a production company, creative agency, and post-production facility all rolled into one. Our passion is filmmaking! We enjoy every step of the creative process, from plot conception to gritty, off-the-beaten-path shoots, and finally to painstakingly shaping the finished product into a film that will elicit a reaction from the viewer.

We are, first and foremost, the audience, and we make sure that we are in sync with the viewers' ever-changing beat. We attempt to provide entertaining entertainment with a thought-provoking message that you will undoubtedly remember! We aspire to be responsible and creative entertainers with such a fantastic platform as the silver screen at our disposal.

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musearchive · 3 years

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hi! i hope this isn't a weird question but could you recommend some quotes or musings for a lion hearted muse? i love your blog thank you

heyyy omg don’t worry it’s not weird at all!! here’s some quotes/poetry that could work as musings too. i’ve linked the original posts. hope this helps xx

LION HEARTED MUSE.

“one day i'll become what i want. one day i will mecome a thought that no sword or book can dispatch to the wasteland.“ (x)

“history is painted by the winners. keep your paints wet. trust me, i have things to say.” (x)

"i myself an am absolute abyss" / "i myself am war" (x)

“lilith was feral, brave; she had no need to be believed. her power was catastrophe. her heart was a blood moon.” (x)

“brave girl” / “people never say that to a lucky person, do they?” (x)

“she learned how to smile with blood in her mouth. she was brave, she was beautiful but it was ugly.” (vàzaki nada)

“i too am not a bit tamed, i too am untranslatable” (x)

“my life, standing still despite this fact is, too, an act of defiance. it is not the moon's light that demands our praise but the distance it travels to reach us.“ (x)

“would i yield, and not go mad? no. i should revolt, i scream inside.“ (x)

“me? i’m here, where i should be. wherever i am, that’s where i should be, because i’m serving the revolution. by the simple fact that i exist, the simple fact that i think. my every word is a protest.” (x)

“heaven preserve me from littleness and pleasantness and smoothness. give me great glaring vices, and great glaring virtues, but preserve me from the neat little neutral ambiguities. be wicked, be brave, be drunk, be reckless, be dissolute, be despotic, be a suffragette, be anything you like, but for pity’s sake be it to the top of your bent. live fully, live passionately, live disastrously. let’s live, you and i, as none have ever lived before.” (x)

“this summer i’ll cut my hair off. this summer i’ll be jeanne d'arc. i’ll write the script, i’ll play her life. i’ll burn for what I believe.” (x)

“i burn; take your bloodsong; into myself; i sing” (x)

“there is something fierece and terrible in me eligible to burst forth, i dare not tell it in words.” (x)

#rph #rpc #quotes masterlist #ur my first ask in this blog i'm [soft noises]#anonymous

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imagine-loki · 4 years

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Pride and Prejudice

TITLE: Pride and Prejudice CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 61 AUTHOR: wolfpawn

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki was raised on Jotunheim as Laufey’s son after the war, but an agreement was then made that he would wed Odin’s daughter so Odin could secure the alliance of Jotunheim through the marriage. Loki, in turn, was raised to be king of Jotunheim, but how he views Asgard is far different from how Odin’s daughter is raised leading to a clash of cultures as well as uncertainty between the pair of betrothed youths. RATING: Mature NOTES/WARNINGS: Forced Marriage, not all fun and games. My first real step back into the Loki scene in over a year.

Tags - @skulliebythesea @asimovethroughthisworld @blackcherry26-blog @we-shadowhunter2901

“You should be resting.” Loki looked disapprovingly at his mate.

“I am not tired, what reason have I to rest?” Ella walked slowly along the corridor. “My gait is slow because I wish for it to be so, not because I need for it to be. Therein lies the difference but I thank you for your concern.”

It had been a week since Loki all but confessed his love for his mate in their bed chambers. Since then, there was a slight awkwardness between the pair. Ella was scared that Loki had not meant to say what he said in the manner that he said it and that she merely misinterpreted what he had said so she had not said anything to him on the matter and Loki had realised that he had said too much after he said it making him awkward around Ella since.

When they were required to talk, they did so, but at other times, being in one another’s presence caused both to feel ill at ease. Instead, both sought comfort in the presence of his brother’s for Loki and their mates in the case of Ella.

“You are getting to a stage where you should be resting.”

Ella laughed slightly. “According to whom?”

“Your own movements. I can see, you know? I see you beginning to get easily tired more.”

“On occasion, yes but I am fine,” Ella dismissed. “I have four months left of carrying this child and I am not sitting in bed just waiting and getting big.”

“You make it sound like growing bigger to facilitate our son growing is a bad thing?”

“It is not, you make it sound like it means I am an invalid.”

Loki could only scoff at such words. “Such is never likely to occur. If it did, you would make it seem you were perfectly fine to one and all anyway, myself included.” Ella could not argue that assessment. “But I stand by my statement that you need to be resting more. It is significant pressure on you.”

Ella turned her head slightly and rolled her eyes. “Very well, I will not consider going and hiking Mt Fervi this afternoon as I had previously planned.”

Loki was used to Ella’s sarcasm. He found it one of her more interesting traits but when it came to anything relating to her health and the child, he found himself irked by it. “It would not be recommended.” His voice was deadpan to show his displeasure at her jestful remarks.

“I would have thought you would be used to me by now. Shockingly, it has been two years since you were forced to take me as a mate.”

“Two years, three months, two weeks and a day, but who is counting?” Loki scoffed. “I enjoy your humour but not in relation to our son.”

For her part, Ella was somewhat startled. She had not realised he had been counting. She felt awkward whenever she felt that Loki was getting too affectionate as a result of wondering if it was how he genuinely felt or if, perhaps, he felt he should say such things because she was quite heavy with child. She knew their relationship was nothing like it had been at the beginning but that did not mean she did not sometimes feel wary. “You sound like one forced to serve a sentence in the dungeons with the manner in which you counted that out.” She tried to sound jestful but the way she looked at Loki told him there was more to her words.

Sensing her discomfort, Loki was unsure of how to react. He wanted to comfort her but felt that in itself could be the cause of her discomfort. His natural instinct was to tend to the needs of his childbearing mate but he felt as though his tending to her only exasperated her anxiousness, leaving him to feel apprehensive as a result. He had thought to begin with that he had not admitted to his feelings aloud, but seeing her reaction since, it caused conflict in him. The contentment she showed in his embrace, the slight show of affection when she kissed him chastely told she held affection for him. He was relieved when she never tried to do the more...intimate version that he found unappealing. The version she did was acceptable to him, he liked it. She also seemed to like bestowing it. But now it had ceased and it upset him greatly. “There are worse punishments.”

“Not many though.” Ella stretched out her back as best she could. “It feels peculiar. So many Jotnar have been pregnant longer than I am and have so much longer to go.”

“Most are envious of you. When I speak with some, they are shocked to hear you can have three children in the time it takes us to have one.”

Ella glared at Loki. “Don’t even think about it.”

For a moment, Loki did not grasp as to what she was referencing before his eyes widened. “I would not dream of it.”

“Good, I want to recover after this one before fulfilling the rest of that agreement.” She turned to deal with the fact that she could feel some milk leaking, something she had been experiencing for a short time.

“Ella?”

“Yes.”

Loki inhaled. There was already a tension to everything and he knew it could easy grow as a result of his words. “You know I don’t care about that agreement, don’t you?” Ella faced him once more and frowned. “I never wanted it.”

“I know. You never wanted me, much less children with me. You looked like you were going to baulk there in the middle of the Throne room when your father mentioned it.” There was neither hurt nor anger in her words, they were stated in a manner to imply their factual nature.

Loki could not argue that. He knew his face showed his disgust that day. “I am not referring t simply to then, I am speaking about now.”

“I don’t follow you?”

“I am speaking about now. I don’t care about that agreement.”

“It was part of the marital contract, whether we care or not is irrelevant. It renders void all matters of opinion and indeed renders the marriage void should it not be upheld.” She pointed out.

Loki scoffed. “You cannot render us void. We are mates, you don’t void that. It’s impossible. Not to mention, what does it do to our son? He cannot be rendered obsolete. How does that work?”

“Well, in other realms, he would be deemed illegitimate and not be in line to yours or indeed my father’s throne, as Thor’s successor should he die childless, something my mother is already fretting.”

“Illegit...what would that mean? How does that stop him being in line for my throne, he is my son, until we have others, he is the only one in line?” Loki could not grasp what she was saying.

“Illegitimate means that he would not be eligible for such. I thought you said you read and studied other realms? He would not be recognised as your line.”

“But he is.” He pointed out.

Ella sighed. “You need to read about other realms.” She walked over to the bookshelf and took out a book she kept on the different royal lines and protocols from other realms and handed it to Loki. “It is in Aesir script which you told me you are proficient in so you should have no concerns reading it. I am not really in the mind to discuss it and personally, I think you will not react well so I am going to bathe and see if I can get my back to cease bothering me. You know where I am if you require me for anything.”

Loki could see in her features that she was beginning to get annoyed. Her temper and tolerance were lower than previous at the current time so he said nothing more and looked down at the book before flicking through different pages which showed all the different royal lines for Alfheim, Vanaheim, Asgard, Jotunheim, and startling numbers of such for Midgard, which he knew was a complex planet with wats of life that made no sense to him. When he got to what she was referencing by way of lineage, he sat and began to read. It explained children born to monarchs in wedlock and those born to mistresses, how the latter could not be recognised fully by the King. One Midgardian king had his son by such made all manner of titles and recognised but could not call him a successor. The word illegitimate was used multiple times in the text, it was used in reference to those children not able to take the mantel of ‘heir’. He disliked the word before he knew its meaning but he disliked it all the more after. When he read of what it would mean for his son, his eyes widened.

Ella half knew what would come. Two years taught her a lot of Loki’s personality. She soaked herself in the bath, enjoying not having the pressure of carrying a sturdy child on her back whilst the water took the weight from her. When he burst into the bathing room, his face showing how appalled he was at the words he had read, she looked at him with almost an unsurprised and expectant look.

“That is disgusting.”

“That is how it is for so many.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t make the rules, I merely am here by the happenstance of birth, just like you, just like our brothers, our fathers, our son.” She sank a little lower into the bath. “It is what it is.”

“Never in a million years is that going to happen our son.”

“If we don’t have a second one, it does not matter what you think, it is the agreement. If the agreement is not upheld, it has consequences.”

“But Asgard and Jotunheim are allies again. We fought together, bled together, died together, does that mean nothing?”

“To many, no. A biological link must bind the realms. One to rule has a half Aesir blooded being, one in case he fails to do so. There’s a saying for it on Midgard, ‘The heir and the spare’.”

“The is disgusting. My brothers are not ‘spares’. You are not the Allfather’s.”

“I was meant to be. Sadly, my mother was not able to carry more. If I had been born male, I would have been but the agreement was, two children, I fulfilled that agreement. My parents are very happily married, they care deeply for one another, but my mother hated pregnancy. She felt horrendous with me and positively awful with Thor, she was ill-suited to it. So with the agreement fulfilled, she told my father she wanted no more and he respected such, though both knew that should Thor do something even more stupid than usual, the Odin line dies out unless our sons are legitimate and to do that, the agreement must be upheld.”

“What happens if such were to occur and we have two sons? How would that work?”

“The eldest is naturally in line for Asgard. If he is not what is to be for Jotunheim, as with your situation, the younger can take the throne and he will get Asgard. If this child is suited, he will rule both.”

“Both?” Loki’s eyes widened.

“Both.” She repeated. “That is why you will find that my brother will be all but thrown to a woman and she will be pregnant post haste. Too many old bigoted farts will not want a Jotnar mix on the Aesir throne. Being raised here will make him more inclined to our way of life, something many in Asgard would not like.”

“Really?”

“Do you not recall my acclimatisation to this realm? I was open-minded and I found it difficult, think how difficult it is for those less inclined to do so.”

Loki could not disagree with her statement. He had found going to Vanaheim and Alfheim difficult and he did not have the want to get it right as Ella had because he knew he would not be remaining on the realm. He shook his head as he spoke. “I still will not hear of it.”

“You will not have a choice.”

Loki walked over to the bath and knelt down beside her, causing Ella to look at him, concerned. “You are my mate. I want no other.” He leant in close to her, his face against hers and he placed his hand into the notably warm water, something more than a little uncomfortable for him and place it on her stomach. “He is my son, my heir and I swear to the Norns, no one will change either of those facts. If you birth him and say no more, then no more. That is final. I am Loki, King of Jotunheim and I will fight it, but come to it, I will pick my mate and our son over a throne any day.” He leant in more as her hand went to cup his face.

Ella did not know why she did it but she gently placed her lips against his softly for a moment. She knew he hated those sorts of kisses but hearing him declare such words made her want to convey her own affections more. She made sure not to do it for too long but Loki did not pull back in revulsion instead he sighed contently.

#Loki #others #submission #submitted fic #chapter 61 #wolfpawn #Pride and Prejudice

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aphrodites-law · 4 years

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A Bit of Clarity 🍂 (6/?) The visions had started last autumn, a year ago now. It had caused a bit of chaos for some, a bit of clarity for others. Two days ago, Clarke Griffin had been perfectly fine managing both her Café and her stress. But now she was curious - so deeply curious about the vision of herself entwined with the aloof Lexa Woods that it was leading her to complete distraction. (ao3)

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5]

Pretending things hadn't changed might've been the dumbest thing Clarke had ever agreed to do. When Lexa dropped in the following days, sometimes in the morning and other times in the afternoon, Clarke knew there was no going back to whatever their normal had been.

This was the woman she'd shared a vision with - that didn't go away after one rushed conversation. But Lexa seemed to choose the busiest moments and Clarke couldn't exactly leave Gaia and Harper to manage the orders so she could pick Lexa Woods' brain.

It was the doodles she thought about the most. Lexa had mentioned seeing some framed, but Clarke didn't have anything like that at her place. She had sketches and portraits from college lying around in closets and pressed between the pages of the books on her coffee table, but that was it. The only piece she'd framed had been a charcoal landscape her dad had liked and specifically requested for his birthday. Clarke didn't frame any of her art, let alone doodles. Those were for her own piece of mind; a way to entertain herself when all the coffee machines were cleaned, all their customers were happy, and the phone was quiet.

So what could she have possibly scribbled that would be worth framing? And how far in the future could it be?

Clarke was pondering the very question while she went through stock in the back of the café. It was a small, cramped room with her desk in a corner, but it was tidy and, most importantly, it was quiet. Until people bust in announced, that was.

"Hey!"

Clarke clutched her heart. "Raven, oh my God! Why do you hate knocking so much?"

Raven laughed. "Because then I miss that look on your face."

"Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"It's 6:30pm and you didn't answer my text about the party."

"It is?" Clarke glanced at her watch. "Fuck." She focused back on Raven and vaguely remembered the email she'd gotten earlier this week. Octavia and Lincoln were having a housewarming party tonight and had invited her. Clarke knew she'd clicked on it but the café had gotten a call at the same time and she'd forgotten about it after. She didn't know Octavia or Lincoln beyond meeting them once, so she was fairly certain they'd invited her on Raven's request.

"I forgot. I'm not going," she decided.

"It was rhetorical, grandma!" Raven exclaimed. "Wells and I are stopping by his parents for a bite and then we're picking you up. It starts at nine."

Clarke shook her head. "I barely know these people."

Raven paused. "You know what? I'm not doing this again. You don't want to go, that's fine."

"Raven."

"No, I'm serious. I'm not responsible for your social life anymore. I quit."

Clarke crossed her arms. "For someone who works in a theater you're a really shitty actress."

Raven narrowed her eyes at her. Clarke held her gaze before huffing and throwing her hands up. "Fine. I'll go."

Raven smirked. "Pick you up at 8:45. Oh and I'm pretty sure Lexa will be there. Bye!"

"What? Raven!"

Clarke was in a grumpy mood that entire evening, pulling clothes out of her closet and putting them back in for a good thirty minutes before she settled on what to wear. She didn't get like this. She knew what worked on her body and what made her look like a potato sack barely stitched together. This wasn't a date or even an intimate get-together. It was going to be an apartment packed with new faces and most likely very little room to walk around, let alone take in what people were wearing beyond blotches of fabric and color. With that in mind, she stuck to a navy blue dress and a sweater, having spotted some angry clouds on her way home. She grabbed her coat when Raven called to tell her they were waiting in their car, and was out the door after taking a deep breath.

There was absolutely no reason to be nervous.

* * *

Octavia and Lincoln's apartment in the Green Strip was on the highest floor of their building, a spacious three bedroom with earthy tones and wooden furniture. There was something immediately welcoming about it when Clarke stepped inside behind Wells and Raven, smiling at Octavia when they were all greeted with a hug.

"You made it," Octavia beamed, soon ushering them into another room where they could put their coats.

They were directed to the living room, a wide open floor plan with the kitchen on one side. Tall windows opened to a balcony, still empty from what Clarke could see. The room was already buzzing with at least twenty people, some that Clarke recognized from the night at Barton, others not at all. She could see why Octavia and Lincoln would want to show off the place - it was perfect for entertaining.

"See Wells, this is a couple's place, not your den beneath the ground," Raven elbowed him playfully.

"You like my den. You moved into my den," Wells reminded her.

"Only because you're freakishly clean and it always smells like apple pie."

Octavia laughed. "Trust me, you have it good. It took Linc' and I forever to settle on a place together."

"Is it pure coincidence you're this far from the Polis Hotel?" Raven asked jokingly.

Lincoln rubbed the back of his head with a smile. "I appreciate my heritage, but some distance from it never hurts. Besides, this is close to Octavia's work and I can write anywhere."

Octavia gave his arm a gentle squeeze, their eyes locking while Raven fussed with the collar of Wells' shirt. Clarke was used to it by now - feeling like the third or fifth wheel, that was - but it didn't prevent her heart from sinking a little bit. The front door buzzer seemed like her saving grace from the display of domestic bliss.

"Please, feel free to grab a beer, wine, chips - we've got it all!" Octavia told them before darting away.

Raven grabbed Clarke's arm. "Let's leave the men to find common ground," she said, giving Wells a subtle wink before ushering Clarke toward the drinks set up in the kitchen.

"What was that about?" Clarke asked.

"Wells thinks Lincoln is going to be the next playwright superstar. He's crushing hard."

"He hasn't even seen his play yet."

Raven poured herself a glass of red. "Octavia sent us a copy of the script after I told her about his birthday gift. Wells practically peed himself when he opened the email."

"Cute."

"You know him, he only read the first ten pages to preserve the theatergoing experience."

They shared a knowing look and laughed. "Nerd," they both said affectionately.

Raven glanced over Clarke’s shoulder and then smiled widely. "Speaking of nerds, yours seems to be having a ball."

Clarke turned around in confusion. When two people moved, she caught a glimpse of Lexa in a plaid shirt sitting on a couch alone, head down while she typed something on her phone.

"Definitely not mine," Clarke muttered while grabbing a beer on the table.

"What do you think is her deal?" Raven asked.

"I don't know. It's none of my business."

Lexa had shown at the Polis Hotel she could be the center of attention if she wanted, so Clarke had given up on guessing.

Raven arched a brow. "You want it to be, don't you?"

"I'm not going to pine over someone who isn't sure if they want me or not."

Raven took her shoulders and turned her around to face the room. "Good thing there's other eligible people here. And we're talking crew; that's carpenters and painters and electricians - plenty of talented, rough hands to make your dreams come true."

Clarke rolled her eyes. "I should've never told you."

"You started a business from the ground up. I know you have it in you to charm the pants and skirts off of everyone here."

"Raven. I don't want..."

"What? What do you want, Clarke?"

Unsure how to even start answering, Clarke took a sip of her beer and shook her head. "Forget it. Let's just have a good time."

Raven squeezed her shoulder. "Let me make sure my boyfriend hasn't started sweating his ass off."

"You really make him sound so lovely."

Raven laughed. "Yep, and he's all mine!"

* * *

No one started a business without some talent in schmoozing. Raven was right about that. But it was one thing to be driven by passion and another to be driven by... well, Clarke wasn't entirely sure. She knew her dry spell wasn't sustainable, as evidenced by how tense she felt most of the time, but the end of her casual relationship with Niylah hadn't been for no reason either. Casual wasn't what she wanted anymore.

So tonight she'd learned some names and talked about her café, laughed at jokes and listened to stories, a lot of them about the visions, still the go-to topic that could last for hours. But inevitably Clarke knew she'd be asked about hers, which was why she discreetly excused herself from a group before it could come to that.

She was sipping on her second beer when the person whose gaze she'd carefully avoided all night approached her.

"Hello."

Clarke turned from her spot by the wall, her grip on her beer tightening. "This is a surprise. I thought you were hiding in some other room."

Lexa shrugged. "Stay too long in one spot and someone is bound to notice you. Theater people can be… enthusiastic after one too many drinks."

"Something tells me it's not just theater people you keep at arm's length."

Clarke saw something flash on Lexa's face, almost like hurt. It was true though - Clarke had never seen Lexa with a friend. She'd always come to the shop alone; sat alone; worked alone. She'd never been around with a colleague either on her lunch breaks, which told Clarke she possibly kept her life carefully split. Clearly she hung out with her cousin and his entourage, but didn't she have a Wells or Raven in her own life?

"Well, I'm here now. I was hoping we could get to know each other," Lexa said.

Clarke looked away with a curt laugh. "You don't have to do that."

"Do what?"

"Feel obliged to talk to me because you go to my coffee shop. We don't need to make weird small talk because we're at the same party."

"That's a bit harsh."

Clarke's head snapped toward her. "Harsh?"

"'Weird small-talk' - is that what we do?" Lexa asked.

"I think you made it pretty clear there is no we."

"Lex!" Octavia called out, prompting her to turn around.

Octavia walked toward her with one of the houseguests, an older man with salt and pepper hair.

"This is Semet. We were just talking about his vision- I think you want to hear him out."

He smiled at her. "Octavia told me you were compiling stories?"

Clarke felt she was the odd one out and slipped away.

"Oh uh, yes, I am," Lexa told him, briefly looking over her shoulder before she extended her hand. "I'm Lexa."

Clarke didn't hear the rest, but as she saw the various groups of people talking, she felt out of place. Even Wells and Raven were deep in conversation with another couple, his hand casually resting on her waist.

The party was nice, and Lincoln and Octavia couldn't have been more welcoming. They clearly kept good company and, in any other situation, Clarke might've been more comfortable easing her way into another conversation. As it was, she realized just how unsociable she'd been in the past year and habits died hard.

Feeling unsettled, she sneaked out the open front door for a breather. Raven's words after Barton came back to her - the deliberate choices she'd made to stay home instead of going out. She'd kept her distances and now it was no surprise she felt so rusty. Nothing had really changed aside from the café's opening. The change in lifestyle had been a shock, but Wells had worked just as hard as her - if not more, especially on their bakes - and had still managed to find a balance in his life. She'd never really asked him about it, assuming it was simply in his DNA to be absolutely brilliant at everything.

But Clarke wasn't horrible at managing her time either. It wouldn't be that difficult to have a life outside of her business, she could admit that much. She just hadn't put in the work and now it showed.

Dipping her toe back in the dating pool felt daunting. She'd never tried dating apps and couldn't imagine putting her energy into that. Harper was on three different ones and from the chats she'd overheard with Gaia, it always seemed like an endless struggle of deciding what was appropriate and what wasn't.

Clutching her beer close, Clarke spotted a stairwell at her right and decided to try her luck. She made her way up and stepped out to the rooftop. There was an area with planter boxes and some chairs, which Clarke figured had to be communal. It was a pretty relaxing setup and she was sure summer saw a lot of tenants up here, but the promise of rain and the chilly wind tonight left it empty.

Unperturbed, Clarke walked to the area and stood by the tall parapet, resting her forearms on it. She took deep, calming breaths as she looked over the residential streets of Costial, the city she'd called home for ten years now. She could barely make out the mountain chain in the distance, but she knew it was there, majestic as ever surrounded by the sprawling forest. She briefly thought about the Mountain Men and how they'd survived for a century beneath the ground. What it must've felt like to see the same people every day, to never meet a stranger, or to never feel the sun on their faces.

"So maybe you don't like small-talk with anyone."

Clarke didn't need to turn around to know that voice by now. "I just needed some air for a few minutes."

Lexa leaned against the parapet next to her, though with a good three feet between them.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. I was thinking about the Mountain Men actually. How abandoned they must've felt."

Lexa looked toward the horizon, where the mountains hid in the night. "They were forgotten, but I don't think they dwelled on it. You'd be surprised how many good stories I had to leave out to fit my report. Memories about times where their parents and their grandparents laughed, kissed each other, and danced together. People are resilient no matter the cards they're dealt. They made lives for themselves - different from ours, but who's to say they were any less fulfilling?"

Clarke turned to her, not knowing what to say for a moment. It didn’t escape her that Lexa seemed to genuinely want to engage with her.

"It must've been fascinating to listen to them."

"It was. Opening the channels of communication took time, but I went into journalism for these stories."

"Have they had visions?" Clarke asked, curious.

Lexa shook her head before taking a sip of her own beer. "I didn't ask. It wasn't appropriate at the time and looking back I know it would've made them uncomfortable. They're very… spiritual. Connected to the world in a way we could never be. I'm sure their insight would be fascinating, but some lines shouldn't be crossed."

Clarke lifted her bottle. "I'll drink to that."

Lexa smiled back, drinking another sip of her own.

"So did Semet say anything that throws a wrench in your theories?" Clarke wondered.

Lexa chuckled and looked over at the city again. "He gave me his number to talk further, but he did mention he wasn't in it. Only saw his brother."

Clarke's eyebrows rose. "His brother?"

"Hm-mm. That got my attention too. I don't think I've ever heard about someone not being in their own vision."

"Seems like we still have new things to learn."

Lexa considered her next words carefully. "Writing about people's visions has been… the most gratifying experience of my career. It's pushed me to think differently and it's changed the way I work."

Clarke could tell it wasn't easy for Lexa to talk about it. Not her work, but the way it made her feel. Maybe it was just a morsel, but she was opening up and it was more than Clarke had ever heard from her.

"I haven’t drawn any conclusions and I probably don't know any more than a blogger or someone's Twitter thread," Lexa continued with a small shrug. "But there's still a part of me that questions the degree of influence. I've heard too many stories about people being changed to their core to not be slightly wary."

Clarke frowned: "You don't think they're a positive thing?"

"I told you about the woman who left her husband because of a vision. Do you think he'd see her vision as a positive? I wouldn't say they're either/or, but the repercussions aren't negligible."

"Leaving him was her interpretation of it, though. We can't know for sure that's what the vision meant."

Lexa nodded. "You're right. It'll always be up to the person who has it."

Clarke cleared her throat. "You and I - we had the same one. I had the during, you had the after. Has that ever happened?"

Lexa tilted her head to the side. "Not that I've heard of, but it might not have been…" she trailed off, tongue-tied.

"What? The same time?"

"Hm."

Clarke laughed before taking another sip of her beer. "Alright then."

Lexa looked away with a growing smile. "You're the one who brought up interpretation."

"Uh-huh. If that's what you want to tell yourself."

It was flirting plain and simple and Clarke was very aware they both knew it. She'd missed it - that flutter in the pit of her stomach when flirting with someone. The first steps around each other; testing the waters; knowing the attraction had to be mutual by now. This was a game she could play.

"Twice," Clarke hummed. "That's very presumptuous of you."

"I'm just taking the facts at face value. There's no clear indication of a timeline and-"

"Do you know I'm not even sure it was you?" Clarke interrupted.

Lexa narrowed her eyes. "You said it was."

"I guessed. Messy brown hair, slim but fit - could be anyone."

Lexa pushed off from the parapet, stepping closer. "I don't believe you."

Clarke stood her ground, feeling a throb of desire. When Lexa was intense like this, she had no doubts it'd been her. But then there was that other side of her - distant, impenetrable - and the clear image in her mind shifted into a blur again.

"Why not? Does it upset you that it might be someone else?" Clarke asked, challenging.

"You wouldn't have told me if you weren’t certain."

"Maybe I wanted to get you off my back."

Lexa smiled slowly. "I think that's exactly where you want me."

Clarke's mouth dropped open. "Are you drunk?"

"Barely tipsy."

"Lexa. What are you doing?"

Lexa stopped short. "I'm sorry, I thought-"

Clarke was the one stepping closer this time. "No, I don't want an apology, I want an explanation. Clearly, you want… something from this. You talk to me; you flirt; you asked me out."

"I had a spa-"

"Come on. You don't even believe that."

Lexa swallowed. "Maybe I was wrong too. Maybe it wasn't you."

"It's one step forward, two steps back with you. I don't get it." Clarke set her bottle down. "Fine then, there is one way for me to be sure. We can settle this right here, right now."

Lexa's eyes flickered down to her lips before she caught herself. "There is?" She asked barely audibly.

"If you'll let me…"

Slowly, Clarke reached for her wrist. She felt Lexa tense and then relax, holding her eyes while Clarke undid the buttons of her sleeve. When they were loose, she pushed the sleeve up her arm. Clarke felt her heart beat faster the more skin she uncovered, gently pushing the fabric past Lexa's elbow. She tried not to think how soft and warm she felt beneath her fingertips, or if she was imagining the way Lexa's breathing stuttered a bit.

Lexa must've known what Clarke was trying to find out. Her eyes darkened when Clarke finally glanced at her arm. The bottom of a tattoo peeked out from beneath the bunched up sleeve, thick lines wrapping all around her bicep. Clarke's hand fell like she was burned, but a quick Lexa reached out to take it in hers.

"Lexa," Clarke gasped.

"Is that all you need to be sure?" Lexa asked quietly, face drawing closer.

Clarke found it hard to even think. "I-I could always find another way."

"Oh?"

Clarke's eyes closed when she felt Lexa's nose brush against hers, but the anticipation of a kiss remained just that.

"Then make sure of it," Lexa ordered tenderly in her ear as their fingers laced together. "Close your eyes tonight and make sure it was me."

Clarke felt her skin become heated, the pulsing between her legs desperate for attention. "What if it is? What if it's not?"

Lexa stepped back, her eyes hooded like she was drunk. "I guess we can put my theory to the test."

"Your theory?"

"Whether we're inevitable or not."

"Lexa-"

Lexa let go of her hand and walked toward the exit. "Have a good night, Clarke."

* * *

When Clarke got home after Wells and Raven dropped her off, the stillness of everything was in stark contrast to the apartment full of life and laughter she had been in for hours. She didn't mind the quiet though - loved it, even, especially after long days at the café. But maybe there could be... a little more life to the place.

By the time she got to bed, her body was buzzing. Clarke turned on her back and took a deep, steadying breath. She couldn't stop thinking about the way Lexa had touched her. What she had husked in her ear.

She hadn't… dared. Not even once. Getting herself off to the thought of Lexa had felt all sorts of wrong, especially knowing she'd have to face her at the café on a regular basis. But it was unbearable now. Clarke slid a hand beneath the hem of her sleep shorts and between her legs, moaning when she found herself wanting. It was no surprise - not after the rooftop. She closed her eyes and tried to focus, remembering her vision in fragments at first.

But her vision wasn't what she wanted. Her vision was just that - a fantasy. She wanted the reality of Lexa; the Lexa she'd felt against her tonight; the Lexa who'd made her dizzy with mere words.

So she imagined the rooftop instead: her, pressed against the parapet, and Lexa pressed against her. She imagined Lexa's hand going up her thigh, slowly pushing up the fabric of her dress. She could still smell her, could still feel her mouth by her neck. Lexa hooked her fingers in her underwear and slid it down, encouraged when she felt how wet Clarke was. Clarke had to imagine how Lexa would moan; if she would be vocal or not; how deep her fingers might reach. She touched herself slowly at first, head thrown back and mouth agape.

She didn't know if Lexa was a talker in bed, but it was easy to recall the shiver down her spine when she'd told her to think of her. This time her words were dirtier, spurring her on. Clarke's thighs widened as the ache inside her swelled and she added a second finger.

"Lexa," she gasped, bringing her other hand to her breast to squeeze it roughly.

Her thoughts scattered all over: Lexa gripping her hips to turn her around, leaning down so that Clarke felt her weight on her back. Lexa taking her from behind, filling her with two and then three fingers. Overwhelmed, Clarke turned on her stomach and groaned in desperation, knees pressing into her mattress while she brought herself over the brink. She moaned loudly into her pillow, her orgasm blindsiding her.

Clutching her sheets with one hand, Clarke's grip loosened slowly. She let out a small moan and felt her muscles loosen as her knees finally caved and she flopped onto her mattress. It had been far too long.

Turning on her back, Clarke kept her eyes closed as her breathing returned to normal. She wasn't too eager to open them to a lonely room, at least not for now. She moved her body to drag the sheets atop her and slipped her hands beneath her pillow, her stomach already in knots at the prospect of seeing Lexa tomorrow.

But there was no going back now. Clarke was sure Lexa knew it too. No matter what this was between them, if two nights were all they'd need to work out the tension between them, denying it was not in the cards. At least not the ones Clarke held.

[part seven]

#f: a bit of clarity #clarke x lexa #clexa #clexa fic #w

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rokutouxei · 3 years

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the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

ikemen vampire: temptation through the dark theo van gogh / mc | T | [ ao3 link in bio ]

The challenge seemed pretty simple: to try to befriend the university bookshop’s most sour employee, Theo van Gogh. As a literature major with a boatload of book recommendations on her back, it ought to be a simple task indeed. But as she uncovers what lies between Theo’s pages, the more she finds it harder to become closer to him without having to put the feeling directly into words. What can she learn from Theo about what it means to stay—and how can she teach Theo about what it means to let go? | written for ikevamp big bang 2020!

[ masterpost for all chapters ]

CHAPTER 12 OF 22

My heart is an unmade bed; it might look messy, but I swear it’s a safe place to rest. - Moriah Pearson

It doesn’t take long for the Rooftop to become their place.

At first, it is a matter of weather. The tail end of autumn and the first breezes of winter mean that the Grove can get a little too cold in the late afternoons when they meet; and in truth, the Rooftop is barely any better, but at least there’s a stunning view below, and a vending machine for hot drinks at the first floor. If it gets too cold out, there’s the storage room on the same floor that’s decked out with windows—Isaac keeps all the astronomical equipment in here, mostly the telescopes, but also a few plastic chairs and tables.

Peak convenience.

This was totally not what she had planned from the beginning.

Definitely. Not at all.

It doesn’t take long for them to surrender and make the Rooftop their little hiding space. The hours spent in companionable silence in the Grove have just changed locations, but—somehow, up here, where there’s only the two of them, it’s a little more… intimate. They spend an hour or so with their usual book exchange and then—they stay to listen to each other.

For hours. Sometimes long enough for them to be out past dinner.

It just feels right.

It feels right the same way she feels content that the books he ends up lending her do reveal quite a lot about his character. It feels right the same way he feels like every extra day they spend together, even if they are discussing the most trivial of things, she burrows a little deeper into his defenses. She devours every single title he passes on, Hosseini, Pratchett, Heiligman, Stone, no matter how long the book is, no matter how complicated it seems—and he lets his heart rest in every collection she hands him, Plath, Lorde, Angelou, Thomas, Lawrence.

Every book an opened door.

Every word just the littlest millimeter closer.

Take, for example, the time they began talking about The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Shaffer and Barrows, which was lent by Theo, and the conversation went:

“Okay, but you have to agree that there’s nothing quite like a hand-written letter. It hits different. Regular messages and calls are great, of course, but the idea that time and energy was lent to writing down a letter? Peak romance.”

Theo nods. “The personality in the handwriting.”

“Oh, definitely!” she nods. “And eventually you’ll be able to tell their emotions based on how their handwriting is a little different—something like the psychology of handwriting?”

“To me personally, it’s the hand-made nature that makes letters appealing.”

“Yes! The craft of it! The fact that the ink and the paper, and that it’s both visual and literary—” she emphasizes this with the classic chef’s kiss; pinching her thumb and index finger and kissing them away.

They talk about the most trivial of things, they talk about the deepest of things. Conversations shift from gossip to philosophy, from the news to deep fantasy. The Rooftop becomes theirs, becomes the little space they inhabit on campus where they can shake the wings of their little bond together out wide.

Of course, they could very well invite their other friends into this little book club of theirs; Arthur is pretty well-read; it will be easy to drag Dazai out if Arthur is involved; Isaac could budge with some convincing; but—

They just know that with each other, it’s different.

Like that time Theo arrives first at the Rooftop, and she manages to sneak up on him without him noticing, as he was so deep in his thoughts; she had caught him writing on his journal in his elegant script, and she had nearly yelled into his ear because of how surprised she was.

“A fellow connoisseur!” she says, sitting immediately next to him on the bench table, bumping shoulders; Theo is pulling his fountain pen away from the page to avoid marking on it. “Here I was being teased for writing in cursive for being old fashioned, and you’re out here doing the same!”

“I’ve never teased you for writing in cursive,” Theo insists, flashbacking through every book log he’d made her sign in the bookshop.

She nods excitedly. “I know! I thought you were just being nice, but it’s so cool to see you do it too!” She beams. “There’s a required hand-written portion in the test by the OSR and they required to write in print, and I was so sad… what about all my loopy L’s…”

“I like it because it’s convenient, not pretty,” Theo says with a frown.

“That’s because you already have gorgeous handwriting,” she quips. “And of course, you write with a fountain pen. Just the right amount of bougie for a business major.”

“Excuse me?”

One book after another, one Saturday into the next. It doesn’t matter that she’s at the bookshop twice a week, that they see each other even outside of this space; when they’re up here, they are different people. They are more similar people. They go around the world sitting at the Rooftop exchanging stories. They switch Antoine de Saint-Exupéry for Emily Dickinson; Murakami Haruki for Richard Siken; Phillip Williams for Alexander Solzhenitsyn.

She talks about the astronomy club, admits how at the beginning her only reason for joining was because she wanted to get access to the rooftop, and now, how much more she’s gotten out of it. He talks about the business club and how the snobbier members had pushed him out of active membership. She talks about her childhood, the familiar streets of the city below, all she’s ever known. He talks about Vincent and the younger years, living out in the country, running around in rye fields dreaming of the future.

The two of them are friends.

Unlikely, maybe, and at first maybe at least a little bit unwilling, but—they are now. And who would have imagined that one little invitation from Vincent to do some modeling in his little apartment would lead to this? To whispers about Anna Karenina. To plans to going to the post office to check out their most beautiful postcards—to send them to each other, if only in the spirit of it. To hiding away from the rest of the busy university when the rest of the world is too loud.

To muse about the future that seems too far out, to feel like it is close enough to grasp.

And as one season seeps into the next and Theo walking her home to her dormitory’s doorstep with her book in his hands just becomes normal, the vaguest twinkle of a thought shimmers in both their minds for the briefest of moments.

They just don’t catch it yet.

It is late November when the official administrative instructions for Dragon’s Hoard’s closures for the holiday seasons come into Arthur’s and Theo’s inboxes.

The email also delightfully includes the details about their holiday pay.

Dragon’s Hoard is a small bookshop, sure, but it is still owned by one of the richer, old-money families of the city, so of course, the employees get a sizable 13th-month pay at the end of the year. But not only that—they’re also eligible for a bit of holiday pay. A lot of things come into the computation of it, as far as they’re concerned—the state of the economy, the year’s average revenue from the bookshop, just about how nice their boss is feeling this year—so it varies, but this year…

This year, Saint-Germain took it up a notch.

Maybe even two.

Arthur whistles as he reads the email, staring at the multiple digits itemizing what they’ll receive soon. “How does this man make money, why does it seem like he never runs out?”

Theo puts down the fresh stock of books onto the counter for sorting. He hasn’t been on his phone since his shift started, because he likes to wave a bit of moral superiority over Arthur out of pettiness. “Bonus kicked in?”

“Kicked hard,” Arthur says, flashing his phone screen to Theo. “Check that out.”

Theo catches the numbers and does the math quickly in his head. When one is saving up for something, every tiny bit counts. He had intended to put the entirety of his bonus onto the money he was putting aside, but with this amount…

“That’s a lot,” is all he can say. The bookshop has been operating as per usual throughout the year, and with the spreadsheets, there hadn’t been a huge leap of income either…

“I guess if your last name is Saint-Germain, you’re probably rich as balls,” Arthur comments, taking his phone back again to check the email one more time to make sure he didn’t dream that up. “But he probably gets something out of this too.”

“Charity work, maybe, against his taxes.”

“Probably.”

And if Arthur had any sense of self-preservation, he would have stopped there. Would have kept his phone in his pocket and dropped the conversation altogether, returning to the hum of tasks left in the bookshop for today. But would Arthur really be Arthur if he didn’t live to put himself in harm’s way for the amusement of it?

So, he slides up against Theo and asks, “So where are you spending the money?”

Theo’s eyebrow twitches. “Vincent,” is his short reply. And that should already say it all, but—

“No Christmas gift for the missus? You know, there’s only so much dates can do, sometimes you got to give a little bling, before—”

Arthur wins mercy from Theo’s punch by promising him free lunch.

“Dazai, I’m not pursuing him,” she sighs. “That’s not the right verb.”

“Oh? Then what should it be? Are you ‘courting’ him?”

The two of them are sitting across each other at the café Vincent works in, each with a book in hand. Dazai doesn’t seem too interested in reading the Japanese translation of Pride and Prejudice.

He closes the small bound book, bookmark already in place. He has that knowing smile on his face that lets her know she’s already lost before the battle’s even begun. “Toshiko-san, you can’t keep telling me one thing and then showing the world another.”

When she first spotted Dazai across the café earlier today, at the start of her break in-between classes, she thought it might not be too bad to stay with him until her next lecture begins, for some wholesome, literary students bonding time. Besides, reading next to each other has always been their way of hanging out anyway—very stereotypical of them.

She should have figured out that she is transparent to her best friend and just being next to each other with unsaid things clouding her mind would eventually lead to conversations she doesn’t want to have yet.

It’s just her luck that it’s worth it to be in Dazai’s company.

She closes her own book shut. Gabriel Garcia Marquez can wait. “I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know why you guys keep insisting that there is something more in between us when there isn’t.”

“I haven’t seen you get so worked up about maintaining a book exchange.”

“Hey, we did that too!”

“Not for long,” Dazai notes, and he’s right. They did, at some point, the summer before, the one they spent together after neither of them decided to go home for the extended holiday. They tore through two books, sometimes more, a week, for a month, until—well, they decided to do something else.

She shakes her head. “They’re just books.”

“The books, the dare,” he counts with his slender fingers, “you have to take responsibility sometimes, you know? You don’t need to blame anyone else for your own actions.”

She huffs as she drops her book into her bag unceremoniously. “You are blowing things out of proportion.”

“Then there’s the Rooftop, and the Halloween date, and—”

“Oh would you look at the time,” she says, standing up suddenly from her chair, the tips of her ears red, her voice’s loudness near comical as other customers from every direction turn toward her—“I’m going to be late for class if I don’t go now, I’ll see you soon, Osamu!”

Dazai smiles and waves goodbye even if he knows her next class isn’t in an hour.

The weather is unforgiving outside, and the entire horizon white with snow, the breeze bordering unpleasant. The two of them have a back-and-forth of switching places today: maybe at the Little Owl, or the cafeteria at the university’s main library, maybe even at the van Gogh’s house, but—

They find themselves at the Rooftop anyway.

Today, they’ve swapped J. Neil Garcia with Ursula K. Le Guin, and after an interesting exchange about identity, self, and the importance of fantasy in imagining what else one can become, they’re sitting across each other on a table, nursing what’s left of their vending machine hot drinks.

The question pops out of her mouth so suddenly, even she has a look of surprise after she’s said it.

“Does Arthur ask you about this, too?”

Theo puts down his paper cup of coffee. “About what?”

“About this,” she says, making a gesture at the both of them. “You know, our little book exchange. Hanging out on Saturdays. Does he make a big deal out of it?”

“When he’s being a bastard,” Theo answers quickly. “Is he bothering you?”

“No! No.” She shakes her head, smiling at him reassuringly. “I was more curious if it bothers you.”

“Why would it bother me?”

The question is simple, but Theo watches as her face contorts in some sort of confusion. Sure, Arthur being his usual unfunny joker can get on his nerves, but the teasing doesn’t bother him in the way he knows she is asking about. Not when he knows what’s really going on.

Or he thinks he knows.

“Doesn’t he make this a bigger deal than it is?”

“He does.”

Unease mixed into her genuine curiosity: “That doesn’t bother you?”

Theo doesn’t like that expression on her. “Would you rather I more firmly correct him?”

The smile finally returns to her face as she playfully hits him on the arm. “No, I know what you mean by ‘firmly’. He’s like that but Arthur’s still my friend, you know.”

“You know he deserves it.”

“He does, but still.” The smile doesn’t go away and relief fills Theo’s veins. He’s not used to seeing her so upset. It only reminds him of the one time he messed up after the Halloween party. “I’m glad it doesn’t, though. I thought we’d have to… I don’t know, tone it down, or something.”

Theo knows one thing and that it is always more than with her—even when he doesn’t understand quite what it is. Instead, he says, “They’re free to misunderstand however they want.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Yeah, you’re right.”

For some moments, they are quiet. They’ve shared so many silences that they’ve learned when it’s the silence that’s fine in being empty, and the silences where something is being phrased, ordered, prepared, like the way an inhale does before an exhale. Theo knows this is the latter.

So he waits.

What he does hear after, though, is not anything he’s expecting.

“You know, Theo, I don’t think I’ve ever really heard about what you want to do with your life.”

He raises an eyebrow at her, bored. “It’s not anything interesting.”

“Try me?”

Theo doesn’t know what to tell her at all. Instead, he looks down at the town below, out the window, making out the shapes of houses through the blanket of white. He no longer knows where his dreams end and where his delusions begin. It’s not that he hadn’t toyed with the options—curating, working for a museum, art dealership—but nothing has really caught him. Not when he has something more urgent at hand.

After what seems like an infinite number of moments, he answers: “I want to see Vincent flourish as an artist.”

Silence.

The lack of reaction causes him to turn back at her. “What? Not going to laugh?”

“What?” she blinks. “No, no, I’m not laughing. That’s actually pretty sweet of you.”

“Stop. I’ve had enough brother complex jokes from Arthur.”

“No, that’s not—oh my god, he’s right, holy shit.” She stifles a laugh onto her sleeve. He glares at her, but it only makes her laugh harder. “Haha, wait, no, relax. I was going to say something serious.”

He raises an eyebrow, daring her to continue. She clears her throat.

“That’s a dream about Vincent, though. And while I respect it—I want to hear about yours.”

“That is my dream,” Theo insists. “Everything that happens past that is a bonus.”

She shakes her head. “No, no, that’s definitely not it. There has to be something you want to do for yourself, right?”

Theo has half a heart to wish that he’s built enough of a persona in her head that a little version of him in her mind answers that’s none of your business for him. Because it’s not right, it’s not entirely right, so he can’t tell that to her, but he can’t tell her either.

He isn’t like her. She’s a rocketship pointed at the open Milky Way with directions and a path coded right into her system.

He doesn’t even have a trajectory.

Just lost in orbit, an astronaut detached from their mission, breathing on oxygen that’s running out.

He doesn’t get to say anything.

But because she is who she is in that laser-piercing way Theo can’t sometimes stand, she says, instead, softly, her voice so gentle it sounds like she is offering Theo a flower made out of snowflakes: “He’d want you to pursue your own little happiness too, you know?”

He closes his eyes in response to this—like blocking out one sense would make this all easier to push away. And when he answers, his voice sounds hoarse, like he’s been screaming. “I have no dream,” he says, simply. There’s a space at the end of it that lingers, one that could be filled with yet or anymore. It weighs a million tons.

And in return, she beams at him like the sun, reaching out to pull at his cheek that it makes his eyes fly open.

“Wet gow—"

“We’ll find you one, stupid,” she answers, ever so certainly. “Make that your current dream! To find one, you know?”

And no, Theo doesn’t know. Theo doesn’t really have feelings about this anymore, except that he wants to do his best for Vincent. Maybe one day there will be a dream. But not now. Maybe one day. He takes a sip out of the hot coffee from the paper cup, and it takes like the cheap vending machine drink it actually is, but—

He holds in his heart that maybe she’s right—and somehow, the thought makes the coffee just a little bit better.

A few days later, Theo hums under his breath as he flips the pancake he’s currently cooking in the kitchen. Because Saint-Germain respects that people buy holiday presents in advance, he and Arthur have finally gotten their holiday pay in. And this morning, the bank statement’s updated and the cheque has cleared: the amount is fully deposited in his account, and now there are no takebacks.

This is really, really happening.

He hears a yawn coming from down the hall and out comes Vincent, fresh from the studio. His hands are stained with paint in varying degrees of dry, and he’s bringing with him two clear glasses: one muddied with paint water, the other with the remnants of pulp from orange juice. Theo hopes there was no incident of switched glasses last night—that was not a fun experience last time.

Vincent places the glasses on the sink nearby and hovers around his younger brother. “Pancakes?” He smiles. “Something good happen to you?”

“Yeah, really good,” Theo says, unable to hide his excitement. He slides the cooked pancake on top of another on a waiting plate, and hands it to Vincent with a grin. “I can’t wait for you to hear about it, broer. Eggs?”

“Please, and over easy,” Vincent answers, taking the plate with him, off to set their little dining table. “Is this about you finally dating?”

Theo nearly crushes the egg in his hand. “What?”

“It’s not?” Vincent is sincerely shocked. “I was sure it was. You sounded so happy.”

“You know I don’t have time for that.” Theo huffs. Nearly puts too much salt. He prods at the egg with a little more force than required.

Coming back to the kitchen for utensils and a carton of juice, Vincent ruffles his brother’s hair gently. “You’re always working too hard, it’s not bad to entertain those kinds of things sometimes, you know?”

Theo flips the egg. The oil crackles loudly like his denial. “There’s nothing to entertain,” he insists, as Vincent slips back to the table. “You don’t have to worry about that, broer.”

“Okay.” Vincent sits at the table. He pretends to not see right through Theo. “So, what’s gotten you in such a good mood?”

“My holiday paycheck came in the other day, and the boss was extra generous with the bonus this year,” Theo begins, cracking another egg over the pan. Stirs it gently to make a nice, scrambled egg. He’s so used to domestic life with his brother, for a moment the idea of him going away flashes in his mind with a jolt of fear. He shakes it away as he taps some salt over the pan. “Went to the bank yesterday, and it reflected today.”

“Nothing’s better than a good holiday bonus, yeah?” Vincent says, smiling in support. “I got a good bit too. Might be enough to get a good new easel.”

“Great timing,” Theo says, a soft smile on his face. Turns off the fire, puts the egg on the plate, and nearly rushes in excitement to his brother on the table. (Not without coming back for the maple syrup in the fridge, of course, because who eats pancakes without it?)

Vincent faces the table properly to begin to eat breakfast, but before he even gets to reach for his fork and knife, Theo has his hands in his.

“Great timing, because you’ll need the easel. At the current rate, I’m just going to need to work for two more full months… and we might be able to rent a decent space with the amount we’ve been saving up for an exhibit.” Theo has stars in his eyes. He hasn’t been this excited in years. His dream has always been to be the wind underneath his brother’s wings—letting him fly. That was all he ever wanted. He can think of himself some other time. This time, this is for Vincent. And here they are: so close to it.

Vincent smiles at Theo, beams, “That’s great! Congratulations!” but pulls his hands away anyway. Like he touched something hot. He clears his throat and turns to his plate. “Let’s eat.”

For a moment, Theo furrows his eyebrows at his brother’s reaction, but then lets it go.

It doesn’t occur to him until much later that he shouldn’t have.

#the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart #ikemen vampire #ikevamp theo

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adamantiumdragonfly · 4 years

Text

What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others.

|| Ida L. Hale ~ Agent Themis || Character Study ||

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Legacy is what is left. Born, lived, and died. When the final breath is taken, the legacy is what is left behind. A scar across the world showing generations to come what you did, who you are. It marks your moment in time.

The Hale’s home was one such legacy. Firmly affixed to the same street in the same family’s hands for seven generations, the grand house on Belgrave Square was a scar onto its own. White, magnificent, and home.

Ida had spent her whole life there, with the exception of a few months out of the year where they would travel to Scotland for a holiday at the estate. She had learned to walk there, learned everything that a well to do daughter of reasonable wealth ought to know. And there she learned of her family’s legacy.

It was displayed proudly on the gold wallpaper in the parlor, in the shape of seven portraits. Grandfather, great uncles, and uncles occupied that place of honor, championing for the Hale name: one that meant success and strength. Military careers and political achievements. Their legacy was deeply steeped in English history, like the tea they drank in this very room, strong and dark but still well loved. Like their family gatherings for small pastries and that hot beverage, Ida had been taught early on how to act and behave. Like a good daughter and a good girl should.

She would offer the tea, as a good hostess would. Ida would sit neatly, primly, like a good girl should. Ida would always smile and nod along with her father’s not so gentle pressure of the recent eligibility of certain family friends. Because a good daughter would marry well.

Even in the 1930s, with women’s vote a fresh memory and the progression of the world, some things hadn’t changed. Legacy was the currency in which the elite dealt and Ida didn’t have any of her own. She could borrow from the pocket of her father and of her brothers. Daniel and Everett had power to spare. Sons of Colonel Arthur Hale were enough to grant them anything they desired, opening doors that would turn away Ida, though they bore the same name.

She knew that this was a fact of life. She also knew she had to further the legacy of another, by giving life to another family’s future while never seeing a mark of her own. The portraits were of men: fathers and sons. But the mothers were never shown. Nor the daughters. The key to their continued life and they were not shown in a single frame.

What would it take for her to be in one of those frames on that wall? Perhaps on a wall of her own? Ida Louise Hale with a legacy like her father’s but one that wouldn’t be stamped out like a spark. One that would last forever and ever. Like her father’s. Like every other Hale in history.

It wasn’t academics or career. Even the eccentric choice she had gone with. Everett and Daniel had been called up, pushing a pin into this chapter of the Hale timeline. Marked with their bravery in 1939. They joined the Army and the Navy before the war had started, when it was just starting to brew. Ida hadn’t done it to be like them. She had joined the SOE to become better than them. Some women would become nurses and some would keep the homefires burning but Ida had spent too long staring at her great-grandfather’s military uniform to not snatch up the first opportunity of service.

A man at a party had found her in the corner, in a deep conversation with a friend in French. Ida could acclimate to climates and atmospheres in the social scene, a skill that her mother had passed on. It was survival for women.

“You speak French well,” The man had said.

“I should hope so,” Ida had laughed, in that bell-like tone that was trained into her. Lillian Hale had taught her how to be a good hostess and an even better flirt. Women didn’t have a legacy but they did have appearances and character. “My parents spent a fortune on a tutor.”

The question had turned into an invitation with the blink of an eye. An office in Whitehall, then on a train to Scotland where her life of reasonable comfort and ease was replaced with grease and long runs in the fog. But being remembered for more than the life you brought had a heavy price. Sweat dripping down Ida’s back and fingers calloused from the sharp metal of the gun was the payment due.

Gone were the smooth hands that had never worked for more than charity, replaced with hands deft with guns, radios, and paper bound secrets. Her mother had spoken of the holidays she had gone on in France as a child but the world described to Ida, wrapped up in blankets and tucked neatly in her bed, wasn’t the one she walked with caution. Paris was only three months occupied but the curfew wasn’t quite the glittering city Lillian had described.

The gardens were still lovely, just as her mother had promised. Flowers still in bloom in mid-August though the heat was nearly unbearable. The gray uniforms must have been stifling for the Germans but Ida’s blue skirt and blouse would keep her cool. She sat on the bench beyond the lilac bushes, waiting for her contact who had promised to meet her in a cafe down the road. There was no point in arriving early, not when meeting anyone to pass information was dangerous enough.

Pigeons flitted around her feet, an ever present pest in Paris, gobbling up what crumbs remained from some kinder pedestrian’s birdseed. Ida didn’t like to feed the creatures, who were sure to swarm if food was in sight. Ida had grown used to them, almost, in the nearly six months she had spent on the continent. Dropped in Belgium and traveling on foot to Paris, Ida had only the guise of a student and the orders to establish a network of contacts.

The sea of feathers parted in wake of a man, around her age, walking confidently towards her. His posture gave a sense of youth and enthusiasm that was furthered by the look in his eye. He marched straight towards her, never a foot wavering.

There was nothing menacing in his gate that would suggest a Nazi secret police or someone with an intent to harm. But he never wavered. The man sat beside her, ignoring the pocketbook and stack of books between them, the universal sign for occupancy.

He smiled at her, bright and almost as unwavering as his march towards her. She raised her eyebrows.

“I believe there is a less crowded bench over there,” Ida said, pointing to the other side of the park.

“Two isn’t a crowd, is it?” He said, eyes twinkling. “And there are no pigeons over there.”

Pigeons. Of course, he chose to sit directly beside her for the bird watching.

Ida shifted. She had been used to overeager men at social gatherings and had learned how to read them in Scotland during training. This one offered no ill will that she could recognize, just a set of brown eyes that were melting in the August heat. He was handsome, in an endearing way. But Ida was still suspicious.

“Are you a student?” He asked, not missing a beat despite the steady look Ida was leveling. She wasn’t a mean spirit by nature but she didn’t have time to engage in pleasantries with a Parisian, not when she would meet the key to establishing a network in France for lunch in a few minutes.

“Are you?” She asked, speeding up the small talk script that was known to everyone and all too familiar to her. Ida had spent hours working on etiquette as a girl and had memorized every rule in the book. She also knew when to break them.

“Yes, at the University of Paris,” He said. “I’m Marc, by the way. A pleasure to meet you?”

“Is it?” Ida asked. Was it a pleasure when he had sat on her bench, encroaching upon her solitude and started to inquire about pigeons.

“Yes, it is. That’s why I said it.”

“And your name is?” He pressed further, refusing to take silence as an answer. He didn’t seem to understand the subtle social cues. Ida would have to be more direct in her approach.

“Louise,” She said, smiling just as brightly as the grin he had offered a few moments before. Marc blinked, as if shocked by her sudden switch. His mouth hung open as she tossed a lock of hair over her shoulder. “Tell me, what brings you to my bench?”

“A beautiful girl,” he said, grinning again.

Ida glanced around. The park was empty other than the man beside her. “I don’t see her, shall I keep you company while you wait?”

“That would be very kind of you,”

Ida turned back to face the pathway, letting the slight breeze blow the hair off the back of her neck where it clung with sweat. She was flushed, by the heat, not this man’s presence. She was frustrated by him, that’s what this was. Ida had one job in Paris: establish a network of contacts and informants who were ardently Anti-Nazi. Once that was done, she would have a functioning legacy that would continue to provide information to help the war. That was it. That was her plan.

But this Marc didn’t want her to have a plan, it seemed. He kept chattering, trying to compliment her in a thousand different ways. Her watch was nearing noon and she wouldn’t have much time.

“Oh look,” Ida said quickly. “Here comes your pretty girl now,”

She gestured toward a small blonde, who hastened up the path towards them.

“That’s my sister,” He said, chuckling at the girl.

“Enjoy your family, catch up,” Ida said, standing and gathering her books to leave. “ I would hate to interrupt.”

He touched her arm, stopping her from running down the path of the gardens towards the cafe where Genevieve De Gualle was sure to be waiting. “You never answered, are you a student?”

“Yes,” She said, allowing a small slip. Why was she telling him her legend? A stranger off the streets who wanted to watch pigeons and flirt shamelessly? “At the University of Paris.”

It was all a lie. Papers provided by the British government made a good cover but not the truth. Marc didn’t seem to care, just grinning again. His smile was too bright and his enthusiasm continued to rise, the longer he looked at her.

“I’m sure I’ll see you around, Louise,” He said.

“I’m sure you’ll try,” She said, and against her better judgment, she smiled. Ida turned and marched out of sight around a lilac bush.

#ida hale #marc klein #engraved in stone

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