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secret-diary-of-an-fa · 10 months

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A Long, Unnecessary Love Letter to Comic Books

I’ve gotten way the fuck into comics lately, ranging from weird titles from publishers I’m pretty sure are defunct (Solar, Man of the Atom follows the ongoing adventures of an energy being whose origin story includes accidentally destroying his own timeline) to unsettling little horror tales (Gaiman’s Likely Stories disturbed me to the point of feeling physically ill once or twice) to big, bombastic superhero fair (just give me anything with Batman). It’s particularly this last category that I want to focus on, because it was while reading the 2018-onwards run of Justice League that I realised why I’ve been getting so into comics at the moment. They’re currently filling the niche that film used to fill.

You see, folks, I have a little problem when I go and see most films nowadays. The problem is very simple. While I still enjoy movies, that enjoyment is somewhat marred by the fact that NINETY PERCENT OF THE TIME I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING TO HAPPEN! I’m a progressive chap- I’m a commie, a sometime-advocate for fat acceptance (obvs) and I’m viscerally disgusted every time I hear about some fresh injustice perpetrated against non-white ethnic groups by the racist-as-shit American legal system. I’d never call myself a feminist, but I accept that feminism has a point in terms of its broad complaints and aims (I part company from both rad and third wave on a fair number of specifics, but that’s probably just because of my nine foot musical penis). And yet, as most of you already know from my previous spates of bitching and moaning, media wokeness winds me up. It’s not just that it’s obviously insincere and designed to curry favour with an imaginary demographic of humourless wankers- it’s that it also hobbles any story’s ability to surprise or engage meaningfully with its own fictional universe. Give me a list of characters and tell me nothing about them besides skin colour, age and gender, and I’ll tell you who’s going to live, who’s going to die, who’ll be permitted a redemption arc, and who’ll turn out to be a ‘twist’ villain (and I use the term ‘twist’ with heavy-duty sarcasm marks). It’s cloying, constrictive and a death sentence for any kind of creativity. It’s gotten so bad that, whenever a movie does manage to pleasantly surprise me, I have to fight back tears of fucking gratitude. Progressive values are all well and good- I actively subscribe to them myself every time I go out and assassinate a member of the fucking Tory party- but modern movies and telly don’t operate from a place of deeply-held progressive values (or any values). The mainstream media’s ‘wokeness’ is just a tired list of boring tropes that cowardly, talentless screenwriters cling to lest creating something original engender cancellation.

And so, we come to comic books (and on comic books, if they have General Zod in them. Kneel before Zod? I certainly fucking will!). I was about type the words ‘even mainstream comic books are great’ but then I started laughing like the Joker watching a snuff movie, because that would have been an idiotic sentence. You see, while Superhero comics are ‘mainstream’ in the sense that they’re the thing people most associate with the medium, they still have a relatively tiny readership. In fact, I suspect that requiring their audience to know how to read is the main barrier to entry nowadays- it seems like something of a lost art.

The point is that I’ve been reading the ‘Justice/Doom War’ arc in Justice League and I’ve noticed something about it. It has a huge, diverse cast of characters from different ethnic and socioeconomic backgrounds, different genders and different belief systems and walks of life… and not even one of them is an insufferable twat defined only by their relative privilege or oppression! To give you an example, Green Lantern John Stewart is a heroic space cop who happens to be black, but the plot never grinds to a halt so he can give us a lecture on race dynamics in modern America. He’s too busy using constructs of solid light to smash the ever-loving crap out of pan-dimensional cosmic monsters. When the plot does slow down to give him time to breathe, we learn more about his conflicted yet complementary history as both a soldier and an architect than we do about his skin colour. I mean, it’s not like it never comes up- the DC universe has some ties to reality and characters do occasionally find themselves on the receiving end of racism, but if it’s not relevant to what’s happening, the story doesn’t bend over backwards to include it. Conversely, Batman is a rich white dude, but the story never feels the need to ‘hold him accountable’. His main arc at the moment is about learning to be a good father figure to a sentient, telepathic starfish who wants to be the next Robin (yeah… the 2018 run is gloriously fucking weird). Hey! Here’s another example! On the surface, Hawkgirl is the epitome of the ‘strong female character’ beloved by modern media: a ferocious, take-no-shit warrior woman with countless lifetimes of carefully-honed experience. But she’s not some bloody sexless, characterless archetype designed as a flag for empowerment rather than a person: she’s a fully-developed character. She has complex internal motivations; she has romantic feelings for Martian Manhunter; she experiences grief and loss and is changed by them; she makes mistakes that she then has to triumph over. She doesn’t get to win just because she’s the first person on hand with a clitoris- she actually has to work and go through a character arc. Surprising and sometimes unpleasant things happen to her, making her a sympathetic and interesting character who I actually want to see triumph.

I could go on… and on… and on… and on… pretty much forever. I could probably write an entire essay just on how Lex Luthor uses his wealth for selfish ends even while purporting to represent a higher cause while Batman embodies an idealised version of how those with power and money should use it for the greater good. I could talk about how Superman is both effectively an immigrant and the most endearingly Rockwellian slice of walking Americana one can imagine. I could write fucking books on what the character of Perpetua says about the modern world’s complex relationship with faith and fanaticism and where the line is drawn.

But the real point is that I don’t know what’s going to happen next! Character who would never be allowed to triumph under their own power in movies succeed. Characters who would never be allowed to fail in movies get broken by horrible events and circumstances. Arcs are never what I expect them to be about, but always make sense when I look back and consider what I know about the character’s personality. It’s wonderfully refreshing in a way we just don’t get to see much nowadays… and I started to wonder why comics are so much better than everything else going on at the moment.

I was recently reading an Editorial in Metal Hurlant (basically the French 2000AD- a comic anthology of sci-fi and horror tales published on a monthly basis). The top brass were bemoaning the niche-ness of the comic book medium, asserting that comics should be promoted in bookstores and literary circles; that there should be a widespread push for them to reach a readership and audience that traditionally don’t engage with pulp culture (my term, not theirs). And what I realised is that this would be a terrible, terrible idea- because the main reason comics are so good is because they’re niche; their small; their disposable. Consider, if you will, the mainstream film industry. A big part of the reason that it mainly produces hot garbage is that it’s too big to take risks. Hollywood (for want of a better catch-all term) has spent its entire life-cycle pursuing larger and larger audiences so it can fund more and more epic blockbusters with bigger names and bigger, bolder FX. It’s a cycle of abuse in which each new generation of films has to outperform the generation before it. Meanwhile, because the audiences have to be so vast, the people making the flicks don’t think of those audiences as individual people with specific interests and ideas and a desire to be challenged and entertained. They think of them, instead, as demographic swathes; undifferentiated and united by broad, base commonalities that each project has to play to. But people aren’t demographics and the movie industry is currently getting a royal drubbing for its decades of ever-increasing contempt-of-the-viwer. Disney in particular is haemorrhaging money because it thought it would be a good idea to make Star Wars and Indiana Jones films and telly shows for a generic set of imagined demographics instead of people who actually like those franchises and are interested in the themes and ideas that go with them. As much as watching Disney fail gives me the warm fuzzies, I have to ask: who in their right mind would wish this fate on comics?

You see, folks, comics do sell plenty of copies- more than enough to justify the fairly modest expense of printing the darned things) but the overall audience for any one title is less than half the audience for any given major film release (I did some research and applied some maths that I won’t bore you with, but the absolute top selling comic books of recent years sold under a quarter million copies overall while an average film from any of the major studios sells around half a million cinema tickets in the US alone- and then there are the DVD and streaming sales on top of that. Notice how the latter number is more than double the former number. Regrettably, data on both films and comics is jealously guarded by vested interests, so I apologise for how ballpark those figures are, mind). Meanwhile the total audience of comics in general is much narrower in certain key respects. Perhaps the most obvious point is this: pretty much everyone who reads comic books is a comic book fan, whereas not everyone who goes to the cinema is a cinephile. But what does that actually mean? Well, for one, it means that comic book readers and writers are more of community- they tend to trust one another more; leaps can be taken that would be considered too chancy when dealing with ‘demographics’. At the same time, however, the writers’ connection to the fans means they have a better sense of when something is going to alienate large sections of their audience or piss people off (something film-makers have proved either bad at or wilfully blind to lately). The result is stories that know what bold ideas they can pursue while also knowing where to draw the line.

I think another reason comics are currently kicking the film industry’s pallid white buttocks in terms of creative merit is that they’re real cheap. Paper on ink is much easier to organise and send forth into the world than a vast audiovisual experience containing hundreds of actors, countless FX and goodness-knows-how-many extras, all put together by an enormous team of people who often never get to meet one another. If I wanted, I could probably write, draw and distribute a limited run of say, fifty comics, for the price of a Payday Loan. I wouldn’t, because it’s not where my talent lies, but the point I’m trying to make is this: companies and distributors are more willing to do interesting things when there’s only pocket change on the line compared to when there’s millions or billions of dollars. It’s why we get comics like Serial Artist (about a dude who claims his paintings are of his murder victims and becomes the centre of a vast government conspiracy) and W0rldtr33 (an ongoing slice of weirdness in which the internet comes to life and starts murdering people). It’s why something comparatively mainstream like Justice League can have an arc about Batman parenting a starfish and why the whole thing becomes Dark Nights: Metal and Death Metal for awhile (the Metal comics are end-of-the-world stuff inspired by- obvs- heavy metal albums… and they’re fucking great). It’s why stuff like Metal Hurlant and 2000AD is given a chance to find readers. So do comics need to be bigger and more widely accepted? Fuck no! The fringe is always where interesting stuff happens and aiming for mainstream acceptability is, it seems to me, a massive trap. The allure of more money and better social status is like one of the bug-zapper lights that draws in the moths and then fries their brains.

But what the fuck is the point of all this rambling? Comics are good- and thank goodness, since a lot of shit isn’t at the moment. There, I got it all down to once sentence, so what was the point of the rest? Well, I suppose there’s a lesson to be learned here. I’m a writer finally starting my career; finally putting work out into the public domain with a real publisher. No, I don’t do comics: I do sci-fi and fantasy books. But the lesson’s still applicable and it’s this: it’s a lot better to be good than popular and sometimes- just sometimes- you really do have to pick between the two.

#Secret Diary of a Fat Admirer #comic books #comics #graphic novels #Justice League #Metal Hurlant #Dark Nights: Metal

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thestalwartheart · 2 years

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Hey!! If you’re willing to do any bond/Moneypenny for the prompts it would be amazing to see you write something for 18 ☺️

omg you absolutely can! This was so much fun to write, so thank you for sending this in!

For others' reference, the prompt was flashing the other.

Read it below or on AO3. Rated M.

On a beach in Tulum. April, 2012.

James Bond has been watching her.

Eve tries not to take it personally. He’s a spy, after all, and apparently one of the agency’s finest, so it makes perfect sense that he’d be curious about a new agent in the field. It would also make sense, given the colour of his skin, the attitude with which he uses what's between his legs, and his, well, vintage charm, that he’d be calculating and judgemental about her. But unlike the others, Bond has never stepped over the line from his mildly cloying watchfulness into downright rudeness.

She doesn't think he has anything against her, at least not consciously. In fact, if Eve had to guess, she might say he’s partial to the colour of her skin. He certainly knows enough about her mother’s homeland to have spent a significant amount of time in the Caribbean. She’d found out as much on her first mission with him in Kingston when he’d identified a tail feather from a Jamaican lizard cuckoo with a single glance, then managed a quick translation of a local conversation from patois.

At the moment, he’s sitting on the balcony of his oceanfront resort room, binoculars moving slowly across the beach. Their target isn’t due here for another fifteen minutes, but both Bond and Eve have been in place for half an hour, lest the bastard decide to break from the daily routine that’s ruled his last two weeks here.

Confident that Bond will tell her if there’s movement, Eve enjoys the water as she scouts the rest of the private beach’s inhabitants. The sea is turquoise blue and shockingly clear, reflecting the same cloudless blue of the sky they’ve been looking at all week. She’d never quite believed the stories of luxury and exclusivity that echoed around the halls of MI6, at least not until this mission when they’d turned up to this five-star resort with more money to flaunt than Eve might see in three lifetimes.

“Enjoying the view?” teases Eve into her earpiece as she emerges from the water.

“Immensely,” answers Bond.

The binoculars linger on her for a near-imperceptible moment before moving to a busty woman further down the beach who is very busy being ignored by her leathery crone of a husband.

Right. 007 likes the married ones, M had told her. Do try to steer him away from anything that might get us into trouble.

An idea sparks—a risky one. Bond is Eve’s official handler on this mission. If it were anyone else, she might be walking into an HR nightmare. But there are no cameras recording her here (out of necessity, of course), and neither she nor Bond would be agents if they were the type to run to a gaggle of bureaucrats over a bit of teasing.

So a tease it is.

“I think we can do better,” she purrs.

He’s on the verge of a quip when she unties her mango-coloured bikini top and tosses it carelessly to the ground. Aside from levelling him with a smile and a wink, she does little else. There’s no need for hair-tossing or parading around with Bond. She’d only overplay her hand.

A pleasant hum moves under her skin. Exhibitionism has never really been her thing, but she won’t deny the pleasure of attention. Of Bond’s, especially. His binoculars are squarely on her now, and likely zoomed in rather dangerously, given their target is due any minute.

She allows him another moment to look before lowering herself, belly-down, onto the towel at her feet. There, she opens her previously-discarded book, and her eyes trip over the first line as she hears a small, amused huff on the other end of her earpiece.

“Well, that’s certainly an arresting sight.” Yet, after a pause, Bond is back to business. “Let’s hope our target thinks so too.”

Eve looks up to the resort’s exit. A man emerges, talking on a mobile phone. He’s tall, tanned, and muscled. And he’s also wanted in eighteen countries for crimes too horrific to detail on a clear day such as this.

“Don’t worry,” Eve says lightly, rolling over. She can see the moment their target’s eyes latch onto her. “I’m an excellent trap.”

In front of her, the waves roll in with a hiss.

#james bond fanfiction #my fic #prompts #bond x moneypenny

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newsiegirlscribbles · 1 year

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Lest Your Name Be Forgotten

Once upon a time, there was a young boy whose eyes were forever bright with curiosity and wonder.

The boy would ask question after question, delighted by each answer and tickled by each that had yet to be explained. Though he had the same deep brown eyes as his sisters, his hair was as red as the apples that hung heavy on the trees surrounding their cottage, and thus when he ran off, as he did often, they looked for him first by the bright red of his hair, and once he was older, by the bright red hood of the cloak his grandmother stitched for him.

"My curious red riding hood, there are monsters in these woods." she would murmur, gently pressing a kiss to his head. Still, he would hold his wooden sword high and declare, "Then I shall slay them, all but one, so he may know what I have done!"

All too soon as the seasons changed, the harvest grew scarce, and the apple trees Red loved now grew withered and had a cloying scent like poison. Soon, their visits to bring food to their grandmother grew thinner and thinner, until the day their parents finally told them to remain in the house at any cost while they went to find help. The mother was a spinner, and the father a woodsman, and thus they believed they could find work and wood for the hearth.

"Don't open the door", they said, "Until one of our hands rests on this porthole." Yet the nights grew longer, his sisters' hold on his shoulder a bit tighter, and when the fire burned low, soon, the time came for each of them in turn to go out to gather firewood.

"I shall get the firewood!" Red said, but his eldest sister shook her head and took up the lantern.

"No, little one. You don't yet have the strength to carry an axe. I shall get the firewood, and may I be blessed for a safe return."

She was gone for three days following the twisted, dark trail. The cold winds bit at her cloak and the dead roots bit at her ankles the first day, but still, she found no trees.

The second day of walking, she scarcely stopped to spare a thought of home, so tired were her feet from walking. The sharp winds bit at her cloak and the thorny roots bit at her ankles, but she didn't feel it.

The third day of walking, she forgot she had a home altogether, and absently wondered why anybody would mind the tree roots that twisted and skipped over the trail in the path of anything once living. The third day, the eldest sister had no thought of what it was meant to be human, or to be anything besides walking.

Red and the younger sister grew only colder and hungrier, and so the decision was made for her to leave, carrying a candle to guide her and a hatchet upon her back as she called for her sister.

On the first day, the cold winds bit at her cloak, and the dead roots bit at her ankles. She called until long after Red could hear her.

On the second day, Red thought he saw glowing golden eyes reflected in the windows and a pattern of footfall like rain upon the earth outside his cottage. He held his wooden sword tight, and bit back the tears that pricked at his eyes.

On the third day, a hand white and soft as a dove rested on the porthole, and Red's heart fluttered as he dashed to the door, flinging it open with a bang. Before him, however, a wolf towered over him, his sister's cold hand in his wolfish grin.

"Foolish little riding hood," he chuckled, "There are monsters in these woods." Red scooted back, but the edge of his wooden sword caught the last of the fire's embers and he struck it deep into the wolf's chest.

"Then I shall slay them--" he cried, but the wolf only chuckled and shouldered the embers. "All but one", the wolf sang, dropping the hand, "So he may tell what I have done."

With a flick of his tail, he was gone, and Red dashed to his grandmother's, hopping lightly over ever tree root and scarcely feeling the cold frost as it whipped at his bare shoulders.

Just outside the cottage, he heard his sisters' laughter, the youngest playing jacks and the oldest intertwined with singing. With his sword high, he threw open the door, and his grandmother smiled.

"Why, my curious red riding hood!" she sang with a twinkle in her eyes, "I'd give you kingdoms, if I could!"

But her eyes glowed golden, and the candles were extinguished by the draft from the door, and Red knew that she was gone.

"Though no kingdoms we can share", he responded quietly, "We'll build our castles in the air."

The thing that was not his grandmother laughed, and too quickly came the rapid footfall as she scampered across the bed.

"What delight, and what surprise!" she chirped, snuffling at his basket, "What have you brought before my eyes?"

"The tallow's burned, lest you should see,

But you wished in death, and I am he."

Red drove his sword in the same place that was seared from the heat, and screamed with anger. A woodsman, happening nearby, dashed in, and hearing the scream, and the boy covered in wolf's blood and fur by his flickering lantern light, wasted not a moment throwing his axe at the child, thinking him to be a wolf himself.

Red cowered as he was kicked hard against the wall and the pain exploded in his ribcage. But before he could blink, a flash of gold slunk behind the huntsman and he fell violently.

Red, clutching his sword, somehow grew only more frightful. At last, the shadow took the lantern and brushed over the man's coat for splinters. When the lantern was rekindled, he saw her properly: a girl about his age, with golden curls and a cast-iron frying pan.

In the last flash of light, the wolf's tail flashed over the window.

#white rabbit #red rider

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thestraggletag · 2 years

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Competitive Streaks, a RSS Fic

Rating: M/E

Summary: There were things that were so routine in the little town of Storybrooke that everyone could set their watch to them, and Mr Gold wining the annual winter cake competition was one of them. Until newcomer Belle French took his prize and with it, his sanity.

This year he would get them both back, no matter the cost.

A/N: It is I, @of-princes-and-savages, Santa Bob! Hoping you had the best Xmas ever. I’m currently on holidays so I set this up on the 17th so it would automatically post for you. I hope you enjoy it! I had a blast doing stupid amounts of research on cakes and writing Gold’s impish inner voice.

Prompt: Baking mitts, “last year’s incident.”

Here is the recipe for Belle’s cake, btw, and here’s a recipe for Gold’s own favourite.

The kitchen timer, a black egg timer Neal had gifted him years ago, dinged, breaking the absolute silence of the kitchen. As quick as his bum leg would let him, Rowan rushed to the oven, turning the light on to peer inside. Satisfied with what he saw he opened the oven and took the tray out. The ladyfingers splayed across it looked as good as they possibly could, their light-golden colour spot on. Once they cooled he would cut them and shape them to make the bottom and sides of his Charlotte. The strawberry cream filling was already prepared and cooling in the fridge so that the gelatin set right.

As he waited for the cookies to cool he glanced towards his kitchen aisle, where a couple of small chocolate cakes were sitting, waiting to be topped with a generous helping of creme fraiche. He wouldn’t know until he cut into them and tasted them, but already from the outside they did not look very promising. Not dark enough, and the smell didn’t have that hint of something that he was looking for. That something that had been eluding him for months.

It took him a couple more hours to have his Strawberry Charlotte Cake ready, taking care to arrange the strawberries at the top with utmost precision, picking only the ones that looked best. Presentation was important, after all. By the time it was fully assembled he had also finished his small chocolate cakes, swirling creme on top of them in the most alluring way possible. He then cut into them carefully and took a bite of one, cleansed his palette with some cucumber sorbet, and then took a bite of the other. They were both exemplary chocolate cakes, not too sweet or cloying, the cream a fresh contrast to the intense flavour of the cake. They were also both a disappointment, nowhere close to what he had been hoping for.

He left the Charlotte for after dinner, trying to give it its best chance. And though it looked great and the flavour was good, fantastic even, it was not enough. Not enough to beat her, at least.

Fucking Belle French, he thought sourly as he cleaned his kitchen. Though a person came every morning to set his house to rights he didn’t want Mrs Potts to find proof of his secretive baking, lest she draw some rather accurate conclusions.

‘Oh, wouldn’t that be lovely?’

He swatted at the air, as if he could physically shoo that pesky inner voice away. He acknowledged, for what felt like the umpteenth time, that Belle French was, objectively, attractive. Very attractive. Everything about her, from her lustrous chestnut hair to her dainty feet, was perfect. And yes, she happened to be exactly his type, a petite brunette with bright eyes, a good sense of fashion and the ability to bandy words with him at all times. So what? All that did not matter because Belle French, with her flirty skirts and heart-stopping heels, was the enemy. The person who had publicly humiliated him a year ago. And, as such, all sexual fantasies about her were strictly forbidden.

‘We’ll see if you’re still playing that tune later tonight.’

He dropped the cake ring he was washing on the sink, the sound of metal hitting metal unpleasant and jarring. He finished tidying up the kitchen with a bit more aggression than was probably warranted, boxing up the cakes to leave in the fridge. Dove would drive by later and discreetly dispose of them. Some he took home, some he took to his knitting circle in Portland and some he knew he took to an animal shelter for the people who volunteered there. Dove was a master secret-keeper, and the person who sourced him the baking ingredients he could not get locally, so he had no problems with him knowing about the cakes.

He grabbed his notepad once the kitchen was left spotless, comparing the entrances in his recipe book with the list of cakes he had.

“The Linzer torte was good, but not great.” He crossed out the name on the list, thinking the cake might be too old-fashioned for today’s palate. Likewise, the Swedish Princess cake, though pretty, did not pack enough punch in terms of flavour. On the opposite end of the spectrum the Rogel had been more than good, but too sweet for what he knew the people of Storybrooke were used to.

He still had some other recipes he could try, but most had candied fruit in them and that wasn’t popular around town either. Nor were simple fares, like a traditional Victoria sponge, like the one his aunties had taught him first. Though it was a personal favourite it was not a winner, which was why Miss French’s cake winning over his impressive entrance of last year- a superbly-decorated and time-consuming Mille Feuille, was particularly egregious.

He flipped the page to another list of cakes, all of them chocolate cakes of some kind. German chocolate cake, chocolate butterscotch cake, sachertorte… the list was endless, and most of them were scratched out. Some were good, some were great, but none of them were… it.

He told himself he wasn’t obsessed. It was simply that in the great scheme of things though winning the annual prize for Best Cake at the Storybrooke Winter Fair wasn’t much, it was still part of his image, and said image had suffered a decided blow last year. He had been publicly humiliated, there were no ifs or buts about it, and he needed to set the record straight.

‘Oh, please, this had nothing to do with cake or chocolate… Well, not unless you’re thinking about spreading some across Belle French’s skin. The colour contrast alone would be divine.’

“Stop that.”

Imp, his black Cornish Rex, looked up at him from where he was cleaning his paws on one of the stools surrounding his kitchen island. He was quite a sight to behold, big-eared and black as coal, with his strangely-curled hair that reminded him of a lamb’s coat. He had found him at the shelter years ago, scrawny, lame and not exactly fond of people. Perfect, in short. His appearance was so odd that he didn’t exactly have to fight the shelter to adopt him, rather the contrary. Though he had gotten a cat mostly to avoid talking to himself alone in his big home once Neal moved out he soon discovered that, though he was fonder of dogs, cats had their charms. And imp, especially. He was smart as a whip, respectful of his antiques and possessed a strong hatred for anyone wearing a nun outfit. Apparently he had been found by the nuns at their convent, and had broken his hip as a result of one of them using a broomstick to “rescue” him from a tree. Though the injury had healed he walked with a more sinuous gait, looking a bit like a cat that was pretending to be a snake.

“Wasn’t talking to you, little devil. Though you know you’re not supposed to be up the kitchen furniture.”

He had tried to set bounds at first, when he had just adopted Imp. Stupid of him, in retrospective. To remind him of it Imp climbed from the stool onto the island, looking at him as if daring him to do something about it. Discipline him in some way. As if he knew, which he probably did, that he would never be able to. Neal had also learned that lesson as a child, but being the kind lad he was had never abused the knowledge… much.

He stared back at his notebook, wondering what his next step would be. It was November already, not a lot of time left to find his new entry recipe. He had scoured the internet for whatever baking tips and recipes could help him and had exhausted his own research material, the books he had accumulated on the topic over the course of a lifetime. But the library, he reminded himself, had a rather large selection of cooking books. In a town with very few delivery or dining-out options and full of people of a certain age that thought the internet “too scary”, cookbooks were a must, and Miss French had taken pride in enlarging the selection to include a more diverse cuisine. It made sense to take advantage of it, and though perhaps with another librarian he would have thought to send Dove Miss French would see right through the ruse and know immediately who the books were for. So of course he had to go in person.

‘Every second you spend lying to yourself is a second less you have to be in the library, so let’s just get past this trite bit of self-denial, shall we? Chop chop, dearie!’

It was normal, he told himself, to have an inner voice. And given his upbringing an inner voice was the most benign coping mechanism he could have developed. Checking the time he closed up his shop, knowing that he kept irregular enough hours that no one would be surprised about him closing early, and went across the street to the library. It wasn’t a very impressive building, but it was old and well-maintained. Miss French had clearly fought to preserve its original charm while also pushing for modernisations like a computer room and better heating. It was still modest, but very well-kept and decorated. Nothing like the “enchanted forest but from the villain’s perspective” aesthetic that the mayor favoured and tended to be predominant in other town buildings.

“Oh, Mr Gold, hi!”

Belle French smiled down at him from atop a ladder, busy reshelving books. She had taken off her Burberry booties, her stockinged feet giving her a bit more stability on top of the ladder. She was wearing a long-sleeved dress that was demure for her taste, though it still left a lot of silk-clad legs bare. Her stockings had a marked black seam on the back, one that inexorably drew his eyes to the back of her thigh.

‘Interesting research you’re doing there, dearie. Wonder how memorising the exact shape of the librarian’s calves is going to improve your baking.’

Fucking shut up.

“How can I help you?”

He watched her bend over to put her shoes back on, adding a fair bit of height in the process. And though the shoes made her legs look lovely he found himself missing the height difference between them and the… feelings it had stirred in him.

She’s the enemy, he reminded himself. It was hard to keep that at the forefront of his mind sometimes. A lot of times. Most of them, in fact.

“I was just… browsing. I find myself with a bit of time in-between projects, and nothing in my own library strikes my fancy currently.”

At the mention of his library her eyes glittered, which made him feel absurdly proud.

“You have a library? Is it big? How many books do you have? Are there any first editions you might one day be persuaded to let a local librarian examine?”

The smile about her lips and her tone let him know she was teasing about that last part and not inviting himself into his home, and yet once put there the idea wouldn’t leave his head. Belle French in his home, looking at his books, perhaps sipping a glass of wine. Her shoes off, hair down, a picture of content domesticity.

‘Could show her your room next. That dress would look lovely on your hardwood floor.’

“Yes, well, I store most of my first editions at the shop. I would be happy to show them to you if you ever swung by.”

Where had that come from? He never invited people into his shop. Only desperate people wandered in, and only to make deals. His antique sales happened online or at private shows.

“That would be lovely. We’ll have to arrange that someday. Now, what can I help you with, Mr Gold? What are you in the mood for?”

‘Her legs around your waist would be a good start, wouldn’t it? Perhaps that rosy mouth around your-’

Fucking shut up!!!

“I think I’ll just browse and see what catches my eye.”

“As you wish. You can ask me about any of the books, especially in the fiction section.”

Though he had thought at first to quickly get lost in the stacks and then slowly wander towards the cooking section after picking up a thriller or two. But wouldn’t it be better if he pretended to really be looking for reading material? Wouldn’t it fool the librarian more if he honestly engaged her in conversation about books?

‘Yes, everything in the name of authenticity.’

It was frightfully easy to engage her in conversation once he made his mind up to do it. She seemed open to it, eager even, and knowledgeable about most books that caught his eye. She was, truly, a bibliophile, her interests diverse and extensive, and not limited to more traditional western literature. It was refreshing to be able to talk about Cortázar or Galeano with someone, and the look on her face told him she felt likewise. She told him about a disastrous blind date arranged by a helpful-but-misguided Ruby where her prospective beau- local small town sensation Gaston Legume- had agreed enthusiastically with her when she mentioned liking Benedetti only for her to later realise he meant eggs Benedict. The way he howled with laughter at the surprising punchline eased the unexpected sting he had felt at the mention of the librarian having a blind date. Not that he cared, or rather he cared only in the sense of how her emotional state would affect her ability to compete. If she didn’t present an entry for this year’s cake contest, then he would not be able to beat her.

It was all there was to it, really.

“The worst thing is I do like eggs Benedict. But that wasn’t the conversation I thought I was having. When I clarified and mentioned he was a Uruguayan writer he pulled a face and mentioned having no interest in Asian literature. I didn’t know whether to be amused or appalled.”

Rowan himself did not have such ambivalence, laughing as he imagined Gaston Legume’s college professors being persuaded to pass the oaf on account of his prowess as an athlete. A shoulder injury had left him out of professional football, which in turn had meant he had moved back to Storybrooke after somehow graduating. And though he was surely sad to see his dreams of fame and glory be so unfairly thwarted, he seemed to console himself with the notion that he was a big fish in a small pond when it came to dating, a small town celebrity that could have any woman he wanted. Apparently no one had told Belle French that, and he did not want to explore why that made him feel excited or exhilarated.

“I’m amazed you didn’t laugh him out of the restaurant, dearie. Mr Legume’s literary interests begin and end with Sports Illustrated and even that is a bit of a struggle.”

It was a mean thing to say, the sort of dark, biting humour most people in Storybrooke found off-putting. The librarian, nevertheless, laughed.

“I imagine he likes it for the pictures.” At his shocked look she shrugged, studying the book she was about to shelve before offering it to him instead. “I would feel bad for speaking so ill of someone’s limited intelligence, but Gaston is a bully. Kept making fun of our waiter for pronouncing Italian words correctly and was surprisingly racist for a person trying to make a good first impression on a date. I shudder to think what he’s like when he gets comfortable with someone.”

He found himself following her around as she shelved books, almost unconsciously seeking to extend their talk. She didn’t seem opposed to it, which was a bit of a novel experience, and before he knew it it was closing time and she was reluctantly herding him towards the circulation desk so she could check out his selected books, amongst which he had managed to get one related to baking, in spite of completely forgetting what he had gone into the library for. It was all surely part of Miss French’s strategy. Be all prim and proper, nice and easygoing, smart and fascinating-

And the enemy. The enemy.

“I hope to see you again soon, Mr Gold. Enjoy the books!”

He had it. He was pretty sure… no, absolutely sure. This was it. The winning recipe. A toffee apple cake, seasonal to a fault and decorated with ribbons of spun sugar on top. It was the perfect cake for a cold day in front of a roaring fire, combining all the traditional flavours of winter: cinnamon, apples, ginger and a touch of brandy. Not enough to be noticeable, but enough to give more depth to the flavour. Belle French’s chocolate decadence may have stolen the show last year, but it would not be able to hold a candle to his entry this time. Perhaps, once things were set to rights and the proper order was restored, he could invite Miss French to his shop for a piece of his cake. She would see she had lost to a clearly superior entry and he hoped the sweetness of the cake would take a bit of the sting out of it. Maybe he could show her his collection of first editions then, and have some more of that scintillating conversation he had gotten used to when doing research for his new cake.

It hadn’t been easy to nail the right recipe, so several other trips to the library had been required. And because he did not wish to tip his hand he had been forced to check out more than just baking books, for which he had needed recommendations. It had left him no other choice but to further engage the librarian in conversation and it had been… pleasant. More than, actually. Comfortable but exciting too, the highlight of many of his days. Belle French was cultured but easygoing, with a sense of humour much like his own and an affinity for playful banter.

He had chided himself often for lingering around the library for longer than was warranted, but now that he knew he had the right cake and his win was all but assured he thought that indulging a bit couldn’t hurt. Besides, he had books to return, so it wasn’t like he didn’t need to go to the library in any case. As always he waited till it was almost evening, around the time most people in Storybrooke were back at home and few were likely to think about paying a visit to the library. It was perhaps a bit later than usual by the time he closed his shop and headed over, but he knew Miss French liked to keep late closing hours and it was nicer, when it was a bit late and it was just the two of them. Cosy, almost.

The first thing he noticed when he went into the library was the dim lighting. Clearly Miss French was in the process of closing up. The second thing he noticed was that it smelled heavenly inside, the heavy scent of chocolate hanging in the air, along with coffee and a hint of something fresh, like cream.

“Mr Gold, what a pleasant surprise!”

Miss French came out of her office with a dainty apron tied around her waist, the sort that was either associated with idyllic little housewives or naughty French maids. She appeared neither and both at the same time and he was a bit taken aback at how much of a turn-on the inherent domesticity of the sight was. What the fuck was wrong with him?

“You’re just in time! Christmas is coming up and the baking contest is looming close so I’ve been practising, trying to see if I could tweak last year’s entry a bit to improve the flavour. I’ve left the result cooling off in my office and was wondering what to do with it, since I couldn’t possibly eat it all. I would be very grateful if you could stay and share a piece with me, as long as you don’t tell anyone I’ve ignored my own rule about food and drink inside the library. I’ll even throw in a cup of coffee. What do you say?”

What could he say, when he was still processing the absolutely divine smell that wrapped itself around him? Whatever sound he made must have vaguely sounded like a yes, because she smiled, the sort of open, full-on smile no one ever threw his way, and ducked back into the office to arrange the cake and coffee, he assumed. Meanwhile he was left trying to pull himself together. Yes, a beautiful woman who he was attracted to had just invited him to a cosy, intimate meal together. Yes, the library’s light was definitely on the low and romantic side. And yes, the librarian was more friendly with him than what he was used to. No need to read anything into it, however. No need to make a mountain out of a molehill. Miss French was simply a very open and friendly person.

‘You’re about to taste her cream, dearie, might as well call her Belle.’

He choked on air, trying to disguise it as a cough when the librarian came back out with two slices of chocolate cake with creme fraiche and two cups of coffee on a tray, along with a sugar bowl and a small milk pitcher. She set the tray down in one of the small tables by the window, preparing their cups before sitting down and cutting into her cake. It was a strangely-intimate experience, watching her eat, made even more so by the way she closed her eyes after the first bite and sighed in bliss.

‘Isn’t that an invigorating sight?’

In an effort to distract himself he shoved a piece of cake into his mouth, which turned out to be a mistake. It was… amazing. Transcendental. Orgasmic. Beyond what he remembered. It seemed that a year had allowed him to erase from his mind just how good that fucking cake was. White hot fury rose in him, accompanied by an alarming spike of lust. He hated Belle French. He wanted to fuck her. It was very confusing, whatever dark feeling was taking over him.

In front of him the librarian, innocent and carefree, kept eating, making small sounds that went straight to his groin. She did not seem to notice anything was amiss, making small talk about the weather and how pleasant it had been to have him visit her so often lately. Meanwhile he was having what he imagined was the world’s most silent mental breakdown. Fuck. Fuck. How could he have forgotten how good that cake tasted? How had he allowed himself to downplay his crush on Belle French? His attraction to her? There she was, sitting trustingly across from him, feeding him cake and completely unaware that all he wanted to do was strip her naked and have her in every horizontal surface around. Wanted to spread some of that creme fraiche on her skin and lick it off, hear her make little sounds of pleasure as he ate her out, the taste of her mingling with the aftertaste of the cake. Just imagining it was making his mouth water.

“Mr Gold, are you alright?”

As he forced himself to choke out a “Perfectly” he realised he needed to get out of there. Otherwise he was bound to do something untoward, like shout at the librarian or press her up against a wall, ankle be damned, and fuck her senseless. Or try, only to be rightfully slapped for his impertinence, leaving whatever bit of good faith she had for him quashed. Making rather a spectacle of it he glanced at his watch, mumbled something that he hoped convey he was late to something and scrambled to his feet, his ankle throbbing in protest as he hightailed it out of the library. The crisp evening air, so cold he could see his breath, went a long way towards calming him down, but he didn't dare linger outside much, choosing instead to go straight back to his shop. He would tinker with something or the other until it was late enough to venture home undisturbed.

He forced himself to putter around the shop, tidying up bits and ends and moving things from place without much rhyme or reason. Perhaps the wisest thing would be to simply call it quits and sleep in the cot in the backroom, surely it made more sense to bunk in for the night and leave early in the morning, too early to be spotted by anyone. Yes, that sounded-

“Mr Gold?”

He startled, only then registering the knocks on his shop door. For a wild second he wondered whether he could simply not answer, pretend he wasn’t there. But it was impossible, of course. She could surely see the light from the inside even through the drawn curtains, and if she knew what to look for would be able to spot his Caddy parked on the side of the shop, in the alleyway. No, there was no hiding from her, but he surely could muster enough disdain to chase her away. He yanked the door open, hoping that the violence of the action would scare her into at least stepping a few feet away from his door, but there was no fear in Belle French’s eyes, only concern.

“Mr Gold, you went away so suddenly I got worried. Are you okay?”

He wasn’t, he wanted to tell her, and it was all her fault. With her great baking skills and her blue eyes and her soft skin… she was driving him mad. And he didn’t understand it.

“I brought you some more cake, you barely got to touch yours, I thought perhaps you could take it home and give it a try when you’re less busy.”

She had to be mocking him, he reasoned as his nose registered the smell of the cake nestled inside a thin cardboard leftover container. It had to be on purpose, there was no way he was this unlucky.

“What the bloody hell is in this cake?” He knew the moment the words left his mouth, irreparably twisted by his thickening accent, that all form of self-control, trapped as he seemed to be in his tiny shop with a gorgeous woman he had been low-key fantasising about shagging for weeks and a piece of decadent chocolate cake he wanted to lick off her naked stomach, had been irreparably lost. The idea of pulling himself together was laughable and he accepted it with the slightest bit of dread settling on the pit of his stomach.

“I’ve been trying to figure it out for months. Months. Been through every fucking chocolate cake recipe there is, scoured every bloody cooking book in the library for tips or secrets or anything that might replicate that flavour… and nothing. It’s driving me fucking insane.”

He took a few steps away from her, needing the room to pace, to brood. He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t organise his thoughts enough to find a way out of that mess, a way to stop himself before he said too much, if he hadn’t already.

“It’s all you. You’re driving me mad.” He knew what was coming but could not seem to stop himself. In a way it felt almost liberating. “I haven’t known peace since you arrived, with your long legs and pretty laugh. And the way you smile at me, as if I’m not the town monster. You came in and changed it all around and I just want to set things right, to win the damn cake contest-” Yes, the cake, he needed to get back on track and talk about the cake. “And I just can’t figure out what sort of fucking magic you put in this cake. It’s fucking twisting me around. I want to gorge myself on this cake, eat it off your skin-” Wait, what? “I mean, I just wanna know what the fuck’s in it so I can get my sanity back.”

He didn’t dare look at her face, afraid of what he would find there. Fear? Possibly. Disgust? For sure. And yet she took a tentative step towards him, her hand hovering in the air, as if she was contemplating touching him. Comfort him. And he couldn’t figure out why. When he finally dared look into her eyes there was something in there, but it wasn’t fear or distaste. It was something he couldn’t quite identify and the uncertainty seemed to make him angrier.

“Why aren’t you scared? Repulsed? Why don’t you run from me, avoid me?” His tone was an interesting mix between accusatory and awestruck. “Everyone else in this damned town does it. Got a hard-earned reputation that, though exaggerated, I can guarantee you is at least partly earned. I am sure everyone who you’ve met has warned you about me, about steering clear of the town monster. And yet you haven’t. You welcome me into the library with a bright smile and let me follow you around like a damn puppy around and make conversation as if you genuinely enjoy my company and I don’t understand it. What’s the angle? What’s the catch? Or is it that you’re not taking the rumours seriously? Because I can assure you, you should.”

In a desperate attempt to make her flee, and secretly perhaps prove that Miss French felt for him was nothing other than polite friendliness and perhaps a hint of pity, he pressed her, cornering her against the shop door in an effort to get her to show her unease. Her eyes widened, and something flickered inside them. Something that might have looked like fear at first, but wasn’t. Something that made his gut tighten with something other than apprehension.

“It’s true what they say about me, dearie. I’m a monster. A monster that could eat you up.”

His growled the last bit, his Scottish burr wrapping around the words, making him sound dangerous, the way he had had to sound growing up on the wrong side of Glasgow. Belle whimpered, the sound deafening in the quiet of the room, and he wondered if he had finally managed to get his point across.

“Yes, please.”

“What?”

He paused, trying to see where he had gone wrong, where he had failed to properly process what was going on. He dared to look at the librarian’s face, up from her flushed neck to her wide eyes, pupils blown wide, taking in her shallow breathing and the way her body was angled towards him. And then it hit him like a tonne of bricks… Was the librarian attracted to him?

‘Ding, ding, ding, give the man a prize. But honestly, dearie, you’re so late to the party you might as well be doing the cleaning up.’

“You can’t tell me that you haven’t noticed me flinging myself at you.” He hoped his completely baffled expression conveyed loudly how much he hadn’t noticed. How absolutely clueless he had been. “I’ve been more than obvious, thought I was making a fool out of myself. But… you kept coming back. And lingering. So I thought you might… feel the same way? Or at least be interested?”

He broke out of his embarrassing stupor to nod enthusiastically, because he was very much interested, all shock aside, and he didn’t want to give her the wrong impression on that front. His behaviour certainly would lend itself to confusion, his kinda panicky expression and lack of any physical reciprocation hinting more towards a gentle but firm rejection than anything else. And he needed her to understand that he felt quite the opposite to that, most passionately, but words seemed to refuse to come out of his mouth with any form of coherence, his mind too scattered to churn out anything that made any sense.

‘That mouth of yours can explain itself in other ways, dearie.’

And as much as he had fought his inner voice tooth and nail when it came to Belle French he found himself for the first time seeing the wisdom in what it had suggested. He dipped his head down, brushing his lips against the still-parted ones of the librarian, and held his breath, his courage taking him only so far. If she gave any indication of being uncomfortable or not receptive he would pull back and apologise, immediately, and hopefully she-

“Finally.”

With that word, sighed between the sliver of air between their lips, the librarian leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her mouth firmly against his. Bold little creature she was, fisting her hands on his hair and pressing her body against his and thank God for that, for the bravery that drove her to pull him close and angle his face so that she could kiss him all the more thoroughly. It was a brutal and delightful assault on the senses and he yielded to it completely, keeping one hand anchored to his cane to keep himself upright while he let his other one roam, finding its way underneath the librarian’s still winter coat to explore the softness of her. She was wearing a woollen dress cinched at the waist by a wide leather belt, the bodice too modest to allow him to feel anything but the barest warmth from her skin. Undeterred, his left hand travelled south, knowing the dress was short, and was quickly rewarded with a handful of pliant thigh, her skin separated from his only by the thin material of her stockings. The way she sighed when he scrapped his blunt fingernails against the back of her leg was music to his ears, the genuine, unaffected sort of validation that stirred the boldness in him. He left her mouth, his lips trailing down her exposed neck, daring to nip her with his teeth the littlest bit.

“Yes, just like that.”

Her breathless praise set him afire, giving him courage he seldom felt around the librarian. Courage enough to wrap his arm around her and manoeuvre her so he was gently herding her towards the back room, where his cot beckoned. He was tired of the constraints that his lame leg provided and wagered he could impress her a little bit if he had full use of both his hands. She didn’t seem opposed, giggling as they stumbled around like newborn colts, too wrapped up in each other to see where they were going. Finally, blessedly, his knees hit the cot and he dropped out of sheer surprise letting go of his cane so he could catch Belle as she tumbled down right on top of him.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! Are you alright?”

The way she said it, with a smile on her red lips and her eyes darkened by passion, didn't speak of pity, nor did it make him feel less, like he usually did when people called attention to his affliction.

“Never better, lass. What about you, don’t you feel a little bit too warm with that big coat on?”

‘Well, look at you, all flirty and daring. Didn’t think you had it in you.’

Belle seemed to be equally surprised and proud, her smile widening as she wiggled on top of him to free herself from her coat.

“I love a man who takes the initiative.”

Soon she was without her coat and tugging at his jacket, reminding him that for all his suave talk of her being “too overdressed” so was he. He always was, and that’s how he usually liked it. Not this time, though. This time his jacket, vest, shirt and undershirt all felt like burdens he desperately needed to shed. Somehow he managed to discard his jacket and resume kissing Belle, feeling her settle above him, both her legs folded around his hips on the cot. The heat of her, even through her bunched-up dress, her underwear and his pants was distinctive and distracting. Without actually meaning to he undid her belt, his hands then fumbling for the zipper of her dress at the back. Finding small buttons instead he whimpered, a sound so despondent he couldn’t fault her for giggling.

“I’ll do yours if you do mine.”

It was an unfair proposition, given he had both a vest and a shirt to tackle, but he was not known to reject a good deal so he eagerly agreed, deft fingers getting to work on the back of her dress as he felt her own hands against his chest, her movements as clumsy and frantic as his own. It felt surreal, something akin to an out-of-body experience and yet it was happening. He wasn’t imagining the way her fingernails scraped against the thin material of his undershirt, looking for the hemline so she could tug the garment up and off his body, or the way her thighs pressed against his hips. Finally, once he could wrestle her damned dress off her body, he had access to most of her skin. It took but a flick of his fingers to undo her bra and he tried hard not to dwell on the stupid spark of pride he felt at that. Instead he pressed one of her breasts against his palm, his other hand busy toying with the scratchy lace edge of her panties. She moaned in response, arching her back to press herself closer to him, her hands wrestling with his much thinner belt till it was undone, and his pants open. She wrapped her right hand around him, hard and hot as he was, and it took all of his willpower not to spill himself right then and there. He struggled to come up with anything in his mind that could cool his ardour, from a recitation of all the dyes he had recently purchased for his restoration work to imagining Leroy the handyman naked. Thankfully that last one was like a bucket of ice water for his mind, providing some much-needed calm for his to gather his wits about.

“Do you… How far do you… I mean, I don’t have protection.”

He hadn’t needed to buy condoms for a while, a fact that he was very much regretting at that moment. Belle, however, did not seem to see any problem with it, nipping at his collarbone before whispering that she had some.

“I was… hopeful, about how things might turn out. Hopeful that something like this might possibly happen.”

Fuck, he didn’t deserve her. And though he had always known that, it felt painfully obvious at that precise moment. How clueless had he been? How fucking blinded by his own self-loathing? He had left her to do all the hard work and take all the risks. He was fucking lucky she had thought him worth it in the end.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

He kissed her then, deep and long, attempting to erase that last sliver of doubt he had heard in her voice, trying to burn the taste of her into his taste buds so that he would never forget. Then he tugged at her underwear, reluctantly letting go of her so she could stand up and shimmy out of it, leaving her only in her thigh-highs. With less elegance than intended he wiggled his way out of his pants and underwear and, after a small pause, bent down to take off his striped socks, exposing his scar-ridden right ankle. It was the first time in years he was so bare in front of a person and though it felt vulnerable and difficult it wasn’t uncomfortable or painful. He felt… safe, with Belle. Not judged. She made no comment of his deformity, though he was sure her eyes flitted over the discoloured scar tissue at least for a second or two. Her eyes, however, did linger on his cock, but with such obvious appreciation and lust that he couldn’t help but feel irrationally flattered.

“Come ‘ere, sweetheart.”

He beckoned her to him, grabbing her by the waist as she leaned against him, forcing him backwards and onto the mattress of the cot. It was small and thin, not exactly built for comfort or strenuous activity, but it would do for a night, or he hoped so. He let himself fall against it, taking pains to accommodate his ankle so it wouldn’t bother him later. Belle, thankfully, did not need any prompting from him to climb after him, leaning down to give him a slow, deep kiss as her hands stroked his chest, travelling south towards his aching cock. It wasn’t until she touched him there that he realised she had grabbed and unwrapped a condom, likely from the pockets of her discarded dress. She expertly rolled it down his shaft, the latex fitting snug but comfortable against his sensitive skin. He forced himself not to fidget, or worse, not to rush things, to grab her and sink into her like some randy bastard not old enough to have learned even the most basic self-control. Which is a bit how he felt. So he told himself to be patient and focused on touching and kissing her wherever he could reach, letting her set the pace as she sank into him inch by inch, slowly. He tried to desensitise himself to the sensation, to ignore it at best as he could as he racked his fingernails against her back and scraped his teeth against her collarbone, focusing on the warmth of her, the taste of her skin. When she sank fully into him, her pelvis flush against him, she paused, wrapping her arms around him and sighing.

“Haven’t felt this stretched in ages.”

The way she said it, with that languid aftertaste of satisfaction, made heat spread across his back and gave him an unbecoming urge to preen. He hid his triumphant smirk in-between the valley of her breasts, telling her how wonderful she felt, how brave she was. How beautiful. Too good for him. She tugged on his hair when he said that last part, clearly displeased with his self-deprecation.

“Hush or I won’t move.”

‘Oh, I love that bit of malice in her.’

He spoke no more words, his throat reduced to producing little better than grunts and moans as she started moving, slowly and tentatively at first but gaining confidence with each thrust. She wasn’t careful because of his leg, seeming to trust him to let her know if he was in any sort of discomfort. But discomfort was the furthest thing from his sensory perception at the time, so overwhelmed he was with growing pleasure, spreading around his body like liquid fire in his veins. Thankfully he could hear her pant and whimper as well, the sounds getting louder and higher-pitched as she chased her own release, bearing down on him harder and harder in an effort to grasp it. And when she did, when she tumbled over the edge, digging her nails on his shoulder blades and sighing his name, he found himself following her, feeling his cock pulsating against her still-fluttering walls before an exquisite sort of pain stole over him, racing up his spine and spreading across his limbs, leaving him warm and lethargic in the aftermath, a pleasant sort of fatigue settling in.

He gathered Belle close as she fell against him, guiding them both so that they were lying down and gathering a couple of folded blankets kept beneath the cot specifically for surprise winter night stays. Though he had always enjoy sex the afterglow had never much enthused him, the idea of being sweaty and sticky with someone else’s skin plastered against his never quite rousing his interest, but there was something both soothing and exhilarating about lying twined around Belle, both of them stark naked under the soft woollen blankets he had managed to wrap around them. The intimacy of it, the feeling of being off in a world of their own, was addictive. They talked quietly about this and that, asking each other small bits of personal information and sharing likes and dislikes, habits and pet-peeves.

“It’s Guinness, by the way.” Belle’s voice sounded delightfully throaty and Australian when she was close to sleep, which distracted him for a moment from what she was saying.

“What’s Guinness?”

“The big secret. My chocolate cake. It’s a Guinness chocolate cake. My mom’s recipe.”

A part of him, the part that had agonised for literal months about the damn cake and the damn contest, sighed in relief at finally knowing, finally being able to put that little mystery to rest. But on the whole he was surprised to find that he didn’t much care. It was a fantastic cake and when Belle presented it again this year it would undoubtedly win, as it should. And he was more than fine with that.

“It’s fucking amazing. Allow me a bit of a kip and then I’ll be hunting down that slice you brought me. Sounds like the perfect thing to have after… well, after.”

She hummed in agreement, stretching a bit against him, like a cat.

“What’s gonna be your entry for this year? Got a new favourite cake to try and beat mine with?”

She said it with a smile, taking any bite out of her words, but it got him thinking.

“I’ve actually never baked my favourite cake for the contest. It’s a Victoria sponge, the first thing my aunties taught me to bake, with homemade jam and all. But it’s not a people-pleaser, it’s got none of the wow factor.”

“I’d like to try it some time. Homemade jam alone sounds amazing.”

He trailed his hand up and down her arm, wondering if he had ever felt so at-ease with someone, so mellow. He tried to remember why the baking contest had ever been important to him in the first place, how he had focused on it so much that he hadn’t seen what was right in front of his eyes.

“I’ll make the Victoria sponge for this year’s entry. Won’t win any prizes, but that’s just as well. We’ll get to enjoy it at home.”

He was almost slipping into sleep, but could not miss the way Belle’s lips curled into a smile against the skin of his neck.

“Was that you asking me out on a date? At your house?”

He startled, but there was no panic at the realisation of what he had said, only a sliver of surprise.

“I suppose it was.”

“I’d love to, then.”

#rumbelle #of-princes-and-savages #rumbelle fic #rumbelle secret santa #rss

51 notes · View notes

chiwhorei · 4 years

Text

vanilla

pairing: k. sugawara x fem!reader x t. kageyama

genre: smut, 18+ minors dni

word count: 1.5k

warnings: oral, a little degradation, hair pulling, dom!suga, threesome

a/n: hey! i’m here with some more very late content because i have never been able to follow a schedule successfully in my life. kinktober was set out to be a challenge for me to stretch my writing and practice on characters i haven’t yet explored, but it started becoming hard to even think about my own writing. anyway, i’m exhausted and didn’t add the taglist because i really need to go to bed.

hymn: doves in the wind (ft. kendrick lamar) by sza

kinktober 2020 - threesome (m/f/m)

Sugawara Koushi loves to find joy in the simple things. A crisp autumn morning, and the smell of freshly washed bed sheets. He appreciates the first scoop of vanilla bean ice cream, and the sound of your yoga mat rolled out onto the hardwood floor in the morning with the sweet, domestic promise of another day together.

Your boyfriend always ensures he keeps a spritely, positive attitude no matter his surroundings, even with one hand wrapped into your hair and tugging down. Your eyes meet his above you, Suga’s blown wide in a certain sadistic gleam.

“Well, my dear Tobio-chan,” Suga shifts to his junior, the tall brunette sweating bullets next to him, “is she all you’ve ever dreamed of?”

Your knees protest at the hardwood below you but you remain still, waiting for the next instruction from Koushi as he pets at your hair with care. The pair stand at the foot of yours and Suga’s bed, looking down at your form. The pretty blue dress Koushi picked out for you is bunched up dangerously high on your thighs. Your eyes are glossy, pupils blown wide and reading anticipatory desire for what your boyfriend has planned.

Nervous isn’t nearly a strong enough word to use right now. Kageyama finds a certain buzzing joy from nerves before a big game, synapsis soaked in eagerness when he throws up his first serve. Kageyama isn’t nervous, he’s been dipped in terror and rolled in a thick layer of lust like he’s never felt before.

He has no idea how the night's events led him to the apartment of his old volleyball club teammate and manager. There were whispers shared between you and Suga, purposefully just out of earshot so that Kageyama could only hear every few words or an occasional sentence.

“I think it’s an offer he couldn’t refuse. He’s been pining for you since his first year of High School.” Kageyama’s ears burn red hot with the knowledge you are talking about him. Your giggle bounces past his ears like a siren, looking at your boyfriend with less shock than would be assumed given the context.

“I don’t know Kou, if you think he can handle it..”

“Did you hear what she said, Tobio?” Sugawara’s voice brings him back to his current predicament, looking down to see your face positioned right in front of his hard, clothed cock. You wear a beautiful smile, one Kageyama has kept filed in the recesses of his mind for the last 6 years, never fully able to let the image of you fall away. “It was just a stupid crush.” He would say to himself like a penance, while stroking his cock to the memory of you bending over to pick up a stray volleyball or helping him wrap up a busted finger. The way you lightly kissed his bandage for “luck” miraculously always made him need to get patched up more often.

“I want to see your pretty cock, Tobio-kun.” The tone of your voice makes his knees weak, sin seeping off of the last syllable, He’s pictured you in this position a million times before, but actually seeing your lips lightly ghosting over his zipper is not something he thought would actually happen to him in this lifetime. Your hot breath fans over his crotch, shiny lip gloss threatening to stain his dress slacks.

His mind is working faster than his hands, causing an impatient groan from Sugawara. Your boyfriend places a slender hand on the taller man’s shoulder, urging him into action. Kageyama unbuttons his pants with shaky hands, pulling out his length and he can almost feel your bottom lip touch him. Your mouth turns up at the corners again at the sight. You were right, his cock is long and pleasantly thick with a throbbing pink tip.

“So pretty.”

“Go on, doll, show Tobio what your dirty little mouth can do.” Suga’s hand is pulling the back of your hair again, meeting your awaiting mouth to Kageyama’s weeping head. Your tongue shoots out to swirl around his tip, the hot muscle stealing a low grunt from the stoic pro athlete. Deciding that Kageyama has dealt with enough teasing, you take him into your mouth with care, placing your hands on his thighs to keep balance. A resounding fuck echoes off of the apartment walls when your nose brushes his pelvis. You’re gagging around his impressive length, the ache in your throat is dizzying with your boyfriend keeping you pressed to the hilt.

“What an obedient girl you are, y/n. You’ve always been such a people pleaser.” Sugawara muses at you, his praise making your throat relax to accommodate the obstruction. As you begin to bob your head, Kageyama’s hands shoot behind him for purchase on the bed frame. His teeth are grinding down painfully as you work his cock. Your moans reverberate around him, his head wants to fall back but Kageyama wills himself to keep his eyes on you, lest he misses a second of his most debauched fantasies coming to life.

“Her mouth is down right sinful,” Sugawara pulls you off of Kageyama’s dick with a salacious, wet pop, “but her tight little cunt is even better.” The sentence is suspended in the air momentarily before hitting the brunette like a truck. You’re lifted to your feet by Suga’s hand still wrapped in your hair, you scramble to steady yourself with weak hands fisting the front of your boyfriend's shirt. He holds you for a moment, pulling you into a messy kiss that has you melting into his embrace. Koushi holds a cloying charm with each peck to your pre-stained lips, but quickly spins you around to shove you towards Kageyama again. He grabs your elbows to keep you upright, peering down at your dazed expression with curiosity.

You lurch forward, pulling Kageyama down to meet your lips for the first time by his dark brown locks. His mouth is frozen for a moment before opening up to your welcoming tongue. He could get lost in your peach flavored kiss, hands finding your hips and gripping tightly. Suga’s laugh throws him out of the intoxicating reverie as the older man pulls you to press against his chest. Deft fingers pull down the zipper of your tight dress before brushing off the thin straps to expose your bare breasts and lace panties.

Suga traces his thin fingers across the curve of your tits, down your hips to find a home hooked in the last semblance of modesty you have left. The silver-haired man puts his chin on your shoulder and smiles brightly.

“You’ve always been sweet on my y/n, Tobio-chan. You used to follow her around like a lost little puppy, it was so cute.” Suga pushes his hand down the front of your panites, shoving two fingers into your dripping pussy without warning, your head rolls back into the juncture of his neck as he begins to stretch you out. “Sometimes, I have her put on that cute uniform skirt and walk around with my cum leaking out of her tight little cunny.” The sound of your perversely sweet lover talking about you like you aren’t there ignites a new wave of desire in your abdomen. He continues pumping his digits into you harshly, eliciting a depraved squelching from your pussy.

“She’s drooling all over my fingers Tobio, I bet you want to feel how she’s clenching, don’t you?” Suga’s sadistic side is not something surprising to you, but shocks Kageyama to the core, barely able to nod dumbly in response. Sugawara tsks him, clicking his tongue with gleaming humor. “I want to hear you say it. Tell me how you want my sweet girlfriend bouncing on your cock.”

Kageyama’s words catch in his throat, but tumble out as your whimpering intensifies. “Please, I- let me fuck your girlfriend, Suga.” His plea is timid and almost robotic, but pleases Suga enough for him to rip the soaking underwear down your shaky legs. You’re now completely naked in front of both mostly clothed men. Your boyfriend has always enjoyed a nuanced power imbalance.

Kageyama sits down on the edge of your bed, stroking his cock slowly as you’re dragged towards him. You shuffle onto his lap with little grace, grabbing at Kageyama’s strong bicep so that you don’t tip over. He feels your hot cunt inches away from where he’s always wanted you. The culmination of years of helpless pining for the one thing he could never get is dissolving around him. Suga wraps his hand around your neck from behind, craning it up so that you meet his eyes. “You’re my good girl, right?” You nod furiously, desperate to gain permission to lower yourself onto the thick cock in front of you. Your eyes glaze over in lust as Suga’s thumb rubs your cheek.

“Put on a good show for me, doll.” You hear your sweet, unassuming boyfriend’s voice like dripping syrup. Koushi always finds pleasure in the most interesting places, one of them being the shared look of bliss as your velvety pussy hugs tightly onto his former underclassman.

No one would guess, but Sugawara Koushi is anything but vanilla.

all writing is dymphnasprose’s original content, please do not repost or modify. do no read my content as asmr.©️

#haikyuu x reader #kageyama x reader #sugawara x reader #haikyuu smut #kageyama tobio #kageyama smut #sugawara kōshi #sugawara smut #saint dymphna’s kinktober

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boymeetsweevil · 3 years

Text

SS6 - MYG, FLUFF, 2900w

For @bangtancentricsblogsmain because i wanted her to suffer :)

At 3pm, on a Thursday, there’s a knock on Yoongi’s bedroom door. He had come through that very same door not an hour earlier to lock himself away from the world after a particularly draining day. After dropping his bag somewhere on the ground, he showered, removed his contacts, and pushed the laundry waiting to be folded over to the other half of his bed in record time.

Normally he would have joined his roommate and their mutual friend circle who were seated on the couch in the communal living room, eating snacks and watching a game. But this time he begged out with a quiet mumble about needing rest.

When Hoseok knocks, Yoongi makes a feeble sound to signal he’s still, unfortunately, awake.

“What,” Yoongi grumbles.

He attempts to sit up on one pale elbow and then decides against it. Hoseok’s lips twitch up at how cranky Yoongi is pre-nap before sinking back down as his expression darkens into a pitying and somber mix.

“She’s here. And, uh, she’s asking for you.” Hoseok’s eyes dart back to some unseen spot in the living room.

“Tell her I’m asleep.”

“I know you’re not asleep, Yoongi!” Your voice rings from outside the bedroom and Hoseok cringes sympathetically.

“I’ll just leave,” Hoseok says when you shove your torso through the crack in the doorway.

You wait to start speaking until the bedroom door is shut and the noises from the TV outside wash away.

“Why haven’t you been answering my texts?”

“Sorry, I’ve been busy,” is all you get.

The backpack you carry drops unceremoniously to the ground with a thud and any dregs of sleep cloying to Yoongi’s brain vanish with the sound. It’s with a valiant effort that he shoves his face deeper into his pillow. You cock your head to look at your best friend and snort at him.

Yoongi’s glasses are skewed across his face. There are thin pink lines marring the left side of his face from lying pressed to the wrinkled sheets with glasses on. The platinum blond waves of his hair, normally coiffed styled, are squashed flat against his forehead. Rarely ever does he look this rumpled and it’s hilarious.

“That’s okay, I’ll just tell you what I wrote in the texts,” you say as you make your way further into Yoongi’s small room.

A look down at your feet shows him that you’ve shoved your feet into the pair of bunny slippers he got for guests you when he and Hoseok first moved in almost a year ago.

“Basically,” you continue. “There’s good news and there’s bad news. Pick one.” You help yourself to his desk chair and swivel it so it faces him.

“Bad news first,” Yoongi says after some deliberation. He pulls the covers up to his chin more securely.

“Smart choice,” you nod sagely. “The bad news is I’m gonna have to paint your face.”

“What the hell,” Yoongi barks.

“But the good news is that I have a new job as a face painter at the kids’ section of the farmer’s market this season!”

“How is that good news for me?”

“It means I’ll be slightly less broke and I can stop asking you to buy me breakfast before our 9am.”

Yoongi doesn’t really know whether to laugh or to cry. Firstly, there’s no way in hell he’s letting you paint his face. You’ve always been shit at drawing and letting you showcase that on his skin doesn’t do him any favors. Secondly, he’s in his twenties and he doesn’t even go to the farmer’s market. There’s no reason for him to set foot on the town commons during sunny Saturdays for local produce, much less to get his face painted next to a pen full of smelly goats and screaming kids. He’s just not seeing the connection between you getting this job and him getting his face painted. He stares at you with the hope that you’ll back off but he finds that you’re just blinking back at him with a huge, proud pretty grin.

For a moment Yoongi wants to smile back like things are normal. He wants to put on a groan and act like he’s annoyed that he’s been “forced” to order you sugary coffee drinks and muffins using his own money for longer than he can remember. He wants to gently muss your hair to see you make that cute shocked face you always make. But he can’t.

Because if he does all that, he might slip up again like he did last weekend.

At 10:24pm, Friday of last week, Yoongi told you he loved you while one small bottle of liquid courage was sloshing away in his stomach. After seconds of silence ticked by like the bangs of a gong, you replied. A sing-songy ‘Aww. I love you too, Yoongi’ and a light pat on the arm. Your words were basically the mirror image of his, but somehow also starkly different. Disappointment walked him home early that night and embarrassment laid him low the following week.

But it was just a week, he’d reasoned with himself, you’d hardly notice anyway...

“Yoongi? You okay?”

“No,” he hisses and shakes his head gently to dislodge memories of that pathetic weekend.

“Are you sure?”

“Why do you need to paint my face?”

“For practice! The market doesn’t open for another month but I need to get good. Jungkook said that if I do it really well the parents will leave bigger tips.”

“So Jungkook is behind all this.”

“Yeah,” you chirp. “He’s been really helpful in the last week. Usually I’d vent to you about how broke I am but since you were so busy, I ended up hanging out with Kook. He’s honestly really resourceful and he got me the job really fast.”

The hairs on the back of Yoongi’s neck bristle at the mention of the younger “peer”. Jungkook was a constant presence at group hangouts for a long while but Yoongi could only ever think of him as a friend of a friend. There was something smarmy about the guy’s smile that he didn’t like. And the way he was always draping himself over you, teasing you, buying you food that was all his job. He can’t put his finger on what it is exactly, but something about Jungkook always put Yoongi in a shit mood.

Yoongi curses under his breath. “Why couldn’t he get you a job at the cotton candy station or managing the photo booth or something?”

“What’s up with you lately? Do you really hate the idea of helping me that much?”

“It’s just annoying,” Yoongi huffs childishly from under the blanket.

“Fine, I’ll just ask Jungkook, then.”

“No! Wait!” Your eyes flash with hope. “I’ll do it. Just—don’t bother him. Since he already gave you the job, I mean.”

“Oh, thank god. I felt really bad about asking him for even more help.”

You turn around and pull out a face painting kit from thin air and begin scooting the desk chair towards the bed. When you’re close enough, you frown.

“What?” Yoongi sniffs at his sheets for good measure. All clean.

“Nothing. It’s just...” You look down at the ground and then the chair and then at Yoongi before looking at the chair again. “I usually practice on shorter surfaces so I can get used to working with the kids.”

“Oh, just pull the little lever underneath the chair. Raising and lowering the chair is Hoseok’s favorite thing to do when he comes in here, I swear.”

You reach under the seat like Yoongi instructed, find the little lever, and tug. There’s a low hissing sound before the seat suddenly drops 5 inches. You let out a yelp while Yoongi tries to stifle a laugh at your terrified expression.

“I guess—I guess Hoseok pulled the lever too much,” Yoongi’s voice creaks with laughter. Even when you flick him in the forehead he keeps laughing.

“Yoongi, this isn’t funny. I need to practice.”

“Just so you know there’s no way I’m getting on the floor. I’ve changed my clothes and I’m actually in the bed.”

He knows he’s being a bit of a dick at the moment, but he’s only trying to rile you up. He’s not expecting you to start to get up on the bed after flipping him off. The laundry he placed on his bed that morning to force himself to fold now laughs at him from its position shoved against the wall.

“W-what are you doing?”

“I need to be higher than you to paint your face. And you’re not getting up, right?”

“Well, no. But—”

“So this is where I’m gonna work.”

You shrug like it’s not a big deal that you’re straddling him. Like it’s not a big fucking deal that your soft thighs now rest on either side of his torso, that you casually rest a hand on his ribcage while setting up the painting kit along his sternum. He hopes your hand stays further south only to prevent the rapid beating of his heart from being discovered under your palm.

“What design do you want,” your voice is quiet now that you’re closer.

Makes sense. No need to yell. But it still drives Yoongi crazy that you’re basically whispering in his ear as you lean over him to grab at the unused cup of water behind the bed frame. You revive your paints with the water while he tries to keep his breathing in check, lest he cause your paints to tumble off his torso and stain his sheets in a pastel rainbow.

“Uhh, how about an old style tiger?”

“Really,” you deadpan, “I tell you I’m just starting to learn to paint and you ask for a tiger?”

“Fine. Stars, then.” He gulps when you look right at him, face flushing to create the perfect pink canvas.

“Oh, I can do that. No reference needed.”

It seems deadly quiet in Yoongi’s room. The sounds of the living room long since died down when a crowd favorite started playing and captured everyone’s attention. Now there’s only yours and his intermingled breathing and the sound of your brush tinkling against glass.

You lean down from your perch to focus on carving out a swatch of night sky to blanket Yoongi’s stars. Your breath softly puffs low against his left cheek at the same moment the wet tip of the paintbrush hits his skin. His breath hitches a little and he’s not sure which is the culprit.

“Hold still, okay?” Your words come out in a whisper.

“Okay,” he whispers back.

Minutes pass and two shaky stars are born on Yoongi’s cheekbone. You shift around on his chest to stabilize yourself and in your movement you lose your footing a little, your right leg slipping off the edge of the mattress.

“Ah—”

“I got you,” Yoongi grunts a little as his hands fly to your hips.

He easily stops your momentum and your paints, clutched desperately in your hands, remain safe from the ground. The pads of his fingers are still dug lightly into the meat of your hips and waist. In that moment you remember just how big Yoongi’s hands are.

“T-thanks.”

“No problem.”

A slow grin spreads on Yoongi’s face when he notices that suddenly you can’t make eye contact like you were just a few moments prior.

You do your best to continue, but your gaze keeps flitting to his, only to find that he’s already looking at you. It sets something hot aflutter in your chest. The points of the stars that you thought you had a handle on turn soft and wobbly once more.

“Look up,” you ask when you’re out of other options and keep having to paint over your work.

Yoongi has to bite his tongue to keep from chuckling at how jittery you seem. It feels good to know that the effects of this proximity are mutual, that you’re feeling just as lightheaded from sitting in his lap as he is from having you sit in it.

“You almost done?” He drawls. He’s been counting the small irregularities in the paint on his ceiling to keep entertained.

“Uh, yeah, almost.”

He feels the cold kiss of the brush tip once, twice more before it returns to its makeshift home of the water glass with a clink.

“Do you...wanna see what it looks like,” you sit up then.

There’s a small hand mirror across the room that you’re eyeing. But he stops you with a squeeze to your hips, reminding you that his hands have been resting there this whole time.

“Just use my phone,” he nods to the device lying abandoned in the sheets. “Take a picture.”

“Okay.”

For some reason, your hands are shaking even with the paintbrush gone and the need for focus lifted. Mechanically you wake Yoongi’s phone from sleep and access the camera app to take a photo, shifting your weight to your knees to get above him and snap a pic. Curiosity makes you open the photo album app to see the photo you just took instead of showing it to him first. The result takes your breath away.

Yoongi looks blissfully content, almost smugly so, as he gazes up at the camera. The stars under his eyes and on the bridge of his nose look like glowing yellow freckles amidst the banner of deep navy and rich purples you used to craft the sky across his cheekbones. The paint looks good and it’s probably even your best job yet, but you can’t help yourself from looking elsewhere.

Yoongi’s tousled bed head, soft sleep shirt, and dreamy eyes bring a cloud of butterflies to your stomach. The final killer touch of the photo is the fact that your knees just barely enter the bottom of the photo. Yoongi’s hands rest on each one like they belong there.

“Yoongi.” You breathe his name like a sigh and that’s when he surges up, as if to catch his name on your lips.

The kiss takes you by surprise and you tumble down to him in a soft pile of limbs. He hums a long, pleased sound when your weight settles on top of him. The hands he had on your knees suddenly grow restless and they amble up your thighs, up your waist, around your back. His hands are ever busy gliding over as much of you as they can in the moments that you let your lips press firmly against his.

Idly you pick out the details you notice with your eyes drifting closed. Yoongi’s breath leaves his nose in puffs against your face and his sighs echo quiet in your ears. His hair is soft between your fingers and so is the collar of the worn shirt that he’s wearing. The sheets that have raised around you like makeshift linen mountains smell just like Yoongi’s sweet soap, warmed with sleep.

“Shouldn’t we—”, he plants a kiss on your mouth, “shouldn’t we talk about this,” you mumble against his lips.

Yoongi’s hands stop in their tracks along the midpoint of your spine. The sigh he lets out is long suffering.

“Sorry. I just—I got carried away.”

“I mean, you don’t have to apologize for it. I just...thought you saw me as a friend.”

“Do friends confess their love for each other? That’s new.”

“L-love?” Your eyes turn wide and starry. “When have either of us ever confessed our love?”

“Well, I did. At the bar. Or did you have to block that memory out?”

Your brow furrows at the self-deprecating turn his smile takes and you clasp one of his still-wandering hands.

“You mean—Yoongi, I thought you were just being mushy. I thought you meant, like, ‘I love that we’re all here together as friends right now’. If I had known that was a real confession,” you trail off.

“You what?”

Yoongi’s mood elevates once more, enjoying the sudden turn your rambling is taking. Teasingly he bucks his hips under you, startling you out of your bashful silence and forcing you to press two hands to his chest for balance. A cute little sound leaves your lips and he’s tempted to do it again.

“You were saying,” he grins up at you and his hands start to wander once again.

“I would have—”

“Baby, speak up.” He’s all coos but there’s a little venom in his voice. He likes how embarrassed you are.

“I would have left with you that night. If I had known.”

His shirt wrinkles up where your fingers twist anxiously. Normally you trample through Yoongi’s space, no shame or hesitation in the way you leave him on his toes. It had always been a fun game for you to see how close you could get before he’d have to draw a line, before his besotted smile would become too hard to hide. But now you’re not so sure you can handle it directed at you in all its glory.

“That’s a nice idea,” he says.

In one moment he looks like he’s really weighing the idea, serious in his appraisal. The next moment he’s tugging you down when you least expect it, bringing a corner of the blanket to envelope you both. Under the cover of weak darkness, he threads a hand through the hair at the base of your neck.

“Why don’t you tell me about it?”

#btscreatorscorner #hyunglinenetwork #networkbangtan #bangtan scenarios #yoongi scenarios #yoongi fluff #yoongi imagines #yoongi fanfic #bangtan imagines #bangtan fanfic #bangtan fluff #bts scenarios #bts fluff #bts imagines #bts fanfic

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satashiiwrites · 3 years

Text

Evening writing

@quietborderline i’m blaming this one on you. I did not need to get stuck on this idea so bad. Also I need a title. You should help with this.

From: Untitled Bradnate Mummy fic that I’m not calling Bradley the Damned

Fandom: Generation Kill

Pairing(s): will be Bradnate and RayWalt.

Warnings: first draft of a prologue/first chapter? idk. Inspired by Anne rice stuff that i haven’t read in about a decade. Also i haven’t decided if this is set around 1900 or a bit later so there’s a mixing of references. Mostly I think Nate’s uncle was older and Victorian. Nate’s younger and spent some time in the states getting educated. Also i know very limited things about Egypt so…. Big historical inaccuracy tag here.

Returning to London wasn’t supposed to happen like this. The weather seemed to agree with Nate’s mood and the cloying fog had been thick and the weak sun couldn’t burn through it leaving everything darker and dirtier than he remembered even as the Georgian facade of the townhouse emerged from the darkness of the early morning as he arrived. He hadn’t been back home in almost five years—since he’d left for his education in America.

He thought he’d had more time and so had his uncle.

The news of his uncle’s sudden death in Egypt had taken almost two weeks to get to him. It’d taken another three for Nate to make his way back home to London which was how long it’d taken for his uncle to be brought back to his native soil for burial.

Nate had originally planned on heading to meet his uncle in Egypt in just another month.

He’d missed him by almost two months. The death of the man who’d taken him in after his own parents had been killed when he was just three years old was now also dead leaving Nate fully orphaned and the sole heir to the entire estate and his uncle’s company. There was so much to do and Nate had no energy to do it—his sense of loss dragging him down.

There’d be no more long rambling letters about his Uncle’s latest discovery or gossip about who had done what in the race to find antiquities. No more biting commentary about the latest shenanigans of the company that his Uncle had regularly had to wrangle back into order from those who he’d hired to run it but couldn’t be left unsupervised for too long.

He missed his uncle so much.

Entering his childhood home in Mayfair, Nate couldn’t help but notice that it hadn’t changed a bit in the last five years other than it was now draped in mourning—the black crepe drapes in the entryway and the wreath of black orchids a signal to all who entered that it’s master was gone and made his mouth go dry and his eyes feel like they’d been rubbed with sandpaper. His personal valet, Walt, was right behind him and already greeting his uncle’s staff when Nate couldn’t get his throat to work.

Mr. Antonio—Poke to a young Nate who’d been quite precocious as a teenager—Espera, who his uncle had hired away on a Spanish vacation years ago to be his own house steward, gave a stiff nod to Nate, his back ramrod straight even as his eyes were red rimmed. “Sir—we’ve followed all the instructions your uncle left.”

“I’m sure you have Antonio,” Nate finally managed, his throat tight.

Poke’s eyes dimmed at the formal way Nate addressed him, obviously caught in his own memories of happier times. “If you’ll follow me,” he motioned deeper into the house, “We’ve laid your uncle out in the drawing room

Nate had to purposefully pick up his feet lest they drag on the tiled floor as he followed Poke. Walt had dropped back and was seeing to his luggage and giving Nate the opportunity to see his uncle’s body in private lest he need to fall apart. Poke would do the same no doubt. The almost tomb-like silence of the house was abnormal—his uncle had always had music echoing down the halls whenever possible and it’s absence was another knife twisted in his metaphorical soul.

The drawing room was swathed in black crepe with flowers decorating the flat surfaces of the end tables and was lit by a candelabra of simple white candles that his Uncle had always preferred over gaslighting which he’d skipped over entirely by installing electric lights that he then complained about not having the same ambiance but had been alternatively haughtily proud of having the newest technology. Which had been quite out of turn for his uncle who famously was obsessed with antiquities—specifically as he’d grown older of the Egyptian variety.

The entire room had been rearranged around the simple dark stained wood coffin in the center. The window drapes had been opened just enough to cast shadows around the room but not let in too much light.

Nate couldn’t help but feel that his uncle must have specified this down to the exact measured space between each candelabra. The man could be detail oriented in the extreme at times.

Stepping forward toward the coffin, he let his hand rest on the closed lid. There had been details he hadn’t wanted to know but unfortunately did about what had been done to preserve his uncle’s body for transport—the old man would have found it all fascinating was the only positive thought he had.

Thankfully his uncle hadn’t insisted on being mummified like the ancient Egyptians that he was fascinated with. Nate had at least talked him out of that idea via letters during university.

Ducking his head, he pressed his fingertips into the finely sanded wood until the wood grain began to hurt. Several tear drops fell just to the left of his index finger. He’d hoped that it had all been a nightmare—that his indefatigable uncle would still be alive and well. That he’d have a decanter of whiskey ready to finally sit down and talk with Nate about all the travels he’d written home about, all the adventures he’d had at his uncle’s urging.

His Uncle had wanted him to live his life to the fullest but now all Nate could think of was how he had missed the moments with the man he thought of as his father.

Some time later, the soft clearing of a throat let Nate know he wasn’t alone any longer.

“Sir?” Poke asked politely.

Biting back a sniffle, Nate turned his face away to wipe at his tears with the cuff of his sleeve. Walt was going to want to kill him later for mussing the fabric but he just didn’t care. “Yes Mr Espera?”

Poke’s eyes were sad as Nate met them. “I know you have had a long journey. I’ve asked your man to draw you up a bath and arranged for a small meal to break your fast.”

Nate wasn’t hungry but he tried to give a small smile in reassurance but his lip trembled tellingly. “Thank you Mr. Espera.”

As he walked past Poke, he heard the soft whispered comment that he probably wasn’t meant to hear. “I miss the days when you called me Poke.”

Pausing at the door, Nate looked over his shoulder at the other man. “I miss those days too.”

Poke’s formal expression cracked and the personal grief he was feeling for Nate’s uncle was visible. “It is good to have you back Sir.”

“When we’re in private I’d appreciate if you still called me Nate.”

The steward’s lips quirked just briefly upward. “If you’d like then I will…. Nate.”

Nodding without anything more to say, Nate retreated to his own rooms.

He needed a moment to get himself together before the vultures visitors started arriving given that the news that he was back in London was now spreading like wildfire.

#Untitled bradnate mummy fic #generation kill #gk #Bradnate #alternative universe #mummies!#but sexy ones #wip #first draft

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veorlian · 3 years

Text

forged of steel

pairing: Kaz Brekker x Inej Ghafa

rating: T for stabbing

A reflection on freedom, unsaid words, and the rooftops of Ketterdam.

read it on ao3 here

Inej

The Barrel had reason enough to be haunted. People from all across Kerch and beyond came to Ketterdam, only to meet an untimely end in either the dark alleys or brightly-lit streets. Dazzling lights and hidden blades were the only constants there. No mourners, no funerals, in the depths of the city. Ghosts were a dime a dozen. But only one had a title.

The Wraith, they called her. Never above a whisper. It was said she carried a hundred knives. A thousand knives. That she could walk through walls. That she’d killed a man at 100 paces, only by looking at him. That she could steal the secrets from inside your own head.

Inej’s father had told her once that many boys would bring her flowers, but the right boy would learn her favourite flower, her favourite song. Inej had been given flowers before. Flowers withered. Their scent turned cloying, their colours faded. You learned, in the Menagerie, that even your favourite flowers could be ruined.

Kaz Brekker had given her a knife. Flowers withered, but the sharp bite of steel was evergreen.

They will fear you, he’d said to her. Good, she’d replied.

Her knives were wicked-sharp and unyielding. Like him. Like her, now.

Everyone knew that the rooftops of Ketterdam were hers and hers alone. No one dared climb there, lest the Wraith find them. The wind against her face and the red and gold reflection of the setting sun on the harbour tasted like freedom.

And if occasionally she wished for flowers carried in a gloved hand, as she lay unsleeping and alone in her room, that was a secret she could keep.

Kaz

Kaz Brekker was not a patient man by nature, but it was the only way to survive. You waited for your enemy to show their hand. You waited for your mark to come to you. You waited for years until your vengeance burned like ice. Little by little, brick by brick, Kaz had learned patience.

He wasn’t patient now, as he waited for Inej to arrive. His fingers drummed along the table, waiting for the slight change in the air that meant she was near. A weakness, he thought, to be so unnerved. She could take care of herself. He couldn’t stop himself from looking at the clock.

He pointedly ignored his slight sigh of relief when she appeared next to him. Not too close. Never too close.

“And?” he asked brusquely.

“Hello to you too, Kaz,” she said. He didn’t smile.

“I don’t pay you for politeness,” he said.

“You couldn’t afford it,” she replied dryly. Soundlessly, she sat down in the chair by the window. One by one, she cleaned her knives. Her Saints, for all the good it did her. “Brahm Daven has a lover. They meet once a week at a run-down inn. The landlady has a loose tongue.”

“Name?”

“The landlady, or the lover?” Her lips quirked up in the ghost of a smile, one that he caught himself almost sharing.

“The lover, Inej,” he said, his voice clipped.

“Sylvia Aseren.”

“Married?”

“To a very wealthy man. They’re planning to elope.”

“So that’s why Daven’s been looking for money. Unlikely that he’ll return any loans, then.” Kaz flipped through the papers on his desk, making tidy annotations. There was an almost imperceptible rustling of fabric as Inej leaned forward. He might’ve missed it, if he wasn’t so damnably attuned to her every move.

“They might pay for silence.”

“And the husband might pay for the information. What else?”

She listed off the sins she’d collected like she was telling him the time of day. Discretions, petty and major crimes, who was bribing who and why. Kaz carefully filed the information away, making a note of potential targets, problems to address, people to rob. And all the while, the gentle click of her knives being set down next to her. It was dangerously close to domestic.

“You were late,” he said, once she’d finished. A flicker of something — annoyance? Embarrassment? Anger? Crossed her face.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Someone spilled oil along a stretch of rooftops. Had to take the long way around,” she explained. And then, “They’ll have to try harder if they want to stop me.”

“No one can stop you,” he said quietly, and he looked away from what he saw in her eyes.

Inej

It was just another night in the Barrel. Inej was returning from her evening activities (a little light larceny) when she felt eyes on her back, and heard the clatter of a deliberately loosened roof tile. She was almost at the Slat, firmly in Dregs’ territory. Whoever was out on the rooftops was either a fool or desperate. Maybe both.

She could see Kaz’s room from where she was, the light silhouetting him in the window. He’d left it open for her. He glanced down at his watch and she saw him frown. Ah, she was late again.

Her eyes lingered on Kaz. A mistake.

A knife came arcing towards her, and she neatly dodged away, already turning around to face her attackers. She dodged a second knife, and a third, but she didn’t move away in time for the gunshot to her leg. She offered up a prayer to her Saints, and then she was moving.

There were five men behind her. Fools, then, if they thought that was enough to stop the Wraith.

The first one went down with a blow to the back of his head. The second was knocked clean off his feet, hitting his head on the roof. The third she brought down with a roundhouse kick to the face. In the dim light, she saw fear in the eyes of the other two. One stumbled back, landing squarely on a trap tile. He went careening off of the roof, four stories down. The last one held the gun. It still smoked slightly from the shot to her leg.

“Who do you work for?” she asked, knowing that it would be the first thing Kaz would ask her. Probably before he asked if she was okay, damn him. The man raised his gun, pointing it directly at her. His hands shook. Inej tested her weight on her bad leg. It burned, but it didn’t give out.

The gun cocked. Inej rolled to the side and drew Sankta Lizabeta. She pressed a kiss, a prayer, to the flat of the blade before letting it fly. The man fell, crashing heavily onto the roof. It was over in seconds.

Inej exhaled, pressing a hand to the wound on her leg. The first three were still breathing, although she didn’t envy them the headache they would have in the morning. She went to retrieve her knife, making a note of her attackers’ tattoos.

Inej prayed softly, and she went to see Kaz.

Kaz

Kaz heard the gunshot, but that wasn't unusual. If you couldn't hear a fight in the Barrel, the saying went, you were probably already dead.

Inej appeared a moment later. She landed heavily on the ground and Kaz was immediately on his feet. His eyes flickered down to her leg. Sweat beaded her forehead, flyaway hairs tugged from her neat braid.

"Who was it?" he rasped. There was a flash of humour in her dark eyes.

"Medicine kit please, Kaz," she said, easing herself down into her chair.

"Inej—"

"Medicine. Kit. Please. I'm no good to anyone if I can't climb."

He handed her the kit, carefully avoiding touching her hand as he did. He pulled away, moving over to the open window. His eyes scanned the streets for more threats.

“Three from the Razorgulls, two from the Black Tips,” she said, hissing as she applied a poultice to the wound.

“Dead?”

“Two dead, three unconscious.”

“Only five against you?” he asked. “Careless of them.” He did look down at her, then. A mistake. His voice didn’t shake, but he couldn’t disguise the anger in his eyes. Not from her.

“I have to send a message,” he said roughly.

“I’ll be fine, Kaz. There doesn’t have to be more violence,” she murmured. She wrapped a clean bandage around her leg.

“And when they send more than five?”

“I can handle myself,” she said coolly.

He could see the pain stamped on her face, could hear her uneven breathing as she patched herself back up. And always, always the white-hot anger that he couldn’t help her, couldn’t move any closer.

“No unnecessary risks,” he said. And then, before he could stop himself: “You’re too valuable to lose.”

“I’ll be ready.” Her eyes were darker than the sky. “Trust me.” Kaz looked away.

“Very well,” he said eventually. “Then let’s get to work.”

Inej

The Wraith, they called her. She wrapped the name around herself like a cloak as she vanished into the night. The rooftops of the Barrel shifted, replaced with traps and alarms carefully crafted by Wylan and Jesper. Anyone that dared set foot in Inej’s domain was sent tumbling down. Word spread like wildfire, as it so often does. Kaz made sure that it did.

It was said that she’d bewitched the houses of Ketterdam. That she could hear you coming from a mile off, and appear behind you in the space of a breath. That you would be dead before you saw her.

Soon enough she was able to race along her rooftops uninterrupted again, the moonlight her only witness.

Kaz Brekker would never give her flowers. But perhaps he’d given her something better.

#your honour i love them #a little short because i'm still just trying to figure out how to write them #six of crows #kanej

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sardinesandhumbugs · 3 years

Note

“Why didn’t you say h-how bad it was?” for Ratty and Rat Sr

A/N: This is what I get for asking for angst I regret nothing XD Welp, one angsty boi coming right up ;) (This does focus on Ratty and Rat Sr, but I threw in a bit of Badger. For good measure.)

Want to request a prompt? Find the list here!

The Rats keep busy in the weeks following Toad Senior's death.

It isn't easy; winter was already on its way before the accident and the boating season has long since passed for the year, but they try all the same. Their doorstep is flooded with animals dropping by with condolences disguised as coincidental convenience and, although Ratty is sure his father would prefer to grieve in peace, the door remains unlocked. And so the bitter days pass in a blur of proffered meals and sympathy cards and pitying looks.

Mr Badger is the exception.

Mr Badger has been a familiar face in the riverbank home for as long as Ratty remembers, yet now his presence is more frequent still. Unlike the Riverbankers, he visits not with home-cooked meals, but with drinks; not with sympathy cards but reminiscences of half-forgotten memories; not with pity but with grief.

By now, Ratty knows well the stench of grief. His home is stifling with its cloying, claustrophobic scent, a parody of the death it follows in the wake of, but the grief of Mr Badger is quite another beast compared to the tired mourning of Ratty's father. There is a desperation to it. A terror of things slipping from his grasp, a grief that does not simmer but burns.

During such visits, Ratty leaves them to it. Their sorrow feels private, two friends gravitating towards one another in the absence of the third who had once shone so brightly, and he is out of his depth in the decades-old friendship.

"Plus Mr Badger is always so... austere," Ratty says in one of his visits to Toad Hall. He sits along the jetty, feet hanging over the water while Toad – already Toad, no longer Toady – fumbles with the newfangled camera that is perched precariously close to the edge. "And I know he's having as hard a time of it as anyone," Ratty is quick to add, lest his words be taken in a thoughtless light, "but it's just... I don't know. The way he looks at me sometimes, it's almost with..." Grief? Pity? "Guilt."

"Guilt?" Toad echoes from the recesses of the camera. Parts of the contraption that should probably never see the light of day lie scattered across the pier. Ratty knows better than to question this mechanical biopsy. "Whatever for?"

Ratty catches a metal screw before it rolls off into the river. "I don't know," he says. Grief, he could understand; pity, he could tolerate; but the guilt unnerves him in a way almost akin to fear. "And I'm not sure I want to."

In the end, he has no choice in the matter.

In the end, he wishes he could claim he was surprised, but the truth has been a monster caught out of the corner of his eye for months, flickering in odd, tell-tale moments. It lingers in the simple cold that has tarried too long in his father's lungs. In the laughter that turns to coughs and the bouts of sleep that never leave his father rested. In the harried grief of Mr Badger.

Ratty knows there is something wrong with his father, but he clings onto the belief that death could not be so cruel as to strike twice.

It could not, he tells himself as his father's fur dulls and his eyes dim.

Even death must have its mercy, he pleads as he gathers the half-drunk tea from his father's shaking paws.

Even it must see that this household has borne its burden of grief, he rages as his father shivers beside a roaring fire.

He stares at the towel, bloodied from his father's latest coughing fit, and his world shatters.

He stands in the too-hot kitchen with paws shaking, so alike his father's and yet so not, and holds out the damning evidence between them. "How long have you known?"

"Ratty–"

"How long?"

He doesn't mean to shout, but his voice echoes off the walls and the evening chorus outside falters for just a moment.

His father sighs, and now Ratty can hear the tell-tale rattle in his lungs. Is it louder than yesterday, or does it only sound that way because he is listening for it? "It's been worsening since spring."

"Since..." Ratty takes a steadying breath. It doesn't work. He turns his feet to pacing the room, ignoring the heat of the room that crawls beneath his fur. "All that time spent pampering to Toad's ego, managing his fads, when I should have been focusing... when you knew..." He halts that thought, drifting too close to the current of grieving anger within. "Why didn't you say how bad it was?"

"I didn't want you to worry."

Ratty swears, for once not caring at the raised eyebrow it causes. "Well, I'm worrying plenty now."

"There's nothing you can do about it."

"How can you be sure?" Ratty demands. "We could – there must be something – someone – medicine or doctors or help that can... that might know–"

His father's paw curls about his, bringing him to a sharp stop before he can circuit the stifling room again. "There isn't."

"But how can you be sure?" And then it hits him, that strange living grief that has scared him for so long. "Badger." For a heartbeat, he wants to rage at the injustice of it all, of Mr Badger knowing the truth all this time while he – while his father's own son – must find it in a blood-soaked towel, but then he sees the fatigue in his father's faded eyes and understands, even if he does not entirely forgive him. Grief has haunted this house enough from Mr Badger alone, and Ratty can only imagine the weight from him alongside would bury them all.

He sits, perched on the arm of a seat while the world around him settles into a new, unfamiliar future. "How long do you have?" he whispers.

"Badger thinks I'll see Christmas," his father replies. He smiles. "We must be thankful for small mercies, mustn't we?"

Ratty thinks there is nothing merciful about it at all.

#wind in the willows musical #cat writes #witw fanfic #again in ratty's pov #death tw #death mention #*squints at the tenses*#eh good enough #blood mention

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mirageofthecrystal · 3 years

Text

FFxiv 30 Day Writing Challenge - Day 13: Oneirophrenia

Oneirophrenia: A hallucinatory (dream-like) state that is caused by such conditions as prolonged sleep deprivation, sensory isolation, and drug use.

Faiolan stumbled, slipping on the uneven ground and slamming his down onto his knees. The pain hardly bothered him, but his eyes burned, each blink feeling heavier and heavier as he struggled to keep himself conscious. Sleep was a luxury he could ill afford, at least until he reached his destination. He had left behind the snowy highlands of Coerthas, traipsed across the Black Shroud, and had reached the sweltering plains of Thanalan. Ul'dah, a glowing jewel of possibility, was not much further. The freedom of anonymity amongst the crowds was the only protection that could keep the cloying hands of the Holy See at bay, for their influence lessened the further one traveled and the longer one remained lost to their perception. As a consequence, however, Faiolan had not slept in several days. He knew that they were on his heels, prepared to foist further blame upon him for the deaths of those knights, and the Inquisitor as well. The fortuitous arrival of both the snowstorm and the heretics themselves may have saved him from capture, but also lent credence to his complicity with that radical element.

"Run all you like, heretic. Run far and wide across all this world if you wish, but know this: you are ever under the gaze of the Fury, and her faithful shall not give up the chase until they see you punished for your crimes."

Faiolan felt his heart jump into his throat, tearing his blade free from it's scabbard and spinning to face the source of the voice. Yet he saw nothing, save for the rustling of leaves and grass as a gentle breeze blew over the plain. His breath began to slow and settle, and he cursed his imagination for playing tricks on him. Exhaustion was setting in, and this stomach firmly reminded him of his hunger as well, for as long as he lacked sleep he also lacked sustenance. Whatever he could scrounge from his surrounds had been all he could muster. A fire would create smoke, attract beasts or worse. Hunting took time, energy, and equipment he did not have. In any other situation, stealing would have been out of the question, but he was shamed to remember he'd been forced to do so while passing through a small settlement under the cover of night, afraid that if anyone saw him, they'd be able to answer when any of his countrymen came calling.

"So that's it, is it? Given the chance you'd abandon me? You'd abandon our family? What makes you so special? Why am I still the one rotting in a cell, while you get to breathe the fresh air? Am I to take your place in the grave as well, dear brother?"

Another familiar phantom calling to him, and still no one to be seen. He could hardly press on now, though he believed he was drawing closer. To sit and rest for only a moment... he had little choice in the matter. Pulling a waterskin from his belt, he tasted the last drops of water as it ran empty, his throat dry and scratching. He dropped to the ground, back against a tree to stop him from collapsing outright. The world around him was beginning to fade, the ground 'neath him feeling as if it were spinning.

"Hmph. I thought I trained you to be better than this. I suppose you'll always be that weak little boy that they sent my way, won't you little lord? It's no wonder you shamed me, your country, and your family. To think you could ever have served alongside the Heaven's Ward... we were all mistaken about you. I did not want to believe you were a heretic, but now I see the truth."

The third specter spoke with the voice of his mentor, and Faiolan could just make out the silhouette of Sergeant Reynard Belmont shaking his head in shame as he looked upon his former protégé. "No... it's not... it's not what you think. I'm no heretic. The accusations... they're false. I would never... betray Ishgard. I fought alongside you, against Dravanians untold. I almost died for you. You... have to believe me..." Faiolan begged the specter, but his voice was growing hoarser by the moment, to the point where every word was a labor.

"You fought because you had no choice. A little lord like you does what he's told. He does things for the honor of his family, lest they look weak, inferior, or like the traitors they are. Or perhaps... perhaps you're not a liar, but a coward. You saw the might of the dragons, and you believed we had no hope. That if you could not defeat, then perhaps you could join them and be spared. Is that it, Faiolan? Is that why you spit in the face of everything I stood for? Is that why you spit on my grave? And to think I ever saw anything in you... to think I could have ever loved you. Better to be a corpse than to love a traitor."

Reynard was no man, replaced by a woman's form. It was concealed by shadow, but he recognized her voice, the shape of her armor, the lance in her hand. A stray beam of moonlight broke upon her, though he swore it had been day only a moment ago. It set upon her face, and revealed a helmet cracked asunder. Her eyes were the milky white of death, her flesh cold and grey, her jaw torn halfway from her skull, hanging from a last strand of sinew. The moonbeam expanded, revealing a body that had been torn by tooth and claw, bones stabbing through the flesh where they had been broken at unnatural angles. "Traitor." The woman's voice spoke again.

"Traitor," came the second voice. The voice of his sister, Brielle, dressed in the rags of a prisoner, chained to the wall of her cell and awaiting her sentence. "Traitor," spoke the third voice, his disappointed mentor who was growing tired from fighting this long war, and to see his pupil throwing away all that he had learned. "Traitor," finally spoke the first voice again, but rather than disappointment, it spoke with satisfaction. "Heretic," it continued, stepping forward into the light. The robes of the Inquisitor billowed in unseen breezes, his face still shrouded in the dark of the night. "Kinslayer," Blood stained the front of the robes, gurgling from a still open wound. Inquisitor Mariuseaux, with a jagged gash running down the length of his throat, his speech unimpeded by the mortal wound. The voices began to speak together, repeating the words over and over; "Traitor, Heretic, Kinslayer, Murderer... Faiolan."

The shadows of his past encroached upon him, and as the light of the moon above illuminated them, the world around them all grew dark. Faiolan felt weakness settling into his body, as it surrendered to the exhaustion of these many days past. He braced himself for his fate at the hands of those he had wronged... and succumbing to his fatigue, fell unconscious against the tree.

#ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2021 #ffxiv blogging #ffxiv mateus #ffxiv rp #ffxiv roleplay #ffxiv crystal #faiolan penderghast #nightmares of the past

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elvishmusings · 3 years

Text

The stifling cisnormativity and capitalism of mainstream feminism

bitmI go to a public all-girls science and tech-focused school that gets a lot of attention as a progressive, edgy, cool, feminist school. We’re courted by tech companies who would love the opportunity to show us that girls, too, can claw their way up the corporate ladder to become the capitalist oppressors who drive the inequality in our society. Our teachers refer to us as “ladies” or “goddesses” (our school mascot – yes, really), and the whole thing reeks of cloying “girl power!”

I don’t think anything could’ve driven this point home as much as a “GirlsBuild” webinar that I’m sitting in right now. Everything about this, from the smiling intro proclaiming “this session is for everyone!” (unless you don’t use she/her pronouns, which are specifically used to refer to the audience) to the grateful grad student explaining how a scholarship from Amgen (a pharmaceutical company worth $23B) allowed her to go from homelessness to a degree from MIT, reeks of bright pink girls-run-the-world feminism, sponsored by a multibillion-dollar corporation of your choice.

There are a few different issues with this. First, and most glaring, is that any movement that allies itself so closely with corporations has sold itself to their interests and is valuable to them only so far as it makes them look good. A truly revolutionary movement doesn’t ride on the forces that perpetuate oppression; any movement that does isn’t groundbreaking at all, just a feel-good way for corporations to look good “solving” problems they perpetuate – after all, a number of industries are built off of the insecurities of women and girls, and the demanding, all-consuming norms pushed by tech companies are disproportionately harmful to women.

Equally striking is the exclusion of LGBTQ+ people from these spaces. Although open homophobia isn’t the norm, and gender nonconformity is, if anything, prevalent, I can’t think of a single time I’ve heard sexuality discussed. Naturally, you can forget about trans and nonbinary people. I think this speaks to how surface-level the movement really is. Overt, malicious homophobia isn’t a super popular belief in these kinds of spaces, but it’s apparently still too common for gay people to be part of the club lest they hurt these companies’ reputations. This also excludes trans people; in fact, there is a specific effort made in these spaces to refer to us all as “girls” and she/her pronouns. It’s completely in line with this kind of feminism: seemingly progressive, but really a performative effort that excludes a key demographic of people who face a systematic disadvantage in the field that I would guess is even greater than the one women face.

In this way, these “progressive” movements are nothing more than surface-level attempts by corporations to advance their own reputation, with the side effect of nominally helping women and sometimes a few people of color when it’s convenient.

The social movement needed to achieve full equality for women, people of color, and queer people isn’t going to be profitable for corporations – and that’s why we need to be suspicious whenever they tie themselves to this kind of activism. They’re in it for their own gain, not ours, and they’ll only be our allies for as long as they have a stake in it. Instead, we need to focus on movements that go to the core of these issues. That’s a much more complex topic, but it definitely doesn’t involve corporations.

#feminism #anarchism #anarchist #anarchocommunism #anarcho communism #Anarcho-communism #anarchosyndicalism #Anarcho Syndicalism #communism #communist #left #leftism #leftist

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janekfan · 4 years

Note

trying to think of a good prompt bc um. i love ur writing so much and looove some good angst/beating up jarchivist... do u have a take on the classic ‘i really loved you, you know’ possible misunderstanding (jon thinks martin doesn’t love him like that anymore, beats himself up about it & tries his hardest to respect what he perceives as martin’s boundaries/to not make him uncomfortable w the love he doesn’t think he wants from him anymore for reasons he can only guess at, tries to hide the toll everything is taking on him, martin thinks jon just saved him from the lonely bc he’s Jon, still thinks jon doesn’t feel that way about him, doesn’t let himself reach out for the comfort/contact he still needs & maybe has another scary brush with the lonely? cue self deprication mutual pining angst misunderstanding awkwardness distance maybe some tears! but then like. communication and realization and comfort and love love love?)???!

@transcendentalbf Thank you so much! It’s missing some detail but I hope it’s okay!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26803027

He doesn’t want to see you.

Jon looked down at their hands, clasped tightly together in his lap as Martin slept against his bony shoulder. It couldn’t possibly be comfortable. It couldn’t. That was never a descriptor applied to Jonathan Sims. He worried at Martin’s fingers with his own, rubbing warmth back into them though he had none to spare. They were headed to Scotland. To a safe house, if anything could be called safe these days with eyes all around and everywhere and watching, watching, watching.

He doesn’t want to see you.

That’s alright. He wouldn’t have to. Jon would deliver him, protect him, do whatever he needed as long as it kept Martin here with him. He didn’t need anything more than that and while Jon was quite possibly the worst liar in the whole of the population, he would make sure he didn’t take anything more than that. Selfish and monstrous and Martin had to suffer his company. He couldn’t ask for more. He couldn’t ask for more because he was too late.

I really loved you, you know?

And he hadn’t, he really, really hadn’t. Not until it was too late. And now.

Loved.

Loved

He'd taken too long, and maybe that foolish part of him always thought Martin would wait until--

Until when?

It was too late to love him because there wasn't much left of him to love. He wasn't worth it. Not anymore. Maybe not ever. Jon pressed a secret, trembling kiss to the top of his head. He’d committed so many crimes, what more harm could it cause to add one more to the list?

But he wouldn't abandon him again. Not for anything. And he would keep his own love a secret so Martin wasn't burdened with guilt. He could do so little for him, but he could do that.

“Up you come, Martin.” The train lurched to a stop.

“...Jon?” Exhausted and cold, wisps of fog clung to his hair, escaped his mouth with a sigh. It was like an infection, the Lonely. It would take time to recover. Lucky that. They didn’t have much more than time at the moment.

“Hm.” Jon hummed his assent, staggering under Martin’s taller, heavier bulk until he managed to get his feet under him. “Good, good. You’re doing so well.” The praise was clumsy, foriegn on his tongue and ill fitting in his mouth. Martin didn’t seem to notice, just shivered where they stood, and it was a relief. Cajoling, tugging, Jon got him off the train, bad leg beginning to buckle under their combined weight and he grit his teeth against the pain and pressure. “I know the way.” Voice light, Jon trudged forward, limp agonizing, slow, and they were a pair of ants scuttling up the hill under cover of darkness.

Finally, Martin was tucked up in bed, every spare blanket Jon could find piled on top of him, and he even got a glimpse of tired eyes before he lost him to sleep. Sinking to the floor, Jon tugged at his curls, distracting himself from the ache in his hip with a different sort of pain but with nothing else to focus on save for the slow inhale, exhale of Martin’s peaceful breathing, Jon couldn’t do much else other than endure. An exhausted sentinel trapped with his own spiraling thoughts.

He’d meant it. In that moment surrounded by fog and mist and menace, he meant it. He wanted more than to just survive. He'd known nothing but raw survival for what seemed like an eternity. He wanted so much more for the first time.

And he'd thrown away his chance.

Too hot, Martin shoved at the covers, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and staring up into unfamiliar rafters. The last thing he remembered was the smell of salt and the sound of the sea, wrapped up in a cloud’s soft, cloying embrace. It had been gentle there and he’d been there long enough that being so present, here and now, was overwhelming. There was an echo of a hand in his, smaller, fine boned and familiar. Pulling. Dragging. Leading. Him out of that place.

Jon.

Where was Jon?

Martin sat up, swinging his legs out of the bed and finding clean clothes laid out on the end of it. The scent of strong tea lingered in the pleasantly warm air and he followed it to the small kitchen, the familiar figure doing the washing up loosening the knot tied around his heart. He was here. He was safe. They were safe. At least for a little while.

“Jon.” The naked relief flooding through his veins was embarrassing, the little jump of surprise he’d caused endearing

“M’Martin!” Turning swiftly, Jon almost lost his footing, catching it quickly, mouth quirked in a half smile. “You, you look so much better.”

“I feel better.” Surprised when he found it was really true. A beat of silence passed between them, Jon growing more and more uncomfortable if the caginess about him said anything.

“Oh! Uh! Th’there’s tea. It, I’m sure it’s not as good as yours, it couldn’t possibly be.” He made room for Martin to pass by, jittery and shaking. “I’m sorry, I. Wasn’t sure what you’d want to eat but there’s some--”

“Jon.”

“--Nothing in the fridge of course but--”

“Jon.” With a little more force, punctuated by a step forward, and Martin heard his teeth click when his jaw snapped shut. “I’m sure whatever we have is fine.”

“Ah. Alright. Yes. Of course.” He wrung his scarred hands, something unidentifiable in his expression. “I’ll. I. Of course.” Jon practically fled the room, skirting Martin as if his touch might hurt him, and the ache it left in his wake was debilitating. But Martin had pulled away from him for a whole year; it was no wonder Jon didn’t want anything to do with him. He was altruistic. He saved people because that's what he did and he’d be the first to deny it.

So of course he’d saved Martin.

It wouldn’t do to attribute it to reciprocated feelings. Martin could barely remember what he’d said in the Lonely, what he’d said to Jon. But it felt like a confession. Was that the problem?

Did he Know his infatuation? Was he disgusted that someone like Martin dared love him?

Martin poured his tea, savoring it because of whose hands made it and found Jon in the sitting room, curled up with a book in an overstuffed chair.

“It’s good.” Jon chuffed, laughter like music.

“You’re too kind.” And the wry tone was so familiar and so Jon Martin chuckled along with him. They fell into a comfortable silence, at a comfortable distance.

And this was enough. Martin would make sure it was enough.

When Jon insisted on taking the couch because it wasn’t like he slept much anyway, that was enough too.

Days passed.

Jon withdrew.

Skittish and wan. A ghost skirting the edges of Martin’s periphery, and he wanted so badly to hold him close, ease his trembling, help him find even a measure of peace if there was any left to be found.

Jon thought he could do this. Thought he was strong enough to at least give Martin this one, small thing but the profound ache of what he’d lost without even knowing he’d had it in the first place carved him out and he hugged himself tighter lest his useless heart fall from the gaping wound that was his ribcage. Raw and empty, he wasn't strong enough to hold himself together against the sheer amount of love in him with nowhere to go and it was tearing him apart.

It’s only you. It’s only you. It’s only you.

When it overcame his childish sand castle walls, eating through them like the hungry surf in all directions, from all sides, Jon let the tears come. Quiet. Be quiet. Shh, shh, shh.

But I love him. I love him. I love him.

It wasn’t fair.

“Jon?” You idiot, he needs to rest and look what you’ve done. Selfish. Stupid. Please. “Please what, Jon? How can I help?”

“N’no, no. Go, go back to bed, y’y’you need to--” a sob choked him and he couldn’t finish speaking, could barely breathe, drowning in an unfamiliar want. Fingertips touched his jaw, applied pressure to lift his face and the look in Martin’s eyes stole the rest of the air in his lungs. “I love you.” He slammed his palms over his traitorous mouth, curling forward and inadvertently into Martin’s waiting arms and he was too weak to resist, instead babbling, crying, words night unintelligible. “I love you! And I, I know. I know y’you don't feel the same and I'm too late but. But I want in a way, in, it's frightening how much and I'm afraid I'll do s’something foolish when, when all I, I, I want to d’do is keep you safe.”

“Breathe, Jon. Breathe, it’s alright.”

“I've. I've t’tried to give you space. And. A’and not. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I've. I shouldn't have said anything and I'm so, s’so sorry.”

“Hush now, hush and look at me. Look at me, Jon.” Demanding carefully, and Jon turned to him like a worn and weathered bloom seeking out the sun. Martin immediately, desperately wanted to fold him back up again, touch him softly, kindly, because no one has done that for him in so long. Gently, Martin swept his thumbs beneath red eyes wrung with dark shadows, brushing away tears even when they showed no sign of stopping. “It’s alright, shh. It’s alright.” It’s not. It wasn’t alright and Jon shook his head, stiffening in his arms when Martin pressed him into his shoulder.

“M’sorry, m’sorry, M’Martin.” Greedy, never content with what was offered, always had to take. To take and take and take and he took more now, leaning heavily into Martin, pressing as close as possible, winding his arms around his waist and clutching his jumper.

“Okay, okay. Why did you think I needed space?” Soothing, his broad palm weighed heavy on his back, up, down, repeated. “Why so sorry?”

“I. I--you. Loved me.” Saying it like this was torture, a knife twisting in his gut. he never wanted to hear it again. He could. He could pretend. If he never heard it again. “And I. I never knew. Not until it was too l’late.”

I really loved you, you know?

You know?

Jon was exhausted. Upset and aching. Completely limp in his arms and so confused. Why hadn’t he pushed him away? He wasn’t obligated to keep holding Jon together. Especially not after he’d fallen into so many pieces.

“Jon. I think.” Martin hummed, lips close to his ear, breath a slow warmth against the shell of it. “I need to make something clear.”

“You don’t need to do anything.” Jon closed his eyes, stray tears slipped between damp lashes. “I understand.”

“I’m not sure you do.” Sweetly, Martin cupped the back of his head, brushed a kiss to his pulsepoint. “Because I do love you.”

“You don’t, you don’t have to say that.” Shaky, small.

“I do.” Martin pushed him back by the shoulders only to press their foreheads together. “I do. I love you, Jon. In the Lonely, I. It’s not important. Not right now.” Martin leaned back, bringing Jon with him, tucking him under his chin. “I love you. I’m excited that you love me too.” Muffled in a tight throat still choked with too much emotion.

“I think I’ve loved you for a long time, Martin.” Chaste, gentle, he pressed a kiss to the corner of Jon’s mouth, smiling when his lips turned up beneath his own.

“And I’m so glad for it.”

#TMA #The magnus archives #jmart #jonmartin #mutual pining #unrequited love #kinda #they're foolish #tmafanfic #love #first kisses #jon sims #martin blackwood

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ttttaehyungie · 4 years

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sincerely, but no longer yours | chapter 1

sincerely, but no longer yours | ex!kim namjoon x reader

☘ genre | angst, exes au

☘ summary | It started as a coping mechanism as getting the words out provided a form of catharsis. But now you can’t stop writing these love letters, even with the knowledge that they’ll never get sent. After all, who writes love letters to their ex?

☘ word count | 4k

☘ rating | PG-13

☘ warnings | some fairly heavy angst, breakup

☘ a/n | ok SO I’m finally working on a multi-chap for the first time in forever :o and ofc this is the first series that i’m working on in this blog! alsooo am kinda ashamed to admit that i’ve actually NEVER finished a series ever 🙈🙈 sooo this is a challenge from me @ myself 🤭 so yes come along with me for this ride hahahah and pls kick my butt if i leave this series as another one in the unfinished pile

You can have Manhattan, ‘cause I can’t have you -- Sara Bareilles, Manhattan

Pulling your jacket around you a little tighter to keep the bite of the night air at bay and hitching your duffel bag a little higher up your shoulder, you board the bus. The bus conductor asks for your ticket and you let go of it for the first time since you bought it, giving him the flimsy paper that’s now imprinted with the shape of your thumb under the stress of your tight grip as you held onto it like a lifeline. After a quick inspection, he passes it back to you and you take it from him wordlessly.

“Hey.” You look up at the conductor in surprise, gaze finally torn from where it had remained on the ground all this time. “You alright?”

You don’t allow yourself to consider the question lest the tears come and you cause a bigger scene than you already have. With a tight-lipped smile that probably isn’t fooling anyone, you nod at him, and traipse to the back of the bus before he can probe any further.

The comfort of the back corner of the bus brings you the tiniest smidge of relief, especially after you place your duffel bag on the seat next to you, creating a barrier between you and the rest of the bus. Not that there would be many people, if any at all, at such a late timing. Nonetheless, the little bubble created by your makeshift barricade brings you some security as you settle into your chosen seat gingerly, as if you would shatter to pieces if your movements were too rough. Your emotional state sure feels that way, fragile and on the brink of falling apart any time now.

You’re not sure how much time passes before the bus doors finally shut and it begins pulling out of the bay. It carries a sense of finality. You’re really going home. The cityscape, drenched in the black and orange hues of nightfall, goes past as you watch through the window- slowly at first, then becoming a blur as the vehicle picks up in speed. The plans you had for the weekend are now truncated and left behind with the city.

The emptiness hits you once again when the bus pulls onto the freeway and the city sights are completely gone. Only the inky black of the night sky accompanies you now. You are alone. On this bus, yes, but in more ways than that too. You let that fact sink in.

It’s too dangerous to let your thoughts overtake you right now, so you occupy yourself by playing Sudoku puzzles on your phone, which has strategically been placed on airplane mode. The methodical problem-solving that the puzzle requires of you submerges your mind in a sea of numbers. Which is your intention. And before you know it, the bus is slowing down and you look up from your device to the familiar scenery of your hometown. On any other day, it would fill you with warmth, but right now it doesn’t.

Now having arrived at your destination, you gather your belongings and alight from the bus. It’s just a daypack and your duffel bag which is bursting at the seams with how many items you crammed into it. You would have brought a suitcase if you knew, but how were you to predict the events of tonight? Though, you surmise, you should have seen it coming and could have prepared yourself better.

You’re trudging home and you’re maybe ten minutes away when it begins raining. Great. As if this day could get any worse. It makes your clothes stick to you in that cloying way and the chill from the night has you shivering almost violently now. But you plough on home, only focusing on getting one foot in front of the other and repeat, repeat, repeat.

Finally at your front door, it’s a struggle to get the key in the door with how badly your hand is shaking. Whether it’s from the cold or something else, you’re not sure anymore at this point. After countless tries, you finally manage to jam it in and turn it quickly so you can just get into the safety of your home.

The noise that results from the way you throw your duffel bag and daypack down, your rain-soaked jacket quickly following suit to form a messy, wet heap in the middle of the entryway, announces your arrival. Hoseok pops his head out from the archway that leads to the living room, the sounds probably interrupting his late-night Netflix binge.

“____?” You can hear the concern in his voice, and you refuse to look at him, instead focusing on wrenching your sodden shoes off of your tired feet. “Where’s Joonie?”

The mention of his name causes something like a switch to flip in you. Your brain finally, finally catches up with reality, and the numbness you lulled yourself into for the past few hours dissipates just like the pricking of a balloon. It leaves you gasping in pain, the way the emotions suddenly come flooding through you. The hurt viciously demands to be felt.

With a shaky exhale, you look Hoseok in the eye. The gravity of tonight’s events finally cements itself in your brain and the tears you’d been holding back come spilling out uncontrollably as you mumble your next words out brokenly.

“We broke up.”

It’s been weeks since you and Namjoon broke up. The constant cloud of desolation that plagued your every waking moment in the immediate aftermath of the breakup has finally eased up somewhat.

Being a high school senior turned out to be a lifebuoy in some ways, giving you solid things to cling onto in the midst of your emotions of loss and confusion. It’s not healthy, you know, but the academic content provided a sense of constancy that you sorely needed and the rigor of it all kept your mind from wandering too far into the depths of your sorrow.

Yet you knew this could only go on for so long. At some point, these emotions will eat you up from the inside out if not acknowledged and sorted out. Pain is just like that, it will gnaw at you with subtlety but with certainty. Repressing the feelings is just simply unsustainable.

You’re really lucky to have an older brother like Hoseok. That first night, when you finally broke down and let the tears turn into sobs that wracked through your entire being, he’d quickly gathered you up into his arms and had given you a shoulder to cry on. God knows how long you spent in that state bawling seemingly endlessly, but Hoseok had let you just get it all out without asking any questions, the immensity of his patience and quiet strength of his presence lending you a pillar of support that you desperately needed at the time. Later that night, when you were showered and tucked in warm under the covers, you watched through puffy eyes as he unpacked your belongings from your duffel bag and carefully wiped them dry or chucked them into the laundry basket as was appropriate.

When he reached for your daypack, you stopped him. You were barely able to croak out your opposition, your throat raw and wrecked from the earlier barrage of emotions. Still, Hoseok caught it, and nodded empathetically. He respected your wishes for privacy and only wiped the exterior of your daypack down before leaving it in the corner of your room.

And in the corner it remained. Aside from your absolute necessities, which was really just your keys and your wallet, you’d procrastinated unpacking your daypack. Till now, that is.

Not that there was much to unpack anyway. Most of the possessions you’d retrieved from Namjoon’s dorm room that night had been hastily dumped into your duffel bag in the single-minded mission to get out of there as soon as possible. You know exactly what items remain in the daypack- a bottle of water, a pair of shades, some chapstick, surprise tickets you’d bought online to a movie from that fateful weekend that went unused, and an envelope tucked away safely in the inner pocket of the bag.

The daypack and its contents weighed on your mind the same way it sat in the corner of your room- silent, untouched, yet unbudging. It’s plain silly how afraid you’ve been to confront these items, items that are inanimate and void of meaning apart from what you yourself have ascribed to them. In an attempt to hold off the full brunt of your misery, somehow you’d deluded yourself into thinking that leaving the daypack as it is would preserve things as they once were. You lived in self-denial, as if the breakup had not happened. As if the weekend trip just had not taken place at all, and was waiting to happen instead. The daypack was waiting for you to sling it over your shoulders as you head jovially out the door to the city and to the arms of your boyfriend.

But no. You heave out a sigh. Things have changed. You and Namjoon are no longer together. Holding onto a delusion is ridiculous, and you need to move on. And the first step to doing that is to get rid of this centerpiece that your fantasy revolves around.

The items in the bag get dumped onto the carpeted ground of your room unceremoniously as you unzip the daypack, turn it upside down, and shake out the contents. Whatever mystique you’ve built up around these simple items is now shattered as they lay scattered on the floor. The shades and chapstick return to your dressing table, the bottle of water and expired movie tickets get dumped out. And the envelope… you throw it into your desk drawer and slam it shut before the temptation to tear it open overtakes you.

That was the first of many letters that were written, but never got sent.

You never intended to make it a thing. It just… happened one day. Staying focused on school and college applications could only provide so much distraction from the whirling emotions bottled up inside you. No matter how tightly you attempted to keep a lid on it, wistful nostalgia still crept up uninvited.

And naturally so. This neighborhood, your high school, heck even your own house is filled with the ghost of the memory of him. Namjoon had been a significant presence in your life before he was even really yours. You still remember the day Hoseok brought his newfound friend home, Namjoon’s lips pressed tightly together in his attempts to keep his sniffles and tears in, his knees scraped, bruised, and bleeding from what looked like a pretty hard fall on the playground.

“Mum!” Hoseok had called out. “I need band aids!”

“Hello,” Namjoon mumbled when your mum came hurrying out of the kitchen to see what was wrong. “Sorry to be a bother.”

Namjoon had always been a klutz, but it was his clumsiness that had birthed the close friendship between him and Hoseok. After one too many accidents on the playground, Namjoon had been too scared to go home to face the inevitable reprimanding that would come. Hoseok had offered to patch him up at yours instead, and the camaraderie that arose from that incident had sealed their friendship as an unbreakable one. Unfortunately, as big as Hoseok’s heart was, his little seven-year-old hands were not the gentlest. From your spot at the top of the staircase, peering through the grills, you saw how Namjoon winced at Hoseok dabbing antiseptic on his knees, and you came bounding down the steps to rescue the stranger that sat on your family’s sofa and that had somehow wormed his way into a soft spot in your heart with his teary pout.

“Hoseok,” you demanded, your tiny hand outstretched and waiting, voice tinged with petulance. “Give me.”

Hoseok relinquished the first aid items to you and watched as you cleaned his new friend up, your brow furrowed in careful focus, little hands fumbling but your touch delicate. After you applied the twin band aids on both of Namjoon’s knees with all the meticulousness that a five-year-old could muster up, you patted his thigh and smiled at him.

“All done!” you declared. And you’d never forget the sight of his dimpled smile beaming up at you in response.

If only you could. You shake your head, as if it would shake the memories away. The paper before you on your desk remains as blank as it was twenty minutes ago when you sat down to get started on revision. But having known Namjoon for over a decade made it too easy for you to just get swept away by the deluge of memories of him. You tried to keep it in, but it kept leaking out. And perhaps that’s what you need- to just let it out.

The first touch of the pen to paper has you pausing, wondering how you were even supposed to start. But the moment you begin- Dear Namjoon, - everything comes spilling out in prose. Hardly having to pause what with the way your thoughts just keep flooding out onto the paper, the inked words flowing out in streams, you finally let go of the firm grip you’d kept on your feelings up till now and express your frustration, your loss, your confusion all out in one huge cathartic spew. You write till you feel emotionally dry, but in a satisfying way, chest feeling lighter than it had in weeks. But as your ballpoint pen swirls the complimentary closing- Sincerely Yours- you can’t help but laugh at the sardonic humor embedded in it. The sincerity in your words is irrefutable. But you’re no longer his.

Folding it up and sealing it away in an envelope, you chuck the letter into your desk drawer where it joins its predecessor. Now with a clearer mind, and a renewed focus and vigor, you’re finally able to set to work on the mountain of revision materials that await you.

The first letter was a gushing myriad of feelings. But the subsequent letters solidified into one obviously discernible emotion- anger.

Once you came to terms with the fact that he’s not coming back, and that he basically threw away the relationship, it had you boiling mad. How much had you sacrificed for this relationship?! You’d basically shuttled back and forth between your hometown and the city almost every other weekend to visit him on campus, juggling your family and your grades and your friends back home and college applications just to make your long-distance relationship work. And how did he repay your efforts? By withdrawing from you and refusing to talk things out despite your gentle, persistent probing. You’d heard that he’d been in a slump and confused about the future- Hoseok, while his best friend, was your brother after all- but you’d never imagined he’d be confused about you.

And so you took your rage out on paper once again, your words harsh as you wrote candidly. It’s not like he’d ever get to see it anyway.

But anger is tiring. After penning a few letters full of scathing lines you’d never have the guts to actually spit out in person, your wrath was quelled and soon gave way to grief.

In the same way with your anger, you chose not to deny your sadness, but leaned into it instead. The end of your relationship was something worth mourning, you decided, and you let yourself embrace the sorrow fully and deeply. It was especially difficult knowing that he was still in contact with Hoseok, while you had been completely cut out of his life. But you can’t blame either of them- you can’t demand that they revoke their friendship over what happened between you and Namjoon, nor would you ever desire for that to happen. Hoseok, on his part, managed it to the best he could, taking his phone calls in a room separate from you. But you can’t control the wave of dejection that runs through you whenever you spy Namjoon’s name on his caller ID.

You’re used to the routine by now. Whenever the emotions get too overwhelming, whenever there’s just too much that you want to say to him but that you can’t, you engage in the therapeutic act of writing your letters. Then you seal them up, and chuck them away, out of sight and out of mind. The grief gets easier to deal with too, especially with the excitement of receiving college acceptance letters and your high school graduation date that’s drawing closer and closer.

Of course, that in itself brings its own strand of sadness too, as you imagine having to separate from your friends and family and leave your childhood home behind. But the notion of getting to carve out the path to your future leaves a giddy anticipation that overshadows all other feelings.

And in that strange, paradoxical way that time seems to pass in- every hour ticking by so slowly, but the weeks whizzing by in the blink of an eye- it’s just as your five-year-old self had once proclaimed, “All done!”

Your life now packed into boxes that are piled into the car, one last check of your room to ensure that nothing important is left behind, a final look at the place you called home for all your life up to now, and you’re off to college. As you watch the sight of your neighborhood through the rearview mirror pull further and further away till it disappears entirely, you know you’re leaving tons of memories behind. Memories of Namjoon, yes, but also memories of your growing up years with your family and friends who have made you into who you are today, able to venture out and face the world with courage and confidence.

Maybe it’s that experience of individuation that has you finally accepting it. No more whirlpool of emotions, no more anger, no more grief, no more emptiness. Just peace. You’re single, separated from Namjoon. And you’re ready to take on the world and live your life like the boss woman you are.

“____,” Hoseok wails, pouting as he approaches you with outstretched arms. You barrel into him, relishing the warmth of his embrace and stowing it away for the days ahead. His eyes rove over you as he holds you at arms length so he can take you in for the last time in a while. He sighs. “My baby sister is all grown up and going to college and away from me.”

You laugh. “I’m still in the country, Hoseokie, it’s not like I’m halfway across the world. You can come and visit anytime.”

“But you’ve never lived further than a minute’s walk from my room. How am I supposed to deal with you being hours away from me now?”

“You’ll get over it soon, you big baby.” You duck out under his arms and slap his butt with the playful affection that’s always characterized your sibling relationship. Your parents are waiting by the door of your dorm room and you go over to give them their share of goodbye hugs.

“Thank you for all the help with moving and unpacking today,” you say, voice muffled as you speak into your dad’s chest. He strokes your head and you lean into his touch and savor it.

“You’ve got one more box there, you sure you don’t want our help with that?”

“No, it’s fine, I can handle it.”

It gets increasingly hard to hold the tears back and the difficulty only spikes tenfold when you turn to see your mum holding back tears of her own. Her perfume and her own natural scent that lies underneath that that you inhale as you hide your face in her neck while the two of you hug very nearly pushes you over the brink. But you manage. Knowing your family, it’s a given that someone will shed tears at some point, and you’re all (barely) holding it together for each other.

Hoseok comes up to hug you from behind so that you’re now sandwiched between him and your mum, which only prompts your dad to envelop all of you in his arms too.

“If it ever doesn’t work out- not saying that it won’t, because you’re super smart and the most driven kid I’ve ever known- but just, IF ever,” Hoseok rambles into your hair, “you can always come home and teach at the dance studio with me, ok?”

“Thanks Hoseokie. But you know I have two left feet, so I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

“They’ll make an exception for you. I’ll make them make an exception for you.”

You laugh and extricate yourself from the group hug through a series of wiggles that only provides further proof of why you’ll never make it as a dance instructor the way your brother has.

“Ok, it’s getting late and you guys still have a long drive ahead of you.” You shoo them out of your room. After your final goodbyes, you return to your room quickly, knowing that the sight of their figures leaving would be unbearable.

Needing a distraction, you busy yourself with unpacking your last box of belongings. It’s nothing too difficult- your family had spent the afternoon helping you with the major to-dos like wiping things down and setting up your larger decor and lighting fixtures (read: copious amounts of fairy lights strung everywhere) just the way you liked it. All that remains now are some photos with friends, the few pieces of jewelry you owned, your humble make-up collection... and a shoe box stuffed full of letters that you didn’t dare to leave back at home where it would be at risk of being discovered by prying eyes in your absence.

Finding a place for your various items was a simple task to complete. Within ten minutes you were done unpacking, washed up, and tucked into bed for your first night ever living apart from your family. You roll over onto your side- your sleeping environment may be different, but your side-sleeper habits will never change.

As you peer out the window and take in the campus sights that seem foreign now but that you know will become familiar in time, you’re struck with a funny thought. What a turn of events your life has taken.

This is not the dorm room nor the campus you thought you’d be attending all those months ago when you were making your way down to the city. You’d embarked on that trip in gleeful anticipation at being able to deliver the good news to Namjoon, only to have that trip abruptly cut short, and the news remained in an envelope that never got to its intended recipient.

That weekend triggered a rerouting of your life, setting you on a new path that had brought you here to this campus instead. Not that you regret it, or feel like you settled for something less, not at all. You’re at peace with your decisions. It’s just an intriguing thought that things could have turned out so differently if that one weekend hadn’t happened, is all.

On impulse, you clamber out of bed to retrieve the shoe box that you’d shoved into the corner of your closet. Rifling through the stack- wait, did you really write this many letters?- you finally find the envelope you’re looking for.

Tearing it open gingerly, you pull out the sheets of paper contained within. It’s a rueful kind of feeling that washes over you as you skim over the words that you’d written back in what feels like an entire lifetime ago. The excitement you had felt at the prospect of the long-distance aspect of your relationship finally coming to an end after two long years was blatant in your letter.

But when it became obvious that Namjoon had gotten tired of trying to make things work, what you’d initially thought of as the golden ticket to saving your relationship turned out to be fool’s gold instead. You pull up the second sheet of paper- a photocopy of your acceptance letter to the same college your then boyfriend was attending- and you can’t help the ‘what if’s that fill your mind as you run your thumb over the college emblem.

Guess your dreams of a future where you lived in the city and where Namjoon was still in your life would remain just that- a dream.

Or so your naive college self believed.

#btswriterscollective #btswritingcafe #btsbookclub #btswritersguild #ficswithluv #bts fic #bts angst #bts exes au #bts x reader #namjoon fic #namjoon angst #namjoon exes au #namjoon x reader #knj fic #knj angst #knj exes au #knj x reader

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