#; living in modesty still feels complicated though

[distopea]

I want to know a bit more about Oliver's daily life! When he's not attending clients, how does he spend his day? What kind of place does he live in? Does he have any other relatives/friends/etc? How often is he performing and dancing? Or any other ideas you have yet to share about him! 👀

@cantuscorvi

His daily life, without thinking about his escort life for Oliver, is quite decent these days, even if he's tight about money. Yet, the main goal remains the same; he has to be active! He moves around a lot. 

Most of the time, he will wake up (not that early) and exercise in his living room, mostly to stretch his muscles and be sure that he doesn't have anything broken (he needs to be thoroughly careful with that anyway). If he has something in the fridge, he will definitely make himself some mocha coffee, with a salty breakfast and fruits. 

When he doesn't have dancing lessons (and then spend perhaps half of his day there), he will go to different stores depending on the mood. He likes to hang out in record stores (he loves vinyl), clothes stores, decorative stores, and then he will spend some time in a cosy café to get his daily dose of sugar; cakes with milkshake, or whatever sweet they have on the menu, and read something or listen to music.

During the late afternoon, Oliver will either spend time with acquaintances he knows from the dancing school (those who are terribly not aware of his other life), or have a walk by himself. He particularly likes to eat something out. He doesn't mind the kind of food, but usually he will prefer sitting down in a park and enjoying large snacks because he's more into junk food (restaurants are often too expensive and he hates not being able to afford it). 

If he still has energy, Oliver will go to bars or clubs and might end up coming home only very late at night (if not in the morning.)  

For his apartment, Oliver has found a place where he feels finally at home and cosy. It's only one bedroom, but it's enough space for him (he doesn't like to invite people there after all). Right away, you enter the open kitchen with the living room (the two most spacious spaces), with a bar to eat and a place to watch movies and read. 

There's a corridor on the left side of the living room, with three rooms. At the end of the corridor, the bedroom can be found, small but enough to have a rack of clothes and a large bed. On the left of the corridor, separate toilets and, on the right, his bathroom (old, but at least with a bathtub!). It's also very important for Oliver to have plants and carpets a bit everywhere. No photos to be found, though. 

[faunandfl0ra]

TIMING: Recent SETTING: a shelter PARTIES: Conor and Xóchitl SUMMARY: Conor and Xó run into each other at a shelter, are semi surprised to see one another, but chat and plan to hang out again. It’s soft. 

“Xó?” He wasn’t supposed to see her for another week. Not that he had the busiest of schedules or that he didn’t like a schedule (he did), but if someone else wanted to socialize with him (which was not that likely, but it still happened), Conor liked having room left for him to breathe. This being said, her company was pleasant enough that he didn’t feel an urge to pretend he didn’t see her when he ran into her outside of their music sessions. 

This being said, he hadn’t expected to see her here. People had been quite generous for Thanksgiving, and he had no doubt they would spare some time or money for Christmas, but people who had been living in a gymnast for over two months now probably would need food between the two holidays. The faun didn’t precisely need to eat, but he liked to garden, to no one’s surprise, and harvest too. With the fruits and vegetables he had picked up in the woods and in his garden, he’d walked into the food bank expecting to say hi to the few familiar faces he had met here, have a small chat, and then get the fuck out. He was on his way out now, and there was another familiar face there. “What are you doing here?” It seemed to clash a bit with her usual surroundings. 

-

“Conor?” If Xóchitl had been the sort to wear glasses, she was positive that this would’ve been one of those moments where she pulled them down in curiosity, dramatically, or something along those lines. If he were just about anyone else, she would’ve made some remark about him following her, but she seemed to remember something about him being uncomfortable with jokes, and so she refrained. The two of them had plans to meet up in a week (or so), though a part of her had wanted to ask for it to be moved up, and so maybe this was the universe granting a wish of hers for once.

(Though saying for once wasn’t entirely fair, she supposed, given that she did have a tendency to get her way, even if there were still some major parts of her wishes left ungranted and unfulfilled).

“People needed help, I have the time and means to help, so I figured I’d help.” Xóchitl looked at Conor. Not precisely up at him, given that they were the same height, but something about him made her feel like she was looking up – which she appreciated immensely, not because she had any qualms with being taller than men she was around, but just because there was something safe about that. “What are you up to here? I’m guessing it’s not for music because I don’t see your magnificent violin with you…”

-

“Oh, I…” He looked down briefly, if only to offer himself some time to hide the shade of pink coloring his cheeks. Compliments shouldn't have been so complicated to accept. One could hope that after 60 years of playing the violin, magnificent was a fitting word to describe it. Conor just wished it was faux modestie that held him back instead of the sort of anxiety that made one wonder if someone else wasn't just being nice. “I had too many vegetables in the garden for me to eat on my own,” clearly. “I’ve been coming here every two to three days,” a pause. “It’s baffling how much my garden's been giving me this year. I didn't expect such results considering…” his voice died out in consideration of the people who were gathered in the gymnasium until they found a home. 

“What about you?” Clearing his throat, Conor looked down at his apron, dusting off dirt with the edge of his hand before figuring he was better off just taking it off until he got back home. It wasn't like he was going to be doing much more work until tomorrow. “Sorry. You’re offering therapy sessions for those who need to talk?” That was what he imagined at least. 

-

Xóchitl thought she spotted a slight reddening of Conor’s cheeks, and there was something incredibly entrancing about that – entrancing and also heart-warming. Not that she got warm about people who weren’t even technically her friends. Because she was just someone who talked to Conor, sometimes. Not even sometimes, so much, given that they’d spoken none too often.

“Well, that’s good. It’ll make sure people don’t get scurvy or whatever it is that you get if you don’t get vegetables in your diet.” Xóchitl shrugged, “though I am a bit sad that you didn’t think to sell any to me. I promise I would’ve given you a good price for it, but giving it away to those who need it more does make some sort of sense, I suppose.” She grinned. “No – I mean, yes, if they want, but that’s not… why I’m here. I’m just here to help out however I can.”

-

“You don’t need to promise that,” his eyes crinkled as he attempted to smile at her but there were, undeniably, traces of despair in them as he looked at the woman. “Besides, I wouldn’t have accepted a good price when they don’t cost me much to grow,” then, Conor liked to base his prices on what was fair in the 60s and might have accidentally gotten his banker pay off his loans for him through fae magic without even knowing it.  He probably wouldn’t have made the same happy mistake now, but it was only through coming to Wicked’s Rest that he began learning more about his kind, and that he was slowly figuring out that he had no need to be so harsh with himself. As for costing the bank money, he didn’t give a fuck about that, obviously. Capitalism was something he wished to see abolished, and who represented that system more than banks?

“However you can? And how is that?” If it sounded like he doubted she had anything else to offer, he certainly didn’t mean it that way, and so, he didn’t attempt to correct himself. This being said, he wasn’t really aware that his tone suggested that. “I don’t mean to pry, I’m sorry. I probably should…” With an awkward smile, he pointed toward the door. “Dinner, and things.” Right. You could hardly call a cup of tea consumed solely for the taste dinner but as this was not a lie, Conor was glad not to suffer from his words, for once.

-

“Fine, then I don’t promise it, but I do mean it.” Xóchitl frowned at his look of sorrow, worried that somehow she’d caused that. Even though she didn’t think she had, and even if she had, she hadn’t meant to, which logically had to count for something, didn’t it? “That’s very fair of you, though I could always do more than just give you money to show my appreciation.” She raised an eyebrow, unsure of if Conor would get any of the underlying implications there, or if they’d go over his head. She found herself hoping that, at the very least, he wasn’t offended by her commentary.

Xóchitl wondered if he’d meant for what he said to come off like it did. Like she didn’t actually have anything of substance to offer. If it had been almost anybody else, she might’ve made some sort of comment about how she was, if nothing else, hot. Given Conor’s dislike of jokes, she refrained. “I can like, spoon out soup, or fold clothes, or make emergency packs, or whatever.” She couldn’t help herself at his next comment. “Dinner, you say? Conor, are you asking me to dinner? Because the answer is, of course, absolutely yes. It is also yes if you need help organizing for dinner for the people here. Just tell me where I should go.”

-

“What ?” Didn't he just say he wouldn't have accepted money for it? Without a doubt, he was not as skilled with words as Regan or Beau or Cass and Teagan, and basically every single fae he had spoken to or met, but… he wasn't that bad, right? “How would you want to pay me if you’re not offering currency? Would you rather trade ?” His confusion could be read all over his face, and he tried to gain himself some composure by running a hand through perpetually messy dirty blond hair. A kind, apologetic smile came along as if to quietly ask for forgiveness and the florist’s shoulders relaxed briefly (because it was likely he'd be stressed again in a second).

Conor wrinkled his nose. “Do they eat soup every day?” He had not had soup since his teenage days, and that was a long while ago. His mother always insisted on finishing his plate and he absolutely detested every spoonful of the liquid he had to swallow down. Chicken broth, carrot soup, tomato soup, you name it. He detested it. “Nevermind that.” He paused. What about dinner? His stress took a U-turn. He couldn't tell her that he was just telling her about him having dinner, could he ? That would be very rude and he’d always been told not to be rude, especially to people who weren't fucking dickheads, and Conor would have never called Xochitl a dickhead. She was lovely, and he appreciated her company very much. It was better than tolerable after all. So no, he couldn't be a prick even if all his cupboards were mostly full of air and partly full of tea leaves in tin boxes, music sheets that he swore were organized, and a collection of seeds that was actually quite well organized, once again in tin boxes that he took the time to label one Sunday afternoon.

“Organizing for dinner ? Oh no, I'm not… I can't cook.” Because he was both his mother and his grandmother’s little boy in an age where that meant that housework was certainly not for him to do. “I… You must be better at dinner than me.” Rubbing at the back of his head, he offered a sheepish smile. “Huh. What is the usual process here ?” 

-

So the comment had gone over his head, and instead of pushing it, Xóchitl shrugged. “Sorry, you’re right, I must’ve misspoken.” She didn’t want to stress him out, at least not so quickly and in such an unfun sort of way. Directly hitting on him was better, because at least she had the chance to get a good blush out of him. This, right now? Felt uncomfortable and maybe almost bordering on cruel. Which was probably one heck of a leap to make, but she figured it was better to go about things with a hint of caution.

“I doubt they eat it every day, but it’s a good warm food that can easily be made in large quantities, so…” Xóchitl fiddled with one of the rings on her fingers, “I was just guessing. But soup is good, right? Not my favorite, but it does the job. Have you ever had Chilaquiles? Those are very, very good, and you should let me show them to you if you’ve never had them.” Conor was nice. Very different from the sort of person she usually spent time with (Emilio, Jade, Leti, and Emilio being a few prime examples of the sort of person she usually spent time with. People who were more comfortable being out there.) Conor was delightfully awkward, in a way that she would’ve called charming if she thought about it for more than a few minutes.

“I’m also not the best cook, but I do like to eat. I can do some cooking, though, you’re right. I mean, I think the usual way things go is probably… just, normal?” God, why was she such a mess of words. “We could both go and check in, see what they need us for? If you’ll let me buy you either a drink or something to show you my appreciation.” Xóchitl grinned. “Is that alright? It won’t be anything you don’t like.”

__

“That’s alright,” he was aware that sometimes things flew right over his head. Maybe this was what happened here. Either way, he was thankful for her not pointing it out if it was the case.

Whatever it was that she was mentioning to him right now, he had never heard of that. He crinkled one eye. If he tried to repeat that word, he'd most likely stumble. “I’ve never heard of that. It’s a sort of soup?” Folding his apron, he held it beneath his crossed arms, close to his chest. With a sheepish smile, he nodded along to her offer. 

“Do you want to check right now? Or did you want us to do that some other time ?” Because they’d been talking about dinner and now she was mentioning drinks and some extra volunteering for the day. In the end, Conor was not sure where they were headed. He was not so fond of the unexpected but Xochitl was one of these people that made him feel at ease and he didn't feel anxious spending more time with her and going off plan. “I think you already have a good picture of what I like or not,” she was a therapist which had Conor believe that she was some kind of empathic mind reader, succeeding to pinpoint one’s needs without difficulty.

__

“Well, you are very kind to say that,” and even if she was being a little bit extra, Xóchitl did, in fact, genuinely mean it. Conor deserved that, she’d decided at some point, even though the two of them still barely knew each other, technically speaking.

She shook her head. “No, not a soup. It’s sort of… fried corn tortillas. Very good, and look, proof that I’m not only invested in eating soup.” Xóchitl smiled. “I think I can semi-handle making them, so if you ever want to try them out, you know who to ask.” She watched him, his gentle smile, the way that despite being rather incredibly muscular (not that she was especially looking), he seemed incredibly soft, gentle, and good. Far too good for her – but she selfishly wanted his friendship regardless.

“Some other time.” Xóchitl ran her tongue across the roof of her mouth, “for the dinner and drinks. I think we should go and actually help people now, given that that’s the far more immediate need.” Besides, plans to see him again certainly weren’t bad – not one bit at all. Especially since she felt a certain amount of pride in getting him to agree to hang out in a non-music-playing setting.

__

“That does sound better than soup,” Conor agreed with a timid smile. “I don’t have the largest appetite so do keep that in mind whenever you want to invite me over,” that was an understatement. He figured he could have had a meal right now. These people looked like they could use a good dose of excitement or joy, but the faun still wasn’t sure on his to make his feeding process stop without going into a state of panic, and so he typically targeted unpleasant folks or the elderly. It seemed like the most humane, easiest way to feed himself, even if he couldn’t shake off the fact that it was murder and it terrified him.  “I agree. I didn’t really plan to go out elsewhere tonight, so that’s probably best if I stick to my schedule,” even if again, Xotchil didn’t make him feel uncomfortable. He looked forward to meeting up with her, though he already wondered what they would talk about. Usually, it was about the music piece they were working on, or concerts they were looking forward to. Besides, he couldn’t recall the last time he had an actual dinner with someone. It would be fine though, right?

[peakyblindersxx]

whiskey business - john x reader (part 3 of ?)

gif by @michaelgreys but i cropped it cause god daMn 👀

read part one and two! | my masterlist

a/n: this one goes out to all my john bitches!! i know it's hard out here, we get no new content but this part is steamy as hell. its not over yet, though! i'm a sucker for happy endings, ok? i hope you all like it, i'm still working on requests as i go :) much love to @stxdyblr-2k for ghostwriting on this series, she has the most amazing ideas in the world 🖤

love, abi xxx

tagging: @datewithgianni

prompt: john's been ignoring you and you want to know why.

warnings: fluff, angst, nsfw!! smut, cocky john, just straight up porn at the end but can you blame me

John hadn't spoken a word in your direction for a week. Despite constantly seeing you glued to Ada's hip, he’d barely acknowledged you since the wedding. He didn’t even bother looking up. Instead his jaw tensed, taking longer inhales of smoke, constantly examining the pocket watch dangling from his right hip. You were the last person John wanted to see right now. He couldn’t get you out of his head, the flush of your cheeks as you had moaned for him imprinted in his memory. You were fucking picturesque writhing around in his lap, a mess for him, and only him. He’d never felt like this; never wanted someone so badly it hurt. Usually, he drowned what little emotions he had in the nearest bottle of whiskey. You, however, were igniting something inside him he’d never felt. Lust, yes, but it was more. A yearning, a need, to see you smile at his crap jokes for the rest of his fucking life. God, you were getting to him.

His coldness and distance towards you hadn't gone unnoticed. To John’s embarrassment, his brothers regularly referred to it as "a little tiff", usually when you were within earshot, as they loved embarrassing his brother. They were blissfully unaware of the full story, assuming his cockiness had put you off him. He sometimes wondered the same; even though you remained polite by greeting him despite the minimal nod he responded with, you seemed ashamed. John only hoped it wasn't because you were ashamed of him. The truth was, he couldn't get the intensity between the two of you off his mind. Whenever he so much as caught a glimpse of you, he remembered how pretty you looked begging for him, then the embarrassment of having to reject you out of family loyalty. You admitting you wanted to have sex with him, him getting fucked off at you because you were off your face, complicating everything. Yet, every night, he held your words close to him, trying to decipher them.

He knew his brothers wouldn't get it. They wouldn't understand how tragic it was; they'd think it was funny that Ada's best friend wanted to fuck him. Either way, John would always rather put himself in the firing line of his brother's jokes than risk your reputation being blemished. He just couldn't look at you without a wave of guilt and sexual attraction flowing through his veins, causing his jaw to clench and his shoulders to stiffen, his suit jacket expertly covering strain on the crotch of his trousers.

A full week had passed since the wedding, of a man Tommy had recruited in an assassination effort. It was embarrassing how his family used money to attempt to push the trauma they created under the carpet. He knew he didn't have room to talk, but fuckin’ hell, a wedding? Maybe Tommy should've just not hired him to blow the brains out of his own father. Well, it was one way to get rid of the police commissioner who got too nosey, John guessed.

He had hoped that you were a passing phase of infatuation. He’d had many before; he’d been notorious around Birmingham for his conquests. Sure, it was possible he had just gotten overly excited and intoxicated around a beautiful girl. Yet, in the quiet moments of his life, in between his kids and business, his mind was only on you. You, straddling him in that booth, the way you grinned at him as he approached you at the wedding party. Sometimes when he was driving home, his mind would drift off thinking of the feeling of your figure pressed against him, the feel of your lips, your laugh, the sound of your heaving breaths against his ear. You haunted him the most at night, visions of you with his name on your lips in his silk sheets. You were his forbidden fruit, dangling barely out of reach.

***

John was at his desk, paperwork long abandoned in favour of whiskey and a cigar, lost in his own thoughts. The loud tapping of rain and the wind of the storm outside shook the windows, yet John felt somewhat at peace; a temporary peace, but he could unwind. Just his desk, the moonlight, the gas lamp illuminating his empty glass and the heavy English rain for company. He found far more joy in the simplicity of life than his brothers, who reeked of new money. He liked his things the way they were, it all worked, but he had to admit he was a sucker for a good suit. The kids were long in bed, the nanny to comfort their nightmares. It made him feel like a shit father, and he didn't want to be like his useless dad. He had started resenting the life Thomas was forcing him to live; the booze, the partying, the Tokyo, the fighting. It was wearing on him. He needed a break from everyone in this town, he reckoned.

However, a certain unexpected guest was always welcome to him. You had just drifted across his mind when a firm knock at the door caught his attention. He straightened his tie, leaving his legs outstretched and crossed on the dark oak desk, calling for the visitor to enter.

There you were. Dripping from head to toe, but still as beautiful as ever to him, despite your damp hair and slightly smudged makeup. You had caught him off guard, and in his surprise, he couldn't suppress the cheeky grin which spread across his face.

"Got caught in the storm, eh? I'll put the fire on and pour you a drink yeah? Warm you up." He slurred slightly, springing into action, lighting the fire and going to fill two glasses with whiskey, which you politely refused.

"I'm not drinking tonight, Mr. Shelby."

He decides he won't either. He tried to ignore your piercing gaze, motioning you to sit across his desk from him, reaching to put the whiskey in his drawer. "That's not like you. Where you headed, love? That lecture with Ada?"

"I came to see you."

He noted your firm tone, the flirty smile, the coy eye contact.

"What's the occasion?"

"You've been avoiding me." You told him bluntly, his cheeks reddening, eye contact breaking momentarily.

"Yeah, I know." He took a draw from his cigar, rolling the smoke from between his lips on the exhale. "M’sorry."

You watched him for a moment and he met your eyes, suddenly softened from his usual icey blue inquisitive stare. To shame, he looked so vulnerable right now. You could feel yourself falling for him again. This is what you hung around for, the fleeting glimpses of the authentic John Shelby. The lad you'd first giggled about in the girl's bathroom at lunch, barely knowing what sex was. Barely understanding power and politics. Unaware of who you'd both end up as.

"You're fucking soaked to the bone. Come on, I'll put your clothes to dry by the fire. And don't give me that look, I'll give you my coat to save your modesty, lass." He teased. You ignored the way his muscles flexed as he reached for his woolen jacket, some outrageously expensive tailored affair from some London boutique, his large rough hands brushing your fingers. "I'll turn around."

You grasped the coat, heading to the fireplace and warming up for a moment, checking that you were far from his line of sight. This was a dangerous game for you both. You wished he'd grab you, take you on his desk and finish what he started, but the way he absentmindedly drummed his fingers on the desk as he waited indicated that he was restraining himself.

You'd rid yourself of your thin jacket, bought from the market stall last week, effortlessly trendy but an imitation of the pricey stuff Ada and the blinder wives and girlfriends you knew. You were jealous of their fur coats, they were always warm and glamorous looking even on the coldest winter night in Birmingham.

You glanced across the room to John. He was staring intently at the wall lost in thought, teeth gritted.

"John? Could you unzip me?" You asked, purposefully making your voice sound as neutral as possible, looking at him over your shoulder.

He paused, bringing his fingers to rub circles against his jaw. You caught a glimpse of white teeth and dimples as he glanced at you out the corner of his eye and you can't help but match his coy grin. He pushed himself off the desk and quickly closed the small distance towards you, his hand finding first your shoulder then the zip at the nape of your neck, your breath hitching as he pulled the zip to your waist. You could feel his eyes tracing the curvature of your spine and hips. You both hesitated for a moment, before John’s warm fingertips grazed your waist, lips pressing into your hair affectionately. His mouth found his way to your ear, cheekbone, jaw and then neck, encouraged by the way your left hand cradled his head as you pressed your body back into his and how your eyes drifted shut at his touch.

"Sweetheart, why did you come here?" He muttered into your ear, his words and casual affection causing your core to swell in response.

"Couldn't stop thinking about you. I've barely slept in a week, feel terrible. Then you've been ignoring me-"

"It isn't personal, Y/N. You know this isn’t how I want it to be." His hands found their way to your waist, gripping lightly at your hip bones, sending a shiver down your back.

"Well this is how it is, John. It's never going to be any different. So, what are you going to do about it?"

"What are you fucking on about, love?"

"I reckon that just once can't hurt, nobody would know but us. Then we can both move on with our lives..."

John hesitated, "What about Ada?" His head rested on your shoulder, the scent of your sweet perfume causing him to want you even more. Jesus, he was too far gone.

"We were so close the first night I got here and we didn't. No one caught on then, why would it be different now?"

He wanted to trust you so badly, it ached inside of him. He wanted to feel you around him, make you cum for him again and again, for you to be breathless and shaking under him. He wanted to give you everything he could, even if just once. But he couldn't.

"She's my sister. Family is everything; if I don't have them, I’ve got nothin’." He stated firmly, yet his palms lingered on your hips, the liquor destroying his perception of the distinction between friendly touching and actions that made you swallow deeply and pray for relief.

"You have me for tonight." You pulled away from him, ignoring the groan that escaped from his lips at the loss of contact. You locked your eyes with his blue ones and pushed the straps of your dress from your shoulders, allowing the damp material to pool around your feet, standing in front of the man you'd wanted for years. It was now or never.

He stayed silent, watching you, eyes not leaving yours, challenging you for a brief moment before his eyes flickered over your figure.

"Is it such a crime to want to fuck you?" You asked, the silk of your skimpy underwear forcing John to wipe the corner of his mouth absentmindedly as he drank you in, mumbling profanities under his breath. Yet, despite the glances and his sudden frustration, you could tell you had him. His eyes were feral and hungry, daring you to keep pushing him. His shoulders were squared, he was ready for action. The crackling firelight illuminated you beautifully; you were irresistible to him.

"It's not a crime. Where'd you get this backbone from?" He asked, reaching for you but you stepped away, teasing him.

"University up north does sommet to a woman."

"You can fuck off or fuck me with that attitude."

"The latter if you behave yourself, Mr Shelby."

He smirked at you, holding his hands up in mock surrender, before wrapping his coat around your shoulders, pulling you towards him by the back of the collar. "You've got a mouth on you, love. You gonna put it to good use?"

"I was told months ago that you'd sort me out, John-" Your speech was interrupted by a small squealing giggle as he tugged at your hair lightly for mocking his voice, his eyes bright and crinkled at the edges due to his grin. "I'm disappointed with these delays, especially from the Shelby Company."

"Well, as the boss, I'll sort it for you, personally and immediately. Let me make it up to you, lass," John crooned, his lips meeting yours once again, fingers pushing your thighs apart, still clad in your black stockings and garter belt. "This is where we got up to last time, yes?"

"Yes Mr. Shelby, I believe so."

He pressed his lips and teeth against where your jaw met your neck, tracing his index and middle fingers over the silk of your underwear which covered your slit. You couldn’t help but lean into him, a slight hiss escaping your teeth.

"You like that, huh? You're fuckin’ soaked for me already, love," John muttered against your neck, lifting your left leg to hook around his waist, easily lifting you onto his desk, scattering loose papers and heavy accounting books onto the floor in his urgency to feel your bare skin on his. "They teach you how to push a bloke over the edge at that fancy university?"

"No, I figured that out on my own actually."

"Always knew you were bright," He smirked, quickly ridding you of your flimsy panties, the pads of his fingertips hot against your thighs. "Always going for the ones smarter than me, Tommy reckons it's not difficult."

"Your brother's chatting shit, he's not the one ‘bout to fuck me on his desk, yeah?" You shot back, opening your thighs to encourage him, your cunt exposed, cutting off John’s laugh. He couldn’t help but stare, eyes glued to your dripping cunt. "You're my favourite brother, always have been. If you tell Finn, I'll kill you," You teased.

"Come off it," John grunted in reply, unable to restrain pressing kisses to your inner thighs, your head tilting back, fingers desperately clutching at his hair. “Need t’get a proper taste of you, yeah? Look so fuckin’ sweet for me.” His mouth reached your core, slowly dipping his tongue into you, causing your mouth to fall open in ecstasy. God, his lips were even softer than they looked. His movements switched from light and teasing to purposeful and focused, his fingers curled and pumping inside you, tongue and thumb attacking your clit. He'd gotten on his knees, your legs wrapped around his neck as he groaned into your cunt, causing you to buck your hips wildly at the sensation, moans falling out of your mouth.

“Fuckin’ christ, John,” You swore, feeling yourself pulsate and twitch around his nimble fingers, crying out into the empty office building. You were getting so close, your hips jerking independently, chest heaving as you gasped for air. You were quickly getting overstimulated, you were so close. Before you could finish, John raised his head back to yours, letting you taste yourself on his mouth, his hands moving from your cunt to your tits, finger tips tracing the outline of your nipples through your silk bra.

"If we get to do this once, I want to feel you finish on my cock, doll," John grunted in a hushed tone, pointedly moving his lips to your collarbone when you opened your mouth to argue back to him.

"Then I get to ride you." Your statement took him by surprise; most women he'd slept with seemed fairly passive in bed. Sure they enjoyed themselves, but they never took control. He could feel himself swell in response to your words. He'd never been put in this position; he was a stranger to it, but the idea was thrilling and wickedly seductive. Especially from someone who was the epitome of "girl-next-door" as they were growing up.

"Polly reckoned you'd be trouble since Ada told us you'd returned. Don't mind getting into trouble with you, though," He teased, his plump mouth dipping to your cleavage, unclasping your bra, tongue circling your hardening nipples.

"John, fuckin’ christ, need you to finish me off, yeah?" You begged, voice shaking, much to his amusement, his fingers re-entering you roughly. John pressed open-mouthed kisses to your neck, soothing your body from the sharp sensation, the slight pain exacerbating the pleasure arising from his mouth and fingers.

"I've barely started with you, and already you're begging for me to fuck you." He muttered into your skin, as he watched you writhe and lift your hips, reacting beautifully to the feelings he was reawakening within you.

"John, m��not fucking about, yeah? I need you," You whined, hand resting on his inner thigh, fingers grazing the fastenings across his groin, gazing up at him from your seat on his desk. John hated waiting for relief, he had very little patience, and almost immediately he gave in and collapsed into his large armchair, pulling you on top of him, letting you pin his wrists to the chair and grind against him as your mouth found his, then his neck, removing his waistcoat, shirt and tie, revealing his muscular chest. The bruising kisses you pressed to his skin left him breathless and needing more, helping you unbuckle his belt and push his suit trousers down his legs. You couldn’t help but take him into your hand, moving it up and down his sensitive shaft.

“Christ, you’re too fuckin’ good at this,” John groaned as you spit on your palm to better move your hand up and down his cock, teasing the sensitive tip with your fingers and tongue. He couldn’t help but watch you, keeping eye contact as you toyed with him, blue eyes heavy with pleasure and lust for more.

You angled your hips above him and he adjusted himself, using his hand to better push himself inside you. You yelped lightly as you adjusted to his girth, his mouth distracting you by pressing kisses on your shoulder and tangling his hands through your hair, trying to control his breaths as you adjusted to him, soft moans falling from your mouth, your tight cunt gripping his cock.

“S’fuckin’ perfect, like your pussy was made for me,” he groaned, breath growing heavier with the sensation of you grinding against him. Pushing his hips up into you, he couldn’t help but grab at your hip bones, grip burning into your skin, bouncing you on his cock, mouth slightly slack, groaning as he grasped at your flesh. You’d imagined hundreds of times how fucking irresistible John would look underneath you, but it was nothing compared to the real thing.

The thrill of having John Shelby with his trousers down in his office, quickly dissolving into a moaning and grunting mess with every rotation or twist of your hips, in the midst of a stormy night while the thunder echoed around the empty streets below was almost too much to take. You should be home right now, curled up in that empty unheated flat, behaving yourself. Even on a date or fucking someone else. But instead you'd gone to him and now you were riding him. You wanted the moment to last forever, right now everything felt so right, you knew when it was over the guilt would hit. But you couldn't avoid it, you could feel your legs start to shake.

“Look so god damn pretty ridin’ me, love. Makin’ me wanna cum inside you.” John growled, panting, struggling to keep pace as you moaned on top of him. Your fingers found his jawline and guided him to look up at you, craving to see how his face looked when he finally came undone. He reached between your legs, torturing your clit with his fingers while he slammed into you a few extra times, using up the rest of his energy. The extra stimulation pushed you over the edge, crying out John’s name as you felt yourself release. Watching you whine his name was the last straw for him, spilling into you as your dripping cunt squeezed him, reveling in the image of you a mess for him.

***

You finally came back to your senses, catching your breath, John clutching you to his chest protectively for a minute or two, enjoying the tranquility and post-sex clarity. He checked his clock, sighing and lifting you from his lap to his desk, running a towel under the sink in the corner of his room and passing it to you to clean up between your legs with.

"Charming," You smirked, tired but satisfied. "No wonder the ladies always come back for more."

"Not you though, aye? One night only exclusive, this." He matched your playful tone, but his eyes were dull with exhaustion and he looked almost upset. He was probably just knackered after working all day and then going overtime just to please you.

"Make yourself useful and grab my clothes for me John-lad." You teased, thankfully changing the subject. He rolled his eyes in the waning firelight, locating the clothes the two of you had left scattered around the room. You quickly dressed, not caring how he watched you silently, as though trying to memorize the image of you. Your clothes were far drier than earlier, the last remaining remnants of damp clutching to the fibers and freezing you all over again. Yet before you could even comment, John's wool coat was wrapped back around your shoulders.

"Because you're cold, not because you look fuckable in it." He said pointedly, smirking slightly, the edges seeming artificial.

"Remind me not to fall madly in love with you. Won't be able to help myself if you keep talking like that, Mr. Shelby." You retorted sarcastically with a grin, earning a gentle dig to the ribs.

"It's Mr. Shelby if you're trying to fuck me. John is between friends and family, right?"

"Someone better inform Mr. Solomons of that distinction, then," You paused, "Mr. Shelby."

"Don't be a fucking cocktease." He scolded with a small grin, grabbing his car keys and hat from the door. "You want a lift then? Don't dick about being polite, Y/N, it's fucking midnight, just accept it."

"Since you asked so nicely."

"You know you've got worse since you've been at uni? Too fast for us lot now." He teased, half serious, as he led you to his car. He couldn't believe the beautiful woman in his passenger seat was the girl with pigtails who'd chase Ada around the canal with their girl gang for hours, the pretty teen who read for hours in his sister's bedroom, comparing notes together. No one was surprised you got a scholarship to university, despite your gender and class. You'd been incredibly lucky. Yet, you'd seen the world and had come back to Birmingham and picked him.

Shame you could only pick him once.

[docockbrainrot]

i think i want you (to leave)

Summary: We’re all running from something. Sometimes, metaphorically. Sometimes, literally. Literally running, from the very strangely hypnotizing supervillain that seems hellbent on ruining every bit of your life he can get all eight of his limbs on.

Pairing: Doc Ock X Reader/ Otto Octavius X Reader

Content: Slow Burn, NSFW eventually, 18+

AO3 link here.

Previous Chapter

Chapter 5

anathema// former vandal

The next several days are an uneventful blur. You barely leave your apartment, except for brief dog walks and grabbing food from the bodega across the street.

It’s 9 pm on Saturday and you’re fresh out of the shower, tucked away in a very fuzzy robe, lounging on the couch and watching YouTube on your television. You almost miss the subtle taptaptaptap sound coming from your window, you're so engrossed in the cooking show you’ve been binging. Gotta fill the void somehow, right?

You can’t see anything outside from where you’re sitting. The lights are on and make it impossible to peer through the reflections on the glass. Maybe it’s a bird. Or a branch is caught on the fire escape. Either way, you certainly can’t be assed to check it out and you take another sip of your chamomile tea- you’ve been trying everything under the sun, just about short of literally snorting lines of melatonin, to try to sleep better at night. Nothing’s been working. But you have been making a very valiant effort.

A few moments go by and you forget all about the window disturbance until,

TAPTAPTAPTAPTAPTAPTAPTAPTAP.

It’s jarring. It’s loud. Above all else, it’s annoying. Chekov spares you a look, like you’re the one making a racket. Effectively exasperated, you make an effort to set, not slam, down your mug, feeling decidedly not Calm and Relaxed as the tea promised. Suppose it’s not miracle shit though, is it? You would not be a good candidate for a horror movie because you fearlessly storm over to the window and throw it open (it wasn’t locked in the first place; you’re quite terrible at remembering to). You stick your head out and glower at whatever irritating mischief is happening out here, ready to rip the fire escape off the side of the brick building.

You’re greeted by something cold and hard (and indubiously metal, judging by how it felt against your sternum) shoving you back into your apartment, sending you sprawling unceremoniously to the hardwood floor. A string of profanities ready to leave your tongue, you sit up and adjust your robe in an attempt to preserve a modicum of your modesty. The rant dies in your throat as red eyed claws grip the threshold of your pre-war window and it’s almost comical the way He maneuvers himself in, far too large to be making these sorts of entrances. Standing up to his full height before you while you’re still sitting dumbfounded on the floor reminds you of just how impressively built he is. You manage to pick your jaw up, but your ass remains firmly planted on the wood.

“Uh… you could have just used the buzzer, dude. I have a front door, you know,” you sputter out, brain blitzing in pretty much every way possible. Your thoughts are racing and eventually they settle on the most important thing you can think to ask in that moment: “... Why aren’t you wearing a shirt.” You can't help the way your eyes are drawn to his broad chest, gaze lingering on the vast scarring that spills out from the metal contraption clamped around his midsection.

Otto very graciously closes the window behind himself. Or at least his little robot accomplices do it for him. You still aren’t sure what’s going on with that- the whole AI thing. Not even a blip on your radar of concerns at this point. “Didn’t want anyone to see me come in. Your building has a camera on the front, facing the street.”

“That’s why you’re shirtless?” You ask dumbly. Interesting method of camouflage. “What? No- what? It doesn’t matter- listen to me. I need you to do something for me. A small favor.”

He doesn’t seem to notice the compromised position he put you in. Typical. Gathering up your broken pride, you get up and tighten the tie of your robe a bit. It isn’t until then that he has the decency to look a smidge embarrassed and you hope you didn't just give him a free show on your way to getting to your feet. “You literally just broke into my apartment and now you’re asking for a favor? We barely know each other!”

“Less complicated when there's nothing personal involved yet, plus- you let me in,” he corrects you. You wish he would stop doing that. You wish he would stop meeting with you like this, under weird and mysterious circumstances. Even though it's only been like twice. You're already over it.

“You threw me across the room!”

“Touche.”

Otto does not apologize and you did not sincerely expect him to. The look on his face reads more like the cat that got the canary than regretful. You feel as though you’ve come to recognize that expression on his face and you also feel as though you don’t much like the fact that you’ve enough encounters with this man that you can recognize a damn thing about him. “What… could you possibly need me to do for you? I am not robbing a bank.” You just want to get that out into the open as soon as possible.

“I don’t need your help robbing a bank,” he snorts as if the idea is preposterous and you take a moment to feel insulted. Wow. Okay. You could totally rob a bank if you wanted to. Deciding to not comment on your wounded ego, you let him get to the point. Otto pulls something out of his inner coat pocket. It's some kind of rolled up paper and you think at first maybe it's a newspaper or magazine. He unfurls it onto the coffee table and holds it open with two metal claws on either side so it doesn't ravel itself back up.

You realize it's a blueprint. "This is… Oscorp," you point out stupidly, brow furrowing in confusion. There's levels to what's happening here. Layers upon layers, melding together with rot and decay and you can all but smell it. But there's something missing, something that would tie all of the wackjob shit that's been happening to you and around you together. It feels like when you have a very particular thought and then walking into another room makes it dissolve from your head. You're trying to grasp for it, to fit the puzzle pieces together, but it's just out of reach.

"Yes. It is. I have a small task I need you to do," Otto starts off, metal phalanges pushing his glasses up onto the top of his head as he looks over at you. For the first time, you can see his eyes in the light. The warm amber feels like a mockery- you have seen his cruelty in action.

"Where did you get this?"

"Does it matter?" Of course he'd say that.

Your fingertips brush against the metaphorical wayward chain link. It's right there. You just have to grab it and pull it back to you, like the anchor of a ship before it can set sail.

He's talking. You aren't listening. He's tracing a finger over the schematics. You don't see it. Realization washes over you in a heart-dropping tsunami. The voicemail you got from Oscorp plays like a broken record in your mind. 'Hello, Y/N. We're calling in regards to your employment status here at Oscorp. Unfortunately, due to a breach of security, we are having to make staffing cuts and are going to have to let you go. We appreciate your time and effort and wish you the best of luck in your next endeavor.' It didn't make sense at the time. A lot of things didn't. You replay the scene of poor David, desperately pleading for his life at the hands of the man hunched over here, just in your living room. You mentally re-run it over and over like bad 80s sitcoms on late night television.

"Lab Coat Guy…"

You don't realize you whispered it out loud until Otto goes silent.

"What?"

You slowly look at him and take a single step backwards, shaking your head. The company embroidered on David's lab coat hadn't been clear to you in the moment- but it's crystal in hindsight. Oscorp. "You got me fired." Your tone is flat, until anger flashes through you, like a streak of lightning through a dark, moonless sky, illuminating all of things that didn’t make sense before.

"It doesn't matter. What I need you to do-" He's so nonchalant, so blasé that it only stokes the embers of frustration until there's a roaring blaze burning beneath your skin. It's all about him, what he needs, what he wants. He has the nerve, the audacity, to keep traipsing into your life, kicking you while you're down and then ask for favors? You want to say all of that to him but unfortunately for you, you're an angry crier. Your outburst of bravery at him the last time you saw each other had surprised even you- but now there's so much more emotion roiling around inside you.

"No. No, no. Fuck you. You got me fired! I can't- I can't not have a job, I have to pay rent! You could get me arrested for just talking to you!" Oscorp had you canned to tie up any potential loose ends before anymore Davids could slip through the cracks. You think about how scared the poor dude must have been, threatened into stealing blueprints from the biggest corporation in the city, for one of the most infamous criminals. You don't know how they found out you were even remotely involved and you don't want to know.

Tears are streaming down your cheeks and once the floodgates have opened you're very familiar with how long it's going to take to close them again. After all you've been bottling this up since you found out, too disappointed to even tell any of your friends or family.

Otto appears taken aback, to say the least. He even looks like he's at a loss for words; that's a first. You know he could kill you where you stand in the blink of an eye, but in that moment you don’t even care. You’ve been trying so hard for so long to get on your feet, to do things for yourself and get away from the past. You moved across the country, you left everything behind, you got a damn dog. It seems like every time you manage to take a step forward in life, you’re knocked flat on your ass, apparently literally sometimes. It isn’t fair. Things don’t come easily to you, you’ve always had to work for them. You aren’t wealthy, you aren’t a supergenius, you’re just… you. The job at Oscorp was good money and you really felt like you were getting your shit together for a while.

“They’re not who you think they are,” he says finally, so calmly, with such carefulness about his words, that you sniffle pathetically and look up at him. He doesn’t look nearly as pleased with himself as you thought he might. And here you’ve been, under the impression that he gets off on hurting people. “Oscorp. I’m not… I’m not just doing this for me. You have to understand that.”

The schematics are furled up and tucked away. You make the mistake of meeting his eyes. Maybe it’s just the tears that blur your vision, but you swear you see a softness there before they’re hidden away again by his glasses.

He lingers at the window.

“I hope you’ll reconsider.” And then he was making his exit, even taking care to gently close the window on the way out. But he raps on the glass with his knuckles from where he stands on the fire escape and you know the look of confusion on your tear-streaked face speaks for itself. Otto points to the latches on the window. ‘Lock it.’ He mouths before he’s gone, presumably to wreak havoc and harass other unsuspecting young women that don’t want anything to do with him.

You thought everything had come together- but the more sense you make of it, the less you seem sure of the bigger picture. You aren't even sure exactly what he wanted you to do.

You’re left with an endless bounty of questions, and not enough answers to satisfy any of them.

[octowussabi]

Splatoon 2 Muse Pages

Once again, before I completely gut the profiles to make way for Splat 3 content, here’s an archive for the old stuff:

Wussabi “Sabi / Spice Meister" Tak'ko

xx [Link to full Reference Picture] xx

33 years old / 6'8" / Nervously disposed

General:

Going by the names Sabi and Wuss, this timid recluse has risen the Inkopolis charts under the pseudonym Spice Meister. Nobody who listens to the Meister’s music knows what he really looks like, but this attributes to its success.

In truth, Sabi is a ‘failed’ outcome of an attempt to clone a perfect successor to Emperor Octavio. It was a strict and complicated procedure, designed to make the subjects think they really were the original, and involved disposing of any clones that didn’t meet standard (so nearly all of them). Ten years ago, Sabi was rescued from his termination by Pansy. He feels indebted to her family for helping him integrate into life on the surface.

That said, while he lives above the underground, his home isn’t quite ‘on the surface’, and is more of a roomy bunker. Wuss spends most of his time here making music, but has to leave occasionally for supplies (and if he’s feeling brave, turf war).

Recently he’s been making trips underground to speak with the new emperor, as his royal roots are catching up to him. Even if it’s not his job, Sabi can’t help feeling responsible for the wellbeing of the Octarian people, so he’s trying to help clean up the mess his father left behind.

While he mostly focuses on the creation of music itself, Wussabi has an excellent singing voice. … And stage fright.

Appearance:

Sabi (naturally) bears a striking resemblance to Octavio, which is the main reason he avoids showing his face in public. Nobody’s supposed to know his ‘true’ identity – though his social awkwardness doesn’t help much either.

Sabi has a stoop, making him seem shorter than he actually is, though he’s still notably tall.

Because of the tell-tale scar that was cut onto his left arm, Wuss uses bandages to cover both. He seems to think having two makes it less conspicuous, though since he’s self-conscious anyway, he often wears long sleeves (and long trousers). When out in public, he covers his face with a bandanna to avoid potential ‘recognition’.

His wardrobe prioritizes comfort and modesty over style, though he owns some tidy collared shirts for more formal and/or brave occasions.

Relationships:

Wussabi doesn’t get out often and has difficulty socialising, but he doesn’t mind solitude all that much.

Pansy is Sabi’s best friend – it tends to happen, with people who saved your life – and many of his other friends are extensions of her own. He knows her ex-coworker Charles, her niece Ribbon, Brine, and a few others. Ever-so-slowly he’s beginning to branch out and forge his own friendships, but with some difficulty.

Meeting the emperor wasn’t quite as big of a shock to Sabi as it was for Tay, but his immediate reaction was concern. He’d already gone through the seven stages of grief accepting he was a clone, and so is keeping a close eye on Tay as he comes to terms with the truth. As the older brother, Sabi feels like he needs to act the part.

—

Octavio “Tay / DJ Takowasa” Tak'ko

xx [Link to Full Reference Picture] xx

24 years old / 5'6" / Charismatic, witty, extremely immodest

General:

It’s Octavio! Or … well, he thought he was.

Tay is a clone of the original Octavio, and he’s the current emperor of the entire underground. He’s the one that stole the Great Zapfish a second time, though this went about as well as the first attempt.

For two years, Tay thought he was his predecessor, having memories implanted during his time in the cloning facility. He was told by his council that any physical changes and inability to remember several major lifetime events were due to recovering from a terrible, life-threatening illness. These anomalies are ultimately what led to the truth: He wasn’t who he thought.

This discovery has been quite a blow to his confidence and self-worth, so while Tay is usually quite spirited, sarcastic and mischievous, he’s presently a bit more reserved and lethargic. He’s started to recover, though.

As an additional note, his onstage persona is considerably more informal than how he presents himself in person.

Appearance:

Octavio Jr. looks much younger (and shorter) than the general public would expect, as they’re currently unaware that their emperor has been replaced. While he isn’t frequently permitted outside the palace, his new look has sparked endless gossip … though they talk more of plastic surgery than genetic experiments.

Tay’s octopus form, however, is a near-perfect copy of his father’s, the only difference being their size. This similarity is what netted him permission from the council to perform his collaborative concert with Callie Cuttlefish, as fewer Octarians would realise something had changed. If he were in Octoling form, for example, somebody might notice his tail! That was something the old emperor never had, and until recently it was in Octavio’s best interest to keep it covered.  

When not wearing his onstage getup, Tay can be found lounging around in nightgowns, promotional t-shirts, yukata and kimono, which happens to be the majority of the time. These might not always be befitting of his status, but since he doesn’t often get visitors, this has never been an issue. Some time ago he purchased Inkopolis gear as a ‘disguise’, and none of his staff seem to mind him wearing that either.

Like Sabi’s, the scar on his left arm was created in a controlled environment.

Relationships:

Tay doesn’t have a lot of friends, and so is desperate for attention (though he’s too proud to admit this). The people he thought of as friends were friends of his father’s, and they’d been lying to him the whole time.

One of the few people Tay confides in is the universe-hopping Lulu. As a granddaughter of another world’s Octavio, he saw her as his only family until Sabi came into the picture. Despite this, he’s not sure if he should consider alternate-Octavios ‘relatives’, though having them around might help normalise the idea of being a ‘copy’. The ones he’s met seem okay.

Sabi and Tay hardly know eachother, but since they’re both clones of the same person created in the same facility, they had a near-immediate sense of kinship. It was Tay’s idea to refer to Sabi as his brother, and though the two have opposing personalities, a familial bond has begun to develop.

While Tay wouldn’t say Callie was ‘squidnapped’ – she was summoned to the palace and came of her own volition – he’s aware using hypnoshades to partly erase her memory was foul play, and he did apologise. Eventually. He did it in letter format, however, and has avoided her ever since, so he isn’t sure where they stand.

Regardless, he and Marie share a mutual loathing for each other, and as for Cuttlefish … well, the hatred for him is still pretty deeply ingrained. ---------------

Changes

Perhaps you’re wondering, ‘what exactly is canon divergent about this blog?’ Well, this tab was created to try and explain that, as well as a few other things.

-

On Hypnoshades and Mind Control

ALL OCTARIANS HAVE FREE WILL, the Calamari Inkantation just reminds them of an era of peace and some think ‘hey that’d be cool again actually’.

The hypnoshades do work this verse, but their only function was to make Callie forget about her family. After this, Octavio told his side of the story, and she agreed to help him put on his publicity-stunt concert.

Once Tay had time to think about his actions, he regretted ever using such underhanded tactics, vowing to never to use the shades again. Stealing Zapfish is totally justified though.

(If you’re a Callie blog uncomfortable with the hypnoshades in general, I’m fine with discarding this plot thread in interactions.)

-

On Cloning

Tay and Sabi are clones of the original Octavio, raised to believe they were him. The original is the one seen in Splatoon (UK translation specifically), Tay is the (replacement) Octavio seen in Splatoon 2, and Sabi escaped, so he’s completely out of the vaguely-canon scene.

Due to memcakes created, consumed, and created again during their time in development, Sabi and Tay share several memories with Octavio. They’re patchworked together, so some recollections are different to others, and some are completely absent.

The old Octavio is dead, supposedly. His passing was kept secret from the public by the Royal Octarian Council (ROC) in light of his own wishes.

The cloning project was never satisfactory to the old emperor. While ‘tentaclones’ can be created far more easily, he wanted an exact copy that could continue his legacy. His methods resulted in confused Octolings at best and horrific mutations at worst. The majority were euthanized.

-

On Tay and his (lack of) Influence

Tay was a hasty replacement for the original Octavio when he unexpectedly passed away, and he’s now Emperor of the Underground. There’s no Shogun, so he’s adopted that title too - though he’ll accept any royal recognition thrown his way.

Titles aside, Tay has minimal input into what his royal council decide to do with politics in Octopolis, Deepsea and Wetside. After recognising his position as a stand-in, it seems they have a lot more control than he first thought.

You’ve probably noticed, but this Octavio prefers his Octoling form, only usually using his Octopus form to perform (and be trapped in snowglobes). He claims it’s because he likes having hands.

Tay is not who the general public expects him to be. He’d like to tell them that he’s a successor and not his father, but he wasn’t aware himself until recently, and right now that could put him in a dangerous position.

On Sabi

Sabi looks even more like a younger Octavio than Tay does. Physically he’s a better copy, but his meek and wimpish personality is what put him on the chopping block.

After he was rescued, Sabi started living in Inkopolis. He’s been keeping his identity a secret ever since, but to his knowledge nobody ever tried to track him down.

Having been his own person for 10+ years, Sabi has managed to distance himself from the identity of his father, though it’s the only history he has. It still manages to cause the occasional identity crisis, however.

[dwellordream]

“Because informal camaraderie between the sexes was an unfamiliar phenomenon, figuring out how to relate to each other was a complicated matter for both men and women. As one young man noted in 1924, "Nowadays when a woman goes everywhere and does everything, it is very difficult for a man to figure out how to treat her." "How is a man to know how to treat a woman anymore?" asked another bewildered soul. Obviously, these and other young men were at a loss when it came to relating to women as friends and companions. Did female companionship mean, they wondered, that men had to be courteous and gentlemanly at all times? 

Would they have to refine their language and manners in order not to offend female sensibilities? Or should young women simply be treated as men would each other? Most often they found no clear answers to these questions, and they had a hard time imagining new ways of behaving. "No matter what I do," grumbled one young man, "I never seem to do the right [thing]." Young women seemed equally unsure about how to interact with the opposite sex. On the one hand, they longed for frank conversations and easy rapport. On the other, they did not need advice columnists and etiquette experts, or their mothers, to remind them that "nothing is as delicate as a woman's reputation."

As they well knew, simply seeming too anxious for male companionship or too careless in selecting one's company was sufficient to cast doubt on a woman's moral rectitude. Yet, showing too much reserve might mean missing out on having fun. Their concerns were therefore of a different kind than young men's. Was it really true, they wanted to know, that men found women who went out at night by themselves to be "cheap"? Did men approve of women who wore lipstick? And under which circumstances could a woman allow a young man to walk her home? "I don't want to be prudish, but I don't know what is appropriate," one nineteen-year-old woman wrote, summarizing the dilemma she and many other young women faced.

In public discourse, the uncertainty over new codes of behavior came to a head in discussions over the seemingly trivial issue of male chivalry. Throughout the 1920s, young men and women debated this matter with an astonishing passion, and for that reason alone it is worth examining. What were these discussions about? What caused them? What was it about this issue that triggered such intense feelings? And what does this tell us about the difficulties associated with establishing cross-gender camaraderie? On the surface, the lines of conflict were clear enough. Over and over again, young women complained about what they perceived as rudeness among men. "Why are Danish men so ill-mannered?" "Femme" wanted to know in 1923.

"Girlie" was convinced that "chivalry and courtesy disappeared along with the crinoline." Writing from Italy, another woman was sure that Scandinavian men would "die of embarrassment" if they saw the gallantry with which "even lowly dock workers on the Arno River treat a woman." Adding insult to injury, one of the few Langelinie girls to speak out in public claimed that her interest in the visiting sailors stemmed solely from the fact that the foreigners were "considerate," "gentlemanly," and "chivalrous" companions who did not try to take advantage of "a decent and well-behaved young girl" like herself.

"A Copenhagen Girl" agreed. Since "you can use a very strong magnifying glass and still not discover even the tiniest trace of chivalry" among Danish men, she didn't find it surprising that nice girls like herself preferred the company of men like "Pierre and Giovanni, Tom and Jack." In most cases, young men declared themselves guilty as charged, but, they argued, this was only because chivalry was an outdated form of conduct entirely incompatible with the kind of camaraderie women seemed to desire. "What is it that determines that a man must always be chivalrous toward a woman?" a self-described "nonattentive gentleman" thus asked.

Another young man who defiantly labeled himself "nongallant" wanted to know whether "a young woman has any right to be offended because I do not pick her up before a dance but ask her to meet me at a trolley stop?" "Mack and Jack" were equally annoyed by what they saw as unreasonable demands on the part of female companions. "We are two young men," they wrote to an advice columnist in 1923, "who would like to hear your opinion about the behavior of two young ladies. The other night after we had been out dancing together, the young ladies wanted us to escort them home, but we live at the opposite end of town and escorting them home would have taken more than an hour out of our night's sleep, so we refused. Now they don't want to see us again."

The unmistakable tone of anger, resentment, and indignation that runs through this discourse suggests that more than etiquette was at stake in the controversies over chivalry. When young people debated whether men ought to open doors, assist with overcoats, carry packages, offer cigarette lighters, give up their seats in trolley cars, and walk companions home, they were, of course, trying to determine what constituted proper behavior in an era when gender norms were being redefined. That in itself was fraught with difficulty, and the confusion they expressed was genuine. 

But because both men and women perceived chivalry as a source of power and control, their "conversations" are therefore best understood as part of a much larger struggle over the relative status of men and women in a changing cultural context. For that reason it became such an intensely contested issue. Certainly, women's insistence on male chivalry was not merely motivated by a desire to indulge in the pleasures that spring from a companion's service and attentiveness. In their eyes, chivalrous behavior indicated, among other things, a certain level of male regard. After all, it had in the past only been disreputable women who could not legitimately demand such treatment. 

Insufficient male chivalry was therefore seen, even among many self-proclaimed "modern" young women, as an insulting sign of disrespect. More importantly, young women also perceived chivalry as a sort of sexual safety mechanism. At the heart of the ideology of chivalry lay the notion that men were responsible for serving and protecting women. Therefore, as long as women could hold men to a code of behavior that emphasized courtesy and (sexual) self-control, their ability to protect themselves from physical and moral danger seemed all the greater. And if this potentially greater degree of safety came at the expense of what seemed more egalitarian companionship, that was a price worth paying for most women. 

Besides, despite their modernity, young women were not out to eradicate gender-differentiated forms of behavior. While they were eager to assert their independence from older patterns of social interaction and to develop new forms of camaraderie with men, they still insisted on their femininity and on having that femininity acknowledged by male companions. "It might well be," one women poignantly argued, "that women in this country have reached their goal in terms of equality with men, but that does not mean that they have stopped being women."

That sexual equality and continued male chivalry were demands not incongruous with each other was a claim many men found hard to accept. "We don't understand how young girls can demand to be equals and at the same time demand to be treated as ladies," two male friends explained. "Women have by now for many years sought equality with men," another man elaborated, "and it is therefore my infallible [sicl] opinion that the ladies must either be entirely independent in all matters and renounce gentlemanly gallantry, or they must relinquish their equality with men." With such comments, young men laid bare what was for them at the heart of this matter. 

Clearly, they expected women to reciprocate for the favors and attentions they received with a certain degree of modesty and deference. As Karen Dubinsky has pointed out, the flip side of chivalry and protection is power and control. When men no longer felt they had power and control over women, they were, as they repeatedly stressed, no longer willing to respect a code of conduct that endowed them with a specific set of duties and responsibilities. Underlying the controversies over the issue of chivalry were therefore much more profound conflicts, most of which derived from young men's resentment over losing a set of gendered privileges and an authority over women that older generations of men had been able to claim. 

Even though many young men were attracted, at least in principle, to the idea of having fun and enjoying themselves in the company of female peers, they were also deeply ambivalent about young women's entry into what had previously been male territory and their encroachment on what had traditionally been male prerogatives. As one newspaper columnist complained in 1921, "Women have forced their way through every door—into the labor market, into politics, and into entertainment. They are getting more and more rights—rights to this and rights to that—but what about us men? We don't seem to be getting any more rights."

Many young men also took offense at women's relative independence in public arenas. As long as young women had money of their own, they did not have to depend on male companions in order to partake in public entertainment. Although most men had greater earnings and more spending money than their female peers, even those women with the most limited funds were usually able to afford a movie ticket, the admission to an amusement park, or a cup of coffee in a restaurant, and unlike in the United States, for example, young Danish women typically paid their own way when they went out with male companions, at least as long as they were not engaged or going steady.

 "Of course, we paid for ourselves when we went out," insisted Stine Petersen. "Yes, naturally! Naturally, we paid for ourselves," exclaimed Netta Nielsen, seemingly surprised at the suggestion that men might pay for female companions. While hard on their pocket books, such financial self-reliance had several advantages for young women. First, it allowed them, as Michael Curtin has pointed out, to signal that "the relation between themselves and [male companions] were of a public and egalitarian nature, not romantic as between lovers." Perhaps more importantly, it released them from any obligation to male peers and from the moral suspicion that surrounded any woman who accepted gifts and treats from men who were relative strangers. 

Besides, paying one's own way also protected young women from ending up, as Nikoline Sorensen phrased it, in an "awkward position" where men "might expect things" in return for their generosity. But rather than appreciating the potential for egalitarian friendships that such practices produced, most young men resented the self-reliance of their female peers, perceiving it as a challenge to male initiative and a lessening of their power. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, much of young men's resentment grew from their sense that women were in fact not only becoming less dependent, but were also acquiring a whole new kind of power over men. 

"What are men to do? How can they protect themselves against these attractive, scantily dressed young girls? We are under their spell," a twenty-two-year old man complained in a statement that interwove two of the most common strands in male discourse on postwar gender relations. First, men of all classes and ages spoke of young women as increasingly bewitching and seductive. Whether it was their short skirts, deep necklines, freer body language, or seeming flirtatiousness that led men to this conclusion, they generally agreed that the new generation of women possessed an unprecedented degree of sexual allure. 

Second, they constantly complained that women were using their wiles, their charms and their bodies as unfair means to gain control over men, who were ill-equipped to withstand such an onslaught. "This is the last and final battle in the war between the sexes," one observer declared in 1924. "After suffrage and all the other rights women have obtained, they are now plotting their final assault. With their physical allure, they are striving to master men who are, after all, only men." In this light, young men's unwillingness to behave chivalrously begins to take on its deeper meaning. In a situation in which many young men believed that women were gaining the upper hand, they were less than eager to engage in behavior that smacked of servitude to women. 

In earlier generations, a man who fetched a woman's coat or carried her packages had discreetly underlined his own masculinity through a show of physical ability. By the 1920s, the very same gestures seemed to many young men simply to demonstrate service and subordination to a new generation of women who already possessed too much power over them. Quite understandably, they therefore resisted any involvement in such behavior. Although the debates over chivalry are revealing of the underlying conflicts that seriously circumscribed any effort to create more frank and egalitarian relationships between young men and young women, they may ultimately be read as fairly innocuous. 

After all, having to fetch one's own coat is at most an inconvenience, and while ungentlemanly behavior might offend a woman's sensibilities it hardly impairs her autonomy or her freedom of movement. But because (sexual) self-control was a central component of the ideology of chivalry, young men's increasing unwillingness to adhere to this long-standing code of conduct had more serious consequences. Predictably, although unfortunately, it led to an unprecedented level of physical and sexual danger for all women who ventured into public arena.”

- Birgitte Soland, “Beauties and Boyfriends, Bitches and Brutes.” in Becoming Modern: Young Women and the Reconstruction of Womanhood in the 1920s

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Behind Closed Doors

Keanu Reeves x OFC (Emma Mathers) (A/n-I swear, if I accidently double posted a chapter again and embarrass myself, I will simply yeet myself off of tumblr. Anyways, this is the next chapter lol)

Masterlist Behind Closed Doors Masterlist

Warnings- brief NSFW mentions, angst

Reality Bites

November Her fingers trailed along his jaw, his trimmed beard rough against their softness. Beneath the cozy, Egyptian cotton, they laid a tangle of limbs and when Emma’s thumb skimmed the spot just below Keanu’s lip, so feather light that if he closed his eyes, he might not have even felt it, he smiled. “What are you doing?” Keanu mumbled, turning his face towards hers, smiling when she cupped his cheek, nuzzling into her touch.

Emma’s leg was hooked over his waist, while the covers barely guarded her modesty. There was a warmth still throbbing around them, and the hazy afternoon sunlight cast a warm, golden hue on the room, illuminating Keanu perfectly, accentuating the features she’d long started falling for. “Touching you,” she giggled softly, brushing a few dark strands away from his face, “I like touching you,” Emma hummed, her gaze unfocused as it traveled to his lips.

“I like it when you touch me,” absently, he ghosted the tips of his fingers up and down her thigh, the weight of the duvet unnoticed as it rested on his knuckles. His other hand sneaked between them, slipping under Emma’s neck, “But is that all you want to do?”

Her grin split wider, and Emma tried to scoot closer, almost intoxicated by his scent, which she knew would linger on the sheets for a while after he’d leave her room. It was something she’d grown used to falling asleep with; the remnants of Keanu clinging to her sheets and pillow; even if he never retired to bed next to her, he was always there, in the smallest parts, as he slept down the hall, without her. “I donno,” her gorgeous eyes twinkled brightly, and as Keanu tangled his fingers in her hair, an ever present ache intensified in his chest. He wanted to stay with her like that, never go back to the confusing reality that served as their lives and have Emma be the woman he spent the rest of his life with.

It had been almost two months since they’d first laid together, and ever since, they couldn’t seem to get enough of each other. It wasn’t long after that that he and Emma had started sneaking around, stealing kisses in vacant hallways, touching each other adoringly in ways the twins wouldn’t notice and, when the occasion arose, falling between the sheets together. “Ke…..” She teased, sensing that he was running with his thoughts, “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” He repeated, leaning in to capture Emma’s soft lips, in a long, lingering kiss. Their sweet lip lock was punctuated by the occasional, brief peck, and even when they were done, the tip of Keanu’s nose brushed hers, “I want you.” His hand on her thigh slid upwards, rounding her body to momentarily grope her ass before traveling to her lower back, holding Emma close, “I always want you.”

“I’m all yours,” playful mischief was replaced by something darker and wanting, luring Keanu in. In one swift move, he shifted their positions, effectively pinning Emma beneath his hulking frame. Immediately, Emma felt smaller, grabbing her lower lip between her teeth, excited for whatever he’d do next. Keanu looked alarmingly attractive like that, strong arms boxing her in, broad chest barely six inches away from hers and dark hair curtaining his face. “And I love being all yours,” she purred seductively, running her hands up his biceps.

“Do you now?” Keanu cocked an eyebrow, lowering himself to her. Already, he could feel his body responding to the moment, and propping himself on an elbow, Keanu was about to reach for the nightstand drawer where Emma kept some extra condoms, when both their phones went off, shrieking loud enough to kill the mood.

With an irritated groan, he rolled off her, flopping onto the bed, taking a minute to stare up at the ceiling, while Emma huffed defeatedly, sitting up. “How is it three already?” Keanu bemoaned, scrubbing his hands over his face, more than upset that their time together for that evening had come to its designated end. It was Wednesday, the only day of the week where both Matt and Poppy were out of the house, off at piano lessons. Usually, piano on Wednesdays meant that Emma would be alone in the house for two hours, probably cleaning up after them so Zelda wouldn’t have to, or preparing dinner, but ever since they’d begun their little affair, new habits had emerged. Keanu would clear those two hours, just so he could spend some guilt free time with her, and they’d set alarms to go off half an hour before the piano lesson was over.

Leaning her head against the headboard, Emma grabbed her phone, silencing the annoying noise, resisting the urge to just toss it across the room and just hop into Keanu’s lap, “Because,” she whined, “Reality bites.” After turning off the noise and setting her phone down, Emma scooted off the bed, padding barefoot to the bathroom, grabbing some clothes on her way.

“Are you going back to the office? She probed absently as she freshened up, not having to look to know that Keanu was probably already gathering his clothes so he could go to his room and do the same.

“Uh,” he was scouring for his t-shirt, unable to recall where it had gotten tossed in the heat of the moment. Their time alone together was so precious and so very short that concern for something as hampering as where their clothes had fallen was almost mute. “No,” he faltered, finally finding the last of his ensemble, tugging on his jeans and deciding that he’d deal with the rest in his own room.

Emma was already in the shower when he entered the bathroom, and at the sight of her silhouette behind the fogged up glass, Keanu stopped, taking a minute to just stare, knowing that there definitely wasn’t time for much more. Besides, in that moment, so singular and defining, Keanu felt utterly terrible for the next words that left his mouth, knowing that they were going to ruin the moment, “I’m actually going to the airport.”

“Oh?” There was an air of confusion about the little expression though Emma carried on when rubbing the beige loofah along her skin, almost eradicating the remnants of his touch. The fragrance of her body wash swirled around in the steam that seeped from around the door, and rivulets raced down the glass, making the scene before him something of a movie. She always looked so picture perfect, it was a pity she had no interest in being in front of a camera. If only the world could see what Keanu saw, then they would be just as enamored as he was.

Or maybe, he was selfish, he thought, selfish enough to simultaneously want Emma only for his eyes. Beauty of that caliber should be protected, privy to only a precious few.

“I have to…..” his voice was wavering, and Keanu cleared his throat. Of course, the time was long coming, two months had been plenty already, but he wasn’t ready for it to be over. He could spend forever in awe of existing in Emma’s orbit and it still might not have been enough. But it was like she said, reality bites. “I have to pick up Miranda. She’s coming home today.”

Emma hesitated before speaking and Keanu knew that the truth had stung. They’d have to be more careful with his fiancée around, if they were even going to continue. “I….I didn’t know she was coming home today.” She’d hoped she wasn’t coming back at all. “Are you two coming back here after?” There was a caution in the way she spoke, as if Emma were afraid to know the answer.

“Yeah,” despite himself, Keanu approached the shower cubicle, closing his hand around the sleek, silver barn handle. “Eventually, but I’m taking her to dinner first,” licking his lips, he held back on pulling the door open, “I must have forgotten to mention it.” And finally, he gave in, revealing Emma beneath the shower spray, eyes glazed over with unshed tears and he desperately longed to just get in there with her, hold Emma and tell her that even with Miranda back in the picture, it didn’t change the way he felt about her, “I’m sorry-”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” blinking away her emotion, Emma sniffled, putting down the loofah and reaching for her shampoo, “She’s your fiancée, I’m sure you’ve missed her.” Averting her gaze, Emma sniffled quietly again.

Dropping the rest of his clothes to the foot mat, Keanu stepped inside of the large walk in shower, not caring if his jeans were getting wet as he went to loop his arms around her waist, “You know it's not like that,” he pecked her forehead, his heart stilling as Emma reluctantly leaned in, “Her being back doesn’t change what I feel for you. I want to be with you.”

“Then be with me,” Emma stared up, hurt tugging at her features. Her beauty was sullen, giddy mood from earlier now gone, leaving behind only the pain he was inflicting, “We can be good together.”

She was right; Emma was perfect for him, and Keanu knew that he was his best when he was hers, she was amazing with his kids and if he had to choose blindly, he’d choose the woman that had stolen his breath from the minute she walked in for that interview. But there were too many factors involved, Miranda had already organized their engagement announcement, she had started to consider wedding planners. She was mature, his age, had her life figured out and was, at least on paper, the better option for the kids. Sure, she’d made mistakes, he reminisced on the night he’d met them at the hospital after Poppy's allergic reaction, but it could have happened to the best. They were already engaged, people thought of them synonymously, Keanu couldn’t just leave all of that behind. “It’s complicated,” he summarized his mountain of worrisome thoughts into two words, “I can’t just-”

“Leave the woman you love for the nanny you barely know,” Emma glanced down at their feet, seeing how his jeans had gotten soaked from the warm spray, “I know that,” she determined meekly, her resolve only hardening when she met his eyes again.

“Em,” Keanu sighed heavily. He hadn’t meant for it to seem like that, but at the core of things, that was the truth. The cold, hard, painful truth. “You know you’re more than that to me,” two fingers beneath her chin tipped her head up and Keanu pressed a sweet, reassuring kiss to her moist, plump lips.

“You should go, so you aren’t late to pick her up,” Emma was the one to pull away first, untangling herself from Keanu’s affectionate grasp, stepping back so the water falling would act as a barrier between them, blurring his image of her.

His shoulders slumped sadly and Keanu’s features fell, “Yeah,” a stiff nod followed and he seemed reluctant to leave her, though they both knew he had to “Can we talk later?”

Hesitating, Emma eventually nodded, “Sure, yeah, okay.”

Keanu lingered for a moment more, just to take one last look at her; huge sad eyes staring back at him, olive skin flushed from the heat and long, drenched hair matted to her skin, falling over her shoulders and almost covering her breasts. “Okay,” he managed softly, ducking out of the shower, shutting the door behind him and setting off.

Emma waited until she heard his heavy footfalls dissipate and the bedroom door open and then shut before pressing her back to the cool beige mosaic tile mounted to the wall, sliding down to the damp floor and pulling her legs up to her bare chest. The first sob rang through, bouncing off the walls and she lost her tears in the drops of hot water that had already peppered her face. Her breathing was shallow and ragged and Emma’s lungs burned; it hurt, excruciatingly. She hadn’t thought of what would happen when the real woman in Keanu’s life inevitably returned, pushing her deeper into the shadows. It made her feel dirty, like she was becoming something she didn’t want to be.

Hell, she was already something she didn’t want to be. The mistress, the one he kept behind closed bedroom doors.

It was late when Keanu stumbled in through the garage door with Miranda, carrying no less than three of her bags collectively on both his shoulders and holding one in each hand. That wasn’t even all of it, Miranda was holding on to one of her small her carry ons and there were still a couple more in the car while the rest of her luggage was meant to be sent to his house later that week. Keanu never really understood her desire to travel with that much, she had, an entire wardrobe, in New York, surely she didn’t need as much as she’d taken.

In silence, they lugged her things to the bedroom, and by the time they were finished, Keanu was beat, ready to just shower and flop into bed. Though, he did remember that he’d promised Emma they’d talk when he got back. Debating whether or not he should go to her before or after showering, Keanu stood near his side of the bed, trying to look busy though really just passing time and he hadn’t even noticed Miranda coming up behind him, not until she snaked her arms around his middle, hugging Keanu from behind, “So,” she tiptoed, nuzzling his neck, her front pressed to his back, “Did you miss you future wife?”

Not nearly half as much as he should have. In fact, he was already starting to miss the time when she was gone. “Of course I did,” Keanu turned in her embrace, forcing himself to smile as he took Miranda in his arms. It didn’t feel the way it felt when he held Emma, it didn’t feel right. Miranda was barely a head short that he was, not as small in stature as Emma, and it was so easy to meet her eyes, those piercing pools of green that he once adored, maybe a couple years or more ago, when they’d first met. Looking at them then though, Keanu merely felt the nonchalant twinge of familiarity, Miranda was what he knew, his safe choice. Sure, he loved her, at least, Keanu thought he did, but since Emma, he wasn’t so sure that he loved her enough. He was merely playing a part, no longer wanting to be an active participant in their relationship.

Still, he’d rather brave the storm that confuse his kids and hurt Miranda. He did still care. Smiling faintly, Keanu let his hands skim her sides, rounding to her lower back, “But you must be tired from your flight.”

“Not that tired,” she reached up to kiss him, and without thinking of it, Keanu turned away, surprising them both, “What? Two months and you don’t want me anymore?”

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Keanu shuffled away from Miranda, moving towards the door, “No, it's not that,” he dismissed coolly, “I just have a couple things to finish up in my office.” Already, he’d started stepping out into the hallway, “I don’t know when I’ll be finished, so don’t wait up.”

Keanu barely waited a moment to hear Miranda's response before he was easing the door shut, as to not seem like he was in a hurry, and then jogging down the hall without even looking back. He bustled straight past his office and the twins' bedroom, not stopping until he reached Emma's door. Briefly, he contemplated knocking, though dismissing the idea so he wouldn't rouse suspicion, instead just turning the knob slowly and hoping it was unlocked.

"Em?" Keanu stuck his head into the low lit room. It was almost dark, though, not completely and he could still make her out, curled beneath the thick duvet, a book still in hand while her glasses laid nearby. Blowing a soft breath, Keanu's shoulders slumped; defeated. He was too late; she'd already fallen asleep. Running his weary hands through his already slightly disheveled mane, Keanu walked around the bed, crouching so he was face to face with her. Soft, steady breaths blew the dark hair that had fallen over her face, and with gentle fingers, hoping not to wake her, he brushed them away, letting his thumb graze her cheek. Even with her eyes closed, they looked puffy, like she’d been crying and he knew it was because of him. “I’m so sorry sweetheart,” his low, gravely voice was barely audible as he leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead, “Goodnight, sweet dreams.”

Afterwards, Keanu stood again, giving her smooth, tear stained cheek one final caress before weaning the book out of Emma’s loose grasp and placing it on her nightstand, doing the same with her forgotten glasses. Still not wanting to disturb her, he gave the comforter a tentative tug, so it would be tucked just below her neck and finally toed off, sparing her one final glance before completely turning off the lights and quietly shutting the door behind him.

Little did Keanu know that as asleep as she’d seemed, her eyes blinked open the minute he’d turned the lights off, a gasped sob suppressed and warm tears once again falling freely.

She’d avoided their talk because Emma knew that the more morale action would be to end things with her boss, but how was she supposed to when every time he laid a finger on her, she fell deeper for the one man she should have been forbidden to love?

*****

Tagging- @harrisongslimited @magnificentclodpiebanana @keandrews @greenmanalishi @rdjloverxxx @danceoftwowolves @planetkt @wheretheriversrunintothesea @nonsensicalobsessions

[winryofresembool]

Things We Lost in the Fire, ch 36

aka Caleo uni au

Fic summary: Calypso starts studying at a new university, but to her annoyance her new flatmate is a loud mouthed mechanic who also likes to sneak his dog in whenever. But as she learns to know him better, she realizes they might have more in common than what she first thought. Eventually, even the darkest secrets come out…

Chapter summary: New Year’s Eve

A/N: Oops, I'm late again. But this is the longest chapter so far (over 6k words) so I hope you can forgive me for that!

This chapter finally brings back some friends we haven't seen in a while and introduces a couple of new ones too. I'm not gonna lie, having read ToA just once about a year ago, my characterization is probably very off so my apologies for that!

Now, hope you guys enjoy this mega chapter! Please let me know what you think! It's suuper important.

Words: 6,2k 

Genre: romance & hurt/comfort

Warnings: none

previous chapter / AO3

…

After the boxing day Leo and Calypso returned back to their flat and the ‘normal’ life. Calypso already started remembering the downsides of working at a flower shop as it was a surprisingly busy time of the year with the wealthy people of that area wanting some flowers for their New Year celebrations. She and her boss Demi were the only two running the shop between the holidays while the second assistant was on a break. The older woman promised Calypso a day off for New Year’s eve, though, claiming that young people like her should be having fun that day instead of working. She graciously accepted the offer even though she didn’t have any plans for that day; after the eventful Christmas she kind of just wanted to stay at the flat with Leo.

But as it happened, Hazel texted her the day before the eve that she was having a small ‘gathering’ with a few friends and since Calypso hadn’t seen her for several weeks due to the work and a break from the art classes, she told Hazel that she would come. When she had asked Leo how he would feel about it, he had offered to go with her. Usually he would have spent the New Year Eve at Jason and Piper’s annual party but it was not happening this year due to their complicated situation. The flatmates had still decided to not tell Hazel or Frank about their own, developed situation, because they hadn’t even told Leo’s parents yet.

“So what is this Hazel like?” Leo asked Calypso as they were getting prepared for the evening out. “She doesn’t mind a stranger coming to her party, right?”

Calypso almost missed his question because of Leo’s current state of shirtlessness. A moment earlier he had wanted to know if she thought he should wear a light red or a white shirt to the party and hadn’t bothered to put either of them on yet. Not that she minded. No, her boyfriend definitely was not a bad sight with his tan, strong body, a quiet voice in her head said. “Oh no, she doesn’t mind,” Calypso finally remembered to answer. “I think she was even happy to hear you are coming with me. Besides, you have met Frank before, so technically you are not a complete stranger.”

“Are those two dating?” Leo asked.

“No, they are not. Not officially, at least. Hazel likes him but due to various reasons they have decided they shouldn’t rush it. Sounds kind of familiar to me.” Calypso looked at him significantly.

“It does? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Leo raised his eyebrows, and Calypso nudged him on the arm playfully.

“Anyway, Hazel is great. She is the kind of person who seems really sweet on the surface but she would probably kick your behind if needed. She’s also kind of mysterious when it comes to her own story but I feel I can trust her. I may have even accidentally slipped her once that my flatmate is kind of neat.” She smiled at him shyly.

“Oh? So you’ve talked about me to her.” Leo grinned in response. “Hope you remembered to mention my good looks and quick wit…”

“Yep, and your modesty,” Calypso shook her head. “Seriously speaking, though, I find her very inspiring. Despite everything she’s been through, she’s thriving to do the things she enjoys, and she’s an incredible artist. Better than I, for sure.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. I like your art.”

Calypso was happy and slightly flustered about Leo’s compliment but she wanted to explain herself. “I’m not selling myself short; I am just telling the truth. She really is that great.”

Leo raised his hand. “Alright, I believe you.”

“Good. Uh, hey, how should I wear my hair for the party?” Calypso asked as she stepped in front of a hallway mirror, taking some hairpins into her hands.

“I… I like it the way it is?” Leo looked at her with slight disbelief, as if he couldn’t believe that she didn’t like her current hairdo.

“Thanks… I don’t know. I could leave it mostly free but maybe I’ll add some waves.” Calypso wasn’t quite sure why she cared so much how she looked because that wasn’t like her, but she figured it might have had something to do with her being nervous about meeting new people at the party. Hazel and Frank were probably the only ones she knew there, after all. Her paying attention to her looks definitely didn’t have anything to do with the fact that she liked it when Leo gave her that special look that he reserved only for her.

“Sunshine, just so you know, you are the kind of person who will always stand out no matter what you wear. Me? Well, you could perform your magic on me but I’d still look like Santa’s elf.”

Calypso couldn’t believe that her boyfriend clearly had no idea of the effect he had had on her only a moment earlier (and still had). “Leo, don’t let this get to your head but I think there's a certain charm in your elf ears.” She took one of his earlobes between her fingers and tugged it gently.

Leo’s eyes brightened at her comment.

“If that’s what you think, then screw what anyone else says.”

“That’s the spirit,” Calypso approved, letting go of his ear and almost leaning close enough to give him a cheek kiss, but then she withdrew quickly. Leo looked quite disappointed. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked teasingly.

“I thought that you were going to kiss me,” Leo replied honestly.

“I’ve heard that there’s a habit that you kiss your partner at midnight on New Year’s. It’s not midnight yet, is it?” Calypso blinked innocently.

“No, but…” Leo couldn’t come up with any arguments to Calypso’s statement so he didn’t finish his sentence.

“Sometimes good things are worth waiting for,” Calypso finished with a smile and withdrew into her room to change her clothes. While doing that, she admitted to herself that this phase where everything was so new was pretty exciting.

…

A little bit later Calypso was dressed up in a dark blue short dress, tying the bracelet she had gotten on Christmas around her wrist when Leo got out of his room. He had switched his usual mechanic’s overalls to a white collarless shirt, suspenders, and pinstripe pants. Calypso had a feeling that he would have also put his tool belt on if that had been socially acceptable. To her surprise, he seemed to have even tried to flatten his curly hair a little, although it hadn’t quite worked out.

“Wow, look at you. The only thing you’re missing right now is a hat,” she noted, ruffling his hair a little. What she actually meant was that she thought he actually looked very nice in his current clothes. It was quite different from what she was used to seeing on him – even at school Leo usually wore a casual t-shirt or a hoodie and worn jeans – but she didn’t mind either look. Leo frowned at her, though.

“Don’t look so concerned,” Calypso continued with amusement. “I just meant that you kind of remind me of some film stars of the past. I just can’t get my finger on who. It’s a compliment, though.”

Leo’s frown disappeared. “Alright, thanks.” Then he took a second look at her and his eyes got that funny gleam he always got when he was about to say something embarrassing. “Woah, Sunshine. I’m suspecting that you are made of copper and tellurium.”

“And why’s that, mister chemistry nerd?” she asked, although she could pretty much guess his answer.

“Because you’re CuTe.”

Calypso shook her head in disbelief, but couldn’t hide her smile. “Really, Leonidas? Out of all the cheesy pick up lines in the world you chose that one?”

“Nothing wrong with chemistry puns, mi sol,” Leo claimed. “But I do think that you, um, clean up nicely.”

“As do you,” Calypso admitted, feeling the warmth gathering to her cheeks. “But we should probably get going now before we melt each other with these compliments. It’s getting pretty late already,” she noted when she checked the clock of her phone before dropping it back into her purse.

“Okay, I’m as ready as I can be,” Leo replied and tugged a strand of Calypso’s hair gently before picking his keys and heading to the door after her.

…

Frank and Hazel lived on a different campus than Leo and Calypso so it took them a while to find it. The party was organized in Frank’s flat because it was bigger than Hazel’s. The latter had explained that Frank had applied for a two-room flat because he had several pets (who would however be spending their New Year at Frank’s granny) and he was lucky enough to be able to afford it due to his work and because he had inherited his mother.

“I’m not sure what I was expecting but not this,” Calypso told Leo when she noticed a cat tree and a big pile of toys for both cats and dogs in one corner of the house. “For some reason I pictured him having a gym or something in one of his rooms.”

“I guess never judge a book by its cover,” they heard a voice behind them say. Calypso felt heat rise on her face as she realized the speaker was Hazel.

“H-hi, Hazel!” Calypso stuttered. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Hazel waved her hand when she noticed Calypso’s expression. “I can see why you would imagine that.”

“Well, I shouldn’t have assumed anything either way,” Calypso muttered. “What about you, though? What is your place like? I really should visit you some time.”

“Way smaller and I have a couple of flatmates there. But to be honest? I like it that way. My father tried to buy me a new apartment several times but something always happened to those places, like they were cursed or something. One burned, one had some water damage, one was full of bugs… But I was able to get my current place because I do some odd jobs for a neighbor. So far nothing weird has happened.”

“Not that it’s any of my business, but didn’t you once tell me that your father doesn’t contact you all too often? Yet he was going to buy you an entire apartment? Calypso asked, confused.

“I think it’s because he’s proud as hell,” Hazel shrugged. “His cousin or something - a president at your uni, I think - bought his son an entire house in a nice area, and my father just couldn’t let him flex about it. Well, his plan didn’t quite work out as I just told you.”

“Wait, the son of our uni’s president… then do you happen to know Jason Grace?” Calypso asked, connecting the dots in her head.

“Yes, I do,” Hazel answered. “A distant cousin. We lived in San Francisco at the same time for a little while until he moved away. And now we’re somehow both here. Small world.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. Jason is Leo’s good friend. And this is Leo, by the way,” Calypso introduced, feeling weirdly happy about being able to introduce him to her friend, even if they were still keeping their relationship status a secret.

However, soon Calypso noticed that Hazel took Leo’s appearance in for a moment longer than was necessary and she couldn’t help but feel just a little bit uneasy even though she knew that she didn’t actually have a reason for that. Leo was dating her, and Hazel seemed very interested in Frank. But there was something unusual about her stare, and she couldn’t figure out what it was.

“Hello, Leo.” Hazel seemed to return back to her regular self as she shook his hand, although the color of her cheeks might have been a tiny bit darker than a moment ago. “I’m Hazel. Calypso never stops talking about you at our art classes. I’m not entirely sure if it’s extremely adorable or a little annoying.”

“What?” Leo turned towards her and she couldn’t stop herself from blushing. “Cal, I didn’t know that you are constantly talking about me behind my back! Hope they have been good things, at least.” “Don’t worry, they’ve been nothing but good things,” Hazel reassured him, glancing at Calypso mischievously.

While Hazel’s teasing reassured Calypso that she had simply imagined her interest in Leo, they were getting dangerously close to the relationship topic, so she tried to change the course of the conversation. “Hazel, you didn’t have to tell him that! Now he won’t stop boasting for the next two weeks,” she said exaggeratedly even though in reality she was secretly kind of happy that Leo heard about her compliments.

“Sorry, Caly,” Hazel grinned at her, not looking particularly sorry. Then she leaned closer to her, whispering. “Just a little help from a friend. I thought you were going to get together during your vacation!”

“Th-thanks, but that really isn’t necessary,” Calypso whispered back, hoping that her acting was good enough to convince Hazel that she and Leo hadn’t made any progress yet. To her relief, her friend got distracted when a guy who was at least a head, maybe even more, taller than Hazel, with dark, short hair appeared next to her.

“There you are,” the guy said. “Nico was wondering if…” When he realized they had company, he gave them a polite smile.

“Oh, hi! Nice to see you guys!”

“You both have met Frank before, right?” Hazel asked.

“Yep,” Leo confirmed. “Frank thought I was a bad dog owner, but quite frankly, that was an understandable mistake.”

“How is your dog doing now?” Frank wanted to know. “Hope he’s good?”

“Never better! He enjoyed following Calypso everywhere while we were at Waystation over Christmas,” Leo replied happily.

“So are you two…?” Frank turned his head between Calypso and Leo. Calypso couldn’t help but wonder how many times they would still be asked that question that evening.

“No, no, no,” Leo denied. “That’s crazy talk. Right Cal? She just came with me because it was a better option than spending the holidays alone in our flat.” Calypso nodded along even though she didn’t like that they had to lie to their friends. But it was her who had made the decision to not tell them.

“Yeah. We’re just flatmates,” she confirmed.

Luckily, Frank didn’t ask more. Again, Calypso noticed that Hazel was staring at Leo with that mysterious expression on her face and she was already going to ask if something was wrong when Hazel addressed Leo:

“Have we… Have we met before? I mean, before tonight? You look so familiar to me but you can’t be…” She frowned.

“I don’t think so?” Leo seemed a bit confused. “Not that I remember, at least.”

“Oh… alright. I guess you just really look like someone I used to know. You haven’t ever lived in New Orleans, have you?”

“No, I haven’t,” Leo shook his head. “I’m originally from Texas. And yeah, I’ve also lived in a few other states for short periods of time when I was moving from a foster home to foster home but never in Louisiana.”

“Alright, sorry for bothering you about that,” Hazel said.

“It’s OK. Now that I think of it, though… I did have some distant relatives in that area, but I haven’t seen those people since I was a baby.”

“Really? What’s their last name?” Hazel seemed to get more interested again.

“Valdez, like mine. I think the mom of the boy who was around my age was my mom’s cousin or something like that. Why? Do you know them?”

“Yeah… Possibly… The boy’s name is Sammy Valdez. Does that sound familiar?”

“Hmmm…” Leo stopped to think about it. “Maybe. The boy’s name did start with S. I’ve seen pictures of me playing with another kid who looked a lot like me in our relatives’ yard but I think I literally met him just once. I was like one back then.”

Hazel seemed a little bit disappointed by Leo’s answer. “Alright. Sorry, it’s just that Sammy used to be my only real friend until I moved away from there and I was just wondering if you knew anything about how he’s doing now. I guess you don’t.”

“No, can’t say I do. My fam… well, they weren’t particularly accepting of me after what happened to my mom…” Leo said bitterly. “One of my aunts spread some sick lies… So, yeah, I moved to a foster home and haven’t seen any of my relatives since then.”

“I understand…” Hazel said sympathetically. Calypso imagined that Leo must have been grateful that Hazel didn’t question him more about what had happened. “Sorry, this is not a good topic to talk about at a party. My curiosity just got the best of me, that’s all.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Leo waved his hand dismissively. “Let’s just move on.”

“I agree. Frank, were you going to say something about Nico before you got interrupted?” Hazel turned to him.

“Oh yeah,” Frank remembered. “Nico wanted to know if it’s OK that Will comes here a bit later. He’s working today, apparently.”

“No problem,” Hazel replied. “We may not have a lot of food and drinks left by that point, though, but he’s gonna have to deal with that.”

“Nico? Not Nico di Angelo, by any chance?” Leo joined the conversation.

“Yep, that’s him. He’s my half brother. I know, we look nothing alike,” Hazel commented when she noticed Leo’s expression.

“No, I was just surprised that you know him and Jason too… Soon you’ll probably tell us you know Percy Jackson too.”

“I’ve heard stories of him from the others,” Hazel chuckled. “But no, haven’t met him personally, at least yet.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you met him some time soon,” Leo predicted.

Calypso felt she had already been quiet uncomfortably long, just listening to Leo and Hazel talk and trying to figure out what to make of it. She couldn’t deny that she had felt a bit jealous at first but when she had learned that Hazel had only seemed that interested in him because he had looked like an old friend of hers, she had relaxed somewhat. Maybe the trust issues were a result of many failed relationships, if she could call them that given that most of them hadn’t lasted too long. Cursing herself for her unnecessary thoughts, she asked:

“So, is there anyone else I know here besides Nico?”

“I invited Rachel from our art classes too,” Hazel answered. “You remember her, right? She said she was really happy to spend the New Year’s Eve in any place that isn’t his father’s penthouse.”

Calypso remembered Rachel as a really enthusiastic and unique artist. She herself tended to try to make her art look a bit more simplistic while you really had to stop and look at Rachel’s art to be able to see its many dimensions.

“Yep, I remember her,” Calypso responded. “I’ve often thought about talking to her but there’s something a bit… intimidating about her, like she knows something about me that even I don’t know…” “She’s fine, though, when you learn to know her,” Hazel reassured her.

“That’s nice to know. If I see her, I’ll say hi.”

“Good,” Hazel nodded.

“Hey, Sunshine,” Leo nudged her on the arm. “I’m getting hungry. Maybe we should go and get something to eat.”

“Somehow he is already hungry even though he ate at home before we left,” Calypso said in disbelief. “How’s that even possible, Repair Boy?” Then she realized how the nicknames may have sounded to the others’ ears so she hurried to add: “Um, sorry, we’re used to using nicknames at our flat. With everyone. I’m Sunshine, Jason is a Lightning Boy and so on. And don’t worry, I’ll make sure he won’t eat everything!”

“It’s OK, there’s plenty for everyone. Also, if you plan to dance at some point tonight, watch out for my pink haired friend Lavinia. She is a little bit eager about tap dancing.”

“I don’t think we are gonna dance…” Calypso cursed herself for blushing like a teenager when she pictured herself going for a slow dance with Leo, standing as close to him as possible. “…But thanks for the warning.” Then she waved at the hosts quickly and started dragging Leo out of the room.

“Well? What do you think of my friends?” Calypso whispered when they were picking some nachos on their plates and no one was in the hearing distance.

“Hazel seems cool,” Leo replied nonchalantly. “But you really think I pay attention to anyone else when I have my amazing girlfriend next to me?”

“You’re so cheesy, Leo,” Calypso said but gave him her brightest smile. She might have also kissed him if it weren’t for the other people nearby and the fact that she was carrying a plate full of food.

“Part of my charm, babe,” Leo claimed, giving her that stupid grin that never failed to make her feel things. He sat down on an unoccupied chair near the table and started enjoying his nachos. “Hey, these are really good! You gotta try them.”

“Babe? I thought we already had our nickname discussion,” Calypso interrupted him. She sat down next to him but didn’t taste her nachos yet, instead expecting his answer.

“But it’s better than Mamacita, isn’t it?” Leo asked innocently.

Calypso couldn’t argue with that logic. “Well, yes, it is, but… maybe you should stick to Sunshine. Or just Cal. I’m not… huge on pet names. I’m just not used to them.”

Thankfully Leo seemed to understand. “Alright. I won’t call you a babe, then. My mom just used to say ‘a dear child has many names’ and it seems that has stuck with me. I think she meant that we have a tendency to give nicknames to those we care about. Maybe that’s the reason why I sometimes go a bit extra with the names I give you guys… especially you.”

“Oh. I see.”

There was something weirdly sweet about Leo’s reasoning behind his nicknames and Calypso couldn’t help but smile down at her food. She didn’t realize she had been lost in her thoughts for a moment until Leo said:

“Earth’s calling Calypso. Try this,” Leo handed her a nacho that had some sauce she wasn’t familiar with on it.

“Chili?” she asked when she tasted it and felt a slight sting on her tongue. It wasn’t a bad sensation, though; this sauce was notably milder than the one Leo had once fed her. “You really find ways to make me eat it.”

“Admit it: you liked it.”

Calypso was feeling a little brave because they were somehow still alone in the room: “Make me.”

Leo was about to lean closer to her when someone entered the room without a warning.

“Uh… Hi!” Nico di Angelo finally reacted to their presence when Calypso and Leo jumped a bit farther from each other.

“Hi, Nico,” Leo greeted him. “I wasn’t expecting to see anyone I know here but it looks like I was wrong.”

“Seems so,” Nico replied, not in a mood for small talk.

“So how is it going?” Leo asked. “And how’s Will?”

“It’s going,” Nico shrugged, combing some of his long bangs to the side with his fingers. “Been trying to take it easy lately. Doctor’s orders. Will works as an intern at a hospital and turns out they really needed his help on New Year’s Eve so he’s not here yet. Something about lots of fireworks related accidents and so on…”

“Fireworks suck,” Leo commented, and Calypso noticed an angry spark in his eyes. “They feel like such a waste of money and they cause people to lose their eyes and such.”

Calypso wondered if Leo’s hatred towards the fireworks had something to do with the fact that fire was involved but she decided to ask about it later.

“Tell me about it,” Nico agreed. “Anyway, how do you two know Hazel and Frank?”

Calypso briefly explained how she had met Hazel at the art class and Leo told Nico about Festus’ vet visit.

“Somehow Hazel even knows my second cousin from Louisiana. How crazy is that?” Leo marveled.

“Pretty crazy, yeah,” Nico admitted, not contributing more to the topic so Leo decided to ask about something else.

“You haven’t happened to hear anything about Jason or Piper lately? I accidentally ran into Piper at Christmas and she seemed to be doing OK then, but… I’m still a bit worried about them.”

“I don’t really know much.” Nico replied vaguely. “Just that Jason hasn’t been home much lately. He’s always training, or with Percy and Annabeth or… I dunno. Just avoiding dealing with the situation. Or that’s at least how Will has interpreted his behavior. He’s way better at reading others than I am.”

Leo let out a frustrated sigh. “If only those two talked it out, said what they really thought…”

Calypso couldn’t help but see the amusing side of Leo’s statement. She started chuckling at him and both Leo and Nico gave her perplexed looks.

“What’s so funny about this? I was trying to be serious, Cal.” He narrowed his eyes, folding his arms over his chest.

That only made Calypso even more amused. “I know, I know! I’m sorry. It’s just that… don’t you think that’s a little bit ironic coming from your mouth?”

“From my mouth…?”

Nico still looked like he understood nothing about what was going on, but Leo had at least a tendency to blush when he realized that Calypso was right.

“Oh, this is totally different!” he claimed. “I, um, have my reasons to keep my mouth shut in certain situations. But those two… they’re just being weird.”

“I’m not even trying to follow this conversation anymore,” Nico stated, going to gather some chips and a beer from the food table. “Will would probably be able to translate Leo’s incoherent speech but he’s not here so I’m just gonna eat quietly now.”

Leo gave him an annoyed look and focused on his own food for a while. Once finished, he told Calypso that he wanted to see where the rest of the guests were. Calypso, relieved that Nico hadn’t apparently connected the dots about their relationship, agreed to follow him, but soon she realized that it might have been a mistake when Leo was walking towards the dancing area.

Being on the dance floor usually meant that you were expected to dance.

And she was not ready to dance. At all.

First of all, she hadn’t danced in years and while Calypso usually wasn’t too self conscious about those kinds of things, she still didn’t want to embarrass herself in front of Leo and the others. Second of all, she was quite sure that people would speculate - again - if they saw her dancing with Leo and she didn’t want that. She may have told Hazel about her crush some time ago and she did trust her, but who knew what kind of connections the other people in the room had?

Suddenly she realized that she was being paranoid. The people at this party were in their late teens or early twenties and probably had never even heard of her father. And why would they care if she was dancing with him? That was a normal thing to do at parties. It didn’t automatically have to mean anything.

There were already a lot of people gathered on the dance floor when the roommates arrived there. A few were dancing a bit farther from the rest of the group, while the others were watching a pink haired girl with real tap dance shoes on showing her skills. She must have been Lavinia, Calypso concluded. And based on her determined look, she seemed ready to challenge anyone who dared to pass by into a dance battle.

“Lavi!” Hazel’s voice came from behind Calypso. “Are you showing off again?”

The group that was standing in front of Lavinia moved from her way, and Calypso got a better look at her. Her shoulder length hair was flying freely and she was wearing a purple T-shirt and black pants to go with her shoes. Calypso also noticed that even though she had stopped dancing, one of her feet still kept tapping quietly on the floor, as if she was unable to stand still.

“Sorry, Hazel. Couldn’t help myself,” Lavinia muttered, and Hazel’s expression softened a bit. Calypso was still surprised to see this side of her because usually she seemed very kind, but clearly she still had authority even over people who were way bigger and older than her whenever it was needed.

“It’s OK! But try to let the others dance too, and not just tap dance.”

“Alright,” Lavinia answered but rolled her eyes when Hazel didn’t look. Calypso could hear her whisper to the closest people: “She just doesn’t understand the art of tap dance.”

Soon after that, the people in the room started dividing into smaller groups, some trying to chat over the loud music, some dancing. Calypso and Leo tried to spot some familiar faces but Hazel had already disappeared somewhere and Frank, Nico and Rachel weren't nearby either. Just when Leo opened his mouth to ask something, Calypso noticed that Lavinia, who had stopped dancing, was approaching them.

“Hi. We haven’t met before,” Lavinia started.

“Yeah, hi. I’m Calypso. Hazel’s friend from the art classes.” She shook Lavinia’s hand and then turned towards Leo. “This is my b… flatmate Leo. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Lavinia Asimov. Hazel and I used to go to the same school,” Lavinia said, but Calypso couldn’t help but notice that even when she was shaking hands with Leo, she was actually eyeing her.

“That’s cool,” Calypso replied casually although she was starting to feel slightly weird because of the staring.

“So, Calypso, do you know how to dance?” Lavinia asked.

“Not really, I just know some very basics,” she replied. “Haven’t danced in years, to be honest.”

“I could teach you, you know,” Lavinia blurted.

“Really?” Calypso asked, slightly confused by the other girl’s eagerness.

“Sure, why not? I’m pretty good.” Lavinia grinned at her.

“Do you mean now or...?”

“Now or whenever you’d like.” The girl twirled a strand of her pink hair around her finger as she spoke.

It took Calypso a moment to realize that Lavinia was actually trying to flirt with her in her own way.

“Hold on. I’m really flattered, but… I’m already taken.” Calypso rubbed the back of her head. From the corner of her eye she could see Leo’s stance getting more relaxed when he heard her answer. “Sorry. You seem like a cool person, though.”

Lavinia seemed visibly disappointed by Calypso’s response. “Are you taken by him?” She pointed at Leo judgingly. “You could do better than that.”

Calypso wasn’t sure what to answer, given that she wasn’t supposed to reveal their secret to anyone, but to her relief Leo cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Miss Pink? We literally just met; what makes you think you know what kind of person I am? You’re right in one thing, though,” he continued before Lavinia could reply. “Namely, she is way out of my league. And her boyfriend would probably kill me if I looked at her in the wrong way.”

“But… didn’t you just say you two are flatmates?” Lavinia asked suspiciously.

“Oh, yeah,” Leo responded quickly. “Cal’s boyfriend lives far from our uni so it was more convenient for her to get a flat from somewhere nearer to it. He knows he can trust me.”

Calypso wasn’t sure what amused (and scared) her more: the lies Leo came up with or the way he managed to sound that convincing even though he was literally coming up with the story as he spoke. At least Hazel wasn’t listening because she probably wouldn’t have bought it. Eventually Calypso decided she needed to contribute to the story as well.

“Besides, my boyfriend knows that I would kick Leo’s ass if he ever did anything inappropriate.”

Calypso noticed that Leo’s mouth was twitching slightly, but he quickly pulled the poker face back on and rushed to nod along.

“Totally. I wouldn’t wanna try that.”

Lavinia finally seemed convinced enough. “Alright. Well… I think I’ll go and find something to drink now. Dancing makes me thirsty.”

“Okay, we might see you later.” Calypso nodded at her before she disappeared from view. Once they were sure that she was far enough, she breathed a sigh of relief.

“Whew, she really seemed convinced we are dating,” she whispered to Leo. “I was worried she wouldn’t believe us. Also, Mister Not-boyfriend, I’ll have you know I do not approve of lying but in this case it was probably for the best. So thanks.”

Leo grinned at her. “You’re welcome. Geez, Sunshine, do you see the effect you have on people? Everyone is falling on your feet.”

Calypso blushed a bit. “It’s a bit weird… I am not used to getting attention.”

“You’ll get used to it once I shower you with the Leo love,” he whispered and Calypso blushed even harder.

“Gods, Leo! Don’t say that here!” Calypso peeked around and was relieved to see that no one they knew was nearby.

“Couldn’t resist,” he claimed but then got more serious. “Uh, so… do you think dancing would be pushing the line that we have set?”

“It probably would,” Calypso said a bit sadly. “Maybe when we’re home, though.” She added quietly.

Leo seemed pleasantly surprised by her answer. “Oh! Okay. I’ll be looking forward to that.”

“Hey, listen,” Calypso spoke again. “Maybe we should split up for a moment. Nico and Frank could probably use your company and I’d like to catch up with Hazel a bit since I haven’t had a chance yet. Is that alright with you?”

“Sure, go ahead,” Leo nodded. “I need to make sure that Nico doesn’t eat all the miniburgers from the bar.”

Calypso chuckled. “Alright. Save some for me too! I've only tasted the nachos so far!”

“I will try,” Leo replied, emphasizing the word try. “Well, see you in a bit!” He waved at her.

Once Leo had disappeared, Calypso started looking for Hazel and found her from the balcony with Rachel and a couple of other friends of hers, watching the fireworks from the distance.

“Hi, you guys,” she greeted. “Looks like nice weather for the fireworks show.”

“Yep, it is,” Hazel agreed. “So… how did your little vacation go?” She went straight to the topic, smiling at Calypso slightly mischievously. “You and Leo seemed pretty chummy over there.”

“Chummy?” Calypso laughed awkwardly. “I don’t even know what that means,” she lied, trying to use the fact that she wasn’t a native English speaker as her advantage. “But the vacation was pretty good. Sure, there were some ups and downs as you can expect when you’re spending the holidays in a new place with people you don’t know very well, but overall? I had a good time.”

“I can almost see with my own eyes what exactly happened there now…” Hazel rolled her eyes. “Come on. Give me some details. Please tell me that some progress has happened.”

“But there really is not much to tell,” Calypso insisted. “I taught Leo’s little sister Georgina some baking and sewing and stuff like that and helped with the Christmas preparations and met some new people… Oh! And Leo’s family has an animal shelter; they had some adorable dogs and cats and…”

Hazel looked less enthusiastic when she realized that Calypso really was not going to tell her any news about her and Leo.

“So… nothing really happened?” she asked.

“No,” Calypso said as convincingly as she could. “Although we did have a good talk one day and I feel that we can be more open towards each other now. But we are not together. It’s not the right time for that yet.”

Hazel tilted her head, still unconvinced. “I heard Lavinia talking about you a moment ago, though. Something about some guy not realizing how lucky he was.”

Calypso started feeling she was reaching the limits of her acting skills, but she tried her best. “I… uh, may have told her that I was taken to make things less awkward. Sorry, I know that was extremely rude of me.”

“No worries,” Hazel reassured her. “I’m sure she’ll get over it quickly. Besides, I happen to know that there’s someone she really really likes and hasn’t just found the courage to ask her out yet.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I hope she manages to do that at some point.”

The girls proceeded to talk about other things, such as Hazel’s vacation, the foster animals of Waystation and their expectations on the upcoming art classes, with Rachel joining the conversation as well. Calypso was just laughing at Rachel’s story about the many uses of a hair brush (she had used one for painting and another for threatening her teacher who had misbehaved towards her) when Nico rushed into the balcony, looking even paler than usual.

“Calypso, I think you should come. Something’s not right with Leo.”

[waywardrose]

On Babbushka

There is a group of well-known writers in the fandom who have been discouraged and put down by one of their own, Zannah - @babbushka​. It happens behind the scenes in DMs. It happens in posts and tags.

In DMs, she has started conversations with seemingly innocent questions. When she doesn't receive the response she was aiming for, she diverts the conversation to criticizing and humiliating the person. She has attacked writers for tagging—or not tagging—a post in a way she deems appropriate. She has gotten into arguments over how characters were portrayed and then tried to claim victimization when the other person wouldn't knuckle under.

She will appeal to her following to attack any fan or creator who has an opinion that differs from her own. She will encourage friends to send rude anons. Those same friends will also DM the target with rude remarks.

Several creators have stopped writing altogether because of their interactions with her.

We are tired of being discouraged. We are tired of being talked down to. We are tired of being bullied. Enough is enough. Under the cut we share our stories, let the chips fall where they may. It's up to you, the reader, to decide whether to support her.

We can only warn up-and-coming writers, artists, fans, and supporters of her behavior.

-

Hope - @callmehopeless

The Australian bushfires of the 2019-2020 season were nightmarish—for those living through it and those witnessing. As the season went on, cries for help increased. Joaquin Phoenix used the time during his Best-Actor acceptance speech at the Golden Globes to call for unity, action, and accountability. Regardless of what we may think of him, it was a thoughtful speech.

Hope, who is an Australian, found Mr. Phoenix's message encouraging and reblogged a gifset of his speech.

That morning, Zannah made a post about Mr. Phoenix's shady past and his association with a known sexual predator. The main reason wasn't because his speech was inappropriate or not timely, but because she didn't think he should be the one to get the attention over other actors who had spoken of the bushfires during the Golden Globes.

While Hope confessed she was scared of the bushfires, scared for her loved ones, Zannah was more concerned with purity. To Zannah it was about the face of the message, not the message itself. It didn't matter that Mr. Phoenix was amplifying support for Australia, what did matter was that he had done bad things.

It was virtue signaling on Zannah's part.

Still, this remains a complicated argument. Can a person who has done bad things actually have something positive to add to a cause? Should we listen to a problematic person if they share an insight? Does it reflect poorly on us to agree with their isolated statement? Will we be canceled, too? What about the bigger picture?

In this case, the bigger picture was hundreds of homes were destroyed in the bushfires and families were displaced. People died, thousands of animals died. And it was because of climate change. Mr. Phoenix called for his rich peers to examine their respective lifestyles and to give back.

Yes, Mr. Phoenix has done bad things. Yes, he has associated with people who have done bad things. His words resonated with people on Tumblr, and they reblogged part of his speech. He said something that gave Hope hope.

Hope was asked by a third party how they could help. She came back with a resource guide for those who wanted to send aid to Australians.

When it became obvious Zannah wouldn't silence Hope, Zannah decided to sub-post about the interaction. There, she accused Hope of being a rape apologist for reblogging a gifset and finding a little comfort in it. Zannah placed her ego before someone who was facing a very real danger.

Side-eying an actor is one thing, shaming a person you know for finding solace during a scary time is another. Hope isn't responsible for which voice got picked up. The only "colors" being shown here are Zannah's. She put her own concerns about being perceived as morally pure above actually supporting a friend.

I'll keep this brief - I knew Zannah for many years. And on one of the lowest weeks of my life, when my suburb was burning down and I feared for my family: she convinced me I was a rape apologist for sharing Joaquin Phoenix's speech asking for action on bushfires. In all my life, I never felt more alone. To add insult to injury, she then posted memes mocking me - something that has stuck with me to this day.

I've had dear friends quit the fandom because of her kinkshaming. I've had people I love message me distraught over what she's said.

Enough is enough.

— @callmehopeless

-

Rose - @the-wayward-rose​

This PM exchange started after I tagged my reblog of Zannah's fic Feast (Cameron Bistle x Reader) with cw: white reader. I had been on her taglist, and I wanted to show support because I liked the fic overall. For context, the reason for my tag is because of this sentence:

"But then you're blushing so pretty and squeezing his hand affectionately and reaching for the handle to the passenger side of his car, and then you're laughing when he swats your hand away to open it for you, and then you're beckoning him down as if to ask a question – only to place a chaste kiss to his lips instead."

This is from Cameron's point of view.

She asked the reason for the tag, and I explained it was because of the use of "blush" to describe Reader's appearance.

She misunderstood my premise. I did not mean only white people blush.

According to Merriam-Webster, blush means "a reddening of the face especially from shame, modesty, or confusion" or "a red or rosy tint."

It is an autonomic response, though. It happens in all humans for body cooling and nonverbal communication. The main problem with using it universally is that melanin obscures the appearance of said autonomic response.

Here's an example of three runners:

The two pale women, left and center, are pink in the face. They are blushing. The woman of color on the right is likely blushing, too. However, the melanin in her skin obscures the blood in her cheeks. She is not pink.

That's the pitfall of the word "blush." The observer can't always see it. We know what it feels like. We all do it. The face and/or neck gets hot. The use of "blush" is shorthand in narrative, and I understand that. Nevertheless, when writing to cater to a reader-insert audience of unknown heritage, writers need to consider describing with universal terms.

Again, she misunderstood my premise. I clarified by asking how Cameron sees the Reader blush under an abundance of melanin:

She sidestepped the physiological explanation to go straight for justification. She tried to legitimize "blush" as "perhaps [this]" or "perhaps [that]" when I stated earlier that blush by definition is pink or is to redden. That's the logic. A noncommittal, covering-all-the-bases, complicated defense diluted the conversation.

With her earlier "I have friends of color, hence I can't be exclusionary" statement, I wasn't sure she would get my point. I take full responsibility for not explaining, too. I should've asked for some time to gather my thoughts, but I didn't. Truthfully, I was unprepared, because I didn't think my insignificant tag would be an issue.

Also, I was confused why she was trying to police my blog.

Her replies came rapidly—before I could mention my confusion—and felt aggressive in the moment. Maybe that wasn't her intention, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

That doesn't take away from the fact that words have meaning. It's why we use specific words. It's not understood in the narrative that her use of "blush" could mean a bunch of things. If I had known, I wouldn't have tagged as I did. How is a reader of color supposed to know that? How does Cameron see Reader's blush if she has darker skin?

As writers, we don't know who is reading. Someone could be very pale or very dark. A person with medium-toned skin can turn a shade of pink or red. A person with darker-toned skin will not. We can't assume all readers are medium to pale. We need to develop better writing skills. We have to include everyone.

Readers of color > White-writer feelings

When I stood my ground, she doubled down, stating I made no sense in my tagging and that I lacked the ability to learn from her. She then diverted the argument, attacking a ficlet I wrote a few days beforehand—which had nothing to do with this argument. The Christian imagery in that ficlet was upsetting to her and "in such poor taste" because she headcanons Flip Zimmerman (BlacKkKlansman) is 100% culturally and ethnically Jewish.

Flip stated in the movie:

"I'm Jewish, but I wasn't raised to be. It wasn't part of my life. I never thought much about being Jewish. Nobody around me was Jewish. I wasn't going to a bunch of Bar Mitzvahs. I didn't have a Bar Mitzvah. I was just another white kid. And now I'm in some basement denying it out loud[...] I never thought much about it. Now I'm thinking about it all the time. About rituals and heritage. Is that passing? Well then, I have been passing."

By his own admission, Flip is ethnically Jewish, but not culturally. These are two separate things, and that should be recognized. While Judaism is ethnically and culturally entwined in ways that other religions are not, one does not equate the other. You can be one and not the other.

At the time, I didn't want her to sic her 3000+ followers on me. I wasn't going to argue further. I asked myself if the ficlet was important and worth anon-hate and realized, no, it wasn't. It was a throw-away.

And since I'm not culturally Jewish, maybe I had misstepped. And since Zannah is both culturally and ethnically Jewish, I asked for her guidance.

She flatly refused my request. I don't know how I was supposed to learn from her if she wouldn't teach me.

It sounded as if she wanted me to delete the whole fic. Like none of it was worth saving because it hadn't been Zannah-approved. I had gone against her headcanon, and the fic was too offensive to fix.

The last sentence was supposed to cover her back from criticism, and it placed all the responsibility on me. Obviously, she was above such petty concerns as someone else's blog or writing. Never mind that she had just attempted to get me to change my tagging system and rewrite my ficlet. On my blog.

Later, I figured out she was only criticizing and not offering a constructive critique. Her argument was not in good faith. It was retaliation for not giving her the obedience she thought she was owed.

This is the passage that offended her:

"It’s because of the way he fucks you. Like it’s confession—though he’s never been much of a church-going man. Every touch, every thrust, is a truth between you. Even when it’s rough and greedy. It feels like flagellation when you claw his back. He wears the sin proudly."

This is what I edited it to:

"It’s because of the way he fucks you. Every touch, every thrust, is a truth between you. Even when it’s rough and greedy. It feels like flagellation when you claw his back. He wears your marks proudly."

Yeah, I'm not pleased with the revised passage. It's lost its teeth, but I keep it.

The anonymous message(s) she mentioned weren't very anonymous, either. Unfortunately, I've since deleted the two messages. I had apologized to Anon for disappointing them. I said that if the fic was too much, they should unfollow and block me. I meant that in a self-care way. At the same time, I did not—and do not—owe anyone discourse. I don't have to explain my art when it doesn't hurt anyone. And no one was hurt by some purportedly misplaced religious imagery.

I have been silent about this since late January/early February. I was embarrassed. I had been bullied into changing my blog and my fic by someone who proclaims to never do anything of the sort. I had been a fool. Since this conversation with her, I have been blocked/blacklisted by third-parties, most likely at her behest, when none of this exchange had been necessary.

-

Kassanovella - @kylorengarbagedump​​

Zannah's followers have asked her about Kassanovella’s Fix Your Attitude. For context, it's currently one of the most kudo-ed fics for Kylo Ren x Reader on AO3. It had a bit of a renaissance earlier in 2020 because a TikToker wrote a song for it.

There is nothing wrong with not wanting to read a fic. If the subject matter doesn't work for a reader, they don't have to partake. Easy as that. So, these tags aren't a problem.

However, it led to this...

She lashed out, calling Kassanovella's fic a joke. A joke.

She implied her fics should be as popular as Kassanovella's because she works really hard on them. She admitted she's tied to the metrics. She implied she wouldn't be writing fic if not for the external validation.

Here's the thing about fanfic: readers like what they like. They don't care about a writer's effort. They only know what works for them. They comment and give kudos, reblog and like what they connect with. That is not under the writer's control. All a writer can do is try their best and concentrate on what they're passionate about.

To bash another writer's fic because it's popular is disrespectful. This whole bitter rant drips of entitlement and is an affront to Kassanovella.

Some time later, an incident happened in a chatroom during a streaming event for veterans by Arts In the Armed Forces (Adam Driver's organization). At least one fan brought up Fix Your Attitude while waiting for Mr. Driver to make an appearance. They were also disrespectful towards the other presenters by demanding to see Mr. Driver. It caused a big stink within the fandom, and Zannah had some choice words.

While mentioning the fic during the livestream was inappropriate, it was also inappropriate to throw all fans of the fic under the bus as she did in her tag. Sweeping generalizations and incriminations of a subset of fans certainly reads as if she resents those fans for a perceived slight.

Next, Zannah made an earlier disparaging comment about Kassanovella's fic, Little Bird. Unfortunately, that comment is lost. However, the messages supporting the comment remain. (For context, Little Bird is a Kylo Ren x Reader The Handmaid's Tale AU. It has been well received in the fandom, earning thousands of kudos on AO3.)

What an author wants to write about and sexualize is their business. Fantasizing about being dominated by Kylo Ren isn't cringe. It's a sexual fantasy. Some sexual fantasies can be disturbing to those who do not share the same kink.

Sexual fantasies are like ice cream. There's a reason why there are different flavors.

Also, "I will never ever be a person that tells an author what to do or not do" is an absolute lie. As evident in this post, Zannah most definitely tells authors what to do or not do.

Again, she bashes Kassanovella, claiming her writing isn't good. Her motivation for bashing Kassanovella can only be speculation. With Zannah's previously stated opinion of Fix Your Attitude, though, it indicates a certain level of negative emotions.

-

Anonymous

An anonymous person came forward with a case of Zannah policing their blog. Anon has a sideblog for their personal AU with Flip Zimmerman. They reblog gifsets and post headcanons. They were an enthusiastic fan of Zannah's and reblogged a few of the gifset she made. Anon tagged their reactions, and Zannah blocked them for it.

Anon went to Zannah and asked why they were blocked, because all they wanted to do was have fun and support fellow Flip lovers.

Anon was under the impression that because they were shipping themselves, and not Zannah, with Flip, she blocked them. Their personal AU doesn't align with Zannah's headcanon that she alone is married to this character and has his children.

While Zannah's reply may sound innocent, and perhaps it is, it also speaks to someone who has set herself up as the owner of Flip Zimmerman. (Wait until Spike Lee or the real Ron Stallworth hears about that...) It appears that if a fan does not comply with the Zannah-approved headcanon, where only she is married to Flip, that fan shall be blocked. If a fan uses tags on their blog that she does not approve of, that fan will be blocked.

Zannah's policing is disturbing. Going into a blog to look for something as a reason to block is disturbing. Any fan is allowed to use any tag on their blog how they wish. If the OP has said their post can be reblogged, how a reblogger tags is beyond the OP's control. To punish that reblogger for not behaving in a way she finds acceptable is uncalled for and unjust.

-

Anonymous

Backstory: Zannah does not view Ben Solo's arc in the Star Wars sequel trilogy as acceptable canon. However, she does view the story she created for Flip Zimmerman in BlacKkKlansman as completely canon.

This is not the first time she has been asked to clarify her position. Nor is it the first time she has avoided giving an on-topic response. A question asked in good faith should be responded to in kind.

If a creator doesn't want to address the issue, they can state that they don't. Deflecting from the question only muddies the waters. Fans feel dismissed. The creator feels hounded, and comes across as irritated and unapproachable. No one has a positive fandom experience.

There is nothing wrong with having a headcanon. What is wrong is Zannah mandating her headcanon for Flip on the whole fandom. As evident in this post, if a fan does not comply with her headcanon, they will be summarily blocked.

Also, there is nothing wrong with rejecting canon. Writers of transformative works have always done this. The problem is shaming fans who have accepted canon while not offering justification for that shaming. A creator saying they "can't help them" is the creator washing their hands of responsibility from articulating their thoughts when they themselves began criticizing the canon in the first place.

Again, this is a bad-faith argument. Creators can't ask for discussion and attention and then get mad when their viewpoints are challenged. Just because a discussion isn't going a creator's way doesn't mean it's an attack, either. It means people want clarification, and if one criticizes, they should be able to back up their criticisms.

-

While sharing our stories has been freeing, it's not our aim as fellow fans to cancel Zannah. We would hope she would take the opportunity to reflect on the damage she has done to the fandom. We hope we all can move forward with a more approachable and supportive scene.

No one person speaks for our fandom. The actions of one fan do not represent the entire fandom. Whether creator or consumer, you are welcome here.

[posted July 25, 2020]

[bellasweetwriting]

Fix His Broken Heart

Jess Mariano x f.reader

(not my gif)

masterlist

request: Hiii, i want a jess fic🥺 theres not enough jess mariano fics here, how about after rory goes to visit him at truncheon he meets the reader and she helps him move on from rory and he falls in love with reader. 💞💞

requested by: @beautiful-thinking

note: I’m a big literati shipper so this was hard but also fun to write I really love this

warnings: movie references, drinking, gilmore girls s2,s3 and s6 spoilers, some fancy vocabulary, Logan hate

word count: 1,7k

reading time: 7 min

And he saw her walk away to his arms. She found comfort in another guy. She moved one.

He hated himself for realizing that after all these years of knowing this person, still, it isn't enough. He and Rory evolved separately, they don't have the same goals or the same resources. As much as they try, it seemed like destiny didn't want their paths to cross one another.

He realized that he lost her as soon as she walked out of that door. She was gone. What now?

He'll probably see her again at Luke and Lorelai's wedding; hell, he'll even see Logan there also. The way he despited that guy. He cheated on her, and still, there she was, madly in love with him.

Logan is better than him in Rory's eyes, and he couldn't do anything to change that. He was a forgotten part of her story, an item locked inside a box that she opens when she feels lost. She probably doesn' think of him anymore like she used to.

But he thinks of her at least once a day. When he walks through the bookstore and notices the new edition of Dawn Powell's My Home Is Far Away, or when his friends bring coffee and offer to him, reminding him of her slight coffee addiction. Who's he kidding? There's nothing "slight" about Rory Gilmore's coffee addiction, it's concerning.

Any little thing reminded him of her and the fact that now he's sure she doesn't think of him anymore... saddens him.

Everyone was celebrating the success of the event that day, while Jess drowned his sorrows in a cold beer, also glancing over the girls that walked past him.

"I should warn you that if you are planning to Kurt Cobain on my bar, don't." That expression provoked an immediate reaction on Jess's face. "Not a fan of dark humor?"

"Not when it comes from the mouth of a stranger, not," he replied, making the girl chuckle. "Do you always attend your costumers like that, Rick Blaine?" Asked Jess naming the main character of Casablanca, who happened to owned a bar/restaurant in the 1940s.

"Rick Blaine? Don't tell me you are one of those guys who listen to The Clash on repeat and think they are better than the rest of the world because they know references from black and white movies and have read at least one book by Bukowski in the last three months." Jess drank from his beer, making the girl opened her mouth widely. "Oh, God, you are! A living Danielle Steel novel main character drinking alone in my bar." He laughed.

"I used to be that guy," Jess corrected her. "I've changed."

"A girl?"

"A breakup with a girl, to be fairer. I work at a little bookstore called Truncheon. We are all independent writers, and to give you some credit, some of us do look like Danielle Steel's characters. Not that I have read anything by her, though."

Jess wasn't like that. He didn't tell people he doesn't know about himself or his personal life, but for some reason, probably the effects of the alcohol in that beer were making him loosen up a bit with this complete stranger. Yeah, a significant event has happened in his life. The girl he thought he was going to be with forever decided to be with someone else rather than him, and he hasn't thought of anyone else romantically. He's so used to being alone, so used to not having anyone to actually talk to, that, maybe, liberating his internal thoughts and regrets with someone he isn't going to see again is probably for the best.

Not a therapist or a friend, just, someone external who isn't going to dig dipper in his subconscious to understand his situation and actions or someone who is involved in the story; someone who just―listens.

"You read one, you read them all." She commented. "Independent writers, huh? Have you published anything I have written?"

"Probably not," he said with that typical modesty he has earned through the pass of the years. "I just have one book out, is a self-published, so..." She nodded. "I actually did a little road trip, trying to make independent bookstores like mine to put them in the store. Probably, by the end of the month, I'll have twenty bucks and a sticker that says: «keep trying, champ.»"

"How poetic," the barista murmured, and both chuckle.

"Do you have a copy of your book?" She asked, and he nodded, giving it to her. "The Subsect, by Jess Mariano. Truncheon Books," she read before turning it around and reading the back cover. "«A self-published, prominent and dark-humored coming of age short novel following the unique life of J., a seventeen-year-old with no place to call home.» That's dark. How much for it?"

"Twenty bucks and a sticker," she chuckled, "or, a free beer."

"Sounds like a fair deal, Jess Mariano." He smiled at the mention of his name. "I'm Y/N."

"Nice to meet you, Y/N." She placed the book inside her apron with a tiny smile. "So you work here."

"Oh, you said that because of the apron and the fact that I'm behind the counter? No, I'm just a big fan of... college bars in Philadelphia." The sarcasm in Y/N's voice made Jess grin. "My brother owns the place. He lets me live upstairs while I go to college, and I pay rent by working here. The books you see behind me are mine. I study on my break."

"What are you studying?"

"English. I want to be a screenplay writer." He sighed before shaking his head. "What?"

"A film writer? Why?"

"I love films. I love watching them, reviewing them, analyzing them. I want to write masterpieces. What's wrong with that? At least I'm not writing coming of age short novels."

"It's not a coming of age novel, that's just the hideous synopsis that my poet friends come up with for the book. It's actually a lot deeper than that."

"The only way of finding that out is reading it, right?"

"Right."

Both looked at each other for a few seconds before she asked for his glass to refill that free beer she offered him.

"How about... if I come tomorrow, take you out, and you buy me that beer? How about that?" Y/N chuckle before agreeing.  He didn't believe it actually worked. He had tried to ask girls out in the last two years, but they've always said that they weren't interested. But there was something different and intriguing about Y/N that had caught the young writer's attention. "At what time do you finish class?"

"Pick me up at eight here, I'll wait."

"Cool."

"Cool."

...............................................................................................................................

He was nervous.

A date. Jess has never even been on one before. Not even with Rory. He never took Rory on a date like a dinner or a movie before they started going out. He used to tease her, and she fell for him, God knows why.

He took Rory on dates when they were dating, although if you count the car ride as a date. No, it wasn't a date. She was Dean's girlfriend at the time, and he crashed her car.

Why did she even like him? He crashed her car for God's sake. If he was Rory, he would have hated himself.

He hated himself already.

It wasn't like in books. Girls are complicated, and the male writers he is so used to reading about usually don't talk about dates and how to get a girl; the girl is already in love with the main character.

She did mention Danielle Steel. Did she read that kind of dramas, like Nicholas Sparks and John Green, where the characters just die in each other's arms like a shoddy Shakespeare tragedy imitation? Did she like that? He didn't know how to be a "romance" kind of guy. He still used the "bully her because you like her" technique, and maybe that's the only part of him that hasn't changed with the years.

He still didn't know how to communicate and express himself. He still wasn't used to talking about his emotions or being in a healthy relationship where there's no such thing as privacy. He wasn't born to assist to cotillions and balls, wear tuxes like James Bond and use fancy words gentleman-like, such as "Farewell," "Luxury," "Eloquent," and "Hope you had a marvelous evening, thanks for joining us in our humble and splendid gathering."

But that was Rory's world. Probably Logan used words like that without even knowing the meaning of them.

He quickly noticed that thinking about his ex-girlfriend before a date wasn't a good sign.

Maybe he should stand her up? No, that is an old Jess move. He is a changed man, he doesn't treat girls like that anymore. He is better, he is more mature, he wants to achieve something, actually becoming a better and selfless person who thinks about the consequences before acting. He wasn't going to stand Y/N up.

By a quarter past eight, he was standing on the bar's entrance, making eye contact with the barista from the previous day. Y/N smiled at him before saying goodbye to the guy next to her, grabbing her purse and walking towards Jess.

"Thought you wouldn't show up, Romeo."

"Can't believe you took me for a coward."

"In my defense, I saw you drinking your problems away yesterday." He nodded before putting her coat on her shoulders for her, making Y/N smile. "What a gentleman."

"There are so many things you don't know about me. You would surprise yourself."

"Oh, let me guess: you've never been on a date before."

"What? Why would you say that?"

"Well, because we are walking instead of driving."

"I have a dark past with cars and girls. You wouldn't want me to be behind the wheel while you are inside the car after you hear it, believe me."

"Good to know." Both laughed as they walked under the streetlights of Philadelphia. "I've never been on a date either," she admitted, taking him by surprise, but not as much to make a comment about it.

Jess has never felt more comfortable. Next to her, he felt like he was free of judgments. Starting a new story, blank page, blank notebook. He felt safe, and he hasn't felt safe in another person's arms in such a long time.

This was good for him. To finally... move on.

And who better than her to fix his broken heart.

[lu-undy]

Un-alone, Chapter 9

Here it is!

“Y’like following rugby, son? I can probably find a channel with it…” 

Philip was switching from channel to channel on the remote.

“I like it but not as much as Dad. I’m ok if you wanna watch somethin’ else, eh.”

“Ah, well… Oh, look, that’s the stuff I’m sure your mum would like, heh.”

Mundy and his uncle were on the sofa with a beer. 

“Oh yeah, she follows a show like that back home. Y’know the kind where it’s all about drama and all…?”

“Yeah, good thing she’s asleep or she’d have started to follow this one, eh?”

Both chuckled between two sips on their fresh beverage. 

“Oh by the way, I wanted to thank you, Micky.”

“What for?” Mundy’s head swung to his uncle. 

“It’s nice to have someone help me with the physio exercises. It gets borin’ when I’m on my own. I feel like it’s goin’ better since you’re here.”

“Oh, well, you’re welcome, it’s not much, eh?”

“Still, makes a difference to me. Thanks, Micky.”

Mundy nodded to his uncle with a smile.

“Mum got tired today, eh?”

“Y’know your mum, restless she is.”

“Yeah…”

“What did you two get to in town this mornin’?” Phil asked and drank a bit more of his beer.

“Ah, uh, Mum wanted to check the big mall she’d seen when she arrived. And we saw it was market day so I drove her there too. Allowed me to have a drive around with the van, get her used to American asphalt, eh?”

“I bet you’re more used to drivin’ in the desert, right?”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“Your mum’s been tellin’ me a lot about your job.”

Mundy’s head swooshed to his uncle.

A half surprised, half apprehensive “Oh…” slipped out of his lips. He averted his eyes.

“Apparently you’re real good… I’m proud, son.”

Mundy’s eyes snapped wide. 

“Oh, uh, I mean… Thanks.”

“She even said you worked for the police and all. Y’know, it’s hard for us to admit we’re not big enough for the job and go get help from the outside. You should be proud.”

Mundy nodded but kept his head lowered. 

“I’m serious, Micky. I know your parents won’t tell you, but I’m sure at least part of them are proud of you too.”

Mundy blushed and in the dimness of the evening, it was invisible to his uncle.

“I’ve uh…” Philip resumed. “I’ve called back at work.”

“Oh, is there a problem?”

“Nah, I just wanted to know what kind of job they gave you.”

Mundy’s eyebrows jumped.

“You could’ve just asked me.”

“You’d never have answered, Micky.”

“Yeah, well…”

They exchanged a smile.

“So they told you?” Mundy asked.

“They didn’t. They said it was sensitive info.” 

“Ah…” Mundy scratched the back of his neck. 

“Real proud I am, son. If they call you for stuff like that, then you’re really somethin’!” He gently punched Mundy’s shoulder and the young man chuckled out of nervousness. “C’mon!”

“You told Mum?”

“Nah, I didn’t. She’d worry and make your dad worry with her. But I wanted to chat with you about it. They said they called you in because you’re a brilliant hunter.”

“Y-yeah, I guess.”

“C’mon, quit the modesty, son! You’re amazin’ with a rifle, and talking about your mum, I wanted to ask you somethin’.”

“Yeah?”

“She told me a few things about your work.”

Mundy sighed. He knew it would come, his uncle being proud was too good to be true.

“She’s worried, isn’t she?” He made the call himself.

“Yeah. She’s worried cause-”

“I know, I’m gonna get at the wrong end of a gun one day, I know... “

“Nah, Micky. Not that.”

“What?” Mundy raised a curious eyebrow.

“I mean, yeah, your job’s dangerous and all. But there’s stuff she doesn’t really get about you, you know…?”

“What?” Mundy repeated, oblivious as to where his uncle was going.

“Listen,” Phil lowered the volume on the TV. He looked left and right, as if to make sure that his sister wouldn’t appear out of nowhere. “Your mum’s… not really worried but uh… let’s say curious.”

“About what? Is it about the long trips out with the van?”

“A bit… I mean… Is it for work?”

“Sometimes, yeah. Hunting stuff sometimes takes days, even weeks. But if I know I’m gonna be away for a long time, I sometimes make the trip back home, for Mum and Dad to not get anxious or anything.”

“Why not just tell them straight up that you have to be away for work?”

“Because they don’t like my job.”

“So what? You prefer to go and not say anythin’?”

“Better than pick up another fight with them.” Mundy said. “I’m just tired of it.”

“Of your job?”

“Nah, I love my job. I’m tired with them not likin’ it. I get it, it’s dangerous and I get bruised sometimes. Beasts are rough but… It’s the only thing I know how to do and I love doin’ it. It’s challengin’ work, outdoors. You see beautiful species, get to work with them and all. Beautiful beasts out there in Oz, you know?”

“Look at you… All dreamy eyes and lazy smile.”

Both chuckled. One out of shame in front of his uncle. 

“You really like it, it’s awesome.You looked like you were talkin’ about some girl there.”

“Yea-I guess.” Mundy looked away.

“Hey, now, c’mon, it’s alright, don’t go all red and all, eh?”

“Yeah, well…” The nephew scratched the back of his neck nervously.

“Y’know, I fancied a lot of girls back in my days.” Philip started, hoping that Mundy would yield and tell him more about himself. “They looked nice and all but… In all my time, y’know, I was like you now, all red in the face and didn’t really get what they wanted.”

Mundy nodded politely, still uncomfortable.

“But now look at me… Never really managed to talk to them or anything. See, there were a few that were really good.” Philip stared in front of him and Mundy could see that this uncle saw these women in his living-room, as if they were really there. “Oh, they were something, really, and I remember my mum bein’ pushy with me and all…” He shook his head. “Got me in the same state as you are now.” Phil finally made eye-contact with his nephew. 

“Hm.”

Philip waited, hoping for Mundy to open up, but to no avail. When the silence became more than awkward, with the low volume on the TV not enough to distract them back to the screen, Phil broke it. 

“So, uh… You got anybody?”

“You mean…?”

“Yeah, a girl.”

“N-nah, I don’t.”

There was a pause. 

“Anyone in sight?” Phil asked.

“L-look, I’ll uh, I’ll go to bed. It’s late.” 

And as furtive as the wind, Mundy went to the guest room and closed the door before sliding between the sheets. 

His eyes stayed open and his heart was beating faster than he had let it on. Thank God people couldn’t feel the heat rise on his body, or sense his discomfort. If he had been facing beasts, it would have been a completely different story…

Mundy closed his eyes but his brow was still furrowed. 

Ha. It would have happened sooner or later. “The talk”.

Not the teenager edition of it though, no. The grown up one. The “you’re forty, where are my grandkids” one. 

The truth was that Mundy had had that argument - not really a discussion at this point - with his father. It was a few years back, he was alone with him, collecting the eggs around the garden on an early morning, giving Caroline a few extra hours of sleep. 

“So, son… What about sheilas?”

Mundy’s eyebrows twitched but he kept focused on the task at hand.

“Got anyone you wanna introduce to us?” His father Mike insisted. 

“N-nah, not really.”

“Oh… I know we never really talked about it but uh… It’d be nice if you found someone, get yourself a nice sheila and all… Maybe kids?”

Mundy stopped sharp as he was bending down to grab some eggs. 

“Have you thought about it?”

“N-nah.”

“I know that findin’ a good sheila these days is pretty hard but uh… I’m sure there are some left. If you’re a good boy, then there must be a good sheila for you!”

Mundy was red on the cheeks. He looked away.

“Son? Hey…”

Mike put a hand on his son’s shoulder to turn him around and face him. 

“What is it?”

Mundy raised his eyes to him, he looked and wished he could tell him more. Well, there’s a few things he could tell…

“I uh… They’re complicated.”

“Ho, yeah, they are…!” Mike chuckled and nodded. “When I first met your mum, she was a puzzle and a half to me!”

Mundy smiled. That wasn’t exactly what he had meant but as long as his father got an answer that he deemed satisfactory, then he wouldn’t talk about any of that for a while. He wasn’t proud of it, but that had always been Mundy’s strategy, buying time. Until what? God only knew. One thing was for sure, the Aussie couldn’t tell the truth to his parents. They would never understand and it was hard enough to impose his job on them. He didn’t have the strength and patience to try to impose anything else. 

And what was the truth in the end?

Well, to put it simply, Mundy had had a few adventures, here and there, a few girls.

The last one was years ago. Julia she was called. Outgoing, funny, and quite pretty she was. They had met in a pub and of course, she had taken the first step to him, as he went to get a pint after his little performance with the sax. 

They had joked and laughed and spent quite a nice evening, all the way till the pub was closing. They found themselves outside, the cold air of the deep night hitting their skin in the most pleasant way after simmering in the hot pub for hours. 

"Can you give me a ride home?" She had asked. 

"Uh, sure. Me van's right there." Mundy carried his saxophone case in one hand and pointed to his van as they both approached it. 

"Wow, that's cool…! Livin' on the roads, huh?" 

"Sometimes." 

"Free as a bird." 

They exchanged a look and a smile as Mundy unlocked it. 

"I'll just put the sax back, gimme a sec."

"Oh, uh, can I see what it looks like inside?" 

He had blushed. 

"Uh, I-I didn't tidy it up or anything. The place is a downright mess right now…"

"Please, c'mon, just to see how you fit in there." She joked. 

"What?" 

"You're so tall, I'm sure you have to bend down once you're in!"

They chuckled. 

"Nah, I don't."

"I don't believe you…" She teased and Mundy sighed. "Right, right, come and have a look then…" 

He opened the backdoor and jumped in. He put the saxophone away and as he turned back to Julia, she also had slipped in. 

"See how - oh… Uh… I mean…" Mundy was confused. She could have asked before entering and why was she closing the door now? "Julia? Uh… Oh…"

She had walked to him, in the dark, and pushed herself against him. Lacing her hand around his neck, she had pushed herself to the tip of her toes to reach him. She pushed her lips against his and Mundy's eyes snapped wide. 

Julia let her hands slowly trail on his polo shirt, while Mundy was petrified, a billion questions fusing in his head. 

She pushed him gently until his back was against the ladder leading to his bunk bed. That's when she slid her hands under his shirt and started to feel his bare skin, his stomach, soft, but not too much, his lean chest and his ribs making his skin wave right above them. Hairs on the chest and a trail down his stomach until her fingers bumped on his trousers and belt. 

Mundy didn't know how to react, what to say, so he let it happen. 

She unbuckled the belt and lost no time. Julia pushed them down, along with his boxer shorts and started pawing at his hips before her hands slid behind. Small but soft, and it all fit in her hands. He felt her smile against his lips. He closed his eyes and frowned. 

"C'mon, get up there…" She said, as if she had owned the place, and afraid as he was, Mundy obeyed. 

He wasn't scared of Julia herself. He wasn't scared of what she would do to him. Nah, of course not. He was scared of his own body and its reactions. 

Or rather, the lack thereof. 

When both were on the bed, Mundy started feeling Julia's hot and naked skin against his. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to imagine what he needed. 

She went down on him, taking a taste of every bit she pleased until her head was between Mundy's thighs. 

"Oh…"

She took it for a moan, but it was only surprise. That sheila was losing no bloody time. 

She worked on him and Mundy tried. He waved his hips in rhythm, shutting his eyes and curling up his toes, holding his breath. His efforts got him sweating and more embarrassed by the minute. 

At some point of course, she stopped. Not because she didn't want to proceed, but because Mundy's body wasn't reacting at all. He wasn't moaning, he wasn't relaxing, he wasn't enjoying himself. 

"Is there a problem?" 

Her voice made Mundy's eyes snap open in a fraction of a second. He felt ashamed, embarrassed beyond what words could describe. God damn it! Even drunk he couldn't fake it! Even trying to picture someone else in her stead he couldn't get his body to warm up to the idea?! 

"N-nah, I mean…"

"Don't lie to me, Mundy. It's been a long while of me ignoring it but I can't do anythin' to you.  You don't like it or what?" 

"No, nah, I do like it, it's just… uh…"

"So it's me? You don't like me? You find me ugly or somethin'?" 

Mundy's eyes had adjusted to the dark and he could see Julia's naked silhouette. All the curves were where a man would dream them to be. 

"No, you look fine - I mean, you look great…"

"Look, just be honest with me or I can just leave and get back home." 

She waited and Mundy's brain was running faster than a hamster in a wheel. 

"Uh - I mean…. Uhm…" 

He tried to find a way to say the words but his mouth was petrified, his skull was pressing hard on his brain and his vision had tunnelled to her eyes. 

"M'sorry…" He said and looked away. 

"Fuck's sake…" She sighed and got down his bed before dressing up hastily and leaving, slamming the door shut on her way out. 

Mundy was left as he was right now: on his bed alone, thinking about himself. 

Bloody hell. 

He had tried everything with sheilas, nothing had worked. He had tried to go for tomboys, for the most masculine of them all, trying to convince himself that they were his style but no. As close to a man as he found them, they were never a man. 

The Aussie turned in his bed and now faced the wall, in his uncle's guest room. 

He had tried very hard, for his parents, for himself. He had tried cheap magazines with all kinds of girls, he had let his friends set him up with women they thought would suit him. 

It was always the same. The same bloody curse. 

Chatting was fine. More than that? He didn't feel like it. 

He had stopped seeing his friends. He had run out of excuses to give them as to why the girls they sent him didn't suit him. They had stopped looking for him too, they just thought he was atrociously picky and naturally, the distance grew between those people that Mundy once used to call “mates”. 

Between his parents not liking his job one bit and his friends not understanding him either, Mundy found himself alone. At times, he wished it was different but most of the time, he lived perfectly in his little bubble. 

It was only when people challenged his bubble, came a bit too close with a needle and poked, that he retracted within himself, like a snail to his shell. 

Thinking about that night with Julia again, he felt it all come back to him. The indescribable shame, the look she had given him of disappointment, frustration, and the fact that he had led her to think that she could have more fun time with him, a lie? Nah, he had never dropped any, uh, hints, or anything to make her believe that he wanted her on his bed and between his legs, fiddling with his intimacy, in vain. 

Mundy could hardly face the truth himself. 

On the occasion of his body asking him to take care of his needs, he would close his eyes and imagine a tone and lean body, soft skin of any color, he couldn’t care less. The only thing he asked of that image, was that it was of a… male body. No feminine curves, no tiny waist for large hips. Mundy liked a bit of hair on his model, on the chest, on his forearms, his thighs and of course, in between them. 

He fantasised vividly about the lean silhouette slowly peeling his clothes off of himself, the fabrics gently sliding down like the petals of a flower that opens to reveal all its colours. Oh Gosh, the shoulders, slightly smaller than his own, a thin waist, the V-line on the hips that slipped under his trousers… Bloody hell.

Mundy closed his eyes. 

The silhouette turned to give him his back and he heard the metallic click of a belt being unbuckled, before he saw the trousers follow the thin legs all the way down to the floor in front of him. As he raised his eyes again, he saw that the underwear had been pushed down too and his gaze met with what had some effect on his body. 

Mundy bit his lip. 

In his mind, he extended his hands and touched, just a graze of the tip of his calloused fingers on the man’s backside before he cupped it and squeezed. Mmh, soft, yet one could feel the underlying muscle. He pulled him closer and the silhouette turned to face him. Bloody hell, what a sight… 

Mundy went on in his dream and fell asleep. 

A thought had always stood at the back of his mind, whenever he imagined what his body wanted. He had never imagined the face, never imagined anything that could make that person special or recognisable. And it was crucial that it stayed that way. Mundy didn’t want to imagine anything specific. 

It could be anyone, he could be him, he could be that one, it could even be...

[killemwithkawaii]

Demon Sal getting a master who likes camping. (I would absolutely put a marshmallow on his tail and lick it off sensually, lol~)

Demon!Sal with a master who likes camping-

>You had been out in the woods for about a week- an experienced camper, hiker, and navigator, you both adored the gifts that nature provided and respected the danger that the wilderness could present without any fair warning. You had come prepared with the essentials (a compass, a knife, a water purifier, emergency rations, etc) but were otherwise determined to rough it as much as possible for your extended vacation from the rest of humanity.

>Most of your other trips were taken solo, but you had a rather unusual companion this time around- a clingy, masked incubus named Sally, who had taken quite a liking to you after he had found you masturbating in the middle of your campsite. You had been there for a few days and hadn't seen another soul pass by, so you had let yourself relax and have some 'you time' before you turned in for the night. You had snapped out of your fantasizing when you felt the hot breath of something sizable waft over your cheek.

>What your instinct said was a wolf or a cougar (or at least a raccoon) turned out to be a different kind of predator all-together, but he had sniffed you out none-the-less. At some point, he had curled up next to you to enjoy the show and had made himself visible in hopes he could convince you to let him assist in your efforts to unwind. You declined, trying to ignore how oddly tempting the offer was. 

>You would have chased any other stranger or animal away with the ax you kept handy for fire wood, but watching him flit around the campsite in mid air, digging through your bag and inspecting your things, asking what everything was for- he was kind of cute, and you enjoyed educating people about wilderness survival anyway, so you humored your uninvited guest and taught him the ropes

>Sally stuck around after that

>As planned, you foraged for your breakfast, ate granola and jerky for lunch while hiking the local trails, and then fished for your dinner in the evenings. It was hard work, but it was satisfying on a level that modern life just couldn't match for you. You were a savvy survivor in a mechanized world- though you had to admit, a hot shower and some clean clothes did sound nice... But, the lake would do for now.

"Okay, it's time to wash up-" you declared mostly to yourself, but also to your impish companion. 

"...are you just going to stand there and watch?" you had already removed your outer layers and were about to wade into the water to rinse yourself off. You'd hoped he'd get the hint that you wanted some privacy, and he did, but that didn't mean he was going anywhere.

"Do I have to?" he tilted his head, pigtails swaying, "I mean, you and I are quite well acquainted, wouldn't you agree?" 

>It was true- you two had spent the better part of a week together, just the two of you in the middle of nowhere, admiring the scenery by day and swapping stories around the fire after nightfall (you found his s'mores-making skills were rather impressive- he always chose to roast his marshmallows by impaling them on his tail and rotating them constantly, resulting in a perfectly golden-brown crust that was so tempting, you didn’t even mind eating them directly off of said appendage when he offered them to you) Hell, he'd already seen you naked and in the midst of pleasuring yourself, but it felt different to be stripping down right in front of him, even if you were just trying to bathe. 

"... ugh, fine," you stripped the last of your garments off and threw them to shore before submerging yourself completely. The water was a cool, and incredibly refreshing after neglecting your usual personal hygiene routine. 

>You felt Sallys eyes on you as you scrubbed away the caked-on dirt and dried sweat from your body, but you didn't begin to flush until you noticed his reflection next to yours- he had avoided alerting you to his approach by levitating above the surface, only now dipping his toes in the water as the rest of him hung in the air

"Can I help you?" your sarcasm was weak at best- you were trying to sound annoyed, but your voice faltered with his close proximity (and a new level of awareness of your own nakedness, now mirroring his)

"Oh, sorry- It's just been such a long time since I've seen a human looking like you do now, darling..." he sighed as he allowed himself to sink into the water beside you, his deep voice laced heavily with nostalgia. 

"I remember when your kind first got the spark of consciousness- you were so curious, so creative, but still so animalistic in your behavior... It was adorable, and it was sooo much fun to play with you..." 

He reached out and toyed with a lock of your wet hair.  "But now, you tuck yourselves away in your boxy dwellings, all stacked on top of each other, playing with your toys and squabbling. You clever lot have come up with such strange things to complicate your lives with, and you're all so desperate to accomplish your frivolous little goals... It makes my job easier, having you stressed and needing release, but all of you have become so concerned with status and cleanliness and modesty that you seem to have forgotten your roots. It's sad, really..."

>You swallowed hard, "Well, that's why I come out here, honestly... to get in touch with my roots..."

>Sally leaned in closer, taking a not-so-subtle sniff of you before he spoke into your ear,

"To be... more human?" you couldn't see his face, but you could hear the smirk in his voice, as well as your own heartbeat against your ribs.

>You held yourself with one arm, a last-ditch (and ineffective) effort to shield yourself from his unblinking gaze "Y-yeah..."

"Ehehe, oh, my sweet little mortal..." you felt his clawed hands graze over your shoulders and trail downward as his tail snaked around your thighs.

"You've done very well in your efforts, but please," he finally pressed his chest against your back, nuzzling his masked face into the crook of your neck as his hands wandered and the grip of his tail tightened around you, ensnaring you like the predator you had originally believed had wandered into your campsite

"Allow me to show you what it feels like to be truly human...~" 💘💦

[adiwriting]

Sunday Mornings 4/?

Notes: While this is the 4th ficlet in this verse, it’s technically the first thing I wrote for this verse. I was working to fill a prompt “watching them sleep” and it got away from me like most things. So I’m excited to finally get to post this part. It’s my personal favorite so far, so I hope you all enjoy! <3

Now on AO3

Week 4: 

The feeling of the sun warming his face slowly pulls Alex out of a blissful dream. Not quite ready to move his body yet, he turns his head to the nightstand and opens his eyes. It’s 5:55am. He’s tired, sure, but years in the military have taught him that attempting to go back to sleep now is futile. His body is wired to be up between 0500 and 0600 everyday, no matter how little sleep he got the night before. 

He yawns and turns his head to look at the source of his exhaustion. He can’t help but smile at the sight of his boyfriend. Michael spent the night last night, as he has most nights since they got back together a month ago. In fact, the only reason Michael isn’t in his bed every night can really only boil down to a stupid comment Maria had made about them moving in together. Michael still feels enough guilt over their breakup to have insisted that they are most certainly not living together. Alex would be mad at him for the entire thing, but he can’t bring himself to be. One, he too still feels how awkward things are with Maria and he loves her enough to want to be sensitive, even if she hadn’t always been sensitive towards him. And two… Michael can say he’s not living here all he wants, but the evidence speaks for itself. 

Michael’s black cowboy hat is hung on the hook on the door, where Alex used to hang his favorite Air Force hoodie. The same hoodie that now permanently rests on the back of the couch because Michael always wears it like a blanket when they watch movies together. There is an ever growing pile of change accumulating on the dresser from where Michael regularly empties his pockets when he comes in to change out of his jeans. Next to Alex’s bottles of lotions and various meds is a bottle of warming gel that Michael uses whenever his hand acts up. Hanging up in the closet are several of Michael’s clothes that Alex put there when he’d pulled his laundry out the other day and realized that half of the clothes were Michael’s rather than his own. Over by the full length mirror is a pile of the only 3 pairs of shoes that Michael owns. 

No. Michael doesn't live here. His things have just been slowly taking over Alex’s space… And Alex loves it. 

He bought this house last year and fell in love with its character, but it hadn’t really started to feel like home to him until the day there were two toothbrushes by the sink instead of one. 

Alex stretches carefully and tries not to groan at the way his shoulders pop. His body is particularly achy today, which he equates to a combination of lack of sleep and the enthusiasm that they’d gone at it last night. He’s going to have to talk Michael into a massage later.

Once his body is decently stretched out — or at least as stretched out as it can be without waking Michael — Alex rolls over onto his side to watch his boyfriend properly. 

Michael is always beautiful. It’s a fact. But the truth is, there’s something particularly entrancing about the way the morning sun hits Michael’s tanned skin. Alex allows himself to stare in a way he can’t get away with when Michael is awake. Not without Michael teasing him for it. 

He starts with his hair. Frizzy and all over the place. A combination of Alex’s hands constantly threading through and pulling whenever they have sex and the fact that Michael moves when he sleeps. A lot. The sun makes his hair glow like a halo, which is all too fitting. He reaches out and gently pulls a curl away from Michael’s face so that he can focus his attention there next. 

Alex watches the quick, constant movement of Michael’s eyes underneath his lids. He’s always thinking. Calculating. Planning. Inventing. When they were kids, Michael told him that his head was constant chaos that only music could quiet. Knowing what he knows about Michael’s past, he can see why Michael had chosen that word. But chaos doesn’t describe Michael’s brain. Not anymore. He’s just brilliant. He’s wicked smart and never stops thinking. Michael processes information at an inhuman rate, which Alex would equate to his alien DNA if he didn’t know that neither Max or Isobel share in his genius level intellect. 

It’s not rare for Michael to wake up in the middle of the night having somehow solved some complicated problem in his sleep. It’s why Alex had started to keep a journal on Michael’s side of the bed, so that he won’t have to get up at 3am and tear the house apart looking for paper so he could write down whatever complex equation he’s just solved. 

Alex runs his fingers across Michael’s forehead gently. He loves that brain. He firmly believes that Michael could solve the world’s biggest problems if he tried. And though Alex won’t risk the fight by bringing it up, he seriously hopes that Michael gets his degree one day so that the world can benefit from his genius. Roswell is too small for a brain like Michael’s. 

Alex traces the line of his nose and bites back a giggle when Michael scrunches it up in response. He’s so adorable at times that Alex truly marvels that anyone can honestly believe his tough guy act. Michael is so soft and tender with Alex. Even when they weren’t together and every other word out of Michael’s mouth was a sarcastic dig meant to goad Alex into a fight, Alex had always been able to see the vulnerability in Michael’s eyes. It was part of what sent Alex running so often. He always had a genuine fear of breaking and in turn, getting broken. 

His palm moves to cradle Michael’s cheek and Michael’s head leans into the touch, turning his head to kiss his palm. Even in sleep, Michael is constantly seeking him out. It’s moments like this that make Alex question how he ever felt insecure about Michael’s feelings. Maybe if he had just trusted in their love earlier… 

“Stop. Sleep,” Michael grumbles, seemingly cutting off his anxiety spiral before it could even start. 

“I’m not tired,” he teases, but Michael is silent, having already fallen back asleep. 

Alex’s hand drifts down to Michael’s neck and he cringes when he notices a bruise to the right of his collarbone that wasn’t there yesterday. Alex has always been incredibly careful about hickeys. He’d had to be. And by the time he’d felt safe enough to risk it, he was at an age where it was no longer socially acceptable. Thankfully, this one should be mostly hidden once Michael puts on a shirt, so hopefully he won’t be too annoyed with Alex. 

His hand travels down Michael’s chest. He stares at the dark hair, one of the most noticeable changes from when they were seventeen. Alex hasn’t been with a lot of men, but virtually all of the ones he’s been with manscape. Which is fine. It’s understandable. It’s not like anybody wants to worry about hair in their mouth when they are kissing their way down someone’s chest. But damn, there’s something about the dark hair on Michael’s tanned chest that always gets him going. 

It’s unfair really, because it means that Alex is pretty much always turned on whenever Michael is shirtless. Which is all of the time. The man has some kind of personal problem with wearing shirts. 

He drags his index finger through the darker patch of hair on his stomach and he feels Michael’s muscles tense under his touch. Before Alex’s hand can dip under the sheet currently protecting Michael’s modesty, the man grumbles something incoherent and rolls over onto his stomach, snuggling into Alex’s side. 

Alex sinks back into the pillow, his one arm pinned under Michael’s head. He moves his free hand up to play with Michael’s hair. Michael hums in content, but doesn’t say anything more or do anything to signal that he’s truly awake. Alex closes his eyes and tries to relax. While he isn’t likely to fall back asleep, that doesn’t mean he isn’t content to lay here for hours while his boyfriend does. This is the kind of stuff Sunday mornings are made for. 

Isn’t this what Maroon 5 was getting at? Cause, yeah. Alex never wants to leave. 

He buries his nose in Michael’s hair and breathes in deep, taking in the smell of rain and dollar store shampoo that is uniquely Michael. It smells like love and safety. Like home. 

God, twelve years of loving this man and Alex didn’t think it was possible for that love to continue to crow. Each day he’s proven wrong. See, he’s starting to learn that these small moments together… the quiet unassuming moments… They are a thousand times more powerful than the big, dramatic moments that rom coms are made of. Because right here? At this moment? All he can think about is the ending of the stupid Grinch movie when his heart grows three times in size. 

That’s how Michael makes him feel. Like his heart is constantly growing, aching with joy but always wonderfully welcome. Waking up next to Michael in the morning is one of those painfully sweet moments that pull at his heart. And maybe it won’t always feel like this. He hopes it does. He doesn’t want to get used to this, because he doesn’t ever want to stop realizing how lucky they are that they managed to come together after twelve years of will they won't they. Alex hopes he appreciates the magic of waking up next to Michael because he never wants to grow complacent in this relationship. 

“You’re being creepy again, and it’s too early,” Michael grumbles, not even bothering to open his eyes. Instead he throws his leg over Alex’s hip in an attempt to snuggle even closer. 

Alex rolls his eyes at the argument they have most mornings. “Why is it creepy?” 

“Because you’re studying me like you’re plotting the best ways to murder me in my sleep.” 

Alex laughs at that, shaking Michael who reaches out to pinch him in his side and demands he stop so that he can rest. 

“No murder today,” he promises, kissing the top of his head. 

Michael’s hand moves up to rest at his heart and Alex reaches out to grab at his wrist to keep his hand in place. “I love you.”

Michael does open his eyes for that. Alex meets his gaze and the only way he can describe the way Michael is staring at him is fond. 

“I love you, too,” Michael says, lifting his head just long enough to kiss Alex. “Go back to bed.”

“We’re already in bed,” Alex teases, earning him another groan. 

“Go back to sleep. And get better dad jokes before we have a kid, please.” 

Michael bringing up a kid is enough to stop any teasing that Alex would have likely continued with. Though his stupid boyfriend clearly doesn’t realize the gravity of what he’s just said, because he’s already fallen back asleep. Alex can tell he’s not just faking it either because he’s lightly snoring in that way that Alex really shouldn’t find adorable but does. 

Dad. Him. 

It’s an interesting thought. One he honestly hadn’t considered. The thought of bringing another Manes into this world is frankly terrifying. Alex would be satisfied if the family name died out with him and his brothers. But thinking of having a child with Michael? A little Guerin baby? 

Yeah, that thought gives him plenty to think about for the next two hours while Michael sleeps. 

Tagged: @callieramics​​

As always if anyone wants to be tagged, let me know!

[dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt]

Not me saying I wasn’t going to post any of my writing and then immediately going back on my word, no sir!! I’m actually really REALLY proud of this tho, so... up it goes. His Dark Materials AU for my OCs!

[For those that don’t know, in the HDM world everybody has something called a dæmon, which is the physical manifestation of their soul in the form of an animal.]

Dusk bruised the sky, ugly purple-black with smoke and the oncoming night. No stars dared to tread above this city. Even the moon hid her face.

Below, the streets were populated only by shadows. It was easy to mistake them for one, hunched as they were on the stairs in a dark suit and with their face hidden behind an even darker sheet of hair. Only the ember at the tip of their cigarette separated them from the night.

Footsteps descended down the stairs behind them. Their owner had his hands tucked into his pockets, refusing to touch the brass rails mottled with grime. A staccato of claws clicked between each step.

“You’re late,” the living shadow said, the memory of a thousand other cigarettes burnt into their throat.

“I wasn’t sure I was going to come at all.”

A ribbon of smoke curled from their lips. “Don’t give me that shit,” they said, disgusted. “You always do. You always will. We both know it.”

“You’re in good spirits tonight,” he responded mildly. His name was Dante, and he regretfully knew the shadow too well to be offended. He hated them less than they deserved. His dæmon stood by his side in the form of a large black dog, the feeble anbaric light of the streetposts settling on her fur and gleaming in her calm eyes.

The shadow had no dæmon to be found.

They merely grunted and rose to their feet. They flicked their cigarette away; it carved a red arch through the air before it winked out on the pavement. They started walking.

Dante exchanged a glance that spoke volumes with his dæmon. But they followed, because he did know. They both did.

The shadow’s name was June, and Dante was their only friend (though, that may be too strong a word.) The reasons for this were immediately obvious, not limited to the miasma of cigarette smoke that seemed woven into their clothes, nor their frankly ugly tongue. Their voice was complicated, interesting, but their face was ordinary; long, with stark bones beneath dark golden-brown skin, an interesting nose and eyes the colour of charcoal. They were also abysmally short, the crown of their head barely reaching Dante’s shoulder. He didn’t mention that.

They barely had to flash their card at the bouncer before he swung the door open for them, his lizard dæmon curled nervously along his forearm. June strode through without a backwards glance. Dante gave him a nod.

It was dim inside the den. The air ought to have been stained red for the stench of copper, sweat and alcohol that clung to every breath; Dante thought he could feel the effects of a pint just from inhaling. The walls were panelled with dark wood, packed to bursting with people. Barely people – raucous grins, jostling, laughing, screaming like fiends in human skins. Even their dæmons seemed inebriated, staggering between their legs with tongues lolling against chins. Nevertheless, all parted for June and their silent, bulky shadow.

June didn’t spare them a single glance. They had bred this intimidation, this mystery, fed it with the tender care of a mother and watched its first steps with pride.

“Just keep your mouth shut,” they had told Dante. “You’re unknowable now. Their fear and uncertainty will make you great.”

That suited him just fine. He never was a man of many words.

Darodrey stayed pinned to his side like a moth to a board. The angle of her ears still read as calm, but she had begun to pant in the crushing heat of the den. He rested a soothing hand on her head. He could feel her anticipation crackling beside his own. They never felt quite so alive than when they were in these ratholes.

He drew back the shabby curtain that sectioned off the preparation quarter, allowed June to step in first. He pulled it to behind him, hands immediately dropping to unbutton his short coat. It fell to the floor, revealing an expanse of scarred olive skin and the lines of thick muscles. He opened the tin set to the side on the bench.

“Nova,” June told him, low. “Dumb as a barrel of shit, but he hits like one too.”

“His dæmon?” It was Drey who asked, as Dante slid a guard over his teeth. The shock of his dæmon speaking to them had been worn away by familiarity long ago.

“A mountain lion.”

Drey noted, “Also stupid.”

Dante pulled a white roll from the tin and began to unwind it around his knuckles. “Only Nova?”

“Mitchellson could be taken as well, if you’re fit after the first.”

“I’ll take him.” Dante flexed his fingers experimentally. “A bear, right?”

“Black,” June confirmed.

Maybe I’ve finally found a challenge, Drey murmured to him and him alone.

Dante secured the final bandage. “What do we get for both?”

“Enough.” June tilted their head, their hair falling against the blade they called a jaw. “As long as you don’t fuck this up.”

“I won’t.” He couldn’t.

They’re depending on us.

They, they, they. The two men currently warming his bed with their dreams, wound together in a lover’s knot. Maybe they did depend on him, but not in a way that led into an underground fighting den. That would break them to know.

A roar went up from behind the curtain, more ferocious than any bear. Darodrey’s fur rose along her spine, lips pulling back in fierce delight. Dante rolled his shoulders, knocked his knuckles together till they ached.

“Get out there,” June said, and then their hand closed claw-like over his wrist. “Do not disappoint me, Diệu.”

With the adrenaline biting in his pulse, he didn’t even deign to answer that. Instead, he merely gave them a measured look and pushed through the curtain. Darodrey’s tail whipped out on his heels.

June watched after him for a moment. Their expression was unreadable, their fingers hovering over the red kerchief folded in their breast pocket. Then their jaw set, and they followed him out.

Dumb as a barrel of shit seemed to be the perfect way to describe Nova. His angelic name didn’t look like it belonged to the brutish man with a vividly new scar wound across his bald head. His eyes were, by all means, bright blue, but even they looked dull in his face.

To his credit, he wasn’t prancing or hopping like he was on hot coals, like some of the other peacocks Dante had fought. He simply leaned against the metal links behind him, taking in his competition from under furrowed brows.

Dante ran his eyes up him, down him as if in a mere cursory glance. His fingers were still purple with fresh bruises, darker on his left hand than his right. The muscles in his arms were massively developed. He was also very actively trying to convince Dante he held his weight on his right side. He was concentrating on it harder than he was concentrating on breathing.

Meanwhile, Drey was summarizing her opponent. She found her wanting – the same dull eyes, patchy pelt and a tediously swaying tail.

“Don’t be arrogant,” he told her.

“Vrox is right. You confuse arrogance with confidance too much.”

“It doesn’t hurt to be cautious.”

“Utter modesty never got anyone anywhere, Dante.” She stretched out one hind leg and then the other, unbothered.  “We wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think we were the best.”

Dante hesitated. Something troubled curled like lead in his stomach.

“Pay attention,” she warned.

Their opponent and his dæmon had leaned to their feet. The crowd was stirring around them, a great wave of excitement, raw in the way only betting could achieve. Dante knew three quarters of those bets were on him, and he knew that would chafe at his opponent’s pride. Sure enough, he saw something close to hate flicker in Nova’s deep-set eyes.

The referee pushed between the two men, a smile fake and white as a skull’s wide on his lips. He dove enthusiastically into his usual spiel, but Dante tuned him out. He could recite it in his sleep already. He watched the lion dæmon’s claws unfurl from their sheathes, ticking lightly against the floor. Her eyes were locked on Darodrey. On her throat.

Good luck with that, bitch, Drey growled.

The bell sounded early, ringing clear above the crowd’s uproar. A look of frightened consternation darted across the referee’s face, but he did the sensible thing and tossed aside his dignity to sprint out of the way of the two fighters. Not a second too late, either: Nova came at Dante like a boulder in an avalanche.

Nova jabbed with his right hand, but expectedly the blow was weak enough for Dante to smash it aside with his forearm and return one of his own. It snapped Nova’s head back, snapped something else as well. Blood splattered down his chin, his nose a pulpy mess. His dæmon hissed in pain.

There was definitely hate in those eyes now.

Dante flicked some of the blood of his hand as Nova came at him again. A grimace crossed his face as Drey fastened her teeth deep enough in his dæmon’s foreleg to scrape bone, but his next punch whistled toward Dante’s face. Dante had to duck to the side to avoid it. It clipped his ear instead of knocking out his teeth, and Dante didn’t bother straightening, just slammed his fist into his stomach.

The angle was wrong, but Nova folded anyway, and Dante jerked his knee up. It caught his chin was a satisfying clatter of teeth. Nova fell backward, and cried out – not for himself, though.

Darodrey had his dæmon’s neck between her jaws and was shaking her violently, back and forth, back and forth as if she were trying to rip clean through to her spine. The lion twisted under her, loose skin bunching, and ripped at her face with jagged claws. Darodrey fell back reluctantly with red dripping from her mouth, snarling like thunder.

Claws, teeth, fists, two fights tangled into one. The noise was atrocious. Curses smudged into growls, roars, the sound of flesh ripping, skin and bone colliding.

Nova kicked Dante’s knee, forced him to down or risk a break. An arm found its hold around his neck. The demented cheers of the crowd dulled as if Dante had submerged his head underwater. Blood pounded thickly in his ears.

No time for fear, no hesitation. He grabbed Nova’s wrist in an iron grip and began to inexorably pry it away from his throat. Nova grunted from the strain – from surprise – his weight wavering on Dante’s back. The moment he could draw in a breath, he gathered himself and threw. Nova slammed into the ground, every scrap of air rushing painfully out of his lungs. His dæmon yowled. Dante was only half surprised when he rolled to his feet and came at him again immediately.

A sloppy mistake. To stay on the ground would mean the end of him, but to swing so quickly, so desperately, with his weight falling now onto his left side–

Dante left an opening. Waited.

And there was the left hand, twice as fast as the right, angled to catch him on the chin and knock him senseless.

Dante caught the punch by the wrist. He saw the panic flash in Nova’s eyes and waited just one moment more to let it set in, let him feel it. Then he twisted his arm under his own and drove downward with brutal efficiency. The bone shattered, and Nova screamed.

It was a ragged noise, an animal noise, the same that his dæmon gave as she writhed on the floor. Drey took advantage of the distraction by sinking her teeth in her shoulder and flinging her against the metal barrier.

Dante let the momentum carry Nova forward. The other man crashed to the floor, clutching at his arm. Dante noted distantly that he could see a shard of bone poking through the ripped skin at his elbow. Distant, far-away, nothing. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t a man. He was the roaring in his ears, the blur behind his eyes, the molten heat coursing through his veins. He was the mechanical action of kneeling over him, caging him in his knees, and smashing a punch into Nova’s cheekbone, feeling it give. Then his jaw, the imprint of the teeth within against his knuckles. Blackening an eye, splitting a lip to ruin. One punch ran into many. Raining until Nova resembled something out of a nightmare.

“Enough, enough or you’ll forfeit, I swear you’ll forfeit–”

He paused. There was a frantic, quiet voice in his ear. The referee had been trying to hold his arm back, but he hadn’t felt any resistance as he destroyed Nova’s face. Nova, whose body was a wreck. Nova, who he held between his knees.

In his mind, Jesse smiled up at him. His hands smoothed down his stomach, his thighs. Curious and trusting.

Nova groaned, blood bubbling from his lips.

Abruptly, Dante was sure he was going to be sick.

He staggered to his feet and lurched through the open cage door, shoving through the crowd. He would leave smudges of dark, dark crimson on their clothes wherever he touched them, he knew, but they couldn’t seem to get enough of it: hands showered down on him, patting, smacking, gripping, pushing and tugging. He could hear Darodrey snarling, only white noise that buzzed in his ears.

He burst through the back door into the reeking alleyway beyond. He stumbled against the wall, nails drawing bloody streaks down the uneven bricks. He stood there, and he shuddered.

But he wasn’t sick. He was nothing at all.

Darodrey whined and pressed her nose into his palm, licked at his trembling fingers, trying to clean off the blood. He could still feel the gore caught between her teeth. The torn flesh of a soul – such a terrible thing.

Diệu, Diệu, Diệu, she whispered.

The nothing coalesced slowly, becoming simply the bricks rough against his forehead. Out here in the cool and the smoke, the clouds had made good on their promise: a thin veil of rain misted the streets, gathered and trickled down between Dante’s shoulder blades. It should have steamed where it touched his skin, but it didn’t, because nothing here was pure. It tasted like soot in the back of his throat.

The door crashed open behind him. The violence echoed in his ears.

“They need you back,” June said, sharp as broken glass.

Dante didn’t reply.

“I said get back in there, Dante.”

Darodrey said, “No.”

“What.” The accent of the city made their voice flat and vicious. They turned their gaze to the dæmon.

The one without a soul, she thought.

“He hates this,” Darodrey said. She looked back at Dante, her eyes fathoms deep, gleaming starlike. “We hate this.”

“Liar!” June snapped. Drey laid back her ears. “You can be sweet with your boys as much as you like, you can pretend to be a husband and a friend, but this is you. This is what you were made to do, and you enjoy it.” A snarl twisted their voice.

Dante stood still for a terribly long time. An eternity, hanging in the faint drizzle, printed in stinging flesh. Jesse would call it a postcard moment. He knew it would never leave him, even when it was nothing more than a memory.

June let their words sink in in silence, their nails biting red crescents into their own palms.

Then Dante pushed off from the wall and it was a horribly efficient, broken motion. He straightened, wiped the beading rain from his face with one bloodstained hand. He didn’t look at June, nor Darodrey, but as he turned back to the den she moved with him, closer than his shadow. The roar and the heat thundered through the door to welcome them both.

June was left standing in the alley alone.

“This will ruin them,” Thyne said. It shifted where it hid tucked behind their breast pocket, wings fluttering in the place of their heartbeat.

They said nothing.

[melodious-madrigals]

london calling (yes, i was there, too)

For Day 1 of Wondertrev Loveweek! 

Fandom: Wonder Woman Pairing: Diana/Steve Prompt: London  Word Count: 2154 Rating: T (for ~innuendo~ probably)  Summary: A view of London, past and present, from Diana's point of view. 

Read it here on [AO3] or below the cut.   

***

present

*

London has become a glittering, sprawling city in the years since Diana first arrived at its docks. Some would go so far as to call it the greatest city in the world.

Diana still dislikes it.

She never warmed to London. She loves Lisbon, adores Amman, visits Xi'an every chance she gets, calls Paris home for now. But London remains something of a frustration for her, a necessary evil for business trips from time to time.

There are things she doesn't mind, she supposes.

The red telephone boxes, for one. They're a bit cliché, but iconic. (She remembers when those were first put in.) They're less common now, but every time she passes one, she snaps a photo and texts it to Clark, with the caption thinking of you, because one time in a pinch, he used one to change into his Superman suit but in his haste accidentally broke one of the panes of glass, and she's never going to let him forget it.

Then there's Hampstead Heath. It's a bit outside the bustle of the city proper, sure, but it's a breath of fresh air (literally), and it has lovely views of the city. She's enjoyed her walks there, even fondly recalls a picnic or two on the grassy hill as she gazes at the skyline, stuck in the city between one meeting and the next.  

Indeed, the city itself has largely been cleaned up. There are still stately aging buildings and parks, but less of the pervasive grime. Still, there's something about London that she can't quite put her finger on that makes her feel unsettled.

It's totally irrational.

*

1918

*

"It's hideous."

"Yeah, it's not for everyone."

*

Diana hates it here. The air is bleak and grey and thick. It's like the air on Themyscira on the winter solstice, when it's choked by smoke from their celebratory bonfires, only worse, because this isn't fragrant, woody smoke. It's a thick miasma of coal and smog, utterly pungent, with an acrid odor layering it that Diana will soon find out is what the aftermath of bombings smell like.

The streets, too, are filthy, full of trash and grey with coal dust, and she's never seen anything so utterly uncivilized in her whole life.

And it's loud, an ugly cacophony of sounds like she's never encountered: people shouting—a language that she understands, to be sure, but one that is just a little dissonant all the same because it isn't hers —and bells chiming and the creaks and groans of the bridge as it raises, and hissing of the engines in the automobiles.

Truly, she doesn't know why anyone would live here, but it's all right, because soon they'll be headed off to the War. Battlefields are not good, but she is sure they are something that she at least understands.

*

Her first day in London has been a whirlwind: the clothing shop, the fight in the alley, Parliament and the horribly rude generals, and finally, assembling the team at the pub. She's not ashamed to admit that she's looking forward to a bit of rest before she goes to confront Ares.

After leaving the pub, Steve leads her to a quiet side street, and directs her up three flights of stairs into a cramped set of rooms.

"It's not much, but when I'm in London, it's home."

The apartment is largely impersonal—it's clear that Steve doesn't spend much time here, away on missions more often than not—but it still feels warm. To that end, Steve ushers her into the little kitchen and hands her a cup of tea.

It's pleasantly warm despite being bitter, and she manages to finish it as Steve gets up and starts rearranging the cushions on the sofa.

"What are you doing?"

"Um. Making up the couch?" It sounds like more of a question than her own, honestly.

"Yes, I have eyes," she says impatiently. "Why are you making up the couch?"

"I...don't have an answer you'll approve of."

She huffs. "I do not understand your society in the slightest. Did we not sleep together on the boat, just last night, and all the ones before it?"

"Er. Yeah."

"And tonight is different how?"

"Um," says Steve, clearly looking uncomfortable. "There's a bed?"

Diana levels him with a very unimpressed look. "You sat alone at the kitchen table with me while we drank tea."

"Well, I—huh? What's that got to do with anything?"

"Well, what on earth do they teach you about the pleasures of the flesh that makes you think a bed or even a horizontal position is a requirement?"

Steve chokes on air and starts coughing. "Diana—"

"I'm just saying you get very flustered about very peculiar things. The bed, for example, but not the kitchen table, which looks very sturdy, by the way—"

"Okay, okay! You've made your point! I'll sleep with you."

"Finally," she huffs.

"It's—"

"—not polite to assume, yes, you have said, but it is hardly an assumption on your part if I have clearly stated my feelings."

"Right, well, we'll just. Um. Go to bed, then."

Steve, anticipating Diana's lack of concern over modesty, offers her an oversized flannel shirt to sleep in.

"If it will make you feel better," she says, and puts it on over her undergarments.

"Goodnight," she says, once he's extinguished the light.

"Night."

She's not awake long enough to see him fall asleep, falling into a slumber almost as soon as her head hits the pillow.  

*

Diana wakes up to warmth, an intangible yet visceral feeling of safety, and a comfortable weight around her waist. It's clearly morning, weak light dappling the side of the room, the view out the window in front of her proving it's a cloudy day. She shifts slightly and realizes that in the night, Steve has rolled her way and thrown his arm around her.

They're meant to get an early start, but Diana is used to waking up so early for training every morning that it can't possibly be time to get up yet. She's willing to lay in bed just a few moments longer, but her shifting appears to have woken up Steve, who tugs her a little closer and then seems to realize where he is.

He lets go of her like her skin is aflame and jerks backward so hard that he nearly falls off the edge of the bed.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—"

She catches his hand in the middle of a wild gesticulation. "If I thought you were being disrespectful, you would no longer have the arm in question."

"Right. Neat. I'll just, uh, go make some tea."

Sameer and Charlie knock on the door not long after, and then they're out of London, off to the War.  

*

London, upon return, is even worse than London before. Even amidst the celebrations, it seems so much bleaker, so much colder.  

Etta, dear lovely Etta, helps with all the arrangements to make it appear as though she existed before last week. Documents, a day job—and a place to stay.

"I've arranged it all so that it's yours. Young ladies, they usually have to stay in boarding rooms, but I think this is what he would've wanted."

Etta makes time to take her to the apartment, under the guise of ensuring that it has everything she needs.

It's a grey day, the kind that doesn't really let much light make its way indoors. The small apartment is dim, and it feels so desolate, so empty.

Diana turns in a circle as Etta rummages through the drawers, making a list of the few things she finds to be lacking. She was just here a few days ago; how can a place feel so intrinsically different?

"Well, luv, it appears to be mostly in order. If you don't mind, I'll come 'round tomorrow with a new spatula and a bit of sugar, and you'll be all set."

"Yes, of course," Diana says distantly, and then Etta's gone, out the door.

An apartment so small and cluttered shouldn't be so capable of feeling empty, but it does.

Diana, who's always run hot, feels vaguely cold.

*

She tries, she really does. She does her job and goes on missions and tries to make friends, invites people over for dinner or tea, does her best to make London home.

She makes it a whole month before it drives her mad, being in that little apartment. London itself doesn't hold Steve's ghost, but this apartment does.

After a month, she can no longer stand it, even though she's hardly ever there anyways. In a fit of impulsiveness, she turns the keys over the Etta, and moves to Paris, a place she's been several times already, on missions with Sameer, and once, Napi.

She moves frequently, after that, from place to place, city to city, country to country, but doesn't call London home again.

*

present

*

So it's irrational, but every time Diana thinks of London, all she can think of are the grey skies and the colorless light in that apartment, like the world was slowly being sapped of color. Each time she thinks of London, she can't help but associate it with sorrow. With each emotion she felt in the aftermath of Steve's death, all of the complicated ways her victory felt like anything but.

No, she never takes to London, even as the years pass and the city changes. She arrives only as absolutely necessary, and leaves as soon as whatever work is done.

Today, for example, she's here for a conference on artifact preservation. She knows the man from the British Museum who's presenting the seminar—and frankly he has no business giving this talk—and as soon as it's over she'll be on the Eurostar back to Paris.

*

Her next meeting in London is with the director of the British Museum itself. She and a small team from the Louvre are meeting with a team from the British Museum to hammer out a loans agreement for a couple of highly-coveted pieces. It's the most important meeting outside of the Justice League that she'll have all year, and she's the lead negotiator.

The day before she's expected to leave for the week-long trip, Steve shows up, alive again after a century and change.

She already wasn't looking forward to the trip—this just makes it worse. She's in emotional crisis, and has no desire to leave Steve for any period of time, but this is literally the one meeting of the year that she cannot miss. (After all, if there's one attitude regarding museums and artifact "ownership" that she hates more than France's, it's Britain's. She's not going to miss this meeting and let them get away with anything.)

"I could...come with?" asks Steve, uncertainly. They're both still trying to figure things out.

"Would you?"

"It's hardly the worst place I've ever followed you," he says weakly, trying for a joke, and it's met with a wet laugh. "Look, I know London. Knew London, anyways. I could walk around somewhere familiar while you were in meetings and then after…" he trails off.

"And then after, there is no one I would rather spend time with," Diana declares.

"Neat, so—I'm coming."

Diana wastes no time booking the second ticket.

*

"It's hideous," says Steve when he sees the ultra-modern skyline for the first time.

"Well, London isn't for everyone," replies Diana with a smirk.  

"It's just—strange. London was sort of home for so long, and now I don't even recognize it."

"You get used to it, after a while," she says softly, and Steve has the distinct impression that she's not just talking about London.

They've arrived the evening before the meetings are set to start, so they wander around a little before getting dinner and checking into the hotel. (Diana has accumulated properties in plenty of places, but London was never one of them; instead, they're staying downtown, near several excellent take-away spots that Diana was already planning on taking advantage of.)

"How many shades of red would you turn if I offered to take the couch right now?" Steve jokes, surveying the hotel room upon arrival.  

"Objectively? Fewer than if you joined me in the bed."

Steve flushes almost as many shades as he had in mind, still a little startled by her bluntness.

"Oh? And now who's assuming?" he says as evenly as he can.

"I don't know what you mean," she says, far too innocently, "I run hot when I sleep."

"Right."

She can't help but laugh at that. She feels so—content, for the first time in so long. It's coloring her view of everything: the business trip suddenly doesn't feel so unmanageable, London doesn't feel so soul-less, even the sterile hotel room feels cheerful.

It's true that Diana never warmed up to London, but it has a fighting chance now.

***  

Final Note:  Please pardon any negative depictions of London; it's not my favorite city but it mostly comes from Diana's emotional relationship with the place.

***

[dirthavarens]

Reunion (Dragatha)

Fandom: Dracula (2020) Characters: Count Dracula, Agatha Van Helsing Relationship: Dracula/Agatha  Rating: Explicit Warnings: None Word Count: 5,812 Summary:  "The question caught her off guard, stunning her into the silence that he had been in moments earlier. Her mouth opened but no sound made its escape, no words, no explanation. Nothing. Silence. How could she tell him?"

Fifty years. It had only taken fifty years to figure him out. However, Agatha had not anticipated the cost at which her discovery would come.;;

[READ ON AO3] {pt1} • {pt3}

or read below::::

--------

Fifty long years, two world wars, a pandemic, stock market crashes, and more bloodshed than she thought possible…

Yet all of that was forgotten as she stepped onto the beach once more, the Sun falling behind her as it slipped to the other side of the world. Agatha looked out into the water, her mind awash with too many complications, too many variables, too many unsaid words. Her right index and middle finger idly played at the ring on her left hand. She found through time that it was something to keep her grounded when her anxieties grew. 

The one who had granted her extended existence rested in the waters below, silent and unmoving for half a century. She could have cursed him for taking so long, had cursed him in the worst of her nights, fought to wake him as he dreamed. Agatha had called to him when she had needed him, but received no answer. He was a ghost in the shadows of her memory, it seemed. 

Until she stepped into the sunlight and began to put together the pieces of the puzzle. She knew why he had taken his time that night, as the sun rose behind the clouds, why he wanted her to live, why he stalked the night. Agatha had at last started to know him. 

He was not the proud warlord she had met at the convent, the feral beast that maimed and killed without justification, nor the valorous nobleman he had been in life. Count Dracula, prince among vampires feared death itself. 

When revelation struck her, she had been idly nursing a glass, the donated blood of a living--and willing--participant. The sun came into her home as light shone onto the rebuilding community surrounding her. War had ravaged the streets, lives had been lost, and a mere man existed with a higher body count than Dracula could dream of. Such a foul monstrosity as Adolf Hitler feared capture, but not death, choosing instead to take his own life. 

The duffel at her side had her surname printed into it, a memento of a few years gone by, a shell-shocked world plundered into bloodshed and death. She needed to be someone for the people, a helper, a doctor who could save more lives than would be lost. And she had offered her services, providing mildly falsified documentation of her qualifications. 

Dates became tedious through the years. Medical school had been a particularly trying time in her life, a place where she learned to rid herself of all feral desire for blood. The crimson liquid so beloved by the Count had been nothing more than sustenance for her. 

With the last of the light fading behind her, Agatha stripped from her clothes, long having abandoned the shreds of modesty that remained in her and tucked them hurriedly into the duffel. The last bit of reservation slipped away with her bra. Only the ring remained as she stepped into the water.

Every step she took felt heavy, too slow, as if gravity had increased on her in a way she could not stop. Through the years, she had not lost the flavor of his blood or what she read in it, having had time to make sense of it. Agatha had turned the sensation over and over in her head for months until it had nearly driven her mad. 

Her belly twisted with an ache so familiar to her, she couldn’t help but move forward. Truth had been one reason for her return, yes. But the other was much less commendable and so very unlike the Agatha he had known years prior. Her mission had changed. Her entire life had changed on account of him, on account of his blood.

Why? 

She spotted his watery tomb and swore she felt her heart beat for the first time in half a century. He was there and she could feel him, unaware and comatose though he was. And she ran to him as if on land, personal reservations and gravity be damned. Agatha blinked slowly as she at last gazed upon his crate, untouched in the years she had been gone. No rot, no barnacles, no change. Fifty years without his touch, without hearing his voice, without his pestering and snide remarks. 

She had missed him.

Prying the top of the crate off proved easy enough and she gasped in the water as she set her sights on him once more; just as unworldly handsome as the morning they parted. Before she had time to reach down and lift him out of the dirt, his eyes snapped open. They were red and hungry, his mouth opening to show the beast’s fangs. Then, Dracula shot up, wasting not a second to have her in his arms, his cold body pressed hers as he kissed her with painful reverence. 

‘Not here,’ she demanded as she kissed him back and pulled away from him. The water made it near impossible to do anything properly, let alone what was the only thing on either of their minds.

‘How long, Agatha? How long has it been?’ His inquiry, even in her mind, easily conveyed what his body had already betrayed. A low, vibrating hum sounded in her throat, somewhere teetering between human and supernatural, as he gathered her into his arms and began the walk to shore. 

‘Fifty years.’

Fifty grueling years to wait to feel his calloused hands at her skin, his furred chest against her, those coal dark eyes watching her every movement. She had dreamed of this moment, literally, for decades. Stolen moments in the shadows of her existence as she slept, she plunged into the water and was taken by him over and over, and never once did she wish for it to stop. 

‘I’m surprised you didn’t get here sooner,’ he professed as they erupted from the water. “I expected y--” 

She knew why he stopped the moment she followed his eyes. Fifty years since feeding, of course his gaze would be drawn to the duffel. “I brought you something to eat.”

“Your voice,” he noted with scrunched brows before smiling at her, a quick peck to her lips. “Seems I’m not the only one with a taste for English cuisine.” 

She ignored his comment as she crawled out of his hold and made her way to the bag. He remained on her heels until she bent down and rummaged through the sac, pulling out a thermos of warm blood. “Here.” 

He grabbed the thermos and looked questioningly at it. “What is this?”

“Blood.”

Dracula rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I know that. But where did it come from? Why is it no--”

The scathing glare she shot him was enough to shut him up and she had to hide the smirk that spread across her lips. He opened the lid and a deep rumble reverberated in his chest. Agatha bit at her lip as the sound caught her off-guard, tumbling down to her core, an inaudible moan leaving her mouth as a breath.

His fingers tightened around the metal as he brought the canister to his mouth and drank deep, finishing it in a single, long gulp. The manner in which he licked at the rim as the last few drops dripped into his maw reminded her of how that tongue felt between her thighs. His snarl into the open air as he savored the taste was debauched, drenched in his particular brand of devilry. He turned to her, chest heaving. “More.” 

“Impatient as ever,” she huffed as she stood, another thermos in her left hand. There was a grin on her face. “You have to work for this one.”

“Are you challenging a starved vampire?” He stalked closer to her, his eyes burning into her as his features twitched, exasperated. His hand shot out, seized her wrist, and trailed his gaze beyond the thermos, over her fingers to the pale of her knuckles.

His ring. 

“Open it,” ordered the Count as he snapped his attention back to her. She knew she had been caught but did not care. Agatha wanted him to see his ring upon her finger, wanted him to know that she had kept her word those many years ago. “Agatha.” 

He was pleading, in his own way. Her grip tightened around the metal, intentionally defying his wishes just to rile him. She missed the way her name sounded on his lips, no matter how it was spoken. 

“Agatha Van Helsing. Open it or I will tear you apart.”

Fuck.

“Recycled lines are not befitting of you.”

She reached up, not breaking her gaze from his, and twisted the lid open. The metal of the cap clattered against the ground as she raised the thermos to his lips. He released his grip on her wrist and placed it at her waist instead, squeezing so tightly she thought he would tear right through her flesh. With his free hand, he took the canister from her, turned his head, tilted it up and finished it as quickly as the first. Blood ran down the corners of his mouth as he turned back to her, letting the container drop beside them. 

“Wasteful,” she scolded as though the depraved sight didn’t cripple her self-control. He closed the space between them, the back of his fingertips tracing her down cheek with all the tenderness in the world. Her eyelids wavered but she focused on him all the same, her chest moving for the first time in what felt like years. 

“I was planning on sharing,” he breathed softly, a growl still rumbling in his chest as he spoke. His voice was nearly inaudible, even to her and she did not have time to respond before he kissed her. Blood smudged on her face as her teeth sharpened at the scent. He was slow and delicate, taking his time to savor the way she moved perfectly with him. She sighed away from the kiss, her tongue slowly trailing up the thin lines of blood, cleaning them from him, purifying him. A satisfied breath played at her cheek when she returned to his mouth. 

“I missed you.” He ran his fingers down her arms, taking in the way her skin felt under him. She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, wanting nothing more than to have him where he stood. 

‘I missed you, too,’ she thought, only to herself, and parted from him. There was much to do and even more to discuss. While she wanted nothing more than to get their reunion out of the way, he couldn’t take her right then and there. It wasn’t the nineteenth century anymore. 

“I know,” he purred, self satisfied, as though he knew she wouldn’t speak the words aloud. “But why can’t I?”

“You promised me a bed,” remarked Agatha as she bent down to her duffel once more and pulled two towels from its seemingly never-ending depths. “Here, you need to dry off. I won’t have you ruining my car.”

“Car?” He gave a quizzical look then moved his tongue around in his mouth as he thought. “Ah, what an interesting invention. And you drive one?” 

She pointed a little ways up the embankment before she rang her coffee colored locks out, the curls damnable in her now untreated hair. He started for it, the towel wrapped tightly around his waist. As Agatha watched him, she realized the cloth barely ran to his knees. Had his legs always been so long? 

Yes. 

She thought back to the first time she set her eyes on him, only minuscule parts of her still affected by the horror of the situation. In her prolonged existence, she had seen worse crimes committed by mortal men. 

How his legs stretched out, his flaccid cock brushing against his thigh as he panted and snarled like a rabid animal, had been a display. He knew how to size himself, whether intentionally or not. Dracula had the stature of a person who knew how to wield power.

She knew him now and every action he made held a strange sense to her. Every step he took, every motion, every word, all of him made sense to her. However, her attraction to him could not be snuffed out. If anything, it pulled her closer.

Agatha shook the thought from her mind and focused on drying and dressing herself. As she was getting ready to pull her underwear a hand stopped her, ripping the garment from her body. Of course he would interrupt at the last moment, her bra and blouse already on. His hand slid down the soft curve of her rear and slipped between her legs. She instinctively pushed against him and her back arched, a muffled keening spilling into her tightly shut mouth. A woman crying out in such a time did not go as ignored as it had in the past. 

He pressed his middle finger to her entrance and easily sank into the slick warmth. She looked behind her and saw him kneel onto the earth beneath him. They couldn’t, not there, not then, but the way his finger played at her had Agatha second guessing. 

“Oh, my sweet Agatha. Already so willing for me to take you, aren’t you? Do you want me to reclaim you?” The last bit of his scorching words had her reeling. She hadn’t slept with anyone else, not even as a thought. How could she? No one could compare to him and they both knew it. He wanted to see if she would say it… 

He withdrew his finger from her, a low curse tumbling from her lips, and guided her to her knees. “Be quiet if you must, but I haven’t tasted you in half a century.”

He spread her legs and ran a hand along her spine, gently pushing her torso down to reveal his prize to him. She could feel her juices dripping into the night air and knew she should feel exposed to the world. She should, but his mouth was on her then, a growl sounding in his throat as he sucked once at her clit. The sound of their connection rang as absolute sin and she pushed tighter against him. Agatha should have denied him, made him wait, but in earnest, she was getting exactly what she wanted. 

“No one else,” she uttered as she fought to stay focused on memorizing how he felt on her. Her low cry as he probed her earned a groan from him, vibrating against her core and making her wince. “There’s been no one else.” 

“So faithful, you are,” he hummed against her clit, a smile causing his teeth to brush into her. Dracula shuffled until he was lying beneath her, head planted firmly between her legs. She glanced down, a question in her eyes that was very quickly answered when he pulled her to him. A moan crept from the depths of her throat as he flicked his tongue hard against the nub. “And you even have the ring to prove it.”

“N-no time. I was too busy to sleep with anyone else,” she lied as he shifted her down further, her core pressed directly against his mouth. “F-fu--”

‘Ah-ah, best watch that tongue of yours, my dear. Your precious God may be watching.’

She groaned, having never been one for exhibitionism and silently pleaded for him to be done with his indulgence, despite the euphoria that spread through her body.. Truth be told, Agatha wanted more, wanted him, wanted everything from the way he worked between her thighs. Such a sight to behold as she looked down at him.

‘Not yet, remember? By your orders, we have to wait.’

She ground her hips into him, rocking as he turned his tongue over her clit, probed her, took her, claimed her. Her head dipped back, one hand tangled in his hair while the other grasped at his bent thigh for support. No amount of bracing could prepare her for how her body clenched around him as she fought off her orgasm. She didn’t want it to be over so soon. She wanted more, she wanted him, for eternity. But his voice, thick and low, entered her mind, imparting her ruin.

‘Come for me, Agatha.’ 

She fell around him, her hands clinging to his scalp as if she’d fall off the earth if she let go. Agatha’s legs shook and struggled to hold her up, but his hands were there at her hips to support her. Her orgasm hit her again as he greedily swept between her folds and she cried his name into the air.

Her ears rang as his grip loosened and released her, shifting under her so she was sitting on his chest. “Perfect.”

She moved so she was right against his hardened cock and wanted nothing more than to sink onto him. Her restraint was failing her, but she did not want it to happen here, not all of it. Agatha didn’t want all of England to see her undone.

“I brought a change of clothes,” she muttered down at him, unable to hide the satisfied smile fixed on her lips. He was beautiful beneath her, the corners of his mouth pulled back in a grin, a satisfied man. She had to kiss him, had to have more of him, if only for a moment.

As if reading her mind, and he probably had, Dracula pulled her down and took her lips. It was the second time she had ever tasted her own release in his kiss, but it still set her on edge. How could such depravity make her feel so complete? 

“Dress yourself. I’ll be waiting by the car,” she instructed as she sat up.

‘My turn,’ she hummed in her head as she leaned down to give him another peck on the lips before she stood and finished dressing. Agatha looked down at her ruined underwear and picked them up along with the thermoses he felt compelled to toss wherever he pleased.

“We’ve no need to come back for your box. I already have something prepared that I think will be to your liking,” she explained as she walked by him, dropping the items into the duffel, and pretended not to see cock twitching as he brought his slacks over it. “Bring the bag with you.”

She stopped at the passenger side door and watched as he walked up the beach. The suit fit him nicely, complementing both his style and form. A sharp black three-piece that shifted easily over his body. But she couldn’t let herself get distracted by the sight of him lest she miss her window of opportunity.

“You brought soil to England for me? Agatha Van Helsing, have I found a soft spot in you?” 

“You’ve found many spots in me,” she stated matter-of-factly as he stood before her, looking her over with pride. “But enough stroking your ego, come.” 

He obeyed and watched as she opened the car door and sat inside. She beckoned him closer and her fingers made fast work of his pants. The Count stared down, impressed by the way they pooled at his ankles. She didn’t give him much time for admiration as she wrapped her fingers delicately around his shaft and placed a kiss at his cockhead. 

She shifted in the seat, moving closer to him, her tongue coming out to run the underside of his length. She heard a soft groan from above her and knew she had permission to continue. He shifted his hips as she coated his cock in her saliva, letting her tongue drip onto him until he was slick. One hand steadied his hips while the other focused on working his shaft. 

Dracula’s head tilted back as Agatha took him inch by inch into her mouth. Her lips tightened around him as she pulled her head back, careful to attend to him with her tongue as she went. He brought a hand into her half dry hair, looked down at her, and watched as she, his nun, his devout, broke him into euphoric pieces.

“What trouble that mouth of yours will get you into,” he murmured as he shifted himself deeper into her mouth, hitting the back of her throat. “Do you think you can take it all, Agatha?”

Such wicked words hit her ears and she moved the hand on his cock to his other hip. Dracula’s other hand joined atop her head, holding her steady as he slowly pushed deeper still into her mouth until her nose rubbed against his curls. 

He groaned as she moved along him, beautifully in time with the sway of his hips when he could no longer refrain from rocking into her mouth. Before either of them could realize, he pulled almost entirely from the heat of her and plunged himself back in, finding a faster, shorter pace that she could handle while she let him use her. She steadied herself, doing what she could to aid in his release as precum spilled into her mouth, coating her throat as he rolled into her. 

His hips stuttered as he came in her mouth with a low moan, his hands untangling from her brunette locks, and looked down to see her swallowing his seed. Surely she had done this before. She had to have. Agatha moved out of the seat, wiping away what remained of the mixture of cum and saliva from her mouth, and gave him a hard look as he pulled his slacks up. 

“I heard that,” she muttered as she reached for the duffel. Presumptuous bastard. “Fifty years later and still a beast.”

“Agatha, anyone who can move their mouth like that should not be a nun or anywhere near a church,” he returned and caught her in his hold. She turned her head to meet his kiss before he could initiate and smiled as he laughed against her lips. “Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.” 

“Doctor.”

He tilted his head in confusion as she moved to the other side of the car. “Doctor?”

“I’m a doctor now.” 

“Scientific or medical?” His curiosity piqued, he took the seat she had been in moments earlier. The duffel was tossed in the backseat before she started the vehicle. 

“Medical. I was a surgeon in the second world war. It ended four years ago,” she explained as she pulled away.

“Second?”

The drive into town was spent regaling tales of her time in medical school, how she feeds, and how life had changed since he slept. He had been particularly interested in the Spanish Flu and returned with tales of previous pandemics and how humans never change or learn. She found that talking to him had been the easiest conversation for her in years. And she damned herself for it.

When they returned, he grabbed the bag from the back, eyes wide in wonder as he looked around him. Electricity, cars, what a lively world the future was. He looked to her, excitement clear, and she couldn’t help but return his smile. Most of what was around them had come at a great cost, but she would not bore him with the details. 

“So this is where you live? A bit...underwhelming, don’t you think?” Dracula turned his attention to the small home before him, no lights on in the windows. “Unlimited power and you still choose modesty?” 

“Not everyone indulges in their narcissism,” she retorted, the smile diminishing from her face. The door was up the small path and she knew it was time for her first test. “But yes, this is my home.” 

She walked by him, grabbed at her house key, and unlocked the door. There was a light switch just inside and she flicked it on. Part of her chest ached as she stepped inside. Fifty years he’d been asleep. Fifty extra years, he avoided any danger. He cheated that which he so feared. 

“Agatha,” he called, a scoff sounding after her name, “aren’t you forgetting something?” 

“Oh, yes. You can set the duffel bag just inside. I have work to do.” She dared not think of what she was doing lest he listen in to her thoughts. He was still new to the world around him, she was still new to him now. 

“Are you inviting me in?” 

“That depends,” she smirked, enjoying having the upper hand on him despite the circumstances. Her arms crossed her chest as she looked at him, careful not to hold his gaze for too long as he stood, unblinking, before her. “How badly do you want to come inside?”

“Playing games, are we? I must say, you have an interesting concept of foreplay.” His words were caught between annoyance and amusement. 

No, not a game. A test. 

“Rationalize to yourself why you wouldn’t be invited in,” she commanded, his attention snapping to her as he stepped at the threshold. They held each other’s gaze, silent and unmoving for moments. She wanted him in and he knew it. Still, he did not enter.

Did he have to hear it?

“If I don’t, you are free to run amok through all of England, leaving a path of slaughter and destruction in your wake. Why would I want that?” She was pressing him now, receding a single step back into the house. Another beat of silence and she turned, walking deeper into the house. “This is my home, purchased under your name. You d--”

“What name?” he asked as he stepped inside, cutting her off, his curiosity palpable.

She turned to face him, assumptions were apparently good enough. The heaviness in her chest lifted as she set her sights on the man currently in her home without invitation.

He gawked at her in response as a smile swept across her face. “What? What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I lied.”

His brows knit in confusion, tongue turning her phrase over soundlessly as his lips parted. “No, you didn’t. You said this was my house.”

“Would the deed be sufficient as evidence?” she asked taking a step toward him, unsure of how he would respond.

“What are you doing?” His confusion melted into unrest as he turned to look at the door and then his current position. Under the assumption that this was his house, he had entered it. However, Agatha was not telling him to leave and he felt no compulsion to do so. Perhaps it was her, because their blood flowed through each other’s veins.

“I said I would wake you when I came to understand you,” she started calmly. Agatha walked to the door, closed it, and locked it before she turned back to him. “I am keeping my word.”

“Through loopholes and trickery?” he inquired with a breath of empty laughter. He did his best to mask his annoyance, still too curious to find anger relevant. “Typical Catholic.”

She ignored his insult and returned to him. “Not trickery. Logic.”

“Lying is not logical, Agatha,” returned the Count, stepping closer to her.

“It is when your fears aren’t.” 

Rip off the bandage. Get it out of the way. Move beyond it. Her desire to stake him had long since passed, but once they started a game, they had to finish. He would not be satisfied with a stalemate or a surrender.

He remained silent as he followed her through the hall and into the small kitchen. She invited him to the table, to which he refused to sit, choosing instead to lean against the counter on the other side of the room. His gaze was locked to her as his curiosity gave way to impatience. 

“I’ve learned much in my time without you. At first I continued my research through conventional means,” she began, taking up residence against the table, her palms supporting her as she leaned against it, facing him. “But I stopped after the first two years. I was discovering nothing more. Without being active, there was no way to track you, to study your movements.”

He swallowed whatever retort he had. Good, he still knew when to let her explain, even if his eyes grew darker and his jaw tightened. She wondered if he felt trapped or if he expected her to come up empty again. But that was not the deal.

She had to be certain beyond doubt, beyond second guessing.

“I became my own test subject. Your bride at the castle had not feared the cross in Harker’s recount of his time with you and that led me to think. Why would you, if goodness or holiness had nothing to do with it? Why would you fear the sun? Why would you, a man of exceptional power and pride, be confined to the shadows?”

“Agatha,” he cautioned as his form grew rigid to keep him in place. Clearly his own subject not fearing the cross had been news to him.

“Please do not interrupt. I only get to say this once.” She raised a hand to silence him and crossed the kitchen to close the space between them. Agatha did not want to draw this out longer than necessary. “I have stepped into the sunlight, into churches, and homes without invitation. I’ve wasted muted prayers to a silent god before a crucifix and need not sleep in a bed of my own soil.”

“What are you getting at?” 

“What I’m getting at, Count Dracula, is that I know you. I have tested every myth aside from driving a stake through your heart.”

“So you woke me up to what? Fuck me and then kill me?” He was changing the subject. 

“Spare me your runaround. We both know that is not the reason,” she puffed and reached up to cradle his face. “I worked as fast as I could.”

“You could have broken your word,” he muttered as he leaned into her touch. Why was she being so gentle? She had a task and dropped her hand, retraining her focus. He did the same, knowing that his distraction had not worked. “Continue, since you’re such a persistent little thing.”

“You fear the idea of living but are without the courage to die. You’ve lost your ability to sacrifice yourself for ano--”

He grabbed her hips then, squeezing them painfully as he spun them around, setting her on the counter. She was close to the truth now and both knew it. He stared at her, silent and unmoving for nearly a minute. “One more word, Agatha. One more word and I swear I will burn England to the ground.”

“Someone tried that already,” she replied, her voice as level as it had been so long ago. “You’re a slave to your own fears. Too afraid to die, too afraid to live. Killing, feasting, and festering in the shadows when there’s been no need for the last four hundred and fifty years. You’ve convinced yourself that your habits are the laws by which you must live.”

He released his hold on her and took a step back, unsure of which way to move. She could tell he wanted to tear her apart, wanted to raze her house to dust with her along with it. It had been so long since she had seen that animal glint in his eye, that lust for destruction. A vampire’s version of a temper tantrum. 

But he did not move. He only stood in the middle of her kitchen, staring at her. 

“I considered waking you in the middle of the day,” she started as she slid from the counter. “But I figured that would be too much of a shock to your system. Having you come into my home of your own free will seemed much more practical.”

“No one, in over four hundred years, has had the audacity to speak to me that way.” Dracula finally broke silence, acting as though he had not heard her last statement. His words were as heavy as lead. “What makes you so sure of yourself?”

“It’s not me you’re doubting, Count.” Her words carried the excess compassion she had not been able to convey in her earlier lecture. Even in her success, her coveted prize made her feel unclean. But she would not break her word and despite his earlier suggestion, he would have been disappointed in her if she had. 

“The ring,” he spoke softly, nearly a whisper, not meeting her eye. “Why have you kept it?”

The question caught her off guard, stunning her into the silence that he had been in moments earlier. Her mouth opened but no sound made its escape, no words, no explanation. Nothing. Silence. How could she tell him? How could she tell that she had tasted his devotion when her teeth sank into him? How could she tell him that she returned it with equal measure without compromising herself? 

How, indeed. 

“Agatha.” He was waiting for a response, for her to blink, to breathe, to show any stupid little habits that she had so infuriatingly made sure to cling to. But their eyes finally met and she could see her own trepidation caught in his gaze. “You can’t answer me, can you?”

She swallowed then and took a breath. One challenge after the other. Is that all they were to each other? It reminded her of a musical she had heard of in passing. 

Anything you can do...I can do better.

“Sentimental value, I suppose,” she tested her voice.

“And what, exactly, would that sentiment be, Doctor Van Helsing?” His eyes narrowed as he stepped closer to her. They were fully clothed and yet she felt bare under his gaze. Stripped to nothing but her consciousness that resided where even she could not see. 

She could not say it. 

She must not.

“Because of this ring I was able to start my unconventional life.” She chose her words carefully. “I owe you a great de--”

A curt sigh cut her off as he shook his head, stalking closer to her. Too close for her comfort. The scent of the sea reminded her that he had been awake for no longer than an hour, two at most.

“No. Tell me plainly. Spare me the runaround, as you say.” A beat of silence before he persisted. “Agatha…”

Despite her better judgment, she glanced up to read his expression and felt that familiar hum in her blood, the same tender note that had rang in him that night. There was no demanding glare, no snarl, nothing etched into his face that would give her reason to reject him. His features were unreadable, save those infinitely dark eyes. In them, her resolve broke.

“You are a part of me, Count Dracula, for as long as I shall live.”