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whataperfectwasteoftime · 3 years ago

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How to Kill an Immortal - Chapter 2

Pairing: Marcus Pike x OFC, with flashbacks of Marcus x other OFCs & OMCs

Rating: M (non-explicit smut)

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: Angst, character death, M/M relationship, this might swerve into RPF as I’m putting Marcus with a known historical figure here, oral sex (m receiving), oral sex (f receiving)

Summary: He finds himself moving forward with a singular purpose: it is time for Marcus of York to die.

A/N: The italicized dialogue is meant to indicate dialogue not in English. In the first flashback, it’s Italian, in the second, French. I’ve never been to the Yorkshire Museum and the layout and collections are entirely made up, except for the Gilling Sword, which is a real item on display there.

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Chapter Two - The Renaissance

Washington, D.C. 2014 AD

Marcus will never get used to flying.

He has taken most modern things in stride, but airplanes? They will always feel like magic to him. He closes his eyes as the engines fire and his body starts to press back into the seats with the force of forward movement.

It's thrilling.

He forces his eyes open when he feels his belly start to sink as the wheels lift off of the runway. He stares out the window with a small smile as the features of the ground shrink before his eyes.

Oh, Isabella, the things I have seen.

She has weighed heavily in his thoughts since this new case had come across his desk at the FBI–one of the collection highlights at the Yorkshire Museum, the Gilling Sword, had been stolen.

Marcus has gone to nearly every corner of the Earth, but he has never once returned to York.

Not until now.

God, he is tired. The long years have put a wariness in him that no amount of sleep can fix. His breakup with Teresa had left him with an unsettling realization. Once he had overcome the initial shock, he had realized with stunning clarity that he can no longer let himself fall in love just to watch that person leave him in some way or another. As the centuries have passed, human lives have appeared shorter and shorter, each new love barely a blip for him.

He finds himself moving forward with a singular purpose:

It is time for Marcus of York to die.

He hasn't exactly been cautious in the last few centuries, fighting in wars and volunteering for the most dangerous missions. It wasn’t that he had wanted to die, particularly, but it was one of those things that wouldn't have bothered him had it happened.

With each passing mission where Marcus had miraculously survived–either lucky or unlucky, depending on how he looks at it–he had started to suspect that his death at the hands of another would need to be purposeful.

Marcus is going to need to ask someone.

The way he sees it, he's either going to need to offer money to someone with questionable morals or to try and get a kind soul to believe his story and agree to help him.

Marcus knows which of those scenarios is more likely.

Thankfully, he has more money than he knows what to do with. That's one of the benefits of living for hundreds of years. He's had the opportunity to acquire wealth beyond his wildest dreams simply by nature of having more chances to make it.

Marcus had kept that bakery he had opened with Isabella for another fifty years or so after he had spoken with the witch Sabine before collecting his savings and taking off to explore the world.

He had always wanted to be a learned man, and with enough resources to disguise himself as, if not aristocracy, then at least as someone with means, Marcus had traveled to Oxford to become a student.

He had thrown himself into the pursuit with gusto. Marcus has always been the curious sort, and as such, had wanted to learn everything about everything. He had spent years studying Classics, Philosophy, Literature, Poetry, but what he had ended up loving most was Art.

Marcus smiles to himself as he watches the clouds below him. Some things never change.

He remembers the day he had stumbled upon this new profession by chance, recovering stolen art for the FBI. A high-profile theft of five hundred million dollars worth of art from the Isabella Steward Gardner Museum had caught his eye in a newspaper in 1990–both because of the subject matter and because Marcus’s brain has always been drawn to the names of those he's loved and lost.

In the article, Marcus had read an interview from an Art Crimes Detective working on the case, and had fallen in love with the idea of recovering stolen art. He had immediately pursued the job, applying for the FBI and going through the required training at Quantico.

Marcus had felt that he could offer a unique perspective to the job, having seen so many works in person over the years, or in some cases, by knowing the artists themselves.

Florence, Italy. 1501 AD

“Only you would leave your lover in bed to sketch,” Marcus said, wrapping his arm around his artist companion and pressing a gentle kiss to their shoulder.

“You will forgive me if I say that our activities left me feeling… inspired, yes?”

Marcus looked down at the charcoal drawing–a lean but well-muscled nude man in a contrapposto pose. “Surely that is not me,” he said with a little smile, tracing over the line of the man’s shoulder.

“If it were you, beloved, his cock would be bigger,” came the teasing reply, and Marcus laughed. “And the Operai would have me drawn and quartered for such an offense.”

“This is for the commission you were given, then?” Marcus asked between more playful kisses.

The artist nodded in assent, before turning around to kiss Marcus deeply. “To the world he shall be named David, but to me, he shall always be called by another name.”

“You flatter me,” Marcus teased quietly. “Now come back to bed, Michael.”

The other man laughed. “You say my name with such a hideous English accent when you shorten it.”

“Your full name is such a mouthful,” Marcus teased.

He gasped as he was pushed back onto the bed, his lover already crawling over him.

“You did not seem to mind your mouth being full, earlier,” Michael whispered against his lips.

Marcus shuddered. “This is true,” he conceded playfully. “But I believe you promised me you were going to return the favor, amato.”

“If I do,” the other man said, “you must promise not to use that horrendous Anglicized nickname. If I bring you unbridled pleasure, you call me by my given name as I do so.” He started to mouth down Marcus’s chest, giving him open-mouthed kisses and little nips of his teeth as he moved.

When Marcus’s cock was suddenly enveloped in warmth, he cried out the man’s name reflexively.

“Michelangelo.”

York, England. 2014 AD

Marcus walks down the streets in a daze. Everything is familiar… but not. The layout of the land is the same. Some of the buildings are original. The rest is foreign to him. If he looks carefully at some of the older buildings, he can see the various strata in the architecture–original foundations, followed by years and years of updates and renovations as humanity grew and changed.

Much like Marcus himself.

He is not the same man who wandered these streets six hundred years ago. While the years have never shown on his face, time has left its stamp on him nonetheless. He has been shaped by centuries of love and loss, happiness and grief, joy and anger, peace and war.

He avoids the area of town where he knows the bones of his and Isabella’s old bakery must lie. Just by sight, it appears that the area where he once lived a modest life with his wife and children has been much more modernized, so not many of the old structures are likely to remain.

It is just as well, Marcus thinks, his hand automatically drifting toward his pocket to touch the blue scrap of cloth he carries with him always. I am relic enough. He probably wouldn’t have been able to withstand the overwhelming grief, which hasn’t faded over the years, but simply changed and evolved as much as the world around him.

He stops at one of the buildings–this one has much of its original architecture remaining on the exterior, but the inside is a fully modern-looking Starbucks–to grab a quick coffee on his way.

Latte in hand, Marcus enters the Yorkshire Museum and announces his presence to the security guard with a friendly smile and a flash of his badge. The guard mumbles something into his walkie talkie, and in a few minutes, they are being approached by a young woman with jet-black hair and piercing green eyes.

For a moment, Marcus is a ten-year-old boy on a nearby cobblestone street. He shakes himself.

“Evelyn Croft, I’m the curator for our Middle Ages collections,” the woman says, sticking out her hand.

“Special Agent Marcus Pike, Art Crimes,” he replies, taking her hand and shaking it. He feels a jolt of electricity when their hands touch and he has to stop himself from yanking his hand back. He gazes up at the woman, and she is looking back at him with what feels like suspicion and curiosity, which she quickly schools into rigidity.

“I hear you’re missing a certain sword,” Marcus says with a crooked grin, trying to dispel the odd tension that has filled the room.

Evelyn nods briskly. “The Gilling Sword is one of our most prized collections. We’ve worked with local police on the matter, but our director wanted to call in an expert.”

Marcus laughs. “Aw, too bad they sent me instead,” he jokes.

The joke doesn’t land, and Evelyn raises her eyebrows.

He clears his throat. “Anyways. I’ve already met with the police this morning and I stopped by to, uh, take a look at the collections, if that’s all right? I’d like to see the layout of the galleries and the exact location where the sword was being displayed.”

Evelyn leads Marcus through the museum towards the Medieval wing, which has been cordoned off to all visitors due to the theft. Most of what constitutes the collections are items from castles and the like–objects Marcus never would have interacted with when he had lived through it–and it gives him that same feeling that he had felt walking through the streets. Familiar, yet foreign to him at the same time. It’s the same feeling he gets when he looks at Evelyn.

When he asks if she’s from the area, she tells him her family’s presence in York can be traced back to the 14th century, which does nothing to calm the butterflies in his stomach every time he looks at her. In seven hundred years of life, there are bound to be some coincidences, but this doesn’t feel like one. Marcus searches for a term to describe it.

Fate. It feels like fate.

Marcus shakes his head. He doesn’t believe in fate.

He takes a few photos of the broken case and takes mental notes of the exits and the locations of the security cameras around the gallery. “I understand the security guard who was working during the theft is here today?” he asks Evelyn, who nods. “I’d like to talk to him, too.”

They walk further through the gallery as Marcus asks the curator a few more questions about the sword and its origins. When they pass by a collection of textiles, Evelyn mentions that they’re her specialty, and a large focus of her research. As he looks over the pieces–some ornate, some plain–he is reminded so strongly of his blue handkerchief that he has to instinctively touch the material in his pocket once more just to check. Still there.

“I feel like I’ve met you before,” Evelyn suddenly speaks, and Marcus whips his head around in surprise.

Marcus cocks his head to the side. “What makes you say that?” he asks carefully.

“Listen, this is going to make me sound completely insane, I’m sure, but I–” she trailed off, shaking her head.

Marcus’s heart is pounding. He needs to know what Evelyn was going to say. “I’m not gonna judge,” he says with a smile. “Tell me, I’m curious.”

“I’ve–I feel like I’ve seen your face in a dream,” she admits. “A dream I can’t remember, but it’s so familiar to me. Is that weird?”

Marcus’s breath catches. “I’ve seen a lot of unusual things in this world,” he says. “Sometimes the unexplainable is just something we don’t understand yet.”

“You’re saying you believe I’ve dreamed about you?” Evelyn asks, skeptically.

“Would you think I was insane if I said you seem familiar to me, too?” Marcus replies.

Evelyn rolls her eyes. “You’re just saying that now that I’ve said it.”

“I promise, I’m not. I felt it when we shook hands, I–” he begins.

“Is this your way of flirting? Because it’s not working. It feels like you’re mocking me.”

Marcus tries to backpedal. “Hang on, you’ve got the wrong idea, here–”

“You must be Special Agent Pike.” A booming voice interrupts their odd conversation. “Declan Lawson, I’m the Director of the Museum. Heard you were here, wanted to stop by and introduce myself.” He shakes Marcus’s hand. “As you can imagine, we’re all very worried about the sword and anxious for its return.”

“I can imagine,” Marcus agrees. “I’ve just been taking a look around at the gallery, and I was hoping to speak with the security guard, Mr. Mitchell? Ms. Croft told me he was here today. She’s been very helpf–”

As he turns around to acknowledge Evelyn and thank her, he realizes she’s already gone.

Paris, France. 1587 AD

"Where is she?"

"Hmm?"

"The woman who gave you that favor."

"Oh." Marcus carefully retrieved the blue handkerchief from where it had been sticking out of the pocket of his waistcoat, which had been haphazardly discarded on the side of the bed. "It–it belonged to my late wife," he answered.

"She must have died very young, non?"

Marcus nodded. "It was a long time ago now." It was the closest to the truth he could get.

"And do you visit me to remember her or to forget?" the woman asked with a teasing pout.

"Neither," Marcus replied with a smile. "I visit you because I have been quite taken with you since the moment I saw you at Le Cigne."

"You and every other red-blooded man in that tavern, mon chère."

It was Marcus’s turn to pout. “I thought I was different.”

She giggled. “You are, because you tried to court me instead of bed me, and you didn’t give up even after you discovered my profession.”

Marcus gently set the handkerchief on the table beside the bed and turned to kiss a path across her collarbone. “Yet I still persist today,” he murmured against her skin, “and one of these days I will persuade you to give up this life, Madeline.”

Madeline giggled again as Marcus continued kissing down her body. “And what would I do instead, hmm?”

“Be my wife.”

She shoved at his shoulder. “You are a madman.”

“Ah, mais non–I am in love,” Marcus replied with a sly smile, looking up at her with hooded eyes.

“One may often be mistaken for the other,” Madeline teased. “Or they both may coexist in the same person.”

“I am still sane enough to know the difference between the two,” Marcus said, dipping his tongue playfully into her belly button and making her squirm.

“Is that not what a mad person would say?”

Marcus gave her outer thigh a gentle slap. “Hush, or I shall not continue my journey southward.” He trailed his fingertips gently through the curls just above her sex. “Do you not love me?” he asked quietly.

“I have told you that I do,” Madeline reminded him.

“Tell me again,” Marcus demanded, then slid his tongue through her folds.

“Ah! Je t’aime, Marcus,” she gasped.

“Again.” He did not relent, devouring her with enthusiasm, wanting her to come apart even as the words spilled from her trembling lips.

“I love you.”

“Come away with me and be my wife,” Marcus asked again, some time later, when they had again separated. Madeline lay on his chest, and he gently stroked her hair as they spoke in hushed tones.

“What would we do for money?” Madeline asked. “We cannot survive on love alone, however much you seem to try.”

“I make a modest income at the print shop on Rue Deparcieux,” Marcus answered. “It is quite enough to support the two of us.”

Madeline looked up at him, her eyes wide and vulnerable. “You would marry a prostitute?”

Marcus palmed her cheek. “I would marry you no matter the circumstances. Your profession does not matter to me; only the contents of your heart and soul are important.”

“And what is it that you see there?” she asked quietly.

Marcus smiled. “I see someone who is bright and kind, with a sharp wit and sharper tongue. I see a strong woman who has made her way in the world well enough by herself, but need not do it alone any longer.”

Madeline raised up on her elbow, eye-to-eye with Marcus and lips nearly touching. “Ask me again,” she whispered.

“Marry me, Madeline.”

“Yes.”

Portsmouth, England. 1632 AD

WANTED: MEN AND BOYS FOR SHIPS CREW FREE PASSAGE TO AMERICA INQUIRE INSIDE

After glancing at the advertisement, Marcus opened the door to the small shipping company and walked inside.

“Are you still searching for crew?” he asked the desk attendant.

“Aren’t you a little old to be a ship’s mate?” asked the young boy.

“The advertisement said ‘men and boys’ did it not?” Marcus replied, raising his eyebrows.

“What does a grown man want with passage to America?”

“I have recently become a widower, and I wish to see more of the world to console me in my grief,” Marcus said quietly, his voice low and threatening. “Not that it is any business of yours why I choose to leave this continent.”

The young boy held up his hands in placation. “All right, all right. All you need to do is sign the register right here and show up the day after tomorrow,” he instructed, indicating a manifest on the desk. “If you do not know your letters you may make any mark on the line, here.”

Marcus nodded and signed his name.

The boy’s eyes widened in surprise. “You are a learned man?”

“Is it your custom to ask this many questions?” Marcus asked, his voice sharp.

“I do not know of any other crew on this voyage who can read or write,” said the boy. “If you tell the captain, he may want more from you than just to be a deckhand.”

Marcus nodded and said he would do so. He left the building and walked along the water, looking out over the ocean. Time to move on.

Madeline’s death was still a sharp, stinging pain. Seventy-four years was a good life, but having experienced over three hundred years by now, it had barely felt like any time had passed at all since he first heard her laugh ringing out across the little tavern in Paris and had decided to go talk to her.

She had certainly filled the last few decades of his life with laughter and joy–and while the whole of it had been darkened by his knowledge that he would always outlive her, Marcus would choose many years of love and happiness over being alone every time.

Madeline was unable to bear him any children–a fact for which he was secretly grateful; the pain of losing Emma and Wade was still far too fresh in his mind to have any desire to father more. They lived a quiet, modest life, both of them having seen enough turmoil to last a lifetime–or, in Marcus’s case, several lifetimes. She gave up selling herself and began selling little portraits out of the same print shop where Marcus worked, and let herself be doted on by her adoring husband, who encouraged her art wholeheartedly and sat for a great many paintings.

Years into their marriage, as she fixed her hair in the mirror one morning, she had asked Marcus teasingly, “How is is that you remain unafflicted by the little silver hairs that keep showing up in my braid?”

Marcus’s eyes had shot up in alarm. So soon? He wasn’t ready to face the discrepancy of years shown on their faces as Madeline changed and he inevitably stayed the same. He wasn’t ready to try and explain why he would never age in the same way. He wasn’t ready to watch her fade as all other lives but his do in the end. He wasn’t ready for any of it.

Marcus could only pretend for so long–to brush it off as aging well or staying out of the sun. And of course, one day, she had asked him about it again: “Why do your eyes not wrinkle so?” and he had to try and explain as best he could–although he was no closer to understanding then than he was when he had demanded answers from the witch Sabine.

Madeline had reacted with suspicion, of course, but she could also not deny the uncanny youth in Marcus’s face as the years progressed. She had eventually professed that it must be witchcraft, and Marcus was inclined to agree–although he did not truly know–and she had sobbed in his arms at the unjustness–that she should age and die and that he would live on in pain.

He had begged her to let them live out her remaining days in peace, telling her that loving her and seeing her happy would be fulfillment enough. It stank of a lie and they both knew it–the loss of Isabella still caused him great pain, although he often tried to hide it–but both of them wished for a quiet, normal life despite the extraordinary nature of Marcus’s existence.

"Love again," she had ordered from her deathbed. "You are brimming with it; I beg you, share it with another."

Love shall be your downfall.

The words had come to him unbidden.

As Marcus boarded the vessel on the morning it was to set sail to America, they passed through his head again.

Perhaps the meaning of the witch’s words was that he could not seem to stop himself from loving others, and that each subsequent loss would eat at him until nothing remained.

It was certainly true that Marcus had given much of himself to lovers over the years. He loved easily and openly and it was many years ago now that he had realized it didn't much matter the sex of the person when it came to who he loved; but what was in his heart and theirs.

He would always seek companionship, no matter how devastating it may be when it came to an end. Marcus was meant to love and care for others, this much was clear to him. The years he had been alone hurt far more than those where he had someone to hold, someone to talk to, someone to walk with him through a little slice of eternity.

Would it eventually grow to be too much? Would a day exist when the pain was too great for Marcus to withstand, when he could no longer endure the inevitable loss that accompanied companionship and he'd have to spend the remainder of his days alone?

If that ever happened, Marcus resolved, as the ocean spray hit his face and the only continent he had ever known slowly disappeared from view, he would seek a way to end his long life.

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#marcus pike #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfic #pedro pascal #marcus pike x ofc #marcus pike x oc #marcus pike x omc #how to kill an immortal

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toxiichxc13 · 2 years ago

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Maybe you should just fall

And leave the world and lose it all

And if that's what you need to finally see

I'll be with you through it all

Bring on the pills, roll the dollar bill

Medicating will never heal

Relapse, rehab, repeat

Always thinking about the me, me, me

Self-destruct, spiral down

Until your want becomes your need

Please get up like I know you can

Or forever love the fall, 'cause

I don't feel like I'm getting through to you

Let me paint this wheel

Life is short, my dear

Honestly this song will always hold a special place in my heart. Why you may ask? Well where do I start? How about we start it off by me introducing myself; I’m Killian. And I’m a recovering addict that’s been in recovery for 16.45 months or 1 year 4 months and 13 days. I was in and out of my addiction for 6.5-7 years.

Okay, now that a little background is out of the way; let’s go ALLLLLLLLLLLLL the way back to the beginning. I have a genetic condition that caused my body to create polyps all throughout my large intestine. And of course, my luck, they were so spread out that they couldn’t just remove a section of it. So October 6th, 2011, I had a total colectomy.

And thus my addiction to pain pills started. Throughout my hospital stay I was on a morphine drip that I could hit I don’t even remember how often. Then upon discharge I was prescribed Percocet and also got it refilled multiple times. Then my doctor knocked me down to Vicodin (Norco). Was prescribed this for a couple months after. Little did I know that I’d become addicted to the way they made me feel until I didn’t have them anymore.

That’s when I started doing whatever I could to find them. Didn’t matter. As long as I could get high, I didn’t care who I hurt in the process. I was a shit human being. I’d get sober for sometimes a few weeks to a few months. But then I’d fall right back into the same pattern. Relapse, rehab, repeat. Those lyrics were my life for almost 7 years. Minus the rehab part because I swore I could get sober myself. You know, like most addicts swear they can do. Yeah, I was that person. Anyway, getting off topic here.

So back to the topic, in 2014, my baby sister got diagnosed with cancer. And I got clean for a little bit, actually more like a year and a few months. Then February 6th, 2016, I got the phone call. I’ll never, ever, ever forget that day. I shouldn’t have had to bury my baby sister. I honestly hoped it was a nightmare but it wasn’t. And I spiraled back into the abyss. Only this time it was worse and I had kids involved. And a new wife that watched me get clean then stumble back down. I got worried that I was going to die this time. Then May of 2021, my wife at the time left me. June was a horrible month for me but then I said fuckkkkkk it.

July 1st, 2021, I got clean. I literally decided I was done with it and I haven’t looked back since. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve honestly thought about it. Especially when life started to spiral again. Little bit of context on that; in August of 2021 we got back together and tried to fix things. Things were going well and then things were slowly going back to how they were before. So May 9th, 2022, we ended things. Then May 15, 2022, my dad passed away. And damn did I want to relapse or turn to something heavier. But I fought those demons and won.

So I guess the whole point of this is, I’m proud of you! Whether you’ve been sober for 12 hours or 12 years. I’m proud of you! I know from firsthand experience that every day is a battle. Sometimes all you can accomplish is waking up and staying sober, but guess what; that’s more than enough. We do recover! We do get better! I’m living proof of that 🖤

#recovery #addiction #journey #Spotify

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all-things-fic · 4 years ago

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Somewhere Only We Know

A/N - Hello, you lovely lot! Hope you are all keeping well in these utterly shit Covid times. Who would’ve thought that we would still be here in December?! Please see my offering for @goldenbluesuit‘s Christmas Fic Challenge. Hope I’ve done a bit of justice with this piece.

I can remember Katie texting me telling me about the challenge, and I’ll admit I was given first dibs and now I’m absolutely shitting myself because I’ve seen all the brillaint entries so far and I’m not sure I really cut the mustard with this piece but I’m proud of myself for being able to put a solid 70% of this together in just one day (that one day being today).

Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Katie has done a brilliant job and I know how grateful she is towards anyone who has joined the challenge or supported by reading/sharing etc.... I need to stop rambling... Okay, thank you for sticking with me as always and happy reading! .x

***

The last thing you remembered actually reading in the group chat was “make sure you have your wellies”. You were glad that you remembered that part at the very least.

Winds whipped around you as you buried your face further into your cream roll neck cable knit jumper, all but hidden underneath your tobacco borg teddy coat that someone had already likened to Macklemore.

Nothing like being back home with your closest and oldest friends.

Mud squelched under your feet as you walked in line with two of your oldest girl friends, eyes looking over the four males in front of you as they led the way over the grassy hills.

There had been zero planning on what today’s events would bring. It was quite clear that the seven of you just wanted to be reunited with the country air and wind bitten cheeks.

It was nice. How simple it was. On the surface at the very least. That was until you zoned in on the little things.

Like his laugh. The same laugh that always carried somehow and it seemed like the wind was making it that much more prominent than usual today.

There was no denying, he had this glow about him. Even from the back of him. You felt silly for thinking it, but it was true. It was in the way he held himself as he attacked the grassy hills with his feet clad wellies and brown trousers.

Life had changed a lot in over a decade. Christ, had it been that long? You’d all gone from baby teenagers to fully fledged adults. The age range of your friendship differing slightly, the odd person here and there slightly older than a couple of people in the group.

Nonetheless, many of the experiences had been the same. The big job offers, and the even bigger promotions. The heartbreaks, regardless of their prominence or lack of, had been the felt the same. The flirtation between some of you sparked probably a bit more so now with a finesse that didn’t have you rolling your eyes but rather leaning into it.

Four out of seven of you were single. Jack and Jonny were virtually married off, however neither of them were with their partners this year with both deciding to spend Christmas at home and New Years with their significant others. Alice was still loved up and going strong with her fella, as was Grace who you hadn’t heard a peep from as she constantly checked her phone to see when the person she was besotted with finally arrived up North thanks to West Midlands Trains pulling into Crewe.

So that left Will, you and Harry. Harry who had quite publicly made it known that he was single. Well, according to your Mum he had, in several interviews. Including the one that she had described as an ‘incredibly relaxing watch and nice background noise to my Sunday evening brew and ironing session’.

That was a strange one for you, his honesty. In earlier years of friendship, he always seemed quite aloof. Like he was keeping his options open. Guarded in a way that frustrated at least 75% of the friendship group, in the nicest way possible. You knew that was a contradiction but any annoyance came from a good place.

You remembered one night in 2014 when he wouldn’t quite give you a straight answer over tequila shots whether he was shagging someone or not. You also remember the way he’d been pulled away from you tactfully by Alice that night when she sensed how you were about to blow up at his lackadaisical attitude.

The same had been felt in 2016. Not so much in 2018, but you weren’t single then so maybe you just didn’t care.

2019 was significantly different though.

See the thing was, you knew him now. Like, knew knew him.

Some would think it was a lapse of judgment, a reading that you would agree upon given what had happened two days prior if ever prodded about it publicly.

Others would vehemently disagree. Stating how long any sort of energy between the two of you had been bubbling for a number of years.

Looking back you couldn’t even understand why you’d attended his show. You lived in Camden and it made sense, but that’s where the sense stopped. Even the ways he had reached out had been one of the most random messages you’d received from him

There was no context, just a simple ‘I’m playing the Electric Ballroom and there’s tickets waiting for you if you want ‘em.’

And the thing was, you loved that venue. The grungy-ness of it all. The way you had stuck to the floor while trying to dance along to the likes of The Hives and Kings of Leon when seeing them playing there, basking in your sweaty happiness.

But the stickiness of the floor and sweatiness of the room didn’t compare to the stickiness and sweatiness you later found yourself partaking in as Harry took you from behind over the side of his couch.

A shiver rolled through you at the thought, one that you would blame on the December bitter chill because it was a secret. One that neither of you had mentioned since it happened on Thursday night, or to be technically correct the early hours of Friday morning.

He’d been good. Of course he had been.

He had that way about him that night that pulled you under a false sense of endeared security. From his dimpled smile to gleaming eyes. He was happy.

And the way he had shone as he found you on the balcony had warmed you like nothing you had known in the longest time.

It caused you to forget about the worry that had laden you limbs as you turned up at 9.13pm to the wooden doors of the building, wondering how many songs he was in to the set as you convinced yourself he would start at 9.00pm.

As you’d been ushered over to a clear box window and uttered your name to a dorky looking man wearing a tracksuit pull over and watched him handover a white envelope through the circle hatch.

You stood in the dark, next to two much younger girls who enjoyed the way his glances lingered over at their side. Eyes had found Gemma in the opposite corner of the balcony, her dancing and singing with some recognisable faces mainly more so because you had seen them on social media.

You, however, kept yourself to yourself. Until you were anchored in the tightest hug from Gemma that you had ever felt from her and swayed from side to side as she made it known how pleased she was to see you once the concert was over.

That familiarity had been nice. The vibrancy of nostalgia consuming you in your entirety.

Watching him work a room when he finally entered the after party was a sight to behold, in his navy blue pinstripe suit and yellow ‘I’m gonna die lonely’ t-shirt.

He wasn’t. Gonna die lonely, that is.

He glided so smoothly from one person to the next, spilling a drink down himself in the process you’d seen (and later felt when your hand clung to the fabric of his t-shirt as you kissed), making time for everyone in his own unique way.

Big eyes followed you over Gemma’s shoulder when he had finally found himself within your circle and hugged his sister once more that evening. They were hard to read but also openly filled with a glimmer of hope as he dropped his gaze to see what you were wearing.

And when he approached you, he hugged you in a way that managed to pull you into the darkened corner of the dingy space. Spinning your body to keep your face concealed from any prying eyes.

He revealed to you how he didn’t think you were going to turn up, scanning you with his gaze as he spoke. You did the same, a bit taken aback by just how attractive you were finding him. He had always been handsome but the aura he gave off, made your fingers itch to have him closer to you.

Words ran away from you that night as he begged and pleaded with you to tell him what your favourite song had been. Based on first impressions, which the show has been, then Canyon Moon and Watermelon Sugar had smothered you and given you no other option but to pick them.

If he were to ask you now you’d probably say To Be So Lonely, thanks to the drive home being longer than originally thought and said album being your choice of road trip music.

Forget Driving Home For Christmas, nothing slapped more than one of your closest friends admitting to being an arrogant son of a bitch.

After your chat, he mingled some more but Harry was always tactile and that night had been no different. He veered conversations with people you had never seen before to take place by the zone that you all occupied.

He actively kept his back against yours, allowing the faintest of touches and brushing of arms - sometimes hands too if he dropped them down heavily enough with his arms as he spoke - to entice and create a spark.

You were kept late enough to miss the last tube. Battery dangerously low on your phone that you didn’t know if a transaction with Uber would be worth a try.

Jumping into the same car as him had been easy. His soft and tired eyes findings yours in the cab as he leant his head back against the headrest in the back seat and let his lips tip upwards in an expression of tenderness that had you melting in your seat.

“‘S been a while since we’ve both been a bit pissed in the back of a taxi,” he mused, pushing his fallen locks out of his eyes to ensure his view of you wasn’t obscured. “Come an’ cuddle me like you used to do when we went out a’ home and were worse for wear.”

Falling into his side was almost second nature, eyes closing as you let your forehead rest against his jawline and let his worn in cologne fill you senses and scatter your judgment.

You don’t even remember how you ended up kissing that night. A mixture of confessions about missing each other and praise of how good you both were in your own ways. The sound of his whispered, “are you coming home wi’me?” against your lips an offer too good for you to refuse as you sat pressed into his side and half in his lap.

The giggles that night, around dramatic shushes as you tripped and shuffled from the car to his front door were almost haunting in your memory as he tried to chastise you around spluttered laughter about being respectful of his neighbours.

Getting the key in the lock proved unchallenging - one of the better analogies aligned to your memories and latter sexual endeavours - as you slipped into the house. He enjoyed watching the way you walked ahead of him into his home, not realising how much he needed that visual of seeing how well you fit in.

While time seemed to slow in that moment, movements desperately sought the opposite. Hands gripped and clawed like their lives depended upon it.

Looking back now, both he and you wished it hadn’t happened the way it did. Skirt lifted and over the side of his couch. Teeth clashing and hips knocking.

It had been every inch a drunken fumble. A first meeting slightly cheapened but wanted nonetheless. Only made even cheaper by the hush-hush concealing of it ever occurring.

But a secret it was and a secret it would remain.

And oh how you wished you had a pillow you could press you face into right now and scream, this time for an entirely different reason. Unlike that night.

“Not seen a sign of any deer yet, mate,” you heard a voice break you out of your indulgence of recollecting past events. Harry was the worst at wanting to get a reaction.

“Christ, have a bit of patience would yer?”

You smiled at the bickering, just like it always was as the River Dane could be heard in the distance somewhere as you walked. If you listened really close, that is.

Lifting your eyes, your smile lingered as you watched Harry spin his body around and let his hands get lost in the massive pockets of his parka. He walked backwards holding your gaze softly with his eyes twinkling before he gently rolled them at the overreaction and impatience of your friends.

He seemed pleased that you’d enjoyed his teasing as you once again hid you smile into your jumper.

You’d be alright.

***

You heard giggles and screams ahead of you as your friends stumbled in the dark and messed about as you got closer to the viaduct. This place or the people didn’t change, and at times while it filled you with a warm nostalgia, it could be heavily jarring.

A soft and lazy smile pulled at your lips as you felt his heavy forearm lightly tug you closer to him, his lips finding your hair. And then there was Harry.

“Think we should go this way m’self,” Harry mumbled, the nudge of his hips against yours had you stumbling slightly in your heels away from the direction of your friends and somewhere completely different.

“And why’s that?” You turned your face slightly, cheeks warm and flushed thanks to the mixture of alcoholic beverages; eyes glazed as they lifted up to look at him.

“Cause you never would’ve let me when I was sixteen,” he admitted.

“You didn’t ask.”

“‘M askin’ now.”

With slow blinking eyes, you looked at his own unfocused vision. A soft shine to his skin, hair blowing gently against his forehead. The softest of smiles tilted at your lips.

“On yer go,” he nudged you forward, this time more so with his crotch and his hands, which wrapped around your hips to help steer you. Harry was met with only a small amount of resistance from you as you split off from your friends and turned in the different direction.

You bit back your laugh, dropping your head slightly as you felt your heels started to sink into the grass as you walked. Harry was level with you when you sunk down noticing the way you legs slightly gave way, a soft chuckle omitting from his throat as he asked, “You alrigh’?”

“I’m sinking in these bloody things,” you grumbled, pulling your heel from the grass and trying to place the sole of your shoe onto the ground beneath you first.

“So much for no’ being able to take the country out o’ the girl. London’s changed yer, swear it.”

Shaking your head, you cut your eyes to give him a harsh stare for his wind up. His amused expression lit a fire in you like no other. He really wasn’t one to talk though, was he?

“Gi’me your hand ‘ere,” he held his out to you, quickly cupping it when you handed it over and pulled it under his bent elbow. “Remind me again who’s idea this was, eh?”

He didn’t need reminding, he had been one of the keen instigators for the whole jaunt down Twemlow Viaduct. It usually was him, or Jack. The two of them often reminiscing on times they had both raided their parents' alcohol cupboards and managed to sneak out with some dusty bottle that held a liquor that tasted out of date and stale, and if not that then, cheap.

“‘S still fucking freezing down ‘ere, in’it?” He asked, lifting his left hand up to his mouth and blowing against it to try and get some feeling back into his fingers.

“We’re so close to the river, I don’t know why you’d expect anything different?”

“Is this why everyone was always so insistent on necking anything with over 11% alcohol in it when we came down ‘ere as kids?”

“Probably,” you softly laughed.

“‘S a bit different now though innit?”

“Oh, I’m not so sure,” you started to correct him, shrugging your hand out from under his elbow and reaching for your bag. Quickly fumbling with the clasp, you lifted up the quilted flap and managed to pull out the stainless steel hip flask.

Harry cackled a harsh laugh, his eyes crinkling as he slowly let his laughter die down and softly let his joy wash over his features. “Impressive. Gone all proper on me.”

“You know I haven’t,” you held his eyes watching as he nervously cupped at the back of his neck for a short while, a gentle bite down of his bottom lip, as you quickly uncapped the item and held it out to him. He looked like he needed the courage. You continued, “We’re just a bit more refined, that and we earn a good living. Some more than others, and by some I mean you.”

He held his hand up towards you with an amused grin at your comment. “You first, ‘s yours after all.”

Lifting the item and knocking back your head, you swallowed the whiskey with a small grimace, before offering it to Harry once more. This time he accepted, his right hand making light work of taking the item from your hands and sipping at the contents.

His face wasn’t as contorted as your’s when he swallowed, a fan of the chosen beverage if needs must. “‘S the proper stuff, tha’ is,” he commented with a quick lick of his lips before continuing, “Come a long way from sneaking the bottles of dusty Blossom Hill from the back of the cupboard.”

“Don’t know about that,” you smiled, taking the item and pushing it back into your bag. “I’d still drink if, if it were on offer.”

“‘M sure Mum’s got a bottle or two going at home?”

“Is that your way of asking me to go home with you?” You paused. “Again.”

Harry remained silent at your words. Both you and he knew it was going to happen. A mixture of sparks and lovelorn, lingering glances was enough to make anyone both want to give up, while also giving a burning confidence usually unknown.

Neither of you expected it would be you who started the conversation, however.

“It is, ‘f it’s gonna work. ‘M not sure I could wait any longer t’be’onest wi’yer.“

Laughing, you reached up to push at his shoulder. He always knew exactly what to say, but no way was he going to make a laughing stock of the whole thing. “Oh, give over,” you spoke, harshly swallowing when he kept your hand against the thick cable knit black jumper he had on. “You’ve made it this far, thus far just fine.”

“‘M not playin’,” he whispered, hand gently curling around your own and lifting it up to press against his face. His cheeks were warm underneath the cooler hands, despite the cold night whipping around you both and your mind quickly wondered if he was just as embarrassed for his lack of acknowledgment as you had been. “Homes nice, you’re nicer.”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about it,” you let your soft voice get taken by the wind.

“An’ what gave you tha’ impression?”

He did. He gave you that impression. By not mentioning it. By treating you how he always did.

“You.”

“Me?” Harry responded, indignantly, blowing out a sigh that had his cheeks puffing out underneath your hand. “‘M not doing a very good job then am I? I can’t keep m’eyes off o’you. ‘S not my fault you don’t bloody notice ‘em.”

But you had noticed them.

His eyes, gaze following your every move, near enough. Stupid little touches. Glances of approval. Not just now, but from years before.

Treating you how he always did.

Oh, treating you how he always did.

Bringing your eyes back to his figure, you saw the way his gaze darted and nervousness dragged at his features. A frown began to set itself between his eyebrows from worry.

“Changes everything.”

Running his tongue along his teeth, Harry pursed his lips. “Everythin’ has changed, changed a long time ago an’all.”

You dropped your hand down, it now massaging against the back of his neck and shoulder as you felt the tension of his body radiating through his clothes. Under the dim moonlight and the odd spotlight that had been added to the viaduct with each passing year for safety, Harry exhumed everything anyone would want in a boyfriend. He was soft, and so bloody gorgeous. Not just because he was personification of an almost six foot tall string of handsomeness, but his character did the talking for him.

He knocked the door before he walked into a room, for example. Who really did that kind of thing anymore?

But you could also still see the heartbreak that lingered, albeit not as strong as it once was, it was still there. And that was problematic and scary. To be on the receiving end of it. Not that you would hold it against him, because you had been him at one point too. At many points in fact.

When the two of you had shagged, because let’s face it that is exactly what it had been, while a sense of familiarity in the person was prevalent it was definitely overruled by the desire to just hit a euphoric high that if hit right could not be topped.

Familiar overruled in other aspects, and it wasn’t to be brushed away. But was familiarity a mask that would slip sooner rather than later? Was it the start and the end?

The both of you experienced similarities in your life that could not be matched by the friends in your friendship group. London had chewed you up and spat you out, ruthlessly so. While rewarding you with long hours but fat pay cheques, careers that catapulted you to new heights and enabled you to see parts of the world that two country kids (which in one way you were) could never have imagined.

Sure Harry’s had been on a much, much larger scale - you would not ever deny that - but you no longer fit in.

And neither did he.

This was a place that only the two of you knew. A place where you watched those around you fall in love and have the time to do so. A place where your friend's happiness was created a lot easier than it wasn’t and allowed a sense of success to weave its way in, through the most unexpected of happenings.

Not a place where you found happiness in your work because there was less of a space for happiness to blossom elsewhere. Not really. Not like you; both of you.

Understanding was vital.

This had been a place you knew like the back of your hand. A place that had you feeling the earth beneath your feet, fresh air in your lungs and had at times made it so you found yourself sitting by a river and finding yourself feeling complete.

Yet looking over at the almost 26 year old, that just wasn’t the case anymore.

And for once you didn’t feel alone.

The sound of the odd piece of cobbled pavement underneath Harry shoes, buried beneath overgrown grass and plants, broke you from your thoughts, as you watched him kick at the ground and scuff his shoes.

He sighed, head tilted back before he knocked it to the side and caught your eyes. A small scoffed laugh left his lips as he shook his head and dropped his gaze to his feet.

“‘S it fucked?”

You hummed, a small frown lacing your features.

“Fucked it, haven’t I? Fuckin’- idiot-“ he breathed out a noise as he clenched his teeth, one that wasn’t quite a growl but enough to let you know he was agitated. Only strengthened by how tight his jaw became.

Before you could even think, the back of your hand gently brushed against the pulsing hinge of his jaw. Muscles taut as you tried to soothe him in a way that your mind was screaming was far too intimate.

You didn’t want him having any internal battle about right and wrong. Not when you had both taken the same steps to get here.

“Thought it was just meant as a one time thing,” you admitted. “Like you needed it, and I needed it. Was what it needed to be at the time. Bit rough, bit sloppy-“

You cringed are the use of the word. Wanting the ground to swallow you in a weird fashion. You should be able to talk open and honestly with someone who you had known longer than hadn’t.

“Rough?“ Harry swallowed audibly, his face fallen. “That’s not-“

His eyes held an emotion similar to sorrow at the mention of the word. “That’s not the impression I wanted to give you.”

“We were both drunk, it happens.”

“Not with me it doesn’t. Not when it’s me, wanting to be wi’you.”

“I mean I was into it if that helps anything?”

“Were yer?”

You looked at him from the corner of your vision, watching his lips try to fight a smile as you rolled yours into your mouth to not give yourself away. You knew what you were trying to do by speaking those words aloud but you wished you hadn’t. Awkward breathy laughs were shared by the two of you as you held his eyes.

“Was I?”

You hummed in agreement to answer his question, letting your smile dance along your lips now and watching as Harry’s dimples started to show. His expression was youthful, slightly smug.

“Good t’know.”

***

Finishing saying your goodbyes to your friends and ignoring their suggestive expression because ‘Harry was stopping as an extra pair of hands’, you shut the heavy wooden door and reached up to close the deadbolt lock at the top. Shortly after, you let your feet drop as you stopped standing on your tiptoes and pressed your forehead against the door.

The silence of the pub was always a strange one to you. A place that was usually thriving, whether it was just your friends, or your parents friends. When the lights were turned out, it was actually quite a lonely place. Regardless of growing up around this sort of industry your entire life and having parents as publicans nothing was more depressing than an empty bar, lifeless and nothing like it was intended.

A suggested lock-in from Jack, who managed to interrupt both yours and Harry’s conversation earlier had not been a bad shout after all. You knew it meant that you would have to deal with the fallout with it being Christmas Eve, but it wasn’t very often that you found yourself in the setting.

Turning to move from the door, you almost jumped out of your skin when you heard the opening of a familiar Lily Allen song start to play over the speakers.

Harry emerged from the corner of the pub that housed the jukebox, slowly rubbing his hands together before he wordlessly picked up the scattered pint glasses that had remained on one of the tables that had been missed by the staff on the evening shift. His eyes glanced over at you, as you stood with a hand to your chest.

This wicked smile and gleam washed over his face as he paused his movement. “Did I scare yer?”

“Do you not think it’s a bit loud?”

He wrinkled his nose at you, a soft shake of his head no, to answer your question.

“‘S your fave innit?” He asked, head nudging to where the jukebox was now hidden.

With a small smile you nodded, “Prefer the Keane version in all honesty.”

“Don’t have it in the bloody jukebox though, d’yer? Can’t like it that much.”

Your smile deepened at his exclaim and how prominent his accent sounded as he spoke, the small clink of the glasses he was holding only heard if you really zoned in.

“Where d’yer want these?” He asked, holding up the five pint glasses he had collected. “Behind t’bar?”

Humming, you nodded and watched as he weaved his way through the tables to you. You frowned as he got closer, not understanding why he hadn’t bypassed you completely.

Once he was close enough to you, you watched as he reached for what you knew to be your own glass of wine that was almost finished.

“Fancy the rest of this or can it go too?”

Looking at him and down to the glass, you gently wrapped your hand around it and brought the lip to your mouth. You knocked the item back quickly, swallowing the rest of your wine, before handing over the now empty glass back to Harry.

“Good girl,” he joked, light laughter lacing each word. “Sit yourself down.”

Wearing an amused and quizzical expression, you let yourself sink down into the wooden chair. Resting your chin on your hand, you spun slightly in your seat to keep your eyes on Harry as he placed the glasses down and lifted the hatch so he could step behind the bar.

With your free hand, you started to tap the worn beer coaster labelled with the Cheshire Brewhouse logo against the table. Part of you hated how Harry had a knack for anything, including knowing his way around a bar.

He busied himself with collating the glasses once more as you let your eyes take in the surroundings you had known, loved and even grown out of.

Your parent’s pub was cosy and friendly. A truly

classic and quintessential British village pub, featuring open fires, bookcases found in the very far corner or the jukebox in the other, lots of old oak and a really pleasant garden with benches for the summat and heaters for the winter. You know the kind that had its regulars that had kids who had seen each other grow up.

The bar was the centre of the pubs house, with an extensive array of whiskies amongst many other delights. A nice range of local ales and a well-balanced, great quality list of wines on offer designed (which you would be taste testing if the service hadn’t decided to take a break) to complement the food menus designed daily by a team of chefs who all have a passion for great cooking using fresh, seasonal and local ingredients.

It looked as Christmassy as Christmas could get, with a real tree which was locally sourced from one of the many surrounding farms and traditionally decorated with golds and reds. Twinkly lights shone, not only on the trees but as part of the garland that was hung above the bar each year, much to the annoyance of your Dad and the delight of your Mum.

Slowly dragging your eyes back to the bar, you watched Harry as he poured you another glass of white wine and started to recap the bottle. He must’ve felt your eyes on him, his gaze meeting yours almost immediately.

“Service is a bit slow,” you jibed, once you knew he was with you. “Going to ruin the reputation of a fine establishment.”

His chuckle was breathy in response, but warmed you through as he turned his back and pushed his tumbler glass up against the device at the bottom of the Glenfiddich distilled malt whiskey, not once but twice going for a double.

“Helping yourself to the stock now, as well.”

“‘M sure your Dad won’t mind,” he responded, twisting his body back around to reach for your own glass and place it onto a tray that sat along the bar top. “In fact he’d probably make a comment about how it’d put hairs on m’chest.”

You laughed, unrestrained, knowing just how right he had been with that comment.

Over the otherside of the room, Harry smiled and shushed you as he walked closer, easily holding the tray with your drinks upon it. “Being a bit loud,” he taunted as he slid the tray down to the oak table.

“Oh, now you’re concerned about the noise.”

With his hand against the back of the chair which was currently housing your outstretched legs, you felt him start to wobble the seat to give you a warning.

“Hang on,” you said, “Plenty of other chairs.”

“This one’s mine,” he responded.

Wanting to roll your eyes but deciding not to, you let your legs drop down and gave the seat back to Harry. Once he was comfortable and he’d taken your drink off the tray, he gestured with his right hand.

Not entirely focused, he had to do the ‘come hither’ motion a couple of times before you finally cottoned on. He was willing to let you put your legs on his lap instead, while he may have taken the seat it didn’t mean he wanted to take away your comfort.

No sooner had your legs been raised to rest against his tan washed velvet corduroy trousers, was he fiddling with the buckle of your stiletto sandals.

“Got mud everywhere,” you commented, wiggling your toes that were painted a festive red and inspecting the little dots of dirt that were splattered against your skin, as Harry dropped the first shoe to the floor and quickly worked on the second. “Dread to think what they smell like.”

“Smell alrigh’ from ‘ere,” he mused, smirk faint but glaring obvious in his tone of voice as he threw a quick and mischievous glance at you. As you elongated your foot against his thighs, the tips of your toes were just about able to press into his thick jumper to try and jab at him for his comment.

Before you were able to put any sort of force behind your action, Harry’s hand clamped down around the top of your foot causing your eyes to snap up away from his hand and up to his eyes.

There he sat watching you, top two teeth pressed into his bottom lip keep his smile at bay. Releasing his lips slowly, his whispered threat left his throat, “I will tickle.”

You tried to fidget away but to no avail. With a whined laugh, you frowned as Harry goaded you by slowly raising his eyebrows. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

You had tried him.

Truth be told you wanted to again.

If he wanted to.

Reaching for your wine, you took a hefty sip and let the silence swallow you both. Harry, who kept his hand on your foot and his fingers dancing gently against the top, let his head fall back awkwardly against the hardwood. His head dropped to the side taking in his surroundings and their familiarity.

“Do you ever get tired of coming back?”

You hummed, sure you had misheard due to the way the blood was rushing around your ears. He turned to look at you, all double chin and puffy cheeks.

“Of everything being the same, but different?”

His whispers captivated you, hushed confessions not quite meant for anyone else but his own mind yet spilling from him with such an ease that he did nothing to fight them.

“I’ll admit, I come home for other people. Not for me.”

“People?”

“Mum, Dad,” you paused. “You.”

His smile deepened. His chin knocking down to his chest, his eyes looking up at you from underneath his curling hair from being caught in the moist winter evening just hours before.

“You can stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you did three nights ago.”

Harry breathed in deeply, his nostrils flaring and his chest expanding. A lick of his lips, before his mouth dropped to sit slightly agape.

“What if I don’t wan’to? What if I want t’look at yer like this all the time?”

You found yourself unable to respond, nose burying itself into your wine glass as you pressed your lips against the cool outside to try and hide your burning smile.

His lips curled lightly, before he breathed a laugh once and gently shook your foot with his hand. “Eh? Come ‘ere-“

“Harry,” you breathed.

“C’mon, c’mere. ‘S room for more than just your feet.”

If it wasn’t for the creak of your chair as you slowly started to push yourself out of it, you wouldn’t have consciously been aware of how you were making your way to him.

His body relaxed, somehow managing to become closer to horizontal than sitting upright in his seat, as he peered as you walking the short distance over to him.

With his legs widened, he pressed his face into your side now that you were close enough. His nose inhaled the familiar scent of your perfume which was only faint now due to the other senses and scents it had mixed with throughout the evening.

Rolling his face out of your body, he knocked his head back and pressed his chin where his face had been. The face you showed him was worn with worry, an expression he did not want to meet.

“‘S wrong?”

His ask was lazy. Not wanting to dig deep and know. What if he didn’t like what he found?

“We know how this is going to end.”

“Do we?” He prodded. His eyes moved over your features quickly before they partly disappeared to him, thanks to your curtain of hair which slowly fell down.

His hand reached up, desperately brushing it away and cupping at the back of your head as best as he could while he remained seated.

“How’s that? Tell me.”

“Same, but different.”

You knew you shouldn’t use his words, not in a way that could be considered against him, but they - in the most ambiguous of ways - described everything perfectly.

“Not if I have my way.”

His words were almost lost against your stomach as he pressed his face against you once more and wrapped his hands around you; sweaty, nervous palms pressing to the backs of your thighs.

“Same, but better.”

Harry guided you down to his lap, his lips somehow managing to remain pressed into stomach, or your chest, or your clavicle, as your face became level with his.

“Different, but better.”

He kissed against your cheek slowly, nose nudging at your skin as he willed for you to relax against him. “I don’t know how you like it, like this,” he whispered in confession. “Show me?”

A puff of air left your lips as you turned to look at him with hooded eyes. His mouth was closer to yours than you originally thought, corners of lips brushing as you slightly pulled away.

When your lips met, it was in the softest of pecks that trembled under your nerves. Both sets of eyes looking back at each other as you innocently engaged.

If you were to take your eyes away from him in any way, you would notice those fluffy curls of his falling over his forehead and the lightest dusting of red blush making itself known against his cheeks and the tops of his ears.

He felt like a school boy, lost and clumsy. The kid who was once again flicking paper at you in science class just so he could pull a face at you over something your teacher was saying to get you to laugh.

Mouths hovering over each other, your breathing mixed, as Harry nodded to you slightly. You pressed your lips to his once more, feeling the way he gradually opened up to you, warmed and softened underneath the puckering of your mouth against his.

His hands, that slightly trembled, smoothed over your hips trying to pull your body so that it was more so flush against his. You moaned softly, your hands running over his jumper covered shoulders, fingers digging and pulling at the material just below the nape of his neck.

The chair beneath you moved lightly against the floor, not quite a scrape but a dull drag. Neither of you broke the kiss, but his hands against you allowed fingers to dig in to hold you steady to him so if you were to fall from where you were sitting, he still had you.

His lips slowed, moving to press against your cheeks again as he panted and his warmth breath bounced off your skin. “Think I got it,” he heaved.

“Do you?”

Harry hummed his ‘yea’, before pressing his lips so tenderly to your chin and the underside of your jaw. He felt how you swallowed heavily, throat dry from the way your mouth hung open and your neck further exposed itself as you lolled your head back.

You were falling further and further back, finding it hard to stay upright as he devoured you and made you weaker with each pulling kiss. His groans were needy, muffled and making your ache. While yours were silent and making his desperate to pull something from you. To build is confidence in that he was doing something right, you liked it this way too.

Hands fumbled and dragged upwards at your skirt, faintly aware now how it was similar - if not the same one - to the garment you wore to his show.

“Gonna take this off properly,” he mumbled, feeling the way your hips moved slightly from his hands to roll over him.

“You don’t have to-“

“No?”

Your voices were rushed as you spoke to each other, barely audible but loud enough all the same. His head was knocked back slightly as you hovered over him and you found yourself admiring his blissed out face even only in the lead up.

This was a sight that you hadn’t received last time, and if you had your way it was one you were going to greedily enjoy in all its glory.

Like watching the way his eyes closed and he softly grinned, the left side of his teeth started to show as the one side of his face reacted first while your hands blindly moved to lift up his jumper and the white tee he had on underneath, to allow you to find the button of his corduroys.

“What ya doing?”

“Nothing,” you mused.

He pulled a face, the kind that down turned his lips, eyebrows raised and head slightly tilted to the side. The kind that had you smiling.

“Not trying to get m’trousers around m’ankles for a second time within a week then?”

You giggled. “No.”

“Please do.”

A low moan left you as you pressed your forehead to his jaw and dropped your eyes. Your hands slowly started to pull at the brass button and pop it open before seeking out the zip thanks to his desperate plea, encouraging you to continue.

Hands quickly sought out the waistband of the trousers and gently pulled at the item. From the way that you were sat, you knew there was no way you were doing to make them budge.

“Stand up fo’ me,” he mumbled, quickly helping you get off his lap so that he could make light work of his clothing and pull down his trousers and underwear.

His bare bum made easy contact with the cushion leather beneath him, eyes carefully watching you as your hands moved to underneath your skirt.

The fabric of your underwear slipped so easily down your legs, his eyes just about caught the sight of them as they pooled against your ankles and you kicked them away.

Legs pressed together, you slowly untucked the v-necked blouse you had chosen and pulled it over your head. Wearing nothing but a fancy black bra, and a tight little skirt you hastily snatched for your wine and took a hefty gulp.

You could feel his eyes on you, a gruff groan catching in the back of his throat and when you finally turned your eyes from where they had been looking down at your heaving chest and how great this bra made your boobs look, causing him to move his hand down to start playing with himself.

His name left your lips in a breathy gasp, causing you to look up quite surprised at the find of his right hand gently tugging at his hard length.

“Keepin’ me waitin’,” he groaned, his left hand sloppily reached for the back of the collar of his jumper and tee, pulling the item roughly over his head.

“Fuck sake,” he mumbled under his breath, agitated that he was unable to get both items of in one go.

“Smooth.”

Harry stared up at you with a playful squint, before he gently fell back and moved the chair as he did so, the dull scrape heard once more.

And if you didn’t know he was flushed before, when you first kissed, you were definitely aware now. His eyes were blown out and hungry as they devoured you. Hair wildly haphazard before he let go of himself with a soft slap of his skin and harshly pushed his fingers through it.

“‘S it still a couple of quid for a strip of three,” his words brought you back to him. This smugness radiated off of him as he groaned and leaned forward to push his trousers down all of the way. Over his vans and socked feet, before he toed them off as well be harshly pulled at his white sport socks.

You didn’t even need for him to explain what he meant, staying silent as you watched his hands tug at his corduroys from the floor and retrieve his wallet. As his fingers moved around to find a couple of quid, the jangle of the coins was taunting.

One leg crossed over the other, you swayed and found yourself blushing when he looked up at you once he’d managed to find enough money and then some. With his wallet thrown on the table, he stood proudly from the seat and closed the short gap between your both.

Leaning forward he easily took your lips with his own before pulling away. With his face still close to yours he whispered, “Promise not to look at my arse.”

He didn’t hang around long enough for your reply, instead turning away and brazenly giving you all the time you would ever need to admire him, his fantastic bum and his hairy legs before he opted for a jog-walk type of thing, suddenly conscious that he was absolutely walking around naked from the waist down in a pub owned by your parents.

While you waited you took a quick pull from his whiskey, needing the heftier burn for Dutch courage. Nervousness returned when you heard the endings of what you believed to be Harry whistling.

“Machine ate all m’fuckin’ change,” he grumbled, regardless of the twinkle in his eye at the strip of overpriced condoms he had managed to score from the men’s bathroom. “‘S Durex. Business must be booming, your Dad’s definitely gone up in the world.”

“Please don’t talk about my Dad.”

He smiled brightly before he reached for your face with one hand and pulled you towards him mumbling his ‘sorry’s’ against your lips as he gave you several kisses in quick succession.

His other arm loosely wrapped around your back and pulled you with him as he walked backwards and slowly lowered himself back onto his previous seat. The chair creaked as you joined him, slipping into his lap and feeling the way he was smiling now.

Pulling away from your kiss, he quickly tore away one of the condoms allowing the others to fall without much care to the floor. Teeth took a hold of the foil-like packaging and he tore it not so elegantly with his eagerness.

With his cock nestled in the crease of his own thigh now, the heat radiating from it matched your own agonising yearning. Scooting back to give him space, you heard him groan as he gently rolled the condom down onto himself. Eyes looking up just in time to see him knocking his head back and breathing deeply through nose. The foil-like packaging was back in between his teeth once more as his hands were otherwise preoccupied.

Slowly your hand reached up to take it from his mouth, feeling some playful resistance as Harry continued to hold it in his teeth. His eyes were open and boyishly sincere, as you tugged at the item and he finally released it when you lightly laughed.

“Gi’me a kiss.”

Obliging him, you leant forward and slotted your mouths together a lot easier than you had done at the start of the night. A heat built easily between the two of you, as Harry gave you his tongue and you felt the flex of his jaw under your hand as he worked your mouths together.

He was eager, his hands tightening on your waist before he growled when he understood he had to grab handfuls of skirt before he could cup your backside. But when his skin met yours and you ground down onto his lap, the groan that left him was the most animalistic sound imaginable.

The frown your face fell into showed your desire to whimper, as he kept you atop him and marvelled in the way you writhed, both from satisfaction and keenness at the pressure of his cock against you.

“Can I have you again?” He asked, the startings of sweaty hair being pushed off your face. His eyes peered at you, searching for his answer as you seemed to be able to do nothing but pant and look back at him yearningly. “Are you letting me?”

You dragged your fingers down his t-shirt covered torso and lifted it slightly just to see the quiver of his stomach as pulled you onto him once more.

“Like this?” you voiced, meekly.

“‘F this is what you like then, yea’”, he breathed into your mouth, hands shifting your pliant body. “Is this what you want?”

You wordlessly nod, mouth falling open in a breathy gasp when he managed to move you so he sat so enticingly at your entrance. He was teasing both yourself and him, wanting to keep you both on the edge.

Harry blinked a few times as he looked at you, and you revelled in the way he couldn’t seem to concentrate. His hands held your flesh tightly, fingertips dipping into the skin of your bum cheeks as he gently guided you down.

An unattractive and dull, quite strangled noise, left your throat as you let your forehead fall against his temple. Eyes falling down you see the cups of your bra fall slack, you felt his hands softly gliding over your shoulder blades and shoulders.

He rid you of your bra, hands moving to your chest to squeeze your breasts. His jaw fell slack when you found yourself sitting snugly on his lap - on him - settled and already feeling spent.

This was so different compared to the last time; if not overwhelming so because of the way you both appeared to be so present. Each movement of your hips, and the way they rolled and grinded and dragged felt too much. So much so that you had become nothing more than a mess of short, quick breathing and blushing, sweaty cheeks.

Slack-jaw, you were unable to find it in you to return Harry’s kisses, and his joyful, breathy chuckle seemed to lead you to believe he was fine with it. In fact he was happy to keep going as you were.

Your movements were frantic, and despite the build up, not entirely driven by lust either. Harry continued to encourage you to move as you were; slow, grinding motions on his lap that caused the filthiest of groans and dirtiest of laughs from the two of you. Laughter that was only made stronger as the chair that held you both started to creak too.

You couldn’t do much about it though other than to breathe into each other’s mouth, and rock your hips together with more fervour each time.

“Yea’,” he breathed against your lips, left hand at the back of your head holding you to him, while his right rested just above your bum. “‘S better. That’s better.”

It was better. Better than last time. Better than anything before.

And while it hadn’t been frantic before, it was now as your legs that were hanging down either side of the chair started to tremble and your toes started to dig into the worn carpet beneath them. Hips knocking and your clit dragging heavenly against his public bone, you grasped his name as you buried your face into his neck and dug your nails into his nape.

Harry hissed his approval which fell to a groan as your nails pushed up into his hair and lightly pulled as you sought leverage. There were so many things you were learning this time around and his penchant for liking his hair pulled from time to time, was one of those things.

“God, ‘m gonna come soon,” he admitted, gruntly as he forced your hips down as he anchored his legs and widened his seating position. “Are you close?”

“Yeah,” you whined. “Yes. Like this-“

And as you pressed your face to his once more, he was everywhere. Soft but hard, loving but commanding. Smelled like clean washing detergent but of country air. Inviting and alluring, allowing you your lingering kisses between grounding breaths that became staccato in unison with the movement of your hips.

You aren’t ashamed of the whines that escaped your throat as you squeezed down on his cock, praised by indecipherable works that left Harry but were nothing more to you than lips moving against your rough and dry ones. Word that made the burning feeling of your pending orgasm spread through your entire body, warming you and setting you alight.

It was long and deep, with your toes curling into the carpet they were pressed against now. Barely able to catch your breath, sucking in harshly and shaking.

And when you came to, thoroughly exhausted, you noticed that he was waiting for your say so. That he could let go and enjoy the pleasure brought about by your shared labour.

“Coming-“ was all the warning that you got and was enough to encourage you to watch him as he came, his face completely void of anything other than pure pleasure. Wrinkles and frowns fade, his mouth falling open with his pink lips glinting prettily under the dim Christmas lights around you.

His forehead gleamed with sweat as he wrapped his arms around you tightly and his hips bucked up one, two and three times for good measure. “Fuck me,” he heaved gruffly.

You were suddenly desperate to feel his lips on yours despite the way you both continued to fight to get your breath back, but settled for resting them against the skin of his cheek, which was hot to the touch.

When you felt Harry start to go soft, you reluctantly pulled away and let him slip out of you. He wasn’t so keen to let you get too far, holding you just that bit higher than before with his hand cupping gently but firmly at your hip. “Where’d you think you’re going,” he hummed, eyes still closed as he continued to heavily inhale and exhale.

You softly smiled, taking in his soft face and responded by nuzzling close to him again.

Nowhere. Somewhere. Anywhere with him.

A place where only the two of you knew, like the back of your hand. The same way you knew each other. Now and possibly forever.

#gbsxmaschallenge #harry styles #harry styles smut #harry smut #harry styles x reader #harry x reader #harry styles x you #harry x you #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fan fic #harry styles fan fiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles one shot #harry styles fluff #harry styles christmas #harry christmas

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barbariccia · 4 years ago

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it’s time to talk about Hydaelyn.

i’ve been sat on this theory for a long time - i’m pretty sure i didn’t come up with the original idea myself, but the more i think about it the more it makes sense to me. i’m not sure HOW it’ll come into play in the story, necessarily, but the new year’s eve poem posted last night has me rubbing my chin even more. so:

Hydaelyn exists under Silvertear Lake and i won’t hear no for an answer.

(please note there'll be spoilers for 5.0.)

we have known since 1.0 that there’s Something Under Silvertear. admittedly, in 1.0 it was likely just Midgardsormr, because the times have been a-changing and while the dev team has done a truly admirable job at building on what lore remained from the 1.X days, they couldn’t and didn’t keep everything intact. i do not at any point consider this a downside, just something worth noting!

the Garleans, headed by Gaius van Baelsar (acting under solus-selch’s orders), after the invasion and successful annexing of Ala Mhigo, pushed into Mor Dhona as the next part of their “invade Eorzea” project as a central location that would make continued pushes into the land easy. not only that, but Mor Dhona is noted as being (and has been since 1.X) the center of aetherial connections in Eorzea, if not the whole world, though Eorzea is particularly topped up with aether compared to other landmasses. Cid Garlond in his 1.X iteration suggests that Mor Dhona is where aether returns to rejoin the Lifestream. Quote:

Cid nan Garlond: All aether would - should pass through Silvertear Lake upon returning to the Land, but it now appears that something is bending the energy's course - drawing it away.

in 1.X, Nael van Darnus was originally drawing Dalamud down to fall on this area, where Castrum Novum (now Castrum Centri in ARR and beyond) was built, until adventurers put a stop to that and the transmitter was relocated to Coerthas, where the Rivenroad was ripped from. I’ll accept it as a happy coincidence - the castra was built in this area, it makes sense for plot events to happen there - but it does strike me as interesting, especially where the parallel between the Garlean’s Meteor Project and the original Meteor from FFVII is concerned. Sephiroth wasn’t just calling down a giant slab of asteroid for shiggles; he was doing it specifically to create a wound in the Planet that would require an immense amount of energy to heal that he could siphon off of and become a god. If XIV’s Meteor had hit (and not hatched like an egg), a similar thing might have happened.

And there’s no better place to call a lot of aether to the fore than somewhere entirely rich in it. Almost like there’s a great being in that area dependent on aether that directs the Lifestream through itself to preserve not only itself, but all life on the planet.

The second the Garleans got too close to the lake, Middy burst out with a whole host of Dravanians and the Battle of Silvertear Skies began (and ended with Dravanian victory at great cost). This sequence from 1.X is notable as being one of those things that has to have been changed from ARR onwards considering what we now know about primal summoning (they weren’t just ‘let loose’ into the world, they’ve been actively taught to certain peoples (though why only ‘now’ and not ‘before, too’ is still up in the air)) - not to mention we know that the Echo started manifesting after the battle, too, almost as though something felt like it was in danger and needed thralls (1) to protect itself - but Middy came out to protect something. He’d been known as the great protector of Silvertear Lake for a very long time, since he first appeared to the source. Quote The Rising Chorus, from patch 2.5:

Minfilia: [...] an unlikely ally came to Eorzea's aid that day─Midgardsormr, legendary guardian of Silvertear Falls, burst forth from beneath the waters of the lake and led a host of dragons against the Garlean airships overhead.

Minfilia: Midgardsormr was once worshipped as the guardian deity of Silvertear Falls [...]

Minfilia: One of the ancient myths regarding Silvertear Falls states that when the waters came into existence, so too did the great wyrm. Althyk and Nymeia, Brother Time and Sister Fate, decreed that Midgardsormr ever watch over the source, from which all water─and magic─was said to flow. I wonder... What if this was the covenant of which he spoke, and 'twas not the gods with whom he treated, but Hydaelyn Herself?

minfy and ourselves can only guess as to the nature of the covenant forged between hydaelyn and midgardsormr. Following the Omega questline, we know that Midgardsormr fled the Dragonstar with his seven eggs to get away from Omega, crossing the vast expanse of space at great cost to his own personal strength. We don’t know at what time Midgardsormr appeared to the Source - whether it was before, during, or after the time of the 13th Reflection being turned into the Void as we know it - but it would have been post-Sundering of the Ancient world, considering he was able to make a pact with Hydaelyn at all (2) (not to mention there’s no dragons on the First; if there were dragons everywhere we’d know they were reflections of the First Brood! i’m still angy there’s no Azdaja and Vrtra. fucking PLEASE squenix i’m DYING for info on them).

(1) this is a good a place as any to mention that in 1.X, Minfilia - then known as Ascilia - witnessed the Battle of Silvertear Falls with her father Warburton and her Echo awoke a few years later. interesting to think that the primal that tempered Ascilia in potential desperation would later scour her clean and use her for its own purposes, though i know this wasn’t intentional from the devs at all as a plot-point.

(2) the nature of Hydaelyn and Zodiark’s battle makes me doubt that there was much time between Her summoning and the Sundering of the world

There’s an interview from 2014/15 with Koji Fox where he notes, quote,"There's a presence [at Silvertear]. It wasn't just Midgardsormr there, it was more of a force[...]". There’s definitely something there that isn’t just the dragons. Something big. It’s Hydaelyn!!! It has to be. (highlights in the excerpt mine.)

My interpretation of this event is that Midgardsormr agreed to protect the physical ‘body’ of Hydaelyn in exchange for the safety of his eggs - the First Brood - which is what he’s been doing for potentially upwards of 10,000 years. The battle at Silvertear is pretty explosive otherwise for what’s effectively a non-event. There might not have been dragons in Gyr Abania, or in Ilsabard, or Othard or anywhere else they’ve been pushing into - but there’s never been any indication of the dragons being particularly territorial. The Dravanians shared their space with proto-Ishgardians back in the day, and their issues with the elezen of the Source was due to some choice eye-vorage, not encroaching on lands like the sahagin and kobolds.

As for Hydaelyn’s physical form - well, it’s known that Zodiark has a physical form which was sealed directly into the moon. The true moon, known to us colloquially as Menphina (3) (is there another name for it? i haven’t seen anything). It stands to reason that Hydaelyn has a physical form as well, then, hidden away somewhere safe, because as we known, primals can be defeated and their essences scattered to return back to the Lifesteam.

(3) Hey, it’s worth noting here that Menphina, the Lover (whose divine stone is parked right where Haurchefant’s grave is) is said to be the younger sister of Azeyma, the Warden! and boy, while we’re thinking about the misremembered names of the Convocation coming back as names of gods in modern day, what significance does that have?

The Antitower: In all of creation, what greater mystery could there be than the fate of this very star? To sound the deepest depths, to study the aetherial sea itself─for these purposes and more was the Antitower built. Abandoned by her Sharlayan caretakers following the exodus, it has since been overrun by the magical guardians they left behind. Yet were one blessed with Her gift to brave these dangers and descend to the furthest reaches─to hear, feel, and think at the heart of this world─what would they find?

(emphasis mine.)

in the cutscenes following the Antitower, we meet Hydaelyn in the aetherial sea, and Her mouthpiece, the Word of the Mother. and by using the Antitower, something specifically Sharlayan-built, no less. I’d be very interested to know if you can reach the aetherial sea from only the Forelands, where that dungeon is, or from anywhere. I’m gonna make a stab at anywhere.

It’s been brought to my attention that in the cutscenes post-Antitower, Hydaelyn mentions in the quest The Word of the Mother (patch 3.2), and Ardbert echoes later in Shadows of the First (patch 3.4) that “across ten and three were [we] then divided, reflections of the source, each possessed of a shard”, which seems to imply that not only the people of the world and Zodiark, but also Hydaelyn Herself was sundered and became weaker in so doing. which is FANTASTICALLY interesting, all things considered! maybe She wasn’t just becoming weak (and finding it harder to take mouthpieces and the like) because of the land’s aether being drained by primals (and other sources).

The just-released (as of time of writing) New Year’s Eve poem makes me think that the “last chapter of this story” might relate back to this in some way.

[EN]

Our progeny may never know Wherefore we look unto the sky Nor why we dig for truth below; We bear their scorn or watch them die.

[FR]

With our mouths closed, we pile stone upon stone, To form a staircase leading to the lands of knowledge, As well as another pointing to the heavens of existence. Our children will remember it, no matter how angry they are.

[GR]

Committed to our silent office We seek wisdom in the deep earth. Put tomorrow in starry hands, Sung by children's lamentations.

[JP]

By staying silent and saying naught, we will not accumulate the crystals(?) (4) To gain knowledge, we climb into the earth, To survive, we climb to into the heavens. Even if our progeny resent us, it is all for their sake.

(4) 石 meaning stone rather than ‘crystals’, 水晶 meaning ‘crystal’ (and used in the JP title of the Crystal Exarch).

*** translations from THIS reddit post and THIS tweet for the EU and JP translations of the poem, respectively.

something something 6.0 is looking more likely to be Sharlayan than anywhere else, something something big tower something something learn stuff from within the earth. c’moooon, i wanna go beat some answers out of crystal mom. walk freeeee indeed.

Getting away from the poems again and back to Stuff On The Source, we can take a look at the First, a much more pristine reflection of the Source due to having no Calamities happen to it ever. The Source (not to be confused with the Source), the equivalent of Silvertear, is being presided over by none other than... Bismarck, a member of the fae (and BOY i’d like to know more about whaleboi in this world!!!!), in exactly the same position Midgardsormr is, presumably protecting something of equal importance. Having said that, I don’t know if by splitting the world, Hydaelyn also split Herself.

Having said that, there’s an environmental anomaly in that area. Fly out to Bismarck’s (5) nose, and then dive under the waves. There’s a crystal formation coming out of the ground that can’t be found anywhere else on the First - there is nothing else similar to this formation - that has patches of light emitting from bits of it. A friend of mine noted that the way it seems to be coming through in only this location is almost cancerous in origin - that is to say, uncontained and Wrong in some manner, more complex than we have words or knowledge of. The only way you can interact with these crystals is in the level 78 mining levequest Crystal Meds, which notes that you can yank salt crystals out of that formation... but it seems a little too suspect to leave as ‘just salt’.

(5) Speaking of Bismarck, from that earlier interview with Koji Fox, he also has this to say, which... what else have you been hiding in plain sight... (highlights again mine.)

Or the Crystarium’s just going around seasoning their meals with primal mama, who knows.

Eep, this post got away from me. Anyway, i’m not really sure what to DO with any of this information. as many of my friends know i’ve been harping on about this for years at this point, and i’m not the best at speculation and guessing accurately where stories end up going - but it feels more right than ever to talk about it now after that poem was release.

hells, maybe they’ll give us another tower. say... a tower of bab-il, to take us to the moon? 6.0 FFIV expansion pretty please??

#ffxiv speculation #ffxiv #hydaelyn #final fantasy 14 #ff14

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an-exotic-writer · 4 years ago

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not a goodbye, but a new hello!

i think it’s safe to say i’ve stopped writing for bts. (but i still write @qqtxt (tomorrow x together), @butterbeerblurbs (fred weasley) and @shieldedreams (multifandom!))

heyyyyyy guys ;w; this is long overdue but i feel like i should at least write about this haha. i’ve been in and out of tumblr recently and it’s been, oof it’s been AGES. and i’m grateful to all 13k of you that have been here throughout this journey. i still get occasional follows every now and then, which is so heartwarming!!!

but i feel like i should come out and say that i don’t have much interest in writing about bts, exo, or any of the k-pop idols i used to on this blog. [also side note, my url is an-exotic-writer because at the time, exo didn’t have a fandom name and we called ourselves exotics LMAO. and i have too many damned links to change so we’ll just keep this rolling ok] but this blog will still be up should anyone wants to read anything. (note that all smut/mature content was removed - lmao i had a panic time SOZ)

i guess i started falling out of it like, 4 years ago? and slowly when the community of writers i grew up writing with, suddenly left as well, i just felt like i didn’t belong anymore because there’s so many new writers (oh, just to mention that i think it’s AMAZING there’s so many writers for BTS now, it’s INCREDIBLEEE but i just didn’t feel like i know anyone anymore back in 2014 until 2016 where it was a community where everyone kind of knew each other haha, i mean i fell out of the community and slowly with bts as well).

i still love bts in a way i don’t think i’ll ever love another artist, i still love most of their songs. i just don’t keep up with them as much and slowly that fuelled into my interest with writing with them.

and it sucks, because i do try to write for them but it just didn’t inspire me to write anymore. i still have about a hundred drafts written for them, some drabbles, some blurbs, some fully planned fics that would never see the light of day and that’s okay!!! i’m gonna let go of all of that because i truly don’t see myself continuing anymore and i don’t want to put out anything that’s not with my full of heart.

i tried coming back twice, and even both times i failed miserably. i felt like i couldn’t write anything or even try to when my heart wasn’t there anymore. so i really do think it’s time to let go.

so thank you for the past 3 glorious years from 2014 until 2017, and it has been an amazing ride thus far! i’ll still be active on this account because it’s my main! but i’ll be using it to mostly like and follow other people and... read harry potter fics LOL. i’m absolutely in lOVE with fred weasley so i’ll be writing (mostly) about him over @butterbeerblurbs! and i’m starting to write for chris evans characters (and possibly MCU/tom holland) over @shieldedreams!

i also noticed this was more of what i really wanted to write about when i had a long (and overdue call) with @astaegmatism / @cno-inbminor. she’s truly my ride or die, someone i’ve met on tumblr and since 2014 up until now, we’re still the best of friends (i’d honestly take a bullet for karebun LOL). and when i had a chat with her about how i feel about not writing for bts and wanting to write for harry potter, hearing her encourage me and say that it’s never too late for anyone to get into something, especially not harry potter, i think it made me like, want to go for it???

the both of us went through a phase of ABSOLUTELY adoring bts. writing about them, planning series together, WRITING TOGETHER, staying up late just to watch them, and suddenly realising we don’t write for them as much, i had to understand that it was okay. i admired karebun when she started writing for haikyuu, and ngl i only read haikyuu fics from her because it’s KAREBUN. (ps she goes by K / Kay, karebun is my nickname for her LOL). so i thought, maybe i could try that with hp. and at least if no one reads them, honestly, they’re my guilty pleasure and that’s how it all started with bts in the first place! :D

so when i created the url for hp, and the url i wanted was not taken, i was like ??? and then i purchased the ebooks to start reading and i was like ??? i actually enjoy reading the book HAHAHA sooooo long story short:

TLDR: - this account will be inactive, feel free to unfollow if you wish! - i won’t be deleting any fics! just that i won’t be publishing any bts fics anymore! - txt fics are over @qqtxt - hp fics are over @butterbeerblurbs - mcu/marvel/chris evans/tom holland stuff (maybe writings) @shieldedreams - if you like haikyuu or wonder what i read nowadays, honestly apart from hp fics i search on the tab, it’s karebun’s writing so head on over to @cno-inbminor !

thank you once again and i hope everyone has been safe and healthy!

this isn’t a goodbye but a new hello :)

if you would like to talk as well, my asks are open for anything! be it on here or on my other writing account now hehe. take care my darlings! muah!

#a/n #notes #yep #its been a long time to address this but here it is hahaha #i feel like i can officially let go now #stay safe babes!!!#<3

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emotionalthinker · 3 years ago

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Gone Girl: Is it Feminist?

Hello! Been a while since I posted.

So after watching this movie for the fifth time, I’ve decided to do a brief analysis on the movie…

Gone Girl (2014)

…especially on Miss Amy Elliot Dunne right here.

I know this movie’s hype has been long gone but I somehow can’t help but randomly think about it. So without further ado, let’s talk about Gone Girl (dir. David Fincher) and why it’s so phenomenal.

Let’s start with the plot.

This movie is about a woman who meticulously frame her husband for her own murder because of his infidelity and laziness. This is no spoiler guys, the movie is basically about that.

But in more details, here goes (spoiler alert!): From the beginning of the movie, all that is shown is that Amy Elliot Dunne was missing on the day of her wedding anniversary with Nick Dunne. Nick was very confused, but all suspicion was on him. We follow Nick along with the investigation. As the investigation goes on, flashback scenes from Amy’s diary was shown, from how she met Nick, how they had the best sex, how they were laid off of their jobs, until how they found themselves in the suburbs of Missouri and their marriage going to perils.

In the middle of the movie, it was revealed that Amy was the mastermind of the plotted crime. She explained her motive behind framing Nick into murdering her, along with how she could get away with such a well-planned staged crime.

The story ends with Amy returning home covered in blood, saying she had to kill her ‘kidnapper’, that is her ex (he didn’t kidnap her). Did she and Nick end up separating? Of course… Not! They stayed together as an infamous All-American couple because if Nick filed a divorce, he will be seen as the bad guy!

Amazing right? I know.

So, this movie was a huge, HUGE topic in the 2010s. One side said that this movie favors to the ‘female fantasy’. Women feel awesome that a character such as Amy Elliot was able to overpower the man who had mistreated her. Not with physicality, but with her wit and intelligence. Some women felt empower by this movie in an unconventional way, that is why it became so popular.

On the other hand, Amy is still a villain. She manipulated others to hurt his lying, lazy, cheating husband. Heartbreak was the motivation of her crime. She is emotional, she wants vengeance. How can this movie be empowering for women?

So... Is this movie feminist or not?

Answering that question is not as easy as I thought.

First of all, yes, Gone Girl was a novel written by a female: Gillian Flynn. Therefore Amy Elliot Dunne is written by someone who really understand how women think, what motivates them, how they react to crisis, and their strengths and weaknesses.

The crime that Amy did was an extremely well-planned one. She drained her own blood, faked her own pregnancy, wrote a false diary with at least 300 entries only to half-burned it, bought a getaway car, even almost killing herself. Her goal was to humiliate her husband, she'd die to see Nick in prison because of her.

To achieve her goal, she manipulates people The way men can't: appealing to her female qualities. Let's explore some of the female tropes (mostly written by men) that she exploited:

Drinking wine and crying to other suburban moms about her exaggerated problem: emotionally unstable husband.

Faking pregnancy because “America loves pregnant women.”

Planning everything very thoroughly due to her free to me being a stay-at-home wife.

Wrote in her fake diary that she wanted a child, but her husband doesn't.

Even after putting her husband through such hell (almost getting arrested, being the prime suspect of a murder, being hated by women from the whole country), Amy returned and got pregnant for real so Nick cannot leave him. Unless he wanted to be seen as the bad guy, of course.

Is she really that sweet, trophy wife type of girl though? No. She only used those acts for her own advantage. The way she acted in front of others vs. when she's alone is drastically different. Her fake smile quickly shifted when other characters walk out of the room. She is the perfect example of misleading narrator (a trope I dearly admire). Even I’m not sure which of the stories in her fake diary is real or not real.

The coolest thing about Amy Elliot Dunne is that she used female stereotypes (the cool girl, the trophy wife, the mad woman, the a type with a perfect degree), to achieve the goal nobody else could ever pull off so perfectly. In short, Gone Girl is a story written by a woman who uses the stereotypes men create for women to narrate a flawless criminal mastermind who uses said stereotypes for her own advantage.

But even with such a well-crafted plan, Amy still found herself in a bind and obstacle (she lost all of her money during her getaway due to someone she thought she could trust). Even so, she quickly found an alternative that didn’t only save her life, but allowed her to create a more convincing and sensational story for the media to fight over. That’s what make this story so phenomenal: It’s not ideal, but people can’t help but remember it.

In conclusion: I’m pretty sure this movie wasn’t created to appeal to the female fantasy or to empower women by narrating a “strong female character”. However, the creation of the character Amy Elliot Dunne takes female tropes in movie to a whole new level: therefore the film’s success.

ESSAY BY : Raina Safira Fachri

INSPIRED BY : that one Youtube video that I cannot find anymore ffs

#movies #film #kekinean #movie review #gone girl #movie analysis #david fincher

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oh-mother-of-darkness · 4 years ago

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Hello. I am, as you know, an American. I turned eighteen in 2014, voted in my first presidential election in 2016, and voted in my second presidential election last week via early voting in the state of Texas.

I’m reflecting right now on the difference between those experiences. This is going to be a very self-indulgent essay.

The 2016 election was in my third and final year of undergrad at Texas A&M University. At the time, I was living with a roommate who grew up in a town of 2,000, all of them members of her church. I loved her very much, but she was the most sheltered person I’ve ever met.

I was only a few years ahead of her. My home growing up was deeply liberal about many of the things that counted, but deeply conservative on equally important things. For me, leaving for college was a radicalization speed-run.

I, a good Memphis girl, moved to Texas and encountered for the first time in my life white homogeny and everything that comes with it. I made most of my friends at A&M through a Christian orientation camp that I attended, then worked at. I went to school at a history department that was overwhelmingly male and war-obsessed.

My second semester, I was randomly sorted into a writing seminar on the American Civil War and Reconstruction. There were eight other students in that class, all of them Texans. By day two I had gotten into a open fight with one of my classmates after he used the phrases “one of the humane parts of slavery” and “the secession declarations are moving and beautiful appeals, if you read them,” and “well I’m not going to criticize my own state.”

We got into at least one yelling match per week from that point forward. It was a formative experience for me-- not just him but the seven other students that took his side every time because they just couldn’t conceptualize anything outside of their own experiences, and frankly, I couldn’t either.

It rocked my world to be surrounded by people who told me, among other things, that their high schools flew the Confederate battle flag or Lee was their all time role-model (because he actually didn’t want to secede! He didn’t believe in it, but Virginia did, so he put his own qualms aside and served his country, and that’s what we all have to do). I ran a survey once by knocking on every door in a dorm hall and asking the two people inside why the Civil War happened.

I feel like you can guess the most common answer I got. Only two said slavery. Six didn’t know what the Civil War was.

The last week of the semester, my class read a collection of recorded oral accounts of freed slaves during Reconstruction. My nemesis told me that he “didn’t realize black people actually had it bad.” At the same time, I was struggling with my sexuality, my relationship to my religion, my relationship with my parents, and a handful of newly-diagnosed but long-existing mental illnesses. I wasn’t having fun.

Over the next three years, I tried my hardest to humanize the people that said disgusting things about minorities, poverty, and me personally. I barely won on that one, and I’m actually really proud that I did, even if it took me a few years. I can trace the biggest change in me directly to my nemesis from the history department, the kid that made me so mad that I started arguing back. I was too scared to do that before.

By 2016, I was in full existential spin-out-- a very suddenly liberal kid fighting my whole family, all of my classmates, and most of my friends in an explosive political climate, the first I had ever participated in.

I voted by Tennessee absentee ballot in 2016. On election night, I ordered takeout for me and my roommate, who I knew had voted red. Confident, like pretty much everybody, that Clinton would win, I was trying to show her that I didn’t hate her. She went to bed after dinner, also so certain that Clinton would win that she didn’t bother to stay up.

I sat in front of my laptop sewing a birthday present for a friend (Kenza, actually), while the votes came in. I wasn’t super alarmed when the map turned red. I just figured the blue states hadn’t finished counting yet.

The map didn’t get any bluer. By 1am, I knew what was about to happen. They called it an hour later, while I was sobbing on my floor. I threw up in the bathroom out of pure anxiety. I got two anonymous messages telling me the asker was going to commit suicide. Neither of them responded to my replies. I don’t actually know what happened to them.

I remember riding the bus to class the next morning and distinctly seeing that most of the racial minorities there had swollen eyes from crying. The girl with the pride stickers all over her laptop didn’t show up that day, and I’m kind of glad she didn’t, considering the way some of our classmates in the back were loudly talking about “the gays.” Hope she’s okay.

My roommate came home completely unaware that Clinton lost. I was crying in my room when that happened. I remember showing her a demographic map of who voted which way. She got visibly upset when she figured out what races how. I think she really did feel guilty.

That Thanksgiving, one of my cousins tweeted, “I can’t wait to go argue with my liberal cousin today. The wins. Keep. Coming,” an hour before he walked into my house. Inauguration day was January 20, 2017. I decided to go to law school a week later, the day the president signed the Muslim ban. That’s when I figured out for the first time just how much power the courts have. The last three years have only enforced that.

I got angrier and angrier during law school, egged on by a few friends but more than anything just... finally conscious of exactly how the American system works and exactly who’s behind it. I still live in Texas, farther west now, and I’m working my first legal job. I’m going to be a licensed attorney next week.

I went back and forth for months about how this election was going to shake out. I knew there wasn’t going to be an overwhelming red majority this time, but my big fear was an election close enough that the Supreme Court could take it. That fear doubled last month, at RBG’s death.

I was hoping for a blue enough victory on election night that there wouldn’t be a week of uncertainty, but that was unlikely, and it didn’t happen. I obsessively refreshed my election map all of Wednesday and Thursday, aware that at least some states would flip after mail-in ballots came in, but unsure which would.

Again, my great fear was a blue victory held down by only one state. Given (I would say “any” chance here, but I don’t mean “any” chance because genuinely jurisdiction or facts or legal merit don’t matter to the Supreme Court) an opportunity to make one (1) decision that hands over a red election, please know that a conservative supermajority would take it. I cannot emphasize enough how true that is and how important it is for all of us to grasp that.

Watching Georgia flip was one of the best experiences of my life, and it’s a little hard for me to articulate why, but I’m going to give it a shot here. I’m southern. I’m from the South, and for this conversation it’s really important that I’m from Memphis, a black city and a center of black music and culture.

When people think about the South, they think of the white South, and on some level, they should. It is absolutely essential to understand the white South in order to understand American history. Let me be 100% clear here. That is not a good thing. American majority history is not good. We are not a good country.

It’s near-impossible to understand why that’s true without knowing exactly what happened in the white South and exactly what is still happening there now. With that, however, is another truth that most folks don’t get.

The SouthTM is white and needs to die. The South as it actually exists is partially white yes, but it is also everyone else that lives here, particularly black folks. Southern culture is black, not white. Georgia flipped because the people that have always, always been there finally got to crack apart the conservative machine holding the South hostage.

That’s amazing. It’s fucking mind-blowing. I watched it happen at 3:30 in the morning days after Election Day, and holy shit holy shit, Georgia flipped. Atlanta won. Holy fucking shit.

I would be terrified right now if only Georgia flipped, because SCOTUS would have found a way to throw out a few thousand votes. Inevitable. Absolutely certain on that one.

With a few states of buffer, I don’t think that’s going to happen. I really do think it’s over.

I came home after work on Friday and immediately went to sleep because I hadn’t really done that since Tuesday. I woke up at noon today, checked the map, checked my messages, and saw what happened while I was gone. After that, I went back to bed until 5:30pm. I’m really just getting up now, after most of 24 hours asleep.

I don’t know if I would say that I’m happy right now, but I am overwhelmingly relieved. I’m under no illusions that a Biden victory will solve everything, but I also do think this is a real thing to celebrate. I’ll take suggestions on how to celebrate right now, actually, since I’m finally awake.

I’ll be angry forever, I think, but this is a good thing, and I’d like to enjoy it. If you’re happy right now, hey, tell me about it. I’ll be thrilled with you. I want to hear it. Congrats to all of us. Love y’all.

#that's me rambling thanks and gig em #there are some things to tag here huh #uspol #politics #suicide #this would be a good time to remind everybody that i am white #so take that into account re: Georgia #personal i guess #not comics sorry

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forever-a-night-owl · 3 years ago

Text

Endings, Beginnings: Chaos (Part 1)

Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV show)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x OFC (Alex)

Rating: T? I’ve never done this before. Let a girl know!

Warnings: canon-typical violence, a touch of language, Merle Dixon, critical lack of knowledge about medical things and hospitals but here I am anyway!

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: Hi there! Posting for the first time. I wrote this years ago (terrified to say it was probably 2014-2015) and have just been sitting on it ever since. I reread it today and didn’t find any glaring mistakes. Huge shoutout to @egcdeath for encouraging me to post!

A/N 2: There is not a lot of Daryl and Merle in this part. They show up more in the next bit!

They had been waiting for the ambulance for nearly fifteen minutes when it finally flew up to the ER doors. Then there was the rush to get the two crash victims into exam rooms. Pushing, yelling, the usual organized chaos.

It was a hell of a lot worse than dispatch had let on. One of the guys probably wasn’t going to make it through the night. Kat, bless her heart, was on her fourth shift and was jerking the stretcher back into a straight line.

“Watch it,” Alex grunted over the patient’s yelps.

Kat and another nurse pushed the patient into the first exam room. Alex tried to get the less nearly dead man into exam two, but some idiot with a cucumber stuck up his ass was still on the table. She swore under her breath and backed out of the room. Exam three still had the whacked out overhead light. Exam four was free.

“He’s stable now. He was half dead when he was admitted. He’s been sleeping ever since and he needs to be left alone,” Alex explained to room 410’s brother for the third time.

“An’ I’m g’nna see ‘im anyway, m’kay, sweetheart?” he slurred, trying to push past her.

Alex sighed. The smell of whiskey and sweat was oozing from him. “Look, Merle – it’s Merle, right? – Look, your brother is stable but he’s still weak. He’s got three broken ribs and there’s a possible hemorrhage near his liver. When we’re done with the other tests you can see him. Until then, you can wait in the waiting room or go back to the bar you clearly came from.” She stood in the doorway leading to the ICU rooms.

“Fine, Candy Stripes. Whatever ya want. I’ll be here. Waitin’.” He sat down heavily in the seat nearest the nurses’ station. “I’m real worried about my baby brother, ya know?”

Merle had been well behaved, all things considered. He finally stopped badgering Alex when a nurse, who was friendlier and less rule abiding, slipped him a spiked coffee and laughed at all his jokes. His brother, Daryl, was doing well. The hemorrhage was cleared in a quick surgery, but he was still on heavy pain medication. He was quiet. Merle was always the one to ask about Daryl’s meds if he hadn’t gotten them yet.

Daryl had been in 410 for three days when the suits first started coming in. They were from just down the road, as it were – the CDC. They flashed ID badges whenever they needed something – particularly access to rooms with “patients suffering suspicious symptoms.” That was the most information anyone could pull from them and the hospital’s medical director wasn’t talking to any staff about what they wanted – needed – to hear. So the doctors and nurses started comparing charts of patients that the CDC agents had seen. High fevers, respiratory issues. Uncommon for a Georgia summer. Other symptoms were flu-like, so the labs were mixing different cocktails of antivirals in an attempt to find some cure or respite from the illness.

Nothing was working.

People were starting to die.

=============================================================

Alex had been working the night shift ever since Daryl had been admitted. He was quiet during her shifts and somehow quieter still when the CDC suits prowled the halls. He mentioned to Alex one night that one of them had come into his room between shifts.

“Did they bother you?” Alex asked, looking up from his chart.

“Nah,” he grunted, fiddling with the monitor on his finger.

“Hey,” she gently chastised. “Leave it alone.”

Merle showed up a few minutes later and stood in the doorway, blocking Alex in. “Maybe you know why the suits are here?” he asked, leaning toward her.

“Drop it, Merle,” Daryl said from behind Alex.

“Now come on, Stripes. I saw you talkin’ to some of ‘em this morning.”

“Merle,” Daryl said again.

Merle pushed Alex into the doorframe and towered over her. “They aren’t telling us anything,” she said, fear flashing across her eyes.

“Can’t imagine why you’d have trouble gettin’ a little inside information.”

“Because it’s classified information and I am not classified,” she said carefully, sliding between Merle and the door. She could smell the bourbon on his breath and saw a vein pulsing in his neck. What the hell was he on?

“None a’ these guys owe you anything? Reciprocate for a blow after a late night?”

She straightened up. “Go to hell.”

Merle watched her go, because damn, what a piece of ass.

=============================================================

Word was that triage was a nightmare. More and more people were coming in sick and there wasn’t room for them. Alex had stayed away from the ER as much as possible and charted.

She made her rounds at seven that night. A nurse was standing outside of room 410. “What’s up?” Alex asked. The nurse looked into the room with a grimace. Alex looked in and saw Merle. “I got you. What’s he need?”

The nurse handed her a paper cup of pills. “Hydrocodone – two tabs.”

Merle was sitting by Daryl’s bed with his feet up. He was flipping through channels on the TV with the volume blaring. Daryl was dozing but still playing with the pulse ox monitor on his finger. She gently swatted his hand away and pushed her hair aside to look at the stiches on his forehead.

“Feeling any better?” she asked, passing him the pills.

“Lil’ bit, yeah. This food ain’t helpin’ any, though.”

She laughed before glancing at Merle. “Visiting hours are over – hey, still not my rule.”

Merle muttered his usual string of curses when he left; this time he also threw the remote at the foot of the bed and left the TV on. Daryl tried to reach for the remote and winced. Alex pushed him back down and took the remote.

“On or off?”

“Off.”

Alex looked around the room before speaking again. “Is he taking your meds?”

“Nah.” He started playing with the heart monitor wires.

She stared at him for nearly a minute. “Alright,” she sighed. “Logan and Macy are on duty if you need anything.”

Daryl nodded and then shifted around the bed for a few seconds, trying to get comfortable enough to sleep. Several wires tangled and Alex moved to fix them. “’S fine,” he grumbled.

She untangled the wires, casting an occasional glance at him. “Not really. Ripping out an IV hurts more than you’d think.” He glared at her for a few seconds. “I’m not gonna go off and tell Merle or anything,” she said quietly. Finished with the wires, Alex stuck one of the heart monitor patches back on his chest. “’Night.”

She left his room, shutting the door behind her. Two of the suits passed by, walking quickly. Alex followed after them. They went into the conference room across the hall from the resident break room. It was packed with doctors and CDC officials. Alex leaned against the wall outside the room and listened.

She wished she hadn’t.

=============================================================

A new strain of influenza, they’d said. There was not vaccine, it was highly contagious, and it had a high mortality rate. It was transmitted via “person to person contact.” It hit hard and fast and killed in a matter of days. Alex left after that. Signed out early, said she wasn’t feeling well. Probably wasn’t the best thing to tell her supervisor, but she stuck with the excuse. Sitting in her car, Alex watched two cars speed in and park in front of the ER doors. Several people got out of each. Three of them staggered inside with the walk of a sick man.

Alex came in early for her next shift and her usually unflappable supervisor looked relieved. “Did you see anyone come in on your way out last night? Started coming in one after the other, all sick as dogs. Doctors put them all in quarantine and more CDC people came in to see them today.” She paused, looked around, and gave Alex a serious stare. “Be careful. Fourth floor is the last one to evacuate today. The whole hospital is going to be for the June flu patients.”

The quarantine zone began a few doors down from the elevators. The tenting, suits, masks, and anxious chatter set Alex on edge. The silence of the elevator was welcome. She stepped out onto the fourth floor and started working on discharge paperwork with the nurses. She breezed through the first few rooms and then grabbed the chart for 410.

Daryl cut his eyes from the TV screen to Alex when she came in. He nodded at her.

“Well hey, lil’ Miss Candy Striper,” Merle drawled from his seat.

Daryl huffed and threw the TV remote at his brother with a decent amount of force. “Doc, when can I get these stitches out?” he asked, motioning at his forehead.

“I can do that,” she said, going for the supply cabinet in the corner. “Someone came by with your afternoon meds?” She rolled across the room on a stool and set the scissors and butterfly bandages on the table beside the bed.

“Yeah. ‘Round three.”

Alex was having a time getting the gloves on – sweaty hands and latex gloves didn’t mix.

“Why so strung up, babydoll?” Merle asked.

“It’s rough out there,” she said shortly. The stitches came out in two easy snips and she pressed the bandage against the healing cut.

“Heard they’re kickin’ everyone out by six,” Merle said casually.

“Hospital is going to be a quarantine zone for the sick. Be glad Daryl’s getting out now.”

“Damn,” Merle muttered.

“The news ain’t said anything like that,” Daryl said, nodding toward the TV. A carefully coiffed news anchor was reporting on cancelled city events. The ticker at the bottom of the screen had a few figures about the June Flu running. The three of them watched in silence as a death toll suddenly scrolled by. “Get some rest,” Alex said quietly. “Someone should be by with your discharge papers and clothes soon.”

Merle scoffed.

“He needs it if you’re taking all his pain medicine,” Alex said sharply. Daryl flushed a deep red and Merle tried to protest. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Merle held up his hands in surrender. “Aw, honey, look at ‘im. He’s a baby but he’s tough. He don’t need it all, ya know?”

Alex backed toward the door. “No, I don’t.” she said. She turned to Daryl. “Be careful out there.”

“Oh, we will be, Candy Stripes,” Merle said, kicking his feet up on Daryl’s bed.

=============================================================

The situation was rapidly deteriorating. The last of the “regular” patients had been discharged or evacuated to another hospital.

CDC suits were still standing in corners, having serious conversations on cell phones and with each other. All medical staff had been divided between patient management and placement. Some that were assigned to the sick zones quit on the spot while others put on face masks (biohazard suits had all been claimed hours ago) and got to work.

Alex was helping move infected patients into rooms. She was going back to the ER waiting room to bring back more infected with the screaming started. CDC suits sprinted ahead of her and one of them stopped her at the door. “Go back to your assigned station,” he said tersely.

“This is my assigned station,” Alex snapped back.

“Get. Out,” he snarled.

The door swung open behind him: absolute chaos.

Blood and entrails covered the floors and walls. Some people were fighting, others were hunched over screaming bodies on the floor. Were they -

The door shut.

Gunshots.

“C’mon, c’mon, let’s get back, we got other people to worry about,” someone muttered, dragging Alex backward. Rob, head of orthopedics, was pulling Alex down the hall.

“What...what was that?” No answer. “Rob, what was that? What’s going on?” He kept pulling her along the packed hallway and Alex let him, too shocked to do differently. “Tell me what’s going on. Rob, please. What was that? What’s happening?”

“You’ll see in a minute. Five staff left and three more are infected now. I need you in Zone Three - yes ma’am, the severe cases. Here, fresh mask.” He forced a smile and pushed her through the doors of Sick Zone Three.

It hit her like a wall - the heat, the noise, the stench. Alex gagged. “How many bodies are here?”

“We don’t want to cause any more panic,” Rob said, a look of resignation on his face. He pointed her into a room. The beds were pushed side by side along the walls to fit as many people as possible inside. “Okay, what you’re gonna do is watch this room. The second someone dies you tell us. Don’t wait, and if no one’s outside, just yell. Understand. Do not hesitate.”

Alex pulled the mask on. “What’s the rush with the bodies?”

Rob scanned the room, then the hall. “They won’t really be dead,” he said lowly.

“What?”

“Rob, get out here now!” Someone yelled. And he was gone, leaving Alex alone with the almost undead.

They all breathed so shallowly that it was hard to tell if they were dead or not. Every few minutes she went around the room and shook legs or asked questions to see if they were alive. After three rounds one man wasn’t answering questions or responding to a particularly violent leg shake. Alex reached for his neck to feel for a pulse.

“Don’t,” a weak voice warned. Alex pulled her hand back, remembering Rob’s warning.

She went to the door and looked out. “Someone’s dead,” she called uncertainly, feeling foolish. “Hello?”

“Be there in a second,” someone yelled from the next room.

“Alright,” she whispered, going back into the room.

This was fine.

The dead man was sitting up.

This was not fine.

He turned and took a bite out of the woman next to him. The woman screamed and all the other infected patients screamed. Alex backed into the door, shocked into silence once more. There was more panicked yelling in the hall.

“Alex, move!” Rob yelled. Where? Towards the dead cannibal? “ALEX, NOW.”

And then she was falling, a growling weight pushing her down. A man who looked like he had been dead for three days and was covered in blood grabbed her arm and tried to take a bite of her. She screamed and tried to pull away, but for a dead man he was strong. She was vaguely aware that she was pushing herself across the floor and still trying to push the dead man off of her. It was growling and snapping at her, strings of blood oozing from its mouth.

Then it was gone and a gunshot echoed in the small room. Alex’s ears rang to the point of nausea and someone pulled her up and out of the room.

“Did it get you? Bite you, scratch you, anything? Alex, sweetheart, look at me.” Rob anxiously scanned her face. She shook her head and tried to take a full breath but could only get short gasps. “It’s okay, it’s over, you’re okay,” Rob said. He pushed his gun into her hands. “I know you can use this. Alex, focus. Shoot ‘em in the head, stab ‘em if you can. They’re attracted to noise, that’s why that one went in there. Understand? They only go down with a headshot. Get out of here, understand? Get far away from people -”

“What about here? Don’t you need people?”

“This place is a death trap, Alex. I’ll leave soon, don’t worry.”

“Don’t you need this? I have one at home, I can’t take yours.” Alex tried to hand the gun back to Rob but he only pushed it back.

“You need that for getting home. There are plenty around here; don’t worry about me. Just get out of here and be safe. Maybe I’ll see you around. Good luck, Alex.” Then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.

#the walking dead fanfiction #walking dead fanfiction #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x ofc #owl writes stories

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dirtykpopsnaps · 4 years ago

Text

Soulmates — Kim Taehyung (soulmate au)

Warnings: None

Contains: Cute soulmates!Tae and Y/N meeting each other

Requested: no

Words: 7, 395 (holy SHIT. I DID NOT EXPECT THIS TO BE SO LONG. But, uh...😳😅)

———————————————————————

The sunlight slowly makes it’s way into my room, spreading across the floor of my bedroom. The sound of my alarm is the first thing wake me up. Groaning softly, I pick up my phone and turn off the alarm, flopping back in bed. Sighing, I open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling. “Do I have to get up? Is work that important?” I ask myself. Finally, I let out another defeated sigh and climb out of bed, walking into the bathroom.

All around me, the house is quiet. I’m fairly sure that my family is asleep, other than one of my parents. I can hear someone down in the kitchen making breakfast. I go into the bathroom and close the door, turning toward the mirror. As soon as I catch sight of my reflection, my stomach drops and I groan loudly, dropping my face into my hands. “What. Is it. With. You. Dying. Your hair?!” I groan, pulling at my hair and cursing my soulmate. Normally, my hair is a nice, pretty Y/H/C. I like it like that. But, then...there’s my soulmate attachment.

You see, in this world, everyone has what is called a “soulmate attachment”. Some people see in black and white until they meet their soulmate. Other people see words that their soulmate writes on their skin. Some have the date that they’ll meet written at their wrist. Mine, on the other hand, is a hair color soulmate attachment. Since the day I was born, I’ve had a large stripe of hair that shows the color of my soulmate’s hair is. For a while, everything was normal. It was black and I liked it like that. Then, right around 2013 or 2014...it started changing every. other. month. At first, it was dirty blonde. That was okay. Then, it was a purpley-brown...I can deal with that. Then, one day, I woke up and it was bright. orange.

At this point, I should be used to it. My soulmate dyes his hair a lot, but...why such random colors? The weirdest day was when I woke up and, for whatever reason, it was half blonde, half pink. I nearly ripped the stripe of hair out. Now, at least the strip is a normal color. The strip of hair is a dark brown, verging slightly on black. I shake my head and sigh, pulling my fingers through my hair. “Just...Just why? I just wanna know why,” I sigh, deciding to ignore it and continue with my day.

Quickly, I go through my routine in the bathroom, then go back to my room. I pull on my work clothes, pulling my apron overtop of the plain t-shirt and work pants. The logo of the catering service I work for is splattered across the front of the apron. Once I’m ready, I head downstairs to grab some breakfast before I have to leave.

When I enter the kitchen, my mom looks over her shoulder and chuckles at me. “I see your soulmate is at it again,” she laughs. I roll my eyes, grabbing a plate from our cabinet.

“Ha ha, very funny. Yes. He dyed his hair again. And I swear I’m gonna murder him for putting me through this once I finally meet this guy,” I huff. Mom calmly tips some scrambled eggs onto my plate and I put my bread in the toaster. She just chuckles again, shaking her head.

“No, you won’t. You’ll be too in love as soon as you see him,” she smiles.

“Mhm, we’ll see how it plays out,” I say sarcastically.

I eat my breakfast calmly, thanking my soulmate silently for not dying his hair another strange color. My boss almost strangled me when I came into work with a stripe of bright blue hair about a year ago. I had to quickly explain that it was my soulmate attachment while trying to avoid his outstretched hands. I mean, there’s not much I can do about the fact that my soulmate dyes his hair weird colors. I’ve just gotta deal with it.

Calmly, I eat the food on my plate. When I’m finished, I drop my plate in the sink and hurriedly kiss my mom on the cheek. “Alright, I’m heading out. Tell Dad and Casey that I love them when they wake up,” I tell her, slipping on my work shoes.

“Will do, sweetheart. Have a good day. Hope this big job goes well!” She responds. I smile and thank her before grabbing my necessary things (ex: keys, phone, wallet, etc.), shoving them into my bag and hurrying out the door.

The drive into work is fairly easy. My work is located in a big building on Main Street and there’s literally no way to miss it. When I get there, I park in the employee’s lot out back and head inside. As always, the shop is very busy. Technically, I double as a caterer and baker. The bakery that I work at is very well known around our town and has won a bunch of awards. We’re always super busy, especially around holidays when the owner makes holiday themed snacks and treats. His peppermint peanut brittle is to *die* for.

I walk into the building and hang my bag on the hook, making sure that everything is there before I enter the bakery. I nod my head once and push open the double doors into the bakery. Already, workers are walking back and forth to give our orders. Several of the booths at the front of the shop are filled with chattering customers. At the cash register, the owner Eli (read like Ellie) turns to me. He smiles softly when he sees my hair. “I see you dyed your hair again,” he chuckles. I narrow my eyes and step up beside him to help with customers.

“The changing hair color is not my decision, El,” I remind him.

“Oh, I know. It’s just funny how frustrated it makes you,” he laughs. I roll my eyes and look at the customer before me.

The man before me is tall and lean with wide shoulders. His hair is hidden under a baseball cap, but I can just see the edges of sandy blonde-grey hair, cut short at the sides. He has a pair of dark sunglasses precariously perched on the edge of his nose. “How can I help you?” I ask sweetly, folding my hands.

“I’m here for a pick up for Kim? Should be a bunch of different bagels,” he tells me. He speaks perfect English, but there’s a slight accent to his voice that tells me he’s not from around here. I nod my head lightly and turn to look through the takeout orders.

Quickly, I’m able to find the large bag of bagels and hand it to him. “Also, I have a catering request set for today. Do I need to come pick that up, or...?” He trails off. I shake my head lightly.

“Oh, no, no. We’ll bring the catering to your event, but thank you for asking,” I smile. I carefully hand him the bag of bagels and make sure that he has a good hold on it before letting go. The man pays for the bagels and turns around, walking out onto the street silently. I watch him as he walks out, tilting my head to see him as he walks away. Eli comes turns to me and raises an eyebrow.

“Well, that was odd. It’s barely 8 in the morning and he was wearing sunglasses,” he points out.

“Yeah...that was a bit strange, but whatever. We need to work,” I say.

No customers are at my counter, so I begin filling the display case again. Eli has an odd way of forgetting to refill the display case at the end of the day. If I don’t do it, soon enough we won’t have a display of any of the baked goods or products that we have. When he sees me filling the case, Eli shoots me an apologetic smile and I just shake my head, laughing lightly.

For the most part, the morning is fairly normal. We get our regular customers coming in before work and even talk to some of them. I walk around the shop to clean off tables once customers leave. Eli and I have short conversations between customers, talking about random little things. Around 9:30, a few of the other workers come in. Eli pulls Garrett over and talks to him. “Okay, Garrett, you’re in charge for now. Y/N and I need to take some of the other workers and deliver to this catering gig, okay?” He says. Garrett nods his head and Eli shoots him a bright smile.

Soon after, Eli and I have gathered a small collection of the other workers, including some from the kitchen. Catering is always a big job, especially for our little bakery, and this was a *very* big catering job. As we all get into the delivery trucks, Eli explains that it’s for some sort of concert. A really popular group that’s been all around the world and have a stop here on their tour. However, it doesn’t fully settle in what he means until we pull up to the stadium where they’re playing. My jaw drops as I look around at everything. Although I’ve been to this stadium before for concerts, seeing it empty makes it seem so much bigger. Seats are scattered everywhere and rise up in a semi-circle around the center stage, which is also a lot bigger than I expected. All of it seems so ginormous.

As I look at the size of the stadium, Eli steps away. I see him walk up to a fidgety man holding a large list of some sort. He strikes up a short conversation with the man and, after a couple moments, the man gives him directions and points towards the large curtains hiding the backstage. Eli raises his hand in thanks and walks back over, leading me towards the catering trucks with a hand on my back. “So, what was that about?” I ask, looking up at him.

“Just asking where we should the baskets and plates. He said he wants them scattered around for the members of the group and the stagehands and such. Also said we should probably put a good amount of food in the dressing room,” he tells me. I nod my head, then a question pops into my mind.

“Hey, El? Who is this for? The stadium is so huge and I’m not even sure who we’re catering for,” I chuckle. He shoots me a kind smile.

“Like I said, they’re a pretty big group. B...B...B-something. I can’t quite remember. They’re a k-pop group,” he says. I nod my head lightly and we finally arrive back at the catering truck.

Without much talking between us, Eli and I begin to unpack the tables first. Obviously, we need the tables to be set up before we can start putting the food on them. The tables are foldable ones that you might use for a picnic, so Eli and I carry them back one by one. When we’re about to start setting them up, the man I saw Eli with comes backstage again. Eli explains that it’s the group’s manager. The manager directs us to set up the tables against a far wall that has minimal decorations. Eli and I start to set up the tables, making sure that they’re sturdy enough to hold all the food that will be placed on top.

After the tables, the tablesclothd are easy to put on. Just throw them over the tables and make sure that they hang nicely and you’re set. Finally, we start bringing in the food. From what I can see as we unpack the truck, it looks like these people ordered about everything that our shop makes, and several plates of each. There’s sandwiches and breads, bagels and rolls. There’s salads and fruit bowls, and even some of the sweets and confections that we’re known for. Slowly, we take back the plates one by one and set them on the tables.

After I’ve taken back about five plates and bowls of randomly assorted foods, Eli stops me from getting more. “Okay, Y/N, I want you to take these next foods back to the dressing room. Fair warning, you’re going to be taking back a lot of food. The manager said most of the food should be in the dressing room at the back of the stadium. There should be a sign on the door,” he tells me. Eli unpacks one of the large, catering carts and starts packing plates and bowls on top of it. When the cart can’t hold any more food and I’m worried I might not be able to push it, he stops and looks at me again. “You’ll still have to come back for more,” he says, biting his lip and looking at everything. I just wave him off lightly.

“I’ve got it, El. I can do this,” I reassure him.

Calmly, I ask directions to the dressing room and Eli points me in the right direction. Slowly as to make sure that nothing falls off of the cart, I make my way back to the dressing room. As I get further into the stadium, I see less and less people bustling around. I make my way down a corridor with posters of the groups that have played here hung up on the wall. At the very end of this hallway, a large door is closed and I can already hear talking behind it. On the door, a big sign reads “BTS”. Hmm...so, that’s their name.

Shrugging to myself, I twist the doorknob and open up the door. Inside, the room is even bigger than it looks from the outside. It’s absolutely *huge* and it’s a good thing that it is. The room is filled with racks of clothes, stacks of shoes, makeup chairs and vanity tables, and several other assortments of objects. Two couches are pressed against the wall and several people are seated atop them. All of the people in the room are guys, all apparently waiting for someone or something. “Can we help you?” Someone asks. I look up and instantly feel slightly more comforted for whatever reason. Standing up from the couch is the man from this morning, although he’s ditched his baseball cap and sunglasses.

For a few seconds, I just stare at him. “Uh, sorry, sorry. Catering?” I say, smiling nervously and gesturing to the cart. The man lets out a slight chuckle and nods his head.

“Um, yeah...I can see that,” he laughs. Looking around the room, I internally groan. There’s no tables set up back here. I shake my head at Eli’s forgetfulness and curse myself for not asking. “Is something wrong?” The man questions. I shake my head at him.

“Oh, no, just was a little dumb. I forgot to bring back some tables for the food and stuff, so...I’ll be back,” I say slowly.

Without hesitation, I turn back around and make my way back to the catering truck. Eli is still unpacking foods and he gives me a confused look when I come back with all the food still on the cart. “Eli...did you seriously forget to tell me that you hadn’t taken back tables yet?” I ask, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“Dang it, knew there was something I forgot,” he groans, snapping his fingers in annoyance. He starts pulling tables out of the truck again and I get another cart for the tables. When the cart is full, i put some tablecloths on top and push it back to the dressing room again.

This time, the walk to the dressing room doesn’t seem as long. I’m at the room again in no time and open the door, pushing the cart inside. All the boys are still gathered inside, but now there are a couple women, as well. Two of the men are seated in chairs and the women are applying makeup to their faces. I pay little attention to much else and start taking the tables off the cart. “Do you need some help?” Someone asks. I gasp loudly and throw my hands up, covering my face. Immediately after, I drop them and grab my heart.

“Oh, Lord, you just scared me half to death,” I laugh breathlessly, clutching at my chest. This new man is also fairly tall. Even with his t-shirt on, I can see bulging muscles all along his arms. I raise my eyebrows in surprise, but look up into his sweet, brown eyes again.

“Do you need some help?” He asks again, nodding towards the tables. I look at them then back up at him.

“I mean...it wouldn’t hurt, but aren’t you busy?” I ask in confusion. He shrugs off the question and takes some of the tables off of the cart.

“Hobi, Tae, some help?” The man asks.

Getting up from the couch, the two new men grumble softly. “You ask if she needs help and then expect us to help you, typical,” the one man, Tae, grumbles. The first man rolls his eyes lightly at them, but they all start helping me with the tables. I set up some of the tables and the help from the three men is very nice. Setting up all these tables by myself would have been interesting. When all the tables are set up, I set out the tablecloths and nod my head. “Okay, I will be back with the food cart in a second,” I tell them. The first man nods his head lightly and I shoot him a soft smile, leaving the room again.

Back and forth, I travel with the carts of food and confections. As soon as I entered the dressing room with the plates of sandwiches and fruit bowls, all the men got up and started grabbing food. I laugh lightly and make sure to remind myself to grab another few plates of sandwiches and maybe another bowl of fruit. I between my travels, I have small conversations with the group of men. They all seem rather nice and ask me random questions as I work, putting the food on the tables. I ask them a few questions in return. A little awkwardly, I do admit that I’ve never heard of them before, but they simply laugh off my awkwardness and say that it’s alright. “If you want to hear our music, all you have to do is look us up on YouTube,” Jimin, a man with light brown hair, tells me. I nod my head lightly at him.

“Alright. I need to go grab some more plates of food because, wow, you’ve already eaten most of the sandwiches and fruit, but I’ll be back. Why don’t you pick something for me to hear when I’m back?” I suggest. Jimin’s face lights up with an adorable smile.

“What do you wanna hear? We have a lot of music,” he says.

Leaning against the cart lightly, I look back at him. “Tell me some of the names,” I say.

“Well, there’s Life Goes On, Dynamite, Mikrokosmos, Boy With Luv,” he starts, listing off random names of different songs. Finally, I just decide on a random song that he mentioned.

“Why don’t you play...Idol? That sounds interesting,” I say. He nods his head once and immediately grabs his phone off the couch. I leave the room again and go back to the truck for more sandwich plates and fruit. Eli’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline when he sees me come back.

“More food?!” He asks in shock. I nod my head, giving him wide eyes.

“There’s seven of them, and they’ve eaten through most of the sandwiches and fruit,” I tell him. He immediately heads into the truck and gets me more plates and bowls. I put the plates and bowls onto the cart and take them back to the dressing room yet again.

When I arrive, I push open the door again and start putting the plates and bowls on the tables. Jimin jumps off the couch and trots over happily, holding his phone out to me. He taps on the video and it begins with the sounds of little bubbles. I giggle lightly at it and how adorable it seems. Jimin chuckles at my little giggle and leads me over to the couch. I sit on the floor in front of the couch and feel several of the members gather around me to watch.

To be honest, the video is very interesting. There’s lots of color and lots of things going on in the video. The music is a very upbeat and interesting song and I actually really like it. However, about a minute and a half through the song, my mouth goes completely dry. On the screen, the member Tae is playing around and singing and just having fun. However, it’s the color of his hair that made my mouth go dry. His hair is *half blonde, half pink*. Immediately I stop the video and stare up at them. “When was this? When did this video come out?” I ask, my voice shaking as my heart rate skyrockets. All of the members give me very confused looks, looking around at each other.

“Um...2018? Yeah, the later months of 2018,” Jimin nods, looking around at everyone else for confirmation. I stare down at the paused video, then up at them again.

“Has...has it seriously been that long?” I ask, my voice quiet in shock. They all give me slightly nervous looks.

“Been that long since...what?” Hobi asks.

“Who...who had the pink and blonde hair? Who is this?” I ask, pointing at the man on the paused screen, just to be sure that I’m right.

Slowly, Tae raises his hand, nervousness written all over his face. I look up at him in shock, almost too amazed to believe it. “I...wow...you’re...you’re my soulmate!” I say in amazement. Immediately, his eyebrows knit in confusion and they all look at me like I’m crazy. “No, no, I can prove it! Look, my hair! I have a hair color soulmate attachment,” I say, picking up the stripe of mismatch hair. All their eyes land on the stripe and they look between Tae and I in shock.

“And...you’re sure I’m your soulmate?” He asks, his voice soft and just as amazed as mine.

“I...how many people have blonde and pink hair at the same time?! But, my stripe of hair changes all the time. I started changing around 2013, maybe 2014 and every few months it changes colors,” I explain.

“What kind of colors has it been?” Namjoon, the man from the bakery this morning, asks calmly.

“Well...all sorts! It’s been purple, it’s been orange, it’s been this like minty green, it’s been blood red. Over a year ago, early April of 2019 I guess, I woke up and it was this bright blue!” I say, listing off just a few colors that it’s been. They all burst into laughter, watching as Tae’s face goes red and he joins their laughter.

“So, you don’t really dye your hair, do you?” He asks, moving aside his hair and letting a stripe of Y/H/C hair stick out a little further than the rest. I giggle lightly, smiling up at him widely.

“Well, honestly, I don’t have to! You dye your hair enough for both of us!” More fits of laughter follow this.

Then, a thought hits me and I lean back against the couch, laughing loudly. “Oh, my God, I’m so happy. I feel so...relieved,” I giggle.

“Relieved?” Tae laughs, his eyes lighting up with that bright smile.

“Yes, relieved! With how much you dye your hair, I was worried your hair was gonna be, like, completely dead! And, honestly, please rest up on the hair dying. You have no idea how many people have commented on it at my work,” I giggle. He throws his hand up in defense, laughing loudly.

“It’s not my fault, I swear! I have to do it for work and stuff,” he laughs. I shake my head at him, finally letting my laughter die down.

“Well, tell them to stop then! This thing has been a pain in the ass ever since you started dying your hair!” I say, pointing at the stripe again. Tae shakes his head at me, a large smile covering his face.

Suddenly, I hear a knock at the door. Namjoon walks over and opens it up, peering out. I hear some talking, then Namjoon pops his head back into the room. “Uh, Y/N? Someone’s here for you,” he says, looking back at me. He opens the door a little more and Eli sticks his head inside.

“Y/N, have you been here the whole time? I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” He exclaims. I blush lightly, still unable to wipe the smile from my face.

“Sorry, sir. They’ve been having a little moment,” Jimin chuckles, looking between Tae and I. Eli knits his eyebrows together and I smile over at Tae, then look back at my boss.

“So, uh, Eli...meet my soulmate,” I giggle, gesturing towards Tae.

Jokingly, Tae strikes a silly pose and Eli just stares at him in shock, then looks back at me. “Oh, you’re kidding,” he laughs, a smile stretching across his face. I shake my head, smiling back at him.

“Nope, this is my soulmate!” I giggle excitedly. Eli smiles at him and walks up to Tae, shaking his hand happily.

“You’re a very lucky man,” Eli chuckles. Tae smiles brightly, looking at me again.

“I bet I am,” he says. I feel another blush stretching across my cheeks and hide my face in my hands, giggling.

“Well, I’m sorry, but I need to take her back to work,” Eli explains. Tae’s smile drops and he pouts adorably at Eli.

“Already?” He asks, sadness creeping into his voice. Eli nods his head softly.

“Afraid so. We still have to get back to the bakery and work a little before locking up.” Tae hangs his head, but then gets up from the couch and smiles again.

“I’ll walk you out,” he suggests.

Calmly, I stand up from the floor and say goodbye to all of the boys. “Well, it’s not *really* goodbye. You’ll be seeing us a lot more,” Hobi points out, smiling cheekily. I nod my head lightly.

“That I will,” I giggle. I hug all of the boys goodbye, then we finally leave the dressing room and make our way back to the catering truck. As we walk down the hall, Tae calmly slips his hand into mine and intertwines our fingers. I giggle again, leaning into his side happily. Eli just shakes his head at us, but he’s unable to wipe the smile from his face.

When we get to the catering truck, Tae lets go of my hand and pulls out his phone. I pull out mine, as well, knowing exactly what he’s doing. Quickly, we exchange numbers, then I slip my phone back into my pocket. “So...are you doing anything tonight?” He asks, looking down at me. I shake my head lightly at him. To be honest, my ‘plans’ had been to sit inside at my house and watch a movie or two, maybe binge a show with my family. A huge smile lights up his face. “Well, why don’t you come back for the concert tonight? I can get you backstage afterward and we can hang out and talk,” he suggests.

“You...You can do that so last minute?” I ask in surprise. He just shrugs his shoulders lightly.

“I’m pretty sure I can. I mean, you’re my soulmate, there has to be an exception,” he explains. I nod my head at him happily. I feel like my heart is absolutely soaring and yet it’s still beating wildly inside my chest.

“I’d really like that, Tae. I’ll be there,” I tell him.

“Awesome! Can’t wait to see you tonight,” he smiles. He reaches out and squeezes my hand once more before I get into the catering truck again.

Eli drives out of the stadium parking lot and back towards the bakery. At a red light, he looks towards me. “So...fun day, huh?” He chuckles. I nod my head happily, my hands folded in my lap.

“Uh, yeah...you could call it that,” I giggle, tucking the stripe of dark hair behind my ear.

“But...if I recall correctly, I thought you always said you would murder him once you found your soulmate,” he jokes. I blush again, hiding my face and laughing loudly.

“Don’t hold me to my word, Eli. He’s too cute to kill. I couldn’t do it,” I giggle. The rest of the ride back to the bakery is filled with bits of conversation and laughter. Eli makes me relay the whole story to how I found out.

Finally, we make it back to the bakery. We park the truck out back and head inside to finish with customers and then lock up. For the last hour or so of work, my mind is so full that I can’t think of anything but Tae. My whole body feels like it’s floating and I can barely even process what’s going on around me. I’m just so...happy! Whenever any of my co-workers try to talk to me, I can’t focus on what they’re asking me. Eventually, Eli has to jump in and explain that I’m a little out of it and he asks them what’s up. I’m still working with customers as much as I can, but it’s almost like my body is on autopilot and doing everything on it’s own. All I can think is ‘Tae. Tae. Tae. Tae.’ and about the concert tonight.

As we close up the shop, I quickly send a message to my mom and tell her about the concert tonight. I don’t need to wait long for a message back from her.

From Mom❤️🥰: That’s great, sweetheart! And of course you can go! But, as soon as you get back from the concert, I want to hear all about it. And you had better get a picture with that man!

To Mom❤️🥰: You know I will, mom😊 Love you and thanks!

I slip my phone into my back pocket again and finish cleaning off the tables around the bakery. When I’m done, I throw the cleaning rag into our collection of rags that need to be washed and find Eli again. “Okay, I’m gonna head out, El,” I tell him. He nods his head and looks over at me.

“I expect to hear all about how the concert and everything goes,” he says, pointing a finger at me. I salute him jokingly and head into the back to grab my bag off the hook.

I head out the back door and get into my car, driving home. As I drive, I try to clear my mind of Tae and think as clearly as possible. I really don’t need to end up in the hospital on the day that I *finally* met my soulmate. Although the drive home has always seemed really short, it feels like it takes forever today. It’s hard to keep my mind focused on driving and I keep finding myself slipping back into thinking of Tae and what he looks like.

After what feels like an *eternity*, I finally get home and climb out of my car. It seems that the rest of my family is already home, so I call out that I’m back. However, I don’t wait for a response and immediately run up to my room and start looking through my closet. Of course, when I finally meet my soulmate, he sees me in my gross work apron, plain t-shirt, and work pants. I want to make a good impression on him and the first thing he sees me in is my goddamn *work clothes* Ugh. I shift through my closet, looking for anything that could make a really cute outfit for the concert. I want him to see my true style, so I decide on something that’s fairly simple. The outfit consists of a black and white striped t-shirt, ripped black jeans, plain white shoes, and a faded jean jacket. I pull the outfit on and look in the mirror, nodding happily at my reflection. My hair is a little messy, but there’s not much I can do about that. My hair is *always* messy.

Suddenly, I hear a soft buzz from my work pants. I grab my phone out of my pocket and a smile stretches across my face.

From Tae😊: The concert starts around 8. You should probably be here around 6:30 or 7.

To Tae😊: Okay, thanks for telling me! Can’t wait to see you again!

Quickly, I check the time and sigh in relief. It’s only 5:30, so I walk downstairs and search around the kitchen for some food for dinner. I haven’t eaten since this morning and I’m absolutely starving.

As I search for food, I hear someone come up behind me. “So...what’s he like?” My mom asks, her voice full of giddiness. I spin around and smile widely at her.

“He’s absolutely amazing! He’s so sweet and adorable and cute and I literally had such a nice time, yet I barely even spoke to him until right before I had to leave,” I laugh.

“Well, do you have a picture?!” She squeals. I shake my head lightly, then correct myself.

“I don’t have one of us together, but he’s a part of the group that we were catering for today, so I could definitely find a photo of him online,” I say.

Quickly, I whip out my phone and go to the search engine, searching up ‘Tae BTS’. My phone immediately floods with results and I go to the pictures, picking one that looks really good. I pick this picture

And turn my phone to my mom to show her. For a few seconds, she just looks at the picture, then she looks up at me in shock. “Oh, my gosh...” she says, her jaw hanging open.

“I know, right?! Isn’t he absolutely precious?!” I say excitedly, taking my phone back and putting it in my pocket. Mom pulls me into a big hug and squeals again.

“I’m so happy for you, sweetheart! This is amazing!” She says excitedly.

For the next hour or so, Mom and I talk excitedly about Tae. Since I have a bit of time, I tell her the story while I eat a small cup of mac and cheese. Yes, I know, not the greatest dinner, but it works, okay? She makes me tell her everything that happened and how exactly I knew he was my soulmate. I show her the music video of Idol and stop at the exact place that I had that day. She starts laughing as soon as she realizes what made me realize he was my soulmate. “Oh, my gosh, the pink and blonde hair,” she laughs. I smile, laughing along with her.

“Who knew that that hair color would be so helpful to me?” I giggle.

After a while, I check the time and nearly jump out of my seat. “Oh, I should be going! Tae said I should be there around 6:30,” I say. My mom hurried me out of the kitchen as I start grabbing my phone, keys, and license again. I shove the things into my bag from earlier and kiss Mom’s cheek lightly before I head out the door. On the drive to the stadium, my hands are shaking in excitement. It’s significantly harder to clear my mind again, but I’m able to make it to the stadium without a problem.

When I drive up, I’m not surprised to see the stadium entrances overflowing with fans. The atmosphere is so exciting and happy, and there’s chattering coming from every direction. As soon as I’m out of the car, I grab my bag and text Tae.

To Tae😊: What should I do? I’m here.

The response comes seconds later.

From Tae😊: I’ll send someone out to get you. Stand by the ticket checker and a security guard will come get and bring you to your seat.

Calmly, I read the message and walk towards the ticket checker’s booth. Just as I get to the booth, I see a large man dressed in all black come up to the booth, as well. He looks around for a few seconds before he spots me and gestures me forward. I come up to the booth and the guard shows the vendor my ticket. The vendor checks it and nods his head lightly, then the security guard ushers me forward. I’m shown into the stadium and taken through the crowds of people buying merchandise. I feel a bit upset that I can’t buy any myself, but then I’m reminded of why I’m here and my spirits soar again.

The guard leads me through the crowds of people and into the stadium seating. Slowly, we weave our way through the seats until we’re right at the edge of the stage. I have to crane my neck up to see the stage a bit, but I couldn’t care less. I thank the guard happily and sit down in the seat that the guard showed me. He nods his head once and walks backstage again. For a while, I just sit in my seat and wait as everyone slowly starts filing into their seats, as well. I feel my phone buzz and pick it up. It’s a message from Tae.

From Tae😊: Look at the left curtain😁

I lean to the side a bit so I can see the left curtain and smile widely when I see him poking his head out. He smiles widely at me and waves, and I return the gesture. However, as more people begin filling in the seats around me, I wave him off and he pops his head out of view again.

About half an hour later, everyone has filled their seats and we’re waiting for the concert to begin. To be honest...this has got to be one of the best concerts I’ve ever been to. There’s so much going on and everyone is having so much fun. True, I get some judgmental side glances from the people in the seats around me, mostly because I obviously don’t have money like they do, but I don’t care. The music is great, the energy is high, and everything is amazing. My spirit soars again when Tae comes on stage and immediately makes eye contact with me. He shoots me a bright, energetic smile and, throughout the concert, he points me out to the other members. I get little smiles and waves from each of them throughout the concert, though it’s obvious that they’re trying not to bring too much attention to me. I also can’t help giggling to myself when the other members have to keep telling Tae to focus on the concert and not on me.

When the concert finally comes to an end and everyone starts packing up their merchandise and things, I stay in my seat. Again, I get some judgmental looks from the people around me and they roll their eyes, scoffing. However, no one mentions my odd behavior and just lets me go. Soon enough, I’m the only person left in the area. A few moments later, the same security guard who brought me here comes out from backstage again and leads me backstage with him. I’m lead backstage and we weave between workers bustling around and cleaning up the stage. He walks me up to the dressing room and opens the door, gesturing me inside.

Calmly, I thank him and send him a soft smile before entering. As soon as I enter the room, I’m tackled by something that is very large and sweaty. I’m nearly knocked right off my feet and I scrunch up my nose at the offensive smell. I don’t even have to think about who this could be. “Taaaae,” I whine, pushing him off, “go take a shower. You smell gross.” He scoffs at me, leaning back and giving me a mocking offended look.

“I want to shower you in love and attention, and you tell me to go shower. Rude,” he pouts.

“You literally just did an almost two hour show. You were dancing and singing under very bright lights. You are sweaty and you smell disgusting. Go shower!” I giggle, pouting toward what I assume is the bathroom door. He sticks out his tongue at me childishly and I repeat the gesture. Finally, he just sighs and turns around, walking towards the bathroom.

“But, as soon as I get out, we’re talking and cuddling, got it?” He says, pointing a finger at me.

“Got it. Cuddles and talking,” I repeat.

Tae heads into the bathroom and a few moments later, I hear a shower turn on. There’s a soft sigh from across the room. “Great...now we have two of Tae to deal with,” one member, Yoongi, sighs defeatedly. The other members chuckle lightly. I flash him a sweet smile and he just rolls his eyes. “I can’t say ‘no’ to him, and if it that says anything, I probably won’t be able to say ‘no’ to you, either,” he frowns.

“Oh, give up the fake annoyance, grandpa. You know you already love her,” Jimin jokes, pushing Yoongi’s shoulder lightly.

“Just because she’s just as adorable as him doesn’t mean I already love her,” he stares, crossing his arms. Jimin gives him a skeptical look and Yoongi sighs lightly.

“Fine, yes, okay. She’s just as adorable as him, and I probably already adore her. Let me hate that I can’t say ‘no’ to them for five minutes.”

“...if it’s any help, you’re pretty adorable, too,” I say, smiling cheekily at him. He narrows his eyes at me, huffing.

Calmly, I sit down on the couch and strike up a conversation with the other members. It’s only about 15 minutes later or so that Tae comes out of the shower. He has just a towel wrapped around his hips and my eyes nearly pop out of my head. GodDAMN am I lucky. His muscles are sculpted to perfection and my jaw nearly falls to the ground. My soulmate is a fucking Greek god, holy shit. The whole room fills with fits of laughter and I hide my face in my hands as it starts heating up again. Peeking through my fingers, I watch as Tae pulls on some clothes from a bag against the wall. The clothes are a simple, plain white t-shirt and some plaid pajama pants. Like, that’s a normal outfit, but also...good God, my soulmate is too hot. The t-shirt clings to his arms deliciously and the pajama pants stretch over his thick thighs. My mind almost short circuits as I look at him.

Thankfully, my mind is pulled away from those thoughts as that same heavy weight lays on top of me again. I laugh loudly, trying to shift underneath himself and yet still unable to breath. “Tae, I literally can’t breathe,” I laugh. He shifts his body more into the couch instead of me and I sigh, wrapping my arm over his shoulder. His wet hair is laid against the top of my breast bone, but I couldn’t care less. I lightly scratch my nails up and down his back. On the other end of the couch, someone makes a gagging noise and Tae just kicks his long legs in the direction of the noise. A loud “ouch!” follows the action and I giggle lightly, resting my chin on his head and closing my eyes. And that is how I spend the first night with my soulmate. About half an hour later, we’re woken up to head to the hotel they’re staying at, but I send a message to my mom and tell her that I’m staying the night with Tae. I do make it clear that nothing will happen, though, just cuddles and sleeping. Thankfully, she allows me to stay and that is where I stay the night...wrapped in my soulmate’s arms.

#dirty kpop snaps #kpop fanfic #kim taehyung #bts taehyung #bts v #taehyung x reader #taehyung x y/n #taehyung x you #taehyung soulmate au #bts soulmate au #soulmate au #bts

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holmesianpose · 4 years ago

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OFD NEWS + LIFE UPDATE!

OMG HI TUMBLR!

I am here with some exciting news. Obviously it has been *quite a year* on a global scale (understatement of the century), but it has also been a very busy and intense year in my life personally. I was supposed to finish my PhD back in May/June of this year but that whole timeline got pushed back because of the pandemic. I was also supposed to return to the US from Sweden around that time, but I ended up delaying my return to the US until after I finished my dissertation (which turned out to be such a good decision). After many complications and setbacks, I finally managed to finish and successfully defend my dissertation in October and complete my PhD, so I am now officially A DOCTOR OF LITERATURE! :D :D :D This would feel like a massive accomplishment in and of itself but finishing my PhD this year especially well... let’s just say it was not easy!

As you OFD Readers are well aware, all of this dissertation-writing and degree finishing left me almost no time to work on OFD. I posted a chapter back in April of this year and after that, for the first time since I started writing the story back in 2014, I had to set it aside *completely* in order to get my dissertation done. This is the longest I have gone without working on OFD EVER. EIGHT MONTHS--that’s how long it’s been.

I also started a new job in the fall, which is fantastic, but I’m teaching a subject I’ve never taught before so it has been a lot of work getting the course in order and teaching four days a week. And then the Swedish government finally told me I had to go back to the US in the middle of November, so that was a whole ordeal.

And to top it all of, my computer, which I’ve now had since 2014 began to slowly die this year. The battery has long been dead, but then sometime in the summer when I was in the midst of the most intense dissertation writing, the keyboard developed a mind of its own and started refusing to respond and then typing by itself at random (specifically the “t” key, then the “e” key...). This made for a very exciting time (lol), but it got me through the dissertation defense and all the way back the US, at which point I decided enough is enough, and finally had the time to order myself a new one (which I now have, yay!!!)

The good news is... now that I have finally moved back into my house, and FINALLY finished teaching and grading for the term, and FINALLY got a new computer I can actually type on, I CAN FINALLY WORK ON OFD AGAIN!!!!!

*cue rainbow confetti and parade sounds*

I’m annoyed by one last hurdle in life which is that the internet at my house in the US is HORRIBLE (it’s so bad I can never go on tumblr because it just won’t load) so I need to upgrade to a different provider, (this is why I have not been on tumblr at all lately) but happily bad internet in no way affects my writing so I am here to tell you THAT I AM IN THE FINISHING STAGES OF EDITING THE NEWEST CHAPTER.

My plan was originally to try and finish it before Christmas Eve so I could post the new chapter as a Christmas gift to you all, in this shitty, shitty year, but I was not able to get it done in time. HOWEVER! I am hoping to get it up in the next couple days, so I hope it may still act as a belated Christmas gift of sorts.

Anyway, that is all my news! Watch this space for news of the new chapter and also for a bunch of exciting links that are related to the new chapter....... :)

#over fathoms deep #my life #my writing #life update #hi tumblr!#I've missed you!

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365days365movies · 4 years ago

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May 6, 2021: The Martian (2015) (Recap: Part One)

We’re leaving lo-fi sci-fi, people. Kind of.

I mentioned before that films like Her are what I define as “lo-fi sci-fi”, which is a category that I’ve kind of made up. Basically, it’s the science fiction version of low fantasy, meaning it contains science fiction themes contained within an otherwise contemporary setting. In the case of Her, Joaquin Phoenix’s character, along with many others, live in a world and setting basically like ours, but with technology advanced enough to generate AIs (like Siri) that are intelligent enough to actually ascend our reality. Because we live in a society.

You give me Joaquin Phoenix, I’m gonna make a Joker reference; it’s in the contract of my existence. Anyway, that is admittedly kind of broad, right? I mean, that has the capability of crossing over with a BUNCH of sci-fi genres and themes. And, considering that we’ve already seen magic, speculative technology, time travel, monsters, and artificial intelligence, we’ve already touched on quite a bit.

And with science fiction, the sky’s the limit. Literally. So, I think it behooves us to re-examine lo-fi sci-fi a little bit. Specifically, we should note that it can also be defined as an extension of currently existing technologies and possibilities. Writers would call this “speculative sci-fi”, assuming in this case that it’s set within the present or a near and attainable future. Her definitely fits in this category, as does Westworld. But, let’s crossover to another genre by speculating upon another possibility. And it begins with this man. Probably.

Hey, Elon, what’s up? Now, Mr. Musk here is a...controversial figure, for COMPLETELY understandable reasons. Instead of touch upon the man himself, I feel like touching upon one of his recent focuses: space travel. With SpaceX and the various upcoming space trips and journeys that they’re planning, Musk has made it clear that he plans to shoot to the Moon. Again, literally.

In fact, this full plan is to go even further than that, and to fuel potential commercial space flights in the future, which is admittedly very cool. And of course, if you’re going to shoot for the Moon...

Guys...guys, that’s Mars. THAT’S FUCKING MARS

Is that not amazing? We have sound and pictures from FUCKING MARS! THAT’S A DIFFERENT PLANET, GODDAMN IT! It’s cooler than I have the ability to properly express, but it IS goddamn cool. And this means that, easily within my lifetime, we could (and likely will) land on Mars. Which is amazing. God, I really want to see that happen.

And so, landing on Mars is BARELY science fiction, but since we haven’t yet done so...yeah, it’s fictional at the moment. And so, any film about landing on Mars falls within this category. Well...to an extent.

2000′s Mission to Mars, for example, was a Disney-funded film (to my IMMENSE surprise; and it’s based off of an old Disney World ride, WHAT), and a movie that I saw a LOT when I was a kid. I also barely remember it, to be honest. But that film is straight-up science fiction because of, well...aliens. The idea of Martians is, as far as we know it, fictional. And most fiction involving Mars includes these aliens somehow. Whether it’s DC Comics’ entire civilization of Martians, as seen in Justice League, Supergirl, or Young Justice...

...Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s heavily mythologized civilization, as seen in the Barsoom series of novels (and another Disney film)...

...Or one of the best Looney Tunes characters.

Mmm. Yes. Isn’t that lovely?

But, yeah, Mars and aliens go hand-in-hand in our media. So, to properly look at lo-fi science and speculative science fiction in relation to the Red Planet, we’ll need a movie that goes to the planet, and doesn’t touch upon the concept of aliens AT ALL.

Enter...Ridley Scott?

Yeah, the director of Legend, Alien, Thelma and Louise, Blade Runner, Gladiator. Also the director of Kingdom of Heaven, Prometheus, Exodus: Gods and Kings, and...ugh, 1492: Conquest of Paradise. I’ve talked about his mixed record before, in my Recap of Legend right here.

In 2014, he was brought on to adapt a book by Andy Weir called The Martian, which is a great book! I’ve listened to the audio book, and I whole-heartedly recommend doing that. And because of that, I am VERY MUCH looking forward to watching this film, especially seeing as it’s often called one of the best science fiction films made during that year, and was critically acclaimed then and now. It got seven Oscar nominations (although it won none of them), amongst other awards. So, enough navel-gazing, huh? The Martian!

SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Recap (1/2)

On Acidalia Plantitia, at the landing site of the Ares III mission, a group of scientists are gathering samples. These scientists are commander and geologist Melissa Lewis (Jessica Chastain), pilot Rick Martinez (Michael Pena), systems operator Beth Johanssen (Kate Mara), surgeon Chris Beck (Sebastian Stan), German chemist Alex Vogel (Aksel Hennie), and overly talkative botanist Mark Watney (Matt Damon).

The group seems to have a good dynamic, but that dynamic is interrupted by a massive dust storm, which is large enough to cause the entire crew to evacuate. However, in the chaos of the dust storm, Mark is hit by debris and lost in the shuffle. Although Lewis goes back to find him, she can’t get to him before they need to leave, and Mark is believed dead. This is reported (pretty callously) by NASA Director Teddy Sanders (Jeff Daniels) to the press soon afterwards.

But of course, that wouldn’t be much of a movie, now would it? Mark’s alive! And Mark’s alone. With his suit damaged, and low on oxygen, he trudges back to headquarters, which is intact and still contains breathable oxygen. He gets inside, and realizes that he’s been stabbed in the abdomen by some debris. He removes it, and stitches up his own wound. Which is...god, it’s fucking BRUTAL just to think about, nevertheless watch.

Once he’s finished, he records a log for the future, if he doesn’t make it. It’s day 19 of the 31-day mission at this point, and Mark’s basically screwed. He needs lasting oxygen, water, and food, and he might need that for 4 years, when the next manned mission can come to the red planet. Additionally, he has absolutely no way to contact NASA, leaving him completely stranded. Another dust storm rolls in that night, and Mark looks over the belongings of his colleagues, packing them up for their eventual return. It’s somber, to say the least. However, Mark affirms that he’s determined not to die on the planet.

After doing the math, Mark should have enough food to last him for about 300 days, especially if he rations it. Until then, he’ll need to figure out how to grow his own food, on a planet where nothing grows. Which is, of course, going to be a difficult feat to accomplish. But Mark Watney’s a botanist with botany powers, and he’s gonna do it.

It’s day 31, and Mark’s brought in dirt from the outside, and uses the bio-waste from the crew’s stay there for a form of compost. After 5 days, mostly full of him watching Happy Days on TV and trying to farm, he realizes that he needs water, both for himself and for the soil. To do that, he goes chemical and decides to use hydrogen-laden rocket fuel, wood from Martinez’s belongings, and good old-fashioned fire to make water! And since hydrogen + oxygen = water, it should work. With a minor side-effect.

So, yeah, he blew himself up. As as he records a video log, the sound mixing makes itself impressively known by subtly and realistically generating a tinnitus sound. It’s VERY well-done, holy shit. Anyway, he makes a stable fire, and the place is soon covered in condensation, moistening the room and the soil successfully.

We get to day 54, and Mark’s planted leftover potatoes from the crew in order to grow them. And while he’s being mourned at a funeral on Earth, and in NASA, he’s seeing the fruits (or shoots) of his efforts.

Back on Earth, Mars Mission Director Vincent Kapoor (Chiwetel Ejiofor) is trying to convince Director Teddy to let him lobby for another Ares mission, despite the risk of bad press for the callousness of the proximity to Watney’s death. Meanwhile, satellite technician Mindy Park (Mackenzie Davis) looks down at the Ares III site, and realizes that the site has changed visually, meaning that Mark may actually be alive.

Shocked by this, she tells Kapoor, Teddy, and media director Annie Montrose (Kristen Wiig) about this, and they realize the absolute clusterfuck that this whole thing is. They can’t tell the other members of the Ares III crew about it, because it’d devastate them for the 10 months they have to get back to Earth, at the VERY least. They can’t tell the WORLD about this, because they just had a funeral for the guy, and they’d reveal that they left him stranded on Mars accidentally, destroying faith in the Mars Missions Program. And they can’t save Mark, who they’re sure will starve eventually. It’s a mess. And Kapoor also wonders what’s happening to Mark psychologically through all of this.

And yet, they reveal this to the world regardless, causing the clusterfuck reaction that they think it’s going to cause. But Mark’s busy on Mars, figuring out how to get to the site of the next Ares IV mission in 4 years, at the Schiaparelli crater about 50 days travel away. This is a struggle, as his Rover has only so much power and fuel, and he can only get more power by cutting out the heater is risking death by freezing. So, problems. However, he figures out a potential solution: radioactive isotopes! In a move that is, let’s face it, COMPLETELY INSANE, he digs up a radioactive generator from the ship in order to heat the ship.

On Earth, they try to figure out Mark’s moves, as well as how to resupply Ares IV sooner for Mark’s benefit. This is with the director of JPL, Bruce Ng (Benedict Wong), and the flight director of the ship Hermes, Mitch Henderson (Sean Bean), who insists that they tell the Ares II crew. They continue to monitor Mark, and note that he’s been travelling for 17 days in his Rover towards something. Kapoor figures it out, and flies to California.

See, Mark needs a way to contact NASA, and he believes that the way to do so is through Pathfinder, the first probe ever sent to Mars in 1997, lasting for 9 months since landing until they lost contact. Mark digs it up, and the people at JPL in California start their own efforts for contact. And despite communication being extremely rudimentary, initially limited to yes/no questions that use a still-frame camera, it fucking WORKS! WHOO!

To boost this communication hurdle, the two camps figure out a hexadecimal system for communication, allowing them to communicate using a circular table of numbers that represent an alphabet. That allows them to teach Mark to hack into the Rover, allowing it to piggyback off of its broadcast signal and send them messages via keyboard. Nice! Now that communication is reasonably possible, Mark’s able to ask how the crew is handling his death. But upon learning that they haven’t told him. He’s understandably a little goddamn enraged. And so, they FINALLY tell the Ares III crew about this.

The news breaks the crew, even though Mark continues to stress that he’s all right, and that it wasn’t their fault. Meanwhile, Mark’s able to survive for 912 days with his potato plants, and things improve with the help of technicians on Earth. They plan to launch a supply rocket to him in the next year, and things are looking fine! Unless, of course...something goes horribly HORRIBLY wrong.

Well...fuck. Good place to pause for Part Two, then?

#the martian #ridley scott #matt damon #jessica chastain #kristen wiig #jeff daniels #sean bean #michael pena #chiwetel ejiofor #benedict wong #science fiction may #sci-fi may #user365 #365 movie challenge #365 movies 365 days #365 Days 365 Movies #365 movies a year #bookstofilm #whatelsecanwedonow

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ohveda · 4 years ago

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The Terror - season 1 review

I have paused in my frantic gif reblogging to finally write out my thoughts on the Terror and why I enjoyed it so much.

The first season of The Terror tells the story of the tragic Franklin expedition. This was a British arctic expedition in the late 1840s, led by Sir John Franklin, which had the aim of finding the North West Passage. The expedition was comprised of two ships, Erebus and Terror, hence the name of the show. It was tragic because everyone died (this is not a spoiler). The circumstances as to how everyone died are still mysterious to this day and there is lots of speculation (although a cursory glance at wikipedia suggests that people are building up some theories).

So, this is a TV show where you know from the outset that it is going to end tragically: everyone you get to know is going to die, and the only question is exactly how. And this is why, despite how much I enjoyed it, I wouldn't recommend the show to everyone. It is not so much scary as it is harrowing: there is gore, there is a monster, and there are disturbing scenes. I finished watching it a day and a half ago and I do not yet feel like I have recovered mentally from what I have seen (give me a few more days and I will be fine). You guys out there will know your tv-watching habits; if you don't like stories that are scary, depressing or dark, this show is not for you. However, if you don't mind watching those themes then I absolutely recommend this show whole-heartedly. It is incredibly incredibly good.

Here is the trailer: https://youtu.be/3WLz6wxEabc

The rest of my review might contain mild spoilers, so I'm going to put it under a cut.

There are several things I love about the show. From the first glance it looks fantastic; you can tell that there was money behind the production. The sets and the setting are lush with atmosphere and historic detail; it really feels like care has been taken (not that I know enough about naval history to assess accuracy, but the little bits I do know felt very right). And those coats! If you know me you will know that I go crazy for well-fitted double-breasted coats with bright buttons. I WAS IN MY ELEMENT HERE.

The acting! You can't fault it. Everyone does a superb job and I think one of the reasons the story works so well is just how compelling everyone is.

But my absolute absolute favourite thing about the show is the writing. I am in ecstasies over how well it was written. It's the best period drama I have seen since 2014. The show is based on a book of the same name, so doubtless many good things from the show come from the book, but I have heard some not-entirely-great things about the book too, so I get the feeling that while the good characters and interesting plot may come from the book, the technical skill that makes the show truly rewarding and compelling comes from the show's writers.

The main thing that they get so right is exposition. It's tricky to do well in any piece of fiction, but it is particularly hard in historical fiction when there is always so much to explain. It seems that often the urge with historical fiction is to explain too much and too frequently, to the point where every line loses its poignancy because it's immediately followed by an explanation of why that line is poignant (Poldark, I am looking at you). The Terror does not fall into that trap at all. Things are not explained; the audience's hand is not held; and the viewer is treated like an intelligent person who can come to their own conclusions. This does, admittedly, lead to some parts where I didn't actually know exactly what happened until I read up about them after I finished the show, but this haziness in certain areas does not detract from the watching experience in any way. The writing is good enough that the viewer always knows the key points of what is happening and what that means for the plot (there is never a feeling of being lost and confused), and the fact that you can get an extra level of detail and interest the more you look into it is an additional joy.

When it comes to how good the exposition is, let us take scurvy as an example. Scurvy is mentioned a lot in the first episode, but not anywhere in that episode is it described. In a lesser show, as soon as scurvy is mentioned the first time, someone would say "oh, you mean the disease where your gums bleed and your old wounds open up?" In The Terror this information is not given in the first episode because it's not needed in the first episode. The information is not actually given until after the first symptoms start to show, and even then it's given in an offhand and believable comment that doesn't feel intrusive at all. This means that for viewers who already knew the symptoms of scurvy, it's not jarring in any way, while viewers who don't know the symptoms of scurvy get a wonderful reveal of what has been happening and are now prepared for what is yet to come.

Augh! It's just done so well! I absolutely can't stand it when TV shows talk down to me, whereas I love it when they treat me as a capable adult who is able to put the clues together by myself.

And then we come to the plot. Going from the trailer, and seeing how high the production values were, I had assumed that the plot would have a level of, what to call it, sensationalism? Hollywood-ness? I was expecting it to be more spectacle and less substance. I was ready for jump-scares and plot-twists and set-pieces, and they didn't come, not really, not in the way I was expecting. There was only one part in the final episode where things veered towards melodrama that was too ridiculous to believe. The rest of the plot is not ridiculous nor is it fluffy nor empty; it feels solid: the pacing works and each plot point follows on from one to another. This is not a show where an unsubstantiated plot twist is thrown into the mix for surprise value (looking at you, BBC 2020 Dracula); this is a show where the hard graft of writing is done, to make sure that the plot is built from the ground up so that the audience can follow it and believe in its progression, regardless of how unbelievable the actual events may seem to be.

One of the main reasons for why this plot progression works so well is that it is almost entirely character-driven. Oh yes, there are events from outside that affect the characters and what happens to them, but the bulk of the plot is driven by the characters and their choices. What is it about character-driven fiction that makes it so satisfying? Certainly stories can and do work without being character-driven, but there's something so good about having a character you can get your teeth into: a character who is a person, with likes and dislikes, and good parts and foibles; a character you get to know and care about. The characters in this story are not mere window-dressing; they drive the plot, and you both love them and hate them for it.

Now, take that well-written, rounded, satisfying character, and multiply them by thirty. This is an ensemble cast and boy does it feel like it! I'm frankly astounded by how many fully-thought-out characters there were. It's not like there are five main characters and the rest are all cannon-fodder. Each character we meet has their own story to tell. There are characters in the first episode who feel like extras, but who come to have important and complex parts as the story moves on. Even as we come to the final episodes there are characters whose significance only then begins to show.

This multitude of characters is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it makes for a story that is rich, rewarding and realistic. But a curse because it is impossible to learn all those names and tell all those people apart. They all look the same! Is that character A in the navy blue coat with the big mutton chops? Or is that character B? I've watched the entire series and for a lot of the characters I still don't know! But this confusion doesn't detract from the enjoyment of the show. Just like the exposition, learning more about certain characters (which is where I think a rewatch would help) will add another layer of interest, but without that it is still easy to follow the main parts of the plot. There are certain main characters who you do come to recognise and to know, and this is enough; the other characters, each with their own richness, even if you don't know it yet, are an extra treat for those viewers who want to watch again and dig into the story a little more.

I won't say that the story is without its faults. I would like to ask the show-makers why apparently all British sailors in Victorian times were white??? And why did the cgi monster have to look like that??? But there aren't enough faults to truly detract from how enjoyable the show is.

Look at me here, trying to be all serious, making points with words, instead of just howling like I want to. What I haven't mentioned yet is how this show consumed me. I ate it up! I watched an episode per day (the short length of the show, being only ten episodes, is another reason why the plot is so tight and satisfying) and I couldn't stop thinking about it! My days were filled with thoughts of boats and mutton chops and my dreams were filled with them too. Even now that I have finished the show, and I have felt just how harrowing it is to watch a show where they all die, horribly, I long for it. I have withdrawal symptoms from it. I'm not yet mentally strong enough to watch it again, but my God I yearn for the time when I will be. It's that good! Whenever, over the past week, someone has asked me how I am, my answer has been "I'm watching The Terror!" as if I felt that from that response alone they could glean exactly how excited and happy I was to be watching it; as if it was my everything at that moment! My God!

And I'm not even mentioning just how much I came to enjoy the character of Goodsir. I was told "there's a character in this who's a bit like Segundus from 'Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell'; you'll like him." I did not know how accurate that was going to be. I want to slam my fist on the table! Do you know what it is like, in a show like this, to develop a favourite character and to know, to know, from the outset that every single character is going to die? It is heart-wrenching and it hurts, and I am still not over it (not by a long shot) but at the same time the pathos is so satisfying you want to eat it all up. This is 2021. We're not here for good times. Make it hurt. Make it cathartic. Take my mind off of the world of today with a pain that I can control with my TV.

So. Wow. tl;dr The Terror is an excellent show that I highly recommend for people who like this kind of stuff. (And I'm still sparkly-eyed over Goodsir and can't do anything about it.) The End.

#The Terror #cross-posted to my blog

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puckngrind · 4 years ago

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What’s In a Name: 1 - J Toews

Summary: Bekah heads to the 2015 All-Star game in Columbus where she meets Jon.

Warnings: mentions of break up, swearing, smut

Word count: 3205

Series masterlist ) Puck ‘n Grind’s masterlist

Numb.

Numb was the word Rebekah finally landed on to describe her state of being. She knew it wasn’t grief. She felt that emotion rip through her soul in waves when thinking of her grandfather who passed away two years prior. This wasn’t that or pain and she knew it.

Her boyfriend of the last four years walked into their shared apartment two days after Christmas in 2014 as she was cleaning up the holiday decorations dancing to the N’Sync Christmas album. He announced he was done with their relationship and moving in with his coworker that night. Rebekah had convinced herself that this man was the one she would marry and spend the rest of her life with. Now the cold, numb feeling she felt said maybe that she willed herself to the feelings of wanting to be married and the thoughts of marriage was not due to the actual love she thought they shared.

“You need to eat Bekah.” Brynn shoved eggs and bacon in front of her face. “And we are going back to your place today to remove the asshole’s presence from it. Got it, Bekah?” Her best friend’s hand landed on Bekah’s in that mom kind of way. To be honest, Brynn was kind of like a second mom. She was older but the two hit it off from the moment they met. Brynn was in accounting and Bekah in marketing at a same firm in Columbus, Ohio. They were work wives if you asked those who interacted with them the most.

“Thanks Rin.” Bekah was the only person to call her a nickname which was a running joke since Brynn’s name was chosen specifically because it did not have nicknames. Of course, Bekah found one and Brynn secretly loved watching her mother flinch when she heard it used.

The two headed over to the Bekah’s apartment after breakfast. “Maybe I should just move? Break the lease?” The realization that she would never feel at home again started settling in as she watched Brynn pack up the pictures from over the fireplace and moved towards bedroom.

“You can come live with us until you find a new place. Derek mentioned it in bed last night.” Brynn and Derek were the cutest married couple Bekah knew. “Plus the team is on a roadie so we can have the house to ourselves to burn things if ya want, drink wine, and of course, eat Jeni’s.”

Derek was a trainer for the Columbus Blue Jackets. He traveled with the team which Brynn sort of loved because she could host nights in when he was out of town but hated that he was gone so much. Bekah knew she hated to be alone but would never admit to it. There was a perk Bekah enjoyed from being friends with Brynn and Derek. She was always the one who went to games with her bestie. While Bekah wouldn’t call herself a die hard fan, she loved the atmosphere of the arena. Hockey was something that amazed her for a multitude of reasons. For starters, the way these giant men skated so gracefully while all 5’7” of herself somewhat athletic self could hardly stand on ice skates. Then they hit pucks and opponents so impressive to watch.

“You just need to get back out there.” Brynn handed Bekah a glass of wine while settling into the couch to watch the last game of 2014.

“I don’t know Rin. I kinda think I need to be alone for awhile. Find myself or whatever.” Bekah sipped her wine and took in the game.

“I’m sure Derek could introduce you to one of the single guys on the team.” Brynn nods to the television. “No strings attached there. You know most of them go home for the summer.” Brynn giggled as she watched her best friend’s face contort.

“Holy shit Brynn! No. NO! Talk about awkward. And they are either married or way young, right?” Bekah barked out.

“Well the ones I’m thinking of are all 21 or older...and maybe you just need to get under someone new, that’s all I’m saying.”

“And a pro hockey player is your solution? Like they would even give me the time of day.” Bekah pulled at her french braid then shoved her empty hand deep into her hoodie attempting hide her insecurities. “I’ve been single for what, five days, friend. I don’t need anyone new right now.”

“Well you should see the way some of the boys look at you. Boone comes to mind.” The gasp out of Bekah’s mouth was enough for Brynn. “When you are ready, just let me know.” She eyed her best friend then dropped the topic for now.

January brought a new chapter. Bekah found a place she loved and swore off men for the near future.

“You are coming to the All Star things with me. Derek already got you an all access pass so you cannot say no. He only gets two.” Brynn announced the week before the All-Star break. She tried to convince Bekah to go with them on vacation but Bekah was already feeling like the third wheel in the few weeks since the breakup and said no.

“That sounds fun.” Brynn’s mouth dropped open when Bekah didn’t fight the announcement.

The city was buzzing and finally felt like a hockey town. Bekah picked Brynn up and the two fluttered around the arena district before taking in the activities on the concourse then headed below to go see Derek. The amount of people in the tunnels was crazy but soon the two found Derek. Bekah pointed to a place to meet and wandered off while the couple spoke.

“So are you related to a Jackets player?” A deep voice boomed above Bekah’s head.

“Huh?” Bekah turns and looks up at the tall, handsome man decked out in All-Star gear. She noticed a 19 on his sweatshirt meaning he was a player.

“Your shirt makes me think you are a Columbus fan and since you are down here...I’m assuming you are a relative. Am I wrong?” His serious face cracks into a slight smile.

“Oh! I’m friends with the trainer.” Bekah replies finally pointing into the sea of people.

“Nice. I’m Jon. And you are?” Jon places his hand out to shake Bekah’s hand. She places her hand in his.

“Rebekah. Bekah to most. Nice to meet you.”‘ she looks up into his dark brown eyes. “So, which team do you play for?” She moves her hand out of his and flicks her finger up towards the number.

“Blackhawks.” Their conversation quickly turning into Chicago and how each enjoyed the city. “Well, Beks, I have to go. Can I find you later?” Jon winks while touching her forearm slightly and she nods feeling her cheeks turning pink before he walks off towards the locker room.

“Oh. My...GIRL!” Bekah hears Brynn almost at squeal level as she turns around. “You were just talking to Jonathan...eekkkk!” Brynn does a little dance and her words become incomprehensible.

“He’s nice.” Bekah smiles looking around to see if he’s in view.

“And single!” Brynn coos.

“Don’t Rin.” She gives Brynn a death glare and that just stop look.

“I’m not...just stating a fact. Let’s go find our seats.” Brynn grabs Bekah’s hand and leads her back up to their glass seats.

The skills competition went on and Bekah noticed every chance Jon got he skated towards where she was sitting. He’d wink or nod and then skated back. Just a little “Hey, I see you” before returning to his captain duties.

“I’m not saying anything but I see you two.” Brynn leans into her best friend. Bekah can feel the heat in her cheeks spreading and with his next stop in front of her she tightened her thighs together trying to will away the way he made her entire body tingle in just how he looked over at her. “Let’s head down before the crowd gets up!” Brynn announced at the last commercial break. The two got up and headed down to meet up with Derek.

“So is there a good place to get a drink around here besides my hotel’s bar?” Jonathan leans down into Bekah’s ear making her heart skip a beat and her body jump. “Sorry, did I startle you?” Brynn’s glowing recommendation of him as well as the way he spoke to her caused Bekah to say yes to drinks at a bar around the corner.

Drinks led to standing outside his hotel room. “Jon.” Bekah grabbed his wrist with a confidence she didn’t think she possessed. His gaze moved from the door to her hazel green eyes. “What are you expecting when we go through that door?” His lips pressed together then curled into a smirk.

“No expectations. Promise. Just come in.” He easily broke her grip and wrapped his hand in hers leading them through the door. Bekah wasn’t sure she knew hotel rooms this large even existed in Columbus and she takes in the space and including the large window where she can see the city lights dancing off the Scioto River.

“I’m pretty sure this is larger than my apartment.” She finally slinks out of her jacket and looks over to where Jon has disappeared in the bedroom.

“You live alone?” He comes out pulling on a t-shirt and Bekah catches the gasp is her throat with the glimpse of his abs.

“Uh, yeah. Fuck. Yes. Sorry. Recently dumped.” She fiddles with her hair and looks for the closest chair before her legs give out.

“I’d say I’m sorry about the break up but I’m not.” Jon places his arms on either side of the chair Bekah just sat in flexing while leaning in. “His loss...my gain.” He presses his lips on her forehead before retreating to the couch across the sitting room. “So what do you do for a living?”

“Marketing. I’d ask you but...” Bekah giggles feeling herself relax while looking up at Jon’s serious face. “I do have some questions about your job.”

“Open book.” Jon opens his hands to a motion her to continue.

“How long have you played in the NHL? Same team? Like your captain?” The line of questions made Jon crack a smile.

“Started in 2007. Always with the Blackhawks. And his nickname is Captain Serious.” Jon pulls his lips together like he does in interviews and looks over at the gorgeous woman who seems to be processing the information.

“Captain Serious huh? Sounds fun.” Bekah crosses her legs cursing her body for the feelings pulsing throughout. “How often are you in Columbus?”

“Once a season. We only play them twice. Played them in December and then they play in Chicago in March I think.”

“Nice. Well, I think I’ve sobered up enough and you have an All-Star game tomorrow.” Bekah abruptly states and starts for the door. Jon quickly catches her hips and stops her dead in her tracks.

“What just happened there? We were talking and then your shoulders wiggled and you announced you are suddenly leaving.” Jon holds Bekah firm in his grasp. His gaze moves from her soft dark golden brown locks framing her face to her eyes which told him her actions and her desire were fighting. Lightly pushing Bekah’s loose hair behind her ear he looks deep in her eyes. She blinks trying to stay focused on her thoughts that she was leaving.

“I don’t know. My heart tells me one thing and my body is telling me another. And my mind says I should kill Rin for even taking me tonight.” Bekah looks down and notices how close their bodies are.

“Who’s Rin?” Jon pulls her body even closer.

“My best friend. Redhead I was sitting with. Her husband is the trainer, Derek.” Bekah breathes out.

“So that’s who I have to thank?” Jon runs his fingers over Bekah’s arm and across her collarbone pulling her chin up to look back at him. “I won’t make you stay but I also don’t want you to leave. No expectations is true. We also can do whatever here tonight and then you don’t have to see me again if you don’t want to.”

“One night stands aren’t my thing...well...actually I’ve never had one before but I’m assuming they aren’t.” Bekah’s admission makes Jon laugh which she feels throughout her entire body.

“Well, it doesn’t have to be a one night thing...and I’m not a one night stand person either Beks. Can I kiss you and start from there?” Jon’s thumb runs across her cheek and he feels the twitch pulsating from his briefs.

“Yes.” Bekah hardly spoke before Jon’s lips were on her’s and she deepens it as she stepped into him placing her hands in his chest clutching at his shirt. His hands coming up and holding the small of her back and the cradling her neck. She felt him growing between their bodies. Breaking for air Bekah huffs out, “How do I turn you on?” The admission was self doubt about how average looking she felt and how damn sexy he was.

“Beks, you are fucking gorgeous!” Jon kisses her again and she shakes him off. “No really. Distracting as hell when I was trying to be a captain of the team tonight. Please tell me you aren’t sitting that close tomorrow. My team needs to win this thing.”

“You think I’m gorgeous?” Bekah fumbles on the words before Jon’s lips were on her again.

“Yes, and I’d like to show you how gorgeous you are if you just stay.” He starts shuffling their attached bodies towards the bedroom.

“I’m not doing the walk to shame tomorrow.” She starts moving her feet with his.

“You can borrow sweats so I’m guaranteed to see you again.” With that Jon placed her body on the bed. “Now can we get rid of some of these clothes?” His finger tips run along the inside of the hem of her sweatshirt. The slight nod she gave him was enough for him to discard both of their shirts. He made his way down to his knees pulling her jeans off slowly leaving Bekah in her light blue matching bra and panties. The sight made him jump into action. “Fuck you are even more beautiful.” She bats her eyelashes at the compliment.

“You are very...very....fit.” She runs her hands down his abs and he chuckles. “Handsome. Well both. Damnit I’m bad at this. I’m sorry.”

“You aren’t and don’t be.” Jon pulls her leg up and kisses down to her knee pulling his sweats off with the other hand. Her eyes widen when she sees how stained his boxer briefs are. “See. Definitely doing something right.” He nips at the meaty part of her thigh and she flops her body on the bed. “Does that mean I can continue Beks?”

“Yes.” She places her hands over her face as Jon’s fingers pull at her panties moving them down her legs exposing her core to him. He kisses back up and lands on her clit. Bekah moans out of the relief and Jon laughs while moving his tongue to elicit more noises out of her. His fingers slide in and curl causing Bekah’s hand to fly up into his hair.

“Tell me if you don’t like something, m’kay?” He pulls up to move her legs onto his shoulders and her body further into him.

“It feels amazing. It’s just been awhile.” She admits as he continues his pumping in and out while scissoring his fingers to stretch her out.

“We’ll go as slow as you want. Promise.” He kisses her clit again and sucks causing an orgasm to rip through Bekah’s body. She moans out his name and he moves away.

“Don’t stop. Fuck. Don’t stop.” She lifts up to look down at him. Face glistening and a look of accomplishment from how quickly he was able to make her come unglued.

“So maybe not that slow.” Jon returns to licking through her folds and is stopped by Bekah’s hand tightening in his hair.

“Can you...I don’t know how to...never mind.”

“No, talk to me. Sex is better when you talk. Where to you want me?”

“Inside of me. I want you up here.” Bekah feels the heat returning to her face as she made her request. “Unless you want me to...” she eyed his briefs again as Jon stands.

“No, I definitely want to fuck you now.” He climbs onto the bed and pushes both of their bodies up the bed freeing himself of the last piece of clothing. “May I?” He pulls at the strap of her bra and Bekah arches her back to allow him to pull it off with easy. Kissing her breasts and then her lips Jon grunts. “Ready?” He leans up as she nods for him to inch into her core. Bekah’s back arches as Jon lowers himself inside. She would never admit to anyone how long it’s been since she’s had sex and it felt so good to have his weight on top of her. Bekah wraps her legs around him and Jon finds a rhythm that makes both of them moan with each thrust. Then it happened. Both reaching their highs in unison. A slew of swears mixed with praises drop out of Jon’s lips then he collapses on top of Bekah.

“Wow. How did that happen?” Bekah huffs out while her fingers run across Jon’s sweaty shoulders and across his lips.

“How did what happen?” Jon’s chest moves in and out trying to even his breathing.

“We...together...” she breathes out.

“You’ve never climaxed with someone? Together?” Jon pulls up and takes in Bekah’s blissed out yet confused look.

“I’m just gonna shut up now.” Bekah’s hand flies over her eyes.

“No. Remember, sex is better when you talk. And we aren’t done.” Jon moves her hand and flexes his abdomen sending shock waves through Bekah’s body.

“So, no.” Bekah whispers. “I’ve never orgasmed at the same time as my partner. That was amazing feeling. You are amazing.”

“You are too. Trust me. Fucking amazing.” His lips ghost her skin as he rolls off of her. “Beks, so good.”

“You are the only person who has ever called me that which is funny.” She kisses the top of his head as he rests on her chest.

“Yeah. Why is it funny?” His fingers walk down her hip.

“Because I do the same thing. Make up nicknames for people.” He laughs at her admission. “Rin for example is Brynn. I’m the only person who calls her Rin. Not even her husband calls her anything besides pet names and Brynn.” Jon feels Bekah’s body relax and he smiles.

“And do I get a nickname then?” He kisses her stomach.

“Maybe. It’s more of an organic thing. With time.”

“More time. I see. Then can you come back here tomorrow too? After the game?” He looks up at Bekah.

“Yeah I guess that would make this not a one night stand, huh?” Bekah’s lips turn up and Jon laughs loudly.

“Yeah.” He rolls her over on top of him. “Definitely not one at all.”

#what’s in a name fic #WIAN #tazer me 19 #j toews fic #jonathan toews fic #jonathan toews

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