#edit (important to mention) my teeth itch now

[paradoxbeta]

was looks to the moon born with the tooth gap or did she get that from somewhere and just kept it

that is a really good question actually because

id never thought about that before, i just went "hee hoo toof gap pretty" one day while drawing her and never gave it a second thought. i think she was just created that way because she has it in all of the pre-collapse artwork i have of her. that or she got it via fidgeting by putting her tongue between her front teeth because i used to do that when i was bored and i know that doing that enough times can move things around. but that would imply the iterators (from moons time at least) have fleshy/manipulatable gums which wouldnt be a very sensical design choice because all that really does is invite the possibility of teeth becoming crooked or coming loose. ((to be fair, i do already have a handful of other crooked-teeth iterators: srs's snaggletooth comes to mind first but my early sliver of straw design also had brace-like metal over her teeth, and im toying with the look of misaligned or broken teeth for some iterator ocs.)) but then if lttm wasn't able to do it herself, then i would have find a reason why the ancients would have made her this way when iterator puppets are designed to be palatable and straight teeth tends to be the most safe/neutral choice. so my closest guess is that either the alignment of teeth isn't as big a deal in ancient culture (which would make sense, im sure body modification extends to doing funky dental stuff) and/or she was made with a tooth gap for the same reason i made her with a tooth gap: because it looks nice and makes her feel more like a person and less like a flawless corporate computer interface, which is easier to talk to. however even though it should not be possible i really like the idea of lttms tooth gap being something she somehow did herself because it kind of gives it personality. auuugh *enters the torture nexus*

[dootznbootz]

You mentioned Telemachus having sharp Naiad teeth. Imagine if he used those teeth to take out all the suitors. With Odysseus’ help of course.

Sadly, would probably leave him open and vulnerable to attacks :'D So he probably wouldn't unless really desperate.

Sharp naiad teeth are more for "I can rip through any fish scale and bone and be fine." as an adaptation for water life than for battles between mortals. Odysseus watches so lovingly seeing his Water wife and Water son devour whole fish.

Telemachus is around 37.5% Naiad and he'd probably be using water from the canals to trip suitors. Even then, he can only work with a certain amount of water. Penelope has MUCH more control and she's kind of there as well. Imagining Odysseus seeing a bunch of dudes drowning, only to realize it's not Telemachus, itches my brain. He starts cackling and gets a special bloodlust when he realizes she's "there". It's another reason why he's so hurt when she firsts rejects him as "We were basically flirting during our dinner, you drowned some suitors. You KNOW it's me! WHY?!" but uh...He doesn't know that Athena had to tell Penelope not to drown the "stranger". She was mostly trying to make sure Telemachus stays safe and along with you know, killing the suitors now that she has "permission". There's more to it but yeah lkasjdf sounds nuts but I think it'll work.

Penelope looked him in the eye during that dinner, tears still damp on her cheeks, and says "You say all these things but My Odysseus, who fidgets with his clothing and who bounces his knees in time with my own, would never leave me weeping while he sits. He would throw his arms around me!" "...He would if he could." Then he goes to sleep outside and she's pissed and he's a mess. :D The "Beggar" looks nothing like her husband but he moves and talks just like her love, his voice unsteady as he praises her. What the fuck is going on? Basically she knows it's him but also is like "Why would he keep himself from me?" Like how Odysseus tells HER during the treebed scene

And Athena is editing her fanfiction document for these two as "You little fucks weren't supposed to be doing this! I kept your tears from falling, Odysseus, why do you have to be such a sap?! Shit! Back to the storyboard."

Anyways!!! :D

Naiads usually don't bite people unless they feel they have no other option. Odysseus is an exception as he does have ONE "special bite" from his special wife because he's a little freak who wanted it rdtfygufgh. Penelope bit Palamedes on his forearm as he held her back as he took Telemachus from Anticlea and Penelope rushed after him. Odysseus is haunted by the image of both his wife and son sobbing while her teeth are stained with blood. He gets sick pleasure seeing that scar on Palamedes' arm before he gets him killed.

And as a whole, there are actually a couple "rules" Naiad born soldiers have to follow that are very important within war.

With battle, even if you ARE naiad born, you have to ask the river god "Hey, this is getting really bad. Can we work together for this?" As River gods are usually like "I am here for your consumption, bathing, and healing. You will not use my water for violence." (Why Achilles gets his ass kicked and why Naiad born soldiers don't just "drown people")

If someone/something is attacking your river or YOU, like an animal wreaking havoc (like the big catfish! :D ) or a person trying to kill a single naiadborn, then self defense is fine. Daphne got turned into a tree because Apollo outranks nymphs and the river gods. River gods don't fuck with Olympians but he still wanted to protect her.

Though once you have your own water source (canals, vase full, etc.) you're technically free to do whatever you want with it. (Penelope loves this loophole 😈 The Palace waters are hers. and Telemachus' too but you know.)

With the war aspect, however, there are so many wounds that are like "wow, you probably have an extreme infection or should've killed you eventually". BUT it's convenient when you have Naiad born soldiers that can "heal you up" (Penelope's brothers are part of Menelaus' army btw!!! :D )

It's kind of why it's become a "If a man is still alive when they're picked up and rescued, that doesn't mean shit. A naiad born person will fix it before they even bleed out. If they don't die instantly, they just come back."

Same with fighting among nymphs btw.

Even if you're naiad born, you can't just act like how you do at home with a foreign river. Feel free to jump and swim and wet your scales but stay out of their business. If the naiads of Athens decided to punish people by poisoning the waters, you, as a Spartan naiadborn, do not meddle! Can't start purifying it to give to the citizens. Maybe for your OWN people who came with you on the foreign expedition if you ask but don't meddle with foreign river problems. Each culture is different.

Took a while for Penelope to adjust and improve relations with Ithaca naiads because of this. And when Tyndareus and Icarius were exiled, it was a culture shock for them as they're 50% naiad. Even with non-naiadborn, it's a shock. Menelaus and Agamemnon were in Sparta during their own exile had to adjust too, though Menelaus definitely fit right in. (I'm so excited to write about 18-20 year old Agamemnon's first interaction with 9 year old Penelope. It's a misunderstanding at first but it's wholesome. Spoiler: Have you ever been in a place and then a random little kid starts talking to you and then they give you a leaf or something? YEAH >:D It's that but sillier. It's cute.)

Honestly, I'm playing around a lot with the whole "Sparta being very military-focused" thing as it's really kind of fun to think of people having children with naiads/naiadborn as somewhat of a strategy. If you can't have demigods, nymph born children are still better than fully mortal ones. It's why there ARE so many naiad born and why interactions are basically informal in Sparta in my fics compared to other places. Like Ithaca.

I got really offtrack but in conclusion: There are special rules and customs of each freshwater source. And how battles are affected by it. Telemachus doesn't bite any of the suitors but probably uses water to help him and to heal his and Eumeaus' wounds.

[ay4kshalatus]

you and me, against the world [a wanda!y/n x five fic]

spoilers tua s3!!

reader is pronounced you/she

edited!!!, important notice 📢

after a small trip with five and klaus, you all went straight back to the hotel to form a plan for another upcoming apocalypse with the other siblings and it looks like someone woke up on wrong side of the bed.

“a feeling? aren’t you retired?” allison commented. you know where this is going.

“you know, you and your wife can’t drag us through hell because you have an itch only an apocalypse can scratch and then expect us to deal with the fall out. you’re not the boss.” you scoffed.

you understand her loss but what you find unpleasant is she made it sound like five is the blame for not having the correct calculations of stopping the apocalypse.

you bite your lip, trying to not bark back. five decided to step in and do the talking before you go on berserk.

“fine, we’re the messenger, and we’re telling you something terrible is coming.” he said, silently begging her to not do anything reckless.

“then let’s go attack the sparrows, get the briefcase , and go home.”

she’s ridiculous. you know what she’s planning. you didn’t invade her mind but she’s easy to read. you gently push five out of your way and confront your outburst to her.

“you expect that to be easy? time travelling is like programming. one crucial mistake and the whole shit start to crumble. killing our doppelganger to fix everything can make another time paradox so don’t put your grief to this situation. ”

the others, especially viktor was shocked. you all agreed to not mention anything about allison’s troubles but you can’t take it. the siblings have its own business to deal with, you know that. trauma, grief, depression, et cetera. but they have to realize that they need to think carefully of this situation.

it is so unfair for them to give all the blame to five when he’s almost in verge of breaking down from the failures. he then quickly added, putting you behind him.

“this is our home allison. accept it.” he shoot daggers at her.

a batch of cue sticks fall off the ground, making a clattering noise and luckily broke the tension in the room.

“wait, where’s lila?”

“that’s it! i’m telling your mom.” diego tried to stop stanley from his shenanigans. when five seeing the kid, he got an idea.

“shower. i told her she could stay with us.” the kid answered.

without wasting any time, you and five head to the said location.

thankfully five remembered that he’s married to you and know the code so he lets you do the job. you enter the room cautiously, sighted lila taking her time to bathe.

“ahh… did your briefcase broke?” you teased the female.

“two of them. looks like it. now i can’t send that little gremlin back to merlin for a while.” lila slowly grabbing the dagger out from her bag.

“and looks like your guy is a gentleman to let his woman fight another woman that’s naked.”

when she’s about to throw the weapon at your way, you’re no longer there. you teleported behind her and went to grab her dagger but she copied your powers and launches you off the wall.

you’re quick to react when she appeared in front of you and about to stab you, stopped her by your force-field.

infusing another psionic energy into your other hand, you mirrored her actions of knocking her off.

her reflex didn’t save her when your runes are activated and keep her from using any spells on you. you use your telekinesis on her, holding her form on the air. lila seems impressed of your performance and scared at the same time.

"well, it's fun till it lasted... quite fast."

lila gritted her teeth. “you’re a monster.”

you just chuckled. “you can’t copy everything at once so deal with it.”

once she’s all covered, you take five in.

“looks like you’re no match for my wife after all.” he mocked the blonde.

“i know i know. i’d forgotten how much I hate you, you puny little turd.” she spat back.

“the feeling’s mutual, lila. as much as i’d love to bully you, we have bigger concerns than you.” five sits on the panel of the bath tub beside you.

“yeah? like what?”

“the grandfather paradox. it’s happening…”

you three got out of the bathroom and greeted by diego and stanley. as lila and diego are having a discussion, you and five gossips on their back.

“wanna bet 10$ that stanley is not their son?” you snicker.

"i think i already know what’s behind those curtains.”

after tries of teleporting to your old workhouse, you guys somehow landed on the blanket of white.

“oh, brilliant idea, lila. welcome to the ice age!” five complained.

but you can’t believe that you three landed on different place, looking behind you and seeing the familiar structure that is covered by thick snow.

“shit..” both of you and five chanted and head to the building.

“holy shit.” now the three of you said in chorus.

everything inside is a disaster. it’s quite impossible to believe the commission turned out like this.

“the paradox might have affected them and the run of time and boom. winter.”

lila looks at you, perplexed at your explanation.

“is that possible?”

five handed you his jacket, which you deny his offer since you’re wearing leather one.

“we stopped tracking what was possible a long time ago.”

then you add. “nothing’s impossible.”

taking another step, a debris of broken planks fall off from the ceiling. you quickly grab five back to his spot.

"we better get moving. i’ll check the infinite switchboard.” he eyes landed on yours, thanking you and heading up on stairs.

“i’ll follow” you catch up to him. lila taking a stroll on different way.

“and i’ll check herb’s office. little cockroach would survive anything.”

she stopped midway and take a glance on the couple’s way.

“bye.”

…

“see you.”

"later."

“miss you two.”

“ok?”

“that’s weird.”

you two entered the switchboard. the state is much the same. a freaking disaster. you inspect around, there’s nothing inside but there’s an operator that’s still functional. five check it, only to see herb recording the situation.

“there’s been a rip in the space-time continuum. it’s swallowing everything.”

you noticed his agitated form, looking at the screen intensely.

“…everyone, they all gone. i’ve tried everything! i don’t know what else to do. the timeline is collapsing.” herb looks around, the place slowly disintegrates as the lights from the celling starting to fall off.

“this is… the end.” and with that, he’s gone.

you look at your husband, worried that he might blame himself for this. the whole time travel is not easy to do but you all going to make it. both of you know that. but five needs to be reminded sometimes.

“this is just like a bunch of bureaucratic bullshit. there’s no clear directives in here about crisis management.”

“the commission doesn’t have solid ones because all they do is to run away this kind of problem.”

“fair point.”

lila looks at the two of you, amused. do you guys really hate the handler this much?

the three climbs on the stairs, looking for the operations bunker. “you know, lila. we shouldn’t even be here. i was… we’re… we’re out. we’re done with this bullshits, and yet here we are, swept back into the chaos.” five ranted and scratching his neck a little bit hard.

“why can’t we just escape this hellhole?”

“because you two love it.” lila nonchalantly replied and she didn’t expected to receive different reactions.

“excuse me?”

“my bad.”

the couple said at the same time. staring to each other confused but shrug it off. “come on face it, the apocalypse problems are the only things that gets your heart pumping.”

five is annoyed and scratches his neck even more. “i don’t know why people keep saying that. we don’t actually like chaos. we don’t want them. we don’t want disorder. we…”

he stares at you as you minding your business, looking around to this messed up place. “we want retirement.” he continued.

lila laughs. “yeah, right. what? a normal life with y/n, creating a family, groceries and taxes. you would die of boredom.”

the next reply makes u stupefy. “to be honest, i've been planning about it before if only we lived on a normal life. having my own family isn’t that bad and you’re not exactly cut out for domestic bliss either.” your husband said while looking at you with a soft expression then head in the hallway.

you're surprised that five was thinking about marriage concerns and other lovely shits. looks like you hit something on his head. you froze on your spot, face in deep red unlike lila with different expression.

“’course i’m bloody not. thank god!” she exclaimed.

*beeeeppp* “unauthorized access.”

“oh shit..” five keeps scratching his neck and sweating badly. you can guess the identity of the person you all been looking for and you’re not ready for it. you gently push lila away and try to open the bunker.

“don’t worry, no one’s gonna come and get us.” then there’s a small light coming out of the device, scanning your eye. the result is still the same.

“unauthoritized access.”

“hey! did my essential rights got taken?” you complained. you’ve went into this room before but it’s empty at first. five goes beside you and takes his turn.

“let me try.”

…

“access granted.”

‘oh dear.’ you thought. entering the room once more, you spot a familiar old man with body is inside of the iron lungs. your hypothesis appears to be correct after all.

“i was expecting more man and less… can.”

“five… look.” you called him out to see the discovery.

he understand the situation, slowly approaching the man and try to recognize the appearance. “it can be..” his eyes widen in surprise.

“what’s wrong?” lila stares at you two. by the looks you two have, you may be familiar to this elderly male.

“it’s me.” five said. you don’t know what to react. amused, worried, astonished. it all written on your face.

“the irony..” you mumbled. your statement can’t help lila and laughs harder.

five’s old self explained bit information about the apocalypse since you three already know the kugelblitz. “so? how do we fix it?” he asked while you’re busy trying to read his mind. old five’s aging brain have no use and only receiving the same amount of information.

he wheezes, trying to breath properly. “you don’t.”

you're baffled at his reply. is this the five you know? since when did he gave up on saving the world.. saving his family? well, this five before you is 100+ year older and from the future. the future is unpredictable.

five also have the same thoughts but his patience starting to run thin. “if you created all of this, then you must have created a solution.” he tries his best not to lash out on his 100 year old doppelganger.

“he didn’t created all of this but must be preparing for this cause.” you theorized. he didn't mean to give up all of our hard work on saving everyone, right? maybe there's something that you guys need to know? you hoped.

“ahh… i almost forgot about you. your end is one of the reason why i’m still alive until now.” end? what end? what is he talking about?

the old five starts coughing again. “all that will be left is… oblivion.”

the more information he provide, the more you realized there’s something behind his words. oblivion. hotel oblivion? is the hotel connected to all of this? you know for sure reginald isn’t a type of man to build a random hotel as what you know about that man.

before you dive in to your deep spiral of thoughts, you noticed five’s fast breathing when the old him is dead afterward. this is your cue, gesturing lila to leave you two alone and the blonde understood the sign.

your heart clutched of seeing him so devastated. he’s been holding it for almost a month and only asked for a small break and deal with the apocalypse later. this is why you thought of doing this whole shit yourself just this once. but of course, he always have a way to find out.

you slowly approach him as he’s in deep thought, putting his head on your shoulder and hug him close. no words needed to be shared. just the presence of each other is enough.

“i’m so tired…” five mumbles on your embrace. you kissed on the crown of his head while messing with his hair. maybe taking a minute or two isn't that bad when the apocalypse is only few days away.

“i can see that.”

ahhhhskvxgjhvjsjjs five really needs a break and reward him with kisses and cuddles. mans been working straight 20+ days. •́ ‿ ,•̀

reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!! -pamcake

[ynscrazylife]

Hey !! i love ur writing style <3 i wanted to ask you if you could write a loki x reader where the reader and loki have been best friends for a long time now and after he faked his death in tdw he knocks on their door and the reader and loki have an argument and then they kiss?? maybe like the scene in crimson peak “you lied to me” “i did” “you told me you loved me” “i do” smth similar? :)

The Greatest Deception | loki angst fluff fic

Summary: After Loki reveals himself to be alive, Y/N has some choice words to say. Loki has a question.

Authors Note: Thanks for requesting! Also, I want to say that I fully support and acknowledge that Loki is genderfluid. Seeing as this fic was requested with Loki having he/him pronouns, I will use those pronouns. (Also, I didn’t know which pronouns you wanted me to write since you mentioned they for the reader but typically I use she/her, so lemme know if you want that edited)

Request to be on a taglist (or multiple) here! (Taglists are at the end of the fic)

MCU Masterlist #1 | MCU Masterlist #2 |  Main Masterlist 

PSA: Do NOT copy, steal, translate, plagiarize, republish, etc any of my works on Tumblr or any other platform. Also, do NOT claim any of my works as your own. All of these works are either requests I’ve gotten that people have wanted me to write or original ideas I’ve had for works. If you happen to take inspiration from anything I’ve written and want to write something inspired by that, please a) ask me first and b) IF I say yes, credit me as inspo in your post by tagging me and link whatever work of mine that inspired you. Thanks.

header c @/someiconsx

“Lady Y/N?”

The voice was muffled through the door and the one in question rolled from her side and onto her stomach as she laid in her bed. A low groan emitted from the creature whose limbs were tangled in the blanket and sheets.

. . .

“Lady Y/N?”

A short knock-knock accompanied the repeating words, and Y/N had a feeling of that the lovely woman who she’d love to talk to at any other time wouldn’t stop until she replied.

She pulled herself into a sitting position, smoothed over her unruly hair, and finally pulled the covers up so her pajamas wouldn’t be seen and called out, “Come in!”

The woman opened the door and sent her a sheepish smile. “The All-Father has requested your present, ma’am,” she informed her.

Y/N furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. “Do you know the reason as to why?” She quizzed.

The woman spared a quick, darting glance at Y/N’s window. “Well, the All-Father has requested all of the palace’s royals and higher-ups to gather in the courtyard. He is gathering local citizens for a, ah, play, and more would like, in this words, his ‘most esteemed confidants to enjoy,’,” she answered, subtly bouncing her weight from one foot to the other.

Y/N thought for a moment. This was the first time she was hearing that the King was holding a play — not to mention, the fact that the last play (if you could even call it that, because by Heimdall’s recounting it was horrific) was held before any of the children of Odin were born.

Just thinking about that caused a twinge to hit her stomach and for it to twist up. Loki. Odin’s youngest child and the one that had most recently left her, as he sacrificed herself to save his vaillant brother, Prince Thor. It had been weeks, maybe even a month, since Y/N had heard the news and had been resorted to a lonely, saddened version of herself. Loki was her best friend, the person she trusted more than anything and—no, no, who was she kidding? He’s more than that, and he deserves to be remembered as more than that by her.

He’s also the one that she loves, and has loved for at least the past year when she realized it.

Nonetheless, she had taken many steps to get through the grief of Loki’s dead — as had his father — and she wasn’t going to let all her hard work crumble down on one, singular thought.

“Very well, then. Please inform the All-Father that I will be there shortly, thank you,” she said.

The woman nodded and bowed her head before exiting.

Once the door had been fully shut and she could hear footsteps no more, Y/N crossed over to her window and drew back the curtains, not having missed the look at said window.

The sunlight poured into her room but the stage was indeed sent. Rows of fine chairs sat with rows of fine people in them. In front, Odin stood with a red curtain drawn closed behind him. His arms were gesturing wildly and he had a big grin on his face as he gave his speech.

Despite the curiosity that itched into Y/N’s face, she pushed it aside. She had never seen the King conduct himself in such ways, but alas, everyone grieved differently. So, she closed the curtains and got dressed for the day ahead.

— — — — — — — — — — — — —

The moment Y/N stepped outside, she could’ve sworn that there was already long beads of sweat trailing down her skin. She let out a huff but journeyed on towards the courtyard, as this formal royal wear was necessary and she had no intention of pissing off Sir Snotty-Dickhead — as she called him (he had some fancy and long name she couldn’t remember, in her defense) — who was Odin’s right hand man.

By the time she got there, Odin was still rambling on with his speech, but his sudden notice of Y/N saved the guests from boredom.

“Aha, the guest of honor! Lady Y/N, herself,” Odin announced, bringing his hands together in a clap and gesturing for her to come toward him.

She betrayed herself and her cheeks involuntarily reddened as all eyes laid on her. She approached Odin and curtsied out of respect, but her mind was full of wonderings of why she, of all, would be singled out.

“I’m sure you all know who Lady Y/N is, yes?” He began, briefly pausing before continuing. “If you sadly do not, let me tell you. Lady Y/N had been a friend of the royal family, specifically my child, Loki’s—” the name caused her to suck in a sharp breath, “—and she was granted the title of Lady to uphold the image of the palace and to complete very important Asgardian duties.”

Once he stopped talking and the crowd clapped politely, Y/N took the opportunity she was presented before it’s door could close and quickly went and sat in her seat, the only seat not occupied yet, in the front row.

Odin then began speaking against whilst he walked to the side, “Speaking of my dear child Loki, this play that has been put together is one designed to honor him and his heroic sacrifice. Without further ado . . . ” He let his words trail off, and the red curtain pulled open.

Y/N’s face contorted into surprise at the words, not expecting this to take place. Again, she reminded herself, everyone grieved differently, so she decided to give it a chance. However, as the play went on, she was quick to realize that honoring Loki wasn’t the intention here. The horrid acting could be excused but Odin himself allowing this mockery of how Loki died? Of how he sacrificed himself? Well, with every second that passed, her face heated more and more — and not due to the sweat — and she grit her teeth, just barely refraining from yelling.

The worst part for her came though when the actor who played Loki did a dramatic reenactment of his sacrificed and the actor who played Thor did the worst fake crying ever. Y/N turned to the others, expecting them to be just as enraged as she was, but was floored to find that no—they were laughing. And not just that, but Odin was having himself a chuckle as well!

Her fingers tightly gripped the edges of her chair and she forced herself to look straight ahead, just about able to hold in her tears until the play was over and the actors bowed.

— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Afterwards, while everyone was standing and giving Odin rounds and rounds of praises, Y/N stayed rooted in her seat. She couldn’t just let this go by as if it were nothing, but she was struggling to compose herself to confront him.

After a couple minutes of going back-and-forth, she decided, screw composure. She didn’t have to be composed. She was allowed to be angry.

So, she stood up and marched straight for him.

“All-Father,” Y/N said through grit teeth, forcing herself to curtesy, “I request your company in private, if I may.”

It took Odin a moment to tear himself away from accepting his latest comment, but the way he quickly glanced over at Y/N, she knew that he had not noticed — or perhaps he did not care — the state she was in.

“My apologies, Lady Y/N, but should I depart now, I fear I shall upset my comrades!” Odin said, ending his comment in a boastful joy, which resulted in laughter and cheers.

He didn’t wait for her response before engaging in another conversation, and Y/N’s lips remained tightly shut until she decided to just go forth and let her stuffed-up emotions out.

“Fine. I will say it in front of everyone, then!” She said, firmly and loudly, gaining everyone’s attention. “That was a pathetic excuse to remember Loki . . . It was an insult! You mocked him, your own child! How could you even— I . . . I just don’t understand . . . He sacrificed himself for your son and for Asgard and this is how you repay him? God. I expected much, much more from you for him because I . . . Let’s just say that we both love Loki, in our own ways, and I-I . . . I am very disappointed.”

Wanting to flee from the tears that were now streaming down her face and from the silence that was pounding, she turned around and she walked away, the realization that she had just confessed her love in front of everyone hitting her.

“Lady Y/N!”

Odin’s words stopped her in her tracks, but she did not turn around. Just stood. Waited.

“He told Thor, before he passed, that he, uh . . . He loved you, too.”

Y/N stared straight ahead, her hand jutting out to grab the pillar next to her to steady herself.

Loki loved her?

She didn’t stop the tears from coming this time. She let them, and the sobs, overwhelm her.

— — — — — — — — — — — — —

“Lady Y/N?”

The voice and the knock were much more stiff than they were this morning.

“Come in.”

Her response was devoid of emotion, much more curt than it was this morning.

The same woman turned the door’s knob and opened it, sending Y/N, who was curled up on her bed, head nestled into her knees, a wary look. “The All-Father has requested your presence at his quarters,” she said.

Y/N let out a small huff, in no mood to talk to the King after what had happened. She forced her head up and gazed boredom at the woman. “Is it an emergency?” She deadpanned.

The woman looked around the room and by her lack of response, Y/N knew that either she didn’t know or didn’t want to say.

She sighed. “I will be there shortly,” she said.

The woman nodded and wordlessly left.

After she did, Y/N stood up and went in front of her mirror, taking in her appearance. Her once brushed hair was now frizzy and in knots and her eyes were puffy and red. Angrily, she practically tore the hairbrush through her hair and dabbed at her eyes with makeup until the red could be seen no more. She had no intention of letting him see her this way.

— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Screw formalities, Y/N thought, as she walked straight into Odin’s quarters which composed of a small living room, a bedroom down the hall, an office, and a bathroom. She didn’t bother to curtsy or announce her presence.

When he finally and gradually turned around from whatever he was doing, a slight look of shock crossed his features, before he replaced it with a warm smile. “Y/N!” He said, but quickly corrected himself, “Lady Y/N.”

Y/N frowned and crossed her arms. “I hope that you have called me here to apologize,” she said, an icy edge to her voice.

Odin nonetheless looked at her kindly. “In a way, yes,” he vaguely said, before a magical transformation underwent before her.

His wrinkles disappeared, his beard disappeared, his grey hair turned jet black, and his clothes transformed into his usual wear.

No longer was the All-Father standing in front of her, but her best friend. The one she loved.

Taken by utter shock, Y/N instinctively stumbled back, her jaw dropping and her eyes widening. “What the hell is this?” She gasped out, not wanting to believe it at first. It was a cruel trick — it must be! There was no way.

“It’s me,” the mischievous deity said, a rare softness to his voice and in his eyes. He took a step forward, but then stopped himself. “I never died, I only impersonated my father.”

Y/N stared at him, angry tears coming to her eyes once more. “How?” She forced out, thinking that maybe she was dreaming. “Why?”

Loki looked around, slightly dumbfounded, as if he hadn’t expected anyone to question him. “I wanted the throne,” he answered, as if it were obvious and a perfectly acceptable reason.

Y/N stared at him as if he had grown two heads. To her, he might as well have.

“Oh, really? So you take over your father, trick everyone - me, your brother - into believing that you’re dead, you banish Sif . . . All because you wanted the goddamn throne?” She cried.

The cluelessness left his eyes and replaced itself with guilt, regret pooling inside him. He looked down, shoulders falling with a sigh.

“I’ve felt guilty tricking you ever since it had all went down. I wanted to tell you but, honestly, a part of me didn’t think you’d be that upset over my death. But you were really, so upset and I . . . I was lost. I didn’t know what to do. All I wanted to do was hug you and tell you that it was fine, that I was here, but I thought I’d screw up your emotions and hurt you even more,” he admitted.

Y/N just looked at him, her frown growing deeper. “That’s an awful excuse,” she hissed out, words laced with venom.

Loki immediately snapped his head up to look at her and his gaze held desperateness. “It’s not an excuse,” he said quickly. “It shouldn’t be. I’m . . . I’m so sorry. The last thing I ever wanted to was to trick you, and . . . I did. But today was the final straw. I couldn’t continue like that.”

Y/N took a step forward, having an inner battle in herself on whether or not to forgive him. “You lied to me,” she reiterated bluntly.

Loki nodded guiltily. “I did,” he agreed in a small voice.

She took a pause, taking in a deep breath. “You told me you loved me,” she added.

There was a brief moment of silence before Loki said, in the same small way but a little more firm now, “I do.”

Y/N kept walking, not even fully sure or convinced of what she was doing, but knowing that she needed to do it, until she was standing just inches away from him. They looked at each other for a couple moments, neither saying anything, until Y/N wrapped her arms around Loki. He returned the embrace.

“Never do that to me again!” She yelled through the tears that were now coming. God, was she tired of crying. Especially today.

Loki hugged her tighter, his own tears falling. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and repeated that over, and over, and over again. “I’m an idiot.”

Y/N leaned back and cupped his face with her hands. The love she had for him overwhelmed her pain, and more than anything she needed him now. Besides, she could see his guilt. She could see the truth shining in his eyes. He wouldn’t do anything like this again, because he loved her. And she loved him.

“At least you’re self-aware,” she whispered through a sniff, taking a page out of his book with her joking remark. Before he could quip back (and she was sure he’d have an excellent one), she leaned forward and captured his lips in his a kiss. Loki smiled against her lips and wrapped his arms around her waist.

Permanent Taglist: @natasharomanoffismywife @hehehehannahthings @paulawand @blackbat2020 @cerberus-spectre @marrymemcgrath @celestialbarnes @kathryndimitrescu @snipyloulou @big-galaxy-chaos @cc13723things @ycfwmalise14 @unexpected-character  (could not tag)  @passionswift

MCU Taglist: @stephanieromanoff @summerlovingbaby @ineffablebean @okkulta @procrastinatingsapphictrash @prettysbliss @caseyfish @sarahp-stan @thewidowsghost @basiclesbianbitch @mycosmicparadise @kidswhofightmonsters @xtraordinaryfangrl @peggycarter-steverogers @username23345 @ima-gi--na-tion @yori-nakajima @hi-i-1 @mmmmokdok @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @mads-weasley @tenaciousperfectionunknown @afraid-to-be-me @lilclownx @acertainredhead @natromanoffxox @lilymurphy03 @thanossexual @avengersz-biotch @kozumekoi  @mjaudrey @un-name-d @leyannrae @buckyandstevesbitch @kuzomekou-blog​

[palbabor-writes]

So, uh, I got excited with this ask

Anonymous said:

so what if, and I’m just spitballin’ here, you wrote a little something for Tomura, a jealous!reader x Tomura, perhaps? Ik there probably wouldn’t be an actual situation where somebody would try to steal him away or anything but just a little something on the reader seeing something that wasn’t what it looked like and Shiggy kind of reassuring her in his own special way? 😌 pls &thank you sm in advance, but you of course absolutely don’t have to write it if you don’t want to (: love your work!

Pairing: Tomura Shigaraki x Gen!Reader

Warnings: Adult language, angst, jealous feelings, mentions of past relationship and heavy petting, mm, imma say it’s rated T, for the teens and upper betweens

Word Count: 4387

Notes: Lol. I’m pretty sure this was meant to be like, a drabble or head cannon in your mind nonnie. Me, being me, I stretched it out into a freaking fic. I can’t shut uppppp sometimes. First time trying for a Gen!Reader, so hopefully it’s a thumbs up. Not beta edited, so any mistakes are mine, and mine alone.

“O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mock The meat it feeds on.” ― William Shakespeare, Othello

It’s been two months, two freaking months and you’ve hardly gotten two texts strung together, let alone a call, from Tomura. 

While he’s never been what anyone would call a frequent texter, your last message has sat, unread, on his phone for the last 3 days. You know he’s busy, you know he said he’s got shit to take care of, but you can’t help the angry pit of worry that simmers in your gut. He could at least tell you something. Like, hey, I’ll be out of touch for a few days, talk soon. Is that too much to ask? 

Apparently it is.

The two of you have always been a quiet item. Most of the League knows, or at least, heavily, heavily suspects. It’s not like you tried to keep it a secret, it’s just the way you both are. Besides, you usually liked how the arrangement worked.

You’d met him through your job. You worked with Giran as a courier of sorts. Sometimes you’d lug shipments back and forth, sometimes you’d make deliveries. It was one of these deliveries that introduced you to Tomura. He was quiet, sulking toward the back of the bar, but you’d managed to strike up a conversation with him as Compress double checked his requested items. 

He was waspish, sharp. At first, you worried that your questions had only managed to pissed him off. But then, just as you started to chat with another guy in the bar, a snarky fellow, who was covered in some serious, serious burns, Tomura tugs your attention back to him with a pointed question. 

“Can you tell Giran that you’re only one who’s permitted to transport the deliveries to the bar?”

That one query had started a landslide. 

You were summoned to the hideout frequently, practically on the daily after that. Giran just shook his head and asked you not to fall too deep. You didn’t know what he meant then. Two months later you understood his meaning perfectly. 

How could you not fall head over heels for this guy? Fuck, he was so desperate, so wanting, so fucking needy for you. God, you missed it now that you didn’t have it. After the Kamino incident, he’d called on you even more and you loved that you could help him. He honestly seemed, in his own, gruff way, appreciative. 

But, then he’d said he needed to leave the city. 

At first, your contact with each other had maintained some semblance of normalcy. You would text and he would reply. You could call and he would answer. Often, he sounded tired, strained, but every once in a while you could pull a laugh from him and all would feel right with the world. 

Now? 

Now nothing feels right and the only link you have to him is Dabi. He’s the only person in the League that’s responding to your emails or texts. Even Giran isn’t answering anything. That’s not normal either because Giran always, always answers. What the fuck is going on?

It’s starting to feel like you’ll never know. This is mainly due to the fact that Dabi is a shitty, shitty font of information. At first, you’d eagerly taken his calls and texts. In lieu of a tip, you asked him about this mission Tomura was on. He fed you vague, flippant, answers. 

“Tch, this again? I already told you, they’re all fighting this giant. It’s some pet of the doctors.”

“And like I said the last, oh, I don’t know, twelve times, giant makes no sense to me. Can you expand on that a little bit? Like, what the hell does that mean? They’re fighting a fucking giant. Is that supposed to be some kinda bizarro hint? Cuz’ it sounds like you’re giving me shoddy information to get me off your back,” you snap, placing your foot on his box of requested medical kit supplies. 

Dabi practically keeps you on standby now. The guy has gotten more aggressive in the last month, and the heavy price his fire quirk extorts on his body meant he needs a steady flow of burn cream, meds, stitches and pain relievers.

“Fuck, look, I don’t know how else to explain that fucker. I didn’t give a shit about boss man’s little mission to tame him, so the doctor and I worked out something else for me to do. I’m not around those guys right now, I’ve got other things I’m working on. Now give me my shit and get out of my face. Ask Toga about your little fuck buddy, I could give two shits about his well being.” 

“Why follow him if you hate him so much?” God, this asshole is such a prick.

Dabi considers you for a long moment, his vibrant blue eyes lingering on your scowling face. “He’s a means to an end. I’m just here to see this society fall to its knees. Boss wants the same thing, so, for now, this arrangement works for both of us. Now, if I have to ask you to give me my fucking shit one more time, I’m gonna’ singe you where you stand.” 

Sucking your teeth, you kick the box toward him and turn on your heel, slamming his door behind you. If he’s not going to be useful to you, why be useful to him? We’ll see how he likes it when you accidentally miss some of his shipment deadlines. 

You pace out into the night, shrugging your jacket up on your shoulders. If they’re so far out, if they’re fighting something that sounds like an impossibility, why not ask you to bring them some supplies? Why haven’t they reached out to you? 

As you wait for your train, you pull your phone from your pocket, your cold fingers resting against the glass. There’s a missed call from another contact, but no other notifications. You swipe over to your messages from Tomura. Your last text sits, still unopened, unread, uncared for, in his box. It’s not fair, you think, sliding your phone back and pressing your hands into the meager warmth of your pockets.

Tomura used to confide in you and you felt close to him. And not just in a physical sense. At first, the relationship between the two of you was just that, something that eased an itch. But you kept asking him things, liking the soft tone his voice could take on when he lost some of that anger. 

Then, he started to wordlessly ask you to stay a little longer, his arms wrapping around your bare form, holding you against his warmth. It was nice. It was so, so satisfying and now it’s gone. Is this his way of moving on from you? You would have thought that he would have said something. He’s never struck you as someone who hides from a confrontation. So why the radio silence? 

Another week passes and Dabi keeps calling. He’s practically got your entire schedule blacked out now with deliveries, upcoming shipments and transports. What. The. Fuck. It’s gotten so frustrating that you’ve started to waffle on picking up his calls, sending him straight to voicemail. 

“What kinda courier leaves their fucking name on their voicemail? Stop ignoring my calls, (Y/N).”

Yeah, he’s a real charmer. At least he answers your messages though. It’s better than nothing, you keep telling yourself, trying to ignore the gnawing, munching feeling of bitterness that keeps rising. Yeah, Dabi’s gotten to be such a constant in your life that your phone keeps recommending him as a new favorite. 

Would you like to add the contact: Dabi, to your favorites list? No, no you would not.

Then, suddenly, out of the blue, Dabi’s not answering you either. Your first, gut instinct, tells you that he’s likely annoyed with your spotty replies or he’s busy with...”Dabi things”. He’s always reminding you about the oh, so important “Dabi things”. ‘Don’t pester me with your shit, (Y/N). I’ve got something big I’m working on.’ 

But now? Fuck, now you’d kill to hear from him. 

There’s absolutely nothing. No response from Toga, Compress, Spinner, Dabi and most important of all, Tomura. 

He’d finally read your text. After two whole days had passed from the sent time stamp, he’d read it, and then opted to not respond. It stung. You can still feel that tightening emotion of dread, of abject hurt, that had radiated from your chest when you saw that he’d finally looked at your message and then just decided you weren’t worth his time. 

Yeah, after seeing that, the last few days have been nothing but a full tilt boogie of emotions for you. 

This must be a planned thing. Why else would they all coordinate their ghosting. He must have wanted to leave you behind and now, this distance has made it possible. 

He’s been changing a lot lately. 

Even before he left for this, whatever it was, he’d grown in confidence and skill. Fuck, he’d taken on a Yakuza boss and won. He’s becoming a leader, a competent force to be reckoned with. He doesn’t need you to bounce ideas off of anymore. A courier picked up at the start of his career isn’t a necessary piece to add to his collection. 

Yeah, chances are, he’s moved on. He’s out of your reach now and you can’t help the thoughts that rise in the back of your mind. What if he’s found someone else? What if he just got bored with you? Did you put too much thought into this relationship? Well, that question has kinda answered itself. You put way too much into this. You had planned for things, hoped for…

Your phone rings and the noise startles you out of your head. You fumble for your vibrating device and lift the screen up before swiping to answer the call. Oh, it’s Toga. Fingers shaking, you lift the phone to your ear and are so happy to hear her babbling voice. 

She tells you that she’s been meaning to call you, but, gosh, everything has gotten in the way. Plus, she took a bad hit in a fight. Oh, she’s ok, but it’s been a crazy week for her. 

As she chatters about some random series of events that you can’t string together, you let out a long sigh. That coiling that’s been building in your stomach loosens and you’ve never been so relieved in your life. There’s still a chance. Maybe he hasn’t decided to leave you in the dust. Maybe...whoops, Toga asked you something. 

“Deka City? No, I’ve never been there.”

“Oh good, well, I wouldn’t try and go now. Tomura sorta, mmm, crumbled it to bits.”

“What?”

“Oooh, and we’re part of a bigger group now…”

She tells you about something called Gigamantia and their new connections. Apparently, Tomura’s made another step up in the world. Now he’s leading something called Meta Liberation? What is that? It sounds kinda familiar, but where have you heard it?

Toga is winding down her conversation, her voice smoothing out. She promises she’ll answer your other texts soon and emails you a set of coordinates, saying they’ll see you there and clicks off. 

You lower your phone to your lap, biting back the grin that won’t stop spreading across your face. Ok, so, maybe you’re not as abandoned as you thought. Maybe they, no, maybe he still needs you.

******

You found the building alright. It was impossible to miss. This place is massive, fit for an army. The security is tight, so tight that you’d even been screened by a guard at the door. Once they confirm that you are who you say you are, and you know who you say you know, you’re permitted entrance.

Who are all these people?

As you enter the “meeting room,” which is really a space that looks like a concert area, complete with a well lit stage, you’re pressed into the mass of bodies. There must be hundreds of people here and there’s some hulking creature, dozing in the corner. 

Is this that giant Dabi mentioned? You totally thought he was making that shit up. And, wait, wait, is that a pro hero a few spaces away? What is this? Where is the League?

The overhead lights dim and your attention is drawn back to the sage. People are bustling around the elevated area and a plush chair is placed in the center. Looks like the show is about to start. 

A loud, booming voice announces the arrival of a man called Redestro. He must be that long faced guy in the motorized chair and, oh, there he is. 

He walks up slowly, it looks like he’s leaning on something, but you can’t see clearly. The crowd shifts around you and an inordinately tall man is blocking your view. Huffing out a sigh, you try to maneuver yourself to a better vantage place.

He’s seated now, his long legs spread out in front of him. Fuck, he looks both wonderful and terrible, at the same time. Wonderful because it’s Tomura, terrible because he’s covered in bandages and he’s got a brace on his leg. What happened to him? 

Your eyes can’t stop roving over him, trying to drink in everything. He looks like he’s on edge, his fingers clutching at a small slip of paper, as his good leg jiggles against the chair. Why...ah, he’s being introduced. Wait. He’s being introduced as the leader of the Paranormal Liberation Front? So...so all these people...this entire organization...is his to command? 

He clears his throat and you hear his voice for the first time in months. He’s halting at first, but as he continues his speech his tone deepens, strengthens, losing that early hesitation. He sounds good, powerful and confident. 

You tear your eyes away from him and give the crowd a quick glance. They’re enraptured. A few paces away you can hear people whispering to each other, their voices low, awed. 

“He took down Redestro…”

“He’s so young.”

“He’s kinda...I don’t know...handsome.”

“You’re right, he looks regal.”

That coiling, trembling feeling is making a strong comeback. It’s an ugly return and it makes your flesh prickle and cool. He’s left you in the lurch for months and now he’s become some sort of leader, of an entire, what is this...a cult? An organization? An army? How the fuck, would you know? No one, least of all Tomura, has told you anything, about any of this. 

When the address and introductions (the League had made a, uh, flashy entrance) are over, someone comes up and taps you on your shoulder. It’s another one of those security guards. She says you’ve been requested, the League wants to see you. 

She takes you past the stage and down a long hallway. It’s quiet back here and the silence doesn’t soothe your frayed nerves. You’re pointed to a large set of doors and you bite your lip before pushing them open.

Another large room greets you. This one is filled with plush couches, elegantly carved tables and multiple chairs. There’s so much to look at, you don’t even see them at first. No, you hear him before you see him. He’s talking with a tall woman, who is writing down what he dictates, her pen moving rapidly across her paper.

Fuck, you’ve missed his voice. 

It’s quiet now, a little hoarse from his speech and you want to step closer. He’s standing next to some large windows, his back turned to you. He hasn’t even noticed you. What were you thinking? He’s this...God, leader now. What are you? Just a nobody he met when he was still pounding the pavement, looking for anyone who could help their cause, their mission. There’s nothing for you here, he’s…

“(Y/N).” 

Your eyes snap up to his. Tomura has turned, one arm braced heavily on his crutch, and is looking right at you. His eyes are hooded, dark, you can’t get a read on him from here. You want to step closer, but that sickening feeling is falling, like a stone, into your gut. Despite your turbulent emotions, you can’t stop staring at him.

The thick bandages are off and his hair is longer, the white strands hang close to his collarbone now, gleaming and pearlescent. He looks, damn, he looks tired and...what’s that? There’s something dark on his hand, it’s black and it covers three of his fingers. Why is he wearing that half glove, oh, oh no. It’s not a glove you realize, horrified, it's a prosthetic. He’s lost some of his fingers. 

“It took you long enough, come here, (Y/N).” 

His voice has dropped an octave, lingering in that distant tone that he would use when he dragged his lips across your neck, rumbling and murmuring against your skin. He knew that you liked that, he knew that it would make you so desperate for him, your hands pawing at his shoulders, pulling... 

No. He’s ignored you for weeks, no, months. You’re not about to just fall to pieces at his feet, crawling and begging for him to want you. Your eyes latch onto his and you minutely shake your head at his request, fingers squeezing into your palms. 

The woman, noting the tension that’s suddenly entered the room, looks between the two of you, and abruptly makes herself scarce, her heels tapping against the floor as she walks to the door. Once you hear it close behind her you unstick your mouth, your tongue heavy against your teeth.

“Who was that?” you ask, your voice croaking, thick with disuse. You can’t help the question. It tumbles from your mouth before you can stop it. You’d meant to ask him something else, but the query just, pops out, angry and trembling. 

“I don’t know. One of Redestro’s cronies. Why-” His face scrunches abruptly and a wince of pain passes of his features. “Why does it matter?” He finishes, his hand gripping a little tighter against his cane.

“You didn’t have to send for me, you know. It looks like you’ve upgraded everything else, why not me too?”

A scowl echoes across his lips. “What-”

You won’t let him finish his question, you can’t stand it anymore. You also can’t seem to stop. All of the emotions, the anger, the betrayal, the fucking, God, jealous thoughts that you’d slip into, alone in your cold bed. No, you’re not going to back down.

“You didn’t call, you didn’t text, and when you did, finally, manage to remember that I exist, the texts were so far and few between...fuck, sending a letter would have been faster. The only link I had to you was Dabi-”

“What?” He snaps, repeating his question, his red eyes, flashing, gleaming, glaring. “What does he have to do with anything?” His face is set in a deep snarl, his scar lifting along his white teeth. His fingers coil into his crutch, one digit arched away, and he begins the long journey to where you’re stubbornly standing. 

You watch him on bated breath. The sheer excitement of his renewed presence is making you shake. The warring feelings that are rising inside you are too much. It’s too much, it’s, oh...he’s right in front of you now.

“Answer me, (Y/N). What the fuck does Dabi have to do with anything?” 

You gulp. Tomura has never, ever liked you interacting with Dabi. It was that first subtle flirtation between you and the flame user that had set Tomura off in the first place. He had barely given you a second glance that first time you met him, but once your attention wandered over to Dabi, suddenly he was all ears. That animosity grew as time wore on. 

If anything, Dabi took advantage of it. He liked to press you, corner you, it was one of the many things you disliked about him. He was a selfish ass, only manipulating things for his own, twisted amusement. 

It’s a low blow for you to land on Tomura, to play up his own jealousies, but turnabout is fair play, right? 

“He’s the only person I could reach. You want to know who my phone keeps asking me to favorite now? Fucking Dabi. I kept asking him about you, about what was going on, but he never knew.

So, then I tried reaching out to you, directly. But then you decided to conveniently lose my fucking number, or something. You didn’t answer a single thing after that last text I sent you, what, two weeks ago? You didn't call. You didn’t even act like I exist, it-”

“I told you it would be a while.”

“Yeah, a while doesn’t typically mean two months. And how do you come back to me? With a broken leg and, fuck, three missing fingers? What is going on Tomura? You’re a different person now. Do you even want me anymore? You don’t have to ghost me. You could have just told me that you were moving onto bigger and better things. 

Congratulations, by the way. You’re the leader of a cult. Now, you can cut off all those lousy loose ends, like me-”

“You’re jealous.”

His voice has dipped into that low octave again, rasping, deep, and oh, fuck. You sputter at his assessment, your hands clenching into your pants. You need something to tether you, to keep you from reaching for him. You’re angry, remember? He’s left you, all alone, so alone and... 

He’s shifted to lean into you, the warmth of him rolling over you in waves. You can hear his breathing, if you move a little bit closer you could feel it, too. He knows what he’s doing. He’s used this tactic on you before. It’s very effective. His crutch taps him nearer. He’s practically flush against your heaving chest and your eyes flick up to his. 

The red is dark, tempered, and that swirling agitation has left him. He looks…

No, no, he left you for months, he can’t look at you like that. You shake your head, your eyes wincing shut, blocking him from view.

“I’m not...I-I’m not jealous, I was just-”

“Come here, (Y/N). Don’t make me ask you again.”

His new, half prosthetic hand reaches for your neck and traces over your trembling throat, ghosting over you, forcing you to press toward him. Once he’s satisfied you’re not going to reject his touch, he lets the digits tap onto you, gently, slowly, like he’s coaxing you out of your temper. The contrast of cool metal and warm skin makes you gasp, your eyes fluttering open. 

He’s curved over your lips, his white hair drifting softly around your face. Unthinkingly, unquestioningly, you reach for him. Your fingers lace into the silken tendrils and he lets a slow exhale wash over your face. His verdant eyes are so close. They’re fixated on yours, refusing to let you slip from his gaze again. 

You can’t breathe. There’s something else you want to scold him for, but...but his lips are so close. His nose bumps against yours and you bite your lower lip. He’s so warm. He smells nice too. It’s a rich smell, earthy, thick with some enticing aroma that���s all him. It floods your senses and you’re downing, distracted and lost. 

Tomura’s won this little stand-off because you reach for him first. Your fingertips urge him to you, one thumb dragging a familiar trail across the mole on his chin. His lips are chapped, rough, but oh, oh you’ve missed this. 

He lets you lead him, your lips pressing and lifting, planting feather light caresses against him. Your tongue swipes across his lower lip and he groans. It’s a husky, broken sound and it makes you yank at his clothes. His new suit crumples under your hands. You’d almost feel bad, if he hadn’t been such a neglectful ass to you. You’re nipping at him now, your kisses losing that sweet vulnerability.

Tomura approves of this frantic pace and one arm cages against your back, lifting you closer and dragging you against his front. His crutch clatters to the floor, but neither of you have the wherewithal to care. 

Besides, you think happily, you can be his crutch now.

He’s biting and sucking, his teeth drifting from your trembling lips and pressing into your pulse. One particularly hard nip has you arching into him, a gasping whimper on your lips. His tongue laves over the hurt, lulling the nip. 

Your hips instinctually lean into the his and you moan when you feel the hardness that is waiting for you there. Tomura presses back, dipping his nose into the juncture of your shoulder, his lips distractedly kissing against your skin. Your fingers trace down his front again and one hand goes lower still, running along his pants until you find what you’re searching for. 

He growls when you apply just the right amount of pressure and he’s pulling your lips back to his, demanding more. You’re skirting your other hand to the clasp of his belt when someone barges in the door.

Gasping, you start to pull away, trying to turn, but Tomura holds you to him, lifting his chin until it’s resting against your shoulder. He’s glaring out at whomever the fuck is standing in the doorway, but his fingertips are moving against you, pressing and soothing down your fevered skin.

“Hey boss- ah…” Dabi is brought up short by the sight that greets him and you can hear the sneer that he must have thrown Tomura’s way. 

Tomura, for his part, is quiet, content to silently stare down the man who stupidly interrupted him. He turns his head a fraction of an inch, but it’s enough room for him to drag his rough lips against your neck. You quake at the stimulation and hear Dabi let out a barking laugh.

“Ew, well this is fucking disgusting. Looks like the two of you can go back to fucking normal, eh (Y/N)? You and boss man can bone and get all that pent up insecurity out of your-”

“Get the fuck out,” you and Tomura say in unison.

You hear another scoffing chuckle and then the door slams shut.

Notes: The Dabi bits miiiight be in there because I finally got my belated birthday present of his Banpresto figure in today ԅ(≖◡≖ԅ)  

Tags: @spicy-skull, @xwildskullx​, @yixxes​, @ghstmthr​, @evesmores​

*I think that’s everyone for now. If you wanna be added to a list just drop me a line & I’ll get you on the Google Doc: Shigaraki works, Dabi works, Hawks works, BNHA works, All works...works, works. There’s likely more to come, but that’s what I got for now. k byeeee.

[dropssofjupitter]

Red as the Dawn

Pairing: Dramione

Summary: It has been 3 weeks since Hermione Granger died in a freak accident at Malfoy Manor. Consumed by his own grief, Draco blames himself for his beloved’s death, and gives in to the destruction devouring his mind.

Word Count: 3.7 k

Warnings: Angst, mentions of death, mentions of blood, arson

Masterlist

A/N: This is my entry for the Dramione Death Fest on A03 because I am, first and foremost, an angst writer. This fic has not been beta read. Any mistakes or inconsistencies are my fault and mine alone. - I accidentally deleted this fic when trying to edit it, so this is fun

Draco was in tatters.

He was erratic; slashing portraits, throwing plates, burning the hedges that bordered the walkway in front of the mansion. The house-elves avoided him, his own mother, for once, didn’t know how to calm him down.

He spent his days wandering through the mansion, destroying whatever the house-elves had fixed the night before. He went from room to room, upending tables, tearing curtains, ripping apart books.

Each day he reigned over his realm of self-destruction, and each day he paused before one door. He would walk up to it, determination draining from him with every step. Some days he would simply stare at it, and then move on, leaving it untouched. But other days he would let his hand rest on the doorknob, his forehead pressing against the cool wood, and let his memories take him away.

“Honestly Draco, I don’t understand why we can’t just put my study with yours. It’d be much simpler.”

“Because, Granger. Your workspace is absolutely filthy, and I don’t want that mess bleeding onto my side.”

Hermione scoffed, indignant. “It is not filthy.”

Draco stared at her, his hand resting on the doorknob to the room that would henceforth be known as Hermione’s study. “Ignorance is not a good look on you Granger,” he stated simply, opening the door and slipping through before Hermione could throw one of the numerous books overflowing in her arms at him.

She shuffled in after him, a retort that was poised and ready on her lips dying as soon as she saw the room. “Merlin’s beard,” she breathed out, turning in a wide circle.

A mahogany desk sat against one of the walls, a large ornate office chair seated behind it. On the desk sat a nameplate, perched towards the edge and accompanied by fabulously extravagant bookends. Parallel to the desk was an entire wall fitted with four wondrously large bookcases, two of which had already been filled with research books, journals, and memoirs that had previously been in the Malfoy library. Illuminating the entire room was a wall filled top to bottom with windows. Enchanted ivy climbed them from the outside, and multiple house plants hung and floated around the windows. Assorted chairs, benches, and even a couch decorated the remainder of the study, all enchanted to immediately conform to the users body.

Draco would never admit it to her, but he had taken weeks out of his schedule to personally design the study. He had haggled with construction workers over the prices of installation, and had even acquired his mothers help in absolving some of the blood curses placed upon the books that now filled the room.

“Do you like it?” he asked cautiously, hands clasped tightly behind his back in order to hide the nervous twisting of his fingers. His eyes bounced between her eyes, to her hands, to the books about to fall from her arms, and then back to the look of awe on her face. He would do anything in his power to make sure that she always looked as wonderfully happy as she did right now.

“Do I like it? Draco, its stunning!” She replied, a soft, incredulous laugh slipping from her lips.

He nodded his head, looking around the room. “It’s alright.”

She looked back at him, a bright smile lighting up her eyes. “Thank you, truly.”

His heart skipped a beat. His hands stopped twisting. A smile snuck its way onto his face despite his better judgement. “You’re welcome.”

“Draco, darling?” Narcissa called, her hand placed delicately on the staircase railing. “Are you alright?”

Draco’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing and his lips turning into a snarl at the realization that he was interrupted once more. His hand left the door, and he turned sharply on his heel, walking swiftly past his mother in a swirl of black cloaks. “Perfectly adequate,” he replied with a sneer, returning with vigor to his previous path of destruction.

Narcissa sighed, her eyes looking forlornly towards the study. In the background she heard a crash echoing out from the living area. She flinched, hand inches away from the handle, and moved on.

~~~

Draco paced the halls of the manor like a caged animal. He walked, up and down, left and right, until he had patrolled the entirety of the manor over 20 times. Then he moved outside.

His feet slowed, ever so slightly. His breathing evened. And the feeling of an unknown pressure against his chest lifted, just a little. Here, he was free from the endless onslaught of memories. Here, he could relax and relent under the night sky.

His feet led him to the maze that decorated a small portion of the yard, his hands outstretched and brushing against the hedges as he passed them. He inhaled, deep and pure, and let his body carry him to the center of the maze.

There was a small stone bench in the middle, weathered from years of sitting stationary upon the ground. A pond bubbled nearby, magical fish of every variety content to swim in its waters.

Draco sat down on the bench, the tension leaving his body as he tilted his head up to look at the stars that littered the heavens. He closed his eyes, a soft smile perched treacherously on his lips. And then his heart twinged with a memory, and his peace was ruined.

“Draco keep up! You’re going to miss it!” Hermione called out, already yards in front of Draco as she ran frantically through the maze.

“Really Granger, is it that important?” Draco called back, feeling a laugh bubbling to the surface as he watched Hermione get swatted by an overgrown hedge.

“Oh just come on you twat!” She replied, a laugh slipping from her lips as well.

Draco turned the final corner, a goofy grin chiseled onto his face as he took in the scene before him.

Hermione had a muggle telescope set up to the side on the bench, already pointed at the sky and calibrated correctly. Astrology books lay strewn haphazardly around the mini safe haven, and a blanket was laid across the grass no more than a few feet away. She stood behind the telescope, bent at the knees as she peered through it.

She glanced up, her smile returning as she saw Draco. She waved him over to the telescope, excitement seeming to exude from her very being. “Well come on!”

Clasping his hands behind his back, Draco sauntered over, walking as slow as humanly possible.

Hermione, seeing this, waved her arms in exasperation and ran behind him, placing her hands on his back in an attempt to push him forwards. “You absolute prat!”

A deep, low chuckle escaped Malfoy’s mouth as he turned his head to look at her. “Why Granger, whatever do you mean? I’m walking as fast as I can!” He placed one of his hands on his chest and looked at her, appalled. “Are you claiming me to be a dishonest man?” he asked, incredulous.

“Well, I’m certainly not calling you an honest one!” she retorted, still hopelessly attempting to push Draco closer to the telescope.

He laughed again, relenting and continuing willingly towards the contraption. He hummed, contemplating his actions before bending down and peering through the eyeglass. “I don’t see what the excitement is about, honestly. It’s just the sky. We’ve seen it hundreds of times in - oh.” Draco’s thought was cut short as the stars began to rain down, trails of wispy ethereal light painting the inky blackness of the sky in their wonder. He moved away from the telescope, his head instead tilting up to look at the sky without the object’s assistance.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Hermione breathed out, her eyes trained on the sky as well.

Draco looked over at her, his heart beating erratically against his chest as a soft smile creeped onto his face. He watched as the heavens fell in her eyes, as her beauty built cities in his mind and tore down any deities previously known to man. He watched, helplessly, hopelessly, as he fell for her. Mind, body, and soul. “Yeah,” he breathed out, hands itching to intertwine themselves with hers as he watched her face light up. “It is.”

Draco opened his eyes, once again staring up at the stars that littered the heavens. He felt a now familiar ache return to his chest as tears began to blur his vision.

“You always were able to see the beauty in everything,” he whispered to himself, eyes wandering down to the corner of the stone bench. His hands ghosted over the initials carved there only weeks before. H.G. Hermione Granger. “Even in a monster.”

He felt a stray tear begin to slide down his cheek, and he quickly wiped it away, standing abruptly and walking towards the exit of the maze. Before he left, however, he turned. Gazing upon the place that had been so painful for him to exist in. Without a second thought, he lifted his wand, eyes staring at the cursed stone bench as he set the haven on fire.

He saw his mother run out of the mansion moments later, collapsing to her knees as she saw the destruction that her son had wrought, saw his true nature. He walked past her, pausing just behind her, and turned his head. She looked back at him, tears in her eyes along with an emotion that caused Draco to grit his teeth in anger. Pity.

He didn’t want, nor did he need his mother’s pity. He turned sharply, walking back into the darkened mansion and slamming the door behind him. Let her watch the wretched garden burn. Let her inhale the ash with every cry, and scream for the house elves as she desperately tried to put out the flames that he had created. He was done receiving her pity. And he was done avoiding his own.

With his anger rising and his emotions high, Draco stalked up to the study that he had avoided for so long. A concentration of magic that Draco hadn’t even known existed within him burst towards the door in his high emotional state and knocked it off its hinges. Without a second thought, Draco stepped into the room.

His mind went blank. His eyes took in the room, a thin layer of dust covering the objects. He saw photographs of him and Hermione decorating the walls, pictures of her parents, the plants that she had meticulously cultivated for so long in order to test their in a new sleeping drought. His eyes roamed over the bookcases, overflowing with double and sometimes triple stacked books, scraps of parchment sticking up from where she had found something of note in her research. Quills were set about in no particular order in the room, essentially guaranteeing that she would be able to have one handy at all times, just in case.

Draco inhaled, and his face crumpled. It still smelled like her.

The intoxicating scent of honeysuckle and cedar that he had come to know so well was stuck in the room, circulating over and over with nowhere to go. It filled his senses, overwhelming his mind and making everything else . . .muddled. He tried to take a step backwards, but his legs were weak. He stumbled.

His eyes slid over to her desk, and his breath caught in his throat.

A letter was perched on the edge of it, caught in between the two bookends that he had gifted her long ago. His name was written on the front in her messy handwriting. Hesitantly, he reached out towards it, his fingers smoothing back the folds in the envelope as he stared at it. Had this letter been here for him this whole time?

He flipped it over and was face to face with the glaringly red seal on the envelope. He dropped it.

Draco looked down at her body, convulsing on the floor. Red bloomed on her stomach, spiraling and twisting in intricate patterns as it soaked through her clothes. He had said many times that Hermione looked ravishing in red, but not this kind of red. This red was hot, and dark, and sticky. This red drained the color from her face every time it grew more vibrant.

He rushed over to her, falling to his knees and sitting in the puddle of her blood that had harrowed him so. His mind was racing, or was it numb? He couldn’t tell. He pulled out his wand and hoarsely spoke a healing spell. “Vulnera Senentur.” Nothing happened. Frantic, Draco tried it again, his voice stronger now. “Vulnera Senentur!” Nothing.

Hermione weakly opened her eyes, moving her lips in an attempt to speak.

“Shh,” Draco hushed her. “Save your strength Granger. You’ll be at St. Mungo's in no time.” His thumb caressed her cheek as he turned his head towards the door, calling for his house elf. “Winky! Winky I need you!”

Desperation filled his being. He couldn’t apparate her, or he would run the risk of splinching her. None of his healing spells or diagnostic checks were working. He didn’t know what to do.

Hermione raised her hand, wincing as she placed it on one of his arms. Her mouth moved again, and a hoarse whisper of his name escaped.

He looked back over at her, leaning his head down and touching his forehead to hers. “It’s okay Hermione, it’s going to be okay. Can you tell me what hurt you?” He shifted his weight, slowly and cautiously dragging her body into his lap. One of his hands ran over the cut in her stomach, and he grimaced.

“Draco. .” she whispered again, her hand moving steadily up his arm until she was able to cup his face. Her lips curved up in a small smile and she dragged her thumb over his cheek.

He leaned into her touch, looking down at her with hot, angry tears in his eyes. “Don’t you dare say it Granger. Don’t you dare say goodbye.”

“We both. .” she inhaled sharply, and it sounded wet and coarse. The cough that followed caused a small splatter of blood to find purchase on his shirt. “We both know that I’m not getting out of this alive.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied, his voice wavering as his own hand reached up to wipe the blood off of her chin. He cleared his throat, hands shaking as he gingerly held her face. “You’ve gotten out of worse scrapes than this. Bloody hell, you had Potter and Weasley for friends, the amount of pure chaos that follows those two should have gotten to you long ago.”

She laughed, her face growing paler by the second. “I’ve always been curious,” another deep, shuddering breath, “you know? I mean, this is the one question that I’ve never been able to answer.” She paused, and it almost looked as though she was staring past Draco and up at the ceiling. Her eyes were unfocused, her hand fell slightly on his face.

He brought his other hand up to hers and held it against his cheek, knowing what she wanted, and knowing what she deserved. She deserved an answer that would make her happy, that would make her peaceful. She deserved an answer that held just as many mysteries as the question, and one that was just as fantastical as the world she had been brought into.

“I. .” his voice caught, and he cleared his throat again, tears falling from his eyes. “I always liked to think that we never actually die. That our magic just gets passed on to some new witch or wizard. Someone like us.”

Her eyes focused back on his face, and her smile seemed content now. “I’d like that,” she said. Her voice was weak. Her breathing was shallow. Her hands and face were growing cold to his touch. “Maybe,” another wet cough shook her body. “Maybe our magic can find each other again. Like soulmates.” Her smile was shaky, and her eyes were beginning to shine with tears.

“Draco,” Hermione said, her thumb weakly running over his bottom lip. “Thank you for showing me what it’s like to be loved.”

And then she was gone.

Her body went limp. Her hand fell from his face. Her eyes, once filled with an undeniable brightness and eagerness to learn and solve and question, were dull and void.

“Hermione?” Draco called out, his voice breaking. His hands were shaking. He was frantically running them over her face, her hands, trying to elicit some sort of response from her.

“No... no no no no.” Tears were streaming down his face as he picked up the wand that he had discarded earlier on the floor. He dropped it twice before he was able to properly hold it, and even then, his hands were shaking too much to perform the wand work required for the diagnostic spell.

Frustrated, he threw it across the room and gathered her body in his arms. He leaned down and touched his forehead to hers, willing for her to open her eyes and lecture him over the proper way to stir a wolfsbane potion, or to hit him and call him insufferable. To do anything.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please I . . I can’t . . I don’t know what to do without you.”

Draco hadn’t realized it then, but he knew it now.

When Hermione had died, he’d died with her.

He looked down at the letter on the floor beneath his feet, and stooped down to pick it up. He flipped it over in his hands, looking once more at the bright red seal. The image of Hermione, on the ground, covered in her own blood came back to him, and he closed his eyes, gripping the letter in his hands like a lifeline.

Even if it hurt him. Even if it somehow caused him more pain than he was already feeling, he had to know what she had written to him.

Carefully, he opened the letter and unfolded the parchment, his eyes watering as he scanned the page.

My heart,

I had hoped that you would never receive this letter, and never have to feel the pain that you are going through right now, but alas, it seems inevitable.

I suppose that I should explain what this is, though I would wager that you have already guessed. Upon my death, however likely or unlikely, I had arranged for a letter to be sent to you. I updated the letter weekly, of course, to keep things recent and up to date. However, lately, I have been writing a letter to you every day.

It’s not necessary, in fact it’s far from that. It’s . . well I suppose it’s simply because I don’t entirely know how to fit everything into one letter. If you wish to read them, they should be stashed in the top left drawer of my desk.

On to the main purpose of this letter. To put it simply, I love you.

I’m not exactly sure when it happened if I’m being honest. Whether my affections began when we were forced to work together for a project in the Ministry, or when you had somehow memorized my caffeine schedule so thoroughly that it no longer surprised me when you brought me my morning coffee. But it happened.

I imagine that this is of no shock to you, considering that we are currently engaged, but I also know that you don’t hear the words enough. And I know that you doubt, every day, whether or not I will finally ‘come to my senses’ as you have put it before, and leave you for something or someone else.

If it wasn’t already evident, let me put it more clearly. I am yours, Draco Malfoy. Body and soul. I have been and always will be. I love you more than you will ever know, and more than I would ever care to admit.

And if I know you well enough, which I do, I know that you are blaming yourself for whatever has happened to me. Please, for your mother’s sake, mine, and your own, don’t. Know that I could never, ever, blame you for anything that has happened to me.

You are the one mystery in my life that I will never get bored of, the one puzzle piece that finally completes me, the one constant that I never want to change.

I can guarantee you. In my last few moments, all I will think about is you and the happiness that you have brought me. I will relive our first kiss, and your proposal. I will relive the day that I moved into the Manor, and that tea that I had with your mother where she showed me your baby photos.

And if I am so lucky, you will be there with me. And I will get to see you one last time. I will get to memorize every feature of your face, and your temperamental eyes. I’ll be able to run my hands over that scar on your bottom lip, and tell you how much you mean to me.

But most of all, I want you to learn how to be happy again. I want you to smile when you remember me, and correct my work when you go through my research. I want to be remembered as I am.

All my love, and so much more,

Hermione

Draco smiled weakly as he finished the letter, his legs finally giving out as he collapsed onto the floor.

He heard footsteps behind him, and moments later his mother’s arms wrapped around his shoulders. “It’s like she never left . .” she murmured, tears falling down her cheeks.

He looked up at the study once more, taking in the piles upon piles of research and notes and musings that covered the room. There, in that moment, in that place, he swore he could hear Hermione laugh at something snarky that he had said, and feel her hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t think she ever will.”

.

.

Add yourself to my taglist!

[apocalypsewriters]

The Aftermath of Brownies

A/N: I would recommend reading this post first, since it inspired me to rewrite this piece, but if you don't, here's the breakdown.

Victor-Hecate had trouble sleeping due to being touch starved because of their powers for six years, so their queerplatontic partner, Tora, baked lactose free brownies with him and watched a movie together until VH fell asleep

Also! A million thanks to my amazing friend @pagesofcursive for editing and inspiring this piece.

Warnings: brief mention of death (because it's Tae, and they can't be there without it) and let me know if there's anything I missed

Summary: Victor-Hecate can feel people's death when he touches people, but their partner, Tora doesn't affect them as much in short term. What happens when they fall asleep on her?

Tora finished the movie alone, brownie stuck in her teeth, leg numb underneath her, a sleeping person on her shoulder, and a hand tangled in her own. She groaned softly, extracting her leg and stretching it out in front of her. Victor-Hecate, or, as she typically called them, Vaytch, had fallen asleep with twenty-five minutes left in the movie and was now drooling a little onto Tora's pajama shirt. She didn't mind. It was worth it to make sure he got sleep, something he struggled with often but was working to fix. Starving herself of physical contact for six years had taken a toll on Vaytch, leaving them jittery, stressed, and exhausted from sleepless nights. Tora often snuck up on them playfully to make both of them laugh, but sometimes they startled even when that wasn't Tora's intention.

With a sigh, she flicked off the TV, tossing the remote remorselessly onto the table with a clatter that echoed around the house. Gently, after laying eyes on Vaytch's softly snoring form and making her typical split-second decisions, Tora lifted them off her shoulder and deposited their head into her lap. Her curls tickled her legs, clad in pajama shorts. Tora sprung a ringlet or two around her finger before gazing mournfully at a book at the other arm of the couch. Wonder was a book heavily recommended (read: forced) to her by the other two of her dynamic trio- her partner, Vaytch, and Lynn. Her fingers tapped frantic rhythms on the couch for what felt like half an hour but must have only been a few moments before that distraction wasn't enough. She twisted a strand of her cropped hair over and over, tugging at it until that patch of her scalp held a dull ache. Tora drew in the short fur of the couch, keeping her movements small to ensure Vaytch wouldn't be disturbed. She needed sleep. Desperately. Tora couldn't afford to wake them. But her mind skittered around, frustration building at being trapped, even if by her own means and an adorable cage. Still, she couldn't move. She wouldn't move. She shouldn't move for selfish reasons. 

However, glancing at the clock to see only seven minutes had passed since the end of the movie, she gave up. Leaning and stretching, trying and failing not to shift the sleeping head in her lap, she snagged the book. Triumphantly, Tora returned to her spot on the couch, only to find Vaytch's head lolling off of it at an extremely uncomfortable angle. They didn’t stir. Strange. Maybe he was more tired than she thought. Mentally shrugging, she gingerly lifted their head back into her lap, smoothing some stray curls back into place. She stroked their cheek apologetically, barely feeling his breath on her hand. 

Wait. 

Freezing in place, Tora pricked up her ears, trying to hear her partner’s snoring. It was generally pretty consistent, she’d learned from her own sleepless nights spent with them, but now there was eerie silence. Cold panic shot through her. What was going on? The fuzz of the couch made quiet, vague ripping noises as she dragged her fingers in short bursts rapidly along it. Critical information tickled the back of her brain. Tora always forgot the important things when they were necessary. Desperately, she tried to pursue the swiftly fading memory as it slipped from her fingers like water through a sieve.

To shake the unease resting like a dead weight in her chest, Tora picked up her book again with a small grimace, hoping that by distracting herself, the wild thought would return from the overgrown, chaotic mass of her mind and come into clarity. Absently, she appreciated the weight in her lap, pushing her fingers through ringlets. Vaytch never stayed this long on her, generally taking breaks now and then. It was a nice change. Tora sighed and laid back, soaking in her presence, his warmth, simply enjoying their company. She was so glad they had found each other, that Vaytch could touch another person without hurting. Numb was better than hurt in Tora's experience. It truly was lucky that Tora just made her numb; nothing bad came from it. She paused in her rippling through of book pages - the sound was nice - as a revelation struck. 

Vaytch had never spent this much time on her because periodically they pushed away. She pushed away from Tora's touch, saying they needed to take a break. They took time to recuperate, saying he felt lightheaded after too long, that the emptiness echoed in her bones. How long was too long? The question shook Tora as she frantically wracked her brain again. Twenty minutes? Her eyes darted around the room, checking for the time. 

It had been sixteen minutes since she last checked the clock. Spending precious time slipping up with the simple addition, she finally figured it had been about ten minutes short of an hour since Vaytch fell asleep. Easily over an hour since they took a break. 

She gripped their wrist, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. Wait, wait... there! Vaytch's pulse was still there, albeit agonizingly slow. 

Tora extricated herself from underneath the sleeping form, simultaneously trying to get out as fast as possible while still being delicate with Vaytch. She slid onto the floor while tossing the book away, catching herself with a hand on the cold floor. Was Vaytch's arm at an odd angle? Hesitantly, Tora adjusted it, keeping her hand away from bare skin. Now it looked worse, and she let out a curse. Tora desperately pulled Vaytch's arm out, letting it flop down and bounce against the side of the couch. She bit back a scream of frustration. Holding only the long sleeve so as to not touch Vaytch's skin, Tora lifted his arm and tucked it into his side, her fingertips briefly brushing the back of their hand. She flinched away immediately, wincing as her movement roughly jostled their seemingly peaceful form.

Switching from biting the inside of her cheek to her lip, Tora sat crisscrossed in front of the couch. Seconds crawled by as aches grew on her hunched back and furrowed brows. "Vaytch." Her voice was soft, scratchy from lack of use. Her throat rasped as she coughed to clear it. "Vaytch." Tora cringed at the desperation in her voice. Forgetting the more extreme movements that had yielded no result, Tora gently shook their shoulder, willing for them to wake up, to open his eyes and spite her fading hope. "You have to wake up now. This really isn't funny." Tears sprung to her eyes, and she raised her voice to combat the sob building in her throat. She was almost shouting, "Tae, you're not touching me anymore," Tora almost shouted. "You're fine. If you're not fine, Vi will kill me." She laughed weakly, incredulously at the situation she put Vaytch in. It was Tora's fault she was passed out, not waking up, heartbeat slow, too still to be considered normal. "Your brother probably would too." This was all Tora's fault. How could she let this happen? She ran her fingers hard through her hair, leaving her scalp stinging. "Ple-ase," Tora begged. She gripped her own arm tightly but could barely feel it. "You can't leave me. You were just starting to- to get better. I was never supposed to hurt you. Why-" She bit back a sob. How awful would it be for Vaytch if he woke up, probably in pain, to see Tora crying pathetically on the floor?

Itching for something to do as panic still clawed at her, Tora heaved herself to her feet. Shaking her legs awake, she walked a lap around the coffee table. She washed and dried the brownie pan - taking longer than she should as she got sidetracked filling up the dish soap, then the hand soap in the kitchen and bathroom - before returning to sit in front of her partner.

After switching her seated position three times, she finally settled. Somewhat. Rocking side to side slightly, her thumb and pinky vibrated back and forth on her knee. It had been - Tora glanced at the clock - eight minutes since she'd stepped away. The beautiful sound of Vaytch's snoring had begun to return, which was music to Tora's ears. "Vaytch," she whispered to herself. She strangled the urge to stroke their cheek comfortingly, worrying it would halt their recovery. "Vaytch, please." Tora was louder this time as she zeroed in on his sleeping form, willing her to wake up. 

Miraculously, after two more painfully slow minutes of Tora's constant shifting, Vaytch's eyelids flickered. Tora leaned forward in anticipation, almost falling on top of them but catching herself just in time. She released a huff of air, not realizing she'd been holding her breath. Tora swayed, lightheaded, and threw her hand out to stabilize herself, rattling the coffee table in the process. The sound reverberated around the room as she cringed, her chin tilted down.

"Babe?" 

Tora's head snapped up, almost giving herself whiplash. Vaytch's eyelids were still semi-stuck together as they blearily tried to focus on her. "Thank goodness you're awake!" The words came out in a louder than intended, slurred together rush.

His expression was baffled, a fold in the sofa imprinted on their cheek. "What?"

"Well, you weren't waking up, and I was so worried, and I called your name, and you were still asleep, and it's all my fault and-"

Vaytch reached out and stilled Tora's wildly gesturing hands, propping themself up on an elbow. Their eyebrows were pushed together in such a way that Tora wished she could push them apart, the way she always did when they were stressed. "What are you talking about? Are you okay?"

Tora gulped and fruitlessly tried to gather her thoughts together in a coherent way. "I'm fine now," she said, her voice full of relief. "You just fell asleep on top of me, and you lay there for too long so you weren't snoring anymore, and your heartbeat was slow, and you didn't react when I shook you, and then I remembered that you'd never stayed on me that long 'cause you said even numb would get too much, so I was really worried, but then-" Tora broke off, finally taking a deep, shuddering breath. "Then you finally woke up. Are you feeling okay??" she asked, offering Vaytch a hopefully comforting smile.

"Now that you mention it, I am kind of sore," Vaytch said. "Almost like everything fell asleep." Wrinkling her nose adorably, they released Tora's hands and sat up, rubbing their legs. He held out a hand and, once Tora accepted it, pulled her onto the couch beside her and placed the clasped hands between them. They rubbed the back of her hand with a thumb comfortingly. "It's very sweet that you were worried about me. But I'm okay now. Really," they said reassuringly in response to Tora's disbelieving expression. "I've been through worse, so it'll be fine. Seriously," they said with a snort, "you should have seen what happened when I met Juni and Bella."

Tora chuckled weakly as she remembered hearing about that. Sensing Tora's skepticism at their well-being, Vaytch held out her arms. Not needing another invitation, Tora launched herself into their embrace, knocking him backward, taking care to avoid any skin-to-skin contact. Vaytch squeaked as she squeezed. Tora felt overcome with gratefulness that he was still there to hug her back. She smiled into their shoulder, finally relaxed after half an hour of worry. Vaytch was okay. Everything was going to be okay.

[apathycares]

Enraged

Warnings: high school AU, cursing, angry Sasuke

Pairings: implied Sasuke x Reader

Enraged, he slams his arm against the board, his long fingers itching to rip off the paper and burn it along with his crushed ambition. No one would see him do it as the halls were yet to be filled for another hour and the staff busy conversing in a closed-off area, but he was certain there were cameras everywhere and lifts his arm away.

The words glare at him and he glares back, willing it to burn as he wishes but he knew from past efforts that nothing could be done after this.

Konohagakure High School’s Top Twenty Honors Students 1.  [Last name], [Name] 2. Uchiha, Sasuke 

He never bothered to read the rest, as he was too preoccupied wondering how could this one person hold his deserved rank so unabashedly? He had spent too much time with his nose in his books and sleepless nights cramming, and he was yet again unable to outdo whoever this girl was. 

He hears footsteps behind him not long after he sees a girl he had grown accustomed to. She would always come a half an hour after him and before the students and glance at the very sheet he spends seamlessly staring at. They’ve never spoken a word to each other and he sometimes wonders why she never seems discouraged but he doesn’t ask because that isn’t his business.

As per usual, she takes her glance and isn’t bothered by his presence, before sighing slowly.

“Are you unimpressed?”

He is just as surprised as she is by his random initiative to speak, but she recovers quickly and mats her hair as if in thought.

“Not really,” she says slowly, looking up at him with slightly squinting [colour] eyes.

He turns back to the large pin-up board and narrows his eyes at the first slot, before mumbling under his breath.

“Did you say something?” She asks while adjusting the large books onto her right arm, a sign that he’s come to know indicates she’s about to leave. 

“I need more books.” He repeats a little louder, a frown marring his pale face when she laughs and waves him off.

“Studying isn’t everything Sasuke Uchiha.”

His frown becomes deeper and he stares as she turns away, and he doesn’t understand what comes over him when he asks, “What’s your name?”

Her eyes twinkle and she cringes a bit, a reaction which seems uncommon to him before she takes a deep breath and animatedly gestures flipping her hair off her shoulder.

“[Name].”

The air is basically knocked out of him as his lungs constrict and all the choice words he’d been saving up if he ever met her could not escape his lips. He had unintentionally been entertaining the enemy for years now and he never knew it?

She struts away sickeningly confident after shooting him a half-smile, and his hand unknowingly ball into fists. How hadn’t he known?

He finds her in the girl’s bathroom on the second floor, leaning against the basins while formerly reading what seemed like some notes. Her eyes are wide and she looks around dumbly and he wonders how on Earth she had kept the first rank when clearly she had no –

“You’re not supposed to be in here.” She states cutting off his internal monologue, though she is calm and her eyes momentarily stay on him.

“How are you first?” He asks impatiently, his teeth clenched and his fists balled.

  “Well great magicians don’t tell their secrets, right?” She smiles as she jabs a finger to him, but he is not amused. [Name] drops her hand and purses her lips as she gazes at him in wonder. “You’re a hard worker, aren’t you?”

“Aren’t you?” He asked incredulously, before scoffing. “Are you really….” He choked slightly, before furrowing his eyebrows.

“Oh, dude,” she sighed, “you can’t even say my name? Do you hate me that much?”

He didn’t. He actually thought she was the most laid-back girl, whenever they stared at the board together every morning for the past five years in silence, and assumed she could be the only friend he’d accept.

Before he realized she and his ultimate nemesis were the same person. How could he have not realized it? More so –

“Did you know?” he asked quietly, looking at her with disappointment. She nodded slowly and confirmed it. “I can’t believe this…”

They are quiet for a moment, for very different reasons, before [Name] smiles and attracts his attention back to her.

“I have a proposition,” she says while glancing at her watch, fifteen minutes before the first few students appeared. Sasuke folded his arms, and she took it as a sign that he was listening. “I can help you improve your grade without more cramming or new books.”

He scoffed indignantly. “Why do you assume I need your help?”

“I have this thing where I assume, and my assumptions are right, so I always go with the flow, you know? Hey, that rhymed! I’m a total genius!” She sighed and stared off for a moment. “What was I going to say?”

Sasuke stared at her incredulously. Did she have some sort of mental illness? Was it contagious?

“I must admit, the many years you kept growling at the board kind of made me remorseful, especially since I catch you studying more than you breathe, so I promised myself the moment you break the trend and talk to me, I would tell you where you went wrong and help you, okay?”

She spoke in such a sincere way; he almost apologized for snapping at her before.

Almost.

“Starting today, you will spend every free moment with me, and I promise you will see some improvement very soon.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And how do I know you’re not lying?”

[Name] checked her watch, seeing only ten minutes left, before facing him with a bright smile, one which he’d correlated to ambition-less people. 

“We have a pop quiz at the end of this week on Human Transport Systems, and I know for one your average score in Biology is 94 percent,” he narrowed his eyes suspiciously and she sighed loudly. “I keep track of you just as much as you keep track of me, okay? Anyways, you follow my methods this week and I can guarantee you’ll get at least a 98 on this quiz. Though I need one thing and one thing only in return.”

There is a pregnant pause as he re-evaluates her claim. He had nothing to lose, as the coming quiz would not affect their overall grade and therefore if he did score lower than his average, it would not harm him too much. She seemed really genuine throughout her little explanation and he was planning on cramming to no end anyways. Was there really an easier method? 

“Alright,” he decides, dropping the defensive stance and folding his arms across his chest nonchalantly. “What do you want?”

“It’s very simple really,” he has a clue on what she’d like just from her little smirk of triumph. “Your cooperation.”

…

What?!

“That’s it?”

“Well, yeah,” she shrugged, “It’s not like I proved anything yet so I’m in no place to ask for things.”

He recoiled abruptly. That made so much sense; why didn’t he think of it? Maybe she was really smart.

"Well then," [Name] awkwardly shifted her weight and looked away from his piercing gaze. "I guess I'll see you later."

Sasuke stayed rooted as she brushed past him in a blur and left him in the girls' bathroom. He was trying to recollect what had just happened, when he realized she hadn't mentioned a time he was supposed to meet her. He narrowed his eyes.

"Idiot."

-break- His lips were pursed in infuriation as he sat picking at his food. He was suddenly hungry and started to genuinely dig in, when his father erupted into a hearty, yet uncommon laugh. His elder brother received a pat on the back and the usual gushes of pride from the otherwise stoic Uchiha patriarch. He slumped his shoulders and his eyes stayed fixated on his plate.

"How about you Sasuke?" 

The silence that followed his kind mother's question was suffocating. He hid behind his bangs when his father's smiling eyes turned stone cold when it landed on his youngest son, scrutinizing and unimpressed, just as they always were. He muttered a quick reply and got up abruptly. His mother stared sadly as he walked away.

Sasuke slammed his door shut, locked it, and lay back on his bed. Papers and books were sprawled all over the room, and he reminded himself grudgingly of the test at the end of the week he had to cram for. Consequently, a certain girl with a stupid grin popped in his thought. He couldn't understand how someone like her could ever achieve higher than himself, more so when she blatantly stated how she didn't study as much as him.

He sat up. Maybe she cheated some way or another?

Later, he was seated at his messy desk, highlighting important information in his biology text book and making notes on the side. The digital clock read 23:43, so he dropped his highlighter and pen and rubbed his eyes tiredly. He still had seven sections to go until he completed the unit.

Sasuke grabbed his phone and found a text message from an unknown number. He stared at the bright screen for a moment, before tapping on the notification.

Step one: No studying after dinner, assuming you eat by seven. And if you don't eat dinner then we have bigger issues. No skipping meals either dude. Please retire for the night.

He blinked comically. This was certainly her.

  Sasuke growled under his breath and glared at the message as if it was [Name]. Who did she think she was telling him to go to bed?!

His phone vibrated and another notification came from the same number.

Remember our deal; you agreed to cooperate. Gosh Sasuke, I felt your malice all the way where I live.

Fine. Stop texting me.

He slid under his sheets and stared at his phone. Maybe this was his ticket to freedom; his route to receive that pat on the back from his father. He wanted to see how this turns out.

~fin

This was actually the beginning of a sasuke x oc story I wrote way back and never posted. I’ve got about a thousand of these and thought I’d edit this one and throw over here. Let me know what you think!

Tip Jar | Naruto/Naruto Shippuden Masterlist | part 2 ->

[lucarioisinthevoid]

For the Henry in Hell- maybe N. Balloon Boy, Rockstar Foxy, Scraptrap, and maybe Dave (since Henry wants to talk more with him)?

(Okay, I’m way too fucking tired to make these, but dear god, it’s five AM and I WILL fucking get the Henry in Hell stuff done NOT READ THIS OVER I’LL REGRET THIS AFTER HAVING HAD A NAP. BUT FOR NOW? KICK MY ASS AND CALL ME A CANDY CANE. I’M NOT WASTING MORE TIME. I’LL EDIT IT TOMORROW. ENJOY.)

Does he want to talk to Dave? It’s difficult to say. He wants answers. And Dave seems like the weakest link in the chain. There seemed to be certain beings that influenced how the nights played out. For now, he knew of three for a fact. Most obvious, DeeDee. Henry was considering that perhaps she was connceted to the old man- there was a keen smell of lake water whenever she appeared. At first he hadn’t noticed, but now he couldn’t miss it, no matter how badly his anger flared up when he saw her suddenly jump out from beneath the table, or some sort of black hole of vile darkness, where all the annoying thing festered and cross-bred to create worse and worse- He took a deep breath. Stay calm. … yes, the lake. The lake brought him here, it must have some sort of importance. Being capable of changing the rule of the night… that seemed to be within the lakes domain. Then there was the suit. Of course the suit was special. Remaining behind after the night, during the downtime. Sometimes Helpy and Rockstar Freddy appeared to give advice and little prices ‘for the trouble’, but they never remained for long. Also, both of them were bears. Like the suit. He hadn’t yet found a way to make the suit react to any sort of input from his side, thus testing him and the changes he caused to his environment was almost impossible. Even calling him Goldie drew hardly any reaction from him. The most influence he had seen the suit exert was about the TV program, but his continuous presence still was beyond notable. Now, last was… … Dave. Of course. If there was one person capable of manipulating the souls without even knowing how or that he was even doing it in the first place, it was his purple companion. Sometimes he had wondered if there was such a concept as deliberate chaos manipulation. Another thing he might would have figured out if he would have not been brutally cut off from all his studies. But, no time being bitter. All he need was to figure out the variables at his disposal, then he would be able to manipulate them to his own benefit. There was an exit. This was a trap, a way to contain him, a place consuming energy like any other. And there was a way to shut it down. He merely needed to figure it out. For that, however, he needed to start getting some data. Try out different stimulus. That was what he was ready to do today. He had plenty of positive contact with Dave so far, nothing more seemed to be coming out of it. Despite everything, Dave STILL insisted this here was a great place- and Henry did not care for it. There was nothing he could bribe out of his former friend anymore, he clearly was not being cooperative- so he would show him another side, at the risk of ruining any claim to their friendship forever. … not that there were any traces left after Dave had betrayed him. Valuing his object of obsession over him, spitting in the face of everything Henry had ever done for him. Nightmare Balloon Boy slipped into the room- the night had started. “AND WHAT WILL YOU DO TODAY, TOOTHPICK?” “You will be surprised. I am sure of that…” “YOU THINK YOU CAN SURPRISE ME?” “It is not you I plan to surprise, so it hardly matters.” The animatronic looked at him suspicious. “YOU SEEM VERY CONVINCED ABOUT THIS, SHORTSNACK.” “I am.” That was where Henry stopped the conversation. Saving his energy for the one he was meaning to hurt. He glanced at the Nightmare Balloon Boy, feeling barely anything for him. This creature would not attack- it was too weak to go against the rules, so it would be leering at him while he had the camera up, grinding his teeth. Rockstar Foxy he had actually never met before- and he’d try to avoid him tonight too. For some reason he always had the eerie feeling that this bird would never like him- no matter what he tried. He loved birds a lot. That was why birds tended to stay as far away from him as possible. The plastic nightmare snarked something- But Henry wasn’t listening. He didn’t need him anymore. He didn’t have to talk to him anymore, even if he liked it, even if it was entertaining. Henry’s focus was on one thing only. Dave. Namely, how to rip him apart. Slowly his fingers tapped on the table, as he shortly took down the camera to flash the animatronic in his room, before pulling it back up, looking at the little springtrapped head moving along. … why would the one he shouldn’t have killed give Dave so much ability to manipulate the world around him? To a point that he was even allowed to join him in the office without attacking? Probably because he wanted to see them fight. And frankly- Henry wanted to fight him too. He was tired. And angry. He wanted to face the stupid child and-

Talk to him.

There was no spite for him specifically, in some way he could admire this child and the world he created. The animatronics, all filled with at least some level of personality, and somehow convincing two creatures from beyond to aid him. Yes, there was a lot of raw potential here. Perhaps it could use some guidance. … at least he could TRY. Either he would get out, he would get to teach a high potential being, or- worst case- everything would stay the same. Dear god, this place was BORING him. Boring him like constant nails on chalkboard, boring him like itching teeth and a vile smell. Nothing was truly happening- and it was driving him crazy. Even worse so that Dave claimed this place was great, while still acting as though he was Henry’s best friend. There was something so intensely infuriating about it. It didn’t FEEL like Dave was free himself, but he thought if anyone could help him get out- it would be him. Yet he denied everything- The person who kept him here… All of a sudden a terrible idea grew inside of Henry’s mind. What- What if it was the Orange Guy? At least his long lost soul, biding its time until he could come and- That would explain why Dave was filled with so much life and personality. He WOULD know him. And the guy was extremely talented at convincing those around him to aid his wants. … maybe the child form he had taken on had to do with trauma? Dave himself seemed to have at least a second soul that got stuck back from before his mother died, it would not be too unlikely- not to mention that souls were inherently ageless. Perhaps it had been an act of deception, trying to throw Henry off the trail. Yet- that would leave the question… if the soul was here with him, then what was keeping the Orange Guy alive? He shuddered and tried not to think about it. There had to be something, SOMETHING powering him. Something… No matter what, it would be upsetting to hear his friend being insulted. And his glance on the camera confirmed that it was about to be done. A choice. He had to commit, with his very soul. And he would. The vents rattled, Henry refreshed the ventilation and put down the screen, flashing the Nightmare, before looking up at the vent. Almost instantly, Dave’s eyes shined a pale light out of the darkness. His grin glowed out from under the mask, just to gently shift into innocent confusion. “Henry. Aren’t ‘cha gonna let me in?” Coldly the Pink Man looked at his former friend. “No.” Dave’s grin widened for a moment, thinking it was a little game. “Aw, c’mon! What if I say please? Please lemme in? Pretty please!” “I do not think I will.” It was then that Davetrap caught on that something was going on. His expression shifted again, fully this time around. Worry, confusion and- annoyance. Of course, always the annoyance about defiance, Dave was one and the same as him on this topic. However, Henry at least always had the authority of logic- Dave had nothing, nothing but his unstable emotions and violence to justify his wants and get his way. “… why? What’s the problem, Henry?” “I am done with you.” The word came over Henry’s lips utterly naturally. He meant it. Even as Dave recoiled. The atmosphere in the establishment instantly changed, as well as Dave’s entire expression. It was glowing still, as bright and if not brighter… and plenty of people might misunderstand it as him still having fun, still amused, however Henry knew him better than he knew himself. He knew that was nothing but rage. “What did you say there, friend?” “I told you I am done with you. William, you have done nothing so far but to disappoint me.” There was an art to it- To give just enough of a pause to let the words HURT, but not enough to let a counterargument form- to let any resistance develop. “Frankly, I have given you many chances. Too many changes. Failure after failure was all you brought me however. I put all my effort into you- effort that I could have put into ANYONE else, into a damn PET and it would have served me better.” “You-“ “No. No, William, you do not get to talk. I have kept quiet for too long. Giving you mercy, care, hoping and praying for you to turn into something better- and now look at you. Who do you think you ARE?! Using my generosity? Abusing my patience?! You were useless! You never aided me when it counted, you never LEARNED, you were SELFISH, like an ANIMAL, you were IGNORANT, you were an OBSTACLE- All my WORK, all my LOVE for you, our BOND- It never existed outside of my head, did it?!” “What- Henry, I-“ “WHAT. What do you THINK you can SAY here?! WHAT EXCUSE DO YOU HAVE, I AM DYING TO KNOW! DYING, QUITE LITERALLY, BECAUSE OF YOUR DISLOYALTY, YOU SACRIFICED ME. YOU SACRIFICED ME, AND EVERYTHING WE HAVE WORKED FOR. YOU HAVE NO DIGNITY. YOU HAVE NOTHING YOU CARE ABOUT. YOU ARE A SHAM! A SHELL OF A PERSON! A HEARTLESS MONSTER! AND NOT EVEN ONE OF THOSE THAT ARE OF WORTH, OF VALUE, OF USE! Anything that you provided me with was something I could have reached by myself. All you have done was to hinder me.” Infuriated the guy in the vents hissed. “What the fuck do you think you’re sayin’?! I’VE BEEN-“ Mockingly Henry grinned up at him. “What? What have you been doing? When have you ever been useful? Protected me? Face it, William, I pitied you and that was my mistake. I should have known that there was a reason everyone discarded you before. Once you will be gone, nobody will cry for you- nobody will miss you. The Orange Guy- to him you are merely entertainment. You are a fucking TOY at best- and more so an UNLOVEABLE, REPLACABLE TOOL.” Finish it. One last time. Slowly he stood up, stepping towards the vent. “William. Look at me. I want you to look at me, and I want you to know… … everything would have been better if you never had existed.” With that he closed the vents- both the front and the side one, just in time as the entire room was shaking, flickering, as something hysterical was making its way through it- Both sides of Dave being blocked out, as Henry fell back into his seat, raising his monitor, fixing the ventilation just in time. The night was not long after that. When he returned to the office, the suit was positioned in a way that it was looking at Henry as he entered. … somehow looking disappointed. Accusing. But Henry had no interest in that. Instead his attention was drawn to the board. All animatronics were glowing. The board was RED. Good. It was time.

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

Holy Hands | Houses With Teeth Update #2

HOLLA guess who’s back for another writing update!

If the title of this update seems unfamiliar--Houses With Teeth, what? who? when? why?--that’s because the last time I talked about this project on here was the first time, back in July! For a refresher, check out THIS very rambly post where I “intro” the project (very minimally as I had no idea what I was doing).

I still don’t know what I’m doing *exactly* but have made a semi-break through with this project and felt inclined to share. The last I spoke about HOUSES WITH TEETH at length was to vaguely describe what the project was. This book for those who don’t want to read the previous post, is the seventh book in my (very ongoing) series, Fostered. This book comes along five years after writing the first book in the series, after a major writing revolution.

I haven’t shared much about this on this blog because I wasn’t sure how to, but I really struggled with this project. HWT comes as the book after Rewired (book 6), which I finished drafting in March-ish of 2019. From then, until two days ago, I had no idea what I was doing with the series--if I could even continue it, and how I would continue it with all the changes my writing evolution presented. I chose to distract myself/keep busy with Moth Work, a spinoff of this series and my current novel, however, HWT sort of nagged in the back of my mind for many months. 

HWT is actually one of the reasons I ended book 6 so hastily! After getting a few ideas for new scenes, I fell in love with the idea of writing my protagonist Reeve in a city by herself, with new people we’d never met before. These rose-coloured glasses worked to my detriment, as the premature idea took over my decision-making process before I could properly understand what I wanted from it. 

After the end of Rewired, I thought everything was all fine and dandy! I had a new novel idea set up, ready to be written whenever I wanted. But something unplanned happened--I didn’t end up returning to the project. This is mostly because my desires for the book--whether to write it as a “real” book, or continue it as a semi-disjointed Fostered book (which isn’t shade to my past books, just the tea loool)--started to conflict. Though I started many openings (about 3k words of first scenes), nothing was sticking. I felt like I was misjudging my main character Reeve and making her more of a caricature than she really was. I feared I forgot who she was, and that her story was ending (scary!). 

This is where I (recently) found the root of the problem. My mischaracterization of Reeve worked against me, as I’d done exactly what I’d feared doing--misjudging who she was. It had been a long time since I’d written with Reeve, a character I’ve written with since I was thirteen, and though I felt I knew her, I also felt like I’d lost her in translation. While I was back home a few weeks ago, I began re-reading a few passages of book six to get a feel for a character, which helped, but didn’t cause any revelations. 

It was only a few days ago, when I helped @sarahkelsiwrites crack the plot of her novel that I felt an itch to try to crack mine as well. I first did this by paging through my (very minimal) notes for the book. This notes document consists basically of only two scene ideas I had that were a few thousand words long. Somehow, re-reading them helped me realize Reeve’s priorities, but most importantly, how much this book focuses on her vulnerabilities. It made me realize the root of her flamboyance toward the end of book six, and where her genuine side resided. 

So this leads to the actual update! 

Let’s first chat setting, y’all. This was a hard call to make, because I’d initially determined Reeve was going to be in NYC at the start of the book. The problem is, I’m *very bad* at writing real places, especially places I don’t personally know well. The thought of having to engage a five character cast (which seems small, but in a big city where they could be doing other things, feels big), and also have to write in this city accurately made the realism of this book too much for me to handle. I’m all for realism! But I wasn’t prepared for the culture shock that was “welp these books used to take place in an unknown unlocated subway station” to “so this book takes place in a real city”. It made too many things too real for me, the time period included (which is another crisis)! Setting this whole book in NYC overwhelmed me and I knew I wouldn’t do it justice. 

The problem is, I’d planned this entire book around NYC. At the start of my initial plan of HWT, Reeve is supposed to live in an apartment above a bakery with two housemates who I’d already sort of gotten to know! I couldn’t just throw all of this away, especially since I’d set Moth Work in a direction toward NYC so everyone could meet up easily. So what did I do? After reading those initial notes I mentioned above, I made it all backstory. ;) And boy! Did this also crack the book open. 

This was the first revelation I had with HWT 2.0. Allowing myself to move the book out of this setting, but still have the important parts got me to ask myself why Reeve would move to a big city with a new identity, and oh, did the pot start stirring ITSELF. I then decided to create a smaller town just outside of NYC where I can run amuck, lol. The town’s name is Wicker (for now) which I don’t dislike, though it hasn’t grown on me. I’m very bad at making up town names, and after many attempts, I settled for a very real word?? Lol.

This post is getting long, so I won’t explain the story unless y’all want to know, but I came to the decision that in this town, our fave soft boi Foster would have a nice house and his ideal cottagecore life, and all would be SWELL. Until!! This leads to our very hasty summary:

After escaping a toxic relationship, twenty-year-old Reeve disappears for the second time in one summer. She’s drawn to Wicker, a mealy town outside New York City, whose disappearances of affluent girls has caught her attention. The day she arrives, a sinkhole buries one of them in the front yard of her new home, a fixer-upper she shares with estranged friend, Foster. Quickly she falls prey to speculation by herself and others, who try to connect her to the tragedy. And even stranger, false recognitions as the girl in the ground, and the many other missing Wicker girls make her feel more and more like one of them--these alluring unknown women. 

(A huge thanks to @sarahkelsiwrites​ for literally cracking this book open for me, and for all the conversations we’ve had regarding this project! Literally this book wouldn’t exist without Sarah!)

Now let’s get into the first thing I wrote for HWT 2.0!

Holy Hands is the prologue of Houses With Teeth, and marks a milestone for the first prologue I’ve written! 

This prologue was a very impromptu thing. I drafted this a few days ago, and immediately felt something I’ve never felt writing any of the other (many) openings I’ve tested for HWT. It felt very right, but most importantly, I felt like I had Reeve back. It’s very possible for your own characters to hide from you (which is how I felt with Reeve), and though it’s taken very many months for her to really reveal herself to me, I’m so happy I’ve waited because I’ve never been so stoked to write her. 

As y’all know, Reeve is a bit of a no-bullshit kinda gal. The last chapter you would’ve seen her in, she was lounging in a motel bathroom drinking margaritas on her own and you know? We love that for her! Except, after that chapter, I couldn't figure out who she wanted to be--the ‘no fucks given’ woman in the bathtub, or the vulnerable, porous person she often was in earlier books. I love no fucks given Reeve, however, I think I got caught up in her no-fucks-givenness that I missed the time she does give fucks (which is! often!). This prologue really opened me up to her, and I feel a closeness to her that I haven’t felt in a long time. 

The prologue itself is rather short. It’s about 1300 words pre-edits, and I wrote it in! one! sitting! A phenomenon! We begin as Reeve is getting out of a taxi to enter her new home, AKA her old pal Foster’s house. She invites herself after a horrific encounter that scares her out of NYC and closer to her old pals (who she’s estranged herself from). Reeve outlines first, the disappearances of these affluent girls, and then fixates on Irene, her future housemate, whom Foster describes as many things that summer. Reeve is semi shook by Irene because she’s startlingly pretty and also startlingly looks like?? her?? (Reeve is just into herself? Who knew?)

Excerpts:

Here are a few excerpts from the prologue that I kinda dig! Here is the first paragraph:

Four girls went missing the summer the ground opened up. I was the unofficial fifth. They were girls I knew, in some iteration at least. Girls who wore their hair down, collars up. Anklets from their football boyfriends, like voguish ball-and-chains, pretty lingerie no one would see for at least another decade. Things I’d never worn, but wanted to wear. They were wealthy girls with the kinds of parents who dressed them in tights and midi-skirts, sent them to boarding schools, paid for piano lessons just to display a trophy. Girls with parents who wanted synthetic children. Girls who lusted over the romance of marriage—the ultimate form of female liberation. Girls who cast spells with each other and chose their friends based on zodiac signs, the amounts of vowels in their names. Girls who kissed each other in secret and stayed missing until they wanted to be found. None of them knew me.

This is a description of Wicker (CW: a bit of a gory descriptor):

That summer was pallid and bitter. Wicker sat in a valley an hour outside of New York City, and rarely caught sunshine. The locals explained it had always been like this—anemic, unexciting. Women came here to raise quieter children, and those quiet children threw stones at each other’s eyes to see who’d go blind first. The first one who did was found floating face-down in the creek behind the church and the women and children left hastily. It worked in waves like this: people coming, people going. Wicker was empty and both full—of the dead, and alive. I’d chosen it for this reason. 

Here’s an excerpt that comes right after the previous (all of these actually make up the first three paragraphs lol, TW: eating disorders):

The cabbie I’d given the last of my savings to took my bag out of his car trunk and walked it up to the house. It was one of the few nice days in Wicker, one of the last while I was there. Sunshine slit my face in two as I watched myself in the cab’s reflection. I reached for my cigarettes and realized too late that I’d left them back at the apartment. That summer, I was the thinnest I’d been. The hollow ache of me more of a victory than a loss. I know why I stopped eating in those first two weeks, why every meal Foster would later serve me in that house felt cryptic, and it had something to do with the body they never fully recovered. I wasn’t hungry when I’d gotten to Wicker; I wasn’t hungry for a long time after.

Some Foster gentleness (I missed him!):

Chickadees chattered in the birdfeeder Foster had set up a week earlier. Though I hadn’t been on the road long, the drive had exhausted me. The midafternoon clouds pilled, hardly overcast, something I’d come to miss when the sun stopped coming. He hadn’t invited me to live with him, but didn’t object when I called to say I’d be coming up. It was the first I’d spoken to anyone who knew me as Reeve and not Evie in half a year. That day, he greeted me from the porch and took my single carry-on from the cabbie with a boyish thank you. It was one of the last times I’d see him wear it—his bashful gentleness, like he always felt the need to apologize even when everything was brilliant. 

Here’s an intro of Irene, where the chapter title comes from:

Irene sat at the kitchen table inside the house. I caught her in glances through the doorway. The first thing I thought was that she’d look better as a blonde. A small thing who held her mug like she was holding a holy object. I’d later be haunted by those hands when I remembered how they looked by the time she was partly pulled up. Foster described her as many things to him over the course of that summer: a housemate, a partner, a friend, sometimes just a person he knew. She was reading something, something French—I could hear her reciting parts of it, at times loudly, like she knew she had an audience, at times at just a whisper, the most personal parts, I later found. I’d translate the line I’d heard most prominently later: Don’t let the house consume you. 

“Cigarettes?” I said to the cab driver as he was nestling back into his car. When he didn’t hear me, I knocked on his window. The sound of it made Irene’s head bob to attention, though only for a moment. “Cigarettes?” I mimed smoking one when he only blinked at me. We spoke minimally on the drive up, though I learned more about him just by looking. Two daughters, their pictures pasted neatly on the dash. Candy coloured flyers for take-out restaurants jittering against the AC’s shutter. In all that time, I hadn’t learned his name.

When he rolled up the window, I had to jump back so my nose didn’t get clipped. The sun shifted through the glass in wisps, like cobwebs, and my face disintegrating from the surface of the glass was the last thing I saw before he zipped away.

I was surprised to see Irene standing on the porch next to Foster when I looked up. My cheeks warmed. The cabbie’s drive-off had embarrassed me, and I realized how I looked to her, a woman I didn’t know, that I already wanted to know. A bit pathetic. Frazzled. A city person who couldn’t navigate a city. A weak woman—already needing a fix on her first day of a new life.

“I’m quitting,” I said, even though she hadn’t said anything. In the sunshine, she was prettier than I wanted her to be. Her hair hip-length, a length I’d always been too impatient to achieve. Wearing a camisole and a midi-skirt. Pearls in her ears, like the others wore. In New York City, she would’ve been plain to me. The kind of girl I would’ve marked up with a pen in a magazine. Outlining her hips as to say they weren’t good enough, squiggling over her eyebrows because her face was too pretty for a body so average. It wasn’t long after she was gone that I became mistaken for her.

And here’s a bit from the very end of the chapter:

The ground opened like a cracked egg, so slow at first, I didn’t notice. Some say she pushed me. Others say it was the other way around. It melted under us, and one minute I was thinking about how embarrassing I was, how crude it was to still be addicted to cigarettes, and the next, there was a belly in the ground and Irene was somewhere in it. Her dark hair wisping around her, like a tornado. How I thought she’d look better as a blonde. Holy hands, camisole, midi-skirt, pearls in her ears. This was all I’d ever know of Irene. A body was found the summer the ground opened up. I still don’t know exactly who she was.

So that’s it for now y’all! Obviously lots of stuff is subject to change, but I’m finally feeling confident with this path (if I scrap all of this you will know lol)! I’m very excited for this book, and hope to take some more notes on it soon to see where it will go. For now, I’ve got an idea for the first chapter I can play around with, but I hope y’all enjoyed this little piece so far!

--Rachel

[junionigiri]

Work In Progress [BNHA] [Preview of Chapter 1!]

Rating: T for strong language (since Bakugou is in it )

Summary: For the year’s Interscholastic Fantasy Festival, Class 2A is working on a musical! The reluctant Bakugou is assigned to work on the script with Uraraka, who proves to be a more eccentric writer than he thought.

Relationship: Kacchako <3

Notes/Warnings: This is a preview of a part of chapter 1. Since there’s the main story and the story within the story, the chapters are pretty darn long. I’ll start publishing the chapters in full once I’m five chapters in ^^’ Apart from Bakugou’s language and liberal 4th wall breaks I don’t think there’s anything to worry about in this fic~

Bakugou seriously did not want to work on Uraraka’s dumbass script. It’s not that he was bad at writing--in fact, beyond his good grades, he knew he was pretty good at it. Principal Nezu had personally informed him that the essay he submitted on “Why I Want To Be A Hero” was one of the most well-composed ones he’s ever read.

It’s just that Bakugou hated fantasy. And hated fiction-writing (because fiction was not real, therefore it was a waste of his fuckin’ time).

Most of all though, he hated having to work with other people to achieve any kind of common goal. Look at his damn stats for cooperativeness in the character book and anyone with half a brain would get it. And to cooperate for a stupid ass waste of time like the Fantasy Festival? Who the hell thought up of the stupid Fantasy Festival anyway?! Weren’t there more important things in society to worry about?

And the fact that he was working with Uraraka fuckin’ Ochako was in itself pretty aggravating. It’s not that he hated her--in fact, she was one of the few to earn Bakugou’s (grudging) respect, since their infamous Sports Festival encounter when they were first years.

However, since their encounter at the festival, Uraraka learned not to be the tiniest bit afraid of him anymore. He knew that this girl wouldn’t be the type to just shut up and do what he tells her to, and he really didn’t feel like making such an effort just to write a stupid play.

But now that he knew that fuckin’ All Might was counting on him to write the script, well… he couldn’t get out of it now, could he? Bakugou was many things, but a disappointment to All Might, he’d rather not be.

So that was how he found himself stomping his way away from the common areas to his room, with Uraraka bouncing right behind him. They were going to sit down there to look over her draft, but it was overrun by the costumes, set-design, and props people with all their shit.

“Why your room?” Uraraka said, huffing as she struggled to keep up with Bakugou’s pace. “I don’t think girls are allowed there…”

“Let ‘em try to kick you out, Round-Face,” he growled as he tapped on the elevator button impatiently.

“If you say so, Explodey-face,” she teased, earning her a growl which was received with a giggle. This was what Bakugou was talking about. This damn girl knew no fear.

They eventually made it to his room, with Bakugou stomping the entire way and Uraraka skipping like an oblivious little red riding hood romping through the forest with a picnic basket, the purest picture of ignorance and innocence, unwitting of the ravenous wolf who lurked in the foreboding shadows of the dark, nightmarish wood.

Ugh. Really, Bakugou? Already gearing yourself up to write this fuckin’ fantasy shit? You guys haven’t even sat down yet. Don’t be too fuckin’ eager. 

“Uwaa, your room’s amazing, Bakugou! I didn’t think it would be so neat and sparkly~”

Much to his annoyance, Little Pink Riding Cheeks was already making herself right at home next to his desk. He felt a vein or two pop over his forehead, like in animes if they were in an anime. “Why the fuck wouldn’t it be neat and sparkly?! You expect a guy like me to just live in a dump?!”

“I’m just sayin’, I wish my room was as neat. I knew you were great at lots of things, but even cleaning?” she said wistfully. “Hey, I have an idea! Next time, let’s go to my room, and--”

“I ain’t helping you clean your damn room, Round-Face.”

She pouted and innocently twiddled her thumbs. “I -wasn’t- going to say that, but, you know, now that you mentioned it…”

He grit his teeth so loudly Uraraka gasped and asked him if his teeth were okay. “Let’s just…!!! Get this fuckin’ script over and done with already!”

“Eh, fine, fine. Sorry for teasin’ ya! Watch yer blood pressure, a’ight?” She reached over to open her bag and pulled out a messy folder that was crumpled, filled to its limit with papers with tags pointing in all directions. A post-it with a messy scrawl on it flew out as she pulled out the mess. “So, this is what we’re gonna be workin’ on!”

“What the fuck is that mess? Did you fuckin’ sit on it and flush it down the toilet and set it on fire?”

“How rude!” Uraraka puffed her cheeks. “I only sat on it once! On accident! And I don’t bring homework to the toilet! That’s just unladylike.” She opened up the folder and revealed a disorganized array of handwritten scripts scrawled on legal pad, post-its, sketches, more post-its, reference photos of their classmates with post-its on them, receipts, a grocery list, and a few folded-up paper bags from Tokyu Hands.

Bakugou’s fingers itched. He spent so much energy restraining himself from fixing the mess that was now taking over his desk that he barely heard Uraraka’s spiel.

“So, in the meeting which you missed, we drew lots. Everyone’s working on the production and stuff but all of us will be acting in the play too. Some of us bit parts and stuff, but yeah. I asked everyone what they wanted their roles to be. Based on those ideas, I sketched out my ideas on what their characters would be.”

She pulled out the sketches, and Bakugou had to admit, they weren’t badly done. He would go so far as to say that she might have a talent in drawing. They were scratchy and messy, but Uraraka seemed to place great care in drawing out the likeness of each classmate, and the details of each character and costume and even background information were at least 70% fleshed out for each of them.

“So based on the lottery, Deku-kun’s the lead character. You, me, Tsuyu-chan, and Todoroki-kun are gettin’ large roles, plus we gotta pay attention to All-Might-sensei’s important cameo. We’re gonna write the story based on all of this! And, if we want to allot time for practice and stuff, we have to finish most of the script in a week!”

“The f-- I’m gettin’ a large role too?! Nobody said that!”

“It ain’t my fault you weren’t at the meeting, Bakugou-kun.”

The blonde boy scowled as he went through the sketches. The fucking nerd Deku’s role was that of a ‘Squire’ (but his costume made him look like a fucking hobbit). Uraraka had a hood (fuckin’ coincidence from his red riding hood fantasy earlier) and a staff, and she was a ‘Mage’. Frog was a froggy lookin’ barmaid. IcyHot was a Prince (probably of the Land of Half and Halfs where people were always shitty and constipated). All Might was a Legendary Knight in exile (also fitting, in a morbid sort of way).

And Bakugou was… a Bard. His sketch had him wear fuckin’ poofy pants and a stupid fuckin’ hat with a feather on it and a stupid shitty tiny harp that the chubby babies in those old fuckin’ European paintings had. He all but made the paper disappear from a blast from his fist. “Oi, Roundface. Who’s the fucker I gotta kill besides you for giving me this pansy-ass role?!”

“Hey, it’s your fault. You weren’t there yesterday.” Uraraka repeated, not even the least bit apologetic. “And that thing you destroyed was a brilliant joint effort between me, Kirishima-kun and Kaminari-kun. Nice goin’, Explodey-face.”

“Fuck y’all! I’ll kill those idiots!” He shredded the paper further. “Gimme that pencil!” Within seconds, he sketched out something different, muttering expletives the entire time. After he was done, he dumped the pencil on the desk, almost breaking it into tiny little pieces.

Uraraka gasped. “Wow, Bakugou! That’s really impressive! A Dragon Tamer, huh?” She traced his sketch with one finger, which showed him with a fur cape, tattoos, a necklace made of the fuckin’ skulls and teeth of his enemies, pants and boots, and lots of fire blazing in the background for extra badassery. She grinned at him teasingly. “So you have been thinkin’ about this so-called fantasy shit too!”

“Fuck you,” he said, shoving her in the face unceremoniously. “Now I know that I gotta change that fuckin’ script of yours. Let’s just get this fuckin’ shit over with.”

“Okay…” Uraraka pulled out the legal pads, but shielded them from Bakugou. “Um. Just so you know, Bakugou, these are really, really, rough drafts, okay?”

His jaw jutted out in annoyance. “The fuck you mean by rough drafts. I thought I was just gonna edit your shit.”

She gave him a ridiculous look. “Well, you are. But also, I started workin’ on this just a week ago sooooo you gotta help me finish like a teeny bit of it.”

“How fuckin’ teeny do you mean.”

“Um. Like. 50% of it, mmmaybe…?”

Bakugou could almost see the smoke coming out of his own fuckin’ nostrils.

“Anyway, that’s exactly why we can’t waste anymore time, right?” said Uraraka, a positive beam glowing out of both ears. “And don’t you worry! The story’s practically finished in my head!”

There’s probably nothing in there but a single light bulb struggling to survive, thought Bakugou in annoyance. He put his palm to his face and tried his hardest not to yell at her. “Fine, Uraraka. Let’s just fuckin’ start already. No matter what, I’m kickin’ you out of my room by 10 PM.”

“Okay! Glad ya see it my way, Bakugou-kun!” She smiled and pulled out the first page of the script, which read:

*

 - Deku and the Final Fantastic Lord of the School of Wizardry!: The Legend of the Airbender’s Song of Ice and Fire -

(A Work in Progress)

Act One, Scene One: In Which Deku-kun Leaves His House and Adventure Begins

Written by: Uraraka Ochako

 *

“The fuck? Are you trying to outdo Class B’s lameass play from the last year’s cultural festival, Round-face?”

 “It’s a work in progress! We can edit it out later.” Uraraka said as she scribbled Explodey McSplodeface next to her name on the by-line.

[mrkwonandmrchoibabygirl]

50 SHADES DARKER OF KWON JI YONG PT.6

Description:Daunted by the singular tastes and dark secrets of the beautiful, tormented young entrepreneur Kwon Ji Yong, Y/N Y/L/N has broken off their relationship to start a new career with a Seoul publishing house.But desire for Jiyong still dominates her every waking thought, and when he proposes a new arrangement,Y/N cannot resist. They rekindle their searing sensual affair, and Y/N learns more about the harrowing past of her damaged, driven and demanding Fifty Shades.While Jiyong wrestles with his inner demons, Jiyong must confront the anger and envy of the women who came before her, and make the most important decision of her life. (let me know what you think in the ask box!)

Genre:Smut/Angst/Fluff

Rated:NC-17

Pairing: G-Dragon x Reader

Wordcount:7,324

(remember this is and edit of the original book called fifty shades darker thanks!)

Masterlist

My hands fist in his hair while my mouth is feverish against Jiyong’s, consuming him, relishing the feel of his tongue against mine. And he’s the same, devouring me. It’s heavenly. Suddenly he drags me up and grasps the hem of my T-shirt, whipping it over my head

and throwing it on the floor. “I want to feel you,” he says greedily against my mouth as his hands move behind me to undo my bra. In one smooth move, it’s off and he pitches it aside. He pushes me back down onto the bed, pressing me into the mattress, and his mouth and hand move to my breasts. My fingers curl into his hair as he takes one of my nipples between his lips and tugs hard. I cry out as the sensation sweeps through my body, spikes, and tightens all the muscles around my groin. “Yes, baby, let me hear you,” he murmurs against my overheated skin. Boy, I want him inside me now. With his mouth he toys with my nipple, pulling at it, making me squirm and writhe and yearn for him. I sense his longing mixed with— what? Veneration. It’s as if he’s worshipping me. He teases me with his fingers, my nipple growing hard and elongating under his skillful touch. His hand moves to my jeans, and he deftly undoes the button, tugs the zipper down, and slips his hand inside my panties, sliding his fingers against my sex. His breath hisses out as his finger glides into me. I push my pelvis up into the heel of his hand, and he responds, rubbing against me. “Oh, baby,” he breathes as he hovers over me, staring intently into my eyes. “You’re so wet.” His voice is filled with wonder. “I want you,” I murmur. His mouth joins with mine again, and I feel his hungry desperation, his need for me. This is new—it’s never been like this except perhaps when I came back from Georgia —and his words from earlier drift back to me … I need to know we’re okay. This is the only way I know how. The thought unravels me. To know that I have such an effect on him, that I can offer him solace, doing this … He sits up, grasps the hem of my jeans, and tugs them off, followed by my panties. Keeping his eyes fixed on mine, he stands, takes a foil packet out of his pocket, and tosses it at me, then removes his jeans and boxers in one swift motion. I rip the packet open greedily, and when he lies beside me again, I slowly roll the condom onto him. He grabs both my hands and rolls on to his back. “You. On top,” he orders, pulling me astride him. “I want to see you.” Oh. He guides me, and hesitantly I ease myself down onto him. He closes his eyes and flexes his hips to meet me, filling me, stretching me, his mouth forming a perfect O as he exhales. Oh, that feels so good—possessing him, possessing me. He holds my hands, and I don’t know if it’s to steady me or keep me from touching him, even though I have my road map. “You feel so good,” he murmurs. I rise again, heady with the power I have over him, watching Kwon Jiyong slowly coming apart beneath me. He lets go of my hands and grabs my hips, and I place my hands on his arms. He thrusts into me sharply, causing me to cry out. “That’s right, baby, feel me,” he says, his voice strained. I tip my head back and do exactly that. This is what he does so well. I move—countering his rhythm in perfect symmetry—numbing all thought and reason. I am just sensation lost in this void of pleasure. Up and down … again and again … Oh yes … Opening my eyes, I stare down at him, my breathing ragged, and he’s staring back at me, eyes blazing. “My Y/N,” he mouths. “Yes,” I rasp. “Always.” He groans loudly, closing his eyes again, tipping his head back. Seeing Jiyong undone is enough to seal my fate, and I come audibly, exhaustingly, spinning down and around, collapsing on top of him. “Oh, baby,” he groans as he finds his release, holding me still and letting go. MY HEAD IS ON his chest in the no-go area, my cheek nestled against the springy hair on his sternum. I am panting, glowing, and I resist the urge to pucker my lips and kiss him. I just lie on top of him, catching my breath. He smoothes my hair, and his hand runs down my back, caressing me as his breathing calms. “You are so beautiful.” I lift my head to gaze at him, my expression skeptical. He frowns in response and sits up quickly, taking me by surprise, his arm sweeping around to hold me in place. I clutch his biceps as we are nose to nose. “You. Are. Beautiful,” he says again, his tone emphatic. “And you’re amazingly sweet sometimes.” I kiss him gently. He lifts me and eases out of me. I wince as he does. Leaning forward, he kisses me softly. “You have no idea how attractive you are, do you?” I flush. Why’s he going on about this? “All those boys pursuing you—that isn’t enough of a clue?” “Boys? What boys?” “You want the list?” Jiyong frowns. “The photographer, he’s crazy about you, that boy in the hardware store, your roommate’s older brother. Your boss,” he adds bitterly. “Oh, Jiyong, that’s just not true.” “Trust me. They want you. They want what’s mine.” He pulls me against him, and I lift my arms to his shoulders, my hands in his hair, regarding him with amusement. “Mine,” he repeats, his eyes glowing possessively. “Yes, yours.” I reassure him, smiling. He looks mollified, and I feel perfectly comfortable naked in his lap on a bed in the full light of a Saturday afternoon. Who would have thought? The lipstick marks remain on his exquisite body. I note some smears on the duvet cover, though, and wonder briefly what Mrs. Jones will make of them. “The line is still intact,” I murmur and bravely trace the mark on his shoulder with my index finger. He stiffens, blinking suddenly. “I want to go exploring.” He regards me skeptically. “The apartment?” “No. I was thinking of the treasure map that we’ve drawn on you.” My fingers itch to touch him. His eyebrows lift in surprise, and he blinks with uncertainty. I rub my nose against his. “And what would that entail exactly, Miss y/l/n?” I lift my hand from his shoulder and run my fingertips down his face. “I just want to touch you everywhere I’m allowed.” Jiyong catches my index finger in his teeth, biting down gently. “Ow,” I protest and he grins, a low growl coming from his throat. “Okay,” he says, releasing my finger, but his voice is laced with apprehension. “Wait.” He leans behind me, lifting me again, and removes his condom, dropping it unceremoniously on the floor beside the bed. “I hate those things. I’ve a good mind to call Dr. Greene around to give you a shot.” “You think the top ob-gyn in Seoul is going to come running?” “I can be very persuasive,” he murmurs, hooking my hair behind my ear. “Franco’s done a great job on your hair. I like these layers.” What? “Stop changing the subject.” He shifts me back so I’m straddling him, leaning on his propped-up knees, my feet on either side of his hips. He leans back on his arms. “Touch away,” he says without humor. He looks nervous, but he’s trying to hide it. Keeping my eyes on his, I reach down and trace my finger underneath the lipstick line, across his finely sculptured abdominal muscles. He flinches and I stop. “I don’t have to,” I whisper. “No, it’s fine. Just takes some … readjustment on my part. No one’s touched me for a long time,” he murmurs. “Mrs. Robinson?” The words pop unbidden out of my mouth, and amazingly, I manage to keep all bitterness and rancor out of my voice. He nods, his discomfort obvious. “I don’t want to talk about her. It will sour your good mood.” “I can handle it.” “No, you can’t, Y/N. You see red whenever I mention her. My past is my past. It’s a fact. I can’t change it. I’m lucky that you don’t have one, because it would drive me crazy if you did.” I frown at him, but I don’t want to fight. “Drive you crazy? More than you are already?” I smile, hoping to lighten the atmosphere between us. His lips twitch. “Crazy for you,” he whispers. My heart swells with joy. “Shall I call Dr. Flynn?” “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he says dryly. Shifting back so he drops his legs, I place my fingers back on his stomach and let them drift across his skin. He stills once more. “I like touching you.” My fingers skate down to his navel then southward along his happy, happy trail. His lips part as his breathing changes, his eyes darken, and his erection stirs and twitches beneath me. Holy cow. Round two. “Again?” I murmur. He smiles. “Oh yes, Miss Y/L/N, again.” WHAT A DELICIOUS WAY to spend a Saturday afternoon. I stand beneath the shower, absentmindedly washing myself, careful not to wet my tied-back hair, contemplating the last couple of hours. Jiyong and vanilla seem to be going well. He’s revealed so much today. It’s staggering, trying to assimilate all the information and to reflect on what I’ve learned: his salary details—whoa, he’s stinking rich, and for someone so young, it’s just extraordinary—and the dossiers he has on me and on all his brunette submissives. I wonder if they are all in that filing cabinet? My subconscious purses her lips at me and shakes her head—Don’t even go there. I frown. Just a quick peek? And there’s Leila—with a gun, potentially, somewhere—and her crap taste in music still on his iPod. But even worse, Mrs. Pedo Robinson; I cannot wrap my head around her, and I don’t want to. I don’t want her to be a shimmering-haired specter in our relationship. He’s right, I do go off the deep end when I think of her, so perhaps it’s best if I don’t. I step out of the shower and dry myself, and I’m suddenly seized by unexpected anger. But who wouldn’t go off the deep end? What normal, sane person would do that to a fifteen-year-old boy? How much has she contributed to his fucked-upness? I don’t understand her. And worse still, he says she helped him. How? I think of his scars, the stark physical embodiment of a horrific childhood and a sickening reminder of what mental scars he must bear. My sweet, sad Fifty Shades. He’s said such loving things today. He’s crazy for me. Staring at my reflection, I smile at the memory of his words, my heart brimming once more, and my face transforms with a ridiculous smile. Perhaps we can make this work. But how long will he want to do this without wanting to beat the crap out of me because I cross some arbitrary line? My smile dissolves. This is what I don’t know. This is the shadow that hangs over us. Kinky fuckery, yes, I can do that, but more? My subconscious stares at me blankly, for once offering no snarky words of wisdom. I head back to my bedroom to dress. Jiyong is downstairs getting ready, doing whatever he’s doing, so I have the bedroom to myself. As well as all the dresses in the closet, I have drawers full of new underwear. I select a black bustier corset creation with a price tag of $540. It has silver trim like filigree and the briefest of panties to match. Thigh-high stockings, too, in a natural color, so fine, pure silk. Wow, they feel … slinky … and kind of hot … I am reaching for the dress when Jiyong enters unannounced. Whoa, you could knock! He stands immobilized, staring at me, eyes glimmering, hungrily. I blush crimson everywhere, it feels. He is wearing a white shirt and black suit pants; the neck of his shirt is open. I can see the lipstick line still in place, and he’s still staring. “Can I help you, Mr. Kwon? I assume there is some purpose to your visit other than to gawk mindlessly at me.” “I am rather enjoying my mindless gawk, thank you, Miss Y/L/N,” he murmurs darkly, stepping farther into the room and drinking me in. “Remind me to send a personal note of thanks to Caroline Acton.” I frown. Who the hell is she? “The personal shopper at Neiman’s,” he says, spookily answering my unspoken question. “Oh.” “I’m quite distracted.” “I can see that. What do you want, Jiyong?” I give him my no-nonsense stare. He retaliates with his crooked smile and pulls the silver ball things from his pocket, stopping me in my tracks. Holy shit! He wants to spank me? Now? Why? “It’s not what you think,” he says quickly. “Enlighten me,” I whisper. “I thought you could wear these tonight.” And the implications of that sentence hang between us as the idea sinks in. “To this event?” I’m shocked. He nods slowly, his eyes darkening. Oh my. “Will you spank me later?” “No.” For a moment, I feel a tiny fleeting stab of disappointment. He chuckles. “You want me to?” I swallow. I just don’t know. “Well, rest assured I am not going to touch you like that, not even if you beg me.” Oh! This is news. “Do you want to play this game?” he continues, holding up the balls. “You can always take them out if it’s too much.” I gaze at him. He looks so wickedly tempting—unkempt, recently fucked hair, dark eyes dancing with erotic thoughts, his lips raised in a sexy, amused smile. “Okay,” I acquiesce softly. Hell, yes! My inner goddess has found her voice and is shouting from the rooftops. “Good girl,” Jiyong grins. “Come here, and I’ll put them in, once you’ve put your shoes on.” My shoes? I turn and glance at the dove gray suede stilettos that match the dress I’ve chosen to wear. Humor him! He holds out his hand to support me while I step into the Christian Louboutin shoes, a steal at $3,295. I must be at least five inches taller now. He leads me to the bedside and doesn’t sit, but walks over to the only chair in the room. Picking it up, he carries it over and places it in front of me. “When I nod, you bend down and hold on to the chair. Understand?” His voice is husky. “Yes.” “Good. Now open your mouth,” he orders, his voice still low. I do as I’m told, thinking that he’s going to put the balls in my mouth to lubricate them. No, he slips his index finger in. Oh … “Suck,” he says. I reach up and clasp his hand, holding him steady, and do as I’m told —see, I can be obedient, when I want. He tastes of soap … hmm. I suck hard, and I’m rewarded when his eyes widen and his lips part as he inhales. I’m not going to need any lubricant at this rate. He puts the balls in his mouth as I fellate his finger, twirling my tongue around it. When he tries to withdraw it, I clamp my teeth down. He grins then shakes his head, admonishing me, so I let go. He nods, and I bend down and grasp the sides of the chair. He moves my panties to one side and very slowly slides a finger into me, circling leisurely, so I feel him, on all sides. I can’t help the moan that escapes from my lips. He withdraws his finger briefly and with tender care, inserts the balls one at a time, pushing them deep inside me. Once they are in position, he smoothes my panties back into place and kisses my backside. Running his hands up each of my legs from ankle to thigh, he gently kisses the top of each thigh where my thigh-highs end. “You have fine, fine legs, Miss Y/L/N,” he murmurs. Standing, he grasps my hips and pulls my behind against him so I feel his erection. “Maybe I’ll have you this way when we get home, Y/N. You can stand now.” I feel giddy, beyond aroused as the weight of the balls push and pull inside me. Leaning down from behind me Jiyong kisses my shoulder. “I bought these for you to wear to last Saturday’s gala.” He puts his arm around me and holds out his hand. In his palm rests a small red box with Cartier inscribed on the lid. “But you left me, so I never had the opportunity to give them to you.” Oh! “This is my second chance,” he murmurs, his voice stiff with some unnamed emotion. He’s nervous. Tentatively I reach for the box, and open it. Inside shines a pair of drop earrings. Each has four diamonds, one at the base, then a gap, then three perfectly spaced diamonds hanging one after the other. They’re beautiful, simple, and classic. What I would choose myself, if I were ever given the opportunity to shop at Cartier. “They’re lovely,” I whisper, and because they are second-chance earrings, I love them. “Thank you.” He relaxes against me as the tension leaves his body, and he kisses my shoulder again. “You’re wearing the silver satin dress?” he asks. “Yes. Is that okay?” “Of course. I’ll let you get ready.” He heads out the door without a backward glance. I HAVE ENTERED AN alternate universe. The young woman staring back at me looks worthy of a red carpet. Her strapless, floor-length, silver satin gown is simply stunning. Maybe I’ll write to Caroline Acton myself. It’s fitted, and flatters what few curves I have. My hair falls in soft waves around my face, spilling over my shoulders to my breasts. I tuck one side behind my ear, revealing my second-chance earrings. I have kept my makeup to a minimum, a natural look. Eyeliner, mascara, a little pink blush, and pale pink lipstick. I don’t really need the blush. I am a little flushed from the constant movement of the silver balls. Yes, they’ll guarantee I have some color in my cheeks tonight. Shaking my head at the audacity of Jiyong’s erotic ideas, I lean down to collect my satin wrap and silver clutch purse, and go in search of my Fifty Shades. He is talking to Taylor and three other men in the hallway, his back to me. Their surprised, appreciative expressions alert Jiyong to my presence. He turns as I stand and wait awkwardly. My mouth dries. He looks stunning … Black dinner suit, black bow tie, and his expression as he gazes at me is one of awe. He strolls toward me and kisses my hair. “Y/N. You look breathtaking.” I flush at this compliment in front of Taylor and the other men. “A glass of champagne before we go?” “Please,” I murmur, far too quickly. Jiyong nods to Taylor who heads into the foyer with his three cohorts. In the great room, Jiyong retrieves a bottle of champagne from the fridge. “Security team?” I ask. “Close protection. They’re under Taylor’s control. He’s trained in that, too.” Jiyong hands me a champagne flute. “He’s very versatile.” “Yes, he is.” Jiyong smiles. “You look lovely, Y/N. Cheers.” He raises his glass, and I clink it with mine. The champagne is a pale rose color. It tastes deliciously crisp and light. “How are you feeling?” he asks, his eyes heated. “Fine, thank you.” I smile sweetly, giving nothing away, knowing full well he’s referring to the silver balls. He smirks. “Here, you’re going to need this.” He hands me a large velvet pouch that was resting on the kitchen island. “Open it,” he says between sips of champagne. Intrigued, I reach into the bag and pull out an intricate silver masquerade mask with cobalt blue feathers in a plume crowning the top. “It’s a masked ball,” he states matter-of-factly. “I see.” The mask is beautiful. A silver ribbon is threaded around the edges, and exquisite silver filigree is etched around the eyes. “This will show off your beautiful eyes, Y/N.” I grin at him shyly. “Are you wearing one?” “Of course. They’re very liberating in a way,” he adds, raising an eyebrow. Oh. This is going to be fun. “Come. I want to show you something.” Holding out his hand, he leads me out into the hallway and to a door beside the stairs. He opens it, revealing a large room roughly the same size as his playroom, which must be directly above us. This one is filled with books. Wow, a library, every wall crammed floor to ceiling. In the center is a full-sized billiard table illuminated by a long, triangular-prism-shaped Tiffany lamp. “You have a library!” I squeak in awe, overwhelmed with excitement. “Yes, the balls room, as Taeyang calls it. The apartment is quite spacious. I realized today, when you mentioned exploring, that I’ve never given you a tour. We don’t have time now, but I thought I’d show you this room, and maybe challenge you to a game of billiards in the not-too-distant future.” I grin. “Bring it on.” I secretly hug myself with glee. José and I bonded over pool. We’ve been playing for the last three years. I am ace with a cue. José has been a good teacher. “What?” Jiyong asks, amused. Oh! I really must stop expressing every emotion I feel the instant I feel it, I scold myself. “Nothing,” I say quickly. Jiyong narrows his eyes. “Well, maybe Dr. Flynn can uncover your secrets. You’ll meet him this evening.” “The expensive charlatan?” Holy shit. “The very same. He’s dying to meet you.” Jiyong TAKES MY HAND and gently skims his thumb across my knuckles as we sit in the back of the Audi heading north. I squirm, and feel the sensation in my groin. I resist the urge to moan, as Taylor is in the front, not wearing his iPod, with one of the security guys whose name I think is Sawyer. I am beginning to feel a dull, pleasurable ache deep in my belly, caused by the balls. Idly I wonder how long I will be able to manage without some, um … relief? I cross my legs. As I do, something that’s been gnawing at me in the back of my mind suddenly surfaces. “Where did you get the lipstick?” I ask Jiyong quietly. He smirks at me and points toward the front. “Taylor,” he mouths. I burst out laughing. “Oh.” And stop quickly—the balls. I bite my lip. Jiyong smiles at me, his eyes gleaming wickedly. He knows exactly what he’s doing, sexy beast that he is. “Relax,” he breathes. “If it’s too much …” His voice trails off, and he gently kisses each knuckle in turn, then gently sucks the tip of my little finger. Now I know he’s doing this on purpose. I close my eyes as dark desire unfolds throughout my body. I surrender briefly to the sensation, my muscles clenching deep inside me. When I open my eyes again, Jiyong is regarding me closely, a dark prince. It must be the dinner jacket and bow tie, but he looks older, sophisticated, a devastatingly handsome roué with licentious intent. He simply takes my breath away. I’m in his sexual thrall, and if I’m to believe him, he’s in mine. The thought brings a smile to my face, and his answering grin is blinding. “So what can we expect at this event?” “Oh, the usual stuff,” Jiyong says breezily. “Not usual for me,” I remind him. Jiyong smiles fondly and kisses my hand again. “Lots of people flashing their cash. Auction, raffle, dinner, dancing—my mother knows how to throw a party.” He smiles and for the first time all day, I allow myself to feel a little excited about this party. There is a line of expensive cars heading up the driveway of the Kwon mansion. Long, pale pink paper lanterns hang over the drive, and as we inch closer in the Audi, I can see they are everywhere. In the early evening light they look magical, as if we’re entering an enchanted kingdom. I glance at Jiyong. How suitable for my prince—and my childish excitement blooms, eclipsing all other feelings. “Masks on,” Jiyong grins, and as he dons his simple black mask, my prince becomes something darker, more sensual. All I can see of his face is his beautiful mouth and strong jaw. My heartbeat lurches at the sight of him. I fasten my mask and ignore the hunger deep in my body. Taylor pulls into the driveway, and a valet opens Jiyong’s door. Sawyer leaps out to open mine. “Ready?” Jiyong asks. “As I’ll ever be.” “You look beautiful, Y/N.” He kisses my hand and exits the car. A dark green carpet runs along the lawn to one side of the house, leading to the impressive grounds at the rear. Jiyong has a protective arm around me, resting his hand on my waist, as we follow the green carpet with a steady stream of Seoul’s elite dressed in their finery and wearing all manner of masks, the lanterns lighting the way. Two photographers marshal guests to pose for pictures against the backdrop of an ivystrewn arbor. “Mr. Kwon!” one of the photographers calls. Jiyong nods in acknowledgment and pulls me close as we pose quickly for a photo. How do they know it’s him? His trademark unruly copper hair, no doubt. “Two photographers?” I ask Jiyong. “One is from the Seoul Times; the other is for a souvenir. We’ll be able to buy a copy later.” Oh, my picture in the press again. Leila briefly enters my mind. This is how she found me, posing with Jiyong. The thought is unsettling, though it’s comforting that I am unrecognizable beneath my mask. At the end of the line, white-suited servers hold trays of glasses brimming with champagne, and I’m grateful when Jiyong passes me a glass—effectively distracting me from my dark thoughts. We approach a large white pergola hung with smaller versions of the paper lanterns. Beneath it shines a black-and-white checkered dance floor surrounded by a low fence with entrances on three sides. Standing at each entrance are two elaborate ice sculptures of swans. The fourth side of the pergola is occupied by a stage where a string quartet is playing softly, a haunting, ethereal piece I don’t recognize. The stage looks set for a big band but as there’s no sign of the musicians, I figure this must be for later. Taking my hand, Jiyong leads me between swans onto the dance floor where the other guests are congregating, chatting over glasses of champagne. Toward the shoreline stands an enormous tent, open on the side nearest to us so I can glimpse the formally arranged tables and chairs. There are so many! “How many people are coming?” I ask Jiyong, thrown by the scale of the tent. “I think about three hundred. You’ll have to ask my mother.” He smiles down at me. “Jiyong!” A young woman appears out of the throng and throws her arms around his neck, and immediately I know she’s Mia. She’s dressed in a sleek, pale pink, full-length chiffon gown with a stunning, delicately detailed Venetian mask to match. She looks amazing. And for a moment, I have never felt so grateful for the dress that Jiyong has given me. “Y/N! Oh, darling, you look gorgeous!” She gives me a quick hug. “You must come and meet my friends. None of them can believe that Jiyong finally has a girlfriend.” I shoot a quick panicked glance at Jiyong, who shrugs in a resigned, I-know-she’simpossible- I-had-to-live-with-her-for-years way, and let Mia lead me over to a group of four young women, all expensively attired and impeccably groomed. Mia makes hasty introductions. Three of them are sweet and kind, but Lily, I think her name is, regards me sourly from beneath her red mask. “Of course, we all thought Jiyong was gay,” she says snidely, concealing her rancor with a large, fake smile. Mia pouts at her. “Lily, behave yourself. It’s obvious he has excellent taste in women. He was waiting for the right one to come along, and it wasn’t you!” Lily blushes the same color as her mask, as do I. Could this be any more uncomfortable? “Ladies, if I could claim my date back, please?” Snaking his arm around my waist, Jiyong pulls me to his side. All four women flush, grin, and fidget, his dazzling smile doing what it always does. Mia glances at me and rolls her eyes, and I have to laugh. “Lovely to meet you,” I say as he drags me away. “Thank you,” I mouth at Jiyong when we’re some distance away. “I saw that Lily was with Mia. She is one nasty piece of work.” “She likes you,” I mutter dryly. He shudders. “Well, the feeling is not mutual. Come, let me introduce you to some people.” I spend the next half hour in a whirlwind of introductions. I meet two Hollywood actors, two more CEOs, and several eminent physicians. There is no way I am going to remember everyone’s name. Jiyong keeps me close at his side, and I’m grateful. Frankly, the wealth, the glamour, and the sheer lavish scale of the event intimidate me. I have never been to anything like this in my life. The white-suited servers move effortlessly through the growing crowd of guests with bottles of champagne, topping off my glass with worrying regularity. I must not drink too much. I must not drink too much, I repeat to myself, but I’m beginning to feel lightheaded, and I don’t know if it’s the champagne, the charged atmosphere of mystery and excitement created by the masks, or the secret silver balls. The dull ache below my waist is becoming impossible to ignore. “So you work at SIP?” asks a balding gentleman in a bear—or is it a dog?—half mask. “Heard rumors of a hostile takeover.” I flush. There is a hostile takeover, from a man who has more money than sense and is a stalker par excellence. “I’m just a lowly assistant, Mr. Eccles. I wouldn’t know about these things.” Jiyong says nothing and smiles blandly at Eccles. “Ladies and gentlemen!” The master of ceremonies, wearing an impressive black-andwhite harlequin mask, interrupts us. “Please take your seats. Dinner is served.” Jiyong takes my hand, and we follow the chattering crowd to the large tent. The interior is stunning. Three enormous, shallow chandeliers throw rainbow-colored sparkles over the ivory silk lining of the ceiling and walls. There must be at least thirty tables, and they remind me of the private dining room at the Heathman Hotel—crystal glasses, crisp white linen covering the tables and chairs, and in the center an exquisite display of pale pink peonies gathered around a silver candelabra. Wrapped in gossamer silk beside it is a basket of goodies. Jiyong consults the seating plan and leads me to a table in the center. Mia and Han Gi-ran are already in situ, deep in conversation with a young man I don’t know. Gi-ran is wearing a shimmering mint green gown with a Venetian mask to match. She looks radiant, not stressed at all, and she greets me warmly. “Y/N, how delightful to see you again! And looking so beautiful, too.” “Mother,” Jiyong greets her stiffly and kisses her on both cheeks. “Oh, Jiyong , so formal!” she scolds him teasingly. Gi-ran ’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan, join us at our table. They seem exuberant and youthful, though it’s difficult to tell beneath their matching bronze masks. They are delighted to see Jiyong. “Grandmother, Grandfather, may I introduce Y/N Y/L/N?” Mrs. Trevelyan is all over me like a rash. “Oh, he’s finally found someone, how wonderful, and so pretty! Well, I do hope you make an honest man of him,” she gushes, shaking my hand. Holy cow. I thank the heavens for my mask. “Mother, don’t embarrass Y/N.” Gi-ran comes to my rescue. “Ignore the silly old coot, m’dear.” Mr. Trevelyan shakes my hand. “She thinks because she’s so old, she has a God-given right to say whatever nonsense pops into that woolly head of hers.” “Y/N, this is my date, Sean.” Mia shyly introduces her young man. He gives me a wicked grin, and his brown eyes dance with amusement as we shake hands. “Pleased to meet you, Sean.” Jiyong shakes Sean’s hand as he regards him shrewdly. Don’t tell me that poor Mia suffers from her overbearing brother, too. I smile at Mia in sympathy. Lance and Janine, Han Gi-ran’s friends, are the last couple at our table, but there is still no sign of Mr. Carrick Kwon. Abruptly there’s the hiss of a microphone, and Mr. Kwon’s voice booms over the PA system, causing the babble of voices to die down. Carrick stands on a small stage at one end of the tent, wearing an impressive gold Punchinello mask. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to our annual charity ball. I hope that you enjoy what we have laid out for you tonight and that you’ll dig deep into your pockets to support the fantastic work that our team does with Coping Together. As you know, it’s a cause that is very close to my wife’s heart, and mine.” I peek nervously at Jiyong , who is staring impassively, I think, at the stage. He glances at me and smirks. “I’ll hand you over now to our master of ceremonies. Please be seated, and enjoy,” Carrick finishes. Polite applause follows; then the babble in the tent starts again. I am seated between Jiyong and his grandfather. I admire the small white place card with fine silver calligraphy that bears my name as a waiter lights the candelabra with a long taper. Carrick joins us, kissing me on both cheeks, surprising me. “Good to see you again, Y/N,” he murmurs. He really looks very striking in his extraordinary gold mask. “Ladies and gentlemen: please nominate a table head,” the MC calls out. “Oooh—me, me!” says Mia immediately, bouncing enthusiastically in her seat. “In the center of the table you will find an envelope,” the MC continues. “Would everyone find, beg, borrow, or steal a bill of the highest denomination you can manage, write your name on it, and place it inside the envelope? Table heads, please guard these envelopes carefully. We will need them later.” Crap. I haven’t brought any money with me. How stupid—it’s a charity event! Fishing out his wallet, Jiyong produces two $100 bills. “Here,” he says. What? “I’ll pay you back,” I whisper. His mouth twists, and I know he’s not happy, but he doesn’t comment. I sign my name using his fountain pen—it’s black, with a white flower motif on the cap—and Mia passes the envelope around. In front of me I find another card inscribed with silver calligraphy—our menu. A MASKED BALL IN AID OF COPING TOGETHER MENU SALMON TARTARE WITH CRÈME FRAICHE AND CUCUMBER ON TOASTED BRIOCHE ALBAN ESTATE ROUSSANNE 2006 ROASTED MUSCOVY DUCK BREAST CREAMY JERUSALEM ARTICHOKE PURÉE, THYME-ROASTED BING CHERRIES, FOIE GRAS CHÂTEAUNEUF-DU-PAPE VIEILLES VIGNES 2006 DOMAINE DE LA JANASSE SUGAR-CRUSTED WALNUT CHIFFON CANDIED FIGS, SABAYON, MAPLE ICE CREAM VIN DE CONSTANCE 2004 KLEIN CONSTANTIA SELECTION OF LOCAL CHEESES AND BREADS ALBAN ESTATE GRENACHE 2006 COFFEE AND PETITS FOURS Well, that accounts for the number of crystal glasses in every size that crowd my place setting. Our waiter is back, offering wine and water. Behind me, the sides of the tent through which we entered are being closed, while at the front, two servers pull back the canvas, revealing the sunset over Seoul and Meydenbauer Bay. It’s an absolutely breathtaking view, the twinkling lights of Seoul in the distance and the orange, dusky calm of the bay reflecting the opal sky. Wow. It’s so calm and peaceful. Ten servers, each holding a plate, come to stand between us. On a silent cue, they serve us our starters in complete synchronization, then vanish again. The salmon looks delicious, and I realize I am famished. “Hungry?” Jiyong murmurs so only I can hear. I know he’s not referring to the food, and the muscles deep in my belly respond. “Very,” I whisper, boldly meeting his gaze, and Jiyong’s lips part as he inhales. Ha! See … two can play at this game. Jiyong’s grandfather engages me in conversation immediately. He’s a wonderful old man, so proud of his daughter and three grandchildren. It is weird to think of Jiyong as a child. The memory of his burn scars come unbidden to my mind, but quickly I quash it. I don’t want to think about that now, though ironically it’s the reason behind this party. I wish Hyo-Rin were here, with Taeyang. She would fit in so well—the sheer number of forks and knives laid out before her wouldn’t daunt Hyo-Rin—and she would command the table. I imagine her duking it out with Mia over who should be table head. The thought makes me smile. The conversation at the table ebbs and flows. Mia is entertaining, as usual, and quite eclipses poor Sean, who mostly stays quiet, like me. Jiyong’s grandmother is the most vocal. She, too, has a biting sense of humor, usually at the expense of her husband. I begin to feel a little sorry for Mr. Trevelyan. Jiyong and Lance talk animatedly about a device Jiyong’s company is developing inspired by E. F. Schumacher’s Small Is Beautiful principle. It’s hard to keep up. Jiyong seems intent on empowering impoverished communities all over the world with windup technology—devices that need no electricity or batteries, and minimal maintenance. Watching him in full flow is astonishing. He’s passionate and committed to improving the lives of the less fortunate. Through his telecommunications company he’s intent on being first to market with a windup mobile phone. Whoa. I had no idea. I mean, I knew about his passion about feeding the world, but this … Lance seems unable to comprehend Jiyong’s plan to give the technology away and not patent it. I wonder vaguely how Jiyong made all his money if he’s so willing to give it all away. Throughout dinner a steady stream of men in smartly tailored dinner jackets and dark masks stop by the table, keen to meet Jiyong, shake his hand, and exchange pleasantries. He introduces me to some but not others. I’m intrigued to know how and why he makes the distinction. During one such conversation, Mia leans across and smiles. “Y/N, will you help in the auction?” “Of course,” I respond, only too willing. By the time dessert is served, night has fallen, and I’m really uncomfortable. I need to get rid of the balls. Before I can excuse myself, the master of ceremonies appears at our table, and with him—if I’m not mistaken—is Miss European Pigtails. What’s her name? Hansel, Gretel … Gretchen. She’s masked, of course, but I know it’s her when her gaze doesn’t move beyond Jiyong. She blushes, and selfishly I’m beyond pleased that Jiyong doesn’t acknowledge her at all. The MC asks for our envelope and with a very practiced and eloquent flourish, asks Gi-ran to pull out the winning bill. It’s Sean’s, and the silk-wrapped basket is awarded to him. I applaud politely, but I’m finding it impossible to concentrate on any more of the proceedings. “If you’ll excuse me,” I murmur to Jiyong. He looks at me intently. “Do you need the powder room?” I nod. “I’ll show you,” he says darkly. When I stand, all the other men around the table stand with me. Oh, such manners. “No, Jiyong! You’re not taking Y/N—I will.” Mia is on her feet before Jiyong can protest. His jaw tenses; I know he’s not pleased. Quite frankly, neither am I. I have … needs. I shrug apologetically at him, and he sits down quickly, resigned. On our return, I feel a little better, though the relief of removing the balls has not been as instantaneous as I’d hoped. They’re now stashed safely in my clutch purse. Why did I think I could last the whole evening? I am still yearning—perhaps I can persuade Jiyong to take me to the boathouse later. I flush at the thought and glance at him as I take my seat. He stares at me, the ghost of a smile crossing his lips. Phew … he’s no longer mad at a missed opportunity, though maybe I am. I feel frustrated —irritable even. Jiyong squeezes my hand, and we both listen attentively to Carrick, who is back on stage talking about Coping Together. Jiyong passes me another card —a list of the auction prizes. I scan them quickly. AUCTION GIFTS AND GRACIOUS DONORS FOR COPING TOGETHER SIGNED BASEBALL BAT FROM THE MARINERS—DR. EMILY MAINWARING GUCCI PURSE, WALLET & KEY RING—ANDREA WASHINGTON ONE-DAY VOUCHER FOR TWO AT ESCLAVA, BRAVERN CENTER—ELENA LINCOLN LANDSCAPE AND GARDEN DESIGN—GIA MATTEO COCO DE MER COFFRET & PERFUME BEAUTY SELECTION—ELIZABETH AUSTIN VENETIAN MIRROR—MR. AND MRS. J. BAILEY TWO CASES OF WINE OF YOUR CHOICE FROM ALBAN ESTATES—ALBAN ESTATES TWO VIP TICKETS FOR XTY IN CONCERT—MRS. L. YESYOV RACE DAY AT DAYTONA—EMC BRITT INC. PRIDE AND PREJUDICE BY JANE AUSTEN, FIRST EDITION—DR. A. F. M. LACE-FIELD DRIVE AN ASTON MARTIN DB7 FOR A DAY—MR. & MRS. L. W. NORA OIL PAINTING, INTO THE BLUE BY J. TROUTON—KELLY TROUTON GLIDING LESSON—SEOUL AREA SOARING SOCIETY WEEKEND BREAK FOR TWO AT THE HEATHMAN HOTEL, PORTLAND—THE HEATHMAN HOTEL ONE-WEEKEND STAY IN ASPEN, COLORADO (SLEEPS SIX)—MR. C. KWON ONE-WEEK STAY ABOARD THE SUSIECUE YACHT (SIX BERTHS), MOORED IN ST. LUCIA—DR. & MRS. LARIN ONE WEEK AT LAKE ADRIANA, MONTANA (SLEEPS EIGHT)—MR. & DR. KWON Holy shit. I blink up at Jiyong. “You own property in Aspen?” I hiss. The auction is under way, and I have to keep my voice down. He nods, surprised at my outburst and irritated, I think. He puts his finger to his lips to silence me. “Do you have property elsewhere?” I whisper. He nods again and inclines his head to one side in a warning. The whole room erupts with cheering and applause; one of the prizes has gone for $12,000. “I’ll tell you later,” Jiyong says quietly. “I wanted to come with you,” he adds rather sulkily. Well, you didn’t. I pout and I realize that I’m still querulous, and no doubt, it’s the frustrating effect of the balls. My mood darkens after seeing Mrs. Robinson on the list of generous donors. I glance around the tent to see if I can spot her, but I can’t see her telltale hair. Surely Jiyong would have warned me if she was invited tonight. I sit and stew, applauding when necessary, as each lot is sold for astonishing amounts of money. The bidding moves to Jiyong’s place in Aspen and reaches $20,000. “Going once, going twice,” the MC calls. And I don’t know what possesses me, but I suddenly hear my own voice ringing out clearly over the throng. “Twenty-four thousand dollars!” Every mask at the table turns to me in shocked amazement, the biggest reaction of all coming from beside me. I hear his sharp intake of breath and feel his wrath washing over me like a tidal wave. “Twenty-four thousand dollars, to the lovely lady in silver, going once, going twice … Sold!”

[buckyscurvylover]

Half Past The Point Of Oblivion Part 4/5 (Sebastian Stan x OFC NSFW)

Earlier Parts: One Two Three

Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Sebastian Stan/Original Female Character(s), Chris Evans/Original Female Character (mentioned) Characters: Sebastian Stan, Tara Sullivan (OFC), Chris Evans (mentioned), Gretchen (OFC) Additional Tags: Friends to Lovers, Queerplatonic Relationships, Jealousy, Angst, Smut, Crying, good food, therapy sessions, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Chair Sex, Dirty Talk, Sebastian's Filthy Fucking Mouth, Light Dom/sub, Sub Sebastian, Like super light, barely even there, Begging To Come, Introspection, confused feelings, masturbation (mentioned), Voyeurism (sort of), Missed Opportunities, Fluffy Ending

Part 3 of The Deadliest Sin

Summary:

As soon as they were both through the doorway, he kicked the door shut behind them with the heel of his boot. His coat dropped by his feet and he pressed himself back into the smooth wood, his palms flat against the panel beside his thighs.

“I need you to tell me if you don’t want this,” he said, his voice gravelly, “because if I come over there now...” He trailed off, absently licking his lips as he slowly and deliberately dragged his gaze from her face, down to her feet and back up.

She licked her lips. “Lock the door,” she replied, swallowing the breathy rasp in her voice.

Following on from the sudden, whirlwind shift in their relationship, Sebastian and Tara try to navigate their way through the mess of feelings. Who will her heart choose, though - Sebastian or Chris?

Part of "The Deadliest Sin" series. Now with added co-writer, @sebastianfloofyhair!

Notes:

I know it's been FOREVER since I posted the last part, and I hope that people are still interested to see this continue.

Since I wrote "Half Past The Point Of No Return", I have begun collaborating with the creator of Tara, @sebastianfloofyhair on furthering this series and it has taken on a life of its own. Currently we have MASSES of fic written, I just need to get around to editing and posting it all, but I'm making a start on it with this part. It's completed and ready to go, I'm only separating it into chapters because it's over 21.5K words! I will get them posted every couple of days, though, I hope.

Disclaimer:

We don't know the actual, real Sebastian Stan (or Chris Evans). This is just a facsimile of him and both he and the story bear no relation to reality. Any similarities in the scenario to Real Life™ are just coincidence. We intend no harm or upset to Sebastian, or his family and friends. Everything is completely made up from the depraved depths of our brains and Tara belongs to SebastianFloofyHair.

They’d eaten their dinner mostly in silence, and by the time Sebastian stood up to carry his plate to the sink, he’d been itching to just get the air cleared between them. They both retreated to the living room, and he threw a log onto the fire before following her to the couch. He lowered himself down next to her, twisting in place to face her, one leg bent in front of him and his arm across the back of the sofa, his head propped on his hand.

“So...” he started. His stomach flipped nervously. “We’re talking right?”

Tara nodded, letting out a sigh. “Yeah. Talking is... needed, I think.”

He stared at her for a moment, the fingers of the hand under his head absently toying with his hair. He frowned slightly at a twinge in his thumb, looking down to where the other hand rested on his thigh and he’d been unconsciously picking at the skin around his nail. He curled his hand into a ball, tucking his thumb under his fingers and looked back up.

“I’m not entirely sure where to start.” he admitted. “I... have so much stuff going on in here.” He lifted his head and tapped his temple twice with his first two fingers before resting his cheek back into his palm. She tucked her socked feet up beneath her legs, turning so that she was facing him with her whole body as he spoke. Her face remained soft, slightly plaintive. “I know. There’s a lot in my head, too.”

He nodded, acknowledging her words, before continuing. “But I do know two things. I know that I love you, and that’s never going to change, whatever happens. And I know that I want you to be happy, even if that isn’t with me.”

Her brow furrowed. She looked down at her hands, clasping them together in her lap. “I don’t... we need to talk about what that means.” She flicked her eyes back up to his face. “I mean, I love you too. That’s... that’s a part of who we are. Havin’ you in my life is important to me. And today, well, since last night... things have just been so confusing.”

His chest hurt. As muddled as his feelings were, seeing them mirrored on her face was so much more painful. He lifted his hand and reached towards her, intending to cover hers but stopped. As much as he wanted to comfort her, smooth away the frown, this conversation needed to happen with clear minds. The last thing he wanted was to muddy the waters with desire right now. Instead, he flattened his hand over his knee, rubbing his palm against the rough denim.

“I know. What I’m trying to say is that... whatever else happens between us, or doesn’t... whatever my feelings might be or whatever yours turn out to be...” He paused and swallowed the lump forming in this throat.

Suck it up, Jesus...

“Whether I’m in love with you or not, I will still always love you. You’re my best friend, Tara. You will always be that to me. I just... I need for you to know that. To believe that.” He stopped suddenly, his eyes focusing more intently on her. “Wait, what... Since... last night?” The crease deepened between his eyes. “I... uh. We hadn’t... I’m a little confused.”

“Things happened with Chris last night, things that I wasn’t expecting,” she clarified, shaking her head. “As you’re well aware.” She lifted her brows and gave him a weak smile. His cheeks burned furiously, but he returned her smile crookedly.

“I’m never gonna live this down, am I?” he joked softly, before gesturing for her to continue.

Tara tilted her head and grinned a little. “It’s okay. I just... You know there’ve been times before when I came close to asking him out, even back in May, in New York, I almost... I would’ve but too much was going on at the time.” She took a breath and let it out, licking her lips. “So last night and this morning, with him, it was...” She frowned, but kept her eyes on his face. “It would be unfair to lie to you and say that I don’t feel something for him.”

It took every shred of his acting ability to maintain a relatively neutral expression. This wasn’t precisely news to him, of course he was aware of her feelings for Chris; they’d talked about it often enough, he’d gently teased her, even, for being almost star-struck around the other man at times. But it still felt like a knife in his belly to be reminded of it so bluntly. He tried to swallow, his throat constricted painfully, and inhaled deeply, holding it for a beat.

“I know.” he admitted softly. “I can’t say that doesn’t hurt, but I know. And I don’t expect those feelings to simply vanish just because I finally decided to act on... well, on us.”

Tara looked at him, her face a mask of uncertainty and confusion. “Finally... you say finally like this is something... something you’ve felt for a long time and have kept from me, Sebastian.” Yes, she’d thought about it before, that obviously there had been something there before and it had become clearer after this morning, but hearing him say it out loud...

He grimaced, scrunching his eyes closed for a moment, while he worked to control the sudden pulse of adrenaline spiking through him. For someone who almost became a writer instead of an actor, he was really bad at words when it came to moments like this. “It’s not...” He opened his eyes, implored her with them. “That’s not what I mean... well, not exactly...” He rubbed his hand over his face with a small groan. “Jesus, I fuckin’ suck at this.” He huffed a sigh through his nose and straightened his back, his eyes on hers before he continued.

“Yes, in hindsight, I think this... these feelings have been there for a long time. But I wasn’t lying to you. Not intentionally.” He saw the doubt clouding her expression and he bit back a frustrated huff at his inability to explain himself clearly. “Fuck, Tara, I was lying to myself . I was... I was so sure that you would never feel that way about me so I... I just refused to go there. I didn’t let myself even acknowledge it after the first few weeks, months of knowing you. I meant it when I said that I couldn’t imagine why you’d have ever been interested in the nerdy theater kid with a funny accent and crooked teeth, babe.” He paused, his eyes flicking across her face, desperate to see understanding there.

Her eyes welled with tears, and she nodded, her voice barely a whisper as she said, “I know you meant it.” She reached forward, putting a hand on his knee and squeezed reassuringly. “You were such a good friend to me then, and I needed that. It would’ve... complicated things too much then and...” she lowered her eyes. “I made the choice to see you a certain way, even if I may have had other feelings at some points...”

“It’s okay... you don’t... I know, and that’s alright. I don’t... hold that against you.” He layered his hand over hers, tightened his fingers around her own, and just that small touch loosened the tightness restricting his lungs, just a fraction. “You don’t have to justify anything, I just... I need you to know that I never regarded our friendship as a placeholder, as... as a consolation prize. What we had... have... that’s really important to me. I need my zucchini.” He forced a small smile, his fingers itching to reach up and wipe the tears from her cheeks. “Please don’t cry. Not over this.”

Tara nodded, turning her hand to slip her fingers through his. ‘I’m trying. And I believe you. I really do.”

“Thank you,” he said. A small part of the heaviness weighing him down lifted from his shoulders and he pushed on. “All the times... the times things almost happened. I... That would frighten me so fuckin’ much, so I... I guess I took the cowardly way out, found someone else to try an’ scratch that itch with.” He shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry.” He shook his head, his eyes dropping to his lap. “It was pretty shitty of me. But I honestly didn’t even put the pieces together, until this.”

“Why... do you think now? What is it now that...” Her eyes searched his face. “What do you want now?”

His brows lifted. “Why did I suddenly stop being stupid now, you mean? I want... “ He shook his head. “Right now, my heart tells me that I want you. All of you. I want to wake up next to you, fall asleep in your arms after worshipping your body, every damn day. But I... I’m me, Tara. I know how I am. I’m terrified that... I don’t want to be just another guy who takes advantage of you. I... the depth of self-loathing I would have if I persuaded you to do this, only to realise I can’t be what you need, because I’m just a lazy, insecure asshole taking the easy route is... well it’d be bad. You’d hate me. I’d hate me even more.” His eyes burned with the threat of tears. “It’d destroy me just as sure as it’d destroy you.”

Tara’s brow furrowed and she tugged her bottom lip between her teeth. “You...” Her eyes widened and she chuckled, trying to hold it back. “You think this is the easy way? How in the hell could this be the easy way?” She shook her head. “I mean, I’m torn to fuckin’ pieces over here. Because I love you and I want to make you happy, but... I don’t want that to be why... if we decide to be together...” She looked down at their hands, rubbing her thumb over his palm. “It’s so hard to know what to do right now.”

He laughed wryly. “Yeah, I officially suck at communicating feelings.” For a moment, he watched her tracing patterns over his hand, resolutely ignoring the tingling creeping along his arm. “I don’t want it to be for that reason either. That’s what I’m so afraid of here, Tara. I... You said it yourself. I keep doing the same shit, datin’ the same kinda woman, then I come back to you to make things better when it all goes wrong. Being with you was always the easiest thing in the world before. We just work. Even when you lecture me about thinking with my dick.” His fingers closed around hers, stilling her movements. “I worry that’s why I want this, even though... even though it really doesn’t feel like that to me.” He sighed. “Yeah, it’s definitely hard. And I am so, so fuckin’ sorry that I’ve made you feel like this.”

“Sebastian...” She shook her head. “Don’t be sorry, please... I don’t want you to apologize to me for how you feel. That’s... important to me, okay? That you tell me the truth and that we not hide our feelings. I think we’ve done that for long enough.” She gave him a wry smile. “If... if we’re gonna figure this out, we have to know the truth. Even if it really fuckin’ hurts.” She looked at him. “And that means I...” She pulled her hand from his, turning on the couch. She ran her hands over her hair. “I have to be honest with you, too. I have to tell the truth.”

Sebastian’s heart plummeted, his mouth suddenly desperately dry, but he nodded. “Alright... just... whatever it is, just tell me,” he rasped. He wished he had something to drink, but right now wasn’t the time to vanish into the kitchen, even for a moment.

Tara leaned forward and got to her feet. If she was going to confront all of those closed doors, now was the time to do it.

No backin’ out now .

She pushed the loose sleeves of her oversized sweater up to her elbows and brushed the hair out of her face, walking around the coffee table. “The fact that I have to say this over here and not...” She waved a hand toward the couch. “Sitting next to you...” She laughed bitterly and put her hands on her hips. She looked up at the ceiling and blew out a breath. “There’ve been times when it was hard being next to you. Being close to you. Because there’ve been points along the way where...” She lowered her eyes, looked down at her socked feet. “Where I wanted more. And maybe a small part of me thought you did too, but I ignored it. I’d hear you... when we’d be in one place or another and we’d come back drunk and I’d pretend to be asleep...”

Goosebumps rose over his entire body in a rush, every hair prickling at the root, and he doubled over, not entirely managing to bite back a groan as he buried his face into his arms. Mortification warred with arousal, and even after everything that had happened between them today, his body threatened to respond in a wholly unhelpful way. His hands slid into his hair, tugging lightly, and he sucked in slow breath. “I...” he swallowed, finally lifting his face from his arms, his cheeks pink, and shook his head as he waved at the coffee table. “That was probably a good idea, yeah.” He closed his eyes, frowning, and forced his breathing to slow. “Yeah, okay, I’m... go on...” he said finally, his fingers locked around his knees.

“Listening to you would...” She sighed, rubbing her hands over her face. “It would make me think about it. About you. About us . About what it would be like...” Tara looked at him, her eyes searching his face for a reaction. “That time... I know you remember that time, you mentioned earlier... when you couldn’t sleep because you were so worked up. And I told you it was okay to go ahead, do what you needed to do.”

He nodded, and swallowed. Oh yeah . He remembered every damn second of that night. They’d been staying in Los Angeles for an afterparty, and Tara, pleasantly tipsy, had gone up to their shared room, leaving him to continue making the rounds. By the time he’d followed her up he was more than a little drunk and had stumbled into the bathroom to pee before he burst. It wasn’t until he’d finished and turned to wash up that he’d realised that Tara was watching him from around the vaguely frosted glass door of the shower, her hair slicked to her shoulders and a bemused expression on her face. She’d shaken her head fondly and pulled the door closed, and he’d hurried out with a mumbled apology. Sure, they’d both wandered into the bathroom while the other had been showering before, but this time, her figure had been clearly visible instead of hidden behind an opaque shower curtain and he’d found himself instantly, unbearably aroused. By the time she’d appeared, dressed in her pyjamas and her hair wrapped in a towel, he had burrowed under the covers, but his mind kept returning to the shape of her curves behind the glass. He’d tried to be discreet, to hide his discomfort, but had failed dismally, and what had happened after... they hadn’t spoken of it since. He’d assumed she felt uncomfortable the next day, and he was embarrassed beyond belief at his weakness, and silence had seemed the easiest option all around.

She bit her lip, watching his face as he relived the memory. “In the end I... I had to touch you. Somehow. I had to... It was killing me.” She shook her head and turned around, facing the Christmas tree. She let her head fall back and she closed her eyes. “I wanted so much more than just to touch you.”

His vision swam. He’d guarded that memory jealously, even while there had been an unspoken agreement to pretend that it hadn’t happened. Although her hands hadn’t touched him anywhere that she wouldn’t have done normally, the memory of her fingers brushing his skin had driven him crazy for weeks afterwards. “Fuck, Tara, I...” He shook his head, his nails digging into his skin through the heavy cotton of his jeans. “I didn’t know. I didn’t realise, I... I thought that you wouldn’t ever want that from me, like... like you were just... I dunno...” He laughed, confused. “I guess I thought it was just the alcohol. Gettin’ carried away... I didn’t... I was embarrassed...”

“I know... I know you didn’t know and I didn’t... I didn’t want you to. I thought it’d be better if you didn’t.” She turned around, walking back to the coffee table. She sat down on the edge in front of him. “But now, it’s... It’s all come back and it’s probably the worst possible time. But I can’t... “ She tilted her head, her gaze fixing on his. “I can’t ignore that it’s something I feel. That everything that’s happened today has brought it to the surface.” She pressed her lips together, rubbing her hands down her thighs. “And every second that goes by it gets harder not to touch you now. It... it’s like a craving, like if I don’t... I won’t be able to breathe.”

Sebastian’s breath caught in his throat, need crawling along his spine. “I...” His eyes closed. When he answered, his voice was a whisper “I know. I feel it too. Part of me... part of me wondered if I would just... if once we’d done something, once we’d actually... I was afraid that’d be it, that I’d have risked it all for one time...” He opened his eyes. “It didn’t though. It’s fuckin’ terrifyin’ me, to want this so bad, all the time. Jesus, I...” He scrubbed his hands at his eyes, tucking them under his backside to ensure he wouldn’t just reach for her. “I swore to myself I’d be stronger this time. That we’d actually talk instead of...” he shrugged. “Messin’ around.”

Tara chuckled, leaning forward a little to nudge her knees against his. “We’re... doin’ okay so far? But...” Her eyes drifted over his face. “I don’t know how long I can keep doin’ okay.”

“God, Tara...” His breath rushed out of him and he definitely twitched in his pants. “Just... please just tell me what you need to tell me before I...” His tongue swiped over his lips. “I think I need to take a very cold shower,” His chuckle was strained. “Tell me what I need to do. Please. How I can help work this out.”

Tara’s brows lifted and she sighed, shrugging. “I wish I knew, babe. I really wish I did.” She shook her head. “I don’t wanna jump in with both feet and be like, okay, this is... whatever it is, not when I know I have feelings for Chris, too, and they’re just as new.” She paused, frowning a little. “Okay, maybe this thing between us isn’t new , but it hasn’t been explored and it’s just...” Tears welled in her eyes again. “I dunno how I’m supposed to handle having feelings for two people at once. How am I supposed to...” She sighed, exasperated. “Figure it out without looking like a fuckin’ horrible person?”

His face fell, and without thinking he reached for her, his fingers wrapping around her wrists and tugging her over to sit sideways across his lap. One arm curled around her waist and the other cupped the back of her head, snuggling her into the crook of his neck, shushing her with sussurated nonsense. “You’re not, you’re... You’re the best person I know, sweetheart,” he told her quietly. “I don’t expect you to just... stop feeling. I can’t... I won’t say I don’t care. I do.” He leaned back, lifted her chin. “Because I’m selfish and I want you all for myself. But I know I don’t have the right to ask that of you right now and that if I do, there’s a very big possibility that... well, bad things could happen. Losing you. Resentment. All that fun stuff. So I’ll wait. And... if you need...” His eyes dropped to her mouth, before he forced them back to meet her gaze. “If you need for me to not do this...” He tightened his hold on her waist, trailing off helplessly.

Tara sighed again, bringing a hand up to his face. Her thumb brushed across the crease between his brows and she smiled a little. “Let’s go to bed.” Her eyes searched his face. “And sleep. I want you to just... be there. Okay?”

He smiled back, leaning into her touch. “Yeah. That’s very okay.” He settled his hands on her hips, urging her back to her feet and pushed himself up to stand in front of her. Tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, he held out his hand. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

[filmmakerinthemaking]

CUT IT - In the Blink of an Eye

In the Blink of An Eye is a book written by award-winning film editor Walter Murch (Apocalypse Now, The Godfather Part II), and is regarded as a must-read book for upcoming filmmakers. It’s mainly about Murch’s experience in editing analog film, and his transition to working with digital. I chose to read it because I’m currently on a path to read through books on all the various aspects of film-making, and just landed on it. I was slightly disappointed while reading it, because it contains little to no practical advice on editing. It’s more of a descriptive book rather than an educational one. It’s also a really short book, I believe under 200 pages or at least somewhere around that mark. It still gave me an interesting overview of Murch’s experiences, and the technical/practical differences between analog and digital, but not much more.

Straying away from the book, I’d like to bring up something that has been itching my back for a while. From my experiences of reading and attending classes, I get the impression that editing and editors are put on a pedestal. I’m paraphrasing here, but the argument is something like “the editor has complete power over the footage, so he can do whatever he likes! He can cut out an entire actor’s performance, he can jumble up the clips into a mess, he can change the story and tone...” etc. That’s true, he does have power over the footage. The problem is that if an editor did any of the listed things, he would get fired. It’s like saying a director has the power of saying “screw it!” and cancelling the production. Yes, so? I have the power to take my boiling pot of water off the stove before the pasta is cooked. I have the power to skip with one leg until I’m tired. I have the power to brush my teeth. What’s the point exactly?

In one chapter, Murch mentions an astronomical number which is a calculation of all the different combinations possible with putting 25 clips in order. Thankfully shortly after, he admits that 99.9% of the combinations would be unusable. But still, he doesn’t really make a useful point. He seems to just like mentioning big numbers and feeling proud about it.

The editor has to follow the director’s instructions anyway, so he pretty much has very limited creative control over a film. He’s essentially just there because, most of the time, the director doesn’t have time or isn’t technically skilled to do it with the same speed and precision. It’s a tiring, draining and often ‘mechanical’ job. Personally, I find it a chore. Of course, editing is very important, and a film with great shots, performances and story can be rubbish if edited badly. However, it’s still very much a dull job to be doing. I’m sure there are tons of editors out there who are passionate and love their craft, but don’t count me in.

If anything, reading this book has really helped me with one thing: narrowing down the selection of film-making skills I wish to develop.

- James G. Caselli

[thesylvalining]

Oh the joy of fresh corduroy…

“Change is always changing,” says one of my favorite yoga instructors on my favorite, free yoga website (aka I am to cheap to pay for real classes). Her quip — delivered with an infectious smile — is so true and simple I almost want to laugh.

Oh and the changes I’ve had; I used to be married, now I’m single. I used to back country ski three or four times a week; now I work six days a week and a night or two and log in enough time skinning Arapahoe Basin that I should probably be paid for it. I used to crave alone time like a stoner craves grub; now I have so much solo time I barely know what to do (not true — I regularly discover a reasonable bedtime losing ground to my piano keys or ruthless book edits).

One of the strangest, hardest changes is being physically alone. After being coupled for about eleven years, married for six, coming home to an empty house felt like culture shock in a foreign country. But time is a sweet balm, and nowadays I find myself satisfied arriving to a quiet home, building myself a fire, pouring a glass of Dillon Ridge Liquor’s finest boxed wine, choosing some Grateful Dead or Ryan Adams to keep me company.

Alone-ness is not something I ever feared, although I know many do. It’s not surprising — even if we try not to listen, we all sipped the same Kool-Aid: that there is one person out there and all we have to do is find them, and then we’ll be more golden than a wedding band. I canceled my subscription to that idea some years ago, even having supposedly found my “one.” Luckily, I have always been my own unique brand of independent woman, and a hearty thank you to Whomever I should thank for adding that to my recipe.

During the first month after Tyler and I parted ways in Asia, I was forcibly alone and not entirely prepared to be. I hadn’t wrapped my head around being single, although I do believe now it’s one thing I have wanted for some time. Even after we were officially halved, I was alone — and not just feeling alone, although that’s part of the process, too.

I don’t mean to say I have been hiding out like a Hillary supporter in the dirty South. No — I have been enjoying the plentiful company of friends and dating handsome strangers here and there.

All the essential girls’ night food groups…

Logging in some time with Jill and her sweet pup Nico.

But all the while I have consciously continued spending ample time with lil ol’ me in order to finally fully understand myself. Because understanding, I discovered, is one of life’s most fantastic arts.

One of the people I “met” during the initial stages of this wild ride was Vietnamese peace activist and poet Thich Nhat Khan — I believe I’ve mentioned his name and I’m sure to do so again. Thich Nhat Khan has written a quiver of wise, beautiful books, including “How to Love” which has been my faithful companion throughout these shifting, wondrous days. He explains the importance of understanding far better than I can:

“Understanding is love’s other name. If you don’t understand, you can’t love.”

He goes on to say that the soil in which love itself grows — and hopefully flourishes — must first be established within ourselves.

“When we feed and support our own happiness, we are nourishing our ability to love. That’s why to love means to learn the art of nourishing our happiness.”

Ka-pow! What a lesson to finally and truly learn at the ripe age of thirty-three. Especially in a culture that totes “You complete me” candies on Valentine’s (the kind that crack your teeth like a joke) and pumps out rom-coms where the protagonist is purposeless until her Freddy Prince Jr crests the hill. How incredible to embrace that to love others is to understand them, but in order to understand, we must first be happy ourselves. And to sprout this happiness, we must know what we need in order to make it grow. How do we do this? We sit with ourselves, learn how to heal ourselves and find our own joy.

If you don’t already, try to sit with yourself in some fashion — I use exercise and journaling as two conduits for introspection. And I like a bath so hot it makes my skin look sunburned, with enough candles to either heat a tiny house and/or burn a tiny house down. Tea makes a fine companion, but of course wine is better. A book or a journal suffices as well, but often times I’ll just sit. Oh, I know some of you out there are itching just thinking about sitting in a bath, doing nothing. Shouldn’t we be doing something more productive? I think not — but that’s another blog entirely :)

As you sit with your thoughts, emotions will come and go like the chapters of a book you can’t put down — and you shouldn’t.

Feel them, acknowledge them and — like a flock of Pegasuses (Pegasi?) if I were ever to come across any and have the chance to release them — let them fly away into the mist.

After a time, the emotions which had to burst out first like a Barking Dog Brown Ale burp will subside and maybe, like me, you’ll find yourself getting excited about all the wonders life has to offer. And how many of them make you so very happy! It’s really worth ruminating on, and repeatedly. I’ve even hung up an obnoxiously bright pink sticky note on my mirror that says:

Lately, it’s been a rich combination of playing the piano, writing, journaling, exercising, planning upcoming travel, practicing Italian, trying to ignore how badly I want to go thrift shopping and hanging with friends.

So, what makes you happy? If you already know and you’re knees deep in happy plants like a good Coloradoan amongst the latest strain of Mary Jane, you’re more evolved than I am :) Or maybe you’re like me and you’re spelunking in a familiar cave to unearth the jewels of happiness you buried there however many years ago.

The real gem is happiness is attainable by every one of us at any point in life. Just remember:

“There is no way to happiness — happiness is the way.” – Thich Nhat Khan

Happily Ever After "Change is always changing," says one of my favorite yoga instructors on my favorite, free yoga…