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theshelbyclan · 3 years

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Happy Birthday!

Summary: It’s your birthday! And the Shelby brothers refuse to let another one of their baby sister’s birthday go by without some proper celebrating.

(Gif by @benson-shelby) A/N: It’s actually my birthday today, but due to quarantine I can’t really celebrate it with anyone. So I decided to celebrate with the Shelby’s! Via this little fic, purely self-indulgent, to cheer myself up and to remember some great birthdays I had in the past ;) Set in season 1, you’re just a few years younger than John. Words: 1710 *** “John, get her tea.” “I thought you had the tea.” “Well, then get the milk!” urgent whispers sounded in the hallway.

“I’m not your bloody maid, am I, Ada,” John spat not so quietly in return.

You were lying in bed, awake for hours already. This was the day you’d become a woman, or so Ada had said, but still, your siblings were bickering like little children. It brought a smile to your face. Another annoyed grumble, “Shhh, you’re going to wake her up!” “Am not,” he hissed, “I got your fucking milk, didn’t I!” “Oi!” another low voice joined in, “Ada, you really need to take a look at the toast.” “What about the toast, Arthur?” “Burned it,” he mumbled and you could hear John giggle softly in the dark. Ada sighed deeply, “For fucks sake, fine, I’ll do it. Wait here.” As the least subtle brothers in the world shuffled about in the hallway, you thought of your other birthdays. When you were little, they were celebrated with mum and everyone gathered. During the war, no one paid attention to birthdays any longer. And now, after the war, people tried to get their lives back on track. Only last week you’d made sure Finn had gotten a birthday he’d never forget. And now they tried to return the favour, obviously. Another few minutes and about a thousands curses passed, when they finally tiptoed into the room. Closing your eyes, you decided to play along. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” Slowly you sat up and put on a groggy voice, “What are you doing in here?” “You are the worst actor ever, Y/N,” John grinned. “Am I?” you feigned innocence. Ada handed you a cup of tea as John plopped down onto bed next to you, “Did you hear about Arthur burning the toast then?” “I didn’t burn it,” he protested, “Only… blackened it a little.” Ada sent her eldest brother a look, “Polly’s making some more.” “Thanks for the tea,” you smiled and took a sip. Frowning, you narrowed your eyes at John. “You’re not a child anymore, Y/N!” he explained happily. “Move over,” Arthur shoved his brother aside and hugged you, “Happy birthday, sweetheart. This is for you, go on, open it.” Wrapped clumsily in some brown paper, he’d given you a revolver. And just as you were staring at it, Aunt Polly walked in with toast in a lovely shade of light brown. “A gun,” she demanded at once, “For fucks sake, Arthur.” “She needs it to protect herself, Pol,” he returned, and with pride in his voice he added, “And look: it’s a lady’s gun!” You turned the weapon over and saw it was small, delicate and laid in. Still, deadly as any weapon it was. “My turn,” John said, bouncing up and down in excitement almost. He handed Polly your tea and when she sniffed it, she said strictly, “Alright, who put whiskey in her morning tea?” No one answered. Quickly John handed you his present, hardly wrapped at all. Inside, you found a peaky cap, razorblades included. “Honestly, John…” Ada sighed, “She’s not a bloody Blinder!” “It’s all she’s ever wanted!” John called out, “Ever since she could walk, she tried to steal our caps, forever talking about wanting to join us wherever we went. Now she’s got her own!” “I love it,” you beamed up at him, “All I ever wanted.” “Alright,” Ada interrupted, “Clearly Y/N has too many brothers so it’s up to me to turn her into a lady.” “Please do,” Polly sighed, “Or the only interest she’ll ever have is weapons.” She knew her niece well, “That and gambling…” Your sister combed a few rebellious strands of hair behind your ear and planted a kiss on your cheek, “My darling little sister, soon you’ll learn you have more than one way of getting a man to do what you want.” You blinked a few times. This had always been more of Ada’s area of expertise. “She has no idea what you’re on about,” Polly smirked. “Thank God,” Arthur and John said in unison. “Sit still,” Ada demanded and she started applying the lipstick, “Sit. Still.” You furrowed your brows at the unfamiliar feeling, “Just your colour,” Ada commented happily, “As I thought.” “Not bad, that,” Arthur commented as he tilted his head. John leaned back and examined you as well, “Yeah, well, it’s red, isn’t it? I like red...” “Lipstick, a gun and razors,” Ada commented matter-of-factly, “the most deadly Shelby as of yet, Pol!” Aunt Polly rolled her eyes. “Happy birthday, Y/N!” eleven-year-old Finn came running to the room and jumped up into your arms, “You can have mine!” And he thrust his homemade catapult into your hands by form of a gift. “Another weapon, Pol,” Arthur eyed her, “Whatever will become of our innocent little sister?” Aunt Polly rubbed her nose and stammered a little, “Well, you know I don’t agree with you joining the family business… And God knows I’ve tried to rein you in just a little…” “But,” you interrupted, eyes glittering mischievously. “But…” she looked down, “I got you something for your shoes.” “Shoes?” you looked at the little black package she’d handed you. John suddenly burst out laughing in realisation, Arthur tried to hide his face in his hands and Ada commented dryly, “So, no better than us, eh, Pol.” Slowly you opened the package. Inside, you found a small black butterfly knife. *** A few hours had passed, with the regular nonsense that you cherished more than anything in the world. The family was gathered in the kitchen, everyone argued and life seemed perfect. But, one thing was missing. “Where’s Tommy?” you finally asked. “He had business,” Polly answered shortly, “No idea when he’ll be back.” You eyed John carefully, the brother you always turned to, “You think he forgot?” “Nah,” he tried cheering you up, “And you’re doing alright with us, right? Don’t need grumpy here…” You smiled, but still it hurt a little. And then, unexpectedly, Tommy waltzed into the house like it was any other day. “Y/N,” he announced himself coldly, “I need you to come with me.” “Why?” you challenged, “We’re just celebra-“ “I said now, Y/N. Family business.” Tommy interrupted in a low voice. “Thomas…” Aunt Polly started, but he held up a hand to silence her. Then he turned to you and repeated, “Come with me.” Begrudgingly, you got up and followed your brother. Looking back, Arthur motioned you to move it, which made you all the more suspicious. Without moving a muscle in his face, Tommy opened the door and said, “Go on.” You stepped outside and the second you did, applause resounded through the streets. In front of every house, people had gathered and they cheered like you were royalty. You couldn’t believe your eyes. “Tommy, did you…” you started. “He’s been at it all morning,” John explained as he crossed you in the doorway. A few moments later, the sound of hooves echoed in the streets. “What the hell is this,” you said at once. “This,” Tommy made a broad hand gesture, “Is a gypsy on a horse.” “And what, pray tell, is he doing in the middle of town?” You recognised Johnny Dogs now, who called out, “Little Y/N Shelby! Happy birthday, love! How the hell are you!” “I’m grand, Johnny,” you said numbly, “What’s with the horse?” He got off the horse and patted her flank, “She was a lovely filly as first. Sweet, but could never quite be tamed. Third filly out of Shadow, gorgeous beast.” “So, we decided,” Tommy mumbled as he lit a cigarette slowly, “she needed a rider who’d understand.” “What? Being a gorgeous beast?” your cynical reply came. Tommy rolled his eyes, “ ‘could never be tamed’ “. “Well, go on,” Johnny urged, smiling from ear to ear, “Up you get, little one!” Gingerly, you walked over to the horse. As you stroked her nose, Tommy handed you his cigarette and said softly, “What do you think of her?” “She’s an absolute beauty.” Tommy nodded, “Just like you,” but before you could send him a thankful look, he’d walked off again. And with the whole of Small Heath watching on, you climbed up on the horse. *** It was almost midnight when you woke up on a hard cold bench. A splitting headache washed over you as you tried to lift your head. You touched your temple and noticed some blood on your knuckles. Vaguely, you remembered being in the Garrison only a few hours before. You remembered Tommy had closed the betting den and the pub being packed with people, all celebrating your birthday. Memories of card games, songs and laughs came back to you. And the whiskey, so much whiskey. Slowly, you hoisted yourself up. As you looked around, you recognised the inside of the police cell. And you felt at your laced up boots: the knife was still safe inside. A sigh of relief escaped you. “How’s the head, eh?” Recognising your brother’s voice, you looked up without meeting his eye. “What did I do?” you asked finally. After a pause, Tommy replied, “Well, you celebrated your birthday alright.” “Did I have fun?” “Yes, I’d say so.” You frowned, “Why am I in here?” He cleared his throat, “It started with the barmaid and ended with you head-butting a policeman. Quite the Shelby night…” “Is that pride I hear?” Tommy didn’t answer, so you send him your best innocent smile. Eventually he asked, “Was it worth it?” “Hell yes,” you replied in a flash. “Little devil, celebrating her fucking birthday, eh?” “Admit it!” you pointed at him, “you areproud!”

And Thomas Shelby actually smiled through the bars, “Fucking right I am.” When he started to walk away, you shouted, “Oi! What about my bail?” “Paid it!” he called from a distance. “How am I supposed to get home?” you raised your voice even more. Tommy’s reply echoed, “Take your horse. She’s outside.” Myhorse? And just as a policeman with a head in bandages opened the door of your cell, you smiled to yourself: Best birthday ever.

Tommy left the station before you were released, but before he’d gone, he finally said:

“Happy birthday, Y/N.”

***

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candlewaxandp0lar0ids · 3 years

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if I can never give you peace — zero || Jungkook

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Summary: It starts like quite a few stories do, in your world. Girl meets boy, who happens to be a hybrid, girl buys him at an auction where hybrids are sold, boy falls in love with her, girl gets bored of him. Then it’s not so typical anymore, when the boy ends up forced into illegal fighting rings, until he makes a wrong move and the girl’s father decides he needs to be killed.

Where does that leave you? Well, you’re the one who handled Jungkook’s fight and generally organized his life, and, when the girl’s father, your boss and mafia leader, tells you he wants him ‘put down’, you’re the one who has to get it done. Except, instead, you let him escape, and everything turns out fine.

Until he comes back.

Also available on Ao3.

Word count (chapter): 5.8k

Genre: Mafia AU, Hybrid AU, enemies to lovers, heavy on angst, slow burn, eventual smut

Warnings & Tags (chapter): Descriptions of Violence, Tension, Dehumanization and general poor treatment of hybrids

A/N: So I have two modes and those are tooth-rotting fluff and angst feast. This is... not fluff. I hope you’ll enjoy this first installment and introduction to the series, and I will see you soon for the next one!

Your eyes follow Jungkook’s every step as he walks through the crowd and enters the cage that serves as a ring. He doesn’t have to look at you to know you’re watching. You’re always watching. You’re standing in your usual corner, from where you make sure everything goes smoothly. Two tall, muscular men stand on either side of you. They look like they’re your bodyguards, but really, they’re here to handle him if he tries to do something. To everyone in the room but the two of you, this looks like every other fight night since the very first time he came to the Circle.

You’re too far for him to smell you, especially over the crowd of excited, sweaty men, but if he did, he’s sure he would pick up on the bitter scent of anxiety, would hear your heart beating a little too fast. He’d say you’re lucky the guards aren’t hybrids, but he knows that’s not the case. You never count on luck. Everybody knows that. That’s what makes you so good at your job. That’s what might just save his life.

He glances at you, finds your eyes glued on him, and gives you a smirk, which reveals his abnormally pointy teeth for a rabbit hybrid. It’s been over a year since they’ve been sharpened for him, to make him look more threatening. You’re used to them, but he still sees you swallow. For the first time he wonders, vaguely, if you had any say in that. You’re the one he meets with nowadays, but you’re not his owner, after all.

Your eyes leave him to look at his opponent. The man’s taller and has broad shoulders, he seems to have some training based on his on-guard position, and he’s older than him. You couldn’t find many informations on him, but based on his attributes, he’s probably some kind of dog hybrid.

You both know he doesn’t stand a chance.

“On my left,” the announcer roars, “some fresh meat! I give you… Jin!”

There are enthusiastic shouts, and the man shoots nervous glances around him at the crowd all around him. It’s clear that he isn’t used to that type of setting, and you feel an unexpected wave a guilt in your chest. He’s going to get destroyed tonight, you’re sure of it. You’re the one who suggested that Jungkook should fight a newbie, for the show. You don’t regret your decision, but you don’t feel good about it either.

“And on my right! The man who needs no introduction, who has won thirty! Two! Fights in a row, I give you… Jungkook!”

The crowd goes hysterical, and the hybrid facing him winces again. If he thought he had chance before that, it’s clear that he doesn’t anymore. You wonder if he’d heard about Jungkook, if his owners had prepared him well enough, if whoever owned him was betting against him. You wonder if he’d just been told he would be fighting a rabbit hybrid and assumed he would be fine.

Jungkook’s long ears are flat against his head, carefully tucked under a headband, and without those, he doesn’t look like a rabbit hybrid, too tall and broad-shouldered. Then again, he had never really been your typical rabbit hybrid.

Truth was, you had been relieved when you had been assigned to working for the daughter of Mr. Xanders. Your whole life, you had known you would end up here. Your dad had worked for the Family since before your birth, and though it was clear your mom disapproved, she had never held any illusion that you would escape it. If anything, you were the sacrifice, a way of making sure your siblings wouldn’t be forced to work for the most powerful crime family in town. That was, if you did good enough.

Getting assigned to the girl who was nicknamed “the Princess” was both a blessing and a curse. It meant you got to stay away from most of the illegal stuff, as the girl was notoriously sheltered from all of that by her father. However, it also meant that you had to basically babysit the spoiled seventeen years old, despite her being only a few years younger than you. You had dressed as professionally and sternly as you could, adorning yourself in a dark woman’s suit, but she hadn’t seemed impressed.

That was how you found yourself here, at an auction for rare hybrids. You thought the whole thing was grim — oh, how naive you had to be back then, to think this was bad — but you had obeyed orders without batting an eye. You had to do this right, and this was a pretty easy job, after all.

You gritted your teeth silently as various hybrids were brought on stage, exhibited and bought, one by one. The status of hybrids was a complicated subject in the country, always had been, but you had grown up in a poor area, where a lot of hybrids lived freely, and the idea of owning what you knew to be a person made you sick to your stomach. At least the Princess hadn’t said a word the whole time you’d been there, and you had hopes that you would leave without — God — buying someone.

Naive. So damn naive.

“I want this one,” the girl had announced decidedly, pointing at the stage with a movement of her chin.

Shit.

You looked at the stage. There, the auctioneer was highly praising the hybrid who had last been brought on stage. A surprisingly tall and muscular rabbit hybrid, with fluffy black hair and long ears falling on either side of his head. He was shaking slightly, sending terrified looks around him, and your heart tightened in your chest.

Naive and soft.

“Are you sure?” you asked, and the girl rolled her eyes.

“Do your job. Get him for me.”

Numbers flashed in your mind, the exact amount of money you were allowed to spend clear as day. It made you feel a little better, for a second. This was what you were good with; numbers, facts, informations. If you thought of the hybrid as just that — a number, an element to compose with — you should be able to do what you were supposed to do. Do your damn job, and ensure your little brother never ever had to work here, because they wouldn’t be as kind to him.

You took a deep breath, and, after a few people had already considerably raised the price, you made your bid.

Jungkook walks to the center of the ring, arms raised high. He’s good at giving a show, good at most things, actually. He looks good here, confident, knowing exactly what he’s worth, and he’s nothing like what he was that first day. There is absolutely no fear on his face as he fists the air and people shout for him. Instead, he seems to be positively thriving on the attention he’s getting.

He’s a favorite here, because he always gives people what they came for. He makes the fight last, makes it theatrical, with twists and impressive moves. It’s been a while since he’s struggled in a fight, really struggled, which has made it easier. You recognize you’ve played your part in that. You have your word to say when picking his opponents, and you don’t want him to— well, to die, or to be too badly injured.

You know it’s not much. You know no matter what you tell yourself, that’s not protecting him. You know you should have acted a lot earlier.

But you didn’t.

They gave you Jungkook as soon as the payment was confirmed, which didn’t take long. People were fidgeting in the room, careful not to stare too long at the Princess. They knew who she was, of course. The bodyguards and your ghostly presence, one step behind her, did not do anything to soothe their nerves. No one actually knew you back then. You hadn’t earned your reputation of efficiency, no one had called you a cold-hearted bitch yet, though that would pretty much become your identifier, but you were still somewhat unnerving, with your stillness and your all black attire.

Which was why you never tried to add color to it.

The Princess seemed to be in her element, not bothered by the silence and people’s obvious fear of her, even for a second. Instead, she was watching her acquisition. The hybrid — Jungkook, you remembered, because you’d heard his name after winning the auction — was staring at the floor, stealing glances at her every once in a while, before quickly looking away again. He was clearly shy, and terrified, and it looked like the Princess liked that.

When they handed the leash to her, she was quick to clip it on his collar, and you held back your disgust. Your mind went to Mark, a kind golden retriever hybrid you had grown up with, and the idea of him being collared like that almost made you retch.

But, of course, none of that could be seen on your face. You had been told that you had the perfect poker face, unreadable at all times. In moments like this, it was a true blessing.

“Hello, Jungkook, I’m Anna, and I’m your new owner. I’m going to take good care of you.”

Then Jungkook looked up at her, briefly, and an adorable smile curved his lips.

You knew then that this could only end in pain and heartbreak.

Once Jungkook is done, he turns to face Jin. The other hybrid looks like he wants to run away, but even if he tried it, he’d be pushed right back in. So he does the smart thing, and prepares himself for the fight, lifting his hands to protect himself. Jungkook does the same thing. There is a brief moment of silence, everyone bracing themselves for what is to come. Despite his earlier display, Jungkook is deathly calm now, every muscle in his body ready for action.

The second the bell rings, Jungkook is moving, so fast he’s almost blurry, and you have to avert your eyes when his fist connects with the other hybrid’s chest.

This all feels like it could have been avoided.

A relationship quickly developed between the shy bunny and the Princess. You didn’t say anything about it; that wasn’t what you were here for. A baby-sitter, sure, but not a chaperone. Anyway, it seemed like Mr. Xanders wasn’t too worried about that, and his daughter was free to do whatever she wanted as long as she didn’t get pregnant. You supposed a hybrid was the perfect choice for that, with how rare it was for them to have children with a human. It could happen, of course, but it was highly unlikely without medical assistance.

Still, you weren’t sure you liked the relationship all that much. It just felt like Anna had so much power over him. He was a couple of years older than her, since selling hybrids under eighteen was technically illegal, but it was clear from the very beginning that he had been sheltered and didn’t have much experience in— well, in any areas. A sickening feeling told you that had probably been done on purpose by the people who had raised him. You were well aware of what rabbit hybrids were usually bought for.

You watched, silently, as they got close, as Anna’s hands started to easily find Jungkook’s, as Jungkook started to rest his head on her shoulder, to scent her, as he fell in love with her. Today, maybe you would have been annoyed at the sight, annoyed by his innocence, but back then, it only made you sad.

You were also there to see Anna grow bored of him. It didn’t even take her that long, no more than a couple of months.

When she insisted on going to another hybrid auction, and asked you to bid on someone else, you knew that it was over.

“Get him to fight,” Mr. Xanders told you dismissively at a meeting you had with him. “I want the money he cost me back.”

“He’s a rabbit hybrid,” you had said, frowning. “He’s not exactly the fighting type.”

“I didn’t tell you to make him win,” he scoffed. “I don’t care if you have to bet against him. Get my money back. After that, I don’t care what you do with him.”

You didn’t realize then that that was a ‘promotion’, and that this meant you would start working in illegal settings. All you knew was the painful weight in your chest at the idea of sending Jungkook to his death. You had kept away from him, not trying to create any bonds with him, but he smiled politely and kindly when he saw you.

God, he was in love with Anna. You were sure he had noticed her losing interest in him, but you also believed he held out hope. This could— This would probably be crushing for him.

So you took the matter into your own hands. You didn’t just sign him up for an upcoming fight, but you also found him a trainer, the best you could.

“Does Anna want me to learn how to fight?” he had asked you, big brown eyes looking at you, when you had told him about the training. “So I can be her bodyguard?”

“My orders don’t come from Anna,” you’d answered, trying to stay as distant as possible.

“But will she— Do you think she’ll like me again, if I learn to fight?”

No. You thought Anna had gotten everything she wanted from him.

“I don’t know,” you had answered. You couldn’t. You couldn’t do it.

The first fight had been brutal. Devastating, in fact. Jungkook had been training, and you’d been told he was good at what he was doing, but, as a newbie, he’d been sent against an expert fighter — “for the show”, you’d heard, the exact same thing you would use as well, years later —, and you were later told he was lucky he’d made it out alive.

You stayed next to him in the hospital room. As a hybrid, he healed quickly, but he still looked terrible, body marred with black and blue, lip busted, and black eyes. When he woke up, he looked around the room, every movement he made clearly painful, and you knew, at his expression, that there was only one thing he thought about in that moment.

Anna wasn’t there.

You would never forget the look he gave you then. The way he set his jaw, the way something hardened in his eyes.

“Get out,” he had said, and you were pretty sure he had meant for it to sound aggressive, but he wasn’t good at it yet, so it was more pleading.

You had gotten up, made a move to— to pat his shoulder, to do something, but you had refrained and your hand had fallen down to your side.

“I’m sorry,” you had said, and you had left him alone in there, with his broken hopes and heart.

That night was the first and last time you considered leaving your job.

But there was no quitting, where you worked.

In the ring, of course, Jungkook is good. He leaves an opening for the guy to place a few punches, ones that can’t hurt him too much. The crowd is delirious, bets are being placed. There’s a rumor that Jungkook was injured at the last fight so tonight could be the night where he loses his title, couldn’t it? The first round is coming to an end, and he doesn’t seem to have done much so, surely, he’s not going to be able to end that guy by the third, like he usually does — and if he does, hey, at least they’ll have had one hell of a show.

The three rounds thing is something you asked him to do after an organizer told you people needed that to feel they had gotten their money’s worth. You had told Jungkook, and he’d growled an answer, but he had never won in less than that since. For all his obvious hatred of you, the organization, and everything that surrounded him, he didn’t actively oppose you most of the time. He had tried to run away, twice, but when those attempts had failed, he had seemed to realize that it was just easier to go with the flow.

When the second round starts, though, he goes wild. His bare feet are light on the floor, his fists quick and precise. He doesn’t leave anything to luck either. Every punch lands exactly where he wants it to, when he wants it to. He dodges his opponent’s attacks easily, and he sees in his eyes the moment when the man realizes that he’s not winning this. He sees confidence turn into surprise, then into fear, and it only makes him want blood.

His right hook hits the man in the jaw with all the power he can put into it, and this time you don’t wince. You’ve gotten used to the violence now — it always takes you a while — and you’re mostly impressed at how good Jungkook is.

But that’s exactly why you’re in this situation, isn’t it?

“We should put him down,” Mr. Xanders said, with the exact same dismissive tone he had used years ago to tell you to make Jungkook fight, and you looked at him in disbelief. Surely, surely, he didn’t mean—

“I really disapprove of that solution, dad,” Anna said, shaking her head, and you realized he did.

You had been surprised by Anna’s presence, when you had walked into the office. You hadn’t worked for her in a long time, having graduated to far worse things. You had served your purpose, you supposed, made yourself practically indispensable when it came to the organizing of the Family’s business, as you knew the workings of the Family in and out, both legal and… less legal aspects. No one had ever said anything about your siblings joining.

“He attacked someone,” her father simply shrugged.

“If I may, Mr. X, it was after a fight and the man was being really aggressive after he lost the money he’d bet against—”

“I don’t care,” he said, waving his hand like you were just an annoying fly. “He attacked a human. We can’t have our hybrids doing that, otherwise it will just be chaos. You’re smart enough to know that.”

You swallowed. Something inside you was screaming. You had long shut down any form of moral compass, but it seemed like Jungkook always awoke the last remnants of it. You were pretty sure he despised you now, and you didn’t blame him for it. But, just like what you’d thought when Anna had bought him, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this just wasn’t right.

“I understand, sir.”

“That’s a horrible thing you’re doing, dad,” Anna insisted. “I thought you’d try to at least reason with him, (Y/N).”

That wasn’t your job. You knew when your opinion was asked on those things, and now was not one of those times. You also knew that you hated that she called you by your first name, like the two of you were friends, and you didn’t say anything about that either.

“I’m sorry, honey,” Mr. Xanders said warmly, like he had just refused to buy her an expensive toy, and not condemned a man to death. “I’ll make it up to you, okay?”

Anna sighed and rolled her eyes, and you assumed she’d probably stay mad at him for a while. But not too long.

Your heart was beating so loud in your chest you barely heard Mr. Xanders dismissing you, and you were relieved to be left alone when you walked out. There was only one thing you wanted to be thinking about now.

How were you going to save Jungkook’s life?

Jin hits the floor and doesn’t get up. It’s not an actual knock-out, because he’s still moving around, but Jungkook doubts he’ll even try to get back on his feet. The guy seems to be smart, he probably realizes that that would be suicide. Another minute with him on the ring? Nah. That would be a really, really stupid thing to do. Jungkook’s knuckles are bleeding — he doesn’t think they’ve been intact once in the four years he’s been fighting — and he’s pretty much unstoppable, right now.

He lets the referee grab his arm and lift it in the air as the crowd screams. They’re particularly loud tonight, because he won in two rounds. It’s not really a surprise when they force the entrance of the cage, flooding it, and Jungkook looks for you, almost instinctively. When he finds you, your eyes are on your phone. You look like you couldn’t care less about what’s happening around you, and he knows you do genuinely dislike the fights. You’ve never made it a secret. You’ve never taken care of the other hybrids owned by the family who participate, either. He doesn’t know if he’s your burden, or if you’re the one who chooses to still do that. Before, he wouldn’t have doubted it. Now… He’s not so sure.

Your eyes flicker up to his for a second, and you nod, imperceptibly. Your heart is probably beating as loud as his right now, though for different reasons.

Jungkook examines you, takes in how out of place you are in that environment, immaculately dressed, small glasses on your nose, hair pulled back, and lets himself be amused by it, one last time.

And then he’s gone.

You only visited Jungkook when there was about to be a fight, and it was clear he really didn’t like it when you showed up. You always seemed to be interrupting him, whether it was a training session or a work-out. You didn’t think you’d ever seen him do something other than those two things. You didn’t know if he had anything else.

You brought some food from a restaurant he liked, as you usually did, and got some things for the guards who would be around. That wasn’t as usual, but you had done it before, so hopefully it wouldn’t make anyone suspicious and it would allow you to have some privacy with Jungkook.

He sat down opposite from you, immediately diving into the food you’d brought, and you watched silently. His shoulders were tense, never completely down but, though he would hate to admit it, he was more relaxed around you than around anyone else. It said a lot about his life, about how desperate he was for any form of companionship, that the way you told him about his opponents almost made him feel like you cared about him. It said a lot that your presence comforted him, and it was pretty pathetic, if you asked him.

“So, who am I fighting?” he asked while eating. He never bothered with his manners when he was around you.

“A newbie,” you said. “Some fighting training from what I’ve gathered, but he shouldn’t be an issue.”

He growled. The sound was unnatural for a rabbit hybrid, but he had mastered it over the years. It was a good way of intimidating people.

“Really? I thought I told you I wanted a challenge.”

You didn’t reply immediately, and that made him look up at you. When he did, you were chewing on the inside of your cheek, hesitant. That was completely out of character. Then, you made up your mind, and your expression turned back to the unreadable one he was so familiar with.

“Keep eating, and don’t raise your voice” you ordered.

He lifted an eyebrow. Normally, he would have done something like folding his arms and waited for more, in a defiant attitude, but this was you. You would never do something like that just to assert your power over him. He hated your guts, but that was one thing he could say about you.

“Mr. X is going to have you killed because you attacked that man at your last fight.”

There. Direct, to the point, not a useless word — though you couldn’t bring yourself to use the words “put you down”. Jungkook froze for a half a second, than resumed his eating, albeit slower than before.

“It was all good as long as long as I brought him money, but he doesn’t want any trouble for it, huh?”

His voice was bitter and low, barely more than a rumble. You were confident no one was paying attention to you, since the guards ate in another part of the house and no one cared about what you were saying. They could see you through the picture window, but they couldn’t read lips. Still, you lowered your voice as well.

“Win your next fight in two rounds,” you said, instead of answering him.

He shot you a dirty glance.

“Do you really think that’s what I—”

“That should get the crowd to lose their mind,” you continued. You had gone through all the possibilities in your mind, over and over again. This was the one that was the safest for you and your family, while giving Jungkook a reasonable chance of survival. “When that happens, you’ll use the hysteria to leave through your opponent’s entrance.”

This got his attention, and he stopped trying to interrupt you, finally focusing on your words.

“I can probably get you somewhere between five and ten minutes before everyone finds out you’re missing.”

He scoffed.

“That’s very generous of you.”

“I also won’t look too hard for you,” you added, because you would obviously be in charge of that as well. “So as long as you don’t do a terrible job hiding, we probably won’t find you. Stay away from hotels, and don’t get noticed.”

Jungkook stayed silent for a while. He didn’t look at you, jaw set, and you were pretty sure he was weighing the pros and cons of your plan.

“I don’t know if there’ll be another chance,” you told him truthfully. “They want you gone after the fight.”

The silence went on a little longer, before Jungkook spoke again.

“Anna’s said yes to that?”

You didn’t miss the way his voice faltered on her name. You didn’t think he had spoken to her in years, but he still had a soft spot for her, and being reminded of it always made you sad. You had accepted, a long time ago, that life wasn’t fair, but that was particularly true when it came to him. None of what had happened to him was fair. The shy boy with the wide eyes you’d helped buy at the auction deserved better. You didn’t, probably deserved every single bad thing that had happened to you, but for him, you wished you had done something — anything — differently. So you wouldn’t be faced with a jaded, cynical version of that boy right now.

“She opposed it, but her father is still going through with it.”

“So she didn’t oppose it much.”

You didn’t answer that. It was true, and you both knew it.

You glanced at your watch. Your time here was almost over, and you had a lot of responsibilities.

“Will you do it?”

Jungkook glanced at you, eyes wary.

“How do I know you’re telling me the truth? You could just do that so you could have me killed and say I tried to escape.”

You shook your head, almost amused by the possibility.

“I would gain nothing from doing that, and if I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t go about it that way. Will you do it?”

This time, he nodded. He didn’t trust you, but he thought you were telling the truth on this. So following your plan would be just as well.

“Good. I’ll see you for the fight.”

This would have been a good moment to wish him good luck, probably, but you didn’t do luck, so you didn’t say anything. You gave him a quick nod, gathered your things, and then you were out.

You didn’t think to say goodbye.

“We’ll get him when the crowd’s dispersed,” one of the bodyguards says, and you hum noncommittally in response, eyes on your phone.

Moron.

If these two were the ones you usually work with, they would know that your usual protocol is to go get Jungkook as soon as the referee’s lifted his hand up. That way, you can get him out as quickly as possible and you don’t have to worry about him getting mobbed. But you’ve changed your team the day Mr. Xanders asked you to ‘put Jungkook down’, so they have no idea. It’s been a week since then, which shouldn’t make it too suspicious. Hopefully.

When the crowd does move enough to see what’s going on in the cage — three minutes — one of the two men says, voice worried, “Hey, can you see him?”

Your head snaps up and your eyes scan the room. You’re relieved to see that Jungkook’s nowhere in sight.

“Where is he?” you ask urgently, and the men seem to shrink under your glare, exchanging worried glances. You roll your eyes and sigh. This may be your plan, but they’re still acting incompetent. Which is good for you, sure, but the perfectionist in you is annoyed.

“You two should pray he’s in the changing room,” you spit out as you march towards it. It takes some struggle, because the crowd isn’t exactly calming down, but it’s not too long.

Of course, Jungkook isn’t in the changing room. It was a bad idea to go look there anyway — usually you would probably have already informed everyone that he had disappeared — but these two don’t seem to realize that.

“Go search the fighting room,” you order, “make sure you haven’t missed anything. Then check the surroundings. I’ll stay there. Let me know if you find something.”

They practically run out, and you allow yourself to sit down. This isn’t even dangerous yet. If Jungkook’s done that part correctly, he should already be too far for them to find him. As far as you’re concerned, you’ve bought him — you check your watch — seven minutes. But even if you don’t doubt him, you still feel terror at the idea they could catch him. You don’t know what would happen then. You don’t want to think about it.

The seconds tick by. It’s been almost exactly ten minutes when your phone rings.

“Hello, Miss—”

“Do you have him?” you bark.

There’s a silence.

“I want an answer!” you snap.

“No. I’m sorry. We’ve lost him.”

You hang up immediately and start to dial another number to let people know Jungkook’s missing.

But, before you actually call, you let out a brief sigh of relief.

This just might work.

You get home late the following night. When you do, you’re absolutely exhausted. You’ve had a terrible day, unable to sleep a wink, and you got thoroughly chewed out over Jungkook going missing. You think Mr. X was suspicious of you, because you basically don’t fuck up, ever, but then Anna started to wax poetics about how “Jungkook was a soul who wanted to live”, and you don’t think he bought it, but it at least got his mind off of you.

You doubt he’d get you killed over that, it just isn’t worth it and you’re pretty valuable, but it would be much better if he didn’t think about it too much.

You’ve organized the searches, pretty sloppily in your own opinion. Of course, it’s possible that they could find him, but if Jungkoook does his part, everything should be okay.

You remove your shoes with a groan when you walk in. You usually never regret wearing heels, thankful for the centimeters they help you gain, but tonight you definitely do. Keeping them on for two days was not how they had been intended to be used.

Once they’re off your feet, you painfully walk to your kitchen. All you want to do is to make yourself a cup of tea before going to bed, but you stop yourself before grabbing your kettle.

Something feels— off. You’re probably the only person who could notice it, because you’re so obsessive with everything that’s in your home, but you just can’t miss it. It’s not much, just some items that aren’t where they should be, or that were moved a little to the side.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you hesitantly grab a knife from your kitchen drawer. You don’t think that would do anything, if someone was in your apartment right now, because you can’t fight and, considering the people you work for, you’re pretty sure if someone wanted to kill you they would, but it makes you feel better.

You make your way through the living-room slowly, heart hammering in your chest. You check the bathroom, first. No one’s in there, but it’s clear that whoever was there used it as well. He didn’t put your toothpaste back where it belonged.

That only leaves your room. You walk in, carefully, to find it empty. Your bed’s done, though not exactly how you do it, and that confuses you. At least until your eyes find the necklace that’s on your bedside table.

It’s the identifying tag Jungkook wore around his neck for fights. You reach out for it, in disbelief, and that only confirms what you thought.

A laugh bubbles in your throat, and you just can’t hold it in. It escapes your lips, breaking the silence that always reigns in your apartment.

Here. He was here, in the eye of the storm, while everyone was looking for him. You have no idea where he is now, but this makes you feel like he’ll be fine. Clearly, he is a smart man and he has resources.

You fall to the ground, lean against your bed, holding the tag in your hand. You give yourself a second. That’s more than you usually get. It’s a second to close your eyes and feel grateful and happy about what happened, a second to think that perhaps not everything is dark and terrible in the world.

A second, because Jungkook made it out.

And then, you open your eyes, and you come back to your reality, which is that you’ll be working for the family tomorrow, and the day after that, and probably for the rest of your life. There’s no out for you. No hope.

But at least Jungkook should be fine. You’ll never know about it, because if he is, then you’ll never hear about him again.

If you ever do, it will only mean bad news.

Thank you for reading! I hope you’ve enjoyed this first chapter and feel free to let me know if you would like to be tagged for future ones!

#jungkook x reader #bts #bts x reader #jeon jungkook x reader #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfic #jungkook angst #jungkook #jeon jungkook #hybrid jungkook #candywrites

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valdomarx · 3 years

Text

Lost in Translation

McShep + fake relationship, for @lamberts <3

John glances around warily. The people of this planet seem friendly enough, but with Teyla and Ronon off visiting another village, he feels acutely vulnerable.

“Will others be joining you?” The village elder gives him a inquiring look.

“Just McKay. He’s my scientist.”

The elder frowns. “What is scientist? We do not know this word.”

“Oh.” He looks around the mud hut and contemplates how to explain it. They clearly don’t have a frame of reference for astrophysics or computer programming here. “He’s part of my team. He travels with us and, you know, gets us out of difficult situations. Opens doors. Fixes things when they break. That sort of thing.”

“Ahh.” The elder smiles beatifically. “This we know. He is your chap’tah.”

“Sure, I guess.”

“It is good for one who travels to have a chap’tah.”

John grins. “He has his uses.”

Some of the villagers raise their eyebrows at that, but it’s soon forgotten as they move onto the trade negotiations.

“I brought you food.” One of the village women smiles at him shyly as she hands over some kind of bread and fruit. “Should I bring more for you to give to your chap’tah as well?”

“Thank you.” John waves her off. “But don’t worry about McKay. I’m sure he’ll track down the food himself soon enough.”

The woman draws back in horror. “You do not feed him?”

“What? No?” John boggles. “I mean. He’s allowed to eat. Does so a whole lot, actually. But I don’t typically oversee that personally.”

“In our culture, we honor our chap’tahs by providing them with food. Is it not so where you are from?”

“It’s not.” John thinks about the last time the Daedalus came by to restock Atlantis and the frankly incredible volume of snacks that were distributed among the scientists. “Not officially, anyway.”

“Perhaps you should try it.”

He thinks about the way Rodney’s face lights up when he brings donuts to the lab. “Perhaps I should.”

“We have prepared a hut for you and your chap’tah.”

“Great.” John isn’t crazy about staying the night here, but the gate is a long hike away and they clearly aren’t in any immediate danger.

The villager, a young man with broad shoulders, leads him to a hut on the edge of the central meeting place. “We hope you will be comfortable.”

John sticks his head inside. It is exceedingly small, barely enough space for one person. It was going to be cramped as hell with both him and Rodney in there.

But they are guests, and he doesn’t want to be rude. “Lovely. Thank you.”

The young man gives him a knowing wink. “We know that a man likes to keep his chap’tah close.”

And that was… weird. But okay, having a scientist close at hand was pretty useful.

Rodney storms up to him and John laughs so hard he nearly chokes. He’s wearing some kind of elaborately tied white tunic and has flowers woven into his hair. His face has turned a furious puce color and he is fuming.

“Fun day?” John asks when he’s regained enough breath to speak.

“They insisted on dressing me like this and it’s all your fault.” He waves a finger in John’s face.

“How’s that?”

“They said I had to be presented handsomely. As if my usual attire is anything but! And the more I argued, the more they insisted I had to because of you. ‘When one is chap’tah, one must be at one’s most agreeable.’” Rodney does a mean impression of one of the village elders. “What the hell did you tell them?”

“Honestly, nothing! Just that you were my team scientist. Maybe they really love celebrating science here?”

“Oh, right, because this is a bastion of forward-looking experimental thinking!” Rodney gestures wildly around the village. “I feel so celebrated.”

John suppresses a smile. “I think you look very nice. White suits you.”

He keeps a straight face for all of two seconds before Rodney tries to throttle him.

That night, there’s a celebration in honor of their new trade alliance. The villagers build an enormous bonfire and smoke meats and vegetables over it like the galaxy’s biggest barbecue. After the food, they hand around gourds full of sweet mead which leaves sugar on John’s lips and tingling in his throat. And then the dancing begins.

Dancing has a long tradition in this culture, he learns: dances in the hope of a good harvest, dances to give thanks, dances to celebrate births and to commemorate deaths. Every family seems to own a drum or pipe of some kind, and they bring them out to play relentless, rhythmic music to which they twirl around the fire.

The mead must have been stronger than he thought, because when one of the villagers invites him to dance he takes her up on the offer, letting her show him the steps. He catches sight of Rodney watching him from the other side of the fire with a frown, and he’s compelled to pull him to his feet and to wipe that frown away.

Neither of them have the elegance and agility of the others, but that doesn’t seem to matter. John does his best to show him the footwork, but they mostly end up bumping into each other and laughing. At one point they collide so hard that Rodney nearly goes sprawling, and John catches him around the waist to hold him upright.

The firelight paints them both in hues of orange, and a red flush is spreading across the tops of his cheeks, the way it always does after more than one drink. John longs to trace it with his fingertips.

If I kissed him now, he catches himself thinking, he'd taste of honey and wood smoke.

They make it until dawn before staggering back to their hut. The villagers are still dancing, and they fall asleep to the sound of drumming.

John wakes up far too hot, with something fluffy tickling his nose and something soft and appealing pressed up against him.

He blinks, stretches, and realizes the tickling thing is Rodney's hair, which his face is buried in, and the heavy weight is Rodney's ass, which he's grinding up against.

Erm.

“Jesus, Sheppard, you could at least buy me dinner first.”

John stills, embarrassed. Though Rodney sounds bleary but not exactly adverse to the idea.

Interesting.

"How about once we get back?"

"Huh?" Rodney is not at his sharpest first thing in the morning.

"Dinner. You. Me. Atlantis."

"Oh." Rodney snuggles back into him. "Yeah, alright."

Nice. "Okay. Good "

There's a quiet moment, and John enjoys the warmth of his arms around Rodney.

Rodney never could appreciate quiet though. "Why did you stop?" He sounds almost petulant. It's kind of cute. "With the -" he gestures vaguely, "- you know."

"Technically I didn't buy you dinner yet."

"Ehh, I'm pretty easy. I'll put out for a potential dinner."

Really nice.

He smiles into Rodney's hair. "If you insist."

It’s several hours later that Teyla arrives. John is sat on a muddy bank playing a game involving balancing piles of sticks with some of the local kids, and Rodney has been hustled off to have more flowers braided into his hair. When the village women tugged him out of the hut, giggling and waving flowers, he’d thrown his hands up and barely even complained, so he must be in a truly good mood.

“John,” Teyla gives him a polite nod as she approaches, flanked by two of the villagers. “Caton and Sar’ai tell me that negotiations went well.”

He stretches lazily. “They did. I think we can get enough food to keep Atlantis stocked for several months.”

“Good. Well done.” She comes and sits by him on the bank. “They also told me that you were here with your husband.”

He blinks at her.

She’s hiding a smile. “Is there something you would like to tell me?”

“Erm.” John thinks back over the last day. The chap’tah. The food. The flowers. The shared hut.

Ahh.

“There seems to have been a misunderstanding about me and McKay. Though, on reflection, I can perhaps see how they might have got the wrong impression.”

Teyla nods sagely. “It would be best if you, how shall we say, play along for the rest of the visit? No need to risk a diplomatic incident.”

Very well. If he must, he must.

When Rodney comes back, this time dressed in a fetching blue sheet with violet flowers tucked behind his ears, John pulls him close and kisses him. Rodney makes a happy humming noise and none of the villagers seem perturbed, so he’s going to count that as a win.

As they collect their gear and begin the walk back to the gate, John takes Rodney’s hand in his own.

Teyla inclines her head knowingly. “I am glad your mission was successful,” she says.

"Just doing my part,” he replies, giving Rodney’s hand a little squeeze, “in the spirit of intergalactic understanding."

#mcshep #stargate atlantis #lamberts #my writing #avia this was so much fun to write #i love this prompt thank you :D

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t-o-m-hollands · 3 years

Text

And so finally here it is, the fourth and final part of this series.

Warnings: Smoking, drinking and smut. One scene contains memories back to an emotionally abusive relationship (not between main characters). This is set in Nice in the 1950’s, I have never been to the French riviera and I wasn’t alive in the 50’s, so probably a very inaccurate description of the place (also at times simply just made up). Also features a PROFOUND misunderstanding of Nietzsche’s work.

Summary: Can you and Timothée make a life together?

Themes: Artist!Timmy, period piece (1950's).

READ THE PREVIOUS THREE CHAPTERS HERE,

this is the final part of this series.

August, 1953

The days are spent like this, one much like the other, settling into life without either one of you ever really noticing. The future is never mentioned more than a few days ahead and all plans are made for the day only.

But without really meaning to, you both make a home out of villa Marguerite.

Timmy buys a vespa from a man in town. It’s rusty and old but steers easily. His sore feet thanks him for no longer having to walk up and down the long hill each time you’ve forgotten to buy something in the village, instead he now just swings his leg over the saddle and swiftly sets out to buy it for you (“unpitted black olives, please”).

Each night you insist on doing the cooking, telling him you find pleasure in it; and well, who is he to deny you anything that brings you joy? So each night you cook and after the food and the wine shared on the terrace he goes back inside to do the dirty dishes. With shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows he sets to work, going over each utensil with great care. Louise snickers at him most nights, tells him there’s no need, that it is her job; looks at him with a knowing smirk he can’t quite translate to meaning. Still, he does the washing up. Wants to do it. Loves the domesticity of it, you cooking; feeding the both of you, and him cleaning after; helping out.

One afternoon as the sky above shifts in shades of pink and lilac Timothée and Marco sit by the square, playing chess. Marco is winning, a habit he has when they are playing together. Timothée in turn is trying not to sulk, something he spectacularly fails at, which is entertaining Marco to no end.

It is not the losing that has got him in such a terrible mood.

You have had to go back to London for a few days, (“there are papers that need to be looked over and signed”).

“Honestly” Marco says, as he takes Timothée's queen. “Why don’t you just tell her you are crazy about her?”

“Afraid that ship’s sailed, mate” Timothée mutters, taking one of Marco’s pawns, a small victory indeed when one has just lost his queen. With his head resting on his folded arms on the table he observes the chess board in front of him with vague interest, trying to figure out Marco’s plan of action.

“Why’s that? She has clearly not kicked you out of the house so she must be somewhat fond of your sulking ass?”

Timothée snorts. “Fond? How nice, the word we save for people we can’t force ourselves to love”.

“Then why do you stay there? Leave. Find another woman, let yourself heal.”

Timothée’s head snaps up, and for a second he’s stunned silent. “No” he says eventually, but not after having first considered the idea. “ No, I can’t do that” he says. It is not as if Marco had suggested something impossible, like walking on water or turning water into wine. Timothée could leave. He could go back to your home, pack his bags and take the first train back to Paris. It would not be an equal action to that of the resurrection. Marco moves his queen across the board but Timothée isn’t looking, has his mind somewhere else; far away. For the first time he truly ponders about the option to leave. To start anew; to forget he ever met you.

But he doesn’t want to.

It’s as easy as that. Living with you, sharing space with you; why would he ever leave that? Even if he’ll never get to kiss your soft lips again he’d still stay. As long as he sees you in the morning, unguarded with tousled hair; drinking coffee he’s made you; as long as his days end with a meal shared with you, drinking wine and talking.

Marco waves a hand before him, a sly smile on his face, “your turn, Romeo”.

Timothée rolls his eyes and moves his king out of Marco’s queen’s way.

“And shack mate” Marco says, a broad smile on his face as he knocks Timothée’s king over with his knight. “Next time maybe keep your focus on the game” he adds, winking at him.

“Oh you fucker” Timothée grumbles, taking a swing from his wine glas.

Later that night as he walks home, having drunk much too much to drive, he hears a small, injured whimper. He stands very still for a moment, trying to ignore all other noise, before he hears the sound again. Following the injured mewling he soon discovers the source. It’s a kitten. Looking not older than a few weeks old and tiny enough to fit in the palm of his hand, with fur completely black from head to paw and eyes shining yellow in the night. It looks strangely like a very small panther. It looks slightly worse for wear as well. Skinny and small and with uneven fur. The kitten looks up at him, opens its mouth and lets out the same whimpering sound once again.

Timothée stands up, presses the small animal against his chest to keep it warm, and takes him home. He lets it sleep in his bed and it curls up beside him and the next day he takes it to the vet; who informs him that the creature, all though underfed, is in perfectly good health.

When you come back from London the next day, face more strained than before but seemingly happy to be back, Timothée tells you the story.

“What have you named him?” you ask, scratching the purring kitten behind his ear.

“Well, I thought that maybe you should be with me on the decision” he says, watching you pet his newfound friend.

“Any suggestions?”

“Well,” Timothée begins, suddenly shy. “I was thinking maybe Chopin?”

You smile at him, with genuine fondness in your eyes, and he feels his cheeks heat up. “Chopin it is. It was very good of you to save him, Timothée”.

And something like hope blooms in his chest.

That night as he lays in bed, Chopin sleeping on his chest, he reflects on his conversation with Marco and the words ‘let yourself heal’ comes back to him. The words had startled him, confused him, and maybe even shocked a little. He ponders over the words, the meaning and the implications, and decides that no. He cannot heal.

Because he is not wounded. He had been, after you left Paris that spring, he had been a wounded thing; a child who flew too close to what he wanted, only to find his wings melting and his body falling down into the sea.

But he wasn’t wounded anymore.

Through the other side of the wall he can hear how you walk around your room, going through the nightly routine. He hears the squeaking sound as you lay down on the big iron bed. Chopin purrs on his chest and Timothée closes his eyes, ready for sleep to take him.

There’s no use in thinking ahead, he decides. What will be, will be.

September

Late one night Timothée is playing cards with some new-found friends.

Marco had finally given in and arranged a jazz night to Nathaniel’s and Timothée’s great joy. The Milanese jazz band consists of five free-spirited and unbound vagabonds. When they play the whole village square dances. After their performance Timothée, Nathaniel, Marco and the musicians sit down to play cards. The night passes and the rum flows as easy as the conversation. The room is quickly filled up with cigarette smoke and wild anecdotes of past victories. The musicians, although a cheerful lot, have not got much to bet with, so the stakes are kept low and the spirits high.

So how exactly it came about that Marco lost the old piano in the bistro to Timothée no one can remember the following day, for the details are blurry and stained by drink. Nevertheless, as they wave the five musicians off the following morning, it is clear to them both that Marco owes him a piano.

“Ridiculous” Marco grumbles, his Italian accent clearer when aggravated, as he and Timothée push the piano up to the truck. “You can’t even play the damn thing!”

Timothée snorts, “I can learn!”

“Oh really?” Marco bursts out, sarcasm heavy in his words “like how you’ve ‘learned’ Italian you mean?”

Sweat runs down his back, the afternoon sun is bearing down on them and the heat feels like a physical pressure against his skin. “I speak perfect Italian, thank you very much” he defends himself.

It is Marco’s time to snort, which he does with great satisfaction before announcing “speaking French while putting on an Italian accent is in fact not speaking Italian at all”.

His head is pounding; but he is in a good mood and so he laughs. With much effort and even more grumbling from Marco they manage to load the heavy thing inside the rented truck and after having driven it up the hill they carry it into the villa. Deciding to place the instrument in the drawing room they lean on each other’s shoulder for a bit, trying to catch their breath; laughing.

He offers the older man a beer, but Marco declines; has a business to get back to.

So Timothée steps out into the burning sun on his own, the stone floor of the terrace scorching his bare feet. The world feels peaceful in all its golden glory. He can hear the rhythmic waves of the ocean far below, the radio playing in the kitchen; the seagull’s calling in the sky. He takes a deep breath and tastes the salt of sea water on his tongue.

His oil paints and canvas are still where he left them yesterday, a half-finished attempt of a sunrise pictured on it. On the table stand a vase with bright blue hyacinth and blood red poppies that you must have picked.

For a few minutes he just stands there, soaking in the sun. With unhurried fingers he starts to unbutton his white linen shirt. Removing it he lays it on the sunchair beside him and his trousers soon follow suit. Turning away from the sun he walks down the hot stony steps by the terrace and down to the private beach. It’s a long walk down, but he feels a great need to wash himself clean of the sweat, the dirt, the booze from last night.

With his eyes glued on the steps in front of him he makes his way down, and only as he jumps the last hot stone does he rise his head; and he sees you. You are already out in the water, swimming on the spot, your face turned towards the horizon. He clears his throat, not wanting to pry on you, nor does he want to scare you. He fails, as you turn around, startles, and lets out a sharp gasp.

“Hi,” he says, feeling awkward, shifting from foot to foot, aware that he is only in his underwear. “Didn’t know you were here”.

“’s alright” you say, sinking down into the water slightly.

Knowing not where else to look he looks down at the ground, spotting with surprise a white towel thrown on the sand, next to your dress. It is only then he realizes that you are completely naked.

“Mind if I take a swim as well?” he asks. He’s almost certain that you will ask him yes; tell him to wait until you are done but you just shake your head.

“Hop in” you say “the water’s nice and cool”. And so he asks you to turn around, so that he too can rid himself of his last remaining piece of clothing before walking out on the jetty and jumping down into the deep water.

Swimming out to you he keeps a few meters distance out of respect. The water is still somewhat clear, and he doesn’t want to peep, even by mistake.

And so there, wading in the water, avoiding the others eyes, you both watch as the sea and sky in front of you slowly turn from vibrant blue to lilac as the sun begins its journey down the horizon.

“I, eh, I won a piano” he says eventually, wanting to break the somewhat awkward silence. You turn to him, wading the water, surprise written on your face. “A piano?”

“Yeah, put it in the drawing room, hope that was okay?”

You laugh, the sound clear and bright and something flutters in Timothée’s stomach like the wings of a butterfly. He tells you the story of how he came by it and you laugh some more and he can’t help but smile at the sound, can’t help but stare himself blind at your beautiful face.

You swim on the spot and you talk; about everyday life, how you both think Louise has fallen in love with a baker in the village, about Chopin scratching on the furniture, about the pasta you had for lunch. About life in all its domestic simplicity.

You’re looking at the sun. It is the golden hour and it has painted you golden as well. You seem to shine in the light, laughing at something he’s said as you wade the water in front of you, the water golden as way; a reflection of the sky above. It hits him almost with brutal force, how beautiful you are. He looks at you thinks; Aphrodite, who entered the world fully formed, born out of sea foam, the goddess of love and beauty. You blink up at him, eyelashes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly and his chest feels too tight, as if something inside where his heart should be is taking up too much space

Without either one having realized it you’ve swam closer to each other. You are so close that he could easily reach out and touch you; could easily lean in and taste the saltwater on your lips. You are looking at his mouth and he is wondering if that is what you want him to do but he is not sure and because he is afraid to ruin the tender friendship you have built by blundering in - he doesn’t. And you don’t either.

‘But, we used to be lovers’ he thinks. His body used to know your body like it was a continuation of his own. And perhaps that is why it hurts so bad to be parted from you.

“I should get back” you say in the end, avoiding his eyes. “We haven’t even had dinner yet”.

“Alright” he says “I’ll come join you in a minute”. He turns away from the beach, leaves you to get out of the water and get dressed in privacy.

Later that night there is dinner, and drinks, and your bare feet as you dance in the dining room to a jazzy tune, a glass of sangria in hand as Chopin runs circles around the hem of your dress. Later there is laughter as Timothée tries to teach you poker, something you turn out to be disastrously bad at.

And later somewhere in the village church bells are ringing.

***

One day is much like another. You wake up in the morning and Timothée makes you coffee and you share it on the terrace. Then he paints and you move through the house; going through the things that need to be gone through, doing the tasks of the day. You read your correspondents and write your letters back.

You set out to the market, chat with the vendors. You learn their names and their stories and in turn they share their family recipes for the perfect pasta vongole or ratatouille. You buy your vegetables and bread, your fish and meat, your wine and cheese, excited for the dinner ahead.

Sometimes you go to the tailor and you share a cappuccino in the sun with Claudette, the old woman running it. You chat about clothes, of fashion in the past versus the fashion of now, about the passing of time. She tells you about the war and the occupation. Of the rationing of fabrics and how she has learned how to make each cut of cloth work - wasting nothing.

In her store you pick out a light floral pattern chiffon and Claudette turns it into a beautiful summer dress, so light and different from the heavier material you wore in London.

You buy handmade pottery from the woman in the square. Big pots and jars and urns that she’s crafted with her own hands and with handpainted flowers and patterns on them; made by her sister. You keep olive oil and flour and flowers in them, and place them around the house in their rightful place.

You go to the beach and you collect seashells. Bringing them with you home you tie them up on strings and you hang them by the terrace door and with each dust of wind the gentle noise of the seashells rattling against each other can be heard.

You don’t talk about the future and never plan ahead. You are not together; just two people living in the same house after all.

You watch him, laying on some faded old sheets on the terrace floor, soaking up sun. Timothée approaches sunbathing the way he does everything else in life; with reckless abandon. Despite Louise’s warning words that he’ll burn his pale skin he lays under the scorching sun for hours, wearing nothing on his skin but white bathing shorts. His nose has already turned an angry pinkish colour that will surely change to red soon. Beside him lay an open book, Robert Graves - The Greek Myths. His half-finished landscape painting of today lay abandoned on the table.

In the kitchen you hear the clattering of dishes as Louise does the washing up after lunch. She’s singing along to a tune on the radio and without looking you know that she is dancing.

Walking back into the house, up the steps and into your bedroom, you lay down on the bed. The bedchamber had been your aunt’s at one point and her style still lingers over the room like her old perfume, a bottle of which still lay on the antique vanity. A comforting presence.

Staring up at the white ceiling you’re trying to put a name to the feelings you’ve been having lately.

It feels, you decide, like you’re playing a game with the past and you’re not sure you’re winning. Going back to London had been a mistake. You had walked the same old streets, dined in the same old restaurants and met the same old people as you had when you lived there with Freddie. It had been a mistake to go back, and hear all the tittle-tattle gossip of the divorce, of your absence from the London scene. You had sat there, in the great white dining room of The Luxembourg, you’re back straight and poise perfected, and the gossiping tongues around you had played in your head like an orchestra. You had seen your dinner companions mouths moving, but the words all seemed distorted and slow, coming to you as in a haze. Your face feeling strangely taut, as if you were wearing a mask over your own skin, unable to move the mask's features.

The only success of the journey had been that it made you all the more certain of your decision; to sell the Mayfair flat and rid yourself of the London scene once and for all.

You had visited your parents as well. Had sat through a luncheon with them and calmly listened to their grief and despair over your split from Freddie. Had heard their praises and glorification of your former husband and you had kept quiet all the way through it, poking at your food and feeling rather sick.

In London baron Freddie Fairfax was a constant presence even in his absence.

Your marriage had consisted of days filled with silence. Days spent apart, seeing different people; living different lives. Thought not at all really, since it was all in the same small social circle. Any secret relieved between friends between crystal glasses of wine at lunch would not stay secret for long. By cocktail hour it’d be known by one and all of the tight-knitted, blue-blooded social circle you called friends. Any secret shared to a confidant would reach Freddie’s ears before the sun set, no matter how much time you spent apart; dining and drinking in different restaurants.

The evenings, if shared just the two of you, would either be spent in total silence; during which you would turn on the radio just to fill the space between you. In the night he would touch you, move in and out of you with sharp thrusts as you pretended to be somewhere else, his grunts filling the only sound in the night.

Or, if he was in one of his moods, the evenings would consist of him leaning over your shoulder, wherever you turned. Breathing down your neck. Always ready with a comment, a sly remark on your clothes, your face, your figure; you’re thoughts and opinions. On the things you said, or on your defeated silence. He never asked you any questions about yourself, had no curiosity about who you were or what you thought. The only exception was when he interrogated you about the men you conversed with, or at times about your female friends; how long you’d known them, if they were dating anyone. How attractive he found them.

Your feelings were his to toy with, because in his eyes you were his plaything to do with as he pleased. Because to Freddie love would always go hand in hand with possession and to you love would always mean hunger.

Hunger for something gentler, warmer, and altogether different. Hunger for someone else.

Pictures of dark curls play in your mind. Timothée, his eyes furrowed and a pencil in his mouth, looking at the canvas in front of him with great concentration. Timothée, with blue paint splattered on his pale cheek, the sun shining in through the dirty windows of his artist flat, illuminating him.

Timothée who had slowly helped you put yourself together again when you fled to Paris; thought he’d never asked for glory for his role in the mending of your heart.

Nevertheless, he had. With great care and gentle hands.

Once in Switzerland you had gone with your father to the horologist. Your father was to have his watch repaired. You had watched the horologist with great interest as he sat down by his desk, thick glasses resting on his nose as he opened the back of the clock. The old man had furrowed his grey brows and with great focus and piety set to work with repairing the complicated machinery of the timepiece. Putting it together with the expertise of a mechanic who not only knows how each fragile piece works but why.

That’s how you imagine Timothée loving you; with great precision, knowing just how every piece of you fit.

And so maybe in the end that is what love means to you; not hunger, but being understood.

The windows are all wide opened, but no breeze makes its way inside and the room remains boiling hot under the late summer sun. The warmth feels like a heavy blanket covering you as you lay there in bed, just taking in the sounds of the house. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, the seagulls screeching in the sky, the far-away sound of Louise singing in the kitchen and further away still; the ocean.

The bedchamber remains stuffy and hot.

Sitting up you reach for the cigarette package on your bedside table, discovering that they are Lucky Strikes; instead of your usual Gauloises. Timothée’s cigarettes then. You must have taken them by mistake. Grabbing the package you walk down stairs and out on the terrace again, where Timothée lay where you left him, sprawled out on the floor, the tip of his nose now bright red.

“You’re burning yourself” you tell him, throwing the cigarette package down on the ground beside him. Timothée lifts a hand to shade his eyes, otherwise blinded by the light. He looks at you with a lazy grin, before moving on the sheets to make room for you. Keeping his eyes on you he pats the spot next to him on the floor and so you lay down beside him.

“Think you have my Gauloises” you say, the entire world orange as the sun shines through your closed eyelids. “Must have taken your Lucky Strikes by mistake”.

Timothée hums, before rising and moving into the house. A minute later he is back with your package of cigarettes and an ashtray. Handing you the cigarettes he then helps you light up with his precious silver gift, his dark curly hair falling down his face as he does so. He smells of seawater and turpentine and as you lay down on the ground beside him on the ruffled sheets you feel like you can breath again.

Laying there under the sun you smoke and observe him. His hand with their specks of blue paint left from his work this morning, his legs slightly spread, his chest slowly moving up and down with each breath. His eyes are closed, and the ghost of a smile still plays on his lips. He seems at peace.

You wonder how long this fine line you both have been walking is going to last before one of you tumbles. The fine line between lover and ex lover. You wonder what will happen next.

Or perhaps this is the way things will always be. Each day lived out ad infinitum, one much like the other. A foolish thought; a childish one. For sooner or later he will take another lover, find someone new to cherish. Someone in no need of healing. And you think of Lucy, and her laugh as light as the bubbles in champagne, her easy charm and carefree personality.

You’ll wonder if he’ll take someone home with him one day, make her love to her in the room next to yours. Where he’ll learn her body like he once knew yours .

You wonder if you’ll do the same.

***

October

The days are cooler now, still pleasantly warm but not intensely so, and most of the tourists have left the stony shores; leaving the whole village less crowded and easier to move through.

For two weeks Timothée goes back to Paris. He sits in the street and paints the people he sees in their everyday life; reading newspapers on the park benches, friends sipping cappuccinos on rotting chairs outside the café, old women choosing their bread with great care at the boulangerie. He adds no drama or sensationalism to the scenes, but settles for painting the people in all their simplicity and its realism.

He visits his art dealer, who with great astonishment accepts nine landscape paintings and a handful of sketches. “No portraits then, monsieur?”

And Timothée tells him no. He is waiting for the perfect model for the job.

He goes to his artist studio, and is surprised to find that it feels less like home than before. He doesn’t linger for long, and when two weeks are up he books a new compartment on the Blue Train, treating himself with a first class ticket this time.

On his way to the station, his bag slung over his shoulder and a package of new pots of paints tucked in underneath his arm, he walks by a bookshop. Casting an eye at the shop window he stops dead in his tracks. A placard with William’s face stares back at him through the window, his mouth twisted into a wide smile and his hair styled neatly.

Timothée walks into the store and five minutes later he walks out with a freshly printed copy of ‘A siren calls’ in his hands.

He borders the train, lays down in his train compartment and he begins to read. And through the entire journey home he reads.

Villa Marguerite is much the same when he returns from Paris. Chopin greets him as he hears him come in, happily accepting scratches behind his ear as an excuse for his absence. Placing his bag and his paints on the floor, but book still firmly in hand, he walks out on the terrace in search of you, but finds it empty.

Walking upstairs he knocks at your door and upon hearing you call ‘enter’ from the other side he steps inside.

You are laying on your stomach on the bed, wearing your silk canary yellow robe, flipping through a copy of Tatler, the gramophone in the corner playing Chopin. You look up at him, eyebrow raised in silent question.

He clears his throat, unsure how to approach this any other way but straight on. “Have you seen this?” he says, and raises the book for you to see.

“Oh that” you say and sigh. “Yes, he wrote to me informing me of it weeks ago”.

“You knew?” he says, astonished.

“That William’s great piece of literature was going to be about me” you flip a page in your magazine “of course I did.”

Timothée leans against the doorway feeling like the air has been pushed out of him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You look up at him again, and again with a surprised expression on your face. “I didn’t know you wanted to know that” and then “is it any good? The Tatler’s reviewer calls him the new Fitzgerald”, you nod down to the magazine in front of you.

Timothée hesitates, unsure how to respond. “It's, well yes I suppose it’s alright. The prose is quite stunning, if not slightly overworked”.

“But?” you say, sensing an objection.

“He’s made a caricature out of you”.

“He’s written me as he saw me, just as you’ve painted me as you saw me. And you’ve both sold your works for money. On this, if perhaps on this only, you are the same”.

Again he is stunned. Then, voice slightly shaking with held back frustration, he says “please tell me I’m closer to the real you then this” and he holds up the book again “this rubbish. He’s made you out as this, this…” he wrecks his head for the right word before finally settles for the obvious one “siren. This woman he can’t help but love but his love for her is standing in the way for the life he wants to live of unbound pleasures. A siren that keeps calling him back from his path on the search for perfect bliss. This siren that drowns him with her love”.

Silence for a heartbeat, then “you were”. He blinks, and you continue “you were closer to, as you refer to it, the real me. But that doesn’t make his interpretation of me any less real. Like I said, I’m sure that is how he sees me”.

“Well he’s dedicated the book to you”

“That’s sweet”

“I’m not sure it’s meant to be. Before it could be up for assumption who the book is abou. Now it’s crystal clear for everyone to see.”

“You don’t think he’s meant that as a compliment?” Standing up you tighten your silk robe around you. “I think so. I think he’ll consider it a great honour to have a book written in your honour, no matter the subject matter”. You walk past him “but never mind, let’s have drinks on the balcony upstairs, I think it’s going to rain tonight”.

“You never talk about Freddie” he states. It is late at night, rain dipping against the ceiling above, and they are sharing a bottle of wine.

“There’s not much to talk about” you say, avoiding his eyes, eyes set on the rainy scenery in front of you.

“He was cruel to you, wasn’t he?”

“There are others who’ve had it worse.”

“Doesn’t make it less cruel” he says. Feelings are fighting with each other in his stomach, like a nest of vipers they twist and turn inside him, fighting for dominance. Feelings of anger, empathy, sadness and love.

He walks over to you, and sits down on the bench beside you, his warm hand cups your cheek and you close your eyes, looking ready to weep.

“I’m so sorry, ma chérie, I really am” he presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, moves his arms so that he holds you to his chest instead. Soon you let yourself cry. He holds you to him, his chin resting on the top of your head and as far beneath you the waves are crashing against the rocks and in the chill evening air he keeps you warm.

He holds you for the longest time and somewhere in the village church bells are ringing.

***

An early morning some days later you walk out on the terrace. It is decidedly cooler outside this morning and the air feels crisp in your lungs and pulling your robe tighter around you you sit down by the laid table.

Timothée sits hunched over a book, a cigarette in hand, a cup of black coffee next to him. Despite the morning chill he’s only wearing his usual paint-stained linen trousers.

“What are you reading?” you ask, pouring yourself coffee into a small, porcelain cup. His eyes are still on the book, brows furrowed, and so you look around, take in the scenery around you; the cerulean blue sky stretching out over a landscape of hills and pastel coloured villas, and further down - the ocean.

“Nietzsche”.

“It’s too early for Nietzsche”

“I never went to sleep” he answers.

You try to keep your eyes on the horizon in front of you, but despite your might they dart back towards the tussle of brown, curly hair on the other side of the table. He’s hunched over his book and it is hard to tell, but you think you can see shadows of blue underneath his eyes. He looks tired.

“And what does Nietzsche have to say?”

“Well” he starts, before going on to read from the page. “Nietzsche claimed that the exemplary human being must craft their own identity through self-realization and do so without relying on anything transcending – such as God or a soul. This way of living should be affirmed even if one were one to adopt, most problematically, a radical vision of eternity, one suggesting the eternal recurrence of all events.”

“What does that mean, the eternal recurrence of all events?”

“That the universe and all existence and energy has been recurring, and will continue to recur, in a self-similar form an infinite number of times across infinite time or space”.

You stay silent, contemplating this momentous new idea.

“You know, scientists say that we are made out of stardust” Timothée says.

You don’t follow his train of thoughts but you go along with it and ask, “how could that be?”

“Well, everything we are and everything in the universe and on earth originated from stardust, and it continually floats through us still. It directly connects us to the universe, rebuilding our bodies over and again over our lifetimes. When stars get to the end of their lives, they swell up and fall together again, throwing off their outer layers. If a star is heavy enough, it will explode in a supernova. The brighter the star; the faster it burns. So you see, most of the material that we're made of comes out of dying stars, or stars that died in explosions. And those stellar explosions continue. And so, we have stardust in us as old as the universe, and then some that landed here maybe only a hundred years ago. And all of that mixes in our bodies.”

You stay silent for a while, him with his eyes stuck on the page in front of him, obstinately avoiding your eyes and you; eyes fixed on him, sipping your coffee.

“I don’t understand what you are trying to tell me, Timothée” you say in the end.

He blinks, eyelashes fluttering over cheekbones delicate like fine china, now tanned after months spent on the riviera. The sun is shining down on the both of you by now, and through tousles of dark curls you can now clearly see the dark shadows underneath his eyes. The wind whistles through the cypress trees.

“Just that there is nothing new under the sun” he says after a long silence. “And I guess that I’m trying to talk to you about destiny; how we are born, and reborn ad infinitum. Again and again and again our dice are cast, casting out our roles in life. We all have our parts to play. Parts that we are destined to play, and they are decided for us. It is beyond our control.”

“And what do we learn from this?”

“Amor fati”

“To love one’s fate?”

“To love one’s fate”.

***

One afternoon Timothée wakes up from a nap on the terrace. He opens his eyes and for a moment he’s blinded by the light, seeing only silhouettes in front of him. Stretching out his arms and legs, his body stiff from laying on the terrace floor, he groans. His limbs feel heavy and numb and his mind is unusually quiet, as it has a habit of being just after he wakes from slumber. Closing his eyes again he lets the bright sunlight turn the world white behind his eyelids.

Above him the seashells you’ve put up tinkle in the soft breeze. From way down below he can hear the ocean, steady today in this fine autumn weather. But he can hear something else as well. The clinking of a piano being played. Standing up, as in a haze, he follows the sound.

Walking into the house, past the tinkling seashells and white curtains, through the kitchen and hall he follows the sound into the drawing room.

You are sitting by the piano, playing Für Elise with unpractised hands. The sun is coming through the large windows, lighting you up, painting a halo atop your head.

“Can I paint you?” he asks, for the first time in months.

Your fingers fumble with the piano chords for a second before carrying on, showing no other signs of having heard him. You continue playing until the piece comes to an end.

Then, in the silence, your soft voice.

“Alright”

***

Someone has dug out an old Fletcher Henderson record and the music is blaring from the gramophone as people dance to the old jazz music, one woman has gotten up on the table and is stamping her bare feet along to the rhythm, twirling her dress and swinging her hips. Others are standing in groups, laughing and chatting; cocktail glasses in hand. Others still are sitting by the table.

You can’t tear your eyes from Timothée as he sits leaned back in his chair, arms draped over the railing and head thrown back in laughter. The afternoon light has turned the entire world golden, but Timothée seems to have been more blessed by the light than anybody else; as if he had been picked out and touched by Midas himself. He seems to shine as he laughs with his new-found friends, cheering them with a glass of cheap wine. They’re discussing new revolutionary ideas and he laughs as they clink their glasses in celebration of their own drunken brilliance. He’s wearing his nice white dress shirt and suspenders. The first couple of buttons are undone at the top, and sunkissed skin peeks through. His hair a mess of sea-salt curls, falling over his face, and pearls of water falling from his skin like little stars; the party having gotten back from a swim just moments before. They are mostly Timothée’s friends, though some are yours. Locals, whom you’ve befriended during your time here; with the added number of guests being a couple of british and dutch backpackers Timothée met up with on the way back to the villa.

You look at him, carefree and golden in the sun, and you know the image of him like this will stay with you forever – that you never will see anyone or anything this beautiful again. You don’t think of rebirth, or of reincarnation - of lives destined to be lived over and over again until the sun finally implodes and swallows you all; thus setting you all free from your destinies. You don’t think destined, star-crossed or fated.

Or of amor fati.

Instead you look at him and you think of immortality. Of gods and heroes of the ancient past and of all the holy creatures legends say has roamed the earth since there was anything to roam. You watch him in the golden afternoon light and you think of Achilles and of Apollo and of the archangel Gabriel.

(And you understand why the ancient Greek believed in heroes and god amongst men. You believe as well.)

On the first day God created light.

And so, the scientists say we are all made of stardust. You watch the golden boy in front of you, seemingly shining in the sun, and you wonder to yourself if perhaps the stardust he was made of ever really settled into human skin.

You have never felt more blue, like a sea creature dragged up to the surface against its will; but he is half boy, half ethereal creature. Something Holy. You can almost see it; heavy white wings sprouting out between his shoulder blades, casting a great shadow beneath him, wherever he goes; a golden halo atop the mess of curls on his head. There, at the table under the golden mimosa tree, he throws his head back in laughter again and the sound rings clear over the music, over the other’s voices.

His eyes meet yours where you stand in the shadow underneath the roof and the laughter seems to die in his mouth.

On the third day God created the seas.

The sun goes over the horizon; the golden hour has passed, and everything is set in shadow. You keep your eyes on each other while the rest of the party roars on around you. Their laughter, the clinking of their glasses and the loud music falling on deaf ears as he keeps his eyes fixed on you.

The sun has set, and the boy in front of you is no longer golden for you are all in shadow now; you are both human again.

Yet you still swear you can see the faint light of a halo atop his head and you can still feel the heavy weight of saltwater inside your lungs, taste it on your lips.

Eyes still fixed on his, you raise your glass to your lips, and you drown the last of your red wine. You can feel a drop slip from the corner of your mouth and make its way down your chin, your throat, your chest; down on your white silk dress. You put the glass down beside you and turn away from his gaze, walking away from him.

On the fourth day God created the moon and the stars.

The deep steps down to the water are wet from the passing tide and you move your feet carefully forward as you make your way down to the water. The sounds of music and laughter are soon replaced by that of waves. Passing by the old wooden jetty you walk down to the small piece of stony beach by the rocks. And there you stand. In front of you, a landscape of water so dark it appears black, and reflected on it from the sky above, the moon and the stars.

You hear the creaking sounds of someone stepping on the jetty.

And on the sixth day god created mankind in his own image.

Timothée stands in front of you, hands in pockets, his shirt undone and suspenders slightly astray; looking at you with such intent that you swear there’s thunder in the air, though the sky remains cloudless. Slowly, as if giving you plenty of time to retreat, he moves closer. Then, with his hands holding on to you, he kisses you. It is saltwater and sweet wine. It is red hot and wet and slow, until both of your breaths come heavy and your hands are fumbling over the other’s clothes. You tumble back against the flattened cliff wall behind you and you’re pulling him closer to you, tugging at his clothes until he’s pressed against you, chest to chest. Your hearts as close to each other as can be.

Your hands fumble with his zipper until it finally comes undone, and lifts up the skirt of your dress, pushing down your underwear until they fall at your feet. Hooking your leg around him you struggle for a second with finding the right position. Then, with a jagged thrust he’s inside you and you suck in a sharp breath. “Careful now” you moan in his ear, your arms around him holding onto him tightly. “It’s been a while”.

The reminder seems to soothe him, and the thrusts become slower, more dragged out but deeper too. His hands become gentler, less rushed, but still firm as he holds on to you; each hand pressing into the smooth flesh of your thighs. Your arms are clinging onto his shoulders, painted red nails digging into his back, your own back arched from pleasure. Moans and whimpers are falling from your lips and into his ear; his hair, still wet from the earlier swim, feels cold against your cheek.

There, in the dark; the night only lit up by moonlight, with waves crashing against the stones beneath your feet, he moves in and out of you and the air itself tastes of seawater.

You lean down and kiss his exposed tanned collarbones peeking through his half-opened white shirt and as you gently bite down he hisses and fumbles with the pace for a second, before regaining his posure; pressing you harder up against the wall again.

“That’s right” you moan, hands clutching onto his shirt and your head thrown back. “Fuck, harder!”

And he does.

And when you come it is white-hot bliss. Like the invisible strings holding together reality are all pulled out and you tumble through existence; unsure of where anything ends or begins.

Except that maybe the answer to both of those things are Timothée’s ragged breaths as he fucks you with feverish pace. Maybe there is where it all ends and begins. He comes in a whimper, your hands in his hair, his face in the crook of your neck.

And there you both stand, holding each other; fighting for air, as the waves crash around your feet.

***

You’re in the market and nothing feels real to you.

It is like you’re watching it all happen on film in front of you, the vendors shouting out prices and shoppers picking out their vegetables. It is like you are watching it all happen very far away.

The sun is high in the sky, and it is unusually warm for a day in late october. Your skin is clammy and your palms feel sweaty; yet you feel strangely cold. And you are trembling, feeling certain that if someone were to prick you with a needle right now – you wouldn’t feel a thing.

You see the people moving, arguing over prices of leek one moment and laughing the next. People carrying wicker baskets filled to the rim with ripe fruit and vegetables. It is like they all move in slow-motion, the sounds they make muffled and far off.

You step away from the crowd but when you turn around you walk straight into Timothée. He stumbles backward a step, unprepared for the collusion. He says something, swears perhaps, but you can’t hear him. There’s a ringing in your ear and the ground feels unsteady underneath your feet, the sun glaring down at you.

Then his hands are cupping your face, and you see him mouthing your name. He looks at you, eyes full of worry. He takes your hand, leads you away from the market and into the ancient church. His hand warm in yours he leads you down the aisle before turning into one of the box pews. You sit down beside him and he takes your hands in his.

“Your hands are cold” he says, before lifting them his his lips to kiss them.

He had been inside you just hours ago. You had cleaned up as best you could, before walking up the stairs again and re-joining the party. You had retired early, claiming a headache, while Timothée stayed out on the terrace with his friends. In the morning you had risen before him, heading down into the market before breakfast.

“Do you think we can ever be happy?” he asks and you want to laugh. Because the question is so precisely what has been on your mind ever since last night.

You think of the ocean; the way it can carry you or drown you depending on its whim. You think of the seawater in your veins, of lungs heaving for air. You think of never ceasing, impossible blue. Of bones engraved with memories from the past. And how all of this is who you are, that it is not a temporary blueness.

“Do you think we can ever be happy?” you ask back.

“I don’t know” he says. The church is cool and drafty, despite the warm weather outside and his hands around yours feels warm and safe. It wakes an unholy sort of wanting inside of you.

“Ask me who I am” he says.

“Who are you?”

“Someone that loves you.” His voice is low. You are not the only two people in church, a few rows ahead there is a woman praying and at the front two priests are conversing with one another. He continues in his soft voice, “I can’t promise you perfect happiness forever, no one can, and frankly; I’m not sure that is what you really want either. It’s perhaps what you think you should want, but that’s not the same as actually wanting it. I think part of you loves your melancholia”.

“Well then, what can you promise me?”

“I promise you that on the days you feel like you’re drowning I will keep us afloat and I’ll hold you until it passes. I’ll keep you warm”.

“And you don’t wish I was more yellow?” you ask, voice sightly trembling.

“You know, I’ve always loved the ocean. I’ve never felt the need to change its hue, despite its darkest blue”.

“It’s that easy?”

“It’s that easy” he says, and kisses your hands again.

***

On the balcony floor outside your bedroom you both lay that night, spread out on sheets and plush pillows you’ve carried out. You lay there, your head on his stomach, and stare up at the stars. Neither one of you is wearing a thread of clothing, but you are both tangled up in sheets. There’s an empty bottle of wine beside you and in Timothée’s hand his book on Nietzsche’s philosophies.

“So what do you think?” he asks. “Do we have a free will or is it as Nietzsche believes, that the dice have already been cast far before we’re born, leaving us to live out our stories without the ability to ever change the outcome. Leaving us to simply accept our fate; to love our fate”.

“It sounds terribly defeatist to me” you say

“Or brave” Timothée says, “I’m really not so sure which. Perhaps both.”

“So you agree with him? You agree with Nietzsche? We are not ourselves in charge of our lives?”

“No, no not at all” he objects “I don’t believe he’s right. I’ve made my own choices in life. I’ve created my own mistakes and fortunes. And my fate has never been to love you, I’ve done that intentionally.”

You love me on purpose?

Yes I love you on purpose. I chose it, I chose you”

“I chose you too”

*****

Inspirations: Jenny Slate’s tweet about wanting someone to love her on purpose, my own quite frankly disastrous relationships, Johnny Cash saying paradise is “this morning, with her, having coffee”, Anna Karenina, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (OBSESSED with https://www.ntathome.com/packages/cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof/videos/cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof-full-play version, highly recommend renting it), Greek mythology, The Blue Train adaptation by ITV Poirot (season 10 episode 1, watch it, every episode is individually based on one of her books so no need to see it chronologically) that has been playing on repeat and also the fact that for the last month I’ve been thinking of nothing else than traveling to Italy, France and Greece again.

#timothée chalamet #timothee chalamet #timothee x reader #timothee x y/n #timothee fanfic

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laurore-stormwitch · 3 years

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Did someone say Zoya and Genya getting ready for a ball? I had this sitting in my computer for a while. I've written it at the same time of the Nikolai/Genya interaction and went for that instead, leaving this unfinished, so that's the reason why they're similar. But even if this is not wildly original I decided to post it, maybe some of you will enjoy it anyway!

together now - AO3

word count: 2661 (cause I can’t write short fics sorry)

______________________________________________________________

“Zoya, if you move again, I’m going to turn your hair purple.”

Zoya rolled her eyes. Drama queen. Whoever believed that getting ready for a party with your friends was fun, clearly never had to deal with Genya’s perfectionist and dictatorial tendencies. She purposely shifted in her chair in front of the vanity, making Genya glare at her.

“Do you want me to complete my masterpiece or not?”

No, not really. Nothing about going to Sainkt Nikolai’s ball seemed to be exciting. Dreadful and annoying were the only two terms she could come up with to describe the evening in front of her. Mainly having to do to the fact that she was going to have to watch Nikolai and his future wife simper over courtiers and nobles, with the bride-to-be practically coerced to attend the ball. And she wasn’t even allowed to get drunk; saints forbid someone attempted to murder the king again.

“Do you want your hair up or down?” Asked Genya, moving some strands of her hair over her ears.

“Are you really inquiring for my opinion?” The squaller noted ironically, pouring herself another glass of wine.

“No, of course not. Down is better, they make you seem wilder.”

She winked at her and Zoya huffed again. Genya began braiding some thin locks away from her face, leaving the rest of her mane free on her shoulders. She weaved the fine tresses with silver threads and held them in place with diamonds pins. Zoya relaxed under her delicate touch.

“A bit more practice with breaking Grisha’s orders and I’m going to tailor myself at some point. What are you going to do when the day comes?”

She had meant it as a joke, the tone light. But through the mirror she saw a shadow pass behind Genya’s eyes and immediately regretted her words and lack of tact. They knew only one person who had held as much power as Zoya was wielding now; he was rotting in a cell beneath them, and Genya would forever wear his marks on her skin. Of course her mind would have run to him; she tended to darken whenever they touched the argument surrounding Zoya’s newly acquired abilities.

“I hadn’t meant to make you think about that, Genya. I’m sorry.”

Genya smiled at her, coming back to her delightful self.

“It’s okay. I’m just a bit worried about - well, about everything. How is it going with these powers? I’ve spied on you summoning fire the other day. You were glorious.”

Zoya curled her lips and held up her arm, making the fetter made of dragon scales dangle. Juris rumbled inside her. She had told Genya what happened in the Fold, in broad outline. Zoya knew that even if they didn’t say it, they were all concerned with this. She caught them glancing at her sometimes, as if they were waiting for a ticking bomb to go off. It was unpleasant, but she understood them; after all, she was waiting for herself to go off too.

“I’m managing. I’m still not so sure of what I can or cannot do.”

Genya kept working on her hairstyle thoughtfully, letting the quiet stretch between them. She bit her lower lip before adding something else, voice dropping to a whisper.

“Does it feel good?”

Zoya understood that question too. Power is protection. No matter the cost, it would always hold its appeal for a Grisha. That was the pull they felt towards the Darkling too.

“It feels risky.” She answered after a while, releasing a long breath. It was not like her to betray uncertainty or weakness, but she hadn’t anticipated how both frightening and fascinating it would feel to be in this position. “It’s so much power, Genya. What if I can’t control it?”

“If there’s anyone who can do it, it’s you, Zoya.” There was not hesitation in this answer. Yet, Zoya didn’t feel much reassured. She didn’t have a sense of who – or what – she was becoming.

“What if it’s too much power?” She realized that was not the right question, the one thing she dreaded to come true. She corrected herself. “What if it’s not enough, and I want more?”

At this, Genya paused, avoiding Zoya’s gaze, and fell terribly silent. She looked worried, almost scared. A shiver went through Zoya’s spine at the idea of eliciting something like fear in one of the people she loved most. She felt a stabbing guilt and the sudden realization that she didn’t want to explore this topic more and find out what Genya was thinking. She waved a soothing smile at her friend, hoping to stir this exchange away.

“Enough of this. Don’t you want to show me the dress?”

Genya’s eye lightened up as she was pulled out from her gloom towards a more delightful diversion. She turned to the bed and pulled up Zoya’s gown, handing it to her. As usual, Genya had outdid herself. The gown matched the decor in her hair: Zoya thought of the dark midnight sky over Pachina while looking at it, one of the few memories she held from her childhood. When Genya moved it towards her, a million tiny crystals sparkled like stars against the sheer fabric. Zoya slipped inside it gracefully and turned to her, making the dress shimmer; the red head was gloating.

“I always give you the best dresses. All eyes are going to be stuck on you.”

Zoya doubted it, considering how equally gorgeous the other girl was looking right now, hugged by velvet the colour of blood. Genya made her wirl around on herself while she smoothed the dress; Zoya tried to reach for the wine, but Genya snatched the glass from her hands. She shrugged her shoulders at her outraged look. “What? I’m not going to let you stain this magnificent gown, excuse me.”

“You know, you have David’s adoration all for yourself.” Zoya pointed out, scowling. “Don’t get greedy. Let them admire me instead. If I can’t get drunk, I can at least have a different kind of fun.”

Genya rolled her single eye turning her gaze to Zoya, furrowing a brow at her.

“I do hope that by now you know that you have someone’s adoration all for yourself, too.”

Genya had clearly noticed the subtle shifts in Zoya and Nikolai’s behaviour, since she had been dropping this casual and mildly vague comments for a while now. At first, Zoya just ignored them; but then it occurred to her that denying what was going on was not the way to fight this. That maybe the right angle was to approach it much like a military campaign: know your enemy before you defy it. Which for her, it meant to understand what was happening so that she could crush it. And since feelings were not an area of expertise for Zoya, she had figured Genya could come in handy. So at some point she had just let it become a mutual understanding that this whatever-it-was-thing was out in the open, and she started posing carefully pondered question of her own. Zoya crossed Genya’s eye for an instant, replying with a sceptical click of her tongue.

“Both his adoration and his efforts better be for Ehri, for all our sakes. Much like his gaze better be kept on her all night like she’s the most beautiful creature to ever grace this earth. If he cannot sell it to her, at least he has to sell it for the rest of the world.”

“With you in that dress it’s going to be a challenge to look at anyone else.” Teased Genya, grinning. Zoya glared at her, pushing down the uncomfortable satisfaction this remark brought.

“He seems rather immune to my appearance and my presence.”

A poor and unconvincing objection, to say the least. Genya scoffed, handing her the wine as if she was going to need it to hear what came next. Zoya gladly took the offering.

“You do realize I’m a Corporalki, right?”

“What would that mean, apart from making people faint every now and then?”

“It means he can keep his eyes trained on the ceiling all night for all I care, because I’ll still feel his heartbeat spike up every time you pass beside him.”

Zoya didn’t much like to have this particular piece of information, that stirred some unpleasant feelings in her lungs. She swallowed the rest of the alcohol, her throat burning for something else entirely.

“Do you peer in all your friend’s visceral reaction for fun?”

“Just the two of you. Want to know what happens with you?” Mused Genya, knowing damn well the curiosity that sparkled in Zoya’s eyes and even more well feeling her breath itch. Know your enemy, right? Zoya grunted, not even bothering to try and look unfazed.

“Fine. Rip the band aid off.”

“Your heart usually beats like it’s at war. On the contrary, it slows down when he’s around, like you feel- I don’t know, safer. At home.”

Zoya fell silent, turning the words over in her head. It was always a punch in the gut when she wondered when things have started to turn and understood just how much they had turned. Instead of lingering on this painful realization, she did what she knew best and deflected the conversation again where it hurt most. She had the strange belief that if the heart was indeed a muscle, you had to train it like any other one in your body. The more pressure and blows you would put into it, the less you would feel the pain with time. Yuyeh sesh. Be cruel to your heart.

“How are the preparation for the wedding going?”

“As good as they can be.” Genya’s gaze turned sweet and affectionate, and she went along. “No one would say anything, you know. If you wanted to stay away for a while or get some distance.”

“We both know that a lot of people would say a lot of things.” Zoya held her chin high. “And you know that’s not my way of doing things. This is my place; I’m not going to let anyone take it away.”

I don’t want to live in darkness. She fought and lost and suffered to get to where she was. She was certainly not going to give it up for a bad timed and poorly chosen crush. An idiotic and simple crush. Genya nodded, getting the hint that it was enough for today. She seemed to remember something and got back to her tailoring kit.

“Speaking of Nikolai, there’s one thing missing. He gave them to me before I came here.”

Genya walked towards her and clipped what looked like a pin on her dress. She made her turn around to look herself in the mirror. Zoya felt something warming her from the inside when she looked at it; it was more of a medal than a pin. Ravka’s double eagle was shining on her chest, pleated gold, with Alina’s sun behind it and an Etherealki blue ribbon. It resembled the medals she saw on the supposedly war heroes’ generals that worked with Nikolai, but it was more elegant. She brushed her finger on it, full of pride.

“Me and David have one too.” Genya showed her the other one she was holding before securing it on herself. It was Corporalki red. “David has a Materialki purple ribbon. Nikolai told me people should always know we are his most trusted generals and friends. That we work for Ravka as much as he does, and we are owed the same respect, even at a ball.”

Respect. Recognition. Another time, Nikolai managed to surprise her. Because this wasn’t just a pretty thing, a nice embellishment. And while she had been his general for almost three years, that didn’t mean people had accepted and treated her with the appropriate regard. This was a symbol of the king’s trust, something that would force the nobles and the army to behave accordingly, even at events where it would be so easy to down-play her and treat her like another beautiful hollow courtier. Stupid thoughtful Nikolai. She was torn between wanting to kill him for making her feel like this or kiss him senseless for the same reason. Get a grip, Zoya.

“You’re not going to be like him, Zoya.” Zoya startled at Genya words, confused for a moment. She cleared her throat, shoving the treacherous thoughts she was having away. Genya had moved beside her, taking her hand in her own. Looking at Genya firm and proud gaze, she realized they were not talking about Nikolai anymore, and that she hadn’t dropped the conversation before because she was scared or angry at her. It was because she understood where Zoya’s fears were coming from, and she was facing them head on now.

“The Darkling.” She added to clarify, lingering on his name with a tremor in her voice. “Even with all the power you have, you are nothing like him. You managed to do what he had always claimed he wanted, and he had never done: you are saving Grishas, you are rebuilding the Second Army and you hold a position as the King’s right hand. What drives you is not the hunger for power; is the care you have for Ravka and your people. The Darkling wanted to control them, to own them. You protect them.”

Zoya tightened the hold of her hand, while looking at their reflections in the mirror, in the stunning gowns and the triumvirate’s pins. Two women who had believed in the wrong man and kept paying the price for their ingenuity, who had saved themselves in the end. She sucked in a breath, seeing someone she barely recognized; there was almost nothing left of the scared little girl. With the medal on her chest, diamonds in her hair and a glowing fierce light in her eyes she really looked like the leader she aspired to be. She wondered if she was still pretending, or some of the act was now true.

“Stop me before I can become like him.” Zoya blurted out, the words unsteady and whispered. Genya shook her head, leaning in towards her.

“You are different in every way. And you have something he never had; you have people who love you. Believe me, Nikolai is going to burn down all of Os Alta before he lets anything happen to you. None of us is going to let anything happen to you.”

“I’m not afraid of something happening to me, rather than to others.” What if I hurt Nikolai? What if I hurt anyone of you? Genya lowered her head on her shoulder, still holding her hand.

“We fought our way out of his grip once. We’re not going to let him bring us down. We’re stronger than we were before.”

“And we’re together, now.”

Zoya needed something to anchor herself on; the words felt uncertain, more like a question. Because she knew, deep down she knew she was still somehow living by what he had taught her: love is a weakness. And she knew that while Genya talked of friendship, Zoya herself was distancing from everyone. That she was suffocating her feelings for Nikolai, effectively cutting out the person she had relied on the most. That she didn’t know how to be close to someone. That, like the Darkling, she felt destined to be alone. And yet a part of her still needed to believe that a strand of what she conquered was going to save her, that someone was going to reach for her.

“And we’re together.”

Genya repeated, more firmly. We’re not going to let him bring us down another time. A litany. It was our blood on the skiffs, in the sand, on the rocks of a mountain. I’m nothing like him. An enchantment. And we’re together. He had taught her wrong. One day she would be free of this last cage, too.

#genya and zoya have my heart #i don't know if you can tell but i love genya as much as zoya and nikolai #genya safin #zoya nazyalensky #nikolai lantsov #zoya and nikolai #zoyalai #mainly genya and zoya friendship #rule of wolves #nikolai duology #post kos #my writing #fan fiction #grishaverse

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fenristheorem · 3 years

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My OC, Fenris

... and the Eldarya AU that she’s in, because I just can’t see her in the original Origins storyline with her differences from Guardienne/Erika. And I think my AU has some pretty interesting ideas. I’ll explain it after I introduce her.

Yea, I know, Fenris Theorem, Fenris, it all connects, huh? Hehe. I like the name, that’s all.

(This page is informational, so it’s written in a bit more of a note-taking fashion rather than a story fashion. It’s written in a very choppy manner but it’s comprehensible despite not having any stress on having it beautifully written.)

This page just introduces you to my OC. I decided to create a page on her for the poll (now ended) because I think some people will really like small excerpts on her story with Lance, but obviously you need to know about her before deciding that for sure. You’ll notice that some theories I may have posted on Lance in the past are a part of this AU - these theories have been in my mind and I posted them only because I thought they could exist in the actual plotline (it’s where a lot of my theories come from, and then some ideas fit into the AU, and then some ideas could exist in the actual plotline as well based on what I observe), so this is where some of those theories come from.

For the poll - if anything, I would recommend reading the paragraph titled “*Her story in Origins (where many things are explained in moderation, because if I went in-depth I wouldn’t need to write stories on this):” above all else because that describes what I will be writing if the poll results shows that that’s wanted. Everything else is just extra information for you to know my OC and the AU better. The paragraph is at the bottom of the post.

Above all else, this is an AU, and a fantasy world. I like to try to give rationality and logic to a lot of things, so you’ll read a lot of me explaining things, but at the end of the day it’s all fantasy and can be perceived - and therefore approved or unapproved of - in a multitude of ways. If you like my AU but find it illogical in some ways, that’s no problem! Just enjoy reading about it if you enjoy the ideas within it. 😊

~ This is long so continue below the cut ~

A lot of this information can be a bit vague at first but it comes together when I explain the basic plot.

Her basics: She goes by Fenris but her actual name is Dakota. However, people usually call her Kota, or occasionally Ko (Fen is used later for Fenris, first by Ashkore / Lance, but later when she was discovered by the guard as well). She was 18 when she came to Eldarya via mushroom circle (like Guardienne/Erika). The guard test placed her in the Obsidian guard - she’s very happy with that outcome. Was in a relationship with Valkyon before leaving him for Lance (*explained later).

Physical Appearance: Unfortunately I don’t have a picture of her and nothing in Eldarya describes her and her clothing very well, so you’ll just need to imagine the physical features that I describe on Eldarya’s Guardienne sprite. Also, she’s pretty flexible with how she styles her hair and dresses, so I don’t think a single picture of her would describe her well.

Fair and light in skin tone, perhaps a slight tan-ish tone. Thin, but broad shouldered. She’s well-muscled (later on, less so when she first arrived), which gives her a bit of thickness, but not too much. Nicely curved. About 5 ft. 5 in. (167.64 cm). Dark hair, but not exactly black, with brown-hazel eyes. Her hair is medium-length and is usually braided in a multitude of styles. Her eyes occasionally glow a brilliant gold (explained under ‘abilities and genetics’ and ‘her story in Origins’).

Usually wears dark, ancient / tribal-like clothes (think Norse Vikings) with thin, form-fitting but strong armor around her forearms, lower legs (below the thigh starting from knees) and chest/midriff. She wears a good amount of red, blue, gold, silver or dark green clothing and accents with the black base for color. Usually nothing over-the-top, she likes to have her own unique style and express herself but doesn't like to draw unnecessary attention. Doesn't like most faux fur as it doesn't look nice in her opinion, but may wear some that she likes occasionally. Is more likely to wear real fur from hunted animals, but doesn't wear it too often. She wears a sword on her hip, and has a few semi-concealed daggers placed on her body (thigh, boot, torso) for quick use if needed.

Personality: She has a wide spectrum of how she acts depending on people, situations, what she knows, and her current mood. She's typically quite calm, and doesn't seek for trouble or drama, however, she does like to hear the recent news/gossip from around the guard; to stay updated on things, know what may effect her, try to think ahead and just for the sake of knowing. She's very curious and typically observes the situation around her, but in a very subtle way. Is a planner and likes to think ahead, and usually knows how to react to anything because of her observations and forward thinking. Around friends, she's very kind and welcoming. They can talk about anything to her and she'll keep her mouth shut - she has a good loyalty streak (but it does have a limit). However, she doesn't have any friends that are like family to her, but on the day she does find friends like that her loyalty will truly be endless. It's ride or die, and she'll always stand by their side. She has a major independent streak and can’t be around people for too long, otherwise she’ll crack and get a bit irritated more easily. She likes her alone time. In general, she's very cordial with people. Again, she doesn't like to cause unnecessary trouble or drama - she's had a rough past (discussed under ‘history’) and quickly shuts down anyone doing so in a professional but aggressive, don’t-argue-with-me sort of way. She can be harsh, cold and withholding - especially with people she genuinely dislikes - but doesn't like to act this way. On the note of people she dislikes- it's hard to get her to truly dislike someone, but it can be a bit easy as well. In general rule, as long as someone is conscious of the reality of the world around them and doesn't seek to cause issues, she's fine with them, but the instant someone starts continually spreading rumors that are clearly false, or acts (especially in a way that hurts others) solely in their selfish interests, or takes part in willful ignorance (purposely ignoring an issue that you know shouldn’t be ignored), she keeps note of that person and reminds herself to be wary of them in the future. They could be a source of trouble or misinformation that may need to be stopped, and she won’t be very forgiving. However, this is just a general rule, it doesn't always apply - remember she can change based on the situation and what she knows. She recognizes that sometimes people dislike things that are good for them, or like harmful things, and sometimes the villain is actually the hero, history and set rules are created by the winners and anyone against it is considered the villain, and sometimes you need to be cruel to be merciful. She's fully aware that sometimes the bad of life is good, and may defend that, but she's always sure to think long and hard about it before giving a decision like that. A lot of terrible things have happened to her, so she tries to avoid being a source of those terrible things for the world. She feels emotions very deeply and can be a bit impulsive, but fortunately she’s not typically hurt or gets others hurt due to her impulsivity. Again, she is very curious and observes things a lot, so she can usually get a good read on anything new she comes across and work from there, or she can use other information she knows and apply it to the situation. That being said, she won’t drag her friends or anyone else into her occasionally dangerous impulsive decisions. She’ll offer it if they’d like to join her, but she won’t pressure them. Their safety is their decision, and she’ll do her best to protect them although she can’t truly guarantee it. Being in the Obsidian guard, she can’t really condone anyone to risk their safety for fun, especially if it’s her idea. She has a good sense of responsibility when she works for what she believes in, and will sacrifice some of her comfort and fun making sure that she follows her responsibilities if needed. On the topic of her guard - when she first came to Eldarya and joined the Obsidian guard, she wasn’t too bad of a fighter upon basic training, but it was when she started training with Ashkore / Lance where her skills greatly improved until she was perhaps the best fighter in the guard, rivaled only by a few other warriors - including Valkyon. She’s not against helping others improve, but she’s very careful with what she tells the guard - if anyone knew her skills were due to Ashkore, she’d be in massive trouble and may be treated as a complete accomplice. She doesn’t like to lie unless truly necessary, so she’ll usually withhold lots of damning information, and she thoroughly thinks over everything she says, any possible answers to theoretical questions, how her words can connect with other things, and how it might be taken from someone else’s perspective, before revealing any information. Did I mention she’s very cunning and smart, especially after knowing Lance? She has prior knowledge in how to utilize sarcasm and wit, but that’s also improved after meeting Lance.

She changes in time to be quite a bit more harsh and unforgiving when she starts working with Lance.

(For media reference, think of Lagertha from Vikings and Octavia from Netflix’s The 100. She’s a bit of a combination between the two, both in personality and appearance, although Octavia represents her a bit better in appearance.)

Abilities and Genetics: When she first came to Eldarya, she had no idea of her faery genetics. She never felt as though she belonged with humans and always felt that something was off, but she truly thought she was human genetically - until the guard had her take a test and realized she apparently had some faery blood in her (like what actually happened in the original plotline). She went a good while not knowing about what her genetics were, until Lance told her she was a dragon. She learned her abilities under his mentorship, and found that - to be more specific - she’s a shadow dragon. Her shadows appear usually like a pitch black fog, but can be manipulated into almost any form; hard or soft, thin or thick, curved or straight. It has a bit of a cold feel, but she can’t actually control the temperature of her shadows. She can adjust the color of her shadows along a grey-scale until it looks like any grey or silver, even looking like normal fog, but she can’t make it lighter than silver. She can also make pre-existing shadows darker or lighter depending on what she wants. Being a dragon, she also has a dragon form and can shift into a half-transformed body (like what’s seen with Tia). She has premonitions and prophecies as well. This ability typically manifests in dreams and can come to her the night before it manifests in reality, or even sometimes years in advance - there’s really no way to know. She struggles a lot trying to learn this - and to learn the difference between a premonition dream and just a normal dream - and has some basic understanding of it’s rules. She has absolutely no control over when she has these dreams, but she can occasionally put herself in a bit of a calm, meditative state where she can observe her surroundings enough to faintly feel energies, and from there she can receive some premonitions. When she receives premonitions or prophecies while awake, her eyes glow a brilliant gold - this stems from a more spiritual side of her genetics (*explained later). This ability to very hard to control, though, and can rarely be done despite her persistence in it.

History: She... didn’t have a very peaceful life. Since her birth, her parents had basically been at war with each other. She grew up under a distinct combination of good influences and bad influences from both parents, but for the most part her mother was her major support as her father failed to be there for her. Neither extended family had much impact, but her father’s family knew of the terrible things he did and didn’t do anything. She continues to hold a grudge against many humans for being forced to live an endangered upbringing when she and her mother were so clearly crying for help. However, she’s aware that this is also what drives her some days, as she didn’t live through all of that just to die shamefully with an unlived life. In time, her grudge against humans has calmed, but it flares back up whenever she’s reminded or learned about something terrible that humans have caused or do currently - it’s a continuous battle and she has a hard time giving an honest opinion on humanity due to her complex emotions. She came to Eldarya when she was 18 (like Guardienne/Erika) and the rest is history (*and is explained below).

Relationships: Miiko is... alright. It’s a bit of a love hate relationship sometimes, but Fenris is usually quite cordial with her. Nevra and Ezarel were irritating at first, but Nevra’s lovableness and Ezarel’s humor slowly grew on her. She liked Valkyon when she first arrived and somewhat quickly pursued a relationship with him. She didn’t mind Leiftan - he was always very kind and left her alone while being cordial (remember, she’s not an angel in this so Leiftan wouldn’t be into her like how he was with Guardienne/Erika). Karuto is like the good father she never had, but she puts her foot down with him on occasion - she doesn’t like to be told what to do, scolded, treated like a child or anything. This is only because she views him in a bit of a fatherly way, and doesn’t want a repeat of her original father. She makes sure he knows that she truly appreciates him, though. Jamon is a bit of a brother if anything, but he’s really just a close friend / colleague that she likes a lot. She appreciates his gentleness and protectiveness for everyone. Ewelein is basically a second mom, she reminds Fenris a lot of her mom back on Earth and has a deep respect for the Elf. Chrome is a bit like an irritating little brother, but she also has a sisterly affection for him. Ykhar and Kero are the panic colleagues; she has a hard time seeing them doing anything else than panicking. She worries a bit for their health as long-term stress is destructive and tries to be as comforting and as nice as possible with them without betraying her personality and morals. Karenn and Alajea are close friends, almost sisterly, but not exactly so. She’s a bit closer with Karenn than she is with Alajea. Cameria is similar to Karenn in the way that she has a bit of a sisterly relationship with Fenris, but in more of a battle partner way. They have a tendency to train together a lot, and they heavily trust each other to have their back in war. Huang Hua is a bit of a friend / leader - she respects the phoenix a lot and has a bit of a close friendly relationship with her. Feng Zifu is a bit of a father figure in the manner that she respects him a lot. She likes to listen to his advice and appreciates his formality.

The AU: So before I explain the plot of the AU, I need to explain a few basics of how I set up the world. In this AU, the crystal breaking could destroy Eldarya, but if it’s shattered in a certain way with certain spells and chants, it’ll release the spirits of the dragons (who sacrificed to create the crystal) and allow them to retain a sort of half-living form - basically they’re alive but... not? It’s weird to explain. Why does the crystal breaking in this way not destroy Eldarya? The sacrifice allowed a release of energy that originally created the world and then primarily manifested into the shape of the crystal that maintains that world, so this ritual that would be preformed upon it’s shattering would basically allow the energy of the dragons to maintain the world while allowing them to roam around in a different form - hence why they’d be half alive in a way. They’d be physical, but they have additions and limits on what they can and can’t do because they’re still technically dead. However, this isn’t common knowledge (because the guard protects the crystal, they’re the ‘only’ source of ‘accurate’ information on the crystal and both Yonuki Kaze and Miiko have stated that if the crystal breaks Eldarya will fall), only Lance has figured this out (and many of his mercenaries believe him or are working with him because of his destructive habits), so due to this, his ambitions are sort of split in two; destroy the crystal to revive the dragons, and destroy anyone who may try to stop him. In terms of history, Lance in this AU witnessed Miiko (and Nevra - there’s a history behind that that I won’t go into right now) sacrificing dragons to the crystal when he was a part of the guard to try and maintain balance and confronted her about it, only for her to threaten him (in basic; she was convinced sacrificing was the only way to keep balance, and that’s because Yonuki Kaze influenced her into thinking that, so from her perspective Lance coming along and saying it was wrong and had to stop was basically him saying to let the world die) to not tell anyone and stay out of it. Lance then spent a while researching and devising an idea on how to actually balance the world and this included destroying the crystal in a specific way to release the energy (technically there are two ways; the sacrifice was supposed to happen with dragons AND angels, so the ritual was devised to work with the two, but a ritual originally for two races used only with one is basically a ritual preformed improperly, and therefore bound to yield improper results - hence the infertility of the world and shiftiness of it. Undoing the ritual would allow the world to stay while “canceling out the sacrificial imbalance”, but if an angel or demon were to willingly sacrifice - preferably alongside a dragon at the same time - then it would be solved in that way as well). Lance tried to explain this to Miiko later, only to barely get past “I have another idea” before being shut down again. He kept quiet because he feared for himself and his brother (and the only reason Lance could have known that dragons were being sacrificed - without being a dragon himself - is that Miiko said it during the sacrifice he saw, so he didn’t want to raise suspicion onto him and his brother). Later on, Lance is sent to lead an army in a foreign land and is nearly killed, but he saw a chance to escape the guard and took it. From there he’s been Ashkore.

Basically this AU - instead of being “oh no, he’s trying to destroy the world because he’s angry and hurt” - is actually more like “if you had listened the world could be stabilized and also a powerful race could be revived.” It takes the trope of hero and villain and twists it, so the villain is actually a bit of an underdog, villainous hero while the hero’s are - in a way - villains who are heroes because their damning stories haven’t been revealed in a wide-spread manner. Overall, it’s supposed to blur the lines of good and bad, and right and wrong - showing that both sides have good and bad within them, and which side is ‘good’ can depend solely on perception and one’s life anecdote.

*Her story in Origins (where many things are explained in moderation, because if I went in-depth I wouldn’t need to write stories on this): Dakota came to Eldarya by accident via mushroom circle and was placed into the Obsidian guard. She adjusted in time (and willingly took the potion in episode 13 to ease her family / mother of pain and worry) until she got used to things and entered into a romantic relationship with Valkyon. She was sent on basic missions and such and met Ashkore a few times in war (and around the guard), and then she met him accidentally while alone later on outside of the guard. He offered to train her (more like threatened if she didn’t?) and she accepted in time. They trained at night, which was a bit of an issue as she now shared a room with Valkyon and, therefore, had to sneak around. Her skills quickly improved, and her relationship with Valkyon began to decline as he began to become a bit confused / suspicious about her sudden and seemingly random upturn in skills. There were feelings of neglect as well. This carried on for many months and Dakota learned more about Ashkore as well as herself. He eventually admits that she’s a dragon and that he’s investing some of himself into her because of that, and she does her best to explore her abilities with him after that. Eventually she accidentally discovers his actual identity, but keeps quiet about it. As they grow closer, she begins to ask more about him and his reasoning, and he explains his motives for going after the crystal while brushing on the topic of why he’s ruthless to some, but leaves others alone. As she discovers the truth about the dragons and Lance, she realizes that her feelings to the guard were based on lies and false implications, and she begins to grow mentally and emotionally closer with Lance. She becomes less empathetic / sympathetic with Valkyon and eventually sleeps with Lance. This happens a few more times and they enter a sort of limbo where they don’t talk about their relationship with each other but know there’s something heavy going on. Back in the guard, she’s still with Valkyon, and she begins an internal war on what exactly her plan is knowing that she’s sleeping with two guys on the opposite side of a war and that it can’t continue. Her and Valkyon break up in time and she invests her full time into training with Lance, expressing interest in joining his cause. They begin to work together and he gifts her with a specific outfit / armor (that can alternate between identity concealing and revealing for her comfort and safety) so she can go on missions with him. They develop an elaborate scheme to allow her to go on long-term missions with him without suspicion from the guard. She’s eventually sent on a mission and it’s on that mission that she discovers her relation to an ancient dragon named Fenris, and then expresses her interest in taking that name to Lance and the rest of his allies that she’s met (from then on she’s known as Fenris with Lance and Dakota in the guard). Back at the guard, she continues training with Lance and maintaining some sort of odd relationship with himin secret. She’s found elaborate ways to get out of the guard without their suspicion so she can spend many days at a time alone with Lance in a cabin he has hidden in the forest. Over the span of many months / years, she goes on missions with the guard to foreign towns / establishments that are attacked by Ashkore - whether she knows that prior or not - so as she trains she also has actual encounters where she needs to truly fight Lance without actually hurting him while looking as though she’s truly trying to hurt him. When she’s allegedly away on some missions from the guard, she wears the armor that Lance gave her to campaign with him and this occasionally leads to her fighting against the guard if they’re around. In this time and when they’re alone, Lance and allies calls her Fenris as she’s requested them to do. Eventually they go to Memoria together and find out that they have a deeper connection than they think - Fenris (who was an ancient dragon that Dakota took the name of due to her relation with him) and Tia actually knew each other and had a complex history that carried forward to Lance and Dakota / Fenris, and there’s a prophecy of sorts surrounding them. Their relationship after that is still complex, but is more stable as they confirm an attachment to each other. Lance’s identity is eventually revealed to the guard, and sometimes later Fenris is revealed as well, and Lance - in very short, important seconds - offers her to join him completely outside the guard’s walls. She accepts and they flee the guard for a while and plot. Eventually they attack the guard in a final push and get to the crystal, successfully breaking it with... some losses. From there is the skip to ANE, but New Era is... complicated. I haven’t yet thought how she fits into ANE, as many things would be different. Maybe I won’t put pressure on creating her story in it, but if I do I might list it here. Her story in ANE would need to be based off of her story I have here in Origins.

If I write excerpts of this, there may also be many more adventure scenarios that are written but aren’t mentioned here (Lance offering to “help” the guard bring down another greater threat and then turning his forces on them in the midst of war for his own gain, sending them on a wild goose chase, the guard tracking them through rough, unforgiving landscapes trying to catch them, etc.) depending on how the details of her story manifest.

I apologize; that’s a lot to read but I can be very specific and this AU has a lot of important detail that separates it from the original Origins storyline. And this talks over my OC’s details and an AU, which is a lot since there’s not a lot of referencing because I’ve never talked about either before... However, if you’ve read all the way through this post - congrats, and I hope you’re interested in it!

Again, writing excerpts about my OC and her storyline in this AU is an option you can vote on in my writing poll that determines what I’ll write now so I can post later when I can’t access my Tumblr for a few weeks, so if you’re interested in reading about this then please read the info I have about the poll here and feel free to vote!

#eldarya #eldarya oc #oc #fenris oc

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 3 years

Text

I’m Always Curious Part Eighteen

Previous Part | Next Part | Masterlist Notes: Not beta-read. Happy New Year’s Eve 🥳 Warnings: Cursing? A Compromising Situation™? Smooches™ Summary: Una gave me a look, one that I often received when we were not alone - she smiled solely with her eyes. Spock had managed to perfect the same technique. I had yet to accomplish it. If I was smiling, it was with my entire face; it was hard for me to hide when I was giddy.

“It’s gonna be fine, Pal,” I smiled a little bit, watching Ensign Paledore straighten his uniform. He was one of the newest additions to the Enterprise, but he was already proving invaluable to the work that we did as a Communications team. He’d taken on a lot of the day to day tasks that I’d been handling under Thaleh, freeing up more of my time to work with the bridge crew when needed (real work, not like when Thaleh was on leave and I went to the Captain’s ready room to ‘discuss a report’).

Paledore was a fairly fresh-faced kid off of Earth - New Orleans to be exact. He had a fairly thick accent most of the time, but he often managed to couch it when he was speaking another language. He was getting ready to beam down with the away team to translate for Captain Pike at a meeting on Sogaliv.

“You’re sure you can’t beam down with us? Just in case?” Paledore asked as he straightened his uniform - again. I smiled a little. “Look, I know that beaming down to a new planet is… Intimidating. But you know why you’re going down there, and you’ll be in good hands. The team won’t let anything happen to you.” “What if I translate something wrong? Or--” “Your mother is Sogalivian, Pal, you speak it as well as Federation Standard,” I reminded him with a chuckle. “Is there anything I should know? About Pike, I mean,” Paledore asked. I frowned, thinking for a moment. “Just… Don’t treat him like he’s on a pedestal. Tell him what he needs to know and don’t dance around the facts, even if you don’t think it’s what he wants to hear. Couching an unpleasantry in a smile and a quick turn of phrase won’t give the Captain what he needs to see that a job is done right.” Paledore took a deep breath and nodded. “Do the nerves ever go away?” He asked. I smiled. “They haven’t completely, for me, but they’ve become… Less.” Paledore and I turned our heads as Thaleh rounded the corner into our station. “Ready, ensign?” Thaleh asked, raising a brow. Paledore cast me one more look before turning back to Thaleh and giving her a bright smile, “Ready.”

-- If I’d had to go by anything regarding Paledore’s performance on Sogaliv, I would’ve gone by his grin. Luckily for me, I’d also gotten his write-up of the mission, as well as a peak at Una’s. Paledore had not only performed exceptionally well, but he’d managed to smooth over a century-old mistranslation between the Federation and the planet of Sogaliv. Something told me Paledore wouldn’t be so wary of beaming down in the future. “What was the word that was mistranslated?” I asked Una later at dinner. She thought for a moment as she took a sip of her drink. “Sarchelois?” She sounded it out slowly, ‘SAHR-chel-wah’. I frowned. “Bordering,” I translated. “The word apparently has about five more meanings than that in Sogalivian, though that is the most common, and so the one used when the Sogalivian contract was being written up with the Federation.” “Yikes,” I nodded a little, “Explains why Pal was smiling so widely when he got back, though.” “He didn’t tell you?” “No, I think he was too happy to speak. Should wear off in a day or two.” Una chuckled. “I remember when you were like that, all of… Four months ago.” I scoffed. “Come on, it’s been longer.” “Six months,” Una corrected herself. I rolled my eyes as she pressed on, “I remember the look on your face when Thaleh told you that you’d be beaming down to Uthea C-4. I thought your head was going to explode.” “Okay, I don’t get to interact with primary pre-warp texts often, if at all. It’s exciting!” Una gave me a look, one that I often received when we were not alone - she smiled solely with her eyes. Spock had managed to perfect the same technique. I had yet to accomplish it. If I was smiling, it was with my entire face; it was hard for me to hide when I was giddy. “Fine,” I turned back to my food, “Make fun of me for still liking my job.” “Do you, then?” I frowned. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?” Una didn’t answer that, just shrugged her shoulders. I knew better. There was something on her mind, I just didn’t know what.

“You’re sure you can handle it?” I asked, walking backward into the gym, the Captain following me, “You’ve had a pretty long day, sir, negotiations and all. Wouldn’t want you to lose just ‘cause you’re tired.” Chris simply arched a brow at me. “Do you remember what I said a couple of days ago about not getting cocky, lieutenant?” “Vaguely.” “Right before you wound up on the mat?” “Mm, you mean right before I pulled those punches for your benefit, yes,” I turned to face forward, “It’s all coming back to me now.” “Best two of three again?” Chris asked as we set our things onto the bench beside the mats. “That's all you can handle?” I asked. Chris glanced around before he stepped a lower closer to me, murmuring, “You have no idea what I can handle, lieutenant.” “Then you’ll have to show me, Captain,” I retorted, grinning as his eyes grew dark.

An hour and a half later, Chris and I were sweating, sore, and our scores were tied. “Alright,” Chris held his hand out to me to help me up, “I think we ought to call it for the night.” I hated to admit it, but he was right. “Alright,” I sighed heavily, letting go of his hand. Even as we reached for our things, I noticed Chris standing closer than he typically did, his arm brushing against mine. Maybe I wouldn't have been wary of it before, but now that Chris and I were… Well, I didn’t know what we were, exactly, but now that we were it, I found myself more aware of how much contact he and I were making, and how many other people were around. As we passed down the hall together, I absently noted where we are, and I huffed a soft laugh. “What is it?” He asked. “No, nothing.” “You’re laughing over nothing? I refuse to believe that,” Chris’ shoulder bumped mine. I glanced up at him before I shrugged. “This was where I was when I… I heard what I thought I heard, that’s all.” Realization crossed Chris’ features, and he nodded a little, murmuring, “I see.” We continued to the turbolift in silence for a moment. Then, “What exactly did you hear?” “I told you what it was.” “No, you told me about what you heard.” He lowered his voice, tipping his head toward mine, “It must’ve been moderately suggestive if you assumed that I was with someone.” “She said your name, is all.” “That’s it?” Chris stopped walking, and I groaned, stopping a few paces away and turning to face him. “Can we…?” I nodded over my shoulder. “Nu-uh. That’s all it took and that’s where your mind went?” “You make me sound so suspicious,” I laughed, “It was how she said it.” “How’d she say it?” I opened my mouth, then hesitated and shook my head. Chris’ eyes lit up. Oh, god, I knew that look now. I was in trouble. “Come on,” I added, taking a couple of steps back toward the turbolift. “How’d she say it?” He repeated. “I can’t!” I laughed, full of nervous energy, vaguely gesturing to the hall around us. Chris’ eyes did a sweep of the area before he waved me toward him. I took a couple of steps, still shaking my head, then watched as he opened the door beside him. “What--” “C’mere,” He waved me closer, “Quickly.” I huffed, hurrying to join him and ducking under his arm-- Into a maintenance closet. It was dim; the walls were lined with shelves full of supplies. “Are you kidding?” I asked flatly, leaning against the shelf behind me as Chris squeezed in across from me. There was little room between the two of us. “Well someone wouldn’t answer me in the hallway,” Chris retorted as he rested his hands on the shelves behind me. “I’m only going to repeat myself one more time, lieutenant,” he added, his voice lowering to the murmur it had briefly been in the gym, “How did she say it?” I bit my lip. This was embarrassing. God, why did I even say anything? “Well… She giggled-- Which I refuse to demonstrate,” I raised a hand, poking my finger into his chest; he clearly wasn't intimidated by my resolve, his smile just widened, “And then she… Kinda sighed your name, I guess.” “I’m going to need you to demonstrate that, if not the giggle.” I felt my face heating up. “I-- I can’t,” I mumbled, embarrassed, “Not with you looking at me.” Chris hummed, thoughtful. Then one of his hands lowered from the shelf and settled on my hip, gently turning me away from him to face the shelves. I felt him crowd closer, his broad chest pressing against my back as his lips brushed the shell of my ear. He murmured, “How about now?” I shivered and closed my eyes, nodding a little. “I’m waiting, lieutenant,” he warned. I felt like my head was going to pop. “Oh, Chris,” I winced as I sighed in my best approximation. His hand tightened on my hip. “Just like that?” He murmured. I nodded, humming the affirmative. I sounded as stupidly breathy as I had on Koutov, but I had no tea to blame this time. “Say it again,” He ordered. I bit my lip again to stifle a whine. There was an edge of his authoritative Captain tone to the way he’d spoken. I steeled myself, taking a deep breath. “Oh, Chris-- Oh!” I gasped softly as he began to lay kisses down the side of my neck; the hand that had settled on my hip slid around my front, drawing me back against his chest. “I see what you mean,” He murmured between kisses, “That...Would sound...Exceptionally compromising.” I nodded a little, raising a hand to reach back and slid it into his hair. He groaned against my skin. “You understand why I didn’t wanna-- In the hallway?” I mumbled. Chris hummed against my neck and I squirmed, unable to help myself. His arm tightened around me, stilling me. “We should get out of here,” He turned his head, pressing a kiss to my temple. “I don’t know,” I turned to face him, leaning back against the shelf again, “I know I was a little unimpressed at first but I… Think I could get used to this.” Chris chuckled, leaning down and pressing his lips to mine. I sighed, looping my arms around his neck. “We need to,” he insisted as he leaned away again, even as I leaned up, kissing his cheek and jaw and wherever I could reach, “I want to take my time with you, and you deserve better than a maintenance closet.” I felt myself warm at that and I dragged Chris down for another kiss. “I’ll make sure the coast is clear. Safer if I check,” I sighed. Chris nodded, stepping back into what little room he could to let me open the door. I poked my head out, checking both ways and listening for incoming footsteps before I stepped into the hall, waving for Chris to follow. I was already halfway down the hall by the time he stepped out of the closet. He caught up to me at the turbolift. “My quarters?” He asked softly, watching me. And fuck, I wanted to, but I couldn’t. “I have to speak with Thaleh early about Pal’s training program,” I grimaced, “I’m sorry.” Chris shook his head, murmuring, “It’s alright.” We stepped onto the turbolift, and I couldn’t help but look at him - at the slight flush on his cheeks (which could easily be passed off as the result of our time spent at the gym) or the hair that I’d pushed out of place. But Chris was looking, too. It seemed that neither of us could contain our smiles. “I’ll see you later,” I said as I stepped off of the turbolift, “Goodnight, Captain.” “Goodnight, lieutenant.” Tag list: @angels-pie ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta

#I'm Always Curious #captain pike #captain pike x reader #Captain Pike/Reader #Captain Pike Imagine #Captain Pike/You #Captain x You #Christopher Pike #Chris Pike #christopher pike x reader #christopher pike/reader #Christopher Pike x You #Christopher Pike/You #Christopher Pike imagine

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bestworstcase · 3 years

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Hi, I really love your thoughts and analysis on tts so I wanted to ask if you have read The Vanishing Village Book? It made me really think about Eugene's character. I sorta disliked him in the book and felt his relationship with Rapunzel was different and strained. I guess my question is if you think Eugene is a good character? I feel that I am biased for liking the story and relationship between Cassandra and Rapunzel so perhaps I am not seeing him in a fair light but there's just factors that make me feel he might not be the best for Rapunzel. I love their relationship and value & dedication towards each other but their relationship can feel a bit stale sometimes and Eugene can come off as not understanding and dismissive towards Rapunzel sometimes so ig I'd like to be proven wrong and be reminded that Eugene is good for Rapunzel

i have read vanishing village (and i remember liking it better than lost lagoon) but i have to admit i don’t remember anything but the very broad strokes of the plot, so i don’t feel equipped to do any analysis of eugene based on it; that being said -

i do really like eugene as a character in the sense that he is. interesting / engaging / compelling, which yeah to my mind that’s what makes a “good character” but also has nothing to do with the, kind of, moral or personal question of but is he a good guy or is he likable or sympathetic or that kind of thing. and on that my feelings are more ambivalent kfjfjdhs

on the one hand i do find his relationship with rapunzel in tts to be fairly refreshing. it’s nice to see a fictional m/f couple that is just… comfortable with each other, friends with each other, able to talk about their problems collaboratively with each other. that is so rare in fiction, where the tendency is so often to rely on miscommunication to manufacture relationship drama or do the will they won’t they, on again off again nonsense which is just so tiresome - and it feels good to have a m/f couple that eschews that altogether. and it’s also imo really nice that the m/f relationship fades so much into the background vis a vis the wider plot, which i know is not necessarily a popular opinion [vague gestures at all the ‘eugene was sidelined’ discourse] but, like, i feel like i can count on one hand the number of stories i know where the female protagonist *has a male love interest* without the story being ABOUT him, and with the male love interest filling this supportive narrative role while quietly and subtly dealing with his own problems on the side? it’s so difficult to find stories where men aren’t centered and so i appreciate eugene and new dream a lot for that reason too.

but at the same time like - eugene def falls victim to the plot-driven writing just like every other character does and that frustrates me because i think ultimately having all these loose threads hanging with him means his character feels a bit stagnant, and that in turn makes his flaws more glaring because they’re never… worked on or addressed, they just sort of persist or silently fade away for the most part. (which again, is true of literally every character because the storytelling of tts is highly plot driven and episodic)

& that phenomenon can make character interpretation a little convoluted, because… well the intentions of the narrative are signaled pretty baldly (eugene grows out of his selfishness and becomes a compassionate hard working leader for corona, which he has embraced as his home) without having much if any on-screen development to back it up (indeed the premise of flynnposter involves eugene shirking his new responsibilities, and then it concludes with a commitment from him to take the captain gig seriously - but thereafter the only time we get to see this demonstrated through him encouraging project obsidian [which makes him look the opposite of compassionate or responsible given he is excitedly planning to extrajudicially murder cassandra] and then joining the fight against zhan tiri [which literally everyone in corona does]). so do we take what the textual development shows us and conclude that eugene is, at the end of the day, just another cop, or do we take the narrative signaling as a given and fill in the textual gaps with our own imaginations? i tend to fall heavier on the textual side but i do try to take intentions into consideration when they are signaled so clearly, because i understand the structural and corporate limitations on what the tts team were able to do with the story.

anyways - i also have some fraught feelings about new dream because, in the film, it’s not a relationship that i can buy into at all. rapunzel is 17, a few days shy of 18, when an adult man in his mid-twenties tumbles into her bedroom, hits on her, tries to take advantage of her naïveté so he can recover his stolen goods and screw her over because he’s spent his life cultivating an attitude of selfish disregard for anyone but himself, but she’s so sweet he decides to give emotional vulnerability a try and within three days they’re in love and then they get MARRIED?? and he’s literally the first person rapunzel has ever met who wasn’t her “mother”? excuse me???

and i get the impression the tts team was fully cognizant of that problem and made a real effort to address it, as much as they could within the context of the designated disney princess couple - that’s how we get things like the BEA proposal and rapunzel and eugene talking their feelings out afterwards and agreeing to take things slower, and that’s how we get things like rapunzel having cass and eugene having lance so they have lives and identities and relationships outside of each other, and it’s why eugene has a little arc of becoming less self-absorbed in the front half of s1 and why cassandra overtly criticizes his treatment of rapunzel in BEA and so on and so forth. like no one says it OUT LOUD in the series but rapunzel’s and eugene’s relationship is fraught with peril because of the way they met and came together, and it takes significant emotional work from both of them to navigate that to arrive at a healthy place, and i enjoy watching that play out.

so yeah eugene is sometimes too in his own head to notice when something is wrong with rapunzel, like how he misses how unhappy she is in BEA because *he’s* so jazzed about palace living, and sometimes they struggle to get on the same page with each other in general; but that’s just, kind of the gig where relationships are concerned. what matters to me is that whenever these hiccups happen we see, typically some confusion or distress from him or rapunzel or both, and then they reach out for each other and talk about it until they reach an understanding, which is the correct healthy way to manage this sort of conflict in a relationship. and of course through it all eugene is pretty unflagging in his absolute support of rapunzel - even if he doesn’t always *express it* in a good way, he is always very invested in rapunzel’s happiness and well-being. like even the BEA proposal, eugene’s fuck up lies in assuming that rapunzel felt the same way he did about everything and that proposing now would make her happy - there’s self-absorption there but not to the point where he isn’t concerned about her feelings, so when he upsets her he immediately realizes that he screwed up and shelves his own feelings to focus on hers, which is very Good Partner of him.

and then again on a metatextual level i do kind of hate that rapunzel’s arc is essentially, trapped in corona -> adventure! -> adventure is traumatic time to go home -> exact same circumstances she started in but she’s happy about it now. not to say i object to rapunzel embracing her role as a princess/queen per se, but in an ideal world i would like that to come from a place of rapunzel remaking her role to suit herself rather than just kind of… this ‘well got the wanderlust out of my system forever!’ vibe i get from plus est. this isn’t directly related to eugene at all but i think it does splash over onto him on account of him being so closely intertwined with her life in corona. if rapunzel were given an arc about tearing down institutions that stifled her in s1 and really rebuilding corona to be better (something that is lightly implied in canon but never quite makes its way to outright text) then of course eugene would have been her number one supporter - but she doesn’t get that arc and so eugene ends up just kind of being there while rapunzel settles into the role laid out for her. (the destiny narrative being played painfully straight in this regard doesn’t help either.)

this is all a bit of a ramble but i guess what i’m getting at is i think at the end of the day the thing that makes new dream feel a bit stale or stagnant is the series sticking to this aggressively pro-monarchy, status quo is good, mass market appeal narrative enforced by the reality of Disney Princess Show, and that’s not eugene’s fault or any character’s fault, it’s a corporate issue and writing issue.

oh and also personally i think eugene’s biggest flaw in the new dream relationship is he has a tendency to enable rapunzel’s worst impulses via unquestioning support - a little healthy skepticism can be very good for a relationship vs just being your partner’s yes man. so when i imagine a character trajectory for him post-series it involves eugene getting more comfortable pushing back when rapunzel is pursuing ideas that are bad in some way.

#rta #new dream #tldr complicated feelings but ultimately i do like him for rapunzel #and just wish the narrative hadn’t been SO disney princess show but it is what it is yknow?

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one-boring-person · 3 years

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What's It To You? (Part Two)

Dwayne (The Lost Boys) x reader(ish)

Warnings: bad language, graphic depictions of blood and death, slight nudity (nothing graphic)

Context: Dwayne has another encounter with the werewolves

A/N: as promised here is part two! It turned out very differently to how I imagined it, but I quite like it. I may develop this if I have time, but we'll have to see

Masterlist

Tagging: @thetempleofthemasaigoddess (original requester)

The roads are eerily quiet, bare except for the lone motorcycle speeding up towards Hudson's Bluff, the near-full moon serving to light the way, even as it is mostly cast in darkness. The figure astride the bike leans forwards over the tank of the vehicle, revving the engine, intent on getting back to the cave faster, knowing the food strapped to the back is getting somewhat cold. His dark hair whips out behind him, flowing smoothly in the rushing wind created by the speed of the bike, allowing the vampire to see clearly.

Around him, Dwayne barely notices the dark forest, paying no attention to it, just as he usually does, never having encountered anything there that may harm him, and not expecting to, either. Internally, he knows that there's no way he'd be able to hear if there were anything there, given that the motorcycle's engine ruined any chance of picking up anything, even despite his enhanced hearing, so he doesn't think too much on it.

He has, however, been plagued by a peculiar feeling since he turned onto this particular road. Something isn't quite right, the hairs on the back of his neck pricking up as a chill runs down his spine, the reflex surprising him; nothing has made him do that, not since he turned, anyway. The vampire tries to ignore it, but he can't fight the pressing notion that he's being watched - and not just by one person, either.

For the first time, he curses the volume of his motorbike's engine, wishing now that he could hear and acknowledge everything around him, and so assess whether or not he's in any real danger. He tightens his grip on the handlebars, gritting his teeth, beating down the rising unease in his gut, reminding himself that it's not too far before he has to turn off onto the cliff, at which point he'll mostly leave behind the eerie forest, and hopefully the sensation with it. Thankful for his sharp vision, he takes in the sight of a sharp bend, a little way away, taking it with ease as he nears it.

His hand clenches tightly around the brake, the bike skidding to a halt with a sharp squeal.

A pair of glowing amber eyes stare him down, blazing brightly in the beam of his headlight, holding his gaze steadily. Swallowing, Dwayne maintains the eye contact, having taken in the form of the silhouette instantly: a huge wolf, easily the size of a small pony, its body rippling with muscle under a thick pelt of black fur, shot with silver and grey, the creature much more barrel-chested than any normal canine. Its lips pull back slightly over its glistening fangs, the gesture disturbingly reminiscent of a smirk as it releases a low growl, as if laughing at him.

Dwayne has no idea how to react, feeling the natural instinct of his vampirism rising up in him, his own eyes turning yellow as his fangs push at his lower lip, threatening to expose themselves. He forces this down, until he realises that the hulking wolf before him is not his only problem. At least eight others have emerged from the darkness, circling him like sharks as they snarl lowly, teeth snapping at him as he glances at each of them. None of them are quite the size of the first, but many are close, their bodies each laden with muscles that would put a timber wolf to shame.

Climbing off of his motorbike, Dwayne bares his own teeth, the food forgotten now as he assesses the situation, figuring out his best way out of the threat. Spreading his weight evenly, he watches the wolves carefully, vaguely surprised when he notices them come to a halt at regular intervals around him, ready to spring into the air to avoid any possible conflict. He should've remembered the werewolves, especially after the last month's encounter with the young female back at the chicken race.

Just as he goes to move, however, two of the wolves start to contort, the largest one, and a much smaller one, limbs stretching and shrinking, joints and bones cracking audibly as they break and reset themselves. Growls and barks escape the two of them, the pelts starting to melt away into skin, paws becoming hands and feet as muzzles pull back into jaws, fangs retracting into natural canines as human features fall back into place, leaving two recognisable people behind. Dwayne has to bite back a sound of surprise as he comes face to face with the two (very naked) werewolves.

He recognises them both from the chicken race, the first being the muscular guy he'd seen with the dark hair, the second being the reckless racer, her expression that of embarrassment and guilt. She stands somewhat behind the taller man, using his bulky body to conceal her own nudity, though her eyes are fixed on Dwayne's as he regards them both, unsure of where this is going now.

The dark-haired man watches him carefully for a couple more minutes, brown eyes taking in every inch of his body, even as Dwayne looks over him, making sure to avoid his lower half, finding himself admiring the curling patterns of ink swirling across broad shoulders, bleeding down onto a toned torso. Bulging arms are crossed over an incredibly toned abdomen, veins standing out even in the pale light of the moon, the man's black hair falling slightly into his face. Since they last laid eyes on each other, the guy's scruff has grown out a little, giving him a much more roguish look, though it doesn't take away from the admittedly handsome cast of his features.

"You know, you bloodsuckers are a lot harder to find than I thought you'd be." His voice when he speaks is rough and thick, words almost slurred from how heavy his accent is, clearly not having originated from this part of the country, but rather somewhere more rural.

"There's a reason for that." Dwayne replies, evenly, still tense.

The man lifts an eyebrow, lidded eyes trained on him.

"I'd ask you to elaborate, but I'm not stupid." He bites out, adjusting his stance.

"Good to know." Dwayne frowns, "What do you want?"

Dark eyes narrow, head cocking to the side.

"I hate to admit it, but we need your help."

A moment of silence falls on them, the vampire blinking in surprise, the werewolves watching him closely.

"You can't be serious." Dwayne eventually manages, suspicious now of their true intentions.

"Oh, I'm dead serious, as much as it pains me to admit it." The werewolf growls back, gruff voice laced with disgust.

"Please, hear us out, will you?" The racer from before suddenly speaks up, imploring Dwayne with her eyes from behind her leader.

Curious, Dwayne nods after a moment, returning his gaze back to the surly leader as the racer shoots him a quick smile of thanks.

"I'll be quick saying this, but there's a new coven of witches in town. Bad ones. They haven't taken too kindly to us, and I don't reckon they'll be too happy to have four vampires on their asses, either. We want your help getting rid of them." The leader explains, shifting a little.

"What makes them bad?" Dwayne questions, not too surprised by the knowledge of there being new witches in town.

"They're Sanguis witches. Blood witches, but a very traditional faction of them. They've got a thirst for the stuff that shames you lot, but it's not necessarily human blood they want." He informs him, tightening his jaw, "They've killed three of our youngest members already, all to use in their vile rituals, and from the sounds of things they've been doing the same with humans. There's word on the street of them looking for new blood, too. Preferably vampire."

The news strikes a cold feeling inside Dwayne, the knowledge of the Sanguis Witches of old being something he grew up fearing, particularly their ruthless and remorseless methods of collecting the substance they treasure the most: blood. For years, he'd heard the stories of how they brutally slaughtered entire villages, looking for the perfect sacrifice to use in their barbaric rituals, or how they'd string up unlucky victims like cows in an abattoir and bleed them out, alive, chanting through the screams of the dying men, women and children above them. Their presence in Santa Carla is troubling, and totally unwelcome, especially if they have murder on their minds.

"You're sure it's Sanguis Witches? Not just some over-excited witches trying to live up to someone else's standard?" The vampire questions, unsure of whether or not to believe the werewolf.

"We're sure." The girl replies, wincing at the memory, "We found our youngest completely dismembered and arranged in a pentacle, with the remainders of a spell around her. It's definitely them."

Dwayne grimaces at the thought, the arrangement sounding very much like the horror stories he's heard. He thinks for a moment, before deciding on a course of action.

"I'm willing to help, but first I need to tell the others. You should come, too." He says to the werewolves, "But only you two. Not the others."

Scowling, the male werewolf thinks this over, before nodding, gesturing for the other wolves to leave, which they do so reluctantly.

"You'll need to know our names, I guess." He mutters, watching his pack members go, "I'm Trace, and this is (Y/n)."

"I'm Dwayne." The vampire nods at the two, going back to his bike, "Feel like following on? It's not too far."

"Sure."

#the lost boys #joel schumacher #vampire #david(thelostboys)#kiefer sutherland #paul(the lost boys)#dwayne(the lost boys)#santa carla #marko(the lost boys)

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septembercfawkes · 4 years

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Breaking Writing Rules Right: "Never Open with Introspection"

*no spoilers*

The idea for this post has been floating around in the back of my mind for a while now, and this last week when I eagerly cracked open the newest Hunger Games book, Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, and read the first eight pages, I knew it was time to write it. (Plus, let's be honest, I just wanted an excuse to write about a new Hunger Games book) (And don't worry, no spoilers here.)

Almost the entire first eight pages are introspection. And they work so, so well.

. . . like lots of other published books that open with introspection.

And yet time and time again, writers are told to not do this. So what gives? Is Suzanne Collins just such a money-maker now that she can do whatever she wants? (Maybe.) Is she just so famous she doesn't need to care about writing rules? (I hope not!)

So why does it work?

I shall count the ways. (Many of which you can use in any story opening or passage of introspection to make them stronger.)

But first, let's discuss the rule.

What's the Rule?

The Rule:

Never open a story with a long chunk of introspection.

Why it's a Rule

Many beginning writers love (and I mean, love) starting a book with big chunks of introspection. Sometimes it feels so natural, they don't even realize they are doing it.

And what can be even worse, is that often the viewpoint character isn't doing anything--literally. He or she may be sitting on a rock, thinking. Or taking a shower, thinking. Or lying in bed, thinking.

There are quite a few reasons why this is a problem.

First, the story lacks a sense of immediacy. Because nothing is actually happening. There is literally nothing important happening in the present.

Second, when most learning writers write introspection, it has the viewpoint character focusing on the past.

Oh sure, the past may sound interesting (*cough cough* to the writer *cough cough*), because it often relays what led to the present and who the character is today (even if there doesn't seem to be anything important going on . . . "today").

For the writer, it usually feels awesome writing the character thinking about his or her past--he or she is so interesting! (To the writer.) And surely his or her past is so riveting! (To the writer.)

And the writer needs to know his or her past usually to start the story, to boot.

I'm pretty sure all of us have done this at some point. 🙋‍♀️

But the reality is, for the reader, opening with a big chunk of writing about a character sitting and doing nothing and thinking about the past isn't interesting.

Like I talked about in my flashbacks article, the past is only usually interesting when it clearly links to something in the present, or better yet, future, that needs addressing--when the past provides meaningful context to the present or helps solve a current problem. But in the opening, the reader doesn't know the character nor his or her current, significant problems, so going immediately to the past is not very effective.

This is doubled by the fact that the past has already happened--it's done, it's over. Therefore, it holds little to no tension or stakes, because nothing can be changed. Not only does it not draw the reader in innately, but it can become boring because the past has nothing at risk.

The reader doesn't care about the past until he or she cares about the present. And they won't care about the character's past, until he or she cares about the character.

(Generally speaking, of course.)

But wait--there's more!

When writing a character's thoughts--they are often told in "telling" ways. After all, that's how we think. (Well, at least when we put our thoughts into language--in real life some thoughts don't actually make it to language.) And in the hands of a beginning writer, telling can be even more boring--because often beginning writers haven't learned how and when to tell well, yet. (Which is fine, we all start in the beginning). So not only is it boring, but it's vague and non-immersive for the reader.

All of these things combined, lead to slow pacing. Nothing is happening in the present. There is no real tension or risk. The past has already happened. All the writing is told. The audience struggles to care about the character . . .

And all of these things together and--look! Let's watch that new show on Netflix instead of reading. (*closes book*)

And because so many unpublished authors want to start a story this way, it's often preached to never open with long chunks of introspection.

Don't forget, most of what people read are published stories--which means they haven't seen the hundreds or thousands of stories that people who read unpublished stories have. Most of the "writing rules" come from navigating the realm of unpublished stories--because that's where you see most of the problems manifested. By the time something is published, most of the major problems are all sorted (hopefully).

Okay, now it's time for Songbirds and Snakes--err . . . I mean, how to break the rule. 😅 (And don't worry, I'm only referring to the very opening pages.)

How to Break the Rule

As I've said before, I love an excellent chunk of introspection. (The keyword there being "excellent.")

So after everything we've talked about that can go wrong when opening with introspection, how on earth can anyone do it right?

Here are some features you'll need to use to your advantage.

Think Forward, not Backward

One of the worst things about opening with introspection, is that the writer turns the character's thoughts to the past. In reality, almost every story should have some character thoughts sprinkled in, in the opening--that focus on the uncertainty that is called the future. Unlike the past, the future hasn't happened yet. And few things hook an audience better than uncertain possibilities.

This means (and you've heard me say it before!) putting in the text what the viewpoint character fears or dreads may happen in the near future or, what the viewpoint character hopes may happen in the near future. Ideally, you do both.

This is the first great rule of opening with lots of introspection. Have the viewpoint character think forward to what could happen.

Sometimes you can also get away with the character worrying or hoping about what could be presently happening--to someone else.

Songbirds and Snakes does this all over in the first eight pages.

It begins with Coriolanus worrying that if his stomach growls at the reaping, everyone will realize his biggest fear--that he's poor, which in the society of the Capitol, can have major consequences for him and his loved ones.

He also fears that his appearance will give it away (particularly his shirt), which means he simultaneously hopes that he can find a better shirt before it's too late.

Which also leads to him worrying about his cousin, who he knows is willing to even sell her body to find him appropriate apparel--something he doesn't want her to have to succumb to, but something she may be doing at this very moment.

Through the layers of his thoughts, these build and build, so that both his hopes and fears reach a climactic moment--if he doesn't take care of his stomach and his shirt, he may lose his opportunity to be a mentor, which means he won't be awarded at graduation, which means he won't be able to afford to go to university after he graduates, which means no career, no future--not only for him, but his family.

By having the introspection focus on the positive and negative near-future outcomes, we're drawn in. Which leads me to my next point . . .

Think, Significant Stakes

It's not enough to just have the character think about what could happen in the future. He or she needs to think about what significant things could happen in the future.

This means that whatever he or she thinks about, needs to have either deep, personal ramifications, or far-reaching, broad ramifications.

For Songbirds and Snakes--who really cares that Coriolanus (who will eventually become one of the worst villains in modern fiction) doesn't have a dress shirt and his stomach might growl? No one! It's a shirt. It's a stomach growl. But Collins lures the reader into caring, because each of those things have, juicy ramifications, a.k.a. significant stakes, attached to them.

These things together innately bring in tension and hooks.

Learn more about significant stakes here.

Think Complexities

Complexity happens when you smash together contrasting ideas and explore the space between them (sorry, some of you are probably sick of hearing me say this by now 😅 but it's still true!).

When you smash together things that seem to be opposites, or at least contradictory, the audience can't help but want to understand how such a thing can exist. Therefore, it draws them in.

As Coriolanus is praying cabbage soup can save him, he's also recollecting the long passed power of the Snow family. Imagine, living in a penthouse in the Capitol and having to worry about what you can stuff your starving stomach with to keep up an appearance. And isn't the Capitol supposed to be terrible? And Snow himself--starving?!

To be fair, some of the irony comes from how we know his life will end up. But that's allowed. Everyone comes into any story with some expectations. But even within this passage itself, there are opposing concepts pushed together, such as Coriolanus thinking about how Tigris's "apprentice" position is actually slave labor.

Think to Link Timelines

A big long opening with introspection about the past is boring--we've established that. But to be fair, naturally, the human mind is regularly linking the past, present, and future. In fact, some studies suggest that the reason we store memory is so we can perceive a future. Why not use that to our advantage?

One of the things that introspection can do, is link (think cause and effect) past, present, and future. And in fact, in a story, it's one of the only things that can do that in the text. It works as a bridge. And therefore helps bring temporal cohesion into a story.

Remember, once the audience cares about what could happen, they'll likely start to be more interested in what is happening or did happen. Because if something bad or good could happen, then they want to know what is influencing that potential outcome.

This means, that ideally, something in the present, or past, is affecting the potential consequence you've laid out on the page. If it's something in the past, it sucks; it's already past, the viewpoint character can't change it. If it's something in the present, it draws us in, because it could determine the outcome. Ideally, it's great if both the past and present are playing into the potential outcomes of the future. This is when you can use introspection to your advantage. After all, without it, you wouldn't be able to link timelines at all.

Likewise, when there are complexities (opposing concepts smashed together), the audience naturally wants to know how such things can exist, so, introspection may play into that, by feeding them information. How did the prestigious Snow family become so poor? Well, now I'd like to know what contributed to that. But first, I want to know why the person who will become President Snow is making cabbage soup.

Think to Sprinkle in the Concrete

The less we see the concrete present, the shorter the passage of introspection needs to be. Otherwise, it won't sustain the audience.

Sure, you can get away with a big chunk of introspection right off the bat, but it likely can't be longer than a couple of pages, and in most cases, a couple of paragraphs.

If you sprinkle in significant or informative things that are happening in the present, you can carry the introspection for longer. This is because it helps with immediacy, and therefore pacing. And if you are linking present and future together, than what's happening in the present can feed into the introspection in satisfying ways.

To be fair, Songbirds and Snakes does start in the concrete present--for half of the first sentence. Then largely goes into introspection, without very much happening in the present until Tigris arrives. But Collins still sprinkles in the present, with Coriolanus's grandma singing the Capitol anthem, which is at brilliant odds with their family situation, and therefore feeds into and influences what he's thinking.

Basically, she uses the present to emphasize, feed into, and direct his thoughts.

Similarly, it's helpful to include concrete images in the character's thoughts. Remember how I said most introspection is "telling"? And often "told" in boring ways? One of the tricks to making telling great, is include elements of "showing" into it. Part of this means including concrete thoughts. (Now that sounds like a contradiction.) Sprinkle in specifics--such as recalling the cigarette stain on the shirt. It can go a long way.

Think in Voice

Some of the best introspection is great because it reveals the character's voice.

Remember our little voice equation?

What the character thinks about + How she thinks/says it = Voice

Voice is more than word choice (though that plays a role); it's also worldview.

To get voice on the page in satisfying ways, you want to be at the deepest level of POV penetration. And guess what? That is simultaneously introspection.

Not every voice needs to be so vibrant that the snark leaps off and hits the wall across the room. It just needs to be real. And it needs to be there.

"Watching the bright pages of his picture books--the very ones he'd pored over with his mother--reduced to ashes had never failed to bring him to tears. But better off sad than dead."

That last sentence gives me all the voice I need.

"If Tigris's revamped shirt was unwearable, what was he to do? Fake the flu and call sick? Spineless. Soldier through in his uniform shirt? Disrespectful. Squeeze into the red button-down that he had outgrown two years ago? Poor. Acceptable options? None of the above."

That tells me what and how the character thinks.

And sometimes, the voice can be so entertaining or powerful, that it alone can sustain an audience for quite a long while.

To be fair, a lot of these things should be in any story opening, but this is how you can get away with lots of introspection, in particular. And you can also use these same techniques for introspection elsewhere in the story. . . . And if you are interested in Songbirds and Snakes and haven't gotten a copy yet, you can get one here. I finished it yesterday, and have to admit--it was a satisfying prequel, in my opinion.

#writing tips #writing tips and tricks #the hunger games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #writeblr #writing reference #writing help

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kuromichad · 3 years

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different subject that’s heavy on my mind rn but since i’m already being harsh let’s get into it. i wish it wasn’t automatically presumed to be some kind of truscum attitude when someone tries to express that different parts of The Trans Community have like, different needs and different risk levels and different experiences and that we have the ability to talk over each other, harm each other, etc... like when i put it that way people generally are like ‘of course that’s true!’ but is it ever really understood in practice? a number of people (not a large enough number, but still) are able to loosely understand ‘you can be trans and transphobic’ when it’s applied to the matter of transmisogyny but when a trans person tries to express distrust of or frustration with afab nb people due to how common it is that that category of person will, despite being trans/nb, espouse bioessentialist, anti-medical-transition, radfem-adjacent if not outright cryptoterf rhetoric, suddenly ‘trans people can be transphobic’ gets applied to... the person with a complaint about transphobia.

because he’s clearly an evil truscum man! regardless of if the person making the complaint is a trans man or trans woman, oops, lol. he’s a bad person who is attacking and invalidating and totally hatecriming the heckin’ valid, equally at-risk transgender identity of “an afab woman who isn’t a woman except when she pointedly categorizes themself as a woman because being afab makes them a woman who is ‘politically aligned’ with women but she’s not an icky unwoke cis woman because they don’t like being forced into womanhood although Really When You Think About It 🤔 all women are dysphoric because obviously the pathologized medical diagnosis of gender dysphoria in transgender people is something that equally applies to cis women just default existing under patriarchy 🤔, and no, equating these things totally does not imply anything reductive about or add a bizarre moral dimension to the idea of being transgender, whaaaaat, this woman who isn’t a woman doesn’t think there’s anything immoral or cowardly or misogynist or delusional about being transgender, they would never say that because THEY’RE transgender, except when she feels it’s important (constantly) to make clear that she’s Still A Woman Deep Down Inherently Despite Not Identifying As One, and none of this ever has any effect on how they treat the concept, socially and politically, of people who actually wholly identify with (and possibly medically transition to) a gender different from the one they were assigned at birth, be it ‘the opposite gender’ or abstaining from binary gender altogether or ‘politically aligning’ with the ‘opposite’ gender from their asab. never ever!”

and like maybe that sounds like a completely absurd and hateful strawman to you! but in that case you’re either like, lucky, or optimistic, or ignorant. i’m literally not looking at random nb people and declaring that in My Truscum Opinion they’re ‘really a woman’ just because they’re not medically transitioning or meeting some arbitrary standard of mine. i am looking at self-identified afab nb people, who most often use she/they because, y’know, words mean things, especially pronouns, so people who are willingly ‘aligned with womanhood’ typically intentionally use she/her (sorry that i guess that’s another truscum take now!!! that pronouns mean things!!! the bigender transmasc who deliberately uses exclusively he/him wants it to invoke a perception he’s comfortable with!), who actively say the things listed above (in a non-sarcastic manner).

like, the line between a person who says “i don’t claim to really not be my asab because i know no one would ever perceive me as anything else” because theyve internalized a defeatist attitude due to societal transphobia, and a person who says that because they... genuinely believe it’s impossible/ridiculous/an imposition to truly be transgender (in the traditional trans sense, beyond a vague nb disidentification with gender) and are actively contributing to the former person’s self loathing... is hard to define from a distance! i think plenty of people who are, in a sense, ‘tentative’ or like ‘playing close to home’ so to speak in their identity are ‘genuinely trans’ (whatever that may mean) and just going through a process. they might arrive at a different identity or might just eventually stop saying/believing defeatist stuff, who knows. but there are enough people saying it for the latter reason, or at least not caring if they sound that way, that it’s like, dangerous. it is actively incredibly harmful to other trans people. and it’s fucking ridiculous that it’s so difficult to criticize because you’ll always get the defense of “umm but i’m literally trans” and/or “well i’m just talking about ME, this doesn’t apply to other trans people” when it’s an attitude that very clearly seeps into their politics and the way they discuss gender.

because it’s just incredibly common for afab nb people (most typically those that go by she/they! since i’m aware that uh, i am also afab nb, but we clearly are extremely different, so that’s the best categorization i’ve got) to discuss gender in moralized terms, with the excuse of patriarchy/misogyny existing, which of course adds another difficult dimension to trying to criticize this because it gets the response of “don’t act like misandry is real” (it’s not, but being a dick still is) and “boohoo, let women complain about their oppressors” (this goes beyond ‘complaining’). a deliberate revocation of empathy/sympathy/compassion from men and projection of inherently malicious/brutish/cruel intent onto men (not solely in the justified generalizations ‘men suck/are dangerous’, but in specific interactions too) underpin a whole fucking lot of popular posts/discussions online, whether they’re political or casual/social, and it absolutely influences how people conceptualize and feel about transness.

because ‘maleness is evil’ is still shitty politics even when you’ve slightly reframed it from the terf ‘trans women are evil because they’re Really Men and can never escape being horrific soulless brutes just as women can never escape being fragile morally superior flowers’ to the tumblr shethey “trans women who are out to me/unclockable are tolerable i guess because they’re women and women are good; anyone i personally presume to be a cis man, though, is still automatically evil, and saying trans men are Just As Bad is progressive of me, and it’s totally unrelated and apolitical that i think we should expand the concept of afab lesbianism so broadly that you can now be basically indistinguishable from trans men on literally every single level except for a declaration of ‘but i would never claim to be a man because i’m secure in the Innate Womanhood of the body i was born into, even as i medically alter that body because it causes me great gendered discomfort.’ none of this at all indicates that i feel there’s an immense moral/political gap between being an afab nb lesbian vs a straight trans man! it says nothing at all about my concept of ‘maleness’ and there’s no way this rhetoric bleeds into my perception of trans women and no way loudly talking about all this could keep trans people around me self-loathing and closeted, because i’m Literally Trans and Not A Terf!”

again, if that sounds like a hateful strawman, sorry but it’s not. i guess i’m supposed to be like ‘all of the many people ive seen saying these shitty things is an evil outlier who Doesn’t Count, and it’s not fair to the broad identity of afab shethey to not believe that every person who doesn’t outright say terfy enough things is a perfectly earnest valid accepting trans person who’s beyond criticism’ but like. this cannot be about broad validation. this can’t be about discarding all the bad apples as not really part of the group. we can’t be walking on eggshells to coddle what are essentially, in the end, Cis Feelings, because in the best cases this kind of rhetoric comes from naive people who are early and uncertain in their gender journey or whatever and are in the process of unraveling internalized transphobia, and in the easily observable worst cases these people are very literally redefining shit so that ‘actually all afab women are trans, spiritually, all afabs have dysphoria, we are all Equally oppressed by Males uh i mean cis men <3’ because, let’s be honest, they know that the moment they call themselves trans they get to say whatever they want about gender no matter how harmful it is to the rest of us. and those ideas spread like wildfire through the afab shethey “woman that’s not a woman” community that frankly greatly outnumbers other types of trans people online, because many of those people just do not have the experiences that lead you to really understand this shit and have to push back against concepts of gender that actively harm you as a trans person.

like that’s all i want to be able to say, is Things Are Different For Different Groups. and a willful ignorance of these differences leads to bad rhetoric controlling the overall discourse which gets people hurt. and even when concepts arise from it that seem positive and helpful and inclusive, in practice or in origin those ideas can still be upholding shit that gets other people hurt. like, i don’t doubt that many people are very straightforwardly happy and comfortable with an identity like ‘afab nb lesbian on testosterone’ and it would be ridiculous and hypocritical for me, ‘afab nb who wants to pass as a guy so he can comfortably wear skirts again,’ to act like that’s something that can’t or shouldn’t exist. it’s not about the identity itself, it’s about the politics that are popular within its community, and how the use of identities as moral labels with like, fucking pokemon type interactions for oppression effectiveness which directly informs the moral correctness of your every opinion and your very existence, is a shitty practice that gets people hurt and leads us to revoke empathy from each other.

like. sorry this is all over the place and long and probably still sounds evil because i haven’t thought through and disclaimered every single statement. but i’m like exhausted from living with this self-conscious guilt that maybe i’ve turned into a horrible evil truscum misogynist etc etc due to feeling upset by this seemingly inescapable approach to gender in lgbt/online circles that like, actively harms me, because when i vent with my friends all the stuff i’ve tried to explain here gets condensed down to referencing ‘she/theys’ as a category and that feels mean and generalizing and i genuinely dislike generalizations but the dread i feel about that category gets proven right way too often. it’s just like. this is not truscum this is not misgendering this is not misogyny. this is not about me decreeing that all transmascs have to be manly enough or dysphoric enough and all nbs have to be neatly agender and androgynous or something, i’m especially not saying that nb gender isn’t real lmao or even that it’s automatically wrong to partially identify with your asab; this is not me saying you can only medically transition for specific traditional reasons or that you don’t get a say on anything if you aren’t medically transitioning for whatever reason, now or ever. i just. want to be allowed to be frank about how... when there’s different experiences in a community we should like. acknowledge those differences and be willing to say that sometimes people don’t know what they’re talking about or that what they’re saying is harmful. without the primary concern being whether people will feel invalidated by being told so. because these are like, real issues, that are more important than politely including everyone, because that method is just getting vulnerable people drowned out constantly.

#source on much of this: existing as a transmasc on tumblr for years and years.#i stopped identifying as any sort of 'woman-aligned' pretty much right before the ridiculous 'all afabs are dysphoric' stuff #but it sure did still make me hate myself and feel like a silly cowardly ugly little girl for wanting to transition!#and back when i WAS a she/they i definitely was falling for 'men are bad maleness is bad always inherently :)' rhetoric #not in the modern form outlined above but in the like. brainlessly parroted from 'baeddel tumblr' form #which was still like 'you can escape being a Bad Person by either becoming or admitting you are a girl :)'#and the only acknowledgment of trans men in this ideology was like. 'well i guess they feel like they have to do that :\'#'too bad for them. im not saying they shouldnt transition but you know. men suck though <3'#it was bad for me it was bad for other people so im saying from experience. Fucking cut it out! the end

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thathopelessromantic · 3 years

Text

Reckless Good (4/?)

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia/My Hero Academia

Fic Rating: Explicit

Chapter Rating: Teen+ (some implied mature themes)

Pairing: Todoroki Shouto/Midoriya Izuku

Note: Thank you all again for being so wonderful <3 And I hope you all can enjoy the extra momojirou content in this chapter

Todoroki Shouto had accepted his fate as a public figure when he became a pro-hero, but there are some parts of his private life he would like to stay private. When he gets invited to be a speaker in a college lecture series, he goes to the meeting with one goal: to give the coordinator a piece of his mind and finally put an end to people hounding him for information about his family.

The last thing he expects is the curious, and quirkless, hero- and quirk-study professor, Midoriya Izuku, who has no interest in his family’s history, and, somehow, even more ties to the hero industry than Shouto. Intrigued by the professor, Shouto tentatively agrees to the lecture series, unknowingly intertwining their futures.

But the more Todoroki sees of Midoriya, the more questions he has. When a villain attack leaves them living together until the culprits are apprehended, maybe he’ll finally get some answers.

AO3: (x) Chapter One: (x) Chapter Two: (x) Chapter Three: (x)

Friday morning does not bring Shouto any more clarity regarding Midoriya’s email or his list. He spent most of the previous night going over the items on the list, trying to come up with answers for the questions and topics included in it, and feeling inexplicably like he was failing some kind of test. Somehow, U.A. did not prepare him for this part of heroics.

Momo gave him very severe instructions to not do anything work related, but in less than a day he grew stir crazy in his apartment with nothing to do but think about the attack from a few days ago and agonize over how little he can apparently say about his own quirk. So he leaves in the morning in his usual half-assed civilian disguise. He’s supposed to have dinner with Momo and Kyouka later that night, but he needs a distraction until then, so hopefully wasting time around town will suffice.

Shouto isn’t sure how, but his wandering brings him to the Musutafu University campus. The sprawling buildings don’t seem quite so confusing this time around, though he barely has any better idea of how to get around. He wanders the campus for a while, observing the students, there seem to be less of them than earlier in the week, and trying to make some better sense of the layout. The area grows a little more familiar as he reaches the building where he met with Midoriya. He didn’t check the schedule the professor gave him before venturing this way, but it’s roughly the same time they met before so he takes a risk and heads up to his office.

The building is quieter than before, echoing the rest of campus emptying for the upcoming weekend. The bulletin board by the door is just as full, however. He takes the stairs up to the third floor to Midoriya’s office. The door, still just as chaotic, covered in posters and stickers and Shouto’s own young face staring up at him is closed and locked, the lights off inside the office. It was a slim chance that the professor would be in his office again at the same time, he supposes, but now that he’s here and Midoriya isn’t, Shouto’s at a loss for what to do or even what he’s doing there. He loiters in front of the door for a few minutes, as if by sheer will he might force it open and the professor to appear, before he wanders down the hall. A few doors down, there’s a wide office space, enclosed by large glass windows, with openings every few feet. The secretary from the other day – Ko-something. Koyama? Kobayashi? – is sitting behind one of the openings at a desk, typing rapidly at a computer.

Shouto debates with himself for a moment before he approaches the window, clearing his throat to get her attention. She turns in surprise at the sound. Her pale lavender hair is still piled high in a complicated bun at the top of her head, but she’s also wearing a pair of thin, half-moon glasses perched just so on her nose for two of her six eyes to be able to see through them.

“Entropy?” She asks, as if not sure she’s seeing him correctly. “Can I help you with something? You didn’t have another meeting with Dr. Midoriya, did you?”

Shouto almost says yes, but he remembers the disapproving look she gave Midoriya after the desk incident and figures he shouldn’t get the professor in any more trouble with his secretary by lying about some forgotten meeting or something.

“Nothing planned. I was just hoping to speak with him again if I could, but it doesn’t look like he’s in his office.”

“No, he wouldn’t be. Dr. Midoriya has a class at this time.”

That grabs his attention. “Really? Where?”

Kobayashi raises a suspicious brow at him, but Shouto will not be deterred. Kobayashi stares at him for a few more moments before turning back to her computer. She opens a few documents, clicking through pages and charts that flash by too quickly for Shouto to make any sense of. Finding whatever it is she’s looking for, she pulls out a bright purple sticky note and writes out a building and room number for him in neat script.

“That’s where his Friday lecture is. There’s just under an hour left.”

“Thank you.” Shouto takes the sticky note appreciatively.

She waves him off, clearly unimpressed or uninterested or both. He wonders how many times heroes have come to talk to Midoriya that she’s completely unmoved by their presence at the university. Unless she just never cared about heroes at all, which would be an equally interesting pairing as a secretary for the seemingly hero-obsessed professor.

It still takes Shouto longer than he would have liked to find the building she wrote down, but the name sounds vaguely familiar so he’s pretty sure its one he’s passed in his previous wanderings, which helped. The rooms inside the building are all spaced far apart, large lecture halls rather than normal classrooms, and it feels like he has been walking through the halls for ages but only passed three or four doors before he finally finds the room she specified.

The closed door muffles sound surprisingly well, so he has to hope he’s in the right place, and that she didn’t intentionally steer him wrong, as he cracks open the door to peer in. Thankfully, the door he’s come across opens to the back of the lecture hall, so he’s mostly unnoticed as he slips in and hangs against the back wall. The room is surprisingly full for an early morning Friday lecture, and it takes him a moment to find an open seat near the back that doesn’t require him to crawl over any other students.

Midoriya is at the front of the room, his back to the room as he writes across the large white board against the wall. There are already extensive notes made in the same small frantic handwriting Shouto saw in his notebooks, while a video plays on the projector screen besides him. It takes Shouto a few minutes to realize the video is a recording of a villain fight, too distracted following the shifting muscles of the professor’s broad back as he writes across the board and trying to make out the notes without any other context, but once he’s realized what it is that’s playing Shouto finds himself equally as interested in the fight. Based on the costumes, Shouto is fairly certain the hero in the fight is Lemillion, but he’s never seen this particular fight before. He doesn’t recognize the villain he’s fighting and he has absolutely no idea where this shaky footage would have come from.

Midoriya finally turns back to face the room. His sharp green eyes scan over the room, and Shouto can feel the exact moment they land on him, picking him out of the crowd of eager faces and recognizing him as someone or something out of place. Midoriya only hesitates on him for a moment before he continues scanning the room.

“Okay, does anyone else have any observations from the fight?”

A few more hands shoot up around the room. One by one, Midoriya calls on the students, writing up their observations on the video up on the board with the other notes. Once everyone has had a chance to say their part, he steps back and takes a look at the board. There’s barely an open space for more writing as it is, but when Midoriya nods and declares it a “pretty good start” the class only laughs, rather than arguing. Shouto wants to see what Midoriya’s own observations of the fight would be.

“Now,” Midoriya pulls another white board on wheels to the middle of the room, placing it in front of the filled one. “What do we still not know? That our observations alone can’t tell us?”

The pause before people try to answer is considerably longer after his newest question. Finally, someone hesitantly raises a hand to answer. “We still don’t know what the villain’s quirk is. We’ve only seen how it works against Lemillion in this particular fight.”

Midoriya beams at the student. “Right,” He writes the answer on the board. “There’s no guarantee of what we’ve seen here is the extent of their power. We can also only assume at this point how their quirk works or what limitations they might have. What else?”

A few more hesitant hands go up. Midoriya calls on them all, writing up their suggestions as they come, elaborating on many of them as they come in. He calls a few more times for more suggestions but the replies peter out much sooner than their observations. Finally, when no one else raises a hand, Midoriay comes around to the otherwise ignored desk and leans against it to face the room properly.

“No one said anything about the hero.” He points out, calmly. Shouto is surprised that he didn’t realize this fact until it’s called out either.

“But everyone knows what the number one hero’s quirk is,” someone calls from the back. There’s a sound of agreement that goes through the room.

“Do you really?” Midoriya tilts his head to the side, considering. “He’s the permeation hero, right? His quirk is called permeation, but what else do you know about it?”

When no one jumps in with more information, Midoriya calls on someone. “Do you know how Lemillion activates his quirk? Or how he stops using it?”

The student shakes their head nervously. Midoriya smiles kindly, going back to the board and writing that under the last student observation. He calls on someone else in the room. “Is there any part of Lemillion where his quirk doesn’t work?”

The second student doesn’t have an answer either.

“The answer to that is no, actually,” Midoriya informs them. “But just from this fight, we can’t confirm that. So it’s important to note it. Lemillion has an advantage on a lot of opponents because he moves so fast, they can’t keep track of him. If there was some part of his body not affected by his quirk, that could easily be hidden by his quick movements.”

Midoriya writes it on the board too, even though he’s answered his own question. He picks someone else in the room, and it takes Shouto a moment to realize Midoriya is pointing at him.

“Do we know if there is a disadvantage or limit to his quirk that might affect this fight?”

“Any limits or disadvantages Lemillion might have to his quirk will affect every fight he has, though some situations could make those disadvantages worse, or add to his limits.” Shouto answers carefully, thinking back to his own limits and the years of Aizawa drilling it into their heads to be aware of their own limitations in a fight.

A few students turn to look at him as he talks, and he recognizes three girls in the front row from his first time on campus. They recognize him a moment later, hitting each others’ arms and whispering amongst themselves. A few others seem to catch on, but Midoriya doesn’t leave enough time for them to get distracted.

“True,” Midoriya turns back to his white board to add more notes. “Do we know any of those limitations from this fight?”

There are still a few hushed whispers going around the room, and Shouto notices a few students pull out their phones, but the discussion continues mostly the same until the class ends.

Midoriya dismisses the class a few minutes late, but still only about half the class filters out of the room immediately. The rest gather at the front of the room, surrounding their professor and peppering him with more questions about the lesson and homework and just general hero related questions, at least so far as Shouto can figure from what he overhears. Shouto stays mostly hidden in the back of the room until all the students have actually made their way out of the classroom, though a few brave students stop to say something or ask for an autograph. It’s nice to see how they flock to the professor with something almost akin to hero-worship. The three girls from earlier in the week wave goodbye to him as they leave.

Midoriya starts to clean up as Shouto comes down the stairs to join him at the front of the room.

“So what did they miss?”

Midoriya freezes, glancing up at him as if he had forgotten Shouto was still there.

“What?”

“In the analysis of the fight. What’s something they missed?”

Midoriya glances back at the projector screen where the paused video is still visible. “There’s a crack in the far corner of the room.” Shouto follows the professor’s hand to the ceiling in the video where he can see the faint lines of the concrete breaking. “It’s not structurally sound any more, so Lemillion can’t phase through it safely. But if he can shake the building enough for it actually crumble while he’s got the villain in that corner, the destruction could do some serious damage to his opponent that he could avoid by using his quirk. A lot of this fight was dragged out by the two of them trying to corner each other there, each aware of the other’s weakness.”

Shouto tries to remember what he saw of the movement of the fight and align it to what the professor is saying.

“And how many times have you analyzed this particular fight?”

Midoriya laughs. “Just once, in class today. And I watched it before to make sure there wasn’t anything too revealing about either hero or villain, or too graphic to show students, so maybe one and a half times. But I always like to show them new fights. I catch a lot, but there are always students who surprise me and catch things I haven’t thought about. I’ll go home and actually analyze it later though.”

Midoriya finishes closing down the programs and restarting the computer. He takes a picture of the notes on both of the boards before he begins to erase them. Shouto grabs an eraser to help him clear off the boards.

“I was surprised to see you here,” Midoriya says. “I didn’t realize you attended the open lectures here.”

“I don’t.” Shouto shrugs, putting down the eraser. “I was actually just hoping to talk to you again.”

“Me?” Midoriya asks, seeming genuinely surprised, as if there was anyone else around for Shouto to talk to at this moment. “What for?”

“Your lecture series,” Shouto says easily, though he doesn’t think he really had an answer to that question right up until he answered. “I got your list of topics last night.”

“Was there anything wrong with it?”

“No. There was a lot on there I hadn’t even considered. After reading that I’m not sure how much I can even tell you about my quirk.”

Midoriya laughs, though he immediately covers his mouth to smother the sound when Shouto turns to look at him. “Sorry. Entropy-”

“Todoroki.” Shouto interrupts.

Midoriya’s eyes widen and he blinks in surprise. “What?”

“Just call me Todoroki. I’m not working.”

Midoriya looks like he wants to argue with him, but after a moment he nods hesitantly. “T-Todoroki, I’m sure you know more about your quirk than you think. You’re just not used to thinking of it in those terms.”

Shouto shrugs. “Maybe.” He hands off the eraser to Midoriya and the professor cleans them both off before placing them back where they belong.

Midoriya shakes his head. “I’m sure of it. But if you would feel more comfortable talking about it some more, we can. I have to take some of this back to my office, but I’m done with classes for the day after that.”

“Should we talk over lunch?”

Midoriya almost drops the papers he’s gathering. “L-lunch?”

“Sure, it’s just after noon. Lunch.”

Midoriya recovers from whatever shock he seemed to experience, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair and shoving the rest of his things in the same leather bag he had the other day. “Right. Lunchtime. Sure.”

Shouto considers the professor as they make their way out of the room and back towards his office. He’s not sure what exactly about his suggestion of lunch threw the professor off so much, and he doesn’t seem inclined to let Shouto understand either.

Midoriya’s office looks roughly the same as Shouto remembered his first time visiting, though the desk in the middle is considerably less decorated than the first one. He recognizes some of the posters however.

“You’ve started redecorating.” He observes.

“Hm?” Midoriya looks around before he follows Shouto’s gaze to the desk. The lighting is still rather dim in the office, but Shouto swears Midoriya is blushing as he turns away. “Oh yes. Well, with what I could salvage before they got rid of the old desk. I’ll have to get more though, some things were ripped and can’t really go back up. And most of the stickers were just completely lost.”

“You seem to care about this stuff,” Shouto says, looking around the room. “Why put it somewhere when there’s a risk of it being destroyed like that?”

Midoriya sighs, running a hand over the corner of the desk. “After the first time I lost some posters to an…accident,” he says the word carefully as if he expects Shouto to call him out on what happened, or suggest it was anything besides an accident. “I tried not putting them up. But it was just too empty after that. And these things are meant to be hung and admired. I’d rather get some use out of it.” He points to one of posters of an old hero Shouto recognizes but can’t remember the name of. “And some of them, like this one, are gifts from students. I want them to know I appreciate the gifts they give me.”

Midoriya turns away, putting the papers away in his filing cabinet before he goes behind the desk and grabs a few of the notebooks from the bottom shelves, tucking them away in his bag. He turns back to Shouto with an almost nervous looking smile. “So, lunch?”

They end up at Sato’s bakery, a short subway ride away from campus in the small café area he has in the back. Shouto already had to come this way to pick up the deserts he promised to Kyouka, and Midoriya assured him he was a fan of the food. Admittedly, Shouto had never tried anything off the lunch menu they offered, but he didn’t mind following Midoriya’s suggestions.

The café is painted in the same warm yellows and pinks of the bakery up front, but the walls are decorated with more pictures of food and serene naturescapes, rather than the class pictures and signed hero posters that adorned the bakery walls for those hero fans visiting just because it is Sugarman’s business.

A waitress who greets Midoriya by name comes by to take their order, though she spends half the time at their table chatting with the professor about a visit they got last week from Chargebolt, Pinky, and Cellophane that ended in a near-stampede of fans and Sato had to close early when they sold out of everything before noon.

“At least Sato’s classmates are good for business,” Midoriya says with a laugh as the waitress finishes her story.

She rolls her eyes and waves him off, though she smiles as she does it. “That’s one way to look at it, I guess. I’ll get those orders in for you guys right away.”

“You’re friends with Sato, too?” Shouto asks once they are alone again.

Midoriya wears the same deer-in-the-headlights look as when Shouto suggested lunch. “What? What do you mean ‘too’?”

“I’m fairly certain the first day we met Shinso was also coming to meet with you, you’re…very close with the hero doctor, Aizawa, and Sunspot told me after you took me to the hospital, one of Ingenium’s ‘friends’ had him escort her back to our office. That’s at least three pros.”

“I could have just been meeting with Shinso for the lecture series, same as you. Does that make us friends?”

Shout ignores the question. “There’s no way you would ask Shinso to be a part of the lecture series. You know too much about heroes to think an underground hero would participate in something so public. That also still doesn’t explain the other two. Two pro-hero friends is still more than most civilians would claim.”

Midoriya scratches the back of his head sheepishly. “Well I’m not exactly a normal civilian. My work at the university and the hospital leads to me crossing paths with heroes pretty regularly. Eventually, we became friendly.”

Shouto remembers the proud disbelief of Shinso when they ran into each other the other day, and the protective way Dr. Aizawa talked about Midoriya, fielding Shouto’s questions, and thinks this picture of casual friendships of convenience he’s trying to portray is utter bullshit.

“So Sato’s the same? You just cross paths a lot?”

Midoriya looks even more embarrassed, shifting in his chair. “I guess. I don’t think we could really be considered friends, I just frequent the café and talk heroics with Sato when he’s in at the same time. We’re familiar with each other is all.”

Shouto doesn’t really believe the brush off of their relationship anymore than he did of the first three, but he lets it go for now.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Shouto trying to figure out something about the professor sitting across from him, and Midoriya looking like he would like more than anything to disappear from the café. The same waitress delivers their food, dropping off an extra pastry neither of them ordered.

“Compliments of the owner,” she says to Midoriya with a wink.

Midoriya sinks further in his chair at Shouto’s arched look.

“Can we just talk about the list?” He asks.

Mercifully, Shouto pulls out his phone to look at the list again while they eat.

Once off the topic of Midoriya’s various pro-hero friends, he starts to open up again, elaborating on the different suggestions he had for the lecture series. He listens to Shouto’s questions carefully, considering each answer he gives as if Shouto is asking for answers about the truth of the universe and not just his own damn quirk. Most of the time he answers off the cuff, but occasionally Midoriya pulls out one of his notebooks and considers something scribbled in them before giving a definitive answer. Shouto sort of wonders how he finds anything among all the hectic writing.

They talk so long the waitress brings them both another dessert and drink, and so long after that the café lunch hours eventually end. Other than the occasional customer grabbing something from the bakery and the handful of employees left, they are the only ones still in the store.

Eventually the waitress herds them out of the café into the still-open bakery lobby. Midoriya apologizes at least a half dozen times, but she only waves him off with nothing more than a fond, exasperated look. They’re left alone in the bakery, save for the cashier who sends them a knowing look as they’re booted out of the café.

“I’m sorry,” Midoriya says with a short bow. “I should have known to go somewhere with longer hours when we were talking about quirks.”

Shouto doesn’t think he’s ever had something he cared enough about so strongly that he would need to plan extra time out for it, but he’s fascinated, and inexplicably, charmed by it. “It’s okay, I don’t mind. I needed to come by Sato’s anyways.” Midoriya relaxes besides him, a relieved smile passing over his features.

Shouto turns away before he stares too long, asking the cashier for the order he had called in the day before. Midoriya drifts away to look over the display case while they wait for the cashier to grab Shouto’s order from the back. She returns, opening the box so that he can confirm the order is correct.

“You didn’t strike me as having such a big sweet tooth,” Midoriya comments as she rings Shouto up.

“I don’t. It’s for Kyouka.” Shouto replies easily. He watches Midoriya’s face, can practically see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to figure out who Shouto is talking about.

“Earphone Jack?” Midoriya finally guesses. “I didn’t really expect her to have such a big sweet tooth, either.”

Shouto shrugs. He had never really put much thought into it. He just knew Kyouka was almost as in love with Sato’s chocolate cake as she was with Momo. Though he doubts either of them would appreciate that comparison.

After Shouto is finished, Midoriya asks for a few things from behind the counter as well. Many of the selections have run out completely this late in the day, and a few options have only one or two items still left, but Midoriya still takes a while to make a decision, deliberating carefully over the limited selection.

He shoots Shouto another apologetic look as the cashier rings up his items. “I always get something for my mother when I visit Sato’s. She likes to try new things, but I think I’m finally running out of new options for her to try.”

Shouto nods his understanding, waving off Midoriya’s unspoken apology. He wonders if he should bring some of Sato's treats to his own mother the next time he visits. He usually brought her flowers, but she might like a small cake for a change.

The two leave the bakery and head back towards the subway. Midoriya easily fills the silence while they walk with more talk about quirks, quickly derailing his own train of thought part way through into a discussion of local heroes. Shouto gives a nod or makes a sound of acknowledgement where it seems appropriate, content to let Midoriya talk and absorb the barrage of information the professor seems to be overflowing with. He thinks it’s all going rather well until they reach the subway station entrance, and Midoriya stops in his tracks.

Shouto looks back in concern as the professor smacks himself in the forehead. His bag of pastries swings wildly for a moment, precariously close to smacking him in the face as well.

“Are you alright?”

“I just talked your ear off the entire walk, I’m so sorry. I’m sure you didn’t need to hear any of that. And what if you had more questions? I-”

“I didn’t mind,” Shouto interrupts. “Even if I didn’t ‘need’ to hear any of it. It was interesting.”

Midoriya lowers his hand and stares at him apprehensively. “You’re not just saying that just to be polite?”

“I never say things just to be polite.” Shouto says honestly.

Midoriya laughs, though Shouto isn’t sure exactly what about his statement warranted laughter, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “No, I guess you don’t seem the type to do that.”

Not sure how to reply to that, Shouto looks away. The timetable inside the station shows the next train should be arriving in a few minutes. They stand in silence for a moment before Shouto clears his throat.

“Thank you for taking the time to talk to me,” Shouto says at the exact same time Midoriya blurts out: “Would you like my phone number?”

They stare at each other for a moment, but Midoriya reacts first with a small wince. “I mean, you’re welcome. It wasn’t any trouble. Obviously I like to talk about the subject.”

“Your phone number?” Shouto asks, wondering if he somehow misheard.

Midoriya sighs. “I was just thinking it might be easier, than tracking me down in person, if you had any other questions. Or I guess it could just be easier to track me down in person again, too. If you could text or call. You don’t have to obviously, I know a hero’s personal number is important and private, for a reason. Which is why I offered just to give you mine. And if you did use it, I would never abuse-“

“How many personal numbers for pro-heroes do you know?”

Midoriya blinks in surprise a few times, startled. “I can’t tell you that. Wait, no. I mean-”

“I trust you.” Shouto pulls out his cell phone, passing it over to the still-dazed professor.

Midoriya takes it, but just stares down at the cell without moving.

“So you can put your contact information in,” Shouto reminds him carefully, as if he somehow forgot what a phone was in the midst of their conversation.

Midoriya moves again, finally, if only to give Shouto another disbelieving look. “I think you trust people too easily, Todoroki.”

“You suggested it.”

Despite appearing like he still wanted to argue the matter, Midoriya looks away from Shouto to open his phone and add his contact information. Shouto briefly worries there’s something embarrassing for him to come across as he unlocks the phone, before he remembers the last time Kyouka went through his phone and deemed it “utterly boring” while complaining about the lack of “potential blackmail material,” which he figures means it’s probably safe enough.

Midoriya returns his cell to him, just as the train begins to pull up to the station. Shouto hesitates getting on the train. He has no real reason to keep Midoriya for any longer, but he feels oddly reluctant to leave his company just yet. They stare at each other for a few moments in silence, as if waiting for the other to say something, but Shouto was never good at finding the right thing to say, and he was rapidly running out of time for Midoriya to say something if he wanted to catch this train.

“Thank you,” Midoriya finally blurts out. “For considering being a part of the Hero Talks series. Even if you ultimately decide not to join, I appreciate the consideration. And the opportunity to talk to you about your quirk.”

“Thanks for…wanting to talk about my quirk.”

Shouto steps through the subway doors. He turns just as they start to pull out of the station, and Midoriya is still standing there with a bemused smile on his face.

Kyouka opens the door in leggings and a shirt Shouto is almost positive is Momo’s.

“You’re early.” She says as greeting, though it sounds more like an accusation.

Shouto holds up his package from the bakery. “I have cake.”

Appeased, she lets him into the house without any other complaint. Shouto slips off his shoes and follows her down the familiar entrance way towards the kitchen. Momo is standing over the stove stirring something. Her long hair is down for once, but she keeps brushing it out of her face with the back of her hand as she watches the pot intensely.

Shouto leans closer to Kyouka to whisper. “You’re letting her cook?”

“She wanted to try a new recipe.” Kyouka hisses back, elbowing him in the side. “Shut up.” She glances at him. “I was planning to order pizzas in like an hour.”

Shouto nods, satisfied with her answer. Kyouka rolls her eyes. Dropping the cake box on the counter, she abandons him in the doorway to join Momo at the stove. Momo jumps slightly as Kyouka touches her side, but she relaxes easily, smiling softly as Kyouka gathers her hair and pulls it back into a loose ponytail for her.

“Thank you,” Momo says quietly.

Kyouka stands on her tiptoes to kiss her cheek before she steps away. “Shouto’s here.”

“Oh!” Momo jumps again as she finally sees him in the door way. She blushes, as if embarrassed by their behavior, as if Shouto hasn’t been witness to their relationship since high school. “Shouto, hello. You’re early.”

Shouto shrugs. “I was in the neighborhood. I couldn’t keep sitting in my house.”

Momo makes a face. “I’m sorry. But it’s for your own good. You need to rest.”

“But I’m not even injured any more,” Shouto argues. “And I-”

Kyouka shoves a plate with a small slice of cake on it into his hands. “Eat this and stop arguing with her.”

Shouto doesn’t know how she moves so quick.

She goes to sit at the kitchen table with a plate of her own, a much larger slice of cake on her plate. Shouto joins her, if for nothing else to stop standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“Kyouka.” Momo scolds. “Before dinner? You need to eat something with more substance.”

“I need the sugar. Get my energy back up.” Kyouka says with a sly wink as she slides the first bite into her mouth.

Momo’s blush returns with a vengeance. “Kyouka! I-”

“You should probably eat some too,” Kyouka continues with a satisfied smile. “Don’t want you to be too worn out after our pre-dinner exercise.”

“Should I leave?” Shouto asks, interrupting their not-so-subtle flirting.

“No.” Momo says at the same time Kyouka says “Yes.”

They stare at each other for a few moments, having some kind of silent conversation. Kyouka gives in first with a dramatic sigh.

“Just eat your cake, Todoroki.”

Eventually, Momo decides whatever she is making can be left unsupervised and comes to join them at the table. She did, despite her arguments, take a piece of cake for herself, though it is significantly smaller than Kyouka’s slice. They talk about work, fill Shouto in on what he’s missed recently at the agency or from their old classmates and the cases they’ve been on. It fills the time and they lose track of themselves in the conversation.

Until Shouto notices something off.

“Is something burning?”

Momo shoots out of her chair, almost knocking it over in her rush, and darts over to the stove. Kyouka follows only a moment behind. Shouto turns to watch them turn off the burner and peek into the forgotten pot. The smell of something burning gets stronger. Momo drops her head in defeat.

“Not again.”

Kyouka rubs her back comfortingly with one hand, and pulls out her phone with the other. “How’s pizza sound?”

Momo nods in reluctant agreement, but doesn’t move from her slumped position.

Shouto clears the table of their empty plates while they’re distracted. He takes them to the sink, washing them off quickly and ignoring Momo’s half-hearted protests that he doesn’t need to clean up after them.

“Pizza will be here in twenty minutes.” Kyouka declares, interrupting Momo. “Let’s go sit in the living room until then, okay? Let this place air out a little.”

Shouto takes the hint and opens the window over the sink.

Kyouka nods her thanks to him before she ushers Momo out of the kitchen. Shouto starts to follow them, before he sees the cake box still open on the counter. He stops to close it, but hesitates. It seems a little impulsive, definitely silly and unnecessary, but he snaps a quick picture of the cake before he closes up the box.

He scrolls through his, limited, contacts until he finds the new listing. Midoriya Izuku. He drafts a new message to him with the picture attached.

kyouka couldnt wait until after dinner so it was our appetizer

Shouto sends the message before he can second guess himself, and leaves the kitchen. It’s just an easy way to make sure the professor gets his number is all, since they didn’t actually exchange them. Nothing weird about it.

Kyouka and Momo have already made themselves comfortable on the couch, though they’ve left room for him on the opposite end. Just as he sits down with them, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He just barely resists the urge to grab it immediately.

“Movie?” Kyouka suggests. “Or the same show we were watching from last time?”

“We could watch an episode before the pizza gets here,” Shouto answers, though he can’t clearly remember what it even was that they watched the last time he was over. “Change it after if we want to.”

Momo agrees easily, obviously still thinking more about her cooking disaster than what they’re putting on for entertainment, so Kyouka starts up the new episode. Shouto waits for the opening to finish before he slides his phone out of his pocket, ever so discreetly. Kyouka and Momo already seem more invested in each other than him or the TV show, so he deems it safe and unlocks his phone.

There’s one new message from Midoriya.

‘Our appetizer’? I thought you didn’t have a sweet tooth.

Shouto replies right away, before he can second guess his reply or his eagerness to reply. i can indulge sometimes

A moment later Midoriya replies again, this time with an attachment. It’s a picture of one of the pastries he purchased on a small plate. He’s at a table with someone, part of their profile in the picture alongside the treat. Shouto can’t make out much except for a pink shirt and dark hair the exact same shade as Midoriya’s.

The text below it reads, Mom and I couldn’t wait either.

Shouto smiles, unbidden, before he locks his phone and shoves it back into his pocket. Kyouka and Momo still seem distracted, but he forces himself to focus on the television. They’d never let it go if they caught him smiling at his phone of all things. And he has a feeling they’ll probably want a recap of what’s been happening, so he’d better have some idea of what the episode was actually about.

They get through most of the episode before the pizza gets there and then three more as they eat, giving up switching to a movie. But if Shouto’s being completely honest, not that he would be if asked, he has only a vague idea of what happened in any of the episodes. He did, however, draft three potential new texts in his head to send Midoriya later.

#bnha #mha #tododeku #todoroki shouto #midoriya izuku #tddk #tododeku big bang 2021 #fic #rita writes #7.1.21 #fic: reckless good

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oh-for-fic-sake · 4 years

Text

Billionaires Bae-by

Masterlist

Warnings: Adult content 18+, slight smut, swearing

A/n:Right I'm not 100% on timelines but I'm making it up to fit in around my characters lives ect. Hope you enjoy xx

The time has come for you to become public knowledge, luckily Bruce calls in a friend to help.

Billionaires Bae-by

You woke up with a start to the screech of a high pitched ringtone confused and bleary eyed you looked around finding yourself on Bruce's side of the bed alone rolling over on the massive bed struggling, arms and legs flaying about doing your best impression of a swimmer to make your way to you phone on the side table as the soft mattress and thick covers swallowed you. Just as you reached your side of the bed then silence the phone had stopped. You'd missed the call. You hung your head sighing until you heard Bruce speaking. Looking over you saw him sitting on the small love seat looking far to handsome this early in the morning, smirking shaking his head at your antics answering his phone. You pouted you'd moved for nothing, and now you were in the cold side of the bed. You huffed slumping onto your back spreading out under the covers.

"...Today?...Yes that'd be great.....thanks Clark " he hung up shaking his head at you as you pouted at him sleepily.

"Not funny" you groaned snuggling into the comforter debating weather to get out of the bed or not. Bruce's bed was far too comfy if you had your way you'd never leave it, tho you dare not let him know that something tells you he wouldn't protest probably encourage it. You pulled the cover to your face breathing in a scent that was just him, it was a mix of the fresh smelling cologne he wore and a distinct musky scent of the man himself. He sat on the bed leaning over pulling you across the bed to him by your wrists you rolled half way on your front propping yourself on your elbows stretching up for a long kiss he grunted sucking your tongue into his mouth a little before pulling back.

"Good morning babe"

"Yes it is. Sweets" you giggled sitting up fully yawning and stretching he got off the bed taking the belt he had hung over the love seat and pulled it through the loops buckling it. You licked your lips unconsciously as he looked at you through the top of his eyes grinning. Then a thought hit you.

"Where did you go last night?" you asked he tilted his head at you. You'd noticed since staying at the manor that he didn't get much sleep. Maybe three to four hours a night. He normally slipped out of bed somewhere between nine and ten then didn't return until around five or six am, it was concerning, when you asked Alfred he had just given you a vague answer ,about work emergencies and stress then that Bruce had had trouble sleeping since his parents and that he was probably leaving the room so he wouldn't wake you as well. All valid reasons you supposed letting it go but you would like to hear it from Bruce himself. He looked up sighing looking a little guilty and seemed off.

"I'm sorry did I wake you?" he asked sitting back down on the bed slipping on his shoes you shimmied down onto the floor and padded around to him softly ruffling his hair moving to cup his face caressing the small scruff he had.

"No... I noticed you were gone when I used the bathroom.... is everything ok?" you said calmly, he tilted his head kissing your palms one by one then held them in his own.

"Yes .....I just have problems sleeping... at first it was nightmares of ...well you know.. then it just became a habit I cant seem to shake... sometimes its to do with work and stuff but I found that I don't need as much sleep anymore." he admitted you could see he was uncomfortable so decided not to pursue it you were satisfied for the moment he would tell you when he was good and ready. You grinned at him

"That's a relief I thought it was my snoring that had drove you away" he bellowed a laugh wrapping you up in a strong hug around your hips holding you tightly against him you winced as he pressed against the marks he had left yesterday.

"Baby loosen up a bit would you... hips" you said he immediately loosened his hold pressing his face into your chest giving a fleeting kiss to each nipple making you jump as they to were still tender and slightly swollen from the past few days of his insatiable ministrations. Smirking he brought his hands up rolling them on his palms making you squirm as he dug his face between your breasts licking over deep purple and blue marks he had sucked into your cleavage just as your breathing started to become harsher pants he retreated completly with a smirk as you leaned forward unconsciously then snapped out of what ever lusy haze he had placed on you chuckling with a hard squeeze pushing you away from him lightly patting your bottom.

"Come on you time to get dressed Clark will be here soon for the interview."

"What he's coming today?" Bruce nodded

"Someone took a photo of us the other day its been doing the rounds on the internet and tv but thankfully not a lot has been in the news or magazines yet, Clark's boss heard and has been all over him about it because he knows we know each other so Clark is coming over this morning to do it and get some photos."you gaped at him

"ok what do you mean by not a lot in the news?" he gave you a look

"Bruce? what have they said?" you asked getting a little panicked mind racing with all the possible rumors they could have started. Or worse what if somehow they'd saw you in his office you gasped freaking out as your mind instantly began thinking the worst. He nodded his head to the small side table by the window seeing a news paper Gotham gazette yesterdays copy with two photos of you and Bruce from the incident at the tower. One was from the side showing your profile more than your actual facial features with your hand on his chest trying to calm him down as he spoke to the guard it showed clearly that he was angry with the man, the other was much clearer a face on shot of you both, you tucked into his side as you made your way to the elevators. The headline read 'Billionaire Bae-by' you took a deep breath no one saw what you'd done in the office. Reading the first few lines of the article. They didn't have much info just that someone had gone to the tower and whilst being escorted out Bruce had come down scolded a security guard and secretary then disappeared with the woman, the rest was just contemplating your identity with words like model and personal assistant thrown in here and there. In a way you were flattered. You felt Bruce walk up behind you placing a hand on your back rubbing small circles.

"Are you ok Sweetsq? don't worry everything will be ok. I've already got Mary and security looking into who took those photos it will all be sorted I promise." you snapped out of your hectic thoughts and scoffed throwing the paper back down

"Bae-by really? they get paid to write for a living and that's the best they got? honestly I'm just happy there's not photos of us in the office" he huffed kissing the back of your head

"Well other tabloids have dubbed you the new queen of Gotham, maybe that's more you? personally I'd say princess well after yesterday at least" he wiggled his eyebrows at you when you faced him you almost didn't take the bait but looked soo pleased with himself you couldn't let him down.

"Oh year and why is that?" he swallowed at the look you gave him

"Well your my little pillow princess" he said as matter of fact grinning you gaped at him shifting on your feet.

"Excuse you!! them water jets were powerful I couldn't move you-you fuck!" you growled out stomping away from him making him laugh out loud apologizing as you made your way over to where your bag had been the previous night stopping short.

"Babe wheres my stuff?"

"In here" he said pulling out a drawer in the dresser beside him.

"And some is in the closet your makeup is in the vanity in the bathroom, I didn't like you living out of a bag so had Alfred move it this morning while you slept." you looked stumped at him slightly touched at the implications.

"You didn't have to do that." moving towards him looking in the drawer seeing a majority of the clothes that jack had brought over for you. You grabbed your long royal blue roll neck jumper and black crushed velvet leggings with your undies.

"You best get ready Clark should be here soon" Bruce commented kissing you then making his way to the door

"You never did tell me who he wrote for."

"Oh he writes for the Daily Planet any way I will see you down stairs in a bit" he left as you tried to wrap your head around what was about to happen.'Daily planet?' Now that was a big deal, it was a bit nerve wracking letting everyone see you , know your name and step into the spotlight but at the same time you trusted those around you, and most of all you trusted bruce he wont let you fall. Making your way to the bathroom having a quick shower not washing your hair as Jack didn't bring your hair dryer and you had no idea where Bruce's one was or if he even had one. Slipping out you quickly threw on your outfit before standing before the vanity your small makeup bag on the side.

'do I got full face or light?' you debated you didn't want to slap a ton on your face too much could go wrong yet there was going to be photos. You decided to play safe and do your normal daily make up of eyebrows and eyeliner reassuring yourself that Bruce loves the way you look with of without. You left the room making your way downstairs hearing Bruce and Alfred talking to someone turning the corner you saw a tall broad man with black hair Bruce's face lit up.

"And here she is now Clark this is Y/n my girlfriend, Y/n this is Clark the reporter I was telling you about." Clark turned to face you smiling a dazzling smile his bright blue eyes shone impossibly bright, he was very handsome in the clean cut boy next door way. You nodded smiling shaking Clark's hand.

"Its nice to meet you, Thank you for doing this .. I've got to admit that I'm nervous about all this so you'll have to bare with me." Clark shook his head watching as you and Bruce seemed to have a pull that tugged you towards one another.

"That's no problem Bruce is a friend we go way back, and you have no reason to be nervous I will send you a copy of my article before it prints and will only write what you ask me to, I understand that you have concerns over your younger brother?" you nodded already liking the man he seemed trustworthy.

"Yes I don't really want him to be included to much... for his sake" Alfred interrupted

"I've set up coffee in the front sitting room if you'd like to make your way through." Bruce nodded thanking him and made your way to the room to conduct the interview. Once you were all settled with your drinks Clark began.

"So your Y/n Cooke?" you nodded shyly sitting tight against Bruce

" If you don't mind me asking how old are you?" you cringed waiting for the judgmental scoff as you stated your age.

"25" he nodded not giving any judgmental indications over your age or bringing up the age gap he just wrote down on his note book.

"And how did you meet ?" you were grateful when Bruce answered making the decision of how much to let people know, he had more experience with these things.

"Damien has been having his best friend from school over for a few months who happens to be y/n's younger brother, he couldn't stop gushing over her so I known of her for nearly seven months before meeting her. We actually met at Damien's school just over 3 months ago there was an incident that has since been dealt with but it involved both Damien and Jack." he smiled down at you.

"She came into the waiting area fretting over both of the boys like a mother hen and I was instantly drawn to her, the way she ignored everything around her instead focused solely on making sure they were unharmed and finding out there side of things."

you blushed continuing.

"I was hounded by Damien for months about coming over to meet Bruce but always brushed him off. But I distinctly remember being mortified when met him, I hadn't realized he was there. I sat down and noticed Bruce had been watching me the whole time. Then he backed me up when trying to sort things out with the principle in the office .. I was shocked but very grateful to him." Clark nodded writing everything down as you both recounted your meeting.

"So you met at the school?for a meeting? that's unusual could you elaborate?" you looked to Bruce who grunted at Clark

"Don't push it, there was a few issues the school had..... overlooked shall we say. For some months, Y/n walked in and set them straight. It has now been sorted. I was impressed at how she dealt with it and invited her out to lunch and we have been together since" he explained you relaxed a bit when he skipped the whole avoidance thing. Clark took a sip of his coffee and turned to you.

"So if you don't mind me asking about your brother? your responsible for him"you shifted uncomfortably.

"I-I am err can we not include to much about Jack? please?" you looked from one to the other

"Its ok I wont include to much just weather your his legal guardian, honestly I probably wont include it to much.. its mainyl to give context to why it was you there and not your parents." Bruce froze seeing where this was going. It has only been recently that you'd informed him of how your parents had died and he knew discussing it would cause upset on both sides he gave a growl of warning.

"Clark don't-" you put a hand up stopping him

"I will tell you the circumstances because your a friend of Bruce's but I'd rather you leave the details out is that fair?" Bruce tried to protest but you waved him off.

"Bruce its fine" you said as Clark nodded looking at Bruce strangely he got the feeling that his reaction wasn't just for you, nevertheless he nodded agreeing to your terms.

"My parents went on a day out, having a romantic trip just the two of them whilst Jack was at school, they were visiting the place's that were special to them where they met, first kiss that sort of thing it was for their anniversary. My dad had booked dinner at the restaurant that they got engaged in as a treat ,mum didn't know that bit he wanted to surprise her....they never made it tho...they.... it was the day of the metropolis disaster needless to say they didn't survive. I was away at college at the time. I had just turned 20, I dropped out that day packed my bags and come back home to Gotham and became Jacks legal guardian and have been looking after him since." you took a deep sigh it was five years but it was still fresh in a sense, luckily you had Jack to focus on and you pulled through it all because of him. You had to be strong for him. You will never forget that day tho, you had phoned over and over desperate to here from them hoping that they hadn't gone, you missed all your classes packing , you just had a gut feeling that you had to go home. When you heard nothing you left and was home in less than a day Jack had stayed with a friend that night, it took Four agonizing days but finally they had been confirmed as some of the casualties you broke down. It was just a devastating case of in the wrong place at the wrong time. With everything that happened in those few days looking back on it was still hard. You looked up again and was startled at the look Clark had on his face. His blue eyes darkened it was like a shadow had fallen over him, he looked absolutely devastated, wracked with guilt for some reason.

"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry... if I'd have known I'd-" as he trailed off you looked a little confused then remeberd he was from metropolis he probably would have been there. You smiled softly at him.

"Hey its fine I'm ok Jacks ok, no ones to blame, we all have to go sometime It was there time. but they were together and that is a small comfort" Bruce watched quietly knowing how Clark had felt about the whole incident.

"You don't blame anyone? not even superman?" you tilted your head contemplating before leaning back against the loveseat you and Bruce occupied finally shaking your head.

"No. no I don't.. he didn't ask them to come here and fuck shit up.. not like he sent out an invite.. hell no one did I mean they threatened but nobody really believed that it would actually happen. Including my parents.. why should I blame him... he stopped them and in that respect I see him as someone who saved Jack I mean Gotham isn't that far and would have been gone next jack along with it." Clark gave a stiff nod then moved along quickly.

"So you took on Jack and helped him into the scholarship program at school." you nodded to him happy that he seems less gloomy tho you suspected it was a facade.

"Since the papers yesterday some people have reported seeing you out and about together at a restaurants? and cafes? and stuff " Bruce nodded

"We wasn't to keen on being public at first wanting to see how we go, the the more we saw of one another the more serious it became, so began venturing out more and more."

"And I assume that you've met the rest of Bruce's children?"

"Yes I have I was worried at first especially about meeting Dick and Jason, I thought they would disprove of me and Bruce's relationship because of our ages but I was proved wrong they are happy as long as their dad is happy and have both welcomed me with open arms." Clark jotted a few notes then came to the final question.

"and finally I have to ask about the incident at the tower, witnesses said there was an altercation?" you lowered your eyes and Bruce rubbed your leg reassuringly as you took a sip from your drink letting the cup warm your hands ans tucked your feet up onto the seat as Bruce slung an arm across your shoulders you snuggled under his arm as you leaned back on him before he began speaking.

"I was partly to blame for that"

you scoffed into your cup at him and he cocked his eyebrow at you Clark watched as the couple had a small stare down and was floored as Bruce gave in first.

"What you want to explain?"he asked

"No you go right ahead and see who he thinks was the cause of that cave man" you said gulping down another mouthful of coffee Bruce sighed

"it was my fault" you smiled giving an exaggerated nod. He rolled his eyes at you gripping your knee as you laughed.

"Once I got into the office I saw that I only had 2 meetings and would be finished before lunch so I invited Y/n out to lunch as she had an early finish and I made reservations. I had forgotten to have a pass ready for her at the lobby .When she arrived a member of my lobby staff failed to find her on the systems, they didn't believe that y/n was there to see me and was less than pleasant... honestly they had been extremely rude to her before calling security to have Y/n removed. Luckily I had called when this was happening and came down to sort out the confusion." Bruce explained Clark nodded.

"What happened to the staff member?"

"They are undergoing retraining for the position followed by a probation period but if all goes well they will remain at the company"

"And those are the photos we saw?" you nodded

"That one was when Bruce asked the guard who had put in the call to have me removed and the other was as we made our way to the elevators." Clark looked as you pointed out each one then smiled cheekily.

"The real question is did you make the reservations?" he asked slyly Bruce grunted at him his eyes getting darker glint. you ran a hand along his tense jaw.

"No the incident to longer to sort out as Bruce dealt with the staff involved" Clark finished writing then looked up.

"Well I think that's all, just some photos? then I will write it and send it to you for the ok before printing and hopefully be out tomorrow."

"tomorrow? that's fast" you comment

"yes well its better to get these stories done faster than normal that way we can avoid.... more fictitious articles being printed." he leaned down pulling a slim camera from his briefcase. directing you until you were sitting with your legs tucked up under your self leaning into Bruce under his arm he leaned over whispering curling his arm his hand dancing on your bicep pulling you until you felt him below his shirt smiling as Clark held up the camera ready to take some shots.

"Don't look so nervous" you pouted at him turning your head only for him to catch you by surprise with a sweet kiss you heard the snap of a camera Bruce pulled back and you giggled barely registering another camera snap before you both face towards Clark hearing one final snap.

It was later that day you and bruce were alone im the manor alfred had gone to pick up the boys, currently you were lounging around in the den watching some random film playing on tv when Bruce's tablet chimed signalling he had received an email from Clark the article was done.

"That was quick how'd he even get back to metropolis so fast?" He shrugged

"Well you'd be surprised how fast journalists can move.. especially this one" you let out a breath creeping up behind leaning over the back of the sofa peaking at the emailed attachments as he opend them, there was two attachments the first was a front page draft with a blown up photo of you're and Bruce's kiss with the headline 'Gothams New Power Couple' and a small a note 'Our exclusive first interview with the new couple' then the second page was one large page dominated by a photo of you and Bruce face on, you smiling Bruce smirking at you curled up against him and another smaller one of you giggling up at Bruce. You peaked over his shoulder staring at the tablet smileing.

"I like that photo, the big one on the second page" you stated he looked up at you before returning his gaze

"Yes its a keeper... I will get us some copies" he then motioned for you to sit. You did scurried around next to him waiting patiently.

"I'll read it to you. Ready?. " you nodded

"It is official Bruce Wayne is off the market ,he has finally been tamed! I was lucky enough to be invited to Wayne manor for an exclusive interview of Gothams next power couple and was pleasantly suprised. Mr Waynes new mystery partner is not what anyone would have expected. And I can reveal the woman as Miss Y/n Cooke A bright and polite young woman who is mature despite her young age due to her raising her younger brother for the past few years after her parents sudden passing. The couple could not seem to keep away from one another during our interview stealing glances at one another laughing and full of banter ,gravitated towards each other in a way I've rearly seen as they both recounted how they met then explained that they have been secretly dating for nearly four months. The couple met at Mr Waynes sons school where Miss Cooke's brother also attends. They were both invited to a parental meeting and sparks few instantly resulting in there first date, and they have been dateing ever since, being spotted out together in various locations across gotham the past few weeks in particular building up for a big reveal,most recently being photographed together in Wayne Enterprises in the city. Miss Cooke explaind that the photos arent all what they seemed,she went on informing me that she had been invited on to a lunch date with Mr Wayne only to be stopped by some members of staff and eventualy escorted out by security causeing Mr Wayne to intervene resulting in the photos that have previously been leaked on social media. After interviewing Mr Wayne on serveral occasions this is the first time I have seen him this passionate about anything, I saw during my interview a genuine romance that I believe is destined to be a happy ever after for the billionaire business mogul." You smiled a bit shocked at the way Clark had managed kept his word by skipping details yet still gave the media all the answers they wanted, he'd kept Jack out of it for the most part and also sidelined the issues with the school. All in all you thought it was a clever article. Bruce smiled at you.

"What do you think?" You asked apprehensively not really sure if it was good enough having not done this before. He nodded his head

"He is very clever,thats why i called him he has a way of not given any real indepth information but making it sound like he has. He has given enough to satisfy the media. He was a bit sappy at the end but its his way of saying he is happy for me. So you want to let him print it?" You thought for a second. It was a big step in the relationship. But then again he was doing this for you, so you wouldnt have to hide or be made to feel the way you was at the tower. This was so you could both have the freedom to be a couple anywhere. You grinned at that.

"Yeah I dont have any problems with it, I dont see how I could get to much backlash from it... do you?" He shook his head at you before quickly emailing Clark back that it was fine and asked for copies of all the photos ,he wouldnt admit it to you but his favourite was the photo of you giggling and it was going in his office at work... and a copy was going to make its way in the batcave somewhere. He snapped the case closed on his tablet and threw it on the other side of him pulling you to sit on his lap.

"So tomorrow is the big day then... I cant wait until everyone knows your mine." He growled out kissing your shoulder watching the tv you grinned sarcastically.

"Isnt that supposed to be my line?" You leaned back with a calculating look you tilted your head to kiss under his jaw before biting down then lowered your head biting and kissing at his neck, he continued to ignore you watching tv so you upped the anti he furrowed his brow lightly slowly realising what you was upto when he felt you tightened your ass muscles hissing when you sucked harshly rocking on his lap clenching and unclenghing on him whimpering gripping his muscular forearms you felt him twitch below you an insistent prod on your bottom as you gyrated on him. He looked down lust written across his face.

"Are you really ready for me?" He grumbled you looked at him innocently slowly moving his hands from your inner thighs to your hips. you smiled up at him innocently licking your bottom lip befor biting it.

"the question is Mr Wayne are you ready for me?" he groaned wide eyed as you pushed down harshly feeling managing to wedge him between your cheeks lightly and continueds moving he cried out balls aching as he strained against you quickly found himself fully erect rubbing up against you, spinning you straddled his lap squeezing his waist with your thighs pulling one of his hands to your mouth nipping at his pointer and middle fingers lathering them with kitten licks before sucking on them sharply scraping your teeth lightly over them as you pulled back before you pushed forward keeping eye contact , his eyes traced over your face watching with baited breath as you took them deep into your mouth managing not to gag as they past the back of your mouth then pulled them free leaving a small peck on the tips of his fingers. he gulped feeling lost as you pulled back vey pleased with youself he tilted his head at you clearing his throat.

"wh-what are you doing sweets?" you stood leaning down pulling him by the collar forward leaning in as if to kiss him changing direction at the last secodn to whisper in his ear.

"Me? Nothing, apparently I'm a pillow princess" you said before dodging his reaching hands just skimming you as you ran out of the room laughing all the way. He gave chase making you as you grabbed the stair rail turning tight flinging yourself up them as he followed closely hearing him curse as he his hand thumped the post hard when he copied you. Squealing you tucked your bottom underneath you as you heard him catching up fast as you both climbed the stairs he captured you halfway up the stairs pushing you into the wall kissing you. Making you shiver at his quick tongue licking into your mouth moaning at the taste of his tongue. he pushed you tightly against the wall by your shoulders towering over you growling bringing his hips to yours holding you still intimately.

"You think its wise to tease me baby? you think you wont pay for that?" his words hung in the air as he dived back in kissing you. You broke away with a laugh

"well I don't think I will pay tonight at that's for sure" the front door opened and closed followed by a loud chorus of protests coming from below the four boys were home and looked disgusted.

"You have all day to fuck and you choose to have sex on the main stairs when we come home what is wrong with you?" Tim started

"To be fair she was never like this before.... your dad has corrupted her." Jack countered more exasperated then shocked by this point . Jason piped up next arms behind his head slowly making his way to the den.

"Cant argue, good sex has been known to lead women astray." Damien grunted

"Its disgusting are you trying to soil every room in the house?" He was unimpressed apparently. You turned to Bruce smirking deciding to 'poke the bear' as it were

"Not trying Damien we are succeeding first the manor then the cars right Bruce" he barked out a laugh at the faces his two youngest pulled as they boys began to bitch making you both laugh at them. Alfred entered the room from the kitchen obviously hearing some of the conversation he smiled slyly.

"Which reminds me Master Wayne I've drained the Jacuzzi and will be refilling tomorrow there wasn't enough chlorine for the job and it will be arriving tomorrow morning" you heard footsteps running out of the den.

"YOU FUCKED IN THE JACUZZI!!" Jason screamed sliding to a stop beside his brothers who were frozen wide eyed

"WHEN? I USED THAT LAST NIGHT" you looked sheepish then shrugged

"Sorry Jason.... but if its any constellation it was in the morning so hopefully the filter system had gathered any .....err excess she we say?" he paled then ran past you climbing the stairs.

"like you said good sex can lead women astray" Bruce said kissing your head making you giggle at him blushing.

"Your sick sick people! I need a shower, unless you fucked there to?" Bruce raised an eyebrow at you before teasing the teen some more enjoying this far to much

"Well yours is fine we haven't got to that part of the house yet." Jason pointed threateningly at you both speechless

"I......You ......IT'S ........NO!" then padded off down the hall. You pushed Bruce back making your way down to bottom of the stairs slinging your arms across their shoulders making your way to the den each taking a seat you sat beside Jack

"Soo we had an interview today and tomorrow there will be an article in the daily planet about how we met and such... you have been mentioned but not your name ok? and it dose mention our situation" Bruce entered afterwards taking a seat handing Jack his tablet with the email open.

"Here read it for yourself.... If anything happens or is said you-" he cast you a hesitant glance before continuing.

"You can come to me I'll have it all sorted out ok? the papers might try to approach you for comments and such but it'd be better if you didn't they will try to find a way to twist anything you say.... we're family now and I will look after you both" Jack looked from the email to you then Bruce shocked. He and Bruce have banter much like Bruce and his sons but he had felt like he was baggage to a certain extent. jack was touched by Bruce's words he let a small smile slip before covering it quickly. Giving him an accusing look.

"Family? you better not have proposed ,you need my approval for that first sunshine."

"Jack! you little shit he was being genuine" you cried diving at him knocking you both the the floor as Tim quickly snatched the tablet as you began wrestling around on the rug.

"Say sorry!"

"Fuck no!!"

you continued as the others laughed at your antics.

"No no....y/n...... the chin not the neck... yes there the soft bit..... that's it!"

"OOWW! WHAT THE FUCK? WHY DOES THAT HURT SO MUCH" Jack cried as you followed Damien's suggestion.

"Damien! stop encouraging her!" Bruce ordered. .

"I'm not even going to ask" said an unamused Jason as he swept into the room stepping over you and Jack who were still rolling around locked in a grand battle hair damp from the shower he'd just had. This new family was a bit mad but it was yours and you wouldn't change a thing.

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