#( rather than the frustration of her trying to tell people how to pronounce her name )

[multifandombitxh]

Bed Time Stories

Pairing: Ghost x Fem!Reader (Ghost's POV, no use of y/n)

Genre: Angst, fluff, enemies to lovers kinda

Warnings: Adult language, a really bad romance novel excerpt that I made up on the spot

A/N: I'm back for like five minutes don't get used to it 🤙 PS would love to write something for a male reader if that's something anyone wants, just sayin'

Ghost had no idea how long this had been going on without his knowledge. In a way, he was a little upset that no one told him about this, especially when Soap knows how he feels about the new recruit. He was completely drawn to her from day one, the moment she stepped foot on base looking like pure sunshine in dirty combat boots. He didn't even know her name before he knew he wanted her- her mind, her heart, her soul... Her body as well, but that was a different issue.

Ghost kept his sweet distance. He knew that the moment he let himself revel in her kindness, it would only make things worse. It was beyond frustrating; he hadn't felt like this toward anyone in- well, ever. He was used to finding people attractive every now and then, sure, but this? This was a whole new ball game for him- and he doesn't even know how to play the game.

He wanted to bring her flowers, watch sunsets with her, ask for her favorite color, her favorite food, favorite movies and books, to know everything she found beautiful or worthwhile in this world. His thoughts were worse at night when he was trying to sleep. What did she look like in the mornings? Does she drink coffee, or tea? How lovely would it be to wake every day with her head on his chest?

He wanted to hold her god damn hand for Christ's sake. What was she turning him into?

Regardless of his softness toward her, Ghost did everything in his power to stay the fuck away. He was mean to her. He was snippy when he didn't have to be, putting her in her place when he felt it necessary. The others would hound him about it; "Go easy on her, Lieutenant." "Why would you say that?" "Maybe you should ease up a bit." But no. Not a snowball's chance in hell would he "ease up" or "lay off".

If he did, he'd melt just at the sight of her smile.

As if he wasn't already doing just that.

Soap noticed it first, the way his Lieutenant's gaze softened as soon as it fell on her, how his shoulders relaxed and his fists unclenched. She was walking stress relief, her smile so perfect and crooked and full. Her warm, inviting eyes shimmered and lit up any time she looked Ghost's way. God forbid he make eye contact with her, it made him weak in the knees. As soon as Soap caught onto this, he tortured Ghost with it day in and day out.

Now, as he stands in the hallway outside of the barracks, his arms crossed and his jaw tight, he listens as she speaks in soft, pronounced sentences, reading from a sappy, cheesy romance novel. Soap was the first to ask her about it- of course he was, he's always looking for ammo to tease the rest of the team with- but she wasn't even slightly embarrassed to tell him she loved romantic literature. Soap asked her to read a few pages to him, thinking it would be hilarious, and so she obliged. Now, a week and some change later, Soap and Gaz sat around with her late into the evening, listening to her read the latest chapter in her silly little book to pass the time.

Ghost's heart ached in his chest as he listened to her, smiling as she occasionally stumbled over her words, lost her place, or changed her tone of voice when speaking for different characters. The sound of her soft laughter nearly brought him to tears when she got to the juicer parts of the story, describing the intimate lives of these fictional people in great detail. Soap and Gaz would laugh along with her, but never once teased her or made fun of her for enjoying herself. It made Ghost feel warm. It made him feel full in his chest.

Soon, he began to focus a little more on the actual story rather than how beautiful the words sounded coming from her lips.

"Meredith watched as the love of her life crossed the small yard, plucking dandelions from the tall grasses and placing them in his woven wicker basket. Her heart was about to burst straight out of her chest and onto the cold, wooden floor, watching him so delicately picking the flowers and setting them aside. His amber hair almost glowed under the golden afternoon sun- he looked angelic in this light. She sighed through her freckled nose, knowing she had found the truest, purest form of love, and never wanted to let it slip from her grasp."

Ghost listened intently as you read that paragraph, snorting to himself. Looks like he and Meredith had something in common.

"How many chapters was that?" Soap asks as she closes the book, placing a bookmark between the pages.

"Only four left," She says with a smile, "Almost to the end."

Ghost feels rotten on the inside as she says that, knowing he'd missed so much of this special little gathering made him feel deep regret for pushing her away. As if driven by this deep sense of remorse, he steps out from the hall, moving into the open doorway and leaning against the frame, his arms remaining crossed. He tries to look angry, intimidating- his usual. Soap and Gaz look up at him, a bit surprised to see him.

"Lt, how long you been there?" Soap asks, standing from his seat and dusting himself off.

"Not long," Ghost lies, shrugging slightly. He looks between Soap and Gaz, not daring to look her way just yet. "You two mind giving us a moment?"

Soap smirks and nods, exchanging knowing looks with Gaz. The two of them thank her for another evening of book club, their soft and sweet voices making Ghost roll his eyes and nearly gag. He watches as they leave, taking their sweet time and discussing the latest chapters. Ghost finally turns to her, doing his damnedest to keep his gaze hard. She can't know, she can't.

"Did you need something, sir?" She asks, her voice much more meek than when she spoke with the others. He takes note of this, wondering to himself if he's made her uncomfortable. She stands from the bunk she was lounging on, placing the book on top of the covers as she straightens out. Ghost forces himself to keep his eyes trained on her face, lest they wander.

"I do, actually," He replies, taking a step toward her. It doesn't take much- his stride is quite large considering his size- for him to stand before her, nearly towering over her like a skyscraper. She looks up at him expectantly, her hands behind her back as she maintains a neutral expression. He misses her smile already.

"You-" He starts, shifting his weight as he tries to find his words. "I think- listen. This... You can't... Do this. Anymore. Whatever it is, it stops here."

Her face drops from neutral to hurt, her brows drawing together as her eyes fill with confusion. "What?" She asks, shaking her head. "I... Can't read? Are you serious?"

Dammit. He did it again. Without even meaning to, he put another invisible wedge between them, when all he really wanted to do was pull her closer. His chest begins to ache, anxiety setting in as he realizes what he's done. But he can't seem to stop himself.

"You can read, Sergeant, just... Not to the others. They have duties," Ghost explains, sounding unsure of himself. She seems to catch on, because soon her face changes from hurt to anger. "I can't have you distracting my men like this."

"You're joking," She scoffs, shaking her head and folding her own arms over her chest. Ghost physically fights the urge to look down. "You can't be serious, Ghost."

"That's Lieutenant to you," He all but snaps, taking another intimidating step forward. Why was he doing this? Why was he like this? His mind races as he tries to stop himself, to put an end to this charade and tell her the truth, to show her even an ounce of kindness. Why was that so hard for him? "Mind yourself if you want to keep your place on this team."

A few seconds pass as there's a pause in the discussion, and she lowers her gaze, nodding a few times. "It won't happen again, Lieutenant," She manages, keeping her eyes to the floor. The tone of her voice sounds like she was just slapped in the face.

Fuck. He's really done it now.

How can he fix this?

"Good," Ghost says quickly, giving her a single nod before he turns his back to her and begins walking away. Every fiber of his being is fighting himself, his heart begging him to turn around and apologize, take her in his arms and make her feel the love he feels for her. Before he reaches the threshold of the doorway, he hears her small voice again, her words striking his heart like a frozen spear.

"What did I do to make you hate me so much..?"

He can't do this. Not anymore.

Not to her.

"Dammit..." Ghost whispers, closing his eyes as he stops in his tracks. He turns on his heel, his heart hammering in his chest so hard it hurts. "I don't... Hate you, Sergeant."

He watches her for a moment, noticing her defeated stance and the way she refuses to look his way, not that he blames her. It kills him inside to know that he caused this- that she's hurting because of his actions. All because he's afraid of letting her in. At this rate, he'll have to physically build a brick wall to keep himself away from her. He was done for.

"I don't understand," She whispers. Her voice wavers, sounding as though she's holding back tears. That nearly rips his heart out of his chest. "I have tried so hard to do my best and do what's right for the team. Everyone seems to have faith in me, except for you. I don't understand what I did wrong, Lieutenant, I don't-"

Without a second thought, he crosses the room to her, taking swift strides as he comes to stand in front of her again. Before she can even blink he holds her face in both of his hands, his palms covering her cheeks and his fingers resting on her jaw. Her eyes go wide, and he's pretty sure he hears her breath catch in her throat.

"I... Am so stupidly in love with you," He confesses in a voice barely above a whisper, the feeling of her soft skin against his calloused hands sending a shiver up his spine. He locks eyes with her, making sure to silently convey with them that he's telling the truth. "I want you... In every sense of the phrase. I want you in the worst way, and I can't... I can't have you."

As she stares up at him with a puzzled expression, his heart rate increases ten fold, the closeness of their bodies suddenly overwhelming his senses. He can smell her, her lovely scent on her clothes and skin. It's intoxicating. He wishes he could bottle it and keep it for himself on lonely nights.

"Ghost-"

"You are the embodiment of everything good in this world, and I... I- I would dirty you if I put my hands on you," He carries on, his thumb stroking her cheekbone so delicately it's almost ghosting over the flesh. His voice breaks as he speaks, as if he's about to lose his composure any moment. "I am trying to keep myself away from you, don't you understand? Everything about you is like a drug I'm hopelessly addicted to and haven't even tried. And I'll never be sorry enough for hurting you, but I'd be hurting you more if I let myself feel this way about you."

As he lays it all out for her, pouring his heart out in phrases that even he didn't think he could formulate, her eyes soften and begin to fill with tears. They glisten beautifully under the dim lights, glossy and lovely and inviting. His breathing becomes uneven at the sight of her, feeling himself fall harder and harder the longer he looks into them. When she leans into his touch and closes her eyes, he almost gasps, completely taken aback by the gesture.

"Maybe I'm not as clean as you think I am," She whispers, each word hitting him hard in the gut. As he tries to process what she means, her hands slip beneath the bottom of his balaclava, slowly but surely sliding it up until his mouth comes into view.

He doesn't even think about trying to stop her when she leans in and presses her perfect lips to his.

The kiss lasts for what feels like milliseconds, leaving him wanting more. So much more. As soon as her lips depart from his, he's wrapping his arms tightly around her waist and pulling her back in, his mouth crashing down on hers once again. The softest sighs escapes into the kiss, though neither of them are sure who started it. Heat builds almost immediately and suddenly Ghost has her in his arms, lifting her into the air with his hands on the backs of her thighs. He pushes her hard against the closest wall, drawing a shocked breath out of her.

Ghost's mind is gone, lost somewhere deep in the corners of his skull while his heart takes control, relishing in the soft sensation of her mouth against his. All bets are off now, and he doesn't care anymore. He wants her. He needs her. Like air, like water, like shelter. She is keeping him alive.

But she's killing him at the same time.

When they finally pull apart from one another, they breathe hard, the air between them hot and heavy. One of her hands holds up his balaclava while the other wraps around his broad shoulders, using them for some leverage as he holds her in the air against the cold wall.

"I'm sorry," She mumbles against his lips, closing her eyes. "I probably shouldn't have done that."

"Probably not," Ghost agrees with a grin, biting down on his lower lip briefly as he takes in the sight of her like this. Breathless, vulnerable. Beautiful. "But I'd expect nothing less from someone who reads those stupid novels."

[sonyeou]

HEADCANON i.

language(s) and bilinguality.

at present, maya is able to speak 3 languages. she is fluent in korean ( as it is her mother tongue ), english ( also fluent as a result of schooling and a penchant for english shows and music ) and spanish. english is her most commonly used language and considered her time learning spanish to be almost entirely redundant before going on her travels.

however, since traveling, maya is grateful for the time taken in learning of new languages. because of this, she was inspired and motivated enough to learn her fourth, which is italian. so far, she only knows basic italian sentence structures as she wished to visit italy next on her list of countries.

[thedigitalnativee]

i trusted you. (fred weasley x fem!oc)

summary: vespyr trusted him despite being warned of his ways.

warnings: unedited and not proof-read, ANGST, mentions of sex, mentions of nude photos, fred being a dick, me hurting my oc as a way to cope (lol...)

update: vespyr’s name is pronounced ve-spur

Vespyr face claim:

•••••••••••

Vespyr was stunned by what she was seeing. It was as if she could feel her heart breaking in half. She didn’t want to believe it, but how could she not when it was so clear?

Two weeks ago, Vespyr slept with Fred Weasley. She’d always had a crush on him. She was in awe of his ambition and confidence, and not to mention that he was rather dashing as well.

But she knew nothing would ever come of it. After all, she was just one of Ron’s dumb little friends to him.

So when Fred kissed her at a quidditch afterparty, she was shocked. But not shocked enough to tell him no. She had wanted him since she was eleven years old. For years, her dreams and fantasies had been of him loving her unconditionally. So when he said he wanted her, she let him have her. And when he said he wanted a piece of her with him, she didn’t protest.

Maybe she should have pushed him off. Maybe she should have said no. Maybe she should have done anything to keep her from being in the position she was in now.

Now here she sat, tears welling up in her eyes. Next to her, Lavender and Parvati showed her the copies of the intimate photos she shared with Fred that had been circulating around the school. Photos of her in her underwear, posing promiscuously. Enchanted pictures of his fingers running over her breasts and stomach. Laying completely nude on his bed as they made love—or so she thought.

“I’m sorry, Vespyr.” Parvati said.

Vespyr felt like her breath had been stolen away. Her chest was red hot with a feeling she’d never felt before. It was like heartbreak elevated to a higher plane.

“We tried to collect all of them, but I think Fay said she saw more in one of the corridors. We told McGonagall and she’s looking into it.” Lavender added gently.

Fred couldn’t have done this. He would never have shown those photos to anyone. But how else would they have gotten out to the school? Maybe someone found them in his dorm. He wouldn’t hurt her like this.

Vespyr walked down to the common room where she knew Fred was. She had to speak with him immediately. Surely he’d know how the photos had gotten around.

When she got to the common room, she saw Fred sitting around the card table with his friends. She stood in the frame of the stairway with her arms crossed over her chest, feeling everyone’s eyes on her. She saw the dirty look Hermione Granger and Ginny Weasley gave to her. She also noticed the way Alicia, Angelina, and Katie laughed at her.

Trying her best to ignore them, she made her way across the room to Fred. As she approached, Lee and Cormac’s eyes landed on her. She felt unease rise in her as smirks grew on their faces.

She realized that everyone in that room had probably seen her photos. The photos that were only meant for Fred to see. They’d all seen her in her most vulnerable and intimate state. And even though she was completely clothed, she’d never felt more exposed.

Vespyr stood behind Fred’s chair, his broad back to her. She cleared her throat as she shifted uncomfortably. Fred continued playing cards, however, as if he hadn’t heard her.

George now looked up at Vespyr. He got a worried look which quickly changed into an apologetic expression. Vespyr couldn’t smile or do anything other than stare blankly at him, too consumed with the thought that he too had probably seen her naked.

Vespyr cleared her throat again but still got no response from Fred. Finally George kicked his brother under the table. Fred winced slightly as George motioned to where Vespyr stood behind them.

She already felt humiliated. She needed to see Fred’s face. She knew once she saw his warm, chocolate eyes and dimples that she’d feel safe again. But when Fred turned to look at her, she felt the opposite of safe. He looked at her like she was an embarrassment, like she was a burden. A nagging duck that had imprinted on him, a pimple that just won’t go away.

Vespyr looked down at her loafers, a hurt feeling coming over her. “Can I please talk to you?” She asked Fred.

Fred glanced back at the other boys at the table. Vespyr wanted to sob when she saw the way they chuckled. Then Fred turned back to her, “Yeah. Sure.” He shrugged, smacking his hand of cards onto the table.

Vespyr practically sprinted out of the common room and into the corridor. Fred followed behind her with his hands tucked into his pockets.

They stood in the corridor, Fred barely able to meet her eyes. The fact that he couldn’t even look at her was enough to tell her that he had done something. She didn’t even have to ask because she already knew. But still, she wanted to hear him say what he had done. And she wanted to know why.

“Please tell me that you didn’t do this, Fred. Please tell me that I’m crazy for even thinking you had something to do with this. T-Tell me that someone stole these,” She threw three of the photos at him, “from your drawer and you didn’t know. Just tell me you didn’t do this.” She said as tears welled up in her eyes.

Fred finally looked at Vespyr. Her nose was bright red and the crystal tears in her eyes made them look unreal. He let out a sigh and Vespyr prepared herself for whatever he was about to say.

“It was so stupid how it started out, Vess. Okay, we were all just fucking around after quidditch practice.” He started.

Vespyr felt a chill run down her spin, “Alright,” She said in a tone that encouraged him to continue.

Fred let his body lean against the wall next to him. “I don’t know who brought it up but we started talking about that stupid fucking list-”

She knew what list he was referring to. She’d seen far too many girls shed tears after finding out they were on it. And she’d also seen girls cry because they didn’t make the list. It was a topic of many conversations for the upper-classmen, and a source of frustration for the school’s staff. Vespyr recalled one time when Lavender gushed about how she desired to be on the list.

The list of Hogwarts most desirable—better known by the quidditch boys as “Hogwarts’ Most Fuckable”.

Vespyr never thought that she would be on the list. It had never even crossed her mind. But the thought of being on it made her feel sick.

“-We were all laughing and then Cormac brought up Ginny’s name, and he said that he was gonna put her on the list unless someone else put another girl on there. And I just got pissed and I didn’t want Ginny on it, so I brought you up.” Fred explained frantically.

Vespyr’s heart began to race. And even still, she felt for him. She still felt a sweet tug in her heart as she looked at him. Even though he was breaking her heart.

“I didn’t know that they were gonna plaster the picture all over the school, Vess, I swear.” He reached for her hands.

Vespyr blinked, gently pulling her hands away. Her stomach started to flip in a horrible way. She felt like she was going to faint. “Y-You showed them those pictures? Why would you- why would you do that?” She asked him.

“They were gonna put Ginny on the list, alright? She’s only in fourth year, I- I panicked. What should I have done?” He tried to make her understand, taking her hands in his again.

This time she snatched her hands away, “You could have told McGonagall, o-or you could have stopped it. I don’t know, Fred, you just could have done something.” She breathed out now.

Fred scoffed, “Yeah, tell McGonagall and have the entire quidditch league think I’m some git.” He defends.

“So you decided that I should suffer the consequences?” She snapped at him.

Fred couldn’t say anything back to her. He had no defense for what he had done. It was a horrible thing to do to someone, especially someone you claim to care about. “It’s just a stupid list, Vespyr.”

Her eyes widened with anger, red clouding her vision. “If it’s just a stupid list, then Ginny could have been on it, right?” She snapped.

“Vess-” He shook his head.

She couldn’t describe what she was feeling. It was a rage and anger that she had never felt in all her life. The betrayal coupled with the dismissal of it all made her livid.

“That’s because it’s not just a stupid list!” She pushed his chest angrily.

Fred pinched the bridge of his nose. The last thing he wanted was to hurt Vespyr. But when Cormac brought Ginny up, he felt like his hands were tied.

Fred tried pulling Vespyr into his embrace but she pushed against him. “Don’t.” She said sternly.

He sighed, “What do you want me to do?” He asked finally.

She looked up at him as if he’d gone mad, “I want you to stop this. I want you to defend me from all the shit people are saying.” Vespyr told him.

He gave her a confused look. “How am I supposed to defend you, Vespyr? Okay, this isn’t all my fault.” He said.

He knew it sounded wrong coming out of his mouth. He just wanted to feel less guilty about what he had done. He didn’t want to hurt her any further, but that was exactly what he was doing.

“I’m sorry, do you mean to imply that this is my fault?” She asked him.

He shrugged slightly, “I mean, you gave me the pictures, Vess.” He said.

“Because you asked for them!” She yelled back, her finger pressing into his chest.

She picked up the photos that were strewn on the ground. “These pictures, these pictures that you asked me for, were private. These pictures weren’t for your ‘stupid list’.” She ripped them up and threw them at his face.

Fred continued to try to calm her down, but she wasn’t going to calm down. There were no words that he could say to make her any less angry than she felt in that moment. He tried to grab her arms, he tried to hug her even. But there was nothing that was going to make this better.

Tears streamed down her face. Her throat was closing up, causing her voice to be thick. She felt like she might explode from the pressure mounting in her head. “You know I never did anything like that for anyone else before you? I never even thought to give a guy something like that until you. And now- now you do this?” She cried.

Fred’s jaw clenched as he looked at the space between them. “Yeah, well, I didn’t force you.”

Vespyr couldn’t believe him. How could he not see the error in his words? And why was he being so hurtful towards? She thought he cared about her. He said he would always protect her and he would never let anything happen to her. She trusted him and now he was doing the very opposite of protecting her. He was deliberately putting her in harm’s way.

She scoffed and pushed past him, not wanting to hear any more. She was so unimaginably angry at him, at all of them. For doing this to her and then having the nerve to think less of her.

Vespyr paused and turned around to look at him. Fred’s tall frame came into view again. “You’re a sad sack of a man and you will never touch me again.” She said as strongly as she could, but the crack in her voice made her fall short.

Fred hadn’t meant to put any blame onto Vespyr. He wanted to be there for her. God knows that he didn’t want to lose her. But it was like every time he spoke, the wrong words kept coming out. His mouth seemed to have a mind of its own.

Now she had confirmed it, though she had already known the answer somewhat. Vespyr was alone in this. The pictures were out and the damage was done. Everyone around her was silently, and not so silently, judging her. And Fred was too much of a coward to stand by her through it all.

~

It had been three very long weeks. Vespyr had only spoken to Lavender and Parvati due to the fact that they were the only people who would talk to her. Then there was Neville, who was always nice. And of course Luna, the kindest soul anyone had ever met. And despite some forlorn stares from across the room on Fred’s part, she hadn’t spoken to him either.

She wondered if anyone had empathy for her. If anyone could stop calling her names long enough to actually put themselves in her place and try to understand. If any of them could bestow a little grace upon her.

It seemed like those pictures just wouldn’t go away. She thought it would blow over after a week or so, but it just wasn’t. Every time she thought it might be over, someone would leave a picture in one of her notebooks or her owl would deliver an envelope full of them, or whatever cruel way the student body decided to remind her.

At lunch, Draco Malfoy and his friends came up to her. Draco tapped her on her shoulder and she turned around. When she saw who it was, she knew it couldn’t be good.

Vespyr sighed, “Yes?”

Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini snickered next to him as Pansy Parkinson sneered at Vespyr.

“Sorry, we just wanted to know your price.” Draco smirked, elbowing Blaise playfully.

Lavender glared at him and Vespyr sat there with a confused. She wasn’t sure what he meant by her ‘price’, but knowing Malfoy, it probably wasn’t something nice.

“What?” Vespyr asked in an annoyed tone.

Theodore chuckled, “You know, your price for pictures.” He explained.

Vespyr rolled her eyes, putting down her fork and standing up to leave. The group of them started to laugh as Lavender followed her out.

“Don’t worry, boys. I hear she’s pretty cheap anyway.” Pansy remarked, her words being the last thing Vespyr heard before she left the hall.

~

About two days after that, Dumbledore called Vespyr into his office. He’d told her that he’d been made aware of her predicament and was concerned for her.

To say that Vespyr was embarrassed was an understatement. She was appalled and ashamed. She felt humiliated.

Her mentor, her headmaster, had seen those god awful photos of her. The fact that he was aware made it clear that other members of the staff had to know also. Vespyr found herself examining her teachers for any signs that they had. A slight stutter when they spoke to her, a quick aversion of the eyes, lips pressed in a firm line. They all made her wonder irrationally.

Have they seen my photos? Have they seen my body?

It made her feel sick.

“Well, Miss Morgan, I can assure you I will be looking into this and I will get down to the bottom of who is responsible. Until then, I’ll be tasking Professor McGonagall with deciding your punishment.”

Vespyr’s head shot up at his words, “My punishment?”

Dumbledore nodded authoritatively at the young girl. Vespyr was dumbfounded that she was to be punished also. He should have been consoling her, not scolding.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” She shook her head as she fiddled with her fingers, “I can’t imagine why I’m being punished.” She said truthfully.

“It’s you in the photos, is it not?” He tilted his head forward, his old eyes widening slightly.

Vespyr chuckled almost, “Well yes, but— Professor, I-I’m a victim. I’ve done nothing wrong. My only crime is caving to pressure.” She explained.

Dumbledore sighed and stood up. He went to the bookshelf in the corner of the room. Vespyr turned in her chair to follow him. He placed a hand on his hip and looked back at her.

“Miss Morgan, let’s not be deluded. You have a mind of your own and you’ve used it very keenly in the past. You used that independent mind of yours to decide to take those photos of yourself and give them to whomever you did. Does that diminish the seriousness of what has been done to you? No, it does not. But you are responsible for it in a sense. No one can make you do anything against your will.” Dumbledore said.

Vespyr felt a lump rising in her throat. She didn’t care what anyone thought. She didn’t care if she had decided on her own to give those photos to Fred. The fact of the matter was that they were meant for only him. They were given to him, someone she trusted, during a time when she thought they were in love. Yes, she had given him the photos on her own accord, but it didn’t mean the world got to see them as well.

She grabbed her bag and darted for the door. Dumbledore stepped in her way before she could leave. “Now just wait a minute, Miss Morgan.”

“No. You know what? You have no idea what it’s like to be a young girl in a cruel world like this. A world that shames you for showing too little, as well as shaming you for showing too much. A world that tells you that you must give yourself to a man or else you’re a prude, but also tells you that it makes you some kind of whore if you do decide to have sex. You and people like you wanna place the blame on us girls because you know deep down that you enabled this.” She spit at him.

Dumbledore had stepped back from her, his firm expression faltering at her bold language.

“You, Headmaster, have turned a blind eye to the barbaric environment in this school. You’ve allowed the quidditch teams to harass and torment the female population at Hogwarts by your continued dismissal of that list. And now, to feel less guilty about it all, you intend to place blame onto me.” She continued.

Her hands were balled into fists so tight that her fingernails broke the skin on her palm. She could feel the tears brimming her eyes.

Doesn’t anyone have any sympathy for me?

“Miss Morgan, are you trying to tell me that someone on one of the quidditch teams is responsible for this?” He asked her.

She calmed down very fast, Fred’s dimpled smile coming into her mind. Her anger subsided suddenly as she realized that incriminating the quidditch team meant incriminating Fred. And as angry as she was with him, she didn’t want him to get in trouble. She hated that she still loved him enough not to make him pay.

The pounding in her heart stopped and sped up all at the same time. Her fists unclenched, blood trickling down her palm. She wiped away the tears that formed in her eyes. Some of the blood on her hands smeared on her cheek.

“That’s not my point.” She said firmly. Vespyr sighed as she looked at Dumbledore’s minimally concerned face. “Punish me if you must. It’s not like it’s any worse than anything else that’s happened to me.”

~

Luckily, someone in the world did have sympathy for Vespyr.

Professor McGonagall only gave her an extra study hall as her punishment. But honestly, the extra study hall spared Vespyr from seeing her vicious peers, so it wasn’t much of a punishment. It actually was a reward.

“The world is unkind, Vespyr. Someday I hope you’ll remember what I’ve done for you and make it kinder.” McGonagall had said to her.

Vespyr walked into the common room after her study hall at the end of the day. When she did, all eyes were on her. She’d grown used to the stares, the whispers. But she still got a chill when she felt them.

As she walked past Harry, Ron, and Hermione, she heard Hermione whisper something. “Careful, I hear libertinism is catching these days.” She said and Ron snickered.

Vespyr stopped walking. She closed her eyes and sucked in a sharp breath.

She couldn’t let it go on any longer. If she couldn’t defend herself then she had nothing. From the beginning, she resided to ignoring the comments being made about her. But seeing the way Hermione, a girl so intelligent and remarkable, talked about her made her unimaginably angry.

Vespyr turned, “You know, you talk a lot of shit.” She snapped at the other Gryffindor girl.

Hermione wavered slightly. Ron and Harry fell silent along with rest of the room.

Vespyr’s eyes glanced over to Fred, who sat in the corner with George and Lee. His eyes looked sadly upon her, as if he were pleading with her.

Please don’t do this to yourself. His eyes said. Please.

But Vespyr wouldn’t stop.

“Excuse me?” Hermione scoffed.

Vespyr stood her ground, “You heard me, Hermione.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

Hermione’s lips curled into an uncomfortable smirk. Angelina, Alicia, and Katie all quietly laughed as they watched the exchange. And then Ginny stood up.

“Just who do you think you are?” Ginny asked.

“I’m a fucking human being, that’s what I think! And you know what? Yeah, I took those pictures of myself and they got out. You all have made it your job not to let me forget. I’ve been called every name and been the butt of every joke under the sun this past month. And all the time, I’ve had no one but Lavender and Parvati by my side.” She said as she tried not to cry.

She looked at Fred and he looked away from her. He felt guilt course through him as he saw the pain in her expression.

“You all are angry with me but you aren’t at all angry with the person who did this.” Vespyr could feel her emotions coming undone.

Fred could hear it in her voice. It was like he was connected to her. He could feel the ache in her heart as if it were his own. He hated that he was the cause of that ache. He’d rationalized what he did to Vespyr by saying it was to protect Ginny, because it was, but that thought just wasn’t enough anymore as Vespyr stood in front of him broken to bits.

He stood up and walked to Vespyr, “That’s enough, let’s get you upstairs-”

“The person that deceived me with flowery language. That gained my trust only to betray it!” She pushed against his chest harshly and he stumbled backwards.

She turned and faced the other side of the room where the rest of the boys were. “Why is it always us that has to be held responsible for your wrongdoings? How come we’re ridiculed and called whores while you all suffer no consequences. Why does no one every get angry at you for victimizing us?” She sobbed at the empty expressions of Cormac McLaggen and others.

When she turned back, she saw that Hermione was red-faced and had a guilty look in her eyes. Everyone else was eerily silent and stared at Vespyr in shock. The only sound audible was Vespyr’s heavy breathing.

“Vespyr, I-” Hermione tried to speak, but Vespyr’s eyes found Ginny again.

Vespyr charged at the fiery-haired girl, “It would have been you. Had Fred not been there, it would have been you on that stupid list and not me. You should thank me!” She screamed at her and Ginny flinched.

Fred forcefully intervened, grabbing Vespyr by the shoulders and pulling her away from his sister. “Enough.” He said firmly. “I’m taking you back to your dorm.”

Vespyr felt anger and sadness boiling deep within her. She couldn’t decide between the two emotions because both were so strong. As Fred guided her up the steps to her dorm, she felt him pulling him into her chest. She couldn’t resist burying her face in his shirt, and she hated herself for it.

Fred sat her down on the bed and Vespyr couldn’t meet his eyes. “Your pajamas,” He said.

Vespyr shook her head, “What?”

“Um... I forgot where you keep them.” He said softly.

Vespyr felt like vomiting. She couldn’t believe that she had presented herself that way in the common room. She wasn’t the kind of person who told people how she felt so openly. She certainly wasn’t one to hysterically scream and cry in front of people. As if she wasn’t humiliated enough, now she had done this.

She crossed her arms over her chest, “Second drawer down on the left side.” She said softly.

Fred hurriedly went to her drawer and fished out a pair of blue pinstripe pajama pants and a blush pink sweater. He remembered that combination after the first night he made love to her.

He placed the neatly folded pajamas next to her. He noticed how she still looked away from him and he felt his heart sink. Her silky hair shined in the dim light of the dorm room. Dainty fingers fidgeted in her lap nervously as her knee bounced up and down.

Fred could feel the urge to brush her hair away so he could see her. He ached you run his fingers through it like he had done so many times before.

Vespyr could feel his attention on her. She should have wanted him to leave, but she felt comforted by him just being there. Instead of wanting to push him out of the room, she wanted to pull him down in the bed with her.

Finally Fred spoke, “Look, Vess-”

“I know, you’re sorry. You’ve told me.” Vespyr interrupted.

Fred sighed, slightly aggravated that she hadn’t let him speak. He sat down next to her and it took Vespyr by surprise. But she was even more shocked when he took her hands in his.

Oh, how she missed the feeling of his skin on hers.

“No, just listen.” He looked at her but she wouldn’t look at him. His thumb ran across her soft skin, rubbing in the crystal tears that fell onto her hands.

“From the moment I met you all those years ago, I vowed to myself that you would be the only girl I ever loved. And even though I’ve had other lovers and girlfriends before you, I always knew that in the end I would only be with you. Because you’re the only person I ever want for the rest of my life. That night that we first made love, I promised to myself I would never hurt you, and if I did I would work everyday to make it up to you.” He squeezed her hands gently.

Vespyr felt her throat closing up. She never knew that he had loved her all that time. For almost a decade, the two of them had loved each other and didn’t know it. She wished that he had given her a sign that he felt the same way.

“So, that’s what I want to propose to you now. I want to know if you’ll let me make it up to you. Because I love you, Vespyr Morgan. And I’m completely and totally uninterested in living a life without you. And I know that I’m a bloke for what I did, and I’d bet on the fact that I’ll fuck up countless times over. But I promise, if you give me a chance, I will do my best to make sure that it’s me that gets hurt and not you.” He placed a hand on her cheek.

Vespyr felt herself rest into his touch. Her tears pooled in his hand. She tried to resist kissing his palm, but her lips were on his calloused skin before she even realized it.

In all honesty, she wasn’t sure what to say. She didn’t know whether to forgive him and kiss him tenderly, or tell him to sod off and slap him. Obviously he wasn’t deserving of her forgiveness. What he did to her was vile and careless. But goodness, she was so in love with him. And when he looked at her with those puppy dog eyes, she felt like she’d been hypnotized.

Her mind was foggy and her heart had found it’s way to her throat. So when she said what she did next, she almost didn’t hear the words fall from her lips.

“I forgive you.” She said.

Fred settled for a moment before she spoke again.

“I forgive you,” She swallowed, “but I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.” She finished.

Fred’s heart dropped yet again. What had he expected? For her to just easily fall back into his arms after what he’d done? She could never trust him again, obviously. How could she be with someone she didn’t trust?

“I do want you to make it up to me, Fred. I may not forget it, but I’m willing to put behind me. Because I love you too, and as angry as I’ve been with you, being away from you has been agony.” She rested her hand on his neck.

Tears pricked Fred’s eyes. He wasted no time pulling the younger Gryffindor into a kiss. He’d missed the way her lips melded to his and the way she warmed under his touch.

He knew as he kissed her that he would rather die than ever hurt his darling again. She was the most prized thing in the world to him, and he’d be damned if she ever suffered at his hand again.

They pulled away and Vespyr rested her head on his shoulder in a hug. Fred gently rubbed her bag, nestling his nose in her candy-scented hair. The two magical beings relished in the moment.

“I love you, Vespyr. More than anything. And I promise that I’m yours as long as you’d like me to be.” Fred spoke.

Vespyr held him tighter as he spoke, squeezing her eyes shut. “I love you, Fred. I will love you for as long as I live.”

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Beneath the Surface: A Retelling of “The Frog Prince”

If I’d had any choice, I never would have taken the underground train. I had accompanied Roger to a political summit in the city of Roshen, but spouses leave after the opening speeches, and since I couldn’t leave Roger without the hovercar, I had to use public transportation. The train--built by the natives decades before humanity absorbed Arateph into the Interplanetary Coalition--was a horrible excuse for technology. It rattled me to my destination, jolted me into an underground station, and left me so shaken that I could feel my bones clattering as I climbed up the stairs to the street.

The crowd surged around me as I emerged onto the sidewalk. There were far too many tephans. You know what Arateph’s natives look like—almost like humans, but it’s an unsettling almost. Their eyes just slightly too high on their heads, their ears just slightly too far back, and hands (ugh) split into only three fingers and a thumb. Like a person shaped by a sculptor with a hazy memory of how humans look. I can take them in small doses, but in groups? My skin was crawling. I powered through the crowd as quickly as possible and tried not to let any of them touch me.

I sped several blocks away from the train station before I realized I was nowhere near my hotel. The buildings in this neighborhood were old, made of crumbling stone bricks that had been stacked by physical labor rather than printed by machine. Half the windows were made of colored glass, and half of those were broken. Garbage rustled in the gutters, holes marred the concrete sidewalks, and all the signs were written in an unfamiliar alphabet. I was, somehow, lost in a tephan neighborhood. And not a nice one.  

I turned in circles, trying to figure out which way I’d come. Tephans watched me from storefronts and doorsteps and alleyways, and I kept walking to prevent them from figuring out just how lost I was. I was Priscilla Overton, wife of a Coalition finance minister, pillar of this planet’s elite—and human. Some groups violently opposed human rule, and tephan attacks against humans were on the rise. Who knew what these savages would do if they knew how helpless I was?

I rushed through narrow, dark streets until I reached a wider thoroughfare--a residential area with slightly less grimy apartment buildings. Still not a nice neighborhood, but not a place where I suspected otherworldly rats would tear the flesh from my bones or criminals would murder me for my technology.

I pulled my datapad out of my purse to look for directions. Dead.

I unfolded my wristcomm and tried to call for help. No signal.

I put my fist to my mouth to stifle a frustrated scream. Why did these things happen to me?

I stormed further down the street, cursing Roger for ever bringing us to this planet. We’d been happy on Earth. Comfortable. Respected. With no chance of wandering into streets where aliens stared at you with their off-kilter eyes. The rewards we got for helping to civilize this backward planet weren’t nearly enough to make up for this torture.

I turned a corner and found myself in front of a long, low yellow-brick building with dozens of small windows. The window boxes had flowers in them—fist-sized bundles of tiny red and gold petals. Not something you’d find on Earth, but...nice. Nice enough to pull me down from my fury and make me think I could give my wristcomm another try.

I powered down the wristcomm and stood next to a pink metal lamp post (Arateph has strange color trends) while I waited for it to restart. A metal grate was below my feet. These primitives still used storm drains! I shouldn’t have been surprised, since the road clearly wasn’t made of Draincrete, but it was still jarring. Living on Arateph was a strange combination of living on another world and living in the backward past.

My wristcomm buzzed, still powering up. I was ready to explode with anxiety. There were tephans straggling by—not many of them, but too many and too poorly dressed for my taste. To calm myself, I played with my wedding ring—a gold band with a spray of amethysts and pearls. The ring had been in Roger’s family for centuries. Some days, it felt like my last tie to a familiar world.

I kept my life on Arateph as Earth-like as possible, but it could never be the same as living on Earth. Alien things always lingered at the edges. Trees that turned purple in autumn instead of familiar orange. Toothy red-and-purple-feathered birds that rooted through the trash and woke me with their awful screeching. And around every corner, people who looked like grotesque parodies of my own kind. An entire world conspiring to make me constantly aware of how far I was from home.

My sisters were going about their own lives on Earth, and the few times we could afford appointments at synced comms stations, we found little to talk about--we literally came from different worlds. If Roger and I ever had children--doubtful but possible at our age--our families would only know them as data-images.

This was why I hated being alone on this wretched planet. Gave me far too much time to think about these things.

My wristcomm chimed—finally awake. I unfolded the screen and attempted to bring up my list of contact codes. I found Roger’s; he’d be in the middle of a meeting, but I couldn’t help that. I pressed the code and waited.

A discordant note sounded. No signal. I threw down my hand in frustration. My ring flew down with it. The golden band slipped off my finger, tumbled toward the ground, bounced off the edges of the grate, and fell into the drain.

I gasped in horror and fell to my knees. It couldn’t be, not now.

The ring sparkled in the sunlight, caught on a lip where the structure of the drain met the tube of the deeper pipe. I put my purse on the ground and slid my arm through the grate, but my arm got stuck just above the elbow. The ring was still a foot beyond my reach.

I burst into tears. I couldn’t help it. After the day I’d had—lost among tephans, fighting faulty technology, no hope of help from people who looked like me—this was the last straw. This planet had taken me from my home, my family, my friends, everything familiar, and now it was taking my one reminder of it all. Anybody would have cried.

Long before I felt any relief, a harsh voice broke through my sobs. “Are you finished yet?”

I looked up, furious at whoever was rude enough to interrupt my misery.

A tephan girl sat in the stairwell of the long yellow-brick building next to the gutter. I yelped and reeled back, tears still flowing. Have you ever seen a tephan child? They’re ten times worse than the adults; all their slightly-wrong features stretched even further out of shape, their eyes big and bulging in their heads. This girl was gangly. Her skinny limbs dangled out of baggy green clothes, and a wild brown bush of curls frizzed around her face and over her eyes. By human standards, I’d have judged her to be about twelve years old (though I have no idea if these creatures age like humans). By any race’s standards, she looked positively feral.

I couldn’t believe the creature had spoken to me. “Did you say something?” I asked.

She held up a thick book, bound human-style but with blocky tephan letters on the cover. “Can you cry somewhere else? I’m trying to read.”

She spoke Anglese with only a lightly slurring tephan accent. Somehow, this child spoke the Coalition’s language better than most of the tephan diplomats at Roger’s interminable meetings.

In my shock, I blurted, “How do you know Anglese?”

The creature rolled her eyes. “I go to school. With humans and everything.”

Roger hadn’t been in favor of the integration policy, but it apparently had some benefits. Or would have, had I any interest in talking to the child. Before I could decide if I wanted to reply, I glimpsed the ring again and burst into another involuntary round of tears.

The girl closed her book with a sigh. “What are you crying about anyway?”

I couldn’t tell her that I was crying because of her terrible, technologically backward planet and all its inhabitants, but I had to talk to someone and it was so good to hear human words, even from an alien’s throat. I pointed to the drain. “My ring,” I gasped. “It fell...”

She picked up her book, scrambled down the stairs, and peered in the drain. She huffed and rolled her eyes. “You’re making that much noise over that?”

I drew back my shoulders and snapped, “It’s an irreplaceable heirloom! Centuries of human history! You can’t get those stones anywhere but Earth!”

“Then you should have been more careful with it.”

That made me want to scream, but before I could gather enough breath, the child gathered the book to her chest and turned away. “Can you at least try to keep it down?”

As the girl sat on the building’s stone stairs, the wind tore a scrap of paper out of her book and sent it fluttering. She reached up and snatched it out of the air. My gaze fell on the girl’s arms—long, lanky things that were thinner than human arms. With four-fingered hands that could easily slip between the bars of the grate.

“Wait!” I shouted. “Little tephan girl! What’s your name?”

The girl cast me a dark, distrustful expression, but she finally intoned, “Tanza.”

Not bad, as far as tephan names went. I could pronounce this one. “Tanza,” I said, “Do you think you could reach it?”

The girl shifted her hand behind her back, her face becoming a hard mask. “What do you mean?”

I pointed to her, rambling in my excitement. “Your arms are thinner than mine. Just as long. You could probably reach...”

Her brow furrowed.  “You want me to dig in a sewer?”

“Not a sewer,” I said. “A storm drain.”

“Still dirty.” She looked at the storm drain with narrowed eyes.“If I get it for you, will you go away?”

I wanted nothing more. “Immediately.”

"What'll you pay me for it?"

I felt like I'd been hit by a train. "What? Who said I'd pay you?"

The child pointed one long finger at the storm drain. “If I get dirty digging in there, it’ll be my tenth laundry demerit and I don’t get supper. I’m not doing it for nothing!”

The building behind her held one of the few signs I’d seen with Anglese translations beneath the tephan words: Alogath Charity Home for Unwanted Children. I could see why this child was unwanted.

“I don’t carry cash,” I told her.

“Do you have a credit stick?”

I put a protective arm over my purse. “It’ll be deactivated the moment you touch it.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t need the whole stick. Just buy me something with it.”

A truck—a noisy, clanking tephan thing that actually rolled on the ground—roared past us. The glimmer on the ring shifted closer to the drain pipe. If I didn’t act fast…

“What do you want?” I asked her.

“A lot of things.” Her eyes went blank as she stared at imaginings only she could see. Finally, she declared, “A meal at the High Palace.”

She really said that! As if it were a reasonable request! I don’t know how this urchin even knew about human restaurants, much less the finest of fine dining establishments.

“That’s ridiculous!”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I lose a meal, you buy me a replacement. That’s fair.”

“Do you know how much a High Palace meal costs?”

“A lot less than it’ll cost you to replace that ring.”

I growled in frustration. The child had me backed into a corner and she knew it. I shuddered at the thought of taking this…thing into the sparkling society of a High Palace dining room.

I pointed a fierce finger at the child. “Only if you give me the ring immediately. Understand? There’s not a place on the planet a creature like you could sell it without suspicion.”

“I don’t want your ring. I’ll live up to my end of the bargain. And you’ll live up to yours, or that ring’s staying where it is.”

Of course I couldn’t really take her to the High Palace, but one more street-rattling truck could take the ring forever out of anyone’s reach. I’d have agreed if she’d asked for a hovercar.

“Fine!” I shouted. “I’ll buy you the meal. Just save my ring!”

The child placed her book on a clean patch of sidewalk and returned to the edge of the street. I snatched up my purse and stepped aside while the girl laid face down in the gutter. She slid her arm through the grate, all the way up to the shoulder. I held my breath for an eternal moment and didn’t release it until the girl emerged with a ring of gold and amethyst in her hands.

The ring sparkled merrily at me, grimy but whole. I snatched it from Tanza's hands and tucked it into an inner pocket of my gray blazer. I wouldn’t wear it again without resizing it—and not until I was in a neighborhood where I didn’t have to worry about it being stolen from my finger.

The child picked up her book and looked at me expectantly. Demandingly.

I couldn’t give her what she wanted. She was a complete stranger. I’d made the promise under duress. Not a court in the universe would hold me to it. What right did a tephan child have to make such ridiculous demands of a woman of my stature?

“Thank you,” I said. “You did a very good thing.” Then I sped down the street.

The creature was right at my heels. “The High Palace is the other way.”

I didn’t know if she was telling the truth. It didn’t matter. I walked faster.

She yanked at my arm. “You promised me a meal!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I couldn’t get you into the High Palace.”

“A human lady dressed like you? You could get me in if you wanted to.”

I yanked my arm away from her. “What a pity I don’t want to.”

She gave a feral yowl. I started sprinting—or as near as I could manage in the heels I was wearing. The girl kept pace with me. I was a foot taller than her; why couldn’t I outrun her? Could I lose her in her own streets when I was lost myself?

Just when I thought I’d never be able to escape, I rounded a corner and saw the green-and-silver uniform of a Coalition policeman. My heart soared as I raced toward him. Help, protection, guidance, all only a few steps away. Something wonderfully human in this alien world.

“Officer!” I shouted to his retreating back. “Please, I need help!”

The officer stopped and raised a hand. A four-fingered hand. When he turned around, his face had the skewed proportions of a tephan face.

I nearly screamed. I’d stumbled into a nightmare.

The officer said, with the crisp diction of a tephan overcompensating for an accent, “Have you a problem, morik—madam?”

I’d heard that a few tephans had been admitted into the police forces, but I’d never thought I’d meet one. This tephan was young. Wiry and blond. Almost insignificant-looking if it weren’t for the uniform and the stolen sense of authority. Would he help a human?

Tephan or not, he had an obligation to assist the public. “Officer,” I gasped. “I need directions to the nearest train station. I’m trying to get home and this child is harassing me.”

The girl stormed up to him and shrieked, “She’s a liar!”

She shouted a stream of gibberish, and it wasn’t until the officer responded with similar sounds that I realized they were speaking the tephan language. Flowing, musical vowels were interrupted by harsh consonants, like rocks in a river. The sounds sent chills down my spine that only grew fiercer as the officer’s expression grew darker.

When the girl finished, the officer looked at me, not like an innocent victim needing help, but like a criminal who needed hauling to one of their barbaric tephan jails. “You have wronged this girl.”

I lifted my chin. “She’s lying! I’ve done nothing to her!”

“She claims she rescued your ring in exchange for a meal at the High Palace, and you are attempting to break your word.”

“I owe her nothing!”

“Did you promise her a meal?”

I threw out my hands in frustration. “It’s not like we had a contract or anything!”

He raised an eyebrow. “Your promise means nothing without a legal document?”

“She had no right to hold me to a promise. I was desperate!”

He put a brotherly hand on the girl’s shoulder. “And she was kind enough to help you.”

I scoffed. “For a heavy price.”

The child shouted, “It’s one meal!”

The officer examined my face carefully. “You are Priscilla Overton, are you not? The wife of the finance minister?”

My jaw dropped. I’m prominent enough in human circles, but I’d never dared to consider that my face was known among tephans. It terrified me, but I knew it could be my ticket out of this. “I am, and when my husband finds out about how I’ve been treated—”

“Your husband is not a popular man. Not among tephans.”

I had never cared about Roger's reputation among the tephans. These primitives didn’t know what was best for their planet. But that wasn’t something I could say when I was alone in a strange neighborhood with two of them.

The officer continued, “It will not help his reputation if his wife is known as a promise-breaker.”

I couldn’t believe it. “Are you threatening me?”

He leaned toward me and said in low tones, “I am helping you.” He gestured to the street around us. “Do you think I’m the only one who heard the girl’s story?”

I shuddered to see a handful of tephans staring at us from among the crumbling buildings.

The officer said, “The Coalition doesn’t care much for tephan opinion, but if there is enough outcry against one man, even a human representative can be released from his job.”

At first, the thought lifted my spirits. Sent home! To Earth! It was what I’d wanted from the moment we’d stepped foot on this planet. But sent home in disgrace? Roger would have no future in government after such a public failure. It would mean everything we suffered here would be for nothing.

I asked the officer, “You really think they’d protest? Just because I didn’t bow to a child’s ridiculous demands?”

“If a person can’t keep a promise made to a child, how can anything they say be trusted?” His tephan gaze raked over me, like he was dissecting my inner thoughts. “Your people may have different ideas, but tephans still value virtue.”

How dare he—this puffed-up primitive in a human position of power—accuse humanity of being inferior?

My opinion didn’t matter. These creatures thought it a matter of morality that I feed this ragged brat finer cuisine than their planet had ever produced, and nothing I could say would change their minds. Now it seems ridiculous to think that those tephans could ruin us, but in that moment, alone in those unfamiliar streets, seeing how these two strange aliens teamed up against me, I could believe their kind capable of anything.

I looked down at the child. Her big eyes. Her frizzy curls. Her long limbs clutching the book to her chest. The grimy, bog-green clothes that fell short of the wrists and ankles. The smug smirk of a spoiled child who knew she was about to get her way. I had never loathed anyone more in my life.

“Do you have a name?” I asked her. “I’ll need a full name for the restaurant register.”

“I told you,” she said, as though she’d expected me to remember. “It’s Tanza.”

“What’s the rest of your name?” Most tephans I’d met had at least three or four names and were obnoxiously eager to explain them.

The girl's face darkened like I’d offended her. “Just Tanza.”

The officer looked at her with new pity, and even I understood why. You know how important names are to tephans. One name was a badge of dishonor--forever marking her as a child who’d never been claimed by any family, who’d never been given anything beyond the minimum necessary label. Tanza would have felt the shame of that, and I wasn’t quite so surprised that she’d turned into such an irritating little brat.

But I had no room for pity. “Do you have anything better to wear?”

She tugged at the cuffs, trying to stretch them over her arms. “Just more green. And all in the wash. Laundry demerits."

The officer said, "It'll do." He knelt in front of the girl, then looked at me and held out a hand. "I'll bet a fine lady like you carries all kinds of cleaning tools."

I sighed and handed him the nanocleanser from my purse. I showed him the power button, then he waved the metal wand over the stains on Tanza’s clothes. After a few seconds, the stains evaporated and the dirt from the gutter fell away as dry sand.

“Good as new,” the officer said, while Tanza gaped at her freshly-cleaned clothes. These primitives were astounded by the simplest things.

The child brushed through her wild curls with her fingers, swept them back over her shoulders, then stood with her hands at her side and feet apart, as if presenting herself for inspection.

I sighed. “I guess it’s as good as we’ll get. Let’s get this over with.”

Tanza tucked her book beneath her arm and her eyes sparkled with victory.

I looked balefully at the tome. “The book’s coming with?”

“Well, I can’t leave it here.”

I considered insisting that she take it back to the home, but I wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

“Fine,” I sighed. “Bring the book.”

I was seriously planning on entering the dining room of the High Palace with an alien who thought the proper attire included a set of green work clothes and a giant book. I had gone insane.

The officer stepped aside and gestured for both of us to walk past him. “I’ll escort you there.”

And there went my last hope of escape.

#

The officer escorted us through winding streets, side alleys and dried up canals until we finally crossed a bridge into a civilized portion of the city with human-designed buildings. One sprawling building of white stone-print bore a black sign with elegant script that proclaimed it The High Palace.

As we approached the building, Tanza suddenly skittered across my path. I almost tripped over her feet.

I glared at her as she fell into step on my right side. “What are you doing?”

She glanced warily to the street corner. “Kids from school.”

I glanced back and saw a pre-teen human boy with short black hair and immaculate clothing. He leaned against the corner of a building while he spoke with a handful of human friends. Well-groomed, friendly, human—why couldn’t that child have rescued my ring? I’d have been glad to take him as a guest to the High Palace.

As I engaged in fruitless wishes, the human children disappeared, and I arrived with my tephan escorts at the entrance doors of the High Palace. Wide glass windows showed a sparkling three-dimensional display of Old Paris in springtime. Tanza studied the images of bakeries and floral shops and fluttering Earth songbirds, as if attempting to dissect the technology. The few people passing by looked askance at the tephan pair with me.

Tanza asked, “Are we going in?”

I looked back at the officer. He just smiled at me and waved us toward the door.

I took a deep breath, put a hand behind the girl’s shoulders and pushed her inside.

The interior was a vision of white and cream: pale artwork on the walls, a glass fountain trickling crystal-clear water, rugs in intricate shades of vanilla, beige and ivory upon white marble floors.

The street sounds disappeared when the door closed behind us. No foot traffic, no rumbling vehicles, no screeching of alien animals. Just the hush of quiet voices, the gentle strings of a European symphony and the trickle of the fountain. It was like we'd stepped into a different world. My world. Except for the alien next to me.

The host standing guard at the dining room entrance stared at Tanza, then looked at me with the horrified compassion of someone trying to tell you there’s a wasp on your shoulder. “Madam, are you aware…?”

The only way to get through this with any dignity was to brazen my way through it. “I’d like a table, please. Two seats. For Priscilla Overton and guest.”

I thought his eyes would pop out of his head. “Your guest? You mean she—?”

“Is my guest. Is that a problem?”

He stared as if incredulous that I didn’t know the problem. I didn’t even blink.

Finally, he put a stylus to his datapad. “Does this guest have a name?”

The girl stood as straight and dignified as I did. “Tanza.”

He poised his stylus over the datapad. “Anythin—”

“Just Tanza.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he set his stylus aside. “Two seats for Priscilla Overton and…Tanza.”

The host led us into a blindingly beautiful dining room. A full wall of windows overlooked a river that glittered in the afternoon sun. The other walls were meshed with holonet that made the room look like a small nook in a formal European garden, with the tables and chairs surrounded by roses, tulips, lilies, and a thousand other flowers whose names I’d forgotten in my years away from Earth. Real potted plants scattered among the tables added to the reality of the image and the string quartet played some of the finest music from Earth's history. The room was a bastion of civilization in this barbaric world. A taste of home. It was more filling than any food could be.

The host led us to windowside tables with an excellent view of the river. My heart lifted. Prime seating—a sign of my place on this planet, which not even a tephan could take away. And it was flanked by two potted gardenia plants that would screen my guest from the handful of other diners.

I took the right-hand seat and motioned for Tanza to take the chair that sat closest to the shrub. Its branches brushed her as she sat down.

The host left us as a waiter handed us our menus. As Tanza sat down, she reached toward the branch above her head, plucked a single white gardenia blossom, shoved it in her mouth, and began to chew.

I froze in terror, then glanced at the waiter. Had he noticed?

If he had, he’d been well trained. He didn’t even stumble in his recitation of the day’s lunch specials.

“Would you like a few minutes to make a selection?” the waiter asked.

“Yes, yes,” I said, waving him away before my guest could decide to take another nibble of the greenery.

He bowed and vanished toward the kitchen.

When he was gone, Tanza spit the flower into a gold-embroidered napkin and wiped her tongue on the far corner. While her mouth contorted in the most disturbing shape, those tephan eyes glared at me. “That’s not a spiceblossom bush.”

“No,” I said, my tone stretched with scorn. “It’s a gardenia. And the blossoms aren’t for eating.”

She wiped her tongue on another corner of the napkin. “Why do they put flowers by the table if you’re not supposed to eat them?”

“For decoration,” I hissed. “And if you can’t behave in a civilized manner, we’ll leave this restaurant, promise or no promise.”

“Well, I’m sorry I don’t know all the fancy human rules of eating.”

Her sarcasm made my blood boil—until I saw her blush. She was prickly, yes, but unless I was very much mistaken, she was embarrassed. Now she was lost in an alien world, and I’d experienced that sensation too recently not to feel a little sorry for her.

But only a little. She had demanded this, after all, at great expense to me. Let her suffer the consequences.

“Rule one,” I said. “Don’t put anything in your mouth unless I tell you to.” I tugged her napkin out of her four-fingered hands before she could run it across her tongue again. “That includes napkins.”

With the napkin gone, Tanza's tongue was on full display in front of her chin as she kept the taste as far out of her mouth as possible. I don’t know if you know this, but tephan tongues can stretch further and thinner than human tongues, and this child made hers come almost to a point. I couldn’t look at that for the entire meal, but I couldn’t have the child destroying all the table linens either.

I waved over a waiter carrying a carafe of water, and I pointed him to our empty glasses. He leaned over our table and filled my glass almost to the brim. Then he turned and saw my guest—her pale skin, green clothes, those big eyes and that long, thin tephan tongue. He yelped, recoiled, dropped the carafe, and knocked over my glass. Water flooded the table and spilled onto my lap.

The child yelped, shouted something in her alien language and scrambled to pull her book out of the path of the water. An old man at the next table dropped his fork and stared at her. Fortunately, the few other diners in the room were too far away to see.

I hushed the child and found myself in the strange position of apologizing to the waiter while I was the one standing drenched. I didn’t know what reznat meant, but I was sure it wasn’t a nice thing for a tephan to say to her waiter.

“Could we...” I asked as I ran the nanocleanser over my clothes, “have another table?”

“C...certainly, madam,” he said, looking at Tanza as if waiting for her to pounce. I half-expected it myself, from the fierce way she curled around that book.

Once my clothes were dry, the waiter brought us to an empty table nearer the center of the room. No window view. No shielding plants. But it was further from the kitchen—where I was certain all the servers would be gossiping about us as soon as this klutz left us.

Once we were settled with new water glasses and dry menus, the server scurried away as if the girl were a poison frog. Tanza muttered alien words while she brushed water from the edges of her book, and gulped water until she got the taste of the flower out of her mouth. Then she glared at me and reverted back to Anglese. “He almost wrecked my book.”

After watching her lug that book around for an hour, my curiosity—and frustration—were mounting. “What’s that book about, anyway? And why are you willing to curse out waiters over it?”

“It’s a biography of Queen Marastel.” She set the book deliberately on the table, and looked around the room as if daring waiters to spill more water on it. “And it’s mine. I finally have a book of my own, and I don’t want it wrecked by an idiot with a water pitcher.”

The book was thick. What I’d seen of the print was small. It was not a children’s history book. I hadn’t expected this grimy alien child to be the biography type. Was there a developmental disorder that gave children irrational attachments to academic texts?

“Who is Queen Marastel?” I asked.

Tanza showed me the book’s cover. It had a picture of a young tephan woman—in her mid-twenties, to my human eyes—with a pale, narrow face, and deep eyes. The woman's dark hair was covered with an elaborate system of veils, and she wore a dress covered in so many white jewels and so much gray and white beadwork that I almost couldn’t see the ivory fabric underneath.

“Her,” Tanza said. “The last queen of Arateph.”

“Arateph had queens?” I asked in surprise. They hadn’t had queens when humanity had found them. It must have been part of their history.

I’d never thought of this planet as having a history. If I’d considered it at all, I suppose I’d assumed that they’d been muddling along the way we’d found them for the last few centuries, waiting for us to show up and drag them into modern civilization.

Tanza said, “The planet was ruled by a monarchy until about forty years before the Coalition showed up.”

“The whole planet?”

Tanza sat straighter and her diction became crisper—she looked like a little lecturer at one of those cultural symposiums that Roger and I always had to make appearances at. “After Kepha joined the other eleven kingdoms, the entire planet was united under the monarchy for three hundred and fifty-eight years.”

Not just a monarchy, but a planet-spanning monarchy. Such a thing hadn’t happened in all of human civilization, and these people had accomplished it when they were still on their home planet, believing themselves alone in the universe. I hadn’t thought such an archaic form of government could rule an entire continent without overextending itself, yet it had ruled their world for centuries. For the first time, I found myself wanting to learn something from the tephan people. How had such a government come about? How had they managed it?

Why did the woman on the cover look so sad?

I didn’t ask any of these questions because just then, a waiter appeared—not the water-spilling one, thank goodness. (I didn’t trust my guest to look at that one without throwing something at him.) This one was older, with crisp lines in his clothes and face. He looked like he could have won a staring contest with a statue—perfect unshakable professionalism.

“Are you ready to order, Madam Overton?” He didn’t even look at my guest.

Tanza’s eyes brightened as she picked up the menu, flipping through the pages to examine the options.

I asked her, “What you want to eat?”

“I don’t know.  I’ve never had human food.”

My jaw fell. “You wanted to come here and you didn’t even know what you wanted to eat?”

She gave me a withering stare, as though I was the stupid one. “I wanted to try it.” She closed the menu. “Besides, you said I can only eat what you tell me to eat. So what am I allowed to eat, Priscilla?”

I picked up the menu and realized with horror that I didn’t know the answer. What could tephans eat? Were there foods that were delicacies to us and poison to them?

I asked the waiter, “Do you have any suggestions?” I doubted these people served many tephans, but food was their area of expertise, and we were on Arateph.

The waiter looked at Tanza for the first time. “I’ve heard that people of her...race...are rather fond of the amphibian.” He pointed to an entry on my appetizer list. “The frog legs are popular. And a specialty of the chef.”

I hadn’t eaten frog in years. But if I could choke it down for Roger’s political dinners, I could manage it to satisfy a petulant tephan child. “We’ll have that.”

“Excellent. Is there anything else?”

I didn’t want to give Tanza any more chances to upset the wait staff. “No. Just get us our food as soon as possible.”

As the waiter walked away with our menus, an afternoon crowd filled the dining room; within a few minutes, we went from being nearly alone to being surrounded by other diners. I could tell by the sideways glances that most of them noticed my tephan guest. And I could tell that Tanza noticed them. She sat silently at first, growing more and more tense as we all tried to ignore each other, but when a bald man at the next table stared at her for several long moments, she finally snapped.

“Can you stop it?” she barked at him. “You’re giving me the shivers.” The man, red-faced, studied his menu as if his life depended on it.

Tanza turned back to the table, muttering, “You humans look so creepy when you stare.”

I was too stunned to scold her. I’d never considered that the distaste for the other race’s looks went both ways. If she’d lived her life in a mostly-tephan neighborhood, a human face would look just as slightly wrong to her as a tephan face did to me. It sounds strange, but the idea that she found us ugly made me like her more. It certainly made her more relatable.

But I couldn’t have her making a spectacle. “Please, don’t bother the other diners.”

She seemed ready to protest, but I spoke before she could argue. “That woman in your book. You said she was the last queen of Arateph. What happened?”

Her eyes lit up, rude diners forgotten, as she flipped open the book. “Revolution. The People’s House took over and had her and the king executed.”

I shivered. “So violent. And so young to die.”

Tanza gave me a confused look, then glanced at the cover and understood. “Oh, that’s from her first years as queen. She was almost seventy when she died.”

I pictured the woman on the cover with hair turned gray, but the same dark, sad eyes, facing an angry mob as they led her to the scaffold or the firing squad or however these people killed their leaders. It was brutal, but humanity had often been equally brutal, so I couldn’t dismiss it as their backward alien culture.

Tanza flipped through the pages. “They say she was weak and self-absorbed, but this book gives her more depth.” She looked at a page near the cover. “Verai’s a good scholar. Uses lots of primary sources. Very readable.”

Now that her interest was unleashed, Tanza talked on and on, taking me through an alien history, the tale of a queen beset by tragedy upon tragedy as she helped her husband rule a crumbling planet and struggled to produce an heir. All the scholars at those Coalition events were nowhere near as enthralling as this alien child sharing her favorite book.

As fascinating as the story was, I was even more entranced by the pictures—dozens were embedded through the text. Tanza condescended to turn the book around so I could see. It was grandeur like I’d never seen, buildings in alien colors and shapes and patterns, but bringing to mind the grandest palaces in human history, from Versailles to the Forbidden City to the red spires of the North Martian Emperor's summer home. The people in the pictures wore elaborate, brightly-colored clothes, and feasted upon vast tables full of unfamiliar food—including blossoms from the potted trees next to the tables. No primitive civilization could have created such a culture. No wonder this alien urchin was enthralled, and no wonder she’d seized the chance to attend the closest modern equivalent to such feasts that she knew of.

The return of the stone-faced waiter snapped me back to reality. He planted himself next to the table, passing blank-faced judgement by how thoroughly he didn’t look at the book or the way we bent over it. Face burning, I sat back in my chair and felt ashamed to be caught hanging upon an alien’s story like a dim-witted child.

Tanza swept the book under the table and sat primly as the waiters placed the food in front of us. First a gold charger, then the crystal plates bearing the food—ten frog legs, crisply fried in butter and lemon, dotted with parsley and surrounded by a handful of greens.

Half a dozen nearby heads surreptitiously craned in our direction.

The waiters set a similar platter in front of me, and after I’d arranged my napkin on my lap, I thanked the waiter, picked up the silverware, and began to cut the meat.

Tanza watched me carefully as the waiters left. She picked up her silverware, examined it closely—did tephans even have silverware?—and tried to imitate me, but when she touched the food, the prim little professor became the feral street child again. She still used the silverware, but that was her only concession to decency as she gobbled her foot, downing the frog legs almost whole. The butter sauce ringed her mouth and splattered on her clothing. She made the most inhuman snorting noises as she swallowed.

Now everyone was staring—the red-faced man at the next table, his three dining companions, the ten people sitting at the other nearby tables, the waiters who'd halted on their way to the kitchen. People murmured to their companions. Diners flagged down waiters and asked discreetly if there was something that could be done.

My face burned in embarrassment, but I couldn’t stop the girl. With all these eyes watching me—watching me, Priscilla Overton, entertaining an animal at the finest restaurant in Roshen—I couldn’t even speak. I wanted to sink into the carpet. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to run from the restaurant, flee from this planet, and return to comfortable, civilized Earth. But mortification left me paralyzed. I just sat and did nothing as Tanza devoured her food and licked every last drop of sauce from the plate.

Finally, she dropped her plate back on the charger and leaned back with satisfaction. Her big tephan eyes were bright. “That was amazing.” She licked all eight of her fingers, so lost in the euphoria of her food that she was unaware of the horrified crowd surrounding us. She looked at my plate with confusion. “You’ve barely touched yours.”

I let my fork drop to the tablecloth. “I’m not very hungry.”

Her eyes brightened. “Can I have it?”

“No.”

She gave me a disapproving look. “You can’t waste food. At least try to eat it.”

After that display, I’d never be able to stomach another frog leg. “It doesn’t appeal to me.”

“Then I’ll eat it.” Before I could react, she leaned across the table, speared a frog leg with her fork, and was chewing it before she settled back in her chair.

I wanted to scream. I could have tried to correct her, but I had no idea where to begin, and by now, it was far too late.

The stone-faced waiter leaned over my shoulder. He was pale and his eyes were wide—apparently there were some things that could rattle him. “Madam, if you cannot eat your food here, we can send it home with you.”

He was offering me a doggy bag. The finest restaurant in the city, which usually recoiled in horror from such vulgar practices, was so desperate for me to leave that the staff were sending me home with leftovers. I was, in effect, being kicked out.

I didn’t even care. “Yes, thank you.”

In seconds, another waiter appeared, carrying a green box that had probably held some kind of produce in the kitchen, repurposed into this restaurant’s first take-home container. I sat in silence as they poured the frog legs into the container, then I handed them my credit stick, and when I examined the payment screen of their datapad, I added on a gratuity that cost twice as much as the food did. Perhaps with a tip like that, they’d let me show my face here again. At the moment, I doubted I’d ever want to.

I gathered my purse and stood. That creature gathered her ridiculous book and followed me, smiling, out of the dining room.  

When we reached the lobby, I thrust the box into the child's hands. “Take it. I don’t want it.”

The girl's eyebrows rose. “You don’t? Are you sure? It’s really good.”

“I think it appeals more to tephan tastes.”

She thanked me as though I’d given her all the jewels that the queen on her book was wearing, then tucked the box under one arm and the book under the other.

I put a hand behind her shoulders and pushed her out the door. When we emerged onto the sunlit sidewalk, all my frustration exploded.

“There!” I snapped, giving her one last push beyond the awning of the restaurant. “You’ve had your meal. Take your food and go!”

She stumbled forward, then stared at me in bewilderment. “What set you off?”

My laugh was tinged with hysteria. “What set me off? Maybe I’m just a little peeved at being disgraced in front of some of the richest people in the city by a tephan who gobbles her food like an animal.”

She stood with her mouth open, struck speechless. Those big green eyes showed surprisingly human-looking hurt. “Was it that bad? I know I’m not fancy, but...”

“You can’t tell me you didn’t notice all those people staring.”

The creature turned red. She stammered, “I thought it was because I’m tephan. You told me not to bother them.”

I couldn’t bear to have that creature looking up at me with those big, sad eyes. I didn’t want to feel sorry for her. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Maybe in a few years they’ll let me dine there again.” I pushed her steadily but firmly away from the restaurant. “I have more than paid you in full. Thank you for saving my ring. Goodbye.”

Still looking baffled, the girl trudged away from the restaurant. I walked in the other direction.

My anger started fading the moment the child was out of my line of sight. Each step away from the restaurant felt like a step back into a normal world. There were humans around me. I could read the signs. I even knew how to find my way to the train station. I’d be back at the hotel within the hour and I could pretend that this whole horrible afternoon had been a bad dream.

Light footsteps skittered behind me. A green-clad tephan child with a book and a box appeared to my left.

I yelped and reeled back. “What are you—?”

Tanza fell into step beside me. “I’m really very sorry for embarrassing you. I need to make it up to you. Let me show you the way to the train station—”

My previous anger felt like a candle flame compared to the volcano that those words set off within me. “Leave me alone!” I towered over her in my fury. “I gave you your meal! I fulfilled the promise! Now leave!” I stormed away, but at the first sound of footsteps behind me, I whirled around. “I swear, if you take another step toward me, I will see you arrested!”

The child’s face hardened into the petulant mask that I recognized from my first sight of her from the gutter. “Sorry for helping.”

“Helping,” I mocked. “Your help comes at too high a price.” I gave a short, cynical laugh. “I see through your plan. You think you can trail after me demanding handouts all day. Well, I have had enough.” I secured my purse over my shoulder like I was holstering a weapon. “Get out of here!”

Face white and lips tight with anger, Tanza bowed her head and turned away. I strode away in triumph.

An old man looked at me sideways, shaking his head. I made it to the end of the block before the guilt hit me. The old man had reason to disapprove. Tanza had made an offer of help, and I’d responded by screaming at her in a public street. Perhaps she had felt remorse. As embarrassing as it had been to be seen with a girl who ate like an animal, how much worse would it feel to be the one who’d done it? I thought of those pictures in that book of hers. Would I have fared any better at a tephan feast?

I turned around. “Tanza, wait—“

“Hey, Tanza!”

The voice, coming from the other end of the block, was louder, harsher, and younger than mine. A crowd of boys stampeded down the sidewalk—all humans, about twelve years old, and led by a boy with slick black hair and gray and white clothes in the latest crisply-cut fashions. The children Tanza had noticed when we’d first arrived at the restaurant.

Tanza—standing near where I’d left her—tried to move away from them, but hesitated when she saw me standing at the other end of the block. In seconds, the boys had her surrounded.

The ringleader prodded her shoulder. “Escaped from your cage, Tanza? What are you doing among civilized people?”

His yellow-haired friend poked at the box of frog legs. “Looks like she’s looting houses.”

Tanza yanked the box away. “I’m not a thief!”

The ringleader tugged at the book under her other arm. “That’s a big book. Still playing at being smart, small-brain?”

Tanza pulled it back. “Don’t touch that!”

One boy pried up her arm while two others slid the book away from her. “Ooh, it’s a small-brain book!” the ringleader said in mock delight. He flipped through the pages with dirt-stained fingers. “It’s even written in their pretend letters.”

Tanza snarled, “Give that back!”

He slammed it shut and pulled it toward his chest. “Why? Scared it’s too complicated for me?”

“It’s mine!”

He looked at it thoughtfully. “Is it, though? I don’t think a charity case like you can afford a big book like this.”

“It’s mine!” she repeated, nearly shrieking now. “Teacher gave it to me!”

“Bet she stole it,” said a voice from the crowd. “She’s just a grubby little nameless charity house thief.”

Tanza, driven past the breaking point as the ringleader held the book just beyond her reach, shrieked in outrage and pounced. She tore at the book while the boys yanked it away from her. The individuals disappeared into a storm of arms and legs and paper. Five against one. I watched in terror for a few moments before thinking to call for help. I had my wristcomm. I could hit the emergency button….

It was over before I could lift my wrist. Tanza was sprawled across the sidewalk, surrounded by the shredded, dirty pages of her book. Her box had been torn open. Fleshy frog legs were scattered on the ground as though the animals had been thrown against the wall.

The boys, barely scuffed, loomed over her, mocking. They lifted the empty binding of the book like a trophy, cheering over it and slapping each other on the back. Then, satisfied with their destruction, they ran off the way they came, leaving their victim on the ground.

Numbly, I shuffled toward her, feeling lost in a different sort of nightmare--one where I was one of the monsters. Those boys had been waiting for her. If she’d had an ulterior motive for coming after me to apologize, she had been hoping for protection, not handouts. And I’d thrown her to the wolves.

Tanza pushed herself onto her knees and pulled the pages toward her, like a mother hen gathering up chicks. She looked more vulnerable than I’d ever seen her, eyes wide and glistening, her face slack with horror. Her emotionless mask was gone. She pressed an armload of shredded pages to her chest, curled into a fetal position, and cried.

Curled up like that, face and hands hidden, she didn’t look like a tephan. Not like the rude negotiator at the gutter. Not like the little professor or even the animal at the table. She was just a friendless little girl, surrounded by the wreckage of her most prized possession.

I thought of the last time I’d seen her lying in the street, arm threaded through a storm drain while she reached for my ring. The ring was in my pocket, safe and whole. How had I thanked her for her service? Tried to duck out of the promise, treated her like a savage, screamed at her in the streets, and left her at the mercy of bullies.

The ring I loved so much was one of dozens that I’d brought from Earth, and my day had been destroyed at the thought of losing it. This book was the only one she owned, and it was gone forever. I couldn’t imagine her distress.

How had I thought her the savage?  

My stomach twisted with loathing, and for the first time all day, it was directed toward myself. I could fool myself no longer; I’d done nothing to be proud of today.

But that could change.

Approaching Tanza with soft, careful steps, I crouched next to her. “Tanza?” I brushed a finger across her shoulder.

The girl recoiled from my touch and turned away. She came up on her feet, but stayed scrunched into a ball, protecting her pages and hiding her red eyes.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

Her voice was thick with tears. “Go away.”

I grabbed one of the pages. “I can help—“

She whirled her head toward me and snapped, “I said go away!”

I stumbled back, and for a moment I was ready to do as she wanted. This was not my problem and she didn’t want my help.

Then my good sense returned, and I barked, “Don’t be stupid. I’m not going to leave a child in the street.” I started gathering pages. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

I looked around for help. The crowd had merely started taking a wider berth around us, but after a moment, I saw the green and silver flash of a Coalition policeman’s uniform—on a policeman with tephan hands.

I’d never thought I’d be glad to see that officer again. I waved toward him, shouting, “Officer! Please, can you help?”

My voice startled the officer, and his surprise turned to concern as he neared and saw the devastation. He crouched next to us and asked me, “What did you do to her?”

“Nothing,” I said. The twist in my stomach reminded me that those words weren’t the complete truth, so I amended, “I didn’t destroy the book. There was a group of boys...”

The officer had already turned his attention to Tanza, speaking low-toned words in their tephan language. When they finished, his demeanor toward me was less hostile but more disappointed.

“Now you want to help her?” he asked.

That now was an accusation that cut like a knife. I deserved it, but I met his gaze boldly. “Yes,” I said, daring him to deny me.

He spoke a few more words to Tanza, then told me, “Gather pages.”

He helped Tanza to her feet while I gathered what I could of the paper. Torn edges, smeared alien words, and pictures of long-dead royals who stared at me with accusing eyes. The queen providing food to the poor, shelter to the homeless, clothes to shivering orphans. She’d done all that and wound up executed; looking at Tanza and the tephan officer, I couldn’t help wondering how much worse they thought I deserved.

#

When I’d gathered all the pages I could into a crinkling, crunching mess, I followed in silence as the officer led us along the route we’d taken, every block seeming as long as a mile. When we reached the familiar yellow building where everything had started, I gave the pages to the officer, and he motioned for Tanza to go toward the stair of the building.

“Is there anything else I can do?” I asked Tanza, almost desperate.

Tanza just turned her head away.

“I think you’ve done enough,” the officer said. The words were soft, but I heard the condemnation in them.

I shouldered my purse more firmly, avoided Tanza’s eyes, then asked the officer, “Can you tell me where to find a train station?”

The officer pointed down the street in the opposite direction from where I’d originally approached the building. “The nearest one is just beyond the Killing Square.”

The words shocked me out of the numbness I’d been feeling. “The what?”

But the officer was already rattling off directions, and I was too busy memorizing the steps—left, then right, past the purple tower, turn two blocks after the bridge—to ask what exactly a Killing Square was. I didn’t think a uniformed police officer would purposely send me to my death, so I assumed something had been lost in the translation.

“Thank you, officer,” I said when he finished. Then I looked at the girl and added, “Thank you, Tanza.”

Tanza's green clothes—now scuffed from battle—hung loosely off her slumped shoulders. After a long moment, she raised her head and looked at me from beneath lowered lids. “Goodbye,” she said.

Her tone meant, “Good riddance.”

My pride flared at that. I thought I'd been rather compassionate--helping her gather the pages, hailing the officer, even trailing her all the way to her home to make sure that she arrived safely. Surely she could show a little gratitude.

But as I walked through the narrow, battered streets, it was my own rudeness that haunted me. Snatching the ring from her fingers as though afraid she'd contaminate it. Fleeing from her rather than fulfilling the promise. Leaving her to fight five against one when a moment's action on my part could have saved her. All day, I'd thought myself better than her because I was human, but my actions had been inhumane.

I tried to put it behind me. There was nothing else I could do. The book was gone, beyond repair. Tanza probably never wanted to see me again. It was best to move on and forget all about the tephan girl and the dark-eyed queen that so fascinated her.

Then I turned the corner and came face to face with Queen Marastel. A picture on the gray stone wall, larger than life, showed the woman whose face I’d seen a hundred times in Tanza’s book. I stopped in my tracks, mesmerized. The image was a photo, more or less, but not like any photo or holo-image I’d ever seen from human technology. The colors were more muted than reality, while a strange vibrant shimmer added depth to the image, so it looked as though I could walk inside the pictured scene with a little effort.

The queen’s hair had gone completely gray, her jewels were gone, and her vividly colored gowns had been replaced by a white fabric sheath. What I noticed most were her eyes—they were striking in most of the book photos, but here, her gaze knocked the breath from me. Surely no human gaze could show that much sorrow.

How was she here? Would this queen haunt me wherever I went on this planet, reminding me of my sins against the child?

I noticed a small plaque next to the picture, with a tiny Anglese translation at the bottom, which explained that the image showed Queen Marastel in front of this very building, moments before she was led to death in the center of the square. “Oh,” I said aloud, turning slowly to examine the streets and buildings around me as understanding struck. “The Killing Square.”

This was the center of the revolution that had ended this planet’s monarchy. It was a hauntingly bland neighborhood; no sign of the violent destruction that Tanza had told me of, not after more than eighty years’ worth of repairs.  But pictures and plaques decorated almost every building I saw, telling the story that time had erased. Seven brothers from Kepha stood scarred but proud before a jeering band of executioners. A red-haired older woman tried to cheer up three children as armed rebels escorted them all to prison. The king himself stood tall and white-haired, every line of his face showing his fierce love for his planet even as his people tried to kill him.

I could list examples all day, but I could never make you understand the feeling of being there, gazing at these people in the moments before their deaths. They were young and old, tall and short, had hair and skin in every imaginable shade. They came from regions I hadn’t known existed--desert wastes and mountain ranges and snow-covered tundras. These people had families they’d hated to lose, homes that were as familiar to them as the cottage by the Atlantic had once been to me. They’d made mistakes and suffered for it. They, too, had regrets.

Fear, anger, hatred, love, bravery, cowardice--every possible human emotion filled those alien faces, and it didn’t take long for me to stop seeing them as alien at all. They were people, who’d lived on this planet just as I did, who had loved it the way I’d loved Earth.

I’d never even wanted to know about this world before, but now I was desperate to understand every story these pictures presented. Without Tanza’s book providing context, would I even have paused to look at these pictures? Would I have cared about these people? I doubted I would have. Tanza's childish enthusiasm for a book had upended my world--as I’d upended hers.

With that thought, I found myself back before the picture of the queen. Her sorrowful eyes pinned me in place. It seemed, to my overworked imagination, that she was disappointed in me.

I glared at her. “What else do you want me to do?” I demanded. “What’s done is done. I can’t fix it. I don’t even know what book it was.”

In that hall of death, it seemed a pitiful excuse.

I tore my eyes away from the picture, and my gaze landed upon a door I’d wandered past in my history-induced daze. It was brown and wide, with a sign above proclaiming it the entrance to the Museum of the Alogath Execution Center. I wandered toward it, then froze in my tracks only a few steps away. Next to the entrance was a window—and through the window, I saw books.

This was a museum! Museums—even tephan ones—had gift shops! If there was one place in this world that sold books about Queen Marastel, it was likely the museum that displayed her face on a public street.

I raced into the building, almost giddy, and found the shop just beyond the main entrance. The tiny nook held pamphlets and trinkets, and at the front of the room, a big, silver BookVend machine printed and bound volumes with lightning speed.

I raced through the door. The tephan woman behind the counter dropped her book in surprise as I leaned, panting, against her counter.

The woman asked in smooth Anglese, “Can I help you?”

I stood up and tried to look less like a maniac. “Yes,” I said, in my best politician’s-wife voice. “I need you to help me find a book.”  

#

The door to the charity home loomed large in front of me. I hesitated with my hand before the door. Was I doing something stupid? The freshly-printed book under my arm might not change the fact that the child would want nothing to do with me.

This wasn't about me. I had to try.

My knock was answered by a pale, knobby tephan woman with wisps of blond hair hanging around her face. She stared when she saw my face and clothes. “Madam?”

“Excuse me," I asked, "but does a girl named Tanza live here?”

The woman's eyes glazed over as she struggled to translate my Anglese.

I tried again, speaking more slowly. “Is Tanza here?”

“Tanza…” She trailed off in confusion before her eyes lit with understanding. “Oh!” Gently, she corrected, “It’s pronounced Tanza.”

It sounded exactly the same to me. I was starting to believe those people who said tephans could speak and hear sounds that humans couldn't.

The woman called into the building, and after a storm of voices and footsteps, a slight tephan girl in green clothes came to the door, her curls making a curtain over her still-puffy eyes.

Tanza scowled when she saw me. “What do you want?”

I took a deep breath and stepped forward. “I wanted to apologize,” I said. “For what happened. How I treated you. You saved my ring and I treated you like an animal. That was wrong.”

Tanza crossed her arms. “Glad you noticed.”

This child kept finding ways to irritate me, but I swallowed my words before I snapped back in response.

I pulled a book from under my arm. “I know this doesn’t erase what you went through, but I wanted to undo some of the harm that I’ve done today.” I handed her the book, which had the same cover as the book she’d brought to the restaurant. “This is for you.”

Warily, Tanza examined the queen on the cover. “It looks the same.” She flipped through the pages, and her eyes brightened. “It is the same!”

“I printed a new copy. There’s a BookVend down the street. You rescued my ring; it was only fair that I replace your book.”

"Yes, but I didn't think..." She examined the book in amazement before turning that astonished gaze upon me. "This is really mine? To keep?"

“Yes, of course,” I said.

Tanza clutched the book to her chest and smiled at me, positively radiant. That smile transformed her from a feral orphan into a polite little princess.

I couldn’t keep from smiling back.

“Thank you,” Tanza said. Then she saw the other book under my arm. “What’s that one?” she asked, as though hoping it was for her and not daring to ask.

I pulled it out and showed her the cover. It showed the same image of the queen, but this time above an Anglese title—The Queen of Sorrow. “The Anglese edition,” I explained. “This one’s for me.”

If I’d thought she was happy before, it was nothing compared to her radiance now. “You’re going to read it?”

I shrugged. "I couldn't resist. You made it sound so interesting."

She bounced on the balls of her feet. “Wait until you get to Chapter Five. That’s when she first meets the king, and you would not believe the uproar it causes."

She set down her book, grabbed mine, and started flipping through the pages, desperate to show me the start of the story.

From down the hall, an adult voice barked, “Tanza! Don’t bother the woman. I’m sure she’s busy.”

Embarrassed, Tanza closed the book. She pushed it back into my hands. “Sorry. I don’t get to talk about it much.”

“I don’t mind. You’re an excellent instructor.”

Her eyes brightened with hesitant hope. “I could show you more. If you want.”

“I’d be grateful.”

Tanza called over her shoulder. “Garsa! Can I have a visitor in the study room?”

The tephan woman appeared in the entryway. She blinked, taken aback. “As long as she leaves before supper."

Tanza looked up at me. “Do you want to stay?”

No tephan had ever asked me that question before. In all my time here, I’d been an outsider. An invader. I’d never had the desire to be anything more. But those words, coming from Tanza, felt like a welcome.  

I was glad to receive it.

I put a hand on Tanza’s shoulder and smiled. “I’d love to.”

[hoodoo12]

The Ties That Bind (And How to Follow Them) 5/?

@bunnys-beetlejuice-blog @werwulfy @turtlepated @infptarius @mel-time @fireflower1015 @go-whovian-universe @sweetcat-666 @strange-n-unbluusual @monsterlovinghours @rainingpaint @genderless-cryptid @heresathreebee

SFW. A simple solution is suggested. Family is mentioned and summarily dismissed. Name calling.

She’d stuffed him haphazardly into her jacket pocket, but Beej didn’t complain. If Pate had slipped her mirror into her purse, he probably wouldn’t have been able to hear what she told the cops.

Listening to her talk about Lillian being her mentor (not a lie) and calling her so late because she had a bad dream that she hoped the older woman could help her with (partial lie that would be backed up by phone records), then coming over at Lillian’s request (total lie, but couldn’t be proved otherwise) to talk about things, then scaling the fire escape because the door was supposed to be unlocked and wasn’t, Beetlejuice was inordinately proud of the easy way Pate wove fact and fiction together. He was a good bad influence.

He worried a little about a question asking why she didn’t try to call Lillian again once she arrived, but it never came. The officers took her statement with little request for more. She even volunteered to show them her dream journal, allowing them to skim through it, adding weight to her words of continued nightmares.

Pate sat in the driver’s seat of her car, the door open, watching the ambulance pull away from the curb, lights flashing but no siren. She’d already given her statement to the responding police officer and was informed that she could leave. The EMS said it was probably a heart attack, but something about that explanation simply didn’t sit right with her.

Either way, there was nothing more to be done but go back home.

She’d driven home after it was all said and done and now she looked small in the blanket she’d pulled around herself on the couch. Beetlejuice wished he could be beside her, snuggled into her warmth, but he was still stuck in this goddamn mirror.

Dawn found her sitting on her living room floor, the mirror propped up on her coffee table so she and Beetlejuice could see each other, sharing a forlorn look.

They had run out of options, and Pate had no idea what sort of trick or spell or whatever Lillian had used in order to try and undo it herself. An idea had come to her that she had kept to herself, feeling certain of what Beetlejuice’s response would be. But now, with their one other avenue no longer available to them, perhaps he would surprise her.

“I was thinking, Bug,” she began tentatively. “You might not like it, but we do know someone else who might be able to get you out.”

She briefly averted her eyes and sucked in a breath, sighing out the words on the exhale.

“Your brother.”

When she sighed and ran her hands over her face, he knew her well enough to recognize the set of her jaw. She’d put some serious thought into something and was ready to share it with him. Like when she told him no to converting the bathtub to a pond for piranha or yes, she was okay with him occasionally ‘borrowing’ her underwear.

What came out of her mouth was a bomb that he was completely unprepared for.

She didn’t say his name. She didn’t have to say his name. Bile instantly rose in his throat and he imagined his dull hair shot through with red as she mentioned asking his brother for assistance.

“No! No! Absolutely not!” he shouted impotently in the soundproofing he was trapped in.

In case she couldn’t read his lips or his agitation, he tried to fog the glass so he could write it out. No dice. There was no difference in temperature between him and the glass, apparently, so no condensation. In frustrated anger, Beetlejuice spit directly on the glass and used a fingertip to make a large “NO!”. It was backwards for her, so he wrote it again with the letters facing Pate correctly, in case she couldn’t figure it out.

Growing more agitated because he truly could do nothing to stop her from going ahead with her plan, Beetlejuice ground his teeth and pulled his hair. No Rigel! No Bellatrix! No Saiph! Oh sweet god, nobody from his family! He’d rather be trapped here than owe any of them anything. He couldn’t do anything to protect Pate from in here, and there was no way Rigel or any of the others would hold true to a word of helping them out.

A thin keening whine escaped him. He didn’t know what to do to make her understand.

Beetlejuice responded precisely the way she expected he would: with abject rejection of the whole idea. Pate threw up her hands in surrender as he drew an outright denial in his own spit inside the mirror.

“Yeah, that’s about what I thought you’d say,” she admitted, leaning forward with a sigh and resting her chin on the edge of the table. “But I don’t know what else to do to get you outta there.”

Pate watched the flaming red of his hair gradually simmer down as his temper cooled, wracking her brains to figure out some alternative to demonic assistance that he was so stridently against.

She had none of Lillian’s tools, much less her expertise and experience, no idea how to go about reversing what had been done. And something about Lillian’s sudden death still nagged at the back of her mind, and she caught herself speculating that it couldn’t have been natural. But then that was ridiculous, of course it was natural. People died of heart failure all the time.

Ugh, focus! She told herself impatiently. How do I get my demon boyfriend out of this mirror? Come on, think!

With no Lillian there to explain or offer guidance, no knowledgeable supernatural assistance and Beetlejuice unable to offer any insight that didn’t involve charades, Pate sat in the silence and thought.

And then it came to her, like a bolt from the blue.

She straightened, not quite looking at Beetlejuice in the mirror, still formulating in her head to see if the logic of it worked out. As far as she could tell, it seemed like a solid strategy. Beetlejuice had first entered her life and her world when she said his name three times. Now that he was no longer in her world technically, maybe saying his name three times would bring him back to it.

“Bug, I think I have another idea,” she said, relaying the thought to him to see what he made of it.

It was comforting that she let her train of thought derail at his insistence. Beej gave a sigh of relief. He pressed his hand against his side of the glass, found it slick with spit, and wiped his palm on his trousers before putting it there again, wishing he could touch her.

Pate’s open hand was large compared to his, but it being somewhat against him made him as happy as he could be, stuck here. She was quiet in thought again, looking increasingly tired.

She jumped as if startled, her eyes wide. Beetlejuice couldn’t hear anything that may have done it, so he cocked his head in pantomime confusion.

Breathlessly, Pate told him her next idea, and waited expectantly for his thoughts on it.

"Baby . . ." he began. It was difficult to break the habit of talking to her.

The concept was intriguing. He was bound to his name, and her suggestion just might be enough, have enough power, to yank him to her side despite whatever spell Lillian had cast. A hastily concocted binding couldn’t be as tight as what tethered him to his name.

Beej shrugged with a smile, feeling suspiciously like he’d been trapped here like a puppet or a clown.

"Yes. Try it baby," he said, just to help break that bug under glass--haha, wasn't he the comedian!--feeling. He raised his voice, even though that didn't help. "I can't wait to kiss you!"

With Beetlejuice’s affirmation of the plan, Pate got to her feet and stood in the middle of the living room with the mirror held out at arm’s length. In her head, she hoped it would give him plenty of room to appear. He looked eagerly out at her from the glass, both hands pressed against the inside of the mirror. Flashing him a grin, Pate steadied herself and took a breath.

“Bheteljuz . . . Bheteljuz . . . Bheteljuz!”

Pate stood alone in her living room, holding the mirror that was now empty but for her own reflection. A thin crack had split the glass all the way across, but she wasn’t troubled by that. What was troubling was the fact that Beetlejuice had failed to reappear.

She gave him another minute, in case it took longer because he’d been stuck in the mirror, but as the minutes wore on she began to fret that something had gone wrong.

Had she performed the summoning incorrectly? She’d been very careful to pronounce his name just the way she was supposed to, she’d said it three times for sure, and he certainly wasn’t in the mirror anymore. What could have happened?

After thinking for a bit she remembered the other caveat of his name: three times to summon, three times again to banish. What if she’d banished him by accident?

Cursing to herself, Pate set down the broken mirror and quickly recited his name three more times, preparing her apology for sending him away, more than ready to feel his arms around her after this strange and upsetting day. Seconds ticked by, but still the grinning ghost did not reappear. Was he angry with her for the banishment?

Her pulse picking up at the growing sense of foreboding balling tightly in her gut, Pate took a shaky breath and said his name again. But still to no avail.

Something was wrong. She wasn’t sure how she knew it, but she knew it. Beetlejuice wouldn’t stay away unless something was stopping him from coming to her. Increasingly desperate, Pate called his name again, louder this time, as if maybe he just couldn’t hear her.

“Please come back,” she begged the empty air, feeling tears threaten in her burning eyes.

⁂

He gave himself a shake. Ran a hand through his hair. Straightened his tie--then wickedly thought that maybe he should appear back at her side completely nude except for the tie; he never minded a little playful tie-pulling as a precursor to some adult fun, especially from her. Pate was tired, of course, she’d had a long night. That didn’t mean he couldn’t just take care of her.

Kind of a reward for breaking him out, he reasoned. She could just lay back and let him indulge her with his mouth, then when she was sweaty and mostly spent he’d crawl up her body and slip his cock deep inside her--

The typical tingle in his fingertips that accompanied someone saying his name was sharper. It was more like pins being shoved under his nails. The mirror must have amplified the sensation.

The second repeated made the pain worse, shooting it up his arms and legs towards his torso. Beetlejuice gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. He could handle this, just one more and he’d be out!

The third recitation doubled him over. No matter! He was free, he was out no more endless white mirror world to be stuck in. No wonder vampires hated them so much. Mirrors sucked.

He’d have expected Pate to say something or grab his hand. She was oddly silent.

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Beetlejuice opened his eyes. He didn’t think it was the fog of pain that made nothing seem familiar. This wasn’t Pate’s apartment. This was somewhere else. This was surrounded by people who looked too excited to see him, outside a circle drawn on the floor where he stood.

He was immeasurably glad he hadn’t stripped down to his tie.

tbc . . .

[literaryfic]

Chapters: 5/? Fandom: 빈센조 | Vincenzo (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Vincenzo Cassano | Park Joo Hyeong/Hong Cha Young Characters: Hong Cha Young, Vincenzo Cassano | Park Joo Hyeong Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, vincenzo leaves, set five years after he left sk, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, vincenzo and cha-young are exes, they were in a relationship before, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Jealousy, Exes, Getting Back Together, Not Canon Compliant, i wrote this before ep 20, Canon-Typical Violence, Smut

Summary: Oh, how Cha-young wishes she could forget the past five years. Now that her anger has faded, she remembers clearly why she sealed herself in it; after anger comes sorrow, something she’s not sure she can overcome.

And just like the never-ending revolution of the Earth around the Sun causes the perpetual change of seasons — when flowers bloom after the frost melts and Spring follows Winter —, Cha-young finds herself knocking on Vincenzo’s door. They were two supernovas meant to collide and, although Cha-young wasn’t quite sure whether the impact would annihilate them or create a new form of life, she didn’t care.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, Park Joo-hyung?”

He opens the door, letting her in. She marches on, the door closing in a thump behind her. She turns to face him, his jaw is set. Both of them follow the familiar steps of a tango they’ve danced before, playing the part of an opera they know the end to.

“How dare you threaten and intimidate someone close to me?” She screams.

“Is that what he told you? Did he mention the phone call—”

“This has nothing to do with your behaviour!”

“Of course it fucking has, Cha-young-ah” Vincenzo is losing his temper too, and for the first time since they’ve met again, he’s yelling.“That bastard’s cheating on you, for fuck’s sake! Did you just expect me to pretend I didn’t hear anything? I thought you said we should be friends. That’s what friends do.”

“Whether he’s cheating on me or not, that’s none of your business. And I take it back, I don’t want to be your friend, I don’t want to be your anything. Leave me alone.” Cha-young’s index finger is pointing at him, and suddenly she realises how close they’ve gotten in the heat of their argument. She’s flushed, anger shading her cheeks red.

“You’re the one who came to me.” He whispers.

She can feel his breath on her face, and it’s taking everything in her to not look at his lips. His intoxicating scent is making her feel dizzy. She bites the inside of her cheek, the sharp pain bringing her back to her senses. She takes a step back.

“Because you think you can just waltz into my life as you please, Vincenzo.” She’s not looking at him anymore, the edge in her voice softened.

“If that were true, we both know very well that your little boyfriend would be dead by now.” His lips curl. His tone might be playful but she’s not sure he doesn’t mean it.

He’s looking at her and Cha-young knows he’s trying to make peace. He’d never liked to argue with her in the past, and he especially hated screaming matches. To everyone else, Vincenzo was intransigent, intimidating or even frightening. However, during their relationship, and although he’d been stubborn, he’d always been strangely compromising. She started the fights and he ended them. He would crack a joke, apologise and kiss her hand. He would burrow his face in her neck, wrap his arms around her waist and mouth ‘Forgive me’ against her skin. She’d feign resistance until he’d start tickling her. Then, they’d laugh together, forgetting about why they fought in the first place.

Oh, how Cha-young wishes she could forget the past five years. Now that her anger has faded, she remembers clearly why she sealed herself in it; after anger comes sorrow, something she’s not sure she can overcome. Submerged by a wave of melancholy, she can’t hold back the truth anymore.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Vincenzo’s eyes widen, he’s stunned. A few seconds pass, and it doesn’t look like he’s going to say anything, so she goes on. “I lied. I’m here with my employees, he’s my personal assistant.”

Finally, the weight of her words strikes him. “Why did you lie to me?” He asks quietly, his face unreadable. Was it so foolish of her to search for relief in his eyes?

She swallows the lump in her throat. “What, so you could see how pathetic I was without you?”

There it is.

In a few seconds, the man she loved would realise she’d always been nothing more than an empty shell on the shore, discarded by the seas. All her life, Cha-young had been abandoned by the people she cherished. Whether it was intentional or not, it seemed that no one stuck around for long. Contrary to what one might think, her father had been the first one to go. He’d stayed out late, prioritised his clients over his family and avoided them. Then, her mom had gone, her loss altering Cha-young’s life and identity so profoundly she had began to think of herself as split in two — pre-death Cha-young, the one who had been naïve and hopeful, and post-death Cha-young, the jaded and bitter adult who had designed her life around self-preservation. Later, when her dad passed away, abandoning her for the second time, she had promised herself that she wouldn’t let anyone leave ever again. She had wanted to protect those around her: the tenants, Babel’s victims’ families, the innocent.

Slowly, her partnership with Vincenzo turned into something deeper, into something more. She’d prepared herself, readying her heart; he would leave soon. But everything changed when he sealed the promise of forever with a kiss— or so she thought. Cha-young realised a heartbeat too late that she had mistaken an oath of love for an act of war; she had taken him prisoner, put him in shackles and thrown away the key.

Odysseus, the legendary hero set on an epic journey, had accidentally landed on Ogygia, and Calypso, the troubled nymph, had fallen in love with him. How could she not, when he was strong and beautiful, and she was lonely in her exile? She had held him captive as long as she could, but she had no claim over him, and the devastating sadness she had felt after he had escaped was laughable. He had deserted her, the last remains of their love piercing her heart like shards of glass.

“You’re not pathetic.” Vincenzo said firmly, interrupting her thoughts.

Cha-young turned away from him. “Drop it.”

“No. None of this is your fault, Cha-young-ah.” He closed the distance between them, and she could feel him right behind her. “I wanted to tell you later but— I legally changed my name to Park Joo-hyung. Wanna know why?”

“Because it was obnoxiously hard to pronounce?” Her attempt at diversion doesn’t work.

Instead, Vincenzo grips her arms and presses his forehead against her shoulder blades. She’s still not facing him, compelling herself to not look at him or touch him or feel him against her.

“I hated it so much that just hearing it made me sick. I hated myself, Cha-young-ah. Not because of the murders, the torture or all the atrocities I’ve committed— no.” He laughs wryly. “It’s because of what I did to you. Leaving you is the one sin I can’t seem to forgive myself for. And that is pathetic.”

She holds her breath. One. Two. Three. She faces him. Red eyes, hollow cheeks, desperation carving deep lines on his forehead. He looks like a tormented devil.

“What do you want, Vincenzo?” Cha-young whispers, an echo of the past.

Slowly, he locks his eyes on her. Those eyes, she thinks, they’re back.

“To repent.”

One. Two. Three. Cha-young grabs his face and kisses him. At first, Vincenzo stays still, hesitant. She’s about to break the kiss, reality catching up to her, when he opens his mouth and slips his tongue in hers. His hands grip her waist, bringing her closer, bringing her in. Her heart is beating so loudly she can’t hear herself think — or maybe she gave up on thoughts, and now she only feels. She feels him flush against her, she feels his hands; they burn her, leaving the imprint of him all over her body. God, how she had missed him.

There is no romance between them, only a visceral need to possess each other again. Soon enough, they’re on the bed, Cha-young on his lap, her hands pulling his hair so hard he hisses. Vincenzo bites her lower lip as retaliation and she rolls her hips against his erection, staring at him. He moans, head thrown back. Cha-young’s right hand cups his jaw firmly, making sure he’s looking at her. She wants to watch him fall apart, unravel under her touch.

“Take off your clothes.” What she asks, he does — rather awkwardly, she has to move off of him as he gets up, discarding his clothes on the ground without a care. He gets back on the bed from which she’d been watching him strip, lying next to her, completely naked. Their five years apart have somehow made him hotter, his upper body more toned, his biceps firmer. She counts a total of six or seven new scars, one of them still pink-ish and swollen. She reaches out, her finger following the gash running from his navel to his lower abdomen. He gasps when she doesn’t stop where the scar does — she continues on her way, surely, and takes him in her hand.

Vincenzo’s heavy breathing guides her movements, telling her when to stroke faster, when to slow down, when to twist. She stops right before he’s about to come, and the frustration in his eyes turns her on more than anything her last fling ever did.

“Don’t stop.” He asks, going in for a kiss.

Cha-young puts her hand on his mouth, “Tonight, I’m in charge, Joo-hyung-ah.”

His eyes light up and he smiles, “Yes, ma’am.”

Slipping out of her dress in no time, she climbs on top of him, taking his hands in hers and putting them above his head. There’s something thrilling about having him at her mercy, vulnerable under her. He’s hard against her thigh, and although he’s not talking, she hears his silent plea. Slowly, she sits on his cock, savouring the pleasant stretch; he feels so good, and her so full, at last.

“Oddio!” On his lips, God’s name becomes a curse.

She keeps a slow pace, it takes time to revisit a long-lost lover after all. She rolls her hips, turns, bounces. Once she’s figured out how to pleasure herself, she moves faster. Closing her eyes, she frees his left hand and puts it on her breast. Vincenzo is nothing if not an eager disciple trying to prove his worth, and so he caresses her enthusiastically, his thumb brushing against her hardened nipple. What a good boy, she thinks, before pressing her body against his, engulfing him in a kiss.

His hand finds her hair, cascading down her naked back. She kisses him everywhere — his lips, his cheeks, his neck. She needs to have him whole, to consume all of him, so she can keep him in her forever. She feels a familiar warm building up inside of her, but she’s not ready for it to be over yet. She stops bouncing on him abruptly and his eyes fly open, irked. She intertwines their fingers, and whispers, “Look at me.” Once again, he obeys her command, his eyes roaming her face, her breasts, her thighs. They go up and down, taking her in, devouring her. She feels hot under his gaze, and she picks up the pace. He parts his mouth, whimpering faintly. He thrusts back into her hard, and they find the right rhythm. Soon enough, Cha-young is there, right there, a white-hot flash of pleasure overwhelming all her senses.

“Cazzo!” He must have come too then. Fuck, indeed.

Cha-young is still on top of him, Vincenzo still inside of her. She rests her head against his chest, their flushed skin sticky with sweat. He’s playing with her hair absentmindedly, still trying to catch his breath. She looks up at him, and they kiss again, but this time it’s different. She feels it all, his longing, how much he’s missed her, how scared he is that this is all a dream. In this moment, she can’t tell where she ends and where he starts. She’s never been closer to him, never understood him as much as she does now.

Were the tears on her lips hers or his? The time for questions will come later, right now there’s only them, together — an ever-lasting moment they stole from the Fates.

[drakewalkerfantasy]

The art of surrender. (Tatum x F!MC)

Summary: When the anger takes over nothing lefts but the truth. Will it be enough for Tatum to be ready to admit the truth. And will it be enough for Claire to finally demand the answers she needed. 

Words: 3170

Authors notes: I really hope you will enjoy this. Please let me know if still want to be tagged and what I can improve. Huge thank you for @jamespotterthefirst​ for proofreading and reading this for me and being amazingly supportive friend. Also huge thank you for @choices-bound​ for being supportive and also reading this before I published. Also thank you for @annekebbphotography​ for finally helping me decide what version I should use. You amazing friend so never forget that.

Raiting: to be safe 17+

**Warnings: confrontation/couple of curse words probably and if you squint really really hard some dry humping**

See Part 1 Part 2

From the moment Claire opened her eyes the following morning she felt annoyed and defeated. The sexual frustration she felt the previous night, though a little bit relieved, but still not enough for her mood to get better. And definitely not the way she would hope it will happen. She closed her eyes for a moment reliving the memory of Tatum’s hands gripping her hips a little bit harder. His body so close to hers that she could feel every inch of his hard, warm body against hers. And she could breathe in his familiar scent that was still lingering in the room.

She rolled over pressing her face into the pillow to muffle a frustrated groan. Angry at herself that she was so bluntly throwing herself at Tatum, that she clearly misread all the signs. Angry that despite the hope she still held, even so many years after, he still wasn’t interested in her the way she dreamed of.

Along with her anger at herself came anger at him, at the guy, she had a crush on for for so many years. At the guy, who was her best friend. At the guy who will never see her the way she would want him to finally see her. And at the one who ran away so abruptly as if her touch burned him.

Angry that despite everything she was still holding a fracture of hope that someday he will finally see her the way she did him. Hoping that someday he would want to be more than her bodyguard. And more than just her best friend.

She felt angry that even now, despite everything that happened yesterday she still wanted him. Even knowing that he didn’t want her the same way.

She felt scared thinking that she may lose him by crossing the unspoken line they drew between them so many years ago. Knowing that the friendship they had was the only thing that kept them afloat in the world they lived in.

She felt hurt by the way he pushed her away. Knowing that it was only to protect her even if she didn’t want it.

And she felt confused as when she pressed her body to his, she could feel how his length was straining against the zipper of his jeans undoubtedly wanting her the way she wanted him.

And she hoped... she hoped that this would be enough to make him surrender.

However the way Tatum acted this morning as if yesterday never happened... as if yesterday didn’t impact him the way it did her made nothing to improve her mood. Or make her believe that what she wanted would ever happen. Even though she still could feel that here was something between them. Even though the sparks she thought she felt so many years ago before he suddenly left to the army were back. And no matter how hard he tried to hide it she could feel them every time their eyes met. But even so whenever she tried to get closer to him, he pulled away. And she was so afraid of losing him that she simply didn’t know what else to do other than to make him tell her the truth. To finally tell her what happened with her Tatum... her best friend... her rock... the only person in the whole universe who never let her down. To the person who always knew how to make her smile. Wanting him finally to admit why he acted so afraid to get closer to her.

It was still early in the morning, when he came to walk her to the library. The simple summer dress was fluttering lightly around her thighs while the wind was blowing through the campus grounds. She was walking fast trying to match Tatum’s long strides. Her high heels clicked on the ground. And she huffed in frustration trying to catch up with him, finally having enough of Tatum not even meeting her eyes. Having enough of him pretending that yesterday never happened, looking rather like a solid stone made statue and not a breathing, living human being.

“Tatum...,” Claire called after him, when Tatum continued to walk in front of her in silence without even slowing. The stoic mask she used to see during these past weeks back in place.

And the only sign of recognition of what trespassed between them yesterday was the way his hand nervously fixed the cuffs of his jacket and how his eyes darted to her parted lips when he came to her apartment to pick her up. The only sign of remembering how her lips softly pressed to the corner of his lingering there for a moment too long, while her head was spinning from a musky scent of his cologne. Looking as if this didn’t affect him at all. As if his pulse didn’t skyrocket by a single touch of her fingers. As if his eyes didn’t become a shade darker when he saw her in the sinful dress she wore the previous day.

She peaked up the pace trying to match his, starting angrily to walk after him when he didn’t stop. Her long legs still unable to make as long strides as his almost running now on her high heels. Her hair fluttered in the wind, while her eyes prickled with tears of frustration, thinking of how much of the foul she made of herself yesterday. Her breathing coming in huffs, while she tried to calm her racing heart. And her next words came as a surprise even to her. “You don’t have to pull away from me again, not after yesterday.”

Her words came out with a broken sob, which finally made him stop and turn to face her. His eyes widened, when he caught a glimpse of the first tear rolling down her cheek. Her brows furrowed angrily and she tried to turn away from him to cover up another stray tear rolling down her cheek. Her chest rose and fell, trying to suppress another sob that tried to escape her throat. But it was too late, as she felt his fingers gently curling around her elbow and turning her to face him. His intense gaze met hers and before she could lower her head he placed the knuckles of his other hand under her chin, tipping it up.

“Hey... hey, what’s wrong?” Tatum asked with so much concern in his voice that it seemed that her Tatum... her best friend was finally back and this made her want to cry even more, knowing that here is no way she could hide anything from him.

“Nothing.” she stubbornly replied, noticing how his eyes narrowed and instead of letting go of her hand he led her toward the alcove in the end of the garden. The one they passed by the other day noticing how beautiful and secluded it was, like the one in her mum’s garden, where they used to spend so much time together. Like a piece of home. A piece of their friendship.

“CoCo,” he uttered gently, turning her to face him, when they entered alcove far off from the prying eyes if any of the paparazzi or her fellow students would sneak here. The childish nickname he used for her and only her slipping easily from his lips, while he studied her face. Her heart fluttering at the familiarity and warmth. But he could still see that the angry, hurtful frown that cut through her brows earlier didn’t go away and he repeated the question patiently waiting for her reply.  “What’s wrong?”

“I thought you said the other day that as long as my life isn't in danger, I’m on my own. And also something about you being here only as my bodyguard and not as my friend,” quietly reminded Claire.

“Claire...,” he breathed softly, regretting the words that he spoke so harshly before. He didn’t mean them or at least he didn’t mean that he didn’t care about her. And this single breathless utterance of her name was enough for her to understand how much he already regretted the words he spoke and that for him she still was more than a simple assignment.

“Okay...,” she mumbled, lifting her head. “What happened to you?”

“What?”

“Why--- did--- you--- leave?” she asked. Her annoyance and anger clear in the way she pronounced the words, punctuating every single word.

“Because it was my duty.”

“No,” she shook her head, not buying his weak excuse, noticing him licking the corner of his mouth. The telltale of him not telling the truth.

“Because I wanted to protect my country.”

“No,” she snapped angrily. “You didn’t protect it. You were deployed to the country my mother so desperately wanted under her heel... and you... you of all people wouldn’t go there willingly. What means you were forced to go. So WHY? WHY did you leave?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled quietly, knowing that his reply will hurt her. But also knowing that this reply is far better than the truth itself. Still trying to protect her no matter what.  “I... I cannot tell you.”

“Really? This is your reply?” she looked at him with such a hurt in her eyes that it wrenched his soul. But he didn’t say anything else, simply watching her turn toward the garden without saying another word.

“Wait...” finally said Tatum breaking the silence, swallowing hard before asking his next question. “Why? Why did you want to know.” Expecting anything else but not the reply she gave him.

Quickly... almost instantly, she whirled around. Her eyes pitch black, fuming with anger at him. Her hands curl in small fists, and her cheeks hollowing on the inhale.

“Why??? Really? WHY?” she spat the words taking a step closer to him. “You left me without a care in the world. You left me like I meant nothing to you... NOTHING,” she shouted angrily, the sob ripping out of her throat.

“What?” asked stunned Tatum. His heart twisted painfully as anger started to rise inside him at her words. “You want to know why I left?” he asked. His voice rising until he was shouting his next words at her. “Do you really think I didn’t care for you enough to stay? I left because I cared for you. Because I tried to protect you. Because I fucking loved you! And I came back because I STILL love you.” He shouted out breathing heavily.

The words, leaving his lips even before he could stop them. The truth, the one he never was able to admit even to himself, finally out. His eyes locking on Claire’s, but before he could say anything, he felt her small hand placed on his, while she took a step closer to him. So close that he could see tears welling in her beautiful eyes. 

His fingers brushing away a tear hanging from her thick black eyelashes before it could drop to her cheek. And then as if not able to help himself he ran them over her cheek, gently outlining its contour before stopping under her chin and tipping her head up to meet his gaze.

For a second she closed her eyes, too afraid that she would see a regret for the spoken words. But when she finally opened them to meet his, she found nothing but the intensity of the man who wanted the same thing as her. The eyes of the man who wanted her no less.

“You... you love me?” asked Claire in a soft murmur, moving closer to him. Her heart skipping a bit, when she stepped into his space and he could do nothing but nod. Not able to find his own voice to reply. He could feel how her heart fluttered against his chest. His own heart thumping violently when she tiptoed toward him pressing a soft kiss to his cheek before hesitantly sliding her lips to the corner of his. Lingering there just for a split second. His hands gently coming to the dip of her waist feeling the silky sensational of her bare back under his fingers, while he pulled slightly away to meet her eyes. To search in them for any indication that she wanted him to kiss her. For any indication that maybe... just maybe they still wanted the same thing after all.

Slowly, hesitantly he pulled away, still holding her in his arms. Giving her the opportunity to push him away if she would want to, but instead he felt how her fists curled around the lapels of his suit jacket pulling him back to her. Their lips just a breath away. His hands sliding from her waist to her hips. His eyes holding hers intensely. His pulse picked up the pace meeting her gaze, and he couldn’t wait any longer when he dipped his head toward her finally meeting her lips in a tentative kiss.

It seemed that the time had stopped when their lips met. Their hearts fluttering in anticipation, when his fingers tensed on her hips, claiming her lips with his. Tasting barely perceptible flavour of her peach gloss.

He could feel how his dick twitched in the confines of his pants, while his lips captured hers again and again. Kissing her deeper and harder, intensifying the kiss. Sending the warm sensations straight toward her core, making her slick and wet with desire.

His hand ran up her back, groaning when it finally tangled in her hair angling her head for better access. Taking more than he ever could have imagined possible. The warm tip of his tongue trailed along the seam of her lips probing for entrance that she granted willingly. Her lips parted and she felt him washing over her like a wave of warmth as he deepened the kiss, swallowing her soft moan. His tongue sliding inside her mouth, gliding against hers in sinuous dance, kissing her tantalisingly slowly. He could feel how his desire grew stronger with every kiss and every touch, feeling her hand resting on the back of his head pulling his head even closer to her. Kissing him desperately... willingly.

Her body melting into him when his knees buckled slightly hitting the edge of the bench, pulling Claire in. His mouth claiming hers over and over, hungry... intense. His hands sliding up her legs and under her summer dress bunching it up. Her knees placed on the both sides of his thighs, and her body leaning into his.

He catched her lower lip between his pulling it slightly into his mouth, sucking on it with a groan. Letting his tongue slide against it before capturing her lips in a kiss. Kissing her with abandon, finally letting go of every single restraint he had.

Her toes curling, unfurling all her senses as the taste of him nearly silenced all thoughts. She wanted more. Her hips grinding against his growing hardness, no doubt feeling every single inch of his throbbing length. His hips rising to meet hers with the groan of desperation. Parting only for a split second just for an air, before digging in to kiss her even harder and hungrier. Letting go of years of restraints and doubts. Letting go of every bit of self control and resistance. The only thing he wanted to feel was her. Her lips. Her scent. Her touch. At this moment... and this moment only he didn’t care of any warning her mother gave him. Of any pain she would cause him. Or any heartache it could bring. The only thing he cared for and what’s mattered was Claire and she loved him, the way he loved her for so many years. The way he never stopped loving her.

He kissed her vigorously, whispering the words of adoration and love in between. Feeling how she started to move faster and harder against his throbbing flesh separated only by the thin material of her panties and his suit pants. And he was close... oh my God how close he was already. He was so close that one roll of her hips would be enough for him to explode right there and then... Only one more...

With the last sloppy desperate kiss and incredulous self-restraint he tightened his grip on her hips sliding her off from his laps and onto the bench. His breathing came out in hard and heavy puffs. His eyes still glossy from their kisses. And his lips lightly ghosted over hers before reluctantly pulling away.

“Why did you stop,” she breathed. The fear of rejection, of him pushing her away again reflected in her eyes so clearly that he could almost feel her pain. Her lips red and swollen from the way he kissed her just moments ago. So temptingly beautiful that he couldn’t resist it but kiss her once more.

She could feel how his lips softly pressed to hers, kissing her sweetly and tenderly for just a moment longer before pulling away. His fingers gently brushing away the stride of her hair from her forehead. His gaze locked on hers before dropping to her lips, fighting the desire to kiss her again. The heat in his gaze made her core quiver, and the tip of her tongue ran over her lips making them glossy, making it even more difficult for him to resist the temptation.

“Claire...,” he breathed heavily, taking her hand in his, placing a soft kiss to her knuckles. His other hand sliding around her waist, bringing her closer to him, resting his chin on the top of her head. They sat like that for a moment both unable and unwilling to break the moment of peace between them. Both unsure what will happen if either of them would start to speak. Thinking that if they will start to speak that the truth will finally come out and there will be no going back for either of them. “Claire,” finally said Tatum breaking the silence.  “Earlier you asked me a question... two questions. The ones, you tried to ask me for weeks since I came back. The ones I always tried to avoid to answer. But not today. What do you want to know?” asked Tatum, brushing his thumb over Claire’s knuckles. Still unable to let go of her hand.

“Everything... I want to know everything,” whispered Claire with a bated breath before asking her final question. The question she was so afraid to ask, but the one she couldn’t go another day without knowing the answer for. The one she shouted at him in the moment of anger. And the one she cried out in the quietness of her bedroom while no one could hear her. “But most of all I want to know why you left me?”

He nodded silently, looking into the distance. His eyes somber, and his hold on Claire’s waist becomes a little bit too tight as if whatever he was about to tell her would change everything between them. And in some way it will.

Tagging: @jamespotterthefirst​​ @choices-bound​​ @i-bloody-love-drake-walker​ @openheartthot​​ @ramseysrookiex​​ @shaylan211 @annekebbphotography​​ @boneandfur​ @mercury84choices​ @xxrainbow-princessxx​

[l000ey]

mamas 2019, pt. 1 ━ venus

𝑷𝑨𝑰𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮 ━ 𝗆𝗈𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝖾𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅 𝗑 𝗂𝗆 𝗃𝖺𝖾𝖻𝗎𝗆 ( 𝖿𝗍. 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗈, 𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖺 𝗅𝖾𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄 )

𝑺𝑼𝑴𝑴𝑨𝑹𝒀 ━ 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝟤𝟢𝟣𝟫 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗓𝗒

𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑺 ━ 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾́ 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗉𝗌𝗒𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁, 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗆, 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝖾𝗑

𝑨/𝑵 ━ 𝗂 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗂 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝗈, 𝗂'𝗆 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗆𝗀

𝒀𝑬𝑨𝑹 ━ 𝟤𝟢𝟣𝟫

• 𝘷��𝘯𝘶𝘴’ 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵

A feeling of excitement and euphoria ran through the place, the glitters of the idols' expensive clothes decorated the city of Nagoya, and the screams of the fans, excited to see their favorite artists perform. But Moon Daesoul didn't feel that but a great pressure and anxiety that made her hand tighten more and more against Hwasa's. She didn't want to attend the awards, but because she hadn't told anyone what happened that night she had no choice but to smile and nod like she was a sweet and silly girl.

She rolled her eyes, erasing her tight, fake smile as they escaped the flashes of the paparazzi on the carpet. Hwasa's hand was still trapped in her grip as they walked into the stadium ━rather laughing at the wig that Solar would have to wear for the performance━, she remained quiet until they reached their seats for the night watching the toes of her heels appear and disappear as they walked, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone.

She listened as Wheein thanked the staff girl who guided them as she sat down. She did a quick visual inspection and sighed in relief, at least Exo hadn't come. Her eyes met Storm's, who moved her eyebrows in her direction in a playful way at her making her eyes roll.

"Well, place your bets" Byul spoke attracting the attention of the four, who looked at her curiously although the curiosity faded as their eyes fell on Dae "Will something happen between JB and Vee or will they just look at each other like every damn event?" The tired and annoyed tone that she used to pronounce the last sentence made Wheein laugh, her laugh was accompanied by an exaggerated gesture that expressed the annoyance of the members every time the former couple starred for a moment from afar.

Immediately her body stiffened. They didn't know about Baekhyun, they didn't know that she was almost in a relationship with the Exo singer, but most of all, they didn't know about that night. Guilt returned to fill her body when the words and thoughts made a knot in her stomach and went up her throat wanting to come out of her in the form of vomit. She swallowed hard, diverting her gaze from her sisters, who were looking at her waiting for an answer.

“Maybe something will happen, but with someone else.” The leader's words reached her ears making her frown, but she still didn't look.

Hwasa gave her a light blow on the arm "Explain".

"I heard that a member of that new group, Ateez I think their name is, he is a very fan of our Venus" She raised her eyebrows and the girls laughed sounding like schoolgirls when they saw the boy they liked although to Dae they sounded more like old ladies bored with their husbands and gossiping about the misfortunes of others.

"Most of the members of that group were born in 99, I don't think Vee likes them so young." The other rapper denied skeptically, she was a fan of Jaedae.

Before any of them could answer the lights went out and the screaming increased. Venus smiled, she wouldn't have to hear them anymore until they had to go backstage or win an award.

Which happened eventually. She sighed before giving a staff boy a smile as he helped her down the stairs from the stage that led backstage. She looked at her groupmates before approaching Solar, touched her shoulder to get her attention.

"I'm going to go to the bathroom, see you in the dressing room" The leader nodded, checking her with a worried look.

"Are you okay?" Venus nodded and gave her a small smile before handing the headphones and microphone to the staff, she headed to the bathroom giving some smile and bows to the idols she was meeting on her way to her destiny.

Shit.

She froze when she saw Got7 coming in her way, she looked down at her shoes to avoid making eye contact with any of them. She smiled in relief as she managed to enter the bathroom, her smile growing even wider when she saw that it was empty. She went to a cubicle but before she could open it a hand of her pulled her, alarmed she turned around.

Double shit.

She almost fainted when she saw the boy in front of her, she opened her eyes and pushed him away from her body. Her eyes moved to the door before looking back at him "Are you an idiot?! What are you doing here? If anyone sees us━“.

"We have to talk, it will only be a second" He interrupted her. The girl began to move her leg up and down, nervous about the situation.

"I don't want to talk, Jaebum" She took his arm in her hands to start pushing him towards the door.

"We have to talk about what happened, Vee." He put his feet on the ground making it impossible for her to move him. She snorted moving behind him to push him by the back but still he didn't move, he was so much stronger than her.

"God, someday you're going to kill me" She clenched her jaw and frustrated she moved away from him, she had no choice but to listen to him. She would let him speak, he would leave, and she would empty her bladder.

"I-I have sent you messages and I have even called you" He turned around to see her better, she looked at him with no expression other than annoyance.

"I know".

"You have not answered".

"I know".

JB dropped his head in defeat, this girl really got on his nerves when she got stubborn.

"Is that all you had to say? Well goodbye!" She tried again to push him but, again, she failed.

The long-haired boy placed his hands over hers that were positioned on his chest, the rapper swallowed hard when he looked at her.

"I can't stop thinking about that night" That's it, he said it. An awkward silence entered the bathroom, both former lovers looked into each other's eyes without being able to move their gaze from each other. Without knowing how or when, Moon's back met the wall of one of the cubicles while her tongue fought against the Im, her legs were wrapped around his waist and his hands traveled all over her body in fast and clumsy movements, excited to get around every curve again.

He moaned into her mouth when her hands met his hair and she smiled, forgetting that they were in a public bathroom in a building with millions of cameras and eyes that would benefit quite a bit from the scene. They were so focused on each other that they didn't even realize that two more presences had entered the room.

"How many times do I have to tell you? It was just sex, for God's sake!" A raspy but feminine voice made both of them stop the kiss, still tangled they looked at each other in panic. Venus was grateful that they closed the cubicle door.

"But I love you, Arabella!" The girl widened her eyes when she heard the name of her friend while Jaebum raised an eyebrow, curious.

"Fucking hell, I don't want to have anything with you" The BTS member made a face of disgust when the other girl got too close to her, took a couple of steps back raising a hand to not hit the wall and be cornered but in instead she pushed the door of the same cubicle in which both lovers were hiding, let's say they had not closed the door very well since it was opened revealing the other two idols in a very compromising situation. Arabella frowned when she saw how Rosé's face twitched in shock "What now?."

"Bells" Hearing the new voice, the italian made a little jump in her place before turning and seeing her two friends.

She pressed her full lips together causing them to disappear into a fine line "Shit".

Before anyone could say or do anything a flash and the "click" of a camera echoed throughout the bathroom, panic quickly filled the former couple's body as Lee turned around again to look at Blackpink's singer smirking at her as she moved her phone in her hands.

"Rosé, give me the phone."

"Come back with me and I will not publish the photo" The little girl pointed to the two older people in the room, who had already separated and left the cubicle "You don't want your friends' lives to go to hell do you?"

"This happens to me for having sex with virgins" She murmured to herself before giving the girl a wry smile "Am i that good in bed? because jesus, I don't think you want to date someone like me. "

"One click and it will be all over Naver" She unlocked her phone causing Venus to raise her hands to stop her.

"No, please" She begged, kneeling before her, her tears threatening to fall from her eyes. Jaebum walked over to her to pick her up.

The other rapper tensed her jaw seeing how her friend began to cry in the man's arms, she sighed in defeat.

"Okay, okay, I'll do what you want but delete the fucking photo" The singer smiled widely, this time the smile was a happy one before approaching the tallest one and planting a kiss on her lips.

"I'll erase it when you take me on a date, babe." She giggled sweetly when Arabella tried to grab her arm but she was faster than her and managed to avoid her before leaving the bathroom.

"Fottuta puttana" She cursed in a murmur with her gaze still on the bathroom door.

On the other hand, the couple was still holding each other, Venus cried on JB's chest while he stroked her hair and murmured in her ear trying to calm her down.

The girl looked at them with pity, went over to the sink and washed her lips trying to remove any trace of that manipulative bitch. She made eye contact with the boy through the mirror, gave a quick look at the girl in his arms and sighed wiping hdf hands "Go, I'll call Hwasa and tell her that she feels bad, my manager will take her to my house and keep her company. When this shit is over go there, we will talk about this."

After thinking about it for a few seconds, the black-haired man nodded before making the girl in her arms look at him, he placed his hands on her cheeks and wiped the tears that slid down her cheeks with his thumbs. He gave her a sad smile "I'm so sorry, Vee."

He kissed her forehead before releasing her and leaving the room.

[heli0s-writes]

III. Paralysis*

Summary: “I’m sorry,” you sob, locked around Bucky’s bicep, his forearm, fingers digging into the smooth obsidian plates, fisting the fabric of his sleeve. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” As if he were Natasha—as if you could stop both her death and his mangling, or at least hold her the way you are holding him now.

A/N: 9.8k words. OOF.

Warnings: Language, robots v. monsters violence, Big Time angst and comfort, smutty bits (dry-humping, thigh riding).

Trinity Epoch Masterpost

He leaves around sunset. Hair combed neatly to the side and freshly shaven, Steve’s dashing in a fitted suit and tie. 

In the middle of passing around a basketball, Erik Killmonger, in all his subtlety, whistles, “Looking fresh, white boy!”

Steve smirks, smoothing the front of his jacket, “This monkey suit? I’d rather be in circuitry.”

He’s been laying low since Siegehook, since Bucky’s arm, and since you. But now the story’s changed and he’s gotta get his narrative straight— he’s introducing a new character, changing the players, and guiding the spotlight exactly where it needs to go.

Jimmy Fallon— Kimmel? One of the Jimmies personally flew into Hong Kong for a special taping of his late-night show. Orion racked up eleven kills; it’s another record and the people want what they want.

Fury called the three you of into his office after the network reached out for the umpteenth time. He strategized shrewdly to have Steve on this particular broadcast because it’s not as serious as a news report and not as wordy as an interview. Too many things can go wrong in both: cross-examinations, misquoting, scrutiny after the fact.

Steve works best in front of a live audience. He’ll sit down tonight—broad and tall—smile at the camera and the host, make a few charming quips, and then he’ll let the world know.

James has been hurt. The next breach will overlap his recovery time—don’t worry, everybody, fortunately, there’s a pilot available to step in and fill his place until he’s fully healed. And yes, he’ll be back soon, both in the Jaeger and on the show— I know you miss him, he’s even more popular than me, huh? Broody and quiet, right, ladies? He’s a hit!

Then he’ll laugh and field some questions about his new partner—but keep it vague for both yours and Bucky’s sake.

It didn’t need to be said. You didn’t want to be named, Steve didn’t want to make any assumptions for the future, and Bucky didn’t want to know if anyone thought he couldn’t pilot anymore.

Erik passes and you catch, sidestepping Thor and shooting over his figure which is no easy feat considering his massive height and the way Steve is staring you down. You don’t have to be hooked up to his brain to know what he’s wondering. 

Since the trial run, you’ve been feeling the after-effects of the drift in oscillating waves. Sometimes you catch yourself standing ramrod straight, physically feeling heavier, knowing it’s him.

You okay? We talked about this. Yes, you are. No, you aren’t. It’s complicated. He’s fixes his tie the same time you spot a wrinkle. After-effects.

Erik jumps for a rebound when you miss the next basket, getting it knocked away by Thor’s enormous hand. Steve’s already gone when you look back, but Erik is passing again, and your next shot sinks through the net.

“That’s fuckin’ right!” He knocks his elbow into yours proudly, pushing sleeves over elbows until you can see the patterns of scarification up his arms. Feet back and forth on the scuffed concrete with distracted rhythm, you dribble, thoughts still on Steve.

“Hey,” a voice calls over the sound of the slamming ball. Barnes toes the edge of the makeshift court. A jacket is tucked under his arm, baseball cap atop his dark head. “Come on, it’s Friday night and you’re thinking too much. I wanna show you a place.”

-

He leads with confidence, directing the taxi in practiced Cantonese picked up over the last two years. Then, once disembarked, he peeks back every few minutes on the street to check if you’re still following. Your gait is awkward—steps firm, but lopsided. All off kilter and wound up like a spring.

It’s okay. In Bucky’s experience, food always helps. He’s taking you to his favorite restaurant—hole-in-the-wall Sichuan. He hollers over his shoulder, "You better be prepared for spice!”

-

Red lacquered doors open with a tinkering sound, a tiny overhead bell signaling new arrivals. A hostess steers through a path of similarly varnished tables and decorated chairs when Bucky asks for a quiet corner. Fish tanks of koi gleam green and blue. Chandelier scatters gold and white diamond shapes on a ceiling painted like a cloudy sky.

Hot tea first, and he sips carefully, gaze moving up to the T.V. behind your back when you’re busy flipping through the menu. A few more minutes pass of your furrowed brow sinking deeper and Bucky’s hand slides quickly across the tablecloth, nudging the booklet from your clutch.

“I got this.” And relief washes over your entire body like rain.

-

The appearance of entrees breaks your trance. Mai Gai, Char Siu Bao, Dan Dan noodles, and eggplant in garlic sauce—you’re trying to tell him it’s too much, wondering when he even ordered, but he ignores you. Not his fault you spaced out, he says, catch, and a napkin flies directly into your chest.

It makes you laugh, and Bucky secretly wants to tell you that it wouldn’t kill you to do it more often. Why the hell not, anyway? He’s tired of being upset about something that was largely inevitable. He knew the risk of death when they signed up to be Rangers so on the bright side, at least it’s his arm and not his head. At least it’s his arm and not his co-pilot’s. You’ve proven to be more than capable and proven to be someone he can trust with Steve’s life.

If Bucky had any doubts about whether or not that damned Rogers determination would see them through—they’ve been dispelled now.

The drift was sound. When Steve stepped out from the loading dock, he was lighter like half his weight had been sloughed off. When you followed, helmet pulled from your face, Bucky could see where it landed. Your hips, your shoulders, your jaw, all defiant—even if temporarily—coming down from the high of the handshake. Squared and strong, you looked at Bucky and certainty gleamed from your eyes.

You are Orion’s new pilot. He’s gotta give it up. It could be worse.

Bucky’s fingers shift as he unsnaps chopsticks and grabs spoons, the plates on his left clicking quietly, flexing his pointer when it sticks. Sometimes the prosthetic is a little glitchy because nothing’s perfect, but Stark and Shuri are constantly making updates. They use technology from the spinal clamp to connect his synapses, running tests on its reaction time, sensitivity, and functionality. He can feel pressure, but not pain, and wouldn’t it be nice if it applied elsewhere, too?

He passes your utensils over, wrapped loosely in a napkin. It could be worse.

“Hey Barnes,” you call earnestly, running your fingers over an embossed floral pattern on the paper, “Thanks.”

He’s not looking at you yet, firmly on a mission for soy sauce and chili oil. He makes a well of it in a ceramic dish and stirs with a chopstick, moving it to the center of the table, finding distraction in small tasks.

“...Barnes?”

“It’s Bucky,” he says finally, flicking his eyes to your hopeful face, “You can call me Bucky, alright? Usually that’s just for Steve, but you’ve been in his head—know me now, I guess. So you might as well. Hold your horses—I’ll serve you.”

Speechless, you put your hands in your lap and observe him scoop food, the syllables of his offered nickname tapping like a metronome over your curious tongue.

Bucky, you consider, watching the way he moves. Bucky, with his long hair pulled back and out of his cap. Bucky, his soft and worn hoodie, boots drumming gently against the table leg, eyes discreetly glazed over because he doesn’t think you notice the change in his mood.

Bucky, who made you laugh in the Jaeger hangar—even if he did threaten your life upon the first meeting. Who could have let you rot from boredom and worry, but instead took you into Hong Kong to his favorite restaurant without being asked to. Who could hate you—truly, truly hate you—for taking half his life from him, but instead is piling a mound of fragrant jasmine rice on your plate.

“What?”

“Bucky. I like it. It sounds nice.”

A clipped noise of displeasure, “Okay. Don’t fuckin’ wear it out.”

“Bucky...?” You murmur, sly. “Bu-cky. Buck-y.” The tips of his ears swell pink as you continue, emphatically pressing your lips together, letting your jaw hang open, pronouncing with precision. A bite of a steamed bun and you lick the edge of your mouth, “Bucky…hm…”

He sputters.

“Would you stop? Jesus, you’re annoying just like him— no fucking wonder— the two of you. Just fuckin’ darling.” His words are all run together with how fast his frustrated tongue moves, a healthy flush over his cheeks, spoon clinking on his plate.

It’s cute. Stoic, serious, James—Bucky Barnes– just a boy who can’t take a bit of flirting without lighting up like a candle. It’s fun. You like him, Bucky Barnes.

An unexpected ache overtakes you and suddenly Bucky looks more familiar than he ever has. Something excruciating about the soft crinkles of his brow, the way his generous lips draw back to reveal a sliver of his teeth.

He’s Bucky wiping the sweat from his collar in a dirty alleyway, jeans torn at the knees, bruises budding along his knuckles as he yanks up a troublesome blonde friend. Bucky, young and determined, helping Steve into bed every time he got sick.

Bucky, hovering pallid and broken in the drift, hurt and afraid but you felt his resolute strength in Steve’s head even as he howled in agony. Far off and shuffling in transparent layers until he was little more than a specter, but he was there.

His eyes lift again, raising to point you toward the T.V.

“There’s our boy.”

Our boy. And it keeps hurting.

You twist your torso as Steve steps out from backstage, waving and smiling, impeccably poised. He shakes Jimmy’s hand— silently mouthing thank you and hey because the cheering and yelling is too loud to hear him anyway. You try to stop thinking about Bucky anywhere but corporeal and whole across the tablecloth.

“Hey, Jimmy, how are ya?”

“Good—good, Steve. It’s so great to have you on the show again! Wow, you look great! Specimen.”

Steve chuckles modestly, tucking his chin to his chest, “Thanks, you do too.”

“Alright, no need to flatter me, we’re already in love with you, okay?”

You grin the same time Steve does, but whereas he continues to joke and enthrall two hundred people, you grow restless. Bucky refills your tea and drops a crumble of yellow rock sugar in.

“Relax,” he mutters, “It’s fine. He’s good at this. Eat your food.”

And you know this; you know him. Steve’s good when the questions get too personal and when there’s gaps in the conversation—when the cheering interrupts him or when his jaw ticks before he morphs it into a smile.

He’s good when he breaks the news to a hushed audience, gone eerily quiet like they’ve stepped on consecrated ground. Steve gives them those big blue eyes and the room immediately bursts into applause. Some people are crying. The host is shocked into wordlessness.

You feel relieved, getting what you pleaded for. No cameras. No questions. No pressure. The truth is aired, and Bucky seems pleased, too. You’re about to turn around, offer your full attention, thankful for his company, but then something else happens.

Jimmy blinks his stupor away from the blow of Steve’s confession. He takes a sip from his mug and after a short exchange of, thank you for your transparency, it must have been hard— wow I didn’t think you’d drop a bomb like that on us tonight! I thought I was the one with the ace up my sleeve— ha!

He points off-stage and says, “After that, I think you deserve a nice surprise, Steve. Ready?”

Tall, gorgeous, lightly curled hair cascading down her back—the surprise is a woman. She steps easily in heels, an off-the-shoulder red dress hugging tight to her body. Stunning. She waves to the audience and they go wild. 

Steve shoots up to meet her for a kiss in front of the host desk, shaking his head in disbelief, tangling his fingers in her silky hair. There’s cheering again and the crying keeps on.

“Oh my god— Jimmy! You sly devil!” He’s overjoyed. “Baby— how’d you—I thought you were working.”

“I can always make an exception for my favorite guy.” She showcases perfectly white teeth and the high apples of her rosy cheeks.

It’s Ophelia Reyez, Steve’s model-turned-actress girlfriend of approximately six months. Her recent appearance on the Victoria Secret fashion show blew up the internet and her last Sports Illustrated swimsuit cover sold out in every gas station you went into.

Their first meeting was at a charity event—raising awareness about pollution in the Pacific, discouraging scavengers from harvesting Kaiju parts after battles. A picture of them standing two feet away made its way through social media the next morning her PR team made contact before noon.

So of course, it was decided; it’s a beneficially mutual relationship, after all. Doesn’t matter if he hates it or not—people don’t want to know that pilots live in a metal box and play basketball on Friday nights. They want to see Rangers in a role— monogamous relationships with beautiful people, white picket fence (or gated community) future in the making, and eventually plump-faced babies in strollers.

Steve’s now back in his seat, shifted so Ophelia is sitting in his lap, turned to the side. His hands are locked around her slender waist—an incredibly believable display of public affection. She kisses his cheek, leans her head on his shoulder, beaming brightly. If you were anybody else, you’d believe it; you have before.

“Fuck me gently with a chainsaw,” you whisper in both awe and annoyance.

“Feeling it, huh?” Bucky speaks plainly around a bite of eggplant when he notices your jaw. That habitual and microscopic signal he’s grown to spot a mile away means Steve’s irritated and pissed off, and now it means that you are, too.

“Yeah,” you admit, shaking your head. You turn back to him, thoroughly bothered, having had enough of the performance.

“Uh-huh. Everyone’s a Fly—even her.”

You sigh at the label. Jaeger Flies, is what he’s saying. Ranger groupies. Derisive titles— and maybe deserved— for men and women who are attracted to pilots solely because they’re pilots. They want the opportunity to be famous or the privilege of being elite.

Even her, Ophelia Reyes. She’ll forever look at Steve Rogers as the Ranger.

Natasha always lamented—usually as she took her earrings off after a date, heels slipping off her pale feet—about another civilian man who worshipped her, and how that would be a dream for most people, to be so adored, so revered, but you always felt her sorrow in the drift mourning a love she couldn’t have.

She wanted the white picket fence. The normal life, normal husband, normal family. Her clean break from the past where monsters could no longer chase her in Decima and nightmares could no longer chase her at night. Behind closed doors, she was all torn open at the seams. And you’d wordlessly tell her shut up because she had a family with you. You loved her too, wasn’t that worth something?

She’d spiral and spiral and nothing was ever enough.

Your stomach twists and it keeps hurting.

-

Bucky pays for dinner. He asks as he pops a mint into his mouth, “Up for dessert?”

“God, Buck.” You groan, and Bucky takes a second to run that through his head again. God, Buck. Another thing like Steve.

“C’mon, I wanna show you another place,” he says thoughtfully, “Hold on to your hat, punk.”

A lighthearted swat to your back and then he’s shoving the ballcap hanging from his chair on your head.

-

The streets are lit with all sorts of colors as you follow him through the market, peering at vendors showcasing an abundance of food and miscellaneous items. You keep telling him you’re too full and can’t eat another fucking bite, but he only commands you to walk it off. The crispiest egg waffles are somewhere down this way, and even though he can’t remember the intersection, it should be close.

Between steps and dodging passerby’s, he relates his own experiences of brief PR relationships. A Russian woman one time, and a Greek woman another time. Cross-cultural because it made the PPDC look good—and it was all about looking good. He loathed it, of course, but he’d bite down a couple of months before their representatives would release those asinine joint statements about “conscious uncoupling” – schedules too busy, still have love for each other in their hearts, though.

“Couldn’t tell you those girls’ middle names. We’d get together just long enough for some media circulation—dates where we’d pretend to be offended when pictures leaked on TMZ.”

“Well,” you muse over a vision of Bucky leaned back on Steve’s mattress, returned late and bored of another paparazzi encounter swarming him in the lobby of some hotel. You know it like a dream—his ankles crossed, shoes shucked off, cracking his neck. Fuckin’ wild, Stevie. This girl. My knees ain’t what they used to be.

“Least you got your dick plenty wet, didn’t ya?”

He makes a noise like an engine backfiring—offended like you’ve pawned off his prized possessions or something.  

“Jesus—you’re an ass.” He slams the bill of the cap down until it hits you in the nose. Another huff, more cursing, and then he’s saying fuck you before speeding off alone. 

You chase cheerily, finding his chestnut head peeking over the crowd with ease because he’s tall and hard to lose in Hong Kong. A few more blocks down with him looking back surreptitiously to make sure you’re not lost, and Bucky ends up being the one who is actually lost.

“Shit. Can’t find the stand,” he grumbles, “Don’t give me that face. These are way better than the ones we passed earlier—fucking all soft in the middle—fresh pandan leaf, alright? You don’t get it.”

“I don’t even know what that is,” you laugh, feeling your cheeks grow tired from the way they’ve been lifted all night.

A stifled, hot breeze of urban downtown mixes with a chilly gust of wind, carrying Bucky’s petulance away though the throng. Blinking, you look around, craning your neck and shuffle to the curb. Stalls with hanging lanterns. Carts lined with pickled mango. Vendors grilling skewers of pork and cleaving roast duck into chunks.

You suddenly dart from him across the busy road and barely avoid a rickshaw balancing two enormous baskets of finger bananas. When you return, you hold up matching green popsicles. One gets shoved into his mouth, other one into yours. Pandan, like he wanted.

“Hey, it’s not bad,” you give it another taste. Lingering coconut, a little bit leafy, but not unpleasant. “Oh shit—cold!”

Bucky licks his lips, stinging red from the ice. You shudder loudly as brainfreeze hits, another chatter of your teeth following when a gust of wind whips through. He shrugs his jacket from his shoulders.

-

He calls you a dumbass after an embarrassing story about the time you skinny-dipped in a pond near The Icebox in the middle of winter. A handsome man, your eager libido, and a handle of whiskey had been involved. You giggle about being bed-ridden for half a week afterwards, but you got his number and a few good nights in his bed.

“Guess you’re not as boring as I thought.”

You whistle, “Sweetheart, I got stories that’ll put some hair on your chest.”

Bucky smacks you on the shoulder. “Ass.”

-

The Shatterdome comes into view much later.

What would have normally been a three-hour excursion, at most, has unintentionally into six and you’re nowhere close to tired—not quite ready for it to end. Bucky is bright with energy, too.

The past hours have been dedicated to recalling old tales. One led to another, threads pulled from the most insignificant of mentions—your old Boston Terrier’s underbite; Bucky accidentally knocking Steve’s bottom lip into his own braces in sixth grade and it swelled up so big he could hardly talk; Natasha, unable to pronounce fucking aluminum out of all the damn words in the world; you, unable to pronounce facetious; and then Bucky, trying his own hand at it and realizing he can’t either.

“Fa—fa-shish-shush? Fascist—tus? Factitious… Ah, shit.”

“Buck,” you gasp through another fit, “Bucky—you have to shut up. Oh—Oh my god—my face hurts.”

“Christ, who fucking made this word up?” He turns the corner toward the living quarters, shaking his head. Just you and him between the rooms and his steps slow at the advent of an inbound goodnight.

Bravely, now that you’re in more secluded space, you offer, “I can tell you more... if you want. Anything. It’s only fair.”

“Yeah,” he says, going quiet and careful. “If you want to.”

So, you take a deep breath, bookended by a nervous grin because other than Steve, the only person who knows anything about you outside a confidential manila folder is dead.

“Well, it might surprise you, since I’m just so goddamn talented—"

“Oh, here we fuckin’ go.”

“Kidding. I wasn’t good at anything,” you elbow him before fishing out your key. “Other than getting into trouble.” Clicks of the cylinder and your vault door squeaks open. “Lots of fighting—I was a small kid. Had nothing but the clothes on my back and just the biggest chip on my shoulder.”

“Sounds like someone I know.”

Yeah. It’s funny. Steve’s alleyway fisticuffs might as well have been your own. You tell him as soon as the PPDC started recruiting again, you were in line. Their standards were confusingly specific and the tests they ran didn’t make any sense, but you passed and landed in Kodiak Island under the austere care of Stacker Pentecost. 

Flipping the light on, you invite him inside. “I’d been in and out of foster homes. Barely had a high school degree. Got into… bad work. You know— what do homeless young adults with questionable moral codes do when their 9-5 isn’t paying the bills?” It’s desperate joke to break up the tension but he doesn’t take the bait.

“I’m not judging.”

You plop down on the edge of your table— a spotty metal thing pilfered from a vacated room. He takes the single seat in front of you, moving a dusty glass of water toward the wall, expression only showing attentiveness.

“Well, anyway…” you pause, “I was in the Bay Area after Trespasser— you know, scavenging. But, well, it changes your perspective a little when you’re sneaking through government tape at 3 in morning, stepping over flowers and memorabilia for all the deaths to crouch over a monster’s fucking toenail.” 

“Hell,” a sardonic and self-deprecating grin, “I might have been a degenerate street urchin, but someone’s family got taken from them and here I was—monetizing their tragedy.”

Arching your back for more comfort, you splay your left leg over the surface, “Pentecost always said if I was lucky enough, I’d suffer brain damage or radiation poisoning, but might as well die in a Jaeger than in a ditch like I figured I always would. Son of a bitch had my number.”

Bucky’s lips are pursed lightly, eyes are tracing the path of your laces through bent hooks when you wriggle your boot back and forth. He spreads his hand over your ankle, keeping you still.

You swallow when he squeezes.

“Uh— I met Nat at Kodiak.” Bucky is warm. You oscillate between ignoring him and focusing on him, clinging to his hold instead of chasing the thought of Natasha too much. “We were… very similar. Childhood, um, troubles and all that.” You give him a pointed look and he makes a small noise of understanding with no intention to press for details, “She became my best friend. She was the first person I had. My only family.”

A nod of mock irritation and he says, “Yeah. Steve was always a part of mine. Sometimes they say they like him more than me. Can’t blame ‘em.”

“It’s the charm. They make it seem effortless, huh?”

“Fucker can’t take a bad picture to save his life.”

You laugh. “A smile like the goddamn sun!”

“One look into those stupid blue eyes and you’re a goner.”

“Criminally pretty.”

“Hah!” Bucky snorts, “Pretty enough for all of us.”

The floodlight on the wall casts darkness in the shape of your head over his shoulder. Lines of wayward hair caress his neck, tapered strands resting on his collarbones, chestnut glowing orange. His irises stipple forest green when it touches the light, smile nostalgic and lovely.  

“Don’t be stupid,” you look at him for another minute longer, “You’re pretty, too, Buck.”

A raise of his brow. Bucky’s mouth opens and closes a few times vacantly. “Thanks,” he mutters finally. Then, bashfully, “So are you.” 

Then, a cautious murmur of your name that you almost miss, and he’s peering up at you, deliberately soft. Bucky’s thumb knead small circles over the stitching of your jeans.

“You loved her, didn’t you?”

You loved her, didn’t you?

The years sweep through, passing over your face in a range of rapid-fire emotions. Bucky watches them change like shadows of a bonfire. Delight, amusement, longing. Anger, despair, grief. Deep and unforgiving because she was your whole world—all you had— and she left too soon.

You inhale and it sounds like a sniffle— exhale, and it sounds like a sob. No going back now; you did promise him anything.

You loved her, didn’t you?

Of course you loved her. Natasha-fucking-goddamn-Romanoff. Yeah, of course you did.

You loved her like a sister. You loved her like a lover. You loved her in reflexive ways, like mother’s intuition, finding your motivation in the need to protect her even though she hardly ever needed protection. You loved her like precious gems. You loved her like she was made from your own rib. You loved her enough to love unreciprocated.

“Well, you spend years living with someone, in their brain, learning everything about them— every decision in and out of their control that led them up to who they ended up being. Their—all their impulses and all the things they think about themselves. How—how they hate themselves sometimes.”

You’d always said you were the stupid one. Too stupid to reflect on the past and too stupid to let it burden your conscience the way she’d let hers. A running gag whenever her hand jammed putting on a lipstick she’d worn a million times and you’d finally have to do it for her.

Cheer up, Nat. You’re too pretty to cry. You’d line her lips, pat in rouge delicately, encouragingly. And then you’d shut up because there was nothing you could tell her. A million reassurances rolled off her back because they only made her feel worse. She clung onto your care like another weapon in her chest because she couldn’t return it even though you told her you wanted nothing from her but happiness. Jesus Christ, Nat, I thought I was the stupid one.

“When you know someone like that, it’s easy, isn’t it? You see them exactly for who they are and suddenly there’s no longer the concept of good or bad. What else could I do but love her? Especially when she thought so little of her damn self—tried everything to be someone else but—Jesus, if you only knew how radiant she was—”

You shut your eyes. “A smile… like the goddamn sun. Ah, fuck—"

And now you’re crying. You haven’t cried about Natasha in almost half a year because it’s something you track like the entrance bay’s war clock. Five months. Ten days. Zero again.

You’re choking back too many words and you don’t even know why you said all of that. You start apologizing, rattling out more, too much again, desperately like a prayer, pitch escalating higher and higher. “She deserved everything. A life that was completely—solely—hers. A life that made her happy— and why— why her?”

Why not me? 

Bucky hears it in the silence. Watches it descend like a funeral shroud, weighing you down until you look as heavy as Steve on his worst days—when he stares at Bucky’s arm, like Bucky can’t see, can’t feel him there. And he knows Steve is thinking, why not me?

Bucky rises to his feet, stepping next to your uselessly dangling leg, resting his left hand on your shoulder and you grasp him, clutching achingly tight, torn to bits. And it’s too much all at once.

“I’m sorry,” you sob, locked around his bicep, then his forearm, fingers digging into the smooth obsidian plates, fisting the fabric of his sleeve. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” As if he were Natasha—as if you could stop both her death and his mangling, or at least hold her the way you are holding him now.

You’re smashed into little pieces, barely keeping your head above water, holding it all in, and no one recognized how you were drowning the entire time.

Solemnly, curiously, he feels like he’s seeing you for the first time but not quite, remnants of familiarity sparks in him—the filmy plastic layer of an old photograph pressing down to reveal something he once knew and finally knows again.

You make helpless noises, staring numbly ahead, tears rolling out like marbles to drop into your lap.

Bucky shakes his head, “I’m fine,” he whispers gently—frustrated—brow furrowed, his fingers rubbing the salt from your chin, “Quit your blubberin’.” He tilts your face up to the light, watching you take a shuddering breath, exhausted from unearthing buried skeletons.

It's wet when he kisses you, supple flesh chapped around the edges from anxious gnawing, swollen hot from weeping. It’s soft and quick, and then he pulls away.

“St—sorry,” he says, mouth pressing into a thin line, lips drawn in and tentatively licked. “Sorry, I don’t know… I don’t know why I did that. I shouldn’t have.”

Your eyes are sad—big and vulnerable, inflamed red, confused, worried, something else weaving through the damp gaze. Your strong, small fingers are still tight on him, and even though Bucky pulled away and apologized, he rushes forward again.

His free hand curls around your neck, supporting your head. Lips part and close, pressing firmly, expertly, naturally. It feels like he’s kissed you before and missed it— like a kiss he’s been waiting on for a long time.

Banging on your door jerks him away. You careen off the tabletop, smooth the back of your hair, wipe your face and the vault creaks open.

“Marshal,” Bucky greets.

“Rangers…” Fury’s steps are suspicious, phone in his hand aglow. “I thought we had a plan.”

Your heart is beating too fast, the press of Bucky’s plush lips still warm, the scent of his skin still near. You sense it like an imprint, feel it like a brand. The room spins with an onslaught of possible scenarios—all horrendously unclear.

“Care to explain this to me?” The marshal turns his phone toward you, the lit screen displaying a photo of a dark street, illuminated by red and yellow lanterns. A thick crowd is spread around stalls of fruit and knick-knacks.

The headline reads James Barnes Spotted in Hong Kong with Mystery Woman, and the two of you are circled inside a red ring. You’re teetering off the curb of the sidewalk next to a sewer grate. It’s grainy and distorted, but Bucky’s striking features are clear.

“And this one?”

Bucky’s cap on your head, popsicle sticks between your teeth and his.

Steve Rogers on Jimmy! Jimmy Barnes on a Date!

James Barnes Officially Over Penelope Mercouri.

James Barnes’ Injury?

Fury tucks his device back into his coat. “Not that I care what you get up to on your spare time, but we had a tale to tell. It’s hard pushing an agenda when you’re pushing the wrong way.”

“We just got dinner,” you stutter, an upsurge of guilt rising. The speculation, the kiss, the gut-wrenching reflex that feels like a crime. Fury’s calculating now, looking from you to Bucky, assessing the situation with some pity because you truly look pitiful.

“What you got is PR on cleanup. Potts has been trawling Twitter for the last 20 minutes. For someone who doesn’t want to be in the public eye, you’re making a lot of noise.” He points to Bucky’s jacket still over your shoulders.

You tear it off. “It’s not—”

“Oh no—I won’t be losing sleep any over it.” The marshal’s single eye blinks calmly, “She can spin the story, but you become responsible for this.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, Ranger, that the spotlight is on you now. And there is nowhere to run.”

And if you didn’t think it could get any worse, footfalls down the hallway reach your ears in a pattern that you recognize immediately. Here he is, stepping into your room like it’s his own, suit jacket over his forearm, shirt halfway untucked and tie pulled loose. His lips drawn together and unreadable.

But you read it: Steve’s seen the pictures, too.

And goddamn, if you didn’t think it could get any worse— the earsplitting alarm announcing sudden movement in the breach startles you all.

“Orion Bravo, report to Bay 08, Level B. Codename Polidori. Category 2 Kaiju.” Shuri’s reedy voice is collected but critical. The thin screen next to your bed blinks on primary colors, wavy lines of activity rising and falling, counting down until emergence. Three hours.

Banner streams down the hall. The ruckus drowns him out.

Fury’s dark skin is ochre beneath the lights, “Category II,” he says, “Should be achievable. Odinsons will be on standby, guarding the Miracle Mile. Maximoffs on the coastline. They’ll come to you if necessary. Shelve your personal troubles, Rangers, we’ll continue this conversation later.”

-

Circuitry. Battle armor. Helmet beneath your arm. Muscle memory cuts down the time to seven minutes until you’re set to board, but you need more. Just a few—you have to tell him—better now than later—better from your mouth than from the drift. So, you blurt, “Bucky kissed me.”

Steve turns.

“We kissed. It—it’s nothing. I just needed to tell you before we get in. Didn’t want to seem like I’m hiding anything—I’m not.” It sounds so stupid, like a child admitting fault for breaking a window with a too-hard throw. It sounds like betrayal.

His helmet is gripped tightly in the crook of his elbow. Steve’s chin juts out incrementally, chewing on the inside of his lip, the air around him gone stagnant until he makes a noise both like a scoff and a hum.

“Sure. Fine. I get it—you’re lonely.” It’s worse than any response you expected to receive. “You know what I mean.”

It must be a testament to the depth of your connection now— you knowing him, him knowing you in all the ways that can make an argument escalate into atomic warfare. Precision strikes and then the two of you walking Ground Zero in its aftermath. 

“Wait—you think I’m lonely?” You block his way out, furious. “What the fuck does that— have you met yourself? Girlfriends who will never see you for who you are. Ophelia Reyez? Katherine Lau?”

Orion Bravo. Report to the loading platform.

“I know exactly what I’m doing—do you? I spent all evening on T.V. for you--”

“Oh, boo-fucking-hoo, Mister Martyr in front of a drooling audience telling white lies and screwing a Victoria’s Secret Angel in some penthouse suite— such sacrifices you’ve made in my honor.”

Orion Bravo. Report to the loading platform.

“What the fuck have you done lately?” Steve snaps, “Other than try to fuck my co-pilot?”

His words hit like a kick in the goddamn teeth. You slam your helmet into his chest and the polycarbonate shells knock together violently.

“I’m your fucking co-pilot,” you snarl, “You wanted me.”

Steve steadies himself, twisting until he’s snarling at you down the bridge of his nose, “Enough. We’re being hailed, I’m not breaking this record because of you, and not for a Category II. Get your shit together.”

You grind your molars when he pushes you aside, stumbling on shaking legs. Your brain feels gnarled—misshapen and bent up in sharp, jagged points—and as much as you want to stomp his goddamn face in, he’s right: you can’t feel this way. You can’t. It’s your first drop in two years with the best pilot by your side—and you’re responsible for his life. The last one proved disastrous, and you cannot risk that again.

Your suit feels heavier with each step. When you climb in after Steve, the rig feels more obstinate. Your head, chest, heart are all swollen with turmoil and hot rage.

He’s next to you, breathing deeply. You mimic, shelving personal troubles like the marshal commanded.

Out of alignment, the automated voice of the system calls, and you push it back further, grabbing the entire shelf and hurling it into the depths. Steve sends you an incisive look. A blame. You take a breath, another, and another. Fuck!

“Orion.” The heads-up display spotlights Bucky’s face in the control room, emotionless. “Focus.”

You inhale one more time, seeking reassurance in his unwavering gaze—necessary peace in the silhouette of his phantom left arm. Bucky. Steve. Natasha. You. There can be no more loss. You cannot let it happen again.

Levels stabilizing.

To your right, Steve makes a noise like he’s shaking something off.

Neural Handshake complete.

Bucky stands behind the glass, watching aircrafts lower their hooks. A nod of his dark head is the last thing you see before Orion is lifted from the hangar.

-

There would be a fucking storm.

You’ve always hated fighting in the rain because Kaiju are enormous, slippery, alien amphibians, and Orion’s left fist slides off more times than you’d like. This one’s much smaller than Orion, which allows it the slight advantage of speed, slicing through the water like a shark, corkscrewing for an extra boost of velocity before emerging with a splash from behind.

A miss when you and Steve weave away, hazarding a minor scratch to the right shoulder before Orion’s shield knocks it back.

Despite the vexing evening and the simmering hurt in the pit of your chest, the drift is steady. So, you take it for what it is, cast the rust off your bones, and the two of you do some fucking damage on this thing.

Banner named it Polidori, after the writer credited with inventing the vampire genre. K-Science sonars detected protruding fangs and petal flaps folded on its back like vestigial wings. So, Polidori, he shrugged, it’s cute.

You discover with swift horror that the flaps are neither vestigial nor cute when Polidori pulls one sliver of leathery skin free with a splat. An atrocious shriek rings over the storm as it struggles with its own body, then another shriek and the left pillar continues to stretch, knobby blunt end of its shoulder blade shooting high, ripping itself full of gaping holes in its endeavor. 

Banner was more accurate than he realized.

“Orion!” Shuri’s voice is sharp, “Bring it down! Do not let it into the air! Use your cannon!”

You’re frozen stuck, eyes squeezed shut at the sight of stretched membrane. A terrified whimper and a puncture of nauseating memory nicks at Steve’s concentration.

No! Levels spike on the HUD screen. Fuck! Steve is caught in the undertow and the rig jams beneath both your feet.

“Orion! You’re out of alignment! Orion!”

She’s here.

Natasha’s bright hair is unfurling all around you. There’s deafening splintering when the incisors of her killer punctures through Decima’s chest and both her legs. Metal grinds against metal, the sound searing itself into your eardrums—your brain—your heart. Wings are beating—wild flaps of rubbery sails against the downpour—muffling screams from Decima’s cockpit.

It’s as real and cruel as the last time you saw it.

Bi Fang, like the bird from Chinese mythology, beaked and blessed with flight to make up for its one leg. Bi Fang the Kaiju was legless, and Natasha was convinced Decima could take it. You had no reason to think otherwise; five previous kills cultivated your confidence. You had her by your side, after all. Two orphans with something to prove, proving it again and again.

Wings and fangs? No legs? Six is an auspicious number. The smirk on her lips blooms fiercely. You’re laughing when Decima hovers above the water. Alright, Tasha. Six drops.

A tremendous splash and you touch ground.

She grins. Six kills.

Polidori has one limb fully flexed, fragmenting pixels bending into the shape of Bi Fang. Natasha is bending, too, lowering her center of gravity. Her elbows are against her ribs, fists set. This is gonna hurt. Come to–

Come to me! To me!

He’s stepping in ink. In water. And then metal is beneath Steve’s feet. There are flashes of rain, lightning, and he recognizes her dead center of the storm. 

Natasha Romanoff, vibrant and joyful through the glass of her helmet. You, next to her, reciprocal smile on your face stuck in hysteria, tears streaming down your cheeks in wide stripes. Steve’s hand is reaching but going nowhere. Echoes overlap of crying and shouting. Yours. Hers. His.

Come to me!

He yells again, but you’ve chased the rabbit too far.

Come to me!

He’s trying his hardest, stretching himself like ropes to bridge the fissure. He feels your fear, your hurt, and for a flash, it eats him whole, spits him out a twisted-up way and his brain screams for Bucky.

Bucky is doing the same through the control room, reaching his will out to Steve, praying their connection still holds despite their distance. He’s yelling for you, too.

“Steve! Get the hell out of it! Steve, you need to get her!”

The ripping of his red left arm loops three times in quick succession before Steve can temper it down. Bucky is howling, crying, sobbing. Steve is breathless, stuck, rattled, steeling his entire body to witness the amputation for another inescapable replay until your frozen body smears across his blurry field of vision. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

Bright whites burst behind his eyelids. Flares of panicked emotion. Bucky. Natasha. Him. You. An endless rippling chain of trauma lashing Orion open.

“Come on— Steve! It’s moving! Steve!”

“Buck! I’m— I’m okay! Just— need a second.” Steve scrambles for his sanity, latching on, knowing Bucky’s well— alive and not hurt. Shuri begins urging him to get up faster. Polidori’s moving slow, but it is moving, and it needs to be put down now. She’s calling for the Odinsons—Colossus, be prepared to walk-

The metal under Steve’s feet slides away. Water returns, ink flowering behind it—molasses and murky. His steps are unsteady, chest heaving as he advances through a field of speckled glimmers like fireflies at dusk. Each flicker reflects an agonized shard of your distorted face.

A flit of your voice rushes behind his head. Steve whips around and tries to catch it but no such luck.

Again, to the right, then gone each time he spins. It builds and builds until he feels half-deaf, frantically invoking your name into the ether where it becomes lost in dissonance. Butterfly-winged iridescence scatter and plummet, shrieking, shrieking, shrieking. 

Then, nothing.

He finds you crumpled over on Anchorage’s shore.

Decima reaches sand as a crackling mess of Jaeger parts, chest piece ripped clean off the right side. You clamber out of the rig, hugging Natasha’s mutilated corpse. Your drivesuit is split open down to the hip, the glass of your helmet fractured and splattered with blood from your nose– still dripping.

He shakes his head, attempting to free himself of your scarred clutch. You had been hooked into the rawest fear—linked up when she died— gored and broken with half your brain believing it is also dead. Chills race up his spine and breaks him out in a cold sweat. He feels strangled to his very soul.

Then, seizures take you—the casualties of solo piloting—the neural damage come to collect. Nobody know how many miles you steered Decima alone and truthfully, it should have killed you.

Your eyes roll up to the sky, body convulsing before slamming into the ground like a rag doll, shaky fingers still reaching for your co-pilot. Steve shudders quietly, flinching with each impact. A final wail and everything slackens to a dull vibration. You quiver on the sand, howling and crying for Nat.

Polidori’s right wing casts itself loose, jaw opening wide. Steve’s on a time limit; there are only a few grains left in the hourglass. He croaks your name.

A second of recognition triggers from behind the curtain and it’s miraculously enough for you to see him. It’s enough.

He begs. He begs on his goddamn knees, crawling to you.

Look at me, only at me. Come back to me, please. Please. Please.

Steve gathers you in his arms, both of you trembling and afraid. Your suit heals itself, pieces stitching back together, blood little by little disappearing from your nose. Natasha shimmers away. 

He presses the glass of your helmets together. He needs to get closer.

Steve? S-Ste-Steve—Steve?

You’re still crying. You’re breaking his heart.

Yes. I’m here.

St-Steve, what d-d-do I do?

You’ve got me now. I’m here with you. You understand?

He can see you struggling to escape, consciousness clawing with nails and teeth to return to the present.

Yeah. Y-Yes.

We have to move.

Steve—Steve—everything hurts.

Just for now. Just for a little bit—but I’ll make it better, I promise. Nothing’s gonna hurt you again. Will you hold on to me? Do you trust me?

Y-yes… Yes, yes. I trust you.

The rig lurches back to life beneath his feet. Jittery and creaking with strain, Orion rocks forward with a rumble. The drift stirs once more, noise giving way to silence.

Steve’s vision clears. You’re back in the present, precariously grounding your strength inside his guidance. You raise an unsteady left arm. He powers it up. Energy surges through the cockpit, tremors running up your side as it charges. Your hand splays. Steve’s palm takes aim.

Activating plasma cannon.

The beam pierces Polidori’s shoulder and its roar chases a simultaneous thunderclap.

A crack of lightning flushes the sky purple. Orion’s right arm lifts high above its head and slams back down, the glowing hot edge of its shield cleaving through Polidori’s skull.

-

Bucky’s grip on the control room’s railing feels like it could warp metal. Wilson is on his right, other pilots in a row next to him. All is silent.

Through the relay of Orion’s camera, Polidori’s writhes one final time. A death throe—pathetic trilling drowned by rising water, falling into deep darkness. Overhead, Kaiju clean-up advances, jet engines rumbling behind an ashy horizon. Orion’s shield retreats to its side with a wet, sloppy sound. The handshake pulled through. Steve got to you.

Abruptly, the room vibrates with the shouting of about fifty voices. Sam is banging on the railing, strong fists rocking the entire length of it, roaring with glee. The others are even wilder— shoving each other in triumph.

Bucky tunes it out, waiting for quieter confirmation. He can hear the both of you despite the racket. Steve’s steady pants, cut with throaty relief—this one, Bucky’s familiar with. Your small, weak sobs strangled with tears—this one, he’s quickly learned, but knows now in his bones.

“Twelve drops,” you announce hoarsely. Raw. “B-Buck?”

He grins, dazed comfort rushing over, your voice chasing the torture away.

“Twelve kills, sweetheart,” Bucky says, “You did it.”

-

The raucous celebration in the Shatterdome simmers down around four, sunrise just a couple hours behind the horizon. Unruliness had broken out, triggering a party that lasted from the time Orion got picked up ‘til now, and still there’s chatter in the common room. 

It’s normal; Anchorage celebrated too after most kills—as long as no one died.

You’re freshly showered and changed, barefoot as you patter it back to your room. Voices from other beds are lowered as you pass—friends taking banter back to private spaces, couples pressed up against each other. All standard-issue revelry to commemorate the endurance of life.  

It’s how these things go. Violence on a massive scale, humanity threatened with extinction—the people closest to death feel it the most. When routine becomes monotony, it’s good once in a while to be stimulated again.

Damn near two thousand people in close quarters—Rangers in perfect form, friendships assembled on the foundation of sharing an exceptionally singular purpose. Even Pentecost in all his grave formalities couldn’t ward off human nature. Plenty of pilots hooked up with each other and other staff in Anchorage and no one cared as long as it didn’t muck anything up on the job. At least the marshal could control that; mishandle your personal relationships and you’d be off the docket for your next drop.

Sex is biology. Desire is human.

It’s hard for you to feel human this morning. Exhausted by the fight and the prior evening—awake now for over 24 hours, you broke away from the commons as soon as you arrived, spending an hour simply breathing in the steam, the habit achingly comforting. Your chest still feels tight, heart bloated with invasive flashbacks.

You used to decompress with Natasha. A few drinks, tales from the cockpit, shadowboxing and putting on a show, glad to be in the company of friends— to be back safely with each other. Then you’d scatter with the crowd, meet her in the showers, and help her wash her hair in silence. Nothing but the trickle of shampoo down the drain.

She’d cry, sometimes. Catharsis, mostly. Curled up in your arms, the both of you cozy in pajamas on the floor. Then off to bed where she’d climb under your sheets, falling sleep with her head on your shoulder, your fingers in her hair.

A love unspoken. A home in the shape of a twin-sized bottom bunk. Cramped and narrow. Too brief.

You sigh. Everything hurts.

A few rooms away from yours, Steve’s door is open just enough for a line of orange to escape. You know he’s there, waiting patiently as he has been. You went near catatonic on the way back, lying down in the cockpit, no longer needing to be hooked up. You shed the armor, holed yourself into the corner of Orion’s hull, and said nothing when he sat by your side.

Walking in front of the light, he places himself in the entrance way until he’s looking at you. His face is a gentle blue shadow, resplendent halo glorious behind his head. He’s dressed in soft pants and a t-shirt damp at the collar. A droplet of water runs down his neck.

It emerges like an orchestral arrangement. Leisurely notes creep into your ears—a tune you’ve always known. Plucks of strings, escalating windchimes. It echoes, the trails on his skin, his measured breath, his percussive voice layering and pleating until there are dozens of him.

Look at me. Come to me. I need you.

You feel it all at once. A knotted, chaotic tempest. Hesitation. Confusion. Ache. Bucky. Him. You. Your eyes lock with his. A mistake and a revelation.

Steve holds out a steady hand. You take a step, terrified, pulled into his overwhelming atmosphere like magnets, your bodies humming a secret frequency, purring for each other.

The drift opened everything up, but the battle tore it all out. The both of you are laid bare, everything else fallen away.

Nothing’s gonna hurt you again. You’ve got me now, you understand?

You reach the shadow he casts, eclipsed entirely by his bulk. Steve threads his fingers between yours and with a tug, you surrender your worries to him.

He’s kissing you before the door is entirely shut and latched. He fumbles for the locks, wraps his arms around your waist. A click and a clatter. He moans into your mouth. 

You exhale from deep inside your chest. He inhales like it’s all the oxygen he needs.

Your hands move to one place, his hands to another. Before your bodies can savor it, the both of you have roamed on, reading each other’s minds, knowing what’s next.

More. More. More.

It’s impatient and fast and Steve picks you up with ease. You forget yourself, forget the world outside the room, outside the three-by-three tile area of where he’s got you lifted, legs wrapped tight around his hips. Fingers dive into the back of your pants, squeezing, up your shirt, pawing at your breasts.

His groans blow heat onto your neck. You arch away, giving him more skin to brand kisses onto. He nips at your throat, light, then again, rough. His voice is raw and thick, husky little clouds making their home on your body.

Gentle sucking on your bottom lip follow each kiss. He takes you to bed, dropping himself onto the mattress, you on top of him. He’s been in your head; he knows what you like. Knows where you want him. Your voice is getting higher, sounds quick and shallow.

Steve guides you with one hand on your hip and the other beneath your thigh, soft pajama bottoms pressing against his. He groans each time you rock forward, needy for more contact against his groin.

You’ve been in his head, too. He likes feeling hands in his hair, so you grip his flaxen strands. He likes hearing, so you make a little more noise. He likes seeing his partner helpless because of him, losing all control, falling apart for him.

So you do. 

Pleasure rushes from the top of your head to the tip of your toes, his name burning in your throat. It’s an incredible shock and you’re spellbound, enraptured by him drinking in the parting of your swollen lips. Quickly, he places you on his thigh, enormous and strong, needing a better position to see— to feel you on him. Hungry attention, eager eyes, pleading like a mother tongue.

“Keep coming for me. Just like this— don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

The shamelessness of it—your underwear soaked to your pants. The fever of it—his body like a fire, low, husky begging just from watching lighting up your spine. It’s extraordinary adrenaline— the heightened and profound connection of knowing one another in every way—as if you were made for each other.

Animal instinct liberated from human sentience. Desire pursuing release. Two bodies colliding and igniting.

You can’t stop the next cresting wave, crying out again.

Steve pushes you on his leg repeatedly, back and forth, solid and firm between your thighs even as you shudder and whimper, telling him it’s too much— you’re too sensitive. He kisses your neck, jaw, chin, cheek. He doesn’t stop moving.

“Hold on to me.”

A bead of sweat collects on the dip of your cupid’s bow. He looks at how sweetly your skin shimmers as you shiver, how your pupils are blown wide, how you look so perfect to him. He presses his forehead to yours, looks into your eyes like the way he did in the drift.

You reach for him and rub in quick strokes, fumbling when he rocks you back, gripping when he rocks you forward. Parted lips hover, “One more time for me—ah, please,” he begs, “Before I do.”

But he’s too late and too heated. Steve makes a mess of his sleeping pants, taken over the edge by how you feel without hardly feeling you at all. He buries a groan into your shoulder, riding it out with indelicate thrusts into your palm.

“Oh,” he murmurs, “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.”

He’s blush pink and beautiful when he remembers himself again, rubbing his cheek against yours. He knows what you’re thinking— the realization in the comedown, the leaching fear of what could have been a mistake. But it isn’t, and Steve remains faithful to your body.

“Stay. I’m sorry—for hurting you. I’ll make it better.” Velvet kisses to your lips and you shake your head, apologies no longer necessary.

A whisper of his name like it’s the most radiant word. You cling to him, kissing him, answering only to him.

-

In the afternoon when Steve is still sleeping, you retreat to your room. You pause at the sight of Bucky already on your bed, caught in the bleary focus of his gaze. With lashes soaked wet, his throat constricts around a forceful swallow.

“Hey,” he says, voice breaking on the syllable. He pats the space next to him and you come sit, turning your knees until they knock into his.

“Bucky…”

He laughs like you’ve told a joke, like the sound of his own name is a funny thing escaping your mouth. “Hoped I could catch you last night, before—” he laughs again. “—Before bed. Just wanted to—I guess I don’t know what I wanted to do.”

The hurt resurfaces. You find him through the rose-dappled lenses of Steve’s eyes. Those warm summers with two boys running wild, effortlessly devoted to each other. Your heart swells like you’re there, gazing at russet locks flying in the wind. Years and years between them—Bucky’s smile, lopsided and carefree. Steve’s gaze, illuminating Bucky in every memory.

“Bucky,” you say again, so wonderfully soft, he thinks, even as his chest feels stretched to bursting. “You love him.”

He places his temple on your shoulder, face hidden by the long strands of his hair.

“You’ve been in his head. He’s easy to love.”

“Yes,” you agree, touching his bangs, pushing them over his ear, streaking four affectionate lines through, “He is.”

“So are you.”

Bucky turns into your palm, smiling openly, like the truth is the simplest thing in the world.

[wu-sisyphus-gang]

Motion Sickness Chapter 32

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I chased Ruby's bottom lip with hunger and she rolled her fingers through my hair. She giggled against my lips as I sighed in pleasure at the touch of her small hands.

I pinned her down against my unkempt bed with a vigor that made her roll her pelvis up at me and I growled.

"You rascal ." I broke off the kiss to look her in the eye but her grey gaze just seemed to say 'who, me?'

Yes you. If it wasn't you, then who?

I ran one frustrated hand under her body and along her back, pulling her close to me. I slid under her shirt and I bodily picked her up off the bed and held her against me as I devoured her lush, full lips with some savagery.

I touched the whole of her curved back with my arm and she heaved up into me with heavy breaths. Her skin just felt so fantastic against my own as I cradled the whole of her small form against my larger one. She let out another noise, one that made me feel like a demigod and she breathed out my name with a tiny mewl.

"Oh, Jaune..."

It left her pink lips like a prayer and I dove back upon them with my own.

It had been weeks since I'd held her so close. It had been weeks since we'd been able to share more than parting looks and careless touches. I could feel her want against my own in a steady rhythmic pulse which only sped up over time. She flushed as red like the tips of her hair as I chased her tongue around her mouth. Then she suddenly closed her lips and sucked on my tongue gently in a way that made my chest heave. It made me throb for her.

Our teeth met briefly and savory, softly clicking together when I deepened our kiss. She moaned, a low sound in her throat I wouldn't have thought the young woman capable of making. It only made me want to devour her flesh more. I kissed down her neck and over her jaw line until I arrived at the dimple in her collar and sucked against her supple skin.

So great was my hunger as I knelt between her legs that I nearly left behind hickies and marked her smooth flesh with my possessiveness. I had to remember not to mark her as she grabbed my face in her arms and moaned again. Gods I would do so fucking much just to hear her moan like that. That was why I did what I did. This is what I fought for. It nearly made the weeks of passing touches worth the wait just to hear her cry out quietly and writhe against the sheets.

Our aura's merged and flared like touching candle flames and she hissed beneath me, clawing against my shirt, just searching for purchase. She rubbed against the massive scars the Scorpion had left along my chest and I moaned loudly, almost a deep grunt. Red mixed with gold and flickers of blue flame. Crimson petals drifted from the air around us as the heat of our moment intensified.

Her legs tried in vain to wrap around my waist but my frame was too wide to allow that. She gave a little noise of protest which was absolutely delicious as she failed to pull me even closer to her.

The door to the room burst open.

"Hey Jaune have you seen my- what the fuck!?"

I was hauled off of Ruby by pure main strength and was turned to face Yang. I saw her eyes flash red from violet. I met the heated glare with pure stupid apathy as I was brutishly shoved against a wall hard enough that my head cracked against it.

"Have you seen," she hissed, "My. Sister."

"Yeah." I muttered duly. "She's around." My head cracked against the wall again painlessly. I felt slow, big, and dumb.

"Yang what the hell?!" Ruby shouted from where she sat up on the bed. Her fingers still deep in the sheets as she propped herself up.

"You were having sex!"

"I was super well aware!" Ruby huffed and blew her messy hair out from in front of her eyes. "Will you let him go, please?" Yang released me and I stepped back from the tan wall and away from one of the green plants which lined our Mistrali rental.

"Well. Explain, asshole." Yang demanded her hair burning in orange and yellow. Her enormous mane was inflamed from the heat of her anger.

"Yang I like him," Ruby spouted from behind her sister. "I should have told you, Jaune was helping me keep it a secret."

I nodded dumbly, still half cocked. Blood was flowing from other places back to my brain. I wasn't reacting swiftly to the situation and I wasn't sure there was much I could have said.

"Really? This dumb motherfucker?" Yang turned her gaze around at Ruby.

"Yang!" Ruby sat up straighter on the bed and dropped the sheets she'd still held clutched in those tiny hands. "I. Like. Him. And why not? He makes me feel safe. He makes me feel good. I like him. He always has my back and I love how much I trust him."

Yang staggered, looking at Ruby in disbelief. "How long?"

"A little before we picked up Qrow. Maybe a month." Ruby 'pffted' upwards blowing her hair out of her face again.

"This whole time," Yang whipped back towards me. "This whole time you've been taking advantage of my sister."

"I keep telling you it isn't like that!" Ruby protested.

"Then why sneak around about it?!"

Ruby geastured emphatically. "This! This is why, Yang." She turned her head sideways slightly. "I was trying to find the right time to tell you."

"And what? He was all too happy to go along with it?"

"Yes! He does whatever I ask him to do, he's like a big puppy. He's harmless."

"I just saw him murder a bunch of people. Calmly."

"We haven't had the chance to talk recently…" Ruby confessed, sounding meek for the first time. "But that's the job, Yang. Sometimes bad guys die. Roman Torchwhick died. You killed people too. That's the job sometimes. I knew that. You knew that."

"Yeah but I was busted up about it was the difference."

"Jaune was super messed up the first time he killed someone. You weren't there for it. You were back at Dad's. And Jaune had my back. When Tyrion came for me, to kidnap me and take me to Salem, Jaune was willing to die for me! He almost did die for me! How much more ideal and sweet a guy could I have found and you're still not happy with it? What was I supposed to do? No one was going to be good enough for me in your mind."

Yang's hair deflated. Her eyes flicked back to violet as something like shame took her over. If I was a betting man it wasn't over her outburst of anger, but rather over the fact she'd flinched.

"Jaune," I looked up at Ruby still feeling dazed. "Would you give us the room? Please?"

I nodded along. "Sure. Of course." I walked past the crouching tiger I felt Yang represented within the room and shut the door behind me. I leaned back against it and wiped my hands across my eyes and sighed out loud.

"You got caught." It was Weiss. I couldn't muster up the heat of a glare. I felt too tired, bone deep tired. I met her icy blue eyes, her hair was down around her shoulders and not in its usual ponytail.

"Yeah. We 'got caught.'" I let out. I was leaning deeply against the door such that our eyes were level.

She flushed a little scarlet. "Just kissing or something more?"

"A little of column A and a little of column B."

"Well you're still…" she trailed off pointing downwards. She was only looking out of the corner of her eye with her head turned away, as if to give me a sense of modesty.

I was still half cocked, thank you Weiss. Super appreciative.

It wasn't her fault, though.

I exhaled, hard, and took a few deep breaths. I tried to slow my heart rate back down and get my anatomy under control.

"Yeah well you know." I managed. "It'll go away."

"Is that how it works?"

"Yeah. That's how it works." I spouted stiffly.

"You could have locked the door."

"The doors don't have locks." I said dry as ice. "We figured somebody would knock first."

"And that would have helped?"

"Maybe? Probably? I don't have a plan for everything!"

She snorted at me in a quiet 'ugly' laugh. Yuck it up, Weiss.

I leaned against the door and tried to forget Ruby's pulse between her legs. It was pretty difficult. I was intentionally avoiding the word 'hard' but 'twas also that.

"Seems to me this whole situation could have been avoided if you'd just talked to Yang."

"Wasn't my decision. I'm just the dumb boyfriend. Dumb boyfriends follow their smart girlfriends' orders. Especially where family is concerned."

"What about your family?"

"They'd be amazed I got this far."

"With a girl?"

"Just in general." I crossed my arms over my chest.

Weiss gave me a pleasant smile at that, the sort I would have killed for freshman year. It was warm around the edges, yet firm in the center. Blue eyes glowing softly in the morning light of Mistral. The deep dusk reds couldn't seem to touch Weiss's eyes.

"Coffee?" She asked. "Or were you going to avail yourself of a cold shower?"

"Ha. Ha." I pronounced my 'ha's. "I think I'm good on that shower." I felt confident enough to stand up straight and I followed her down stairs for some of the brown beverage.

Weiss evidently took her's dark. I watched her quietly make it, arms folded in the kitchen over my blue cotton shirt. She handed a cup to me and I guess she knew I was a pussy because she offered me cream and sugar. I availed myself of some mixing the white with the brown. Just a little though. I wasn't Ruby. I heaved yet another sigh.

"So now the only one who doesn't know if Qrow." She blew over her drink.

"And Oscar, I guess." I cheered her when she offered her mug in my direction."Or Ozpin or whatever they are."

I took a sip and winced at the temperature.

"Careful, it is hot."

"I just about got that memo, thanks. One more just to make it sink in." I took another sip and winced. "Yep, still hot."

"Well don't do it again! You'll just hurt yourself."

I shrugged. "Pretty sure Yang would be on board with the concept of me suffering."

"Well let's not give her what she wants. I'll take it from you, you know. You have to be patient."

I blew over the top of the liquid distinctly impatiently.

"You're worse than Ruby sometimes." She was smiling, though.

"Yeah." I agreed. "How are you holding up after yesterday? Couldn't have been easy on the inside."

"Not sure if you heard or not but the Don picked me to be his escort for the night. He had some lines of hyper laid out on his bedside table, even. For the evening, I suppose. A man of indulgence."

"I hadn't." I prompted.

"I held him down with my semblance and made him talk. On the whole, I'd say I had the easiest job. Not like you boys outside."

"It got messy, I'm just glad none of you got hurt."

"How are you holding up with it?"

"Killing people, you mean?"

She nodded, leaning her head on one hand as she looked up at me from the table she'd taken a seat at.

"I'm alright at it. I think I might even be good at it. Killing people. It does get easier."

"How many?"

"I used to know, used to have a number. Went from one, to two, then five but... But now I've lost count. A bunch. A whole bunch of people."

"I'm sorry, Jaune."

"Sometimes it be like that,” I snapped my fingers and pointed off in the distance. She didn’t look distracted by my antics so I sighed. “It's what we signed up for."

"I haven't killed anyone, not yet. I probably will at some point, though. Seems inevitable, doesn't it?"

"Some poor sap without aura and then, bam." I nodded. "Even with aura you can't exactly tell how full they are sometimes so you just go right through."

"Gods."

"That's how my first one went. This bandit. I had my semblance and I just spent it and I cut him."

"You're unbelievably strong with your semblance active." Weiss nodded along like she could see it. "The point of Myrtenaster will probably be like that, especially if I have some speed behind me."

"Exactly." I took a sip, the coffee had finally cooled down enough that I could drink some. I almost found myself pounding the drink.

"Well, aren't we chipper?" She sighed.

"Just pragmatic. You didn’t actually tell me how you’re holding up.”

“Didn’t I?”

“No. You dodged it.”

“Did I now?” She teased with an upwards tilt of her chin.

“You just said you figured you had the easiest job then you changed the subject. You should answer the question I asked you. Just so long as we’re both being completely honest with one another.”

“And are we?” She wondered.

“If we’re not, I want to take back everything I told you since you arrived in Mistral,” I blew on my coffee. She gave me a dainty laugh. “So, how are you holding up?” I pressed.

“Not so great,” she confessed. “I’m not doing so great. But it wasn’t the absolute worst day of my life. So there’s that. I didn’t have to kill anyone which I’m thankful for. Just torture which I’m not sure is any better.”

“It’s not. Plus you had to wear those outfits.”

“Which you should admit you liked,” she fired right back. “It’s okay. I saw you stare at Ruby.” And you . It went unsaid but she saw me stare at her too. I couldn’t… I couldn’t really help myself. Her platinum hair went good with the black. And you know me. I’ve always thought that she was beautiful and talented and smart and a little queerly funny. So yeah. There was that.

“So what if I did? A bit of a nightmare if I ever asked Ruby to wear one. Besides she’s sexy enough in one of my shirts or her pajamas.” I sipped my coffee.

“Is she really?”

“You ever see Ruby blush?” I asked. “It gets me out of bed in the morning.”

“Well, I suppose…”

“You see how Ren's holding up?"

"Nora got him out of the place early. She called it a 'not-date' and left. I think she killed somebody too. Just crushed their rib cage."

"Lords above." I sighed. "Just you, Ruby, and Oscar, now. I suppose, depending on how you wanna cut that Ozpin thing."

She took a long drink of coffee at that, deep in thought and staring out a window onto the little courtyard we trained in.

"So the only thing left to do is get Qrow back up and walking. Job's done."

"Aren't we taking some ganglords word on that."

"Qrow thinks she'll honor it."

"She? Well isn't that progressive?"

"I figure Malachite isn't so bad. She seemed to run things clean, or as clean as such things can be run, and Qrow has had past dealings with them."

"You've met some of them?"

"This pair of twins. Evidently they're Malachite's daughters. One in white and one in red. Huntresses, the both of them."

"One on white and one in red huh?" Yang was standing by the banister. "Well I think I know where I heard that name before now."

"We cool?" I asked.

"Yeah. We're cool. Sorry for blowing up on you."

"S'no biggie."

"Kinda. You were there for my sister when she needed you. Needed somebody and I… I wasn't."

"No one blames you for that." I said. "You were hurt."

"So were you, what with Pyrrha and all."

"S'no biggie. It affects us all differently. My motivations to keep going weren't all so pure."

"Join us, Yang." Weiss encouraged. "Coffee?"

"Thanks." She strode into the room. Weiss stood up to pour Yang a mug. "Nora and Ren?"

"Out." Weiss and I said together.

"Ruby?" Weiss asked.

Yang snorted and I heard some plumbing going. "Said she was going to take a cold shower. Thanks," She said, accepting the coffee from Weiss.

"We were discussing yesterday," I said. "What horrific thing happened to you?"

Yang snorted again. "I uh I killed two people."

"How'd that go?" I asked.

"Awful. After Weiss got chosen we started hearing screaming from the 'presidential suite.'" Yang quoted. "Not even the kind you could maybe think was ‘the dirty.’ That sorta kicked things off. I just reached out and killed a guy. Just crushed his head. I thought he'd have aura."

"And even if he did…" Weiss trailed.

"Right." Yang nodded. "I shot another guy with my gauntlet and Ruby and Nora took care of the other two guys. Then I ripped my way through the locked presidential suite door. Weiss already had things under control by then but…" She trailed off. "Well then we came down the stairs and saw the mess you and Ren had to deal with. Saw you kick that guy."

I nodded. I still remembered the way his head had felt under my boot.

"And the rest…" She gave a shuddering breath and lifted the coffee to her lips. "The rest is history."

"Miserable," Weiss said, shaking her head.

"Some guns went off. You saw the girls who got shot." Yang said. "Just waitresses or whatever."

I nodded.

"And that was my day. How was yours?" Yang asked, sipping coffee.

"Wasn't quite the worst day of my life." I said. "But it's up there. It does get easier."

"Jaune, and I mean this with all politeness, I really really don't want to hear that," Yang said. "It should be hard. It deserves to be hard. It's well… you know."

I nodded like I got it, which I did.

I heard the plumbing shut off and Ruby exiting one of the bathrooms. I just listened.

"So you and my lil' sis." Yang broached. "How'd that happen?"

"She kept saving my life."

Yang let out a low whistle. "Way she told it, it was the opposite."

"You know how modest Ruby is."

She nodded. "You knew about this kerfuffle, Weiss?"

Weiss nodded. "Ruby told me. She- well - she was happy to share it with somebody."

I could have flushed at that.

"And that somebody couldn't have been me." Yang agreed sullenly, Weiss and I shared a look but Yang seemed mostly disappointed in herself. "That day you were also covered in blood. You'd just killed somebody then, too."

Three. Killed three. I even knew two of their names. I just nodded. "Some dumbasses without aura. Needed some information and he and his friend tried to fight me. Over nothing was the worst part. He died for nothing. I mean I went and unlocked his aura but he was already nearly cut in half so I'm not sure if he lived or died. I'm counting it as a death, though."

"You keeping count?" Yang asked.

"Was. Stopped yesterday." I finished off my coffee.

"He says he lost count." Weiss stepped in and refilled my mug. Bless her. She said it like it was the worst thing that could happen to a person and to be fair it really sucked.

"Good gods." Yang sighed. "That'll happen to me too. One day I'll just be like 'was it ten or twelve. I can't remember.'"

"The fight was fast and had a lot of bodies yesterday. You might get luck. Or unlucky. Whichever."

"Which is worse not knowing or knowing?" Yang laughed.

"Not knowing," I answered.

"You weren't supposed to answer that fast, Jaune." Weiss handed me my mug back.

"Ask me no questions…"

Ruby popped her head down. "Oh, you're…?"

"We 'aight." Yang answered.

"It's fine," I said.

"I have coffee here just for you Ruby." Weiss brushed some spilled coffee grounds into her hand and into the sink. Ruby came jostling down to us and accepted the cup.

Ruby came over and gave me a peck on the cheek. Yang rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Just get it out and done with now."

"Is that how you think it works?" Ruby asked.

"Oh just because you have a boyfriend now doesn't make you all knowledgeable."

"It might." Ruby responded but there was a quiver of laughter to her voice.

"Please share what it's like with us humble mortals," Weiss said. Ruby fell back and I caught her. I put an arm around her waist and held her close to me.

She leaned her head back against my chest and sighed. "It's nice. It's nice not having to hide it, either."

"Ugh." Yang rolled her eyes but she was smiling. I wasn't sure what they had talked about up there but something must have gotten through to Yang.

"Are Ren and Nora dating yet?" Weiss asked.

"Kinda. More than before but less than you'd think," I answered.

"Figures," Yang said.

"Hey kid," Qrow wheeled up. "What's uh what's going on here?" He was looking at Ruby in my arms, looking relaxed.

"Jaune and Ruby are a thing." Yang answered. "Sorry you're the last to know."

"I could have guessed," he grunted. "Come on kid. Meeting with the Malachites."

"So just me then. Okay." Yang muttered.

"Will you be okay alone?" Ruby asked me.

I slammed back my coffee and nodded. I would be just fine, I think.

"I'm coming too." Ruby decided. No one argued with her.

pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq

-WG

[warsmith-38]

How I would do RWBY Pt. 0

Disclaimer: It is easier to improve what already exist than it is to create something new. Boy howdy do I know that. That being said, I believe that RWBY has more than its fair share of flaws and this is how I would do it differently if I was behind the reigns. This is just a collection of my opinions and ideas which in the end will probably amount to nothing. I felt the need to do this because my brain just decided ‘nah motherfucker, you ain’t thinking of anything else from now on’ and this is the end result for nothing else would satisfy my rage.

I wouldn’t quite call this a complete re-haul, but more rather a rework with some of my own brand of polish. It’s not a compete rebuild from the ground up in a different world with different concepts and themes, but how I would go about a second go around with the series from the base that is already there. If a detail is missing from my musings then assume it is either unchanged or removed, depending on context.

If some of my complaints were addressed after I stopped watching, I honestly don’t much care. If it takes longer than 4 seasons to fix what I view as fundamental problems, then it’s far too little too late for me. I paid scant attention to the series post my stopping point and liked little to none of what I saw.

Please do not take this as a specific attack on anything other than the writing of the show itself. This is not directed or targeted against anyone, regardless of position or feelings on the topic at hand. If you ignore what I just said and decide to take this as an insult, then I say that you need to be more self-secure in your tastes and interests.

Things I would remove + reason why

Silver eyed warriors as a concept- it’s more or less the same concept as dojutsu from Naruto. It’s the fucking sharingan (rubygan). It’s not quite chosen one level, but crap like this is the blight of good protagonists. It’s fucking eugenics that makes you awesome not your own skills or training but on your bloodline. No need for personal development or life-changing hardship when you have a built in power that can be cultivated like a fucking bumper crop.

Maidens- Wasn’t intended originally and only made the overall story more cluttered with power creep and plot device. It’s a similar problem as above. No need for training or anything if people can just kill the person who has the power currently and take if from them. Which, at that point, why do you want that power if you’re already strong enough to kill and take it from the person who has it to begin with? It’s something someone just shouted out and they rolled with it because it sounded cool in the moment.

The Relics- McGuffin dragonballs that serve as plot device and little else. A story can be told without needing to monotonously race for Excalibur or the holy grail. Considering the Maidens, I doubt that the relics were intended in the first place and as such if you can’t tell a story without throwing something in after a few seasons because you realized that you didn’t have a plot, then you’re not that good at telling stories.

Oscar- The show didn’t need more main protagonists when what was already there wasn’t being given enough characterization to begin with. For that matter-

Quite a few characters- The cast is cluttered and convoluted enough as is with seemingly important characters getting the shaft in favor of yet another new character that would barely do anything. Time and effort seems to be put into one-off schmucks that would be better served making the story not need poochie the dog, let alone several. Character integration is not ‘create a character to do one thing and then pretend they don’t exist’. There’s already plenty of characters than can be used wherever.

The overt shipping bait, especially if it’s just going to be taken up or abandoned on a whim- I don’t mean relationship building, I mean the obvious baiting of a relationship that, in the end, might not even happen. All it does is dumb down characters and character arcs, draw out pointless scenes, and make the fans have conniptions one way or another. People are pissed off whenever things don’t go their way with shipping so the only winning move with these people is not to play their game. Looking at you Klance and Zutara. Either don’t do anything or have a fucking plan and stick to it and not make complete swerves when fans get uppity. If it genuinely matters to you, then pretend whatever ship happens at whatever point, I don’t care.

Changes to the world that I think would go over better-

Everyone has a level of aura with a naturally high level generally meaning that they might be able to unlock a semblance. A semblance is unlocked through some sort of specific event, typically a stressful one IE: Yang and Ruby are caught in the woods by grimm and Yang gets frustrated and scared at not being able to defend her sister before getting angry and her rage mode semblance unlocking. Not everyone who unlocks a semblance goes into combat schools but it is a requirement for acceptance into most of them. Having the potential to unlock a semblance seems entirely random but has a higher chance with genetics.

There are two types of semblances: 1 is hereditary like the Schnee glyphs, changing only slightly, if at all, through the generations. 2 is a random personal power like Yang having her rage mode as compared to Raven’s portals. Whichever you get tends to be random with the occasional exception depending on genetics and the specific semblance.

Every 1 in assumedly 10 people who have semblances have the potential to have two semblances, often times, but not necessarily, being one hereditary and one random. The process of unlocking the second semblance involves immense emotional distress and in some cases might not even happen for the individual who has the potential, period, thus skewing data. This gives an enhanced type power but isn’t protagonist exclusive. It shows a higher than average power capacity, but isn’t a gamebreaker to the same level as a fucking kekkei genkai or getting the powers of a fucking demigod. A good amount of characters would only have one semblance and be considerable badasses despite it and even be able to beat a couple of the few that have two.

Establish Menagerie as the official Fifth Kingdom, the newest of the great kingdoms. Maybe not the singularly strongest or most influential, but make it so Menagerie and its people, the faunus, have a considerable role in the world’s affairs, if even from an isolationist standpoint. Don’t have them as even a semi thriving entity that isn’t a kingdom because that only begs the question as to why the kingdoms are so important to begin with then.

Make the White Fang a faunus supremacist group that has very little support, if any, from the faunus people as a whole. Faunus right issues are history for the vast majority of the world and the White Fang as a whole is only using the problems in Atlas with the SDC as a means of trying to gain power. There are actual faunus rights groups trying to make things better for their race in Atlas and other marginalized areas but the White Fang dislikes them on the grounds that they go against their goal and it makes them look even worse.

Fucking pronounce names correctly, I mean, Christ. Weiss, the word, is pronounced like ‘Vice’. It’s an actual fucking word. It’s the German word for white. It’s like saying tor-till-uh not tor-tee-ah. Blake is Bella-doe-nah not Bella-dawn-uh. Shit like that. No you don’t need to put on a heavy accent to say these words but pronouncing things so inaccurately just makes you look like an ignorant rube (no, that was not a pun). I don’t fucking care what your reasons are. Why use these words in the first place if you’re not even going to try to say them right?

Ozpin is order to Salem’s chaos. Ancient demigods of both archetypes vying for power across the ages and the innocent peoples of the world be damned in the crossfire. Neither are entirely good nor evil but both are not exactly helpful to the free peoples on the world and the continued livelihood thereof. Their progenitor god created them to try and guide humanity in a balanced way. That seemed to work at first, but then failed like a bad marriage and they waged war ever since like a bad divorce. The grimm are a creation of Salem’s to test humanity and make then stronger through conflict. Ozpin ranges from the lawman to the fascist fairly duplicitously. The two can only be permanently killed by each other but neither wants to get too close to the other because of that exact same reason. If killed by other means, they will resurrect after a fashion no worse for wear.

Overt changes to (and complaints about) Ruby Rose- It is a crime that the titular character has so little actual character beyond just being ‘Hyperactive Anime Protagonist #235’. Most of her (few) character traits are tell not show, and of course she’s got the fucking rubygan bloodline ability crap. She has next to nothing that isn’t allotted by default to most anime protags on the grounds of the stereotype. For the main character to have less character than any of the members of the fucking B-team is a travesty.

1. Give her a clear rebellious streak, a distinct problem with authority, and a headstrong attitude. Daddy doesn’t want her to be in danger, so she decides to become a huntress. She’s told to stay put, so she hunts down Roman. She’s told that she needs to stay home and recover, so she sets out on her own not thinking about the exact consequences. Make her the impetus for the team’s involvement with the problems of the world in the early seasons. Make her a driving part of the plot, not just being along for the ride or because someone else said so.

2. Give her blood knight tendencies. Make her VERY willing to get into a fight with the bad guys, not just fights in general, but fights against bad guys. Nothing over the top, but enough that she has a scene or three where she says “Shut up bad guy, skip to the part where we get to kick the crap out of you,” or something of that nature. Hyper combative characters are fun and ethical.

3. Give her more traits as a mechanic and weapon nerd. Include scenes of her fixing everyone’s weapons for fun or being able to analyze an opponent’s fighting style based on the type, design, and/or wear & tear of their weapon, make her a polyglot of weapons that can be at least proficient in using just about any weapon. Come to think of it…

4. Anything that could give her actual character traits. They don’t even have to be all that major traits, just give her enough so that we actually have a character with more definition than printer paper. She’s the main character, the titular character at that. This isn’t a video game with a blank-slate protagonist. If the main character isn’t even really a character, like, at all, then what’s the fucking point?

5. Convert silver eyes power into a second semblance for white fire vision that kills grimm like nothing else. Gotten as a hereditary semblance from Summer. Which is also why Summer was specifically targeted by Salem on the grounds that it makes her just a little too dangerous for her long-term plans. This makes it so she isn’t just the fucking chosen one, but still has a clear definitive reason to be involved against the big bad because, y’know, dead mom. Yes, this kinda goes into the whole ‘bloodline is what determines importance’ thing I wanted to be rid of, but it’s only a chance two generations instead of a massive lineage of nonsense and keeps more of the onus of involvement on Ruby herself.

6. Give her a very clear motivation that’s deeper than surface level. ‘Oh, I want to do the right thing’ is a flimsy as balls motivation especially compared to the rest of her team that has that AND an actual reason for thinking that way. Why does she want to be the good guy? What happened in her life that makes her this motivated to doing the right thing? Yang has her desire to find her mother (which, come to think of it, doesn’t necessitate being a good guy), Blake has wanting to make up for being a terrorist, Weiss has her desire to step out from under the shadow of her family’s reputation, even fucking Jaune, the b-team protagonist, who wants to live up to his family reputation, has a proper motivation to be involved in the story. WHY is Ruby involved beyond ‘I’m the main character’ level reasoning? As much as admitting it makes me wish to commit Sudoku, even SAO has better main character motivations. Good god, I need hooch after typing that.

Overt changes to (and complaints about) Yang Xiao-Long- Her arc was mostly fine, barring some of the pacing. Raven being a maiden undercut the message of ‘screw that deadbeat bitch, go to your real family’ by making her important to the overall world state and confirming a measure of later relevance but that’s more a flaw with Raven than Yang.

1. Keep her motivation about getting strong enough to find her mother but add in the clear desire to kick her ass for leaving her and Tai. Of course it’s more about just getting the answers to her questions, but the ass-kicking should also be a major component.

2. Amp up the rivalry between her and Mercury. Mercury was designed as an opposite to Yang, I mean for fuck’s sake, look at him. Consider their respective backstories too; both raised in a single father home yet one was supported and loved (if a little neglected) while the other was horrifyingly maimed and abused. Punch vs kick. It works.

3. Make her more protective of her little sister, explicitly going along with her personal crusade to keep her safe (safer, rather). If she’s supposed to be the good older sister, maybe just maybe, something more than lip-service to that idea should be done. Hell, maybe she can be overprotective like their father, or even the exact opposite, not really giving a shit and then learning to give one. That might lead to a little tension and growth between the two of them.

4. Make her semblance consistent. Is she supposed to have super saiyan rage mode or is it energy buildup and dispersal? Is it supposed to be both? Just make it rage mode, for the sake of fuck, and don’t flip-flop. Speaking of…

5. Give her anger issues. Flesh out her being the kind of gal that would start a fight in a nightclub when she doesn’t get what she needed with little justification. This would stem from abandonment issues from Raven, Summer (inadvertently), and Tai and her general thrill seeking personality. This could lead to tensions and dramas until she overcomes it and learns to use her aggressive feelings and not let them use her.

Overt changes to (and complaints about) Blake Belladonna- Shitty-kitty is shitty, here’s why.

1. Do something with the hypocrisy of being, more or less, princess of Menagerie, a world power albeit a minor one, and joining a band of terrorists that do more harm than good for the people they claim to represent. It’s like a trust-fund baby joining some charity organization in Africa for a few weeks, doing jack-shit to help, joining some jihadists, and then acting like she’s Mahatma Gandhi.

2. Make her arc less about running away and fighting Adam, more about realizing that running is for assholes and try to find her team to at least apologize for cutting and running like she did. Doing that and stopping Adam are not mutually exclusive. The friend thing should be the priority. As it stands she is almost rewarded for abandoning her team just to focus on her own problems.

3. Make her arc involve going from ‘There’s no such thing as pure evil’ to ‘Okay maybe some people are just too evil to work with’. Some people are too far gone and, despite still having good traits, will only ever continue to do evil things and don’t deserve the benefit of the doubt. Not everyone has some sort of good motive beneath the surface and, even then, does that matter when the only action they do is objectively evil? Still, y’know, save who you can, like Ilia.

4. Have Belladonna not actually be her last name. If she’s the daughter of a the chief of Menagerie, the closest thing the faunus have to a unified racial leader, then how the unholy shit does nobody recognize her name? She is, again, princess of Menagerie, yet nobody recognizes the name in a grander context. Have ‘Belladonna’ be a cover name so she can hide her identity better so that she’s using what should be a very recognizable real name in a tournament that is broadcasted worldwide. Her real family name could be “Nightshade” or some shit like that.

5. If she’s supposed to be ‘The quiet one’ maybe actually have her be quiet and not make big speeches every season or have loud arguments with her team. Just a fucking thought. If she’s still supposed to do that, then make her ‘the opinionated one’ or ‘the kind of mean one’ or even ‘the one who doesn’t shut up’. Blake, as seen, or rather heard, is not the quiet one.

6. Have her actually fucking interact with Ruby. Maybe they have a two-person book club. Maybe Blake teaches Ruby to meditate or something. Anything, anything at all would be fine, anything more than nothing at all. Blake’s whole interaction with the team shouldn’t just be through Yang and cursory scenes with Weiss.

Overt changes to (and complaints about) Weiss Schnee- You can’t solve racism with like two scenes.

1. Make the racism thing a much more gradual decay rather than more or less disappearing after a single conversation. Hell, make jokes about it, ‘oh, no, one of my best friends is a faunus,’ stuff. It’s hard to unlearn an upbringing of hate, but she’s trying type stuff.

2. Involve her at least a little with the White Fang plot. It only makes sense that the heiress of the company that still more or less has slave labor is at least semi-involved with the plotline involving terrorists that want that company destroyed. Make her subject to assassination attempts at a young age, or even have her been kidnaped at a young age and held hostage, getting her scar in the process.

3. As evident by some of the intros, her rival was supposed to be Emerald. This could be serviceable, at the very least. The street rat pickpocket that had to learn life lessons the hard way and was taken in by the baddies VS. the rich heiress born with a silver spoon but raised by a dickhead. There’s potential there and it is a crime that it is not explored in the slightest. Even Yang and Mercury had a minor fight.

4. Like Yang, make her semblance consistent. Is it supposed to be summoning or physics altering magic symbols? These are two completely different powers, it’s not like super speed also giving super reflexes or whatever. Just make it one or the other, don’t bullshit us on these things. Or, hell, make it a second semblance she gets during the course of story.

5. Emphasize her loneliness. Make the main onus of her personal arc be about how she goes from this prickly, spoiled, opinionated, brat to a warm and caring friend who only wants the best for everyone. Yes, this might be the main intention in canon, but I feel it could have used a little more refining.

Overt changes to (and complaints about) Cinder Fall- If she’s supposed to be Ruby’s chief rival and foil then she needs a lot of work to even be close. She shouldn’t be nothing but the rival, but at that same time she should have that be a considerable part of her characterization and role in the series. I feel the best way to do it is to have their similarities highlight their differences in both character and design. Basically, make her the Vergil to Ruby’s Dante.

1. Make her Ruby’s age. Being the same age as Ruby while initially outclassing her, and even veteran hunters, provides risk and contrast between the two. Throw in an evil sadistic streak compared to Ruby’s happy-go-lucky personality to further the contrast and you’ve got a good little yin-yang thing for them. It also shows just how bad someone can turn out if raised to be a killing machine.

2. Keep her using the bow/twin swords as a comparably simple weapon in contrast to Ruby’s, even in universe, overcomplicated Scythe/Sniper rifle. Both weapons are long range marksmen’s weapons as well as vicious close combat weapons but are still very different in essence. Also make sure she keeps the red with black and gold color scheme is contrast with Ruby’s Black with red and silver. Even minor visual cues can work to the rival schema.

3. Make her one of the people who have two semblances. Pyromancy (pyrokinesis? Fire bending, she has fire bending) and dilated perception (bullet time) so that Ruby’s super speed and the dilated perception cancel each other out, adding a little extra tension to the fights now that both parties’ signature abilities are moot points against each other.

4. Make her competent. She kills Ozpin and Pyrrha and then she either fails or draws every fucking fight she has afterwards baring nameless jobbers here and there. Even before that, she needed help to take down Amber and even manages to fuck that up. The more failures she has and the less intimidating she is. Too much of that and she’s just a jobber that makes you wonder why she was ever seen as intimidating in the first place. When that happens then Ruby beating her is just the status quo and not a triumph of any sort.

5. Make her Ruby’s long lost fraternal twin sister. Incredibly cliché, I admit, but siblings make the best rivals, especially twins. Once again, it’s all about adding the similarities and the contrasts. In this case it creates the ‘there but for the grace of god go I’ idea with the two of them. Ruby seeing it as how evil she could have turned out and Cinder seeing it as how weak she could have been (Eventually becoming how good she could have had it because I’m a sucker for redemption arcs) Who said that?

Overt changes to (and complaints about) Team JNPR- JNPR was fine-ish but the over focus on Jaune and the underutilization of Ren + Nora early on are both issues. B-team should not get jack shit before the A-team gets the lions share.

1. Downplay Jaune’s screen time. I doubt this is a particularly controversial statement. Jaune is not the titular character. This is (technically) a shoujo not a shounen. It’s supposed to be about the girls more than the guys. It kind of undercuts that idea when the guy (the side guy at that) gets the lion’s share of characterization, attention, and growth before the girl (the main girl) does.

2. Make Ren and Nora actual characters earlier on. Comic relief is all well and good, but either extend that to the whole team or make these two characters more than just comic relief in the early parts of the story. Make them, y’know, actual characters. They ain’t gotta be all that important, but they do have to be actual characters.

3. Make Pyrrha’s deathflags less blindingly obvious. We all knew Pyrrha was going to get clipped. The self-sacrificing type, all the musical and visual cues throughout, being based on Achilles, and ‘oh she just confessed to the boy she likes’. Homegirl was waving deathflags like an insecure redneck with the confederate flag. When you foreshadow obvious things that much it’s not a surprise to the audience when it happens and the reaction of the in universe characters seems overdone. If it’s not supposed to be a surprise then, whatever, but that’s clearly not the case if you’re going for just shock value. It’s fine for a character to die, but for the love of Jaysus you got to do something with it more than ‘this character’s sole purpose is to die for the angst and to up the stakes’. Pyrrha was just a plot jobber.

4. Make them a little more independent in the overall plot. Give them their own full sub-plots, have them go on their own little adventures, have them do things completely separate from RWBY that has plot relevance but not overtaking the main story in grandeur or importance. B-team gets B-plots and are cool in it of themselves.

Overt changes to (and complaints about) Qrow Branwen- Take or leave this, I just felt the need to include this because reasons.

1. Just make him Dante from Devil May Cry. Just make his personality the same as Dante from Devil May Cry. Make him stylish and cool but low-key a massive dork. He’s too cool to drink or smoke or anything harsher than PG-13. This series could use a guy like that, says I.

2. Make his semblance something that makes sense and isn’t just an angst generator. How do you even quantify ‘bad luck aura’ as a power? Make it short range teleportation as a connection to Raven’s portals. Make it so that he can direct the bad luck at will. Do SOMETHING with it that isn’t just an excuse for mostly pointless character angst.

3. This technically also counts as a Raven change but whatever. Make the Branwen family old nobility and not a loser bandit tribe from nowhere. Or at least make it so they used to rich or something. They come from a family that had a good amount of cash and even a chateau in Mistral. After the money dried up and the chateau ransacked by grimm, the Branwen twins had differing opinions on how to proceed. Qrow fully integrated into the hunter thing while Raven ran away and became a bandit, using it as further excuse to skedaddle on Tai and a recently born Yang.

[thecaptainhelm]

Aesthetically Pleasing

Super excited, so without further delay, here is my day one. Also heads, my writing style is doing that weird evo thing so if the tone is weird, that’s why. And the minimal editing, that too. ;D

Day 1: Inspiration

@daminette-december2019-2020

Damian walked through the streets of Paris at a sedate pace with the bare essentials, in no particular hurry as he made his way to the address written in his sketchbook. He hasn’t been to France much, not since his days with the Shadows, and even then he only stayed in this particular city for the rare surveillance mission. 

It’s different somehow, he mused. Father had taken him and the rest of the family for a ‘pleasure jaunt’, while he touched base with the European branch of the Justice League. For the sake of a cover story, he publicized it as family vacation and encouraged everyone to take a few days to themselves before they made fools of themselves for the local and international media houses. Not something he was looking forward to, so he would make the most of these next few days.

Soon, he found himself at the entrance of a secluded park, the metal plaque translating to Solitude’s Grace in english. It was relatively new and was constructed to convert an old parking lot into a small and intimate park, at least when compared to others in the city. Plentiful flora, Edwardian columns and street lamps providing him with a sense of being stuck in time, a romanticized feeling.

He made his way in, taking a deep breath as he did so. With the way the park was constructed, it’s distance from the busy tourist sites, and the muffling effect of the surrounding hedge fence, the park is quiet and comforting. He sets out on a stone path, occasionally passing by others who seem to find the same relief he does in being alone. He sighs this time, heading further in to find a place to sit. If there’s one disadvantage to this place, it’s that everyone wants a seat to themselves, and he didn’t feel like sitting next to someone on the off chance of them trying to make conversation.

As he goes, the overcast sky breaks somewhat and opens over an occupied stone bench, revealing a girl who appears to be around his age. In that moment, were he a different kind of man, he would have called a sight like this a chance from fate. As he got closer, he saw that she was cute, quite pretty in fact. Her legs were clad in washed out skinny jeans, white polka dotted converse and a white vest to tie it all together. Her hair was pulled into twin tails over her shoulders, shining like silk in her temporary spotlight. The sudden light reflected off of her pale skin and emphasized her silhouette with a divine halo.

However, what truly captivated him was her presence. She exuded a relaxed and casual atmosphere, flipping through a small sketchbook, occasionally jotting something down tongue stuck out of a focused grin. In that instant he saw the scene before him as a moment of indulgence, a moment to enjoy a hobby and unwind in nature.

A familiar feeling spread through his chest as he observed her, fingers twitching. He knew what this feeling was, he knew it very well, little as it happened. 

He watched her lean onto her palms, seeing the relaxed curve of her spine as she tilted her head up to look up at the gap of sunlight as it moved over to him, and then her eyes, a stunning blue that widened slightly as she caught sight of him. He saw the way they brightened, and knew that she felt as he did, too. He changed direction and made his way to the mysterious beauty.

His breath stuttered in his chest as she stood to make her way to him as well. With every move she made he found her all the more beautiful.

The tilt of her smile, the roving of her eyes up and down his form, the sunlight providing a fading halo as she moved toward him--

“Salut,” he said at the same time she said, “Hello.”

“Oh, désolée,” she stammered over his own, “My apologies, I’ve--”

They both fell into silence before she abruptly started laughing, and heavens, if he thought that she was pretty before then seeing her so expressive was like waking up to dream.

“Amazing,” he murmured to himself, and patiently waited for her to regain control.

“I’m sorry,” she said in english, her accent pronounced. “I’ve been speaking to tourists all day for the past few weeks. I’ve formed an unfortunate habit.”

“There’s no need for apologies, I believe. Also, if I may say, I think the lady speaks beautifully.” He bowed with an arm across the waist.

“My name is Damian. This may seem brusque, but I have a request to make of you, should you deign to hear me out.” Her eyebrow quirked at his polite speech but it didn’t last as she looked at him more seriously.

She observed him for a moment, a brief period that seemed to stretch on for minutes as her eyes pierced through his.

“Well, as long as it’s reasonable. And,” she paused, gazing intensely at his...shoulders?

“And, if you grant one of mine.” She grinned brightly and clasped her fist in her palm. 

“My name is Marinette. Enchanté, Damian.”

He nodded and nodded back to her bench. She nodded in return and soon they sat facing each other.

“I’ll be honest, this is a little weird, you think? At least, if you’re thinking what I’m thinking.” Marinette started, fidgeting as she spoke.

“Then I believe great minds think alike, Marinette. This is rather forward of me, but I would like you to pose for me.” He held up his sketchbook and opened it to a few of his drawings of people, animals and landscapes. She looked at them all with an appreciative gaze that had him inwardly preening.

“In that case, may I have your measurements in turn, as well as some quick poses?” Damian’s face went carefully blank and he stood up to make a quick escape. She jumped a bit at his sudden movement, and appeared confused before her eyes widened as she interpreted his reaction to her last sentence.

“Wait, wait, not in a gross way, I didn’t mean it like that, I’m so sorry!” She squawked as she flailed her arms in a panic, a blush overtaking her face. Idly, he wondered if she was trying to take flight with all the flapping she was doing.

Still, he could admit when he jumped to conclusions. Well, actually he made the rare exception now and again, but she didn’t have to know that.

He looked her in the face and after a tense silence, raised a single brow as though to say, “Well?”

“Designer! I’m a designer, I make clothes, graphic art, and accessories! I’m not trying to harass you I swear and I’m so sorry that I even made you think that way and I’m so sorry I made you get up to run as if you were in danger, but it’s not if, you really thought you were in danger of being with a weird sexual harasser and--” her face was starting to get to an alarming shade of red.

“Stop,” he snapped and her mouth clicked shut. He nearly sighed as out loud as he saw how she almost bit her tongue in her hurry. His frustration quickly faded as he saw her retreat into herself, quickly becoming distracted.

It’s truly artfully done, he thought, I would think she was posing on purpose if I didn’t know any better.

He would make a few changes to her posture and fix the lighting, but other than that he would take her as is in a heartbeat. Everything about her was urging him to commit her form to paper, an immortalized vision frozen in time.

“I, um,” she sighed, gaze averted. “That happens more than I like unfortunately. I, it’s, um,” she sighed again.

“I also would like to apologize for jumping to conclusions. Propositions tend to come my way, unwarranted, so I was quick to assume,” he said stiffly.

“Can we move on, please. I don’t, uh, know the specifics of your proposal anyway.”

“Of course,” he said curtly. “I only use my drawings as a personal form of enjoyment, and rarely show it to others beyond close personal friends and family. As well as ensuring that your image is safe and protected, I would also like to pay you to be my model, even if it’s only for a few hours at most.”

Marinette nodded slowly and he committed the change of shading to her features as she moved to memory along with her thoughtful expression.

“I don’t have a problem with that, but would you mind if I do your measurements after, sitting still for a long time makes me feel sluggish and I don’t like to walk around trying to wake myself up in public spaces.”

“Not at all,” he assured. “If that’s the case, I wouldn’t mind you taking your sketches first, switching out would be more beneficial to you at the end.”

“Why, that does sound nice, but it might just make me feel bad,” she said teasingly. Seeing his confused frown, she giggled.

“I can tell just by looking at you that you’re practically dying to get me posing for you,” she grinned at him, eyes sparkling.

“Tch, since you insist,” he said without trying to fight her on it because she was right. During their entire exchange he’d been drinking in her every detail like depraved loon.

“If you would gather your things, in that case? I don’t know how much longer I can wait until I get my hands on you.” Hearing this, she blushed and began to stutter.

“Oh, uh, yeah, gazebo by lake, middle park of, um,” she quickly looked down as she grabbed her jacket and backpack.

Without any lingering qualms, he leaned over her to look at her face more closely.

“Yes, that’s exactly the face I want to see,” he rasped with dark eyes.

“Ok, I’m ready! Let me lead the way, native and what not!” She laughed nervously as she hurried to the center of the park.

Damian grunted and slung his satchel over his shoulder and easily matched her stride.

He became preoccupied thinking of ways to shift and coordinate her body to the scenery, which is why it felt like no time at all when they reached the gazebo.

It was a brown, humbly crafted structure that matched the atmosphere of the park, with its rose hedges wrapping around the fencing and lacquered benches and railings. He and Marinette walked up the steps together and soon he was pulling out his sketchbook and turning toward his model in a hurry.

“If I may?” He held out his hands and waited for her approval. Marinette set her things down next to his and took a deep breath before whispering a soft okay.

He slowly approached her lightly grasped her shoulders, gently pressing down and her body folded to sit on the bench behind her. He let go, trailing his hand to her wrist and bending her down, down, down, until she was leaning over an empty space bracketed by her forearm. He backed away slightly, turning her head to gaze at the invisible person beneath her. Finally, he lightly pulled her lower lip into a subtle opening as if she were helpless to give in and close the final distance for a kiss. He traced her cheek and that blush from before rose, a new sight in the different lighting and he memorized it.

Done with her head and torso, he told her that he was going to touch her legs, and she gave the ok again. Carefully, he curled both legs in the same direction, spreading them somewhat and planting one foot down as though it was going to push her up and let the other loosely rest at a comfortable angle.

Stepping back he saw the image he desired, but somehow better. The sky had turned a pale bluish gray that gave Marinette, posed as she was, a fragile halo.

He grasped his sketchbook and began.

An hour later, on his fourth sketch and her third and final pose, it started to rain.

Marinette, leaning against the bench with her head tilted a bit over its edge, gasped as the cold water pelted her face out of nowhere.

Damian cursed, rushing to grab their things and move them to the center of the floor and the rain began in earnest.

He’s kneeling as he puts them down, so when his new model leans over him to grab at her backpack, he looks up on instinct and gets a face full of a wet jamila.

Marinette is only somewhat wet from the pouring rain, but the sky is still bright with that bluish gray from earlier and provides a backdrop of faint light to reflect off the few raindrops that are trailing from her bangs, dripping off her dark, fluttering eyelashes to roll down freckled cheeks in a mimicry of tears that leaves him ensorcelled.

“I have a towel in my bag, could you…?” She makes a vague gesture for him to move and Damian is distantly aware that his expression is akin to that of a slack jawed moron. He rose up to his full height, and he feels that he can’t help his next words.

“Sincerely, you become lovelier and lovelier the more I look at you,” he reverently intoned as he stared into her eyes, watching with rapt attention as her own stare focused on him.

“It’s nice to know that I’m not the only one feeling this way,” she said. “From the moment I saw you I couldn’t help but memorize the way you looked then, underneath a circle of dappled sunlight.” She licked her lips, blue eyes darkening to a silvery hue.

“I really,” her eyes begin to run a trail from shoulder to shoulder, down his chest and stopping at his waist.

“I really liked your posture when you bowed earlier,” she said in a breathless whisper.

“Is that so?” He matched her tone, watching her appraise him.

“With the proper shirt, I could really emphasize that, give you a mandarin collar and make the cuffs round themselves out, three holes, one for the cufflinks and the other two to anchor the embroidery. A pale grey with geometric patterns to call attention to the rigidity of your stance and will allow for others to make note of your impeccable discipline.”

“Thank you,” he said and found that he meant it. “For agreeing to this, I mean. Today has been so…”

“Magical?” She guessed.

“Fulfilling.” He watched as a small rain droplet trickled down her cheek and brought his hand up to wipe it away.

“I never thought a day like this would happen,” he continued. “To think I met my muse an ocean away from home.”

“Muse? Me?” Marinette said in wonder. There was that blush again, delicately framing her freckles in a pink hue that spread all the way up to her ears.

“Indeed,” he said. “ After all, no other person has inspired me as swiftly as you did.”

“Likewise, Damian.” 

They stood there together under the gazebo until the rain settled completely. They parted in opposite directions, longing but reassured with the knowledge that they wouldn’t be separated for long.

In the space between them, lightning flashed above and thunder rolled quietly in the distance.

[theavengerfairy]

One Step Closer - Chapter 6

Previously known as “Gravity”

He had a lot on his mind. It wasn't his expression that gave Callum away; rather, it was his lack thereof. His warm glow had not once wavered in the face of adversity since Anora met him, but now as they walked along with the moon as their guide, her watchful eye observed it flickering dangerously, violent gusts of restless thoughts threatening to snuff out the light at its source. When he believed no wandering gazes were upon him, the young prince would risk a glance at Rayla, first at her face and then at the pocket in which the coin was tucked safely away. Whenever his attention shifted to the latter, fragments of icy bitterness crystallized in his eyes where warm kindness and tender concern had dwelled not much earlier. Between his somber aura and the way he trudged forward with his back bent and his shoulders stooped, one might assume the weight of the world rested upon him, and it was a sight that Anora, for one, could not stand.

"It isn't much farther. We should have the element of surprise, but it would be best not to take any chances. Callum, come up here with me, would you? I know you're inexperienced, but you are our best offense against another mage so we need you front and center. Rayla, bring up the rear please and keep alert for any surprises from behind. Maddie-"

"Yeah yeah, I'm in the middle with the baby dragon." Maddie cut in with an offhanded wave, her other hand already scrounging through her bag in search of her wristbow.

Rayla's nose wrinkled and her lips puckered ever so slightly as she stared hard at Anora, obviously not convinced the rather out-of-the-blue request was what it appeared to be on the surface. Nevertheless, she receded to the back of the group without protest, blades already drawn and hanging at her sides in wait. Meanwhile Callum hurried forward, his head sinking even lower between his shoulders, and fell into stride with Anora, his face averted as though he could hide from her what she had already seen.

"Something's troubling you, Callum."

Callum's fingers picked nervously at the strap of his backpack. "I'm worried about Ez."

"That's not all though, now is it?"

Were all Oceancry elves this insanely perceptive or was he just that terrible at being subtle? It didn't truly matter either way; however it had happened, Callum was caught. Compelled by guilt, he began to crane his neck to check on Rayla yet again, but she had hardly manifested as an abstract blur in his peripheral before Anora beckoned his attention back to her with a crisp yet kindly staccato.

"Ah ah ah, not a good idea; she's still trying to decide whether or not I'm up to something. You flash those big, telltale green eyes at her and we're both done for."

Callum knew she was right of course; it was honestly a miracle Rayla hadn't figured him out already. A cluttered, jumbled mind was a luxury he could not afford; he needed to have his wits about him should their encounter with Castel go south. And yet, no matter how hard he struggled to seize hold of just one of the many intertwining threads of his thoughts, the strand would swiftly slip from his grasp again and rejoin its brethren as they continued to weave and knot themselves into an even tighter, more complicated tangle.

If not for Rayla's vigilant watch, Anora's hand, which twitched at her side, would've clasped Callum reassuringly by the shoulder in an instant. For now, however, she only hoped the extra softness with which she coated her voice proved capable of conveying the sincerity of her compassion, "You don't have to talk to me if you don't want to, Callum, but I would like to help somehow if I can."

He wanted to say something, to release into the open the festering bitterness that had slithered its way into his core when he wasn't looking and to allow the fresh air to cleanse away any gunk that lingered behind. To do so now, however, meant Anora witnessing that exorcism firsthand, and to expect anything less than her recoiling from him in response was preposterous. Was he to suffer in silence for the preservation of his pride or was he to expunge the darkness before it could fully take root, even at the cost of unpleasant potential consequences that might follow?

With a deep breath, the brisk, purifying night air filled his heavy, aching lungs, and when he exhaled, the pent-up words and feelings all came tumbling forth.

"Runaan isn't just someone dear to Rayla. He's an assassin, an assassin who still killed my stepdad and planned to kill my brother after seeing for himself that the egg of the Dragon Prince was safe. Calling off the mission would've meant some risk for him and his team, I get that, but he didn't even consider it. And what about Ez? Even if I could somehow look past everything that murderer has done, it isn't fair for me to expect the same from him; he's just a kid. And how do we know that Runaan won't just pick up where he left off and try to harm him again if he gets free? We don't! I can't put Ez in that kind of danger! When we found the coin earlier and I said I would help, I was thinking about Rayla and nothing else, but now...I don't want to hurt her, and I know I'm a horrible person for saying this, but would it really be so awful for him not to get out?"

His heart and lips stung raw. It was out, the toxic smog that had been corroding his heart and soul, and now all he could do was wait with apprehension's bony fingers already coiling around his throat before he could get another breath in. Why had he thought that this was a good idea?

"You're not a horrible person, Callum; just a real one who has endured a great deal of hardship and loss. You've had your world flipped upside down and that is bound to leave you with questions and frustrations and doubts. You cannot hate yourself for that."

"I still have to make a choice though, and that decision is going to affect more people than just me!"

"But your voice matters too." Anora's hands had found their way into one another's grip, hanging in front of her at waist level and squeezing each other tightly to keep them both locked in place as they could not be trusted to ignore the pleadings of her heart to seize the boy and wrap him in the hug he so desperately needed and deserved. "There is nothing wrong in asking 'What about me?' What about you, Callum?"

What about him? He was angry, hurt, grieving. He was torn between loyalties to different people who he all loved deeply and didn't want to hurt. As a prince, he had been taught from a young age to strive for noble character, but his heart yearned so strongly to be selfish just this once that it physically ached. He longed to live like the child he was once again, to have someone else make the hard choices while he carried on in the ignorant bliss of youth. It wasn't fair; it was all so much, too much.

Callum's eyes fixated on a stone sitting idly directly in his path, and before he could give it much thought, he swiftly drove his foot into it with considerable force. Unfortunately, the rock proved to be larger than it appeared and also securely nestled in the ground, so instead of taking flight, it sent an acute pain rippling throughout the prince's foot as he stumbled a little.

"That...was really stupid." he groaned, concealing his flushed face behind one of his open palms. "Why did I just do that?"

"Well, one of you was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. The question is whether it was you or the rock."

Anora's quip wasn't even that funny, but it proved just enough to return a smile to Callum's lips for a fleeting moment. Even when it vanished, Callum's frown wasn't quite as deep or pronounced as it had been before; it was a small improvement but an improvement nonetheless.

"Runaan staying in the coin won't bring my stepdad back, but to just let him go…" Callum wrapped his arms around himself, "My mind's all over the place. How am I supposed to do this? How am I supposed to figure out the best choice to make when at least one person I care about is always going to wind up hurt no matter what I decide?"

"Well, perhaps that's why you're stuck; you're trying to process everything all at once and it's overwhelming you." Anora mused as her eyes drifted up to the moon which peered down at them through gaps in the leafy canopy above their heads. "There are moments when it is best to look at the big picture, and then there are moments where one must focus on a single part of an issue...What can you tell me about Runaan?"

Callum blinked at her, somewhat taken aback by the seemingly sudden shift of attention. "What good is talking about him going to do?"

"Runaan is but a single piece at play, yet much of your turmoil ties back to him in some way, yes? While it may not bring you all the answers you seek, understanding him better might just grant you some clarity and closure that can aid your decision-making." Noticing a low-hanging branch that was about to smack Callum square in the face, Anora held it aside until he had passed and then let it fall back into place with a soft rustle. "You've already named him your stepfather's assassin as well as someone of significance to Rayla; what else can you figure out about him?"

"I don't know. I only encountered him once, and all he did was refuse to hear us out before fighting Rayla while she covered my brother and I's retreat with the egg. What else is there to say about him except that he is cruel and arrogant and close-minded?"

To Callum's surprise, Anora said nothing, but as he swiveled his head to look at her, a jolt shot through him when he found her staring him down, her lips curled into a little smirk and her brows arched ever so slightly. Her eyes reflected not condemnation but rather a blend of mild amusement and skepticism. She was calling bull on his shallow analysis, and what made the matter worse is that she knew that they both knew that she was right. If Callum truly saw things through so narrow a lens, the last place he would be was here, traveling with a party of elves and humans on a quest to return an abducted dragonling home even after all the pain the residents of Xadia and the human kingdoms had caused one another. He understood that the world and those who lived in it were not so superficial, and she was not going to let him get away with pretending otherwise.

He didn't want to think back to that night, his skin crawling and his throat constricting at the mere notion of it. Even so, he lifted his face towards the sky above with a sigh and allowed his mind to wander back, back the many miles they had come, back to the palace wall where those turquoise eyes had judged him as vermin without a second thought. However, the harsh gaze, that stern face, had slackened for an instant when Runaan first beheld the egg with his own eyes. Ever so briefly, the man beneath the warrior had been visible before being buried again, and as Callum studied those same eyes and remembered how that fierce voice had quivered as Rayla pleaded with Runaan once more, his breath caught in his throat.

"What is it, Callum?" Anora purred, her voice little more than a whisper as not to shatter the boy's delicate focus.

"He did hesitate actually; it wasn't for long but he did. I think...I think he was torn about what to do."

"Like you are now?" Anora let the question hang in the air for a moment before continuing, "Callum, do you think he might have been a bit afraid?"

"Afraid? But he's…" Callum stopped, his argument already crumbling apart on his tongue.

"What would he have to fear, Callum?" Anora prodded further, her head tilting slightly to one side as she waited patiently for him to mull everything over.

"He...he was the leader. He made the calls for the group. If he ordered something that was too risky and something bad happened, it would fall back on him-"

"What would fall back on him?"

"The responsibility and...and the guilt." Callum's expression suddenly soured again. "But how could he think that working together to bring Zym home was riskier than attacking a king with a palace full of soldiers who knew they were coming?"

"Perhaps it is not a question of greater risk but of unfamiliar risk. Runaan and the other assassins already understood and accepted the dangers of their mission. To abandon their original task in favor of working with humans to bring the Dragon Prince home would mean taking on new risks, some known but many unknown. If it had been only his well-being at stake, maybe he would have acted differently, but as the leader, he had to consider the welfare of the others also. I'm not saying that I completely agree with his choice, but I do understand it."

"I'm still not sure I do." Callum dragged his fingers rather roughly through his hair then let his arm drop limply back down to his side again. "Rayla knew the risks and cared about the other assassins too. How come she was still willing to take a chance and he wasn't?"

"Hope comes easier when one is young. When you live many years in a world that has been one way for a long time, it is easy to lose sight of how things could be and surrender oneself to what they are now. Like most, Runaan's perspective has been shaped by the longstanding bitterness between humans and Xadians, a resentment which neither side has been willing to try and lay to rest."

"You're not like that though."

Anora's gaze dropped to the ground, her kind features now marred by a rueful smile. "I wish that were true, but I fall short of such ideal virtue as well."

Callum made a face. "But you saved Maddie, even though she was a human…"

"You're right, and I have learned to trust a handful of other humans as well. That hardly means it comes naturally though. The me that you see now is the result of continuous effort on my part to grow despite my own deep-rooted fears and assumptions, and even now, after much hard work, some of those aversions have managed to endure."

"Is there really any chance of humans and elves ever truly reconciling then? I mean, you're one of the most open-minded elves I've met, so if you're still struggling that much, will Runaan or others like him ever be able to see things differently?" Callum's body felt very heavy all of a sudden, as though some phantom of the night had stolen past them and sapped his strength without him noticing until now. His stomach had also begun to ache like it did after he failed to block an attack from Soren during practice and received a wooden sword to the gut with a painful smack.

"Yes, I am a work in progress, young prince, but that in itself is proof of hope and the potential for change living on. I still struggle, yet because I have found not only hope but proof that affirms that hope, I press onward without fail."

"So Runaan needs proof that not all humans are bad? Proof other than the Dragon Prince being alive and well and two human princes being willing to return him home in hopes of preventing a war?"

Anora gave a small laugh. "Some of us are more stubborn than others."

"So how do I figure out what might convince Runaan to give humans a chance?"

"Perhaps Rayla could give you some ideas once you feel ready to talk to her about this."

"You two wrapping up with your juicy gossip? Because I think we're here, unless there's some other giant lake in this general direction with enough magical energy to make the cube thingy light up super bright like it is right now?"

Anora and Callum both felt their hearts perform a nosedive into their stomachs as they whipped their heads around to find Rayla standing not so far behind them, Zym atop her shoulder and crooning as she scratched the underside of his chin. Peering around the elf, Anora shot Maddie a pointed look from where she was lurking at least a yard behind the rest of the group and only received an apologetic smile paired with a nervous shrug from the redhead in response.

Positioning herself between Anora and Callum, Rayla wordlessly glanced from Callum's face to his satchel and then back again. Her expression was hard for him to read, appearing both impassive and irritated at the same time, and while Callum wanted to ask her just how much of their conversation she had heard, his mouth remained shut.

"I know you already gave me an answer but I'm going to ask you one more time: are you sure about this? That cube is something your father wanted you to have; we can search for some other magical artifact to trade with Castel."

Callum's gaze fell to his satchel just as his hand was reaching inside to retrieve the mysterious key, which was indeed glowing so brightly that its light was shining clean through the fabric. Drawing it out, he couldn't help but notice the comfortable warmth radiating from it along with a low, rather calming hum while it pulsed in his palm, and though the glow somewhat hurt his eyes, he just stared at it for awhile, his face distant while the heat mimicked the embrace of those strong but gentle arms he so missed as it crept its way throughout the rest of his body. Ever so briefly, his grip on the cube tightened, but it eventually went lax again.

"There isn't time to look for another artifact. This is what we have to do."

Circling around so she was directly in front of Callum, Anora slowly laid her hand on the cube. Once more, the prince's fingers latched firmly onto the tiny box, but eventually he permitted her to gradually slip it free from his grasp.

"I'm the only one here who is familiar with Castel's tricks, so I'll negotiate with him. It would be best for you three to wait up here-Wait, let me finish, Rayla-so he can't gain any more leverage than he already has by getting his grubby hands on you too. Maddie, do you have a hairpin on you?"

"What if something goes wrong while you're down there? How are we supposed to know so we can help?" Rayla protested as Anora carefully traced a rune onto her skin near the base of her neck before accepting the hairpin Madeleine offered to her. When she said nothing, merely offering her a morose look that left a dreary heaviness hanging over the group, the message was clear enough: were something to go wrong, there would be no helping her or Ezran. That would be it.

After brushing her bangs out of her eyes and securing them into place, Anora marched into the lake, only stopping to glance back at her companions who were crowding along the shore when the water had reached her waist. Despite her own thundering heart, she stood up a little straighter and flashed them a reassuring smile before diving beneath the surface, allowing the water to swallow her up.

[parisianprinceling]

Vincent/MC, 20

You’re the only thing I know like the back of my hand.

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***French translations at the end because I used more French here than usual***

------------------------------------------------------------

He was frustrated.

No.

He was livid.

The board of directors weren’t compromising. They hadn’t been since he’d gotten out of prison, but the past week had been a living hell as he pitched idea after idea and they could do nothing else but provide snide remarks, quietly mocking him as they turned their heads to whisper with one another, their laughs giving away their petty conversation topic.

It drained him of every last ounce of patience he had in him.

He had known that he would be treated differently when he returned, but he hadn’t anticipated the absolute lack of respect from those that used to crawl over one another to receive his approval. The whispers he could deal with; the fleeting glances, the rushing off mid conversation, even the outright avoidance, he understood. But if there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was being disregarded as a joke, having his dignity stripped from him like he was on a pedestal, being tested for their entertainment after years of keeping them under his own heel.

He was humiliated.

He couldn’t entirely blame them for their behavior. It was only natural for them to seek to demean the same man who once controlled their fates, but it made it entirely impossible to run the business properly, and that would have repercussions on everyone if they didn’t let up soon enough.

He had been reduced to working almost every hour of the day, trying as hard as he could to ensure that the business wouldn’t fail while the board and everyone else was having their fun with him. It wasn’t something he had worried about before, but lately he couldn’t bear the thought of having to cut workers, especially not in the atmosphere after the flood.

Much to the chagrin of the American currently cohabiting in his penthouse, this meant he spent long nights at the office, sleeping at his desk and receiving a change of suits from Eugene in the mornings, who he often sent home early when he was certain his work wouldn’t be completed until late.

He tried his best to come home, not wanting to abandon her on her own after they had barely found a way to be together in the first place, but he knew she understood how important this work was to him. How hard he had to work to get back on top.

Fortunately though, this was one of the days where he could come home early, even if just to spend a little time with her.

Or so he thought.

In reality, he got home an hour earlier than she usually returned, and while waiting for her, had managed to fall asleep rather uncomfortably on the couch, his long legs cramped into a position that would at least stop him from tumbling onto the floor.

When she arrived home an hour later, she laughed softly at the sight before turning to hang up her coat and bag by the door.

She made her way over to him on sock-padded feet, hoping that she wouldn’t wake him as she pulled the blanket off the back of the couch (an addition to the penthouse that she’d insisted on after one too many nights of her feet getting cold while reading on the couch) and gently draped it over his sleeping form, grateful he had already removed his waistcoat and jacket so that he wouldn’t be complaining about wrinkles when he woke up.

She leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead and was about to pull away until she noticed how his brow was furrowed in his sleep. She frowned and gently lowered herself onto her knees to level her face to his as she studied it, realizing that he was struggling with whatever dream he was currently having.

It wasn’t the first time she had seen these nightmares. Every few months, he’d wake in a sweat, mumbling profusely in French, apologizing for something, desperate to receive a response he’d never get again. It always took a few minutes to bring him back to reality from his state of fervor, and when she finally did, he would cling onto her like he had nothing else in the world, whispering in French, begging her to never leave, to never let them part over a few bad words and the bitter taste of alcohol. It broke her heart, but she knew it was part of the territory that came with loving him, so she always did her best to comfort him and to hold him in her arms as long as he needed her to, whispering soothing things back to him in French, knowing that sometimes, only his mother tongue would be any good at soothing him.

He didn’t seem to be in that state yet, but she could tell that as his slumber continued, his nightmare was only getting worse as his furrowed brow turned into soft mumbles, cries for something to stop as his face contorted into pain.

Quickly, but gently, she reached forward to cup his face, her thumb brushing against his cheekbone, trying to pry him from the sleep that was plaguing him.

“Vincent, mon cœur, please. Wake up.”

He let out a soft plea that cracked her heart in two as she watched him struggle to get out of his own head.

“Non… non… j’suis désolé… laissez-moi le voir… j’ai besoin de parler avec lui...” (1)

He sounded terrified.

She caught the formality slipping from his tone, the words melding together in the conversational way her friends would often speak to each other, but never him. His guard was down, and she got the notion that this is the way he would have sounded among people he felt comfortable with, once upon a time.

She continued to gently stroke his cheek, leaning in to brush her nose against his softly, hoping that something would be able to ease him out of this trauma.

He sighed softly in his sleep, and she could tell that he was aware of her presence. He started to come to ever so slowly as his mumbles quieted down, and his brow relaxed, but the exhausted, miserable expression never left his face, even as he slowly opened his eyes to watch her.

He couldn’t respond at first, his brain still lagging behind, reliving the images of those days he never wanted to see again. She could see that his eyes were still focused elsewhere, even though his peridot gaze never left her face.

She sighed softly and leaned forward, resting her forehead against his while never breaking his gaze.

“Vincent… tu es ici. Avec moi. Reviens, mon amour.” (2)

She spoke softly, taking the care to pronounce his name with the soft, lilting accent it was given in.

He was silent for a while longer, trying to keep the silence for as long as possible as he allowed himself to leave his own head, his eyes coming back into focus, and realizing that the fuzzy image ahead of him, touching him, comforting him, was his fiancée.

He took a deep breath before trusting his voice enough to speak.

“J’y suis… j’y… je suis… ici…” (3)

He was out of his nightmare, but his voice still shook, somewhat hoarse from the lack of energy he had in him to give his own words.

His eyes weren’t wide open, but she could see that there was a shine to them signifying more than just a reflection of the light. She continued to stroke his cheek softly with the pad of her thumb to try and keep him from disconnecting from their word again. She let him continue to breathe for a minute, giving him as long as he needed to come back down to earth before she continued.

“Tu n'es pas seul. J’y suis avec toi. Ça va…” (4)

He nodded softly before closing his eyes again, taking a deep breath, and opening them again, mostly grounded.

His eyes scanned her face softly before he sighed, relieved that she, at least, was still here with him. He slowly raised a hand up to cover hers on his cheek. Turning his head ever so slightly, he pressed a kiss to the palm of her hand, watching her sincerely.

“Je te remercie, ma chérie.” (5)

He tried for a smile, but was only capable of a soft look, still competing with the scenes of suffering within his head that never seemed to disappear.

She smiled softly at him, reassuring that he needed to make no effort right now of consoling her. That she was there for him and him alone. Her hands found their way into his hair, gently combing back into position from where it had fallen in his nap.

“Same dream?” She asked softly, planting a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He sighed and closed his eyes, his brow furrowing once more as he once again remembered the dream he was having, this time by choice.

“Not... the same. But they’re all similar. Different retellings of the same events, playing over and over when they get the chance.”

He opened his eyes again and scanned her face before slowly pushing himself up into a seated position, letting his own hands take over for hers, working to straighten out his hair from it’s tousled state. She joined him after a moment, sitting in the space he had made between his two legs to allow them to sit as close as possible to each other, unhindered by their own limbs.

Her arms found their way around his neck as his settled around her waist. Her head fell perfectly into place at the crook of his neck, and he pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head before his chin rested against her hair. He let his eyes close again as he reveled in their moment of peacefulness.

She had learned early on in their relationship that there was nothing that helped him more after his fits than just holding her tight in his arms, letting himself be reminded that he was not alone, that he had something, someone he could grasp onto now, instead of letting himself fall further into that abyss of grief.

He felt one of her hands lazily twirling the strands of hair at the back of his neck, a habit she often unknowingly exercised when they were together. He knew it was nonchalant to her, that it was just a silly habit of keeping her hands busy, but to him it was one of the most reassuring things in the world, especially in moments like this.

He had never expected this level of domesticity between the two of them. After everything they’d been through, the best he had hoped for was oddly timed meetings and an ever present tension that neither of the two ever planned on acting on. But she had proved him wrong, like she had again and again, but this time, she had proved him wrong in the best way.

He didn’t know where he would have been without her. Their experiences over the past couple of years had certainly shaped him, for better and for worse, and he couldn’t imagine trying to face the challenges he now faced without her at his side. She kept him sane. She kept him safe.

This silly American journalist that had saved the entire city, partly from his own form of destruction, had turned around and saved him too.

He was broken from his thoughts as he felt her breath tickle softly against his neck as she spoke up once more.

“You haven’t dreamt like that in a while. What brought it back today?”

She shifted slightly, pulling back just enough to let her see his face again instead of hiding it away.

He didn’t have the courage to tell her that part of the reason that his nightmares had started to quiet was because of her presence beside him.

He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, his brow furrowing in frustration.

“The board has me working nonstop. Ever since I returned to the office they seem to have a personal vendetta against me and aren’t letting me continue my work in peace.” He shook his head softly, feeling himself get more worked up at the thought of his present situation. “It’s bad enough that they make those bloody impossible demands just to ridicule me in front of the entire company, but now they’ve started stealing my personal time at home with you and Este-”

He froze for a moment, feeling his eyes go wide as a pair of soft lips pressed softly to his brow, over the place where a nearly invisible scar from a long time ago sat, sectioning his eyebrow into two.

She stayed there for a moment, letting her lips linger before pulling back with a gentle smile, resting her forehead against his once more.

He was used to her throwing him off his rhythm, whether it be ruining his masterplan to control Paris, or straddling him on a bench at three in the morning after being carried home in his arms because she fainted, it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for her to surprise him.

But this action, this tiny little kiss, signified so much more than that to him. Her kissing the only physical reminder he had of the incident, the only scratch he had gotten when others had received so much worse, made him connect all the dots together in his head, and he momentarily forgot about all his troubles at work.

He wanted to pull her into his arms and never let go. To tell her all the pent-up words inside his head; the paranoia that one day she might grow tired of him, the overwhelming love for her that swelled up so much at times that he thought his heart might burst, and most of all, the crushing fear he lived with that reminded him that one day, she might be taken from him too, and he didn’t know if he would ever be able to recover from that a second time.

He closed his eyes and swallowed tightly, carefully considering his words so that they might not tumble out frantically and so that he might be able to fight off the tears from rolling down his cheeks that were currently building up within his eyes.

“J’ai peur… j’ai peur de te perdre… juste comme je l’ai perdu…” (6)

His eyes opened again and gazed into hers. His walls down. His fear displayed for her to see. There were no innuendos, no games to protect him in this moment. Not in her presence. He wanted her to see everything. To give himself bare to her that she might accept him with open arms.

“Je ne sais pas ce que je ferais si je te perdais… Je ne pourrais pas supporter de perdre quelqu’un d’autre comme toi… donc s’il te plaît... ne me quitte pas…” (7)

He looked at her with the wide, shining green eyes of a broken man. More open and sincere than she’d ever seen him be. She felt her own eyes welling up with tears at the thought, knowing that she, too, could never bear to lose him, and at the knowledge of how he truly felt about her. She never wanted to see him suffering again.

She nodded softly and pulled him just to gently rest her forehead against his, not trying to kiss him or insinuate any other type of affection, just reassuring him that she was here, and that she would do everything in her power to ensure that he would never be alone again.

“Je ne vais nulle part, mon cœur, pas sans toi.” (8)

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French Translations 

“No… no… I’m sorry… Let me see him… I need to speak with him…”

“Vincent, you are here. With me. Come back, my love.”

“I’m here… I… I’m… here.”

“You aren’t alone. I’m here with you. It’s alright…”

“I thank you, my dear.”

“I’m afraid… I’m afraid of losing you.. Just like I lost him…”

“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you… I couldn’t bear losing someone else like you… so please… don’t leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere, my love, not without you.”

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This was a fun one to write! I was thinking about Paul’s anniversary ever since @lostaurum ‘s post, and I wanted to incorporate that here, so I hope you enjoyed!

[fragilevixenfic]

Please do 46 on the second list "Your lips are so kissable!"

Lets see how this one goes! It gave me a real battle!

Title: I’d rather be oblivious

Category: Humor/Angst/UST/RST/Canon-Divergent/Post Dreamland II

Summary: Scully indulged in a little too much wine and chased her final drink with a shot of whiskey during dinner with her mother—but her mind was on anything but the meal, or the alcohol, as she shows up to Apartment 42.

Prompt: 46. “Your lips are so kissable!”

  I just pretend that I'm in the dark I don't regret 'cause my heart can't take a loss I'd rather be so oblivious I'd rather be with you

-Abel Tesfaye/Ahmad Balshe/Max Martin/Oscar Thomas Holter (The Weeknd)

 11:00 PM

2630 Hegal Place

Alexandria, VA

                 “Shouldn’t have worn the heels,” Scully muttered after running both hands through her hair, smoothing it away from her flushed face as she groped for the right button inside of the elevator. “Shouldn’t have had that shot, either but here I am…talking to myself in the elevator.”

               Tipsy might’ve been a bit of a reach but she was certainly feeling the alcohol and appreciated the cool breeze against her skin after getting out of the cab. Leaving her mother’s company had been awkward as Scully slid into the back of a cab instead of riding back to the apartment with her. Scully knew that she shouldn’t have indulged beyond the first glass but there was something compelling in it as she nodded at the offering over and over until she was listening to her mother’s weak attempt at naming at least five different eligible bachelors that she wanted to introduce her to. Scully had an entirely different man running through her mind, though, and the wine did little to assist in hiding it.

               “Why am I here?” Scully was face-to-face with his apartment door, the metal finish of the numbers staring at her as she fidgeted in her unusually uncomfortable heels, wincing. “Really shouldn’t have worn the heels.”

               Scully bit down on her lip and knocked, the echo filling the hall as she attracted the attention of the nosey neighbor across the hall. She glanced over in their direction only to catch an up-and-down stare, judging the length of her skirt as though it were that far off from anything else she’d ever worn before. Scully’s weak smile was met with an icy stare before they retreated into their own premises with the slamming of their front door. Scully sighed silently as she heard the string of profanities from inside of Mulder’s place as he maneuvered around after a resounding thud. Her eyes widened as she heard him cuss about a waterbed before flinging the door open as though he had been expecting anyone but her.

               “Oh, hey Scully, I thought you’d be at home watching a movie after having dinner with your mother?” Mulder’s questioning tone matched the wandering eye as he couldn’t help but dip his field of vision to the blush-kissed cleavage peeking out from the top of a tight, teal blouse. “Everything okay?”

               “That depends on your definition of the word okay,” Scully moved past him and inhaled a considerable whiff of his body wash as she saw the little droplets still collecting on his neck from wet hair. “Am I interrupting your night? I’m interrupting your night, aren’t I?”

               “Scully, how glasses of wine did you drink tonight?” Mulder recognized that intoxicated gaze as one he had caught in his own mirror a time or three as he watched her lean against the counter.

               “I had a couple,” Scully furrowed her brows and watched his hand as he pushed the door back into place, listening to the pronounced click of the pin as it gripped before meeting his gaze. “It was the shot of whiskey that might’ve been a bit…much.”

               “At least you didn’t say tequila, because, that’s my MO,” Mulder smirked and went to the cupboard, retrieving a glass to fill with water as he watched her lashes flutter just a little bit while she licked her lips. “Am I in trouble or—”

               “Did you think I wouldn’t find out about Kersh’s secretary?” Scully cut him off, brazenly squaring him up as she found the gumption to ask him for the first time.

               “That was right out of left field,” Mulder’s eyebrows elevated as he took a step back while her gaze narrowed into a glare, the intent building with every breath. “I don’t know what you’re referring to, Scully, and I don’t know what Kersh’s secretary has to do with anything. That woman is a gossip and irritates the ever-loving hell out of me.”

               “I’m sure she’s irritating, Mulder, but not enough to persuade you to keep your tongue out of her mouth, right?” Scully lit him up and pushed another button as she narrowed the gap between them, seething with frustration as she pushed a finger to his chest. “Did you hope that I wouldn’t find out or was that something you wanted?”

The glass met the countertop and left Mulder’s grip as he raised a single brow while scrutinizing Scully. Her actions couldn’t have been more perplexing. Her face couldn’t have been more alluring and it was driving him a little crazy as he listened to the interrogation as it poured from her mouth. Scully truly had become an enigma and Mulder had spent far too many nights trying to unfurl the mysteries of her heart without saying a single word or even glancing at her once. It was as though fate had given him a swift slap as the impromptu confrontation was a little more than he’d anticipated at this hour.

               “Scully, you can’t be serious with this,” Mulder rolled his eyes, caught somewhere between confusion and irritation at the idea of that particular creature telling people she had been intimate with him in any way, shape, or form. “Why would I do that? Answer me that.”

               “I don’t think like you so I couldn’t wager a guess but I do know that it’s absolutely mortifying hearing that your lips are so kissable from a group of women that didn’t realize I was walking through the room,” Scully pressed her lips together and held back the urge to slap him as her comment only earned the rubbing of the bridge of his nose while he chuckled into his palm. “It isn’t funny.”

               “I really am in the Twilight Zone and this shit just keeps getting weirder,” Mulder rubbed his eyes and looked at her as she backed up to lean against the archway upright between the dining area and the living room. “Scully, I would hope I’d remember playing tonsil hockey with a blonde if I did something like that but I really don’t. What I’m wondering is why this upset you so much?”

               “I’m not upset, Mulder. I just don’t want to be the last one to know that you’re acting like a complete moron with a co-worker who might decide to run around bragging about her exploits,” Scully knew she was lying through her teeth as she stared at the floor, refusing to look at him as he approached. “I don’t want to be known as the partner of the sloppy moron.”

               “You’re a lot of things, but a liar isn’t one of them,” Mulder tilted her chin up with his index and heard her inhale sharply as he made eye contact with her. “You can’t just show up here smelling like your mother’s choice in wine and really cheap whiskey and expect me to believe that you’re not upset with the idea that a woman was bragging about me.”

               “Mulder, don’t,” Scully swallowed hard and pushed his hand away from her face, lingering a little too long against his wrist as a final wave of intoxication surged through her veins. “It was a mistake coming here.”

               Mulder was, undeniably, deflated as his shoulders slumped and his gaze wavered, moving to the spot just above her head on the wall as the air left his lungs. “You put forth all of this energy to come here, read me the riot act about something that I didn’t even do, and now you won’t even say, or do, what you actually want. Cards on the table, Scully.”

               “What do you want me to say to you?” Scully’s eyes could’ve pierced a hole through the soul that had already been to hell and back as she studied his face, fixating on those hazel eyes. “That it should’ve been me that could have ample water cooler material over whether or not your bottom lip quivers when you kiss? Or if you’re a little handsier than the average male? Or that the shucking of sunflower seeds with your teeth and tongue definitely paid off?”

               Mulder could’ve let her go on but the way her mouth moved and her bottom swelled was driving him mad as he leaned in close and drew a breath from hers as his teeth slid along the center of her bottom lip. The unintended moan that left her lips was sublime and well-earned as heat met an alcohol-laced tongue that was already yearning for him. Mulder guided her to her toes and slipped his hands around her waist as friction met fluidity, haze met clarity, and passion met electricity. He’d memorized the shape of her mouth and imagined his own perched perfectly against it; exploring the curvature until the breaths between them were synchronized and matched. It was everything that he’d ever dreamed of, right down to the feel of her fingers across the back of his neck and into his hair.

               “Your lips really are so kissable,” Scully’s breathy utterance invited a grin across his face as his fingers played against the small of her back.

               “I was really thinking the combination of wine and whiskey was going to be a turn-off but…I could go for that again,” Mulder licked his lips, tasting her kiss as a laugh reluctantly reverberated from her belly.

               “I could say the same for you,” Scully leaned her head back, the tip of her tongue perched between her teeth. “Tequila breath.”

               “Guilty as charged.”

Tagging @suitablyaggrieved @thejimmyjabs @rationalcashew @frangipanidownunder @monikafilefan @msrheadcanon @kyouryokusenshi @wtfmulder for the loves

[cutiepisenpai]

Gifted part 5

Spencer Reid x  F!Reader

Warnings: Fluff, a tiny amount of angst, mentions of unsubs crimes

That night when Spencer got home he called Y/N to let her know he got home safely, she had insisted he did. But rather than a brief call they talked all night long until they both received calls from Hotch telling them to come in for a case. They rode in together which was not unusual but they were trying to hide their new relationship from the team for now. "Long night, did you get lucky?" Morgan teases Spencer, seeing the bags under his eyes more pronounced than usual. But Spencer just ignores him. Garcia and Hotch brief the team on the case there is a serial killer duo driving across country on a murder spree. They have robbed a bank, gas station, and a diner killing everyone inside and heading west from Kansas on Route 70 with no apparent destination. The last location the duo was seen was in Grand Junction, Colorado so that is where the team is headed. On the jet Y/N and Spencer are sitting side by side that in and of itself it is not abnormal but the arm rest that would usually divide them is up so they sit side by side legs touching, if anyone on the team notices the change they say nothing. “Different states, different venues, different victimology. The only thing these murders have in common is the weapon used and that every location is just off of Route 70.” Y/N says while swiping through her tablet looking at the information they had. “They didn’t hide their faces, they want people to know who they are. If they had hid their faces with them crossing state lines and venues would we have even been called in?” Morgan added in. “Glen Rogers the “The Cross Country Killer” was convicted of stabbing and strangling five victims, one man and four women in California, Florida, Ohio, Mississippi, and Louisiana although he originally claimed he murdered over seventy individuals.” Spencer chimes in. “When we touch down Reid and Morgan go to the latest crime scene, Prentiss and JJ go talk with the victims families see if they know anything, Y/L/N, Rossi and I will head to the local police precinct to bring them up to speed.” Hotch informs everyone. 

While the team was investigating in Grand Junction they sent out alerts to other precincts along Route 70 informing them to be on the lookout for anything suspicious. “What is the importance of this highway to them?” Y/N says in frustration watching Spencer map out the geographic profile. “Route 70 crosses through ten states and is 2,153 miles long and crosses through nine major cities in the heart of the US.” Spencer spouts out before turning to see her smiling at him. “What?” “You’re cute.” Luckily none of the other team members were around to hear Y/N comment or see Spencer’s light blush. “Another thing is all the places they have hit; outside of the bank the gas station and the diner are quick stop places they might have traveled a lot beforehand. I wonder what set them off though to go from living an ordinary life to killing dozens of people every few days is a huge escalation.”Y/N continue to question. “It is possible that they have been killing all along but more discreetly and over time the kills became less gratifying and so they escalated. Do you think we should tell the team about us?” That question caught Y/N off guard she was so focused on the case she hadn’t thought about the fact that the team didn’t know. “If you want to but I don’t think it’s necessary that they know everything.” She says not looking up from the file. The phone rings Garcia calling before their conversation could go any further. “Go ahead Garcia you’ve got me and Reid.” “Hello my favorite geniuses I come bearing bad news there has been another hit at a cafe in Richfield, Utah” “They are running out of road if they’re plan is to stay on Route 70.” Reid says. “They must have an endgame in mind, approaching the actual target of their desires. Thanks Garcia” Y/N says hanging up the phone. 

A few days later the team finally caught the unsubs holding up a gas station in the last town on the west end of the highway. They never find out the unsubs true motives both declining to answer any questions. The team had just landed back in Virginia Y/N and Spencer had had little time to continue their previous conversation but there was tension surrounding them since then. Although still close in proximity there were no quick quips, no playful banter. While the team is finishing this case's paperwork when Morgan meets Spencer while getting coffee to ask him about it, “What’s going on with you two?” Gesturing in Y/N’s direction. “What? Nothing? Why would you think that something is wrong?” Spencer questions his voice getting higher. “Oh I don’t know for two people who seemingly never stop talking to each other you haven’t said a word to one another in what six hours since we left Utah. And your voice just raised two octaves.” Morgan says. “We can go without talking to each other without it being something weird.” Spencer says trying to keep his voice purposely even. “Well word of advice lover boy just apologize for whatever it is, even if you’re not wrong, it will make your life easier.” “I don’t need to apologize there is nothing going on.” Spencer says walking away with his coffee. When he got back to his desk Spencer couldn’t help but admit to himself that Y/N's silence was bothering him. He knew nothing was wrong. He could understand her reasoning for wanting to keep their relationship private, she was very private about her personal life. It didn’t actually bother him; he just didn’t like hiding things from the team they would find out eventually. He looks over to Y/N, she is focused on the file on her desk working quickly through it. Spencer walks over to her desk, “Hey”. Y/N looks over to him, “Yes?” “Are we okay?” He asks. “Why wouldn’t we be?” “Because we haven’t been talking.” She sets the file and pen down turning to give him her full attention. “We’re talking now. What’s bothering you?” “Morgan said…” but before he could say anything further.  “Whoa Morgan said? No, I don’t care what’s bothering Morgan. What’s bothering you?” Spencer starts chewing on his bottom lip. Y/N reaches to grab a hold of Spencer’s hand rubbing her thumb across the top of his hand. “Is it the whole telling the team thing? We can tell them, it’s okay.” Not really thinking about what she had done before doing it, they hear a wolf whistle from across the room. Morgan and Prentiss looking over at them stifling laughs. With a deep sigh, “Well I guess there was no use in trying to hide anything working in close proximity with profilers.” She says. “Sorry, if I hadn’t freaked out they wouldn’t know.” “It’s fine they would have found out anyway.” Sharing a look between them Spencer pulls Y/N’s hand up to his lips placing a gentle kiss to the back of it. “I don’t have to tell you how many germs are on the back of people's hands.” She says with a smirk. “No but for you I will risk it.” Garcia had just come out of her lair to hear the commotion and seeing what had just happened she ran over to Y/N screaming happily grabbing her out of Spencer’s grip to pull her into a tight hug and dragging her back towards her office. “Okay you have to tell me everything.”Garcia says. Y/N looks back to Spencer with a pleading look for help while Morgan and Prentiss are no longer able to hold back cackling loudly. 

A few hours later paperwork was done and finally having convinced Garcia that there was nothing more to tell they were ready to head home. During the drive Spencer holds Y/N’s hand as they make light conversation. “What do you think about me hanging at your place while we’re off? I still have some clean clothes in my go bag.” He asks. “What kind of girl do you take me for Dr. Reid?” She says jokingly. “No no that’s uh that’s not what I meant. It’s just I want to spend more time with you.” “So you’re coming home with me?” and Spencer just nods in return. When they arrive at Y/N’s apartment she opens the door and they walk in together. When he walks in he takes in his surroundings, her apartment is surprisingly more colorful than he expected. Her furniture is neutral warm greys and browns, but the patchwork pillows and throw blankets on her couches are a variety of colors . Her bookshelf is organized with books lined up starting at red and ending in violet. It reminded him of Garcia although more organized it made sense why the two are so close. He stands there awkwardly not really sure what to do. “So I’m going to go take a quick shower and you can shower after me if you like. Go ahead and make yourself at home.” She says before heading towards a door Spencer can only assume is her bedroom. Not really sure what he should be doing he sets his bags down and walks over to the bookshelf looking at the books she had. From the books he recognized that she has lots of classic literature, mystery novels, biographies, autobiographies, and what he assumes to be young adult and adult fantasy novels. What does catch his eye is her collection of Twilight novels, five books in total. He reaches for the one with just the twilight name and starts reading. He is half way through the book before he feels a tap on his shoulder. When he turns he sees Y/N hair still wet, smile as bright as always, she is wearing a tank top and pajama pants. “So you decided to give it a try.” “What?” Not realizing she is talking about the book. “Twilight you decided to read it.” He looks down at the book in hand. “I don’t understand why so many people like it. It’s ok I guess.” He says closing the book and placing it back on the shelf. “It’s an acquired taste I guess. Well showers available. I left a clean bath towel and washcloth on the counter for you. I’m going to go make something for us to eat.” Spencer nods before picking up his go bag heading towards her bedroom. He hesitates just looking into the room not walking in yet. When he finally walks in he feels out of place like he shouldn’t be here almost as if he is invading her privacy. Finally relenting he walks in deciding to just head into the bathroom and shower. When he gets out of the shower feeling refreshed the smell of something amazing draws Spencer to the kitchen. Walking into Kitchen he sees Y/N humming to herself as she tastes whatever food she is making. He walks about behind her placing a kiss on her cheek, causing her to flinch. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a me thing “I’ll adjust” as Garcia says. So I decided to keep dinner simple so teriyaki stir fry and rice, are you okay with that?” “Sounds good.” They eat while making light conversation and end their night laying on opposite ends of the couch with their legs tangled together.