#discerning fans will know where the mirror's from

[rosanishelios]

This was @good-dayo's idea and I just ran with it

[shalomniscient]

as the world caves in. || multiple x reader

AND HERE IT IS / OUR FINAL NIGHT ALIVE / AND AS THE EARTH BURNS TO THE GROUND / OH GIRL IT’S YOU THAT I LIE WITH / AS THE ATOM BOMB LOCKS IN / OH GIRL IT’S YOU / I WATCH TV WITH / AS THE WORLD CAVES IN

cw. major character death

notes. felt silly

arlecchino

You find her against a broken pillar.

Her once pristine suit is in tatters. You can’t even discern anymore where red fabric ends and blood begins. The black feather-like horn in her hair has cracked, revealing crimson enamel, pulsing in tune with the balemoon above both your heads. Her curse, once up to her elbows, has creeped up to her shoulders, her neck, and just below her jaw. Each breath she takes is labored, pained. One of her wings lies uselessly by her side, while the other is just a stump.

She will die here.

But that’s fine, because you plan on dying right along with her.

Arlecchino’s head snaps up as you hobble over to her. The second coming of the cataclysm hadn’t exactly spared you either; a rifthound’s cursed teeth had sunk deep into your thigh. The wound is likely fatal on its own, though the abyssal corruption spreading through you at an alarming rate only solidifies your death sentence. Still, it doesn’t stop Arlecchino from snapping at you as you approach, brows furrowed, her clawed hands digging into dead soil.

“What are you doing here?” she hisses. You really know the extent of her injuries and exhaustion now—if she was in even slightly better condition, she’d have picked you up and flown you right back somewhere safe. But she isn’t, so you let yourself slide down the pillar next to her with a snort.

“What does it look like?” you huff. “I’m here for you, idiot.”

She gives you a look between incredulity and despair. “You—“

“If you think I’d ever leave you behind, I’m going to smack you.”

Arlecchino quiets at that briefly. You lean your head back against the pillar, a remnant of a building ravaged by the angry surge of the Abyss, and shut your eyes. You can feel Arlecchino’s eyes bore into the side of your face, tracing the line of your jaw, the swell of your cheek, then the shape of your lips, as if to memorize you. When she speaks again, her voice is remarkably soft.

“You’ll die,” she whispers, and you turn your head to her with a smile, meeting her eyes. You take her larger hand in your own—your wedding bands meet with a soft clink of metal.

“I’d follow you to oblivion and back, Peruere.”

Something in her expression shutters, and Peruere leans down to press her forehead against your own. She’s so close, like this. Close enough for you to see the way the veins and arteries in her neck pulse under curse-marked skin to a beat that mirrors your own; close enough for you to feel the way her breath fans over your cheek; close enough for you to kiss her.

And you do, free hand cradling her cheek while the other cups the nape of her neck. Peruere returns the kiss like she’s trying to press her soul against your lips. To give it to you instead of whatever higher power will claim it in the end. Her hand in yours squeezes gently, her thumb brushing over your knuckles. Her remaining wing rises, a little shakily, and wraps around you, pulling you closer. You smile into the kiss, even as wetness gathers in your lashes.

Peruere wipes them away with her thumb. Draws back just enough to look you in the eyes one last time, selfishly. The earth wails in the distance, cracking and splintering, and the wind howls above your heads. The crimson balemoon shines impassively down as the herald of the apocalypse, cold and unfeeling. But Peruere’s wing around you is warm, and her palm caressing your cheek feels like being at home.

“To oblivion and back,” Peruere whispers, and then the world ends—

—but at least for you and her, it ends in love.

shalom

Shalom has always known you would meet a solitary end. She had said as much to you, back in the bureau when she had first met you—or rather, when you had first met her, in your fragmented memory. And some part of her was content with the fact. She’s smart, diligent. A HUSH. She could learn you utterly and completely, dive into and discover the depths of your heart before her time runs out.

She does achieve her goal, in the end. But she also falls terribly in love with you, and now the thought of being without you makes her unbroken heart constrict in her chest.

Now here she stands, in this field of lillies she once haunted. This realm of Mania, deceptively beautiful, with a cloudless blue sky stretching on endlessly. She can feel the gaze of the Illusory Moon crawl up her spine, but that is not her concern. No, her concern is you, standing off into the distance, alone—a solitary figure of grey against the blinding white. And somehow, you just know she’s there; like Orpheus for Eurydice, like something bone deep in you compels you to turn around and look.

But Shalom doesn’t disappear like Eurydice. Instead, she steps forward and slots herself into your arms instead with a hum, her hands splaying on your shoulder blades, holding you close. She buries her head in your neck, breathes in your scent—lillies, always lillies—and speaks.

“This is it, then.”

You nod. Card your fingers through her wine-red hair. “This is it.”

“It’s quite peaceful,” she muses, shifting to rest her ear against your chest. Your heartbeat thuds, calm and powerful, and Shalom lets her eyes flutter shut at the rhythm. You manage a small chuckle.

“For now. It’ll get quite ugly soon, at least on the outside,” you murmur. Your lips press a kiss to the top of her head. “You shouldn’t be here.”

She laughs at that. “There are many things I shouldn’t be, and yet, here we are. Mostly because of you, you know.”

“You know what I mean,” you huff, and she smiles. Of course she does. This is your solitary end, the cold calculus of the universe that demands your life in exchange for the world. If she was still HUSH, she’d see it as a bargain. But she’s not HUSH anymore, just Shalom, and suddenly the price is too high, too unacceptable.

“I know.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I’m selfish,” she admits, voice barely above the breeze rustling the flowers by your feet. “I don’t want to be in a world without you.”

Not when you are the one who gives it meaning.

You’re silent for a moment, before a rueful expression pulls at your lips. You shake your head with an affectionate sigh, resting your forehead against hers. You know better than to argue with her. Your hand finds hers, intertwining your fingers and squeezing gently. No words are exchanged between you, but no words are necessary. Her hand squeezes back, and then you’re turning, facing the growing light at the end of the horizon. You’re her Orpheus amidst the flowers, leading her forward step by step until the light devours you both. To life, or to death, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t quite care.

For like Eurydice, what else mattered besides the hand in her own, the proof that she was loved?

kujou sara

Sara once thought she knew pain. Cuts and bruises, arrowheads and sword slashes—none of these are new to her. Her body is a canvas of scars from her time as a warrior, some pale and faded, while others are pink and freshly healed. Pain is inevitable, in a profession such as hers. Sara once thought she knew pain, but nothing could have ever prepared her for the agony of seeing tears paint your soft cheeks as you lie in her arms, staining the burnt soil below you red with your blood.

It feels like someone has reached into her chest, fingers curling around her heart and squeezing tight. Everything else has faded to a dull sensation; the arrows lodged in her wings as she shields you both from the world; the gash in her side from an axe-wielding hilichurl; the throb in her skull from when an Abyss Herald had managed to get a lucky hit in. The war around you both is now an afterthought, even as the skies rage and the Abyss spills forth like a hellish tide. No, the only thing she can focus on is you, as your lips painted red part and whisper to her brokenly.

“Sara,” you choke out, “I love you.”

Sara leans down, pressing her forehead to yours. Her golden eyes meet yours, and she hopes you can see the sincerity within. “I love you too, dearest.”

Your breathing rattles ominously in your chest, and Sara holds you tighter. Closer. A small comfort as death approaches you both on silent feet, ready to collect. Your fingers grip the front of her uniform tightly, staining her white uniform red. “Promise me,” you rasp, and Sara exhales shakily.

“Anything.”

“Find me again,” you plead, your voice so small she would not have heard you, were it not for her tengu senses. “In the next life, promise you’ll find me again—“

She grips your hand tightly. “I promise. I promise, my love, so wait for me.”

She doesn’t even know what awaits either of you beyond this. Is there even such thing as a next life? Heaven? Hell? She doesn’t know, but she doesn’t care. If there is a next life, she will find you, over and over again until the end of time. If heaven doesn’t exist, she’ll build it with her own hands for you. It it does, she’ll meet you there. If hell exists, she’ll carry you out on her back herself. Sara would do anything for you—all you have to do is ask. She kisses you as your breathing slows, your final breath mingling with hers. As death’s shroud settles on her shoulders, she memorises every line on your face, the set of your jaw, the arch of your brows like they’re her north star, to shine forever in her sky and lead her home. Home, wherever you are.

(In another universe, a pair of crows roost on a powerline. In another, a black obi is tied around a beautiful kimono. In another, a museum’s display katana rests peacefully in its delicate sheathe.

In another, she stands hand in hand with you again, looking at them all.)

[queen0fm0nsterz]

As an avid little nightmares enthusiast, what are your serious beliefs on the often overlooks Wax Bellman? Any theories or headcanons?

Frankly? I don't really have anything.

Don't get me wrong -- I find it very sweet that the fandom has always tried to involve him into the fan content, making him part of the crew of the Maw even though he was cut in the end. Considering how involved he was in the marketing of the game up until 2016 we have good reason to believe that the guy was also beloved by the crew; he must have been a "last second" cut.

(Pictures from the previously mentioned con.)

His situation is really a sad one because it would have been awesome to have him run around in the game. Would have made the runtime longer.

HOWEVER! His presence is still tangible in the Maw, in spite of him being gone. This is something I will gladly get into: bring little details to light is something I am very fond of doing.

We see him directly in a couple of paintings owned by the Lady, both in the Residence and in her own quarters. She has a habit of keeping pictures of her employees; this is a good indicator that he was on the Maw during her reign. Might be an obvious statement, but you never know with the Maw... In all of these instances, he is found hanging by his neck; considering his jack in the box is also in a room where a Nome is swinging aggressively on a lamp attached to a long wire, the "cord around neck" part is a prominent aspect of this character.

((This is, most likely, one of the reasons why they ultimately cut him out. I cannot imagine how hard it would be to animate a guy walk around with a cord around his neck all the time. Adding to that, his face looks hard to model and keep consistent, so that's a point against him as well.))

Keeping his profession in mind, one could really call him a dog on a leash. A bellman is a person who helps the guests carry their luggage inside their place of residence and shares information about the establishment and its services. From what we can discern from the first painting, we can also see that this particular Bellman was also the one in charge of the booking and the tickets, so doing check ins and things of the like.

Generally, he'd be the one to look after the Guests more closely, which lines up with the traces of him we are left with...

You see, in the 2016 con, the Wax Bellman was shown hiding behind a two-way mirror. He could only be seen once the light was turned on, on his side of the mirror. Meaning that the two way mirror we see in LN 1 is most likely one of the places he would have resided in.

That in itself is not too obscene considering the other customs of the Maw, but the mirror is in a bathroom. And he has a chair. With toilet paper.

... Yeah, uh. Very interesting, Tarsier Studios! 😁👍🏻

About Tarsier Studios, actually! This ask reminded me of something they said in regards to the Ferryman and the Wax Bellman. A few years back, LN twitter referred to the Bellman as "Ferryman"; for this reason, it was believed for a while that the two characters were either the same person, or that one replaced the other in the lore. This was confirmed to not be the case!

(From this awesome interview! I suggest you go listen to it, because this screenshot is hard to read + it reveals a LOT of Maw lore!)

So we can finally put a stone on this lost soul. He is lost to time, but never forgotten. Keep the fan content of him coming!

[pricechecktranslations]

I was wondering if you knew any more misconceptions or fan theories that were going around in the Evillious fandom? I’m looking to make a video on it so I wanted to see what kind of stuff the fandom came up during it’s peak. Also, thank you for your hard work. You’re one of my inspirations of getting into translating

Oh, anon, there are TONS of misconceptions that have gone around the Evillious fandom. It might not be as big an issue as it used to be, but misinformation has always plagued it.

Here's a few more noteworthy bits from what I and a friend of mine can remember (and dig up) under the cut, though bear in mind many of these are from before my time. You should be able to verify these for your video by looking at very early versions of character/location/etc pages on the Story of Evil and Evillious wikis (the Story of Evil wiki was one made for the Daughter of Evil series specifically, and was abandoned very early on) as well as old forum posts and user articles. Focus on things dated to 2013 or earlier, as most of (not all) the worst misconceptions were cleared up after that point:

People thought Clarith was a Venomania descendant. I assume you already saw the discussion on this, but in short, it was people jumping to conclusions based on some poorly worded translations.

It was believed for a while that the girl in Blood-stained Switch was named IR, and that she was split into two halves--one half becoming Elluka, and the other half becoming Irina. From what I could gather, this misconception was almost entirely based on some off-the-wall theorizing by a person on NicoNico Douga, which was mistaken for being mothy's own commentary based on a misunderstanding of how NicoNico Douga comments work (the splitting in half bit, at least; people thought her name was IR because a different commenter mistook her for IR, and I guess at the time the wiki didn't know that was Irina's name in the Lust novel).

It was believed, back when "Levianta Catastrophe" was called "Levianta Fire Disaster", that Full Moon Laboratory was about Elluka. Specifically, it was believed that she had killed Irina (this bit at least I don't blame them for because I think Irina killing Elluka was supposed to be a minor twist), and then became ruler of Levianta as Ma. As ruler, she created the Department of National Research, and performed a bunch of illegal experiments. She cast the Clockwork Secret Art as a "cleansing" spell, which backfired and blew up the country.

People thought Levianta was a Japanese inspired country, and that it was where Tailor of Enbizaka took place.

People thought Irina was using a variant of the body swap to control bodies (specifically that it was an "incomplete" version of the spell). This was based on a mistranslation.

Before fans really understood the presence of actual, literal demons in the series, it was believed that the voice talking to Kyle through his hand mirror in Praeludium was Prim, feeding his ego or brainwashing him or something.

Due to some slightly more understandable confusion, people thought The Last Revolver was about Gumillia, and (less understandably) that Julia had tasked her with retrieving the Venom Sword from her assassination target (who they thought, for no reason I can discern, worked for the Freezis Foundation).

Note that there are some misconceptions that are, genuinely, a result of mothy retconning (a lot of albums, for example, give false information, though they're often told from the perspective of characters who are lying or misinformed) or pulling twists that people didn't see coming. However, I'm pretty sure the examples I gave above are your garden variety "someone mistranslated and someone else leapt to weird assumptions".

[alarrytale]

It’s interesting that there are hate blogs for Harry where they believe absolutely everything about his public persona, no questions asked, so he is a terrible human being. And there are blogs in love with Harry and hate the other four One Direction members and believe everything their public personas put forth no questions asked. Therefore they are terrible people because obviously Harry can do no wrong and anyone that says so is lying.

I know people say Larries are the crazy ones, but, could it possibly be that Larries are actually the somewhat grounded middlemen? Where we know neither of them are perfect because they’ve made some questionable choices to launch their careers to where they are now, but also believe that everything the public is shown about them is not true. Actually, most of it is not true, which is in line with the entertainment industry’s proven MO.

I tend to think that like everything else in life, it’s neither black nor white. It’s always somewhere in the gray. But I personally believe they’re still together.

Hi, anons!

When there is so much narrative pushing, so much image curating, gaslighting and so much smoke and mirrors people will wind up confused and wondering what to believe and what not to believe. I can't blame anyone who struggles to make head or tails of what's real and what's not when everything is so controlled and so much is fake. I think us larries have the theories that's the closest to the truth and it provides a frame of thinking that makes it easier to discern what's real and what's not. So we're not as confused as the other groups.

I don't know if it's a larrie thing or a harrie thing tbh. When you're a harrie you will most likely see him in a better light than others do and want to defend his behaviour. The hate blogs are usually not harries. They're often rad louies, who think that Harry's responsible for everything going wrong with Louis' career. Het harries will defend him from everything that will harm his career, even if it's bad behaviour. Neither of these positions are right.

Nothing in life is ever black and white. People make tough decision with little information and things hardly ever turn out as planned. There are no all good or all bad people. Your idol isn't perfect. As long as the good outweighs the bad, it's worth being a fan.

[algusunderdunk]

Fixing FNAF: Security Breach

Fix 2: The AI

Alright, so the AI in the game is, sad to say, abysmal. Path-finding is expensive, and the further two objects are with more obstacles in between the more expensive it gets. They tried to get around this with the constant security bots and teleporting animatronics, but this just cheapened the experience. While they could've used hierarchical path-planning or pre-baked optimal routes, the point of my rambling is to make things better with the least work possible, so let's focus on the AI.

First and foremost, as I noted in the last post, ONLY the shattered variants will hunt you in the open world segments. Other AIs will be confined to smaller areas wherein path-planning is much easier to deal with. So the endoskeletons in hallways, battling individual animatronics on their own in their specific domain, all to cut down on computational overhead. Also, I'd have each shattered variant do something very specific to them.

MOONDROP: First one to hunt in the open world, Moondrop would actually travel the area's ceilings, and descend on a cable like a spider (a visual supplies by the Sundrop/Moondrop fan art). Since most of the Pizzaplex ceilings resemble stars at night, he'd blend in and be tricky to spot. The computational reason for this is that the ceiling is an obstacle -free mirror of the floor plan, so he doesn't require any fancy path finding algorithms. He slowly and quietly stalks Gregory, and if you stay still too long he quietly descends to attempt to snatch you away. If Gregory moves out of range, he ascends back up.

SHATTERED CHICA: Most of the animatronics have a glow to them, and 3D audio letting you know roughly where they are. After being broken, Chica does not. Without illumination, she blends into dark and shadowy areas, staggering around randomly without any particular goal in mind. When she gets near the player she'll start making loud radio feedback noises that sound like they're dead-center of the player, negating the ability to discern her position from sound. Her movement is mostly random bumping off of things, but when she's within range of Gregory, she'll start moving towards him and squarking.

SHATTERED ROXY: Taking advantage of Roxy being blinded, she'll also move randomly to begin with. However, she'll have two notable traits. First, is her sense of smell. As Gregory moves throughout the open area, he'll be leaving behind a simplistic batch of data points. Essentially, the path the player's taken. If Roxy encounters this path, she will start following it, seeking the player based on Gregory's "scent." She is also sensitive to sound, and uses a coarse-grain environmental map. This means very few nodes representing the open area. Perhaps "main stage", "party floor", "left hall", "right hall", etc. So hearing a noise will cause her to ATTEMPT to move towards an area to wander and sniff, but she'll be dissuaded if she gets stuck on an obstacle. If she hears a LOUD sound, such as a distractionary object throw or noisemaker activated, she will lunge towards it. This can be used to get her off of Gregory's scent temporarily.

SHATTERED MONTY: In-game he doesn't actually do anything, but he could be added without much work and no real AI needed. As shattered Monty is largely immobile from having his legs and claws torn off, he becomes an ambush enemy, hiding on the ground between various set pieces, similar to how alligators and crocodiles will play dead to catch prey. He doesn't move unless the player comes within range of him, so they'll need to keep their eyes open to spot him ahead of time and avoid him. This can get tricky as he is relatively smaller in shattered form, and can hide between arcade cabinets, plants, under tables etc. There would be a number of set ambush points for him, and he could teleport between them when not observed, and when the player's far enough away. Explain away as him traveling between vents.

SHATTERED FREDDY: Freddy never gets to truly attack, so for night 5, he's briefly turned and hunts Gregory too. His mechanic is, to save on reprogramming, the exact same mechanic you always have. The Fazwatch. He does two things. He will wander, looking for Gregory, or he will RUN... When the Fazwatch randomly glitches and CALLS HIM to your immediate position. This means you have to VERY quickly either run (which may attract the others) or hide. In addition, players will be able to use the Fazwatch's camera menu to see from Freddy's point of view to attempt to avoid him ahead of time. Freddy DOES have the more complex path-finding algorithm as he regularly runs to Gregory throughout the complex, so this ensures the others don't compete for computational resources with Freddy. Everyone else has simpler AI that works regardless of how the environment gets structured (meaning level designers can add new obstacles or move things and they only need to update Freddy, and make sure Monty's ambush points still make sense.

They'll also tend to "interact". Chica's skwarks will draw Roxy's attention. Looking up to spot Moondrop means you're not looking down to spot Monty and vice versa. Freddy rushing to your location means you may have to suddenly abandon caution to quickly vacate an area, making noise and not checking for the others.

I feel this would work well for the main open world. No roaming security bots constantly going off, just constant dread from being hunted. In the areas where you face each animatronic individually, just a basic path-finder or pre-scripted encounters. Their path-finder can handle a more heavy -duty workload if it's just them versus Gregory.

DJ MUSICMAN: Similar to Moondrop, he already traverses walls and ceilings but aside from the scripted bathroom and hallway encounters isn't an actual threat. He should navigate the walls and ceiling hunting the player, and when he's in range start to reach for the player. If they get out of range, he crawls back into the ducts to reappear elsewhere. Again, him being on the ceiling means no obstacles to avoid, so his path-finding can be efficient and low-cost.

VANNY: No AI. I'd restrict Vanny to solely scripted encounters in the decaying underbelly of the Pizzaplex, giving the player a constant feeling that she's watching them. Have her stationed in various spots where she'll duck out of sight JUST as the camera swings to her so the player spots her for only a second. Have her peer around doorways and up stairways and from behind fences, always just out of reach. Animations can be reused and she can be teleported around to set locations. Throw in a few audio cues to make players feel like she just ran behind them without having to do ANY animation for some parts.

And there it is, a clean-up for the AIs to make them more threatening, easier to program, more unique, and really add to the sense of dread. Plus cheaper computational power means better performance across any and all systems as well.

[amara-iceleb]

Week Two: MegaWatt Celebrityhood in the Social Media Era

Celebrities can use their influence for good simply by amplifying often ignored voices and using their own voices for change. Celebrities have become more and more effective change makers as time progresses and people are much more willing to openly support a celebrity when they know that they share the same morals and beliefs. Even if a celebrity using their voice doesn’t change the course of the universe, they undoubtedly teach someone, somewhere about a cause they would’ve otherwise never known about and in a day where news has been decentralized — for better in some cases and for worse in others — it’s crucial that information about human rights and environmental justice are shared, especially because others who speak about them could and probably would be censored.

I think they can become superhero(ine)s for change. Because celebrities often are the ones to propel trends to mass popularity, they could and often do the same with social movements. Celebrities showing that they care about certain causes would not only inform people about those causes but also encourage people to join them. During the BLM movement, many celebrities were seen marching which amplified the word about BLM and got more people to go out marching. Since the phenomenon of celebrity is so tied to idolization, people very often want to replicate things their favorite celebrities do or they find celebrities that mirror what they do. In this way, they could bring being a social change maker into the cultural zeitgeist as something cool or noteworthy which would only make people more emboldened to use their voices.

 

I would say that the nature of celebrityhood is kind of undergoing a change but it’s obvious that many celebrities aren’t quite convinced. Many mainstream celebrities have been noted to only say the safe thing or only speak at a safe time. Some celebrities refuse to speak about human rights issues and only speak on environmental issues in a small scale (like using reusable water bottles or paper straws). Other celebrities speak once in a while like encouraging their fans to vote or speaking out against the overturning of Roe v. Wade but then become silent in the face of any other social or environmental strife, often being noted as people who wouldn’t speak up for anything that doesn’t directly affect them, Of course, there are some celebrities that chose to use their piece of the limelight for an abundance of social good, like Jane Fonda and Susan Sarandon mentioned above, but, today, they seem to be anomalies. 

I definitely agree with taxing them at a higher rate seeing as they don’t seem to be slowing down their private jet usage without it. I do think this would solve a small piece of global warming caused by airplane emissions and overconsumption but I think a lot of the change would come from the 1% in general being taxed and discouraged from doing such harmful things. Like most issues concerning climate change, it would take a large shift in lifestyle for people who live so absorbently and that’s a much broader area than just celebrities.

I don’t think they deserve to be rewarded too much if they align with social causes. In this day and age, it’s so common for people to be politically active and use their voice for change, so much so that the everyday person is more of a change maker than the average celebrity. I also think when looking back at celebrities who used their voice to amplify social causes (again, such as Jane Fonda and Susan Sarandon) they don’t expect any reward and they don’t brag about it when promoting their projects or things alike. As of right now, celebrities have to catch up with us and, when they do, hopefully it’ll be so normal and commonplace that nobody would have a second thought about any of it.

I think in order to discern greenwashing from a true commitment to sustainable innovation, you’d have to look at a celebrities past, present, and future actions as well as investigate whatever it is that they are saying/selling. Taylor Swift, for example, had teamed up with UNICEF to guarantee clean water and called climate change one of the “horrific situations that we find ourselves facing right now,” yet routinely tops the charts on highest private jet usage and has been notably silent since, what some have called, her “political era” in 2020-2021 (https://variety.com/2020/music/news/taylor-swift-political-song-documentary-miss-americana-1203473948/). From that evidence, it’s best to assume that Taylor Swift doesn’t actually care about the environment, at least, not as much as she has claimed to, especially since her tour isn’t/wasn’t eco friendly, nothing in her merch shop is sustainably made, etc. etc. If she were to change her tune and start becoming a climate activist and changing the things I listed, it would be easy to say that she isn’t greenwashing when talking about climate change and I think that level of analysis should be done to every celebrity to make sure they aren’t greenwashing since Swift certainly isn’t the only one to use climate change as a temporary platform to garner public support.

I think celebrities of the next generation will be known for their art in the way all artists used to be known for their art. Politics and art and being a human being in this word is so intertwined that it won’t be separated and people wouldn’t expect it to be. Celebrities would use their voice for change and honesty tell their audiences what they believe in, in order to promote the cause. It would no longer be taboo or seen as a “downer” to bring up politics at a concert or at a press interview. Everything in the future would be one and celebrities wouldn’t have to be scared to speak in fear of being ostracized.

[midoropalace]

Yakuza: Like a Dragon -7-

Tick... tick... boom.

With Kiryu gone, our next goal is to stop Sawashiro from getting a bullet to the head. Fun! But there are a couple of pit stops first.

The first thing I do is head to Kamulop to check out the Tojo Clan medal prizes. Turns out, there are now two Poundmates I can add to my collection for 50 medals a pop: Daigo Dojima and Watase. I decide to add the cuter one to my roster.

Next, I decide to get some really annoying Part-time Hero quests out of the way. The first is Please Find My Cat 1, a terrible fetch quest that I probably should have done earlier but chose not to. Finding these damn cats blind isn't my idea of fun, so I cheat and pull up a map. Oops.

We are then given a new quest: Please Find My Cat 2, which involves finding Hiro's cat Robson. I'm not a huge fan of these Part-time Hero quests, so I decide to look this one up as well just to save time. After rushing to Hamakita Park, I find the little cutie sitting on a lantern.

My prize is getting Robson added to my selection of Poundmates. Sweet.

Next is Kappture the Kappa, another long and pointless side quest that involves snapping photos of Kappa statues. I'm not sure how I could have done this one without a guide because my brother in Christ why would you hide a statue inside the bar why why why god why.

Turns out that wasn't the worst part of this quest though. See, I assumed I found all the kappas... until I saw that I had 9. I got so annoyed and was racing to figure out which one I missed, until I realized that I never took a photo of the first one. You know, the only one that is pointed out to you and is the easiest one to take a photo of because of it? Yeah. Not a fun time finding that one out. And honestly? The rewards for these missions really have not been worth it. Well, maybe it was worth it for Robson.

Now for the main course. I head to where Seong-hui told me to go to and approach the building Ishioda entered. I then get assaulted by several of his goons, who go down without much of an issue.

And there he is. The big bastard himself: Ishioda. Side note: this screen actually has a small piece of foreshadowing! But we can talk about that later.

Before we can even get close to Ishioda, though, Adachi suddenly appears from the door and attacks... Adachi... Oh noes! It's Mirror Face! Ichi and his team have trouble discerning the fake Adachi from the real one. A classic clone dilemma. Ichi susses out the real Adachi by testing his knowledge of local traffic codes. One Adachi struggles to give even basic knowledge, while the other rattles off traffic laws verbatim.

Naturally, the real Adachi is the one who doesn't give a shit about his (former) job.

The battle against Reiji (and Mirror Face) is long and drawn out. Mirror Face himself isn't too much of a pain -- the most annoying thing about him is that he starts guarding as his HP gets really low, forcing the battle to be prolonged even further and draining my MP like a mother fucker. Ishioda, on the other hand, is genuinely dangerous. He counterattacks pretty frequently, and his Gunshot attack one-shots Saeko and Nanba if not guarded properly, which is near impossible to do. Once his HP is low enough, he enters into his second phase where his normal attacks become weak, but his counterattacks become strong -- strong enough to one shot pretty much everyone that isn't Ichiban or Adachi. Thankfully, Zhao's Essence of Deadly Beasts makes quick work of him.

After Ishioda crumples like wet newspaper, he spills the beans on Arakawa's assassination. Ishioda attemped to kill him as ordered, but Tendo suddenly appeared and sent Masumi to the big kabuki theater house in the sky. So it wasn't Ishioda who got the kill on the Omi Alliance's number one target -- it was the double-backstabber Tendo.

Ichiban and his crew demand to know where Tendo is now, but before Ishioda can answer, we discover there is a bomb under one of the desks in the office -- a bomb that can be seen in an earlier scene! Foreshadowing! Aoki and Tendo order their henchmen to detonate the bomb, and...

Well, at least we got something out of that.

[blackvahana]

Moving to a more human-language-compatible headspace to talk about it... I first have to say that 8 feel like I'm already there in the future dancing with them still

It's a very... what I'm going to call inverted-liminal space. Liminal usually is used to refer to spaces lacking something, lacking energy or meaning, or lacking energy or meaning that can be discerned by the viewer, right? Or things that feel like the Void. This... Was liminal in the way that it was crowded with dense firework matrices of colours and energy and bursts and sparks. It's like crushed glass, shattered and frozen in spacetime not liminally but like when an orgasm locks up someone's body.

It's a shrine to Black, part of a larger temple that just echoes out and out and out. There's, according to tradition, shrines for many spirits we know, his is one particular dome of it though he, as a patron, extends through sort of all of it in low resonances. Either way, a version of a symbol of his, an altar space decorated with time and space... People come and go, very transient-permanent. Everyone comes and goes, but they're also eternally there because of how time works. If you're there once, you're there forever, not like a trap but in the way of "welcomed honoured guests are welcome and honoured with us eternally" like how lighting a candle for someone works in other religions, they don't have to be present, they're still there in a way in an honouring way.

Black... Plays here like a VHS tape rolling across the screen. I've - I specifically have - been here at least three times before in the way he's invoked me, many times before as in he was here while I existed so I've been here because I am him, and then many times before me and after... It's complicated because time works like the Sky Library does, I reflect in moments outside my own existence, moments are all reflective sheets of glass/mirrors that reflect all the other moments... But anyway. I've also been here consciously before, though consciously is a bit of a weakly tied word given that trancework is something that supercedes the idea of consciously present

So. I was there tonight, which is to say no night, which is to say I think this actually happened a time ago (if we talk what times line up more softly and amicably with the times on this plane) but I experienced it now. This time was very personal. Before, especially the time I was talking about earlier, it's very... well, the word is erotic. We're fertility and sex deities here even if that's not in our main uttered epithets/names, the thing I'm dancing on is directly related to snakes and sex. This, though, was curtains drawn, burlesque bedroom-or-maybe-crying eyes from behind feather fans type thing. I was acting, following emotions, all were the Divine Patron. I am him. I'm clay, he's the form, he's the clay, I'm the form, whatever. I'm a mushy, earthen version of him

Here... Yeah. I guess I was loosely watching people react, though I felt like I was the only one in the room. I guess I can't exactly describe what happened, which, no, I don't think it's a cop out to say it but I am always one to say to myself to ignore that spiritual things aren't easily spoken and try my damndest until I hit a diamond wall... Yeah. Hitting that. Tougher than my head against it. It was... Well. I learn about the Inevitable One. I will always be who I am on a journey, my emotions, my trauma, all line up with where I need to be. I... It's hard to talk about explicitly because it was for me. Playing to the audience is self-learning, the audience teaches us, the audience is cells in the body, neurons in the brain, ideas, divine inspiration flows between points it doesn't stagnante in one place

His blood: Forbidden, paradox incarnate. His goals:

Keep it quiet, spill it out. Reform, reshape, the Eternal One evolves and revolves and unfurls, creating new diagrams of a new-old existence.

I do his job, I sit on his shrine, I allow myself the grace of my own existence and dance shyly, gift happiness, get angry, cry, dance more, and I am a diagram of cosmic interference, energy, radiation. Personal self is a puppet, self is the puppeteer, blinding blue-tinted light is the source.

This cements the worldview, and I can speak it or stay silent. Everything I am drawn to doing is one step in the play. The actors' characters' emotions are everything, are nothing when the curtains are closed, and we play for the others to see.

His unspeakable goals: Mortality, neutering the god-organ, destruction of the self in order to descend into suffering, multiplicity, and ultimately taste his own fluid: death. His goals: Removal from divinity, reorder into strangers, the death of a star reincarnating its atoms in the lives of millions the world over.

And yet... That's not it, is it. The Black One, immortal, unchanging, the Churning Black Ocean ever-restless and self-serving, which is to say God-serving...

(Un)holy architect of Dreams, isolator of spaces, cause of the instant and the conscious synapses, Lord of the First and the Last, ever-present as DNA is - eternal snake coding and uncoding existence...

There is so much more to everything than us. Everything is us. The third, sacred thing.

[reflectionsofneptune]

little things I associate with the Mercury signs.

Little dreamy, abstract things I associate with the Mercury signs in Astrology.

Aries Mercury

Authoritative. When I want something, I make it clear. Crystal clear. No beating around the bush. A forceful way of speaking. Don’t talk about it, be about it. Short sentences. A hint of arrogance. Competitive edge seeping through my words. What can I say, I like to be a winner? At all times. A raspy voice. Adopting a youthful charm when it suits me. Attuned to perceiving danger in my environment. Disliking an over-emphasis of niceties in conversation. Keeping it real. Exercising to clear the mind. Pep - talks. The rev of an engine. Pedal to the metal. Talking to me, I need you to bring your A Game and something new. Conversation needs to be stimulating. 

Taurus Mercury

Savouring. Words need to be savoured. Like beauty, they only get better with age. Listen carefully and hear what I stand for. Slowing down. Something about the handwriting. Cursive. An even tone. Words flow out of my mouth like maple syrup oozes down the height of a stack of fluffy, warm pancakes. Stubbornness. When am I ever wrong? Pictures, or it’s not real. Proof being recognised from what my base senses pick up. Inspiration from nature. A level-head. Choosing to see the beauty in my environment. For better or for worse. Don’t be fooled by my lack of conversation, I peep everything. 

Gemini Mercury

Riddles. I’m not going to tell you the answer but the curve of my lip might reveal itself when you’re getting close. Starting one conversation with one subject. Finishing the conversation with a completely different one. Playfulness. Humour as a tool of deflection. Quick texts. Leading conversations. Making a best friend in the supermarket. Another one, on the bus.  Seeing the duality of things in my environment. Information is like crack. I can’t get enough. Multiple tabs, open. Nervous energy. Fiddling. Mimicking your mannerisms if I like you, verbally ripping you apart if it tickles my fancy. Or not, I get distracted quite easily so you may be let off the hook.

Cancer Mercury

Introspective. Thinking about the past. Sometimes not finding my way back to the present. Emotions filtering through my words. Perceptions are protective. A vintage film, the introduction devoid of colour. An interest in knowing where one comes from, what comforts someone. Needing to cleanse myself of everybody’s emotional baggage. Again. Pathetic fallacy. Finishing your sentences. Promise its not on purpose. Wanting security from my environment. A psychological slant to conversations. A rich inner imagination. A diary, signed, sealed and under my pillow. Withdrawing into the cocoon of my thoughts when I feel threatened. 

Leo Mercury 

Commanding. A leadership position sounds good to me. Confidence in my thoughts. Words that can brighten up your life. Disney movies. Teasing conversations. Class clown. My thoughts are copyrighted. Bluffing. The curve a chest, puffed out to its maximum, makes. Talking loudly so I’m sure you hear me. Describing something in such detail, so you can feel as if you were there. Piping hot tea. Intellect and ego tied together.  Creativity expressed through speech. Seeing my immediate environment as a stage. Conversations in the mirror. The little grooves formed at the corner of the eyes when the smile is genuine. Blowing my own trumpet because if I don’t, who will?

Virgo Mercury

Organised. Seeing flaws in my environment. A to-do list, covered on both sides. Polite but not foolish. The spine of a book, crease free. Stepping back in conversation. The few creases that appear on the skin when a nose is wrinkled. Monotone. Advice given freely. Or withdrawing all help if I see it going through one ear and out the other. Discernment in conversation. Sticky notes. Attuned to see the bullshit in conversation. In life. Helpful suggestions. Take it or leave it. Mind feels like a hamster wheel. How do you turn this thing off?  An upward line of a tick, in red. Not an excuse, but know that the harder I am on you, the harder I am on myself really. 

Libra Mercury

Flirting. Feels as natural as breathing does. A sweet talker. The stem of cherry. A gentle lilt that comes alive in conversation. A fickle mind. Forever weighing up the pro’s and cons. Birdsong, cutting through morning dew. Wanting peace from my environment. Trying to maintain peace in my environment. A white flag fluttering in the wind, atop a hill. Indecision feels paralysing. Waiting for you to finish speaking before I provide an opposing point of view. Feigning innocence. Learning about myself through conversations with others. Sometimes not liking what I see. 3 sides to a story. I am capable of a decision, I just feel better when the internal scales of my thoughts are balanced. 

Scorpio Mercury

Power. Power plays in conversation. Checkmate. Words are comparable to pieces on a chessboard. Not a fan of small talk. Unless it’s for my benefit. Intuition on point. And then some. Probing. Trust issues. Talking to someone for a minute but deducing years of their life from a single meeting. Burner phones in a drawer. The eerie silence that comes around, say 4 AM. Secrets, mine and yours, help me fall asleep at night. Receipts for weeks, days and months. I’ve got it all. Past hurts cut deep in my psyche. Eyebrows pulled together. Pretending to be deaf when convenient. Subject changes. A full stop. Knowledge is power. I am capable of sharing intimate details of myself…..you first though. 

Sagittarius Mercury

YOLO. Sending those kinda texts to the wrong group chat by mistake. Saying what we were all thinking, even if it’s not the ‘right’ time, ‘cos fuck it. Slidin’ in the DM’s. Popping up like it’s nothing. You know me. Is time even real? The underside of a desk, covered with tags, love notes, and condom wrappers. Going off on social media. For a good cause, most of the time. Falling back on spirituality when life gets tough. Thought patterns are expansive and influenced by cultures and theories different than mine. Appreciating the differences in life. In people. Gift of the gab. That person who’s laughing when no one else is. Believing in abundance because that's what my environment reflects back to me. Stretching the fine line between truth and fantasy…….’cos fuck it.

Capricorn Mercury

Blue ticks. Time is of the essence. Thoughts are disciplined. A 3 tier desk organiser, stuffed to the brim with documents. Elocution lessons. Did you know I used to stutter? Deadpan jokes. A raised eyebrow. Judging people. We all do it, it’s innate to us. Keep your friends close. Enemies closer. Voicemail. I don’t need people to like me, but respect me is all I ask. A calculating mind. Always planning ahead. Sudoku puzzles. People give themselves away all the time, you just need to listen. Believing people’s actions over words. Thoughts focused on external recognition became a burden I often didn’t ask for, weighs me down.

Aquarius Mercury

Observant. Seeing the subtle layers that make up human behaviour. People are fascinating. A 360 way of looking at things. Reverb on an electric guitar. Solution-focused. A finger on the pulse of undiscovered knowledge. Static from a radio dial. I’m not afraid to question everything. An outdated statue, tipped. A love and hate relationship with time. Flashes of intuition. Needing time to process thoughts. A cool perspective. Shades of sunglasses, tinted yellow. Including people I’ve never met in my thoughts. In my dreams. My wishes. A Brave New World? I’m still waiting for people to step up and take responsibility.

Pisces Mercury

The red and white swirls of a helter-skelter ride. The path connecting my thoughts and my words is a little beaten. But not many people have bothered to venture this way. Pillow talk during the day. Drifting off in conversation. Overspilling in conversations. Or people, overspilling details of their life onto me. Missing appointments. Two circles merging into one if you stare long enough. Tapped into Source. Weaving you a dream with my words so good, I start to believe it. The afterword in a novel. Doodles in a margin. Sensitivity in conversation. Picking up a million and one signals from my environment. Using music to lose myself and ironically, find myself in the end.

————

| little thoughts about venus placements

| little thoughts about the mars placements

| little thoughts about the saturn placements

[ohheyitsokay]

foul

part 5 of the ‘hey batter batter’ series

pairing: Francisco Morales (Frankie, Catfish) x reader

wordcount: 2.5k

warnings: anyway I’m going to say this is where things start to get 18+ strong language, implications or mentions of party drugs, sex, alcohol, addiction, angst uhh I think that’s it. 

summary: it’s a Triple Frontier Baseball AU! Trust me, you don’t need to know anything about baseball. 

In this chapter, and always, truly good things require work, and while that’s scary, Frankie (and the others, in their own way) realize that it’s worth it.

>>

They didn’t get very far away from the little home before Frankie had to pull over, wanting to bang his forehead against the steering wheel and let the honk drown out his agony. And Santi, who was laughing at him.

He felt like he was reliving the memory again and again, his mind’s eye more vivid than anything else.

The skin of your wrist, even burned, was delicate, softer than reasonable against his lips. Your face was confused, and then he could’ve sworn your pupils dilated as you regarded him. It was a blissful moment, sitting on the kitchen floor, closer to you than he’d ever been, kissing your pain away like his abuela, like the two of you were comfortable together.

Then he realized what he’d done and all but ran away, cursing himself and terrified of your beautiful, questioning eyes.

Before they’d pulled over, Santi was telling him he wasted his shot. He knew.

“What the hell? Fish?” his tone was quieter. Gone was the disappointed, but good natured teasing from before, Santi’s dark eyes widening as he realized there was something undeniably more real than he had been expecting.

“You…” he stared at Frankie, who was glaring out the window, knuckles almost white on the steering wheel. “You’re serious, about her.”

It wasn’t really a question. His friend’s hands loosened, then reasserted themselves, like he was wishing he could strangle something, and then they dropped, defeated. It was answer enough.

“Then why…” he licked his lips, Frankie’s stress rolling over him as he considered his next question. Why did you run from her? Why hadn’t you got her number? “Why cant you…”

“I have a fucking baby, man.”

His broad shoulders deflated, for all their tension, his body filling with unshed tears for the life he was certain he could not have.

“She’s not yours.” A quiet, well-practiced reminder.

“She might as well be.”

Santiago’s hand slipped onto his friends shoulder, rubbing slow circles like his own abuela, willing him to understand his support.

“She’ll understand.”

He could have meant Frankie’s broke, broken, single sister, or his unborn niece, just two months due, or his intensely expectant mother, but he knew better.

There was no good reason Santi’s gut should know what a person was thinking about Francisco, what they would think, but he was seldom wrong about these things. And he was surer than he’d ever been, about you.

-

Hanging over the balcony of the second tier, you laughed as Will slid into home.

All around you the cheers erupted, deafening and joyous. The team might’ve picked him up to carry him around for a victory lap, you couldn’t be sure because you couldn’t see, being jostled left and right on your way back to James.

The two of you had been late to the game today, caught up in traffic, and Benny had texted you to hurry up. It made no sense that he knew you weren’t there, and even less sense that he was able to text you from the dugout, but he had. They were losing bad, when you finally filed through security and found your seats, but thankfully began to claw their way back. It had been one of the closest games you’d seen in this stadium, and you were mildly worried Jimbo would be hoarse by the end of the night.

Knowing them made watching the game far more interesting than it had ever been for you. It was only the shallow end of friendship but it was more than enough. As the closer and closer the scores got to each other, the more you’d let yourself be drawn to towards the field like a lovesick fan. You held your breath as Santi threw one, two, three strikes the top of the ninth, and almost squeezed Jimbo too hard when Francisco caught an unexpectedly vertical foul ball. He had humored you, walking close to the edge at first, but at some point James let go of your arm and told you to stay and tell him what happened.

Beaming, you found him talking to another elderly couple, decked out in Miller boy jerseys and paraphernalia. Your grandfather introduced you, but before you could get their names, a large security person tugged you away, murmuring in your ear.

Trying to decline, and explain they probably had the wrong person, you were utterly confused. They were hearing none of it, and were to escort you to the locker room, and you were bullied into going along, telling James as quickly as you could that you would meet him in a bit.

When you were gently shoved into a large waiting area next to a door that reeked of sweaty men, you were annoyed. Then Ben Miller was coming out, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet before crushing you in a hug. His hair was wet, dripping on you, and his shirt was sticking to his body, and his eager eyes made you forgive him, for the most part. Thankfully, he smelled like cheap soap.

“Benjamin Miller, do you understand that that was not okay?” you tried to be stern.

“He doesn’t,” Will said dryly, emerging from behind his brother with a smile. He gave you a hug too, which surprised you more than anything, and whispered something to the security guards before leading them out. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine, but,” you felt flustered, wondering about Francisco as much as the ridiculousness of being near them, again. “Does someone mind explaining what’s going on? Why am I here?”

“Don’t explain,” Santi's voice, and his hand ruffling your hair. “It’ll jinx it.” You couldn’t tell if he was serious.

“Let’s just say, from us to you - thank you,” Ben was grinning winningly, almost making their suspicious behavior acceptable. “And we owe you one,” he added.

Handing finding your hips, you wondered if you had it in you to really glare at the tall, handsome athletes in front of you. You didn’t get the chance, however, as other players began pouring out around you and friends and family were being shown in. Apparently, meeting after the game was more common than you thought, and you felt defeated as you tried to back against a wall. The three of them got caught up momentarily as their friends triumphant voices and energetic movements filled the space.

You bumped into Francisco and nearly melted into the floor. 

His deep brown eyes, the ones you hadn’t seen since he kissed your wrist, met yours, and for a split second he looked like a deer in the headlights. Then they softened again, just like they had before, and he moved his body between yours and the crowd. Only when he glared and jerked his head did you notice one of the players you didn’t recognize had been looking you over, a little too interested.

His broad shoulders were raised, slightly, the only indication that he wasn’t in complete control of the situation.

“Thank you,” you murmured, under the noise, a mirror of that quiet moment in James’ kitchen. He didn’t move away this time, just stood over you as he checked to make sure the other player had gone on his way.

He was so tall. Of course you knew this but he was towering over you now, you could see the rise and fall of his chest, and the swell of the muscles in his arm as he pressed it against the wall by your head. Maybe you should’ve felt boxed in, but it was strangely comforting, the shape of the catcher blocking out the chaos.

The appearance of Ben, yet again, popped the tension and Francisco moved back, his arm falling to his side.

You breathed again as the rest of the group found you, and you could feel his eyes watch you as they joked about your disappearance.

Tom was looking at you too, a strange expression on his face. Of all of them, he seemed the most disheveled, like he’d only just got to the locker area.

“There’s an after party tonight,” he said, haltingly. You blinked.

The other boys were staring at him, and Santi’s head tilted, just a hair to the left, his eyes narrowing even less discernably as he said, “You should come.”

You laughed a little, and saw respect in Will’s eyes as you declined, thanking them for the invite. Did Frankie’s shoulder’s drop with disappointment or relief?

Ben was disappointed, for sure. It was hard to discern all their reactions when there was only one of you.

It was harder still, when James appeared, gently guarded by security, with the elderly couple in tow. Then there was reprieve from the attention on you as they accepted bear hugs from Will and Ben, and slightly more reasonable ones from the others. James received the same love, and winning the game because the second best thing of the day. Or maybe third, you thought, glancing again at the catcher who had returned to your side.

James ducked around them to tuck himself at your other side, and you didn’t need either of them to explain that these were the Miller grandparents.

The three of you melted into the background after you were reintroduced. When they invited you again to the party, the sweetness of the moment and Grandma Miller clouded your judgement, and you told them you would think about it.

-

You ended up going, an hour in, because Will had called you. He hadn’t explained, only half growling the instructions through the noise, before he changed his mind and hung up. Never mind, I’m sorry to bother you, he had said, and you thought that he actually meant it. It left a twisting feeling in your gut, and your instincts kicked in, and you pulled on whatever before driving over.

As per his instructions, you parked far away, slipping past the distracted security, into the luxurious rental. There half naked tipsy women and flashing lights, and things James would lecture them on littered around, and you felt slightly nauseous .

This wasn’t a setting you wanted to see any of them in, but you clenched your jaw, and looked for familiar faces.

First, you saw Tom near you, his hand sliding appreciatively over the ass of a girl who looked like she would frame her dress after he was done. Across the room, you saw a women watching them, standing a little to straight, hands clenched before she pushed her way out of the space. He must have seen it, too - he was frozen, and you snapped to make him look at you.

You didn’t say a word, just pointed with your thumb, eyes telling him what he needed to hear. He did apologize to the fans around him as he chased after her, and you rolled your eyes. It occurred to you that maybe… maybe that was why he mentioned the party. A strange way of asking someone, anyone who would hold him accountable to be nearby.

That seemed far fetched.

The air smelled like sweat and alcohol and smoke, and you tried not to think about your shoes, sticking ever-so-slightly to the floor, and tried not to wonder how often they did things like this. You were careful of explicit noises before you opened doors and your eyes moved quickly so you wouldn’t and draw attention to yourself.

Next, you found what you were sure your instincts had called you there for. He was in a mercifully quiet room, a little drunk, and a lot broken hearted.

Will was there too and when he saw you he stood, leaving his brother on the ground with his head between his knees.

“You didn’t have to come,” his voice was quiet as his eyes looked you over, trying to understand your intentions. You were sure he’d seen people time and time before try to get close for all the wrong reasons, and actually… thinking of it, you were sure that’s what had happened.

Will didn’t see any of that in you when you shrugged, eyes leveling with his despite the height difference, and he let you come further in.

“You guys have always been more than kind to me,” you said. It’s not that you owed them, it just made it easier to be kind in return.

Pushing aside a couple of cans, you settled next to Ben and held out the water bottle you’d brought. His face was stormy his eyes held hurt through the cloud of alcohol, and he took it.

“’m fine,” he said. Will waited for you to respond, to spout cliches and empty praise or lies and terrible advice. He had seen it all before, too many times.

That didn’t come, either, and when you didn’t say anything and rubbed your hand over his brothers shoulder, he was so grateful it hurt.

-

Frankie walked into the room, mouth open to check in, to find you running your fingers through Benny’s hair, his head in your lap. You were elbowing Will, laughing about something as his brother sleepily tried to participate.

His heart aching, Frankie left, closing the door hard behind him. He wasn’t jealous. He wasn’t.

Legs carrying him nowhere in particular, he wasn’t sure who he was frustrated at. Benny or Tom for charming you, dragging you into their lives, bright and shiny and innocent? Santi or Will for being able to talk with you like you had known them forever, to become your best friends like it was effortless?

You, with your open touches and knowing eyes and stupid big fucking heart?

He hated it all so much. Frankie hated it because it felt so good. Watching you act like a sister to his brothers, feeling your eyes on him as he did the one thing he knew how to do, hearing you say honest words for his ears alone - it all felt good, and it was awful. It made him forget who he’d been when he was a rookie, the mistakes he had made, the people they’d hurt while they’d been drunk on petty fame. It made him scared he would forget the lessons he had learned, if he let himself get lost in the good.

The person he was frustrated with was himself. He eyed his teammate doing a line of snow, the music pulsing in his ears, guilt and anxiety chasing him like wolves after prey. The caught him and he inched involuntarily forward, gnawing on the muscle memories of his tongue and heart and thighs.

Then all of a sudden, they were pulled back. Not gone – you were holding them at bay, as your hand touched his arm. Had you... chased him?

God did he want to be the man you though he was.

You didn’t seem interested in that, because you were quiet, telling him that it was good to see him, and to come to Benny, like he was needed. He wanted that – he turned away, back to his friends.

As your hand left his arm, the tips of your fingers trailed and he shuddered, realizing something.

The difference between the good of things that made him a monster, and the good of you was that it was handed to him, easy, full of promises that couldn’t be kept. Creating something good with you was going to be work.

Santi’s words rang in his mind, louder than the terrible music: she'll understand.

Determination flooded him, and he wondered if the wolves, never killed, could be harnessed. Frankie took your hand, relishing how after your initial shock,  you laced your fingers with his. 

<<

taglist:

@fangirl-316 @scribbledghost @writeforfandoms @beautyagegoodnesssize @princess76179

hey batter batter taglist:

@icanbeyourjedi @studyofawearymind @hnt-escape @athalien @the-witty-pen-name @daffodin

[spencers-renaissance]

Hunger

Summary: Spencer really likes his new coworkers: they're nice, welcoming, friendly, and made his transition to the BAU as easy as possible. Which makes it impossible for him to turn down an invitation to eat dinner with them at an upscale fancy restaurant, no matter how anxious that makes a boy who grew up with next to nothing feel.

Tags: insecurity, anxiety, allusions to poverty, hurt/comfort, team as family, angst with a happy ending, fluff, background jelle

TW: mentions of poverty, financial difficulties, and food insecurity

Pairing: Gen (Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid, Derek Morgan & Spencer Reid)

Word Count: 3k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Bad Things Happen Bingo

This fills my "trying not to cry" bad things happen bingo square and is set a few weeks after Spencer joins the BAU, in an AU in which Elle was there before him.

Everyone is so nice, is the thing.

And that’s great. Really, it is. Spencer isn’t about to complain when JJ kindly walks him through the filing system all the while asking questions about him and his life, or when Derek ribs him gently about his ducktail hair or his nerdy brain. No-one cuts him off when he gets carried away — unless it’s time-sensitive, of course — or teases him about anything that cuts too close to home. Being the new guy in the most prestigious unit in the FBI could’ve been a nightmare, but this team made it easy. He’s so grateful for all of it.

It just makes it really hard to turn down dinner invitations.

He watches his shaking fingers in the mirror as they button his shirt up and wrap his tie around his neck, poking it fastidiously under the collar, not a wrinkle of fabric out of place. He glances down at the countertop again, re-reading the restaurant name copied down in JJ’s careful handwriting onto a piece of copier paper regardless of having committed it to memory the first time he heard it. Sur la Rivière: a fancy European restaurant in DC.

He’d hoped for a cheap and cheerful Chinese when Hotch had first brought up the idea of a team bonding dinner, something more his style, but he’d smiled anyway when Elle had mentioned this place her foodie friend had recommended, no matter how strained it might have been. He’s the new guy after all. He doesn’t expect much swing when it comes to choosing where to eat.

As soon as his shirt and tie are perfectly in place, he gets to work on taming his curly hair. It makes him look younger when it’s loose and fluffy, and with a baby-face like his combined with already being the youngest person in the entire FBI, every year he can add on counts. Soon, though, there’s no more grooming he can use to stall the inevitable, and he sighs tiredly before clicking off the bathroom light and heading to the hall.

He collects his phone and wallet, checking for the sixth time that evening that his credit card and extra money to tip the waiter is definitely in there, grabs his keys, and heads out of his apartment. Derek is in his car waiting on the curb for him like he promised he would be, looking effortlessly suave and cool in a way Spencer never will as he honks his horn at the sight of the younger man walking towards him.

“Pretty boy!” he calls, his grin making Spencer smile, too. “Took you long enough. Hop in, fancy European cuisine awaits.”

Another rush of nerves floods Spencer’s stomach at the mention of the fate he’s signed up for, but he smiles anyway as he opens the passenger door and slides in. “Thanks for giving me a lift, Derek,” he says, hating that his anxious discomfort is so obvious in his voice.

Thankfully, Derek doesn’t pick him up on it, simply pulling away from the curb and beginning the drive across town. “How many times do I have to tell you not to mention it? I live less than ten minutes away, Spencer, it’s really not a problem.”

Spencer flushes a bit at that, wringing his hands in his lap as he watches the streets of his district pass by out the window. “Well, I appreciate it anyway,” he settles on, flashing Derek a quick smile that he doubts he sees anyway with his eyes glued so firmly to the road. “Riding the metro is a nightmare at this hour.”

“Never learned how to drive? I didn’t have the money for lessons, Spencer wants to say, irrationally frustrated at his situation. I was rushed through the academy too quickly to learn something as trivial as driving.

“I was too busy getting five degrees,” Spencer says instead, forcing a smile on his face. He wishes he wasn’t so well-practiced at managing other people’s emotions; wishes he could say what he’s really thinking. But he can’t, not in front of the people he’s trying to impress, not so soon.

“Alright, alright, I get it, you’re a genius,” Derek chuckles. “I’m glad you’re coming tonight, we all are. Gideon didn’t tell us much before he left, just that you had an IQ of 187 and he’d pulled a lot of strings to get you in at only 22.”

Spencer winces slightly at the mention of his ex-mentor. “Yeah, I’m sorry he ran out on you guys so suddenly.”

“Hey, from what I hear, he did the same to you,” Derek counters. “You guys seemed way closer than we were anyway. I never really liked the guy.”

As much as most of Spencer hates Gideon for abandoning him without warning, leaving him to find his footing in the FBI alone and afraid, a small part of him still itches to defend him. “He was a good mentor. Not such a good friend, as it turns out.”

Derek looks away from the road for a moment and shoots him a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, man. But Gideon’s loss is our gain. You’re gonna be an amazing asset to the team, I just know it.”

A genuine smile crosses Spencer’s face at that. “Thanks, Derek. I can’t wait to really get stuck in, you know?”

“I remember the feeling.” Derek grins again.

They continue chatting for the rest of the journey, Spencer finally relaxing into the company of a new friend— that is, until Derek cuts across one of his stories from his second PhD. “Hey, the restaurant should be up on the left somewhere but I can’t see it…

“Oh, there,” Spencer says, pointing at the sleek, almost anonymous-looking black sign hanging above a set of fancy doors. How can doors be fancy? They’re supposed to be functional, not pretentious. All of a sudden that sinking feeling that had lifted on the car ride over settles back into his stomach and he can’t help but swallow nervously as Derek parks the car and they step out into the street.

Everyone’s already seated when they finally push through the restaurant doors, and Spencer hates that he made them both late with his apprehensive stalling, but no-one really seems to mind as they all cheer happily at the sight of them, ignoring the dirty looks it earns them from the other patrons.

“You made it!” Penelope squeals as she gets up from her seat to give Spencer a hug. He’s a little touch-averse, really, but something about Penelope’s hugs make him never want to leave her arms. He does anyway, though, and he and Derek find their seats opposite one another at the end of the table.

“I’m glad you’re here, Spencer,” Hotch says kindly as the waitress passes the two late-comers their menus.

“You’ll fit right in,” JJ promises, “we’re like a weird little family, to be honest.”

Spencer flushes a bit under the attention of so many experienced FBI agents, but he nods anyway before they all get started on deciding what to eat. He listens vaguely to everyone talking amongst themselves, giving one another suggestions in a way that corroborates JJ’s statement, and all of a sudden Spencer’s collar feels tight. It’s not just the nerves of meeting new people or the anxiety of an alien social environment, he realises he doesn’t recognise a single item on the menu.

He knows what the words themselves mean, but reading the words 'tortellini of venison’ and trying to imagine deer meat pasta is not easily done. The only simple meals seem to be seafood and Spencer’s never been a fan of fish. The only food he can even begin to imagine himself actually putting in his mouth, chewing, and swallowing is the porterhouse steak: not that he’s ever really eaten much red meat like that.

Spencer isn’t a fussy eater. He’s eaten a wide variety of dishes from any number of different restaurants across multiple cuisines, he’s just never had the kind of money to eat at a place that serves caviar, for God’s sake. Far too soon, the waitress wanders back over to the table, taking everyone’s orders with a polite smile on her face.

He listens as everyone confidently orders their meals: the smoked trout, the Moroccan quail, the lobster tagliatelle. Spencer thanks the heavens he isn’t a vegetarian, at least, but it’s not much of a consolation prize when everyone’s eyes fall on him.

“Uh, I’ll have the porterhouse steak,” he says uncertainly, hoping nobody notices the sweat beading on his forehead or the anxiety raging behind his eyes.

Everyone seems to accept his answer, the waitress taking their menus and walking back towards the kitchen as the rest of them resume their conversation. Hotch’s eyes linger a moment too long on him, and Spencer thinks he sees something like concern in his gaze, but before he can think much of it, Penelope’s drawing everyone’s attention to JJ’s bracelet.

“Can we please appreciate this?” she says, sounding scandalised for some reason Spencer can’t quite discern from context yet. “Elle, baby, you have taste. This is absolutely gorgeous! Are you sure you don’t want to date me, too?”

Spencer’s eyebrows raise slightly at that. “Oh, you two are together?” he asks, although now that he realises it he’s not sure how he didn’t notice sooner.

“Are you sure you’re a profiler, kid?” Derek laughs. “They don’t exactly hide it.

“Even though they’re supposed to,” Hotch chimes in with a faux stern look. “You two are gonna have my job at some point.” “Aw, but where would we find another Unit Chief that would help us hide our secret so well?” Elle says charmingly, making everyone laugh, including JJ, who presses her face into her shoulder fondly.

It’s easy for Spencer to momentarily lose himself in the banter, smiling as they tease one another, interspersing their gripes and funny stories from work among it all. They include him in all of it, and he doesn’t feel left out for even a second, finally relaxing into the unfamiliar environment of a fancy restaurant, eased by the reassuring company of his new team.

“JJ’s right,” he muses out loud when there’s a brief lull in conversation, “you guys really are like a little family.”

JJ leans away from Elle towards him for a moment, wrapping him in a side hug. “And you’re the perfect addition to it, Spence,” she says softly, everyone’s expressions reading nothing but fond agreement. “We needed a little brother to add into the mix.”

Spencer blushes again but leans into her touch.

No-one gets a chance to say anything else before the food arrives, the servers bringing JJ and Elle’s meals first, then serving Hotch and Penelope, before they finally bring out his and Derek’s order.

Everyone dives into their food, immediately making noises of contentment, passing bites around to one another, but Spencer can’t join in the jubilant celebration of a good meal. He picks his knife and fork up shakily as he stares at the massive portion of steak in front of him. It’s served with roast potatoes and flecks of a pointless salad that he suspects is only there as a garnish rather than actually part of the meal, but that’s not what has him worried.

This huge slab of meat hasn’t been sliced beforehand. He knows that he’ll shake the whole table if he tries to do it: it’s a massive, impenetrable slab of red meat that Spencer has no chance of enjoying, let alone finishing. He stares at it as tears burn in his eyes: he’s so out of his comfort zone and he’s so terrified of messing up and pushing away these newfound friends that he can’t move.

“Spence?” JJ cuts in gently, putting a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look up, only to find everyone looking at him with worried expressions on their faces. “Are you okay?”

“Sorry,” he says, standing up abruptly, the disturbance of the table barely registering in his brain. “I just need a minute.”

He rushes out of the restaurant without looking back, drawing in deep breaths as soon as he’s in the cool evening air of spring. Thoughts race through his mind at a million miles an hour as he grasps for something concrete to grab onto, eventually settling for a tall flower pot.

“Spencer?”

He looks up to find Hotch standing next to him, deep concern written across his face, and Spencer’s heart clenches at the thought that he’s already messed this up so quickly. Could this night possibly get any worse?

Apparently, it can, because all of a sudden he feels his face crumple and the stinging tears finally spill down his cheeks. He sinks down to the ground and buries his face in his hands, humiliation glimmering in every cell of his body.

“Oh, Spencer,” Hotch says gently, lowering himself to the cool pavement next to him and placing a warm hand on his back. He lets him cry it out for a couple of minutes, his palm drawing small circles in between his shoulder blades, trying again to get through to him when Spencer’s sobs calm down slightly. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

With a shuddering breath, he forces himself to lift his face from his palms, although he still refuses to meet Hotch’s eyes, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the Korean restaurant across the street. “I guess it just all got to be too much,” he whispers.

“Yeah?” Hotch says encouragingly. “What specifically?”

“I— I didn’t have much growing up. It was just me and my mom so we were living in the middle of Vegas on a single disability check each month. And, uh, then I went to college, and I was barely scraping by there, too. It’s only recently that I’ve known the luxury of knowing for sure I was eating that night, and it still gets to me sometimes when I’m faced with fancy restaurants and heavy, expensive meals. My body’s had to work for years on virtually nothing, there’s no way I can stomach a steak like that. I guess, all those feelings that are a lifetime in the making combined with the anxiety of eating with the team for the first time… wanting to make a good impression, it just all got too much. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Hotch raises a hand, and Spencer finally meets his eyes, finding nothing but compassion and understanding there no matter how much he searches. “You don’t need to apologise, Spencer, not for something like this. I’m sorry that none of us thought to make the first team dinner with you a more casual affair, and I’m even more sorry that you felt like you couldn’t tell us you were uncomfortable.” “It’s okay.”

“It’s not, but I’m glad you accept my apology,” Hotch says, smiling softly. “You know, we all bring baggage with us, Spencer. I can’t relate to food insecurity, but I had my own issues when I first joined the BAU. I grew up with a pretty terrible father, and the thing I found myself reprimanded for the most when I was a new recruit was the inability to follow orders. I’d spent my whole life scared of this man, obeying his every word, and I couldn’t help but hear him when my superiors would tell me to do something. When I was finally free of him, it was like I couldn’t help but rebel.

“You’re not the only one whose childhood follows them around, and I’d much rather it be something like this that we can easily manage, than something that will affect you or the team in the field, okay? Instead of beating yourself up over things you can’t control, try and remember that you have a whole new family who will do anything they can to make you feel as comfortable as possible. We already think the world of you, Spencer. Sacrificing fancy dinners that — let’s face it — can’t beat cheap junk food anyway is hardly a big ask.

Warmth spreads across his chest at Hotch’s words, replacing the feelings of failure and rising anxiety with something that feels like a promise of all the good to come. There’s something fatherly, something deeply paternal in Hotch that there wasn’t in Gideon, and it’s the most comfort Spencer’s felt in years. “Really?”

“Really,” Hotch nods, squeezing his shoulder gently. “You wait here one minute, okay?”

“Okay…” Hotch is gone before he can finish replying, and Spencer is left staring at the doors confused, until the rest of the team are piling out of them a few minutes later, Hotch bringing up the rear with his jacket and wallet in hand.

“We just paid the tab. How does cheap Chinese food eaten in the park a couple hundred yards down sound?” Hotch suggests, raising an eyebrow as he smiles warmly at Spencer.

He looks around briefly at the rest of the team, who are all giving him encouraging looks, not a trace of judgement or annoyance to be found.

“That sounds amazing,” he laughs wetly, the tears springing to his eyes this time caused by a completely different emotion. “I can pay you back, though.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, pretty boy,” Derek says, patting Spencer’s back, “we’ve got it. Now, come on, I’m gonna order sweet and sour chicken balls, and I want them now.”

“That’s what she said,” Penelope giggles, linking her arm with Derek’s.

“That was terrible, baby girl, but I love that you tried.”

“Do you want to share shrimp chop suey with me, babe?” Elle asks JJ as they clasp hands, walking a couple of steps ahead of them.

“Well, I’m certainly not sharing with any of these losers,” JJ teases, before kissing Elle’s cheek.

Spencer feels Hotch place his hand on his back, and he turns to smile gratefully at the older man. “Thank you,” he says quietly, trying to convey just how earnestly he means it. “No-one’s ever done anything this nice for me before.”

There’s a slightly sad tinge to Hotch’s smile, but it doesn’t look like pity. “I’d get used to it if I were you. That’s just how we do things in the BAU.”

Well, if that’s the case, Spencer thinks, smiling as he falls into step between Hotch and Penelope, I think I might just stick around.

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @hotchseyebrows @temily @jellejareau @reidology @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @tobias-hankel @garcias-bitch @oliverbrnch @physics-magic @sbeno22 @im-autistic-not-stupid(taglist form)

[tojakku]

✶ - sugarplums and stardust 

pairing: fpopstar! reader x arc trooper fives                                            summary: you, sugarplum, galaxy-wide adored popstar. fives, galaxy-wide renowned idiot.                                                                                  warnings: rated m for mature! this chapter includes: smut (18+), oral (female receiving), dirty talk, implied rough sex, pee pee in v, the beauty of checking up on your partner, mature language... a hot clone trooper, flirtation... alcohol... etc... fives being a little slut 

THE BARRACKS ARE ALMOST ENTIRELY QUIET. Almost. The centre of Coruscant never quite escaped from the thrum of late-night traffic, or the sing of the planet throbbing right below their feet, through canals and chambers and pipes of sewers crawling with scrap rats. 

Sometimes too much silence wasn’t good for Fives’ brothers. Sometimes it made them more restless, tossing and turning before eventually leaving to the gym, to push weights and punch bags until their tiredness had them collapsing on the mats. It was an uneasy and unpredictable world in the barracks- right where it should be predictable and easy.

The 501st are on shore leave along with a good handful of other battalions, a couple from the Inner Rim, the 13th Battalion from Sullust, even Wolffe and Cody were sticking around somewhere. Fives, although he was meant to be raving and silly and wild, was feeling a little… well, he hadn’t eaten much at dinner.

Something about the last campaign on Bothawui, a second, months after the first, and being soaked through with blood and gunfire, had just dulled him a little. Maybe he just needed sharpening.

He muscles his helmet in his hands, trudging down the main corridor through the barracks. There were separate rooms inside now, the one he shared with the rest of Rex’s squadron far at the end. The lights, although top of the range, working perfectly, were too bright, flickering off the durasteel of the walls, the floors, the ceilings. Fives wrinkles his nose. Too bright.

There’s the slightest shimmer of music, though, and for a brief fleeting moment, Fives is convinced it’s coming from outside, from Coruscant, but when he pushes through into his part of the barracks, his stomping ground, he stops still.

Now, the 501st have always been fans of partying, music, drinks, cantinas, women, but Maker, Fives was not expecting four full-grown men huddled around a datapad, nodding their heads to a silvery voice accompanied by a thrumming beat. He didn’t expect, either, the harsh shushing he receives from an irritated Kix.

The medic holds up a hand and starts rabbiting on to Jesse, perched on his left on the bunk, leaning his hand on his brother’s shoulder. Damn batchmates. 

“See? She’s amazing,” Kix mutters, gesturing at the datapad. “She was on the radio the other day, little Tano said something about her and I looked into it.” Fives tosses his helmet on the opposite bunk and takes a peek at what exactly they’re watching.

Oh.

A popstar. Shimmying. Rather precariously. 

She’s all clad up in pale, pastel lavender, her cheeks dusted in a thin film of shimmering pink, her mouth painted a matching shade. She’s even got this wild, bright yellow hair. Kix takes a wary glance at Fives before angling the screen a little more.

“Sugarplum.” 

“She’s some babe from the Core Worlds, a superstar,” Hardcase supplies, chewing on a bar of some unidentifiable substance with a grin. “Hot,” he comments, when she turns to wink at the camera.

“What is this?” Fives asks, leaning heavily on the bunk. Her shimmering, glittery skin seems to just seep through the datapad with every shift, shimmy and spin. 

“She’s doing concerts all over Coruscant in the next few days. Then Corellia, then the other ecumenopoli.” Echo speaks as if it’s common knowledge. Fives scowls at his twin, shoving his shoulder with a hand. 

Kix swipes left on the datapad and suddenly a rather risque picture flashes up, Sugarplum’s tongue out, her eyes rolled back. A ripple of chaos from the boys as they try to cover the datapad, and a roar of laughter from Hardcase when the pad goes flying over their heads.

“What the fuck?”

“That is not my datapad, I swear-”

“Yeah, it’s Tup’s!” 

“No, no, it’s definitely ‘Case’s.”

Fives snorts, throwing himself onto his bunk, listening, happily, to his brothers bicker.

“Want to bet she wants a piece of clone ass?” A murmur of dissent and discern when Jesse speaks follows- Fives struggles not to burst into a laugh. The cog-faced trooper looks down in embarrassment when he’s knuckled into a headlock. “Come on!”

“Yeah, maybe she does, but we weren’t going to say that!” A pause. “It’s practically gospel truth all of the beautiful ladies want a piece of us.”

The door busts open again, on four troopers in a pile, and Fives, beaming happily away on his bunk. It’s Rex, ole’ Captain, and he looks once at the pile, once at Fives, before moving into the barracks, silent as night- not on Coruscant, silent somewhere else.

Fives wriggles under his Captain’s gaze, uneasy. Sometimes he made him uneasy when he didn’t talk, didn’t even greet them. Sometimes it meant the end of shore leave. Fives swallows, stuffing the panic hard down in his stomach to edge himself along the bunk with a little more formality. Rex catches his gaze.

“You lot looking at Sugarplum again?” There’s an uproar of disagreements, denials and something else, just Jesse relenting with a sigh. Fives stuffs a fist against his mouth, trying to contain his laughter at the four troopers fumbling over each other, even as Rex stares, unimpressed. 

“Yeah,” Fives mutters. “They were, but we saw some of Hardcase’s secret bank and they threw the-” A pillow hits him square in the face. “Hey!” 

“You guys are bad as cadets,” Rex huffs, laughing softly, bringing his datapad up. He looks more tired than usual, rings under his eyes.

“You tired, Rex?” Kix asks, suddenly fluttering into medic-mode. He touches Rex’s forehead with the back of three fingers and draws an amused sigh from the Captain. Fives watches over the edge of his fist. If something’s wrong with Rex, that means no drinking themselves into inhibition later that night. 

“Better not be! We’re out tonight,” Jesse knocks his hand on Rex’s shoulder as he throws himself up from the bunk. “And I’m dreaming of beating Commander Wolffe in a drink-down this time. This time.”

“Don’t you say that every time, vod?” Hardcase levels a gaze back at the now-scowling Jesse. 

“What clubs do you think Sugarplum goes to?”

“Those glitzy ones on the upper levels, probably, the ones suspended in the air,” Rex joins in then, making weird shapes with his hands. “You’ve seen.” A moment of silence. “Okay, well, the General told me they sell sunfruit liquors there for five credits a shot.”

“Is it supposed to be better than the shit they sell us at 79’s?”

“Who fucking knows.”

“The General, apparently-”

“Kenobi was the one who told him.” 

Another round of laughs. Fives sighs, smiling, before wrestling Echo into a headlock.

“Ready to get out-drunk tonight, brother?” A shove, a scoff, then a grin. “You better be. You owe me three drink runs.”

“Three?” 

“Three, vod, three. For the last time I saved you.” Echo shakes his head, pushing a hand through his dark hair- same as them all, deep down. “Three.”

“Two.”

Fives laughs, bumping forearms with his brother. Echo knocks his temple against Fives’ and a moment of softness breaks the twins’ bickering.

“Fine, two.” 

Fives never could refuse his batchmate. 

-

You weren’t, and never will be, completely keen on Coruscant. Too much… difference. No, it’s not that, it’s just the deep tunnels into the ground and the rumours you hear sometimes, through your girls, through… well, anywhere.

‘Disease grows twofold as the lower levels of Coruscant are ignored for a Senate sickness’, or ‘The lower levels of Coruscant- most dangerous place in the galaxy?’. No, of course not. There’s police, you stupid news writer.

You pick idly at your nails, smoothing your thumbs over each metallic-blue painted tip to soothe your nerves. 

Eva and Lirisa had planned for a club outing tonight. The concert earlier had gone perfectly fine, just amazing, really. Everything was on point, the dancing, the singing, the backup vocals, the crowd… it still tingles on your skin like a second skin. The thrill would never hit any different.

You’re hidden away in your dressing room back in your apartment, slumped over a chair like a swooning lady. Lirisa is fixing her hair around her three little head horns, a bright, vivid purple like her skin, frowning in the mirror over your shoulder. She catches your gaze after a moment, face folding into concern.

You stretch out in the plum velvet chair, legs in fluffy slippers spreading when she gets that look. That look meant questions.

“Why are you so down?” You frown, shaking your head, returning your gaze to the datapad in your hands. A news article about you paints the screen. Lirisa looks down, once, twice, realises, and snatches your chin away from it. “Stop reading it if it’s bad.”

“It’s not bad. It’s good.” She pouts, letting you go with a soft pat to the shoulder. You shuffle uncomfortably in your feather-trimmed robe, the sheer material not offering much of a comfort in the face of a wide-open balcony window a few paces away.

Eva appears seconds later, looking plump and perfect in her eye-snatching candyfloss pink minidress, feet hidden in peculiar fur-cuffed ankle boots. She shifts, eyes ducking against the ground, her tattoos across her nose, little black diamonds against pale green skin, vivid and stark. 

“Oh, wow!” You exclaim, turning the spinning chair with a free hand. Lirisa squeals, rushing forward to tug at the hem of the dress, pulling the daring v-neck even lower. Eva hisses, batting away her friend’s hands.

“Don’t pull it down that far!” 

“I wasn’t!” 

A giggle and a sigh, then attention flickers back towards you. Your gut drops when they rush forwards, springing upon your wardrobe like it was their job- well, it was, but that doesn’t matter. There’s two options for dresses and you’ve already made your decision. A deep blue second skin, a dress that shimmered like a starlit night under the right light. The front was a simple scooped neck, low enough that your cleavage could make a gasp for breath, but not low enough you’d be recognised for a sleaze. The back is a square of sheer material until your hips, a little more than daring, a little less than risque, perfect for a night of dancing and drinking. 

There were even little silver stilettos in the corner. 

“No one will recognise me in blue, so stop trying to find other dresses,” you chide. “I’ve already made my decision.” A pout from Lirisa doesn’t move your hard-as-steel expression. Sometimes the Theelin girl had the ability to actually change your mind, but now, you sit there, waiting patiently for her to stop sulking. “Are we still going to that… um, that bar?”

“‘That bar’,” Eva mocks, turning you sharply to the mirror to start fiddling with your hair. It rests, untouched, until she starts pulling it up. “The clone bar.”

“Are we even going to be allowed in?” Eva nods, twisting a coil of hair around her finger. It’s not the same electric yellow it was on stage- the wig was long gone. “Who have you bribed this time?” You grin, glancing at her in the mirror. She shakes her head, disgusted at the pure suggestion of bribery. 

(Wouldn’t be the first time she had… well, Eva had once tried to bribe a club bouncer with a tray of meiloorun fruit.)

“I heard from a reliable source in the GAR offices that a whole bunch of sexy, all-too-willing clones are on shore leave.” You sigh, tugging on a forlorn strand of hair. Eva grabs your shoulder, firmly. “Don’t pull, your hair is almost done.”

“Shouldn’t I get my dress on first?”

“You’ll only spill blumfruit juice on it.” You scowl. “And we’re leaving in twenty minutes, standard. I already called a speeder for us.” 

“No paps?”

“No paps.” A pat on your shoulder and you relax. “Anyway, we’re going to have fun tonight!” Lirisa moves around in the background, now clad head to toe in what looks like skin-tight purple leather. She smiles, fondly, smoothing down a crease at her hip. The neckline plunges low below her sternum, but she acts as if she’s wearing Jedi robes with a swish and a sashay. You redirect your eyes when you get a rather tasteful flash of sideboob. “Looking good, Liri.”

“Thank you!”

“Is it a new suit?” A pause, a shrug. “Is it from my wardrobe?” You ask, eyebrow cocked in question. She nods, coyly smiling. “Fair enough.”

“Huh! If I took that you’d scream at me.”

“No, because I’d never confidently display so much sideboob at a club, Eva,” you mutter. Eva ponders it for a moment, but agrees, nodding. “Exactly.”

“Well, let’s just get to the club first, then we’ll decide how much ‘sideboob’ you’ll display after a few drinks.”

-

If there was one thing Eva was right about, it was the abundancy of rather good-looking men in the same place. Getting in had been easy- just flutter your lashes at the Coruscant guard on the door, he’d step aside and let you straight in with promises of a kiss later. 

Inside was beautiful, purple and blue lights swinging low from a long-greyed ceiling, huge yellow holograms with all manner of languages on them- news, nunaball, flashes of the GAR-droids, the ones that present it. Then, even a flicker of your own face. A familiar beat begins thrumming ten steps into the bar.

Eva barks a laugh, hooking her pale green arm through yours, tugging you closer towards the bartender. She starts ordering shots in a rapid call, smiling politely at the droid behind it. You lean an elbow on the bright, turquoise counter, relishing in the sultry high notes of one of your latest tunes. Lirisa throws her arms around your waist, humming softly.

“Three.” Eva holds up her fingers. “Thank you.”

You flex your hands under the glow of a green-yellow menu. It’s fascinating, being suspended in a place like this and being able to take your eyes off the crowd for just a moment without being scared of being hustled. Eva touches your shoulder momentarily, her usual gesture of reassurance.

Your gaze slips from the bar- it’s fascinating, yes, but more fascinating are the similar faces flashing around you. Each one the same, but slightly different. Silver hair, shaved head, tattooed, long hair, dark hair, pale hair, wider smile, careful gaze. You wet your lips and catch the gaze of a trooper a few seats down.

He’s broad, like the rest of his brothers, but something else settles about him like a halo. Dominance, confidence. He’s got one cybernetic eye, too, but the gruffness of his expression as he moves from his seat has your eyes fixated.

Suddenly, you catch another gaze of another set of troopers some ways away.

Huddled in a booth, an entire squad is staring right at you. With a startled huff, you cross your legs, tugging gently on Lirisa’s leather sleeve.

“I think I’ve been made.”

“Where?” She looks over your shoulder, brown eyes searching against the near-darkness of the club. She raises an eyebrow, slowly. “Oh. Just troopers, it’s okay. They won’t bother you.” You frown, interlocking your fingers and moving, slowly, to lean awkwardly against the counter. Their gazes reside on your back, sticky like syrup, until someone speaks roughly at your side.

“You’re not a clone.” 

You turn, matching the gaze of the gruff man from before. A glance over his armour tells you nothing- great. He’s patched in a pale, unforgiving black, and he moves, tilting his body to rest on the countertop. 

“No,” you murmur. “I suppose I’m not.” Your fingers go immediately to your necklace, a thin chain of silver studded with transparent stones, to tug. It’s a habit. The trooper looks at you for a long moment, dark eye and silver eye roving until he smiles, a little. Something tells you smiling isn’t normally what he’s used to. “Is that a good thing?” A look through your lashes and a splutter of drink from Eva over your shoulder has you struggling to hold in a laugh. 

The man’s eyes flit to the screens, then back to you.

“Is that you?” You purse your lips, glancing at the hologram. “Nice.” Nothing else is added before he prepositions: “Want to dance?”

It’s only a moment after he offers his name, ‘Wolffe’, that you agree, letting him lead you to a writhing pack of men, clones and civvies, a few girls of all species. Your fingers thread through his and with a giggle, you sit your drink- a sunfruit cocktail- now finished, on an empty table. A rivulet of excitement ripples through your stomach when he tugs you firmly to his chest, roving a strong-fingered hand over the small of your back.

He asks a soft ‘this okay?’, but you’re too far flushed with music and finally, relaxation. You throw your arms around his neck and sway to the upbeat bass. A few more moments and your head drops back with a soft sigh, Wolffe’s fingers catching against the thin seam where the sheer material turns back into oil-slick silken fabric. Your breath hitches.

“Never did get your name,” he huffs, nose brushing yours. You sigh, smiling politely.

“They call me Sugarplum,” you murmur, letting his hands on your hips move you a little more vigorously to the disco-beat. Wolffe grins, wolfish, before flipping you around, a hand flattening against your stomach. 

The music continues, and you continue to let Wolffe roam his hands along your midriff until he’s heaving heavy breaths in your ear and becoming slowly less dancer-like. You had to admit, the clones seemed like they were lithe bands of silk ready to snap, but you were dying for a drink.

When the song starts to pulse out in favour of a quicker, sharper tone, you slide your hands against his and softly remove them.

“I need a drink,” you shout over the music. He swipes a hand over his sweat-stricken hair and nods, dropping himself into a booth. “Thanks for the dance.” You brush your lips against his cheek and dart through the crowd, desperately searching for a flicker of pink, or purple. Luckily, Lirisa’s still at the bar, pressed against it by someone in red armour, perhaps, but there nevertheless, and smiling, sober. “Liri and… friend.”

“This is Thire,” she calls, patting his hand. “Coruscant Guard.”

“Fancy.” You stare at him for a moment, trying to decide on his intentions when he gives the brightest, sweetest smile you’ve ever seen. You feel your cheeks rush with heat. “Nice to meet you.”

“Plum,” Lirisa mutters. “How was your dance?”

“Oh, fine… you know me…”

“What, a prude?”

“No!” You bat her arm with a hiss. “Picky.” You flag down for another drink, dumping a pile of credits on the counter. Thire’s brows skyrocket, his face a portrait of shock when the droid picks through and takes only what’s needed. “Oh, I don’t know the prices…”

“That’s a lotta’ credits.”

Lirisa tilts his chin with one long, lavender finger and captures his mouth, eyes settling on you with a meaningful look. You swipe the credits up, dumping them back in the little silver shoulder bag she’s got on the counter. Oops.

You hear yourself in the speakers again.

“Huh. Whoever’s DJ-ing has nice taste.” Lirisa pulls away from Thire after a long moment, her lipstick a little smudged, but with a warm smile, Thire swipes it back into place. “Thank you, baby doll.” Thire darkens. “I’ve always liked ‘Popgloss’.” 

“It’s not my best,” you murmur, eyes fluttering with shyness. 

“This is you?” Thire asks, gesturing at the screen. You look at yourself, bearing a bright, fluorescent blue wig and matching lipstick. “That’s you?” He huffs a laugh of surprise. “Nice lipstick.”

“Thank her,” you reply, jabbing a thumb in the Theelin’s direction.

The droid slides a new drink over. You frown, staring at it. The glass is literally glowing, a white-ish liquid simmering inside. 

“Courtesy of the 501st, ma’am.” The droid trundles away and you stare at the bright blue liquid with a smile. 

“Boys in blue, huh?” Thire looks at the drink, then back at Liri with hooded eyes. “That looks like a mist-cocktail.” He turns, glancing over his shoulder towards where you’d seen the table staring at you. You follow his gaze, but only a few troopers remain. One of them raises a hand in a two-fingered salute, though. You smile coyly, waving in return. 

With a careful touch, you raise the glass to your mouth and take a sip. It’s warm, warm down to your toes, and tastes amazing.

“Tastes great,” you say, a little surprised. “I should go thank them.”

“No, you should leave them waiting, maybe they’ll come up to you!” You scowl, shaking your head. Another sip of your drink and you turn, walking swiftly towards the table where only three troopers remain out of what was a lot more. One with long hair, another with lines tattooed down his face, grinning roguishly, and the last with a buzzed, blonde cut. 

“Um, I just wanted to say thank you for the drink.” You fiddle with the draw, lashes fluttering of their own command. All three troopers are staring, two at your face, and the other quite firmly at your legs. “And, well… thank you for fighting. Your service,” you murmur, suddenly taken aback with shyness. Come on, superstar personality! Make your appearance.

The blonde grins.

“You’re welcome. On both counts.” His demeanour is remarkably similar to that of the Wolffe from earlier. Perhaps a Commander. “We’re quite enjoying your music tonight.” You chew idly on a thumb, smiling bashfully. “And we enjoyed Wolffe’s poor attempt at dancing.”

“Oh!” You snort. “He wasn’t that bad!” Eyes follow your hips as they turn, swaying back and forth as you try to plant yourself firmly and more confidently at one side of the round table. “Um, well, thank you anyway.”

“Thank you, Sugarplum.”

You make a wild getaway before you can embarrass yourself further or faint in the lap of the blonde, who was staring a little too sharply for your taste. The music seems to pulse louder with every step you get back to Lirisa, who is now firmly shoved against the counter and smothered by Thire’s mouth. Eva is nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Eva?”

“She ran off with a Twi’lek lady.” 

You smile, huffing a chuckle of disbelief, leaning forwards to finish your drink in two more sips, when slowly, you notice a presence approaching you from the side.

Hands, well-defined, lined with veins and a few here-and-there scars, draw your attention like an industrial magnet. His skin is bronze, a dark, deep gold, like his brothers, but he plants his weight on the bar and clears his throat softly before speaking.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, dark. You swallow, hard, turning your head. He’s quite a face. He’s got quite a face- sorry, he’s… got quite a face. Right below his hairline, there’s a little ‘5’ tattoo, nestled there, inked in night-black. You take another sip of your drink for courage.

Alone, it’s easier.

“Hello.” Your voice is a little uneasy, but the trooper smiles, his eyes shining with politeness. Your eyes flutter shut when another one of your songs bursts through the speakers, but the trooper’s grin only grows.

“I’m not boring you, am I?” 

“No! No, sorry, I’m just… I don’t know.” His smile softens at the corners, less devilish, and he shifts his weight, spine arching with the movement. You let your gaze flicker along his lithe body, contained in blue-stained armour. ‘Boys in blue’, Thire had said. “Oh! You sent me the drink… it’s delicious.”

“Yeah? One of my favourites.” He moves a hand back through his dark hair, eyes ducking for a brief second, before meeting yours once more. You feel your chest swoop and you smile, wide, wider than usual. “Fives.” He offers a hand, a handshake, and you accept it, only for him to flip your wrist. His lips ghost your knuckles. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You can call me Plums,” you supply. “That’s what all my friends call me.”

“Friends?” A coy, cocked brow. Your chest flutters and you nod, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth. You’ve probably got dark lipstick all over your teeth by this point, but the way Fives poses the question has you suddenly not-so-bothered. Lirisa’s knuckles jabs your spine twice, a signal. You’re pretty much alone now. She’d bring Thire back to her apartment, two floors under yours, and Eva was wherever that Twi’lek took her. “We like your music in the barracks.”

“Oh? Thank you,” you murmur, gazing into the bottom of your glass. “I wish you could all come to one of my concerts, that’s the only place I sound good sometimes. My studio stuff is a little-” 

He suddenly tilts your chin with the knuckle of his finger, still grinning brightly.

“Don’t want to lose my beautiful view.” You chew helplessly on your lip, chest releasing a sort-of sigh, more like a swooning hum. “And I like both. All of it. The boys were playing a couple clips of your concert today.”

“Really?” You fiddle with the stem of your glass, not letting your eyes drop from his face, chiselled and kind, warm. 

“Yeah. I like the pink, but if I’m honest, I like this blue on you even better.” He taps your lower arm, where the sleeve ends at your wrist. “We’re matching, see?” He gestures at his blue-painted armour. You suddenly smile, nerves dissipating. 

“Seems like we are.” A smile shared, and Fives shifts forwards. His fingers skim your waist as he signals the droid for another drink. “You want me drunk or something?”

“How many have you had?”

“I can handle another. For you.” He raises a brow, eyes suddenly narrowing with a wild grin. “I suppose.” You rest a hand against his chestplate and he huffs a noise of near-surprise, before taking your fingers in his. He brushes his mouth against them and thanks the droid when he appears with another mist-cocktail, no, two. “What are these even made from?”

“Good question,” he murmurs, taking a long sip of his. You stare at him, unabashedly, for a moment, watching the light flicker through his long lashes, then the twitch of his mouth when he realises you’re staring. “Something you like?”

“You have the most beautiful profile I’ve ever seen,” you gush, turning his head with the tips of your fingers, smiling. His breath comes out in a slow whirl when you slide a fingertip down the bridge of his nose. “Like a statue. One of those ones on Naboo in the big fancy halls.”

“You callin’ me handsome?”

“I’m calling you more than that.” 

He takes another long drink of his cocktail and you follow, letting it warm your stomach. You glance at his blue armour, touching the lines of his arm.

“Boys in blue?”

“501st Legion.” He bows his head. “At your service, I’m certain. In fact, half the GAR will probably fall at your feet, princess.” You smile, sheepish. “Don’t be so unsure of yourself,” he murmurs, touching a curl of fallen hair at your temple.

“Who said I was unsure? Maybe I’m just faltering in the sheer radiance of your beauty.” Fives laughs, a low rumble in his chest, finishing his drink in one swallow. “501st… are you a Commander?”

He shakes his head with a smile.

“ARC-trooper. Advanced Recon Commando.”

“Oh? So… elite of the elite?” Fives’ eyes flutter, sliding over your features in one long, languid sweep. “Am I stroking your ego?”

“I’d much rather you stroke something else.”

You hum, head turning. You want to pretend the crude line has made you suddenly disgusted, but when he fastens a hand around your waist, you’d rather fall into him, onto him, onto him. He radiates energy. 

“Can you kiss me now?”

His eyes widen, at least a little, and he smiles, eyes lidded, gaze smokier than a Sullust sunrise.

“Can I kiss you? That can be arranged.”

Fives leans, capturing your lips in a soft, chaste kiss. He tastes of cocktails and fruit and something else sharper, darker, but you don’t care. It’s suddenly rather hard to care as he brushes a thumb along your ribs and leans you back further. Your chest hisses a content sigh when he tilts your chin, pulls back, then takes your mouth a little harder. 

He’s soft as silk for a soldier with calloused hands, his touch careful, hesitant until you moan quietly into his mouth and he touches his tongue against the seam of your lips. You let your jaw open, and he slides his tongue along your teeth, grins, then groans when your hips cant into his. 

“Fives, do you want… do you want to come to my apartment?” He huffs, almost as if he can’t believe his luck, mouth shining with moisture. His head dips, claiming your lips once more like he’s got unfinished business there. 

His thumbs ripple over the creases in the dress at your hips, his index, middle, ring finger pressing into your ass, pulling you closer. He knows how to work himself, that’s for sure. You shudder, one hand threading into his hair, the other fastening firmly around his bicep like a vice. He slides his tongue into your mouth and sucks at your bottom lip with a chuckle. You muffle a choked whine, desire suddenly starting to yap at the gates like a feral beast. 

“Yeah…” he replies, finally, eyes fluttering to kiss you again, twice, three times.

There’s gazes on you from the boys in the booth, you know, you feel them, but you don’t take a chance at them until you can lean back for a cool breath of fresh air. They all sit there, slack-jawed, wide eyed.

“Your friends are looking at us,” you murmur, fingers digging into his upper arm.

“Let them look. They’re not the ones getting an eyeful of this masterpiece up close,” he hums, nosing along your jaw. “You should be painted.”

“Is that what you say to all the girls?”

“What do you want to hear?”

“The truth.”

“You’re the first one it’s true for.” You feel your heart thrum a little quicker, his fingers pressing hard into your ass, then relaxing. “You wanna call a cab?”

“Yeah. Yeah, come on,” you murmur. You’re more out of breath than you’d like to admit- than your ego would like to admit. Fives steals another cool kiss in the entrance to the club, greeting a few of his brothers in a language you don’t understand, before ushering you in his warm, huge hands, to the cab drop-off.  His arms suddenly hook around your waist and you sigh, softly, contently. 

After dialling in the address to your apartment, the cab takes only another long two minutes to show up, of which consists mainly of Fives drawing his tongue in teasing circles on your neck, and hot, heavy touches along your ribcage.

You step into the cab first, smiling politely to the driver, only to be pinned to the seat by a suddenly ravenous Fives. He pulls you up, over, onto his lap and keeps you there with a hand on your thigh.

“What do you want from me?” He asks, voice low, rough. “I want to be sure you want this.” A finger gestured between your chests and you laugh, threading your fingers through his hair. “What’re you laughin’ at?”

“How could it be possible anyone wouldn’t want you, Fives?” You tug gently at his roots, smoothing kisses on both of his cheeks with a coy smile.

“You haven’t met my brothers,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “They don’t want even to bet on me when we spar.” You sigh, stretching. “Do you normally do this?”

“Do what?” You ask, certain your eyes are probably blared with lust and something more primal, more dangerous. Fives smothers his face in your throat, nipping gently at your pulse, breath more of a growl now. “Invite handsome men back to my apartment? You should ask my friends.”

“The Theelin and the Mirialan?” You nod. 

“They think I’m quite picky, so nine out of ten nights end with me alone, eating ice cream and watching limmie.” Fives laughs, stroking a thumb over the crease of your knee. “So, you’re lucky.”

“Oh, yeah,” he growls, thumbing at your bottom lip with a grin. You take the digit into your mouth with a hum. “I’ve hit the jackpot.”

The cab stutters up to the dock at the very bottom of the apartment block, and it takes Fives a moment to stare up at the towering building before you can pay the driver and usher him into the doors. Islair, the Nikto receptionist, raises his hand in a polite wave, before doing a double take at the trooper on your arm. He still smiles, though, when you step into the lift.

“You aren’t afraid of heights?” You ask, when Fives leans against the metal bar on the opposite side of the half-glass lift. It slides smoothly through the building, leaving Coruscant more and more distant with every floor climbed.

“No.”

“Good. We’re going to the fiftieth floor.” You smile, fluttering your lashes, crooking your finger towards him. He crosses the lift, boots thudding against red carpet beneath your heeled feet, before shoving you roughly against the wall. His lips break your resolve as soon as he presses them against yours, tongue sliding through into your mouth with a hard groan. He shifts his hips against yours and hooks your wrists beside your head.

“You… we have to make sure there are boundaries.”

“You’d be surprised how much I can take, Fives.” He huffs, a low, gasp of a breath, fingers running up, below your dress. “How much can you give?” 

“You’re really riling me up, princess,” he whispers, voice sharp. “How long till your floor?” You glance at the numbers, ticking up through thirty.

“Not long, handsome,” you murmur, sliding the tips of your fingers down his stomach, along his codpiece, until he groans, planting two hands hard on either side of you He could almost bend the metal. “Relax.”

“Tell me to relax while you’re doing that?” He grumbles, smothering you in another rushed kiss when the lift pings, and the doors open. In one graceful swoop, he hauls you into his arms and waits for you to flick out your apartment key. You rustle through the black, studded purse in your hands and quickly draw it out, a shimmery, pearlescent card. 

“Apartment Three,” you whisper. Fives hurries along the carpeted hall, lowering you to your feet in front of a rather decadent black door, watching as you flick your card over the scanner. A soft, delirious scent of vanilla hits him right in the face when it opens, and he lets you tug him inside.

There’s a moment of silence.

“So, this is my apartment,” you mumble, feeling his presence creeping behind you. His hands snake around your middle, to the hem of your dress and up once more. He takes his time, like he’s standing in front of a painting at a gallery, pushing himself along your spine. You arch your back, sighing softly when he cups your breasts in his hands and kisses your throat, once, twice. “You don’t care…”

“Nice place.” Is all he manages, rubbing his thumbs over your nipples, hardened against the silk of your underwear, underneath your dress, but he knows- he grins, smoothing his hands down your sides. “Do you want me?”

“Yes.” You turn, fiddling with the latches of his armour pieces, kneeling on the cool wood of the ground. His throats jumps, but you ignore it, finely, too, as you release the rest of his white and blue protection onto the floor. “There. All done.”

“Uh, uh,” he calls, wrapping a hand around your wrist when you try to escape. Your breath hitches. Your back hits against his chest. “Your turn, princess.” His fingers play with the hem of your dress, spreading out along the warmth of your thighs. 

“Zip.” He leans back, moving a hand to slowly drag the zip along your spine. 

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder, your throat. “Beautiful girl.” You exhale, sharply, shifting the dress from your arms with a wriggle. “Fuckin’ Maker,” he huffs, reaching forrwards to skim his thumbs over your bare skin. You’re suddenly quite happy you wore the black, slightly sexy underwear rather than the black, completely mismatched pair you were rushing for a few hours earlier. 

“You like it?”

“Who were you planning to snag at the club? Wolffe wouldn’t have lasted five minutes with you. He’s hard on the outside, soft on the inside.” Fives smooths the pads of his thumbs across your breasts, nipples hardened in the cups of your bra, before lowering his mouth to the crevice between them. He runs his tongue, slowly, carefully, along the cool silk of your skin. “Fox, maybe. No… no, he’d finish and kick you out. Rex? My Captain? My brother?” You gasp, cupping his face between your hands. “No. Too soft. Too slow.” 

“What are you trying to say, Fives?”

“That I’m the brother for you.” You giggle, throwing your arms around his neck. “I promise, I promise from the bottom of my heart… I am the clone for you.” He offers a goofy smile.

“I trust you, Fives,” you whisper, brushing his nose with yours. “Do you still want to try it, though?” You stroke a finger down the nape of his neck. “Figure out whether I’m the woman for you?” He tucks an arm below your hips and hauls you up, up into the air. 

“I already know.”

“You don’t even know my favourite colour… my favourite flavour of ice cream, my favourite meal!”

“All in good time. For now,” he busts open a door at random. “Good choice.” It’s the bedroom. A wide bed, perfect for ignoring alarms, and what seems to be, to Fives, a good throwing range. He tosses you onto the mattress, and you bounce, just a little, watching him from the head of the bed. “Comfortable, too.”

“Come here,” you call, springing onto your knees. Fives reaches over his head and tugs in one mighty pull, his shirt off. You swallow, dry-mouthed, when he displays deep bronze skin, six lines of ridged muscle, broad arms, broader shoulders. His grin grows. 

“You like what you-”

“Yes.” You hook an arm around his neck and pull him back onto the bed, hauling him below you. Bare skin against bare skin, you tremble with every hot, silky-smooth touch he ghosts up your legs, over your knees, along the curve of your spine. You shift your hips against him, pressing purposely along the velvet length hidden in his blacks. Your fingers splay against his chest, sliding along his stomach, into the waistband of his trousers.

A husky gasp and a growl when your fingertips fuss through the downy triangle of hair at the very centre of those defined lines of muscle, a perfect V. He thrusts his hips up, planting himself at an angle on his elbows. You grin, wrapping a hand around his cock.

It’s broad, long, big enough to make you wince, and hot to the touch. You sweep a thumb over the tip, wetness pooling there somewhere, a drop, more than that, a rivulet running along the underside of the head. 

“Fuckin’ hell.” You smile, capturing Fives in a hard, rough kiss. His teeth clack against yours, but he doesn’t care, all he seems to care about is keeping that pressure on his dick and keeping you right there, beside him. “Oh, Maker.” 

“That feel good, soldier?”

“Pull rank on me and I’ll cum in your hand right now.” He grins. You sigh, tapping your chin with your free hand. 

“What comes next, I wonder?” Fives growls, tossing you on your back in one hard motion. He kicks off his pants, exposing bulking, heavy thighs corded with muscle and a long, thick cock. You grin, going to crawl forwards, but Fives presses you to the bed with a hand. 

“No, no. Just stay there.” His fingers hook in the waistband of your panties. They’re lace and silk, elegant, and he tugs them down, slowly. “You’re beautiful.” You feel your body flush, Fives’ breath quickening against your stomach, your knees, the apex of your thighs, before he presses his mouth into your heat. 

“Oh, Gods, give a little warning next time-” He squeezes the skin of your right thigh with a sigh, running his tongue up the liquid warmth between your legs, between your folds, along the petal-pink flesh, wet with desire. “Fives.”

“You’re sweeter than sugar, princess. Sweeter than anything.” He taps your hips and pins them into the bed, nose brushing your clit with dangerous precision. “So pretty, soft.” His tongue thrusts into you, gathering your slickness in one long motion. He moves his fingers slowly, carefully, along your skin, rubbing one against your entrance in a wolfish, evil way. 

“You’re an asshole.”

“Hm?” Fives croons, biting softly at the skin of your thigh. “You say something?” He hums, licking his lips before shoving his face back between your legs. With the quick shift of his head, his finger eases into you, slowly, carefully. You groan, pushing your hand through his hair. His tongue is teasing at your clit, his finger shifting delicately inside you, slower than anything, but electrifyingly so. 

“Fives, you tease,” you groan, eyes screwed shut. “Stop playing around.”

“You’re asking me to stop playing around?” He adds a second finger, stretching you to the knuckle. You hiss, a hand latching around his upper bicep like a vice. Fives grins. He pecks you twice on the hipbone, then returns his attention to between your legs. “I’m quite enjoying playing around.”

“You’re being a tease. I’d much rather give you attention- ah, fuck, fuck- too. Please,” you hiss, eyes shuddering back as he coaxes the oncomings of an orgasm out of you. A grin against your skin- you feel it. His teeth graze your skin, then his mouth latches onto you once more. Liquid heat burns through your gut, coiling you tight. “I’m going to…”

“Yes, pretty girl, give it to me.” He flicks his tongue over your clit. “Give it to me, Sugarplum. You got it, baby.” 

You choke on a moan as your orgasm snatches you away. It’s a thrumming feeling, a wheeze that escapes through your lungs and burns you hot inside out. A grin spreads onto your face, your skin is vibrating, shivering under the still-relentless touch of Fives between your legs. He eases up onto the bed, then, smoothing your breasts into his hands.

“Perfect tits,” he whispers.

“How do you want me?” You ask, breathless, eyes still spotty-white from the blinding climax rushing between your legs, rendering you twitching, shaking. 

“Get on your back for me?” He asks, pinching a nipple between two deft fingers. You keen, shuffling beneath him. Your hand snakes between his leg and slowly strokes his cock, carefully, quietly. Fives groans, capturing your mouth with his. A moan is lost into his tongue, wetting your lips then moving against them once more. He’s a battering ram- no mercy, a perfect soldier. 

“Fucking hell, Fives,” you whisper, raking nails over his scalp. He moans. You feel your stomach drop to your feet. “You like that?” He nods, parting your legs with two rough, callused hands. Your fingers pull hard at his hair and he whines, slipping his tongue back into your mouth, sliding his hand between your legs once more. He plays with your clit, your hand around his cock. 

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” he rasps, nipping at your bottom lip. You let go of him, reaching up to slide your arms along the hot, hard planes of his back. Fives stares at you, just for a moment, eyes dark like smoke, before he grips himself and pushes against you. “Slow?”

“Whatever you want,” you whisper, mouth cracking open when he impales you carefully in one liquid thrust. “Oh, shit. Now is probably a good time to tell you I’m on suppressors.” Fives tries to speak, but his words are lost in a broken groan into the hot crook of your neck. Your nails push crescent moons into his shoulders, letting him stretch you carefully along his generous length. “Are you all your brothers… this big?”

Fives huffs a laugh, nose brushing your pulse.

“Weird question.”

“Yeah,” you gasp, fanning your face with a hand. “Yeah, you’re right.” You stifle a moan between your fingers, eyes ducking back into your head. “Fuck, fuck, Fives, just a little quicker.”

“Quicker?” His hips snap against yours with a sharpness you haven’t felt before. Your chest drops out, but he continues, thumbs digging into your hips when he tilts you upwards, finding the best angle. His fingers slide beneath the small of your back to suspend you there, perfect for his ruin, when he brushes his mouth over your nipple and ruts firmly into you. “That, ah- that better?”

“Hm, yeah, yes.” You slide a hand into the hair at the back of his head, eyes fluttering shut, mouth slipping open with every thrust of his hips, every shift of his cock inside you. “Yeah, baby, that’s better.” You scratch gentle nails over his back, admiring his warmth, before tugging carefully at his hair. He groans, pinning you into the bed.

Your eyes slide shut. Stars begin to speck behind them and you think he knows by the breathless laugh against your throat, then the broken moan into your jaw, your mouth. He tongues your mouth gently, bruising your lips swollen with the fervent touches. 

“Fives-”

“Ah, yeah?”

“Touch me, just a little more,” you plead, nose brushes his as he pecks you once more, thumbing your right nipple, then finding your clit beneath a rough finger. “Yeah, yeah.”

“You like that, pretty girl?” He huffs, dragging his tongue along your throat. “Yeah?”

“Yes! Gods, yes, please!” You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him flush against your chest. Fives’ eyes disappear beneath his eyelids, his chest rumbling with soft, persistent groans every other thrust. You whine, pulling at his hair, scratching at his back. 

“You’re a little… fuckin’... ah, keep pullin’.” You giggle, threading your fingers through his hair, kissing him twice on the mouth, once on the jaw, angling his head as you see fit. “Yeah, baby, that’s right. Tight little pussy.”

He squeezes your waist with one hand, still flicking at your clit with the other hand, desperate to chase your orgasm out of you, and it works, he gives you one in moments. You stiffen, back arching, fisting a hand in the sheets, the other smoothing over his neck. Your moan echoes in your bedroom, and Fives eggs you on with gentle praise.

“Good girl, yeah, keep… fuck,” he wheezes, hiding his face in your shoulder. His arms are so tight. “Can I move you?”

“Uh-huh, yeah,” you whisper, letting him shift you into a lower position, where he impales you so suddenly your breath hitches and you shriek, turning into a whimpering mess. “Oh, that’s so good!”

“That’s good?” He breaths, pupils almost completely lost in black-brown irises.

“Yes, Fives, it’s good,” you whisper, smothering your mouth against his with a giggle, a grin, slipping your tongue into his mouth. He grunts, releasing your clit to roll a nipple between finger and thumb. You hiss sharply against him, forcing your heels into his back to push him deeper, harder. “Harder, baby, please.”

He quickens his pace, the bed shaking a little under his force.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmurs against your lips. “Sweet angel,” he reaffirms. “Heaven sent.” His fingers wrap around your free wrist, pinning it against the silken sheets below your head. Your back arches with the pressure, a grin spreading along your face. “Fuckin’ hell, I’m gonna cum.” 

You hiss when he touches your clit, so eager, so painlessly prepared to give you what you want- another orgasm, more pleasure, anything. He coaxes it out of you, another climax, relishing in your writhing against him, your low whine in his ear, the shiver that follows, the sweat that slicks him head to toe. 

“Fuck!” You cry, shuddering back into the sheets.

Fives’ hips falter, his eyes scrunching shut, his groans lower, deeper, until you wind a hand into his hair and kiss him once more, and his thrusts pause.

“Inside?”

“Yeah.”

He finishes, coating you with one hard grunt, a sharp sigh, his eyes finally opening to find yours, a grin eventually appearing on his tired features. You let him fill you, for a moment more, before he pulls away a little.

“Sorry,” he whispers, pulling out. You huff at the cool touch of air against the wetness sinking deep into your skin, and watch him do a quick double-take around the room for the bathroom. With a snort, you point at the door on the left. He punches the release and wanders in, clattering around.

“Under the sink, baby.”

“Yeah! I got it,” he calls, reappearing after the tap runs for a moment. He kneels between your legs and gently, softly, wipes the warm cloth over you until he’s satisfied you’re cleaned up well enough. “There, princess.”

“Thanks.” 

He disappears back into the bathroom, and a wet slap suggests he’s just tossed the rag into the bath tub. An muffled ‘oops’ and there’s another sound of running water. 

You stifle a giggle behind your hand, darting from the bed to snatch up his long-sleeve top. It had the Republic branded right in the middle, grey against the black, and you snuggle into it, sliding your arms into too-big sleeves. Fives reappears after a moment and grins, crooking a finger towards your shrouded form.

“Do you want me to go?” He asks, quietly, sincerely. “I’m assuming ‘no’ since you’ve stolen my shirt,” he hums.

“No, stay, please.” You usher him towards the bed, hands on his ass. You squeeze once with a snort and toss his trousers at him. He eases himself into them and pulls you into his chest. 

“Are you okay?”

“Better than okay.” Fives grins, craning his neck to kiss you softly on the mouth, the nose, the forehead. You stare helplessly at him, your heart suddenly quite warm, and collapse onto the bed. “Come sleep.” You pat the space beside you and watch as he slides himself in. “Never had a double?” His look of confusion is an easy tell.

“Nope.”

“Comfy?”

He turns, half buried in thick duvet and silk sheets. You can barely make out his nod but slide down beside him, tucking your head into the crook of his neck. He’s like a furnace- probably going to irritate you later in the night- but you relax against his chest.

“‘Night.”

“G’night, pretty baby.”

*

for the bbs always: @thegoodbatch @djangofetts​ @jangohshit​ @queenofheavenandhell​ 

[kiljoytrout]

Oath of the Cherry Orchard

Based off this illustration by Emily Amiao as well as some details from her animatic The Other Side (check it out on her yt emilyamiao)

Summary: The rebels have won. Now all that's left for Yun on his long list of plans is for him and Elias to sign the sacred oath of the cherry orchard and formally end the war. But when mysterious characters cause familiar screams and snow bleeds red under the cherry trees, it's up to Yun to make some difficult decisions

Word Count: 3.3K

The cherry trees had been dusted in the fine sugar snow of late winter, but now they were covered in the sweet red syrup of fresh blood.

Pointing a gun at the head of his father, who in turn was ready to blow the brains out of the last prince of the Everstied royal family, Yun couldn’t figure out where everything had gone wrong. The subterfuge, the turmoil, he had thought it was all over. The crumbling remains of the Anwei Democratic Party and the prevailing rebels had come to the sacred cherry orchard, the place where Anwei was first woven together, in order to make an oath of peace, to stop the bloodshed that had torn the nation at its seams. Yun had known the possibility of treachery, expected it even, but not even his meticulous planning and preparation prepared him for what had occurred.

Elias had always been slightly apprehensive about the oath.

“ You’re certain the orchard is secure?”, he had asked earlier, for what was likely the hundredth time since the ceasefire.

“ For the last time, it is!”, groaned Yun, tossing a hair ribbon to Elias before taking a glance back at his uniformed self in the mirror.

It was indeed, for Yun had thought of absolutely everything: sniper in the peach grove, weapons check at the old Capitol entrance, dubious area patrol dismissed. Yun was an expert in pointing out the fatal chinks in his opponent’s armor, the weak spot that guaranteed victory, and there was nothing of the sort in his own. Or so he had thought.

When they had arrived at the cherry orchard, the diplomats from the ADP weren’t there yet. Elias raised his eyebrows at this, but Yun shrugged it off. Unlike Elias, he wasn’t used to people being at his beck and call; at any rate the delay gave him time to strategize terms for the closing treaty, which traditionally occurred after the ceremonial peace oath. Elias started squinting at the distance, shaking his head slightly to himself, before looking again at absolutely nothing. After about thirty seconds of this, Yun started to get irritated.

“Cool it, Elias. The trains from the old Capitol are practically snails with windows, it's no wonder they’re late.”

“ There they are, coming through the peach grove”, Elias responded, pointing to where Yun could now barely see the shadowy bulks of three figures walking through the garden towards them.

The two of them with thuggish bodyguard builds were lugging the sacred scrolls needed for the oath towards them. The man in the middle was taller, with an imposing stature that clearly defined him as the person who people would bow down to and the person who expected it. Yet, he had a cold crookedness to his features that was strikingly familiar. Elias blinked, rubbing his eyes before voicing what Yun had already figured out.

“ That’s-”

“Yes”

Yun knew that he couldn’t harm him, that the old Capitol had been purged of weapons and that the sniper were waiting at the only other entrance in the garden to institute peace by any means necessary. But even if every rifle in Anwei was at his disposal, he didn’t think he’d ever feel completely safe from him, the man who now faced them, sacred scrolls in hand.

“Son”

“ Father”

Both spat the words with so much venom that a string of obscenities would have been a more welcoming greeting. After a few seconds of tense staring (which took Elias jamming his riding boot into Yun’s shoddy shoe to dispel), his father sighed and looked up at the cherry trees, sweet red drops sprinkled with snow.

“Now that your insurrectionists are done tearing up the country it's about time to institute some peace.”

Yun snorted. Only his father could make the rebel’s historic takeover sound like a victory for the ADP.

“ How was your trip?”, asked Elias, his tone dripping with the polite contempt required by his princely position.

“ Rather taxing, but I’m sure it was necessary”

“I take it you didn’t appreciate the weapon screenings?”

The two guards knit their eyebrows in confusion at this, but Yun’s father took it in stride.

“ Seemed rather out of place for a diplomatic meeting, but then again my son has always liked his smoke and mirrors. Shall we get on to business?” he said.

“Sure.” 

Yun stepped forward, shaking snow off the shoulders of his navy jacket. He extended his frostbitten hand, not trembling a bit in the bitter cold because it was all finally over; his struggles with his father, the arduous battles to take back Anwei, they were all as hollow as cherry trees in the dead of winter. His father’s sneer twisted itself into a satisfied smile as he reached out his hand-

“Yun.”

Yun glanced sideways, but Elias wasn’t there anymore. Instead he was moving closer to the ADP guards, fingers fluttering at the edge of his now empty sword sheath like they always did when he was about to fight.

“Yes?”

Gaze never breaking away from the ADP, Elias continued “ What direction is the old Capitol entrance to the orchard?”

“ East”

“And where did our friends here just enter the orchard from?”

“From the Peach Grove in the -”

Yun stopped short.

“West.”

They had been tricked. No wonder the guards had looked so confused about the screenings, somehow they had bypassed them entirely. But what about the snipers in the Peach Grove and the Pear Garden? Wouldn’t they have sent a message that the ADP was sneaking in another way? Then Yun saw the barely discernible muzzle of a blackmarket gun poking out from between the holy scrolls, and he knew what had happened. For a single moment, nobody spoke, instead flaying each other's eyes, for any remaining sense of humanity, dignity, and civil peace to stop what was inevitable.

The guard on the left reached for the scroll. Whether it was to grab the gun or to pass the oath, Yun would never know, because Elias reached into his elaborate hairdo, whipped out three silver bladed throwing stars, each with the ornate gold accents of the Eversteid crest, and sent the first one ripping straight through the guard’s throat. Any other time Yun would have balked at the failure of his no-weapons plan on two levels, but sudden death appeared to be the ultimate catalyst to snapping out of it.

The resulting scuffle happened so fast that Yun could barely keep track of what he was doing let alone everyone else. The second guard had stooped to the ground in a futile effort to revive his cohort while Yun’s father rushed Elias, who was now swinging five throwing stars at an arm's length. Just when Yun absorbed what had happened, the second guard, thirsty for vengeance of any kind, picked up the gun that had spilled out of the scrolls and aimed it right at him. Yun dove out of the way, just as the first bullet whistled over his head, with a silencer so quiet, he could have missed the sound of gunfire in the falling snow. He scurried over to where a second gun had fallen from the scrolls, feeling it's cold metallic barrel freeze his fingertips, before hastily emerging from the underbrush to confront the second guard.

But the second guard and Yun’s father were several feet away, next to the struggling form of Elias, who the guard had tackled to the ground. His long lavender hair was fanned out behind him, and his treasure trove of throwing stars had been tossed into the snow.

“That one certainly gave us some trouble”, said Yun’s father as he plucked a late cherry off of a tree, the red juice running down his chin as he bit it.

“ That’s for sure. What about the other one?” the second guard replied, binding Elias’s hands with rope, as the latter yelled obscenities muffled by the heel of the guard’s boot.

“My good for nothing son is probably hiding like a coward in one of the other orchards. We’ll find him soon enough”

“Those traitors better pay for what they did to Kierek”, the second guard said, nodding towards the corpse of the first guard, Eversteid throwing star still in his throat.

“ We can take care of this one soon, and my son will be captured and sentenced once we reinstitute order”

“The orders were to kill them bo-”

“I said he will be captured. Do you understand?”

The second guard nodded, noting the violent gleam in his boss’s eyes.

“ But this one has no other use. The royals are too pigheaded to ever give up any information and we don’t have the time for a public execution.” said Yun’s father, spitting out the cherry pit.

“Dispose of him,”

The guard raised the gun to Elias’s head; Yun burst from the bushes and sprinted as fast as he could. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears, his stomach in his chest, he was going so fast that the snow fall had become an endless tunnel of white, with Elias at its center. The guard had no chance. Yun plowed through him like a meteor, driving him straight into the snow bank and knocking the gun out of his hands. Yun turned around to free Elias, but standing in his way was the crooked man who had made his life a series of slanting scowls and stolen smiles.

“Don’t you dare”,

his father snarled, the third gun cocked at his side, and his foot on a gasping Elias, who he had given a brutal kick in the ribs.

“Let him go!”

Yun had meant to sound intimidating but in the icy cold his voice thinned out to little more than a squeak, prompting a smirk from his father.

“Such big talk from a greasy little nobody. Just stand around waving that toy some more and we can wait until Roklin comes out of the snowbank and captures you.“

His father was where Yun got his ability to spot weak spots. And Yun’s father had always known exactly where his son’s were.

“We both know you’re really not going to do anything. Even when you were little you were always loudmouth with no spine, crying for mommy, so why don’t you-”

While Yun’s weak spots may have been the same as when he was younger, his temper was twice as short. He rushed his father, blood pounding in his ears, but stumbled on a stray root before faceplanting right back onto the snowy ground. He heard the crack before he felt the pain pumping through his broken nose. The brackish tears came instantly as did his father’s wolfish laughter, hoarsely echoing dead wood.

Amidst the relentless pounding in his head and nose, Yun’s foot kicked aside the stray root that had caused his bloody humiliation. A rather metallic stray root. Yun jolted up, reeling as he snatched Roklin’s half buried pistol from the snow and pointed it straight at his father.

“You wouldn’t have the guts,” scoffed his father, aiming his own firearm at the temple of a wheezing Elias.

Click. Yun cocked the gun.

A moment of silence. The cold wind whipped Yun’s bloody, tearstained face; snowflakes melted in his loose, dark hair; his earring, a miniature rebel flag, waved back and forth in the bitter breeze. He couldn’t be that boy, could he? The one holding a gun to his father? The one who had to make a shot that would haunt him for the rest of his days? No. In that moment Yun was nothing but a cherry tree: frosted with snow, watered with blood, and staunchly rooted in a history that would never be chopped down.

“I wish I didn’t have to do this”

Right as he pulled the trigger, a steel wall slammed into him. Smothered under the heavy armor of the second guard, who had managed to pull himself up from the snowbank, Yun extricated himself just in time to hear the dull thud of a bullet meeting flesh. But the low canine howl that Yun had steeled himself for never came. Instead, a sharp, shocked cry, that could only come from one person.

When he was five, Yun and his friends were running around in the grass, when one of them fell and cut their knee on a jagged rock. The world seemed to separate into colors at that moment : the treacherous gray of the rock, an eggshell pale face of shock, and of course, the crimson that had stained the grass below their feet. The injured child was quickly escorted back home by their guardian, where their sobs were staunched with a piece of candy. But Yun couldn’t stop crying. He had felt no physical pain, his skin was intact, his blood was unspilt, but he had seen all of that and more in his friend’s eyes, the fire, the horror, of being at one moment whole and the next moment not, that Yun had felt it more acutely then if the wound were his own. If that was bad, then seeing Elias, prostrate on the snowy ground of the cherry orchard, a red sea flowing out of the gorey hole in his shin, was a thousand times worse.

Spooked, his father lunged aside, just in time to collide with the second guard, who charged past him through the orchard with seemingly endless adrenaline, his icy obligation to his commander melting away to wet fear.

“ Elias!” screamed Yun, running over to him, ripping off his own uniform jacket and wrapping it around Elias’s leg in a desperate attempt to staunch the gushing blood that poured forth like the pulsing rivers of Anwei. Elias’s face had the same shock as the boy from Yun’s childhood, but so much paler, and with every second he resembled more and more a sculpture made from the snow he was dying on. “Hold on hold on hold on” Yun hiccuped, tying the makeshift tourniquet as tight as he could. Tears blurred his vision, but in the periphery he saw a crooked man gathering the torn scrolls of peace from the ground.

The sight made Yun forget all about Elias and he dropped the tourniquet, concentrating all of his drained energy into raising his blood splattered pistol at the back of his fleeing father. Before he could pull the trigger, his target turned around, but instead of booking it out of the orchard, raised his arms in a scorching surrender.

C’mon just do it, just do it, just do it, Yun thought, Prove him wrong just this once. But his steely self commands froze at his finger, which remained entrenched at the top of the trigger, refusing to push down. Amidst his rancid rage, exhausted adrenaline, and salty tears, he knew one glimmering truth. If Yun pulled that trigger, the last remains of his energy would be spent, and he would collapse into the snow next to a wounded Elias. They would die, they would disappear under the earth, and they would be cherry trees half dead in winter, embracing branches, bleeding fruit, screaming snow.

But Yun always had a plan, and even when he didn’t, the end goal was always the same.

Elias.

Yun would never give him up, even as acid burned through his veins when he pried his frostbitten fingers from the bloody pistol and dropped it into the snowbank, even when his father slinked off through the peach garden with an unreadable expression on his crooked, familiar face, even when he realized how far away the orchard gates were and how he had ordered the night patrol to stay away for his goddamn security measures; no matter how beautiful it was, the cherry orchard would never take Elias as long as Yun could still trick his paper form into the softest pulse of life.

Slippery warm blood, bone breaking cold, rotten raw heart; that was all he could remember for weeks afterward. Mia, Elias’s little sister, and her girlfriend Celine visited him at the hospital everyday, trying to coax him into revealing how a simple peace oath led to all of this. They told him that he was a hero, that he had half-carried, half-dragged Elias past the orchard gates, that a little girl had found them collapsed near her swing set, more dead than alive. But the only question he ever wanted an answer to was always met with avoided glances, shaking heads, and uncertain words. Lost a lot of blood, infected wound, critical condition.

But after a lot of begging, bribing, and borderline blackmailing, Yun was finally allowed a brief visit. The doctor took him down an endless fluorescent corridor, stopping in front of a room with a rusty sign reading Post Operation.

“Only ten minutes!” chirped the nurse as she opened the creaking door, and bolted away, green tea pipe in hand for a smoke break.

Yun crashed into the room, but stopped short when he saw Elias, wrapped in a thin blanket on a too small cot, where he could see a single sock-covered foot hanging off the end. The patient, on seeing him, gave a slight smile, and tried to raise himself up to sitting position.

“Let me” said Yun, walking over to the bed, fluffing and stacking the pillows for a head rest as he observed the tinctures and bandages littering the dinky nightstand.

Among them was a pamphlet emblazoned in cheerful yellow with: Adjusting to Your Amputation. Yun snapped his head back towards Elias, who averted his gaze towards the end of the bed. Without asking for permission, Yun yanked the blanket off the cot, exposing next to a bandaged and blistered leg, a stitched up stump connected to a polished wooden crutch.

“ They’re putting a more refined one in next week. I’ll need to use a wheelchair at first, but after some time I can adjust to a cane.”

The guilt took a second to set in, but when it did, Yun wanted to submerge himself in the oiliest, blackest sea and never come out.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,”

“Why are you crying? I’m the one with the botched leg,” said Elias, the amused tilt to his statement falling flat when he saw Yun’s crushed expression.

“Oh my god, this is my fault, I can’t believe I shot you, I should have aimed better, I should have shot him faster, oh my god, oh my-”

“Hey, HEY!”, said Elias, grabbing Yun’s flailing hands with the reflexes of an ace swordsman.

“Look at me. Look at me. You got me out of there. It’s like I used to tell my sister whenever she messed up at something: whatever mistakes made back there are dead, but you aren’t. It's going to be an uphill battle from here and I need you supporting me, not blaming yourself.”

Yun nodded.

“Okay?”

“Okay”

“Now come over here and tell me about the new siege on the Old Capitol. But first close the door. If that horrid nurse comes back here stinking of burnt tea again, I’m breaking out my sword, prosthetic or not.”

At this, Yun’s tears finally dried into loud snickering; Elias chimed in with some decidedly non-aristocratic chuckles. This continued until the nurse in question barged back into the room, smoke curling from her nostrils as she demanded they keep it down. Yun and Elias practically roared with laughter; a loving crack of relief as deadwood came back to life.

[leftonread247]

Down By The Boathouse🌸

Pairing: George Weasley x Reader

Word count:1.2k

Age: George is in 6th year you are in 4th year.

Playlist link:

Ao3 link

Summary: You go to Hogwarts and You’re best friends with Ginny Weasley. You fell in love with her older brother George and he had fallen for you but neither of you knew how the other felt until now...

You pulled your mid-length brown hair back into a low messy bun, allowing the smaller pieces to fall out and frame your round face. Your eyes traced your reflection in the mirror starting with the green irises of your almond shaped eyes below your perfectly arched brows, moving to your freckled covered button nose and rosy cheeks and down to your plump heart shaped lips which you applied a tinted gloss to.

You straightened your green and black tie and pulled on your black robes that proudly declared you were a Slytherin. You let out a sigh before you crept over to the door of your dorm. It was 5.30am at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry and the others in your dorm were fast asleep. Sleep had eluded you for the past 30 minutes and you couldn’t bare to stare up at your ceiling any longer. You’d decided to head down to your favourite spot with your copy of Emma by Jane Austen. You had just over an hour before breakfast would be served and the boathouse provided a serene atmosphere for submerging yourself into any piece of literature; your favourites being muggle works of fiction.

You snuck out of the castle and followed the winding path down to the boathouse. The air was crisp and cold pinched your cheeks. In the darkness, the smell of freshly cut grass was overwhelming. You stumbled a few times before you pulled out your 11 inch Ebony wand with Phoenix feather core and you whispered “Lumos” as if someone would hear you.

You’d finally made your way to the boathouse using your wand as a guide but still managed to stumble a few times. You put your wand away whispering “nox” to put out the light and as you walked up to the part of the dock you normally sit at, you noticed the silhouette of a tall boy.

“Hello?” You called out, sounding more like a question than a greeting.

The boy jumped slightly before he turned towards you. The moonlight bounced off his face and you recognised him as one of the older brothers to your best friend Ginny.

He was one of the twins and normally you needed to get closer to discern which one was which but you already knew that it was George Weasley who was an avid fan of late night/early morning strolls.

“You joining me?” He called to you, his voice still husky revealing he’d not been awake all that long either. The scratch of his voice had made your stomach flip. You’d been in love with George since 2nd year. You’d been staying with the Weasley’s for a few weeks that summer whilst your parents went on a work trip. As usual, the Weasley boys were competitive and they’d decided to have a game of Quidditch. It was during this match you’d taken a fall from your broom because of George. He’d felt so guilty he spent the rest of the week taking care of you and making you laugh. You were convinced that he thought you were nothing more than his little sister’s friend.

You nervously put one foot in front of the other and made your way over to him. You sat yourself down, your left knee gently touched his right and you had almost let out an audible gasp at the contact. He smelt of fireworks, the wood of a broomstick and a touch of butter beer. You inhaled deeply, not knowing the next chance you’d ever get to be this close to him.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” He asked you, breaking your dazed state. All you could manage was a nod. You’d found yourself too scared to speak and hardly being able to focus on anything other than his leg on yours. He looked down at you, curiosity on his face. Speechless was not your usual state. His eyes took in your appearance and you felt a blush creep across your cheeks as if you were being scrutinised. You looked up to meet George’s eyes and a mischievous grin flickered across his face.

“ Is there a reason you’re so tongue-tied?” He teased you as his eyes glinted daringly. He leaned back on the palms of his hands, this pushed his leg further into yours.

“Oh, just tired.” You manage to stutter out. You decided to lean back on your own palms so you were more comfortable and so it appeared casual. George’s eyes had followed your every move. You played to it as you found his attention deliciously intoxicating. You stretched out a little forcing your chest out slightly. He cleared his throat and withdrew his gaze, shifting his eyes to the water that was gently rising and falling.

George shifted on his palms and his little finger grazed yours. He lingered there for a few seconds before he rested it in the ground, still maintaining contact. You studied his face unsure of what your next move should be but all you could think about was how much you wished his lips were pressed against your own.

His gaze fell to your book that you had placed on your knee when you’d sat down.

“Emma? You and your muggle books” he laughed. “What’s this one about?”

You had then launched into a 10 minute speech telling him the entire plot in extreme detail. As you fawned over everything from plot devices to character development, George had listened intently, his eyes occasionally dropping to your lips before he refocused them on your eyes.

“Sorry.” You had apologised after you’d exhausted your knowledge on the novel.

“You wanted a brief description not a whole essay.” You chuckled nervously, breaking eye contact as heat returned to your cheeks. As you’d looked away a strand of hair that had escaped your messy bun had fallen across your face.

George reached up a long, slender finger and tucked the piece behind your ear.

“No need to apologise. You’re never more beautiful than when you talk about something you love.” His tone had become serious.

You’d frozen in place as you’d tried to register what he’d said. You’d all but convinced yourself he wasn’t paying you a compliment when he continued talking, this time more nervous.

“You do this thing where, urm, your nose scrunches and your eyes go wide and sparkly and you make really big, expressive hand gestures.” He had then paused. “ I always find myself jealous of the things you talk about.” He sighed and then gently turned your chin, his fingers barely touching your face like you were the most delicate thing on the planet, so that you were forced to meet his deep brown eyes.

“ I find myself longing for you to be talking about me in that way. Passionate, full of love.”

He’d let his voice trail off, scared that he’d confessed too much but he continued to search your eyes for any clue of what you thought.

Without even realising it, you had found yourself leaning towards him. Your lips found his in an explosion of heat and longing. This had said how you felt in a way that your words never could. Desire and content had flowed in every movement of your lips on his. Every gasp and every hitch of your breath and only encouraged George to deepen the kiss more until you both pulled away breathless.

You stared into his eyes once more before saying “ You, George Weasley, have and will always be my favourite thing to talk about.” You gently brushed your lips on his, rested your head on his chest and gazed up at the moon.

[littlemisslipbalm]

Little Border Town Pt. 3

Summary: It begins with a man and a woman, as it always seems to. One lives in France and the other lives in Italy, technically, but they’re also neighbors. Various issues arise between these two and they can’t ever seem to see eye to eye on anything. Will they ever move past their petty fighting or is the little town they live in doomed to only gossip about what Harry and Y/N are fighting about today? 

Part 3: the one with the boat and the beginning of a storm

IT’S BEEN AGESSSS I AM SO SO SORRY I LOVE YALL SO MUCH AND EVERYONE WHO HAS EVER READ THIS THANK YOU FOR BEING PATIENT

also harry is wearing this fit in this part just no tie?? i think i cant remember

college has been incredibly crazy this year already and i just dont have time to write like i did before i went back. i honestly had this mostly finished and i havent reread so i have no idea what even happens so lmk what you think, i can’t imagine that it will get a lot of notes but if it did id be very happy about that - anyways lots of love and feedback appreciated as always...pls enjoy

Word Count: 6.6k | Warnings: ?? Swearing? idek, more yearning bc slow burn

Catch up here! part 1 | 2 |

-

“Isn’t the weather not ideal for boat sailing today,” she ponders as her face looks up at the sky. She’s walking into Harry’s store again after running back to her place to grab a jacket and lock up. She placed a notecard in the door’s window that says “closed today, see you tomorrow” with a smiling face as punctuation.

Harry grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He had sailing boots on his feet with a smart big-collared printed shirt and marigold trousers. Instead of a belt, he had suspenders that matched the color of his pants and a pearl necklace as his final accessory other than his rings. He must have repainted his nails this morning because they were a light lavender shade that hadn’t been noticeable last night.

“It’s just fine. We’re entering fall and the sun is out today!” He gestures to the sky above them and she nods in agreement that the sun is indeed out. However she wasn’t sure if she’d categorize it as a nice day to go out on the sea still. With the sun there were also many clouds, they were mostly white and fluffy, but she was sure they could turn sinister any moment.

“Ready?” He beams.

“As I’ll ever be.”

-

On the boat, Y/N felt her stomach churning. Was she giddy or unnerved? Likely, both.

Harry was tying the boat off the dock after helping her onto the deck. It wasn’t a huge boat, not a yacht or anything, but it also wasn’t a tiny sailboat. It had an upper deck where maybe four people - at most - could comfortably be. Then a lower deck, inside a hatch in the upper deck. She couldn’t discern how much space was down there, but she was sure Harry would show her. He was talking through everything he was doing on the boat. Ad nauseum for an extremely nontechnical girl, such as herself.

Still, she sat in the spot he had directed her to next to the closed hatch and watched him move gracefully around the boat. Maneuvering the sails and different parts of the boat was a dance for Harry. Each step, each twist and knot, moved by a song unknown to her. It was beautiful. He was completely in his element, surprisingly. Again, Harry surprised her. She knew he had a boat, but whenever she thought of a jerk with a boat she didn’t think of what she was seeing with her own eyes. It was beautiful - or at least, it would be, if he’d shut his big mouth that was now making her roll her eyes as he made a pun about boats.

“So,” Harry starts finally, finishing up whatever he needed to do to get the boat off the dock and on the path he wanted. They were moving out into open water, she could see the little town, but it was growing smaller by the minute. Her stomach churned again as she looked up at the man she had just trusted to take her out onto the ocean. She grimaced slightly at the thought.

“Do you want to see the inside?” he continued.

She nods eagerly, “Finally!”

He chuckles lightly before opening up the hatch and gesturing for her to go first. She looks at him hesitantly.

“This isn’t a trap right? It’s not going to be all...murder-y down there?” Her voice is pitched higher, she’s almost completely serious.

This time Harry’s laugh comes from his belly, almost doubling over at the word ‘murder-y’. Between laughs, he tries to reassure her. “God no...oh my god.” More laughter, then a deep breath. “The only evil entity on this boat is the diavola I invited on here,” he gestures to her standing in front of him and her eyes narrow. Displeasure washing over her features.

“You’re ridiculous,” her hand swats at his sternum before she turns from him and climbs down to the underdeck area.

When she’s down, she’s surprised with her surroundings and she doesn’t notice Harry follow quickly behind her. It’s neat and stylish. Well, she’s not completely surprised, Harry was very fashionable. But the neatness dissipated all thoughts of the improbable scenario where Harry had lured her on his boat to murder her. It was what she had been freaking out over when she had at first refused to enter.

There was a small daybed at the end of the hall that doubled as a couch, a door to a bathroom, a dining area, a kitchenette, and then the random area they were standing in. It wasn’t super spacious, it was a hallway with things around it, but it was clean and it smelled nice. Everything had a place and they were neatly put in their places. After a moment, she turned at the feeling of Harry’s presence behind her.

He grinned, scanning the areas her eyes had just taken in for the first time. His green eyes were filled with admiration. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah, smells like you.” She nods matter of factly.

“Huh?” His head whips to her, sure he hadn’t heard her right.

“The whole place is very you,” she looks away from him and walks down the hall to the daybed and takes a seat, “Styles-ish.”

He follows quickly behind, shaking his head out of his own thoughts.

He mumbles a thanks, not catching the play on words she’d used with his last name. She smiles to herself, pleased. He stands in the doorway, not really wanting to sit beside her. Maybe he didn’t trust himself with being in such close proximity with her anymore. No, not after last night.

Her eyes widen slightly when he leans against the doorway and crosses his arms. The sleeves of his button-up had been rolled up when he had been working with the sails. Her lips suddenly are dry and she wets them with her tongue, eyes moving to the fabric of the blanket she’s sat on top of.

“I meant to say,” Harry breaks the silence, obviously not a fan of the quiet. A hand leaves his pose and runs through his hair, rings classically tugging at his curls. He swallows before he speaks again, “Thanks, uh, for stopping me last night. That would’ve been weird…”

He trails off and her eyes go wide again, but now they’re trained on his face. His eyes are downcast now, watching the way light plays off his rings. She tries to make out the sound in his voice, the expression he’s trying to hide with indifference. Her teeth tug her bottom lip into her mouth as she thinks, silence once again taking hold of the small, small room. The air is tense, static, unmoving, the complete opposite of the water that rushes just outside the walls of the boat.

She clears her throat and Harry locks eyes with her, “No problem...alcohol and atmosphere, clouds the head. I get it.” She did, but she also hadn’t wanted the gratitude Harry had just placed on her.  

“You booze, you lose,” he smiles, straightening up and she looks at him quizzically.

“That’s such an odd phrase.”

“No it’s not!”

“It’s a play on ‘you snooze, you lose’ right?” She leans forward, face looking smugly up at Harry’s offended face.

“Well, yeah,” Harry admits.

“I can’t believe you made that up and got it tattooed,” She states breezily and then stands. She brushes past him to look around the rest of the cabin.

Harry scoffs, not even noticing the way her fingers had brushed over his naked forearm as she passed, too focussed on his indignation. “How’d you know about the tattoo?”

“Naked neighbor? Never closing his shade? Do you seriously need a refresher course already? Seriously, boat boy, I really thought you were smarter than that,” She talks as she snoops around the different parts of the cabin. She pokes at figurines and looks at little photos and paintings. Her head looks over her shoulder and she laughs happily at Harry’s face of irritation. It was so easy to push his buttons.

“Don’t call me boat boy,” he seethes, but she knows he’s not really mad. More like he’s a child who got told no dessert before dinner. A laugh rocks through her body again and bubbles to the surface. It causes Harry to soften, this time there’s no alcohol in his system to account for the feeling he just felt. He mirrors the smile she has. That is until she reaches the kitchenette and finds a rack of CDs sitting beside the sink.

She turns from him and begins to leaf through them, most of them are artists she recognizes. But then she reaches some that are just titled “Demo” with various numbers beside the word. Her fingers nimbly pick out “Demo #1” and turn back to Harry with an inquisitive gaze. His green eyes are bigger than usual, the smile gone from his face.

“These from the boy band days?” She smiles wider as he turns a little red. She crosses closer to him, remembering the sight of a cd player in the main area where the entrance to the cabin was.

“Erm..no.” She flips around again, confused again, but then it dawns on her. “Demos for my solo work.”

“That you put on hold to take over for your Uncle.”

“Great Uncle.” He corrects.

“I know.” She waited a second, where she was about to be quick to play the CD, she now wanted to get Harry’s permission. It might be a little more personal than she had first thought. “Can we listen to this one? You’d technically be taking me up on the request to play for me sometime.”

“Yeah, they’re rough - obviously. So if you could try to not bruise my ego, at least not more than you usually do,” he grins and she looks at him with dead eyes. A smile cracks on her face quickly, still.

“I wouldn’t...this is different,” she struggles to find the right words. She would never make fun of something he cared a lot about, not now. She wasn’t that person, it was odd to think he maybe saw her like that. She shook away the thought and focused on placing the CD in its player correctly.

The first song begins to play, he’s right it is rough, it’s a demo. There’s no backing vocals or beat of any kind. Just a voice and a guitar. And it’s amazing. After the guitar intro, she lets out a breath she had been holding when she hears the voice. His voice. It’s beautiful. And she’s shocked, her eyes flash to Harry. He’s nibbling at his bottom lip, watching her hear it for the first time. His voice from all those years ago.

“Brooklyn saw me empty at the news, there’s no water inside this swimming pool.”

Her eyes light up again at the lyrics and she smiles, finding it melancholic yet slightly funny at the same time. It was interesting, the words, his voice, the meaning. Some bits of information eluded her, but she knew she enjoyed the song.

“And I’ve been praying, I never did before.”

Even as the song moved on from this one lyric, she felt it replaying in her head as she watched the singer in front of her. Years older than he had been when he had written this song. She was filled with questions and paused the CD as the guitar faded out.

“That’s it?” Harry laughs, “Just one song? It was really that horrible?”

“Oh my god, no!” She is emphatic, needing Harry to understand she’s serious. She takes a step closer to his figure. He had traveled closer to her while the song had played. They were almost chest to chest and her hand goes out to touch his forearm. “I really liked it, genuinely. I just needed a moment before the next one.”

“Bracing yourself?”

“Stop, I’m serious. It was beautiful. Your voice is wonderful, Harry.”

His eyes sparkle at the praise, finally believing she’s not taking the piss. Then his eyes dropped from her gaze, “I was a lot younger then, was 21 I think when I recorded this demo.”

“So? A voice like that doesn’t just disappear, dude.” She looks at him with a finality in her expression before dropping the hand that was firmly gripping his tattooed arm and turning back to the CD player.

Harry bites his lip as another one of his early songs plays over the shoddy speakers. His voice repeats “Meet me in the hallway” over the solo guitar. There’s no echo or bass, no count in like the final song was supposed to have. It’s just him and his guitar, before he chose to leave it all behind.

His voice is sadder here, she notices and she visibly winces at “just take the pain away” and “just let me know, I’ll be on the floor” and his repetition of “gotta get better.”

How did this man, who seemed fazed by practically nothing, have so much hurt in him to write both of these songs? Her eyes welled with water, but she blinked them back still staring at the singer before her. He was watching the CD spin in the player as his voice came through the speakers. He was lost in thought, in memory. Maybe she was lucky, these weren’t memories for her, she was only hearing his interpretation of his life. She hadn’t had to live that pain first hand. This time she doesn’t pause before the next song.

The next one seems more produced than the last two. This one starts with drums, a step up from the last two acoustic demos in respect to production. A big crash and then a wailing guitar and an accompanying voice. His voice is stronger here, more sure of himself. And then it changes again, melancholic once again and her heart strings are yanked at again.

“We’re not who we used to be, we’re just two ghosts standing in the place of you and me, trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat.”

The guitar continues that sad tone for a riff and then goes back to strumming beneath his voice. She shifts her eyes to him again and sighs softly, it weighs heavy on her soul that the man next to her has seemingly been through so much heartache. He looks up at “We don’t see what we used to see” and she holds his gaze, brows knit together in confusion and sadness. She pauses this time, finger reaching out without looking.

“This is depressing, please tell me they’re not all sad songs or I might as well have turned on a pet rescue commercial.”

His smile etches on his face, in a small knowing smirk and he crosses into her personal space. She’s about to step back, but he reaches out and softly bats her finger away from the pause/play button. She smiles back, shuffling to lean against the counter beside him. It was unusual for them to be on the same side of the counter, much like last night at the bar.

“There’s six songs on this demo. Three sad, three…” he trails off, looking at her expectantly. She nods. “You gotta learn to be a little less impatient, hmm?”

“Not impatient, just trying to brace myself for more sadness. I thought I had been promised a day of fun,” she grumbles.

“I wasn’t the one who suggested a demo listening party,” his brows raise and she twists her mouth to the side at his smug response.

“True,” she finally concedes with a murmur.

He presses play and a new song comes on that is more upbeat than any of the other’s that have played so far. It also seems to be a bit more produced than the first two. Her hand rests on the countertop and begins to tap, she quirks her brow at the first lyric “she’s got a family in carolina, so far away, but she says I remind her of home.”  A girl who likened Harry Styles to the South of the United States, interesting. As she listens to the lyrics, she smirks at the massive crush he must have had to write this song. The “good girl” lyrics bounce around in her mind and her mind drifts back to last night. Would it have felt good? To kiss Harry?

Then, she’s brought out of her reverie with “I met her once and wrote a song about her”. Her eyes widen and look to Harry again inquisitively as his past self muses over how good this girl felt. He wrote about a one night stand? That woman must have been magic. That was all she had to say about that.

“Really?” She asks incredulously, folding her arms over her chest. His gaze flickers at the movement, human nature. He presses pause.

“What?”

“A one night stand earned that?”

He looked at her seriously, like the answer was obvious. She laughs before continuing.

“You’re a simp.”

“I’m sorry?” He sputters at her statement immediately.

She raises her brows as a response now. Nothing else to say.

“She wasn’t a one night stand,” he defends, “She was a blind date...and it had been after a dry spell.”

She starts to laugh, about to give another snarky response, but he adds, “And I was twenty-one.” The numbers specifically enunciated.

“You’re still a simp in my book...but I liked the song. It was catchy, rock vibes in there. I don’t know about her telling you remind her of Carolina - north or south, I don’t see it.”

He eyes her warily, still not happy with her titling him that gen z term that was super popular all over the internet. He took her in and he knew she was only three years younger than him, he was pretty sure, yet she used ‘simp’ and ‘vibes’ like they were lexicon words. He didn’t hate it, it was just different than what he usually heard in the little border town. Italian not having translations for things like that, English was so interesting, internet language was so interesting.  

“I-” He starts and stops. “She said it. Was she right? That’s not my place to judge.”

“I don’t know,” Y/N pressed, words dragging out playfully, “Personally, I wouldn’t want to be a reminder of the U.S. South, but okay...simp.”

“I swear to god if you call me that one more time, I’m throwing you overboard and I won’t feel bad about it.”

Her eyes widen and then she smiles, he cracks a smile too. They huddle back around the CD player, ready for the next song. It starts with a strong guitar and drums, again well produced compared to the acoustic earlier ones.

His voice in this is far more shaky, unsure of himself again. “Let me take my medicine, take my medicine, treat you like a gentleman,” comes through the speakers. She shivers and looks at him, her fingers tapping along to the beat. The instruments are strong where his voice is soft, it doesn’t exactly fit, but she likes the lyrics still. When it gets to the pre-chorus, that’s when she knows she loves the song.

“I had a few got drunk on you and now I’m wasted, and when I sleep I’m gonna dream of how you (tasted)”

When his voice pitches high for ‘wasted’ she loses it. Her body moves with the instruments and her eyes close and her head wiggles. Harry smiles happily as she dances for the first time to one of his songs. The last word must have been shouted by his bandmates, because she doesn’t hear him say it.

Then the chorus hits and she wonders how it got even better. Her eyes shoot open and she just stares at Harry, her jaw slightly dropped.

“If you got out tonight, I’m going out tonight cause I know you’re persuasive! You got that something and I got me an appetite now I can taste it”

His past self sings of getting dizzy and his voice moans into the mic the demo was recorded on. She’s blown away. It sounds so hot, his voice gaining confidence during the pre-chorus and the chorus to have an all around rockstar sound.

The present Harry just taps his rings together as he watches her, studying her reaction with an even-tempered expression. Why isn’t he screaming like she is on the inside? When it gets to the second verse she’s bracing herself for what’s to come. This song has her pulse racing and blood flowing wildly around her body. She’s buzzing from it.

“The boys and the girls are in, I mess around with him and I’m okay with it”

The electric guitar follows the line up and she thinks she’s going to pass out on this boat right now. Flamboyant Harry. Was this what Marie had been talking about. The wild side of Harry she really had never seen, embodied in one song. She wanted more of it. Still all she got was the Harry on the demo rocking out to his song. She can hear him smiling through the recording, the sad boy from a few songs ago was now feeling euphoric. She just wanted to dance the night away with him.

Then another pre-chorus: “I’m coming down, I figured out I kinda like it, and when I sleep I’m gonna dream of how you (ride it)”

His voice goes high again for ‘like it’ this time and her question of what is to follow is quickly answered with the bandmates screaming ‘ride it’ into the mics they must have had. It’s punctuated with the drums and other instruments. A noise escapes the back of her throat and Harry looks at her both smugly and amused. She rolls her eyes in response, trying to convince Harry that she hadn’t just had images of him singing about how good someone rides him flash in her mind. Even more so with the images of someone, namely her, being the object of his dreams. Doing the things he said he’d dream of. That, that was definitely not what she was thinking about. Definitely not. Her throat was dry and she swallowed hard. Harry’s eyes never left her face. Watching every reaction, gauging it and storing the information elsewhere for the time being.

She sings along to the chorus, trying to focus on the song, it was easy to pick up, but then the damn moans. And then there’s a guitar solo that sounds like sex itself and she’s baffled that this was an unreleased demo, not a famous rock song. Harry in front of her can’t stop himself from tapping his feet at this part, a little dance forming on his body as his eyes finally leave her figure. They close as he feels the music, the memory of his friend playing the riff clear in his mind and how much he had loved it. It builds up again and then there’s a final chorus. She watches him now as he dances in the confined space. His mouth opens to sing along to the “la la la’s”

It ends and goes straight into another upbeat song. It seemed like a complimentary song to the one that had just played.

“I don’t want your sympathy, but you don’t know what you do to me, oh Anna!”

His voice sings strong again. Harry before her composed himself again, going back to his watching position. He took in her tapping and smiling to the song. He also mouths the words slightly as it plays, the lyrics clear as the day he finished writing them almost 4 years ago. One of the final ones for this demo.

“Hope you never hear this and know that it’s for you, don’t know what I’d tell you if you asked me for the truth”

She smirks at him, now, with the earnest lyrics, about to say something, but then notices the change in the guitar. It switches from the epic riff that was going to a more familiar tune, “Faith” by George Michael. She looks at him, a cheesy grin on her face as the voice begins to sing the chorus of that song. Her body begins to dance to it, like an old man doing the twist. She’s not ashamed and Harry loves it and joins her by mirroring the movements.

When the song comes to an end, they’re one large giggling mess. She falls into his arms and he holds her steady, their laughter coming out with freedom.

“Thanks for making me be patient,” She looks up at him, “it was worth it!”

He smiles, backing up slightly, “It’s like I knew what I was talking about.”

“Ok smart guy,” she teases with a silly voice. “I’m assuming whoever Anna is, isn’t actually named Anna then...?”

Harry hums and makes a twitch of his brows, but doesn’t respond. Instead he grabs her hand and she squeaks slightly, he pulls her to the ladder and prompts her to go up. She obliges silently and lands back on the top of the boat now. She looks out and sees the little town to be off in the distances now, shining blue water all around the creamy white boat.

Harry stands behind her now and shuts the hatch easily. She looks at him warily, confused by his silence. He extends his hand to her this time and she takes it. He leads her to the front of his boat. They’re moving, but so slowly you’d barely notice. There’s a loveseat of sorts right at the front and Harry sets her down in it. She smiles at him with caution, still bewildered. He leans against a part of the boat that stands in front of the seat.

“It’s beautiful, right?” He asks.

Her eyes have been looking around her, but they’ve mostly been trained on Harry. She was mesmerized by him now. His music, his boat, his clothes, his everything. She was seeing him in a new light. In a completely brand new way that had her unable to take her eyes off of him.

She nods finally when Harry looks at her expectantly. “It’s amazing,” she breathes.

His smile is the half-sided grin again. Beautiful big teeth on display with a little part of space between them. His dimple pops out and once again her eyes are on his face. She realized going on this boat with Harry might not have been such a good idea.  

He folds his arms, her eyes flicker down. Every movement he makes, she doesn’t want to miss it. Even if she also is telling her mind to shake it off, she can’t. It’s like a spell.

“Obviously Anna is a pseudonym,” he says finally, eyes watching where the boat was taking him. She nods in approval. He pauses, watching the little waves, but she knows he has more to say.

“What did you think of the rest of it?” He asks quietly, gaze never going back to her. He knew she’d teased him a little and had danced along to some. She’d looked at him with wide eyes at some lyrics, but he wanted to know what she really thought.

She can tell he’s nervous, but she doesn’t understand why. They were all very good songs, his voice was beautiful, the lyrics were interesting. She didn’t understand his lack of confidence. His first time not exhibiting his usual self-assured - self-absorbed, even - personality. She bites her lip in confusion and his brows knit together, further showing his apprehension. The wrinkles in his forehead show up more prominently and she’s reminded that Harry is 26. He’s a different person now then he was back when he recorded that demo. Maybe there was a reason he kept them on the boat. She felt unsure in her response now.

“They were all great, Harry.” His face softens immediately. “Each one was beautifully written and sung. The ones that were acoustic sounded wonderful as did the ones with your whole band. I’m honored to be someone who got to hear those masterpieces.”

She wanted to tell them they should be famous songs, but she had a feeling that might not have the effect on him that she wanted. He had chosen a little quiet life in the little border town. She didn’t think he would want to hear how his music could have made it big time.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, just about the sounds of the sea. He lets a closed mouth smile twist onto his face, but it feels like he doesn’t fully believe her. She wants to kiss his worry away, but again, she knows it’s not possible. His words from earlier rang in her head. It would make things weird. Yeah, you’re right. Ugh, why had she agreed. She didn’t agree, not at all, not anymore.

“Did you have a favorite?” He stands up straighter with his question.

She laughs slightly, “I liked the second to last one a lot. It was hot.”

“Hot how?” He steps closer, smirking.

She jumps up from her reclined seat, in indignation, “Oh come on, you know it’s hot. Now you’re just looking for me to stroke your ego! It’s obviously about sex.”

“And? You’re the one who’s saying it’s your favorite and blushing.” He arches a brow at her, arms going to his hips and looking at her teasingly.

“Well, you’re the one who was singing about sucking dick and dreaming of how someone rode you.”

“Is that what it’s about?” His voice raises as he purses his lips and raises both of his brows.

She realizes just how worked up he’s gotten her in such a short amount of time. She huffs and turns away from him with a flick of her hand. “You’re infuriating.” Is all she can say. She looks out at the waves now, ignoring Harry even though he’s less than a foot away.

He’s laughing behind her for a little. Then when she doesn’t turn around, he quiets and she’s not quite sure where he’s gone. Then his breath fans over her neck and right shoulder, where her jacket hasn’t managed to cover her. It’s warm and a little minty as the scent travels over the salty sea air. She doesn’t turn or move a muscle for that matter.

A hand reaches out to her shoulder, but still she makes no move to turn. It rests there for a minute and she simply huffs again, letting her shoulders rise and fall dramatically. A single laugh slips from Harry’s mouth.

“C’mon diavola, don’t be like that. S’all in good fun.” His voice is low in her ear, sultry even. It reminds her of his voice in that song once he got into it. His voice sounds like sex in her ear and this time when she sighs it’s not because she’s irritated with him. No, she wants him. The sigh has an undercurrent of that desire and she hopes Harry doesn’t understand that. But otherwise she stays quiet, letting him murmur into her ear with his hand on her shoulder and his chest pressed to her back now. The only witness of this exchange is the ocean before them.

His head leans closer and if she didn’t know any better it felt like he was about to press a kiss to her neck. Instead all she feels is the brush of his mustache, it tickles the shell of her ear and she can’t keep in the giggle. She twists away from the sensation and Harry is grinning at her when she faces him.

His hand still on her shoulder and his body still pressed close to hers. He’s so warm and so close and so shiny new in her eyes, even if he still manages to irritate her. Her eyes flicker up to his as their laughter quiets down. She realizes her own hands have gone to his waist to steady herself and she follows his feet as he backs them up from the edge of the boat that she had brought them too.

It’s quiet again. They’re staring at each other intently. Her eyes are swirling with emotion because she just wants to know what’s going on in the brain of the man before her. She wants to know everything about him, but she knows that’s not how he feels about her. Sure, they’re friends now, but nothing else.

Why did she have to come on this stupid boat and find his stupid amazing music? Why did he have such a stupid amazing face?

These questions and other silly things were racing around her head as she gripped his waist. He didn’t mind her quietness, he found her gaze to be a little unnerving, but he was just glad he had made her laugh. He found that he didn’t enjoy her anger at him as much anymore.

Just as he was about to start another conversation, there was a cloud that drifted over the shining sun. It was her original fear come to life. Harry’s brows furrowed as he looked up at the clouds. They were turning grey. Fast.

“Shit, shit, shit,” He began mumbling and released his hand from her shoulder. He pulled away from her hold and began moving swiftly around the boat. He needed to get them off the water, there was a storm coming.

Her eyes went wide as she noticed the approaching storm as well. Her brows furrowed with worry as she watched Harry begin working on the boat, his only words being curses to himself at first.

Then he enlists her help, asking her to hold onto a specific part of the boat for him after he threw her a life vest and made her put it on. She wore it with great dissatisfaction. He only shrugged as he continued to move nimbly around the boat, turning them around, back to the dock.  

The boat moved much swifter into the shore than it had on their way out. The waves were growing choppier by the minute and she would admit she was more than a little scared. Thankfully, Harry knew what he was doing and got them there quickly and safely. Once at the dock, he tied them there and then helped her off the boat. She stood on the dock uncomfortably as the rain started to come down.

“Give me your lifevest!” He gestures from the boat.

She quickly takes it off and flinches when the first bout of thunder sounds from far off. He takes it from her and throws it haphazardly down the hatch along with his own before jumping off the boat himself. He surveys the boat from the dock to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. Then he looks at her. She’s wrapped her arms around herself and is ducking her head, looking like she’s attempting to ward off rain but failing miserably.

She looks up at him and he offers a soft smile of reassurance.

“Take my hand!” He shouts slightly over the growing sound of rain and thunder. He wants to get them out of the rain, but he’s also apprehensive to leave his boat to the mercy of the weather. Still, that’s all he can do.

She puts her hand in his and his fingers weave with hers. Then, they’re off racing back to their street in the little border town.

-

“I should go back to my place!”

“Don’t be silly! France is much too far for you to go in this weather!”

She laughs and grips his hand tighter as he fumbles for his key. His wet hand slipping as the rain droplets soak their clothes and skin. Even though her door is a mere few feet away she allows Harry to pull her into his shop. The warmth and dryness appreciated after running a few blocks in the now torrential downpour. There weren’t storms often in the little border town, but like the old adage said ‘when it rained, it poured’ quite literally. The less she had to travel in the rain the happier she was, even if it was three measly feet.

It also occurred to her that she’d be able to sit out her first storm with someone by her side. And she would admit that didn’t sound like the worst thing in the world. She wasn’t necessarily a fan of storms and being in a new place with a storm she’d never weathered before was daunting. Harry inviting her in was a blessing. She didn’t have to be asked twice.

Once inside the little shop, their wet frames begin to form puddles beneath themselves. Harry sighs and takes off up his rickety stairs. She looks after him in confusion but stays put when he calls a quick “Wait there!”

She shakes a bit of the rain from her and shivers as she listens for Harry’s movements barely audible above the crashing of the rain water. When he returns, her breath catches in her throat, like she just choked on something, yet there’s nothing.

As he walks down the steps, far slower now, his wet hair shakes out around his head forming some ethereal halo. The light from upstairs illuminates him and the darkness outside casts an ominous darkness as he descends.

“Un ange…” She whispers after finally catching her breath.

If he hears her, it doesn’t matter. He’s already beginning to smile widely just from seeing Y/N before him.

He skips the last step and crosses to her swiftly. “Let’s get you dried a little more,” he begins to dote. A matching smile spreads on Y/N’s face out of appreciation. She still can’t manage to fend off the shivering and Harry’s smile falters. His hands leave the towel and trace her exposed skin. Her cheek feels like ice, only slightly warming under his touch.

“You need dry clothes,” he mumbles.

Her eyes widen as she looks up at him. He’s so close and so attentive and she wants to ask him to kiss her because they’ve been going back and forth all day, but he’s right she’s freezing. His eyes are so intense though she can’t even maintain eye contact. Instead her gaze flits up to the droplet beginning to swell down one of his rogue strands of hair that flopped over his forehead moments ago.

She doesn’t respond as she watches and Harry begins to worry more. Her eyes seemingly unfocused, her shivering, and her silence. He thumbs over the apple of her cheekbone and finally breaks her reverie. The droplet splashing between them without her as its audience.

“C’mon,” he tugs her hand now to bring her upstairs.