#but she tells anyone who asks an increasingly ridiculous and obviously very made up story

[inexplicably-spookified]

hypothetical older usagi... she's not a pirate despite the *gestures vaguely*

[writtenvisionary]

Do It Again - fanfic

Read on Ao3

He sighs, stealing a long glance at the beautiful girl standing by her locker. Her friends surround her, listening eagerly to her story. She talks with her hands — her small hands with nails painted pink \ and the smile on her face is contagious as she becomes increasingly more immersed in her tale by the minute.

His heart skips a beat when she laughs. He can hear it all the way from down the school hall and he has to look away. If he didn't, who knows how long he'd last.

She's breathtakingly gorgeous and adorable all wrapped in one petite human. He doesn't think there could be anyone more perfect.

He wants to hold her. He's not so sure why. But he wants her friends to go away. He wants to ask — right now.

It's taking forever. Good heavens, he can't wait any longer. And god knows that girl can ramble.

A grin forms on his face at the thought (and he's sure he looks ridiculous, but he can't bring himself to care).

Man, he's whipped.

Her friends are finally gone, he realizes.

He must have been lost in his own thoughts (about her) for so long that he never noticed their absence.

She turns back to face her locker, opening it with ease.

Shit. Now's my chance.

Swallowing his nerves, he takes a step forward.

Progress. Progress.

Another step. Then he stops.

I can't.

He watches as she pulls out a textbook and expertly opens her backpack with her other hand. He's mesmerized by her abilities. He's mesmerized by her.

Ah, shit. Focus!

He manages another step towards her.

Then suddenly her backpack is zipped closed and her locker is secured once again. Her dark locks flow so elegantly through the air as she whips around.

They meet eyes. She smiles. He nearly trips.

Shit, shit, fuck.

"Hey!"

Is she talking to me?

"Why aren't you moving?"

The melodious sound of her giggle blesses his ears once again. He tries not to smile like a complete idiot, but he fails.

Just his luck.

He forces himself out of his frozen state, pushing back his irrational fears (making their presence known only at this very moment) and takes those last. few. steps. to stand in front of the girl. The girl who will hopefully be his girl, very soon.

When he arrives to his mark, he exhales in relief.

He's pleasantly surprised that he didn't trip and fall on his way there.

—

"Hi," he mutters, nervously. Rolling his lips in, he waits.

"Hi," she giggles.

He takes a deep breath and just goes for it.

"Will you go out with me?"

Her eyes light up in pure excitement.

To say he's relieved at this immediate reaction would be an understatement.

But then her excited expression turns… playful?

Realistically, he shouldn't be worried.

For some reason, he is.

"That depends," she starts, with that beautiful voice which sounds very seductive and oh my god her hand is on my chest—

"What do you have planned?"

Gulp.

—

"I'll pick you up at eight…"

"Uh huh…"

"And we can drive around?" He suggests.

"Mm, sounds nice already."

He gains some confidence, "I'll take you to the beach and then we can head downtown?"

She seems to think about it for a moment.

"Hmm… can I hold your hand?"

He smiles.

"We'll walk around downtown while you hold my hand," he confirms.

Licking his lips, he takes a small step forward, pulling her closer to his chest.

"Then we'll park and lay down on the hood of my car…"

Her smile widens.

"…We can just listen to the airplanes while we count the stars."

This time, her heart picks up. She can nearly feel it beating out of her chest.

"Tonight," he finishes, "I'll be your man."

She wishes she could stop smiling.

"On one condition."

"Yes?"

The innocence in his voice strikes her in the right place. Her smile is still unwavering.

"Tomorrow, we can do it again."

—

He wishes he had more to give her. Somehow, the beach and downtown and airplanes and stars just weren't enough. She was his everything; his world. And he wishes he could give her the world right back.

Because a girl that shines as bright as she does; a girl that is rich in everything but money and fame; a girl that pays attention to him even when he doesn't deserve it…

A girl like her is too good to be true.

Too good for him.

As he snuggles the stuffed dolphin she gifted him for their one-week-aversary, he sighs.

She deserves better than him.

He wishes he had the world to give. He would give it in a heartbeat, no questions asked.

Maybe then, he would feel good enough for her. Maybe then, he would feel like he was rich in something, like her.

Maybe then, he'd be rich with love.

And he knows for a fucking fact that he would give her everything he had.

Every. Single. Thing.

—

She had one condition.

And he didn't follow it.

Obviously, she didn't mean tomorrow, tomorrow… right? Because it's been a little over a week.

A WEEK.

But he's not one to break his promises. Would that be considered a promise?

He thinks so.

His finger hovers over the little phone icon at the corner of her contact page. He wants to call her, he does. Her voice is the reason he wakes up in the morning. Hearing it would be amazing right now.

No, that's not the problem.

You see, he doesn't want to admit it, but he's nervous.

Will she be mad if I ask now?

The answer is no, for the record. He's pretty sure he knows that.

'I was kidding,' she'll reassure him.

Deep breaths. You got this.

"Hey, what's—"

"Do you want to go out with me?"

He face palms.

But her gorgeous laugh floats through the phone's speaker and into his ears. He pulls his hand away from his face.

"Silly goose, what are you talking about? We're already—"

"I promised you we'd do it again, so we're doing it again. It may not be tomorrow, like you said a week ago, but it can be tonight."

Her silence on the line gives him a moment to glance at the clock.

7:47.

"Look, I'll be there in 10 minutes. I've got it all planned."

—

That laugh keeps him going. Her smile helps him sleep at night. The feeling of her warm, small hand in his is a gentle reminder that she's there. With him, in this moment of time.

It's all he could ever ask for.

Cars past them as they walk along the strip of stores open downtown. Colorful lights flash on around the couple as it starts to get dark, and their feet guide them around the town, coming full circle.

The lights that were once off are now on, leaving no corner of the little city dimmed.

She stops in her tracks, staring in awe at twinkling lights, which hang from a small gazebo near the park. Her eyes sparkle in amazement, mouth agape.

"Surprise?"

"Oh my goodness, you—"

"I just put the lights on it," he chuckles, "The gazebo was already there."

She shakes her head, "How come I never noticed it before?"

"You were probably laughing at a really bad joke you had just told."

"I don't tell bad jokes!"

"Uh huh."

A giggle erupts out of her throat, to her dismay.

"So… no car rooftop star-gazing tonight?"

He gives a very prominent shake of his head before pulling his hand out of hers'.

"Oh no, we're still doing that. But right now I want to just look at you."

She tilts her head in confusion.

He clarifies, "I don't want to look at the stars or listen to planes or anything. I want to admire you. And your beauty."

A reddish tint overcomes both her cheeks.

"And your intelligence. And your—"

"Shut up," she mutters.

"Okay. For now."

The new couple is silent for a minute as he starts making his way under the gazebo. She follows. He turns to stares at her.

It's not weird. She doesn't know why it's not weird. Like, he's literally just STARING at her and that should creep her out but it doesn't.

Is that a problem?

No. Because when she looks into his deep, brown eyes, she is reminded of the kind-hearted person who carried her books on the first day of classes. When she looks at his blonde locks, she has the urge to run her fingers through it for hours on end. When she looks to his lips, she finds herself wanting to feel them. On hers'.

Now that's definitely weird.

He takes a step closer.

But is it?

He starts leaning in.

If she does too, she doesn't notice.

Suddenly, their lips collide. Melding in perfect harmony; moving in sync. Her fingers live out their dream, running through his hair. His hands rest on her hips, gently pulling her closer.

Lost in their own world, they imagine what it's like to live their lives together. Kids, birthdays, a house, and so much more. It all flashes right before them.

It's over too quick, they think (and it might be awkward to go back for more).

But the night isn't over yet.

—

The stars are beautiful, but not as beautiful as her eyes, in his opinion. Not as beautiful as her laugh, or smile, or personality.

Nobody is really traveling tonight. One airplane so far.

He's ready to book his own flight.

To his honeymoon.

Realistically, he's in way over his head. It's been a week.

His parents will say he's not ready for marriage; that he doesn't know what love is.

Pfft. Yeah, right.

This girl is love. He knows it when he sees it.

He bites his lip. It's too early. He doesn't want to ruin what they have.

But, "I love you."

FUCK. DID HE SAY THAT OUT LOUD?

He must have gotten extra lucky, because—

"I love you, too."

—

Being by her side is one thing, but being welcomed to glide his hands over her body makes him feel alive.

Her lips are fruity. She is beautiful. He wants her.

This is way different than she anticipated. Holding his hand was level one, and now she feels like she's on top of the world.

His lips are soft. He is dashing. She wants him.

Awkward as it was, their bodies moved in perfect harmony.

He couldn't deny it.

She couldn't deny it.

They were made for each other in every way possible.

Soulmates. They were soulmates.

And they only had half an hour before her parents came home.

Neither wanted to rush it, but it was their time.

"Let's just take this moment," he had whispered in her ear just minutes earlier. "It's ours, okay?"

His eyes flicker down to her lips, "You don't want to waste it, do you?"

—

'I'm not sure," she matches his whisper. "It-it's only been a few months and I—"

He breathed, "I love you."

It tickled her face, his breath, and she used every ounce of will not to lean just a millimeter closer.

Their lips were about to connect.

"I'm not ready."

"You'll never be ready, minou…"

She hesitated.

"Babe, I…" she sighed and shook her head. "I can't."

"You don't want to miss out on this. On us. Please."

All she could come up with was, "We'll regret it, A—"

"There is nothing to regret."

"There is a lot to regret."

He was silent for a moment.

But then he smirked.

"Like what?"

"Like… do we have protection?"

A teasing look was sent her way.

"I always keep it in my bag," he offered.

She pondered, then—

"It's too early. We're too young."

"It's not too early," he licked his lips, "And I'd rather experience this when I'm young.

"Before I fade away."

She gulped, searching his brown eyes in the darkness.

"Regrets don't fade away," she stated firmly.

He nodded.

"Exactly."

Her head tilted in confusion. He reiterated.

"If this… us… is something we regret, then we won't fade away."

—

On their one year anniversary, he couldn't think of anything more fitting.

"So," he smiles dopily. "I've got it planned."

He doesn't need to say anything else; this has become routine.

She scrunches up her nose cutely, giving him a smile.

"Perfect. Pick me up at eight?"

"Precisely."

—

He gazes at the girl lying next to him.

The moonlight shines on her face. She's gorgeous.

"Oooh," she exclaims quietly, pointing up above them.

He follows her finger, his eyes landing on the moon.

"That's—" he giggles, "That's the moon, silly goose."

She turns her head to look at him and smiles.

"You're my moon. And my goose," she chuckles.

He mimics her chuckle.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She shrugs.

"If I could go anywhere…" she starts, in lieu of a response. "I wouldn't.

"I'm happy right here, with you right next to me, as we fall asleep under the stars just for our parents to call and wake us up."

He lets out a laugh at that, grabbing ahold of the small hand resting on her chest.

She continues, "You're mine. And I'm so glad that I can call you mine."

—

The blonde grins.

"Remember when I first asked you out?" He asks.

"How could I forget?"

His smile wavers as he turns serious, meeting her eyes.

"I said that I'll be your man."

"And you are."

"But I only said for that night."

She raises an eyebrow.

"Your point?"

He smiles again, "I'm really happy you agreed."

"Of course. You're amazing."

"And so are you," he pecks her nose.

They fall into a comfortable silence, watching the stars yet again.

And… just loud enough so she can hear, he speaks softly.

"I'll be your man tonight, and forever… and I'll give you everything I can. I promise."

She looks over at him again, admiring his side profile.

His skin shines in the moonlight so magnificently. It's almost royal.

She gulps.

The heaviness of the statement hit her hard.

Taking a deep breath, she responds.

"I promise, too."

- And tomorrow we can do it again -

[mnthpprt]

Chapter 18: A Certain Kind Of Intimacy

[Extra long and angsty chapter because I am an insomniac and a sucker for Arthur being soft]

The rest of the week passes uneventfully. By now, I have developed a comfortable sort of daily routine, and have gotten to know all the residents to some extent.

Every morning, Sebastian wakes me up with a light breakfast and a steaming cup of black coffee. He has quickly learned the way I like it, and to his credit, it is the most effective way of getting me out of bed so early. I take a few drops of Saint John’s Wort before I eat, get dressed, and go to work in the garden.

I water the violets under Mozart’s window, chat with Dazai, and watch Vincent paint. Although he has not said anything about it, I suspect he is using me as a model. He has taken to sit by the greenhouse, and I feel his observant gaze on me as I repot exotic plants or shake the jar of tincture I am making.

I eat lunch with Isaac, and he silently works on his research while I read the English copy of Dazai’s book that I borrowed from Sebastian. Afterwards, if I am done in the garden, I spend some time in the training room. For a couple days, le Comte insisted on giving me dancing lessons there, but I caught on quickly enough for him to drop it. Napoleon likes watching me skate, and we talk about my hometown during breaks. He asks me a lot of questions about the future, mostly about politics, and I do my best to explain the major events between his time and mine. I admit I do not do a great job of it. I have a very strange patchwork of knowledge, and while I could easily list the chemical composition and dates in which each pigment was discovered, I have a hard time remembering names and places. Jean is elusive as ever, and I only ever see him when he’s sparring with Napoleon. 

When they are hogging the training room, I tend to stay in the library. Leonardo is usually there, and he jokes around as he helps me find the relevant books for my own research. He is charming and funny, but I have noticed the sadness that seeps into his eyes when he thinks I am not looking.

A couple days ago I found him working on some kind of machine with Isaac. They needed a wrench small enough to fit into a specific piece, I suspect a part taken from another object. I gave them the tool I use for my skates, and Leonardo has spent most of today apologizing profusely for losing it in the dumpster that is his bedroom.

I help Sebastian here and there. Sometimes it’s laundry, sometimes it’s cleaning, or even delivering rouge and blanc to the vampires. We talk about the things we like about the mansion, and about the things we miss from our time. I have come to understand why he chose to stay, and quite frankly, I am starting to lean the same way, although for entirely different reasons.

I tell him about my job, and about my friends in the year 2020. I tell him how much I miss my best friend Mila, who I was about to meet for the first time in over a year, and about Carlos and Jack, who are just as dear to me but I get to see often. They would all love to see what I now live every day, and I am sure that, given the chance, they wouldn’t have hesitated to come with me, especially Carlos. Like Sebastian, he would have given anything for the chance to see the past with his own eyes.

“I have a sister,” I said to him when he asked about my family. He spoke very fondly of his. “She lives in Milan. Our parents aren’t really in my life anymore...” He understood when I said I did not want to talk about it. Though stern, he is a kind man. We have become close while working together.

I have also spent a lot of time with Arthur lately. In the spare moments when he is not writing or out in some bar, he has taken up the habit of visiting me wherever I am. He gives me riddles to solve as I work, and teases me about the odd answers I come up with. While neither of us really confide in the other, conversations with him are always fun and stimulating. He still flirts relentlessly, but I have become used to it.

This afternoon in particular, he drops by my bedroom while I am reading, and I welcome him and the cup of tea he offers me. He brings one for himself, too, and does not hesitate to get comfortable on the armchair as I sit on the edge of the bed to face him, the tray on top of the ottoman between us.

“I am afraid I have come up with a case of writer’s block,” he says as his only explanation. “I need a break from that story. Will you distract me, my dear?”

“Uh, sure,” I shrug. Maybe he can answer my questions about living in this time. “I have no idea how women do their hair for special events in this decade. Perhaps you could help me with that? You know, with the ball being tonight, and all.”

“Could you show me the dress you’ll be wearing?” he asks thoughtfully.

I oblige, and pull it from the wardrobe. It is a beautiful shade of lilac, made of delicate chiffon. Aside from the slightly puffy cap sleeves, it is simple, yet elegant. Arthur examines it for a few seconds, holding it up in front of me.

“I am afraid I can’t help you, darling. I know nothing about hair,” he concludes, the pondering look in his eyes replaced by an amused glimmer.

“Then why did you ask for the dress?”

“Why, I just wanted to see how hot you would look in it, dove,” he laughs. I playfully smack his arm, and he laughs harder. “This shade brings out the green in your eyes!” I laugh too, rolling my eyes, and let him put the dress away as I return to my spot on the bed.

“Okay, then I hope you can actually answer this,” I giggle. “You’re a doctor, right? And you’re obviously well acquainted with female anatomy.” He smirks as if he thinks where this is going, and boy is he wrong. “How do women deal with menstruation? Am I just supposed to use a piece of cloth or what?”

He chokes on his tea, and lets out another boisterous laugh.

“By Jove, I was expecting you to go the sexy route with the way you phrased that!”

“Arthur, I’m being serious!” I giggle. He is still chuckling when I begin my endless tirade of questions. I would genuinely like to know the answers to them, but I mostly just ask for the sake of keeping up the joke. “Do you know any women vampires? Do they menstruate too? Are vampires fertile, or are you, like, dead in that sense? Oh my god, do you drink period blood? I really hope not, but I wouldn’t put it past you,” I tease him, mockingly disgusted.

When he finally calms down, Arthur proceeds to answer all the questions in methodical order, still clutching his sides.

“They sell special undergarments for that, coated in something that makes them impermeable on one side, I think. Just go to any shop that sells ladies’ dresses in town.” I nod, satisfied. Reusable pads it is, then. Next comes the rapid fire of answers to my increasingly ridiculous questions. “I personally do not know any women vampires, but Leonardo and le Comte definitely do. There are two kinds of us: purebloods like him, who are born like that, and lesser vampires like me and everyone else in this house. Purebloods are the only ones who can turn people, and I have no idea if they menstruate or not because I have never met another one, but they certainly do reproduce like humans. Lesser vampires are very much alive, but while we can have sex, we are infertile, and I suppose the women follow the same rule. And no, we do not feed from menses, you filthy lunatic! Don’t be absurd!” he concludes with a chuckle.

“Good to know,” I laugh at his horrified expression.

“It actually smells completely different from regular blood,” he says. “It’s very unpleasant and does not trigger hunger at all, though I have no idea whether a vampire could potentially survive on it. I am relieved to say I don’t think anyone has tried.” He raises his eyebrows and takes a deep breath before he goes on, condescendingly adding explanations that I did not ask for. “By the way, yes we do have reflections. Also, crosses don’t scare us and neither does sunlight. Anything else you’d like to know, dove?”

“Give me a break, I am curious, not stupid,” I roll my eyes. “Oh! I thought of one! The garlic thing is obviously false, but it is a natural anticoagulant, so I wonder: was that myth started by vampires so you could feed on people better? Like, if superstitious people ate a lot of garlic to try to avoid being bitten, their blood would be thinner and therefore easier to suck, right?”

“Frankly, I have no idea.” He looks surprised. “I can’t say I’ve ever thought about that before, but it makes sense. You’re a clever one, darling.”

I flip my hair over my shoulder with a cocky smile, earning yet another chuckle from Arthur. Suddenly, his eyes focus on something behind me, and he grows serious. He walks over to my nightstand and picks up the small vial on it, carefully reading the label with a furrowed brow.

“Did you cut yourself while gardening?” he asks, a hint of worry on his face. I simply shake my head, and he looks at me, and then at the vial again. Having rejected one of the two main uses for the tincture, he quickly figures it out “Oh. I did not know you suffered from melancholy. I used to give this to soldiers who were affected by their time in the army.”

“Well, you hardly know anything about me. Did it work?” He shrugs, which I interpret as a ‘sometimes’. “In my time we have more effective medication for that sort of thing. I kind of depend on it, but being here... Well, it’s been an unexpected inconvenience. I was lucky to find a mediocre replacement before the effects wore off. It cancels out my contraceptive, but I don’t have that here either, so it’s pointless to worry about.”

He listens intently, his head slightly tilted. He looks at me with sadness in his eyes, the same kind of sorrow that I saw that day at the market. It is not pity, but rather... a mutual understanding. He gets it.

“Oh, Anaïs... I took the Saint John’s Wort myself for a while in my previous life, but it never really did anything for me,” he sighs. I am somewhat surprised by his words. “I hope it works for you, dear. I would hate to see you unhappy.”

“Thank you,” I mutter. He is standing close enough for me to hold his hand, and I am overcome with the urge to reach for it. I interlock my fingers with his, and he squeezes gently in response. We stay like this for a while, silently looking at where our hands meet. His touch is warm and comforting, and he makes no attempt to break contact.

“Oh, shit,” I exclaim, abruptly standing up. “The ball! I have to get ready!”

Arthur lets go of my hand and I immediately begin to undress myself, unbothered by his presence.

“I’ll leave you to it. Have fun, darling,” he says, but I stop him before he gets to the door.

“No, no, don’t leave. I need help getting into the dress.” I shove the one I am wearing down my hips, dropping it on the floor, and hastily remove my bra to change it for the corset. “Besides,” I turn to him, my breasts exposed as I fumble with the clasps on the stiff garment, “you’ve already seen me naked, remember?”

“I suppose you’re right,” he responds with a smirk and, as always, I roll my eyes. 

He hands me the lilac gown, and proceeds to helpfully search the room for my shoes as I put it on. By the time he returns by my side, a pair of matching heels in his hand, I am holding my hair up, ready for him to button the back of my dress. His agile hands work fast, and soon he taps my shoulder to let me know that he has finished. I relax my arms, letting my hair cascade over the chiffon bodice, and slip my feet into the shoes he has left by my side, suddenly becoming two inches taller. I kiss his cheek and thank him for the help, to which he replies with a whistle.

“You look lovely.” He looks genuinely impressed, for once, causing me to blush. 

“You really think so?” He nods, and I walk over to the mirror. A chuckle escapes my lips upon seeing my reflection. “I look like a cupcake. Seriously, though, this is so different from what I am used to wearing. I hardly recognize myself.”

“You almost seem ladylike, even,” Arthur jokes. “All prim and proper. I agree. That,” he says, pointing at the mirror, “is a totally different person.”

It is amazing how effortlessly he can make me laugh. I move on to the dressing table, and pull out every hair accessory I can find in the drawers. Arthur observes thoughtfully as I quickly brush my long hair and begin to work on the styling.

“You were wrong, you know?” he finally breaks the silence. “When you said I hardly know anything about you.”

“Huh?” I raise an eyebrow at his remark. “Well, go on, don’t leave me hanging. What do you know about me that I haven’t told you?”

“For starters, I know that you were not scared of Isaac feeding on you that night.” I look at him through the vanity mirror and nod for him to go on, my hands still braiding through my hair. He seems almost hesitant to keep talking. “When I brought up biting you in the thermae, you were completely unfazed. Considering the incident was so recent, it just didn’t add up. It wasn’t the idea of him biting you that scared you, was it? It was the way he acted when he tried to. I won’t pry if you do not wish to talk about it, but I know that your past can’t have been easy, Anaïs.”

“You’re right,” I whisper. My braid now hangs limp and undone over my shoulder. I must have stopped at some point without realizing. “If he had explained, I might have let him do it, but... I don’t know. He became so violent, so suddenly. The way he grabbed me, it just... It brought back a lot of memories I’d rather forget,” I explain. My voice is barely a murmur, but I am sure Arthur can hear me just fine. “I know it wasn’t his fault, and I have long since forgiven him. Honestly, the reason I was so shaken up after the incident was because I kept reliving all those things it reminded me of. Granted, suddenly learning about the existence of vampires just added to my stress, but ultimately, It had nothing to do with Isaac himself. Or with any of you, for that matter.”

“You’re strong, Anaïs,” he comforts me. “That’s another thing I saw the moment I met you. You’re clever as the devil himself, and I have no doubts that were I human, you could absolutely destroy me in a fight. Those skater legs of yours are good for more than just walking, I bet. Not to mention how kind and caring you are, even for a bunch of strangers who could kill you. You manage to be so open without being naïve. I love that about you.” 

I look down at my hands and resume braiding my hair, unsure of how to respond. I refuse to look at my reflection for fear of Arthur seeing it too, but I can feel my cheeks burn. My fingers work fast, providing a distraction, and I blindly pin the braid into a bun at the back of my head.

“Another thing I know,” Arthur continues, granting closure to my silence, “is that you played Mozart’s piano.” I notice his choice of words. He said ‘played’, and not ‘touched’. Coming from him, I have no doubt it was intentional.

“How on Earth do you know that?” I look up at him through the mirror as I keep working on my hair, adjusting strands and adding pins every now and then. He chuckles.

“I heard Wolfie complain about going to the ball with you. You clearly did something that upset him, although I must admit that’s not exactly a hard task.” He waltzes over to the vanity and comes to a stop right behind me, putting his hands over my shoulders to playfully lean closer. “And I know you were playing, specifically, because you do this thing with your fingers when you’re quiet. Like you’re playing a song in your head.” He wiggles his fingers on my shoulders to illustrate his point.

“I do?” I ask, puzzled. “I have never noticed.”

“Yes,” he laughs. “I first saw you do it in the bath, when you closed your eyes. After that, and after spending some more time with you, I have been able to notice how frequent it actually is. It’s rather adorable, if you ask me.”

“Oh, no,” I laugh, embarrassed, and bury my red face in my hands. Once again, Arthur has successfully made me feel better. He sits back on the armchair and finishes his tea, which is probably cold by now. 

Meanwhile, I dig around my backpack for the small amount of makeup I happen to bring with me when I arrived. I apply some mascara, and smudge a tinge of red lipstick on with my finger, before reaching for the last product. I spend the next few minutes applying layer upon layer of concealer over the few tattoos that are visible over the dress: the one on my collarbone and a portion of the flower on my right arm, just below my shoulder. While the gloves will cover the rest, I made sure to try them on beforehand, only to find out an inch wide portion of skin would remain visible.

“Okay, can you still see it?” I turn to Arthur, applicator still in hand, for his approval. He squints and then shrugs lazily.

“Only a little, and only because I already know it’s there,” he says. “Honestly, I doubt anyone will notice.”

I sigh, defeated, and walk to the full length mirror to add one last coat, for good measure. This is surely going to become a cakey mess in a few hours, but there is nothing else I can do. I guess that means I am ready for the ball.

[slippinmickeys]

Fairies, Skip Hence

This is my pic for the 2019 X-Files Secret Santa fic exchange. It was written for @msrafterdark, who’s prompt was “Soft early MSR, maybe a small gathering at the Scullys in which Mulder is invited. I'm a sucker for where Mulder and Scully are trying to find equlibrium in their new relationship.” 

Observing her from the passenger seat, she looked nervous, tense, eyes focused on the road like high beams. Her sharp little bob was perfectly coiffed, and she was wearing the bra and panty set (he’d been there when she put them on) that made her walk more upright. He thought of them as her Confidence Boosters, though it wouldn’t do to tell her that--she’d roll her eyes at the double meaning and never wear them again.

Hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, knuckles almost white.

He’d loved her for years, and knew she felt the same. They’d been Pyramus and Thisbe, speaking words of love through walls of their own making. It was only recently that those walls had come down, and he knew she felt unsteady, was still finding her footing. He didn’t know how the next few days would go, but he did know one thing: she still wasn’t sure about this.  

XxXxXxXxXxX

She still wasn’t sure about this. Mulder was coming to Christmas at her mother’s house.

She wouldn’t even be dealing with it if they’d been slightly more discreet and a lot more awake--he’d accidentally answered her phone at 8am on Thanksgiving when Maggie had called to asked Dana to bring an ingredient she’d forgotten. When Mulder had handed her the phone (they really needed to figure out what side of the bed they were each going to take, and leave phones ONLY on their own side), he’d looked both chagrined and pleased, and her irritation had given way to mortification when she’d heard the tone of her mother’s voice.

“Good morning, Dana. Was that… Fox?” she’d asked, her voice full of hope and barely concealed delight.

For all his foibles and for as much as her older brother hated him, her mother had

always had a soft spot for Mulder. “Fox and I have been through a lot together, Dana,” she would always say.

One grandchild was all Margaret Scully had, and the prospect of more--however they might come into the world--would sustain her. A man--any man, really, but this one in particular (Scully had reluctantly told her mother about the IVF failure earlier in the summer)--answering her daughter’s phone at dawn on a holiday was surely cause for celebration and hope.

Scully had steadfastly refused to bring him along that day, their relationship being so new, so she really ought not to have been surprised when Mulder told her a week or two later that Maggie Scully had called him herself to invite him to join the family at Christmas.

She’d pinched the bridge of her nose when he’d asked her what she thought he should bring.

And that was how they’d found themselves bright and early on Christmas Eve, driving north through quickly accumulating snow with a backseat full of gifts, a half case of wine and increasingly jangly nerves.

“We do stockings on Christmas Eve,” Scully said out of nowhere, her fingers drumming nervously on the steering wheel.

“Okay,” Mulder said, clearly wondering where she was going with this.

“Just a warning,” she went on.

“Okay,” Mulder repeated.

“Bill is going to be there.”

“You’ve mentioned that several times.”

“And Tara and Matthew, and Charlie is home on leave,” she went on.

“Right.”

“I’m not sure where Mom will want us to sleep. She might put us in separate rooms.”

“So sex only clandestinely in the bathroom,” Mulder joked.

“Mulder!”

“Scully, I’m kidding. Relax, it’s going to be fine.”

She gave him an extremely skeptical look.

“Please no sex jokes in front of my family.”

“Noted,” he said, and then, “I grew up with a full Emily Post upbringing, Scully, I promise I can comport myself.”

Her mother knew she and Mulder were together now, which meant that so did everyone else. She worried she’d be treated differently. She worried Mulder would be treated differently. She and Mulder weren’t exactly “public,” so she worried she’d treat him differently. Everything was so new. God, would he kiss her in front of her family? Would she want him to? What if she wanted him to? Seven years of saying we’re just friends to her family was a hard habit to break. She’d rather do Christmas with the Gunmen, she thought, as she took her mother’s exit off 95. She’d rather see Frohike in nothing but a Santa hat.

She sighed dramatically.

“It’s not you I’m worried about,” she said.

She thought, it’s everyone else. It’s Bill. It’s me.  

Mulder reached over the console and tried to rub the tension out of her neck.

His touch fortified her as it always did. Maybe it would all be okay. Maybe.

XxXxXxXxXxX

They made it through the lekking ground of the entryway, Bill and Charlie gathered to alternately dole out hugs and stiff handshakes laced with polite menace. Charlie winked at her as he shook Mulder’s hand.

Tara met them at the threshold with glasses of spiked eggnog, which Scully downed half of instantly, gratefully.

They made small talk in the kitchen with Tara and her mother, while Matthew scooted around on the floor, running a Brio train over everyone’s shoes. Mulder offered to make his legs a tunnel for the boy, and she saw both other Scully women’s eyes crinkle at the corners, charmed.

The man could charm anything but bees, she thought.

Scully couldn’t help but be thrown by his presence amongst her family, his dark minky hair and his Fortean job, all out of context amidst the buttoned up Naval fortitude of the Scullys, with their fair hair and their strict adherence to protocol.

He looked and sounded relaxed, as did the rest of her family, but she couldn’t unclench. He reached for her several times and she didn’t reach back.

Her mom caught her eye from across the room and gave her a questioning look.

She ducked into her mother’s quiet den not long after that, pulling Mulder rather reluctantly behind her. The room was much the same as it had been when it had been her dad’s office: still smelled of leather and old books. Naval charts hung on the walls. She took a moment to center herself.

“Hey, are you okay?” he asked her.

She turned to him.

“I was going to ask you the same,” she said.

He cocked her a half-grin.

“This is not my first too-hard handshake, Scully. I can handle myself.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said.

“I’m the prince of subtlety,” he said, “I plan to challenge Bill to a game of one-on-one and throw an elbow.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose again. She’d been doing it a lot lately.

“The guy plays like Bill Lambeer, Scully,” he said, continuing to push her, “you can just tell. It’ll be completely justified.”

She didn’t rise to the bait and instead stepped into him, close.

“Everything is different now,” she said, nervously, and he sobered.

“Nothing is different now,” he replied as he moved in to kiss her forehead, then leaned down to catch her eye, “absolutely nothing is.”

She knew he meant that they had always had love between them, fierce and unconditional.

She nodded at him, her face softening, “but everything is all out of context here and it’s already throwing me for a loop.”

It was probably as honest and forthright as she had ever been with him. He decided right then to be on his best behavior.

“It’s going to be fine,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose as he backed out of the room, “come on, let’s go be social.”

She glanced at her watch as she followed him. It was not yet noon.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Lunch was a simple spread of cheeses and meats, laid out on the dining room table for casual grazing -- Mrs. Scully had a big dinner planned.

Mulder helped himself, but Scully seemed too preoccupied to eat, and he watched her interact with her family as he sat on the couch in Maggie’s living room, a paper plate perched on his knee.

It was fascinating watching her comportment shift from Agent Scully to Dana, to watch how she joked with her brothers, slouched like a teenager against her mom in the kitchen. The Scullys were a tactile, affectionate bunch, prone to sarcastic comments about one another, but always with the understanding of love under each gentle jibe. Hers had been a very different upbringing from his own. He was held rapt.

The star of the show of course was Matthew, who was happy to be the center of attention, taking time to engage with each adult to gauge their suitability as playmate and co-star. Mulder appeared to pass muster with his ability to realistically die when poked with a small plastic lightsaber.

Mulder caught Scully staring during one such encounter with the boy, her expression guarded and unreadable.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Scully watched Charlie watch Mulder surreptitiously from where he sat in the living room. Her brother was obviously intrigued by him, having heard the stories from other members of her family, having never met the man himself.

Each of the Scully children had very different personalities. Charlie had always been the prankster, the lighthearted sarcastic kid that could bring a smile to anyone’s face. He’d also been the kindest, and Scully thought, behind his extroverted, jovial exterior, the most observant. He never missed a moment.

As if on cue, he shifted his gaze to her and smiled. Pointed to Mulder and gave her an exaggerated thumbs up.  

Charlie’s approval was almost antithetical to high spirits and she found her mood turning sour, which she knew was ridiculous. She operated better when it was just her and Mulder against the world, when her love for him was a closely guarded secret. They had only just started sleeping together, and she was afraid of how much she already needed him. She found she wanted to go to a corner and lick at nonexistent wounds, to snarl at anyone who came near. She was mad at herself for getting mad.

When her mother asked if anyone wanted to decorate the Christmas cookies she and Matthew had made the day before, Scully surprised everyone by volunteering and drifting off toward the kitchen with Tara and Bill, leaving the room with an apologetic glance at Mulder. She could feel his eyes on her back as she walked away.

XxXxXxXxXxX

“Enjoying ‘The Very Best Sacred Christmas Carols?’” Charlie said, handing Mulder a cold bottle of beer and dropping heavily onto the couch beside him.

“Of course,” Mulder said, nodding his thanks.

Charlie took a swig from the bottle he was holding. “You don’t have to lie,” he said, “there’s only so many times a man can hear a choir singing the word ‘holy’ before he wants to get hung from a yardarm.”

“Depends on the choir, I guess,” Mulder said, smiling.

A stiff, staid chorus sang from the speakers in Maggie’s entertainment center.

“I think this one is from King’s College, Cambridge,” Charlie said thoughtfully, “I’ve only heard it every Christmas since 1979. Mom is militant that the Christmas music be as Jesus-y as possible, and Bill is militant about Mom being militant.”

Mulder took another swig. “Always been more of an Oxford guy, myself,” he said, noncommittally.  

Charlie regarded him for a long moment.

“Bill isn’t a big fan of yours,” he said levelly. Mulder quirked a shoulder—a ‘what are you gonna do?’ gesture. “But you seem to make my sister happy,” the man went on.

Mulder sat up straighter and chuffed a self-conscious laugh.

“I wouldn’t have drawn that conclusion by the way she’s been today, myself,” he said, still smiling, catching his thumbnail on the edge of the beer label.

Charlie laughed brightly.

“That’s actually how I can tell,” he said. “She cares so much about making a good impression, she’s getting in her own way. And you haven’t seen the way she’s been looking at you when you’re not looking at her.”

Mulder looked to the younger man.

“You do the same thing, by the way,” Charlie went on, laughing. “My aunt Mabel would have used the word ‘besotted.’”

Mulder flashed on something he’d said a year or so before, I do not gaze at Scully.

“You guys are hopeless,” Charlie laughed. “But… I’m not my brother,” Charlie went on, “and to be honest, I’d like you on the off chance it would piss Bill off-“ Mulder quirked a grin at that “-but couple that with Dana’s obvious and utter devotion to you, and I’ve decided to like you because she does.”

Mulder felt he’d just earned something hard-given. He looked at the youngest Scully with gratitude.

“Now cover me,” Charlie said, and suddenly stood, the earnest moment forgotten as the young redhead pulled a CD case out of his back pocket. He handed Mulder his beer.

“What?” Mulder said, confused.

Charlie nodded towards the room’s entrance.

“Cover me,” he said, and Mulder stood, holding a cold beer in each hand, moving to the edge of the room, a precipitate look-out man. “Nobody fucks with Mom’s carols,” Charlie went on, kneeling in front of the CD player in the middle of the room. He pushed a button and the music suddenly stopped, the changer slowly giving up the ghost and ejecting the disc that had been in the player. “So let’s see what happens, shall we?” He pressed a mischievous grin in Mulder’s direction and pushed a new CD in.

It took about ten seconds before a new song started playing, more loudly than the carols had been, a drum beat followed by piano—Elton John’s bizarre holiday song ‘Who’d Be A Turkey At Christmas.’

From the direction of the kitchen, Bill’s voice came with an approaching “Now what the hell?” and Charlie ran toward Mulder, a roguish smile on his face.

“Run,” he said, coming right at Mulder, who braced himself.

“What?!” Mulder said, amused, but unnerved.

“Run!” Charlie said, darting past Mulder and grabbing his beer out of Mulder’s hand in the process.

Mulder felt he had no choice but to run up the stairs after him, laughing—a sudden but willing accomplice—while Elton drawled on drunkenly about having ‘a few too many,’ loudly from the speakers just as Bill barged into the room on a wind of blustering confusion.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Scully narrowed her eyes at Mulder, as they deposited overnight bags in the corner of her adolescent bedroom.

“What?” Mulder asked.

“Charlie took full responsibility for the music kerfuffle,” she said, and Mulder looked at her innocently. He would not implicate himself. Charlie had hit a setting on the CD player, whether on purpose or not remained to be seen, but Bill couldn’t get the player to stop until it was halfway through ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.’

Peace had been restored and the choir of Cambridge was once again singing its way through the Wassail Song though Scully had used the temporary chaos to steal out to the car and grab their luggage. She still wasn’t entirely sure Mulder wouldn’t be relegated to the foldout couch in the basement, being both the other half of an unmarried couple and now party to the playing of non-sanctioned Christmas music.

He sat on her childhood bed, bouncing on it experimentally.

“Not too creaky,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at her.

She ignored him, hands on her hips.

“You seem to be getting along with everyone okay,” she said, half questioning.

“I’m not without my charms,” he shrugged. She seemed tense and still hadn’t sat down. “Your family is great, Scully,” he said, “even the ones who don’t like me have been very polite.”

That at least elicited a reluctant smile, and she finally sat down next to him.

“We’re halfway through,” she said.

“Halfway through what?” he asked.

“The day,” she said, and he shot her a sympathetic smile. “Next up we’ve got stockings, dinner, then midnight mass…”  

“And then?” he said, swaying into her.

“And then we take a Benadryl with the family Sauterne and wait for sleep to save us,” she said, standing and offering a hand up.

He laughed as she had meant him to and took her proffered hand.

“You okay with going to mass?” she asked him soberly as she pulled him up.

“If you go, I go,” he said, and gave her hand a quick peck before dropping it. “Tara’s been trying to get me alone for the last three hours, I’m going to go give her a chance.”

She smiled at him.

“Want some backup?” she said.

“Always,” he said, backing out of the room.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Bill started coming up the steps as Mulder was headed down, and Scully waited on the landing so as not to crowd him.

He passed her and started to head down the hallway, but as he walked by, he gave her a look which brought her up short.

“Something you want to say, Bill?” she said to his back. He stopped and turned toward her slowly.

“He’s staying in your room, I see,” he said.

“And Tara is staying in yours,” she said, a statement of fact.

He gave her a long look.

“Why him, Dana?” he finally asked.

“Because he loves me,” she said, feeling as though she really needn’t justify herself.

“Any man would love you,” he said, “look at you. You could have anyone you wanted.”

“But I want him.” She didn’t need to convolute it any. When it came right down to it, it really was as simple as that.

Bill looked at her for another long moment and then, seeming to come to some kind of internal decision, nodded at her and turned away.

XxXxXxXxXxX

After a few minutes he watched as Scully came into the living room to find him perched casually on the couch next to her sister in law. She sat in a chair on the opposite side of the room and picked up a nearby paperback. Good old Scully, watching his back as always. The music in the room was still extolling the glory of the season and it afforded he and Tara a fair bit of privacy.

“Have you done Yankee Swap before, Fox?” Tara asked him brightly.

“Don’t know. Sounds vaguely punitive.”

She smiled at him.

“It’s a fun gifting thing we started doing a few years back where you can take someone else’s present or swap it out for a new one.”

“That’s a relief,” he said, deadpan, “I was afraid you were coming onto me.”

Tara laughed as he had hoped she would, then leaned into him confidentially, her breath smelling sweetly of pinot grigio. She had a smudge of flour on the left side of her chin.

“You know, Dana has never brought over a boyfriend before,” she said, probably a bit louder than she meant to.

Scully looked up sharply from where she sat curled up in her chair, and Mulder gave her a significant look which was completely lost on Tara as he leaned in to talk to her.

“We’ve been worried about her,” Tara said, “with that job of yours. It seems dangerous and all-consuming. We didn’t think she’d ever meet anyone.”

“I, for one, am glad she didn’t,” Mulder said and darted a look at Scully who was pretending not to eavesdrop.

Tara giggled good naturedly.

“Maggie’s been telling us about the change in her these last few weeks. How happy she seems. I guess falling in love with each other was inevitable,” she said wistfully.

Mulder nodded softly.

“Fate,” he said, and Scully’s eyes bobbed to his.

“Sweet,” Tara sighed girlishly, “well, we’re glad you’re here, Fox.” She patted his knee. “You’ll make Dana a wonderful husband, I’m sure,” she went on, clearly meaning it as the highest of compliments.

“Well,” Mulder said, holding Scully’s eyes across the room, “it’s an honor just to be nominated.”

XxXxXxXxXxX

Afternoon rolled into evening, and the weak sun laid long shadows through Margaret Scully’s neighborhood before it was blotted out completely in a blast of swirling snow.

He had drifted into the den and had been looking at the Naval map of the Carribean when Scully found him.

“Please tell me you’re not considering another trip to the Bermuda Triangle,” she said.

He turned to her and smiled, reached out to her. He saw her look at his outstretched hand and she walked around it, moving to look out the window.

“Looks like you’re getting out of midnight mass,” she said, one finger pulling down a slat on the room’s Venetian blinds, “it’s really coming down out there.”

The wind was gusting, pushing snow and ice past the glass; visibility was limited to about ten feet. The family had agreed to keep an eye on the weather and bow out of attending the midnight service if driving conditions became too dangerous.

Mulder came up behind her and bent down to look outside as well, her back pressed into him. When she straightened, he didn’t move, and he felt a frisson of energy run along the skin where he was pressed to her. He brought his hand to her hip and pressed his lips to her ear.

“Don’t,” she said, stepping away, and Mulder looked at her, hurt and confused. Immediately, she reached out a conciliatory hand and looked to the heavens as if for help. “I’m sorry,” she said.

He gave her a long look.

“If you didn’t want me to come, you should have told me,” he said gently.

“That’s not it.”

“Then what is it? Because honestly, Scully, you are the only one making things weird. Even Bill is acting like an adult, which is, frankly, almost as surprising as your attitude.”

She sighed.

She was prickly and self-conscious, beautiful and unapproachable. Even when she was pissed off with him--even when he was pissed off with her too--he felt like the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet.

“We’re still trying to figure out what this is, Mulder,” she said a little desperately, gesturing between the two of them,  “I still don’t know how to be with you. How to work with you. How any of this is going to play out. And having to figure that out while surrounded by my family of all people is just… a lot.”

He sighed himself and stepped back into her space, reaching out to rub a hand up and down her back.

She was tense under his hand.

“Tara keeps staring at my ring finger,” she said, and Mulder couldn’t help but chuckle.

“It’s not funny,” she said.

“It’s kind of funny,” he said.

“Mulder-”

He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to him, pressed his lips to her neck. One of his hands started creeping under the hem of her blouse.

“Scully—“ he started, when Matthew toddled into the room on a delighted shriek, the only one in the house who wouldn’t have picked up on the blatant frottage before him.

Scully took a step away from Mulder as Bill popped his head through the door.

“I think we’re going to to do stockings now,” Bill said, nodding toward his son, “some of us are getting a little antsy.”

“Sure,” Scully said to him, and then knelt down in front of the boy. “Matty, will you show me where the stockings are?” she asked him, and he happily took her by the hand and pulled her out of the room. She glanced behind her at Mulder as she left, who was still standing by the window, backlit by the snow.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Her mother found her outside just before dinner, wrapped in a tatty old afghan and leaning over the railing on the back porch, watching chickadees dart in and out of the feeder in the day’s fading light. The wind had stopped blowing, but the snow was still coming down, fat white flakes drifting down out of the silent heavens.

“Everything all right?” Margaret Scully asked from the doorway. She turned to look at her mother, who was hugging her sweater around herself tightly, her feet shoved into an old pair of fleecy slippers.

“Mm,” she hummed, smiling at her.

Her mother closed the door behind her and walked out slowly to join her daughter, the snow squeaking under her feet as she moved.

Scully had gone outside to get a little fresh air, and, she hoped, a clearer head. She was avoiding Mulder’s touch like he was some secret teenaged boyfriend she wasn’t allowed to see and her head was running in such circles about the whole damn weekend, she was wound up in her own thoughts and likely to fall face first.

“Is my absence conspicuous?” Scully asked her mother lightly, reaching out an arm and wrapping a corner of the afghan over Margaret’s shoulder.

“Only to me,” her mom said, leaning into her. Her mother’s intuition was flawless, and sometimes all it took was Maggie flashing her a compassionate look for Scully to crumple back into a pre-teen mess and spill all her fears and secrets. “And to Fox.”

She turned to look at her mother. She’d inherited her insubstantial height, and being eye to eye with her always seemed to buck up Scully’s morale.

“Is he okay?” she asked.

“He’s fine,” her mother answered with a small smile, “currently building a fairly intricate train track with your nephew.” Then, after a long moment, “how long?” Have you been together didn’t need to be said.

Scully breathed out, a column of vapor dissipating into the air.

“Not very,” she answered.

Maggie Scully smiled and looked out onto her small white yard.

“I’m glad,” she said.

“Bill’s not,” Scully said softly.

“Bill doesn’t understand what you have,” her mother said, looking at her significantly. “I don’t know if anyone really can, other than the two of you,” she went on. Scully tucked her chin to her chest, not able to meet her mother’s eye. “That man loves you, Dana. With the kind of unquestionable, forever love any of my kids would be lucky to see in the world, much less experience. I’m glad Fox is here with us for the holiday,” she reached out and ran a hand up and down her daughter’s arm, “I hope you are, too.”

She looked up and saw her mother’s wistful expression, the way she rubbed her thumb over her wedding ring like a talisman. Maggie smiled at her and headed back into the house.

XxXxXxXxXxX

“You feeling any better?” Mulder asked her. He had volunteered to do dishes after the meal, so she volunteered to help him, drying as he washed and putting the dishes away.

He had one of her mother’s aprons on and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, suds halfway up his forearms.

“A bit,” she said.

He’d been the consummate guest at dinner, regaling the table with stories from his college days at Oxford, full of vulpine charm and Vineyard decorum. At one point she’d even seen Bill chuckling at one of his stories.

She felt guilty for laying her own discomfort at his feet when he was the outsider, the guest at her mother’s table. She told him so, while she wiped a casserole dish dry.

“Hey,” he said, bumping her gently with his hip, “you know I know you, right?”

She smiled at him.

A siren approached outside the house and they both stilled, a Pavlovian anticipation building until the emergency vehicle passed, the siren fading into the night. Water dripped from Mulder’s hands and they both slowly unclenched.

“Go be with your family, Scully, I’ll finish up here.”

She regarded him, took the glass he was holding and dried it slowly.

A round of laughter came in from the dining room, where the rest of the Scully clan were sipping Sauterne, Matthew playing troll under the table.

“You don’t know where anything goes,” she said.

“I’ll figure it out.”

She kissed his cheek, lingering there for a moment, and hooked the damp dishtowel over his shoulder, then left to join her family.

XxXxXxXxXxX

She offered to help Matthew put out cookies and milk for Santa, and Mulder followed them into the living room, charmed by the boy’s enthusiasm.

Once the goodies had been strategically placed just-so, she let Matthew talk her into reading him a small Christmas book he’d gotten in his stocking. She barely made it halfway through before Matthew ran out of steam and slumped against Scully’s leg, half a cookie clutched loosely in his damp hand, leaving a trail of crumbs on her knee. His eyes slid closed.

Scully ducked her head down to look at him, sweeping soft curls from his forehead. She closed the book and set it down next to her.

Mulder cocked his chin toward the boy.

“I had a roommate once, was the same way,” he said quietly.

Scully smiled and resisted the urge to smell the boy’s head. His little body had pinned her arm to her side.

Another round of cheerful laughter came in from the direction of the kitchen, the rest of the adults in the house all loosened up from a good meal and a round of wassail, the proximity of family.

Mulder rose from where he sat, and kneeled down in front of Scully, scooping the child up in his arms from where he’d been pressed to her. Her side felt suddenly cold.

“Where does he sleep?” Mulder whispered, and Scully rose, silently beckoning him to follow her.

Up the stairs and down the hallway they crept like thieves, Mulder and the child behind her a sleepy votary.

She opened the door to Missy’s old bedroom, which her mom had converted to a sewing room. It had a large crib set up in one corner and a Fisher Price nightlight projecting a jungle scene onto the ceiling. The door creaked as it swung open, but the boy didn’t awaken, and Mulder crept to the crib and deposited the child gently onto the mattress. He snuffled once and turned onto his side.

“Should we change him into PJ’s or anything?” Mulder whispered, keeping his eyes on the boy’s sleeping form.

She shook her head and took in the scene before her, Mulder watching over a sleeping Scully child. Whatever emotion threatened then, she refused it.

“I’ll go let Tara know we put him down,” she whispered back and turned from the room, drifting down the hallway like Marley’s ghost.

XxXxXxXxXxX

When it was confirmed that Matthew was finally asleep, Bill and Charlie set about bringing in gifts from the trunks of various cars, and Mulder had to jump in and help when they tumbled in through the front door, overloaded with gifts and stamping snow onto the mat.

Several toys needed assembling and the unlikely trio headed into the garage and went about it in the usual male fashion; with several strong opinions and more tools than necessary.

When they finished, they found that Tara and Maggie had gone up to bed, and Bill and Charlie followed suit.

Mulder searched the house until he found Scully.

Bubbles floated like dust motes silently through the living room, catching the color from the lights on the Christmas tree and turning the room kaleidoscopic. She sat in front of the fireplace amongst Matthew’s scattered stocking stuffers, looking young and small. She held a small Santa-shaped bottle, blowing bubbles quietly into the room from a wand protruding from Santa’s hat. She looked like a fairy in the festive space, and his heart clutched at the sight of her.

“Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania,” he said softly.

She looked up with a smile.

“What, jealous Oberon?” she said.

“Never,” he said, and lowered himself cross-legged next to her. The fire gave off a radiating heat that pushed into one side of his face.  

“I’m sorry--” she started, but he cut her off with a finger to her lips.

“Don’t,” he said, “this is a lot for you--all of it--I get it. You don’t have to apologize.” She smiled at him in relief. “So long as you don’t forswear my bed and company,” he went on.

She looked at him, her eyes watery, but bright.

“Never,” she whispered.

A bubble landed on her hair and refused to pop. He could hardly blame it.

XxXxXxXxXxX

A log gave a sharp snap in the fireplace and she turned her head to look at it.

She had realized she was in love with him when she was sick, writing to him in a journal she didn’t want him to read. Back then it was too late to do anything about it. Then she was granted a reprieve, death’s scythe pulled back, and regret was replaced with cowardice.

She looked back at him, the glow of the fire turing his face chimeric, and thought of Matthew’s crumby, damp hand, the glint of Charlie’s hair by the light of the sun. Her mother’s worn, papery skin, Bill linking his hand with Tara’s under the dining room table at dinner. She thought of the thump and swish of Mulder’s heart when her ear was pressed to his chest. It all felt like family. It all felt like home.

He was her partner, her fidus Achates, the love of her life.

“Take me to bed,” she said softly, reaching out for him.

“Look, I don’t know what the secretarial pool has been saying, but I’m not that kind of g-“

Scully silenced him with a kiss to the lips.

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a basket case today,” she said, catching his eyes in the warm light of the fire. “Take me to bed, Mulder,” she said again, coyly arching an eyebrow at him.

He nodded at her earnestly and took her by the hand.

They padded lightly up the steps as Handel’s “Messiah” began to play on the stereo in the living room behind them.

XxXxXxXxXxX

She closed the door after he followed her in and the room took on a sudden quiet, the music from downstairs pushing gently at the outside of the door.

It was an odd contrast to see Mulder, an adult man, standing in her adolescent bedroom looking at her in anticipation, his eyes hooded with lust. She stepped into him, her toes on the tops of his--he flexed them even as he reached out and pulled her to him by the hips.

Sex between them had been surprising, incredible, but it was still new, and they had not yet settled on an easy rhythm, a give and take on the act’s initiation.

“Come here,” he said softly, though she couldn’t get much closer, and he pulled her flush up against him, his breath fanning her face.

He slowly took her arms one at a time and propped them up over his shoulders until they were encircling his neck, then he grabbed her firmly by the ass and lifted until her face was more or less even with his. She wrapped her legs around his waist reflexively.

“Better?” she whispered, smiling at him, their faces only an inch or so apart.

“Better,” he answered, and then leaned in slowly to kiss her.

His lips were framed by the rasp of his five o’clock shadow, which scraped against her skin, her teeth, as she opened her mouth to him. She hummed into him, relaxing into his embrace.

The stresses of the day seemed to peel back--her fears, expectations, pressures from her family whether real or merely perceived, all seemed to coalesce into one sharp feeling that melded somewhere in her chest and slowly sunk until it was an exquisite yearning pressure in her womb.

She threaded her fingers through his silky hair and she felt him turn and start walking them to the small double bed of her youth. Mulder sank slowly until he was sitting on it, Scully perched earnestly on his lap. He finally broke the kiss and leaned back to look at her.

“So I’m the first boyfriend you’ve brought home, huh?” he said, an obnoxious grin spreading across his face.

“Shut up, Mulder,” she said on a smile of her own, and reached down to grab the hem of his sweater, pulling it up and over his head, effectively erasing his insufferable expression.

She brought her hands to the spongy hair on his chest, running light fingers over his pectoral muscles, then slowly lower down over his abdominals, naming his anatomy in her head as her fingers explored. Rectus abdominis, external oblique, transversus abdominis. When her fingers reached the area of the linea alba, he hissed in a breath and she felt his body react to her touch, swelling under her right thigh.

He grabbed her hands and pulled them gently away from his body, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

“Turnabout is fair play, Ms. Scully,” he said, lifting up the shirt she was wearing and pulling it up and over her head.

She leaned in as his hands once again found her waist, and darted her tongue into his ear.

“That’s Dr. Scully to you,” she said, and clamped her mouth around the delicate flesh of his earlobe.

His hips responded to her, surging up as his hands held her steady--the pressure where their bodies met sharpening to an exquisite point.

The alarm clock next to the bed was an hour ahead, passed over when Daylight Savings ended. It glowed cherry red over Mulder’s left shoulder. Her mouth drifted down his neck, her tongue following the long line of tendon as his hands migrated toward her front, cupping her breasts over her bra.

The wind had once again picked up, blowing snow in soft tinks against the glass of the window. He pinched her nipple gently through the fabric and she let out an involuntary moan. She heard him laugh quietly and then he pressed his lips into her ear.

“Shhh” he shushed, and her skin broke out in gooseflesh even as sweet wine sloshed in her stomach. She felt warm and concupiscent, lusty and clear. She wanted to feel his skin on hers.

She leaned back, stood, stepped out of her pants and rid herself of her underthings. Mulder did the same, standing before her--his skin a golden bronze, his gaze intense--ithyphallic and unashamed. She laid on the bed and reached out a hand for him.

He joined her, kneeling onto the bed above her, knees pressed into the mattress between her legs. He took a moment to run his tongue slowly from beneath her navel to the point of her chin, painting her skin with his cooling breath.

His skin felt fevered on hers, but his eyes were clear and bright. He pushed into her slowly and her own eyes slammed shut, her teeth digging into her lip. He stretched her out, filled her up, and she took a moment to adjust, to enjoy.

Time seemed to stretch out, sand in the hourglass slowed to a honey drip. The bed was silent beneath them, for which she was thankful.

Seven years she had waited for this—a hymnal in the air, his overbite on her skin. What time she had wasted, what pleasure they had denied themselves. She pulled him to her, bit his shoulder, licked the teeth marks she had left. She wanted to consume him, take everything he was and absorb it like light.

She felt love-drunk, parched, caught up in chasing the high of their frenzy. He had his arms bracketed on either side of her face, and the hollow of his throat was at eye level. She darted her tongue out to taste it.

Suddenly, he reached down, grabbed her by the hips and flipped them and she found herself perched atop him, wild and wanton, his own Lady Godiva. Time caught back up to them and she gave him a wicked smile.

XxXxXxXxXxX

He still had trouble believing he had unlimited access to her compact, tight little body; she seemed all angles and edges these days with the exception of her center which was all soft, lush, wet heat--the sweet brine of her anointing him like a sacrament.

A car turned somewhere on the street, its headlights sweeping once over her, catching a freeze frame of her above him, back arched, head thrown back, mouth open.

He licked his thumb, reached between them and swept it over the tight bud at her center; she made a breathy noise in the back of her throat.

When they had finally gotten together there had never even been talk of a condom; the only thing left between them was for one of them to say “now, no more waiting.” He thought of his seed inside of her, thought of putting a baby there, an impossible gift he almost believed he could give her from sheer wanting. He’d read once that it was theorized female orgasm--unnecessary from a scientific, purely reproductive standpoint--helped by perhaps moving sperm further up into the womb, and he thought of it as he applied himself to her with a renewed vigor.

She started breathing that quick, shimmery breath that he’d only recently come to understand meant she was close, and he drove up into her as he pressed her with his thumb, encouraging her in a quiet, whispering voice. She clutched at him, fingernails digging into his hips on a hiss.

He followed her into oblivion, cresting just as the Hallelujah chorus reached the height of its crescendo in the living room below them, the sound both tinny and muffled. Mulder would associate the song with sex for the rest of his life.

The French call orgasm “the little death” and that felt right to him, proper and precise; he felt struck down and reborn in the cradle of her hips.  

She rolled off of him, to the scant empty space on the bed, and laid face down, a small smile cracking slowly up her cheek from the pillow below.

He propped himself up on an elbow and considered her naked back, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat in the dim light, her hot slip cooling on his thighs. He leaned over to kiss the dimple above her ass cheek, and he heard her chuff a laugh.

Emboldened, he ran his tongue along the ouroboros upon her back, dared not tell her that it was an ancient symbol of alchemy. Dared not tell her how fitting it was that it was branded upon her skin, that he believed she was the elixir of his immortality, that she alone gave him life.

Outside, the world was cold, tilted away from the sun. Dust collected on the nicotine tainted pages of their files, and monsters walked the earth.

Inside, she was dreamy hot skin pressed to his side. She was his cover--the alert, sharp eyes that watched his six, the love of his life.

“Merry Christmas, Scully,” he said quietly, could already tell she was on the edge of sleep.

“Merry Christmas, Mulder,” she mumbled back, and he reached for the blanket, pulled it up and over them both.

XxXxXxXxXxX

When he woke, her head was near him on the pillow, she had a crease in her cheek and she smelled of sleep. Unable to help it, he reached out and tucked a feather of hair behind her ear. Her eyes fluttered open.

“Hey,” she said on a breathy smile.

“Hey,” he lobbed back.

The bed dipped in the middle under their weight and had pitched them together; her whole side was pressed to his, his own personal hot water bottle. He threw a leg over her.

The house had come to life below them, he heard cabinet doors swung closed, the soft chunk of coffee mugs on granite, gentle murmuring.

He could stay in this little bed with her all day, he thought, reading books pulled from her childhood shelves—Black Beauty, Moby Dick, A Brief History of Time. They would lock the door, make love, take sustenance only from each other.

She had an eye cracked on the pillow next to him, regarded him warmly with her cool blue stare.

“I love you,” he said, apropos of nothing.

She smiled, slowly blinked.

“They say ‘if you love something, let it go,’” she said, her voice rough from a night’s disuse.

He considered her, the peach fuzz of her skin in the early morning light.

“I don’t want to let you go. I want to hold on forever.”

To prove his point, he reached out and looped a pinky through one of her own, her hand lying close to her face on the pillow. He felt her breath puff against the hairs on the backs of his fingers, humid and warm, a humectant tropic in the tiny bed.

“It’s supposed to be a test, to see if what you love comes back to you.”

He squeezed her finger with his.

“You do always come back,” he said.

“So do you.”

They were thinking of the same things—her abduction, him lying in a hogan in New Mexico, her cancer.

It was Christmas morning, he remembered. The day already felt like a gift.

“I suppose we should get up,” Scully said, “put Matthew out of his misery.”

Mulder let go of her and stretched in the tiny bed, his feet lopping out over the end.

“How long do you think he’s been awake?” he asked, then reached for a pair of jeans.

“Oh, hours,” Scully said with a smile, and she pulled on the pair of pajama bottoms she’d brought with her. After a moment’s hesitation, she swiped the undershirt he’d worn the day before out of the sweater she’d tossed to the floor and pulled it up and over her head.

“Your family’s going to start getting ideas about us, Scully,” he joked, pleased.

“Let them,” she said, and went for the door.

They padded down the steps hand in hand, and when they reached the bottom, instead of letting go, her grip on his hand became more firm.

He followed her into the kitchen where they found everyone else milling about, all the adults wearing the pre-caffeinated shell-shocked look of a pre-dawn awakening.

Matthew cheered gleefully at their arrival, which had clearly been a pre-negotiated stipulation of gift-opening.

Bill, after giving their joined hands a long look, thrust his chin towards the counter and said “Coffee’s in the pot.”

Maggie caught her daughter’s eye before smiling into her own steaming mug like Emma of Hartfield. Charlie and Tara shared a knowing look and an arch smile.

Breakfast was eschewed in lieu of gift-opening, and Matthew ran to the tree, the adults a slow shuffling procession behind him. Gifts were passed out, opened, fawned over, played with. Thanks were shared and coffee was drunk.

There amongst her family, he felt content, happy, accepted. Scully looked at him warmly over her shoulder, and separated as they were by mounds of torn wrapping paper, he felt connected to her in a way he’d never felt connected to anyone.

She was his favorite gift. Sent to the basement to punish and dissuade him, she’d done the opposite. She was everything they hadn’t planned, antipodal to their strategy of turmoil and distrust.

She was the dawn in the night of his life.

He was glad he’d come. And so was she.

[welllpthisishappening]

A Two-Man Advantage

That gif has absolutely nothing to do with this story! I don’t know that Killian and Roland ever actually interacted on the show! It doesn’t matter! So today this gif set posted and @shireness-says​ said she would like to see some pre-Blue Line Killian and Roland, so here is about 5K of just that, set in, like, September 2013. So, this is the start of the season Killian comes back to the Rangers after he gets hurt. With a side of snarky Ariel, Vankald-type emotions and allusions to things that happen at the very start of Blue Line. It’s all coming together, guys!  

-----

“Just for five minutes.”

“I don’t—“ Killian said, but Robin widened his eyes and the rest of the words appeared to evaporate. Right on the tip of his tongue. He slumped, practically going concave in front of his locker and it wasn’t that he was nervous, per se, but he was—

Nervous. 

There was really no other word for it. 

Well, maybe terrified. 

Killian had never been terrified of this game. Or the ice. Or the possibility of those two things together. But that was before everything else happened and the apartment he’d only just recently moved into felt impossibly large and far too small all at the same time. 

It was messing with his head. 

A lot of things were messing with Killian’s head. 

Because they were closing in on the end of camp and his hand didn’t hurt that much anymore—or least not as much as it had right after the accident and that had to count for something, even if Ariel was determined to take all the credit, and they had a game to play in three days. Seventy-two hours. Two more vaguely restless nights of something that could possibly be referred to as sleep. Honestly, he hated the paint on his apartment’s walls. 

And the look on Robin’s face. 

Imploring, that was the word for it. 

Killian was practically a walking thesaurus. Or something less lame sounding. He really hadn’t slept in a very long time. 

“Five minutes,” Robin repeated, like Killian wasn’t almost painfully aware of the constant passing of time. His eyes couldn’t get any wider. It couldn't have been healthy. “Maybe even less. Three, if I can get away with short sentences.” “They’re interviewing you,” Killian reasoned. “You’re not getting out of there for fifteen minutes at least.”

Robin grimaced. “I mean, you never know. If we rush through stuff and—” “—Then they’re only going to think that you’re trying to blow them off.” “I am. Obviously.” Killian barked out a laugh, some of the tension that had taken root between his shoulder blades over the last year and a half loosening slightly. That was unexpected. 

All of it was, really. 

He was terrified of this game. 

The return. That’s what one column had dubbed it, which was almost too heavy-handed, but Killian had already lost track of the number of times he’d read it and he didn’t even need the link saved to his bookmarks anymore. 

He could probably recite it verbatim. 

That would annoy Ariel. Maybe Killian would do that later, then. 

“The starving public wants your opinion on our chances this year,” Killian shrugged, and he hoped it wasn’t a sign when he fell off the stool. 

“And I’m the only one capable of forming coherent sentences on this team.” “Wow, scathing.” “Five minutes.” “Did we not just agree to at least fifteen? This conversation doesn’t make any sense.” “Yeah, well, get used to that,” Robin muttered. “Because the conversational tendencies of a three-year-old are not much better.” “Almost four,” Killian objected. He wasn’t sure why he was arguing on behalf of Roland. “And,” Killian added, “as much as I’d love to hang out with the kid while you give sound-bites—” “—This is an interview for the Daily News, weren’t you listening to me before?” Killian shook his head. “Absolutely not.” “Are you sleeping?” “Absolutely not.” Robin sighed. Killian did his best not to bury himself in the back corner of his locker. That probably would have done damage to even more of his body. And then Ariel would never let him skip PT again. 

“Maybe this will do you some good, then,” Robin said. 

“Babysitting your kid?” “I’m going to punch you.” “Don’t do that, Red will get mad at me.” “Yeah, well,” Robin shrugged, “you’re setting yourself up for it, at this point. You’re really not sleeping?” Another head shake. That one hurt a bit — as if Killian’s brain was bouncing off his skull as well, and one of the media relations people was already calling for Robin from the other side of the locker room. 

“And it’s not really baby-sitting,” Robin continued. “It’s more like—fifteen minutes of making sure he doesn’t break anything.” “Ask Scarlet.” “Are you kidding me?” Killian scoffed. “I’m going to tell him you said that.” “Seriously, does my punching threat not actually threaten you?” “Not at all, no,” Killian said, pushing up when he noticed the small blur in the corner of his eye and Roland Locksley always seemed to be holding a hockey puck. It was equal parts endearing and confusing. Killian couldn’t imagine where he kept getting them from. 

“Hook! Hook! Hook!”

“Rol, Rol, Rol,” Killian echoed, and his left knee cracked when he ducked down. Roland slammed into his chest anyway, still chanting directly in Killian’s ear at the same time his arms flew up, an elbow colliding with a shoulder and the word game was shouted more than once. 

Whoever gave Roland the hat he was wearing did not understand the concept of children’s sizes.

And Robin’s lips had very quickly disappeared behind his teeth. 

“Scarlet would end up on the ice with him, or something. And I can only ask him to do this so many times before it starts to get annoying.” “You're asking Scarlet to watch your kid a lot?” Killian asked. 

“Five seconds ago you told me to ask him right now.” “We’ve really got to work on your concept of time.” Killian exhaled, which might have been a very large mistake or another way to help ease some of the pressure currently accumulating at the base of his spine. “First it’s five minutes and then fifteen and now this conversation’s only been five seconds long. What’s your obsession with fives, by the way?” “When do you think you’ll be able to sleep?” Killian made a ridiculous noise — the feel of it scratching at the sides of his throat and those evaporated words, weighing down his tongue in almost perfect harmony with the weight of the three-year-old suddenly hanging from his side. He wobbled a bit when he stood back up. 

Mostly because Roland’s knee was digging into something that might have been his pancreas. 

He’d never graduated college. 

This was all he had going for him. 

That probably explained the insomnia. And the issues with his spine. He was a very depressing person. 

“He wanted to hang out with you,” Robin added softly, like that would make a difference. Killian grit his teeth. It totally made a difference. 

He leaned back — all too aware of the location of Roland’s knees and the puck that was already trying to move into the spot his fourth vertebrae was currently occupying — only to be met with equally wide eyes and a smile that wasn’t worried about the first preseason game of the year. 

Roland was very excited about the first preseason game of the year. 

His hat was falling dangerously close to his eyes. 

“Alright,” Killian said, only a little annoyed that the word came out a bit like a sigh. “But you should make sure to tell whoever interviews you that you play dirty, Locksley.” Roland hummed, a knowing sound made all the more obnoxious when he crossed his arms lightly over his chest. And rocked back on his heels. “I don’t see how that’s true at all. You were requested, Jones. By name. Or, you know—nickname.” “Yuh huh.” “Ask Gina if you want to double check.” “And where is Her Majesty right now?” “With Scarlet, talking about some kind of something that—” “—Is that the official name, then?” Robin didn’t look impressed. His arms definitely tightened, at least. And Killian’s smile threatened to do permanent damage to his cheeks, a weird stretch they absolutely were not used to in the inherently depressing string of moments that had become his life over the last year. He shouldn’t go out on the ice any time soon — the bitterness in the very center of him would probably melt it. 

“You fall back on sarcasm when you are freaking out about things,” Robin announced, and Killian didn’t quite freeze, but he also wasn’t sure how much more of this his spine was going to be able to handle. Roland’s knee dug deeper into his side. 

“Freaking out is very juvenile, don’t you think?” “No, I do not. And I get it, I do. But—” He clicked his tongue, a half-hearted shrug. “The game’s still the same and you’re—” “—Not,” Killian finished. “Far from it.” “Something about evolution, I guess.” Killian let out another laugh, darker than the first, hissing in a breath when Roland tilted his head up at the sound. “Something like that,” Killian mumbled. Someone called for Robin again, footsteps joining the voice, and it probably wasn’t a good idea to stay in the locker room with a nearly four-year-old kid. “Ok,” he added. “What do you want to do for fifteen minutes while your dad tries not to embarrass the franchise, Rol?” “No one’s embarrassing anyone,” Robin argued, waving a quick hand towards an impatient journalist. 

“Except maybe the kid. In this hat.” Killian tugged lightly on the fabric, pulling it over Roland’s ears, but that only served to press his hair across his forehead and the laugh that rang out around them was as loud as it was comforting. 

“The hat was a gift,” Robin said. 

“From who? Someone who wanted to make sure Rol doesn’t see anything?” “I can see, Hook,” Roland objected loudly, squirming in Killian’s hold and none of this was probably great for his hand. He wasn’t very worried about his hand at the moment. 

“Yeah, how many fingers am I holding up?” He shifted his weight — and the weight of the kid in his arms — ignoring Robin’s pointed stare and the increasingly loud huffs of the understandably annoyed reporter, so he could hold up several fingers. Someone was tapping their foot too. That might have been the new media relations person. 

Killian couldn’t remember her name. 

He was an asshole. A worried, terrified, absolutely exhausted asshole. 

And Roland had to push up his hat to see, smile somehow getting even bigger when he yelled “Three! Like me, right, Hook?” “Exactly,” Killian nodded. “Tell your dad to go away so we can hang out, huh?” “Dad, go!” Whatever noise Robin made at that was a little strangled, but Killian was admittedly far more preoccupied with the state of his lungs and their ability to function better in the last twenty-four seconds than they had in the last twenty-four weeks. 

It was annoying when Robin was right. 

And, strictly speaking, he wasn’t sure what had changed — that anything had, really. But there was this kid and this team and they both wanted him to do something good when he got back on the ice in three days. So, Killian figured he owed it to both of them to at least try. 

“Ok, ok,” Robin muttered, a step forward so he could kiss the top of Roland’s head. Or, hat. “I will call you guys when I’m done and—” “—Dad, I want to hang out with Hook!” Killian smirked. “I’m cooler than you, it seems.” “Yeah, you’re something,” Robin muttered. The reporter was starting to sound out of breath. Killian had to press his forehead to Roland’s shoulder to stop himself from laughing. “Alright, fifteen minutes and—” The reporter made a noise. It didn’t sound particularly pleasant. “An indeterminate amount of time,” Robin amended, “and I’ll be back and—just, please try not to break anything. Bones or otherwise.” “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Killian said. “We’ll be fine. Right, Rol?” He nodded enthusiastically, enough movement on his chin that it probably would have impressed several major league baseball scouts. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, what are we going to do, Hook?”

“Who bought your hat?”

Roland opened his mouth — presumably to answer the question, or just to shout more plans, but then the reporter was trying to ask his own questions and Killian gave Robin an exaggerated wink before walking out of the locker room. 

“Your dad thinks you’re going to break a lot of things, doesn’t he?” Killian asked, doing his best to get Roland back on his feet. It didn’t work. “You have a habit of doing that?” Roland blinked. “What’s a habit?” “Oh. Uh—well, it’s...you do it a lot. More than once. Like you seem to have a habit of knocking things over and moving your limbs a lot.” No response. And Killian wasn’t really sure where they were walking, but his feet kept moving and, technically, he was supposed to be at PT in ten minutes. He hadn’t mentioned that to Robin. 

It absolutely did not matter. Because the footsteps approaching Killian’s back were far closer to a sprint than they probably should have been and he swore he could taste Ariel’s frustration in the air. 

“Killian! Where do you think you’re going?” He turned slowly, not able to stop the way he winced at Ariel’s expression. The size of her eyes rivaled Robin’s, but there was a spark there that Robin hadn’t had — a determination that probably could have fueled most of the Tri-State area, or at least the island of Manhattan and—

Roland waved. 

“Hi, A,” he yelled. Directly into Killian’s ear. Again. 

She didn’t soften, really, was still doing her best to glare at Killian — but Ariel’s shoulders dropped slightly and she definitely exhaled, a step into Killian’s space. “Hey, Rol,” she said. “What are you doing here? With Killian?” “Hook and I are hanging.” “Hanging?” “Hanging,” Killian nodded. “And I wasn’t going to skip, Red. Honestly, I just—” “—Was going to bring a three-year-old to your PT appointment?” “Depends on how long Locksley takes with that reporter.” “Interviews?” “Unless you think Locksley’s giving up state secrets or something,” Killian said. “What would we call our scandal? GardenGate?” Ariel scowled. “That’s not even creative.” “Please, that’s hysterical. You’re trying not to laugh, Red, I know it.” “I’m trying not to do something, but—” She made a face, pushing up on her toes so she could fix Roland’s hat and the stupid thing was just determined to fall over his left eye. “Where did this come from?” Ariel asked. “Is this a hat for a giant?” “No,” Roland grumbled. “It’s mine!” “Yuh huh. And you’re not a giant, right?” “No, no, no, A. I’m three!” “We did this part, already,” Killian added, grimacing when Ariel flicked his bent elbow. “And we’re open to suggestions on activities that don’t include the ice or broken things.” “Concern over broken things gives me pause. And you act like you're not going to try and get on the ice at some point. That’s admirable.” “Apparently that’s a habit of Scarlet’s when he’s the one babysitting. The broken things.”

“Thanks for the clarification.”

Killian shrugged, trying to stay casual or nonchalant or something that didn’t betray his lack of sleep and growing concern over how well he’d skate, but then Roland started yelling, repeating the word habit in quick succession until it sounded like one syllable and a very large letter. Maybe Killian should have been more worried about his potential hearing loss instead of the state of his left hand. 

Or his preseason conditioning. “Are we honestly calling what you’re doing right now babysitting?” Ariel asked. “How do you think that’s going for you?” Killian rolled his eyes. “You flatter me, really, you do. These are also not suggestions.” “I wasn’t asked to babysit.” “Yeah, well, you’ve got that very important job to do.” She stepped on his foot. “Hey, c’mon,” Killian snapped, but he couldn’t really stumble backwards when he was still holding Roland and he was positive Ariel had planned it that way. Her smile had taken on a very pleased look. “We are open to suggestions and extra additions to the hang.” “Are you inviting me into your top-secret club?” “I don’t think it’s really all that top secret. I mean, you found us in the hallway.”

Ariel chuckled, a quick click of her tongue and fingers tugging lightly on the back of Roland’s team-branded t-shirt. “You’re very annoying. But, yeah—ok. My afternoon was mostly focused on you anyway, might as well hang out with someone I like.” “The compliments have to stop.”

“God, this is an unorganized conversation. Well, if you’re not going to the ice and you can’t stay in the locker room, then you can come upstairs.” Killian tilted his head, suspicion finding its way up his spine. He was thinking far too much about his spine. “That sounds like you’re just trying to get me to go to PT, Red.” “Wow, imagine that.” “Taking advantage of the situation.” “Please,” Ariel objected. “I’m offering you a place to sit down instead of just wandering the hallways for however long Locksley’s interview lasts.” “Probably longer if it does involve state secrets.” “Idiot.” “Mhmm,” Killian agreed. “What do you say, Rol? We go find some tape in Red’s office and—I don’t know, learn how to wrap ankles or something?” Ariel groaned, throwing her whole head back, which felt like overkill, but Killian didn’t move his gaze away from Roland or his slightly flushed cheeks. He nodded again, quick and a little jerky, more than enough movement that the hat fell off in the process and Killian couldn’t say anything before Ariel was ducking down and tugging the stupid thing over his head. 

“Wow,” she drawled. “You’re a fashion icon.” “Ha ha ha.” “No, no, you look good, really you do.” He wasn’t sure he got enough frustration into his narrowed eyes, but Roland was laughing again and maybe that was the only thing that mattered. “You haven’t given me an answer yet, you know,” Killian said, hitching Roland further up his side so he couldn’t yank on the hat. “We go get your ankles taped so you don’t get hurt when you do inevitably get on the ice?” “I’m not helping you sneak this kid onto the ice, Killian,” Ariel hissed. 

“Did I say that?” She sighed. 

Roland beamed. 

“Yeah, I think this is a good plan,” Killian said, a quick nod and smile flashed in Ariel’s direction. She stuck her tongue out. “This is your moment to shine, Red. Show off your skills. We could time you, if you wanted.” “Has anyone ever told you are strangely competitive?” “I think it’s been mentioned once or twice, yeah.” Killian didn’t add that it hadn’t been the case in the last few months, but if anyone knew that it was Ariel and, presumably, the person who was calling the ringing cell phone in his pocket. He assumed it was Elsa. It usually was. 

He was ninety-two percent positive she and Ariel had regularly scheduled video chat meetings to talk about him as well. 

Killian ignored the vibrating piece of technology, swinging Roland onto his back to avoid muscle strain in his forearm and that left him gasping just a bit when a knee moved again, but he was also walking already and Ariel had to jog to keep up. So, as far as victories went, that was a pretty good one. 

They marched upstairs, Roland’s quiet commentary a steady soundtrack up several flights, and Killian wasn’t out of breath exactly, but a three-year-old was deceptively heavy and maybe he should have rethought this plan. 

He hoped that wasn’t another sign. 

Of something. 

His phone started ringing again. 

Killian dropped Roland onto the nearest table, a mess of limbs and laughter and a foot that immediately collided with his right thigh, both of them ignoring Ariel’s glare. “I’m starting to see how things wind up breaking around you, Rol,” she muttered, already rifling through drawers and throwing a roll of tape at Killian. He caught it. “God, that’s going to do horrendous things to your ego.” “You act like I’ve got one,” Killian argued, and that was more out-of-place depressing nonsense. 

“Oh man, now I feel bad.” “Don’t Red. It’s not a big deal and—” “A, A, can we tape now?” Roland asked, barely getting one word out before he was on to the next one. He hauled his legs up, elbows on knees and a gaze that made it seem as if taping his ankles was the single greatest thing they could have been doing. 

Killian had no idea what was happening in the middle of his chest. 

Not quite warm, not quite uncomfortable, just kind of — nice. In the most basic form. He glanced at Ariel, one eyebrow arched expectantly and the roll of tape twisting around his index finger. 

She scrunched her nose. 

“He’s got a repeating thing, doesn’t he?” 

“He’s three,” Killian said. 

“Yeah, yeah—oh shut up,” she added quickly, when he opened his mouth to point out she was doing the exact same thing. “Luckily for us, repeating is a key part of taping ankles. Ok, Killian, take your sandal off.” “Wait, what?” “Gotcha there didn’t I?” “I don’t—” he started, but Ariel was already trying to tug his sandal off and the whole thing had reached absurd levels far quicker than he expected it to. He was going to lose the babysitting competition to Will. 

That was disappointing. 

And unspoken. 

“I can’t teach Rol how to tape ankles if he doesn’t get to do it,” Ariel explained. She held her hands out, getting Roland back on the floor and Killian wasn’t sure when he’d sat down on the table instead, but he’d lost control of the situation as soon as the situation began, so it probably wasn’t important. “Give me the tape, Killian,” she added. 

He threw it. It landed on the floor. 

“Not helping,” Ariel growled. “Ok, Rol, so see how Killian—” “—Hook,” he interrupted, and Killian couldn’t help the smile tugging at the ends of his mouth. 

Ariel nodded. “Hook needs to flex his foot for me.” “How am I going to push off then?” Killian asked. “You’ve got to be able to have some movement even with the tape, Rol. Otherwise you won't be able to go fast and—” “—I want to go fast!” “That’s definitely the point.” Ariel rolled her whole head. “I’m not going to make you immobile. God. Just—do you turn your ankles a lot when you angle in on net?” “Eh,” Killian shrugged, a fairly pitiful deflection when Ariel’s eyebrows shot into her hairline. “Sounds like a yes. Why didn’t you say that? We should probably avoid that.” “We’ve got other things going on.” “Self-sacrificing is not a cute look on you, you know.” “Am I trying to be cute for you? When am I going to meet this guy you’ve been dating?” “There is a child here,” Ariel sneered, swatting at Killian’s shins when he grinned. 

“I bet he’d like to meet your boyfriend too. He owns a restaurant, right?” “Yes, uptown. And, uh—I don’t know, maybe we can go up there after your game.” “My game personally?” Ariel gnashed her teeth, another victory in a competition Killian was very likely having with himself. He wanted to score in the preseason game. If only to prove something to himself. “Rol,” Ariel continued, “can you grab that can off my desk?” He rushed over, knocking several other things over in the process, and Killian yelped when Ariel sprayed his foot. “That is freezing!” “What is it?” Roalnd asked. “Pre-tape,” Ariel answered. “So things get a little more sticky and Hook stops hurting his ankles when he takes that wide angle to get into the high slot.” “And score?” “Absolutely.” “Is that a note of confidence I hear, Red?” She flicked his shin again, Roland talking a mile a minute about goals and angles he absolutely did not understand, and Killian’s chest was doing that thing again. Expanding. To fit his larger-than-normal heart. “He’s going to score, don’t you think?” Ariel asked Roland. 

He jumped. Killian assumed that was the answer. 

And he knew he was going to score in now, less than seventy-two hours. 

“Here,” Ariel continued, tugging on pre-tape and actual tape and moving Roland’s hands so he could twist both of them around Killian’s foot. “Yeah, just like that, make sure you get it on his skin. You’ve got to find a rhythm, almost. Killian, stop moving.” “I’m not trying to,” he groused. “Stop moving, Hook,” Roland yelled, and he was running out of oxygen to sigh as dramatically as he wanted to. 

“You’ve created a monster already, Red.” “Please,” she muttered, “look at those hands, he’s made for this.”

Roland nodded, more twists and tears, far more tape on Killian’s ankle than he’d used in his entire career. “I think that just means he’s got quick wrists,” Killian said. “Makes him good in shooting lanes.” “Is that all you think about?” “Should I be thinking about other things?” “Hook, Hook, you should get a power play goal,” Roland announced, letting Ariel move his hands when he circled the arch in Killian’s foot half a dozen times with tape.

“You think? Killian asked. 

“It’d be good.” “I mean, any goal would be good, but—yeah, ok. A power play goal and tell you what, if I score, you can keep that puck and then you won’t have to keep stealing them from wherever you’re getting them.” Ariel flushed. 

Killian’s jaw cracked when it dropped. “Oh my God, Red. Are you getting pucks for this child?”

“No. Of course not.” “No?” “No.” “A takes them from the room,” Roland said. 

“What room?” Killian pressed, the color in Ariel’s cheeks starting to rival her hair. “The equipment room? Does the equipment manager of this team know that?”

Ariel’s face might have been on fire. 

And Killian refused to control his laughter, free and easy and something he hadn’t felt in a very long time, Roland joining in even if he didn’t entirely understand the reason behind it. “From the room,” he said again. “But, but—what’s his name, A?” “Kristoff,” she grumbled. “Yeah, he gets mad sometimes.” “Because people keep stealing his pucks?” Killian suggested. 

“Ok, that is not what’s happening. And, you know what—it’s fine. This is a professional hockey team and they absolutely have the money to spare on the few pucks I’m—” “—Stealing.” “Shut up, Killian.” He snickered, another nod that was definitely more sarcasm than anything else. “10-4, Havfrue. I deflect to your area of kleptomaniac expertise.” “God, you are insufferable. I take it back, you can’t come to the restaurant or meet the very nice people I met the other day who live a couple blocks away.” “Just them specifically?” “I bet Scarlet is a better babysitter than you.” “Wrong, nothing’s been broken yet. So. Rol, just keep taping, kid.”

Roland did as instructed, bending at the middle so he could look at the underside of Killian’s heel, and he was using far too much tape, but no one said anything to him and—

“Ah,” Killian gasped when Roland somehow yanked on his leg. In a way he was not at all prepared for. Everyone in the room froze, Ariel looking like she wasn’t breathing at all and Killian only felt a little absurd when he slid off the table, trying to balance on one foot when he crouched down. 

Roland refused to meet his gaze, lips disappearing almost exactly like Robin’s had. He flinched when Killian rested his hand on his shoulder. 

“I’m fine,” he promised softly. 

Roland blinked. Several times. And there weren’t tears, but the threat of them hung heavy and, if asked, Killian would guarantee that’s why he did what he did next. He was also very curious. And very...sure. 

“Who got you the hat?” he asked, a finger pointed at the thing still barely clinging to his hair. “Mr. or Mrs. V?”

Ariel gasped. 

And Roland’s eyes got very wide, a slower-than-usual nod. “Ms. V did. She—she said it was for good luck. For the games.” A chest-thing hat trick was happening — all warmth and feeling and now Killian was actually going to have to call El back if only to make sure she knew what a giant pair of saps her parents were. She probably already knew. 

Killian took a deep breath, tongue darting out to lick very dry lips. Roland kept staring at him, nervous obvious on his face, and Killian’s knees weren’t all that happy about his prolonged crouch, but he didn’t try to move and he didn’t really want to. “For luck, huh?”

“Yuh huh. Good goals.” “I think we can work on that this season, don’t you?” “Yeah?” It was an impossibly large question. After everything — accidents and slap shots, hospitals and beeping machines, good and bad, wins and losses, careers cut short and second chances that Killian knew he couldn’t waste again. He nodded. 

“Yeah,” he echoed. “Good goals and lots of wins. And—” He reached up, pulling the hat off and it wasn’t easy to stay balanced when he got it back on Roland’s head, but they also avoided getting hair in the kid’s eyes, so that was another victory. He was going to brag to Will about his babysitting prowess later. “I think this means you’re Mr. and Mrs. V’s new favorite, which means you’re basically family, right?” Ariel made another noise. Not quite a gasp, but absolutely more emotional and Killian didn’t look at her. 

He didn’t need his own eyes going glossy. 

The lump in his throat was problematic enough. 

“I mean,” he continued, “Mr. and Mrs. V are pretty much—” “—Your mom and dad?” Roland asked. 

Killian hissed, not sure of that answer either, but that wasn’t the conversation he wanted to have and the lump was definitely getting bigger. “Something like that,” he admitted. “So, you’re like—grandson once removed. Or something.” “Something,” Ariel mumbled. She was sitting on the table now, hands moving quickly when she tried to brush away incriminating emotional evidence on her cheeks. 

Killian smiled. “My point is, Rol, you’ve got this great nickname for me and I don’t have one for you. That’s a bad family look.” “I get a name too?” Roland exclaimed. 

“Should be something good. As good as Hook is. That’s—” “—Nautical,” Ariel said. “You know, Captain Hook and all that.” “Is that offensive?” “Are you offended?” “I mean—” “—What about mate?” she cut in. “You know, like...first mate? You’re definitely Hook’s best friend, Rol.” “That’s true,” Killian nodded, if only to make sure the look on Roland’s face stayed there for a few more moments. Like he was hearing the greatest news in the world. 

“You’re my friend too, Hook,” Roland said. Definitely the greatest news, then. 

“Good. That’s—that’s good. Ok then, mate. Now that my ankle’s all taped up, what do you say to sneaking onto some ice? Bet we could get Scarlet to go along with it?” Roland didn’t answer, just started jumping again, arms around Killian’s neck and legs circling his middle when he stood back up. That made it more difficult to get his sandal back on, eyes flitting Ariel’s direction, but she didn’t say anything, just smiled and shook her head in something almost like acceptance.

“C’mon,” she said, “I know a place where we can steal some pucks.” And it wasn’t hard to get Will to agree to the quasi-practice, grabbing skates from the equipment room as well until Robin swung open the door to find them practicing one-timers in front of the far net. “Why am I not surprised?” he yelled. 

Killian stopped moving, dousing Roland with a snow shower of ice. “You want to come out here now that you’re done promising how good we are?” “Are we not as good as I promised we were?” “Depends on what you were quoted,” Will said. “C’mon, Locksley, we’ll go up against Killian and the kid. Show ‘em how it’s done.” “Done what, exactly?” “I don’t know. Winning or something.” “Yeah, that sounds super confident,” Killian laughed. Robin got on the ice anyway — and they let Roland score no less than sixteen times, a puck in his pocket when they finally went back to the locker room to get changed. 

And three days later, once Killian scored on the power play in the first period of the first preseason game of the year. 

[let-it-raines]

Not Your (soul)Mate {10/15}

Killian Jones doesn’t like the idea of soulmates. He sees how happy his friends are with theirs, but he still doesn’t like the idea, not when he’s found love and lost it time and time again only to still not know his sign. He has no markings on his skin, no voices in his head, but then one day he meets Emma Swan and everything changes. Because, well, he may not have ink on his skin to tell him who to love, but the very first time that he hears Emma’s voice he knows that she’s the one for him. Then again, that could simply be his desire talking. After all, for every word she speaks, he becomes aroused.

It’s not the worst thing in the world to be incredibly attracted to a beautiful woman, but things aren’t that simple when she doesn’t have any interest in being his soulmate.

He’s screwed. And not in the good way.

Rating: Mature

A/n: Will my posting schedule ever make sense? Probably not. Anyways, thanks for reading, my pals! You guys are the best, and I love love love you all for loving this story and these two crazy people💜

Thank you to @captainsjedi for her love and support and artwork!

Found on AO3: Beginning | Current

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-/-

No part of her understands why their cable bill is mailed to her. They’re a cable company. They provide TV and internet and yet they’ve never heard of paperless online billing. It’s ridiculous. And yet the minute she’s late with her payment she gets an increasingly nasty series of emails that shows they obviously know how to use the internet. And since Storybrooke Cable is the only company that provides internet in a sixty-mile radius, it’s not like they don’t have the funds to set up a website. Hell, she’ll take a class and learn how to program the website for them if she has to.

Well, probably not. That’s all a little dramatic, but she really hates having to go down to the mailboxes in the basement to get her mail so that she can go upstairs and write a check and buy a stamp to mail the payment in. It’s not the biggest deal in the world, but she hates it.

She obviously would not have lasted in a world without internet.

The old stairs creak beneath her, a sound that she’s used to when she’s carrying her laundry downstairs (it’s how she knows when she’s on the unsteady step since usually she can’t see over the full height of her clothes which is what procrastination gets her), and she quickly descends downstairs to the row of mailboxes that rest against the wall in front of the washing machines and dryers that work at least ninety percent of the time.

She and Belle need to move to a nicer place. They can afford it, but then again, if Belle moves, it’ll probably be with Will. It’s a constant thought every time Emma thinks about it, so she never quite works up the courage to bring up moving somewhere else. This place is just fine, they’ve made it their home, and so what if she has to walk to a bit of a creepy place to get her mail to pay her cable bill. It’s not like anyone in this town is actually going to do something to her.

They’d have hell to pay.

The stairs could use a little work, though, maybe a few new light fixtures for the hallways too.

Pulling out her key, she twists it in her box, opening it and grabbing the few envelopes that lay flat against the metal. She closes the box, locking it back up, and as she walks up the stairs, she shuffles through the mail, tripping on a loose board as she sees neat black script inked across the white in the upper left corner.

Killian Jones.

What the hell?

What the hell is he doing sending her a letter? Even though her toe is still stinging from how she jammed it, the pain worse than some of her injuries she’s gotten on the job, she stops in the middle of the staircase and rips the letter open.

Dear Emma Swan,

You’ll have to forgive me because it’s been awhile since I’ve written a letter that’s not an e-mail. I’ve been told by a rather reliable source that it’s a bit old-fashioned to write like this, but I do like a bit of a challenge. So, Swan, I’m sitting at my desk writing you a letter on stationary that Ariel found me and with my very favorite pen. And while I don’t expect you to write back, I have included several stamps to encourage you. You wouldn’t want me to waste money, now would you?

Anyways, I find myself wondering about you because you intrigue me. There are things I’d like to know. For instance, how long have you been a secret nerd watching the History Channel and National Geographic? I, for one, have been a fan for years. It’s fascinating to learn about things that have happened in the past. What other interests do you have? Do you enjoy sports? Read any good books lately? What is your ultimate favorite baked good? Do you like cooking them yourself? Are you one of those people who have a favorite flower? I am partial to sunflowers over roses, preferring the brightness of yellow, but then again, there are yellow roses.

I’m simply but a curious man who enjoys knowing the answers to my questions, and in return, you can feel free to ask me anything you want. I’d even tell you what kind of underwear I wear since you seem to be averse to answering that particular question.

Sincerely,

Killian A. Jones

“Oh my God,” she mumbles, scanning over the words one more time before opening up the envelope to see several stamps with pictures of sailboats on them.

A part of her absolutely cannot believe that he wrote her a freaking letter, but then again, she’s not really shocked. That’s exactly something that he would do just to annoy her, and the fact that he included stamps is really over the top. She’s not going to complain. She needs stamps, but damn, the man is persistent.

But she’s not going to write him back.

Absolutely not.

She folds his letter back up and puts it in the envelope before walking up the rest of the stairs and turning in the stairwell so she can get back to her floor, quickly moving into her apartment to write a check so she can send off the cable bill before she gets to work this morning. Belle is still sleeping, so she tries to stay quiet as she grabs her purse and walks right back out the door, all of her mail in the front pocket of her purse.

All day she ignores the letter that seems to be burning a hole through the leather material of her purse that’s hidden under her desk, but it’s more of an attempt at ignoring it than actually ignoring it, because when David leaves to go question a fight that broke out down by the pier, she grabs a piece of paper out of the printer and starts writing something back.

Damn it. Has she lost control of her limbs?

Jones,

You’re ridiculous. Seriously. I can’t believe you took our texts as a challenge, but then again, it is you. I have no idea why I’m writing you back, but you did say that I could ask you any question I want, and, well, I simply can’t pass up that opportunity.

So tell me, what is the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to you? And spare no detail.

Sincerely,

Emma Swan.

PS: I am a mean ping pong player, and I agree with you about the roses. If you’re looking for a good book recommendation, though, I suggest Belle. She gives me all of mine.

Oh, and bear claws.

And I want to know what the A in your name stands for.

Quickly, she stuffs the paper in an envelope, seals it, writes his address on it, places a stamp in the corner, and puts it in the mailbox outside of the station so that she literally can’t take it back without tampering with federal law. She’ll bend a lot of rules, but she’s not going to break federal law over something as dumb as a letter.

Two days later, she gets a letter back. There’s no formal address this time, and she kind of likes that…not that she likes this.

Really went straight for the kill then, eh Swan? It took me a bit to remember what exactly my most embarrassing memory is, simply because I’m so suave that I don’t have many embarrassing moments.

However, when I was a young lad of twenty-three, I had the night off and left base to go out to a pub with a few of my mates. This was something we did often, something we’d done for our five years together, but on this particular night I indulged in a few too many glasses of rum. My tolerance wasn’t quite what it is now, even if I do wake up feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck now, and while I don’t remember the night but in a few glances (particularly me telling the lasses that I was the Captain when I was not), I do remember waking up in the flat of a woman I didn’t know without my clothes anywhere in sight. Either she stole them, my mates somehow stole them, or something else happened, but my options to get home were either walking in the streets of Birkenhead in the nude or wearing this lass’s mother’s nightgown. It was this billowing, flowery thing, and while I fully believe I can wear anything I want, let’s just say my actual Captain did not take too kindly to me walking back onto base in something that was not approved. I was written up three times for one incident, and I’d just like you to imagine me having to explain why to my superiors why I was wearing a nightgown when I had no idea myself.

I have to say, though, nightgowns are quite comfortable. Lots of air to breathe. It’s likely a good thing that my mates thought it would be funny to buy me a nightgown when I was promoted. It was much more my taste. Silk is wonderful, though I don’t think I ever wore it. I much prefer my briefs.

So, there’s a story of one of the brightest moments of my youth, and while I’m sure you’ll somehow use it to torture me, it’s yours to know.

My middle name is, Andrew, by the way, and the lovely Belle has recommended me to The Guest Book as reading material. It’s rather good. Feel free to borrow my copy if you’d like. Speaking of Belle, I hear Mr. French makes rather delectable bear claws, but he’s in a fierce rivalry with Mrs. Lucas over who makes the best. Personally, I think they’re using pastries as a bit of foreplay, but that’s simply a theory from an observer.

Now, Swan, I’ve metaphorically shown you mine, so you should show me yours.

Have a good week,

Killian Andrew Jones.

Emma doesn’t realize it, but by the time she’s finished reading the letter, she’s got tears streaming down her face, just a few of them, from laughing at the thought of Killian running around in a nightgown. That’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard, but for some reason, she has no issue imagining him walking into base in a flowery nightgown that hits at his knees and shows off all of the hair on his legs with the shoulders being a little tight. It’s ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, and she’s glad that Belle is still at the library so that she doesn’t ask what in the world Emma is laughing at.

It would be a little hard to explain.

Well, not really, but she doesn’t want to explain. Because her explaining any of this would make her have to explain other things, and since Belle already knows that Killian sent her the basket of baked goods months ago. So it would be too difficult to explain her...having to explain. This is kind of like some sort of bad inception.

But Belle’s not even here, so it definitely doesn’t matter.

While she’s still laughing, she gets up from the table and heads to the kitchen, grabbing a wine glass out of the cabinets and pouring her a glass of the wine that she and Belle didn’t finish drinking last night. If she’s going to spend her time writing letters to Killian, which is a ridiculous concept in and of itself, she should at least have some alcohol in her.

Not enough to make her have to wake up without clothes and have to borrow an ugly nightgown from the mother of the person she’d slept with but some alcohol all the same.

She doesn’t have any paper here, so she has to shuffle through some of the old notebooks Belle keeps on their bookshelves, and takes out a lined page from the back, settling down on the couch with her wine and paper and pin while Drain the Oceans plays on the TV.

Killian Andrew (Asshole) Jones,

I’ve added the “asshole” because I really did think that was your middle name. You did say you would respond to it, but I guess Andrew is okay. Is that a family name? Your father’s maybe? I don’t have a middle name, didn’t even have a last name, only my first, but I’ve always kind of thought it would be something classic since my first name is.

Shit. I just got wine on the paper. Oops.

So you and that rum, huh? You seem to be a fan of it. And also nightgowns. Are you sure you don’t sleep in one of those? Is that why you don’t have a girlfriend? You scare them all away with your nightgown. I imagine it makes easy access to...things, so really, they should like it better than the briefs. It’s just a great mystery that may never be solved.

Granny’s bear claws are better than Mr. French’s hands down, but Mr. French has better pastries overall. Plus, he’s like my dad, so you implying that they have a thing going on is really kind of freaking me out. I bet Granny wears a nightgown, though, which makes my earlier joke about easy access so much creepier.

Some things simply shouldn’t be imagined. But if you’re going to, make sure to tell Ruby to scar her for life.

I haven’t read that book, but if Belle recommends it, it must be good. I’ll have to check it out. I’ve been very into historical romances lately, which isn’t really on par for me, but there’s simply something about Jane Austen, you know?

Thanks for telling me your most embarrassing story. You’re right. I’m totally going to use that against you, and no, I will not tell you my most embarrassing story. It involves karaoke, though, so it’s a good one.

Emma

If she hadn’t had the wine, she probably would have realized that she revealed a bit too much in her letter, but after she seals it that night and sends it off in the morning, still using the sailboat stamps Killian provided, she doesn’t think about it.

Not at all.

What she does think about is the fact that eight days go by without a new letter. She didn’t even realize that she wanted another letter, that she got a weird sense of excitement over them, until she wasn’t receiving one in her mailbox.

Who has she turned into that she’s checking her mailbox daily?

What decade is this?

But her week has gone by as normal, spending her days at work, reveling in the hour break she gets to eat lunch with David or Ariel, and her evenings at home, sometimes with Belle, sometimes not. On Saturday she, Ruby, Belle, Mary Margaret, and Ariel all spent the day at the beach, waking up early enough to beat all of the tourists there, and settled down with blankets and umbrellas with bags full of food and a cooler full of drinks. They didn’t bother moving, not unless to dip into the ocean to cool themselves off or to run up to the pier to use the restroom, and even if her eyes constantly trailed down to the pier to look at the fleet of ships and boats and what not resting outside of the Jones’ office.

And if her eyes kept checking her texts even if most everyone she spoke to was already there, no one had to know. Though she does think that Ruby noticed.

She wasn’t very subtle in her desperation.

But she didn’t see him, not that she wanted to, and she tried to push it all to the back of her mind to enjoy the day as the sun beat down on her skin so that she got the slightest bit of a tan that she hopes stays with her until the fall.

Okay, so she thinks about the lack of a letter a lot.

However, she wasn’t thinking about it when she was driving home from work, but now that she’s standing next to the door of her apartment with Will holding a stack of their mail, it’s all she can think about.

Shit.

Why didn’t it occur to her that she and Belle share a mailbox and that Belle could see one of these letters? How could she have missed that?

“Hey,” she cautiously greets, placing her keys down, the clanging loud in her ears, on the table and stepping further into the room, “I didn’t know you were coming over tonight.”

“Belle and I are going to dinner. Why do you have a letter from Jones?”

“Huh?” she asks, trying to keep her voice steady even though her heart is beating wildly in her chest, the sound louder than it has been in a long time. She can feel it all the way down to her toes. “I have a letter?”

Will raises his eyebrow, obviously not believing her, and as casually as she can, she steps forward and takes the letter from Will, stuffing it away in the back pocket of her jeans.

“So where are you guys going for dinner?” Emma asks to change the subject.

“Eric’s place. He gives me a discount.”

“Ah, yes, because everyone wants discount fish.”

“Oi, it’s not like he’s giving us the old fish.”

“So you think. If you guys die in a few days, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“We’ll be dead, and you’ll be bragging about it.”

“Exactly.” She steps around Will and sits down on the couch, reaching down to unlace her boots and kick them off. “I guess I’ll miss you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Emma,” Belle shouts, and Emma leans her head back to look down the hall to see Belle standing in the hallway, “can I borrow those teal heels that you wore last week?”

“Yeah, they’re in my bathroom.”

Belle doesn’t say anything back, but less than a minute she comes into their living room wearing the teal heels and a little black dress, fluffing out her hair over her shoulders while Will grabs his coat off the chair, stepping up to her and kissing her cheek, whispering something that Emma doesn’t pick up on, which is good. It’s private, and she doesn’t need to hear things about their private life.

Her hearing thing has been wonky lately anyways. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.

“We probably won’t be back until late,” Belle tells her, and Emma reaches her hand up over the couch to let Belle grab onto it. “Do you want me to bring you back anything?”

“Nah, you two go have fun. Don’t do anything that I’ll have to investigate.”

“Well, that just takes all of the fun away.”

After the two of them leave, she leans up on the couch and pulls the later out of her back pocket, hoping that Will forgets about it and doesn’t mention it to Belle, and quickly opens the sealed envelope, her nerves running over every inch of her skin and making her fingers shake the slightest bit as she straightens the creases out of the paper.

Emma,

I apologize for my late reply, but you seem to have caught me at a bad time. I had a client call and request a refurbishment on his seafaring vessel (his words, not mine), and I’ve been consumed with it. I love this job. It’s a way to keep me connected to the ocean, a place where I spent so much of my life, but this is different. And it certainly didn’t help that my wrist decided to act up a bit this week. It’s the weather and all.

Regardless, I do wish you would have told me your most embarrassing story. I feel like it’s a real ice breaker, and I love karaoke....if I’m drunk. But then again, bad things seem to happen when I’m drunk. So wine? That’s your vice? I always took you more as a tequila or whiskey type, but then again, I’m learning that I know very little about you, love. Though, I like that it’s changing a bit, if I may be so bold.

Jane Austen is bloody brilliant, and it’s nice to hear of someone else appreciating her. Mr. Darcy and I have a lot in common, you know? I, too, screw up with strong-willed women and then have to realize the error of my ways to have them allow me back into their lives. Or, at least, I hope. Tell me, if you’re a fan of historical romances, how are you not a fan of letter writing when that is such a core piece of the story? Is it simply that you don’t like modern day letter writing because it, for practical reasons, doesn’t make any sense? We could have had this entire conversation in ten minutes, but it’s taken eight days. Yet, this is a bit more fun, even though talking to you does incite other kinds of fun.

As to my middle name, it’s my mother’s maiden name. My father’s name is Brennan, and the only thing I carry from him is the Jones name, which is likely a good thing. He wasn’t a good man. He was a drunk, and he abandoned us when I was ten. I’m proud to be a Jones because of my brother and my mum, so like you, I suspect that my last name carries a weight that most don’t.  

Anyways, that’s much too much information about me. Tell me, Swan, there’s a Summer Regatta coming up in two weeks. Do you think you’ll be at the festival? I know someone who can get you a free ride on a boat.

Killian.

He’s got a screwed up family too.

That’s what she gets out of all of that. It’s not that he loves the same books that she does, not that he correctly guessed her drinking vices, not that he practically invited her to be his date to the regatta in over Labor Day weekend. It’s the fact that he has a screwed up family, a drunk deadbeat dad and a dead mom. She knew his family life wasn’t great, if only because Elsa never mentions having to take the kids to go see Liam’s parents.

Huh.

She can kind of see it now, can see that he is a bit of an orphan too, and even though he had parents, it breaks her heart. No one should ever have to grow up without having people love them, and she’s thankful that Killian had Liam and their mom. That’s a nice thing for them to have a family, even if it’s not what most people would call complete.

Maybe it’s the wine or maybe it’s the fact that she suddenly understands Killian in a way that she knows only a few people can, but she pulls out her phone and lets her fingers move without thinking about it too much.

Emma: So not a fan of karaoke then? Is your voice that bad?

The three dots pop up almost immediately after she presses send only for them to disappear, only coming back every few seconds. He’s either trying to think of what to say or realized that he’s texting back incredibly fast. It’s nice to know some things never change.

Killian: For someone who is incredibly attracted to my voice, that’s a bold thing for you to suggest.

Emma: Touché.

Emma: So it’s not bad then?

Killian: I’ve been told that it’s actually pretty good, but I find that karaoke does nothing but bring embarrassment unless you’ve been drinking all day.

Emma: Okay, but say you have…what’s your go-to song?

Kilian: Easy. Anything Elton John. He’s so easy to understand.

Emma: You’re kidding, right?

Killian: Nope.

He definitely has to be kidding.

Emma: I figured you’d be more of a Queen or Beatles guy. I’m pretty partial to Queen.

Killian: Well, I could do those too. Or pretty much anything from the eighties. I feel old, but I don’t know a lot of the new songs.

Emma: That’s because you are old.

Killian: Being older than you doesn’t make old. And as you can tell, I’ve retained my youthful glow.

Emma: Sure, we’ll call it that.

She takes another sip of her wine and turns the volume up a bit on the television so that she’s not simply staring at her phone waiting for him to text her back. That’d be pathetic. Then again, she’s sitting at home drinking wine and watching the History Channel while her roommate is out on a date. That could be considered pathetic. Or very, very smart depending on who is asked.

Killian: What are you up to tonight, love?

Emma: Watching Drain the Ocean, though I’ll be honest and say I have no idea what’s going on.

Emma: You?

Killian: The same, actually.

Emma: Creepy.

Killian: Believe it or not, I think we have similar taste in television shows.

Emma: Ugh, I know. I can’t believe I have so much in common with an old man.

Killian: If you keep flattering a man like this, he might get the impression that you like him.

Emma: Never.

Emma: At least we don’t like the same foods. Unless you secretly like junk food.

Killian: I enjoy certain kinds, but I don’t think I have the same propensity for grilled cheese, onion rings, and bear claws like you do.

Emma: I also like poptarts and brownies. Oooh and lots of icing.

Killian: You’re a child.

Emma: Oh, come on. You don’t like icing?

Killian: If there’s cake attached, yeah.

Emma: No, no. You’ve got this all wrong. Straight out of the can.

Killian: You also eat raw cookie dough, don’t you?

Emma: Duh.

Killian: I do like cookies, though. And mostly pastries that involve fruit. It makes it all feel a little healthier.

Emma: You’re in shape. I think you’ve got the healthy thing down.

Killian: I knew you liked staring at my ass.

Emma: I said nothing about your ass.

Killian: Just my general body then? The abs? The biceps? My collarbone? What about my left ankle? You’re into period romances. I bet the left ankle really does it for you.

“Oh my God,” she mutters to herself, putting her glass down on the coffee table and standing from the couch, smiling to herself as she reads the message and walks to the kitchen. He’s such an idiot.

Such an idiot.

And now she really wants something sweet to eat, so she presses up on her toes and gets a can of chocolate icing out of the pantry popping open the top and grabbing a spoon out of the drawer so she can at least be a little civilized about the whole thing. Without putting much thought into it, she holds the spoon full of icing up to her mouth and takes a quick picture, not checking to see what she looks like before sending it to Killian.

Emma: See? This is the way to eat sweets.

The three dots pop up before they disappear just like before, and she doesn’t really have time to think about it before the front door is swinging open and Belle is walking inside, an obviously bright red flush on her pale cheeks.

“I’m engaged,” she squeals, holding her left hand up as she walks into the apartment, a small diamond ring resting there.

“What?” Emma gasps, nearly choking on her icing before she puts the spoon and the container down, running her tongue over her teeth to wipe up all of the excess icing. “You’re engaged?”

“Yes! Will asked at dinner. Oh my gosh. You know, I always swore I wouldn’t be one of those girls, but I did the thing where I put my hands over my mouth when he got down on one knee.”

“Of course you did,” she laughs, reaching forward and wrapping Belle up in a hug, squeezing her as tightly as she can while she sees Will walk into the apartment, bags of takeout in his hands and a smile on his face that tells Emma he’s just as happy as Belle is. Good. They deserve all of the happiness. “I’m so damn happy for you. Both of you.”

“And you’ll be so much happier when you know that I brought you earplugs for tonight,” Will tells her when she hugs him.

“That is so gross.”

“I’m simply trying to be helpful.”

“Babe,” Belle laughs, walking over to the two of them and leaning into Will to press a kiss into his cheek, “stop grossing Emma out and give me five minutes to tell her what happened before we can let her put the earplugs into use.”

“Nope, nope, no,” she refuses, putting her hands in the air, “you guys just go. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Perfect.”

“Please ignore him.”

“I promise you I’m trying.”

Will and Belle go back to their room, and she takes the opportunity to grab her phone, her icing, and plant herself in front of the television, turning to volume up so that she doesn’t have to risk hearing anything else. Tonight will probably be the night that her weird hearing thing picks up again.

She is so damn happy for the two of them, a bit of a buzz of happiness spreading over her skin, but she can’t help the little voice in her head that wonders what’s next for her if the two of them are getting married.

She hates that she thinks that.

Her phone dings, and she looks down at it, forgetting that she was texting Killian before Belle and Will came home.

How long were they texting for her friends to get engaged during that time? That’s…a lot of time. Did it really all go by that quickly? She didn’t even notice.

Killian: I mean, there’s definitely something sweet in that picture that I’d like to eat.

Emma chuckles under her breath, unable to help herself, especially when accompanying the text is a picture of him holding a banana over half of his face, the scars on his wrist and the chain around his neck visible even in the dimness of his apartment. And damn it. This was not supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen.

She likes Killian Jones. 

[ackervida]

Flames of Nirvana, ch 2

TW: This story will contain strong language, canon-typical violence, implied/mentions of rape, mentions of suicide, abuse, suicide attempts and explicit sexual content. It is manga compliant up until chapter 128, so there will be spoilers!

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23990044/chapters/57707902

Summary: In the heat of a never ending war, Levi finds himself recruiting a compromised spy. But the war outside is nothing compared to their own inner battles, and hand in hand, they find the strength to conquer them one by one. And the world follows.

Pairing: Levi x Reader

Chapter 1: https://ackervida.tumblr.com/post/617128447226101760/flames-of-nirvana-ch-1

Chapter 2

“Miss F/N.”

She mumbled something unintelligible, turning on her other side. Thankfully, her ribs had healed enough to prevent her from wheezing in pain with the movement – the lack of bandages around her face also made sleeping so much more comfortable, when F/N finally ended up succumbing to it. She hated it with every fiber of her being, yet there wasn’t much else for her to do during the past month other than sleep.

“Miss F/N, you have to wake up.”

F/N sighed, opening an eye to look at Falco’s cute little face. He and the other kiddo around, Gabi, had been taking turns bringing her meals and various other things in the past weeks. Apparently, they wanted to be helpful to the older soldiers, since they still had a year left before they could properly enroll in the military. F/N was saddened when they’d revealed this ambition to her, but in a way she could understand – once you’ve been on the frontlines, it was very difficult to sit idly, regardless of your age.

She had to admit, waking up to two adorable kids was much more pleasant than having the doctor come in – she hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, but F/N couldn’t quite stomach him. He had a bad habit of making her feel like she was exaggerating the pain she was in, his ‘routine’ examinations involved a suspicious amount of roaming hands and he’d kept her bedridden all this time – she knew from Falco and Gabi that the other three survivors had already been cleared, recovering in their new home, the Marleyan barracks. She had yet to even be allowed to walk, which was already becoming increasingly preposterous – she’d tried it unsupervised at night, and she was just fine. Also, a part of her was intrigued by the prospect of meeting her fellow renegades. In the chaos of the sewers, F/N hadn’t even managed to get a glimpse of their faces, and they hadn’t set foot inside her assigned room, not even after being discharged. She sometimes wondered if they held resentment for her for some reason, but then she remembered that only the higher ranking soldiers had introduced themselves: Hange, Magath and, implicitly, Levi.

F/N had been surprised when Levi finally made the proposition for her to join their forces. She had expected to put the information she possessed to good use, yes, but she was still nothing more than a compromised spy. She was useless in the field, since her identity was known. And yet, Levi had insisted – she didn’t have to be a spy, she could be a soldier.

All of her subsequent doubts had been promptly put down.

Her knowledge of weaponry was limited? She could learn.

Never used mobility gear in her life? There was a first for anything.

Her hand-to-hand combat skills were mediocre? He would teach her himself.

F/N couldn’t figure out why he was so adamant, but she’d agreed. Of course she had. She’d thought there was no purpose left for her, no reason for her to still be alive, nothing of use she could still provide. If even one person thought otherwise, though, then she would try her very best to prove them right.

If only she could get the fuck out of that bed.

“Hey, Falco,” she greeted through a yawn, stretching her nearly atrophied limbs. “How are you today?”

“Good,” he smiled, setting a tray on her nightstand. “It’s my birthday, actually,” he added shyly.

F/N gasped loudly, patting him on the head. She tried not to let her lack of nails bother her too much – it was strange, but not permanent. “Happy birthday! What are you doing here, then? Why aren’t you celebrating?”

“Well, I want to. But I’m waiting for everyone to come back to base. I thought I’d make cake for everybody.”

F/N hummed – indeed, she had received no visits from anyone other than Falco, Gabi and her insufferable doctor during the past couple of days. Not even from Levi, who visited her almost every day. They must have left for an assignment.

“You know how to bake a cake?” she asked with a small smile, gratefully accepting the bowl of soup. Cauliflower soup again, F/N couldn’t help but notice, chuckling quietly to herself. One of these days, she’d have to finally admit to Levi that she hated it with a passion, and her order at the teashop had been predetermined. She was, however, too hungry to be fussy – her appetite had finally returned.

Falco blushed at the question. “Um, I’ve never done it before...”

“Hmm,” F/N pondered for a moment, an idea slowly forming in her head. “Have you asked Gabi for help?”

Bless his little heart. One had to have lived in a cave to fail to notice the sweet, budding romance between those two, for the boy turned crimson at her question.

“S-She’s in town too. U-Um, don’t tell her I know, but I think she’s buying me a present.”

F/N very nearly cooed. These two were a big part of the reason why she managed to pull herself together in the past weeks – after all, who could mope around a couple of sweethearts?

She grinned, her eyes holding a mischievous glimmer. “So, there is no one around here for now?”

“The soldiers assigned for guard duty are here, and Mister Adam, Mister Joey and Miss Anya-“

“Mhmm. Well, in that case, I have a deal for you.”

Falco cocked his head in confusion. “A deal?”

F/N motioned for him to come closer, so she could whisper in his ear. “If you get me out of the infirmary, I’ll help you bake that cake.”

The boy gasped, his eyes turning wide. “But you’re not allowed to-“

“-Get out of bed, I know. But that’s ridiculous at this point. I can move just fine, but no one here wants to believe me,” she explained, employing a strategic little pout. Falco obviously felt for her, but he was still reluctant, she could tell.

“I don’t know… I don’t want to upset Captain Levi… He’s scary.”

F/N raised a brow at that. “Is he now? I think he’s actually quite nice.”

The poor boy was momentarily too stumped to offer a reply to that, so F/N shook her head and gave him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. I’m a big girl, if anyone gets upset then I will be the one dealing with them, not you. Plus, I can make a mean chocolate cake.”

Falco finally agreed, and she thanked him by excitedly ruffling his hair. For the first time in… longer than she could remember, she actually felt giddy for something.

And, true to her word, F/N easily stood on her own feet and began rummaging around the room to find a decent set of clothing – the short, transparent white robes she was constantly given to wear were another reason she couldn’t stand the doctor’s guts. In fact, Falco turned around so quickly he nearly popped a vein in his neck – he was used to seeing her lying in bed, covered by the sheets. He hadn’t expected… this.

“Could you keep watch outside, please? We don’t want to get caught before the fun even begins,” F/N said tactfully. As expected, the boy barely uttered an affirmative response before practically bolting outside.

She giggled to herself, then exhaled a breath of relief upon opening the small closet next to the window. Thank goodness. F/N quickly grabbed some fresh underwear, black leggings and a light blue, button-up shirt and walked into the attached bathroom. She was incredibly thankful for her little deal with Gabi – after a particularly unpleasant incident with her doctor, F/N had made a secret arrangement with the girl. F/N started bathing by herself, while Gabi claimed she had taken onto those duties for her – the young woman hadn’t divulged the real reason behind it, opting to just tell her that she wanted to at least do something by herself, but it was a welcome change regardless.

After a quick cleanup and a check on her remaining bandages, F/N spared one look in the mirror. She wasn’t a doctor, but this looked like a nice recovery to her. Admittedly, there were still a few injuries that needed further healing and she was still a little bit underweight, but those problems could be solved outside of this hellhole of a room. Maybe it was because her mental state was finally showing improvement, but F/N had had enough at this point.

“All clear?” she asked, poking her head outside the room. It was as if even the air itself was different, fresher.

“Let’s go,” said Falco, taking the lead and quietly, but quickly leading her somewhere. She made a point of remembering the various turns, gazing at the corridors and attached doors with interest. The infirmary seemed to be attached to the barracks, which was a bit strange to her – there were special areas destined for everything in Starke – but somehow, although bare, this place felt much more welcoming.

They ended up in a spacious area, filled with tables and chairs, and F/N realized it must be a sort of common room. Modest, but charming. She instantly loved it.

“The kitchen is here,” Falco said quietly, taking this sneaking-around business very seriously and opening another door. F/N chuckled, but raised her brows in appreciation upon stepping inside. It was quite large, and there were numerous labeled boxes neatly stocked in easily accessible places. All the pots, pans and kitchen utensils had a designated place, and there wasn’t a single dirty spoon in the entire kitchen.

“Wow, it’s so tidy,” she couldn’t help but say in awe. After all, unlike Starke, where they had people specially assigned for cleaning duties, Marley covered that by soldier rotation as far as she knew. They must be a very neat bunch, and in her experience, soldiers were anything but.

Falco turned to her, wearing a very serious expression. “Captain Levi always wants everything to be perfectly clean. It’s how it’s been ever since he moved here.”

“Oh?” F/N tilted her head, admittedly amused by this revelation. She couldn’t help but wonder where that particular quirk of his stemmed from.

“We’re going to have to clean everything before he gets here, and clean it right.”

She couldn’t help but burst into giggles. Why was the poor boy so scared of Levi? Yes, the way he said things could be coarse, but F/N hadn’t once heard a malicious word come out of the man’s mouth since she’d met him.

“Miss F/N! I’m serious!”

“Okay, okay,” she raised her hands defensively, containing her mirth for his sake. “We’ll clean everything, three times. Now let’s see, there’s flour, eggs, cocoa…”

“Wow,” Falco gaped for the umpteenth time, staring at the tall, delicious looking cake. F/N, who was having much more fun than she felt comfortable admitting, had decided to go all out and form cute little patterns in the chocolate buttercream.

“It looks so good!”

The entire place admittedly smelled amazing, and F/N smiled. The scent brought back happy memories, a welcome change from what she’d lived in recent times. She applied the last detail and sent Falco a knowing look. “Do you want to lick the spoon?”

“Can I??”

“Well, I’ll be,” an unfamiliar voice made them both jolt and turn around, only to meet three different pairs of eyes.

“Whoa, that is massive!” a blue eyed, young man whistled, jogging ahead of the other two individuals to get a better look. He was tall, skinny and had a pale complexion, with a tuft of curly brown hair. “This is the surprise you were talking about, Falco?”

“It’s better!” the boy laughed, his eyes closing in bliss as he licked the gooey wooden spoon clean. “Miss F/N, this is delicious!”

Her name seemed to spark recognition in all of them, which led to a rather uncomfortable moment of them staring at her, while she understood who exactly they were.

“It’s good to finally meet you,” F/N eventually said, testing the waters more than anything. “You all seem to have recovered nicely.”

“Wait – you were discharged?” the same young man exclaimed, as if in disbelief. Upon giving him a better look, there were no traces of physical wounds that she could see, and F/N realized he must have been the one who’d been lucky enough not to get whipped before the Starkans fled.  “They said your doctor wanted to keep you in bed for another two months.”

F/N simply shrugged. “Well, I disagreed with that.”

“I-I’m Joey,” he extended his hand, as if just remembering that they had yet to properly acquaint themselves, although they knew of each other. “Joey Fawkes.”

She smiled politely, accepting the handshake. The other, older man then approached her and F/N could immediately tell that, whatever was weighing down on his soul, he wasn’t coping well. The frown etched on his features wasn’t one of ill will, she could see that in his expressive brown eyes – he was just incredibly sad.

The man, whom she identified to be Adam, didn’t introduce himself or offer a handshake. Instead, after paying her one look, he reached out and scooped some buttercream off the cake with his finger.

Deep down, that gesture irked F/N, but she didn’t let it show.

“Not too sweet,” he commented with a surprisingly smooth voice. She offered a smile.

“It’s good,” Adam said, after which he walked straight to the gas stove and set a kettle on the flame, probably in order to make coffee or tea.

“Don’t mind him,” Anya whispered in her ear, laying a strong arm on her shoulder and speaking their mother tongue. “He still hasn’t gotten used to being here… and it’s not a happy story.”

F/N hummed in understanding, watching him with a sympathetic look.

“So why the hell haven’t you been discharged yet, sugar? You’re stick thin, but other than that you seem fine,” the woman said louder, in a rough Marleyan, grabbing her by the shoulders and staring at her up and down. Anya seemed to have a long scar through her lips and down her chin, but it had healed quite nicely from the looks of it.

F/N shrugged, not really eager to get into the topic concerning her doctor, especially around Falco.

“Ah, I’m not really sure. I guess doctor Meyer wants to clear me when I’m fully healed.”

That seemed to be the wrong thing to say, for Anya’s face instantly darkened – it was quite a scary sight. Next to her, Joey drew in a nervous breath.

“Meyer? Isn’t that the one you socked in the family jewels?” he asked Anya innocently. The brunette harrumphed.

“Stuck up piece of shit who can’t keep his hands to himself? You’ve been assigned to him? And you haven’t kicked him in the dick?”

“Err,” F/N didn’t quite know how to respond, the whole subject making her extremely uncomfortable and embarrassed. She was not exactly used to having the liberty to issue complaints regarding other people’s treatment of her body. That seemed to become apparent, for Anya and Joey both regarded her with sudden understanding.

“Look, doll, I know you were in the espionage unit and I know what that means. But that’s over and done with now. Someone acts in a way you don’t like, you should say something. Or sucker punch them,” Anya said, adding the last part as an afterthought, as if she were talking about daisies. “Actually, Joey here trained to be a field medic and he’s pretty damn good. You can take a look at her, yeah?”

“Sure,” he grinned, white teeth showing. “If you’re okay with that, F/N. We should all have each other’s backs, after all.”

“Thanks,” F/N replied, a little bit too quickly. She recognized that they were trying to be helpful, but unfortunately the little pep talk only made her feel like a deer in headlights – it wasn’t a matter she was in any way happy to discuss, and she felt exposed. “I appreciate it, but I’m fine, really. I really should, ah, get started on cleaning this place though, huh Falco? I made a huge mess,” F/N forced herself to laugh, escaping the conversation altogether. Thankfully, Falco pretended to have not heard the exchange and nodded vigorously. He intended to get started on the dishes in the sink, yet F/N playfully pushed him away with her hip.

“Birthday boys don’t have to do cleanup,” she chided. “Also, shouldn’t your friends be back by now?”

“No!” surprisingly, all three of her compatriots yelled vehemently. F/N cocked her head to the side in befuddlement, but caught Adam, who was sipping his black coffee, subtly gesturing towards the door and then making a flashing motion with his hand.

Ahh, okay. She got it.

“How about we all clean together?” Joey proposed excitedly, not giving Falco enough time to properly question the outburst. “We’ll get it done faster and there’s less of a chance Captain Levi will have your heads!”

“What the hell is up with that?” F/N mumbled quietly to herself, but shook her head and joined the enthusiastic agreement. She grabbed a broom and got to work.

They were almost done, when Joey began a series of intense (and quite hilarious) gestures behind Falco’s back. F/N had to cover her smile with her hand.

“Why don’t you all take a break and hang out in the mess hall? I’ll finish in here,” she offered.

“Are you sure, Miss F/N?”

“Yes, yes, go on ahead,” the young woman waved him off, already taking her strategic position behind the cake. It was a good thing she’d had the inspiration to place it on a wheeled cart in the first place – there was no way she could carry something so heavy with her injuries.

“Alright, then,” Falco agreed with a wide smile. “Thank you again, Miss F/N!”

Anya inconspicuously passed her an object as she left, and F/N couldn’t help the happy giggle that escaped her mouth upon hearing the loud cheer that echoed as soon as they made their entrance into the mess hall. Falco was a great kid, he deserved it.

She quickly took the twelve candles out of the bag Anya had dropped into her hand and began placing them neatly on the cake. She lit them all with matchsticks and then, grimacing in pain from the effort, she pushed the cart into the mess hall.

Completely aware that her presence would be met with shock, F/N instantly began singing a birthday song, which they all had no choice but to join. She could still feel that she was being stared at, but this was Falco’s moment – and, anyway, she forgot all about it when she saw him being squished by Gabi in a tight hug. It was too cute.

“Make a wish and blow the candles!”

He did just that, and then he accepted his birthday wishes with a beaming face. “Can we all have cake now, Miss F/N?”

Gabi stared with wide eyes. “It looks so good!”

“You have no idea!”

“The hell are you doing here?” F/N faced the inevitable, turning towards Levi halfway even as she began serving slices. She decided to take her chances and be a bit cheeky, offering him a plate.

“I made birthday cake.”

Predictably, he did not find her dry humor tasteful, but Hange stepped in before the Captain could respond.

“Anya told me you’ve been having the same trouble as her with Dr. Meyer?”

F/N exhaled through her nose. She’d wished to be able to weasel herself out of the situation without having to talk about it, she really had.

“What?”

“It’s nothing serious. I feel fine and I wanted to get out of bed. Obviously that wasn’t such a horrible idea, since I haven’t dropped dead yet.”

Unlike Anya, Hange immediately tuned in to her reluctance to speak of it and F/N was grateful that she dropped it. “I’ll go ahead and make the arrangements for you to be cleared then.”

“Thank you.”

The bespectacled scientist gave her a warm smile and, true to her word, walked out. Levi clicked his tongue.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Oh, hi!” F/N cheerfully greeted Levi’s former squad as they all came over to get their slices. “This is your team, right?” she addressed Levi, purposely ignoring his question. He grumbled something about it not being so officially anymore, obviously annoyed that she’d deflected him.

“How do you know?” Armin asked, raising a brow. “I mean, we weren’t allowed to visit you per doctor’s orders.”

“He talks about you guys a lot,” F/N grinned, eyeing each one of them for a moment. “Let’s see… Armin, Jean, Mikasa and Connie?”

“…Right,” said Connie, on behalf of all of them. “I didn’t know you liked us enough to talk about us, Captain.”

“Piss off, brats.”

F/N tried to contain her laughter when they did exactly as he said, but apparently she failed.

“Something funny?”

“No. It’s just,” she relented, not wanting to get on his nerves for evading two questions in a row. “Everyone seems to be so scared of you.”

“Tch.”

“Poor Falco was manic about cleaning the kitchen.”

Levi deadpanned, walking past her. F/N blinked for a moment, after which she had to hold her aching sides from the force of her laughter, following him back into the kitchen. She couldn’t believe it – he’d actually walked there to check if it was clean?

“At least it’s not despicable,” was the verdict.

She leaned against a sparkling clean counter, mirth dancing in her eyes. “Oh?”

“The wooden spoons are in the wrong place, there are condensation marks on the oven door and you missed a few crumbs on the floor.”

F/N watched as he moved around, fixing the errors he spoke of.

“Hmm. So what would happen if everything weren’t spotlessly clean?”

Levi cocked his head at her, momentarily halting his actions. He didn’t speak right away. “Why wouldn’t it be, if it can be? We’re not pigs, so why live like them.”

“Have you lived like a pig before?” she prodded him further, observing the way he methodically wiped the oven door. It definitely didn’t look like something compulsive since he didn’t seem to think twice about getting dirty when the situation required it - it was probably a control issue.

The Captain sent her a look. “Are you trying to pick my brain again?”

F/N lifted her hands in surrender. She couldn’t help it sometimes – it was her natural charisma, coupled with her compassionate demeanor which made her easy to open up to that had gotten her recruited in the first place, and now that she possessed an entire arsenal of techniques, it was difficult not to employ them without thinking.

“You’re awfully curious about others for someone who barely talks about herself.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to prod.”

“That wasn’t my point,” Levi countered. However, he seemed to decide that pushing her was just as futile as her pushing him, so the Captain changed his approach. “Are you getting along well with the others?”

F/N tilted her head, offering a small shrug. “They’ve been kind to me so far.”

“Tch. I’d be surprised if they weren’t – they wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

F/N gazed at him with a small, genuine smile. From day one, he’d found ways to pepper in comments that would help build her up. So small that you could blink and miss them, and yet meaningful all the same. He didn’t have to, just like he didn’t have to save her from the sewers, and yet he did. Maybe it was hard to see for others, but she hadn’t specialized in reading people for nothing; in his own way, he was one of the kindest people she’d ever met.

“That wasn’t what I meant though,” Levi continued, unaware of the gentle expression in her eyes as she regarded him. “Could you see yourself working with them?”

That took her slightly off-guard. Crossing her arms over her chest, F/N walked over until she was at eye level with him and she lifted both eyebrows inquisitively. “What could you possibly have in mind that includes a special ops soldier, an engineer, a medic and a spy?”

Levi met her stare directly, and F/N instantly realized that there wasn’t a shroud of doubt in his mind regarding his idea. “A squad.”

“You still feel guilty about her, don’t you?” Hange’s quiet voice snapped Levi out of his haze. Uncharacteristically, he’d allowed his mind to wander, and it appeared that his gaze had decided to remain on F/N. She was seated alongside her compatriots, listening to Joey and Anya’s animated talk patiently and occasionally pitching in to say something or to try to include Adam in the conversation.

Levi had allowed Hange to drag him to breakfast that morning, even though it wasn’t his favorite activity after his routinely sleepless nights, and as the scientist placed a number of files on the table, he began to understand why.

He sighed in reply to her question, reading some lines from the files fugitively – he’d already done it a hundred and three times. “I wouldn’t call it guilt.”

“Hmm. Then what is it?”

The Captain clicked his tongue, his features showing his internal struggle to put his thoughts into words. “We’ve dealt with spies before, but she’s different. It’s like she can snap her fingers and get inside my head – she got me thinking about why I’m so adamant about cleaning, for fuck’s sake.”

Hange couldn’t help but chuckle, despite the off-put glare she received for it. “Oh? And why are you so adamant about cleaning?”

“I don’t fucking know. I didn’t let her get that far. Maybe it would have made me turn upside down and start living like a slob instead, how should I know,” he said dryly, a shiver going down his spine even as the words came out of his mouth. He’d never given it a second thought until F/N had implied it may have something to do with his upbringing – now he couldn’t stop thinking about it. A part of him wanted to know, a part of him was terrified of it. It was infuriating.

“Well, for one, the spies we’ve dealt with before were kids who simply infiltrated our ranks. She has a different kind of training. Are you concerned she has ulterior motives?”

“She’s given me no reason to think that.”

“Ah. So that’s what it is then. You’re scared she might, but she’s too good for you to realize it,” Hange deduced. Levi didn’t give her verbal confirmation, but it wasn’t like she needed any. “You’re not used to anyone being able to figure you out – not in such a short amount of time, at least – and you’re also not used to actually being interested in what someone has to say. I’m not saying we won’t continue to monitor all of them carefully, but maybe you should give her a bit more credit?”

Levi took some time to mull over his friend’s words, and ultimately he grunted in reluctant agreement. After all, since it had been decided that all four of the Starkan renegades would come to form a cohesive unit under his command, he would have plenty of time to make sure they were all loyal to their new allegiance. He just couldn’t help but feel a nagging discomfort – unlike the others, who were fairly easy for him to understand, talking with F/N sometimes felt like he was talking to a brick wall. She was cooperative, yet she was probably more adept than even Erwin at weaseling her way out of subjects she didn’t want to discuss. The fact that she could read him so easily while it was so hard for him to understand her also didn’t help.

“Well, since all of them have been discharged now, I think it’s time to get down to business, don’t you?” Hange brought him back to the present again, munching on a slice of buttered toast. Levi hadn’t commented on it, but deep down he found it endearing that Hange had discovered a passionate infatuation with all things dairy since they’d relocated to Marley. After all, animal products had been considered a luxury for the better part of their lives.

“Right,” he agreed. They’d convened that the interrogation process could wait until the newest additions to their forces were at least mostly recovered, their files now containing only the background the four of them had provided during the past month. Levi’s eyes annoyingly rested on F/N’s file first, where it was written that the twenty-four year old had grown up in a very high-profile family of politicians and her recruitment had occurred on the same day that Victor Baal came to power. That had interrupted her superior studies, which revolved around history and politics – fitting, Levi had to admit. The details pertaining to her family and her experience in the Starkan espionage unit were still blank, while the reason for her treason was decidedly obvious.

Next, he glanced at Joey’s file. He was the oldest of five, and at twenty years of age he’d decided to use his natural caregiving skills in order to join the army and get a better salary to support the rest of his orphaned siblings. Five years later, despite a lack of superior medical education, he was deemed proficient enough to be sent on the frontlines – at the same time, however, Baal’s rise to power had prompted him to quickly make arrangements to leave the military. That proved impossible, and all he managed to do was get his family out of the country and into Marley before being caught and facing trial.

In fact, that had been the soldiers’ assignment the previous day – they’d verified the address that Joey had given them, indeed meeting four kids ranging from ten to twenty years of age living in a cramped little space. Reiner had taken it upon himself to find a better living arrangement for them, and although Joey hadn’t been allowed to visit them himself, they were toying with the idea to allow it in the foreseeable future.

Adam seemed to only open up to Hange for some reason, and he hadn’t offered much other than his initial explanation – he didn’t like talking about it, and he hated being so far away from the possibility of finding his daughters even more. He was the one Levi was most concerned about – the Captain knew he would place his own interests over theirs in a heartbeat, and that was something he needed to control carefully.

Lastly, Anya was the most straightforward story. She disagreed with everything regarding Baal’s regime, she had no immediate family to worry about and she had none of Joey’s prudent nature or F/N’s finesse. The forty year old had snapped one day, killing her teammates as well as her squad leader in plain view. Apparently – and she was quite proud of this – eight soldiers had been required to finally detain her. She’d been in the special ops, so Levi was quite glad that at least one of them possessed fighting skills of high caliber.

“Do you want to do it the same way as last time? I talk with the men and leave the ladies to you?”

“No,” Levi replied after giving it some thought. “I think we should all do it, including the brats. They’re suspicious and they’re avoiding them.”

Levi couldn’t blame them – whether from the Paradise or Marleyan side, all younger soldiers were quietly distrustful of the four Starkans. They’d all experienced betrayal, so it was only natural. The only reason they hadn’t spoken of it was their respect for their Captain and Commander, and Magath respectively. Levi knew them well enough, however (his brats, at least), and their compassion always warmed them up. They’d lost so much, but they hadn’t lost that part of themselves yet.

“Alright, then. We’ll start after breakfast.”

Magath opened the door and F/N offered Joey a warm smile as he walked out. The young man was quite obviously worn out from the experience, but his blue eyes stubbornly remained bright. He returned the gesture, patting her on the shoulder as he walked past.

“You’ll feel better at the end,” he tried to encourage her. F/N didn’t quite believe it would be so, but she appreciated his words regardless.

She was the last to walk into the spacious office, and by this time it was already late afternoon. Embarrassingly, her stomach had begun singing with hunger – it was ridiculous, how her appetite had soared in the past days. She hoped her guts wouldn’t holler during the following ordeal, but then again F/N guessed she had bigger things to worry about.

She couldn’t hide or escape anymore – she’d have to talk. And no matter how much time she spent steeling herself outside that door, she knew how badly her vulnerability was going to affect her.

Although she knew better than to think it would be of any help, F/N straightened her shoulders and held her head up high as she took her seat, gazing at the faces surrounding her. They ranged from conflicted to disheartened to downright bored, if the blonde girl sitting cross legged on the windowsill was any indication.

F/N opened her mouth to say something that, for her own sake, would lighten the atmosphere and alleviate those heavy stares, but her stomach beat her to it by releasing the loudest growl she had ever heard coming out of her own damn self. She turned crimson.

Connie was the first to burst into laughter, followed by Jean, Hange, Reiner, and soon enough most inhabitants of the room were at the very least turning away to hide a smile, like Levi was.

“Me too,” said Annie, and even though she was dead serious, her inference only amplified the general hilarity. Connie sent her a sly look.

“What’s that, Annie? You want some pie?”

“Sorry, Annie,” added Reiner, despite the murderously sour expression on her face. “I seem to remember you’ve already eaten all the pie on the continent.”

“…Do we have pie or not?” F/N found it an appropriate time to pitch in, causing them to burst into laughter all over again because she wasn’t even aware of the inside joke.

“Alright, alright,” Magath waved his hands. “We’ll resume this after dinner.”

Walking into the mess hall, F/N was a bit disappointed that her compatriots weren’t there. She could understand they may all need time to themselves right then, but she wasn’t momentarily sure where to take a seat after getting her potato stew and leftover slice of cake from the day before. Her eyes searched for Levi, but found Jean’s waving hand instead.

Accepting the invitation with a small smile, she sat next to him and facing Mikasa. Out of all of them, she was the least talkative, and F/N couldn’t pretend that she didn’t know why. She had yet to reveal it, but she’d been obliged to study information pertaining to all of them.

“Thanks for the cue back there, we were all starving,” was Jean’s opening line, to which F/N released a soft snort.

“I can’t take credit. I’ve been hungry nonstop recently,” she admitted in Eldian, momentarily shocking them. They shared a few glances and visibly, albeit unconsciously relaxed, making F/N smile to herself – people always underestimated the power of language and how speaking one’s mother tongue could make them feel at home.

“I used to know someone like that,” Connie chuckled lightly, though the mirth didn’t reach his eyes. Instead, he gazed at the food wistfully. “Potato stew and chocolate cake… Sasha would have loved this.”

Their eyes all drooped with heartache and yet they smiled, as if they didn’t know which emotion was stronger – their grief or their affection for whomever they were remembering. Mikasa hummed, bringing a spoonful of cake to her lips.

“Sasha would have needed to be tied up over this.”

Her comment prompted a series of mild, approbatory chuckles to commence around the table, after which Armin leaned back and sighed.

“It’s so strange, isn’t it? Not long ago, all the people in this hall were on opposite sides of the battlefield, killing each other and those dear to them. Now we’re laughing together and eating the same food. I’m… still not used to it, if I’m honest.”

No one had a reply at the ready for him, so F/N sighed. “I know it probably won’t help, but it’s better food than anything in Starke.”

Her change of subject seemed to be a welcome one, for their eyes rested on her with interest.

“Oh, really? Somehow I expected everything to be better there,” Jean stated, not without bitterness in his tone.

F/N hummed negatively. “No. Not anymore, at least. Food isn’t viewed as something to be enjoyed or something to bond over. You have a strict plan made according to your body and what it is expected to achieve, and if that plan entails eating a piece of beef with porridge, then you’re eating a piece of beef with porridge.”

“Not anymore?” Armin questioned, always perceptive. “You mean since Victor Baal came to power?”

“Right. Things used to be very different, as I’m sure you’ve been told.”

They had been, and still there was curiosity lingering in their eyes. Connie opened his mouth to ask a question, however he was cut short by Levi appearing beside them.

“Come on, brats. We don’t have all day.”

F/N raised a brow at him. “Am I a brat, too?” she asked, just for the sake of it, because she was about to experience an unpleasant range of emotions soon enough and at least right then she still retained her sense of humor.

“You’re a pain in my ass,” was his deadpan, obviously sarcastic answer. She couldn’t help but grin, despite the looks she received for it – his sense of humor was crude, dry, but somehow it got the job done.

That small instance of relief was, however, short lived. Soon enough, she was back in the chair and there was no delaying it anymore.

The first question reached her ears, and she had no choice but to speak.

[nymphl]

Lie to Me - Hux x Reader x Ch. 9: Cheap & Expensive

A/N: Hello xD Reading the spoilers for the Hux comics I still didn’t read the entire thing, made me realize that although I couldn’t come up with new chapters for any of my stories, I should update Lie to Me here on tumblr. So here it goes. Starring in this chapter my fav characters to write about and my fav relationship Aurra and Hux hehe. I hope you like it xD

Story Summary: Falling for the enemy… That’s probably the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. Letting him live… for he should be dead. And you should’ve been the one to kill him. You had him, right there… and you let it escape through yours fingers. He lived. And now only the time could tell if you made the right decision — more likely wrong — by saving the amnesiac General of the First Order and telling him he was your husband. [Hux x Reader - Hux x You]

Warnings for the entire story: Will contain at times; graphic violence, sex, drugs and manipulation, coarse language and OOCness.

AO3 Tags: from enemies to lovers; eventual romance; memory loss; fake marriage; fake marriage becomes real marriage; rebellion; married couple; canon divergence; slow burn romance; politics; rebel alliance; resistance; first order; OOCness; eventual smut; eventual sex; power play; power dynamics; syndicate; lies; you lie; Hux lies; Hux backstory; manipulation; political alliances; political betrayals; secret organizations.

Wordcount: 4903. 

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ARMITAGE HUX HAD DARK CIRCLES UNDER HIS EYES. Even if he did not remember, he looked pretty much like his old self — of not even three months ago.

Besides that, he sported a busted lip and — he wondered how many — a few broken ribs. At least, he managed to put his nose back in place — or the guys who broke it in the first place did. The pain was not nearly unbearable, but he could not recall the last time he felt so battered.

Probably a long time ago, he mused, spitting the blood in his mouth. He closed his eyes and let his head hung low. Albeit the scalding sun of Dantooine was not up there in the sky to hurt his clear irises, the darkness made it almost impossible to distinguish the path they were taking him.

It did not mean he was unaware of his surroundings.

He had trained all his life in the Academy of his home planet — and although he knew from the beginning he was destined for great things, he did not miss even one of the trainings, Rae Sloane made sure of that — for situations like this. Arkanis Academy was known to push their soldiers harder than any other planet loyal to the First Order. Simulations in which the cadets were deprived of one, sometimes more, of their senses were almost a daily event. By the end of the last year, only the best were fit to serve the Order. And obviously, he graduated at the top of his class.    

Later, as he climbed the steps to the very top of the First Order, he never turned down a mission in which he had to risk his life. He was not sure he could trust anyone who could not risk their lives for the cause.  

Of course, to be beaten like that bruised his ego. It had been a while since he last saw himself in an analogous situation. But that had to be done.

Hux was a never someone who expected immediate results for anything in life — and even less when it was something of greater importance. Unlike Ren — and even Phasma —, he was a very patient man. Now that he had some of his old memories back — not all of them, but some very important ones — he recalled how this trait came in hand when he needed it the most. Hell, it took him almost twenty and then some years conspiring in the shadows to have his father killed and rise to the very top of the First Order.

And if he could wait so long to get rid of his sire — his darkest, deepest desire — he could wait to talk to the head of the Dantooinian Syndicate.

It was with a sharp intake of breath that he firmed himself on his knees when the four men escorting him threw his battered form to the rough ground. He spat the bitter earth from his lips and cursed when one of them threw a bucket of cold water on his face.

“What is the meaning of this, morons?”

Hux opened his bluish eyes only to be met with an alabaster, wrinkled face of someone he — and the entire galaxy — thought to be dead.    

You’re not afraid of intimacy. You’re afraid of enjoying it… With me.

A sigh left your lips as soon as you opened your eyes. You could not sleep even a bit and when you finally started to doze off, you heard your husband leaving the house.

You could have asked where he was going; you could have tried to stop him. Instead, you let your head hit the pillow and sleep claim you. Only to wake up not even half an hour later worried about him.    

Honestly, you knew that whatever he was doing, there was no stopping him. Besides, you were not sure you wanted to see his face anytime soon. And you had to get some rest if you were to even live for another day.

But it was getting increasingly difficult. His words — his voice — would not leave you alone.

You’re afraid of enjoying it… With me.

Right now, what scared you the most was not the fact he was right. The prospect of getting intimate with him and enjoying it still terrified you. Enjoying what he could do to you. A small, silly part of you thought of that as cheating on your late husband — even if he was dead. However, what made you lose sleep at night was the idea of him getting closer to the truth at each passing day.

For the Maker!

You got his pillow and brought it to your face, smothering a frustrated scream.

Earlier, when he said those words, you could not bring yourself to give him an answer. He did not seem to expect one — actually, he probably thought you to be sleeping and you let him believe so. It took him some minutes to lay you carefully on the bed, leave the room and, shortly after, the house.

Part of you wanted to just give in and get him out of your system. But you were smarter than that; that notion of getting over someone after getting physical with them was ridiculous, not to mention impossible. You had feelings for him; the depth of them was still unknown even to you — and you had no idea if you wanted to know. To acknowledge you felt something was already too much. To think about their nature would be torture.

If you just… if you gave in, you knew there would be no going back.

Kriffs!

You let go of his pillow — his scent was making it difficult for you to think straight — and sat on the mattress. You should go to work. That was the only and definite way to get him out of your system for at least a few hours.

If the cold water they threw at his face had not washed whatever drowsiness he may have felt, the sight of Aurra Sing certainly had. An infamous name in the underworld, everyone believed her to be dead back in the early days of the Empire.

Hux, however, did not let the shocking news take control of him. It was no surprise that a bounty hunter outlived those who wished them dead.

Still on his knees, hands tied on his back, he eyed her with rapt attention. She had aged — not that he had met her before, but both in Arkanis and in the First Order they had files concerning the most famous criminals of all systems, mainly those who had served the Empire —, her face was wrinkled and her once auburn hair was tinted white. As white as her alabaster skin. The sharp planes of her face, however, remained. Her green eyes were as cold as his and the glint of pure arrogance they sported almost made Hux snort. But that was just the surface. There, in the depths of those orbs, he could distinguish it.

Fear.

That was how many of his enemies stared at him in the past. That was the feeling he enjoyed seeing in them the most. Only those who had never seen it — and savored it —in his enemies’ eyes, would ever consider respect and loyalty above fear.

But he was not there to make new enemies.

“Beckett died believing he had finished you off,” he said, his voice firm and controlled. He did not show an ounce of fear. His reaction — or lack of expected reaction — seemed to please her.

She threw her head back and laughed.  

“Oh, hon, many of my enemies did.”

There was silence for a second. It was thick and tense. Hux would have squared his shoulders, if the pain of moving even a bit was not excruciating.   

“Uncuff him,” she ordered, leaving her throne.

It took him less than a few seconds to notice what they were made of. As white as her skin, it was clear the throne in which she sat — in which she commanded the very Syndicate in Dantooine — was made of bones. Her enemies’ bones.

The shadow of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Rae Sloane would like her — the woman hated whomever did not follow the rules and thought that people like Aurra Sing were an unnecessary evil in the Galaxy — if not her illicit activity, at least for her audacity.

“I said uncuff him,” she repeated, using a walking stick to firm herself on her shaky legs. Hux stared at her through narrowed eyes. “I swear, you get stupider by the day.”

Her voice made all four of her thugs to tremble in fear. And just like him, Hux discovered she reveled in that feeling. It made her feel powerful.

They obeyed her, nonetheless.

But not without pushing him towards the ground. Amirtage used both hands to support his weight, preventing his face from meeting the soil. The action made his entire body ache. He straightened his back and grimaced; he could bet he had more than three broken ribs.

“Help him to his feet and bring him to the dining room.” She had already turned her back on the five of them. “And give him something to clean his face. I would hate to stare at his blood while I have my breakfast.”  

“Mother!”

The four interjected at the same time. But their plea fell on deaf ears. Aurra Sing was certainly not a woman to give any man power over her. And that’s exactly why she lived to see another day when most of her friends and foes alike met their deaths.

“You can’t trust him,” one of them pleaded. He, a specimen of the Duros, had his hand on Hux’s shoulder, pressing his fingers hard on his flesh. He pursed his lips into a thin line. Being held in place by a cybernetic limb hurt more than he thought at first — that or he was truly out of shape.

Rae would be extremely disappointed in him.

“Right now, I trust him more than I trust any of you!” She turned to face them, her walking stick pointed to the one who spoke. She opened fire against them and in no moment looked any closer of losing her balance.

That made Hux’s lips tilt upwards slightly.

As expected.

So far, everything was happening exactly as he had planned.

“Firstly, you bring him to our hideout, risking everything Cad Bane and I worked for the last few decades, and now you expect me to trust you over him?”   

“He killed one of ours!” the Duros replied. His voice was slightly louder. High-pitched. And Hux realized that he was no more than a boy.

He could have added that he had killed three of them. The one who invaded his house and threated his wife, and, later, two of them while he searched for some information concerning the failed attempt of the First Order at ruling Dantooine.

You can be at ease, I did not kill anyone.

He lied.

Not exactly. But he did not tell the truth either.

He had not killed anyone that specific day — and her question referred to that day alone — but that was not the first time he had gone out and looked for the missing pieces that could help him restore his lost memories. Of course, he could do it without killing someone, but he wanted to draw attention to him and drawing attention he did.  

And here he was.

“Any man stupid enough to seek a member of the First Order when I clearly told him not to, is not one of ours.”

Her answer left them agape. Out of respect — and fear — they fell to their knees. At the same time, Hux rose to his feet, flexing the fingers of his right hand. They were still numb; he could feel the blood slowly returning to its place.  

“You’re all stupider than I presumed you to be if you think you captured him and brought him to me.”

The four of them were silent. But it was not necessary to hear their voices to know they were confused; her words did not make any sense to them. 

“He. Kriffing. Played. You. All.” She threw her hands up, as if silently asking for a lightening to come and strike everyone in the throne room. That made Hux smile openly. “You brought him here because he wished to be brought here and not the other way around.”

As she pushed past them, she could not help but hit them with her walking stick — a blaster actually.

“Get out of my sight!”

His face was clean and even though his lips were swollen, he still could taste the strong taste of the Corellian Rum offered to him. The alcohol made the cut in his skin burn, but he brushed it off. It has been some time since he last had some proper Corellian Rum and he was not about to dismiss it that easily.

Not when his host was watching his very movements carefully.  

“I hope you do have a hidden weapon with you,” she started, placing both hands under her chin. Her green eyes were narrowed; their intense color sufficient to make a grown man tremble, but not Hux.

Not someone who had been stared at that way since he could remember.

“Oh, darling.” Aurra laughed, and the sound was slightly annoying even giving their distance. “I am highly disappointed in you now.”

They were currently in a vast room with a huge table. They both were seated on the extremities of it and domestic droids rushed from one side to the other to serve them. He brought his glass to his lips once again and sipped his drink.

“You think because I’m all wrinkled and old I am unable to defend myself.”

She shook her head and snorted. She chewed her food slowly, taking her time to analyze Hux and his very movements. She knew she was being analyzed as well and that different from her soldiers, he did not fear her in the tiniest bit.

“Beckett believed so and here I am now and do tell me, General, where is he?”

There was no answer from him, which made her lose some of her composure. He mimicked her action of a few minutes ago, chewing his food slowly and then bringing the cup of rum to his mouth in a leisurely pace.  

Part of her did want to say he was committing a mistake — seeking her out and trying to undermine her forces in front of her men — but she was not stupid enough to believe he was alone. Surely, someone of the First Order was backing him. As for the girl — Aquilla Syndulla’s wife —, he was most likely using her to gain information on the Resistance. Only a fool would think he had feelings for her. A man who had decimated an entire system did not know the meaning of such word.

Aurra almost felt sorry for the girl. And she would have, if she did not have her own Empire to take care of. She had no time for a stupid woman who decided to save a man who should be dead by now. A stupid woman who refused her help when it was offered. Aurra still recalled how she asked to be left alone when she offered a shoulder for the girl to cry on after the passing of her husband.

No.

The damned girl could die for all she cared. She had an Empire to rule and rule it she would. But part of her admired the girl. It took someone courageous — or very naïve — to help a General of the First Order. Did she have no fear at all?    

Aurra, for one, had never feared anything. She had fought in the Clone Wars, she had worked for the Empire — she had seen that same Empire fall — and had become a fugitive when the New Republic took the reins of the Galaxy. She had survived it all, but she had never seen something like the First Order. An organization with so much power and money that building a weapon capable of destroying an entire system seemed child’s play. A force unlike any other she had ever seen in her long life.

For the Maker, they had invaded Dantooine and they had almost conquered it. Did they plan on conquering it at all? She had her doubts.    

“I have known men like you my entire life, General.”

She expected him to say she did not, that he was different and some bullshit like that — men always enjoyed showing how much powerful they were; it only got more noticeable when they dealt with a much older or younger woman. It was with some surprise that she realized he would not say anything to contradict her.

He was playing her. And he was enjoying it immensely.

“You think you have all the cards in your hands and that you can bend the rules of the game.”

He lowered his glass to the table. The sound echoed in the empty room, making Aurra flinch slightly.

“It is because I can.”

It was pitch dark outside when you finally opened the door of your house, removed your bag from your shoulders and placed it over the dining table.

A contented sigh left your lips as you looked at the food on the plate, the steam leaving it made your mouth water. You had not realized you missed having a droid so much in your life. The house was clean — cleaner than it had ever been — and the smell of freshly made food was surely a good point about owning them.

Your stomach growled, and you lost no time to get a spoon and taste the soup D-Five had prepared. Or was it Hux? As you tasted it, you knew the answer.

Definitely Hux.

You furrowed your brows. You thought he would be mad at you after yet another refusal of… well… bedding him.  

“Oh, Lady Hux! There you are!” The droid’s robotic greeting startled you. “Welcome back!”

You placed a hand over your heart and let a sigh leave your lips.

Kriffs!

“Thank you, D-Five.”

“Why would you thank me, Lady Hux? I merely did my job.”

You even thought about explaining yourself, but decided against it. You brought another spoonful to your mouth and thought about asking where Hux was, but again, decided to leave it alone. He was either in the refresher or outside.

Perhaps it would be best if he were outside. You would fall asleep before he returned and there would be nothing to discuss.

Perfect.

It is, till you noticed D-Five holding a small recipient with a clear and gelatinous substance inside.

Bacta.

“What are you doing?” you asked; spoon halfway towards your mouth. You lowered it back to the plate and straightened your back. “D-Five…”

“General Hux said I should not tell you anything.”

“Where is he?” You took some steps towards him and he mimicked you, stepping backwards. It would be funny, it is, if you were not worried-sick. You were out of bacta for a while now and if the General did have it with him, it was because something terrible happened.  

“The refresher?” the droid said, his tone that of a question. “For the record, I did not tell you anything, Lady Hux!”

Your heart was thundering in your chest as you entered the bedroom. It was empty. The General was nowhere in sight. It took you a while to hear the shower running over the sound of your loud heartbeats.

His privacy was the least of your concerns as you tried to enter the refresher, only to find the door locked. You were not surprised to see the trail of blood on the floor. 

“My Lord?”

There was no answer from him.

“Amirtage!”

You were ready to break the door when he opened it. He stood by the threshold, his nude form only covered by a towel hanging on his hips. You looked for any signs of a missing limb, but apart from his busted lip, you could not find anything.

Subconsciously, you threw your arms around him.

A small hiss escaped him, but he kept silent. He placed both hands on your shoulders and moved you slightly away. His cold stare made a shiver run up your spine.

“I saw your blood all over the floor,” you said, touching his face. His busted lip. “What happened?”

He did not give you an answer and instead moved away from you. He walked towards the wardrobe and got some clothes. You followed his movements with furrowed brows. He pulled a shirt over his head and it was impossible not to notice how he flinched slightly. Soon, he let the towel fall to the floor and put on light trousers.

This time, you did not close or eyes or turned around. Your eyes remained on his back, staring at the scars that graced the extension of his shoulders and continued down, till they disappeared in the limits of his waistband.

He turned to you, but instead of looking at you, he brought his fingers to the point right under his chest.  

“Are your…” You bit your bottom lip. “Are your ribs broken?”

His lack of answer was answer enough.

You shook your head and started searching in your belongings for something to give him. The bacta D-Five was holding just before would do it — and you thought that a medical droid would come in handy one of these days.

A sigh escaped your lips as you approached him and pulled his shirt, trying to get him out of it. He helped you, his face showing just a hint of discomfort. That was a mask, you knew. It was impossible for him not to feel at least some pain. Not with the extension of his past and recent injuries.

You touched his ribs as if he were the most fragile thing. It was easy to tell he had two broken ribs and at least two or three more were slightly bruised. The area was a bit swollen, but he had had worse. It would take only a few days for him to be in perfect condition. It is, if you got him to have some of the bacta in D-Five’s possession.

As you examined him, he remained impassible. Part of you wanted to scrub his skin raw, so you would get some reaction of him.

“It’s nothing.”  

“If you bled then of course it’s something.”

There was a moment of silence between you two. It was obvious he was analyzing you through those thick ginger lashes of him. His cold stare made a shiver ran up your spine.

You guided him to the armchair and forced him to sit down.

“You went to the Syndicate, didn’t you?”

His lack of answer made you get angry with him. You pressed your fingers against the swollen area more forcefully this time, yanking a loud gasp from him. He trapped both of your hands between his and pulled you to him.

“Armitage!”

You were the one to gasp as you fell over him. As if aware he would not let you go, you adjusted yourself over his lap, placing both legs around him and cautious about not letting all your weight press him down. He let go of your hands and touched your face, his thumb over your bottom lip.  

“Until yesterday you would not say my name,” he said. He was so close you could feel his fresh breath. “Today you have said it twice.”

“You did not answer my question,” you reminded him, squirming in his hold. He grimaced, and you recalled he was hurt. “Sorry.”

“I did,” he replied in a low voice. He placed his hands on your waist and leaned against the armchair, his eyes closed. “My ribs will heal. D-Five made me drink some bacta already.”

A relieved sigh left you. You would have to thank the droid later.

“I asked you not to go,” you whispered, running your fingers on his face. His eyes snapped open. “I told you they would do worse next time.”

“You never said why.”

Do I have to?

“Why did you do it?” You barely noticed your palm was on his chest, right over his heart. You could feel his cadenced heartbeats and it somewhat calmed you. “Why did you look for them?”

He took his time to reply.

A gasp left you as you felt his warm hands inside your clothes, his fingers running over your belly and the small of your back. He did not seem interested in taking your clothes off, but the intimacy of the moment made your heart accelerate.

You bit your bottom lip.

“The man who entered our house was not a part of the Resistance,” he said running his fingers through your clothed thighs now. You drew in a sharp breath. His lips were on your neck, lavishing it with kisses and love bites. “He and the stalker were part of the Syndicate.”

This time, you were the one to take your time to reply.

“I thought so.” You did not give him any time to say anything else. “But you paid a too high price looking for them.”

He snorted.

“There is no such high price to keep you safe.”

You barely realized the two of you were now sharing the same air. He moved his lips from your neck and was now almost kissing you. His lips were almost on yours.

“Kiss me,” he demanded, his eyes fixed on your lips. “Kiss me, (Y/N)”.

You did not know what possessed you, but your lips fell on his in a passionate kiss. You bit his bottom lip, seeking entrance, which he gladly conceded. This time, he let you dominate the kiss. Dominate him. Your fingers found their way to his ginger locks and you used the opportunity to angle his head to your better pleasure.

His hands were working to remove your upper clothing. You were so concentrated on his lips — and what you wanted to do with them; where you wanted to have them —, you barely noticed his fingers over your nude skin.

A gasp left the both of you — you from pleasure and he probably from pain — as he forced you to grind against him.   

“I want you,” he whispered when you broke apart. He gave you no time and his lips attacked your neck, biting the skin slightly. His hands moved to your ass, griping you forcefully and set a punishing rhythm between your hips.

A moan left you. Your fingers were on his shoulders, your nails breaking his fair skin. Part of you wanted him to feel pain and stop — for you were not sure you could stop him —, but that only served to yank a groan from him and actually encourage him to remove your bra.    

“I want you so much.”

You did not give him an answer, for his lips were back to yours. You could feel him through his trousers. So. Kriffing. Hard. You knew he could feel how wet you were as well. How needy.

“I know you touched yourself yesterday,” he whispered before enclosing his lips around your right nipple. You felt your face warming all over. How did he know? No, that was the wrong question, why did you do it to begin with? All coherent thought left you when he nibbled your left pearl with a bit of force — the right being manipulated by his expert fingers — and later blew some air into it. “I know you want me too.”

“I do,” you admitted in a whisper. Your breath heavy against his ear. “But we can’t. You’re hurt.”

The General let you go. Begrudgingly but he did — he always respected your wishes, even if he wanted nothing but to continue what you were doing. You stepped away from him, both arms covering your breasts; they were smeared with his saliva. It made you shudder.   

He watched you through narrowed eyes. He, too, was breathing heavy. It was not needed to look down to know how tight his trousers were. You felt it before — and you did not know why you stopped him when all you wanted was to feel him inside deep of you — there was no need to see it.   

“That’s not the only the reason.”

You furrowed your brows. Your heart was thundering in your chest. You shook your head and stared at his face — you did not realize you were actually staring at his… well… cock. You licked your lips and shifted your attention back to his eyes. His pupils were full blown with lust.  

“Of course it is,” you whispered, this time staring at the floor with interest. A gasp left you when he approached you, his warm fingers running over your arms and removing them from over your breasts. He did not touch you in such way — mindful of your earlier request —, but he lifted your chin, forcing you to face him. You bit your bottom lip as his hands found their way to your nude waist and pulled you to him.   

“You’ve been avoiding me, because, in truth, we’ve never been intimate.”

 A/N - Okay, that will be all for today. I hope you have liked this chapter. And until... Well, I hope I can update soon xD Both the earlier chapters of LTM and new chapters as well xD Ah, I know some things are not exactly what happened in canon, but keep in mind that it’s canon divergence, so I chose some things from his past to best match this story okay?

[moviemunchies]

I am not a complicated man when it comes to martial arts movies (or movies in general). I see people fight in ridiculously cool ways? I have a good time. Mostly. There are exceptions; I’ve seen an alarming amount of martial arts that don’t have any satisfying action scenes until the last twenty minutes or so, and that’s just unforgivable. I’m here to see these people beat on each other in increasingly improbable ways! What do I care for your petty drama for the first hour and fifteen minutes?

Fortunately you won’t have that problem with 2008’s The Forbidden Kingdom. But if you’re looking for a deep story, uh, well… this isn’t exactly the best of the genre.

Very loosely based on Journey to the West, the only piece of Chinese literature you’ve probably heard of or seen referenced (it inspired Dragonball and a bunch of other things after all), The Forbidden Kingdom tells the story of a modern American kid (Michael Angarano) who is obsessed with kung-fu movies. Through some poorly-explained magical shenanigans, he’s transported to mythical China in order to return the staff of the Monkey King and revive him, in order to stop the reign of the Jade Warlord. On the way he runs into Lu Yan (Jackie Chan), the Drunken Immortal, and a mysterious Silent Monk (Jet Li), who endeavor to teach him how to fight.

So the good: this movie has fight scenes. It has a bunch of them! Throughout the movie! And they’re great! In some ways this movie is a send up to kung fu movies, an homage celebrating how fantastic they can be and the ways that wuxia films can teach us and elevate us to achieve great heights. If this is all you want from this movie, as I did, then you’re going to be satisfied and have a good time.

The highlight is the one scene played up in the trailers and the movie poster: when Jackie Chan and Jet Li fight. It is glorious to behold these two wuxia stars go all out in the most memorable scene of the movie, and one of the greatest scenes in action movie history. If nothing else, it’s worth seeing the whole movie just to get this one scene.

That being said, the story is pretty weak? You may have guessed that from the summary I gave above, but there are times when things happen in the plot that are pretty poorly explained and are just sort of there. Like take this: there’s a scene where Jason, our protagonist, wakes up alone and his staff is taken away by a white rider who appears out of nowhere. Why is he alone? Why did his companions leave him by himself in the woods when it’s well-established that he can’t fight? And also is carrying the artifact that the bad guys are looking for?  I’m not asking for a full explanation, but just a shot establishing that his companions were getting firewood or something would have been adequate.

It’s fairly stereotypical of a plot, and one that I don’t think would work well today. There’s a lot of talk about whitewashing in film, and yes, our protagonist is white and is still the Chosen One of this Chinese story. The story goes that the original script was going to feature a Chinese-American protagonist, but Jackie Chan pressured the filmmakers to pick a white protagonist instead, as he thought it would draw in more of a crowd. The people marketing the movie obviously didn’t agree, as all the promotional material focused on Jackie Chan and Jet Li instead.

What’s even more ridiculous is that there is a female character who starts the movie much more competent--Golden Sparrow, played by Liu Yifei, who is given a sympathetic backstory, and an actual way to kill the main villain of the film. And yet as cool as she is, in the grand scheme of things she adds absolutely nothing to the plot; she contributes very little other than to be a backup fighter to our main heroes. Logically she could have been the protagonist, and I think the movie would have made more sense. Yeah, you’d lose the framing device of a modern kid being transported to this mythical world, but did the film really need that?

And it’s not even that Jason is that bad of a lead, but he’s not particularly deep or interesting as a protagonist. He’s just there to be the obvious audience surrogate for fans who love kung fu movies. I don’t want to disparage Angarano’s performance, because it’s just fine. But I don’t think the movie would have gotten away with him being the lead if it came out today, and for good reason. There’s no feasible reason that a white teenager from Boston would be the protagonist of a story where every other character is Chinese.

Like I said, it’s not that fantastic of a story. Aside from the above, there are also a couple of reveals that I doubt will surprise anyone watching the movie for the first time. This is not a movie that you’re watching because the plot is riveting.

But is it worth watching? For me, yes. If you’re a fan of kung fu movies, you’ll definitely get something out of seeing The Forbidden Kingdom, a film that stars two martial arts legends duking it out. But if you’re not so much into kung fu, and you’re hoping for a story that’ll blow you away, you’re probably going to want to skip this one.

-Eduardo A. Hernandez-Cruz

[btsybrkr]

You’re Hired

I love The Apprentice. I look forward to it every single year. It’s the one reality series that too-smart-for-you TV snobs won’t look down on you for watching, despite the fact that The Apprentice is really just Big Brother in suits. Think about it: larger-than-life contestants, living together in a big house, completing tasks where they will always be destined to fail (because it makes for much better conflict), all while being watched closely by an omnipotent figure, who calls all the shots.

In fact, Alan Sugar is a much scarier man-in-charge than the titular Big Brother. For one thing, he looks the contestants in the eyes when he’s destroying them emotionally - Big Brother hides away in a little recording booth somewhere, where he’s safe from any angry housemates, who’ve snapped after the pointlessness of what they’re doing has finally dawned on them. What a coward. Also, Alan Sugar is really bloody rich. Alan Sugar is so rich that he could probably buy you, and sell you back to yourself at a much higher price, and that’s pretty scary, if you ask me.

But, I digress. The thing that’s so great about The Apprentice is that it’s so low-stakes. Not to the contestants, of course, but to the viewer. See, it’s the only reality show where I never care who stays or who goes, and that’s because the contestants are usually, without exception, cocks - and this year hasn’t been much different.

Obviously, the stand-out recipient of the ‘Jesus Christ, You Really Are Absolutely Awful’ award this year has to be librarian and general irritant Lottie Lion, whose name alone makes her sound like the archetypal spoiled brat character from a Roald Dahl novel. It suits her so well, it’s almost as though her parents just sensed from birth that she was going to turn out that way. Or maybe she came out of the womb riding side-saddle on a horse and waxing lyrical about how much better she is than everyone else. I can’t know for sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised.

When she wasn’t shooting a piece-to-camera to repeat her mantra “I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to win”, she was busy coming up with increasingly ridiculous reasons why she was the ideal candidate for the top job in each task. She started out strong in Week 1 by announcing she was the best choice for sub-team leader in a tourism task, because “I know that the population of South Africa is 51 million”, and yet, amazingly, still managed to out-BS herself week after week. Perhaps the finest example was Week 9, in which she described having viola lessons when she was four as having been “in the music industry for 15 years”. By that logic, I’ve been in dentistry for 23 years, because I can navigate my own mouth with a toothbrush without taking out six of my teeth in the process.

Oh, and let’s not forget the remark she allegedly made in a contestants’ group chat, in which she told Pakistani candidate Lubna to “shut up, Ghandi”, before allegedly threatening “I’ll fucking knock you out at our press training”. Obviously, this is horrendously racist and absolutely out of order, and with any luck, Lubna might knock her out first, since, as a person born with arms, she has technically been in the boxing industry for 33 years.

On a much lighter note, this series might have introduced us to one of the most genuinely likeable contestants The Apprentice has ever seen in the form of Thomas Skinner, a self-described “full-time geezer”. Obviously, that’s not his day job - geezering does not pay very well, especially in this difficult economic climate. He’s a salesman, and a bloody good one - he’s so ridiculously charismatic that he could sell me the very concept of breathing itself and I’d probably pay over the odds for it.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t very good at much else, and was fired by a reluctant Alan Sugar after losing eight out of the nine tasks he’d been involved in. I got thinking, though… couldn’t Alan Sugar just take him on anyway? Considering the lack of success that previous winners have experienced, he honestly might as well. I’m not sure exactly what he would hire him to do, but if anyone can help Thomas realise his dream of actually making a living as a full-time geezer, then I’m sure it’s him.

Personally, I think he deserves all of the money and maybe a knighthood, purely on the basis he’s the first candidate in a long time that hasn’t once described himself as ‘cutthroat’ or ‘brutal’, or made some ridiculous statement about how money is so important to him that he’d probably murder his entire family for a fiver. You know, like they usually do.

This year’s final saw headhunter Scarlett Allen-Horton and artisan bakery owner Carina Lepore go head-to-head for the opportunity to work alongside The Ultimate Sugar Daddy, with the final task being to create a hypothetical launch for their respective businesses.

Step one was to pick a new brand name. Carina and co. decided on Lepore’s, because - as Thomas put it - “people will go for the bread, but they’ll go for you, too”. It’s a nice enough point, but if she’s opening a chain of bakeries, she won’t always be in there, will she? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been disappointed to go into a Blackpool branch of Gregg’s, only to be told that, once again, I’m unable to speak to King Gregg himself. He’s probably hiding in one of his fancy London stores, the big elitist. Scarlett had slightly more trouble with rebranding her recruitment company, which aims to place more women and minorities into top level engineering positions. Marianne helpfully suggested naming it after “those animals that build their own homes”. Beavers. She means beavers. Beaver Recruitment? Really? Not exactly suited to a top level headhunting agency, but on the bright side, she may have just stumbled on a great new way for men to describe going out on the pull.

Next on the agenda was to come up with a billboard and a TV advert. The billboards were both surprisingly good, at least in comparison to anything else filmed against a cheap green screen in this year’s series (the now infamous soundbite “who took my unicorn, Sparkle Stars??” from Toy Week immediately springs to mind). The TV advert task was a different story for Scarlett, who was surprised to find that her ‘vision’ of Lewis, Lottie and Marianne driving an imagery car in an empty warehouse wasn’t absolute advertising golddust. “It’s cheesier than I imagined”, she said, upon seeing it for the first time. How? I genuinely can’t understand how she came up with that and thought it was ever going to look like anything other than part of a hastily-planned GCSE Drama performance. But then I would say that, because as someone who has seen a TV advert before, I’ve technically been in marketing since 1996. On Carina’s team, their prison-themed advert for her artisan bread (no, I’m not sure how they arrived at this idea, either) was far more impressive - prefect from a 1960s comic book Ryan-Mark even managed to put in a convincing performance as a hungry jailbird, which wasn’t something any of us were expecting to see this year.

After this, and the all important pitches - which I’m not going to go into, since it’s consistently the least entertaining part of the finale, where I imagine most people, including me, take a toilet break - it was time for the final boardroom. In all seriousness, the tension in the final boardroom is mad. I can only imagine it’s like you and another person are staring down the barrel of a madman’s gun, except the madman is Alan Sugar, and you want to be shot because, instead of bullets, it’s money. Actually, it’s not like that at all, is it? But it must be absolute squeaky bum time for the candidates, is what I’m trying to say.

After a few minutes of back and forth, and a couple more minutes of Carina and Scarlett turning on each other at the last second - which I’m absolutely, one hundred-percent, completely sure the producers definitely didn’t encourage in any way - The Sugarman arrived at a conclusion, and crowned Carina the winner, with a statement that I’m sure we can all agree with: “I do like the idea of more bread.” Well, don’t we all?

Anyway, deserving winner found - as well as plenty of memorable moments and ridiculous characters along the way - that’s it for another year. The only thing I’m left wondering is why it’s called The Apprentice, since the prize is a £250,000 investment, and since most real life apprentice jobs pay about £3.90 an hour. But then I wonder that every year, and to be honest, I’m all fired out.

[bracefacefreak]

Beware long post below. Just some thoughts I had whilst I was re-reading twilight...... 

1) Sarcastic Bella is love. Sarcastic Bella is life. 2)  No one can take away my headcanon black!Emmett with gorgeous tightly curled hair. Plus this means that he can totally teach Jasper about racism and why fighting for the Confederates was WRONG and they can support anti-racism charities together.  3) Jess’s little comment about Esme not being able to have children makes me so sad. 4) Ok, so Carlisle is a freaking surgeon. Like he spends his days elbows deep in people’s abdominal cavities. I have even more respect for him now if that’s possible.  5) Charlie’s lil crush on the Cullens is tots cute.  6) Wasted vampire trope #1 - the base instinctual fear that all human characters have around vampires, even though they can’t understand it.  7) Apparently Alice doesn’t give a shit about appearing human 8) Cute sibling moments-why didn’t we get these in the films? 9) What was the whole ‘electric current’ sensation that passed between Edward and Bella in science class? Is that ever explained? Do vampires conduct electricity now?  10) God damn it Charlie Swan, stop being precious. Also the fact Bella gets so choked up about her dad putting snow chains on her truck makes me so sad. Poor girl. 

11) “No blood, no foul.” Not even trying to subtle are you Edward.  12) “...the doctor was in on it.” Literally almost fell over laughing. Poor darling Carlisle.  13) God, I forget all the angry scowling and even angrier silences.  14) I fucking love Bella’s petty inner monologue about rear-ending Ed’s volvo. Girl after my own heart.  15) Sam Uley-totally forgot he was only 19!  20) So Carlisle has been coming to forks for centuries. Even before the first settlers reached there. Interesting little fact nugget.  21) Angela is GAY! FFS Smeyer.  22) Bella’s equally petty inner monologue about non-fatally wounding Tyler so he can’t take her to the dance. This girl is a mood.  23) You know Emmett absolutely rinsed Edward about all his mooning and pining during their hunting trip. I’m talking about made up ridiculous cringe-worthy joke poetry about Bella’s eyebrows and some rather grotesque smooching faces.  24) “We all like to drive fast.” I totally headcanon that Esme is a fucking terrifying driver, after all she has shit to do-crazy vamp kids to keep in check, houses to restore, a very pretty husband to bone.  25) So much unsubtle foreshadowing. 26) “Grizzly is Emmett’s favourite.” This is 100% Emmett’s revenge on bear-kind for his almost-demise.  27) Wasted vampire trope #2 - vampires are able to communicate in tones too low and too high for humans to hear. Other animals however are a different matter. It’s not unusual for private conversation to be interrupted by baying dogs and the irritated meows of cats.  28) Why can Bella see blue veins in Edward’s arms? He doesn’t have blood? Did you even proofread this Smeyer? 29) Edward’s fears about facing Esme - I can just imagine Carlisle coming home to find Esme holding Edward there in a headlock, before looking up and saying your father’s here now, lets talk. Also poor Carlisle having to face Esme that evening and tell her Ed’s gone.  30) Wasted vampire trope #3 - the what Edward talks about his human feelings being hidden deep beneath his stronger vampire ones. I don’t feel we get to see much of this except for a few episodes of over-protectiveness and growling. This could have been much more interesting.  31) I would pay good money to hear more about Carlisle and Esme’s increasingly ridiculous and disastrous plots to try and get Edward and Rosalie together.  I mean we think of them as the wise, mature adults but we all know that the Cullen children get some of their crazy from their parents.  32) I want an AU where Alice didn’t get her visions of Jasper and the Cullens and went absolutely feral, when the Cullens do run into her it’s as an enemy who they eventually persuade to their way of life.....or not.  33) Jasper’s gift is absolutely terrifying....I mean being able to manipulate people’s emotions, get them to feel what you want and by extension behave as you want. Ed even says he can use it on a crowd. That’s like supervillain level.  34) “You are mythical after all.” Ok so now I want an extended world of fantasy/horror/mythical beings. I’m talking mermaids/sirens, fay folk, ghosts etc. Make Forks like Gravity Falls or something. Please.  35) Edward whiny bitch Cullen repeatedly asking Bella if she’s going to tell her Dad that he’s her boyfriend. And if you think he stops doing this once their married, you’re wrong.  36) Edward’s forehead kisses are tots something he learned from watching Esme and Carlisle. I will die for this headcanon.  37) Edward tasting Bella’s tears. WTF!? WHY? WHAT AM I READING SMEYER!? 38) Carlisle found a real vampire nest at 23 years of age. He is canonically too clever for his own good. FFS sweety.  39) I forgot how much I enjoyed the part with Carlisle’s backstory. Also my poor bby boy suffered through his transformation without making a single noise. Even human!Carlisle had the self control of a saint.  40) Wasted vampire trope #4 - I know this has been mentioned before but the whole, vampires don’t need to breathe and get no relief from it but do it as habit. What other human habits and sensations do they have which have been altered by their transformation. 41) Aro and Carlisle playing tricks to try and get each other to drink from the other’s food source. It didn’t work cause of vamp smell obviously. I know I write this as if it’s playful, but we all knows Aro was a total bitch about it.  42) Edwin. Charlie Swan you are precious. Never change.  43) WHY DIDN’T WE GET TO SEE ALICE AND EMMETT HOLD HANDS IN THE FILMS! 44) “Occassionally Esme would call them to order.” I would pay good money to see this. Also does ‘ that include them’ include Carlisle? 45) Edward muttering a string of swear words both old and new, in multiple languages under his breath is a mood I recognise.  46) “Esme and Carlisle, they’ll have to leave, to hide forever!”.....”We’ve been there before.” I want this and every story of all the stupid reasons why the Cullens have had to flee the state/country in the past. Carlisle sometimes wonders whether all the trouble is worth it. This never happened when he was on his own. 47) I am unsurprisingly very much in favour of growling, snarling Alice Cullen.  48) Why does Bella have a secret cash hoard?  Is that normal? Is it in case Renee’s dealers turn up demanding money? (Can you tell I’m not a Renee fan.) 49) Of course Esme installed fucking bombproof shutters on their house. My girl is so freaking extra.  50) How many speeding tickets have the Cullens collected over the years?  51) “He seems to stay just far enough away that I can’t hear what he’s thinking..” Was this just coincidence or did James somehow know about Ed’s power? 52) Alice sketches her visions sometimes - it’s something Esme taught her because sometimes her visions are so weird or disturbing or exhausting that Alice can’t voice them herself. So Esme came up with this way to try and help her get it out.  53) Wasted vampire trope #5 - vampires can speak so fast that humans can’t understand them. Just imagine Bella wandering in on a family discussion at the Cullen house and all she can hear is a high pitched squeaking because everyone is talking super fast.  54) Alice’s backstory makes me so sad 55) “Alice had a bit too much fun fabricating the evidence.” Ok, so two things: one, I absolutely wish we could have seen Alice destroying shit and two, I still don’t understand how they managed to convince anyone Bella fell down a flight of stairs, like did they have to push her down the stairs to ensure it looked realistic, did Ed spend ages artistically placing her in a suitable position. How did this work? 56) Also love that everyone just accepted that Bella would fall down stairs and through a window, she’s just that much of a clutz.  57) Also they stole a car and burned down a dance studio. The Cullens should have started a crime family, they wouldn’t have been good at it but it would have been hilarious.  58) Bella should have grown up with Charlie. End of. Renee sucks.  59) Charlie is absolutely crushing on Carlisle and I love it. 

[bluesfortheredj]

Richard Madden office AU??! Him and this anon girl talk via post it notes, kinda flirty and sweet! After a coupe weeks he finds out it's the girl he's had a crush on for a while <3

It had been a couple of months, and you were surprised how well your office mug was surviving against the stealers and borrowers surrounding you, but you’d obviously thought this too soon, as today it was nowhere to be seen in the cupboard.

“What? Oh, come on, man!” you sigh to yourself, rooting around past the other cups and mugs to make sure it hadn’t been moved. Sure enough, it wasn’t there, and you close the cupboard feeling a little pissed off to say the least. You walk back to your desk, inspecting everyone’s spaces as you walk by, checking to see if your mug was sitting anywhere it shouldn’t. Just before you get to your desk, you reach Richard’s and immediately spot your mug, sitting there loud and proud right next to his hand.

“Umm...” you start, then stop as soon as he looks up at you.

“You okay, (Y/N)?” he smiles.

“Fine,” you breathe, quickly stepping past him to your desk, and ducking down behind your privacy screen. Why did it have to be the most handsome man in the office, who turned your knees to jelly every time he looked up at you, and happened to be unbelievably nice all the time, even when you were making a complete tit of yourself? This was just unfair! You peek over the screen at the back of Richard’s head, then drop your eyes to your pile of brightly colours post it notes and get an idea. You scribble out a quick note and sneak back to the kitchen to place the sticky paper on the cupboard.

-Surrender the Winnie the Pooh mug, and nobody gets hurt! ;)

When you get back to your desk and Richard gets up with the mug, your heart misses a beat, and you sink lower in your seat so when he comes back he can’t see your blushing face that would totally give the game away. You spot him with his orange post it notes, scratching out a reply frantically, then you hear him chuckle a little as he sticks your one on his desk. He quickly gets back up again and places the note in the space left by yours, then returns to his desk again.

-So sorry! Pooh is back where he belongs. Perhaps we can share custody?

Lunchtime came around much too slowly for you, but when you snatched that note down from the cupboard door before anyone else saw, you knew the wait was worth it. A reply from you comes almost immediately, and throughout the afternoon, the both of you take it in turns to sneak off to the kitchen to swap notes; Richard completely unaware it was you he was talking to.

-I’m not sure Pooh is the type of bear that wants to be shared…

-I think he is… Take a look :P

You frown down at his reply, then open up the cupboard to find a smaller sticky note on your mug with a speech bubble coming from the picture that said ‘oh bother, I just can’t choose. You’ll have to share me!’

“The cheek!” you whisper to yourself as you chuckle at the mug.

-That’s just playing dirty now!

-If we’re going to talk about playing dirty, we may need to find a better place for these notes…

You bite down on your bottom lip at his reply, but as it was nearing the end of the day, you resisted replying just yet, and instead slipped the note into your pocket and returned to your desk. Sitting there trying to mind your own business, you spot one of your work friends walking towards you with a cup of tea in your mug, and you wave your hand to get their attention and point frantically towards the window. They get the hint, even though the look on their face is one of pure confusion, and head towards the opposite side of the office, away from your desk.

“Thank you, thank you,” you say when you rush over to them and take the mug, purposely hiding the design with your free hand.

“And what was that about?”

“Long story.”

“I’m not exactly snowed under right now… Tell!” they push. You roll your eyes as you concede straight away, then explain how this little post it note thing had started, and the fact that Richard had no idea it was you who owned the mug.

“What does it matter if he does know it’s you?” she asks.

“Well, it’s me, isn’t it? And he’s the fittest guy in this place.”

“Okay, you need to stop being ridiculous, because he’s literally drank out of your Winnie the Pooh mug, so I’d think that nothing would put him off if that didn’t...”

“Hey! Pooh’s alright!” you say defensively, “and anyway, this note thing is kinda nice.”

“Only because you can hide behind it.”

“And?”

“And what if he wants to know who you are, or I forget about this and walk past him with your mug to give it to you?”

“You wouldn’t...” you gasp, narrowing your eyes.

“I might,” she shrugs, then shoots you a smile and walks back to her desk. You stand there for a second, looking over at Richard, then tiptoe back, luckily him only turning around when your mug is hidden behind your screen.

“Hey,” he smiles, and his Scottish accent makes your legs go weak, even though you were already sitting down, “want a drink?”

“I’m okay thanks,” you reply, “wouldn’t say no to one of those biscuits in the kitchen though.”

“Got it,” he winks, and you sink in to your chair as he walks away. He comes back not long after, looking a little dejected, and hands you a biscuit wrapped neatly in a bit of kitchen roll. He peeks over your screen as he leans towards you, but you quickly put a piece of paper over your tea to hide your mug.

“Thank you,” you grin.

“Any time,” he nods, taking a seat at his desk.

When it comes to heading home, you hang around for a couple of minutes after he’s disappeared, and leave your reply on his desk for him to find in the morning.

-Behind the photocopier might be an idea…

It was the ideal place, as hardly anyone ever used the thing nowadays, and it was in the same direction as kitchen, so still kept up the anonymity of it all. It was a mistake though, as the notes during the week got flirtier, and the new privacy you two now had to exchange them only made him bolder.

-So how about coffee? Or tea? In the kitchen at 3pm. I promise not to use your mug

-Someone’s eager! I have a lot on today, sorry x

-Tomorrow then? X

-Tomorrow’s saturday!

-And? X

-Next week, I promise x

You press the sticky note against the wall, take a deep breath, then walk back to your desk again, thankful that it was Friday already, and you could leave worrying about the reveal until Monday.

The weekend wasn’t long enough when it came to it, and you found yourself on your commute to work yet again, this time butterflies coming along for the ride, too. To your surprise, Richard was already in the office, and you give him a polite smile and nod as you walk to your desk, then cringe internally when you sit down and put your head in your hands.

“Hungover are we?” that familiar silky voice asks.

“Oh, no, no, just very much in need of a coffee,” you chuckle, looking up at his bright blue eyes.

“Then allow me,” he smiles, heading off in the direction of the kitchen. He soon returns with two mugs, one of them your own which he’s used for himself, and he places a plain mug down next to your hand.

“Thank you so much,” you smile, “nice mug.”

“Lovely isn’t it?” he grins, “don’t suppose you know who owns it…?”

“Afraid not, sorry. But Winnie the Pooh is the best animated bear out there, so they must be nice,” you smirk.

“That’s what I thought!” he chuckles. You both settle in to your seats and the day properly begins, then so do the notes again, and every time Richard gets up to stick his reply, your heart skips a beat.

-So, it’s next week already. Coffee? X

-Wednesday looks pretty clear for me x

-Wednesday sounds perfect x

You suddenly regret suggesting an actual day, as it suddenly became clear that there was no way of avoiding this any longer, and he’d just have to get the disappointment that was you being the woman he’d been talking to. What if he couldn’t hide his feelings? What if he actually looked really upset about it? What if you had to eventually move jobs because staring at the back of his head for the rest of your career would make you crazy?!

Tuesday was the worst, his notes full of enthusiasm for the next day, and yours full of dread if you were honest.

-Can’t wait until tomorrow x

-It’ll come around soon enough! X

-Not soon enough for me x

You groan as you read his last response, and slip the note in your drawer along with all the others. It was getting increasingly difficult to concentrate on what you were doing, so when home time rolled around, you were the first to run out of there.

Wednesday was here, in all it’s painful glory, and you skip breakfast to make sure there was nothing to throw up when it went wrong and you’d have to go off crying to the toilets for the remainder of the day. Richard, again, was first in, and you notice his excited smile straight away, it was practically lighting up the whole office.

“Well that’s a cheery smile to start the day!” you say, forcing your own smile.

“Today’s going to be a good day, (Y/N), I can feel it!” he winks.

Sat at your desk, you find yourself wanting to change the clock on your computer screen to say at least an hour before it actually was, but time seemed to be rushing by today, and 3pm was closing in like a shadow over you. You tap your feet nervously as you watch Richard get up a couple of minutes before to head to the kitchen, and you know you should stand up and follow him, but your legs were telling you otherwise. Everyone else was sitting minding their own business, and you wished you could get your head down and ignore the fact this had got so out of control, but it was unfair to just leave him hanging, and he was bound to find out eventually in such a small office.

“Oh god,” you mumble to yourself as you rise from your seat, “oh god oh god oh god.”

You take slow, tentative steps towards the kitchen, and spot Richard with his back to the door just before you reach it. As if he knew you were there, he turns around to look directly at you as you manage to walk inside, then his eyes follow you as you go to the cupboard and pick out your mug, setting it down on the counter next to his.

“Tea please. Milk, no sugar,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. A smile starts to spread across his face until it can go on no further, and he sighs with what seems to be relief.

“I was hoping it was you,” he breathes, “I was really hoping it was you.”

@springlady @nkalli @givemeanorigami @teaxcupx @pineapplebooboo

[calleo-bricriu]

what's the de sade ripoff book like anyway?

It’s like listening to someone who thinks they’re a genius but who’s really sort of–slightly below average at everything ramble on and on and on for over 400 pages about how they’re a genius and everyone around them is making their life horrible because they don’t understand how much of a genius he is.

Also, alcohol isn’t a stimulant at all, let alone a strong one. I guess, to be entirely fair, if I found out my Mum had a sex dungeon in the house I’d probably need a drink as well.

A lot of drinks.

And an Obliviator.

Finding out your mum has a sex dungeon is a pretty reasonable excuse to drink a lot.

Anyway, this author is allegedly a doctor, he ought to know damn well alcohol isn’t a stimulant.

I really do just love how it’s the same exact story, only with worse writing and set in Dresden–then Hamburg–then…New York City.

Some guy named Newcomber completely flips out any time someone says a woman’s name around him in his own house. It’s never explained why. I feel like that should have been an important plot point? Maybe he’s assuming everyone’s already read the book he blatantly lifted from.

Men just need to not be allowed to describe women in their books if they’re going to do it like this: “Seated in a large leathern chair was a dainty piece of pink-cheeked, dark-haired, ebon-eyed femininity. Her sealskin jacket fitted snugly her lithe form, and a fascinating toque rounded off the saucy, childlike appearance of the young woman.”

That’s the sort of description that makes you feel like you need to run a Scourgify through your entire brain.

I’ve read, as I mentioned yesterday, de Sade; all of his uncensored garbage and the difference is, de Sade knew he was a shite writer.

He was just one of those obnoxious people that feels the need to be edgy for shock value; to get a reaction. He wasn’t ever trying to be good at it, he just wanted to get a reaction and have people pay attention to him, which he got–usually in the form of prison.But, the end result of that is that his writing aged in a way that makes it so completely off the wall ridiculous that it’s more funny and less shocking now.

Like–right, if you’ve never read 120 Days of Sodom you should, because all it is is this list of increasingly improbable to impossible scenarios, in actual list form, that are discussed by the characters like they’re going over a list of chores they need to do that afternoon.

One involved mice and cannons, actual cannons, that somehow didn’t result in death or injury to anyone (including the mice), another had to do with somehow arranging it so a woman would give birth to a goat, which would then become a sex slave–the goat, not the woman, I think he forgot there was a woman involved in that one by the time he got to the impossible goat baby–and when you read something like that, you know damn well the person writing it was writing what they were writing as bait to see how mad people would get about it.

This idiot, however, didn’t appear to get the joke and is taking his own…version of Justine very, very seriously which leaves you more with a really creeped out feeling than a, “HA! I can’t believe anyone fell for this, it’s so obviously written as over the top with intent to offend people too stupid to get the joke,” sort of thing.

So, moving on from the creepy description of childlike femininity–and who says woman like that anyway?

Ms. Femininity gets up and gives the, “Never Say A Woman’s Name In My House For Any Reason Ever” Newcomber a kiss and he just sort of shrugs it off, which makes her concerned but since he never bothered detailing whatever backstory these two have I guess I’m just supposed to make one up. Guessing that, because it was described as “armorous” they’re lovers but, it might have had more of an impact if he’d–mentioned that previously at some point?

This is only page sixteen, as an aside.

She was gossiping with his mom and mom let slip that he was leaving Dresden and she’s upset but again, no backstory given between these two so we don’t even know how or why she knows his mother. All we know about that relationship is that his mom grosses him out probably because of the sex dungeon thing, which is a fair reason to not want to visit your mother’s house.

So he’s pretty meh about the kiss hello, she loses her mind about it and says he’s being cruel then flings herself onto the sofa for a good cry about which he doesn’t even care.

His name is Leigh, apparently, which is a perfectly common German name, as is Newcomber..

And she’s–Tahitian (but upper class, he’s emphasised that, can’t have him screwing around with a commoner from Tahiti, obviously) and grew up in…Honolulu and got married to a US Navy officer two years before she met the guy in Dresden that she just kissed and is now crying over while the author scrambles for a backstory.

Great, got married at sixteen, is now referred to as a “child-wife” and somehow his deployment from Honolulu landed her in…Dresden.

He should have known not to leave her alone in Dresden because, since she’s Tahitian, that means she’s just going to start cheating on him the second his back is turned (which appears to be what’s happening here).

An entire page later, we find out her name is Obera, and the guy whose mom has a sex dungeon who straight up ignores her is apparently the love of her life despite the fact that all we’ve seen so far is that he’s straight up not the least bit interested in her.

That finally ended and we’re back to her crying on the sofa and he tells her to knock it off because it makes him feel mean–when he was just mean to her not even two full pages ago. Leigh’s got a terrible memory, I guess.

“Finely-molded limbs”. Stop it.

A few paragraphs of Obera going on about how Leigh’s sister, Mizpra, is a complete and utter bitch and Leigh agreeing with her that Mizpra is, in fact, a complete and utter bitch. I might be too if my name were Mizpra.

At this point, in the middle of Obera trying to explain some theological lecture she attended, the author butts in to tell us that the lectures are FACTS then references some article in Popular Science Monthly from May 1989 called, “Witchcraft in Bavaria” right after Leigh starts talking about how Dresden has lousy weather and they’re going to the Rhine because the climate is that much different–five hours barely South and mostly West of Dresden, though it might be closer depending on where along the Rhine they’re going; its a river, and it’s not exactly a short one.

It also apparently has a climate similar to Honolulu which tells me he’s never been to either place but, it’s fiction, so why the hell not?

I’m only on page 22 now, as an aside.

Suffer with me, this is awful.

So he’s already planned this whole thing, someone named Frau Leidmann will lie to everyone and tell them that Obera is traveling with some old woman, he’s sending a telegram from…New York asking her to meet some made up person in Hamburg which, incidentally, is five hours North of Dresden and if you’re trying to aim for a warmer, closer to Honolulu climate here, you don’t want to be going North but okay, fine, we’re going to Hamburg.

Author really ought to have consulted a map before writing this.

“Was it right that he should take her with him and wreck her life?” Um–if you have to ask…

Wonderful, well, at least by now she’s 18 because she got married two years previously at 16.

By page 23 he’s essentially admitted he doesn’t like her much at all but she’s hot and young so he’s going with that. Not creepy at all.

“He would throw her aside as he would any other obstacle. Was this love?” …no. We established that two paragraphs ago when his thought was straight up that he didn’t love her.

Can’t take her back to the US with him but–he’s–that part was never mentioned at any point, as far as we’ve known until page 24 is that the guy lives in Dresden, his sister is a bitch, and his mom has a sex dungeon.

Nothing dignified about his appearance, likes his laboratory, doesn’t have a real job, nobody understands him, I’m starting to think it’s less that his sister is a bitch and more that he’s just kind of a whiny creep.

So, that’s the end of chapter 1.

Chapter two starts with him explaining why he named one of his dogs Bridget and why he’s mad that Obera could not possibly care less. I couldn’t possibly care less either but he explains it anyway in the weirdest possible way, “They do not associate the name with the beautiful, refined, and historically interesting woman who gave it such prominence. How can you associate a noisy, china-breaking, red-headed, befuzzled, opinionated ruler of the kitchen with Bridget the Goddess of Poetry, the Gaelic Muse, the sentimental, impulsive Sappho of ancient Ireland?”

Man, don’t talk about your dog that way, just don’t. I don’t like where you’re going with it.

Dagda gets a much shorter, “he was the all-king, almost the Zeus of ancient Ireland.”

Ah, and Obera is, of course, a princess. A Tahitian princess.

From Honolulu.

Which is famously in Tahiti and not a six hour flight–a thing that didn’t exactly exist in 1901 so I’m assuming it would have taken a hell of a lot longer by boat–North on an entirely different set of islands.

Okay.

You know, at least de Sade knew where physical locations of places were.

Do you know how bad something as to be that, not even 35 full pages in, you can not only recognise it as a direct derivative work of the Marquis de Sade but also have it be abundantly clear that it’s, like, a version of it so poorly done that the only reason you’re still reading it is because you kind of now want to see just how much more idiotic the story can get?

That’s what this book is like.

“He arose and went to her, took her on his lap, and talked to her as though she were a child.” No. No, stop that right now.

Four pages of him explaining that the reason why he ordered, ordered, her to read a childrens book was to prove to her how all folk tales are all the same and nothing is original and something about random Greek philosophers, then Why Catholics Are Right.

I might have been as bored reading that as Obera probably was having to listen to it.

HA! SHE FELL ASLEEP WHILE HE WAS TALKING!

She has a nap, wakes up later, and has somehow…uh…received a letter from that guy she married in Honolulu basically saying, “We both made a mistake. Divorce time.” and is somehow upset by this despite it being established in the last chapter that she wasn’t super interested in him anyway as the first thing she did when he ended up deployed was start fucking this idiot of a pseudo-intellectual.

…and this is somehow Mizpra’s fault, so I’m assuming she tattled, then he straight up jumps from, “Yeah I don’t love her, she’s just hot I guess” to “I LOVE YOU LET’S GET MARRIED DEFINITELY NOT TO SPITE MY SISTER!”

That’s not sarcasm. That’s exactly what it was. Right after he does the, “I love you! I’ll marry you!” (twice in a row at that, nobody talks like that) he moves right onto “the bitch can’t laugh at you getting busted cheating if we get married” which is not entirely sound logic but that’s where we’re going.

Robert Mesney hopefully got out of this stupid plot by realising what was going on and filing for divorce.

Actually, he doesn’t even ask her  to marry him he tells her that he’s going to marry her and doesn’t give her the option to object which I guess is just fine because at some point during his rant about his sister being a tattling bitch Obera fainted and he just…didn’t notice until he let her go and she fell over because of the being unconscious thing. Even then he didn’t really care, he just sort of went, “Oh.” and dropped her back on the bed.

Now she’s talking about his “aged countenance” which might be a little more fair if it hadn’t been mentioned that he’s 25. It’s not exactly old enough to count as “aged countenance”.

Apparently he’s also an alcoholic, which they keep referring to as dipsomania. Good idea, marry the 25 year old alcoholic who the plot has established doesn’t even love you (nor has he shown it at any point in their interactions apart from shouting it at her after finding out his sister told her soon-to-be-ex-husband that Obera was cheating on him), that’ll go well for everyone involved. I don’t see what could possibly go wrong here.

The servant at this place in Hamburg has been going on for five and a half pages about how Leigh is a drunk and how it’s his mother’s fault or something then just rambling on about his own family tree for no actual reason and how he’s somehow related to Leigh but also is looking forward to the time when the last Newcomber dies.

That’s chapter 2.

Chapter 3 starts with the fact that Leigh said he’d be back by lunch and it’s been three days and he’s still not back; I guess, to be fair, he didn’t say by lunch on which day.

He’s just out binge drinking in Hamburg.

Shows up four days later at four in the morning and immediately starts drinking again and none of this is a red flag for her.

Now they’re–he’s going to Paris, she’s going back to…the US from Havre, and he’s somehow decided it’s a better idea for him to not also go to the US via Havre but to instead go to Liverpool and leave from there. Okay.

This is only page 44 out of 408.

Mizpra wants to control their mother to snag most of her estate out from under Leigh, it appears as though she’s just his stepsister anyway, Mrs. Kassel is apparently a nice lady because the author hammers that point away for a good two solid pages and she’s going to New York with Obera because she apparently owns a house on Fifth Avenue.

All right.

She just randomly tells Obera that crooked noses and mental illness (sorry, “bad psychic quality”) runs in the family. Still no red flags for Obera.

Skips right to the wedding which has…no detail at all. Literally the only mention it gets after all of that build up is, “The wedding took place at Mrs. Kassel’s, who attended to every detail,” then moves right on to Leigh getting a flat in uptown and a job at a hospital and to mention that his mother’s letters were “curt, unresponsive, and insulting” for which he blames Mizpra.

Couldn’t be the fact that he ran off to the US with a still married 18 year old without telling anyone, why would that bother someone’s mother?

He either gets fired or quits at the hospital, it was never mentioned either way, and has irregular work so now they’re behind on bills and Obera’s “condition” requires quiet and rest and…Mrs. Kassel to take her on a vacation I guess. Time skip from spring to autumn and, to nobody’s surprise, Obera comes back with a baby and her idiot of a husband is still unemployed and also didn’t seem to notice or care that she was gone (because that’s never mentioned) for almost a year.

By this point, Leigh straight up hates his mom and Mizpra is a “moral criminal” but it’s not explained how, just that she is.

Mom, Mizpra, and a whole bunch of their maids suddenly turn up at an uptown hotel and he just–takes off to go and see them despite having spent the last few pages going on about how he can’t stand either of them.

Sister’s got masculine handwriting which is somehow important to know.

Oh, let’s see, what else are we learning about Mizpra: Large jaws, muscled neck, small hips, uncomely waist, large hands, bold frame, coarse features, a “masculine larynx” and she–author keeps refering to Mizpra as she so that’s what I’m going with here–tells him to fuck off and that she’ll call the police if he tries to see mother.

So, instead of trying to reason with her (also why did they come over from Desden if they didn’t want to see him?) he just tells her she looks like a man.

“Mother doesn’t want to see you.”

“YEAH, WELL YOU LOOK LIKE A MAN! CHECKMATE! I AM SUCH AN INTELLECTUAL!”

Great display of the long winded nonsense the author gave everyone about what an intelligent intellectual this idiot is; best he can come up with is to tell his sister she looks like a man.

He still doesn’t have a job.

It’s been almost an entire year, how have they not been evicted from that flat yet?

Oh, but he has money to go out and get trashed again, though.

And he’s rambling to the bartender about people staring at “crippled children” for some fucking reason while the bartender pretty much pretends to listen.

He drinks because he’s a genius. That’s it. That’s the reason. He’s a genius and nobody gets him so he drinks.

58 pages in and I can kind of see why this guy’s sister doesn’t particularly care for him. I don’t particularly care for him either and, so far, am kind of on Mizpra’s side on this one.

Random name dropping list of famous people who had epilepsy or who were alcoholics or drug addicts. For an entire five pages. Nothing else, just a list, until he gets to Edgar Allan Poe who apparently had a psychic incubus problem instead.

One long paragraph held together by semicolons that says nothing at all.

Five pages about how his drinking problem is literally just like lycanthropy only, instead of turning into a wolf, he just goes to a pub and does so more often than once every full moon.

Same thing though. Exactly like lycanthropy which we all know is caused by thinking you’re a genius then being mad that nobody else agrees with that self-assessment.

More internal dialogue about how everybody is an idiot except him, because he’s a genius that nobody understands.

Somehow.

A few more pages of comparing himself to Nero which is not strictly the best comparison someone could make unless he’s planning to burn New York City down.

Couple of pages of internal dialogue about how he shouldn’t have to get a job because he’s a genius and people should just pay him to grace them with his presence.

End of Chapter 4 and I can’t keep reading this anymore today. This might be the worst thing I’ve ever read and not at all for the reasons the author was intending; it’s not shocking unless you’re shocked by how badly it’s written.

It’s so bad it’s almost exhausting.

[riseofarmy]

03 | DO YOU EVER LOOK AT SOMEONE AND WONDER

i can do this all day 03 | do you ever look at someone and wonder

author : @riseofarmy

pairing : kim seokjin x original character

words : 2533

i can do this all day masterlist

previous chapter

SEOKJIN

How isn't she tired yet?

I'm tired, and I've only been floating behind her for the last three-ish hours. When she first noticed that I was laying on air, her dumb cat hissed at me, but she just widened her eyes for a second before ignoring me.

Maybe she's just been desensitised by all the stuff she got sprung with today.... which is strange because people usually come looking for the lamp knowing there's a djinn inside. Then again, it's been a while since I've been awaked this far in the past, and it's further in the future that people know about the 'genie' myth.

I know that my first few masters summoned me one after another, but somewhere along the line, I started serving people from all different times. That stunning suit I had on before was made for one of the most popular boy groups of the 21st century, but I hadn't considered that I would be so far back in time that it would be ridiculed.

I still can't believe that: my master tried to kill me, then barely two minutes later made fun of my sexy jacket and oh my god, I don't even know her name.

"Oh my god, I don't even know your name." The little terror on her shoulder stares at me with its dumb, beady eyes.

"Darling." She didn't even turn to me when she answered.

"What?"

"My name. It's Darling. Darling Surya".

Darling. I size her up, running my gaze over her. Her face was a little plain, but it looked downright fierce with her buzz-cut and wicked jawline. Paired with her long jacket and the general get-out-of-my-way vibe she gives off, she doesn't seem like a Darling at all.

"Darling? Is it weird when some random person calls you darling without realising it's your name?"

"I had been using the name Surya while I pretended to be a man, so I've never had to experience that." Wow, plot twists be like.

"Why did you pretend to be a man?"

"Because all women are good for is marriage, and I needed a job to save up money so I could come here."

Yikes, alright then. I have a feeling she's always this intense.

She has my interest piqued though, and I keep asking her questions. She's blunt at first, obviously preoccupied by something else, but eventually she relaxes enough to give me more detailed answers. I even suck up my dislike to her dumb cat and float beside her instead of behind, and she doesn't seem to mind.

I learn that her father is from Daehan-Minguk and her mother from Paaratham (modern-day South Korea and India respectively, which explains her darker skin) and that she was a heavy labourer for two years to save up money to move from Paaratham to Daehan-Minguk.

She explains that the king is an asshole - making downright treasonous comments about him throughout - and that we were currently going to his son's birthday ball.

She doesn't tell me why we're going, though, because supposedly she's 'still sorting it out', but it must be something serious since she dances around the question with a tight expression until I ask her about her cat.

It's a little strange to just talk like this.

I always make sure to learn about each of my masters so I can serve them better. Darling, though... she one of the few who I can say don't feel like a master. Most of the others went straight to telling me everything they would do with the money they were going to wish for themselves, or the apparently tragic stories that made them so deserving of the power they wanted.

Darling, just talked about her parents and Yoongi a lot, and even asked me questions about being a djinn.

She was baffled when I told her I've served people from different times, mouth dropping and fingers tightening on the lamp which she still held in her hand, and she wanted to know what the world is like in the future. When I told her about phones, though, she decided I was making it up and asked something else.

Still, it felt nice to talk to Darling. Nice enough that another hour and a half passed without me noticing, and soon enough, dusk had fallen and we were approaching the nearest town.

"I know an inn nearby, but I'm not sure how people would react if they saw someone in the air. I think you should stop floating for a bit." Darling looks pointedly at me until I set my feet on the ground with a huff.

"Silly humans and your non-floating ways. Do you realise how much of a time-waster walking is?"

"My bad, Seokjin. I'll make sure that next time I'm born as a genie." My lips curl into a grin of their own accord at her response, and I see her own do the same out of the corner of my eye.

The streets of the town are busy, but Darling navigates them fairly easily. It becomes more and more apparent, though, that there is currently something going on - people are bustling around busily, and Darling looks increasingly worried until we finally end up in front of an inn.

Inside, I immediately understand why Darling looked troubled - the inn is almost overflowing with people. Darling runs a hand over her buzz-cut and pushes the lamp deep into her pocket, then tells me to wait in the corner while she talks to the innkeeper. I try to follow her anyway, but she gives me a wicked glare and leaves her cat next to me so I stay put.

"What are you looking at?" The cat doesn't even blink, just lays down next to my feet. It doesn't seem to mind when I crouch closer to it, so I give its fur an experimental poke.

It opens its eyes lazily, slowly flicking its tail in my direction until I give it another poke, soft this time. Dumb cat. I could make you disappear from existence right now and you wouldn't even realise. As if sensing my thoughts, the cat bats at my hand, but then lets me pat it again.

"Yoongi likes you." Darling, who appeared without me even realising, looks down with sickeningly love-filled eyes at the cat.

"He what now?"

"Yoongi. He doesn't like anyone touching him except me, but he seems to be okay with you."

"Oh. Well, that's too bad for him because I hate cats."

"If you say so." She raises her eyebrows as if she doesn't believe me, but before I can reaffirm that no, really, I hate cats, she jerks her head to the stairs that I think lead to the rooms. "It's good we came here first, because the other inn is already full. There's a festival in Mansae the day before the ball, so people are staying here on their way to it and there's only one room left here. You okay with that?"

"I live in a lamp, Darling, I'm sure I can manage." She gives me a small smile and hikes her rucksack up before picking up her cat.

The innkeeper comes to us with a very capitalist smile and leads us to our room. He doesn't shut up, somehow managing to fit his life story, three comments about how 'we're never been this busy' and even an offer for me to marry his daughter in the two minutes he has our attention.

Darling just rolls her eyes when we're finally shown our room, and I remember her words from before - 'all women are good for is marriage'. I wonder if the innkeeper's daughter knew she was basically being given away by her own dad.

"Seokjin!" I pop my head into the room, which Darling had already unlocked and was going through. It was just big enough for a bed, a small table with a chair, and a tub behind a bamboo screen to bathe in.

"Yeah?"

"We have to get to the palace by tomorrow afternoon, so we're leaving early." She grabs a pillow from the bed to fluff it before throwing it back down. "You sleep here, I'll take the chair."

I think the sight of me floating has completely disappeared from her brain. "Darling. Sweetheart. You are a human, and need sleep. I am a genie, and have my lamp and don't need to sleep. Take the bed."

Darling's hand had been hovering protectively over her pocket, but now she pulls the lamp out of it and glances up at me.

"Oh. I guess that makes sense. I thought you wouldn't be too thrilled at the idea of going back into your lamp so soon. Plus, I wasn't planning on sleeping."

That makes me pause, and I consider her predicament for a moment. Darling - visibly tired, stressed out and her mind obviously occupied by something that she's been turning over for who-knows-how-long, yet here she is offering me a bed. Me. A literal genie with my whole-ass magic thing going on. Because she thinks I would be sick of being in my perpetual home one more night. Cute.

Then I notice how tight her grip on the lamp is, and that's when something clicks in my brain.

Hah. I wonder if she realises how easy it is to read her.

"Interesting, Darling, but may I offer a proposition? You sleep on the bed, your dumb cat can do whatever, and I'll do my floating business. Win-win-win, am I right? Also, c'mere."

She widens her eyes warily when I hold my hand out for the lamp, but passes it over with some hesitancy.

"What are you doing?"

"Trust me, Darling."

I watch her expression morph from confusion to distress as I melt the golden lamp into a chain-link necklace. Taking a step closer to her, I reach across the space between us to loop the chain around her neck and seal the ends together so there isn't an opening to the necklace. The purple gem thing - even after all this time, I don't know what it is - rests just below her collarbone, glinting in the dim light from the candle we were given.

"There you go! Now you can sleep without having to worry about losing it! Wow! You can thank me now!" I smile at her, but she doesn't notice. She fiddles with the necklace experimentally, a frown bringing her eyebrows together.

"What if someone pulls it off?" How Darling of her, always going around ruining the mood with her silly questions.

"Nopsies, the only ones who can even touch it are you and me. And your stupid cat. And I'm the only one who can take it off you or change its shape, so hurry up and thank me you ungrateful shit." I smile wider, tilting my head in expectation, and the tiniest hint of a grin graces her lips.

"Thank you, Seokjin."

"You are absolutely welcome, Darling dear. Now sleep." Before she can say anything else, I push her onto the bed and tap her forehead. She doesn't even have a chance to look surprised before she's unconscious, fast asleep as the purple remnants of my magic curl around her head.

I pull a blanket over her and poke my tongue out at her dumb cat when it jumps up to sleep next to her. It ignores me.

Oh well.

"Look, Mansae will be in front of us in a second. We'll be able to see the sea too."

Darling draws my attention to the view ahead of me, where we're about to break through the forest's treeline.

She woke up at fuck-all o'clock to find me playing on my Nintendo, and barely ten minutes later we were out of the town and on our way to the palace. We avoided the main road until now by picking our way through the mountain, but we were close enough to the capital, Mansae that we couldn't avoid it any longer.

With one last turn, the palace is laid bare in front of us.

The main road snakes to the palace and the houses and markets that surround it, which were in turn set within a wide valley circled by the Mansae mountain range. Through the space between two of the mountains, we could see the faint glimmer of the ocean far away. The palace itself was a spread of white towers spearing the sky, the path leading to it choked with people weaving between markets.

We join the crush of people heading to the palace for Jungkook's birthday-and-wife-picking-ceremony and are instantly shoulder-to-shoulder with sweaty strangers. Darling's elbow digs into my side as we walk, but she's too focused on babying her dumb cat to realise. I bear with it until we reach the markets, but I can't stand it anymore.

"Darling your elbow has been jackhammering a hole into my ribs for an hour."

She practically rips her gaze away from her cat to look up at me. "Seokjin, I can promise you that you are not the only one in this crush of people with an elbow in your ribs. Still, sorry about that, I wish there wasn't so much of a crowd."

"Ohoho, is that your first wish?" I waggle my eyebrows at her jokingly, but she doesn't realise I'm only kidding.

"No! No, that is not a wish!" She seems to be visibly panicking, a flush climbing her throat as she splutters in her attempt to make sure her wish isn't used. Cute.

"Okay okay, that's not your wish, I get it. But uhh, now that we're on the topic... What is your first wish?"

"I'll tell you when it comes to it." Ah yes, Darling - putting up brick walls faster than you can ask her questions. This time, though, that's not an option.

"Nopesies, you have to tell me. Come on bestie."

"I will. If I need to. Do I really need to? Can't I just say it when I need it to happen?"

Some times, it's a real bother being the only smart person on a whole planet of dummies. But that's okay - I suck back my exasperation and hide it behind a tight smile.

"Okay. Look. Here's the deal, Darling. It's obvious to me by now that you are not going to wish for money or power or whatever else my masters usually want. If, when you make your wish, it isn't precise enough or it's something I can't grant, I will not know what to give you and that's a wish wasted. I need you to explain this big idea of your's, or else I literally cannot do my job properly, so please tell me: what is going on inside your head?"

The flush on her neck spreads to her face as she mutters something without meeting my eye, but I miss it because she says it so quietly.

"What was that?"

Squaring her shoulders, Darling turns and holds my gaze straight on. There's some emotion tightening her face that I can't fully decipher, something between agitation and determination

"I need you to make the prince fall in love with me."

i can do this all day masterlist

next chapter

[the-desolated-quill]

Spider-Man: Homecoming - Reaction blog (No Spoilers)

I’m really fed up right now. Not just because Spider-Man: Homecoming was as bland, uninspired and tediously dull as I predicted it would be, but also because people have the fucking nerve to try and tell me that this is the best Spider-Man movie ever made. That this soulless, Frankenstein-esque assembly line production is somehow an improvement over the Amazing movies. I... Were we watching the same movie? We can’t have been watching the same movie, surely!

Let me just quickly recap my thoughts on the previous Spider-Man movies. I’ve never liked the Sam Raimi movies and I’ve always been continuously baffled as to why others still think these movies are good. Spider-Man 2 in particular keeps finding its way onto top ten lists, and just... WHY? It’s rubbish! The plot is ridiculous, the villain is stupid, the love story is a load of bollocks and Peter Parker’s ‘internal conflict’ doesn’t make the slightest bit of sense under any close scrutiny. I suspect the people that keep saying Spider-Man 2 is one of the best superhero movies ever made haven’t actually watched the movie in a very long time. Trust me, it really doesn’t hold up. The Amazing movies are, plain and simply, better movies. They have better writing, better characterisation, a better romance, more complex villains (okay, Electro was a bit weak. I’ll give you that) and the perfect Spider-Man. Andrew Garfield captured the essence of the character beautifully. So every time I hear somebody say that the Amazing movies sucked and that Tom Holland’s version is actually an improvement, I do get a little bit cross.

I suppose Spider-Man: Homecoming is technically not a bad movie. It’s competently made and I’m sure it’s possible to enjoy it if you switch your brain off beforehand (something which is increasingly becoming a basic requirement to enjoy these bloody movies). It’s just so shallow and so predictable. I could pinpoint exactly what was going to happen and when it would happen before it happened. It’s that formulaic.

It also doesn’t help that they’ve seemed to replace the comedy and characterisation that Spider-Man is famous for with forced slapstick and stereotypes. No. Seriously. It’s bad enough that with every reboot that Spidey keeps getting yanked back into high school as though he’s attached to a fucking bungie rope, but this has got to be the most cliched school I’ve ever seen. Every single character is a stereotype. EVERY SINGLE ONE. Flash is the bully. Why? Because he’s the bully. That’s his sole purpose for existing. Zendaya plays the disinterested loner... and that’s it. That’s literally her character. Liz is the popular girl/love interest and she’s the most bland character in this movie. We never learn anything about her, why Peter is attracted to her (apart from the obvious. She’s kind of pretty) and we’re never given a reason to want to see them together. And people actually think this is an improvement over the Amazing movies?! Peter and Gwen had so much more chemistry than these two!

And as for Ned...

You know, I didn’t think it was possible to be more annoying than Michael Pena’s character was in Ant-Man, but they somehow pulled it off. Ned fucking irritated me. He’s not funny. He’s not likeable. His friendship with Peter is never explored or developed. He exists solely to be the chubby nerd who waddles along behind the main protagonist in order to make him look good by comparison.

Also he’s clearly supposed to be Ganke Lee from Ultimate Spider-Man. YEAH! YOU’RE NOT FOOLING ANYONE MARVEL! WE SEE YOU!

Because that’s another thing that pisses me off about this movie. Having exhausted all possible creative avenues with this version of Spider-Man, they now start liberally borrowing from other versions, most notably Miles Morales. In fact, this Peter Parker is Miles Morales pretty much. So why didn’t they just use Miles Morales, I hear you ask. Oh no! They can’t possibly do that! It’s far more acceptable to give every excuse under the sun as to why Peter Parker must be the only Spider-Man and why this is absolutely not the right time to introduce Miles Morales into the MCU, whilst ripping off every single aspect of Miles Morales’ story in order to desperately prop up their white fave. Is this an example of Marvel’s creative bankruptcy or casual racism? I honestly couldn’t tell you. After Doctor Strange and Iron Fist, I could believe either one.

I can’t help but feel sorry for Tom Holland. He’s a good actor and I’m sure he could be a great Spider-Man, given the chance. He was pretty good in Civil War. Here it’s a whole other story. Holland fails to capture the essence of Spider-Man here, and I suspect it’s the fault of the director more than the actor. Have the filmmakers ever actually spoken to a teenager before? This is not how a 15 year old behaves. This is more like a 7 year old on a sugar rush. The filmmakers seem to have confused ‘inexperienced’ with childish. That’s the perfect word to describe this Spider-Man. He’s childish. He’s ‘socially awkward’ in inverted commas, and by that I mean it’s that really forced, clownish kind of socially awkward you normally see in bad British romcoms. The main reason why Holland’s performance suffers is because he’s given absolutely no good material to work with. His character doesn’t grow or evolve in any meaningful way and the comedy is woefully inadequate. The filmmakers also seem to have completely misunderstood the character on a a fundamental level, and I can’t really explain why without going into spoilers, but it’s unbelievably frustrating how much they’ve botched his characterisation.

You may have noticed I haven’t talked about Vulture yet... Good for you.

And obviously Iron Man is in this movie who, in the trailers, is presented as being a kind of mentor figure for Spidey. But in the actual movie, the character briefly offered a small glimmer of hope because it looked as though the movie was going to take the character in a completely different direction than was previously expected. I reached my hands out in desperation for this new development. Yes! Finally! Something interesting! Something morally complex! More of that please! But it was not to be. In fact by the end I felt pretty insulted by what they did with Iron Man and his relationship with Peter because it actually completely disregards what happened in Civil War. (Marvel also did this to Winter Soldier in Avengers: Age Of Ultron. Why do they keep disrespecting the Russo Brothers and erasing their contributions to the franchise? Don’t they realise that the Russos are the only people currently making good movies in this fucking shambles of a shared universe?)

So that’s Spider-Man: Homecoming. A painfully dull and hollow experience that offers absolutely nothing of substance. And apparently that makes it the best Spider-Man movie ever made.

Can we stop making Spider-Man reboots please?

[gillytweed]

One More Second

Note: Here’s a oneshot entirely written out of spite cause an anon on Ao3 keeps complaining that I don’t write Lexa stoic or as enough of a bad ass. Well, tell ya what anon, I’ll write Lexa as soft and with as many emotions as I want, so you can suck it.

Anyway, here’s 2600 words of soft fluff.

Lexa looked on as the council of ambassadors argued, a slight throbbing starting to form behind one of her eyes. She’d watched this conversation go around in circles multiple times over the last few hours, and it was always set back to square one by one ambassador or another's stupid pride. She understood that some things couldn’t be argued about, such as putting a road through one clan's sacred burial grounds, that was literally building a road to disaster, or some sort of coup, but she couldn’t understand why they were arguing so vehemently about the difference in colour of a cloth shipment.

She resisted the urge to sigh and and rub her increasingly aching temples. The debate may be ridiculous, but she had to keep a professional facade through it all, even when she felt like throwing one or both of the arguing parties off the balcony would actually make more progress in the immediate situation. Instead of indulging her rather violent thoughts, she turned her eyes to Clarke.

The blonde ambassador looked rather calm and stoic, professional as she’d learned to be over the past year in her duties as a diplomate, however, Lexa could see the slight tenseness in her shoulders, the jumping muscle in her jaw, and the way she twirled her pencil on her knuckle, all of which told of a far different story. Clarke was easily just as irritated as she, and Lexa hoped the blonde didn’t do anything rash.

Clarke was  the youngest in the room, bar the ambassador in training that had accompanied the diplomate from Shadow Valley, which made anything she did under far more scrutiny than any other ambassador. She’d had several private messages from the other ambassadors hinting at their concerns about Clarke’s inexperience, but there had yet to be any event that would warrant Clarke’s removal from her position. However, as things stood, there were several ambassadors who would take any opportunity to remove the blonde, simply because that would mean the need of a replacement, a replacement who would have no experiance with external politics.

“Ambassadors.” Lexa’s heart leapt into her throat at the sound of Clarke’s voice, breaking her from her thoughts. The room had gone silent as all attention had been drawn to Clarke. The blonde continued to spin her pencil, a mesmerizing twirl that never broke rhythm as she spoke.

“If I may suggest a possible solution?” Her tone was clipped but polite, following protocol by asking to join a debate between two factions that she had nothing to do with.

“By all means, Wanheda, grace us with your wisdom.” One of the arguing representatives, a large muscle bound man named Narek from Boudalan, said, tone mocking. He spoke her title as though it were a joke, and to him it was. He hadn’t seen the meal hall covered in the blood of the men, women, and children of the Mountain. He couldn’t realize the destruction Clarke could cause if pushed far enough.

Clarke simply smiled in response, her pencil still twirling. Her eyes glinted with a dangerous light, like a predator stalking its prey until it was the proper time to strike.

“The Boudalan have their own dying facilities, do they not?” It was a rhetorical question. Everyone knew of the brightly coloured finely made silks that the Boudalan exported, to not one would have to be extremely uninformed.

“Of course, we’re known for the colours of our silks, Girl! Skaikru’s ignorance stretches farther than anyone could have thought.” The ambassador boasted and insulted like he had no concerns at all, not realizing that Clarke was moving into position for the kill.

“Well, then why don’t you dye the cotton yourselves? Without the added labour of dying it for you, the price is much lower because it is raw materials. You would then get the colour you wish, Blue Cliff would sell their access cotton as well as reduce the time it would take to produce considering the dying process would be eliminated from the production. Which takes about five days to a week, correct?” Clarke turned her attention the Blue Cliff ambassador, who nods and looks rather relieved at the sudden intervention.

“See? You will get the colour you want, the materials sooner than in the past, and you would only have to trade for the raw materials. How does that sound to you, ambassador?” Narek didn’t respond, teeth grinding while all the other ambassadors nodded in agreement. It was clear that any other ambassador would take the deal but the Boudalan ambassador was stalling for reasons unknown, reasons that, at the moment, she couldn’t bring herself to care about.

“Narek.” Lexa finally spoke up, wanting for everything to finally be over so she could go find something for her ever growing headache. “I believe this solves all your problems, yes?”

Nareks eyes widened slightly, obviously alarmed at her hard tone. At this point, to refuse such a deal would impact the man’s reputation negatively, and he knew. Everyone knew, and by how Clarke was trying to conceal a smirk, she knew most of all.

“It does, Heda.” Narek admitted grudgingly. The glare he sent Clarke’s way was obvious, and the sharp grin Clarke returned it with just as. Lexa held in a sigh, breathing through her nose to soften the sound of her exasperation. Clarke was being far more antagonistic than usual.

“Then this meeting is adjourned. I expect a formal agreement to be outlined and agreed upon between the Boudalan and the Blue Cliff, then for it to be presented in two days time where it will be finalized. You are dismissed.” She let a little sharpness creep into her tone, revealing a hint of her carefully concealed aggravation. If she was relieved that it got the ambassadors out of her throne room just that little bit faster, she didn’t let it show.

Once the room was cleared, she let out a deep sigh, dropping her head into her hands and scrubbing at her eyes harshly until she saw starburst behind her eyelids. She was tired, very tired, and she could feel sleep pulling at her, dulling her senses and slowing her movements. As much as she hated to admit it, she needed rest.

She stood with a groan and stretched, several of her limbs popping as she did so. It was a short walk to her rooms but somehow it felt far longer, like the journey between Polis and the capital of the Plain Riders. She had to make a conscious effort not to drag her feet as she walked, keeping her posture straight and head held high despite the imaginary weight that wanted to tip her chin downward.

She felt ready to collapse once she’d closed her door behind her, the weight of her shoulder guard tipping her dangerously to the side. She plowed on however, instead of throwing herself on the bed like she wished to, she took the time to remove her guard, jacket and boots, slipped on a clean shirt and a soft pair of cotton pants. She washed her face and ensured everything was in it’s proper place before turning to the bed her body longed for.

Of course, just as she took a step towards it, a soft knock came at her door. Sighing, she considered ignoring it, sending the person away so she could sleep, but her sense of duty won out over her exhausted. Cursing softly, she went to open the door.

Normally when Clarke Griffin stood in her doorway an automatic smile would creep onto her face and a flame of excitement would warm her chest, but today, when the world weighed on her just that little bit more than normal, her lips struggled to lift and her chest only produced a soft spark that guttered out quickly.

“Hello, Clarke, what can I do for you?” Clarke frowned at the tiredness in her voice, blue eyes scanning her form with a doctor’s sharpness.

“I…” Clarke began but cut herself off with a frown. “Lexa, are you alright?” She kept her voice quiet, obviously conscious of the guards several feet down the hall. “You look rather pale.” That fact had Lexa raise a brow along with moving aside to let the blonde in. She shut the door and just as she turned a hand had found it’s way to her forehead. “You’re a little warm.”

“I am fine, Clarke.” She stepped away with a soft smile. Seeing the blonde concerned for her made the spark in her chest grow, but it didn’t burn away her mounting exhaustion. “What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to know if you would like to share dinner, but in all honesty I’d rather you rest.” Clarke stepped closer, this time putting a hand on Lexa’s arm. Her concern was obvious and her palm warm. It took conscious effort for Lexa not to lean into the touch.

“I am fine, and I’d be happy to share dinner with you.” Sharing meals with Clarke was rather enjoyable to say the least. Their conversations ranged widely, from politics, to life on the Ark versus the Ground, the different clans, farming, fishing, hunting, and those were a small portion of what they’d spoken about in the past as Clarke was endlessly curious about everything earth had to offer. “Just let me get changed and we can go to the dining room.” Before she’d even had the chance to take a step, Clarke held her firmly in place by a grip on her arm.

“How bout this? We eat here, so we can just sit and relax without hundreds of people around us?” Lexa felt the urge to agree instantly as her head throbbed with a vengeance, but she bit her lip as though she was considering it. She didn’t want to appear weak after all.

“If that is what you wish.” She worded her response carefully, but the way Clarke smiled made her think that the blonde knew she barely had to twist her arm at all.

“Great, I’ll go get the food. Meanwhile…” Clarke pulled her in for a surprisingly gentle embrace. “Relax. You deserve rest too.” And then she was gone, out the door before Lexa could blink.

As she made her way to the sitting area, the warmth from the hug slowly faded, making her shiver. Without thinking, she pulled a blanket that was folded across the back of the couch and wrapped herself in it in a futile attempt to keep the last of Clarke’s warmth within her.

She woke to the smell of rich spices and the sound of gentle scratching. For several moments it felt like she’d gone back in time to when she was a young Second, living with Anya, waking from short naps after training to a simple but flavourful stew and Anya sharpening her weapons with rhythmic strokes of her whetstone. However, small inconsistencies slowly filtered through.

The smell of fresh bread accompanied the stew, something that only ever happened during festivals or feasts. The scratching was much softer than that of a whetstone, quiet and inconsistent in its rhythm.

Then other differences began to prod at her senses. The blanket that was wrapped around her wasn’t scratchy like those included in a Seconds hunting kit. It was soft and warm, pulled up around her nose to keep the cold out. She didn’t ache from training, although her limbs felt heavy with tiredness, and there were none of the usual sounds of the bustling evening crowd as they passed outside their tent.

After taking a moment to gather herself, she blinked her eyes open, taking in the room. Clarke sat across from her in one of the large padded chairs, sketchbook propped up on her knee as she scraped her charcoal against the pages. A fire crackled in the fireplace, a tray with bowls of stew and plates of bread set near it to keep warm. Yawning, she stretched, her joints popping as the heaviness lessened.

“Have a nice nap?” Clarke spoke softly, pausing in her drawing. Lexa nodded, holding in the urge to groan in pleasure as she slumped back onto the couch, eyes closed. She was comfortable and warm, and at just the right level of sleepiness for her brain to be quiet and not filled with the hundreds of things she’ll have to deal with the next day.

She heard Clarke chuckle softly and the gentle rustle of paper as a sketchbook was set aside. She peeked an eye open to watch as Clarke skirted the low table between the couches and chairs to grab the tray of food. Lexa shuffled over just enough for the blonde to sit on the edge of the couch, placing the tray on the center table. She was still far too comfortable to even think of moving. Soon enough fingers found their way into her hair, untangling knots and combing out snarls, all while gently massaging her scalp.

“Still tired?” Lexa nodded but leaned into the gentle touches. She might be the Commander, expected to be poised and stoic every second of the day, but at this point she didn’t give a damn. She was comfortable, she was being given affection that made her toes curl in pleasure, and Clarke was sitting beside her. Titus could stuff it with his lessons about stoicness and “being commander is being alone.”

She hummed softly as Clarke gently scratched at the nap of her neck, suddenly getting the urge to kiss the girl she loved. She struggled upright with a slight groan, the blanket falling around her waist. She rested her head on Clarke’s shoulder for a moment, taking the time to enjoy their closeness.

“You know I love you, right?” She murmured softly, her words muffled by the cloth of Clarke’s shirt. Clarke paused, her hand having gone back to its place on her neck once she’d settled.

“Yes, and I love you too.” Lexa couldn’t help the grin that stretched across her face, Clarke’s words making her feel giddy with happiness. Lifting her head, she snaked her own hand behind Clarke’s neck, drawing the blonde in slowly so she could pull away if she wanted to.

It was Clarke who sealed the gap, moving the last couple inches so their lips could meet. It made Lexa sigh happily, the softness and the warmth, the gentle movements, and slow swipe of Clarke’s tongue as she asked for entrance, entrance which she gladly granted.

They drew away from each other, giggling, after Lexa had gently nipped at Clarke’s lip then rubbed their noses together affectionately. The two opposing actions, one hard and the other soft, was somehow funny. A nonsensical sort of funny, but in their shared moment of quiet things didn’t need to make sense.

“Ready for dinner?” Clarke asked softly as their foreheads rested against each other. Lexa sighed and nodded slightly, but not quite yet ready to move away from the blonde's warmth even if her stomach was beginning to make its demands known. She wanted to imprint the feeling of this moment into her memory, to sear it into her brain so she’d be able to remember it always. She wanted to remember the warmth, the sleepy yet comfortable tiredness, the smell of Clarke, leather and charcoal and the pine soap that she’d taken a liking too, mixed with the scent of spices and freshly baked bread. She wanted to remember Clarke’s soft giggle, the gentle almost silent sighs she let out as they leaned closer together. She wanted to remember it all.

“Just one more second.” She breathed out, letting her shoulders drop as she let her muscles loosen. She just needed one more second so she’d remember. One more second so she’d remember until the next night they had like this.