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tilbageidanmark · 1 month ago

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MOVIES I WATCHED THIS WEEK #205:

HANA-BI ("FIREWORKS") (1997), my 4th film by actor-director Takeshi "Beat" Kitano. Always unexpected moods from him, with unmistakable score by Joe Hisaishi [one of the greatest modern composers]. A crime story about a violent cop causing bloody mayhem, who's actually a taciturn, meditative and melancholic husband, coming to grips with his dying wife, their recently dead daughter, his suicidal partner, and the fact that life in general is slipping away.

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Four years into this project, and after seeing upward of 4,000 movies, also reading about numerous others, I consider myself fairly knowledgeable about "Cinema" by now. Imagine my surprise this morning when I came upon a lovely analyses of my favorite Nils Malmros coming-of-age drama, 'Tree of knowledge'. And as I scroll through the portfolio of this random Letterboxd reviewer named Lawrence Garcia, his recommendations, lists, and whatnot, I'm flabbergasted: I never ever heard of 70% or more of all the films that he's talking about!

So now I'm left with a new, giant depository of unfamiliar films to watch, and when will I have the time? Skimming through his recommendations, I picked a trial one for size, British John Smith's 1987 THE BLACK TOWER. An unseen man narrates in impassioned voice how he finds himself haunted by a mysterious structure that seems to be following him wherever he goes. (Screenshot Above). Like a figure in a Kafka story, he's losing it. Is it symbolic, is it depression? Madness? It’s definitely unique. 8/10.

And what next? Just this John Smith alone made over 60 movies like this one that are probably worth checking out!

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4 MORE WITH MICHEL GONDRY:

🍿 IS THE MAN WHO IS TALL HAPPY? (2013) is my 8th film by distinct filmmaker Michel Gondry. It's an unusual, creative documentary. Gondry sat with progressive linguist Noam Chomsky for a series of interviews, and animated their conversations in his unique, whimsical style. 2 Fascinating intellectuals talking about philosophy, Cognitive science and activism. Chomsky opens up a bit about his personal history (F. ex. as a child he wanted to become a taxidermist), and the whole experience is inspiring and engaging.

🍿 ONE DAY (2003): Now, this is "different". 3 years before directing 'Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind', Gondry directed David Cross as his own human-size turd, who keeps following him in the streets of NYC, and claims to be his child. It's as weird and gross as it sounds. I always felt that David Cross comes across as a piece of shit, so that works double here. Spoiler alert! At the end, the turd turns into a Nazi [Wait, what?] and he's not the worse for it!

🍿 THE LETTER, a sweet, early (1998) short, that takes place on 12/21/1999, ten days before the millennium, about a childhood crush.

🍿 The very last film I saw this week was actually the most enjoyable (even though as a documentary it was pretty pedestrian): MICHEL GONDRY, DO IT YOURSELF (2023) follows the eccentric creator from his early days as a drummer in a punk band, first music video artist for Bjork and Daft punk to his current status as world famous inspiration.

Meanwhile, I'm waiting for his latest animated film, Maya, give me a title.

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Somehow similar to Gondry: My frequent, favorite re-watch ♻️: Jean-Pierre Jeunet's 1989 FOUTAISES (finally with English subtitles!), where Dominique Pinon talks about "things he likes and things he doesn't": Bibi Fricotin, Razibu Zouzou and Little Cerebos... Richard Widmark's laughter..." 10/10.

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ANDREJ MUNK X 3:

🍿 New discovery: Andrej Munk, an influential postwar artist of the 'Polish Film School' of the 1950's.

MAN ON THE TRACKS (1957) tells of an old, stubborn train engineer whose death is suspected to be a sabotage. A Rashomon-like investigation reconstructs his tumultuous relationships with the other railway workers, and the clash between the old and new socialist systems of the time. A movie for old-time train enthusiasts.

🍿 A WALK IN THE OLD CITY OF WARSAW (1958) is a gorgeous travelogue, a colorful portrait of a city rebuilding itself a decade after the war. A pretty girl is leaving her school on the way to a violin lesson and wanders all over the old town. Similar to 'The Red Balloon' in style and feeling. 8/10.

🍿 Munk died in a car crash in 1961, while he was filming PASSENGER, so this last film was released uncompleted two years later. It's a tough call: Fifteen years after the end of World War 2 on a luxury liner returning to Europe, a former concentration camp SS officer runs into a woman who was her prisoner, and with whom she had an unexplained infatuation. Filmed partially in Auschwitz itself, and recreating some actual footage from the camp, it's a grim and desperate drama about the ultimate abuse. The reversal of power (since the survivor can now expose the ex-Nazi) causes the oppressor to recall their story in flashbacks. But because it was very much not finished, the dynamics between victim and oppressor remained murky. What stayed are the hellish scenes from the concentration camp, some of which look harrowing enough, but some are not.

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SOBIBOR, OCTOBER 14, 1943, 4PM is another of French holocaust documentarian Claude Lanzmann. It's actually just footage of a one-man interview which was cut out of his 'Shoah' (as it would otherwise made it 11 hours long). A Jewish survivor of the 'Sobibor Uprising' describes how the rebellion in the death camp came about.

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TANGERINES (2013), my first Georgian-Estonian award-winning war movie (which unfortunately, I could only find in a dubbed French version on YouTube, but hey - free streaming is still free...) It tells of an elderly farmer in a small village, at the intersection of Abkhazia, Georgia, Estonia and Chechnya, an area in the North Caucasus, that is far from the minds and hearts of most people who are not from there. It looks like it is full of masculine, unshaven, aggressive males (there are zero woman in this film neither), who's been fighting with and killing each other for centuries. This film is a very simple, maybe simplistic, tale of two wounded fighters from the opposite sides stuck together in a farm house, who have to survive together.

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2 NOIR'S:

🍿 NEVER OPEN THAT DOOR (1952) is another film considered to be one of the greatest Argentinian Noir's of all time. It's actually two separate stories, based on unrelated crime novels by the same writer of 'Rear Window' and 'Phantom Lady'. Exceptional black and white cinematography of menacing shadows and wrongful killings.

🍿 "You are not very tall, are you?..."

Re-watch ♻️: Howard Hawks' THE BIG SLEEP, a simple re-viewing delight with a convoluted plot. Faulkner! Chandler! cigarettes! Blackmail, murder and (hidden) pornographers! Robert Towne’s script for 'Chinatown' re-constructed many of the dynamics and structures of this one (with its tragic ending being the major exception). Standing out were the independent women's roles; Some were forthcoming and sexy (especially the bookstore owner, Dorothy Malone, and the cab driver, Carmen the little sister, and all threw themselves 's at Bogart's Private Dick!

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I was looking for political dramas about anarchism (not too many of them!) and discovered UNREST, an unusual minimalist Swiss story from 2022, about Russian anarchist Peter Kropotkin. It interprets his 1872 visit to a small Swiss town, where he helped the female workers in the watchmaking factory to organize into an anarchist union. But it does so, in the oddest, off-kilter, way. Too restrained and intricate and subtle, it isn't your grandpa's historical period piece (Like 'Reds' or '1900'). Time is the great underlining theme here, as well as the transformative powers of new technologies and capitalism's evil politeness.

I need a second viewing to completely fall in love with this film's unique aesthetics. Recommended!

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2 RARELY-SEEN FILMS BY JACQUES TATI (PLUS 'TRAFIC'):

🍿 Being a competist, these are the last two films of his that I haven't seen before: FORZA BASTIA (1978) was his last, unfinished film, which was thought lost, until his daughter completed it years later. It's the only documentary he made. Like a humorous 'Triumph of the Will' but about a rain-soaked soccer match in Corsica instead. It focuses on the excited fans more than the waterlogged game itself.

🍿 FUN SUNDAY on the other hand, was one of his earlier films (1935) when he was just starting out. A primitive, unremarkable Laurel and Hardy type slapstick number directed by somebody else. 1/10.

🍿 So, I had to watch TRAFIC (1971) once again, because why not? Monsieur Hulot is driving a test camper from Paris to Amsterdam but cannot get there on time for the auto show. And this in the shadow of the Apollo moon landing! Also, it was co-directed with Dutch Bert Haanstra! Re-watch♻️

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MARC MARON X 3:

🍿 FROM BLEAK TO DARK (2023) was worth watching again ♻️. "At some point, those plague babies are gonna want answers". Also, the end bit about committing suicide with a bat... A lot of pain which is distilled into laughter, like the Jewish Auschwitz Joke Book... Well delivered. 8/10. "Selfie?..."

🍿 END TIMES FUN (2020) was directed by his girlfriend, Lynn Shelton, who died of Covid, and of whom he talked in 'Bleak to dark'. The fucked up finale with gay Mike pence and the end of the world was dark. "The lizard portal is open." [*Female Director*]

🍿 CALL ME LUCKY is a 2015 documentary about a (new to me, and now dead) stand-up comedian named Barry Crimmins, who had big influence on early generation comedians in the Boston area and elsewhere. The first half was the usual gab-fest by fellow funnymen (including Maron, Steven Wright, etc.) of how great, radical, political and genuine his comedy was, which was kind of a bore. But the second part took a radical turn and dealt with his childhood trauma of being raped as a little boy. How it shaped his angry views on life, and how, by publicly disclosing it, it molded his lifelong and fierce activism for justice.

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GAB-TOOTHED WOMEN (1987), another documentary by Les Blank, about women with a space between their front teeth. It's a very narrow topic, but is done with a focus on this single premise exceptionally well.

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"No further questions, your honor..."

JUROR NO# 2 is the latest product from 94-year-old Clint Eastwood. Good for him for continuing to be active. However, this Lifetime Television legal drama version of '12 Angry Men' was amateurish on every level. To pretend that the American justice system, the courts, society still functions with the same coherence as it did in the 1980's is cynical and questionable. The main actor (Nicholas Hoult?, who was dreadful in 'The Menu'), can't act here either, and definitely cannot carry the whole movie on his narrow shoulders. 1/10.

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THE SHORTS:

🍿 In COPS (1922) Buster Keaton inadvertently throws a bomb at a parade of policemen, and is being chased by hundreds of cops.

🍿 PEACE ON EARTH is an unusual pacifist cartoon, which was nominated for the Oscars in 1939. It was done in Disney's 'Snow White' style, using similar-looking squirrels as well as Mel Blanc as the voice of their grandpa. It started all Christmas'y cute, but quickly turns post-apocalyptic after the all humans killed themselves off in endless wars, and animals have inherited the earth. An anti-war message film released three months after Germany invaded Poland - Wow!

🍿 MULTIPLE SIDOSIS (1970) is another ODD film, which opened on Christmas 1965, where a 60-something suburban husband is getting a Akai M-8 / Roberts 770x recorder and decides to record himself playing a tune on 11 different instruments. It took 5 years to make, and predated YouTube by 46 years. It was also absolutely spectacular, and was later selected as one of the few amateur films to inclusion in the National Film Registry. 9/10 - Will watch again.

🍿 YUCK! (2024, France), a very cute film about a group of kids at a summer camp resort, who are getting grossed out by watching grown-ups lock lips. 8/10.

🍿 SENTIMENTAL STROLL (2020, France). A woman emerges out of a pond, and start dancing to a Paul Verlaine verse, in front of a group of frogs. [*Female Director*]

🍿 GRANDS CANONS (2018, France): Thousands of meticulously-sketched household objects dance together.

🍿 SPRING ROLL DREAMS (2022, UK). A Vietnamese-American single mother deals with cultural issues when her Vietnamese father insists on cooking. [*Female Director*]. (Via)

🍿 UNFINISHED (2021), a sad story in Czech about a brother and sister who has to say goodbye at the breakfast table, because they are being split up between their divorcing parents. I found it because the director, Dailey Moore, had left a scathing review of a documentary I considered watching.

🍿 GRATEFUL DEAD, a 9-minute "photofilm" directed by Paul McCartney in 1995, created from photos of the Grateful Dead taken by Linda McCartney in Central Park (5/5/68) and at 710 Ashbury in SF (12/1/67). But not very good. (Via)

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(ALL MY FILM REVIEWS - HERE).

#movies #the black tower #movie reviews #film review

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taetaespeaches · 4 years ago

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“I knew you had a smart mouth but that was unreal.”

jungkook x reader (or oc) genre: smut; fluff word count: 3.5K

a/n: Hi lovelies!!! This is literally just Jungkook and Holly hanging out in his room at the dorm and one thing leads to another and they get a little intimate for the first time. Includes hand and oral stuff... that’s all lol. Anyway, thanks for reading and I hope you all enjoy! :))

WIPING your palms on your leggings, you inspected your attire, wishing you would have ignored Jungkook’s suggested “casual and comfy” dress code and at least wore some jeans.

You took a deep breath as you raised your hand, knocking on the dorm door.

Jungkook has just arrived home from a trip to the United States where he was doing superstar shit like going to the Grammys and whatnot, no biggie. And as if you weren’t already nervous to see him, now you had to deal with an impromptu meeting with his best friend.

Jungkook initially told you that you two would have the dorm to yourselves, hence why you were standing in front of the dorm door right now instead of sitting on your couch with Jungkook in your very private apartment.

However, not even a full minute ago when you alerted him of your arrival, you received a reply that stated, “Taehyung is here, just a heads up.”

You considered yourself to be a pretty confident person, but things with Jungkook were still new and his members were the most important people in his life. And here you were, meeting one of them in your damn leggings and your black t-shirt that read in big white letters, “Be polite you fucker.”

Your internal panic over your clothing choice was suddenly halted when the door opened, an attractive man with light green hair standing there were a straight-faced expression.

His presence was almost intimidating until a wide smile spread across his face, stepping back and holding his arm out in a welcoming gesture. “Jungkookie,” Taehyung called out in a teasing tone, making you smile in amusement. You couldn’t help it.

As you entered the dorm, Taehyung read over your shirt for a moment, a low chuckle leaving his lips as Jungkook quickly rounded the corner from the hallway. His eyes were wide when they met yours and you both smiled in excitement of seeing each other.

“I told you I’d answer the door,” Jungkook cutely complained to Taehyung as he made his way toward you.

“I thought it was Peaches,” Taehyung responded innocently. He seemed pure.

Jungkook’s gaze left you for a moment as he neared, his eyebrows raised. “Is she coming over?” He asked Taehyung just as he appeared in front of you, a boy-like grin on his face as he grabbed your hand, easily intertwining his fingers with yours.

“Hey,” Jungkook greeted you quietly but happily, your smile growing.

“Hi,” you responded, squeezing his hand. God you wanted to grab his face and kiss him. Turns out two weeks is a long time away from someone when that someone is Jeon Jungkook.

“Why? Would you like the dorm to yourself?” Taehyung asked playfully, both you and Jungkook looking to him to see him raising his eyebrows suggestively.

“Ok that’s enough,” Jungkook stated, you smiling at how his skin flush in embarrassment. He started toward his bedroom, pulling you away from Taehyung and evading any further teasing from his friend.

“I’m Taehyung, by the way,” the man called out after you, you turning to wave at him. Before you could respond with your own name he told you, “I know who you are, Jungkook doesn’t stop talking about you,” he smiled impishly, Jungkook groaning as you giggled.

“Thanks for the info,” you told Taehyung, you both sharing a nod before Taehyung walked out of the room into what you assumed was the kitchen, doing cute little head movements as he hummed to himself.

Turning back toward Jungkook, you ran right into his back, hard, as he halted, his hand on the doorknob. Snapping his head to look at you, he gave you an apologetic smile. “You ok?” He asked with sparkling eyes, you nodding with a giggle. “I just wanted to make it clear that I don’t have any expectations,” he told you sweetly, you smiling fondly at him. “I’ll even sit on the floor if you want.”

“Jungkook,” you giggled. Leaning toward him, you whispered, “Relax and show me your room,” your lips grazing the shell of his ear. Jungkook’s tongue pushed to the inside of his cheek as he let out a light scoff.

Opening the door, he led you inside, allowing you to walk into the room before he shut the door. You hesitantly dropped each other’s hands as you scanned the room, taking in the surroundings and noting how tidy everything was. As you eyed the bed, noting it was small, just a twin-size, his eyes were on you. You smirked to yourself before looking around more.

“What movie do you want to watch?” He asked you, you slowly peeling your eyes from the desk full of camera equipment to look at him with a smirk.

“I have no preference,” you told him, Jungkook immediately groaning, you giggling at his annoyance. “Show me one of your favorites,” you told him.

He hummed in thought, looking up to the ceiling. “What if you’ve seen it before?”

“Then I’ll see it again,” you said, Jungkook smiling with a nod. Making his way to his desk, he grabbed his laptop before turning to look at you.

“You can sit on the bed, make yourself at home,” he told you, you nodding as he turned back to his computer, searching for a movie. Feigning confidence, your heart pounding in your chest, you sat down on the bed, crossing your legs underneath you as you watched Jungkook click away on his laptop.

He turned to look at you with a little grin, making you give him one back, both of you obviously nervous but trying to conceal it. He placed the laptop toward the bottom of the bed before taking the spot next to you. His thigh bumped against your knee as he settled himself against the headboard.

The movie started with a blue screen, an image of Totoro and Mini Totoro featured with the “Studio Ghibli” lettering, making you gasp.

“Yeah?” Jungkook asked, you smiling widely as you waited to see which film would show up. At the mountain-scape, your eyes widened, shooting to Jungkook in excitement.

“Princess Mononoke?”

Jungkook smiled widely, his eyes sparkling as they crinkled in the corners. “You like it?”

“I love it,” you told him, looking back to the film. “It might be my favorite Ghibli film, tied with Spirited Away.” His eyes widened as he nodded, looking quite excited at your reveal. “What? Did I just pass some sort of Jungkook test?”

“A Jungkook test?” He chuckled, now intrigued by what you meant.

“Yeah, like everyone has their interests and we tend to quiz people we like on them, just to gage how they react. Kind of like a compatibility test,” you explained shyly, your face heating up the more you spoke.

“Ah,” he said in realization, wearing a boy-like smile. “Maybe you did just pass a Jungkook test then.”

Looking at him, you suddenly felt much more comfortable, giving you the confidence to stretch your legs out in front of you and scoot back so you were shoulder to shoulder with the man. He pretended not to notice your proximity, watching the laptop screen as you grinned to yourself, smitten with his nerves.

Resting your head against his shoulder, he instinctively leaned into a bit as you turned your face to leave a small kiss to his upper arm. “I missed you, you know,” you admitted in a soft whisper, your breath on Jungkook’s neck.

Turning to look at you, his eyes took on an expression of both sincere gratitude as well as desire. Stretching his arm to rest behind your head, you nuzzled into his hold, Jungkook’s other arm wrapping around your waist.

“Fuck, I missed you too,” he breathed out, as if he was relieved to finally have you in his arms. Looking up at his face, your eyes lingered on his lips, observing the way they quirked in the corners, yours mimicking the motion. “Taehyung wasn’t lying,” he added, your eyes widening just the slightest bit in question. “I talk about you constantly.”

“Oh, I know,” you teased. “You’re obsessed with me.” Jungkook giggled at the comment, his hand sneaking under your t-shirt to draw patterns on your bare hips. “It’s cute, don’t worry.”

“Mhmm,” he hummed. “What about you?” You bit your lip at the question. “Are you obsessed with me?”

“Undetermined,” you said simply, Jungkook scoffing at the comment as his eyes traveled from your own down to your lips. Moving your hand to rest on the side of his face, you craned your neck toward him. Jungkook met you somewhere around halfway, attaching his lips to yours in a sweet kiss.

It was a quick and natural progression into a more heated one, your lips working with one another’s, mouths open as you let out small moans. Jungkook’s hand grabbed the flesh of your hip as he rolled you both over, his hip positioned on the mattress, his opposite leg slotted between yours.

The movie was long forgotten, the dialogue providing nothing but background noise as your hand slid to the back of Jungkook’s neck, gripping the hair at his nape. You tugged on the strands, Jungkook letting out a small groan at the feeling before smirking against your lips.

His own hand grazed your side as he moved it toward your chest, his fingertips toying with the bottom edge of your bra. It was just a flimsy lace garment, no real structure, allowing you to feel the drag of his finger along your breast with little obstruction from the clothing.

The moan you released against his lips encouraged him to take it further as he squeezed your breast in his palm, positioning a finger inside the top of the cup. You reached your hand underneath his shirt on his back, pushing the material up to hint that you wanted it off. He took your cue easily, sitting up on his knees to remove his shirt, you tugging your own off as he did so.

When his shirt was pulled off of his head, his eyes raked in the sight of your upper body adorned in nothing but your delicate black bra, the sight eliciting a groan from him.

You and Jungkook had found yourselves in a few heavy make out sessions before, but clothes were never removed. This was new and exciting territory and you were unsure of how far you’d both take it.

His hands grabbed your waist, pulling you up as you moved with him, gracefully changing positions so he was seated against the headboard and you were sat on top of his lap. Straddling him, you rocked your hips teasingly atop him, feeling his hardened length underneath you, making the man let out a breathy chuckle mixed with a moan. It was by far the sexiest sound you’d ever heard to date.

Jungkook’s hands roamed your sides and rib cage as he appreciated your body for the first time. “You’re so beautiful,” he told you, his eyes dark as they lifted from your chest to meet your gaze.

Without a word, you reached behind yourself, unlatching your bra, Jungkook’s eyes darting to the strap that slid down your bicep. You held the clothing to your body, giving him a teasing smirk as Jungkook pushed his tongue to the inside of his cheek.

“What do you want, Kookie?” You asked, Jungkook letting out a single breathy laugh as he ticked his head to the side.

Running his hands up your arms, he felt the material of the bra straps between his fingers. “May I?” He asked, tugging on them lightly.

Lowering your arms, you allowed the bra to slip off your frame, Jungkook pulling it from your arms as he tossed it to floor. He wasted no time in moving his hands to your chest, feeling the flesh appreciatively as he mumbled, “so pretty.”

You leaned down to kiss him passionately, Jungkook’s arms wrapping around your waist, tugging you closer to him. He moved his mouth from yours, trailing his lips down your neck and overtop your collarbones. You arched your back, pushing your chest closer to him, and he wasted no time in moving his mouth to your breasts. Kissing you, he then switched to sucking and nibbling, causing you to let out a moan as you bit your lip.

The sound had Jungkook quickly flipping you onto your back as he hovered over you. His mouth was on yours in an instant, his hand feeling your chest just a bit longer before moving it lower down your body.

Dragging his finger along the waist band of your leggings, he paused just above your navel, flattening his palm against your abdomen. He paid close attention to the way your stomach contracted in anticipation, and he pulled his face from yours, separating the kiss to inspect your features.

“Is this ok?” He asked with a small smile, you letting out a breathy laugh against his lips as he lowered them to yours again, leaving a sweet peck.

“Yes,” you breathed out, kissing him harder as his hand slipped inside your leggings.

His fingers made contact with your clit quickly, not having the self-control to tease you. You moaned lightly at the feeling, grabbing onto his shoulders as you continued kissing him, the action getting messier as he focused more on your pleasure.

When he slid a finger inside, you breathed out, “Oh, fuck,” against his lips, the man smirking as he pumped the digit. He rested his forehead against yours, your eyes locking on each other’s, both hooded and dark.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, you whining at the compliment as he added another finger. Your hands slid down his chest and his toned abdomen.

“These are nice,” you complimented his abs, Jungkook giggling boyishly at the comment, the adorable sound a complete contrast to way he’s fingers worked your center as he used his thumb on your clit.

He kissed you again, you running your tongue over his bottom lip before biting it gently, Jungkook groaning at the feeling.

You used one hand to pull the waistband of his sweatpants away from his body, sliding your other hand inside, underneath his briefs. Wrapping your hand around him, Jungkook jolted above you, smiling shyly. You nearly cooed at the sight.

With his bangs hanging in his eyeline, his breaths becoming sharper as he began moving his hips, you swore you’d never seen anyone look sexier or more stunning.

“God, do you know how gorgeous you are?” You asked him breathlessly, Jungkook’s doe-eyes widening slightly as he stared at you, his gaze sparkling, a smile spreading on his face. He looked so sweet and shy but his fingers were sinful.

The pureness in his features vanished when he moved his mouth to your chest once again. Through a blissful huff, you moved the hand that wasn’t in his joggers to his wrist.

“I’m close, baby,” you breathed out, Jungkook looking up at you with excited shimmering eyes.

“Not yet,” he grinned mischievously just before he began kissing down your stomach. Reaching your leggings, he pulled his fingers from you to tear down your pants all the way to your ankles, pulling one foot out of them as he slotted himself between your legs.

As he pulled the garment off your leg, he knocked his fist against his laptop, almost sending it off the bed, but luckily his reflexes were fast enough, catching it at the last minute. Shooting you a shocked look, you laughed loudly, undeniably amused by the guy. He leaned over off the mattress to put the laptop on the floor before popping back up, his hair sideswept from his quick movement.

“Ok, where was I?” he asked, grabbing your ankles and tugging you closer to him, you squealing with a laugh as he slotted himself between your thighs.

He left a kiss to your inner thigh, looking up at you with those bambi eyes, but this time, they were dark and hungry. He kissed the other thigh, you letting out a short whine, Jungkook giggling against your leg.

“Is this what you want, baby?” He asked, kissing your center once before looking up at you. You bit your lip as you stared down at you. “Yeah?” He smiled before licking a strip, the sensation causing you to press your head back against the pillows as you bucked your hips up.

His tongue was magic, and though you were expecting some sort of intimacy with him that night, his enthusiasm for your pleasure took you by surprise. It didn’t take long for your high to approach with his face between your legs. Just like with all things Jungkook did, he was golden.

You placed your hands in his hair, lightly tugging the locks as your climax got closer and closer and when the pleasure peaked, you lifted your hips up, Jungkook having to use his arms to hold them down onto the bed as he worked you through your orgasm.

“Jesus fucking christ,” you groaned out once you caught your breath, Jungkook giggling as he crawled slightly up your body, crossing his arms over your abdomen and resting his chin on his wrist, watching you in utter fondness.

“You feel good, baby?” He asked, seeking praise, though he already knew he just fucking wrecked you.

“So good, oh my god, get up here,” you told him, the man staying stubbornly in place as he admired you and your nude form. “Guk, I wanna make you feel good too,” you pouted, Jungkook smiling adorably.

“I do feel good,” he told you, moving his face for a moment to leave a sweet kiss to your hip. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Jungkook,” you warned, the man simply laughing.

“No, tonight’s about you,” he told you. “You can thank me next time.” You raised your eyebrows at him and he smirked.

“Baby, you’ve been an amazing host tonight, but if you don’t let me get you off I’m gonna get really grumpy,” you told him, Jungkook giggling even more as he finally crawled up your body, hovering over top of you.

“Well,” he mulled it over, “I would hate for you to get grumpy.”

“Exactly,” you smirked. “So just sit back,” you reached for his hips, directing him to lie down with his back to the mattress, “and let me treat you.”

“You really don’t have to,” he told you genuinely as you got onto your knees, making your way down the bed.

“I want to,” you told him, grabbing his waistband and pulling his pants and underwear down his muscular thighs, dragging them down to remove them completely. Taking his length in your hand, you moved it up and down him a few times before lowering your face to him, licking up from the base to the tip, a choked moan leaving Jungkook’s lips.

You repeated the action a few times before swirling your tongue over the tip, then taking him into your mouth. As you put your mouth to work, your hand holding onto the base, Jungkook had one hand on your head, simply leaving it there as he gently massaged your roots, his other hand holding your unoccupied one. The gesture was sweet, and you couldn’t quite believe how gentle and courteous he was. Every squeeze of his hand, light scratch of his fingertips, and gorgeous moan that left his lips felt like a sincere expression of gratitude that you would be doing this for him.

Neither of you were sure how long you’d been down there, but suddenly he was telling you between groans, “I’m so close,” the sound of his voice making your center ache in desire.

You began pumping him with your hand, looking up at him, biting your lip as you fully took in his fucked-out state. His fringe was hanging in his eyes, his abdomen contracting as he took sharp breaths, his jaw slack as he looked down at you, his eyes shining in their hooded state.

He was by far the most exquisite human to exist.

When he came, he immediately looked bashful, noticing the evidence of his pleasure coating your hand and his abdomen. His cheeks were flushed and you found him to be both unbelievably hot while also being utterly adorable. How that was possible, you weren’t sure.

When his doe-eyes met yours, you grinned, Jungkook smiling back.

“Now,” you started, his eyebrows raising just the slightest bit. “The question is, do you feel good, baby?” You asked.

Jungkook let out a mixture of a scoff and a breathy laugh as you stood up on your knees, coming closer to him. Sitting next to him, you leaned down, kissing him sweetly on the lips, the meeting simple but full of appreciation and an intense fondness.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your lips as they curved into a smile. “I knew you had a smart mouth but that was unreal,” he teased, you cackling in his face, Jungkook giggling as he kissed your face repeatedly, placing them across your cheek and jaw.

“Get used to it,” you joked back, Jungkook smiling as he stared into your eyes before allowing his gaze to travel your face.

“I don’t think I ever will,” he admitted, nudging your nose with his, and kissing you once more.

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welllpthisishappening · 3 years ago

Text

Emma Swan, Olympian is not a phrase Emma Swan, totally normal person, ever expected to hear.

But she never expected one night at a party hosted by her college's baseball team to change her entire life, either. So, it should really come as no surprise that Emma Swan, Olympian, is now something of international sensation. Or that her husband has become a bit of a social media star.

——— Rating: Teen with sports feelings Word Count: 7.5K AN: As promised and because of who I am as a person, I wrote Olympic fic. I can neither confirm nor deny that there is an actual plot here, but there is a surplus of fluff and sports-based feelings. So, that’s something. Thanks to the Detroit Lions, specifically, for posting this Tweet and to my husband who is very much aware of what content I want the internet to provide me. Operation: Make Killian a New York Yankee as often as possible continues.

|| Read on Ao3 if that’s your jam ||

———

No one told her the questions would start to blur together.

That would require media training, Emma imagines. And no one is giving a first-time Olympian in a sport that only a handful of people marginally believe warrants notice from the IOC any sort of media training. She got, like, an orientation packet. With a lopsided staple in the top left corner. On her commercial flight. That she booked herself.

Twenty-plus hours crammed into a seat that she’s only a little concerned did permanent damage to her right knee, with a meal that was so chewy Emma was about four seconds and one exasperated, entirely exhausted exhale from asking if it was, in fact, made of plastic.

Mostly, the staple is what’s still managing to frustrate her. As frustrated as she can be at the Olympics. No one is supposed to be frustrated at the Olympics. Not really. Not while experiencing the pinnacle of athletic achievement, the calluses on Emma’s fingertips some sort of badge of honor that she’s wearing with at least a modicum of national pride, and everything is fine.

Her qualifying time was absurd. Where absurd is a compliment and very close to a record she’s suddenly determined to shatter.

So, she’s alone.

Big deal. So is everyone else. This Olympics, at least. Plus, Killian wouldn’t have been able to come no matter what the state of the world was. Even so, the quiet stands are admittedly weird. All these empty arenas with empty seats, the distinct lack of a roaring crowd no more obvious than when the world’s best athletes step to the line. Staring at the climbing wall in front of her four hours earlier, Emma swore she could hear every single beat of her heart echo between her ears.

And that’s—well, solitude is par for the course with an adolescence like hers, half-filled suitcases and brand-new faces in brand-new towns, but she’d gotten used to one town, and the town is actually a city, and the city has long since felt like home, and her fingers reach for the rings dangling above her Team USA t-shirt. They did give her an absolute shit ton of t-shirts, so that was nice.

Except—

Something keeps tugging. Nagging at the back of Emma’s consciousness, almost like she’s forgotten her keys on that flea market table they found in Park Slope two weeks after they moved into the apartment. Because for as well-versed Emma may be in that singular sort of existence, she’s also well-removed from wanting it, and at least three of her knuckles crack. Curling around her rings.

Muscles in her cheeks stretch, another nod and quick blink to avoid the threat of blinding via camera flashes. Someone really should have told her about this. She probably should have assumed. Human interest is the driving force of at least three-quarters of the stories in sports, and Emma’s not used to being the story, per se, but even she has to admit most of hers makes for a good one and they are still asking her questions.

Emma blinks again. Hopes she doesn’t look like a serial killer or the weird blonde, slightly sweaty cousin of the Joker, her smile starting to feel as if it’s painted on her face. She nods. Hums. Listens to questions that are startling in their tonal similarity to Charlie Brown’s teacher, and Emma wonders if Charlie Brown ever got a different teacher or what the school structure of the Peanuts’ universe is and, God, how old was Charlie Brown, even? To withstand that sort of consistent bullying. Was Linus the same age as him? No, right? How long did he carry the blanket around? Was Linus the same age as Sally? Why didn’t the red-headed girl with curly hair get a name?

She nearly falls out of her chair.

That might make the front page of several blogs. Possibly even the back page of a New York tab.

Careful to keep her feet on the ground, Emma lifts her head, directing her eyes toward the source of a question that must have been asked several times if the note of amusement mixing with deadline-based exasperation is anything to go by. Her smile definitely makes her look like a serial killer.

“Sorry, sorry,” Emma mumbles, and none of the oxygen she does her best to inhales makes it even close to her lungs. “I, uh—what was the question?”

The reporter grimaces.

“I wanted to know if you’d seen the video of your husband yet.”

Ice runs down her spine. Every single drop of wholly disgusting sweat falling in rivulets down either one of her cheeks freezes. Oxygen disappears from the room. Or so Emma assumes, what with the crushing feeling pushing down on her lungs and whatnot.

Her mind whirs. Races through possibilities and pitfalls with a speed that would be impressive if Emma weren’t already so close to that record, and she is going to break that record. Somehow she manages not to fall, though. From her chair or the metaphorical climbing wall in her brain, ignoring the sudden dryness of her mouth and the increasing size of her tongue.

Her nails are going to leave little half-moon creases in her palm.

“I don’t—” she starts, and eventually she will wish she was more articulate. For what turns out to be a very nice story.

Standing up, the reporter’s seat creaks as she moves toward the desk they deposited Emma behind after even. Several Olympic officials move to block her, but Emma shakes her head again, and she’s not exactly high-priority on the list of defensible athletes, anyway. So, none of them flinch when the reporter slides a phone closer to Emma, her crazed thoughts briefly lingering on how many phones a reporter could possibly need, but then her eyes drop, and she’s not sure if her ears can actually perk, but Emma certainly tries because she hears him yelling before she sees him.

Her smile shifts.

And the cameras flash again.

It starts, as with most things in Emma’s collegiate life, because Anna demands it.

She’s only half-listening, so Emma can never be entirely sure what it was, exactly, she was agreeing to, but in her experience, the agreement doesn’t matter so much as the action, and her roommate’s younger sister is unstoppable when it comes to action. So, Emma is dimly aware of a plan. Something about the baseball house and that one left fielder is in a handful of her classes.

David—something.

He’s got a girlfriend, too. A nice one. Who always smells like sugar when she slides into the seat next to David whatever his last name is, sitting in the row in front of Emma during their Tuesday-Thursday statistics class.

Emma hates statistics.

She doesn’t hate Anna, though. Or her roommate, one of the better college-based surprises, and either Anna has magic or Elsa is an enormous pushover because somehow all three of them are ready at the same time, and the walk to the baseball house isn’t far.

First-year players guard the door — passing out color-coded wristbands that absolutely do not do their job because it takes about six seconds of well-meaning flirting and batted eyelashes between Anna and a mountain of muscle masquerading as the team’s starting catcher to get them inside. With purple wristbands and two tickets for jungle juice instead of the keg.

“Victory,” Anna cries, twisting through the crowd. Half of it is already teetering on the edge of drunk, the rest free-falling into the pit of imminent hangovers, and Emma isn’t sure she’d classify their drinks as a victory, but it’s definitely better than watered-down beer.

And it doesn’t take long, really. By Emma’s shaky count, it’s not even a half-hour before the muscle — who introduces himself as Kristoff, and really is pretty cute, actually — returns, standing unnaturally close to Anna’s left shoulder, furtive glances shared out of the corners of their eyes. Emma rolls hers. Elsa’s appear perpetually stuck to the ceiling. It looks oddly sticky up there.

“Go,” Elsa says, and it’s not an instruction. Barely counts as more than a whisper, really. Anna lights up all the same. Like an alcohol-fueled Christmas tree.

Who does not need telling more than once.

Hands reach and smiles widen, Kristoff mumbling something that sounds like it was nice to meet you before he’s following Anna back to the beer pong table, leaving Elsa and Emma standing in the middle of a sea of raging hormones. All of which want to be there way more than either one of them does.

“Well,” Elsa mutters, “that was polite.”

Emma snickers into her glass. A mostly empty glass. That’s surprising. “Got that going for him.” “Plus, his on-base is nuts this year.”

“Say that again.” “On-base percentage,” Elsa repeats, making sure to do it slowly for maximum sarcastic emphasis. Emma’s eyes are going to fall out. That won’t end well. There are too many shuffling feet in this room.

“What does that mean?” “How often he gets on base.” Opening her mouth does nothing. Closing it does even less. Elsa looks overjoyed. “I know things,” she shrugs, “and I’m pretty positive Anna and Kristoff have been not-so-secretly dating since the start of the semester, so—” “You stalked your sister’s secret boyfriend?” “Stalk’s a very dirty word, don’t you think? No, no, there was no stalking. There was light research. One Google search and a single click to the team’s roster, and now I know he’s from Minnesota, too.” “Awfully convenient for the romance of the century.” Humming, Elsa takes a larger-than-usual sip before scrunching her nose in displeasure. At her empty cup. Emma has no idea how they ended up with empty cups so quickly. Suddenly the baseball house feels a bit like a time warp. Enter and drink and find the love of your life. Or something like that.

“I got next,” Emma says, ignoring Elsa’s laugh because she is not the sort of person who says things like that. It’s this house. This place. With its music and its happiness, and she’s not really a sports person. Can only marginally understand the joy of watching other people accomplish something. She has no idea what on-base percentage is.

Still.

Her feet move. Fingers curl over the rim of red solo cups, like the most cliché version of her college self. Her drinks get refilled. And it’s just as Emma’s about to let herself wonder if, maybe, sports aren’t all that bad and might even possess a bit of inherent romanticism, she slams into something.

Someone, more like.

Taller than her, he has to peer down his nose to glare at Emma. That’s fair. They’re both far more damp than they were ten seconds before. Some of that moisture ensures that the hem of his shirt sticks to his stomach. A very flat stomach. That draws Emma’s eyes because she’s human and slightly intoxicated, and it takes quite a lot more than she’s willing to admit to lift her chin, but then she’s glad she does. Even with the understandable glare.

“Shit,” she breathes, “your eyes are stupid blue.”

He narrows them. She hates that. Which is about all it takes for her to get royally pissed off, too.

“Can you pay attention to where you’re walking?”

The stupidly blue eyes blink. Darken a shade, like all his frustration is centered directly around his pupils, and the shirt he’s wearing is team-branded. Another baseball player, then.

“You ran into me!” Oh, Oh. Well, that sucks. He’s got a good voice, too. Eyes and voice and the few strands of hair that fall toward those eyes when he continues to glare at Emma likely aren’t supposed to make her stomach flip.

It’s the alcohol’s fault.

Or sports. Like, in general.

“Because you take up so much space,” Emma snarls He leans forward. Looms, really. Over her and around her, smelling like punch and body wash. It’s gross and absolutely wonderful. “Gotta pick a lane, love. Either I ran into you, or I was in the way.”

“It can definitely be both and there is nothing resembling love here.”

“So I can see. You have a name, wrecking ball?” “My shoes are never going to unstick from this floor.” To his credit, he does waver. His lips twist — which makes it all too obvious how much Emma is staring at his lips, but, seriously, the alcohol. Plus, it’s so hot in this house she can barely think straight. She wonders where he buys his body wash. He smells better than he should in this house. So, it's clear he considers. Ponders, even. Until his hands dart out and those hands are somehow warmer than every person in this house combined, heat scorching through Emma’s t-shirt as he lifts her off the ground.

Only to deposit her approximately fourteen inches to her left.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” “Look,” he grins, “you’re unstuck.” “Bastard!” “Eh, not technically.” “What?” “Not technically a bastard. Orphan, I suppose. But that’s kind of a mood ruiner, don’t you think?”

Emma’s fish impression is really going great. The grin becomes a smirk. Her stomach refuses to stay still. “Is there a mood to ruin?” “Might be if you tell me your name.”

Emma wavers, that time. Considers and ponders. Weighs the pros and cons while laughter drifts past her ears, consummate collegiate experiences that she’s only ever let herself be passably jealous of. A dark-haired girl’s talking to Elsa in the opposite corner.

And the hand hanging in front of her wiggles its fingers.

It’s still ridiculously warm when she grabs it. “Emma Swan.” “Killian Jones.”

Anna’s secret relationship becomes a real relationship no less than sixteen hours following what Elsa begins to call the Drink Incident.

And they become—

Baseball people.

Becoming baseball people is not bad. Not really. Emma likes the baseball team. She understands what WHIP is, now. Kristoff adores Anna, so that’s good. David, who does, in fact, have a last name, continues to be as nice as assumed, and his girlfriend sort of quasi adopts Emma. Mary Margaret Blanchard brims with positivity and an innate sort of joy that would usually annoy Emma, but most of that joy also serves as a direct counter to the snark that Killian Jones appears flush with. So, it’s something of a wash, really.

Plus, he’s a very sore Monopoly loser.

And Emma finds it endlessly entertaining.

“Stop that,” he grunts, glaring at the board with the sort of force Emma’s become accustomed to in the last few months, while she taps on the space in front of her, “I know how many spots it is.” Emma smiles. “So move, then.” “I’ll be bankrupt.” “Capitalism does that.” “Tell me more about capitalism, Swan.”

She doesn’t startle, so there’s that. Not much else, though. Not when a noticeable bit of equally familiar heat skitters down her spine. Her head tilts. His head remains frustratingly still, staring at the board like the spaces will change or Mary Margaret will tear down some of her hotels on Marvin Gardens.

Neither thing happens.

The heat pools. At the small of her back, inching dangerously close to that space between her hips, like it’s trying to tether her to this spot and this moment and its people. Baseball people. People who so clearly care about everything so much that even the cynic in Emma can appreciate it. Plus, they’re all ridiculously competitive.

David had to take a walk when Mary Margaret bankrupt him earlier.

“That’s about the extent of my capitalism knowledge,” Emma admits with a shrug, “I sucked at economics.” Pulling his gaze away from the board, Emma’s less prepared for the force behind Killian’s eyes than she was for the appearance of a nickname that might not warrant the title. It’s just her name, after all. But it sounds like more than that. Sinks under her skin with alarming ease, the precise tone of it wrapping its way around a variety of internal organs until they’re all beating at the same tempo and— “Move my piece for me.”

Kristoff groans. Mary Margaret chuckles. Elsa looks far too sure of herself. Knows everything, indeed.

And it’s not really a command, but there’s that same sense of something that found its way into the sound of Emma’s name and Killian’s voice, and he catches her by surprise. On a variety of levels. His fingers jump the moment hers reach out, all heat and an alarming size difference, his brows lifting when she turns her head.

“You’re taking this game way too seriously, you know,” Emma says. What she doesn’t say is more important, though. Because they’re not friends, really. They’re—acquaintances. Some kind of appropriate metaphor regarding a planet’s many moons and the tendency of those moons to orbit something far bigger than them. But they like each other, too. As much as they dance and twist, do their best to avoid getting hit in the batter’s box, Emma’s more comfortable bantering with him than just about anyone she’s ever met, a challenge in every conversation, and she’s rather loath to realize she’s memorized the different ways the blue in his eyes flash.

Now it feels a bit like a spotlight.

“Matter of pride, Swan.” “Is it just?” If there are other people laying on their stomachs in that living room, half-empty glasses by their hands and equipment stacked in various corners, Emma forgets about them. Quickly. Immediately. Killian doesn’t move his fingers.

He nods.

And Mary Marget only kind of gloats when she bankrupts him.

She dances when she wins, though.

It’s embarrassing. It’s absolutely, goddamn wonderful.

Realizing that baseball is a game of statistics ruins kind of Emma’s day. It makes Killian laugh. Her favorite sort of laugh. Where he throws his head back, an arm around his middle, and his shoulders shaking. Those same strands of hair she noticed that first night fall back toward lidded eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting in an angle Emma is sure she could determine if she just didn’t hate math so much, and it takes about four seconds, her head tilting back and forth twice and one swipe of her tongue to lean forward on the couch they're sharing, tilt her head up and press her lips to his.

Press is a vast understatement.

Crash, more like.

A bases-clearing double into the left-field gap.

She knows so many baseball terms now, it’s ridiculous.

It’s because she keeps going to games. With Anna. Without Anna. With Elsa. Without Elsa. With Mary Margaret every single time. And it creeps on so slowly, she’s practically a Jane Austen heroine, but then Emma finds she cares as much as everyone else. Screams herself hoarse at every crack of the bat. Jumps and fist bumps with startling regularity. Experiences the flutter of butterflies in her flip-prone stomach before ninth-inning rallies.

She memorizes statistics. Killian’s statistics, especially.

Because the Draft is a week away, and the nerves rolling off him are even more potent than his body wash. Bought in bulk from a locally-owned company, she learns.

Killian hates capitalism, too.

Which is only part of the reason she likes him, but right now all of the reason is centered around how it feels as if the world is shifting on its axis and what, precisely, he is capable of with his tongue. Quite a lot if this first time at bat is anything to believe.

Emma laughs.

Joy bubbles from the very center of her, pushing at the seam of her lips, and it’s not much of a seam when her mouth is open to accommodate tongue, but it’s enough of a sound that Killian pulls back. No glare. Definitely eyebrow movement, though.

“That’s not the best confidence boost, you know.” “I’m straddling you,” Emma counters, nodding toward the knees on either side of his, and she has no idea when her fingers found his hair. It’s very soft.

“How did that happen?” “What was that about confidence?”

Dropping his head, she gets a different sort of laugh, one that’s just as potent in its ability to settle into her bloodstream and the empty spaces around her heart, and sports have turned her into a sap. “I like you a lot,” Killian murmurs. Emma’s heart explodes. Metaphorically speaking.

“Good.” “Expand on that, for me.” She pinches his side, almost prepared for the way it leaves him bucking beneath her. Less prepared for the mutual groan it causes. Killian’s eyes widen. “I like you a lot,” Emma repeats, and his arms tighten, and her heart knits itself back together, and the second time through the kissing order is even better.

It starts, as with most things in Emma’s nearly-adult life, because Anna demands it.

“I just think it’ll be fun,” Anna says, not for the first time. And, not for the first time, she ignores the pointed look Emma and Elsa exchange. Elsa’s lips have all but disappeared behind her teeth “Think about it,” Anna continues, “we need something to do before the game, anyway. This way we’re—you know, staying active.” Emma’s eyebrows jump. Fly. Soar into her hairline where the level of her disbelief sits, all too aware of the ring hanging around her neck.

A Draft Day gift. As much as a family heirloom can be a gift. But Killian claimed it was good luck, his brother’s ring, because turns out that snark is at least a partial product of a wholly depressing childhood, and Emma supposes there’s something to be said for common ground. Understanding, too. Stories shared over weeks that turned to months that turned to years and seasons in the minors, and it absolutely figures Killian’s Major League debut is happening in Cincinnati. Where Kristoff plays.

It’s ridiculous how in love with him she is.

Killian. Not Kristoff.

Anna is still talking. “There’s nothing else to do in Cincinnati,” she reasons, which seems unfair to the city itself but not entirely untrue, and even the concept of chili on spaghetti grosses Emma out. “Also,” Anna adds, sounding as if she’s reached the final bullet point on her list of possible arguments, “I’ve got a Groupon deal for this place.”

Elsa blinks. “I didn’t realize Groupon was even still a thing.” “Surprise!”

Emma’s laugh isn’t entirely honest, but her sigh of acceptance is and—

Turns out she’s pretty good at it.

Goddamn fantastic, actually.

At rock climbing. Indoor rock climbing. Her feet push her up the wall with ease, the steady ache in her arms welcome and wonderful and a slew of other alliterative adjectives. That leave Killian grinning like a maniac, but it’s been a weird and equally wonderful day, without a hit, but two walks, so that ups the on-base, and Emma’s really, seriously in love with him.

“I don’t know what it was,” she says, preening just a bit under Killian’s stare. Hotel lighting casts shadows on his cheeks, slumped as he is against every pillow they could find. Even the ones in the closet. He’s not supposed to be in here for much longer, both of them aware of the team-ordained curfew hanging over them, but the pre-game nerves are long gone. Replaced instead with exhilaration and endorphins, the kind that could win Elle Woods a headline-making case. “But,” Emma continues, “I just kept moving, and the guy said it was, like, a course record. Is course the right word, you think?” Killian lifts a shoulder. Even as it’s covered in ice and tape. The play he made at third is going to show on loop. On TV. In Emma’s memory. She’s never yelled that loud before.

People took pictures.

And then she cried. Like a giant sap.

“This is your show, Swan,” Killian chuckles, pride infusing the words. As if she’s the one who deserves the pride today. It’s entirely possible she cried for multiple minutes after that play. They definitely showed that on the YES Network. Mary Margaret texted her no less than forty-seven times.

“I was really fast.” Killian hums, fingers fluttering enough to make it clear he wants her closer. Emma doesn’t argue. They’re a mess of limbs and mouths and that tongue thing they’ve collectively gotten better at giving and receiving over the years, hands that warm with the sort of confidence borne of repetition. Some joke about BP and finding your swing.

“Plus,” he says, a soft laugh at Emma’s noise of displeasure when talking means far less kissing, “becoming a rock climbing savant means more upper-body work, and you know how I love your arms.” Guffawing the way Emma does is not particularly romantic. Doesn’t matter. The sound comes, and the joy remains, a steady stream pumping through all her extremities and clouding her thoughts. In the best way possible. Before Killian, Emma didn’t know this could be that. Fun and easy, not quite simple, but something she’s willing to work for. Athletes are notoriously determined, after all.

Part of her wonders if a proclivity to rock climbing makes her an athlete, too.

“Please,” she says, laughter clinging to the letters even as she finds herself moved directly over Killian’s outstretched legs, “provide, in detail, everything you enjoy about my arms.” “I didn’t say enjoy.” “Were you misquoted, Jones?” His eyes flash. Glow, honestly. At her and because of her and athletes also know how to work their opponents. Goad them into making mistakes. Something about a pitcher’s duel and a battle in the box. Where the box is this bed. And Emma’s winning.

“I love your arms,” Killian says. Dragging his mouth against the column of her throat leaves goosebumps on Emma’s skin. Her back arches. His hand flattens. The compliments continue. Turn into promises. Guarantees. Of a future that’s spread out at their feet now, if only they reach for it.

Turns out Emma’s pretty good at reaching for things. When she wants them.

“This isn’t, like, free-scale, though, is it?”

Her heart cannot be expected to handle much more of this.

“Don’t worry,” Emma says, “all proper safety precautions were taken. Plus, I wouldn’t fall off the wall.”

Killian’s expression shutters. Not in any of that frustration Emma so clearly understood when his shirt was damp, and her shoes were unsalvagable despite his best efforts to get the school’s equipment manager to dry-clean them. No, it’s—it’s something big and important and unspoken, and Emma pulls his hand up. To rest directly over the rink that’s still tucked beneath her t-shirt.

His t-shirt.

It’s got his last number on it, at least.

“Would you catch me if I fell off the wall?” He doesn’t answer at first. Doesn’t mention the absurdity of a question that does not make sense, but those literal and metaphorical clock hands are ticking, and if they don’t replace his ice soon, they’re going to destroy these sheets. “Every single time, Swan.” “Right back at you.”

Killian doesn’t miss curfew, but it’s pretty close.

And Emma wakes up to twelve texts with links for indoor rock climbing gyms in the greater New York City area.

“Holy shit, this is hard.”

Grunting more than laughing, Emma’s fingers curl around the rock in front of her. Chalk cakes itself on the pads of those fingers, stuck beneath her nails and, somehow, the bend of her elbow. “Are you not an All-Star?” she asks, glancing at Killian.

“I do not see how that factors into this at all.”

“Huh, weird.” “Suspiciously sounds like an accusation.” “Weird,” Emma repeats. They’re halfway up a wall only one of them is really supposed to be on, but the other person several feet below them is faring far worse than the pair of them combined, so, that takes precedence in her mind. “He knows a lot more curse words than I realized.” “He’s showing off,” Killian grumbles, forehead resting against the wall.

Will Scarlet hasn’t moved in five minutes. Possibly six. Maybe a round ten. He's much better at second base.

“I cannot feel my arms,” he calls, and Emma’s laugh is better that time. Purer, somehow. As if happiness can actually have a sound. Even happiness that comes with sweat on her temple and a noticeable ache in her triceps and she sort of loves this.

Sort of is a vast understatement.

“Showing off, huh?” Emma asks. She finds her next footfall with ease, happiness blooming into confidence that’s become nearly consistent these days and weeks and years. It does not take her long to feel the stare that’s lingering on her. On her ass, specifically.

She glances over her shoulder. To find her fiancé smiling at her. And staring at her ass.

“Can I help you, love?” “Whatcha doing?” “Ogling you, obviously.” “Forearms feeling good?” He nods. Sort of. There’s a distinct slope to the back of his neck and more sweat on his brown than Emma’s. Not as much as Scarlet’s, probably. “Fantastic,” Killian drawls, “keep going, Swan, someone’s got to show us how to do it.” “Try not to fall off the wall, huh? Last thing we need is the might of the Yankees front office coming after us.” “I don’t think I can move my hands,” Will shouts. Killian doesn’t move. It’s impressive forearm strength. Blushing on the wall is not usually how Emma’s days go.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Killian promises, and Emma moves. He follows her. Up the wall and to the top, a quick brush of his lips against her shoulder that leaves Scarlet cursing even more, despite his presence on the floor, but then there’s lemon-flavored water and exceptionally soft towels and Emma’s caught a bit off guard by the question.

“Are there leagues for this?” Will asks. “Because you should probably be winning things for this.” Emma blinks. Considers. Wonders. Turns to Killian.

He’s still smiling. Broadly, in fact.

“We could look.” They do. They fill out paperwork. Buy fancy climbing shoes that Emma claims cost too much, but Killian’s a pushover and even more stubborn and she wins the first race she signs up for.

Plus, ten more after that.

Emma climbs indoor rock walls. Killian hits home runs. Occasionally they do these things simultaneously, and it usually leads to her nearly falling off the wall because everyone in her Tribeca gym knows what it means when WFAN is playing on the speakers.

Sometimes they shout out John Sterling’s home run call with him.

She gets better. He gets better.

They do end up destroying sheets in various hotels across the country. For various reasons. Not all of them post-game or ice related. There are games and events. Wins and losses. Back page spreads that Emma frames and hangs on their apartment walls, right next to other, smaller frames, with the same smiling faces who, once upon a time, called a sticky-floored baseball house home, and Killian’s fingers are warm in hers when the tears prick her eyes at Anna and Kristoff’s wedding.

There are stories. Think pieces and hot takes on a variety of drive-time radio shows. Those are all about Killian, though. He’s the athlete. The true one, some stories say. It’s impressive what Emma does, they admit, but it’s a hobby, and she’s got a grown-up career, anyway. So, she’s got more climbing records than she knew ever existed, but she’s not doing it for press, and both Mary Margaret and Anna weep at her and Killian’s wedding.

She wears her ring on a chain next to her other one when she climbs.

Every time Killian notices them hanging there, Emma swears, his eyes brighten. It’s her favorite thing in the whole, goddamn world.

“What is this?” He doesn’t answer. Just holds the sheet of paper he must have printed out in the clubhouse because they certainly don’t have a printer at home, and one of the edges is bent. Like he had to fit it in his back pocket.

“Going the stoic route, huh?” Emma quips, but there’s a noticeable hitch in her pulse. One that’s been there for weeks. Since the rumblings started, and the rumors began, whispers of possibility, and first-ever has a very nice ring to it. One side of Killian’s mouth tugs up. “Oh, that’s not fair.” “I’d like the record to show, that the only reason I didn’t know immediately was because I was in the trainer’s room, so—” “What were you in the trainer’s room for?” Killian ignores her. Well, sort of. His eyes shift, and his gaze holds, and Emma knows. Right down in the marrow of her. What the paper is and how Scarlet is the one who printed it out, but she’s even more confident Killian carried it home, and that does something funny to her entire worldview. Widens it and minimizes it at the same time, focusing on this and them and the possibility that creates.

In an athletic sort of way.

“My shoulder’s kind of sore.” Emma scoffs. “Oh, that’s pointed.” “I’m sure your shoulders are fine. Golden, even.’ “This is not your best work, you know that?” “Look at the paper.” “Did you fold it yourself?” “And then took a car back home. You really didn’t see yet?” Emma shakes her head. He knows the answer, too. He’s the one with the Google alert, after all. Because she’s still a bit of a pessimist at heart and an adult with a real job, and this is too much and abjectly terrifying, and the last thing she expects is for Killian to crouch in front of her.

One of his knees cracks.

“Don’t,” he warns, even as Emma does her best to swallow her laugh. Warm hands land on her thighs, a quiet steadiness that helps the state of her pulse and makes the possibility of the unknown a little less overwhelming. The lines crossing the center of the paper are absurdly straight. “You’re going to go.” “Oh, that sounded like a decree.” “A suggestion.” “A strong one.” “Mmhm, with the utmost confidence.” Emma makes an impressive sound. “Who’s doing your media training? What an impressive vocabulary you’ve got on you.” “Ready and willing to use it in a persuasive manner.” “Keep talking like that, and you won’t have to.” The smirk disappears. Evolves into a grin that is only Emma’s and only appears in moments like this, support clinging to air molecules and the ends of hair that constantly seems determined to fall into Killian’s eyes. “Passed, huh? All cool with the IOC.” “Decidedly cool. Officially an Olympic sport, now. Although the name could use some work. Sport climbing lacks a little oomph, don’t you think?”

“What would you call it?” “Emma Swan wins Olympic gold.” “Kinda wordy.” “Prophetic,” Killian corrects, hands shifting and pulling, and Emma has to widen her legs. His head’s at a very good kissing angle. “You’ve already got the qualifying numbers.” “You looked at the qualifying numbers?” “Don’t insult me like that. What do you think I did in the backseat?” “Planned the entire 2020 Olympics, apparently.” “Not the entire Olympics,” Killian counters, "just the part involving you. And maybe my individual expectations regarding the United States baseball team, but that’s another conversation altogether.”

“Naturally.”

“You’re using that voice.”

Widening her eyes does nothing. Emma didn’t expect it to. Not after years and games and events because rock climbing has events, and one time Mary Margaret made her a sign. Killian held it. He’s taller, that’s why.

“Don’t,” Killian repeats, “this is happening.” “Yuh-huh?” “You heard me. It’s your turn, now.” Melting is an impossibility. Like, for a human. Even so. Emma feels like she’s melting. Some of that pessimism evaporating under the warmth of Killian’s gaze and his hands and the determination in the precise angle of his chin. Same one he uses when he steps into the box with runners in scoring position.

Lumping herself into that group isn’t as insulting as Emma once believed it would be.

“God,” Emma groans, “that’s romantic.” “You’re really selling it, love.”

“This is supposed to be a hobby.” “One you’re exceedingly good it. World record good at it.” “I like you.” “That’s my end game, yeah.” She laughs. Smiles. Continues melting. Which is easier once they get rid of their clothing, and their bed is way more comfortable than any hotel they’ve encountered. And she falls asleep with Killian’s lips against her ear, Emma Swan, Olympic gold medalist whispered on loop like it’s a mantra he’s been practicing.

They postpone the Olympics.

It sucks. Everything sucks. Baseball sucks. Gyms are closed. Emma gets creative, and Killian gets research-prone. They build a makeshift wall. She tosses him BP.

People write stories about it.

It doesn’t help.

Until—

Time passes. Some things change. Others don’t. Their wall stands up to the elements of their building’s courtyard, and Killian’s hitting better than ever this season, a victory Emma’s going to claim as at least partially hers. And then the Olympics are back, and it’s qualifying and racing and a record that’s just out of reach, but she’s good enough even without it, and, this time, she’s the one packing a suitcase.

He kisses her.

Does the tongue thing.

Holds onto her like he’s only a little afraid she’s going to fall off the wall, but now the wall is international competition, and Emma’s freaking out a little.

“I love you,” she says into the crook of his neck.

His arms tighten. “I love you too.” “Gold medal?” “Gold medal.” “Hit some home runs while I’m gone, huh?” Lips graze her temple. Her forehead. The bridge of her nose. Emma might be crying, and Mary Margaret’s definitely recording, a small mob of red white, and blue surrounding them. “I’ll see what I can do,” Killian promises.

“Good.”

He hits three before her first qualifying round. So, Emma takes that as a challenge. She’s an athlete now.

It’s why, she figures, her fingers don’t slip on her first run.

Her feet are sure. Her breathing is steady. There’s no one cheering her name, but she’s long since memorized the exact way Killian’s voice lifts above a crowd. How he pushes up on his toes to watch, as if standing up taller makes sure he’s closer to her. Should she need him when she falls off the wall. Only, Emma doesn’t fall, and she’s got no intention of ever falling and—

Her laugh shudders out of her in a watery sort of way that makes the journalist still standing in front of her flinch ever so slightly. Twitter makes sure the video starts playing again as soon as it finishes, which is somehow the best and worst thing that has ever happened to her. Best because, well, Emma’s honestly not sure she’s ever seen her husband like this.

Worst because she’s very nearly goddamn crying. Again.

Bobbing on the balls of his feet in front of his locker, whoever’s recording the video — it’s Scarlet, obviously — is practically frenzied behind the camera, barely able to contain their laughter. Killian doesn’t notice. He’s holding his own phone, all five of his free fingers firmly entrenched in the back of his hair. It’s gotten softer with age, Emma thinks.

She can’t stop watching him.

Every inhale is a clear struggle, the bobbing turning into pacing and quiet mumbling she can hear perfectly. As if she’s standing right in front of him.

Or at least slightly to the side. So as not to stand on the logo in the middle of the clubhouse.

Athletes are notoriously superstitious, too.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Killian chants, another noticeable snicker from Scarlet, “right there, right there, and pull, pull—Swan, pull up!”

“I did pull up there,” Emma mumbles. To the reporter, maybe. Or the world. Possibly her husband. Who was definitely more nervous about the first run than her.

God, that’s romantic.

Killian’s still talking. Shouting, more like. It’s a miracle Scarlet hasn’t fallen over yet.

“Faster, faster, you can go faster than that, Swan—” Emma clicks her tongue. “That’s kind of insulting.”

There’s an appropriate titter of laughter from the peanut gallery, which is a joke she was not trying to make, but she’s also dangerously close to swooning in the middle of press and she should have asked the Yankees for media training. Someone would have made sure she didn’t make a total ass of herself.

“Show me the time,” Killian yells, another demand that isn’t that. It’s too wobbly a string of words to hold any real power, just the supportive sort of desperation Emma’s felt in a variety of ninth innings and series-clinching moments. “Faster! Faster!” “Talking to the time or the judges or your wife?” Scarlet asks.

Killian nearly snarls.

Emma blinks. Hyperactively. Crying is not usually her shtick. More camera flashes...flash, Emma barely noticing them with her eyes glued to a phone screen that isn’t hers because she at least knows not to bring her phone to a press conference, and she can only imagine how many text messages she’s gotten.

Even on the other side of the world.

They post the times.

She knows because Killian gets some rather impressive height on his celebratory vertical. Fingers abandoning his hair, his fist pumps the air, and Scarlet’s not laughing so much as he’s whooping, a steady stream of yeah, yeah, yeah in the background. And for about half a breath, Emma’s worried Killian may turn one of his ankles on his landing, but he’d think that was insulting, and she’s really just full-on swooning now.

“How many people have seen this?’ she asks the reporter, already knowing the answer.

The reporter smiles anyway. Emma should learn her name.

“Pretty much the whole world.” When Emma was a kid — the sort of kid who believed alone was better, and there was strength in singularity, that would have terrified her. Bowled her over, really. Left her running without looking back, desperate to shed any sort of notoriety because notoriety meant attention, and attention meant inevitable disappointment.

Maybe that’s why she was never much of a sports person.

Sports disappoint you. They build you up and let you down, a sharp and sudden fall without a safety net. But sometimes. Sometimes, every so often, something wonderful happens. Sports lift you. Right up an indoor wall. Because, she knows, sports’ power comes from belief, from surrendering yourself to something bigger and better, and she’s back on that alliterative kick, but the tears are barely clinging to her eyelashes now and Emma herself is bigger and better, now.

In an international, decidedly romantic sort of way.

The video’s playing away.

“Let’s go,” Killian cries, and there it is. Her sound and their sound, cheering across an ocean and time zones that are still kind of messing with her sleep schedule.

Emma’s smile stretches.

“Let’s go,” she repeats.

It ends, as with most things in Emma’s gold-medal-winning life, because Anna plans it.

Stepping out of the terminal, it takes less than a full breath for the cheers to start. For the banners to lift and the tears to flow, a small platoon of support covered in the sort of patriotic gear they definitely got from the Old Navy in Herald Square.

Flashes burst behind Emma’s eyelids because she’s got to blink or she’ll definitely fall over. Her legs wobble beneath her, contending against a wave of triumph and jubilation, which is sort of the same word, but they’ve got a game at the Stadium tonight, so she doesn’t expect, she just hopes and reaches, and he has to twist around both Anna and Mary Margaret.

It’s wonderfully cyclical.

As is the way Emma slams herself against him. On purpose, this time. Killian’s arms tighten, more cheers and shouts, and people a few feet away start chanting USA over and over. Emma barely hears them. Her feet aren’t touching the ground, so she’s kind of preoccupied.

They’re all arms and mouths, and her legs wrapped securely around a body that probably shouldn’t be supporting hers when she knows he slid into second two nights ago, but Killian clearly has no intention of letting her down, and the medal around her neck bumps against her rings.

“You’re a very good cheerleader; you know that?” He hisses. In what, Emma can’t imagine. Embarrassment, if the red tips of his ears are anything to go by, and she’s got ideas as to why that is and how long the conversation about social media with Scarlet went, so Emma does the only reasonable thing.

She slams her lips against her home-run hitting husband’s, doing her best to make sure the gold medal doesn’t mistakenly impale either one of them, and the world tilts again. With victory and sports-based support and the sort of love that comes from believing in something bigger.

And better than Emma could have ever imagined.

“I didn’t want to steal your thunder.”

“Please,” Emma scoffs, “don’t insult me like that. Plus, I’m claiming every one of those home runs as my own, so comparatively—” He kisses her before she can say anything else.

That’s for the best, probably.

“Your arms looked ridiculously good the whole time.”

Her laugh doesn’t even sound like her when Emma hears it played back — another video that someone tells her goes viral, only she doesn’t care about hits or site traffic, just about the particular shade of blue in Killian’s eyes, and she wears her medal to the game that night.

Because they’re a sports power couple, now.

Or so the New York Post back page claims the next day.

Emma frames it.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #hook heel #this is also apparently my 50th work on ao3 #which is just patently nuts #so if you guys have been clicking and reading all these words know that i am a little in love with you

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clarste · 4 years ago

Note

Since it's been a few weeks, what's your opinion on Chapter 8 of Arknights? Reading about your opinion on other pieces of Arknights has been very nice so far.

I find this enemy description inordinately amusing so I will start with this before going to spoilers below the break.

1) First of all I am a sucker for flashbacks following the villain, so the basic structure of Chapter 8 was right up my alley. Even if Talulah's arc was more or less predictable—who among us did not expect Alina to die? I think some people might feel that it was a little too long, but honestly I think it said everything it needed to say and frankly there is nothing more important the chapter could have said. If anything, the parts that weren't about Talulah would be first on my chopping list if I were editing this story down. In particular, the whole bit with Kal'tsit and the sarcophagus and all that had almost nothing to do with the themes of this chapter or the Reunion arc, so they seemed especially superfluous. Even if that story might have been interesting told on its own.

2) Talulah. The main character of this chapter, obviously. I think there are two different angles to approach her from that seem almost mutually exclusive, which are that A) she is a tragic figure who started with noble ideals but was pushed to her limits until she became a ruthless shell of her former self and B) she is literally possessed by Kaschey, ie: the Deathless Black Snake, who is the immortal spirit of Imperialism manipulating the country of Ursus into a constant state of war. From what I've seen of people’s reactions, I think most people focus more on angle B, which makes sense because that is literally true in the story, but what I took from it is that it's a lot more ambiguous than that.

What I mean is that the story is constantly emphasizing that the Deathless Black Snake can only take action as long as Talulah agrees with it. It's more insidious than just an external ghost taking control of her (and thereby freeing her of responsibility for her actions), it's a philosophy that was planted in her by her mentor, a way of thinking, an idea. A living meme. So when I say that it's the immortal spirit of imperialism, I don't mean that as a joke, it is the embodiment of imperialism itself, of imperialist ideals and goals, manifested in this particular person the moment she starts seeing her enemies as obstacles to be eliminated instead of people with their own motivations. I certainly don't think that the trigger for the transformation was set arbitrarily, that's just Who She Needed To Be in order to buy into the ideas that Kaschey and the Snake had taught her from a young age. It’s also an ancient god taking physical control over her, but hey, it's fantasy.

Ultimately, we didn't defeat the Deathless Black Snake in battle, we just gave Talulah second thoughts. And she will live with what she's done for the rest of her life.

3) Amiya. In this chapter, more than anywhere else, it's clear that Amiya is the main character of Arknights. Sure, we have whatever Kal'tsit is plotting, and whatever the hell the Doctor is, but that doesn't actually matter. In fact, they spent this entire chapter walking around in the basement and never once interacting with Talulah. The Doctor shows up at the end with no idea what's going on or what happened, which is quite comical when you think about it.

By contrast, Amiya sees the big picture. Of the three people on top of the tower during the climax, only Amiya knows what both Talulah and Chen have been through, or indeed what she’s been though. What brought them all to that point. She is watching all these flashbacks right alongside us through her empathy powers. Which, as I've mentioned before, is really the best superpower in this setting: the power to see the world through someone else's eyes, and to feel the pain that drives them. And we, the players, feel what she feels. In a certain sense, she's even more of a player avatar here than even the Doctor, which I mean in the best possible way.

And of course her empathy gives her cool shounen superpowers that are suspiciously similar to Emiya Shirou, but I will allow it.

4) Chen. Chen is honestly kind of the weak link here, imo. While of course we've been following her character arc since chapter 3 and I don't mind where they've taken her, it ironically kind of felt to me like she had no personal stakes in the final battle. Which is odd since the story seemed to be hammering that it's all personal for her, what with Talulah being her long-lost sister and all that. The problem (imo) is that her close relationship with Talulah is all Told-Not-Shown, and also that Talulah is being possessed by the Deathless Black Snake, so it kind of feels like she's being left out of the loop, both in terms of knowing the facts and also emotionally.

I'm not saying she doesn't get any good lines, or that her banter with Amiya isn't cool or funny, I'm just saying that what should have been a big emotional moment at the climax of the story just sort of fell flat for me, and I was left wondering "wait, why is Chen here again?"

That said, I did enjoy her bit afterward where she's like "you need to stand fair trial for your crimes, Talulah, but in this world that discriminates against the Infected, there’s nowhere worthy of giving you one." I feel that sums up the game's stance on these things quite succinctly.

5) Rosmontis. Rosmontis had sort of an interesting arc here because it separated her from Amiya and I almost want to say that was a good thing? While I thought her relationship to Amiya was one of the most interesting things about her in the previous chapter, it almost feels like it was preventing her from forming bonds with other people and becoming a more well-rounded person? I guess what I want to say that is that Rosmontis was being coddled, sheltered, treated as a child. While some would call her a monster, Amiya was always around to say "no no no, don't listen to them, you're cute!" And while that was certainly nice of Amiya, it feels like what truly made her accept herself was almost the opposite: being accepted as a monster (or rather, a person with monstrous powers) by people used to fighting alongside monsters. Being told that she's allowed to hate the people who hurt her, and to be ruthless to her enemies. That her own emotions, both good or bad, are valid. For the first time, she felt human.

What you'll note, of course, is that these aren't exactly heroic virtues, and in fact they're kind of similar to what Amiya rejects and what got Talulah into so much trouble? Honestly I don't know if I would say Rosmontis is a good person right now, but what she is doing is thinking on her own for the first time, and deciding what's right and wrong for herself. It sounds almost malicious to put it this way, but it's like Amiya and Rhodes Island were trying to mold her into someone she's not. In some ways the opposite of what Kaschey did to Talulah.

I don't think her story is over yet, of course, but I found it an interesting direction to take. Rosmontis is on the path to find her own justice, which may or may not align with Rhodes Island's.

Also, kitty:

6) W. Back when I was doing a write-up for chapter 7, I said that maybe she would have been better off being recruitable in chapter 8 instead of 7, because it seemed a little early in her arc for that. I was wrong. She wouldn't fit in for chapter 8 either. Honestly she probably shouldn't be recruitable at all right now, not that I'm complaining as someone who uses her. Just, you know, narratively she is not at a place where she would consider joining RI, and in fact she ends the chapter pretty much going "later losers, I hope we never meet again." Which implies that the W in my squad right now is like a totally different person who is either from an alternate dimension or the future, after a lot of character development. That's not like the worst thing ever, it just seems a little weird to have her right now. W's story isn't about Reunion and never was. It's about Theresa and Babel, which as of now we are still only getting little hints of. I'd be glad to see that story when it happens, but until then W's just kind of there.

7) Themes. For some reason, this one line in this chapter really hit me. While it's not literally true, especially if you count all the former child slaves or feral children and whatnot, it does feel broadly true that most of the characters come from middle-class backgrounds. Like, your Krooses and Orchids of the world. Kal'tsit goes on to explain that this is because RI can only really recruit in cities, and that rural Infected tend to get thrown into the wilderness on their own and have no idea that RI exists.

Interestingly, this idea also sort of comes up in Talalah's side, when it's revealed that Talulah is the daughter of a duke, making her followers hesitate for a moment. While I don't recall it being explicitly spelled out, the implication was obviously that she's not "one of them" and this might be a cause for distrust. But what are "they' exactly? Clearly she is in fact Infected, she made sure of that herself. But she wasn't abandoned in the same way her followers were. She had a choice, and chose to side with the Infected. Which is honorable of her and all, but it also indicates a fundamental disconnect between them because they never had a choice. She could've used her influence to hide her oripathy and be treated like a normal person (as we saw happened with both Chen and Patriot), or used her wealth to get sent to a fancy private hospital like Rhodes Island, with the latest medical technology and treatments.

So while the story focuses on the discrimination of the Infected, it's clear here that that's not really the only thing going on. Being Infected means little to those in power, while for those without power it's just an an excuse to intrude on their lives and make sure they aren't "harboring any Infected" or whatever. Basically the story starts discussing intersectionality, which I found interesting.

8) This is a good line:

#not touhou #arknights #chapter 8 #roaring flare #if we don't pick a name for ourselves we will only ever be called the names others give us

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hetacon · 4 years ago

Text

Prom Queen: Chapter 5

First || Previous || Next

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Word Count: 1,920

Pairings: Endgame Prinxiety, Platonic LAMP, more could be included at a later point

Warning: Swearing, mentions of p*rn, mentions of drugs and underage drug use, slight internal panic attack

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Summary: The popular kids were interesting for sure, they definitely weren’t exactly like Virgil had expected them to be but at the same time they kind of were.

(Make sure you read all the way to the end if you want to hear my thoughts on the chapter, and let me know if you want to be added to the taglist for this story, my art, or writing! I hope you guys enjoy!)

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Music blared through Virgil’s headphones as he and Roman sat with the popular kids again. Virgil wasn’t feeling up to talking much with them today so he had out his sketchbook, mindlessly making marks on the page. He was totally spacing out, too occupied by his latest worry of the week.

He very nearly jumped out of his skin as one of his earbuds was pulled out of his ear and he scrambled to pause the My Chemical Romance song that he’d been playing to drown out his thoughts the best he could, putting his phone face down in his lap. Virgil registered the person next to him laughing loudly at his jumpiness and he looked over to see Nick nearly doubling over from how hard he laughed.

‘It really wasn’t that funny, you scared me asshole,’ Virgil thought bitterly to himself before mentally shaking his head. ‘He didn’t do anything rude.. Well, that rude, calm down Virgil, you’re overreacting again. These are Roman’s friends, they’re starting to like you.’

“Sorry dude but that was the funniest shit I’ve ever seen, holy crap,” Nick chuckled, leaning back as he crossed his arms. He looked over to Virgil finally and nodded. “So what was up with that? You looked like you were about to shit yourself.”

Virgil’s brows furrowed. “Force of habit, I guess,” he muttered out.

“Oh yeah? What were you doing, watching porn or some shit?” A grimace came over Virgil’s face as Nick asked but he tried to not look too disgusted.

Quick, what was the appropriate answer? How did people usually talk about that type of stuff? Should he take it seriously? Consider it a joke? Punch him in the arm like the jocks he saw all the time in his physics class?

Luckily, Roman cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow. “Hey, that’s not cool, he’s clearly not comfortable, Nicholas,” he said, giving Nick a leveling look.

Nick put his hands up and shrugged. “Only joking dude, what he does with his time is his business. Wouldn’t blame him if it was though!” Another laugh rang out as one of the other guys sitting next to Nick punched him in the arm, much to Virgil’s satisfaction. At least someone punched him.

“Gross, shut the hell up!” the person who punched Nick told him with an obnoxiously grating laugh. “You’re sick, dude.”

Virgil tried to ignore the conversation but as he tried to put his earbud back in, he noticed Nick had it in his ear. He just couldn’t get away from them could he? He signed up for this admittedly though.

“Sorry, anyways, Virge, why’d you jump like that, for real?” Nick finally asked as he and the other guy stopped spitting insults at each other.

“I have strict parents, they don’t like anything remotely mature. They always call my stuff out if it has language in it so I just don’t let them see any music I listen to anymore,” Virgil found himself explaining, opening his phone to play a popular song that had been making the rounds around school rather than continuing through “I’m Not Okay (I Promise)” like he desperately wanted to. Just one more thing Virgil had to be careful of. No more of his own music at school from now on, got it.

“Fuck, strict parents suck! Like, seriously, let me live my fucking life!” Nick scoffed out. “I just want to vape in fucking peace, they don’t need to get all pissy about it. It’s my fucking life right?”

Virgil looked up to Roman for a possible escape from the conversation, Roman knew he wasn’t a huge fan of people even talking about drugs, but Roman was staring down at his phone, texting someone. He looked upset anyways, Virgil probably shouldn’t make him feel worse.

“I mean, I don’t know, my parents aren’t the worst. I know they love me even if they aren’t good at showing it.”

“Nah, parents are assholes, adults are assholes really. They act like they can control you, it blows!” Nick complained.

Virgil only half-listened to the conversation, the other half of his attention going to trying to not have a panic attack. He took a look at the time and put away his sketchbook after making a mental note that he didn’t get very far into the sketch.

“Hey Virge, mind getting something with me real quick?” Roman asked and Virgil’s head snapped up as he nodded quickly.

The two started to walk off in the direction of their classes, Roman letting out a sigh when they were far enough.

“That wasn’t nice of him, sorry for not really... Doing much. I know you don’t like attention being drawn to you, I didn’t know if you wanted me to step in or not.”

“No, it’s fine! I’m just, you know, getting to know your friends I guess!” Virgil laughed out a little too brightly for his usual attitude. He’d been acting more like that around Roman though lately, Roman barely seemed to notice from what he saw.

“Are you sure..? I know you really don’t like those topics and he was practically steamrolling over any chance for you to stop him. I should’ve stepped in, I’m sorry,” Roman said with a hand rubbing his temple. Virgil watched him closely, noticing the way his shoulders locked up. He clearly looked beyond displeased.

“If it’s just for my comfort, I’m fine. I’d tell you if anything was happening, yeah? It’s what best friends do,” Virgil hummed out with a smile, bumping Roman’s shoulder with his own as they continued walking.

Roman glanced over wearily, a small smile on his face as the bell finally rung, signifying the start of class. “Yeah,” he merely replied, before the two parted ways.

The popular kids were interesting for sure, they definitely weren’t exactly like Virgil had expected them to be but at the same time they kind of were. The group was a bit fluid, some of the people that Virgil and Roman sat with tended to stay every day while others came and went. There wasn’t a super strict clique structure that was upheld but there didn’t seem to be a lot of the nerdier groups represented by the group, it mostly consisted of jocks, preps, and random drifters who tended to throw good parties. All of them had some sense of social standing in the school, many people knew them, and they were generally liked outside of the some of the people in the “lower” social statuses. Virgil definitely fit into at least one of these lower statuses but he seemed to be getting a pass due to being Roman’s friends. Luckily the theater kids were essentially accepted as popular kids even if some would be inclined to disagree.

Most of the conversations they got into wasn’t anything that interested Virgil, it mainly consisted of them complaining over homework and “strict” teachers (Seriously, why the hell would teachers actually let someone vape in the middle of class?) and their parents as well as a shit ton of gossip. There was literally so much gossip. So and so cheated on her boyfriend when he was cheating on her too, someone ended up getting in trouble for a tip-off about drugs in their backpack, these two kids got in a fight over some pointless drama and one ended up shoving off a teacher when they’d attempted to break off the fight. It was way more than Virgil thought was even going on at his school as he tended to stay away from pretty much everyone possible but regardless, it all was just as stupid as he expected. Virgil had no idea how they found any excitement out of talking about how people messed up or were fucked over by someone else. He wasn't sure what he was doing anymore but if nothing else, high school was supposed to be confusing right? That's what everyone always said, no one said anything different.

A sign of progress, if Virgil could even call it that was when one of them decided to sit next to him in his English class. The two of them would chat though Virgil barely managed to understand or be engaged in the conversation half of the time. Virgil definitely hated him when he asked Virgil to make up an excuse for him while he vaped in the bathroom and Virgil barely managed to sputter out that he told Virgil he felt a little nauseous but would be ok. It was insane to see the guy come back and roll with the excuse when the teacher asked if he needed to go to the nurse when he got back. Virgil felt his stomach curl when he shot him a wink with a click of his tongue.

"So hey, I was thinking you guys, we've all been pretty busy lately," Patton said as Logan was driving them out for lunch after school.

"Yeah? What's up Pat?" Roman asked, leaning against Virgil in the backseat. Virgil very slightly leaned in, finally relieved to have it just be the three of his closest friends surrounding him as Dodie played on the radio. This was nice, it seemed more simple like this, Virgil almost forgot all his worries as the conversation started up.

"I was thinking about us doing something over fall break and whatnot! Unless there are family plans and whatnot which is cool but I'm free and so is Logan so we wanted to see if you and Virgil would want to!" Patton grinned to Virgil.

"I dunno, it sounds good to me if you wanted to," Virgil told him, before looking over to Roman. "You in?"

Roman sighed and groaned loudly, running a hand over his face. "I so want to but it might be tricky scheduling, the theater teacher is being a bit of a bitch about rehearsing over break. I can't very well miss it and I don't want to promise I'll be there. But even if I can't find a way around it, you guys can absolutely do so and send me lots of pictures!" He gently nudged Virgil's shoulder and despite the heaviness Virgil felt in his gut, he nudged back, giving a sympathetic smile.

"Hey, it's cool. Pat and Logan and I will hang out, no problem. We'll make sure to make plans for the four of us sometime soon ok?" Virgil told him, the weight coming off of him slightly as Roman let out a relaxed laugh, hugging Virgil close. Virgil felt his face grow exceedingly hot but he tried to push down the feeling.

"Yeah, that sounds awesome, I love you guys so much!"

"Oh, are you guys going to need anyone to paint sets? You know I'm always down," Virgil offered, glad to hear the excitement in Roman's answer.

The conversation kept going, they meandered from that to a new show Roman and Patton had both started watching, Logan gave them some of the details of a new robot he was helping to code. Virgil even showed Roman some of his newly finished sketches in the leather bound book (which was now getting a fair amount of use) even if Roman had already seen them halfway done. It felt easy, it felt nice, and Virgil felt like he could breathe. And that scared him a little.

______________________________

It is absolutely so strange to write popular kids, I don’t think it’s going to be the easiest for me! Luckily the next chapter is going to be very popular kid free so I don’t have to worry about that! Honestly, their dialogue is the reason the chapters take so long! I don’t find things like gossip and whatnot interesting, it doesn’t make sense since I’m neurodivergent. I’m trying to not make it too stale, I really hope it’s not stale...

Interestingly enough, I’ve had people mess with me or my friends more than once in regards to stuff like hentai (considering I’m an anime fan) so I actually do have at least two experiences where stuff p*rn-related has been brought up as a way to make fun of the groups I was hanging with.

High school is wild and of the behavior I saw from people much further up on the social ladder than I ever was, they do some really weird stuff. I didn’t even see a whole lot, I just know I definitely didn’t like it.

Be prepared for some Patton and Logan time next chapter, I think Virgil deserves it after all of this!

#sanders sides #prinxiety #virgil sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders #multichapter #prom queen #stan writing

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phantomphangphucker · 4 years ago

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Ectober Week Glow Stick/REDRUM - Glow Snap

Danny’s been king for a while and that means helping ghosts out sometimes. And that helping has repeated required dealing with humans treating ghosts like crap. But farming ghosts for glow sticks is a new one.

Danny Phantom was beginning to get used to his role as High Ghost King, the balls, the parties, the formalities and respect. The fashion was more difficult to adjust to than everything else in all honestly. Frock coats and even dresses. At least usually all he had to wear was his cape, that was just part of him now though. Another thing he had to get used to were the royal attendances, where he effectively had to just sit at his throne and hear ghosts out. Only if he accepted their request for an attendance of course. He usually rejected the Observants and Vlad, generally on principal alone. Especially since it was nearly a guarantee they were just trying to annoy him. If the eyeballs really needed to see him then they could go through ClockWork and Vlad could literally just show up at his house.

Now if anyone else put in a request to have an attendance with him then he usually paid attention, since that was a rare thing. Most ghosts wouldn’t even dare due to the ‘behaviour’ of Pariah giving the entire throne, title, and crown a really nasty reputation. Most of the Zone simply assumed or worried that this Phantom fellow, who defeated Pariah, was just like him or worse. The ghosts that knew him didn't even bother going through official routes, they just showed up in Amity or invited him to their lair. So when he got a attendance request from a ghost he’d never heard of representing an entire species of ghost that he hadn’t yet met, he accepted without hesitation and felt rather worried. This Brextex likely only knew the High Ghost King as the guy who overpowered the evil tyrant Pariah and was thus taking a chance by willingly asking to be alone in the throne room and lair of the new King. It didn’t help that most of the rumours about him involved the fact that he beat up other ghosts and had made powerful allies. So either this ghost was desperate, out of options, or just recklessly curious. Just in case it was either of the first Danny had elected to stick with his true ghost form rather than ageing himself up to look more ‘adult’ and imposing (or in the Observants case, remind them of Dan). Sure his true form was more visually impressive than it was when he was fourteen, but his seventeen-year-old ass did not nearly have the muscle, size, or defined body structure his mid-twenties self would. He’s honestly wondering when the heck that growth spurt was going to hit him in genuine. But hey, at least his fangs had grown in and he’s pretty sure his ears are beginning to taper.

But anyway, accepting that attendance request is what finds him sitting at his throne, one leg over an armrest and drumming his fingers in boredom on the other armrest. He’s tempted to start pulling down his crown in front of his face only to let go and watch it spring back up, small amusements. The FrightKnight comes in just as Danny had decided to go ahead and do that.

Danny rights himself as his High Dread Knight speaks, “Brextex has arrived, your highness. Are you content to see him now?”. Danny just nods and absently waves for the guy to just go ahead and let the ghost in. He honestly would appreciate the FrightKnight relaxing more on all the formalities, not going to happen but still. His knight nods, letting the ghost in and going to stand outside the doors.

Danny will admit, this is one of the odder looking ghosts he’s seen. He looked kinda like someone who was nothing but skin and bones but the bones under the skin glowed. The skin didn’t though, and he just had glowing light in sunken eye sockets rather than physical eyes. The fact that he walked across the hall towards Danny rather than floated was pretty odd for a ghost too. Eh, maybe he just preferred walking on solid ground; Danny often did.

Brextex immediately kneels when he’s considered officially close enough, not coming any closer. Which was pretty typical for ghosts who had never met him. What does catch Danny’s attention is that he can hear the ghost's bones creaking and straining as if they were real solid bones that had seen plenty abuse. Danny’s joints and spine would creak like that sometimes. “Bless you for seeing me, High King Phantom. May you bless me speak?”.

“You may”. Danny makes a point to smile warmly when Brextex raises his head, which seems to startle the ghost for a second.

“I’ve come to request aid, your highness. My kind, linchens, we- we’ve been suffering for a long while”.

Danny squints a little and leans forward, “how so?”. He thought he had made it clear to the FrightKnight that he wanted to know about any groups, clans, kingdoms, or tribes that were genuinely struggling. Either he’ll have to have a talking with him about what qualifies as ‘struggling’ again, or he didn’t know himself. The Zone was large, so he couldn’t really fault him if that was the case. But the FrightKnight was old, reasonably he should know about all of the different groups. “The FrightKnight was supposed to inform me of any genuine suffering or issues”.

Brextex shifts slightly, maintaining the kneeling position though, “well sire, I don’t believe the... FrightKnight looks beyond the Infinite Realms. See, my kind haven’t been part of it for ages. We’re... located in the Mortal Realm”. Okay, that gets Danny’s attention real fast. He probably looks more than a little surprised, since ghosts weren’t generally capable of staying in the human world for very long. Obviously this kind of ghost, linchens, could. But then that’s kinda weird that he hasn’t run into one yet. Heck, showing in Amity would have been easier than finding a portal and coming to see him formally. It’s not like the hunters in Amity were much of a threat now after all the truces he’s formed. Dora could come without a human disguise and buy tea even. Maybe these ghosts simply didn’t know?

Danny nods, “feel free to explain the issue then, I’m often in the Mortal Realm so I can certainly help”.

Brextex just blinks at him for a bit before standing up quickly and motioning with his hands as he speaks. Clearly forgetting the ‘proper etiquette’ at the serious possibility of Danny not being an unhelpful asshole. “Pariah used to keep us as pets to break our bones for fun so when one of the old ones found a portal to the living world we all fled there. But the living were quick to capture us and decided they liked our bones to and somehow broke our connection to the Infinite Realms”. Danny doesn’t like where this is going and if the G.I.W. have anything to do with this he’s going to be having some words with their head boss... again. “Or that’s the story that’s been passed down. Ever since they’ve been keeping us and harvesting our bones until we fade from the-”, Brextex jerks a bit likely from Danny’s eyes flashing a little angrily. By the ghost swallows and continues “-from the draining. The others were able to get me out since my ecto-field’s weaker and young. We had heard about a new king and thought that- that you would maybe be different. We had to take the risk. We had to-”.

Danny holds up a hand to pause the ghost, because frankly he doesn’t even need to hear more to be willing to help. A group of humans actively murdering ghosts to collect their bones? Hell no. That is absolutely not something he’s going to let fly. But right now he needs to get across that his flash of anger wasn’t aimed at the ghost. Brextex does not need to start begging to him. Standing up, which Brextex looks a bit freaked by, “I’ll help. Absolutely I will”. Walking down the throne steps, Brextex remembering himself and kneeling again as Danny approaches. Danny making a point to reel in the anger, because he does not need to stress this ghost more, and patting Brextex on the head, “you're fine. Humans treating ghosts like monsters and whatnot is something that ticks me off and that I’ve gone well out of my way to deal with. And to hear some have been murdering ghosts, I don’t give a flaming crap why, that is unacceptable”, sighing, “now come on, get up. I should probably at least know why, or what you believe to be why, you and the rest of your kind are being treated worse than animals at an unethical and illegal slaughterhouse”.

Brextex stands up more than a little stiffly and eyes him warily, giving a strained, “bless you”, then clearing his throat, “well... our bone enamel glows really strongly if we snap or break a bone”, he digs in the small little beat up bag he’s got around his waist and pulls out a little bag. Handing it over to Danny though clearly avoiding actually touching the king. “They shave our bones down after harvesting so they’re opaque-”, pointing at the bag, “-and look like that. We’re not really sure why and we honestly don’t care“.

Danny nods and scowls, opening the bag and pulling out a bunch of freaking glow sticks. Danny blinks, honestly a bit too shocked to really feel much of anything, “glow sticks?”. Sure his parents had used to rave about a conspiracy theory that glow sticks were filled with ectoplasm and had thus banned them from the house. But them being actually right was utterly insane.

Brextex furrows his brows, skin pulling tight, “you’ve... seen these before? Why? What are they for? Their purpose? Are they needed? Do the living need to do this to us?”.

Danny shakes his head immediately, because holy shit no. “They’re used for cheap entertainment. Completely unnecessary entertainment”, then scowls deeply, even growling a little, “this is absurd and I’m not having it”. Looking to Brextex, who looks nervous, “where are the other linchens being kept? Because I’m about to have some very not nice words with whoever assholes thinks torturing and murdering anyone for freaking glow sticks is remotely okay”.

Brextex nods and grins a little, “I can take you”. While Danny lifts a hand to form a portal in the air, the ghost watching in a bit of amazement. Danny doesn’t need to tell the FrightKnight he’s heading out, the guy can sense it just fine.

They step out onto a rooftop in Amity, Danny sending away his crown and cape as he turns to look at Brextex who’s looking around, “this place... it is your lair too”, then adding on like he’ll get in trouble otherwise, “your highness”.

Danny waves him off, trying not to seem ticked off, “don’t bother with royal titles here. Humans don’t know and I'd mostly prefer to keep it that way”. The G.I.W. knew but that was purely so he could threaten them more effectively. “Yeah, welcome to Amity Park, the place I usually am. The one place the G.I.W. are banned from”.

“The... G.I.W.?”.

Danny shrugs almost aggressively, “group of anti-ghost terrorists. Almost blew up the Zone once. I’ve had words with them”, nodding curtly, “now, where to?”. Brextex stares at him for a bit before pointing off to the east, a bit of green light sting shooting off. Danny plucks it to see how far it goes. The area seemed just a bit outside of a populated area.

Danny nods, “alright, I’ve got it”, looking to the ghost, “do you want a place to rest? I live with ghost hunters but they’re cool with good ghosts that don’t run around attacking humans. They’re pretty knowledgeable too, so if you need anything they can help. My friends could keep you company too. I don’t want you coming off with me and straining or hurting yourself”.

Brextex stares a bit more before furrowing his brows, “you are... very different. Kind”. Danny smiles at that, “my friends say I’m a little too nice sometimes”, and quirks an eyebrow.

Brextex nods a little, “I’ll... take the offer then”.

So Danny teleports them down into an alley and changes back human. Though that makes Brextex jump back and look incredibly confused. Danny chuckles and rubs his neck, “ah guess you don’t know. I’m a halfa”.

“A... halfa?”.

Danny nods and starts walking, the ghost following behind, “yup, half a ghost, half a human. This is how I look as a human. The people I live with are my human parents”. Danny sends off a quick text for his friends to get their butts over to his house as he pushes in his home’s front door, “mom! Dad! I’ve got a friendly that needs a place to crash for a bit!”.

His mom sticks her head out of the kitchen, glances at the ghost and back to Danny, “well he’s an interesting one”. Danny doesn’t even let her finish that and points at her, “no labs”.

“Alright, no worries sweetie. He’ll be staying in your room?”. Danny just nods as he heads upstairs, his friends joining him and Brextex just as the two had gotten halfway up the stairs.

“Oh! New ghost huh dude?”.

Sam just smiles at the confused-looking ghost.

Danny nods at Tucker, “you guys hang with him while I go unleash ghostly wrath on some people”.

Tucker pats the ghost on the shoulder and the two walk into Danny’s room. Sam raising an eyebrow at Danny, “what is it this time?”.

Danny scowls, “glow sticks are ghost bones apparently”. She scowls immediately herself, “you have my full support”, and nods at him as he turns to leave. Danny promptly teleporting away as soon as he’s back outside.

Danny floats above the little factory-looking building, arms crossed and scowling. It’s not even a debate him taking his mid-twenties full ghost looking form, the fact that his royal cape had a flaming white collar and large green skulls pinning it shut with a shadowy chain only made him look slightly more threatening than Dan did with his simple tattered cape. His crown wrapped around the flaming hair pretty darn well too in a way that just emphasised the crown even more. But before he does anything drastic he’s going to check this place out invisibly.

And what he finds inside is frankly, disgusting. The first thing he comes across are these tools that looked like potato peelers and piles of what he’s sure are ‘bone peels’; which he scowled at, feeling his lips pull over his other fangs. The second looks to be a literal vat of ‘discarded’ glow sticks, ones that were misshapen, damaged and leaking; the fact that they were taking these ghosts body parts and just throwing them away very explicitly pisses him off. Who knows how many ghosts faded for these damn scraps. It wasn’t like fucking glow sticks were important or even necessary, to kill to make them was beyond wrong and idiotic. The room with just boxed up glow sticks doesn’t really bother him beyond just how much was here. How many ghosts had faded in this place? Was there a risk of extinction? If he were to ask the FrightKnight the guy would probably claim to have thought this species of ghost already had gone extinct.

Getting to the centre of the factory is when he finds the ghosts. There are at least twenty or so ghosts that looked similar to Brextex stuck inside plastic cases that were practically skin tight around them, with little hinges and doors that could be opened for access to their arms, legs, fingers, toes, and ribs. There was tubes hooked into the back of the cases that appeared to be feeding the ghosts ectoplasm, Danny can tell by smell there’s some kind of drug mixed in. He’d place money on it being a type of tranquilliser or complacency drug. Especially with one of these linchens ghosts having escaped recently. He can tell from looking at the ghosts faces that the drug(s) definitely weren’t any kind of pain medication.

Floating over to one of the cases and putting his large clawed hand on it, he can sense the ghost inside is a child ghost. Scowling, first thing first, he needs to get them out of here. At the very least there are no alarms set to the cases, even if there were cameras he quickly shorted out with a little ecto-electroshock, meaning he can immediately start disconnecting the drugs and start tearing open the cases; duplicating so he can catch/carry the ghosts when they effectively fall out, either too weak or too out of it to really be aware of him or what’s going on fully. One of the ghosts particularly worries him as she’s gooey to the touch; making damn sure to teleport her to his room immediately with a duplicate, the rest he gives a more thorough look over to before sending them off.

Glancing around the room and nodding to himself with a huff. All clear. Now to scare the crap out of some assholes. Letting himself return to visibility as he heads to walk out, slapping a hand on the wall to send ice out coating everything in the room. Try ever using any of that shit ever again.

It doesn’t take long for an invisible duplicate to find the boss over in the ‘office’ building section, which he smirks over as he kicks in the main doors and blasts blue ecto-flames around him; making damn sure his footprints scorch the ground. The receptionist and people hanging around in the lobby jump over the loud sound before standing up and freaking out. Danny comes to a stop and crosses his arms, forcing anyone with the guts to try and flee to have to squeeze past him. He has no clue how involved any of these people are so he’ll let them off with singed jackets, jolts of cold, and a healthy dose of fear. Most people chose to just huddle in corners and radiate fear.

Danny huffs after a bit and continues stalking towards the big bad bosses office, completely ignoring the secretary as he goes. Though he does grumble with a deep voice, “I suggest you get a better job. There won’t be much left of this company soon”. Let her take that threat however she wants to. He wasn’t about to burn the place down, but an ecto-blast or two should do the job.

Kicking in the bosses door hard enough to blow it clean off its hinges and into the far wall, it just skimming past the guys head. Said guy is too stunned to do more than jerk and stare at him, which Danny snarls at him for. But at least that makes it easy to grab the guy's face and slam his head into the back wall, hard enough to give him a nasty headache but not outright kill the guy. He’s not here to add on to the death-toll.

“Alright fuckface, you and I have a few issues to settle. And this is a non-negotiable communication offer. Specifically about your little ghost harvesting setup”. Dropping him and watching the guy groan before scooting away from him across the floor with his hands and feet. While Danny moves his hand to coat the open doorway with flames, blocking off the only real exit here. Flicking a wrist to make one of his thrones form, simpler than his official throne but still pretty stunning-looking; all in sharp angular black and white and peppered in ectoplasmic gemstones.

Danny sits down while staring the guy down, growling at him, “I suggest you take a seat”. The guy nods and scrambled up without hesitation, reclaiming his average black office chair. Danny snapping immediately, “name and position”.

The guy swallows, “Brillar Glühen. Head of the Kialuma Company”, Brillar clearly tries to force himself to relax into the back of his chair, “and you are?”.

Danny grins very meanly, making sure his fangs are very noticeable, “Phantom, High Ghost King and ruler of the afterlife”, then just to be mean, “some might prefer to call me Hades or perhaps Satan”. No one called him Satan, like, ever. But there were plenty who considered the Zone to be Hell, so he’s fairly sure he can claim the name just to scare some asshole.

Brillar is visibly shaken and swallows, “nice to... to meet you”. Which Danny huffs a mean laugh at, “no it’s really not”, Danny scowls and leans forward on the guy's desk, “look here fuck-stick, I don’t know how someone who’s clearly barely fucking thirty is running a company older than that, but not only do I not care but I also am not going to change my course of action because of that”, pointing a clawed finger in his face, he’ll give him points for not moving back even if the prick goes stiff as a board, “obviously you damn well know how your company goes about getting its end product, if you don’t then you’re an idiot that deserves to be yelled at anyway”. Brillar nods stiffly so Danny scowls at him before continuing, “tell me then, why the fuck do you think it’s okay to tear out a beings bones repeatedly till they effectively die just to sell as a party novelty item”, growling, “last I checked, even humans knew better than to commit needless murder”.

Brillar swallows, “the creatures are already dead-”. Danny snapping, “so’s your mother, your point?”, making the guy jump a little.

“They- they don’t feel pain and-and one moving on is a mercy”,

Danny rolls his eyes harshly, “let me guess, you got that load of horse crap from the previous boss or the G.I.W., well here’s a tip for you. That’s wrong. We feel pain as much as the living. And since you might as well be an informed asshole, ghosts can not ‘move on’ by being murdered. It happens naturally”, scowling, “so knowing that, you see why you and I might have a few issues”. Brillar gulps and nods slowly. Danny growls over the lack of an actual answer, so he stands, grabs the guy's collar, and smacks his face down onto the desk. Lighting a ball of ecto-fire in his hand and holding it in front of the guys face, growling, “so what are you going to do about our little issue?”.

Brillar sounds more than a little shaken, “f-find a different resource. And- and let the-the glowing creatures- uh, ah, ghosts go?”.

Danny bares his teeth in his face a bit, “don't say that like a question, mean it”, shoving his head against the desk a bit more before releasing him and sitting back down, “this is a company that sells a cheap novelty item, that’s it. You have no place torturing sentient beings. And bones? Seriously? Do you even think the living public would be okay with that? You disappoint me”, scowling, “at least if you were some kind of ecto-phobic bigot, your stupidity and cruelty would make an ounce of sense”, shrugging aggressively, “and I’d have an excuse to beat the shit out of you”.

Brillar sits back up slowly and stares at him, Danny flashes his eyes just to freak the guy out more. Brillar swallows, “I- please don’t”.

Danny sighs and rolls his eyes, “I won’t. You’re just an idiot fed some bullshit information and handed a company that was already spinning its wheels financially fine so you felt no need to change anything. Ethics, common sense, and basic decency be damned. Oh and if you think I can’t use human methods to sue you into oblivion or politically murder you, then you are gravely mistaken. So take fucking heed and watch your shit or I will be far far less nice if I have to show up here again”, snarling, “now good day and have fun fixing all the shit I destroyed in your factory”. Then making his throne and himself burst into flames before turning invisible. Let the prick think he ‘road the fires of Hell’ or something. He does have to restrain a laugh when he invisibly watches the guy right himself, pull out his phone while shaking so bad he can barely type, and says, “h-hey dad, uh, can you um, when does the church open?”.

Danny smirks to himself and decides to speak as darkly as possible into the phone, “someone needs to repent and get off of Hell’s naughty list”. Making the guy shriek, launch himself across the room, and throw his phone into the air. Danny rolls his eyes and silently snorts as Brillar eyes his phone warily.

Danny flies out, gathers all the ‘discarded’ glow sticks/bones and the ‘bone peels’, then teleports home. He’s honestly not surprised to see his friends and all the ghosts in the yard rather than in the house. Brextex looking to be fretting over the other ghosts of his kind. All the ghosts jump and go bug-eyed when Danny suddenly appears. All the ghosts quickly and jerkily moving to huddle together when they actually get a good look at him; obviously frightened. Brextex looks less frightened but far more confused than the others.

Ticker comes over and smacks him on the bicep, “dude, maybe take your true form and cool your jets before you scare them even more”.

Danny rolls his eyes, “yeah yeah, but first”, snapping a clawed finger and making all the ghost parts he stole/reclaimed appear in his yard, “you know I have more energy at my fingertips like this”, then changing back to his true ghost form.

Walking over to the group of huddling ghosts, who shrink back from him some. The whole being feared thing may please his ghostly nature a lot but he still doesn’t particularly like being feared. Brextex is the only one who doesn’t actively noticeably shrink away or seem fearful. Danny waves and smiles friendly at them, “relax, please. One of my powers happens to be a pretty heavy dose of age slash form manipulation. That previous form happens to be good for scaring the crap out of assholes”, smirking, “I don’t think you have to worry about being bone harvested anymore and a few humans definitely need to change their pants”. Tucker snorts on the side, the ghosts just look slightly confused but do relax some. Danny looks around and spots the child ghost he was the most worried about, promptly moving to her and kneeling down. Grabbing her hands and checking her energy levels, “glad to see you’re looking a bit better”, frowning slightly, “you’re still lower than I’d like, you can take some from me if you like?”.

She shifts and fiddles with his fingers some, “really?”. He nods so she grabs him and gets rather clingy, Danny picking her up and standing; carrying her around as he moves to check on the others. Easily hearing Sam laugh a little and speak at some of the more surprised looking linchen ghosts, “told you he was a kind soul who’s stupid protective”. Catching a few ghosts looking at her and nodding jerkily, but the group of ghosts do start to seem less nervous and timid around him.

Once Danny’s satisfied with the state of everyone, eyeing the child ghost, “Alright, you’ve had enough. No getting greedy now”, she just hums innocently at him as he puts her down. Turning to face the group, “so I have a question for you all, Brextex said y’all have been disconnected from the Zone. So my question is if you want to stay here in the living realm or be reintroduced into the ghost realm”.

Danny watches as they all look to a linchen with stringy red hair and red ‘eyes’, he felt older than the others so Danny’s guessing he’s their leader, or as close to one as they have. He clears his throat and steps forward, “we don’t have... fond memories of this realm. While we believe our kind left the Infinite Realms for safety... I don’t believe we have to fear there anymore. You... are not Pariah. We’d like to go home... your highness”.

Danny nods curtly and smiles, “then that’s what we’ll do. Now it might take some time for you all to reconnect fully and properly. That’s just the nature of things I’m afraid. So I’ll have some knights keep guard over wherever you chose to set down your roots, that way the miasma and local flora and fauna won’t damage any of you. Alright?”. They all nod looking a bit stunned though. Danny gestures to the bone stuff he brought with him, “these are yours to do with as you wish, as far as I’m concerned they belong to you. If you remember your traditions for respecting the faded, then maybe these will help you do that”. They just nod, clearly only getting more stunned; which makes Danny chuckle a bit.

Sam and Tucker share a look and shake their heads, while Danny makes a portal and guides the ghosts through.

Danny speaks at the FirghtKnight while watching the linchens settle down from afar, “let me guess, you thought they were extinct?”.

The FrightKnight nods, “I rather assumed that when they disconnected from the Infinite Realms it was due to being whipped out. Ghosts being able to exist amongst the living indefinitely as you do is uncommon, my king”.

Danny snorts, “I’m uncommon, Frighty. There any other ghost species that fled to the human world and were never heard of again?”.

The FrightKnight seems to almost sigh, “‘fraid so sire. The fallen mad king chased many off”. Making Danny actually sigh, guess he now has a bunch of things to look into. Hopefully there wasn’t, like, horror movie companies using real ghosts as movie ghosts.

End.

#ectober #ectoberweek2020 #Danny Phantom #phandom #danny fenton #the frightknight #ghost king danny #implied/referenced murder #implied/referenced torture #glow sticks #dark history #unethical #fan fic #phan phic #my writing #have a fic suck my dick #phantomphangphucker

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pwrlessobvious · 4 years ago

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hey there’s a long ass opinion about PTD under the cut bc apparently it triggered something in me, if you don’t care about bts and/or are here to hate don’t interact *mwah mwah*

don’t get me wrong i would DIE for bts and up until now i loved their american songs, i was the biggest apologist when my army friends were shitting on them. the american songs are funky and cool and give me serotonin and that’s all that matters tbh buttt. this has got to stop now for realsies.

i applauded hybe/bh and bts for wanting to prove that america is in fact racist and xenophobic (shocker) through releasing songs in both korean and english and seeing how they chart. of COURSE the english songs charted higher and are charting right now, Butter has just stayed its 7th week on #1. it’s a huge achievement and what they did with Dynamite was a big deal as well, so they have proved to the world the ugly truth that the language and the way the song is built do matter if you want to be as successful as white american artists and i LOVE that and i support that. both Dynamite and Butter have a simple structure, clear verses, bridges and chorus that are easy to identify, simple beats, the sound is similar to what america has known for decades, etc etc. they were both made to be played on the radio, they were both made with becoming summer anthems in mind, they are both simple and cheerful songs that people could listen to and smile and forget how horrible the world is right now, y e s. it’s fabulous and bts have given the people what they needed to hear. with PTD I understand that they wanted to make a song that would celebrate the end of the pandemic - that way, what started with Dynamite could sort of evolve and come to a close in a natural way. in that sense i can totally see why it needed to come out. but i’m mourning one thing and that’s the loss of quality.

there are fans who hated Dynamite, then they hated Butter even more and now under no circumstances can they get through the entire 3 and something minutes of PTD. i was a fan who really enjoyed Dynamite, liked Butter even better and now is extremely disappointed. so while some could say that it’s been getting progressively worse, i would say that none of the three were top notch bts we’ve been used to for the past 8 years but they weren’t tragic until now. with Dynamite, it was preceeded by MOTS7 that redefined what music is (except for the Sia feature) and brought the best bts song of all time (Black Swan). Dynamite was followed by BE, an entire comfort album of straight bangers. Life Goes On, like Dynamite, was made to comfort people, but it was written and done in a way that didn’t lack the typical bts vibe and artistry - not saying that Dynamite was bad, but just very different. more party and good time, less actual in-your-face “it’s going to be okay.” both were needed, both were needed to co-exist. made total sense.

then we got Butter and Butter is the PERFECT summer anthem and it would have been stupid of hybe not to want to follow their biggest US release thus far with another one for the summertime when chances of success are the largest. and it turned out to be really freaking cool; maybe the lyrics are a bit questionable but the sound makes up for what they lack. so: MOTS7 - Dynamite - BE - Butter. one proper comeback, one american single, then again and again. makes perfect sense. aaand now we got PTD. i’m not saying they’re jinxing the end of the pandemic but they totally are - i’m kidding ofc but ..also not? i just don’t get the timing. even the mv says 2022 and we’re currently halfway through 2021, so why was the song released right now? it feels like there’s a logical error here somewhere. maybe i’m missing something and need someone to enlighten me, but while the US has been successfully rolling out jabs, many if not most parts of the world are still hecking struggling. whatever progress there is, it’s small. but there is hope now bc of the vaccines, unlike last year, so yeah, okay. let’s sing about that hope for 2022 then. but I don’t get a hopeful vibe from the song at all. it’s like everything is over in the world the mv and the lyrics are presenting and suddenly everyone can go out and party and kiss each other and whatnot, and that’s simply not true. i know it probably sounds a bit ridiculous but that genuinely bothers me lol especially since both of the previous songs had a clear reason as to why they came into existence.

i guess i want that clear reason from PTD as well because I need to be reassured that this is just a phase, the american songs, the american lyrics, the american song structure, the exclusively american promo. you can make positive, light-hearted, funky songs and they can be good, but PTD just isn’t. and bts in my eyes are next level artists when it comes to sound, lyrics and choreography, so when i’m faced with the kind of creation that is PTD i can’t help but be disappointed, especially when we saw the light-hearted stuff twice already, three times if we include boy with luv.

let me be clear - i’m not expecting bts to be at the top of their creativity and the artistry that we’re used to all the time. i’ve always said that the world needs simple party songs, and i sincerely hope and believe that while bts release and promote these songs (that were not written by them as well) they get to rest and recharge to later release something that our brains won’t be able to comprehend after just one listen bc it will be that good. i want nothing more than the general public finally realising that bts are a bunch of super talented dudes who can dance super intricate choreos and sing the highest notes and rap the most quality verses, so when they succeed the most with and thus become most popular for songs like the three english ones, it really upsets me because i know what they can do. maybe the american general public have seen what they can do when they were promoting MOTS7, ON and Black Swan, maybe. idk, i’m not a specialist in the field, i’m not even american, but something tells me that no, they know them bc of Dynamite and now Butter. and i don’t think it’s good to be known for songs like that only. i’m afraid that they’ll need to redeem themselves one day because people will end up thinking they only do silly dancey-dancey songs and that’s really not fair. and ughhh it feels like armys look a bit stupid now because we’ve always said that we value bts for what it stands for, the message and the art and all the deep stuff, and now the general public will hear that and go ‘is that what you call art and deep lyrics?’ yeah. anyway, i know for a fact that this will not last forever and we will be getting a regular comeback soon. i’m happy that they get to rest creatively. i’m SO happy that they’re receiving the recognition they deserve, finally. i just hope people will be there to chart their korean songs when they release some too.

#i think this is valid criticism so don’t come at me saying i hate them when i don’t okay #or that i don’t like the song and i’m bitter #no #that’s not true #and i think this proves that it’s not true #but yeah don’t yell at me ok #i needed to get this off my chest #okay bye

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yourultraarchive · 3 years ago

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Oh, no no it's not an issue at all! I don't mind it's alright! Focus and take care of yourself first and foremost! :>

And yes! I'll be doing her template once I actually find the time to draw her in her outfit and also for the mini scenes! Also I've actually ended up changing her name to Yaren instead since I was told by some people that Yuren sounded like another english word for something else (unfortunate :'D), I don't think that should change the kanji all that much but ahh I'm unsure.

Anyway sorry for the very long blabber, I did want to say what Yaren's quirk is! Her hero name is a WIP between Waterdog, Waterpuppy, Lottie or something else entirely.

Her quirk is called Axolotl, which gives her the humanoid appearance of an axolotl and is able to do anything an axolotl can do. Having gills to breathe underwater, but also lungs to live on land, a tail to swim really fast and also incredibly fast regeneration! She's usually better suited to fight underwater. She can heal almost any part of her body, minor cuts, severed limbs and even internal organs and brain! The latter however take days to weeks to heal, everything else can take seconds or minutes depending how much blood she's willing to lose to heal quicker.

Drawbacks however include her skin being irritable and sore if she's not in water long enough so she carries a water spray to help deal with it if it starts getting sore, she's very sensitive to toxins and pollution and if she overdoes her regeneration she'll get permanent scars on those areas and will be harder to heal properly next time. Plus if she overdoes it in any part of her body, she can lose too much blood and become paralyzed or pass out from blood loss.

Extra tid bits include how her skin is naturally a light pink but if she's in water long enough it turns darker and black like a wild axolotl which helps with camouflage and much much later probably in second year or third, she finds out her saliva or blood has regenerative abilities on others if they consume it or if it's placed on a wound!

I am so so sorry that was incredibly long, her quirk is pretty detailed as I've thought and researched about it a lot! I do have issue with trying to find a way to make her able to battle, and the only idea I got is that when she gets injured she can force her body to react to it to have an adrenaline rush which makes her strong enough for a while. That and also in water, due to her high speed and better suited environment she's able to sneakily attack enemies with quick powerful punches or kicks added to her quick swim speed! Thank you for reading and I am so sorry it's so long, please please don't rush yourself replying to this! As I said take care of yourself and thank you for your help! :D

Hi!

Sorry for the late reply again! (Life is busy.)

Yeah I didn't realize the english word thing either. But like I said in my original post, there are other readings to use, or the option of rearranging the name. ("ya", like has been mentioned before, is not a reading for that kanji, so it'd be a kirakira reading if anything. Unlike in English, changing one letter of a name to make it more unique doesn't work the same way in Japanese since it changes the meaning entirely in normal cases.) One of my previous suggestions in the first post were "Yujin/Yuzin" because the kanji for "ren" could be read that way in Japanese (as previously mentioned, "ren" is not a Japanese reading, but a Chinese one), but if you're set on using "ren" you could always rearrange it to "Renyu", or use the other readings for the "yu" kanji and make "Renie" or "Reniya" or something. Or you could still change "ren" and get "Jinie" or "Jiniya" or "Jinyu", among other things.

As for the quirk, it's already really well-thought-out and thorough! I don't know if you actually need to expand on it because that's already a lot of skills (I like the bit about the camouflage, and the later-in-school-years leaning how to heal others). I think it's a careful balance between being realistic and being overpowered (which can lead to potential mary-sue moments if you're being wary about that, but it's your character and if you have fun with it you can do whatever you want--besides, in canon Izuku's got that going on himself lol). You don't really need the bit about "when she's injured she can force her blood to give her an adrenaline rush and make her super strong", that feels like too much tbh.

I think the thing about trying to give her quirk so many applications is that you're trying to wield her powers over too many fields. You want her to be a battler but also good at sneaking/surprise attack tactics but also good at rescue (which is what I thought her powers would fit! Being good at being underwater and also healing? Rescuing people seems perfect for her!) but there IS such as thing as being spread too thin. Even in-universe or in-story or wherever you're planning to use her, if you have her try to do EVERYTHING, realistically she's going to burn out. It's good to have ambition, but even most characters in MHA don't have that many focuses.

I forget which characters canonically have certain career goals, but I know for certain there are several characters whose quirks and personalities are geared more toward being disaster/rescue heroes (like the Wild Wild Pussycats) or support heroes (like Nighteye) than toward reaction/responsive heroes (like All Might) or stealth heroes (like Eraserhead, but I think his type of hero work is also arguable and fits under multiple umbrellas). It's like in the very first arc where there's a bunch of heroes standing around not helping Bakugou when he was caught in that slimy villain because they knew their quirks weren't suited to that situation--it's not cowardly, but it's realistic, when they know their quirks can do more harm than good in certain situations, even if they wanted to help.

I think that's what applies here, with your character. Yes, I understand wanting her to be able to adapt to any situation, but I think there's a point where you have to give her a goal and set her toward it. Does she want to be on the frontline reacting to villain attacks as they come and going out to apprehend them first-hand, or does she want to pre-emptively stop villains before they can rise by doing investigation and stealth work, or does she want to use her incredibly fit biology to help others when disaster strikes and there's no villain involved at all? Sure she can have ambition like Bakugou or Izuku who want to be the best #1 hero, but even they have their focuses (both are reactive striker types!) and while Izuku is adaptive (ie. he's strategic and well-prepared for a raid strike to surprise attack the base Nighteye found, or he rescued people stuck under buildings and whatnot during that exam and had good "bedside manner" for lack of a better term when dealing with rescuees) most of his actual quirk training has gone toward being brute force and quick response toward emergencies and villainous plots.

You can have her be strong but also give her vulnerabilities and that's okay. Like giving her the regeneration powers but also making them necessary because her skin or bone structure is weak like a real axolotl's, which would make her not very suited to brute force situations but that's fine because if she were perfect for speed and stealth and also brute force then it wouldn't give room for conflict or growth in your story. Forcing her to work around her weaknesses is one of those things that could make her stronger--make her more aware of herself or her surroundings or her limits or what she's willing to sacrifice (like Izuku in the entrance exam--can she afford to break her bones if it meant saving someone?) but it doesn't make the weaknesses go away, and working past those weaknesses isn't going to invalidate that they exist. She's not going to win every time--that would be boring wouldn't it?--and you need to give her ways to lose as well as ways she can triumph.

(A good example of this, and this is the first thing that popped into my mind even though it's not MHA, is Edward Elric from FMA. He's the main character so of course he wins a lot and he's tough and cool and seems like he's so strong. But the most prominent moments in the story are when his prosthetic arm/leg don't work, or he loses them, and he still fights but he's disabled but he's fully aware of this, and having abilities to work through the fights when he's missing an arm doesn't mean he's forgotten that he's missing an arm or that he never needed it to win. It means he found a way to work around those weaknesses and still achieve his goal.)

I kinda lost track of the original question/thought here, but to round back to it--when your character is injured, the adrenaline rush to fight longer or get to safety? That should be all her, that's character traits and determination and strength of will, not part of her quirk. She doesn't need some superpowered adrenaline rush to be part of her quirk, and you don't need to make her "able to battle" if she's not suited for it, unless that's one of her goals (while foregoing the other potentials her powers have--if she's aiming to fight villains face to face, then she's probably not focused on rescuing people or rounding around for a sneak attack, and in that kind of situation she should leave that up to real rescue/response heroes while she's playing distraction and keeping the villains' focus on her!) and if being able to battle ISN'T her main focus, then in a situation where she HAS to, you can make her struggle and that just makes her all the more real and interesting. You can make her get help from her classmates, or you can make her fight and lose and realize she's not suited for battle and switch focus (if it was her original focus) or realize she needs a plan to deal with that in the future while still staying true to her actual goal (if she wanted to focus on rescue for example, and she had to fight a front-line battle and she realizes she's not great at it, then maybe her strategy can just be to run and get a strike in here or there but the ultimate goal is to wait for help and backup to arrive in that case).

That was a lot so I hope it was useful and not too rambly but remember that these are just suggestions! I was just talking ^_^;;

#leafychaotic #asks #replies #archivist #(not directed at you but) general reminder that if you like getting my help please consider donating! thanks <3

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loudlyunladylike · 3 years ago

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Today I'm worrying about my fics because I'm taking English again and we're going over where and how to use commas. I'm a comma and semicolon lover with a basic understanding of them. And I had realized last week, and it's been driven in again today, that we're going to be writing essays in the essay format when I've just recently figured out how to not do that for my fic writing.

I know that studying sentence structure and whatnot could help me be a better writer to some degree but god, at what cost. I'm not going to remember what a prepositional phrase or an adjective is. Ugh.

-Vibes anon

Ugh that sounds difficult and a tad frustrating, I believe in you though!!! If I was better at story or essay writing (going on to do an essay writing degree ssh) I would try to give you some more advice. But I hope some of the school skills will be somewhat helpful and maybe you can practice little bits of fic writing here and there so you don't lose your nice writing style amongst the essays, I wish you all the luck!! <3

#ask box #vibes anon

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childotkw · 4 years ago

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Heyy Jordan. How long does it usually take for you to outline a new story? And what’s generally the process you go through to make it exist? Is it like a vague idea with a vibe at first, and then more vague ideas that eventually turn into not-so-vague ones? Do you ever get the feeling of it all being a big mess and not knowing how to proceed?

Hey!

I find outlining really depends on the story itself. I can typically tell the size and length of a story from just the initial idea; you just get a feel for how much worldbuilding and character development you will need to do for the idea to make sense.

I usually do have one vague idea at first, that then just explodes once I give it longer than two minutes of thought. You just gotta let your brain go sometimes.

For me, my average time taken to outlining things - on a very high level - is about a week. I spent a week on CS just hardcore planning and coming up with ideas and characters and whatnot. Some of my original novels take far longer, mainly because I don’t have the pre-existing base to work off of. Those can take me closer to three weeks to hash out the bare minimum of a plot.

My process to get that base plot line is to go through a few basic questions. They can change depending on the nature of the story, but basically they are:

Question: Who is the main character/s? Question: What is the core plot of the story? Question: When does this take place? Question: Where does the story take place? Question: Why are these characters important to the plot? Question: How will the characters complete their goals?

Once I have those basic things down, I can start asking more pointed questions, still using the base of: who, what, when, where, why, how.

Writing, in my mind, is a chaotic process, but often there is an underlying method or structure to how I do things. Hitting a wall is really common. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad writer or anything silly like that. It just means that maybe you need to take a step back and let your brain rest for a bit.

#anonymous #personal #writing tips

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soyeahitsmiddleearth · 5 years ago

Text

Dimension Jumping pt. 1

The Fellowship of the Ring x Reader

But a lot of the stories are about the reader falling into Middle Earth…. what about the other way around? If you wanted to do all the characters, you could do a point after they left Rivendell, before they split up?

Like for example, after Gandalf ‘dies’, and it could be something sweet and cute or whatnot where the reader helps them grieve a bit, give them a bit of a rest before continuing on their journey?

—

Weekends have always been your favorite time of the week.

No responsibilities, sleeping in, more time, freedom, the list goes on and on.

Your weekends are usually spent idly doing things you enjoy, like sleeping, and lot’s of stress free activities.

Not this weekend though, for when you got home after a grocery run, you were met with quite the surprise.

A total of 8… people? lay strewn about in your living room seemingly unconscious. They are dressed in odd clothes, holding medieval looking weapons, and they look rather raggedy and dirty. Four of them are extremely small, and if it weren’t for their older looking faces, you would’ve thought them to be children. There’s also a handsome blond with pointy ears, a short red headed, bearded… man, and two semi-regular looking tall dudes.

Your groceries fall from your arms and land on your carpeted floor, but you barely pay that any mind since you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from the pile of people in the middle of your damn living room.

Your floofy white dog Penny is sniffing around them, but she doesn’t seem to be alarmed nor agitated by their presence, so that’s good at least. She’s an excellent judge of character after all. Eventually she settles down next to the tall guy with dark brown hair, and though you don’t like that she’s next to these strangers, you allow it.

The sound of your things falling to the ground seems to rouse them, and you watch as the man wearing dark clothing with dark hair opens his eyes and groans quietly. At first his eyes scan around the room, then they fall upon you.

He sits up slowly, still eyeing you as he glances down at his small child-looking friends. A look of relief passes his expression before he looks at you once more, saying nothing while the rest of his merry band of crazies begin to sit up.

This is supposed to be your fucking day off, and this shit happens? A bunch of renaissance weirdos laying in your house, making your clean carpet dirty.

“You know what, no.” You state loudly, successfully startling the dark haired man, “This is my weekend off, and I am not dealing with this. Whatever this is."

You turn on your heel and begin picking up your groceries, though you remain vigilant incase one of them intends to try something.

Once you’ve gathered all your discarded things you stand again and look behind you, seeing that most of them are on their feet and looking at you and your home as if you’re some alien in a structure unknown to them. You quickly look forward again and go to your kitchen, placing everything on your counters while you try to decide how the hell you’re going to deal with this.

You look over your counter at the still staring people and ask slowly, "Does… anyone want a snack?”

Two of the small blonde men perk up when you say ‘snack’, so you take that as a yes and begin preparing apples, celery, and peanut butter for everyone to eat.

By the time you’re done cutting up the apples you’ve only got two left, but you just sigh and bring out a tray with the snack and place it on the coffee table.

The two blond… boys? run over to it immediately, but are halted by a sharp “No.” from the brown-haired guy.

Said brown-haired guy is looking at you distrustfully, and you feel your blood begin to boil with his distrust (even though HE is in YOU home).

“Okay dude, I get you don’t know me or whatever but you guys literally broke into my house, so if anyone is supposed to be cautious here it’s me. M. E. Me. I’m offering your… children…? Adult babies? Boys? Food, and damnit if they want it then they’re gonna eat it.” Your little outburst gets you several shocked looks, but you’re so FUCKING tired, you’ve just got no energy to deal with this.

“We 'broke into your house’?” He repeats slowly, “I have no recollection of our relocation to your… house, and I’ve never seen someone of your caliber, nor a place so… odd, before. So forgive me if I am skeptical of our suspiciously willing host.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm, and it successfully ruffles your self control.

“Now you listen here Mr. Broody, I’m not about to get sass in my own home. By god if Penny didn’t seem to love you so much I would vaporize you where you stand!” Big talk for such a small person, yes, but you stand by your statement.

Only you don’t get the reaction you were expecting, because suddenly everyone looks horrified.

“You can do that?” One of the small blond boys(?) gasps, scooting closer to his look-alike.

The guy you were mouthing off to grabs the hilt of his -is that a fucking sword?!- weapon and steps in front of the small guys. The tall blond dude, other actual human, and short ginger haired man do the same, and suddenly you feel a lot less satisfied.

“Woah there fellas, It’s a figure of speech!” You say quickly, raising your hands in a surrender motion.

Penny senses your sudden distress, so she bounds over to you and presses her nose against your knee in a way meant to gather your attention. You glance down at her and visibly relax before looking back up at the still tense men in front of you.

“Tough crowd…” You reach down slowly and pat Penny’s head, watching as their eyes follow your movements. “Okay, look. I’m not going to like, poison you or whatever you’re afraid of. How about we start with introductions, hm?"

The same guy from before nods his head slowly (it seems he’s the leader here) and tells you a little hesitantly, "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. A Ranger, also known as Strider by most."

What in the ever loving hell did he just say?

You can’t even stop the laughter from bellowing out of you, because this is just so god damn ridiculous and completely baffling. You grasp your stomach and double over with laughter while everyone else just watches silently and confusedly.

Eventually your laughter begins to subside when your sides start to hurt, so you stand up a bit straighter and wipe a tear from the corner of your eye, "Ahaha, ah… wow that’s good. But really though, I’m not looking for stage names bud, I’m being serious here.”

This 'Aragorn’ doesn’t seem to find it as funny as you do. “Stage names? No, I believe you are misunderstanding.”

The smile on your face drops and you suddenly don’t find it as funny either. “So… your name is actually Aragorn then?” Well, maybe not all of them have weird names, “Right, then what about the rest of you?"

The other guy who looks like an actual human speaks up next, "I am Boromir, son of Denethor and Captain of Gondor.” Oh heck.

Blondie comes up next, “I am Legolas from the woodland realm.”

Shortie #1, “Gimli Son of Gloin."

The small dark haired man child comes forward, "I am Frodo Baggins, and these are my friends Samwise Gamgee, Peregrin Took, and Meriadoc Brandybuck."

"What the-” you pause and cover Penny’s ears, “Fuck is all of this?"

It seems your actions amuse the taller dudes because their stand-offish demeanors diminish as they seem to deem you harmless (I mean who covers their dogs ears when cursing? Clearly you’re pathetic).

"I’m afraid I don’t know what to tell you.” Mr. Aragorn states.

“Well, start with where you come from, maybe?”

They all share a look before 'Legolas’ states, “We come from Middle Earth and have just traveled through the Mines of Moria."

You literally don’t know what any of that means.

"Well, alright. Right now, I can tell you that you’re on Regular Earth and in my living room.” You don’t mean to be so sarcastic, but both the functional and rational parts of your brain are failing you big time, “Do you know how you got here?"

You get 8 respective no’s, and while you expected that, it’s no less frustrating. "Shoulda seen that one coming, I guess."

The Gimli character looks you up and down and asks in his gruff voice, "And what about you, you’ve not told us who you are."

"Oh, right, my bad. I’m Y/N, and this cutie,” you reach down and pick up Penny’s front paws from the ground and wave them at the group, “Is Penny. She is the softest, sweetest, and cutest doggo you will ever have the pleasure of meeting. Disrespect her and there will be consequences."

You stand back up and pat Penny’s head, watching as they all nod their understanding and appear rather nervous suddenly.

"That was also a joke.”

Most of them relax.

You tap your foot a few times and seem to think over your options, looking away from them and out the window.

Clearly there is something very wrong going on here, so you can’t just throw them out, but at the same time you don’t have enough energy to deal with this today. And there’s the very real possibility that they could be psychos. But there’s also the fact that they seem to be a little worse for wear, some of them have puffy eyes, and is that blood? Their disheveled and tired appearances tug at your heart strings, and you find yourself wanting to help them.

“Okay, against my better judgement I have decided that I’m going to welcome the lot of you into my house until we can figure out what the hell is going on here.” This seems to surprise Aragorn and his two tall besties. “I don’t know why… but something is telling me that I should help you out, so I guess that’s what I’m going to do.”

Two of the small blond ones smile brightly, but you haven’t finished yet.

“But!” Their smiles drop and everyone seems rather serious again, “If any of you try anything funny or start any trouble, I will kick all of you out. I don’t know any of you, and you all have weapons. So if I’m gonna let you stay then you’re going to have to behave.”

“Miss Y/N, you do not have to-” Aragorn begins, but you put up your hand and shake your head.

“It’s fine. Just please don’t break anything, and if Penny wants head pats you had better give them to her."

It seems your rules are fair enough, because you get 8 more head nods.

The two small people attack the snack you made finally, and you find that you can’t help but to laugh a bit.

A thought then strikes you, "Oh!"

Everything pauses and every looks at you again, more alert, but you just roll your eyes at how on edge they are.

"I was just going to say that I have two bathrooms is anyone wants to wash up.”

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chaoticneutralwriter · 5 years ago

Text

Twice Fallen

I implore thy loving kindness,

that even as thou didst stand beside thy dear Son as He hung upon the Cross,

so wilt thou also stand by me,

a poor sinner?

guardian demon! Jimin x reader

word count: 6.2k (the longest 6.2k of my life)

genre: angst, romance, comedy, supernatural, drama, slow-burn

Related Works: See Masterlist under Guardian Demon!Jimin

A/N: There’s a lot of Catholicism and religious things going on because well... Angels and demons LOL This is all a work of fiction inspired from real places so that’s my disclaimer here. Also it’s like...half edited xD Other than that....NAE PI TTAM NUNMUL

As the days went on, you become more riddled with an anxiousness that had overtaken every nerve in your body as a multitude of thoughts swirl around your head like an endless whirlpool. First and foremost of course, was the fact that you had exactly five days before you and your friend were due to fly out to attend the BTS concert. That alone was enough to put you in a loop, it had made you so restless that you had gone out of your way to ask co-workers if they could cover your shift — a needless attempt; you knew you were only trying to trick yourself into thinking those were your only first world problems. You shouldn’t have been as surprised when Emily had told you she had already agreed to take your shift once you came around to asking her.

“You asked me that like last week.” She had laughed good-naturedly, patting you on the shoulder in a sympathetic way. “Now I really think you need those days off if you’re starting to lose your memory like this.”

You really don’t have any memory of this though.

But it wasn’t hard to recall Jimin’s words of him promising you that he would make this trip work, no matter what. Not that you had doubted his abilities, but it’s never like you to leave everything up to one person (supernatural or not); you blame the many botched group projects in college you’ve been through for that. More so, you have come to realize, is that a small part of you had done it in hopes of being able to do something for Jimin that would repay even a fraction of what he’s doing for you. This was probably a small, insignificant thing in comparison but it was something you had some semblance of control over that didn’t necessarily require any otherworldly intervention. You should’ve known it was a losing battle from the start.

With that being said, any thoughts of the aforementioned guardian demon these days automatically leads you back to the conversation you had with Jungkook. It hasn’t faded since those three days ago, merely sitting on the back of your mind and only growing in size. You catch yourself spacing out a few times just thinking about all sorts of things that involve him.

Like maybe — actually — giving up your soul to him.

….Yeah that was quite the conclusion you came to but you can almost pin point the exact moment when you did. It came to you when you had spilled your guts about Jimin to Jungkook on that rooftop garden; never having been able to put into words your honest thoughts about him until the other demon had practically cornered you into doing it. Despite the embarrassment threatening to consume you whole, it was eye opening for you in which you’ve accepted that the only way you can come close to repaying Jimin was to give up your life to him or at least promise it in due time and… you’re okay with that idea.

Weird and concerning, rightfully so but it’s like the half of you that thinks this is utterly mad and the other, more nihilistic side of you had come into terms with one another in the form of one sole agreement that if it had to be any demon, better it be him right?

As they say, you’re only here for a good time, not a long time.

You exhale through your nose in a quiet huff of laughter, subtle enough that the lady passing by behind you doesn’t pay you any notice as you’re restocking the jewellery racks. Today is one of those rare moments that you’re given a task out on the floor away from cash for once and though you’re elated at being able to do something else for a change, your thoughts don’t revolve around whether or not you can fit just one more pair of earrings on this already overstuffed looking hook.

Even if you had settled on the idea of giving your soul to Jimin, the most important question is how? Theoretically, it seems simple enough, at least what you’re picturing in your head — you tell him you want to do it, he says yes and then gets you to sign it away in agreement in whatever form the contract is (maybe something similar to your contract with him now but altered? Who knows). Or maybe in your complete lack of knowledge in demonology, it’s way more complex than that. You could technically ask Jungkook…

Would that even be a good idea? You’re not sure, especially not after the talk you had with him — keeping that ‘good’ head of yours in tact and whatnot. But then again, you’re not entirely sure what he meant by it anyways. You pause your train of thought until a heaving sigh escapes past your lips, your shoulder deflating as your lips purse into a thin line when you realize; you don’t even have any means to contact Jungkook. He’s more of an entity who comes and goes with nothing to tether him to this world, so he’s expressed he’s never had the need for things like a mobile device.

Which means your other option for getting any type of information on this would be from the main demon himself; Jimin.

Except for two things.

One: how does one broach the topic of forfeiting their own soul over to their guardian demon? You suppose it’s not exactly an ‘over dinner’ sort of conversation. The closest thing to a timing you had in mind would be after the concert; fitting in a way where you get your wish fulfilled and now you must pay the price owed.

However, that leads you to two; you don’t have a single clue where the guardian demon in question had gone off to. The last you saw of him was when he had walked you home those nights ago and from then, you haven’t heard from him since. You’ve tried shooting another text and hell, even pushed aside your anxiety and pride to call him for the first time ever, only to receive no response for either occasion; just radio silence. And it’s not even on the matter of telling him you’re willing to give your soul up for him — he still hasn’t told you what your flight, where your tickets or your hotel is!

You force yourself to breathe in deeply before exhaling slowly. Relax, you still technically have time, you try to reassure yourself. Not as much as you want for not knowing some important travel details, but enough that you’d still be able to set off without a hitch.

You trust Jimin.

He hasn’t let you down yet, nor do you think he will any time soon.

You’re confident.

Rome, Vatican City

A sigh involuntarily escapes the demon’s lips as he takes in the view in front of him, having not imagined that he would be here, of all places after so many years. The city is alive even if it is late into the night, the piazza lit up to cast a romantic glow on the cobble streets as crowds of people continue to stroll around in leisure. It should be no surprise though; the mild spring weather is well under way here, so much that Jimin thinks it might even be above seasonal. That doesn’t stop him from wearing the long, black overcoat over his airy chiffon button down shirt and the way it billows out behind him as he strides down this Italian street has people turning heads thinking he should be in Milan rather than here, much less how warm he must be feeling underneath it.

It pulls a small smile from him, a small distraction from his purpose here and a last ditch effort to put himself in a better mood before he has to put on a cloaking spell, hiding him from any mortal eyes. Before long, Jimin is upon the entrance to the grand circular plaza. In the centre of it, he spots the unmistakable shape of the Egyptian obelisk, the tall monument sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the Roman-Catholic structures surrounding it. Strangely enough, the more he stared at it, the more Jimin begins to feel in-like with the structure — a nameless fixture in history that eventually had its roots erased, “christianized” and erected by some old fart named Pope Sixtus V to celebrate the triumph of the Church over paganism.

Ugh.

At least it was a witness to St. Peter’s crucification (or so it was apparently said).

Jimin rolls his neck, a twitch in the muscle that had it stiffen uncomfortably before he exhales loudly through his nose.

Right.

He reminds himself to be mindful of where he is, of what he’s about to do. He may have a get out of jail free card but it won’t be nearly enough credentials to win any favours here. So Jimin steels himself, squaring his shoulders and with much more effort than he wants to admit, he begins to make his way across the plaza into a demon’s lion den. He takes care in keeping pace, steps unfaltering and gaze hardened in resolution. Jimin maneuvers inconspicuously through the lingering crowds of tourist and locals alike with the grace of a seasoned dancer but no matter how much he ducks and weaves, he cannot escape the burning sensation of being watched like an ant under a magnifying glass by the figures that seem to close in on him with every step he takes to the basilica.

All 140 of them.

And they all seem to whisper in their harrowing voices, the same obtrusive word in his ear.

Demon.

Jimin is clenching his jaw and fists by the time he reaches the grandiose staircase, his nails digging into his clammy palms until they leave deep crescent indents. A ragged exhales passes his lips, a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding until now and it makes him chastise himself. He passed the Apostolic Palace just fine, not even a single sign of getting smote. If he’s breaking out into a cold sweat from a little bit of verbal intimidation here, then what good is he by the time he has to go inside?

Jimin’s eyes slide up to take in the building that has become one of the most symbolic landmark in the religious world and the reason for his odd visit to a place he should be avoiding at all cost.

The Papal Basilica of St. Peter in the Vatican, or otherwise simply known as St. Peter’s Basilica.

Its dome shape roof looms above him, an imposing shadow even if it is lit by a multitude of beams of spotlights along its base and all around the facade — the lights only adding to its size. Doesn’t help that at either ends of the steps are the statues of St. Paul with his golden sword and St. Peter, the man himself, as if they’re there to personally greet all those who enter this holy space; whether with open arms or a strike of sword in His name, Jimin is not sure.

The basilica is closed to the public, the hours of which it is open has long since passed but despite that, Jimin waits, fixed in his spot as he simply stares unseeingly, a myriad of events all leading up to this very moment passing before his eyes.

“I’m only going to say this once, so you better listen.” Jungkook states sternly after he knocks back his drink. He places his glass down on the sleek black marble bar top a little too roughly. For once, Jimin refrains from commenting, not wanting to anger the young demon who no doubt, has zero tolerance for banter right now. As they say, let sleeping tigers lie. So Jimin straightens more in his seat, giving Jungkook his full attention.

“First, you must seek the one who has been given the keys of the kingdom of heaven by His Holiness — the gatekeeper, St. Peter, at the place where he is buried. He will be your witness and judge.”

With a deep inhale, Jimin lets the cloaking spell encase him like a thin, dark veil and after releasing his breath, he finally takes his first steps upwards towards the basilica. The closer he gets, the heavier his feet seems to feel as if a weight is pushing down on him but he persists until he reaches the tall iron gate of the entrance. If he cranes his neck, he can just make out the relief of St. Peter being handed the keys by Jesus carved into the stone, below the central window where no doubt the pope had made his appearance to the masses. For the first time in his life, Jimin feels immensely smaller as he stands in-between the columns, their height seemingly never-ending as if they are reaching heaven itself.

He vehemently tears his gaze away, teeth chewing at his bottom lip as he works to loosen his muscles that have gone tense. It’s like his own body has developed a mind of its own and is screaming at him to leave, get away. But he pushes those warnings aside and within a few strides, he finds himself passing the threshold and into the atrium. Even though it’s only the entrance hall, he can already feel the grandeur of the basilica from its high dome ceilings and archways. Within this singular space, it embodies the old and new in its walls as ancient inscriptions and plaques commemorating popes who had seen the construction of this holy building and in the fine marble floor as coat of arms. To the right at the end of the portico, is the statue of Emperor Constantine and to the left is Charlemagne, both on noble steeds carved out of white marble that seem like they’ll come to life at any moment.

Jimin’s jaw clench and unclenches, a nervous tick as he surveys his surroundings and with a sweep of his dark eyes, they land on a pair of bronze double doors.

“When you enter the atrium, you will find five bronze doors; The Door of Death, The Door of Good and Evil, The Door of the Sacraments, The Central Door, and The Holy Door. You must past through ‘The Holy Door’ to evoke the passage from sin to grace — to show your willingness to make peace with God, restore what has been damaged in yourself and reshape your heart.”

It’s not hard to figure out which door Jungkook was referring to. As he stops just before them, Jimin can see the pictures in each panel along the length of it, depicting various scenes of man’s sin and his redemption through God’s mercy. His eyes trail from the infamous disobedience of Adam and Eve to Christ’s Baptism in the Jordan. They linger on The Need for Forgiveness for a while longer than he intended.

Just how forgiving can God be? Jimin wonders.

For all the times he’s heard angels preach about His benevolence, can God extend that mercy to even a demon?

Well, Jimin huffs a quiet laugh under his breath, God had forgiven man after all and he thinks that’s a bit of a stretch.

The door is normally bricked up, opened once every twenty-five years to celebrate the Holy Year but it will prove to be no issue for Jimin. It’s not a matter of how he’s going to pass through the doorway, more so it’s what will happen when he does.

Jimin sees Jungkook’s lips quirk up in the slightest and he gets the feeling that the grimace he’s trying to hold back still showed on his face.

“I’m telling you now brother, this is the easiest part of the process and even then, I can’t tell you what will happen when you pass through those doors.”

“So am I supposed to feel enlightened then?”

“More like I actually don’t know. When you’re a blank slate being indoctrinated into this, you don’t feel anything other than the feeling of having your soul bared. But you,” Jungkook pauses to point an almost accusing finger in Jimin’s direction, “you’re a demon, so it’s either going to tickle or you’ll have your soul ripped to shreds.”

All he knows is that he’s willing, and that has to count for something. At least, that’s what he hopes. His thoughts unconsciously drift to you briefly, finding himself holding onto the image like a beacon of light in the darkness and with a swallow, he steps forward. Jimin doesn’t get a face full of metal, in fact, not even so much as a shockwave of resistance like he expected that for a split second, he’s bemused at how easily he passes through.

But then he feels it.

Something spears right through him, an invisible force so strong that it leaves him winded, knees nearly buckling and he all but finds himself stumbling through to the other side, right into the central nave. He forgets where he is for a moment, trying to gather his wits as he takes in deep breaths, trying to calm his thundering heart but it seems almost futile. True to Jungkook’s words, the moment he passed through those doors, something had torn away not just the cloaking spell he had placed on himself, but almost everything about his being — the glamour that he wore, the face that he stole, his magic, everything. He’s never felt so exposed but as he raises a trembling hand to his eyes, it seems nothing about him has changed.

Jimin balls his hand into a fist, hoping to lessen the tremors but when they don’t stop, he kisses his teeth, slightly perturbed. He shouldn’t complain, rather he should be thankful that he’s still in one piece. After all, he only just crossed the first hurdle. Without wanting to dawdle or waste time, he boldly begins to make his way.

The nave is a sight to behold, the space so high and open with its coloured marbles, gold trimmings and ornate detailing of heavenly imagery. No doubt in the day, the place would be filled with people from all around the world wanting to be able to bask in the awe of the architecture, built by the hands of arguably some of the greatest artists the world has ever known, that embodies all of the majesty, strength and beauty of God.

But now, devoid of any life, it is enveloped in an eerie silence that the soft footsteps of his loafers on the marble floors seem magnified, his only source of light was the moon streaming through pockets in the high domes, casting a cool blue haze on everything, making it seem all the more like Jimin had entered into a spiritual realm.

He passes by pillars with their niches filled with statues of saints who had founded religious orders and along the perimeter of the transept and above the arches, are the twenty eight figures of the Christian and human virtues, staring down at him, watching as he makes his way further into the the nave towards the place he must go. Jimin keeps to averting his gaze downward, determined to push away the incessant itch that has begun to crawl along his skin, heart still pounding like he’s ran a marathon rather than walk at a brisk pace like he is now and he fears that it will give him away in this quiet atmosphere, the sound so much more defeaning to his ears.

Sweat begins to form along his hairline and soon he finds himself short of breath. It makes him slow to almost a stop, light-headedness washing over him and he has to blink away the dark spots that appear in his vision, feeling sick to his stomach. When he looks next, it seems like the long hallway ahead of him had elongated but when he looks up, he’s actually only a few metres away from being directly under the impressive Baroque Canopy. No wonder his skin felt like it was burning from the inside while he’s getting chills at the same time.

Running a hand through his hair, he hastens once again.

“If, by some miracle, you find yourself inside, make your way to the end of the nave, pass the Canopy and St. Peter’s tomb, until you reach the top of the cruciform. There you will find ‘The Chapel of the Cathedra’ where you will kneel before his throne.”

“Why not his tomb?” Jimin couldn’t help but to ask. It made more sense to go see the man directly where he was supposedly buried.

“It’s symbolic because it’s a place where St. Peter had always sat, teaching and instructing the faithful of Rome. It’s only appropriate that is where you will ‘learn’ about those teachings with the guidance of the Holy Spirit.”

The altar, for lack of better words, is grandiose — it’s structure solely created to enclose the wooden throne of St. Peter, displaying it in a manner to show the significance and worship of the holy relic. The chair is a combination of the original acacia wood and gilded bronze done by Gian Lorenzo Bernini. It’s richly ornate with bas-relief, the base which it sat upon is made of black and white marble with four gigantic bronze statues, making the chair look as if it was suspended in golden clouds. On either sides, there are statues of saints from the Latin and Greek Church. At the crown are the gilt and stucco of Gloria with a host of angels among the rays of light and billowing clouds.

And right at the centre is a window of Bohemian glass, divided into twelve sections, representing the Twelve Apostles with a single dove against it — the symbol of the Holy Spirit, the soul of the Church.

Jimin stood, stuck at the very borders where the pews begin, overwhelmed with apprehension but shockingly, entranced as well. He would imagine the two windows situated on either side of the apse would let in brilliant streams of warm, golden light from the afternoon sun, giving the place an even more mystical look that would easily ensnare anyone into becoming a believer. Now though, with the light of the moon, it appears just as ghostly as the rest of the basilica — sombre yet still hauntingly beautiful. Jimin swallows once, running his tongue along his dry lips before he summons the strength to force his legs into motion.

They were by far the hardest steps he’d ever taken, his feet feeling like lead as he drags them one excruciating step at a time until he all but collapses onto his knees once he reaches the dark wooden prayer bench. His skin feels like it’s breaking out into hives, the itch becoming so unbearable at this point that he thinks he’ll go mad and resort to ripping away his skin himself. Every muscle in him is tense, any small movements causing them to twitch and spasm painfully and when he finally cranes his neck to look up at the altar, he hears his bones crack.

The fog in his head threatens to overwhelm him, stun him into a stupor until he can do nothing but slowly wither away into ashes. He fights to stay alert and with much effort, tries to remember Jungkook’s next words.

“From here, it’s pretty simple… If you can call it that.” Jungkook says a little too off-handedly, as if he was discussing how to change the battery to a remote. “You take Him into your heart and say His prayer.”

“….There are a lot of ‘prayers’.” Jimin deadpans. He may be a demon, but all demons are aware of the ridiculous amounts of prayers said in His name or in any of the other holiness, whether from being hissed out in angry fury by crossing paths with angels or in more unlucky cases, through exorcising.

Jimin’s only familiar with the sign of the cross, uttered to him by a man who couldn’t have picked a worser day to piss him off (he almost felt bad for the police who had to find him the following morning).

Jungkook flips his pretty raven locks out of his face, lazily reaching to pour himself another glass as he reclines back into his seat.

“You’ll know the one.”

The younger demon said he would know the prayer once he’s here but his mind is drawing blanks, unable to even begin searching for any hints. Through his hazy vision, the dove appears to have a halo of light surrounding it, pulsating as if it had life. He stares, fixated on that one point, waiting for who knows what. Just when the silence became too stifling, he hears a sound. It’s so soft that he can’t decipher it, much less if it was real or something he hallucinated in his delirious mind. It sounded like a whisper but he can’t make out any words, at least, not ones he recognizes.

It comes and goes, flowing like it’s being carried by an invisible breeze and before him, the dove seems to glow even brighter. It compels him to close his eyes and past a dry throat, he takes in a breath and from his lips, the first lines spills forth.

“Deus meus

ex toto corde poenitet me omnium meorum peccatorum…”

The words burn like a hot poker being pricked along his skin, a poison pouring from his own mouth as every line was another stabbing pain. Jimin speaks until his knuckles turn white from gripping the bench so tightly, nails digging into the wood and causing small cracks to form in the grain but still through gritted teeth, he continues the prayer faithfully.

“…. Ideo firmiter propono, adiuvante gratia Tua,

de cetero me non peccaturum peccandique occasiones proximas fugiturum.”

As he reaches the final verse, his once porcelain face is drained of any colour, marred by fissures and cracks, the flesh burnt at the edges like paper caught on fire with spidery veins snaking along the surface, revealing him for what he truly is underneath. His body shakes uncontrollably and with one last sharp inhale, he utters.

“Amen.”

“So I say the ‘prayer,’” Jimin reaffirms, resisting the urge to use air quotations. “And then that’s it? Done?”

Jungkook throws his head back with a laugh, his bunny teeth flashing as he tries to reel himself back in. He shakes his head, almost out of pity. Jimin doesn’t miss that, nor does he like it and his narrowing eyes prompts the younger demon to elaborate.

“You can very well be ‘done’ right on the spot, granted if you even make it that far — I’d honestly be very impressed if you do.” Jungkook pauses to take a sip of his drink, smacking his lips a little when he swallows the dark liquid. “What’s more important is what comes after you say the prayer; if your will has yet to be broken, it will appear.”

“What will?”

“The Chalice.”

Jimin’s eyes, which had been shut tightly, snaps open with trepidation as they wildly scan before him. He tries to collect himself but only just as a gold shape catches his eyes. A hoarse chuckle escapes him unintentionally, the sound a mixture between disbelief and immense relief.

The chalice sits unassumingly on the ornate communion table a few steps in front of him, as if it had been there the entire time. It doesn’t shine with lustre nor is it bejewelled with any precious gems, Jimin was surprised that he had noticed it at all. But nevertheless, he’s relieved to see it there; the fruit of his labour thus far. He takes a moment to just breathe, inhaling and exhaling deeply, damp forehead pressing into the wooden prayer bench. His legs feel like stone, as if anchored down on the spot but he knows he has to eventually get up.

He’s so close.

Jimin grunts, hauling himself up on shaky arms by using the bench as leverage. He leans back heavily on it, limbs protesting as his eyes lock on the gold cup that was still there, beckoning him. He takes another minute to steady himself, running his tongue over his dry, cracked lips and once he’s sure he’s stable enough, he begins to make his way. He nearly falls over from that one step alone, arms flying back to catch himself on the prayer bench just in time. Shutting his eyes, it takes everything in him not to curse aloud, given where he is right now so Jimin settles in letting out a frustrated growl instead. Once the feeling passes, he clenches his teeth and tries again.

This time, Jimin manages, keeping his steps to a minimal with one arm clutching around his midsection as if to hold himself upright. It’s a slow process, feeling like he’s travelling at a snail’s pace but eventually, he limps his way there. When the table is within reach, his hands slams down onto the surface to brace himself, a loud bang reverberating throughout the basilica. The force of it disturbs the chalice slightly, causing it to slosh the liquid inside and spill over on the white tablecloth. Jimin recoils on instinct at the sight.

Up close, he can see the finer details of the cup; how dull and worn it actually looks as if it had been used for over centuries but despite the scratches and scuffs, it had withstood time.

But that’s not where the focus of his attention is.

Jungkook’s taken on a more morose demeanour, now only fiddling his half empty glass lost in his own thoughts — or perhaps reminiscing, Jimin’s not sure. Suddenly, he breaks out into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes as his gaze flits to meet Jimin’s.

“The Chalice will appear to only those who are deemed worthy. It is the final act you must do in order to prove your faith and commitment, to cleanse your soul and begin anew.”

A beat passes, wherein Jimin sits in turmoil with his own emotions. This entire ordeal was a lot to take in, the things Jungkook had told him sounding crazier than the last. Everything could go wrong so easily and so quickly that at some point, he questioned the validity of Jungkook’s method but shoot those doubts down when he reminds himself that not just anyone would know the particulars of this in such great detail.

“So do I baptize myself in the holy water? Get a new name and everything?” Jimin asks jokingly in an attempt to break the tension but even he hears the uncertainty straining his voice.

“You’re not going to anoint yourself with it.” Jungkook sighs, taking his glass in his hand if only to scrutinize it against the light. Then, he gestures it towards Jimin.

 “You’re going to drink it.”

He stares unblinkingly into the pool of water inside the chalice, watching it as if at any second, he’ll see a vision within its depths. But all he sees is the faint glow of his irises reflected back at him — two crimson drops that threaten to transform the pure water into blood.

Jungkook’s words continue to echo around in Jimin’s head, the audacity of it all never leaving.

Drink it, he says.

Of all the crazy things Jungkook had told him that night, that one takes the cake. It’s no myth that holy water to a demon is like arsenic to a human; a drop of it would greatly weaken even the strongest of demons, burning skin and bone like acid, anything more and you’ll be nothing but ashes.

So to go as far as to consume it.

A bead of sweat rolls down Jimin’s clenched jaw, a million thoughts running through his mind. A part of him admits he’s terrified of what will become of him should he choose to drink the holy water, this being the closest he’s ever been to staring death in the face. He’s lived without fear of anything for so long because he was the to be feared and even death didn’t scare him because he had nothing to lose.

Now, that’s all changed. Now, he has everything to lose.

The memories, the sounds, the scent, the warmth….

He doesn’t want to lose you.

Jimin draws in a shuddering breath, eyes slipping shut if only to escape to those feelings for a moment of reprieve. It brings a strange sense of comfort to him, a balm to his aching muscles and a moment of clarity to his hazy mind. He longs to go back to your little home, to catch just even a glimpse of your face but he’s here, a million miles away, battered, vulnerable and probably looking like every bit of vermin angels think demons are.

Yet by some miracle, he’s alive.

He’s alive when he should’ve been dead from the moment he walked through those doors.

Which means he has a chance.

Slowly, Jimin opens his eyes again, takes in his final moments and tentatively, he reaches for the cup.

“It’s supposed to be a painless process, which is why it’s foolproof — angels being ‘ethical’ and all that. But you’re a demon so if you die, you can’t blame me.” Jungkook disclaims, shooting back his drink and immediately begins to fill it up again. The younger had long opted to just have the bottle beside him rather than needing to wave the bartender down to ask for a refill every time. Jimin doesn’t complain as he too needed to refill constantly; he’s lost track of how many glasses he’s downed in order to swallow this hard pill the younger demon had just given him. They’re about halfway done with their second one.

“But now that you know, do you still want to go through with it?”

Jungkook’s pinned him with a hard stare, more serious than Jimin’s ever seen him but it’s with very good reasons.

He’d basically been told he has a fifty-fifty chance of killing himself in the process on three different occasions, willingly.

A humourless laugh passes through his full lips, wondering briefly if he should’ve taken his chances on the fellow he cancelled on. Then again, Jungkook’s someone he knows and trusts, so he thinks the odds are better, if only slightly. Jimin leans over and takes the bottle, pouring more liquor into his glass until it was about half full before placing it down on the bar counter.

Lifting his glass, he swirls it once and then holds it out towards Jungkook to toast.

“Then can I get an ‘amen’?”

Jungkook’s eyes widen, mouth dropping a little, completely appalled and Jimin is prepared to catch the other’s glass should it slip from his loosen grip. Thankfully, the younger demon snaps out of his shock before that happens, resting the crystal glass on the tops of his muscular thigh. Then, as Jimin’s words finally sink into him, Jungkook cocks his head, looks him dead in the eyes and says.

“You’re a crazy son of a bitch.”

Jimin can only laugh in response because he can’t disagree there before he brings the glass to his lips.

There’s a strong metallic taste that reaches his tongue first, one he can probably attribute to the old cup, but then comes the first sip.

The effect is immediate.

Jimin begins to choke violently, gasping and retching so hard that he doesn’t realize he’s dropped the chalice until he hears a resounding clang of metal hitting marble. The rest of its contents spews out, soaking the floor and table but he doesn’t have the mind to think if he was meant to drink everything because all he feels is the burning.

A white hot pain racks through every nerve in his body as if he’s being incinerated from the inside out. It makes him keel over, clawing at his throat until they leave deep red marks in their wake and a guttural, agonizing scream finally tears past his clenched teeth. Jimin writhes and convulses, eyes screwing shut and trying desperately to drown out this torture but his limbs feel like they’re being torn apart and his head is about to split open. He’s so out of his mind that above his own sounds of torment, the ringing in his ears begin to sound more like the notes of an organ being played.

He doesn't know how long he lays there, slowly suffocating to death but he can’t stand this any longer. With wild abandon, Jimin’s eyes shoot open, searching for something, anything, anyone, only to meet the serene gazes of the numerous saints and heavenly hosts painted into the stucco ceiling.

Please. He cries, pleads, begs.

Make it stop.

He feels his body seize before all strength leaves him, his hands falling limp to his side and his vision blurs until they can no longer see past the inky black tears that begin to stream from his eyes.

Everything falls silent.

And then he feels nothing.

262 notes · View notes

welllpthisishappening · 4 years ago

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Hello there, I see you're back on blue-line drabbles! I love them, I am obsessed with this universe. I don't know if I ever came back to say hi after I read all your big fics, but somehow I liked each even better than the last! I don't know how that's possible! But anyway, I think one of the best signs of a good writer/good story is when you're not ready to leave the world once you've finished, and Blue Line is one of the few fanfics I've read where even well after I've finished it, (cont)

(cont) I want to keep living in it and I end up writing my own fic of it in my head (strange, I know). Anyway, for whatever reason, I got really invested in Roland and Lizzie's relationship. Like, how did they end up dating after knowing each other for literally Lizzie's entire life? How did the adults react? Do you have any Lizzie/Roland stories up your sleeve? They would not go unread :)

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Hello, yes, listen, this ask has lived rent free™ in my head since I first got it and I cannot properly convey how absolutely, goddamn wonderful it is. I am a broken record of outdated references , but it continues and will always amaze me that people are not only interested in Blue Line (more than three years!!! after I originally started posting) but are also interested in other characters in the story who are, for all intents and purposes, original characters at this point. Like the overall size my heart becomes when reading something like that could potentially cause a serious medical condition.

But, like, in a nice way.

So thank you, thank you, thank you. It genuinely warms the cockles of my entire soul. And, like, if you wanna share those fic ideas of the fic, you’ll never hear me say no. Just like I will never turn down the opportunity to write more stuff. Which is what’s under the cut. This stuff includes:

Roland and Lizzie’s first kiss, what I hope is some legitimate banter, more kissing, obvious flirting, and Roland being something of a sap.

Also, uh, it’s entirely possible that I have also already written: Roland and Lizzie’s first “I love you,” their wedding and some other stuff where their kid is involved. Seriously, guys, I am always down to write other relationships in this ‘verse.

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It was, she figured, something almost passably close to, sort of resembling, definitely inching somewhere nearer to—

Assured.

Unavoidable.

Inexorable

Inevitable.

That was a bad word. That last word. The third one was pretty impressive, honestly. Vocabulary, wise. She’d have to remember that one later. The last one, though. Made teeth Lizzie wasn’t even aware she possessed ache as she ground them together, a pronounced tension in her jaw that was likely affecting her shoulders as well. That word. An awful word. Boasted less-than-positive connotations, letters practically dripping with lack of self-control and overtly aggressive infatuation, but if the world expected her not to be a little in love with Roland Locksley by the time she turned fourteen and noticed that slight indentation in his right cheek every time he smiled, well, then the world had another thing coming.

Dimple, that was the appropriate description. Another word. More words. Too many words. All of them bouncing off the slope of her skull and scratching at the back of her brain, nearly distracting her from what should have been the very pleasant buzz lingering beneath whatever biological thing made up her top and bottom lips.

Which were parted in an emotion very similar to overwhelming surprise.

That was stupid.

The whole thing was stupid. God, maybe she was stupid. No, that wasn’t true. She’d made Dean’s List last semester. Stupid was—

A stupid word, really. Despite the blush rising in her cheeks and the wide eyes practically boring into her soul, bated breath that didn’t make any noise because that was what bated entailed, and no one else glanced in their direction. Not once. No one else noticed.

That the whole world had flipped upside down.

Or right-side-up, maybe. Depending on how the next five minutes or so went.

Because the last two minutes and twelve seconds, give or take, had seen Roland Locksley tilt his head and let his eyes flutter closed before his mouth found hers for the very first time — at midnight for God’s sake. On New Year’s Eve. Or New Year’s Day, she supposed. His parents were standing on the other side of the room.

Suggesting that Lizzie had ever been just a little in love with Roland was a rather monumental lie.

As far as those things went.

“So, uh—” she started, only to find blood in her mouth. From her teeth. Wayward and unpredictable, as they were. Biting down on the side of her tongue and Lizzie hated going to the dentist. Doing irreparable damage to her teeth on what was now legitimately New Year’s Day, in the middle of an annual party, was not on her schedule.

Metaphorical as it might have been.

She liked schedules. Had plans. Focus, even. People always said that about her — how focused she was, liked to throw around the word drive with startling regularity, as if they were amazed she wasn’t simply willing to rest on her laurels or the pair of last names she proudly toted around with her. As if Lizzie expected doors to swing open on a glance.

Rather than consistently preparing herself to knock them down.

She liked the challenge of it all. Appreciated the way disbelief always spiked something in her blood, and that was likely equal parts genetic predisposition and a product of her childhood, but right now, Lizzie was simply prepared to fight for the schedule she’d never allowed herself to mention to anyone else before and it wasn’t like they weren’t friends.

Talked outside the group chat, even.

That meant something. Definitely meant something. Had to mean something. Her lips felt like they’d been doused in liquid nitrogen.

She didn’t know all the scientific properties of liquid nitrogen, but it always made that rather impressive cloud of steam-type stuff on cooking shows. So, it seemed very likely that it did something similar to cause whatever was happening in the region directly surrounding her mouth. Buzzing and tingling, and whatnot.

When had Roland last blinked? Lizzie couldn’t remember. That would have been impressive in any other situation. Right now, it was sort, kind of, totally— Pissing her off.

Color dotted his cheeks, no sign of the goddamn dimple because he wasn’t smiling, presumably couldn’t do that when it was clear he was so intent on pulling his lips into his mouth, and that felt a little insulting. Her tongue had just been in that mouth.

Lizzie was fairly confident in the abilities of her tongue, so she wasn’t all that pleased to be replaced by a pair of lips that could have been doing much better work against the side of her neck.

“If you sit here right now and tell me that you are,” Lizzie lifted a finger, “one, sorry,” another finger, “two, anything even remotely resembling regretful,” another finger, wiggling close enough to Roland’s nose to make him just a bit cross-eyed, “or, three, too old for me, I will throw my heel at that bruise I know exists on the back of your left calf.”

His lips twitched.

He really had impossible eyelashes. Seemingly made so he could glance up from underneath them, to meet Lizzie’s steely expression with what she refused to believe could be cautious hope. Passable optimism, maybe. She’d have to look up what liquid nitrogen did, later.

“I’m standing.” “I hate you.”

“You wanna go in order, or how do you want to work this?” “Where else are you bruised?” Roland laughed softly, a shift of his shoulders and tiny burst of air between barely parted lips. Feeling that tiny burst meant they were standing very close to each other. How they were standing remained another mystery.

One of those great ones, Lizzie figured. The kind referenced when people talked about the sweeping potential of life and love and— Ah, fuck.

“Please don’t threaten to attack me anywhere else,” he muttered, before quickly adding, “you gotta know this was not my end game, Liza.” Narrowing her eyes did nothing to temper the…tempest. Swirling in her gut. Threatening the back of her throat. Eating away at vocal cords and vocal boxes and the structural integrity of her entire goddamn larynx. Possibly her tongue, too, just to be especially efficient.

“Really? Might’a been mine, actually.”

She’d always liked his eyes.

How they could widen, and it wasn’t like...a normal brown. Nothing about the way he looked was ever dull. Drifted toward regularly excited, and the sparkles were probably a figment of her over-active teenage imagination, but Lizzie liked to think sometimes the sparkle came from her. Because of her, even. When she’d call because he always wanted to hear about her latest lecture and he’d call because sometimes Western swings were exhausting and loneliness-inducing and—

She knew.

He knew.

They knew each other.

Grand scheme, the sparkle-prone eyes still weren’t particularly close to the dimple. On the list of things Lizzie liked. What left butterflies fluttering in her stomach and her heart hammering against her chest. Sparkle was probably a solid fourth. Behind the precise way his curls fell toward his eyebrows when he didn’t have time to get his hair cut. Which rarely happened during the season. Right now, it was happening right now. Well-defined strands that Lizzie knew felt even smoother than she’d ever theorized between her fingers, and she wasn’t sure what she was going to do with that information.

Obsess over it, probably.

For at least the next week, or so.

Still. Eyes. Eyelashes. Too long and too bright, and that was the wrong description order and she was starting to teeter. On the edge of a rather dramatic free-fall. Into feelings and possibility, and this was way too dramatic. For both of them.

“Don’t do that,” she mumbled, a scrunch of her nose that apparently demanded his thumb. Brushing against the bridge, and there wasn’t any caution there. No obvious fear or concern. For the way it left Lizzie’s lungs pinched, and there must have been a limit.

To everything her internal organs could cope with in a limited span of time.

“What was the last one on the list?” She swallowed. “Too old.” “Yuh-huh.” “Pretty flimsy as far as excuses go. You realize I’m not asking you to marry me right now, right?” He choked. On what, she wasn’t entirely sure. Only that it made her stomach heave and her teeth dig into her lower lip, and that was— “Because I know I said, end game,” Lizzie continued, giving in to the need to fill empty space with the sound of her own voice, “but that sounds like several pop culture references all at once, and you know how much I—”

“Hate to come across as disingenuous.” “Mattie’s the pop culture reference machine, anyway.” “Please don’t talk about Matt when I keep thinking about how much I want to kiss you again.” Her eyes, that time. Widened. Bugged. Did something unnatural. “Yeah?” “You’re kidding me, right?” “You’re not an old man.” Rolling his eyes, Roland’s tongue dragged across the front of his teeth. To torture her, apparently. “I was in college when you were a freshman in high school.” “Yuh-huh.” “Liza.” “Nah, nah,” Lizzie shook her head. Crossed her arms. Tried to stand up to her full height, but even the heels didn’t do much to add to the overall intimidation factor. Roland was doing an awful job of fighting off his smile. “Pulling out ancient nicknames is not—” “—It’s not a nickname; it’s literally letters in your name.” “Nick,” she leaned forward, “name. All personal-like.”

Making mistakes was not something she enjoyed very much. It was that Jones competitive streak. Plus, the Vankald stubborn streak. Created a monster of determination, who knew what she wanted, and feeling Roland’s fingers graze her cheek as a strand of hair hung limply in the minimal space between them was the result of Lizzie’s mistaken movement.

Even as much as she might have wanted it.

Goosebumps prickled her arms. Stole whatever oxygen she’d managed to get in the last forty-six seconds, or so. Her eyes fluttered. Head tilted. Towards the touch and the warmth, and for someone who spent so much time on the ice, he really was impossibly warm.

“This is your fault.”

He didn’t move his fingers. Cupped her cheek, instead. “You were doing that eyebrow thing.” “Expand on that for me.” “Lifting ‘em. Happens sometimes. When you’re listening intently. Like you’re a little amazed by new information. They’re these stupid little arches on your face. Drives me nuts.” “The compliment was in there somewhere, I’m sure of it.” “I am so much older than you, Liza.” “Shouldn’t’a played out a bunch of teenage daydreams at once, then.” She was legitimately worried about the state of his tongue. Barely biting back her laugh, Lizzie let her eyes lift. To find Roland gaping at her, drooped shoulders and puppy-dog eyes. And that goddamn dimple. “C’mon, this isn’t...do you think I haven’t made out with people before?” “Wouldn’t classify what we just did as a makeout.” “No?” His eyes darkened. Shivering was probably not a good move, right? Right. Definitely. She wasn’t shivering. It was just...January. And inside. With dozens of people around them. “I would not, no,” Roland said, and the drop in overall volume was some sort of trick. Or, something.

“How many people do you think you’ve made out with? Ballpark it for me.” “No.” “Is the issue a lack of appropriate numbers to tally that mark, or—” She bit her tongue, again. At the flash of amused frustration sweeping his face and polluting the molecules of whatever air was hovering between them. Permeating was a better word. Lizzie really needed to work on all of that. Words. Being slightly less jealous of potential make outs that didn’t have anything to do with her and definitely happened because there had to be other people out there in the world who simply could not cope with the existence of that dimple.

“How many people have you made out with, then?” “Scores,” Lizzie snarled, only to get immediately scoffed at. “I’m really, incredibly popular.” “Oh, I’ve got no doubt.” “Boatloads of guys. Lining up to,” she pointed an imperious finger at her mouth, “make out with this.” “Your well-defined chin?” “I’m going to take my shoe off.” “Draw attention with a move like that.” Whatever fight she had didn’t immediately die. It just, sort of, fell. At her feet, threatening all the bones there and there were too many. All of them far too fragile. For whatever metaphor she was running with at the moment. “And we’re not trying to do that, huh? Draw attention.” “Shouldn’t you be out sowing wild oats?” “Really know how to charm a girl,” she grumbled, and that got her a smile. No scoff. Not even the hint of a smile. The whiplash was hurting her neck. “Trust me, the oats have appropriately sowed. If I was ever particularly inclined to farm work.” “I’m starting to be vaguely embarrassed by all of this.” “Good.” Wasn’t quite a scoff. Was more like a half-hearted laugh, and a tinge of desire and that was better than the other emotions, but the decreasing level of Roland’s eyebrows gave her pause. “What about the status of your oats?”

“Well sowed, rookie season,” Roland said.

“You’re going to change the name on your jersey.” “Not sure that particular fact has a lot to do with anything else. Seven years, Liza.” “I’m perfectly capable of doing math, you know I took that stats class once.” “Because I double checked everything you turned in.” “Makes you slightly less of an idiot than the vibe you're giving off right now.” “A freeway or compliments.” Pulling in a deep inhale through her nose, Lizzie didn’t miss the way Roland’s gaze fell. To the neckline of her dress, lingering on the jut of her collarbones for a few seconds longer than a strictly platonic friendship should allow, and they were friends. Still. She knew that as well as she knew that he believed she thought he was simply being clever with nicknames.

And not making vaguely incorrect My Fair Lady references.

Because he’d always been a little annoyed that Eliza had gone back to Henry Higgins. Instead of Freddie.

It was really impossible not to be a little in love with him at all times.

“You’re really going to hyphenate?” Roland nodded. “Think of all the new jerseys they’ll sell.” “By the box-load, and Gina’s gonna buy the entire stock. She’s—that’s really nice, you know.” “Just a fact. Little late, but—” He shrugged. Lizzie’s smile threatened to split her face. In that same nice way, she’d been talking about. Her lips were still buzzing. She might have been buzzing. With adrenaline. Happiness. The near-desperate desire to find some type of closet and get her fingers back in Roland’s questionably long hair.

“Of naming conventions.” She couldn’t begin to guess what the record was for shoulder shifts in an emotionally charged conversation between two people who were simultaneously ignoring the point of the conversation, but Lizzie also knew her eyebrows had been halfway up her face as he’d detailed the reasons for making his jersey say Mills-Locksley. From here on out.

Maybe that was the top of the list, actually.

He was a good guy.

Had always been a good guy. The best guy, really.

Falling into that chasm wasn’t nearly as terrifying as Lizzie expected it to be.

“Why’d you do it?” Roland’s lips disappeared. His tongue moved, again. She was staring at the area around his tongue. So, like, his mouth. Directly at his mouth. “Because, I uh—have wanted to?” “Oh, don’t phrase that like a question.” “Wanted to,” he repeated, a statement of fact with a certain amount of conviction. Enough to make Lizzie’s pulse sputter. “Which is kind of freaking me out.” “Come back with more compliments.” “Your dress nearly made me fall over.” “Better, actually,” she laughed.

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Made sense at the time.” “Be more specific.” “Kissing you,” Roland said, enough emphasis that he leaned forward half an inch as well. It was a miracle their noses didn’t collide. Not the most impressive miracle, but—counted. “If I tell you that you might be my best friend does that make the lamest professional hockey player alive?” “Yes, absolutely.” “Matt might challenge you to a duel if he hears me talking like this, you know.” “God, Locksley, didn’t we just talk about the Mattie rules? Also, that made it sound like Mattie wants to kiss you too, so...”

He chuckled. Fingers still tugging on the back of his hair, like he was trying to ground himself in the pull and the self-inflicted tension, Roland looked up. Back at her. And Lizzie didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Held her position and prepared herself to defend the schedule she’d only ever allowed herself to hope for in the silence of that one corner in her brain.

Filled, as it was, with memories. Of conversations that didn’t have anything to do with hockey. Others that did. Arguing over blue line placement in the brownstone and college rankings. Of movies watched on two different laptops in different corners of the country, bad jokes, and consistent updates, that deep-rooted understanding that came from a life full of expectations and the exact opposite. No overt pressure, but the need to prove yourself anyway, if only because of the name on the back of the jersey, and Lizzie was going to have to buy a new jersey.

“You like me? Yes, or no?” Roland smiled. Wide and honest, the kind that ensured the dimple was on prominent display. “Yes.” “I am a grown adult? Yes, or no?” Crinkles appeared around his eyes. From the smile.

“Yes.” “Meaning I get to make my own choices. Romantically, or otherwise. Yes, or no?” “Obviously.” “Wasn’t one of the options.” “Yes,” Roland corrected, fingers trailing over the bend of her elbow. Lizzie hadn’t uncrossed her arms. Or remembered when she’d crossed them in the first place.

“Ok, good. Same page, then.” “Liza.” “Locksley.” Lifting her eyebrows wasn’t a challenge, per se. Was closer to instinct, really. Specifics didn’t matter, honestly. She did that thing with her eyebrows, and he did that thing with his mouth, the same one she was staring at and hoping would move closer to her, and then—

Well, it did.

Hands found Lizzie’s hips, pulling her forward sharply enough that she let out a soft grunt. From the feel of hips bumping against hers, and she honestly wasn’t sure who hissed in their next inhale, only that it did something to the flutter-like state of her pulse and the erratic nature of her heart, and it was slow and fast and good and great and not a single person noticed.

Miracles were arriving en masse, apparently.

Pushing her fingers into Roland’s hair got Lizzie another hum of approval, the first brush of his tongue making her lips part and her head fall to the side, but then his hand was wrapped around the back of her neck, and she could not be expected to pay attention to anything except the semi-consistent swipe of his thumb against her skin. It left more goosebumps. Caused another chuckle, the kind that rumbled through her and resonated around her, a tiny bubble of that same cautious optimism from before.

Like a spark.

Fanning flames and threatening to burn everything because if this didn’t work, then Lizzie wasn’t sure what would, and that was scary and overwhelming and terrifying was a synonym, but she really was working with very limited word-based resources when Roland’s thumb kept moving. Tracing her. Committing the feel to memory, and she wasn’t sure when they’d established the rocking pattern they were moving in, but something deep in the center of her trusted it.

Someone who regularly strapped knives to his feet and raced around at top speed knew how to stay balanced. And she was a stubborn idiot. Who got what she wanted.

“Is part of liking me because I told you I didn’t think it was embarrassing that you still got a little emotional about Miracle on 34th Street?” Laughter pushed past her lips. Took root in the pit of her stomach and the spaces between her ribs. Laced through her heart. In the kind of way that cemented itself. Right in the middle of Lizzie. Right in the middle of this. Them.

There was a them, now.

“Was definitely a factor, yeah,” Roland said, not bothering to pull away. “You, uh—you snuck up on me a little, Liza.” “Peak romance.” “Want me to talk about your dress some more?” She shook her head. “Unnecessary. And you didn’t.” “That might be part of the problem.” “Nursing old crushes, you mean?” Her hair hit her cheek. And his hand. He couldn’t seem to let go of her. “Nah, this wasn’t like...there was no torch, not really. I—I wasn’t hanging posters of you on my wall if that’s the picture you’ve painted for yourself.” “Kinda disappointing, admittedly.” “Pick a lane, babe.” No sparkle, that time. Just flash and want and the very thin line Lizzie’s lips had become. “Be more specific,” Roland repeated softly. “You’re not standing on a pedestal. Just you, Rol, as is.” He waited. That was fair. There should have been more. Should have been a detailed list of all the reasons the grown-up version of her liked so many parts of the grown-up version of him, but that all felt a little extraneous when she was still thinking about closet-type possibilities and that stubborn streak was a mile wide, anyway.

Roland nodded once. “Good.”

Both of them jumped. At the pop of another champagne bottle and Lizzie never understood how Regina managed to order so much champagne every year, but she felt a bit like she was floating on the bubbles, and they didn’t decide. Explicitly. To keep the whole thing—

Secret.

Another bad word. With bad connotations and shadows that clung to the definition, but this was them and only them and, for right now, that was enough. And if no one noticed the way Roland’s hand drifted over the small of Lizzie’s back during David’s speech, then that was a miracle she was willing to accept.

#blue line rambles #blue line one shots #these really are just original characters at this point #i have also written:#matt and claire meeting for the first time #henry and ella meeting for the first time #stuff about peggy and jeremy humbert #and i've got a whole list of will x belle stuff #in case it wasn't ovbious people still aren't responding to my emails #oh! also roland and lizzie's engagement #i wrote that too #also if you are so inclined: wilder days by morgan wade played like four times while i wrote this #mylifeisalifestyle #laura rambles

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